The Shibboleth

by John Hornor Jacobs

  Ruark punches a new series of numbers into a keypad. The door clicks, and she pulls it open. Negata waits and watches from fifteen paces away. He keeps his distance, yet during our walk, I felt like he was tethered to me at all times. I might not be able to sense him in the ether, but in physical space, he’s got my attention.

  “Okay, kid. Entre vous.”

  “Uh, you not coming?”

  She grins at me, and it does not-so-nice things to her face. “It’s all you. Have fun.”

  It’s dimly lit, the room, and something about that bothers me. It’s like they’re reminding me they can take the light away, if they want to. It makes me nervous.

  The room’s bare. It’s got the same antiseptic smell as a hospital, minus the smeared feces and urine splatter. And screaming psychopaths, though my stint at Tulaville Psych might be coloring my memory. There’s something utterly impersonal and dehumanizing about the space, but it’s hard to pinpoint what. There’s a plastic lawn chair and a large mirror covering half a wall. Beside the mirror stands a door, no handle. Below the mirror is a matte-black box bolted to the wall—a Helmholtz field generator. A large plasma screen is mounted on the wall to the left of the mirror opposite the door I entered. A business-card-sized camera sits perched above it. Around the room, in all the corners, I notice other cameras. And some sort of sensor. Heat maybe. Or infrared.

  I turn back to the door I entered through and, of course, no knob.

  A tinny small voice says, “Mr. Cannon, please direct your attention to the screen.” There’s a small hiss following the words, and I quickly come to the conclusion that somewhere there’s someone peering at me through these cameras and breathing into a microphone. Just like in my other hole.

  I don’t like this one bit. So I pick up the chair and chuck it at the mirror. It bounces off, skitters across the floor.

  The hidden speakers squelch, and the voice—not any voice I recognize—says, “Hardly original, Mr. Cannon. Please take a seat and direct your attention at the screen.”

  “Had to try,” I say, not expecting an answer.

  “Obviously. There’s a reason why the chair is plastic. This isn’t our first rodeo,” the voice responds. It’s not Ruark. This person sounds young, a woman, maybe, or a man with a decidedly tenor voice. It’s weird, but I like the person behind the speaker and the cameras, despite everything. There’s a spark of humanity there, and not the shitty arsonist spark either.

  The screen flickers to life, showing another room like this one. In the room on the screen, there’s another plastic chair. And the plastic chair holds another boy, maybe a little older than me, judging by the scraggly fuzz darkening his chin. He’s got a fauxhawk and earrings, some tattoos on his arms.

  In the corner of the screen, in the lower third, read the words, 142b - Cameron, Reese - CN: The Liar.

  “Mr. Cameron, you have your instructions. Please begin.”

  Cameron—The Liar?—looks at the ceiling as if trying to discern where the voice is coming from, an annoyed expression on his face.

  “Begin, please, Mr. Cameron.”

  Cameron looks at the screen. It’s like he’s looking at me, but not quite. The camera isn’t squarely in his field of view. He looks at the paper, looks back at me.

  “You owe me twenty dollars,” he says, looking into the camera.

  I check my wallet, just in case. It’s still there.

  After a moment of silence, the voice says, “Reading complete. Proceed to the next example.”

  “You’ve got lung cancer and only have a month to live.”

  Nah, that’s total bullshit. If Moms hasn’t gotten lung cancer yet, I sure as hell don’t have it.

  Again, silence. “Reading complete. Next example.”

  “Jack Graves is dead.”

  Huh? Okay, this is getting too weird. They’re fucking with me now. And I don’t like being fucked with.

  “Reading complete, next example.”

  “Your hair is on fire.”

  I snort. Yeah, right.

  “Reading complete. We will proceed to the next phase of the test.”

  I don’t know what’s going on here, but something is definitely weird.

  The ether thrums, shivers. The Helmholtz has been triggered.

  “Mr. Cameron, please proceed.”

  Cameron looks at the paper and says, “Hey, man, you owe me twenty dollars.”

  Nothing.

  He runs through the same statements again. After each, the voice says, “Reading complete. Proceed.”

  After he tells me my hair is on fire, the thrumming increases, rising to an uncomfortable level. At the voice’s prodding, Cameron runs through the bizarre statements once more.

  When he’s finished, the voice says, “Mr. Cameron, section one of the test is complete. Please join Mr. Cannon in the other room.” A buzzing sounds, then a click. The door next to the mirror swings slowly open. On the screen, Cameron stands, still holding the piece of paper.

  “He crazy or something?”

  “Hey, I can hear you, dude,” I say.

  He grins, walks into the room. “Listen, man. They’re gonna have me say some more stuff, but I promise I won’t make you do anything you don’t—”

  “Mr. Cameron, please refrain from speaking, immediately,” the voice says, but it’s different now. Another person. Gruffer.

  Ruark.

  Cameron turns and pops the bird at the nearest camera. Turning back to me, he sticks out his hand to shake, and I take it. “Name’s Reese. They call me The Liar. I hate that damned name.”

  “What does it—”

  “Mr. Cameron, start with phase two, immediately.”

  He looks at me apologetically, shrugging. “You’ll see.”

  “Mr. Cameron, please start phase two, immediately.”

  “Okay!” He glances around as if looking for a fight, faux-hawk bristling, the paper balled in a fist. He uncrumples it, spreads it in front of his face with two hands. The ether is still and placid.

  Cameron looks at me closely and says, “Sorry about this, man, but you owe me twenty dollars.”

  I reach for my wallet, because I like this guy and I don’t want to welsh on him. I can’t remember how I borrowed the twenty, but now that he’s asking for it and I’m flush, no reason not to pay him back. I whip out the wallet, peel off a twenty, and hand it to him. He smiles, takes it, puts it in his pocket.

  “Reading complete. Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

  Cameron nods, bows his head, thinking. Then looks to the ceiling again. “Really? I have to do this?”

  “Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

  “Goddamn you. Goddamn you to hell,” he says. His jaw is locked, and his face takes a fierce expression, rapacious, yet full of sorrow. “I’m so sorry for this. They have my parents.” He stops, breathing deep, then looks at me. “You’ve got lung cancer and only have a month to live.”

  At first the words don’t register, but what he says settles in, the horrible truth of it. I touch my chest, staggering back. I can feel the tumors blossoming in my chest like black flowers in the light of some cancerous sun. My mind races back to every cough, every clearing of my throat in the last six months. How could I have not seen it?

  I’m going to die. We’re all going to die, but I’m going to die soon. In a month. Or less.

  Immediately, I think of Vig, the little dude, left to fend for himself. Of Moms drowning herself in a sea of alcohol, broken beyond repair.

  I think of Jack, vulnerable yet strong. Booth, kind and full of concern. Jerry, full of wisdom and mirth. I’ll never see them again. I’ll never be normal. I’ll never have a real life, but I guess that was already my fate, and the realization of that hurts more than the harsh reality of my oncoming death. It’s the shame and embarrassment I feel, fooling myself that I could somehow cobble together a normal life for myself. God, I’m such a pathetic idiot.

  My face streaming, I turn away, toward the far wall, so that Cameron can’t see my stunne
d grief. I can feel coughs building in my chest, like bubbles rising. I can’t stop them. They tear at my throat, the coughs, and I can feel bits of my lungs sloughing off and traveling up my windpipe.

  It’s hard to breathe.

  The disembodied voice and Cameron remain quiet, leaving me to my coughing and sobbing and heartache, huddling away from the bland room. I’m there a long time, lost in my own private apocalypse.

  “Can we stop this?” Cameron cries. His voice sounds as distressed as my own. “Can we stop this bullshit?”

  The voice says, “Reading complete.” Not Ruark anymore. It’s thick, the voice, as if choking back some emotion. “Proceed.”

  I can’t even turn to look at him, but I hear paper being uncrumpled. I hear his breathing. He says, “Is this necessary? Is it?”

  “Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

  “No. Let him get up. What’s his name? Steve?”

  “Mr. Cameron, proceed with the testing. Immediately.”

  “No, damn you. Give him a second.” There’s a long silence, and then he says, “Steve, hey, listen, you’re not dying. You’ve been cured, okay? You’re going to live.”

  You can’t come out from something like that in a second. My body reacts to this news—there’s been a horrible mistake, and I’m going to be all right—but I’m still a wreck. The sobs and coughs have ripped my chest to shreds, it feels like. But there’s a small burning ember of hope now.

  “Mr. Cameron, proceed.”

  “Can I say this? Can I say it? You are all evil. You hear me?”

  The voice isn’t so sure now when it comes through the speakers. It wavers a little. “Please proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

  “They’ve got you too, don’t they? They’ve got you. I can hear it in your voice! They’ve got you!”

  “Please—” It’s almost weeping now, the voice. “Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

  The microphone squelches once. A voice returns. “Mr. Cameron, if you do not proceed, Mr. Negata will escort you from the room. You will fail the test.” Ruark again. They’re fighting over the microphone, it seems.

  “I’ve passed your shitty test already!”

  “There are always more tests, Mr. Cameron,” Ruark says, her voice smug. “No position or place is assured in the Society.”

  Who is being tested here? Me or him?

  That thought shocks me out of my self-pity for a moment. I always live at the center of all worlds. That’s just my due.

  “Proceed.”

  Another long silence. Then Cameron says, “Jack Graves is dead.”

  The world is ending. We spent so much of our times at odds, Jack and I, but I love him and he’s gone now and I’ll never get a chance to tell him so. Something here is so wrong, it affects me on a physical level. My heart races; my blood pounds and surges in my temples.

  Something here is wrong.

  “Reading complete. Proceed, Mr. Cameron.”

  “Really? This one?” Cameron says. “It’s just stupid.”

  “Proceed,” the voice says, implacable.

  “Your hair is on fire.”

  I twist and roll, frantic to extinguish the flames. I can’t feel the pain yet, but my body reacts anyway. When you cut your finger to the bone, it takes a while for the body to report. These flames pouring from my head—each person like a match head, unlit, dormant—will at any moment begin to sear my flesh, melt my skin from my skull. I drop to the ground and slap at my cranium, furiously.

  Yet it doesn’t burn. How can my hair be aflame yet my skin not burn?

  Something is not right here.

  I stop thrashing. There’s a moment when I wait for the searing heat to attack me, ripping across my head and flesh, but it doesn’t come.

  I stand, look at Cameron.

  “Yeah, the last one was a doozy.”

  Ruark’s voice says, “Mr. Cameron, repeat the last example, please.”

  He looks at the ceiling. “Can’t. The circuit’s been tripped, can’t you see?”

  “Mr. Cameron, repeat the last example. Immediately.”

  “Fine,” he says, and looks at me. “Dude, so sorry about all of this. You ready?”

  “What just happened?” I ask, though I’m getting an idea.

  “You tell a lie too big, and it breaks the trust. Flips the switch. If the lie contradicts what their senses tell them—”

  “That’s your ability? Telling lies?”

  “No. My ability is making people believe my lies.”

  Ruark’s voice sounds from the speakers. “Mr. Cameron, you have three seconds before Mr. Negata will escort you from the testing area.”

  “I got it the first time!” he screams. “Your hair is on fire.”

  It’s most definitely not. I don’t have cancer, and Jack isn’t dead.

  Holy crap, this kid could rule the world.

  “Gimme back my twenty.”

  He grins a little sheepishly, digs in his front pocket. “Hey, I didn’t want to. They made me.”

  “You said they have your parents, is that right?”

  He stills, but before he can answer, the outer door opens and Negata stands framed in it, holding something in his hand. A Taser.

  Ruark’s voice says, “Not another word, Mr. Cameron. Please accompany Mr. Negata out of the testing room.”

  Cameron looks at me apologetically and heads to the door. Negata steps aside and lets him pass. The door glides shut with a click.

  “This concludes phase one of your testing, Mr. Cannon.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  They leave me in the room for a good long while with nothing to do but think about all the implications of the boy named Reese Cameron and his ability. It’s funny, but I’d been walking around thinking that I was the baddest mofo in the valley. Part of me is glad I’m not. Part of me is scared.

  But he was missing a tooth. Someone did that to him, I wager. I wonder if they keep him deep underground, like me.

  The outer door clicks and swings open, and there stand Negata and Ruark. Ruark’s expression is blank, yet I can sense some excitement in her. A smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. I’m tempted to go out into the ether and peek, but the Taser in Mr. Negata’s hand dissuades me.

  “There any need for that?” I ask, nodding at the zapper.

  “Both you and Mr. Cameron were quite obstinate during the first phase. A show of force may be necessary.”

  “Nice. You guys are class, all the way.” I shouldn’t mouth off, but hell, they’re going to stuff me back in my hole anyway.

  “Follow me, Mr. Cannon, for phase two of your testing.”

  She walks away, down the hall. Negata stands waiting for me to move. Which I do.

  “Miss Ruark?” I say. “Can I ask a question?” She ignores me, not even glancing back. “What’s the point of all this?”

  “The Society of Extranaturals is dedicated to assisting and supporting the American government in its operations at home and abroad.”

  “Huh? No, I mean here. Right now. This testing.”

  She’s silent for a bit, walking straight ahead. Then she says, “What do you think, kid?”

  “Do you really want my answer?”

  She shakes her head, sighs, still walking. I glance behind us and there’s Negata, holding the Taser and watching me closely. The man just reeks of the possibility of impersonal and unsmiling carnage. Simply with the set of his shoulders, the grace of his stride.

  “Isn’t it obvious, Cannon?”

  Ah. We’ve moved on from the “misters.” We’ve become chums.

  “No, not really.”

  “All testing is to determine aptitude, of course. Special abilities.”

  “Of course.”

  “But this testing also plumbs the depth of your will, your ability to think, to cope in certain situations.”

  “Is that what all the ‘reading’ stuff is about?”

  “That’s classified.”

  She stops. I stop with her. She turns to me and then, pointing h
er index finger like it’s a gun, she jabs me hard in the nipple. I step back.

  “And,” she says, her voice hard and low. “The testing is to remind you exactly what your situation is.”

  “And what is that?” I try to stop myself from asking, but the question just sashays to the tip of my tongue and dives headlong out into the world.

  “Dire.” She smiles again. “Your situation is dire.”

  She turns and begins to walk once more.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The next room is smaller, tighter. No mirror, but the same plastic chair and plasma screen. Once I’m in the room, Negata stands in the doorway, watching me until the door shuts, hands like blades, ready. I spend an interminable amount of time just breathing in the close confines of the room and listening to the air circulate through the vents.

  When Ruark’s voice squelches the speakers, it’s almost a relief.

  “Cannon, please direct your attention to the screen and we will begin.”

  “What happened to the other person, the last person telling us what to do? The nice one?”

  “Please direct your attention to the screen.”

  I sit down and wait for the coming attraction. This time the screen shows me a backyard, somewhere in America, because there’s a plywood fence, a swing, the edge of a concrete patio. Trees crowd in close beyond the fencing, and the sky is blue. In the bottom right corner of the screen there’s a time code and a date. If it’s today’s date, they had me down in the hole longer than I thought.

  There’s no one on-screen, but the way the light moves, the shadows sway, I can tell it’s a video, not a still image. A bird flies over the yard to settle on a power line. A figure comes on-screen. He’s small, wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes.

  Vig.

  He backs into the yard, into view of the cameras, hands up as if warding off someone. He’s not crying, but I can tell from the way his lip is pulled to the side in a grimace that he’s seriously distressed. A larger figure appears, and this time I can only see his back. Another boy. An older boy, judging by his muscles, the tightness of his T-shirt across the thick wedge of his back. Vig says something but, thank God, there’s no sound, so I don’t have to hear the smack of fist on flesh as the older boy hits Vig and he goes tumbling across the patio and into the grass.