THIRTY-THREE
I wash out my clothes in the sink, scrub the blood off my face, and hobble back to the room, prickled with goose bumps and buck naked. Hollis snores lightly. Tap has returned from eating and lies on his bed, headphones blaring music directly into his head. He glances at me, snorts, and then pulls a comic from under his pillow and begins reading.
Jack is nowhere to be seen.
I climb into bed, painfully, my testicles screaming outrage.
When I wake, the room’s flooded with light. Jack stands above me with a surprised look on his face.
“Holy crap, man, you look like ground beef. They messed you up for real.”
“You should see the other guys.”
I begin pushing myself up from the bed. What sleep I did get was full of throbbing. Painful throbbing, which is not my favorite kind.
“Assembly in ten minutes, bro. Up and at ’em.”
“Assembly?”
“Yeah. This ain’t summer camp.” He walks over to where Hollis snores and kicks the leg of the bed. “Yo, man. Assembly.”
Hollis raises a tousled head from the pillow, glances at the window. “It’s not even daylight yet.”
“That’s right. Assembly comes early.”
Tap rolls out of bed and tugs up his trousers and pulls on some combat boots, an old campaigner.
“Did you even sleep here last night?” I ask Jack.
He shrugs. “Some.”
“Thought there was no fraternization in dorms?”
“Ember’s Red Team. And her room has roof access.”
“Nice. Never realized how handy your powers were, did ya, till you got a girlfriend?”
He ignores this and digs a clean, white T-shirt out of his trunk and tosses it to me. “You might want to clean yourself up. They love weakness.”
“Who?”
“The other kids. Ruark. The bulls.” He shakes his head. “Hell, everybody.”
“Who’s weak?”
“It doesn’t matter if you can lift a car, Shreve, you look totally spent.” He pokes me in my ribs. “Damn, bro, you look like a little old man.”
Standing, I hobble over to the chair and begin painfully shrugging on clothes.
I look down at my chest, my ribs, the purple-black fields of bruising. The scar in my gut given to me by the psychotic Dubrovnik woman. The gunshot wound on my shoulder. I look like a prisoner of war. And maybe that’s what I am, a soldier in an invisible war.
I turn seventeen in a couple of months.
I almost scream pulling my jeans up and over ye olde testicles. They’re a little testy.
We trudge down the stairs into the still-dark morning air. It’s not freezing, but the breeze is brisk, and once the cold settles in, I’d maim someone for an overshirt. I have trouble keeping up with the other boys. The nuts are a problem, and my side is seriously tender. Blackwell and his cronies might have cracked a rib. Might be a little score to settle there.
Gravel crunching under our feet, Jack and Tap lead us down a path and through a lovely little copse of aspens standing like sentinels as a group. Other inductees and extranaturals migrate down the path, some chatting, some carrying flashlights, beams swinging wildly. On the paths, employees, men and women—some in lab coats, some in overalls, some in jackets and ties and business casual—breathe into steaming coffee mugs and make their way toward their duly appointed tasks, whatever those are. Auditing expenses, brewing up mutant superpowers, tightening up bolts on the rocket launchers.
You know, everyday, normal stuff.
Once we’re through the copse of trees, the land opens up to a large, grassy field ringed in small outbuildings—maintenance and storage, I figure. Halfway up the steep slope of the far side of the narrow valley is a great behemoth of a building. It’s got a massive front porch with benches, three stories of plate glass framed out like for some rich guy’s hunting lodge. A paved road passes the field and runs up to its front door.
“That’s Admin,” Jack says, a little ominously. “Where Quincrux has his office.”
“Ah. How much do you see of him?”
“Not much at all. It’s not the director you have to watch out for, it’s Ruark. She’s a real bitch.”
I’ve discovered that on my own.
A hopped-up golf cart with knobby tires buzzes down the road from the Admin building and slews to a stop on the assembly field in front of us. In a gaggle of young folks—most of them wearing red, I see—stands Blackwell. He grins at me and nudges Ember. As a group, they turn to look at me. I’m glad I can’t hear what they’re saying.
“I don’t think your girlfriend likes me too much, Jack.”
“Nah, man. She likes you just fine.”
“You don’t seem too broken up at my injuries.”
Jack narrows his eyes as he looks at me. “Listen, it’s different here. The teams are real … I don’t know. They’re like gangs, right? They show their colors at all times and watch each other’s backs.”
“Sure. I get it. There’s no I in team.”
“And there’s no you. So don’t get your panties in a bunch. They had to do that to you, Shreve.”
“What do you mean?”
“You wiped the Witch. You cleaned the clocks of two team members. It was a point of honor. You’re lucky they didn’t kill you.”
“They wouldn’t have.”
“Kids go missing around here. When I first got here, a strong mechanic—”
“Mechanic?”
“A tinkerer. One of us with a weird blend of telekinetic and telepathic power that can manipulate objects. Anyway, she disappeared, but all Ruark would tell us was that she washed out. Like that means anything.”
“And you think she got sideways with one of the teams?”
“Maybe. I think it’s possible. You’re not anything if you’re not on a team. You’re about to find out.”
Wait a second.
“Did you know they were gonna do that to me last night?”
Jack looks surprised. “No, not really.”
“You know I can just bust down your door and see if you’re lying, don’t you?”
His expression sours. I can’t tell if it’s because he feels guilty or because of my threat. I’m mad enough; I don’t really care.
He’s saved by Ruark unlimbering herself from the cart and stomping toward where we wait. Negata is with her, moving like a dancer. He keeps his eyes on me as he walks forward, and when she stops, he stops. It’s a moment pregnant with inaction, the time between graceful and possibly violent ministrations.
Today Ruark’s dressed business casual—slacks, men’s shirt, and tie. Hiking boots are her only concession to the environment. Once in an optimal position, she bellows, “Listen up, exnats! We’ve got a new fish in our midst!” She points to where I stand with Jack, Hollis, and Tap. Giving my face a once-over, she smiles a bland smile. “I can see some of you have already given him a warm welcome,” she says to general chuckles and guffaws. Ruark glances toward the waiting golf cart and motions with one hand.
Roberto scurries forward. It seems everyone defers to Ruark.
“Absent?” Ruark asks.
Roberto places his index fingers at his temple, and his usually genial face takes on a constipated expression. “Matthis, Klein, Arundhai, Johnson are absent.”
Ruark inclines her head at the soldiers, and two peel off from the others.
“Daily assignments follow—” Ruark removes a slip of paper from her blazer and reads, “Red Team maneuvers, lower airfield, morning. Afternoon, communications. Green Team, morning: maneuvers, upper airfield, tactical range. Afternoon, CE.” A groan passes through the crowd.
“What’s CE stand for?” I say.
“Continuing education,” Jack says out of the side of his mouth. “It freakin’ sucks, man.”
“Orange Team, morning: communications training. Afternoon, upper airfield, tactical maneuvers.”
There’s a pause, and I look at the crowd. They�
�re waiting for something. Blackwell and Ember and the rest of their crew watch Ruark with avid stares.
Ruark sniffs, places her hands on her hips, and says, “Orange Team, dismissed.”
There’s a great displacement of air as a passel of orange-clad young men and women launch into the air whooping, calling insults down below. “See ya, punks!” one girl screeches. A young man howls like a wolf as he swings high into the lightening mountain air, but the call diminishes and grows faint as they streak off back toward the dorms and other buildings.
Heads turn back toward Ruark, like dogs waiting for treats.
“Green Team, dismissed.”
Another eruption of flyers, hooting.
“Watch out. Some of them spit,” Hollis says, wiping at his eye.
“Red Team, dismissed.”
Blackwell, Ember, and the rest of Red Team launch themselves into the sky, not as assured as the others but leaving no one behind. They make a circle over the field, dark shapes silhouetted by the sky. Ember blows Jack a kiss as she passes. He watches them far after they’ve disappeared from view.
Ruark turns her face away from the sky and looks sourly at those of us remaining on the ground. There are three girls and ten boys left. I know my roommates and no one else.
“And now we’re left with you, the dregs of our little Society. You sad excuses for extranaturals.” She rattles off a string of names, assigning half to groundskeeping and the other half to laundry. When she dismisses them, a couple fly off clumsily, and the others trot back toward the dorms.
Ruark waits until the field is clear and it’s just us standing there, Negata and Roberto watching on, faces neutral.
“Cannon, Graves, Hollis, Tappan. You’re assigned sanitation. The perfect job for such a motley crew and a wonderful way for you to get to know the pecking order of our little Society.”
Tappan blows air through his nose, loudly, like a horse expressing its displeasure.
“Something the matter, Mr. Tappan?” Ruark says.
“It’s Thursday.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious, Mr. Tappan.”
“Thursdays are bathrooms.”
Ruark grins again. She’s really getting into this evil sergeant role. “Oh, that’s right. Start with Administration and work through the rest of the buildings. If you finish before sundown, you may use the lower airfield. Lakeside, of course, since none of you can fly tandem yet.”
Tap’s shoulders set in an angry pose, and Hollis looks defeated.
Jack glances at me and says, “I’ll save you some.”
“What?”
“Breakfast.”
“What—”
“You are dismissed.”
Jack and Tap both crouch, hands out, and then leap up into the sky, tracing irregular arcs in the now light morning.
Ruark turns toward the golf cart, Negata and Roberto in tow.
“Come on, Shreve,” Hollis says. “We better get going if we want anything more than toast.”
At some point during the march back up the mountainside to campus buildings, I say, “Hollis, go on without me. My nuts are killing me.”
Taking small steps help. It’s hard to get a full breath.
“It’s not that far, man.” He steps closer to me and grabs my forearm, as though to escort me.
I shake my arm away. “Get off me, dude. I’ll be fine.”
“Your face is white. You should go see the nurse.”
“They’ve got a nurse here?”
“Yeah, Roberto.”
I laugh, and it only hurts a little bit. “Nah, I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.”
Technically that’s true. A gunshot and stab wound. At least in my memories. I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to have kids anymore.
By the time we reach the canteen, it’s already half-empty, with the exception of the Red Team laughing and munching what look like breakfast sandwiches and slurping up pitchers of orange and tomato juice.
They turn to look at us as we enter.
“How they hangin’, newb?”
“It’s the pissboy! Hey, pissboy, don’t fill your shoes.”
I stop. Look around the canteen. There’s a bank of buffet trays filled with what looks like powdered eggs, biscuits, and thick white gravy. My stomach gives a little growl of protest at what I’m about to do.
Jack sits with Tap at the table nearest to the Red Team, so he can chat with Ember. When he sees me, an alarmed expression passes over his features.
He knows me too well.
I’ve done this many times before. There’s only one way to play it when you’re incarcerado and everyone is against you. You walk up to the biggest, meanest bastard in the general pop and you fight.
I mosey over to the Red Team table, ignoring the frantic gestures from Jack.
Seeing me approach, Blackwell stands with a couple of other brutes. I notice an old friend I hadn’t seen since the testing—young miss Cynthia Galine, stonechucker, poltergeist. I meet her gaze.
“Guys, uh, I wouldn’t do anything right now—” Galine says, a slight waver to her voice. “He’s really—” She stops, as if at a loss for words. But she’s not.
I stopped her.
I raise my hands, palms faceup as if testing for rain.
“Hey, you feel that?” I ask, as casually as possible.
“Feel what?” Blackwell says.
“No Helmholtz,” I say. No sooner than the sound is out of my mouth, I’m into the ether, inside Galine, and I have her shibboleth in control. It’s a shuddering, electric merging, our two gifts combining to one.
I am you and you are me.
The tricky part is doing two things as once. MeShreve drops to his knees and bows his head. MeGaline, in a fraction of a second, scoops up all the eggs, gravy, biscuits, grits, grime, and grease and collects it all into a hovering gelatinous glob that MeGaline launches with violent force at the Red Team.
When the floating wall of grease and fat hit them it’s moving at nearly five hundred miles an hour with the force of a point-blank shotgun blast.
One of them, a slight boy with glasses, is knocked off his feet. The others remain standing. Spattered but standing.
Blackwell splutters and tries to wipe the grime from his eyes. Galine blisters the air with curses. Ember laughs, a bright pealing sound.
“Hey, man! Friendly fire!” Jack yells, outraged, trying to get the slime off his shirt. A globule of white peppered gravy hangs from his nose. “Uncool.”
He scoops up a handful of white stuff from his plate and chucks it at me.
Blackwell steps from around the table, coated with gunk and grease. He really is a hoss. Nostrils flared, he approaches me, his fists in hard knots.
Here’s the deal in any incarcerado alpha dog situation: You have to be willing to fight, even if you’re going to lose. If they think you’re meat, you’re meat. And earlier, Jack said I looked weak.
I am not weak.
“You just don’t get the picture, do you, pissboy?” Blackwell says, coming close enough for me to smell the oil on him. “You do not fuck with Red Team. We will bury you.”
There’s a time for words and a time for action. I give him a little of both.
Over at the other table, Galine stiffens again as I slip behind the wheel, tears beading at the corners of her eyes and mouth caught in a smile.
“You can try,” I say, my voice pitched low. Speaking when I’m in the ether—it’s a delicate act while holding Galine immobile. She’s my gun. “But you’ll regret it. I can wear you like a suit.” I move in closer, lowering my voice. “I have before. Remember?” That’s technically not true, but I hope he remembers it that way. “You don’t remember?” I lower my eyes so that when I step into his personal space, his brute lizard brain doesn’t think it’s threatening or amorous. My voice is a whisper. I’m way too close to him, kissing distance. “You got me in the bathroom. Head-to-head, I can blow out your mind like a candle, but I’ll humiliate you first. Rem
ember the Witch?”
“The Witch?”
“Norman. Er, Ilsa.”
He remains silent, but his eyes shift in their sockets. He’s remembering. As he does, I reach out with the invisible hand—thanks to Galine—and give his body a squeeze, like it was a tube of toothpaste.
I should be pleased at the expression on his face, but it just makes me feel horrible. His expression is one of pure terror, where your instincts kick in and all pretense of toughness or intellect is gone, and it’s just unadulterated fight-or-flight reaction at the sudden awareness of a large predator. He’d run away or swing at me if I wasn’t holding him in my invisible fist. And maybe I have Casey—that beautiful one-armed extranatural—to thank for that idea.
And then the moment is gone; I’ve released him. Ember and Jack stare at me. Galine and other Red Team members watch on, expecting a fight, either extranatural or just plain old flying fists.
“I’m giving you a gift,” I whisper, so only he can hear. “You can walk away with your dignity intact. You understand?”
He blinks. He opens his mouth, shuts it.
“Consider it a truce. I won’t mess with you, you don’t mess with me or my friends. Not Hollis, not Jack. Not Tap or anyone else. Otherwise …”
This time I knock at the door of his mind. Hard.
He steps back. It’s got the barest whiff of a stagger. He nods. A small inclination of his head. And that’s not enough for me. I put out my hand, to shake.
He looks at it, realizes what it means. Shaking is capitulation. I’ve forced him into a truce. Isn’t that how all wars end? Or is it how they start?
His face curls into a small whimper of disgust, at me, at the situation, at himself, I can’t tell. It’s not enough that I’ve threatened him, that I’ve scared him. The thing that smarts is that I’m letting him go without the spanking he deserves. He knows it, I know it.
The world makes monsters of us all. All it takes is a handshake.
He turns to go back to his cadre, the Red Team, and I can feel their gazes on me, and I don’t care one damned bit what they think. This is war. They can whisper, they can fear me, I don’t care.
I don’t care.
After breakfast, we start the long swirl down the toilet. Each building has a closet marked SANITATION, full of spray bottles and scrub brushes and towels and rags. I’m familiar with the routine, thanks to my stint at Casimir.
The Shibboleth Page 23