Prodigy

by Dave Kalstein

  Pete watched the on-field postgame interview with Freddie Grady Jr. He didn’t look elated. He wasn’t pumped up. Like all of the specimens, he had a look of confident calm that seemed so incongruous with the emotions of a football field. The reporter held a microphone up to Junior’s face.

  “Freddie, the whole season, people have been saying—myself included—that you weren’t ready for this level, that you’d get injured, that you were in way over your head. You’ve got the physical gifts, but on paper, there’s no way you should’ve been able to—”

  “That,” cut in Junior with his Stansbury monotone, “is why they play the games.”

  The men around Pete heard this and cheered, raising their fists in the air. “That’s why they play the games!” they chanted together. “That’s why they play the games!” Pete walked off. Some boys in the street were tossing around their own football, replaying Grady Jr.’s impossible catch, run, and reach for the end zone.

  “I’m open!” Pete called to the ten-year-old quarterback. The kid dropped back, checked off his imaginary receivers and then hefted a wobbly pass in his direction. Pete leaped up and caught it, feeling the leather smack against his palms, and landed, briefly juking out unseen defenders. For a moment he was Freddie Grady Jr. too: young again, bursting with potential, ready to rise to the occasion and defy the odds. And so was all of San Angeles. He tossed the ball back and heard his Tabula ring. “Yeah?” he answered.

  “Tell me you just saw that game!” said Len Kinsley, the San Angeles Times’s editor-in-chief.

  “You mean that final loss in an 0-16 season?”

  “You just wait till next year! Junior’ll be starting and—”

  “I’ve got to get inside that school, Len. Talk with those specimens. Find out what really goes on in that tower.”

  “You and that school. Why don’t you trust them? They’ve only been saving the world for the past twenty years. And now they’re saving our Raiders!”

  “I’m gonna get inside. I know some people who can pull strings.”

  “Fat chance. You think they’re actually gonna let you talk to specimens? No way.”

  “Hey, lighten up boss,” Pete grinned, watching the little boys reenact Junior’s score for the umpteenth time, “that’s why they play the games.” And for the record, President Lang found her new quarterback. Just one month before Mr. Frederick Grady Jr.’s NFL debut, Stansbury won its eighth consecutive state football championship.

  Junior brushed by them on his way out of the coliseum, oblivious to the nod of acknowledgment that Pete directed at him. Goldsmith grabbed him by the arm, snapping him out of his reverential awe.

  “I said, are you authorized to be here, Mr. Pietropaolo?” Goldsmith asked.

  “It’s just Pete. And yes, I’m authorized by none other than President Judith Lang. She told me to find you and stick real close.”

  “Why me?”

  “She probably figures it’s good PR before the Senate committee’s vote tomorrow. Don’t mind me, kiddo.” Pete gave him a smile. “C’mon, don’t look at me like that. I’m just an ink-stained wretch.”

  Goldsmith felt the crush of his fellow specimens as they pushed past him through the crowd, and suddenly became protective of his home. “I know who you are,” he said. “You wrote that hatchet job on the mayor right after the election.”

  “Oh, that?” Pete’s expression broke into a grin best described as that of the shit-eating variety. “His opponent wakes up in a motel room with a hooker and a hangover and doesn’t remember how he got there? Twenty-four hours before the polls open? A photographer just happened to be on the premises? I wasn’t the only one who thought it reeked of setup.” Pete’s smile shifted genres to the kind meant to make a man feel like a child. “Or maybe you’re defensive because the mayor’s an alumnus of this place?” Goldsmith looked away. Pete took it as a signal to continue, maybe twist the knife just a tad. “Funny how things always work out for you Stansbury people, isn’t it?”

  “There are no scandals around here.”

  “Then don’t look so nervous. I’m merely a humble servant of that patron saint of journalism, the Truth. Headmaster’s a big fan of George Bernard Shaw. So am I.” Pete winked. “Shaw had some bang-up one-liners. Here’s another one for you: ‘All great truths…”

  Goldsmith racked his brain just to shut Pete up. He came up with the rest of the quotation in the blink of an eye, just like the school taught him. “… begin as blasphemies,” Goldsmith said, staring him down.

  “Bingo, Mr. Valedictorian.”

  Goldsmith headed through the atrium, Pete two steps behind. He could feel the eyes of the specimens on him and sped up the pace toward the privacy of an elevator pod. “Stansbury Tower was completed by the world renowned Rikka-Salvi & Partners architectural firm in 2020,” said Goldsmith, launching into some standard tour guide schtick, wondering if he could literally bore Pete to death. “It stands 125 stories high. The lowest levels are used as storage facilities and floors four through twenty-five, generally speaking, are residential. Twenty-six through forty contain faculty offices and conference rooms, forty-one through seventy-five are progression rooms, seventy-six to ninety house research labs, and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, Goldsmith. You’re not telling me anything I haven’t found on the school’s Web site. How about some gossip? The headmaster take a liking to President Lang’s little skirts? Who’s banging their math teacher? Come to think of it, who are you banging?” Pete got a wicked glare in return for his inquiry. They arrived at an elevator pod and Goldsmith hit a button that read “49.” Harking’s progression beckoned. Pete glanced at the rows of buttons and pointed at an unmarked one that looked to be somewhere in the fifties or sixties.

  “Where does that one take you?”

  “Just some storage level, I think.”

  “An unmarked storage level? I’d love to check it out.” Before Goldsmith could answer, Pete jabbed the button with his thumb. It would not light up.

  “Must be out of service,” said Goldsmith. “Sorry.”

  The pod whisked them to 49. The hallway was lined with progression rooms. Some professors had already started their lectures. A triad of detail officers passed, sizing Pete up.

  “Don’t those goons freak the kids out?” he asked.

  “I’ll assume by ‘kids’ you mean specimens. Those goons, Pete, are here for our safety. And the security detail only hires the most experienced professionals, former police officers, former military personnel, even some former Special Forces soldiers. Each and every one of them is highly trained. Frankly, you pose more of a threat to me than they do.”

  “Hey, I don’t have any qualms with cops or soldiers, but let me suggest there might be a reason all of the guys you mention have ‘former’ in their descriptions.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Nothing, I just—” Pete glanced inside an open progression room and froze, catching a long look at a hi-def image of what looked like grisly roadkill broadcasted on an extralarge plasma screen above the chalkboard. “What in God’s name is that?” Goldsmith took a peek inside the room and recognized the shot immediately.

  “A cluster of herpes simplex B sores festering on male genitalia. Magnified approximately three hundred times.”

  “Ugh … why?” asked Pete, looking nauseous.

  “For Professor Brighton’s tenth grade Sexual Education progression, of course,” said Goldsmith, lowering his voice so as not to interrupt Brighton’s lecture.

  “… albeit necessary, but yet more proof as to why you are strongly advised not to engage in sexual intercourse,” said the professor to his specimens. “Nor was this cross-section taken from a San Angeles prostitute, let me assure you! It was taken in the infirmary just last week, found on a male specimen who is currently enrolled at Stansbury.” The professor looked at the terrified young faces before him, their eyes wild with speculation as to who the poor guy could be. “A specimen who contrived to have a torrid
affair with … an outsider!” The specimens looked at each other, aghast at the possibility. Goldsmith grinned, leaning over to Pete.

  “Here’s some gossip,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Brighton gives his specimens the same line every year. That image is at least ten years old.”

  Pete looked over the specimens behind their desks, taking in the girls’ healthy, tanned legs as they practically glowed against the dark fabric of their knee socks. The boys sat there, chisel-jawed mannequins in uniform staring at Brighton’s screen and taking careful notes.

  “Oral sex is a healthy alternative to actual penetration,” continued Brighton. He switched the STD image to that of two anonymous, featureless, virtually androgynous animated forms miming a blowjob. “The stimulus is of sufficient quality to attain orgasm, but the probability of disease transmittal and unwanted pregnancy is greatly diminished.” One of the girls glanced from the X-rated animation over to Pete, who could tell she was completely oblivious to any kind of sexual tension. Her hair was pulled back in a tight blonde bun. She crossed her arms across her chest and applied balm to her supple lips, returning her eyes to the screen without so much as a glimmer of interest in him.

  “But remember that this fate,” said Brighton, flipping back to the herpes image and magnifying it even more so the sores seemed to glisten and breathe, “is what could await you, should you choose to act irresponsibly. A small number of your fellow specimens are purebreds from the egg and sperm of happily married alumni, and these offspring have the gifts to prove it. You are all familiar with Miss Camilla Moore II and her incredible sense of recall. But there is also Mr. Charles Edgar Shapiro, the artistic prodigy who is now the youngest person ever to have a painting added to San Angeles Modern Museum’s permanent collection. And don’t forget Anna Bryce Johnson, the tenth grader who is currently the third-ranked tennis player on the planet. These are merely the high-profile ones. The most recent purebred specimen to exhibit extraordinary gifts is only a second grader, one whose name I am not yet at liberty to reveal. But suffice it to say that Stansbury’s psychiatrists have determined that she may in fact possess a sixth sense that enables her to read minds.” Brighton looked at his progression. “I hope you understand what I am driving at, children. Proletarian outsiders are free to have their foul orgies, at liberty to spread their diseases amongst each other. But as far as each of you is concerned, sexual intercourse—nay, love itself—comes with a great responsibility. It is within you, within your bodies, within your hearts, to carry our race to the next stage of evolution.”

  A hush came over the room. Pete looked at Goldsmith. The kid was nodding like Brighton was preaching the gospel. Then he glanced at two mischievous-looking male specimens in the back row. One of them just passed something to his buddy. A photo. Pete squinted. It was a full-color, eight-by-eleven shot of some gorgeous girl specimen in a locker room wearing skimpy panties and nothing on top. She had no idea there was a camera present, was caught totally unaware, candid. She had this creamy skin and the best rack Pete had ever seen on any woman, anywhere, movie stars included. It was actually the Platonic rack of perfection. Full, firm, practically gravity-defying. And as if that wasn’t enough, her legs went on forever. She was a gourmet three-course meal, if Pete had ever seen one. The kid gawking at the photo looked like he could now die happy.

  “Sadie Sarah Chapman,” he breathed, soaking up every pixel. “Cooley’s gonna mash your face into inside-out hamburger if he finds out.”

  “Shut up and give it back,” hissed his buddy. “It’s mine!”

  Pete laughed, comforted to see that some things in high schools would never change. He looked over at Goldsmith to see if he had caught the whole thing, but the valedictorian was already ten feet down the hall. Pete jogged after him, half-wishing he could enter some alternate dimension, one where he was young enough to enroll in school at this tower and his parents had enough dough to send him. Yeah, right. Keep on dreaming. No chance. But he’d settle for the next best thing: some deep, dark, Stansbury secret exposed on the front page, his name underneath the sixteen-point-type headline. Sniffing those stories out was his sixth sense. And it was only a matter of time before he found one.

  * * *

  Down on Level 1, Cooley exited the stairwell, his forehead glistening with sweat from the trip all the way to the tower’s base. It was quiet. The soles of his shoes echoed as they clicked along in calm, even beats. He made his way to the registration and reception wing, deftly avoiding the security cameras panning above. Over at the desk, Harvey sat in his chair, love handles stretching his guard’s uniform at the seams. Now this guy could’ve used the med cycle, Cooley thought as he walked over.

  “Harvey.”

  Harvey flinched, snapping the graphite point of his pencil. “Mr. Cooley … trick or treat?”

  “Treat.” Cooley tossed his pack of meds onto the desk. Harvey opened it up and peeked inside, smiling. He whistled.

  “Jesus. Sedatives. A pile of them. The med techs must really think you need some doping up,” Harvey said.

  “I’ll be gone soon,” Cooley said. “Got a new supplier lined up?”

  “Don’t you worry about me.” He punched some keys on the simulcast terminal behind his desk. “Cab’s on the way. Now go and get us all some clean piss before the test tomorrow. Do I get a bonus for being your travel agent, too?”

  “They’re still testing staff?”

  “Routine. They don’t want us dipping into the stash.” Harvey grinned, looked at Cooley and saw years of shared secrets flash past his eyes. “You’ve been good to me, Cooley. Maybe I’ll let you out once more after this before you graduate. For old times’ sake. A romantic, two-hour getaway for you and sexy Sadie?”

  “Deal.” Cooley smiled and walked over to the electromagnetically sealed sliding door at the school’s entrance. Harvey pressed a button underneath his desk. The thick metal hissed, exhaling purified Stansbury air into the warm dust of the desert outside. Cooley looked at the cracked surface outside the tower. It was dark brown and muddy from the rain pouring down. Slippery. Don’t forget to wash off the shoes before stepping back inside, he reminded himself. It’s a dead giveaway. Real, live dirt and the atrium didn’t mix. The door slid shut behind him, hissing goodbye in his wake.

  Fifteen minutes later, a light shined on Cooley from above. The hot air of a gyroengine blew exhaust. The door of the cab read: Universal Taxi. Cooley got inside and gagged: Stansbury could cure cancer and AIDS, but cabbies still smelled like barnyard animals.

  “San Angeles,” Cooley said. “West Side. D Sector.” The cabbie glanced at him in the rearview mirror. The gyro also reeked of mint-flavored chewing tobacco and the grime from a brass spittoon affixed onto the dashboard.

  “Last I heard, specimens aren’t supposed to go off campus,” he said. “I could lose my license.”

  “I’ve got two hundred dollars for you. That’s double the meter rate.”

  “Two hundred and fifty.”

  Cooley grabbed the door handle. “Then let me out.”

  “Fine! Two hundred plus tip!” The gyro rose up into the sky. Cooley watched the ground get farther and farther away. He looked over his shoulder through the window, watching the tower get smaller in the distance. He thought about Sadie and Bunson back there, sitting somewhere in a safe little progression room way up high, and wondered whether this was really who he was, whether he was always going to be the guy ditching class. But the cabbie threw the gyro into another gear and Cooley’s head snapped back against the seat, cutting his thoughts off before his med-free brain could formulate an answer.

  * * *

  Back inside the tower, the first hour Philosophy: Theory and Practice course had commenced in Progression Room 9 located on Level 49. Fifteen specimens and one newspaper reporter sat in two-person rows as the glow of a large plasma screen television broadcasted the eccentric, tweedy likeness of their instructor, Prof. Harold Harking, who was delivering his lecture while in the midst of a sabba
tical in England. Goldsmith sat in a row next to Pete and his jaw clenched over and over again, this man at his side a physical reminder of his social leprosy.

  Camilla sat across the row from Pete, dutifully taking notes, even though everyone knew she was only doing it for their benefit, as Harking’s words were downloaded straight into her brain the moment they left the plasma screen’s stereo speakers. Bunson and Sadie sat near the back row. Bunson leaned his large frame into various contortions every time Harking glanced over, so the old man wouldn’t notice that Cooley’s seat was empty. Sadie watched Harking’s lips move for a moment before her eyes drifted toward the French windows behind him on the screen. It was a sunny day in Great Britain.

  “… and the Puritans’ concept of the Elect,” Harking said with just a touch of that pretentious faux English accent familiar to many starry-eyed Americans abroad creeping in, “the elite few who would rescue the human race from itself, from the evil of its own sins, rings true even today.” Harking spotted Mr. Stuart Brian Richey raising his hand. “Yes, Mr. Richey?”

  “But sir, doesn’t the notion of the elite contradict everything America is about? How all men are equal?”

  “Men are equal in the eyes of the law, certainly. But those of you in Stansbury Tower are held to higher standards because, like it or not, you are elite. John Winthrop, one of the original Puritans, spoke words in 1639 that still resonate today.” Harking cleared his throat and donned his reading glasses. He glanced down, fumbling for a loose paper, and began. “‘We must consider that we shall be a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us. So that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken, and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a byword and story throughout the world.’”