Prodigy

by Dave Kalstein

  “Nobody wants to be the bad guy.”

  “Except for you. Number-one status, plus this…,” Gibson said, jabbing the emblem on Goldsmith’s blazer, “… equals a first-class ticket to whatever future you can dream up. You know the rules. Big dog has the most to gain by keeping the yard nice and orderly. As is.”

  Goldsmith looked over, game face finally complete, eyes focused, brimming with unwavering rectitude. Works on the specimens every time. It would work on Gibson. Build up the voice, let the air come up from the lungs and out of the mouth and just say it. “This is my last trip to the disciplinary level, Captain.”

  Gibson didn’t even try stifling a snort. “What? With four days to go?”

  “I’m resigning.”

  “Come on. You’re the rags-to-riches poster child. Don’t blow it now.”

  “Rags to riches and no friends in between or ever.”

  “Hey. Look at me. It’s goddamned lonely at the top. Everyone knows that. Come graduation day, the world’s at your feet. You got the rest of your life for friends.” The pod beeped, sliding to a halt. The doors slid open. “Cowboy up, son. It’s show time.”

  They walked into the hallway. It had the same structure and dimensions of any other hallway in the tower but there was concrete on the floor in the place of white marble. The walls were cloaked in shadows by intermittently placed spotlights shooting upward in the place of the school’s whitish-blue regulation Xenon lights. There was a lone door at the end of the corridor labeled: DISCIPLINARY LEVEL. It was three inches of thick steel and hinges, but to Goldsmith it always looked like a soft, red velvet curtain placed onstage to separate him from his soon to be captive audience. The sight of it never failed to make him forget about everything else.

  “Who’s in the box?” he asked Gibson. Gibson handed him a summary sheet.

  “Fiber optic surveillance picked up their chat in an elevator pod this morning. They were talking about recent dopazone trips.”

  Goldsmith scanned the sheet. Misters Nathan Donald Oates, Robert Ryu Sugiyama, Miles Boyd Mancuso … Eleven names total, all members of the Class of 2036. Four days till graduation. Tough luck guys, you were close. Eleven of the usual suspects and two glaring omissions.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Valedictorian?”

  Goldsmith remembered Cooley’s pinned-back, dopazone-laced pupils in the elevator pod, and Bunson, his obedient goon. They couldn’t possibly have tested clean if the rest of their gang’s samples were tainted. “Two problems, actually,” he answered. “Mr. William Winston Cooley and Mr. Thaddeus Bunson. Why aren’t their names on here? They’re known associates of the others on this sheet. They were in the elevator pod with the rest. Were they tested?” He studied Gibson’s face: his eyes twitched slightly upward and to the right (an involuntary muscle reaction produced when the brain is creating facts as opposed to recalling them, according to the valedictorian’s manual, 2035 edition) before they refocused on him; a smile appeared maybe one half-second too fast.

  “Ah, yes. The baddest apples in the bunch,” said the captain. “And the proverbial fish that got away. Cooley never discussed getting high with his pals this morning. Kid’s too smart for that. Only thing he mentioned was sneaking off campus to pick up clean urine samples. My men are following up on that right now. And everything Bunson said got garbled somehow in playback … a technical glitch. Headmaster Latimer doesn’t want to spring tests without more concrete evidence than blind suspicion. Maybe next time you’ll nail them. Because there will be a next time, won’t there?”

  “No. Enjoy the performance while you can, Captain. It’s the finale.”

  “We’ll see,” Gibson smirked.

  Now. One last deep breath and dive in, no hesitation. Goldsmith pulled open the steel door, took two steps inside yet another corridor and stopped, sizing everything up the way they taught him. Eleven specimens: six against the left wall, five against the right. Their heads were covered with eyeless hoods, just the way he liked it. The hoods, thickly woven woolen sacks, were thrown over the specimens’ heads as they were apprehended by the security detail. The purpose was not discomfort (although they were very hot and uncomfortable), but sensory deprivation. Keeping them unbalanced and unaware of location, time, and other sensory stimuli facilitated his task. The captive specimens were already slouching, shifting their weight from one leg to the other—one was keeping himself limber by bouncing his back against the brick wall—and most likely, sweating profusely. Goldsmith took two steps forward. All of them cocked their heads in his direction, listening for any clue as to what might come next. Goldsmith swallowed down the deep, tenor sternness he threw at Captain Gibson and brought up just the right tone: an octave higher; dumb down the vocabulary to their level, add a dash of uncertainty.

  “Look guys,” he started, standing still at the front of the corridor. “I don’t like this any more than you do.” Silence. “I’m only human and I hate the school for giving me this job, all right? I … I’ve just started to feel this way and…” There. Bring in just the right amount of introspective-sounding hesitation. Layer in a coating of conspiracy. Easy does it. “Help me out and I’ll help you guys out, okay? I’ve known you for twelve years. We’ve grown up together. We’ve come too far. I’m not letting them expel any of you. That’s a promise. Just be honest. All I need is one of you—just one—to talk to me, and I’ll make everything right.” Pause. Let the words sink in. “Who’s in?”

  Silence. Not one specimen raised his hand or stepped forward. Goldsmith got that familiar twinge: adrenaline surging as his thoughts raced far ahead of the psyches inside each name on that summary sheet. He ran through each specimen’s profile in his mind and forecasted every behavioral permutation in the time it took to crack a smile of pity for his prey.

  “That’s great. Six of you. Thanks guys, you’re doing the right thing.” Predictably, eleven pairs of feet started to shuffle nervously. Goldsmith stepped in between the lineup and grabbed two arms, one from the right and one from the left. He walked them down the corridor toward the examination room. He sat one specimen down on the bench outside and Gibson walked over, taking a seat next to him. Goldsmith dragged the other one inside the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Inside the spare space was a table bolted down to the floor and two chairs, one on each side. He placed the specimen down in the chair and sat across from him before glancing at the mirrored wall and looking at his reflection for just a moment. He smoothed down his hair. Good. Now reach over, pull off that wool hood.

  Goldsmith sat back and watched Mr. Nathan Donald Oates as he blinked a dozen times before opening his mouth into a variation of contorted shapes, stretching out his face’s overheated flesh, letting it breathe.

  “Hello, Mr. Oates.”

  Oates got his bearings, instinctively looking for a wall clock that was not there (the suspects always looked for a clock) because he wanted to figure out how long he’d been detained. He gave up and fixed Goldsmith with a defiant glare.

  “Come on,” Goldsmith said. “We’re both Class of ’36. We’ve had progressions together since we were six. You’ve got four days left. Don’t blow it now. I know you, Nathan. You’re not behind the dopazone that’s being passed around our school.” Lean over the table just a tiny bit, reel him in. Watch his body, reflect his posture back at him, making him feel at ease, understood. Reach out and create empathy where none exists. Oates leaned back in his chair. He crossed his legs. Goldsmith leaned back, too—just hanging out buddy, just one of the guys—and crossed his legs. “Someone else offered you the stuff,” he continued. “You were just experimenting. Nothing serious. You got roped in. I know. Who hooked you up? Give me a name and you walk.” Just when Mr. Oates’s blank face looked like it was starting to thaw …

  “Fuck you,” he hissed. Goldsmith did not move or flinch. Water off my back, pal. “You sold your soul for a goddamned medal and a title. Put the fucking hood back on me, ’cause I can’t stand the sight of a whore.”r />
  Goldsmith glanced over at the mirror. Easy there, son. He worked up a convincing sigh of resignation.

  “Points taken. I’m letting you go back to today’s progressions.”

  “You … you are?”

  “Yes.” Oates did not let himself smile with relief because he didn’t want to jinx his good fortune. “Just answer a few questions for me,” Goldsmith said. “Routine stuff. Simple yesses and noes will suffice.” Goldsmith glanced down at the summary sheet on the table. “Is your name Nathan Donald Oates?” He pretended to hit a red button marked record that was built into the table.

  “Yes.”

  “Louder, please. For that speaker over by the door. We’ve got to get this part on tape for the school’s records. Thanks.”

  “Yes!”

  “Good. Is your birthday November 6, 2018?”

  “Yes!”

  “Damn. I don’t think the speaker’s picking it up. One more time, but even louder, please?”

  “Yes!”

  Mr. Oates’s shouts were audible outside the examination room.

  “Yes!”

  The hooded suspect who was still waiting on the bench outside sat up ramrod straight, his head leaning toward the door. Captain Gibson cracked a thin smile.

  “Yes! I said ‘yes’! Are you deaf?” A few moments passed. The door opened. Goldsmith steered Oates—hooded once again—into the hallway. Gibson stood up, leading him by the arm. Now, Goldsmith thought. Stick the knife in and twist. He grabbed the other suspect, taking his arm in the pinching grip of an angry father before dragging him inside the examination room and tossing him into the chair. It almost tipped over from the weight, but the specimen righted himself just in time, breathing heavier, faster.

  Goldsmith ignored the chair and table this time, opting to circle the stationary suspect methodically, and his heels clicked against the floor. After two slow orbits, he reached down and yanked off the hood so quickly that he could see strings of drool stuck to the wool as it pulled away from the suspect’s mouth. There went the routine: the blinking, the breathing, the reorienting. But there was no glare this time. Just a child’s dread of what came next.

  “Hello, Mr. Mancuso.” Goldsmith snapped back to the elevator pod this morning and wished everyone who was there had a front-row seat. “You were half right. There is, in fact, a narc in our midst. But it’s not me.” Mancuso’s lips started to tremble. Goldsmith moved in front him and squatted down, leaning his face just a few inches away. He inhaled: shampoo, sweat, morning breath. So that’s what fear smelled like. “I couldn’t shut Mr. Oates up.” Tough guy Miles Boyd Mancuso’s eyes filled with tears. Goldsmith was tempted to crack a smile but choked it back.

  On the other side of the examination room’s mirrored wall, his audience was impressed as usual. Through the one-way glass, Captain Gibson, Headmaster Latimer, and President Judith Lang watched as Mancuso’s lips started moving, slowly at first, then faster. The best confessions always started with a trickle and ended with a pouring rain of verbiage.

  “… Yes, Oates and Sugiyama gave me the money…,” came Mancuso’s voice through the observation room’s speaker system. The headmaster stepped forward and slid a switch on a wall pane to ease down the volume.

  “Last year it would’ve taken us three hours to crack these unbalanced specimens,” said the headmaster. Gibson caught his eye and nodded in Goldsmith’s direction.

  “Says it’s his last session.”

  “They all say that,” said Lang, never taking her eyes from Goldsmith as he stood behind Mancuso on the other side of the glass. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Great kid,” said Gibson.

  “A natural,” agreed the headmaster.

  “Wonder who he gets it from?”

  “He’s an orphan,” said Lang. “Keep on wondering.” The room’s door was opened. Lang’s assistant entered holding her personal Tabula.

  “It’s Senator Mathers, ma’am,” he said. Lang stood up, took it, and headed for the exit. Gibson watched her go.

  “I reckon these days you’re the most popular lady in all of D.C.”

  “Pay attention to Mr. Goldsmith, Captain,” she said. “You could learn something.”

  Through the window and back inside the examination room, Goldsmith watched Mancuso as he lapsed into silence.

  “And?” he asked him.

  “And … that’s it. That’s everyone who did it. Look … you’re not gonna kick us out, are you?”

  “Confirm something for me. Is it true that Misters Bunson and Cooley were involved in the dopazone ring?”

  “I already told you that we—”

  “A yes or no is more than adequate.”

  “Yes.” Goldsmith glanced at the one-way and wondered when the administration was going to bring Bunson and Cooley down here. Sooner rather than later, he hoped. Goldsmith, after all, had exams to study for. No. He was retiring. After all, he just gave his notice a few minutes ago. Right? “Are they gonna kick us out?” Mancuso whined. “You said if we cooperated you wouldn’t let—”

  “The outcome of this session is not within my control. I’m just a specimen. A middleman.”

  “But you’re gonna…”

  Goldsmith got that familiar poking feeling that descended from his throat into his stomach. It bounced back up with a jolt. C’mon, hold it down just for a … He calmly walked through the door before breaking into a sprint for the examination room across the hall. He stumbled inside, slammed the door behind him and found his favorite trash bin in the corner. He grabbed it, raised the white plastic container up and let a salvo of vomit fly. It splattered. The force of his choking brought Goldsmith to his knees. The poking started again and another barrage shot from his mouth into the bin. It left behind a calm sensation. He pushed the smelly can to the side and sat on the floor, leaned against the wall and waited for his breath to return.

  “Never gets any easier, does it?” asked the headmaster. Goldsmith looked up. He was standing in the doorway in his usual slim, black suit. The combination of the clothes and the combed-back white hair made him look like a mayor who just stepped out of some movie from the Silent Era.

  “They’re all goners, aren’t they?”

  “It could be four days till commencement or four years. Violation of policy—drug use, no less—cannot be tolerated.”

  “I heard the yearbook’s voting me Most Likely to Join the Secret Police,” he said, slowly rising from the floor. The headmaster chuckled and handed him a glass of ice water. Goldsmith sipped.

  “Captain Gibson tells me that you’re throwing in the towel.”

  “I love being valedictorian. Setting an example. Working with you and President Lang. But this part of the job…”

  “A braver man than I would suggest that you relish this part of the job more than you care to admit, but that, as they say, is neither here nor there. Tell me, why did you wait until now to resign?”

  Goldsmith smiled and looked him in the eye. “Maybe it’s a last-minute expiation of guilt. Or maybe I know it’s too late in the year for you to appoint Camilla Moore II as my replacement.” The headmaster smiled back. “Sir?” Goldsmith began, “Mr. Bunson and Mr. Cooley weren’t called here today. Am I correct in assuming they’ll suffer the same fate as the rest?” The headmaster’s smile disappeared.

  “Captain Gibson has informed the president and myself that there is a lack of evidence against them. We have never and will never expel a specimen solely based on allegations by other specimens, much less specimens who, in this case, are not reliable witnesses.” Goldsmith nodded. “What is your next progression?” asked the headmaster, not leaving any room for a debate on finer points of Stansbury law.

  “Principles of Game Theory.”

  “Come then. I’ll walk you.”

  * * *

  The headmaster and Mr. Goldsmith strolled through the atrium. It was quiet and empty between progressions. Goldsmith looked up at the “sky”: the clouds were still dancing and vibratin
g from glitches, the sun had gone from a distorted gray to a translucent white.

  “I’m an orphan too, in a way,” said the headmaster. “I lost my wife and little girl in a car wreck close to twenty years ago.”

  “I know, sir. If only they had gyrotechnology back when—”

  “And if only Professor Partridge had discovered Panacetix in time to beat your father’s brain cancer.” He walked off the path toward a wall broadcasting an illusory hologram that made it appear as if there was no wall at all, only a meadow that went on for miles. Goldsmith watched as Headmaster Latimer waved his hand over a switch. A hidden panel and miniature screen revealed themselves. Goldsmith studied the headmaster’s movements as he hit some buttons. Instantly, the atrium’s environment reverted to normal. The mutant clouds disappeared into a morning mist and the sun went gold, a bright flame against immaculate blue. Goldsmith detected the trickle of a flowing river getting louder and louder. “Hear that?” asked the headmaster. “The sound of water running under the bridge. Our lives are now defined by progress.” The panel disappeared into digitized air. They resumed walking along the path.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your mother left you in an orphanage where you were assigned a random number. Your number was one of ten selected that year in our lottery. Finally, you saw a light glimmering at the tunnel’s end.” He stopped, setting his hand on Goldsmith’s shoulder. Goldsmith looked down at him: the headmaster stood barely six feet but, like Lang, had always seemed taller. “Remember that light, son. Because when you leave this tower in a few days, it becomes you. You’ll burn so brightly. And never forget the incredible gifts that have been bestowed upon you.”

  “‘For Power may point the way,’” he recited, “‘but only Honor can lead it.’ I’ll make you proud, sir.”

  “I’ll be watching.” He turned. Goldsmith understood that this was as far as their walk would go. “And so will President Lang.” The headmaster started down the path in the direction from which they came. A flock of geese shot by, their large bodies skimming the ground. After they passed, he was gone. Scattered voices—real voices—began to echo around the atrium. They built into a cacophony that brought with it a tide of specimens.