Prodigy

by Dave Kalstein

  As they stepped into the rainy street, Cooley took off his blazer, turned it inside out so the telltale Stansbury emblem was hidden and draped it over Stella’s shoulders, hiding her wounds. Goldsmith knew he couldn’t take his blazer off: the bloodstains on his white dress shirt would show. Cooley looked at him, understanding the dilemma. He reached over and, without a word, ripped the conspicuous gold patch from Goldsmith’s chest and tossed it into a puddle. Adieu, Novus Ordo Seclorum, Goldsmith thought. He watched the stitched-in shape of the tower sink, disappearing into the wet muck on the pavement, dark and polluted precipitation swallowing that proud coat of arms whole. Still, he felt obligated to maintain the bearing of a valedictorian, even though he had been cast out of the Stansbury loop, clinging onto his past glory like a defrocked priest. Meanwhile, Cooley placed Jackson’s gun into his waistband and untucked his dress shirt to conceal it. Thunder rumbled from above. A Stansbury security detail gyro sailed past, missing them in the crowd on the street.

  “We’re insane if we go back to the tower,” Goldsmith said, feeling Stella’s eyes on him.

  “I’ve got to go back,” said Cooley.

  “She needs to get to a hospital. They’ll get us if we go back, and even if they don’t, she could die of her wounds anyway. If we get her to a doctor, she can still present the committee with evidence after they vote.”

  “The vote’s not the only reason I’m going back there. Sadie and Bunson are still inside. Gibson and Lang are gonna go after them to get to me.”

  “Cooley, you can’t—”

  “And what about Camilla?” The sound of her name made Goldsmith’s stomach drop and bounce back up. Camilla and her family were so tied to Stansbury that he wondered if she’d ever leave it, even if she knew what he knew now. “You think they don’t know she means something to you?” Cooley continued. “You think they’re gonna let you off the hook?”

  “You’re right.” He watched Cooley help Stella down the street. More Stansbury gyros cruised in and out of aerial traffic lanes, looking for them. Lighting flung itself across the dark sky. “We can’t risk flagging down a gyrocab,” Goldsmith said, “they’d see us.”

  “I know,” said Cooley, leading them through the throngs of pedestrian traffic past the monorail line to Old Sunset Boulevard. New Sunset Boulevard was several hundred feet above their heads and packed with bumper-to-bumper rush hour gyro traffic. Old Sunset was moving faster, a ghost of a once proud road bearing what few gasoline-powered automobiles were left in San Angeles. The antique cars rolled along belching fumes. They were either jalopies belonging to commuters who couldn’t afford the newer, safer gyromobile technology, or handsome, well-preserved cars of the twentieth century, owned by the wealthy San Angelenos who could still pay the inflated price of petroleum gasoline following the destabilization of the oil market ushered in by the advent of Robert Cavil Moore’s electric gyro engine. But Old Sunset was a throwback to a different era. Cars, even the beat-up clunkers, still had their fans among the nostalgic romantics who might have lived during their heyday, as well as among rebellious young thrill-seekers who ignored the warnings that riding in four-wheelers was a health hazard on par with Russian roulette or chain-smoking. Cooley walked over to a traffic light on a deserted stretch of Old Sunset far off from the densely populated sidewalk. A pair of headlights approached in the distance, winking through the gray fog. Cooley squinted at them and smiled.

  “Man, look at that,” he said, sounding as if they were in the midst of a leisurely scenic stroll. “Looks like a 1969 Shelby.” The dark green car approached the light, slowing to a stop. “It’s got a V-8. Does zero to sixty in six seconds flat, tops out around 115 miles an hour. You know, it went for only five grand when they put it on the market back in the day? I bet some rich old guy’s behind the wheel.”

  “What’s the big deal?” asked Goldsmith. “Even mediocre gyros hit two hundred and fifty.”

  “It’s different when you don’t have a cockpit computer and crash-motion sensors in the engine. Just you, the clutch, and the steering wheel.”

  “You’ve actually driven a car before?” Goldsmith saw Stella wince in pain. Cooley reached over and shot a few more drops of morphine into her.

  “No,” Cooley answered. “But I know guys who have.” The Shelby rolled to a halt at the red light. Goldsmith had never seen a car in person before. The big, black rubber wheels shuddered from the vibrations of an almost offensively loud engine that seemed to snort and throb with a guttural rumble. From Cooley’s description, he was expecting a sleek racing machine; but the wide blackness of its grille and its thick, rounded steel edges and stout, squat body that hugged the pavement looked almost too heavy to move anywhere efficiently, not to mention quickly. He tried to imagine what it was like living in a time when people rode around in machines like this on a regular basis, machines that were only a slight human error away from crushing or mangling living things that had the misfortune of straying into their paths. And what was to stop people from getting their feet smashed to bits by those clumsy wheels? Goldsmith instinctively took a step backward.

  “I always wanted to drive one of these things someday. You know, before I died,” grinned Cooley. He pulled out his gun and stepped in front of the Shelby, leaving Goldsmith to prop up Stella. “Get the fuck out of the car!” Cooley shouted, aiming the M-8.

  The driver—a man in his forties wearing a sharply tailored suit—stared back at him, shock in his eyes. Cooley fired a bullet right above the car’s roof. The man jumped out of the car instantly, stepping to the side, terrified. Cooley aimed at him. “Get down on the ground!”

  The man obeyed. The antiquated street was empty, barren of any witnesses. Cooley looked over at Goldsmith. “Go. Squeeze into the passenger seat with her.”

  Goldsmith walked around, opened the door, and carefully laid Stella inside, sliding beside her. Cooley jumped in and got behind the wheel. He pushed his foot against some pedals below the dashboard, testing them out. When he hit one, the engine roared but the car stayed put. He eased the steering wheel from left to right and then grabbed the clutch, shifting the transmission around a bit. The engine screamed to life and then slowed down to a hum.

  “Can you make it work?” asked Goldsmith. The Shelby slowly started rolling forward, then the engine stalled. Cooley turned a metal key in the ignition and it roared back to life.

  A bright, whitish blue xenon light suddenly hit them. Goldsmith squinted and saw a Stansbury gyro hovering just twenty feet above. Officer O’Shaunnessy was aiming a ThermaGun at them. Cooley stuck the gun outside the window and fired twice. The gyro jerked. O’Shaunnessy ducked, losing his grip on the weapon. Cooley hit the gas and the car shot down Old Sunset, their heads snapping back against the cool leather seats. Goldsmith hung onto Stella, realizing that if Cooley crashed the car at this speed, they would all go flying through the windshield together. They should make people wear helmets in these things, he thought. He saw more xenon beams cut through the dark, rainy mist and turned around. Four more Stansbury gyros were speeding after them. Cooley yanked back on the transmission and the car hit a higher gear. Thunder from the storm exploded in the sky around them, creating a symphonic harmony of booms with the Shelby’s engine. Rows of towering gray office buildings shot past through the windows like rungs on a ladder that never ended. They accelerated toward the few other cars ahead of them on Old Sunset at such a high speed that the other automobiles seemed as if they were actually hurtling backward in reverse. Cooley weaved in and out of them as they flew past. The even blips of the faded yellow line in the center of the road became one. Above them, the detail gyros descended, easily keeping up. Over the V-8 engine, a siren squealed. Red flashing lights mixed in with more xenon beams and bolts of lightning.

  “The police,” Goldsmith said. “Stansbury probably told them to shut down the road.” He felt Cooley slow the car down, a defeated look on his face. Goldsmith glanced up at the gyros with the flashing lights. The words on their doors
read: SAN ANGELES TRANSPORTATION BUREAU.

  “All aerial traffic lanes are being shut down due to inclement weather conditions,” came a digitized voice through a public address speaker. “Please proceed to the designated docking bay at once.”

  “They’re stopping gyro traffic,” Stella said. “The flying conditions are too risky.” Another transportation bureau vehicle arrived. The Stansbury gyros slowed down and were escorted helplessly to a giant floating docking structure several hundred feet above, along with all of the other angry commuters who were more than willing to risk being struck out of the sky by lightning on their journeys home from the office. Cooley hit the gas.

  “The highway’s coming up,” he said. “We’ve got maybe fifty miles to the desert exit, and we’ll follow the Stansbury Tower signs from there. If I keep us going over a hundred we’ll beat them back there. The administration will hear from them and have somebody waiting, but I’m betting they pulled out most of their guys to get to Stella before we could. There can’t be that many officers left in the school.”

  “What if Gibson’s there?” asked Goldsmith. A hush fell over the car. “He’ll kill us if he thinks we’re getting in the way.”

  “Relax. You’ve still got the headmaster in your pocket. He’s got more juice than Gibson, and as much or more than Lang. He’ll back us up.”

  “Cooley’s right,” said Stella. “The headmaster has always stayed above the political fray. If we can get to him, he’ll listen to us make our case and provide the protection we need.”

  “He didn’t stop the detail from coming after us,” said Goldsmith. “If I’ve lost his support somehow, we’ll be stuck inside the tower without a plan B.”

  “Here’s plan B,” cut in Cooley. “I’ve still got the gun. I’ll find Bunson. He’s a tough guy, bigger than any of those detail punks. He’ll help us. We can take hostages.”

  “No. Nobody’s taking hostages,” said Goldsmith, sounding more than a little annoyed.

  “Stop talking about Stansbury like it’s some hallowed place!” shouted Cooley suddenly. He looked over at Goldsmith, taking his eyes off the road but, much to Goldsmith’s amazement, somehow managed to keep driving in a straight line. “Their high-minded shit about morals and education is a fucking lie! Why can’t you get that through your head? I don’t want to hurt any specimens, but I’m moving my people out of there and getting Stella to a network terminal, and if things get ugly, then you know what Goldsmith? That’s life. It’s not some nice, tidy progression. They didn’t have any problems killing people off and sticking it on me. Don’t be so naïve. You think if I didn’t kill Jackson back in that kitchen he’d have gone easy on us? You’d be dead. And if I’ve got to kill someone else to get myself out of this shit, you’d better believe I’m gonna do it.” The veins in Cooley’s temples throbbed. He took a deep breath and went back to focusing on the road ahead. Goldsmith felt Stella’s hands on his wounds, pulling back his shirt so she could get a closer look.

  “How badly does it hurt?” she asked.

  “The morphine helped.”

  “They’re both clean exit wounds. The bleeding has stopped for the most part. After some stitches and disinfection, you’ll be fine.”

  Goldsmith nodded and looked down at the stains on her gray dress underneath Cooley’s blazer. “What about you?” he asked.

  She looked at him and forced out a smile. “Don’t you worry.”

  Sooner than he expected, Goldsmith saw the tower looming in the distance.

  * * *

  The Shelby rolled to a halt on the rain-soaked desert surface at the tower, just outside of registration and reception. Cooley, Goldsmith, and Stella stepped out into the storm and walked up to the huge steel entrance door. Goldsmith buzzed the entry system. The video monitor broadcast the reception guard’s face. It was a new, younger guy he didn’t recognize who looked pretty wet behind the ears.

  “Um, can I help you?” he said. Goldsmith got the authority back in his voice and held up the headmaster’s parchment for the camera to see.

  “I’m Mr. Thomas Oliver Goldsmith, valedictorian, returning from off-campus business. Here’s my authorization. It comes straight from the headmaster’s desk.” A scratchy silence followed, dragging on a moment too long. “Is there a problem?”

  “Uhhh … you’d better come inside, Mr. Goldsmith.” The thick door started to hiss as it slid open. They walked inside the lobby, dripping water onto the clean marble floor. The reception guard stared at them. “Jesus,” he said, his mouth agape as he took in their beaten appearance. “Should I call a medic?”

  “No,” said Goldsmith. “We’re going straight to the headmaster’s office. Please call ahead for me and inform him that I’m on the way with Mr. Cooley and Miss Saltzman. Tell him it’s urgent.” Goldsmith watched as the guard twitched and blinked, nervous about something. “What is it?” Tears filled the guard’s eyes.

  “I don’t want to be the one to tell you,” he managed, his voice cracking. “Just … just go to the coliseum. Everyone else is already there. I … I think you’ll get the broadcast in the elevator pod on the way up.”

  Cooley grabbed the guard by the shoulders, reaching over the desk. “What the hell’s going on?” he hissed. The guard just stared at him.

  Goldsmith pulled Cooley away and they headed for the elevator bank down the hall. The doors to a pod slid open and they stepped inside. Goldsmith hit the button for Level 125 and glanced at Stella. It looked as if her wounds had stopped bleeding. He studied her face and it was focused, distant, no doubt cruising down memory lane after her three-year absence. He wondered if she was thinking of Wayne Edward Haddon. The elevator’s plasma screen came to life, lighting up with an image of President Lang standing behind a podium in the coliseum. It looked like she was addressing a full house. She dabbed a tear from her cheek with a handkerchief.

  “… And it is tragic that a heart attack would rob us of the headmaster’s learned guidance and gentle leadership so abruptly; but alas, there is no lab yet created that can cure the cruel hands of fate and nature…”

  “Oh my God,” muttered Stella. Goldsmith felt his knees buckle. Cooley steadied him. “It was her,” she said. “I know it was her.” Stella pointed at the clock on the plasma screen: 4:47 P.M. “This is it. The network server is on the atrium level. All the big machinery there is powered by the same generator, and it’s inside that room. If I can get to that master terminal I can transfer the alumni files to the school’s general server, get to a simulcast hookup, and be ready to present the information in time to address the committee. Mr. Goldsmith, you must know a safe place for me to simulcast, once I’ve got the data. Think. Somewhere obscure, where no one will find me.”

  “There’s a progression room down on Level 4, inside the first grade housing space. I study there when I don’t want to be bothered.”

  “I know that floor. Is it on the eastern side or western side?”

  “Western.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Cooley,” said Goldsmith. “I’m betting Bunson and Sadie are in the coliseum with everyone else. If you stand guard outside the network server room, you might see them file out after the assembly is finished. The mainframe area is located near that small cluster of weeping willows by the river. Just be sure to tell your friends that they’ve got to move quickly.”

  “What about Camilla?”

  “I don’t … I don’t think she’ll come with us.”

  “Don’t you want to try and change her mind?”

  “No, Cooley.” Goldsmith made certain his face remained impassive, businesslike. The pod dinged, stopping at the atrium level. The doors slid open and they exited, moving into the pale computerized sunshine. It was quiet, deserted. The river warbled away softly. A wind blew dead leaves up and they flickered, as if they were waving a welcome-home greeting to Stella. Goldsmith heard footsteps and saw a shadow approaching on the opposite side of a thick oak tree. Cooley was already aiming the M-8, moving toward the
figure. He reached through the branches and yanked the person out into the open. It was Sadie with fresh tear streaks on her face, her eyes puffy. She stared at Cooley’s gun blankly, like she was dazed. Cooley put it away and pulled her close.

  “Honey, are you okay?” he whispered gently. “Tell me what—”

  “They killed him,” she said softly.

  “Who? The headmaster?”

  Goldsmith stepped between them, pulling Cooley aside. “Stop,” he said. “Pete said his source was a female and implied we couldn’t trust her. How do you know she’s on our side?”

  “What about Camilla?” snapped Sadie. “How can you be sure she’s not the one who’s been talking to the reporter?”

  “Because you’re the one who’s standing in front of me after you just happened to come across us when everyone else in the school is mourning in the coliseum!” said Goldsmith, trying to keep his voice under control.

  “But I helped you. I got the key card from Professor Nelson.”

  “She’s right,” said Cooley.

  “She didn’t have a choice. She would’ve exposed herself if she said no to us. That was one of the reasons I dragged her into this in the first place.”

  “What the hell would she be doing talking to Pete?” said Cooley, his voice rising.

  “She could’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

  “For whom?”

  “The administration.” Upon hearing this, Cooley started laughing. Sadie started crying.