The clearing looked familiar to Goldsmith. Just yesterday he and the headmaster strolled through here, right after he busted eleven of Cooley’s closest friends for dopazone possession. He dashed over to the hidden control panel that he watched the headmaster use just yesterday to fix the atrium’s glitched gray sun and beige sky, during their stroll together following Goldsmith’s dopazone peer reviews. He waved his hand wildly over some strangely tall dandelions before he heard an infrared sensor chime. A white display and keyboard emerged from thin air. Goldsmith started typing while the officers cut the distance between them in half. He watched as Willets headed cautiously toward Cooley, holding the shock stick in front of him.
“He’s armed,” called out Tannen. “Move in, let me get locked.” He peered through the scope of his gun and blinked, confused. “Wait, Willets, that’s not…”
Willets swung the stick at Cooley and caught thin air as it passed right through his upper body, humming with its electrical charge. He glanced around, puzzled, and saw dozens of holographic Cooley replicas swarming around him. One of them snuck up behind Officer Tannen and clubbed him in the back of the skull with the butt of his pistol. Tannen went down, out cold. Willets rushed over, running through fake Cooleys and swung blindly. He caught the genuine article on the back of the leg and Cooley went down, thousands of volts paralyzing his muscles. Goldsmith ran over from the atrium control panel and dove for Tannen’s ThermaGun. He aimed and pulled the trigger, plugging Willets in the chest with a shot. He wasn’t sure whether the bullet was a lethal one or just a sedative round. Goldsmith took a moment to catch his breath and found his head clearing for the first time in a while. He started to play the current scenario out in his mind, factoring in possibilities and likely outcomes …
He grabbed Tannen’s limp body, unzipped his Tac IX utility gear, and pulled off his regulation coolant vest. He unbuttoned Cooley’s shirt and strapped on the thin, almost skintight vest underneath, and activated it before buttoning him back up again. He grabbed Willets’s body and went to pull another vest off for himself, but saw the gaping hole in his chest, blood and coolant fluid mixing together into a shallow pool and realized that not only was the equipment useless, but he had killed a man. Goldsmith tried to keep it all down, but could not. He started dry heaving over Willets’s wounds. Cooley stirred. Goldsmith choked everything back and pulled Cooley to his feet. The atrium was quiet, eerie. Everyone else was in progressions.
“We don’t have time to call the police,” Goldsmith said. “Stella’s about to go on the air. Let’s get out of here. If we can make it out of the tower we’ll bring the authorities back here to get her.”
“What…,” started Cooley, still dazed from the blow he took, “what if they find her?”
“Once she simulcasts, the school can’t kill her. They’d have the whole Senate committee as witnesses.”
“That’s a big chance to take, man.”
“I know.” Goldsmith hefted the ThermaGun in his hand. “But if she comes up short, somehow I’ll find Senator Bloom and finish the job.” The weapon felt weighty, a terrible burden. Cooley grinned at Goldsmith like he was a youngster who had just learned to tie his own shoes. “They’ll have the elevator pods and the main entrance on registration and reception monitored.”
“The stairs,” said Cooley. “There are too many floors for them to guard at once. You still have Nelson’s key card?”
Goldsmith nodded.
“There’s a chance they didn’t deactivate it yet. If we can get down the stairwell to the loading entrance, the key card will let us out.”
Goldsmith considered it. They didn’t have any other options. He nodded again and followed Cooley to the stairwell entrance. Cooley pulled the door open and they took in the aroma of ammonia and chemicals floating up from the bowels of the tower. The odors were stinging and sharp, a far cry from the lilacs and lilies of the atrium. They sprinted down the stairs, taking three at a time. The door swung shut above their heads as they started their descent, the echoes sounding grave and final.
* * *
Down on Level 4, Stella sat in a small wooden chair constructed for use by seven year olds and arranged her array of data along the computer terminal’s desktop, ready for transmittal to Senator Bloom and the Senate Select Committee on Education’s office on Capitol Hill. Under other circumstances, she might have felt ridiculous occupying this space, channeling the precocious little schoolgirl she was so many years ago, but the morphine that cloaked the pain (and critical nature, of this she was well aware) of her wounds also happened to cast a cozy glow around the room. The bright colors of the blue-and-yellow plastic slide, and the brown-and-green playhouse sitting in the corner seemed fantastical, the cubbyholes where the little specimens stored their shoes and rainbow colored schoolbags for athletics progressions—schoolbags being among the few gifts from the outside world permitted in the tower—appeared to Stella as gateways to a special place where dragons existed, along with large, furry creatures who spoke in plummy English accents, that lurked about, just waiting to befriend small boys and girls. She swore she saw Curious George in a red shirt swing by above her head on an invisible vine. Her eyelids drifted shut and then popped open. Stella reached inside Cooley’s blazer and removed the Stimulum laser syringe Goldsmith secured for her. She tapped a vein in her arm and injected herself.
Her wounds almost felt welcome—sharp sensations of repentance for leading five of her former classmates to violent, painful deaths. She understood they weren’t the brightest specimens, but their eyes all lit up with glimmers when they grasped the enormity of the larger plan. Stella wondered if they held all of this against her. She glanced around the room, at the other tiny desks and chairs, and it occurred to her that Evan would have been almost old enough to occupy one of them if he (or she) had made it into this world.
The simulcast screen whirred to life, presenting the image of Senator Arthur Bloom. His balding scalp looked tan and healthy despite his advanced age, and he instinctively smiled when he saw her face broadcast back to him.
“Good afternoon, Stella!” his image said. “Big day’s here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
He peered a bit closer, leaning in. He donned the pair of glasses that hung around his neck, examining her face through his screen. “Are you … all right?”
“Of course, Senator.”
“Where are you, girl?” He glanced to her left, probably seeing the colored plastic of the playhouse in the corner. “You’re not in your office.”
“I’m in Stansbury Tower.”
Shock spread across his face. “What? It’s too dangerous! I won’t put you in harm’s way.”
“It’s too late for this, sir. I’m ready. When do we go live?”
“In two … in two minutes.”
Stella nodded weakly and felt her body sway a bit before she righted herself against the edge of the table. The walls of the progression room melted into that magical forest she had always dreamed about when she was younger. Curious George climbed up on top of the absent teacher’s desk and winked at her. The muscles in her back began to tremble from the strain of merely sitting upright. The senator seemed to be saying something, but Stella only saw his mouth move. She fell to the side and Curious George caught her just in the nick of time, standing on the floor next to her miniature chair, holding up her body with his long, furry arms, that perpetual smile on his face. He doesn’t speak, Stella thought. In all of the books that ever bore his name, this monkey never once spoke. He never asked any questions. That must be why he was so curious. An old flash ran through her head, chasing the years and finally catching up to her. George was curious. He opened a box and peeked inside. The box was empty. (That was not a good surprise!) George opened another box. And another. They were all empty! Suddenly the store clerk came running. “Stop! Please!” he cried. “You are ruining my display!” But George did not want to stop. He wanted to go …
“Thirty seconds,” Stella h
eard the senator say. Stella took a deep breath and focused on the two screens before her: one with the alumni file data and the other showing the committee’s members waiting for her to begin. She executed a final set of keystrokes on the computer—programming her simulcast to be transmitted to all public screens throughout the tower—and prepared her best Judith Lang smile. Then she winked at little George, getting ready to open up those boxes for all to see.
* * *
Cooley and Goldsmith ran down the stairs, which bent around in ninety-degree angles over and over again, in a seemingly endless descent. They ran past a door marked LEVEL 61. Everything had passed by much more quickly than Goldsmith thought it would. His well-conditioned heart started to pound harder than he’d ever felt before. They darted past floors … 50 … 33 … 19 … Cooley’s breaths had gone from controlled, determined hisses to frantic pants. They passed Level 4. Goldsmith sent up a silent prayer for Stella Saltzman, wondering if she’d stay alive long enough for the old valedictorian to make the hardest speech of her life. Part of him considered the possibility that she would not, and he wondered which outcome would be worse for him, if his fate were sealed more ominously whether Stansbury School stood or crumbled in the public eye. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Professor Nelson’s key card, ready to swipe it against the security sensor waiting for them at the loading entrance door.
They passed Floor 2. The big titanium sliding door gleamed in their line of vision, the sheen of it almost otherworldly. Cooley leaped down the last flight of stairs, flying through the air over eight steps and landing right before it. Goldsmith followed suit, reaching out and swiping the card in one clean motion. The sensor beeped and a red light shined. Cooley yanked the door handle, but it remained electromagnetically sealed. He aimed his gun at the sensor in a frenzy of futility.
“Don’t,” whispered Goldsmith. “The bullet will ricochet against the titanium and kill us both.” They stared at each other for a long moment. Goldsmith knew Cooley was waiting for him to come up with one last move.
“Professor Nelson confessed everything to me,” echoed President Lang’s voice. Goldsmith whirled around, peering into the darkness. “You were gambling that he wouldn’t, but his loyalty is impeccable.” She walked out from the shadows at the stairwell’s base and stood before them, aiming a security detail–issued M-8 at Goldsmith. “Professor Nelson knows what Stansbury means to this country. Do you, Mr. Goldsmith?” She stepped closer, flipping the safety off the pistol, cocking it. Lang was now within arm’s reach.
Goldsmith felt adrenaline flow through his body. He got that Phys-D déjà vu. His brain willed off the counteractive surge of med cycle beta blockers like it was nothing. He saw eighteen different ways to disarm her from where he stood. A new sensation overwhelmed him at the sight of the president. Outrage. Hurt. That pure, grade-A Catcher in the Rye angst that Camilla found so implausible. Where was she now? Goldsmith could tell her all about it. Lang advanced closer. Twenty-nine ways. Fuck each and every one of them. Fuck Phys-D. And fuck Stansbury.
“Shoot me,” he said, calm.
“Goldsmith!” he heard Cooley shout.
Goldsmith stepped forward in her direction. No shot came.
“Go on. Shoot.” She just looked at him, frozen.
He took another step forward. He easily batted the gun from her hand. She yelped in shock. It sailed through the air and clattered to the floor. Lang gawked at him. He reared back a fist and swung. Her eyes went wide with fear.
“Mr. Gold—” The blow cut her off in midsentence. She crumpled to the ground and stared up at him, speechless, her beautiful whitened teeth stained with blood pouring from big gashes in her lips and nose. The drops looked black when they hit the floor, like she was an Armani suit–wearing cyborg leaking oil.
“Murderer!” He spat the word at her in a hybrid of anger, frustration, and disappointment. He tried to keep his voice under control, but it was no match for twelve years of pent-up fury at this woman kneeling before him. Angst. He stared Lang down, watching her kneeling and trembling before him, her eyes on his black loafers, like she knew she didn’t deserve to gaze up at him. “You puny woman,” he hissed, disgust in his voice. “You think you control me? You think you can use specimens however you want?”
“Listen to me,” she sputtered. “I—”
“Don’t you get it? I could kill you a hundred different ways right now! You’re worthless!” Goldsmith took a breath and worked himself back under control. “Tell me you were behind everything. I want to hear you say it out loud.”
“This … this was all my plan. I take the responsibility.”
“Goldsmith,” said Cooley. “We’ve got to call the cops.” Goldsmith studied Lang’s face, her eyes, watched her the way he watched hundreds of guilty specimens under peer review on the disciplinary level over the past year. She kept glancing down, focusing on the puddle of her blood forming on the floor. And then she looked up at him. A thin smile passed over her torn-up lips.
“Not yet,” Goldsmith said. “There’s something she’s not telling us.”
“Like what?” asked Cooley.
“There’s someone else involved, isn’t there?”
“No,” she replied. Eyes up and to the right. She was lying. Goldsmith cut loose with a backhand. Her skin sounded like a balloon popping against the force of his blow. It knocked her onto her side. Goldsmith heard Cooley gasp, but never took his eyes from her. He pulled Lang up to her knees, setting her up like some breathing, bleeding bowling pin.
“One more time. Is there someone else involved?”
“No!” Goldsmith raised his hand again. She flinched. “Yes!”
“Who?”
“You … you don’t want to know.” Goldsmith let fly. He used his other hand this time. Her head smacked against the concrete floor. He pulled her back up yet again and watched Lang sway as her eyes got refocused.
“Goldsmith,” said Cooley, his voice softened, as if trying to soothe. He placed a hand on Goldsmith’s shoulder. Goldsmith batted it away and got back in Lang’s face.
“I want a name.”
“No…,” she murmured. Goldsmith reared back again—this time with a fist. Cooley grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“You’re gonna kill her!” he shouted. Goldsmith shoved him out of the way.
“You can’t beat me,” he said to President Lang in that cold, terrifying examination room tone that still made Cooley’s skin crawl. “You could never beat any specimen. You’re not smart enough. You’re not strong enough. You’re too slow. You can only dream of having our gifts. You’re practically fucking handicapped. All of you people. The whole world gets off on thinking we’re your little pet army of prodigies … keep us doped up, prod us with shock sticks and we’ll turn out acts of genius for you, right? Listen to me, ma’am.” He bent down and grabbed Lang by her bloodied lip, pinching it. She wheezed in pain. “You’re like any other outsider: an evolutionary liability. What is there to stop me from eliminating you from the food chain at this very moment?” Lang stared back at him in silence. “There’s nothing stopping me. Tell me who else is tied into this, goddamn it.”
“Your mother,” she breathed, a barely audible whisper.
“Liar!” Goldsmith grabbed her by the neck, cocked back his fist, and lined up a coup de grace. Cooley bear-hugged him, easing him away from Lang. Goldsmith struggled beneath his grasp. “Get out of my way, Cooley … she has to pay the price.”
“No!” Cooley hissed in his ear. “Stop! We swore an oath, remember?” He felt Goldsmith ease up. Cooley slowly let him free. “We swore an oath.” Goldsmith stepped back and looked at him.
“The oath never meant anything to her,” Goldsmith said, pointing at Lang. “You know that. It was just another lie they fed us. It was all a lie. This place, these people, everything. Don’t you get it? You won, Cooley. From the very beginning, you hated this place. All these years, you were right and I was wrong.”
“I never hate
d the oath. I hated their interpretation of it.”
“Why shouldn’t I make her pay? Why shouldn’t they all pay? They don’t believe in it!”
“It’s too late for her to start believing, Goldsmith. It’s not too late for us.” Goldsmith stared at him, taking everything in. Cooley grinned at him like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Look at me. I’m eighteen. You think I’m gonna spend the rest of my life hung up on this place? It’s high school, man. You get through it.”
“That’s wishful thinking.”
“Yeah.” Cooley paused, trying to think of something eloquent. “But I got nothing else,” was all he could manage.
Goldsmith looked over at Lang. She slowly rose to her feet. “What do you know about my mother?” he asked. And then there were footsteps, rubber soles of boots pounding against concrete steps. Figures of men descended the stairwell toward them. Goldsmith flipped the safety off his ThermaGun, getting ready to fire. Cooley aimed at the stairs.
Captain Gibson, flanked by Officers Jamison, O’Shaunnessy, and Tannen, appeared, all aiming guns at Cooley and Goldsmith. Lang picked up her own gun and walked over toward the detail men. “More than you could ever dream,” she said, looking directly at Goldsmith. From his peripheral vision, he saw Cooley watching him. “My offer still stands, valedictorian. But the stakes are now raised. I’ll extend to you an unconditional pardon. I know Stella Saltzman is somewhere inside this building. All you have to do is give me her location. And then aim at Mr. Cooley and pull the trigger.”
“Do what you’ve always done,” said Captain Gibson. “Use your brain.”
“It will be reported as self-defense,” said Lang.
Goldsmith pointed the ThermaGun in her direction and moved his finger to the trigger. “No,” he said, trying with all of his strength to stop his hand from shaking.
“You were impressive,” she said, smiling through her wounds. “You put the whole thing together yourself. Exactly the way I thought you would. This wasn’t the deal we agreed to earlier, but finish this matter once and for all and I’ll turn over your confidential file.”
Prodigy Page 33