Prodigy

by Dave Kalstein

  “She’s lying,” muttered Cooley.

  Goldsmith felt as if Lang’s voice was easing his aim over toward Cooley.

  “Isn’t the death of one unbalanced specimen, a good-for-nothing delinquent, worth ridding the world of cancer?” she asked. “Of AIDS? Isn’t it worth the discovery of the next Beethoven?”

  Goldsmith glanced at her. Even in the foul darkness of the stairwell, she shimmered beautifully.

  “Remember progress, Mr. Goldsmith. More progress would have saved your father’s life. It would have saved him and his young, pregnant wife-to-be the pain of him … withering away like a dry, cracked leaf in summer.” She paused, her voice just barely catching before getting her timbre back. “Progress would have saved that young girl who never had a chance to see the inside of a school like this … she was too young, too poor to be a mother to her baby boy. She wouldn’t have had to give him away.”

  “Don’t listen to her…,” said Cooley, his voice rising, just short of pleading, but Goldsmith didn’t hear it because he was too busy watching the pieces fall together right before his very eyes, every word that flowed from Lang’s mouth a new part of the one puzzle that always eluded him. She must finish telling him. He needed to hear it, and then they could do what they liked to him, to Cooley, to Stella, to Camilla, to anyone they wanted.

  “Stella’s in an empty first grade progression room on Level 4. The western side,” he said in his familiar examination room voice. Gibson turned around and ran up the stairs.

  “I backed the full-ride scholarship program from the start,” President Lang said slowly, calmly, like she was recounting a fairy tale. Her eyes would not leave his. He began to realize why they looked as familiar as long-lost friends. “I always knew where you were. I was too young to have a child; it would have ruined my career. The whole time I kept track of you. I made sure you’d win the lottery. And look how far you’ve come, sweetheart. You did so well … my Thomas. But schooling isn’t everything.” She smiled through the blood glistening from her mouth and nose. “You always had good genes.”

  Goldsmith’s eyes overflowed with tears and they spilled out, getting trapped beneath the rims of his eyeglasses. His vision blurred behind them, but he knew it didn’t matter. The ThermaGun in his hand hummed. Cutting-edge technology made using these things easy. He looked at Cooley and watched, seemingly drop by drop, as the life drained out of his face.

  “No…,” was all William Winston Cooley could manage before Goldsmith gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger. The barrel of the gun lit up into a white flame, releasing a burst of hollow point bullets in a rattling hail. They whipped about in precisely programmed ellipses, first around Cooley’s body and then back past Goldsmith. He knew it was impossible, but was nonetheless certain he could feel them cut through the air around his ears as they flew past. President Lang and Officers Jamison, O’Shaunnessy, and Tannen didn’t have the chance to even gasp in shock as the bullets cut through their flesh and erupted inside their bodies. A mere moment after the burst of the gun, the dull sound of four limp bodies thumping to the concrete floor followed.

  Goldsmith watched as Cooley slowly opened his eyes and felt his own chest and torso. He flinched and then unbuttoned his shirt, touching the cold surface of Tannen’s coolant vest that he received as a far-sighted gift back in the atrium. “You…,” he managed to breathe.

  “I set the ThermaGun to its automatic burst setting,” Goldsmith said. “I suspected it would nail anyone other than the person who was holding the weapon itself—or someone who was wearing an activated coolant vest.” He paused, as if to admire the cool logic of his strategy. Then a look of panic came over his face. “Oh my God,” he said, suddenly frantic. “Stella.”

  Cooley grabbed the ThermaGun from Goldsmith. “Relax,” he said.

  “What are you—” He watched Cooley look through the gun’s large scope, gauging a shot.

  “You’ve got this rep,” Cooley said, concentrating on the task at hand. “Rags-to-riches orphan, prodigy of the prodigies. Well, I got a rep, too.” Cooley looked from the scope to Goldsmith and grinned. “I’m the baddest fucking specimen who ever lived.” He squeezed the trigger. A single bullet flew from the barrel upward, having locked onto a breathing man’s body heat signature, and sailed through a steel door three floors above them without losing any of its terrible velocity.

  * * *

  Captain Gibson jogged through the brightly lit, unpopulated corridor on Level 4, his pistol out, following the sound of a young woman—one far too old to be a first grade specimen—who seemed to be talking to herself. He hadn’t seen Stella Saltzman since commencement day years ago. And before he could lay eyes on her today, he heard the clean smack of steel being punctured by a sharp object moving fast enough to displace its own density. The ThermaGun bullet that Cooley fired just a few seconds earlier hurtled through the corridor and embedded itself in his chest, entering his body from behind, just below the aorta, ripping it apart. Gibson died facedown on the hallway floor of the school whose policies and laws he upheld for twenty-odd years, the sound of Miss Saltzman’s voice from a monitor carrying him off with a final lullaby.

  * * *

  Goldsmith leaned down toward Jamison’s bullet-riddled body, the corpse’s eyes still opened wide in shock, and pulled the security detail key card from around his neck. He wanted to leave this place forever. The antiseptic smell of the stairwell blending with burnt flesh singed his nostrils and seemed to cling to his body. He walked over to the titanium door’s card sensor and glanced at Cooley as if to say, now, finally—are you ready? Cooley instinctively understood, giving him a nod. Goldsmith swiped the card. A soft beep echoed against the dark brick and industrial concrete surrounding them. The thick silver door hissed, letting in foreign air from the desert outside and slowly began to slide open.

  “You let me down,” came President Lang’s voice up from the stairs where she fell, sounding strong and alive. They whirled around and looked up at her. She pushed O’Shaunnessy’s mangled body away. He was noticeably more mutilated than the others: Goldsmith realized that she managed to dash behind him during the volley of fire, using him as a makeshift shield. She aimed her pistol at Goldsmith, her hand steady. He looked at Cooley, nodding for him to step outside into the safety of the desert. Cooley did.

  A bright light streamed into the stairwell from the outside, casting a golden path on the floor for him to follow. He heard another set of footsteps slowly descend the hard stairs. President Lang’s hand fell to her side as if she was hiding her weapon from whoever was approaching. She stared helplessly at some spot on the wall behind him, her once ethereal eyes dulled. Camilla appeared behind her. She walked down and stood before him, perhaps subconsciously avoiding setting foot in that path of light, as if she might melt if it touched her. Goldsmith heard Lang’s gun clatter to the floor. Camilla stepped toward her and Stansbury’s president shrunk backward into the darkness, bumping into the wall behind her. The young lady cast her hard, Athenian gaze upon the broken woman, daring her to run, plead, or explain. Lang did not.

  “I can’t go, Mr. Goldsmith,” Camilla said, looking over at Goldsmith. “I contacted the police. Someone needs to stay here. To see things through.”

  “I know.” He smiled at her and turned toward the exit. “The thing is, Camilla,” he said, looking over his shoulder at her, “I just wish I could remember all of the good things I ever told you and say them all over again, so you’ll never forget.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, failing to hold back a young schoolgirl’s mischievous smile, perhaps not even trying to do so in the first place. “I’ve got a great memory.”

  Goldsmith walked out into the fresh air and felt his breath get swept away. Some time during all of this, that long, epic rainstorm stopped as suddenly as it began. All that remained in the sky was a warm, setting, orange sun—just another star, really, but one that happened to be just the perfect size for a world such as this—and it hung large enough
for a hopeful young man to honestly believe that one day he could stretch out a hand and touch the brightness if he really wanted. Goldsmith took a step toward it. And then another.

  25

  “… Ladies and gentlemen of the committee, the education of youth is not about plaudits. It is not about headlines. Nor is it about ensuring the future’s progress by any means necessary. You have seen the evidence of Stansbury’s crimes, and now I pose this question to each and every one of you: Are you willing to explain to the families of these murdered twenty-one-year-olds that the lives of their children were taken in order to improve the quality of life of those who never knew them?”

  The words flowed from Stella’s lips exactly the way she knew they would. She just needed to keep up the strength to finish. She could see the audience of the committee’s senators on the simulcast screen clearly. Stella imagined them as small children who would be heartbroken if her story was cut short before its ending, an ending that could have been interpreted as happy or sad—that was out of her control—but nothing was as disappointing as a tale left unfinished, once it had begun. She had thought she was losing consciousness perhaps ten minutes ago, but the photos of Alvarez, Miller, Santana, Smith, and Riley in the alumni files came to life, whispering words of encouragement to keep her going. Obliging them was the very least she could do. While speaking, Stella pinched her left arm hard enough to break the skin and draw blood. Her body had numbed to the point where she could not feel whether it dripped across her arm or just stayed inside the canyon of the gash. All she cared about was whether the pain would keep her awake long enough to finish the task at hand.

  * * *

  Several hundred specimens were gathered in the atrium and had been watching the Senate committee broadcast since it began. This was not what they were expecting after President Lang regaled them with promises of publicly acknowledged glory yesterday morning. They all stood very still, their heads cocked upward, looking at the extra-large plasma screen hanging, seemingly, in midair. The brightness of the artificial sun had been dialed down so that Miss Stella Saltzman’s pallid complexion was the sole beacon floating in space. Many of the older specimens recognized her and shushed the younger ones who nervously nudged one another and started asking questions, confused about the scandalous things this distinguished alumnus was saying about their school.

  “… Education is about caring and nurturing youth in all its shapes and forms, its ups and downs, its genius and its quirks,” rang out Stella’s voice, loud and clear. “It is about teaching children that they can stay young forever. After all, what does it mean to hold an unchanging youth? It is to reach, at the end, the vision with which one started…”

  “She’s actually saying all of this on television?” shouted out a girl from the junior class. “Is she nuts?”

  “What does this mean?” said someone else.

  “She’s presenting all of this to the senators?”

  “Do you think the administration really did it?”

  “I mean, doesn’t she know that college admissions officers are watching?”

  “Chill out. Your SAT scores are good enough to get you in.”

  “Does anyone have a Xanax?”

  “If we keep standing here we’re all gonna be late for progression.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a final exam tomorrow.”

  The loud smack of a thick textbook falling from a specimen’s hands and hitting the solid floor echoed across the atrium’s walls and roof, cutting the voices short. The noise was repeated a few more times as others allowed their academic artifacts to fall from their hands as well, and then over and over again, sounding like code being passed throughout the tower. Mr. Gregory Marcus Garvin (sporting an impressive black eye from the dodgeball altercation earlier in the day) and Mr. Andrew Chang were the first to turn from the broadcast and head for the elevators. Shannon Louise Evans and Katherine Mary Lewis were not too far behind. The shuffling of many more pairs of feet followed them.

  * * *

  Just outside the loading dock entrance, Cooley and Goldsmith stood for a moment in the rapidly drying desert and squinted into the warmth of the setting sun. Goldsmith started to perspire a bit and took off his blazer, setting it on the cracked ground. He undid his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt, tossing both to the side, leaving him in his trousers and white undershirt. He stretched, his skin soaking up all the natural light. And then he remembered some papers printed out from President Lang’s computer that he had stashed inside his blazer earlier in the day and pulled them out, holding them tightly in his hand.

  “What now?” asked Cooley.

  “I don’t know,” said Goldsmith, mesmerized by the sight of the sunset in the distance.

  “I’ve still got the keys to the Shelby. We can drive it into San Angeles and figure things out from there.”

  “Okay.” They walked around the base of the tower, a task that, due to the building’s enormous size, took about ten minutes. They finally came upon the blazing carcass of the car, which someone (most likely the security detail before the stairwell incident) had set on fire with the intent of depriving them of their means of escape. The formerly glorious dark green machine roasted, flames curling upward from the windows, giving off too much heat to approach any closer than fifteen or twenty feet. Cooley tossed the keys to the ground.

  “I’m not going back into the tower,” he said.

  “Neither am I.”

  “I guess we’re walking, then.”

  “I guess so.”

  They walked for a few moments in silence, Goldsmith’s long legs taking him a few steps ahead of Cooley toward the civilization that waited for them far off in the distance. He wondered if they’d make it there before nightfall. Then he realized that Cooley was letting himself lag behind on purpose. He stopped and turned to look at him. Cooley was standing still, the gun in his hand at his side.

  “Did you want your revenge?” Goldsmith asked. “For those friends of yours I prosecuted?”

  Cooley studied him for a long moment, feeling the reassuring weight of the pistol. He thought about all of the dead bodies they were leaving behind in the tower—the headmaster, Captain Gibson, Officers Jamison, O’Shaunnessy, Tannen, and Willets; Pete, Bunson (especially Bunson), maybe—probably, Miss Stella Saltzman, not to mention the murdered alumni—and felt tears stream down his face. He remembered the way that Sadie held him close and touched his cheek so that she could ease the pain of her knife piercing every dream and memory he held dear. What a waste, he thought. Duties were forsaken. Futures were shattered. Good people were corrupted and died because of it. And for what, Goldsmith? So you and I could ruin the lives of four thousand specimens and tear down the walls of Dr. Stansbury’s noble dream, all because we yearned to reach some bogus stage of life called “adulthood”? Cooley jammed the gun into his waistband. He had never wanted a magic batch of meds to make him feel instantaneously better more than at this moment. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand.

  “I’d say we’re even, Mr. Goldsmith.”

  “Good.”

  “We could go back. Well, you could. They’ll end up having graduation. You can still go back.”

  “Please, Cooley. I’ve lost my faith. I haven’t lost my mind.” He watched Cooley look down at his shoes, observing him trying to gather up the gall to ask the question that had been tugging at both of them since they stepped outside of Stansbury and saw the first glimpse of red chasing the blue up in that early evening sky.

  “Do you think Lang was telling the truth?” Cooley began to ask, but stopped when he saw Goldsmith give him a look that said, hush, please. The valedictorian reached inside his blazer and handed him a small stack of beaten-up pages folded lengthwise. Cooley opened them and looked at a cover sheet that bore the Stansbury emblem and the words: Confidential File History—William Winston Cooley. A jolt raced through his stomach up to his chest and he felt the pages cling to his already-sweating fingers.

  “Maybe s
he was,” Goldsmith said as he held out his own stack of confidential pages at arm’s length. The cool desert wind picked up as he released them. They immediately scattered into the distance, white sheets snapping in the breeze, swirling and dancing a giddy, discordant rhythm as they disappeared into specks, and then nothing at all. “But maybe she wasn’t.” He watched Cooley stare at the cover sheet of his own file, and then started off on the long walk to San Angeles. Soon he heard his friend’s footsteps moving close behind.

  * * *

  On Level 41, Mr. Hurley sat on the edge of his work terminal chair and watched his plasma screen as it broadcast Stella Saltzman’s testimony to the committee. His mouth was agape and his heart raced.

  “… My words may sound harsh,” she said, her tone indicating that she was headed for her big finish, “but they are no less harsh than Stansbury’s betrayal of those it has sworn to nurture. Ladies and gentlemen, senators, children, let me remind you: All great truths begin as blasphemies.” The data feed cut to a shot of the committee’s chamber as a din started to rise. Whispers gave way to scattered applause that built into a crescendo. Hurley heard crowds of specimens swarming past the open door of the yearbook office and glanced at his watch. Progressions didn’t end for another twenty minutes he realized, and wondered where everyone was headed. He poked his head out the doorway and watched scores of uniformed children of all ages headed toward the elevator banks and the stairwells, as if drawn by some invisible pied piper that was only audible to those under the age of eighteen.

  “Hey!” he called out to them. “Where are you going?” He did not receive an answer. Young Mr. Joshua Calley was also wondering the same thing, however. He watched the broadcast from the strange woman like everyone else, and didn’t quite understand what the other specimens were up to, but he did not want to be left alone inside this big, all too frequently scary place. He saw his older specimen friend, Mr. John Jason Stevenson, and tugged at his blazer. Stevenson stopped.