“Wait, Miss Gallow,” he called out after her. “Who is Mitzi?”
Twenty Three
Mitsuru sat in the middle of a long, wood paneled room, cross-legged on the floor. Behind her, there were inactive shooting lanes, their battered targets hanging forlornly. In the distance, time was punctuated by the distant pops of rifle training occurring on the range outside. In front of her, on a green cloth, was a matte-black.45 caliber Glock 36 semiautomatic pistol, and Alex bent over it, wiping sweat from his brow and wishing that he had ditched class, or, failing that, could find the damn firing pin that he had set aside only a moment ago.
He didn’t bother to look up when the door opened behind him. He only hoped that it would be something that would interrupt firearms drills.
“Gustav, thank you for coming,” Mitsuru said. “You’re early, but we can go ahead and start. This one’s fairly hopeless when it comes to guns.”
Even Alex wasn’t totally sure what it was that he muttered. So, when he found himself suddenly sprawled on his back, Mitsuru crouching over him with a handful of his hair knotted around her fist, demanding to know what he’d said, it was rather awkward. She’d hit him, he realized belatedly, from the way his jaw ached, but he’d never even seen it. It had been almost like he’d fallen over by himself.
Alex attempted a variety of sullen apologies, and then, after her grip tightened on his hair and brought tears to his eyes, a much more sincere one that seemed to satisfy Mitsuru. She released her hold and stepped off of him, resuming her former position, sitting on the floor.
“I am not Michael. This is not Michael’s class. Michael coddles you and cares for you. I will not. Whatever it is that he has taught you, it isn’t enough,” Mitsuru said flatly, her red eyes cold and disinterested. “You will ask questions whenever you need too, here, and when you do so, you will do so respectfully. Otherwise, I do not wish to hear you speak unless you are spoken to. Do you understand all this?”
“Yeah,” Alex said, rubbing his head resentfully. “I guess I do.”
“Very well. Then let me introduce Gustav Esteban, who will assist in your instruction,” Mitsuru said, pointing at the wizened old man who was currently setting up a folding chair beside them. Alex nodded at him, but the white-haired man didn’t give any indication that he’d noticed. “He’s a telepath, a very special kind of telepath, and the Academy values him far more than we value you. So, you will kindly ignore the fact that he is a horrible bastard.”
“I see,” Alex said, staring at the smiling man in his pressed suit, grinning from ear to ear with a face so wrinkled that it was difficult to tell if his eyes were open or not. “A telepath, huh?”
“It’s fun, isn’t it? Michael’s class? Yes, I know its hard work, but it’s a rewarding kind of work, don’t you agree?”
“I guess,” Alex allowed, figuring that resenting all classes on principal was still more or less a responsibility of his as a student.
“That’s because Michael’s class isn’t about fighting, Alex, its only training. And training is important, Alex, don’t get me wrong. But, it isn’t combat. Combat is scary, scary and painful and bad. Most people like some aspect of training, whether it’s the yoga or the swimming or the judo, part of it appeals to most Operators. But nobody likes combat, Alex, not really, except for Alice Gallow. And she doesn’t count,” Mitsuru added thoughtfully, “because she is a total psychopath.”
“Right,” Alex said uncertain. “That is the most I’ve heard you say so far.”
“Ask a question or shut up and listen,” Mitsuru said, eyeing him.
Alex elected to shut up and not get hit again.
“Now, onto the business at hand. Do you know what the problem with beating you to death is, Alex?”
“Well, I can think of several, actually,” Alex said, smiling tightly and shifting uncomfortably against the floor. He wished that someone had told him about the folding chairs in the corner when he came in, like the one Gustavo had. He’d been waiting for a good opportunity to get one for himself, but it hadn’t happened yet — he really didn’t want to interrupt Mitsuru while she was talking. Particularly not if she was serious about the beating thing.
“You wouldn’t learn anything from it,” Mitsuru said ruefully, “unfortunately. Because trying to explain is so much more difficult. As far as learning incentives go, there’s nothing like having your life on the line.”
Alex finished reassembling the pistol, snapping the slide into place, working the action, and then slotting the clip and checking the safety. He set it down in the center of the green cloth, and looked up at Mitsuru for a reaction. He didn’t get one — she was looking at someone behind him disapprovingly.
“You’re late,” she said icily. “Do I need to remind you how much I disapprove of tardiness?”
“Sorry, Miss Aoki,” Steve grumbled, making a face at Alex as he walked by him. “It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not,” Mitsuru agreed grimly.
Alex glared furiously at Steve, who offered him the finger in return, then glared more sullenly at Mitsuru. He was about to speak when he realized that Gustav had somehow disappeared from the room, complete with his chair.
“What the hell is going on?” Alex demanded, looking around him. “Why the hell is he here?”
Mitsuru stood up, and then picked up the Glock from where it lay on the oil cloth. She inspected the action, and then sighted down the barrel. After a moment, she grunted her approval.
“It is a bit abnormal,” she admitted, nodding. “Usually we start with a stranger, someone neutral and anonymous. It’s easier on the students, or so the theory goes. But, if they’d wanted you to have an easy time, then they wouldn’t have made me your teacher.” Mitsuru reached down, and set the pistol down delicately on the floor, right in front of Alex’s hands. He took it without meaning to. “I needed someone you wouldn’t mind shooting, Alex, and before I even had a chance to look, Miss Gallow showed up with a volunteer.”
Mitsuru motioned at Steve, and he sauntered roughly ten meters away, and then turned to face Alex. Even at a distance, Alex could see his mocking face, screwed up and contemptuous.
“I been thinking about this, fag,” Steve sneered. “Ever since the first day I met you.”
“And you’re calling me a fag? Because that’s pretty much the gayest shit anyone has ever said to me,” Alex said, looking nervously at the pistol in his hand. “Just saying.”
Steve started forward, and then halted when Mitsuru cleared her throat. Alex wasn’t sure, but he thought that he might have seen her smile, for an instant.
“Enough, boys.” Mitsuru looked at Alex, her bloodshot eyes serious and disconcerting. “This isn’t too complicated, Alex, but for some reason, many people find it to be very difficult. All I need you to do is to take the gun, chamber a round, release the safety, and then shoot Steve in the head.”
Alex blinked and stared blankly for a moment.
“You want me to shoot Steve?”
He was incredulous, gesturing wildly in panic and outrage.
“Could you stop waving that thing around?” Mitsuru said, looking warily at the Glock in his hand that Alex had almost forgotten. “It doesn’t count unless you shoot him on purpose, and if I get shot today, I will be very, very cross.”
Alex looked down at the gun in his hand, not comprehending, and then blushed and set it carefully back down on the patch of green cloth.
“No way,” he said defiantly, folding his arms. “He may be an asshole, but I’m not shooting anybody because you told me to. Wait, fuck that — I’m not shooting anybody who isn’t one of those monsters, okay? This is bullshit.”
Mitsuru didn’t even look at him. Instead, she shrugged indifferently, and sat back down on the floor.
“Steve, he doesn’t seem to want to shoot you,” Mitsuru said, sounding confused and disappointed. “I can’t imagine why.”
“I was counting on it,” Steve said, cracking his knuckles and grin
ning.
“Persuade him otherwise, would you?”
Steve’s grin widened as he walked toward Alex.
“I say this one’s fag the whole way through, Miss Aoki,” Steve snarled, advancing on Alex. “But, I’ll do my best.”
Alex turned to stare at Mitsuru pleadingly, too shocked to even formulate an objection.
That turned out to be a mistake.
If Steve hadn’t been such a big guy, Alex probably wouldn’t have even seen him lunge, he moved so fast. As it was, Alex barely had time to duck under Steve’s outstretched hand. He still managed to catch onto a clump of Alex’ hair, tearing it out with an awful ripping noise, like a Velcro strap detaching from his head. Alex gasped and reeled backwards, grabbing at his head, only to eat a straight jab that hit him square in the nose, bringing tears to his eyes and blurring his vision. He couldn’t see well enough to tell what the next few punches were, but the one that knocked him down had to have been a right hook; it came from the side and caught him below the ear, with an impact that rattled the teeth in his jaw and made his knees fold underneath him. He fell to the ground and moaned, having just enough presence of mind to cover his face with his arms, to ward off any further blows.
Steve laughed and kicked playfully at his chest and stomach a few times, then dropped down and grabbed a hold of one of Alex’s flailing arms. Alex realized that he was putting him in a wrist lock a moment before it happened and he struggled against him, but in his panic he forgot everything that Michael had taught him about escaping holds, and only managed to wriggle fruitlessly. Steven bent his wrist backwards far enough for it to hurt, leered at Alex, and then bent it further.
Alex howled, and somewhere during the howl, he heard something snap. Steve maintained pressure on the hold, and Alex was certain that nothing had ever hurt quite so bad. It sapped any strength he might have had to fight him off; frankly, he couldn’t even bear to look at it. His legs kicked and jerked as he struggled blindly. He was aware of the noise he was making, a kind of whimper, and he was ashamed of it, but he could not seem to stop.
“Enough,” Mitsuru said, from somewhere above them. The pressure on his wrist ceased, and Alex immediately clutched it to his chest. He couldn’t breathe out of his nose very well, and his breath came in ragged gasps. “Open your eyes, Alex.”
After a moment, Alex did so. Steve stood a few meters away, pacing and shadowboxing, looking happy with himself. Mitsuru crouched over him, her face blank, her eyes bloodshot and serene, the gun stretched out to him, still on its bed of green cloth.
“How do you feel, Alex?”
“Fucking bad!” Alex shouted, voice quivering. “What the fuck is going on here?”
Mitsuru’s calm was impenetrable.
“Do you feel like shooting someone?”
“No,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Fuck that. And fuck you, Miss Aoki. No way.”
Mitsuru shrugged and walked away, setting the gun down and the sitting down beside it.
“Let’s try it again,” she said, to no one in particular. “Reset.”
The transition was so abrupt that it made him nauseous. To Alex, it seemed as if he was lying in a heap on the floor one moment, bleeding from the face and clutching his broken wrist, and then the next, he was standing where he’d started, facing Steve with the gun in his hand. He looked down at the Glock, black, compact and menacing, and at the hand that held it. His wrist seemed miraculously whole, though it was an angry red hue, and quite sore. Alex touched it with one finger, marveling at the bruised but intact flesh, contrasted with the mess a moment ago. He put his hand to his face, and his hand came away bloody, but not as bloody.
“This isn’t real,” he said uncertainly.
“This is very real,” Mitsuru corrected sternly. “If you get killed, you will be very dead, make no mistake about it. The pain and the consequences here are all real. The only difference is that I have more discretion about when I let you die. That’s all.”
“This is Gustav doing this, right? Some kind of telepathic illusion or something?”
Mitsuru sighed.
“This isn’t some kind of show or trick, Alex. Don’t seek comfort in deluding yourself. It isn’t a good thing. This means is that I can have Steve hurt you forever,” Mitsuru said, nodding at the goon. “You won’t die until I let you. If I let you. Which I probably won’t. Now pick up the gun.”
“So, if I shoot Steve, that won’t be real, either?” Alex asked, staring at the pistol in his hand. It felt very real.
“Steve, Alex thinks this is an illusion. Disabuse him of the notion.”
Mitsuru sounded disgusted, like Alex had failed her on a personal level.
“Sure, Miss Aoki,” Steve said with his monkey grin, walking lazily toward Alex.
“Wait!” Alex cried. “Why are you doing this?”
“Are you ready to shoot him?” Mitsuru asked evenly, holding up a hand to stop Steve, who suddenly looked nervous.
“Will he die?”
Alex was unable to look away from the gun in his hand.
“That’s generally what happens when you shoot someone,” Mitsuru replied gravely.
“No,” Alex said shakily, letting the gun clatter to the floor. “No way. That’s not me.”
“Christ,” Mitsuru started, wincing. “You need to be more careful with loaded guns, kid. I’m teaching you an important lesson about being a soldier. You and me, Alex, we are both the same in this — we don’t ask why when we’re told to pull the trigger. You’ll get yourself killed, worrying about that. Let the bosses be concerned with who and why. It will take everything you’ve got just to do what needs to be done, and survive the process. Understand?”
“No,” Alex said miserably.
Mitsuru sighed and rubbed her head.
“The lesson is simple — there’s no point in teaching you to shoot, Alex, if you aren’t going to pull the trigger when you are told to,” Mitsuru explained, clearly frustrated. “No point in sharpening a blade you aren’t going to use. We aren’t going to wait until you’re in the field, until your life and the lives of other Operators are on the line, to see you pussy out. Suck it up, pull the trigger, and then we both can go home.”
Alex looked down at the ground. His nose still ached a great deal, and it was bleeding consistently enough to make him sniffle.
“I guess I’m not cut out for this,” Alex said a moment later, sounding reluctant. “If that’s what this all means, then I don’t want any part of it. I quit, alright? I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m done.”
“Alex, Alex,” Mitsuru chided. “We already know that you are cut out for this. That’s what precognitives are for. What you want is irrelevant. We’re concerned with what you can do, not what you want do,” she said, shaking her head. “There would never be enough soldiers if we asked for volunteers. I told you, none of this will be fun, or easy. Most Operators would rather not do what they do. But they can, and the need is there, so they do what they have to. We do what we have to, Alex. We are weapons, both of us. The purpose of a weapon is to kill. Don’t you want to have a purpose, Alex?”
“This is fucked up, right here,” Alex said slowly, staring at the pistol in his hand as if it would speak to him. “Do Rebecca and Michael know that you are doing this shit to me?”
Mitsuru tittered, and Steve burst into laughter.
“I would think so,” Mitsuru said, smiling. “They’ve both completed the Program themselves, after all. Rebecca helped design the Program.” Mitsuru shook her head. “Okay, question time is over. Are you ready to do what you have to do?”
She looked at Alex, hard, for several moments, but he refused to look up at her, transfixed by the weight, the sheer reality of the gun in his hand.
“No,” he said, softly. “Why should I? Why should I do anything?”
“Because you have to,” Mitsuru said, looking mildly disinterested. “Again.”
“Right,” Steve said, from immediately behind Alex.
; Alex jabbed an elbow back, digging it into Steve’s midsection, but he just grunted, his arms wrapping around Alex, one forearm reaching across his neck. Alex tried to lower his head, to put his chin between Steve’s arm and his throat, but he was too late for that. He stomped on Steve’s foot, several times, with all the force he could muster, grinding his heel against the boy’s instep. He drove a few more elbows into his body, but he couldn’t put much power behind them. Steve’s forearm crushed steadily into his larynx, and soon all he could hear was himself making ghastly strangling noises.
Alex woke on the floor, with his face in a shallow pool of vomit, unable to swallow and struggling to breathe. Mitsuru crouched above him, holding out the gun. He brushed her away with one arm, and then everything reset again.
This time he didn’t bother with conversation. When Mitsuru asked him if he was ready to use the gun, he ignored her. He put the echoes of the pain and the fear out of his mind, as best he could. He focused solely on Steve, standing a few meters away, looking like he hadn’t even broken a sweat, grinning like it was his birthday. Alex was ready when he came forward this time.
He was ready for Steve’s jab, too. He had gorilla-like arms that gave him a reach advantage, but Alex kept his hands up and his head moving, and Steve couldn’t do anything more than clip him. Alex was patient, protecting his head, absorbing the occasional shot to the side or the arms, waiting for his chance to close.
Steve threw a combination that ended in a right hook that was a little off, and Alex saw his footwork was bad, that he was punching while he backpedaled. Alex blocked the punch with his left arm, and then stepped inside, putting everything he had into a hard right that sank into Steve’s kidney.
Again, there was no apparent transition. Steve was simply one thing, and then he was the other. Alex didn’t even see it before he made contact. His hand crumpled against Steve’s rocky skin, folding and tearing like paper where it collided with the stone, and then he fell to the ground, while Steve kicked him with his heavy stone foot and laughed his booming laugh. Alex closed his eyes, protected his face as best as he could, and waited it out. He didn’t want to open them, because he might have seen what he had done to his hand.
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