by John Dixon
Scarlett didn’t have time to answer most letters, but she did write to Dan. She wanted an apology but instead demanded an explanation. She considered saying that she was sorry for her role in the fight but decided that he needed to apologize first.
Dan didn’t write back.
This was her life for weeks. Suffering, solitude, and constant pressure.
Then came the afternoon that changed everything.
Restrained in Room 17, waiting for Lopez, was like waiting for a dentist who refused to use numbing agents.
Lopez entered, wearing ear protection and pushing a cart that held a boxy machine with what looked like a silver megaphone on top. Shouting, Lopez told her that in his experience all new cadets had impaired hearing. “A natural side effect of having their heads so far up their asses.” He gritted his cigar stub in a sneering smile and started the machine.
An invisible muscle car with a bad muffler roared to life in the small room. Scarlett scrunched back in her chair. Lopez turned a knob, increasing the volume. Pulsing waves of sound buffeted her like gusts of wind. She shut her eyes and wished she could plug her ears, but her arms were strapped at her sides. Vibration rattled her teeth and bones.
Lopez cranked the noise louder.
This force built within her more slowly than had other forms of energy, but eventually her vibrating bones felt like they would burst from her skin, ripping her to pieces.
“Quiet!” she screamed.
Or at least that was what she’d intended to scream. What came out was a wallop of force, a loud boom punctuated by a sharp rifle crack sound.
The mirror exploded inward, revealing a hidden room.
Inside, a smiling Colonel Rhoads gave Scarlett a thumbs-up.
THIS TIME, RHOADS, NOT LUCY DeCraig, led Scarlett away.
“I apologize about the testing,” Rhoads said. “I know that it’s been difficult.”
He ushered her into the noisy gymnasium. Sprinters dashed in blurry packs along the elevated track; gymnasts tumbled across mats, the picture of power and grace; meatheads clapped and roared to the clanking music of pumping weights.
“These cadets are Level I posthumans,” Rhoads said, leading her across the gym. “Their powers are physical in nature. No one’s better at breaching doors and kicking butt.”
The gymnasts had stopped training. They stood in a huddle and eyed Scarlett, whispering among themselves.
Rhoads led her away from the gym and down the hall. They paused at the doorway of a classroom. Inside, telekinetic upperclassmen were coaching new cadets.
“These TKs, along with healers, trackers, tech jammers, and antihealers,” Rhoads said, “are Level II posthumans. Their power comes from their minds.”
New cadets watched as Uba, standing at parade rest, rapidly folded a sheet of paper into an origami swan. Seamus stood against the far wall, looking hot as always. His blue eyes stared intensely at the origami demonstration. He was lean and compact but muscular, with the physique of a gymnast.
Then, as she stared, he turned his head and stared straight at her. He looked from her to Rhoads, looked back to her, and scowled.
Great, she thought, and looked away.
Rhoads led her away from the classroom.
“Sir,” she said, “Cadet Winter requests permission to speak.”
Rhoads chuckled. “When we’re talking, Scarlett, have at it. Forgo the formalities.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “So, am I Level II?”
“No,” Rhoads said. He pushed through a fire door. They ascended a flight of stairs, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell. On the next level, they entered a bright corridor. The hall’s many doors, drop ceiling, and busy corkboards reminded Scarlett of her mother’s office at West Chester University.
“Every now and then,” Rhoads said, “we recruit a cadet whose powers are neither Level I nor Level II. These rare individuals are Level III posthumans, and their powers are unique.”
“So I…”
Rhoads nodded. “You are Level III.”
She didn’t know what to say. Thanks? Wow? What in the world are you talking about?
“Your power is fascinating,” Rhoads said, turning a corner and walking down a short hallway that ended in a set of double doors. “Your body absorbs and rereleases energy.”
Scarlett had figured that much. “How?”
“We don’t know yet, but we’re excited. You have incredible potential.”
She could have groaned. She’d heard about her “incredible potential” all her life and knew that it led only to incredible disappointment.
“And now,” Rhoads said, pushing through the double doors, “I want you to meet The Point’s only other Level III cadet.”
They entered a bright, spacious room walled with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. A dark-haired girl in yoga pants and a pink tank top sat with her legs crossed at the center of the hardwood floor, arms lying on her thighs, palms up. Soft music played in the background. The air smelled faintly of fruit or flowers or both.
The girl opened her eyes and smiled without standing or saluting. “Hey, Colonel. What’s up?”
“Dalia Amer,” Rhoads said, “meet Scarlett Winter. Scarlett, Dalia.”
Dalia stood, and Scarlett recognized her as the cadet who had impressed her so much the first day, when Rhoads had asked how many days were left until the Army–Navy football game. Now, of course, Scarlett could give the answer just as quickly. The number of days until “Army beats Navy” was one of the countless stupid facts that they needed to be able to report at an instant’s notice.
Dalia shook her hand and said it was nice to meet her.
Scarlett said, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Oh,” Dalia said, and reached out to pinch Scarlett’s cheek. “So cute. Straight from the cabbage patch.”
What the hell?
Rhoads said, “Scarlett is our new Level III, Dalia. I want you to take her under your wing.”
Dalia crossed her arms, cocked a hip, and studied Scarlett with seeming amusement.
“She can do amazing things with energy,” Rhoads said, “but—”
“She’s still a newb.”
Rhoads nodded. “I’d like you to teach her yoga and meditation. Hopefully, it will help her control her power.”
Dalia rolled her eyes, and a smile crept onto her face. “I suppose,” she said. “Can I send her to the Chamber if she doesn’t follow directions?”
Rhoads smiled uncomfortably. “She’ll comply. Won’t you, Scarlett?” Before Scarlett could respond, Rhoads clapped her on the shoulder and said, “We really must be going.”
They left to the sound of Dalia’s echoing laughter.
Rhoads led her back downstairs via a new stairwell. “I expect great things from you, Scarlett. Great things.”
She thanked him. Nothing seemed quite real. For weeks, she’d suffered isolation, confusion, and pain. Now…
They entered a residential wing that looked like the world’s cleanest college dormitory. Rhoads ushered her into a spotless room twice the size of her cell. It looked like a hotel room. A nice hotel room.
“Welcome to your new quarters,” Rhoads said.
“New quarters?”
“Correct,” Rhoads said. “Your gear has already been secured in that footlocker.”
Too good to be true, her bones whispered. Good things always come with a price.
“Quite an upgrade, yes?” Rhoads said. “Your own desk, a larger footlocker, a semiprivate bathroom.”
And bunk beds, Scarlett thought. So I have a—
“Ah,” Rhoads said, turning toward the door, “your roommate.”
Lucy DeCraig entered the room, grinning like a madwoman, and shook Scarlett’s hand. “Cheers, Scarlett Bro-hansson. You don’t snore, do you?”
&nbs
p; THE NEXT AFTERNOON, INSTEAD OF reporting to Room 17, Scarlett went to the yoga studio.
“Namaste, newbie,” Dalia said, and gave her a smirk.
“Hey,” she said.
They started stretching. Dalia asked some questions but didn’t seem particularly interested in Scarlett’s responses. Dalia was from Pennsylvania, too, but upstate. Wyalusing, a little town on the Susquehanna.
“You miss it?” Scarlett asked.
Dalia looked at Scarlett like she was crazy. “Miss it? I wish I could burn it to the ground.” Her voice was as bitter as a winter wind. Then she smiled. “It’s better here. Being Level III kicks butt. We get nice rooms, skip most of the bad stuff, and don’t have to walk and talk like robots. And we can walk around. Pretty much anywhere, anytime. The other cadets whine about it, but so what? Why should we suffer just because they’re having a hard time?”
“Cool,” Scarlett said. She felt uneasy about receiving preferential treatment, but hanging out in this bright music-filled room sure beat getting tortured and hazed.
“You have to work hard,” Dalia said. “Rhoads expects results.”
“Like what?”
Dalia shrugged. “Whatever he tells you to do. With you, it’s this energy thing. Hence meditation and yoga. They’re all about mindfulness and energy flow. Rhoads thinks it will help you understand and control your ability.”
“I hope so,” Scarlett said, and followed Dalia’s lead, twisting sideways. So far, yoga just felt like stretching. “And what’s your power?”
“I’m a somnopath,” Dalia said.
Scarlett thought for a second and came up empty. “What’s that mean?”
Dalia looked her in the eye. “It means don’t mess with me.”
She raised her palms. “Hey, I didn’t—”
Dalia laughed. “Just kidding, plebe-o. You’re cute. So jumpy.”
Jumpy, she thought. There’s something no one’s ever called me before.
She remembered Lucy’s advice during the previous night’s chess match: Tread lightly with Dalia, sis. You don’t want her as an enemy. Treading lightly would be tough if Dalia kept treating her like a little kid.
“I don’t fully understand it myself,” Dalia said. “Basically, I tap into people’s subconscious, make them remember their dreams, stuff like that.” She crossed the room and turned off the music. “I’m all yoga-ed out for today. Let’s take a walk instead.”
“But Rhoads said—”
“Scarlett, Scarlett, Scarlett,” she said, giving her a pitying look. “What am I going to do with you? Forget Rhoads. I want to take a walk…and I always get what I want.”
Scarlett spread her hands. “Whatever you say.”
“I like your attitude, newbster,” Dalia said. “Go change into your uniform and meet me outside Room 7 in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
—
SCARLETT SHIFTED FROM foot to foot in the hallway outside Room 7.
Dalia was late.
She pressed her back to the wall, hoping the instructor inside wouldn’t wander over and glance into the hall because she recognized the instructor’s voice.
Hopkins said, “The team with the slowest time goes without dinner, hooah?”
Come on, Dalia.
Hopkins’s voice crossed the room. “Meatheads, you breach the door and get out of the way. Speedsters, you enter next. Engage and disrupt. TKs, follow at an angle. Precision work, TKs. Eliminate all threats.”
Dalia came around the corner in her uniform and gave Scarlett a little wave. She grabbed her arm—and dragged her straight into Room 7. Cadets of all disciplines packed the chairs and lined the walls. They turned as one to stare.
Scarlett’s stomach cleared the top of the roller coaster and plunged downhill at 200 miles an hour.
Hopkins stopped in midsentence. “May I help you, Cadet Amer?”
Dalia ignored Hopkins and pointed to Dunne. “Clayton, come with us. Tour time.”
Hopkins’s predatory eyes narrowed. “Dunne is training.”
“You want him to prove he can kick in a door?” Dalia said. “Give me a break. Come on, Clayton.”
The class’s nervous laughter died under Hopkins’s glare.
Dunne gathered his things, avoiding eye contact with Hopkins, and crossed the room.
Dalia squeezed Scarlett’s arm and whispered, “Dunne is crazy about me. Kind of sad, really. Follows me around like a big puppy dog. But he’s sweet.”
“Hmm,” Scarlett said, aware of everyone—particularly Hopkins—staring at her.
“Clayton, darling,” Dalia said with an affected voice. She gave the hulking cadet a hug, kissed him on both cheeks, and pulled him into the hall.
Scarlett hurried after them, eager to get out of there, but someone tapped her shoulder, and she turned back around.
There was no one there.
Across the room, Hopkins’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his glaring eyes.
Oh, great…
An invisible hand propelled her out the door. She hurried after Dalia and Dunne.
“That son of a bitch is meaner than hot sauce on hemorrhoids,” Clayton said. “You hear him in there? ‘Breach the door and get out of the way.’ Like we’re just battering rams or something.”
Dalia laughed. “Clayton, meet my new sex slave, Scarlett. Try not to be too jealous.”
Clayton snorted.
Dalia slipped her arm into his. “Nobody knows West Point better than Clayton.”
Clayton looked suddenly worried. “We going outside again? Rhoads said—”
“Let me worry about Rhoads,” Dalia said, and beckoned impatiently for Scarlett to walk on her other side. Scarlett caught up, and Dalia slid her free arm through hers. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
“All right,” Scarlett said, but she wasn’t so sure. She’d spent her life breaking rules. You had to be smart or you ended up smashed like a bug on a windshield. “They’re going to let us out?”
“Aw, how cute. Is little Scarlett afraid?”
“I didn’t say I was afraid,” she said. “I just asked if—”
“Don’t you worry,” Dalia said. “I take care of my babies.”
Scarlett wasn’t buying her cool. Dalia was cocky and condescending, but she was insecure, too, the type of person who needed to surprise and impress. In that instant, Scarlett understood that Dalia would endanger her and Clayton just to highlight how untouchable she was here.
Dalia led them past the infirmary and the kitchen and out into a hall that ended in a door marked Do Not Enter. She paused, grinned theatrically, and pushed through the door.
Great, Scarlett thought. Here we go. And just when things had started looking up.
They descended a flight of stairs and pushed through another door.
“Whoa,” Scarlett said.
It was like stepping into the New York subway system, only this place was much cleaner and empty of people, and the train itself looked older.
“Surprised, plebe-o?” Dalia said. “Stick with me and you’ll see a lot more than this.”
Clayton gestured at the train. “Without that thing, The Point wouldn’t exist. The train’s top secret. Runs all the way to Grand Central. Ever hear of Track 61?”
Scarlett shook her head.
“M42?” Clayton asked.
“No,” she said.
“The Point started as a bunker back in the thirties, a bug-out zone for bigwigs.”
“Nerd alert,” Dalia said. “Don’t bore the poor girl to death.”
“Actually, it’s pretty interesting,” Scarlett said.
“Oh, boy,” Dalia said. “I’m surrounded by geeks. Let’s go.” She hopped down onto the tracks, led them across, and climbed up the other side.
They wal
ked along that ledge until they came to a rusted door in the tile wall. “This way,” Dalia said, and opened the door. The rusted metal sounded like metal nails on a metal chalkboard.
Beyond the door was a dark shaft. Dalia clicked a flashlight to life, and Scarlett saw a metal ladder bolted to the block wall. Its rungs disappeared up into darkness.
“Hope you’re not afraid of heights, plebe-o,” Dalia said.
Scarlett, who jumped off cliffs for fun, laughed. “Not quite.”
After a long climb—something like 100 feet, Scarlett guessed—they emerged through a camouflaged door in the stony hillside overlooking the Hudson, just below the West Point train tracks. They climbed what looked like a deer path to the edge of campus.
It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, the grass very green beneath the hard blue sky, a faint breeze sighing off the Hudson. Scarlett filled her lungs and grinned at the warmth of the sunshine. She was not built for subterranean living.
Above ground, Dalia and Clayton acted like actual cadets, walking with a purpose, cupped hands, the whole nine.
Clayton pointed out landmarks to Scarlett. Dalia hadn’t been kidding. Despite his drawl and irreverence, Clayton made an excellent tour guide. Every building, every monument, every piece of open ground triggered a history lesson.
“During the first War of Independence,” he said, pointing at a sharp bend in the river, “they worried the Brits might come sneaking down the Hudson, attack New York.”
“The first War of Independence?” Scarlett said. “There was more than one?”
Clayton shook his head. “Spoken like a true Yank.” Then he went on to explain how the forces at West Point had stretched a heavy chain across the river to slow British boats. He turned and pointed across campus to the hills. “We had artillery up there. Would’ve pounded the Brits to pieces if they’d gotten caught in the chain, like spearing catfish in a bathtub, but the redcoats never tried it. We’ll see some of the chain links over there, at Trophy Point.”