“That’s one heck of a glitch,” a division leader shouted, knowing fully the instructor couldn’t hear her.
“While the recruits were making excellent progress and handling their troopers well, another . . . glitch prematurely ended the exam before they reached their objective,” the instructor said as her smile wavered for a second. “Apparently, another 3P was in the mainframe buffer and contaminated our exam. A horror play about invading aliens mixed with our exam and created the end game we all witnessed. While the Citadel was destroyed, it was not by the recruits. According to the conditions of the exam, the recruits failed to destroy the Citadel, while the defenders succeeded in stopping them from reaching their objective. Excuse me, defender. That being the case, I pronounce recruit Brent as the sole person to pass the exam.”
A clamor filled the observation room. Some were excited while others were furious. The troopers started shouting and arguing. The division leaders solemnly stared at the monitors. A loud clicking drowned out the noise of the troopers. The image of instructor Coudert was snapping her fingers.
“Now, now, let’s not lose ourselves. Due to a number of complaints the Administer received over these new exams, he has decided to reinstate the standard exams. Tomorrow the recruits will retake the standard exams, after they get a good night’s rest of course. Think of today as a noble experiment,” Coudert once again sounded liker her normal self. “Administer Bloom has told me to reassure you all that you’ll receive an additional day off as a way of expressing his thanks for your patience.”
Cain quickly rushed back to the lounge. Not waiting to see the reaction in the troopers, he barricaded himself at the farthest table, feverishly calculating payouts. Daniel and Ruth followed suit, preparing themselves for the coming assault.
“So, are we going to be enjoying D rations for a while?” Daniel asked as he eyed the doorway to the observation room.
“Instead of pestering Cain, shouldn’t you be figuring it out for yourself?” Ruth’s voice actually sounded excited.
“I trust him; always was the fastest.” Daniel tried to relax as he waited for the results.
“My friends, it has been an interesting day.” Cain looked up from his pad.
“And the title of master of the obvious goes to . . .,” Daniel joked.
“However, whatever else it might have been, it has also been a profitable day.” Cain smiled widely.
“You mean it? Seriously?” Ruth couldn’t contain her excitement.
“We took a bloodbath over Brent’s victory, but all in all, we actually made a profit,” Cain reassured Ruth.
“How much profit?” Daniel asked hesitantly.
“Enough that Reggie won’t be forced to enjoy D rations.” Cain smiled.
Daniel visibly relaxed while Ruth raised a confused eyebrow. Cain patted her shoulder reassuringly as the first troopers started pouring into the lounge. The demeanor of the trio changed. The idle banter ended and they focused on the task at hand. As the first troopers reached the tables, the bookies were all business.
Chapter 9: Weavers
Brent rubbed at his eyes. Through squinting and constant blinking, he could make out traces of detail in the blinding white. Slowly the contours filled in, and shading filled the world around him. As his eyes adjusted to his environment, he realized he was back in the room in Medical. The 3P sat beside him, pitch black and inactive once more. Brent raised his hand to his cheek. A thin vein of moisture lingered on his right cheek. The door to his room burst open, and a man in white gestured for the recruit to stand. Grabbing Brent’s arm, the man led him out of Medical. As the two passed room after room, he noticed that none of the other recruits were being taken from their rooms. Several were already deep in enviable slumber.
“Where are you taking me?” Brent asked the man in white. “I thought the exams were over.”
“You’re a Weaver,” the man responded curtly.
Not bothering to ask any more questions, he followed calmly. If the man in white’s bedside manner was half as rough as his grip, Brent was glad not to need any treatment. When the pair entered the waiting room, the man in white abruptly released his arm and vanished back into Medical. For a moment Brent just stood in the waiting room as he thought. His mind still raced with the images he had just witnessed. In the aftermath his mind was melting the reality and the dream into one terrifying whole.
Shaking his head, Brent decided to push the memories to the side for the moment. Apparently he wasn’t finished yet, and standing idly in Medical all night wasn’t going to help matters. The waiting room was completely empty; not even the receptionist was there to give him some company. Reaching into his pocket, he removed his pad. It had been a long day, and for the first time he could remember, Brent was actually looking forward to sleep, nightmares and all. It hit him that the division leaders back in the mess hall had said he was already assigned. Somewhere on his pad must be the location of where he was to sleep that night.
After a few minutes of pointless searching, a message flashed on the screen. He was to report for “assessment.” The pad gave a location, but Brent couldn’t decipher its meaning, nothing but a long string of abbreviations and numbers. Without the receptionist, he had no choice but to start looking for someone, anyone, to point him in the right direction. Brent wandered out of Medical and down the hallways. After a few minutes, he was completely lost. The hallways were deserted and they all liked alike. Looking down the connecting hallways, he couldn’t make out any distinguishing features. Even if he managed to stumble across the room by chance, there was no way for him to know it. Brent approached the nearest doorway and studied it intently. He noticed something etched above the doorway. It was only a minor indentation that blended into the surface around it almost perfectly. No matter what angle he took, he couldn’t make out what was etched above the doorway.
Again, Brent checked through the pad. No map, no directions, not even a hint. He raised his hand to throw the pointless pad when he noticed something. There was a slight glow on the edge of the screen. He slowly moved the pad toward the glow. In bright shining outline was a familiar string of letters and numbers. Brent looked around the pad to find he was staring at the etchings. Apparently, holding the pad in front of them was the trick. He ran to the next doorway. The letters were the same, but some of the numbers changed. Running down a connecting hallway, he found the numbers remained constant while the letters changed to new abbreviations. Working out a rough framework in his head, Brent ran down the hallways in what he guessed was the right direction.
After a few wrong turns and a few revisions to his understanding of the station layout, he actually found the doorway with matching markings to the location on the pad. Brent smiled to himself as he entered the room. The room had eleven other boys already in it, all of them standing together in the back of the room. The opposing wall was a clean, smooth surface that seemed to glisten. Five rows of four chairs were arranged so each could see the shining surface. The boys were all wearing the same shiny black uniform. It was of the same style as the one worn by the tall man who always seemed to accompany Administer Bloom. A plump one noticed Brent and walked toward him. The boy’s face seemed to contort unnaturally, as if he had just eaten something very sour. Brent felt a surge of fear at his approach. As the boy got closer, the sense of danger increased.
“Listen. Don’t tell the instructors nothing.” The fat boy chewed his words as they left his mouth.
Brent found he could not answer. His lips trembled but would not form words.
“Whatever you can do or sense, don’t tell nobody nothing.” The fat boy finished with emphasis.
Another boy quickly approached and tapped the fat boy on the shoulder.
“Knock it off.” The second boy talked quickly, slurring his words a tiny bit. “The instructor will be here any minute. You don’t want to make her cross do you?”
“I won’t upset her,” the fat boy said as his face returned to normal. “We got a go
od thing going, Jamie. Just don’t want some new guy to mess things up.”
“Fine. Look, you listen here, new kid.” Jamie tapped Brent’s shoulder forcefully. “We have a code among us Weavers. You don’t tell the instructors what you can do. You don’t describe what you hear, feel, smell, or . . . or however you do it. And most importantly, you don’t screw with the teacher. It won’t be good for you if we lose this one because of you.” Jamie quickly finished his speech and pulled the fat boy back to the main group.
The boys had left before Brent could respond. Feeling his mouth, he found it was no longer trembling. In fact, he felt no fear at all. He was unsure why he had been so worried in the first place. A single fat boy in a strange uniform was certainly no greater threat than what he had already gone through today. All he knew for sure is that whatever a Weaver was, they all wore the shiny black uniforms.
At once, all the boys rushed from their group to the chairs. As Brent headed toward the nearest of the vacant chairs, a doorway slid open to the left of the gleaming wall. As he reached his seat, a figure entered the room. She was a bit on the tall side with long, blond hair. Her uniform seemed a little tight as it hugged her oversized proportions. After the initial shock wore off, Brent found himself wondering how such a slender frame could support something so top-heavy. He understood why the others didn’t want to lose this instructor. The other boys were practically swimming in their own drool.
“Good evening, everyone.” Her voice was as soft as her curves.
“Good evening, instructor” the other Weavers replied in unison, like a pack of trained animals responding to a cue.
“There is a new member of our little club with us today, isn’t there?” the instructor asked sweetly.
The other Weavers stared at Brent with venom in their eyes.
“Welcome to our group, mister . . .” the instructor trailed off.
“Brent,” a gruff voice said from beyond the doorway. “The name of the newest Weaver is Brent.”
A tall man entered the room, a look of disgust on his face. Brent recognized him as the man who had hung around the Administer. Given his shiny black uniform, he had to be one a Weaver as well. Although, Brent was still puzzled about what exactly that meant.
“That will be all for now,” the tall Weaver addressed the buxom instructor. “You’ll find you have a new assignment from now on. Please get the details from the Administer’s secretary.”
With a bit of surprise and a polite bow, the female instructor left the room, and the doorway slipped shut behind her. The young Weavers in the class were obviously upset.
“I am Jack Davis,” the tall Weaver said indifferently. “And from now on I will be your instructor and trainer.”
Turning to the glistening surface, the new instructor tapped on the wall. Immediately, the wall shifted to a solid black and displayed several lesson plans and progress reports on the Weavers in the class. Brent noticed the plump Weaver who had confronted him was staring intently at the new instructor. His face was contorting even worse than before. The tall Weaver continued to study the wall, apparently oblivious to the scorn of the students. Suddenly, the fat boy lurched back in his chair. All of the other boys instantly turned to stare. The boy was cringing in fear, pressing himself to the back of his chair in a desperate attempt to increase the distance between him and the instructor. Brent noticed a puddle forming under the boy’s chair – he was wetting himself.
“That will be the last time any one of you try that again.” The man addressed the Weavers without turning from the large screen. “I’m not some cute eye candy to placate you. I am a Master Weaver. That means I know more about you than you do. I know what you are going to do before you do it and am not afraid to stop you. From this point forward, none of you will use any of your Weaver abilities without my permission. Is that clear?”
“You can’t do that!” one Weaver shouted.
“We need to practice. How else will we improve?” another Weaver muttered.
“Arrogant and stupid,” the tall man said in complete disgust. “What are they teaching you these days? You will practice and train, but only in my presence. If these outlines are really what they are teaching you, you’ll learn more in one session with me than an entire year listening to this garbage.” The man waved his hand, and all the information on the screen disappeared, replaced by large red letters that spelled out “Erased.”
“Can an instructor do that?” a Weaver asked aloud. “Isn’t it against the rules to alter the materials?”
“Firstly, you will all call me Weaver Davis. Not instructor, not trainer, and never teacher. Secondly, you are now mine. Whatever the military procedures say is now irrelevant. If I order you to get up in the dark of the night and do laps in your underwear, you will do so and do it without question.”
“What about history and theories . . . Weaver Davis?” a Weaver asked in a hushed voice.
“Garbage. Instead of actually training you, they lecture you on their beliefs of how you came to be. There are only three things you need to know besides the training you will receive from me. Number one, Weavers can’t read minds. You can sense what people feel, but that’s it. It’s your interpretation of those emotions that makes it look like you can read minds. Never fool yourself that you know more than you do. Overconfidence will get you killed.”
Davis gestured at the fat boy cowering in his chair.
“Number two, Weavers can only influence what is already there. As some of you have already figured out, despite the drivel they teach you, Weavers can alter emotions. You can strengthen and weaken emotions. Make a brave man quiver in fear, or a coward charge headlong into battle. However, that emotion needs to be there before you can do anything. If a person is charging in a blind rage, there is no fear for you to exploit. Never count on your abilities being a substitute for the rest of your combat training.”
Several of the more out of shape young Weavers shifted uncomfortably.
“Number three, Weavers cannot make permanent changes,” Davis continued. “How many people you can alter, for how long, and to what degree are all based on personal factors, so each of you will have different capabilities. But no matter what you can do, be aware it will wear off. Some of you will be able to take a speck of worry and turn it into full-blown fear, but only for a few moments. Others will be able to increase some emotions only slightly but for long periods of time, perhaps enough to calm down a diplomat long enough for him to deliver a lengthy speech. Learn your limitations and how to use those limitations for the greatest effect. Keep these three things in mind and you will be more prepared than any Weaver who’s memorized every theory or history of Weaver development.”
“But . . .” the hushed Weaver persisted.
“Let me put it like this. You are face to face with an enemy combatant. He has a weapon pointed at you, and you are unarmed. Which is more useful to you at that moment? Knowing the exact date of when the first Weaver was discovered and his mother’s maiden name? Or that you will have exactly fifteen seconds after you destroy his resolve to escape before he regains the will to kill you?” Davis asked rhetorically.
Weaver Davis nodded to himself in victory at the silence of the class.
“I’m canceling today’s session,” he said authoritatively. “We will all start fresh tomorrow. It has been a long day for some of you, and all of you have a lot to take in. Take the rest of the day to enjoy your life as it has been, for tomorrow it ends. One final thing. Your Weaver training will now be the most important part of your life. As such, having Weaver training at the end of the day is counter productive. Starting tomorrow, you will all be here two hours before your normal training starts – unless I tell you to get here earlier,” Davis added before leaving the room.
The Weavers all groaned and immediately started griping to one another. As the Master Weaver left the room, Brent decided that he liked him. He was looking forward to tomorrow morning. A thought occurred to him. Standing tall, Brent approa
ched the plump Weaver.
“You were manipulating me,” he said in a calm tone. “I won’t let that happen again.”
“Really?” The plump boy stood. “You don’t know your place here. Perhaps you just don’t know nothing at all. Let me give you a lesson myself!”
The plump boy’s face was contorting again. Brent braced. He fought back a smile when he noticed the moist pants of his opponent. The contortions were the worst Brent had yet seen. He waited, but surprisingly nothing happened. He felt exactly the same. Relaxing, he noticed the plump boy was still straining.
“Guess there isn’t anything for you to work with.” Brent turned to leave the room.
Suddenly his hands clenched into fists. All consuming rage filled him. Without any warning, Brent moved to strike the nearest Weaver, anger fully enveloping him. As he was about make contact with the Weaver, Brent realized he was being manipulated again. He fought against the anger in his mind. The Weaver he was about to attack jumped to his feet and backed away as Brent froze in an internal battle of wills.
He could imagine the plump boy’s face continuing to distort as he resisted. These boys were all disgusting and needed to be put to death. Brent’s mind filled with momentary clarity. He knew he didn’t really believe that. This wasn’t the first time something tried to turn him into a murderer. His answer was still no. He would not allow others to twist how he thought ever again. With new resolve Brent fought to hold himself back. The anger increased and demanded bloody action. Every muscle in his body tensed. As the battle grew more intense, his body felt as if it was ablaze. His muscles started to ache and cry out for relief, but still Brent resisted the anger.
“Philip!” Brent had to strain to place the voice as Jamie’s. “What do you think you are doing?! That Weaver just told us not to use our abilities!”
The Ninth Page 20