Balance - Book 2

by Marc Dickason

CHAPTER 2

  The evaluation for Active Status was held in Room 5C, a section of the Academy regarded with mythical status among Cadets. Similar mythical status, I mused as I sat on the waiting bench, to the licensing department. Part of me already prayed that magic was more graspable then driving by government approved methods.

  In a nutshell the Active evaluation was an unavoidable late hurdle on the road to becoming an Enforcer. And, when granted, authorised a Cadet to use magic in public areas with at least a bare minimum of death inflicted on nearby civilians and property.

  Rumour was that a quarter of all Cadets were denied.

  Currently a simmering red light above Room 5C displayed the word “WAIT.” So I waited, occupying my time guessing how long it would take my circulatory system to once again wave the white flag and abandon my ass.

  After thirty minutes the door opened and a young Cadet stepped out, cardboard diploma held in hand and a shiny new green medal on her breast. My own blue Enforcer blazer suddenly felt embarrassingly naked.

  “How did it go?” I asked her.

  She smiled gleefully and held up the diploma. A stamp in the right corner declared her ‘Active.’

  “Nailed it,” she said, “not as bad as everyone was going on about.”

  “Any tips?”

  “Sure,” she said mischievously, “Don’t spill the water, Cadet. They dock you for every drop that hits the floor.”

  I nodded. “Great. Sounds easy enough.”

  She blinked. Her smile melted. “Hey, you’re Jet Clarence?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh! Well, nice to meet you. Good luck in there.”

  “Thanks.”

  She turned and headed off down the echoing corridor, quickening her step. Apparently word of my Class 5 status had found her ears via the grapevine. She was eager to be beyond the potential blast zone.

  The light above Room 5C turned green and a head poked through the doorway; a bespectacled middle-aged man who proudly wore a moustache that would embarrass all but pornography stars.

  “Clarence?” he asked, glancing at a clipboard.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, at last we meet. Step this way.”

  I stood and followed.

  The evaluation hall turned out to be a classic minimalist approach to interior decoration; uninviting bare brick and cement. At one end sat a glass and jug of water on a wooden table. The moustached man poured the contents of the glass into the jug, then crossed the hall and mounted a set of steps to an elevated observation booth, something resembling an oblong bomb-proof bunker. Little did the poor man know, I guessed any foolish Spirit discharge on my behalf capable of turning the bunker into rubble.

  I craned my head. Through inch thick observation glass I watched the moustached man join a severe middle-aged woman. The two did their imitation of a television on mute as they exchanged words. Eventually the woman pressed a button and spoke into a microphone.

  “Good to see you, Clarence,” her voice emerged, coarse and tinny via an amplification system.

  “And you, ma’am.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” the man said into his own microphone, “Do you know how many Class 5’s have passed through this Academy, Clarence?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Seven in total. And all of those seven can be seen hanging on the wall in the Academy lobby, right under the plaque that reads ‘Noteworthy Academy Alumni.’” He cleared his throat noisily. “To be frank, the D.O.M wants you, Clarence. There is a crying need for powerful Enforcers, and many of the departments in this city have already put in requests to have you assigned there.”

  “I’m flattered, sir.”

  “But you certainly cannot be given a free pass, on the contrary. It will not do to have an unstable Class 5 running around the streets. And that puts us, me and Mrs. Reeves, in a very difficult situation.”

  “Don’t get us wrong, we’re eager to see what you’re capable of,” the severe woman added, “In fact, some of the trainers have been breathing down our necks asking for results. Mr. Delaney was most persistent.”

  “I am myself eager to see your potential,” the man added, sounding as excited as a professional grass growing observer.

  “What we’re saying, basically,” the woman continued, “Is that the potential danger you represent cannot be ignored. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good, then we’re clear.’

  I stood in silence as the two shared more unheard words and rifled through papers. Awkward tension mounted.

  “We’re ready to begin,” the woman declared, “Shall we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent, then good luck and do please remember your Place of Calm. I’ll start by asking a few questions. It says here you have a demon?”

  “Correct, ma’am.”

  “How would you describe your level of control over it?”

  “Good.”

  “But it says here you failed to defeat it during your training with…” More rifled papers. “…Miss Stephania.”

  “Yes, I failed,” I responded, “but soon after learned a Primary Crutch. It is firmly in place and I believe I have no risk of losing control.”

  “Good. And the Primary Crutch in question?”

  “Coffee, ma’am.”

  She nodded. “I see. Very convenient.”

  I had recently learned many were not lucky enough to have coffee as an option when it came to Primary Crutches, and felt sorry for those who had had to admit to far more embarrassing things. Lo and behold, masturbation was not uncommon.

  The woman sat back and nodded to her counterpart. He took her cue and leaned forward. “You said your trainer was Selena Stephania, is that correct?”

  My eyes dropped to the floor, stomach clenching into a knot. “Yes.”

  “Interesting.” The moustached man’s voice took a note of genuine curiosity. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t she recently arrested?”

  “She was, yes.” The knot tightened. “And escaped custody, as I heard it, sir.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And you were her last student?”

  “I was.”

  “My goodness, how bizarre.” He adjusted his glasses. “That must have been an unusual experience for you.”

  “Unusual how, sir?”

  “The woman must have been very unstable,” he pronounced the words “very unstable” as if talking with perverse glee about the body count of a serious accident.

  “She was maybe a little highly strung,” I muttered, “But no more then normal.”

  “A little highly strung. How fascinating. I do hope she is caught soon, it won’t do to have such a dangerous character roaming the streets.”

  My hands tightened into fists. “I don’t think she’s that dangerous, sir.”

  He stared at me. “She killed a man.”

  For a moment the face of Conrad flashed before me, face smashing flat and head snapping back. Emotion bubbled in my stomach. The flame sparked and threatened to ignite. I shoved it back down.

  “Can we get started please, sir? I have Manipulation and Influence study after and I don’t want to be late. I’m thinking of specialising, you see.”

  His eyebrow rose. “Manipulation and Influence? Unusual choice. But they will be delighted to hear you are considering them. It is well known there is a dire lack of specialists in that area. Very well Clarence, we would like to see you demonstrate control of your demon, if you would. Proceed.”

  I bowed my head, closed my eyes, and reached for my Place of Calm. The world melted into relaxation. I then turned my attention to a familiar memory, one that lived in the flame.

  “What’s wrong with dad?” my eight year old self asked.

  “He’s dead,” my mother replied, staring at me with cold eyes.

  The flame exploded into a furnace, bringing heat to my cheeks and a tremble to my lips. But control was maintained.

  My eyes opened. The examine
rs watched.

  First, dim light offered by covered bulbs seemed to retreat and drain away, followed by a sensation that the walls were drawing in, bowing as if under some immense external pressure.

  Taking the cue I let my eyes focus on a brick surface. Oddly, the pattern of the bricks unintentionally seemed to make the shape of a person. The more I focused the clearer the illusion became, solidifying and becoming more pronounced. All at once my demon was in the hall. Its blue face was empty and fine tuxedo glowing with an expensive aura. It turned to me and took a step forward. I held up a hand; it stopped.

  The sound system crackled into life.

  “Well done,” the woman said, “Do you feel you have control?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very well. Please command the demon to pour a glass of water, if you would.”

  The demon glanced at the glass and jug on the table, then back at me. I nodded and it moved to obey.

  I watched it walk, noting the systematic movements of its body, the way its shoulders rolled and arms swung back and forth; all too precise. It had been making a notable effort to appear more human since that day in the Sushi Palace, months ago, and you almost could mistake it for human. But not quite. The best it could achieve was imitating humanity, and the result was something alarmingly unnatural.

  It picked up the jug and poured the contents into the glass, then faced me.

  “Good.” I told it.

  It crooned in response. Something similar to the purring of a large cat.

  “Well done,” the women said, “your control appears strong.”

  “It is, ma’am.”

  She nodded and turned to the moustached man for more silent discussion. My performance had been flawless in my own opinion, but something about their conversation did not seem entirely positive. The way the moustached man gestured animatedly said he was not convinced.

  My eyes drifted to the ground as I reviewed the evaluation.

  It all seemed to have gone so well but… his comments about Selena. Damn it, the son of a bitch. Any Logical Predictor worth their salt would have come up with an emotional connection between me and Selena. He had been trying to irritate me, pressing my buttons and looking for a reaction. Had my annoyance been obvious?

  My brain chugged, I tried to recall if I had reacted. Yes. I had clenched my hands.

  My eyes shifted back up to the observation booth. The evaluators remained locked in conversation. The moustached man appeared to be getting into the stride of a passionate monologue. A week and a half from Basics and I would be brought down by a simple offhanded mention of Selena.

  But maybe it wasn’t too late.

  “Here,” I commanded the demon.

  It approached.

  “Sit.”

  It sat on the cold cement floor, stretching out its legs.

  “Roll over.”

  It lay on its back and rolled over once.

  “Now beg.”

  It stood, clasped its hands in an imitation of a man begging, and whimpered like an anxious dog.

  “Good,” I said, “Good boy.”

  It radiated an aura of satisfaction.

  I looked back up at the examiners and smiled. “See? Under my control.”

  Their blank expressions indicated intended humour was lost. The moustached man sniffed and pushed the button on his microphone.

  “You are granted an active status, Clarence. I’ll prepare your diploma. Well done.”