The Hadley Academy for the Improbably Gifted

by Conor Grennan

  Freddy was soaking this all in. “Hadley must be great at beating reapers before they can kill these people. Civilization hasn’t fallen yet.”

  Superior Blue raised his eyebrows. “Consider world history, Link. How many dictators have led their countries to ruin?” He shook his head. “Hadley has saved a great number of civilians and civilizations alike. But make no mistake, Wyeth is responsible for the deaths of millions. Countless dictators, vicious empires, kingdoms, fiefdoms, going back a thousand years—civilizations have fallen over and over again. All of those could have been prevented if the roots of that society hadn’t been killed off.”

  “You’re only tracking reapers,” Voss said. “Couldn’t you track down Wyeth himself?”

  “Wyeth changes not just his appearance but his actual genetic composition. Without that, the shadow map has nothing to hold on to, so to speak.”

  “How did the Bulgarian track him down, then?” Freddy asked.

  Superior Blue sat down in one of the high stools surrounding the table and motioned for the others to do the same.

  “Listen carefully, Thirteen,” he said. “Whether you believe the story I’m about to share may very well determine the fate of humanity itself.”

  “Vladimir Petkov was a most gifted improbable. In addition to animating objects into creatures, he was the best tech in Hadley history,” Superior Blue began. “He created the program that saved the world—the Signature Algorithm.”

  “The Bulgarian,” Blue explained, “knew that the only way to track Wyeth was to find something consistent in him. Then he realized one obvious fact: The one thing Wyeth couldn’t alter was his own consciousness. He couldn’t change the fact that he knew he was Wyeth.

  “The Bulgarian spent years developing an algorithm to detect the brainwave that determined a person’s consciousness of themselves. He became a recluse and relocated the Workshop from the central grounds to this abandoned cottage in the Long Woods.” Superior Blue motioned around them. “This was where the Bulgarian spent all his time, right here.

  “When he finally completed it, Petkov hacked into the shadow map. In the map’s digital archives, he searched for instances where the shadow map had momentarily detected Wyeth before it lost him again. He used the Algorithm to map the pattern of Wyeth’s consciousness.

  “Then Vladimir Petkov set his trap. He overlaid the Signature Algorithm to the shadow map, and he waited.

  “And one winter’s day thirteen years ago, the Bulgarian saw him. It was from a satellite passing over southern Norway. That very instant he ran to the portal courtyard. And in the back streets of Oslo, Norway, the Bulgarian killed Wyeth.

  “The shadow map flashed an alert, as it always does when a reaper is killed. But that day the map displayed a different message than usual. For the first time in Hadley’s history, the map named the dead: David Wyeth. The Reaper King was dead. Those working in the Bunker that day still talk about that moment, the message that changed everything. The celebrations went on for weeks, and the Bulgarian was a hero.”

  Asha looked puzzled. “So the Bulgarian did kill him. What would make him think Wyeth was still alive after that?”

  “Petkov could not let go of his obsession with Wyeth. He became consumed with the Shadow’s origins, then with the thirteen prophesies of the Grays. Ultimately, he came to believe that he could not have killed Wyeth, despite what his rational mind told him because it’s not what the Great Prophecy said would happen,” Superior Blue said.

  “So he became a fanatic?” Voss asked.

  “Some might call him that. But Petkov considered the evidence. He concluded that if the Grays had been right about the other twelve prophecies, then it stood to reason that the thirteenth prophecy must be true as well. When the Bulgarian killed Wyeth, it was supposed to end the Reaper War. But the reapers hadn’t died. They shouldn’t have been able to live without their host,” Blue explained.

  “The Bulgarian once again took to the Workshop to study the shadow map. He had missed something. Everybody had.”

  A raven cawed so loudly from across the room that Freddy jumped. Jack spun to see the bird in a territorial scuffle on the mantel with the tripod-spider. Alexander stormed over, shouting at both of them. “Sorry about that,” Alexander mumbled when he returned to the group.

  “So what happened with the Bulgarian?” Voss asked Blue. “What did he miss?”

  “He was likely standing where you are right now, Torque,” Blue replied, nodding at Voss’s position at the end of the table. “It was just six short months ago. He detected an anomaly. He called it a dead zone on the shadow map. It looked like a black spot on the map, as if nothing existed there. Something was, impossibly, shutting off all surveillance in that tiny area, killing the power, hiding from all satellites, and blocking any surveillance cameras in the area.

  “At that exact moment Petkov’s Signature Algorithm blipped for the first time in twelve years.

  “The Bulgarian ran to the portal courtyard, just as he had done thirteen years earlier. He transported into the dead zone.”

  Superior Blue turned to Alexander. “You know what happened next, don’t you, Edison? You have all Petkov’s research here in the Workshop; you must have studied it. Why don’t you tell our friends?”

  Alexander looked hesitant, but he turned to Team Thirteen. “In that dead zone the Bulgarian discovered a new kind of reaper.”

  “What?” Jack asked, stunned.

  “The first one created in thirteen years,” Alexander told them. “It was proof, the Bulgarian said, that Wyeth was back. Hadley’s surveillance was unable to pick up anything because of the dead zone, so Darius immediately deployed a team of operatives to investigate the scene.”

  “So Wyeth is alive?” Asha asked. “He must be if there are new reapers.”

  Alexander shook his head. “The operatives went through the portal to investigate. They didn’t find anything,” he said grimly. “The Bulgarian had either gotten rid of the body, or he hadn’t killed anyone and was going crazy.”

  Freddy recoiled. “Did they ever figure out what happened?”

  “The Bulgarian claimed that Wyeth had turned a man into a kind of reaper,” Alexander said. “Petkov called it darkening because the man’s eyes went black and his skin froze, just like a reaper. He believed the dead zone occurred because Wyeth had used so much energy in darkening the civilian. He said when he blazed the darkened man, the icy exoskeleton shattered and vaporized, leaving no trace.” Alexander stood taller. “But it’s just not possible. The Shadow creates reapers; he can’t corrupt humans, or he would have done it a long time ago.”

  “The Council didn’t believe Petkov,” Superior Blue added. “They thought he was mentally unstable to begin with. A single occurrence with no evidence was simply too much for them to believe, especially after there were no further instances of this so-called darkening.”

  “So there were no more dead zones?” Jack asked.

  “The Office of Reaper Engagement determined the dead zone to be a satellite malfunction,” Blue said. “Our researchers concluded that nobody, not even the world’s greatest hacker, could simultaneously block a Hadley satellite and shut down all power and cameras in such a focused area.”

  Superior Blue slapped the table, sending static signals rippling through it. “But you must see—that is the proof itself! No hacker alive had the ability to do that. And a malfunction in the satellite didn’t account for the power outage in that area. It was Wyeth—it’s the only explanation. But the Council refused to accept it. They wanted the Bulgarian locked up. Some even called for him to be sent to the Asylum, where they believed he should have been all along.”

  Freddy’s eyes widened. “What’s the Asylum?”

  Alexander gave Superior Blue a strange look. “The Asylum? Even I’ve never heard of that.”

  Superior Blue cleared his throat and smoothed his suit jacket and tie. “It’s irrelevant. And more importantly, it’s classified. The point here is tha
t Vladimir Petkov escaped, out a portal. Two months ago he was reported dead. Killed by a reaper.”

  The Superior took a deep breath and studied the team. “And that is the evidence, Thirteen,” he said. “You may have difficulty believing the Great Prophecy, but remember that Vladimir Petkov was not a monk but a data scientist. Consider that as you decide what to believe.”

  Superior Blue let that sit with them for a moment, then pushed himself up from his stool and walked to the door. He checked his band. “You’ve already missed Escapes. The Forty-Eight are about to start their first blade agility training with Instructor Santori at the Bridge. You’ll need to run to make it on time. Your life may one day depend on how well you do in that class.”

  CHAPTER 12

  NO RETREAT

  The wooden platform the recruits stood on was seven stories above the ground with no guardrails. It was broad enough to fit them all comfortably, but at that height, nothing would stop you from accidentally walking off the ledge. Even climbing the rope ladders to get up to it had made Jack sick with nerves.

  An identical platform at the same height was positioned fifty feet away. On it stood Instructor Santori, who looked like a European soccer star, complete with short scruff on his chin and dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail. There seemed to be little, if anything, holding the twin platforms up; they were impossibly cantilevered off the tall pines. Linking the two platforms was a flat wooden walkway that reminded Jack of a dock.

  Santori walked toward them, the hilt of his blade in his hand. He stopped at a black line that marked the middle point of the bridge. He flicked his wrist and the blade sprung from the hilt, igniting the short but brilliant blue blaze at the tip.

  “For the purposes of our lessons, I will be using a training blade like the one you use rather than my rune blade,” he announced. “Now, there are four things you need to know about the Hadley blade.” Santori held the blaze toward the recruits. “The first is that the blaze at the tip of your blade is the only way to destroy a shadow reaper. It is powerful enough to combust the ice-based exoskeleton of the reaper.

  “Second. The reaper has only one weak point: the bull’s-eye. The blaze must make direct contact with the bull’s-eye. Here.” Santori tapped the center of his chest. A round metal shield the size of a dinner plate had appeared on his uniform. At the center of the shield, an indented red point marked the vulnerable point. Jack noticed that his uniform had adopted a similar round steel plate over his own chest.

  “Next,” Santori continued. “The blaze will stay lit for only two minutes; after that you have to cock it to reignite.” He flicked his wrist again and the blade disappeared for a split second into the hilt and sprung back out.

  “And last, the Hadley blade is linked directly to your band, which is linked to your mind. The blade goes where you want it to go, with minimal effort,” he told them. “The challenge, then, is to know where you want it to go. The blade requires one thing from you: instruction. To give it that instruction, you must have vision. You must have confidence. You must have, above all, imagination.”

  Jack wondered whether Santori had translated that word into English correctly. How could a Hadley blade rely on his imagination?

  “You cannot learn this. You must feel it.” Santori drew his blade straight up. “Who will be first? Choose a member of your team to come out.”

  When nobody stepped forward, Santori pointed his blade at the short red-haired boy closest to the bridge. “Team Four’s representative. Step up, please.”

  Jack recognized the boy as the one Miles had tripped in Prophecy Hall the day before. The kid’s shoulders sagged for an instant, but then he stood up straight and crept out to Santori. The bridge was only five feet wide and, like the platform, had no railings.

  “Blade agility is not about the movement of your body. It is about your control of the blade. When your hand controls your blade in harmony with your mind, the rest of your body needs to move very little,” Santori informed them.

  “But . . . what if we fall?” the boy asked, peering down at the open air.

  “Ah yes, thank you for reminding me.” Santori momentarily lowered his blade to address the recruits. “Please stay on the bridge. If you flail your body around, you are not using your blade correctly, and you risk falling off. If you do fall, please remember to relax your body and land on your legs, with your knees bent slightly, like this.” Santori lowered into a squat. “It will protect your essential organs and limit broken bones to below the pelvis. Okay. Team Four. If you please.”

  The redheaded kid from Team Four took his blade from his hip, his hand trembling. Somehow, he managed to twist his wrist, and the blade sprung from the handle.

  Santori tapped his band. A small holographic screen appeared on the recruits’ platform, in the place where a doorbell might appear if the platform were the front step of a house. The hologram spun in a spectrum of color until settling on the words Recruit Training.

  Santori held out his blade and tapped the boy’s blade. “Spade name?”

  “Core, sir.”

  “Push me back to my platform, or I will push you back to yours,” Santori announced. And suddenly his blade slashed through the air in complex patterns. Core barely got his blade up in time to parry. Santori paused.

  “You are relying on your skill, Core, of which you have none. Tell your blade where to go!”

  Santori came at him again. Core quickly retreated, though his blade managed to at least defend himself against Santori’s attack.

  “I am moving at only a fraction of my potential speed, Core,” Santori barked at him. He slapped the steel plate on his chest. “I am a reaper—strike me! You cannot defend forever.”

  Santori’s onslaught continued. Core swung his blade more quickly now, his eyes fixed on his opponent’s weapon. But still, within moments, Santori drove him back to the other recruits. The screen buzzed as Core stepped back on the platform.

  “A weak display.” Santori walked back to the center of the bridge. “Core’s mind was linked to his blade, but the best he could do was to imagine how to defend himself. The blade followed his commands, though awkwardly, because he had no vision. No imagination. His mind was consumed with fear, and thus he stayed on the defensive. If I had wanted to, I could have slashed him a dozen times before he knew what had hit him.” He reached the center of the bridge and spun around. “Who’s next?”

  Miles Watt approached the bridge, pausing to touch the hologram. He spun it right then left. Then he returned it to Recruit Training and walked onto the bridge.

  Instructor Santori raised his eyebrows as Miles drew closer. “Recruit Watt, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Santori studied him a moment before raising his blade. “Very well. Come.”

  Miles drew his blade. Before Santori could make a move, Miles came at him. Santori’s blade swung up to parry Miles’s first strike. For a few seconds Miles actually held Santori to his side of the bridge, the exertion visible on his face. Then Santori sped up his movements. His blade moved far quicker than it had against Core. He drove Miles backward to his platform so rapidly that Miles lost his footing. The other recruits gasped as Miles slipped off the bridge.

  Santori’s reflexes were quick. He reached down and snatched Miles by the wrist. For a moment he held him there, dangling, eyes locked. Then Santori pulled Miles up.

  “A strong showing, Recruit Watt,” Santori said over his shoulder, walking back to the center of the bridge. “But you relied on anger, not on imagination. Your anger is powerful.” He turned and pointed at Miles. “But I warn you—put this anger aside. Test it no further.”

  Santori and Miles stared at each other for a long moment. There was something strange happening. Jack sensed it in how Santori spoke to Miles. And how Instructor Suzuki had looked alarmed back in the Hexagon when she admonished Miles. And how Darius’s face had fallen when she heard whatever had happened to Miles at the Naming Ceremony.

  Mi
les Watt was different. Jack just didn’t know how.

  “Team Thirteen.” Santori called. “Step up, please.”

  Freddy pushed his curly black hair out of his face. He turned to the rest of the team. “Okay. I got this.”

  Voss grabbed his arm. “I’ll go. Or Asha. She’s already broken through.”

  Miles Watt smirked. “He’s right, Curly. No need to humiliate yourself out there.”

  Freddy spun to face Miles. “The way you just humiliated yourself, you mean?”

  Freddy pushed past Miles and strode out to meet Santori. Santori watched him with interest.

  “Spade name?”

  “Link, sir.”

  With a deep breath, Freddy pulled his blade from his hip and deployed it. He waved the blade around helplessly. It did nothing. Santori walked toward him, his blade almost touching the plate on Freddy’s chest. Freddy backed up instinctively.

  “Fight, Link! Get through me! The object is to force me back to my platform, not to retreat to yours.”

  Freddy swung the blade back and forth awkwardly. It refused to obey any commands, even as Freddy muttered at it under his breath.

  Santori looked surprised, lowering his blade. His eyes narrowed. “You’re a dormant.”

  Freddy lowered his blade but stood up straighter. “Not for long, Instructor Santori.”

  “You are not able to use a blade. It will only connect to the mind of an improbable. Thus, you have no use for it, and you do not deserve to have it.” With a quick motion Santori flicked at Freddy’s blade.

  Freddy flinched, and Santori slashed him across the hand, drawing blood. Freddy yelped and dropped the blade. It retracted and fell over the side of the bridge, clattering on the flagstones far below.

  Santori retracted his blade. “You should never have been allowed into this academy,” he said. “Back to the platform, dormant. You have no concept for how improbables fight.”

  Freddy seethed, staring at his blade seven stories down. His face flushed with embarrassment as he turned to walk back to the platform.