To Emily’s astonishment, they found Birchard with no trouble at all. He was loitering in the hall just beyond Principal Gates’s office talking to Principal Lee’s administrative assistant, Michelle. Her icy exterior had disappeared, but it returned when Oliver unceremoniously interrupted their conversation.
“Birchard,” he said, apathetic to the discussion he had just intruded upon, “when is Genevieve going to see me?”
“Tomorrow before she leaves, I suspect,” said Ben, and he arched his brows at Emily as though to inquire whether she’d even tried to dissuade the boy.
“What time is she scheduled to go?” Oliver asked, oblivious to this nuance.
“Noon-ish.”
“And she will see me?”
Michelle broke into their conversation. “Principal Jones is a busy woman, little boy, and a child your age should address her by her proper title, not her first name.”
“Principal Jones is tolerant of some of the better students,” Ben told her. “It helps foster a good camaraderie among them.”
“Really?” she said, her iciness melting again as she spoke to him. “It’s so informal. Principal Lee would never let any of his students call him Gregory. I don’t even dare call him Gregory.” And then she laughed, a forced, tittering sound.
Emily thought she might puke at the obvious flirtation. “Oliver, you’ve got your answer,” she said. He was glaring daggers at Michelle, and it was best to extract him from the situation. “You’ll see Principal Jones tomorrow.”
“He didn’t say so for sure,” Oliver replied. “Yes, Birchard, I’m perfectly aware of how you twist words around so that you can weasel out of giving a concrete answer.”
“Caught red-handed,” Ben said to Michelle, who foolishly laughed again.
“Did you even tell her I wanted to see her?” Oliver asked.
“Yes, I did. I don’t have any control over whether she actually agrees to meet with you, though. Right now she’s having dinner with Principal Gates and General Stone.”
“Not with Secretary Allen?” Oliver asked.
“Secretary Allen has already left for the airport,” Michelle said in a superior voice. “She’s a very busy woman. Honestly,” she added to Ben, “the way information travels through these schools is incredible. Secretary Allen was here for only a few hours, she saw no one but the administrators, yet all the children somehow know about her being here. Of course, the handlers can be such terrible gossips.” She slid a critical glance toward Emily, who instinctively recoiled.
What had she done to deserve such an unprovoked attack?
She was even more surprised, though, when Oliver came to her defense. “Birchard told me she was here,” he said. “Maybe he’s the terrible gossip.”
“Caught red-handed again,” Ben said with a mild laugh. “I was the one to tell him, Michelle. You can’t jump to conclusions about perfectly respectable handlers.”
Michelle fixed a pointed stare on Emily. “You’re the one that Honey West tied up with duct tape, aren’t you? You were like putty in her hands.”
Embarrassment flooded Emily from head to toe. “I—”
“Didn’t Honey West once make you and a bunch of other administrators eat a handful of earthworms each?” Oliver abruptly asked. Michelle’s face turned a mottled shade of purple. Encouraged, Oliver elaborated. “She got them from the school gardener, his composting box, wasn’t that right? And there was a little song you had to sing while you chewed them—how did it go? ‘Nobody likes me, everybody hates me…’ Kinda hard to sing with a mouthful, I’d think.”
Michelle suppressed a gag.
“So you’d know firsthand how strong Honey West’s projections are,” Oliver continued as though oblivious to the memories he was stirring up. “It seems odd that you’d single out someone else for scrutiny when you’ve experienced the same thing. But then, I’m just a little boy, so what do I know?”
“I hadn’t heard that story,” said Ben to Michelle with compassion. “That’s really awful.” The remark heightened her embarrassment instead of alleviating it.
Oliver clicked his tongue against his teeth in mock regret. “I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned any of that in front of such a terrible gossip. Try to keep that story under your hat, Birchard. Some people might think it makes Prom-B’s admins look undignified. Emily, I think we’re done here.” He spun and headed down the hallway.
Emily ventured a glance at the pair before she followed. Michelle was trying to kindle some ego-saving outrage. Ben, on the other hand, seemed entertained. Emily was grateful that Oliver had already decided on a hasty retreat.
“How did you know that thing about the earthworms?” she whispered as she caught up with him. “Do the stories from one campus spread to another?”
“It was in Honey’s file,” he said with a sidelong glance, “in the discipline section. It happened last May. She had detention for a week afterward. I was only guessing that Michelle was one of the admins involved, though.”
Emily shuddered. “I think I may have gotten off lucky with the duct tape. Why would she do something like that? Just a prank?”
“Pranks are for handlers,” Oliver said. “You don’t attack the admins unless you have a real reason. The punishment isn’t worth it otherwise. And I don’t know why she did it,” he added before Emily could ask again. “It wasn’t noted in the file, and it happened after the dates we were really interested in. Maybe it was payback for whatever that job was they had her do back in March. Maybe she had some other beef she wanted to get even for. Whatever it was, seven admins got a handful of thick, juicy earthworms to chew up and swallow.”
Emily shuddered again. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”
“You sure?” Oliver asked wryly. “I’m pretty sure spaghetti was on the menu for tonight.”
To her utmost dismay, he wasn’t kidding. Oliver made further show of slurping his noodles, which had Emily gagging and him trying hard not to laugh at her.
She was both relieved and sorry to part with him at the dorms—relieved because he couldn’t make gross noises at her, and sorry because that had been the most normal interaction they’d ever had. She’d seen glimmers of a normal little boy—a funny, normal little boy—rather than the intellectual snob he usually acted.
Children retired to their rooms by eight o’clock, though, an hour before bedtime to finish up any homework or reading assignments. Handlers could socialize in their half of the dormitory, but the majority seemed to prefer their solitude, Emily among them.
Her room was still a mess of boxes, even though she had started to unpack. Most of her clothes were in the closet now, and her books were ready to be stacked on the provided bookshelf. Several of the boxes held her kitchen supplies, though, useless in this single dorm. The handlers shared a small kitchenette, but it was fully stocked with dishes and cooking ware. Emily wished the government movers who had boxed all of her things had left that particular section of her tiny apartment behind for its next tenant. Prom-F was too far removed from civilization to donate the lot to a thrift store, and she could only fit so much beneath her bed.
The first thing she wanted to do tonight, however, was pack her overnight bag. Ben’s warning had replayed itself in her head all afternoon. If they wanted Oliver, she wouldn’t head out so empty-handed this time around.
She was in the midst of sorting between her clothes—what would she hate the least if she had to wear it multiple times?—when a knock on the door interrupted her. Crystal sometimes visited in the evenings, so Emily fully expected her to be on the other side of the door. She was wrong.
“Hello,” said Ben with a cheerful smile.
“Hi,” said Emily, utterly confused.
“I came to see if you wanted to catch some fresh air with me.”
She looked suspiciously up the hallway one direction and then down the other. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
“Come on,” said Ben. “I’ll make it worth your while, I prom
ise.” He pulled a brown bag out from behind his back and waved it enticingly.
Emily stepped out of her room and shut the door behind her. “Am I going to get scolded for something?”
“Is there something you should be scolded for?” he asked.
“Look, I tried to talk Oliver out of pushing for a meeting with Principal Jones, but like I told you, he doesn’t listen to a word I say. What he wants to do, he does.”
“Why is it that you see a brown paper bag and think that I’ve come to scold you?” Ben asked, amused. “I brought you something to eat.”
Her expression flattened. “Is it worms?”
“No.”
“Spaghetti that looks like worms?”
He tried hard not to laugh. “It’s a sandwich. I noticed you didn’t eat much of anything for dinner.”
Her suspicions spiked. “Noticed? How?”
“The school is replete with surveillance cameras,” said Ben, “and before you accuse me of stalking, I’ll have you know that I was under orders to watch.”
“Under orders?” Emily echoed.
Ben tipped his head toward the exit. “I’ll tell you all about it. Come on.”
She felt like the foolish girl at the start of an old horror movie as she allowed this near stranger to lead her away from her dorm room. Only when he turned up at the stairwell instead of down did she think to question where he was taking her, though.
“Where are we going?”
“To the roof. I have the access code. There’s a nice view of the campus—at Prom-A there is, anyway. The skyline here will be different, but the campus below should be roughly the same.”
“Is the access code roughly the same too?” Emily asked impertinently.
“No. I thought ahead and got this one,” said Ben. “Come on.”
She followed him up the stairs, questioning all the way whether this was such a good idea or not. If he really did have a sandwich in that bag, though, she’d be eternally grateful. Now that Oliver’s spaghetti-infested plate and worm-slurping noises were gone, she was hungry again.
They climbed three stories. Ben punched a code into the door at the top of the stairs, and the lock clicked open. “Just in time to catch the last of the sunset,” he said as he motioned her outdoors. “Thank you, daylight savings.”
The western horizon was stained with crimson-orange that fast faded to purple and midnight blue. Overhead, the Milky Way spread across the sky. “There are hardly any stars in New York,” said Emily as she looked up in appreciation.
“They’re trying to crack down on light pollution, but with a city that large it’s next to impossible. Out here in the sticks Prom-F is the only thing producing any light at all, and it’s all carefully shielded. Here’s your sandwich.” He handed her the paper bag.
Emily took it from him. “Thanks. So what did you want to explain, and why did it need to be on the roof?”
“It didn’t need to be on the roof,” Ben said. “I just like it up here. It’s a nice view, and there’s excellent cell reception. Check your phone if you don’t believe me.”
She had been in the process of opening the brown bag, but one hand flew to her pocket in alarm. “I left it back in my room,” she said in panic. “I should go back and—”
“It’s fine, you’re off-duty,” Ben said calmly. “I was only giving a stupid example of why the rooftop is great, not testing to see whether you were diligent in carrying around your phone.”
She heaved a sigh of relief and returned her attention to the bag. She fished out what looked like turkey on rye and noted with growing excitement the presence of alfalfa sprouts and tomatoes nestled in among the lettuce leaves. “So what are we here to talk about? Why were you ordered to watch surveillance of the cafeteria?”
“I was instructed to watch surveillance of you and Oliver,” said Ben. “Principal Jones wanted my assessment of whether to send the two of you down to Phoenix to deal with the Wests.”
Emily’s nerves stood on edge. “What did you tell her?”
“I haven’t told her anything yet. They’re making their final decision tomorrow. The truth is… well, she wanted me to assess whether you’re still loyal to Prometheus.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Yes,” said Ben mildly, “I imagined you would have that sort of a reaction. Look, the GCA and Prometheus in particular take security breaches very seriously. This is just standard procedure when we’re looking to use someone who has already experienced a lapse.”
“So you’re still trying to figure out whether I intentionally got myself bound and gagged by a bunch of children?” Emily asked, sarcasm thick on her voice. “I thought that’s what those three weeks of confinement were for.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “No one thinks you did that on purpose, or that you intentionally disclosed anything to them. You’re not the only one to get the duct-tape treatment from the Wests either, if that makes you feel any better. That seems to be their favored method of confining people.”
“Then what’s this about assessing my loyalty?” Emily asked, confused.
He answered her very carefully. “Employees who run afoul of their employers’ policies—especially those who are not really at fault when they run afoul—have a tendency to become embittered. Sometimes, the experience opens them up to thoughts of treachery or vengeance, especially if they are aware of one of their employers’… shall we say competitors?”
He was talking about Altair again. He was doing it in a roundabout manner, but he was doing it nonetheless. “I would never do something like that,” said Emily firmly.
Ben nodded. “I know. You’re extremely honest. It’s a rare trait these days. What’s more, you’ve been conditioned towards obedience to your superiors, according to your personnel file. There’s not a treacherous bone in your body.”
“My personnel file says I’m obedient?” Emily asked. It didn’t surprise her that he had read it. Crystal had said the admin assistants had access to basically every piece of information within the Prometheus Institute’s system.
“You scored high for obedience on your personality assessment—the one you took two years ago when you first applied for a Prometheus internship. Most people don’t realize that they test for that, but it’s an extremely important characteristic to have in your position. Handlers aren’t exactly the top of the food chain around here, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“Does anyone call them ‘child-life counselors’? I’m just curious, because that’s what the position was billed as, and I haven’t heard anyone actually use it since I stepped foot on Prometheus soil.”
He smiled. “It’s a nice euphemism for recruitment. It doesn’t have much use beyond that. The students have such a hostile view of their ‘child-life counselors’ that not much counseling occurs. At some point—fairly early on, I think—the term ‘handler’ was applied and stuck.”
“Which is why it’s important for us to be obedient,” said Emily. “So why are you telling me all of this?”
“I told you I was instructed to assess you.”
“Somehow, I doubt that meant telling me as much.”
It was a valid accusation, but he dismissed it with a shrug. “Principal Jones doesn’t usually specify how I’m supposed to do my job. She tells me what she wants done and lets me pick my own methods of accomplishing it. And after our little conversation just now, I can report to her with absolute certainty that you have no affiliations with Altair.”
Emily hissed at that word and looked instinctively around the darkened roof.
“It’s over there,” Ben said helpfully, but when she looked, she discovered that he was pointing not to a security camera but to a bright star in the night sky. “Altair, part of the Summer Triangle. It’s perfectly visible this time of the year.”
“I was warned not to talk about it,” Emily said nervously. “I don’t want to know anything more than I already do, which is nothing.”
Ben nodded. “Understandable. The
y’re quite a troublesome organization.”
“I think I should go back to my room,” said Emily. She felt like an animal he was trying to cage, like she was being forced into a situation that would compromise her no matter what she did.
Unfazed by her decision, he nodded toward the exit. “The door should be open. Enjoy your sandwich.”
Emily bolted, brown bag clutched in her hands. Before she slipped into the safety of the building, though, she paused. “So they really are sending Oliver out again?”
His back was to her, but he looked over his shoulder with a pleasant smile. “Final decision tomorrow. Any other questions?”
“Are you a human-projector?” she blurted. He wasn’t the same as Honey West, but he had such a way of manipulating conversations that her nerves practically sang a warning.
The smile cracked into a grin, though. “Me? No. I’m completely one-hundred-percent normal. At least, that’s what my personnel file says. I’m flattered you asked, though. Good night.”
“Good night,” Emily mumbled, and she shut the stairwell door behind her.
What had that all been about? Why did he need to bring up Altair by name? It must have been his method of assessing. If Principal Jones didn’t question what he did, he was free to use whatever means he saw fit, even if it meant bringing up a taboo subject.
“A troublesome organization,” she muttered, disgruntled. “I could’ve lived the rest of my life without having to know that little detail.”
IX
The Shadow Campus
July 30, 8:23pm mdt, Prometheus-F
Going almost a full month without a roommate had done no favors for Oliver. He had grown accustomed to solitude, to quiet nights of reflection where he didn’t have to worry about the existence of another soul. He knew that returning to his former habits would require some adjustment. Unfortunately, he had assumed he would return to Prom-A and the same annoying roommate he had left behind.
Prom-F was no Prom-A, and his current roommate was nothing like his former one. Tyler had no more inclination to talk with Oliver than Oliver did with Tyler, which infuriated him when he thought about it. They had exchanged no more than two or three curt sentences since his arrival. Oliver was an outsider, someone not worth engaging in conversation.
A Rumor of Real Irish Tea (Annals of Altair Book 2) Page 7
