He eyes my maroon sleeves curiously. “So what’s a girl like you doing in this place?”
I close my notebook and hug it to my chest. “I wish I knew. I’m starting to think coming here was a mistake.”
“Got family?”
That’s the obvious reason I’m here. “Yes.”
“Well, we all do what we have to, don’t we?”
“I suppose. But I’m counting down the days till my training is over. In the meantime, I’m avoiding as much of it as I can.”
His laughter rushes out in a hearty guffaw. “Can’t say I blame you. All that yes sir, no sir. Like a blinkin’ row of stooges.”
His description makes me chuckle.
Opie slams the lid on one of the vats, presses a few buttons, and the machine whirs to life. He leans against it. “So what makes you happy, Jack Holloway?”
I’m intrigued by the question. Not where are you from or what do you do. Those don’t really tell you much. Opie’s question is far more suited to getting at a person’s essence. I mark it down in my memory for my own use. “The woods,” I answer.
“Lots of trees outside these walls.” He pulls an armful of sheets out of another hamper and drops them into a pile of his own, lowering himself with a creak of joints. “You might have to help me up. These knees don’t usually dip to such a low altitude anymore.” He shifts until he’s comfortable—lanky legs crossed at the ankle, back leaning against the hamper. I can almost imagine him on the front porch of a cabin, smoking a corncob pipe. “What else?” he asks.
“Reading.”
He knocks a curtain of stringy hair out of his face. I see now it contains as much gray as it does yellow. “I’d agree with you, except I don’t figure there’s much point reading the garbage they publish nowadays. Lot better literature when I was a kid.”
I agree. Caedmon helped me download the Axis library, but it just contains the usual propaganda and nonfiction titles that lined the library shelves at school. I don’t know Opie well enough to mention that I’ve read the books he’s thinking of, however. So I ask, “What makes you happy?”
“Well now.” He reaches for his teacup, spits again, and leans back with his arms crossed. “The last glimmer of sunset climbing the peaks. The first flutter of butterfly wings when the snow is melting in the meadows. And the sharp, clear smell of the waterfall in the gorge.”
The images are sharp and unexpected. “Why, Opie, you’re a poet.”
“Pshaw. The poetry’s out there. We just tend to miss it until the body starts slowing down. Your turn.”
“All right.” I think a moment. “Walking down a dirt road in bare feet. With a friend.”
He nods his head sagely. “Dropping the last post in a hole and seeing a new fence snake down my property.”
“Strawberry jam on fresh biscuits.”
“A good dog wagging his tail at the end of the workday.”
“Fresh-cut flowers in a chipped vase.”
“Chocolate cherry ice cream.” He uncrosses his legs, bends his knees, and plants his hands on their tops. “I’ve got time for one more. Make it a good one.”
I think hard for a minute and realize it’s been sitting on my lap the entire time. “Knowing somebody loves you even when they’re far, far away.”
He taps a finger against his nose and gives me another toothless smile. “I believe that one takes the cake.” He struggles back to his feet and starts for the door, but he pauses before he goes out. “You got a letter you want delivered? I’ll carry one out for you.”
“I haven’t,” I say in dismay. “I never considered the possibility.” All communication in and out of Axis is restricted for security reasons.
“Well, when you get one written, just slip it to me. I’ll be around. I work in the kitchen some too.”
Opie’s visit brings a smile back to my face. I stay hidden another hour, listening to the laundry cycle through a variety of noises and penning a letter to Opal. Then I write a longer one to Will. I’m not sure that he’ll ever get it. If Opal delivers it to Elise, perhaps there’s a chance she can sneak it to him sometime, though I don’t know when that could be. It feels a bit like dropping a bottled letter into the ocean.
My holoband dings, and the message that scrolls across its face jerks me back to reality. “Where the blazes are you?”
Misgiving tugs at my insides. It’s Captain Alston.
I don’t want to lose such an excellent hideaway so soon, so I message back, “On my way to the women’s dorm.”
He’s waiting for me when I arrive. “Willoughby wants to see us in his office. Now.”
There’s a smugness about this relay of information that suggests it might not be a pleasant meeting. I follow him, my misgiving deepening.
Captain Alston knocks, and Willoughby calls for us to enter. “Ah, Jack,” he says. “I see Captain Alston has found you. Please sit. Both of you.”
I glance at my companion as I do and see he has not lost that happy twist to his lip.
Willoughby looks directly at me. “Captain Alston has informed me of your progress so far. I confess, your first two weeks here have been something of an experiment. We have never attempted a basic training session here at Axis before and certainly not with someone outside Military. Nor have I ever heard of anyone training alone. I believe some adjustments may be in order.”
Captain Alston’s smile has faded. “You mean she’s not leaving?”
“Of course not. You will continue to supervise Miss Holloway’s next four weeks. However, based on your reports, I have personally made some alterations to her schedule. They have been uploaded to your holobands.”
We both flick them on, and I am delighted to see that all drill sessions have been cancelled, as has all classroom time. They’ve been replaced by additional weapons training in the afternoons, and I see now that I will have KP duty every lunch hour. That’s fine by me. I’ll trade Major Norvis for a sink full of dirty dishes every day of the week.
I glance over at Captain Alston and find his jaw locked with tension. Clearly, he was hoping I’d earned disciplinary action for my delinquency. Instead, my behavior has been rewarded. I can see him holding in a lungful of protestations only with a great deal of difficulty.
“However,” Willoughby continues, “I would like Miss Holloway to undergo a series of examinations. Nothing like the Examination,” he adds when he sees the hesitation on my face. “Just a blood test and some basic exercises to help us evaluate your less obvious strengths.”
I shrug. I don’t know what he hopes to find, but I make no objection. I’m far too happy about my course corrections.
Willoughby smiles. “Well then, I believe that will be all. You may head to the clinic for the blood draw anytime, and I’ll get those other tests scheduled. You’ll see the times updated on your holoband. You are dismissed.”
I’ve gotten away scot-free. Not even a reprimand. I give the captain a slight smile as we part ways at the door. This time the smugness fits nicely on my face.
EIGHT
Maybe I should have swallowed my pride.
The next week, Captain Alston ramps up my training schedule. We alternate speed and mileage in the mornings, sometimes running as many as a slow ten, other times a ridiculously fast three. My wind steadily improves, but always he is pushing me to my uttermost limits. Hard enough that, despite my improvements, he can scorn me for not being as good as he thinks I should be. And no matter how I try, I cannot catch that elusive five-mile Military time limit on the rugged mountain terrain.
Other parts of my training begin to go much better. Along with the additional weapons time slot, I have been given explosives training and problem-solving scenarios. I am far better at these. They both have a certain logic to them that I can grasp hold of. I’m also happy to learn that I work with Opie in the kitchen at noon, so the hour skates by. And after so many futile sessions practicing hand-to-hand combat skills, I am moved on to the firing range to try my hand at ballistic we
apons—single shots, automatics, heat-seekers, radioactive bullets. I’m not certain if Captain Chase just gave up or if we simply ran out of time. Actually, I prove much better at weapons I can just point and shoot. That don’t require me as their power source.
On Wednesday morning, I see my first test scheduled on my holoband. It is to be held in Willoughby’s office just prior to lunch. When I arrive, Willoughby is seated on his couch speaking with a black man perhaps fifty years old, who wears glasses and a lab coat. His graying hair forms a perfectly round pouf.
“Here she is now.” They both rise as I enter. “Jack, I’d like you to meet Dr. Rykerk Skynner.”
“An honor,” I mumble.
“Likewise.”
We are seated, and Willoughby begins explanations. “Dr. Skynner has come at my request and agreed to spend a few weeks with us.”
“A few weeks?” I ask in surprise. “Just how many tests are we talking?” I’m not keen on the idea of being a long-term lab rat.
“Just one, which is to be performed here. Now. But Dr. Skynner will be staying on for the next two weeks to guide you in the practice of meditation.”
I take a closer look at the doctor. He smiles at me benignly. “Like sitting with my legs crisscrossed while I hum in Tibetan?” This has the potential to be even worse than drill with Norvis.
Willoughby’s lip twitches. “A little more practical perhaps. Dr. Skynner is a mental health specialist, not a Buddhist. The exercise he will perform today is designed to probe into the closed portions of your mind.”
I back up a step. “Hold on a blinkin’ minute.” I borrow the expression from Opie. “I am not a mental case.”
“No, you’re not,” Willoughby says. “Not in the traditional sense of illness. But if you allow Dr. Skynner a look into your memories, I believe you may hold a clue to matters of national interest.”
I stare at Willoughby. “I’m just a kid off the street who ended up in Settlement 56. What do you think can possibly be in my brain?”
“We aren’t entirely sure, but we’d like to have a look, with your permission.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I will regret a significant lost opportunity.”
“You mean you won’t force me?”
“No, Jack. That isn’t how I operate Axis.”
The doctor cuts in with a deep, smooth voice. “Miss Holloway, let me assure you that memory mapping is a noninvasive and entirely painless process. You simply sit with your head immobilized within a computerized scanning unit while ultrasonic waves map and analyze the chemical makeup of your brain. The computer then interprets the data, giving us a 3-D visual image of your hippocampus, the part of the brain that retains memory.”
“What are you looking for, exactly?”
“Anything unusual or out of place. You see, the brain catalogues your memories in a predictable pattern, with certain chemicals that indicate fear, love, contentment, anger, or any of the wide variety of emotions. If this process occurs apart from the usual patterns, it indicates an abnormality.”
“Which could be caused by…?”
“Controlled substances, disease, false implantation, cellular manipulation—”
“You think someone’s been tampering with my brain?” Who would even do that?
“We have no evidence of such a thing. This is simply a precautionary screening,” Willoughby says. “You’ve experienced an unusual upbringing, and we’re interested in the biological effects.”
“Then why aren’t there fifty more orphans in here? Why am I the only one?”
Willoughby looks directly at me, realizing that I’m not going to be satisfied with anything less than the truth. “Because these types of anomalies can link with memories of specific behaviors, and those behaviors may have been prompted by some type of manipulation. Behaviors not exhibited by every ward of the state. Behaviors exhibited by you.”
My muscles tighten. I know exactly what he’s getting at. I wasn’t the only CDS kid with a record. Plenty of us had brushes with the law. Theft, vandalism, trespassing, even substance abuse. They were all pretty common among my peers. But no other little kid had a record like mine.
I am the only one who’s been tried for murder.
The room suddenly begins to close in around me. My ears start ringing and my legs go limp. I drop onto the couch with my head in my hands.
Willoughby sits beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “This is not a repetition of your trial, Miss Holloway. That is in the past. You were acquitted. I assure you, we have no intention of dragging it up. We simply want to see if there is any indication that cellular diversion could have played a role in the events of your tenth year.”
I am not reassured. My breath comes hard. I knot my fingers into my hair, using the pain to help me reason this out. This is the man who watched my upbringing without doing anything to help me. And now he wants to know if I have been manipulated to commit murder. Wouldn’t that be a handy little thing to implant in their soldiers? To develop super-killers? To control them? Do I want to be a part of this?
“The results could be key to understanding other aggressive behaviors, particularly those aimed against the state,” Willoughby finishes.
“Is this why you brought me here?” I ask dully. “For what might lurk in my brain?”
“Partially. National security is one of our primary focuses here at Axis.”
“And if I give you what you want, what will happen to me?”
“No further prosecution, if that’s what you’re afraid of. As I said, the trial is in the past. And neither do I intend to send you home. You are highly intelligent, highly motivated when you want to be, and you think on your feet. You’re an instinctive survivalist. Those are the skills necessary to work at Axis. No matter what we find or do not find, I hope you agree to stay on.”
I am quiet a long time, staring at the nap of the carpet. The traits he rattled off are not unique to me. They describe most of the kids in the CDS. It makes me think he values the potential anomalies in my brain far more than my other qualities. But outside of Axis, I don’t have any options. “Will Dr. Skynner actually see my memories?”
“Not unless you want him to.”
“But it’s possible?”
The doctor answers. “Yes, it is. If we find a particular memory of interest, it is possible to stimulate it with an electrical current. The holoware in the machine interprets synapse response in the same way as the brain, making it possible for us to watch your memories on a screen, exactly as you see them in your head.”
I look up, partly in fear and partly in amazement.
“But we are not interested in the actual memories at this point. We simply want to scan the cataloguing process to look for abnormalities.”
I finally shrug. What does it really matter? They won’t find what they’re looking for. I remember the events of my tenth year perfectly, and I have nothing to hide. “All right.”
“You’ll grant your permission for the scan?” Willoughby asks.
“I guess.”
“Very good.” He rises. “Dr. Skynner, she’s all yours.”
Within minutes, I am lying prone on the couch with my head stuck in the back of what looks like an old-fashioned television set. A strap around my crown holds the device in place. Dr. Skynner sits on the opposite side, operating the machine through a large touch screen.
“All right, Miss Holloway,” the doctor says, “hold perfectly still.”
It’s a little eerie, sitting with my head in that box, knowing just how invasive the doctor could be. How do I know he isn’t recording my memories? Maybe he’ll play them back later with a bag of popcorn and have a good chuckle. While it’s strapped to my head, I’m careful to think only the most mundane of thoughts just in case he can read them.
“We’re finished, Miss Holloway. Would you like to see the image of your brain?”
It hasn’t even taken five minutes, and I didn’t feel a thing.
I remove the head strap and come around behind the doctor so I can see the image on the screen. It’s nothing remarkable. I’ve seen similar graphics in my anatomy course.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. The computer will now analyze the data. That part takes a few hours, about the same as a thorough systems scan. The brain is very complex, and time is needed to probe all the neurons.”
“Then may I go?”
“Yes, Miss Holloway,” Willoughby says. “Thank you. You are dismissed.”
***
During week four, I am introduced to team-building activities. As I am still a class of one, Caedmon is pressed into service. We’re put into a seriously difficult obstacle course in which we have to help each other through situations neither could navigate alone. I also learn to properly carry an unconscious or immobile person—Caedmon—which is far, far easier than carrying that dummy. This contact with someone who doesn’t hate me, who doesn’t want to pick apart my brain or see me fail, goes a long way toward improving my morale.
During week five, Captain Alston introduces me to the Fire Ring, an outdoor arena behind the main Axis building where a variety of combat-style activities are staged. Basically, the Fire Ring is a round, roofed sandpit surrounded by a low, padded wall and bleacher seating. I’m told that fireboxing—freeform fighting that incorporates elements of boxing, wrestling, and martial arts—is a favorite Military pastime, and competitions are sometimes held here between personnel. I imagine I’ll have to learn the basics soon. To start me out easy, however, Captain Alston suits me up in helmet and armor and gives me a four-foot padded stick. Then he puts Caedmon in the ring with me.
“The pugil stick is a leftover military tradition from centuries past,” he explains. “It simulates the close combat techniques that can be accomplished with a rifle. Your objective is to deliver what would equal a disabling or killing blow to a vulnerable area, namely the face, throat, head, or neck. Blows are scored on technique, force, and accuracy. Basically, you just want to beat the crap out of your opponent.”
Recompense (Recompense, book 1) Page 9
