Psion Gamma

by Jacob Gowans

  As he crossed over the threshold of the front doors, a wave of noise greeted him. The busyness of couples saying good-byes and hellos, parents directing their children around, and shops and restaurants providing their services warmed his soul in a way that made him feel silly and juvenile. It also made him miss his friends quite badly.

  So many people . . .

  Instantly, he felt out of place. It was one thing to be dressed the way he was on the streets of Rio, and another to be dressed that way in an air rail hub. The state of his clothes received several stares and a few pointed fingers from people walking past. Most of them spoke in English, but he caught snatches of conversations in other languages, most he believed to be Portuguese. Parents steered their children away from him. He tried to ward off these worries by returning these looks with a simple smile, but their suspicions resurrected his old fears. He sought out an electronic ticket vendor and brought it to life with a touch of the screen.

  Number of Passengers:

  One

  Round trip or one way:

  One way

  Destination:

  Wichita

  Wichita, Mid-American Territory. Correct?

  Yes

  Closest Hub: Topeka---Distance: 8800 kilometers.

  Fare: $130.00.

  Accept?

  His heart sank. Where was he going to get one hundred and thirty dollars? Even if he could somehow miraculously find a job and work for wages, hard currency was a thing of the past. He had no account to put his funds into. Sammy’s dad had told him about how he used to carry money around for many years, but Sammy had only seen it in history museums. In the NWG, no one carried money. If the CAG was the same way, someone would have to buy a ticket for him.

  He sat down to consider his choices, mildly aware that just a few meters away, hanging on the wall, was another one of those pink signs: KEEP THE PEACE! CALL IT IN! Thoughts streamed through his head presenting him with dozens of variations on three main possibilities: he could go back to the compound and try his luck there, he could look for work, or he could steal. With enough patience, he could finger enough things to pawn and pay someone to set up an account for him.

  The idea of stealing turned his stomach. He’d done all that before and he’d hated it. Maybe, in my case, stealing is justified. I have to get back and warn the commander. These rationalizations didn’t make him feel any better. And if he were caught, the consequences could be catastrophic. He resolved to spend the rest of the day trying to barter a deal with someone to pay his fare to Topeka in exchange for work.

  He went through the entire hub, talking to all the restaurant and shop managers, explaining that he was a runaway and needed help getting back to family up north. As he expected, no one needed help from someone who dressed or sounded like him nor were they willing to bother with his dilemma. One burly man with big bushy arms jabbed a meaty finger into the pink sign hanging just outside the front of his restaurant and said, “Beat it kid, or I’ll call YOU in.”

  Sammy left in a hurry, pleading his case with the few remaining shops. When he knew he’d gone to them all, he left the hub and hit the streets.

  The football match had ended. Fans, wearing combinations of black and blue or green and yellow, flooded the sidewalks around the stadium. Sammy pushed his way through crowds and tried to spot places shabby enough that he could find some type of work. He headed back for the rows of stores and shops he’d seen earlier.

  For the rest of the day, he went door to door giving each owner or manager the same story he’d told in the hub. He was from the north, hence the accent, and was trying to get back after running away. The pink signs weren’t seen as frequently around these parts, but he still found no success. As the sky turned from blue to a reddish-orange and the summer heat faded, Sammy strongly considered going back to the compound for the night. He turned onto another road just as the streetlights blinked on above him.

  This row of shops was just like the dozens of others he’d knocked on. Five or six doors down, under the illumination of a dim bulb hanging above the front door, he saw a small man wearing an apron over his clothes with a package tucked under his arm. The man turned over the sign so it read: CLOSED and locked up the shop door.

  Sammy picked up his pace. “Sir! Excuse me, sir!”

  The man looked up at Sammy running toward him and took a step backwards toward the door. His apron was red with blood. When Sammy saw the blood, he stopped quickly. Then he relaxed. Above the man’s head hung a large green and yellow sign:

  Butcher/Açougeria.

  “Yes?” the man asked in a soft voice. “I just closed up. What do you want?”

  He was a short man with badly receding dark hair. His face was round and full, but lined. His eyes weren’t hardened like most Sammy had seen today. This was a man waiting to pass judgment.

  “My name is Albert,” Sammy said in his most friendly tone. “What’s yours?”

  “Floyd.” He extended his hand to Sammy. “Hernandes.”

  Sammy took it and shook firmly. “Hi. I need a job, sir. Just temporarily. I’m trying to get up north, and I have no money.”

  “Well, I can see that.” Floyd glanced twice at Sammy’s clothes. Sammy couldn’t tell if Floyd’s expression was of disgust or concern. “Forgive me for prying, but where are your parents?”

  Sammy used the same story he’d used all day. “I grew up north until my parents moved here. But I ran away from my home. I have an uncle in Topeka. I’m trying to get to him, but I have no money.”

  “Your uncle can’t help?” he asked.

  Sammy shook his head.

  Floyd stared at Sammy, debating with himself.

  “I’m not trying to play a trick—”

  “You’re a climber?” Floyd pointed a finger at the spikes sticking out of Sammy’s shoes.

  “Sort of. It’s been about a month since I’ve done any. These are my only shoes.”

  “They can’t be too comfortable.”

  “They mash my toes, actually.” Sammy gave them a wiggle along with a sad smile. Please, please, please say yes.

  Apparently satisfied that Sammy was desperate enough, Floyd answered, “How much money do you need?”

  “A hundred and thirty dollars. I can take care of myself once I get my ticket.”

  Floyd pursed his lips. “Your accent, where is it from?”

  “Northern Lakes Territory. I grew up there.”

  Floyd nodded. “Can I trust you?”

  Sammy was surprised by the directness of the question. “Yes sir. I’m not looking for a handout. I just want to earn some money and make my own way.”

  The man nodded. “I respect that. You know something about butchering?”

  “Nothing at all,” Sammy answered with a note of pleading in his voice. “But I’ll do anything you ask.”

  Floyd’s lips pinched tighter, and he scratched his chin. Then he looked up at the setting sun and asked, “And you have a place to stay the night?”

  “I can make do.”

  That seemed to clinch it. “No—no, I won’t hear of that. It’s almost Christmas. You come with me. I don’t live very far,” Floyd said. He put a hand on Sammy’s shoulder and immediately pulled it away with dirt sticking to his fingers. “Maybe you need a shower, too, huh?”

  Sammy chuckled out of embarrassment. “I’d forgotten all about Christmas.”

  “Really?”

  Sammy nodded. It was more than he could have hoped for. “Thank you. Thanks so much, sir.”

  “Please call me Floyd. You can stay with my family through the holidays, help me out in my shop since we’ll be busier than usual, and I’ll have you on a rail a week after that. Sound good?”

  “Yes, it does. Thank you so much, Floyd!”

  “Not a problem. You go by Al or Albert?”

  “Al’s just fine.”

  3. Denial

  December 19, 2086

  INSIDE SIM ROOM SIX, Jeffie screamed and swore until her lungs hurt.
She didn’t curse often. Her father didn’t really care, but her mother hated it, so when she did swear, she made it count. With her temper being so close to the surface the last few weeks, it was a good thing her mother wasn’t around. It was partly Sammy’s fault. He’d tried to watch his language around her, but when he got angry he could string together a very interesting combination of words.

  In her left hand she held a Fletcher, a nasty device that spat out barbed, armor-piercing rounds; a tiny gun with massive recoil. She hated the . . . darn . . . thing. Ever since breaking her ankle in that dunking contest a few months back, Jeffie had developed excellent aim with her blasts. When she started Weapons Training three weeks ago, she’d hoped that talent would carry over. Instead, she’d dropped four spots in accuracy rankings and one spot overall. That really pissed her off.

  She stared at the target hanging ten meters away. The sim unit wanted her to make three consecutive shots into a twelve centimeter circle in under three seconds.

  “When am I going to get this right?” she yelled to no one. “It’s not even that difficult!” With her earplugs in, she barely heard her own voice.

  The unit restarted. She prepared herself and then fired the Fletcher. Her first shot landed half a centimeter outside the target area. The hole in the target blinked red three times, then disappeared. She swore again. It was obviously going to be another bad day.

  Bad days were the norm lately. A month ago, Jeffie had the worst day of her life. Worse than the day she broke her leg in a spelunking accident. Worse than the day her basketball team lost the regional championship. Even worse than the day her favorite grandmother passed away. It was the day Sammy didn’t come back.

  She got up early that morning to give Sammy his birthday present. Everyone else in headquarters had given him clothes just as she and Brickert had planned. She’d been eyeing this amazing blue hoodie at the mall, but decided against it, no matter how well it would bring out the color in Sammy’s eyes. Instead, she opted to give him a kiss.

  She’d never initiated a first kiss, but after waiting several weeks with no signs from Sammy, she’d gone to Kawai for help. Kawai went to Natalia and asked her to find out from Brickert when Sammy planned to step up the relationship. Kawai reported back that when Natalia had asked the question, Brickert had just laughed. He’d laughed for almost a minute straight.

  “Sammy’s never kissed a girl,” Kawai and Natalia explained to her. “And he has no clue what ‘taking it to the next level means.’” Jeffie figured it served her right for crushing on a guy who’d spent time in an all-boys juvenile center and had no sisters.

  When Sammy’s name had been called out by Commander Wrobel to go on Al’s mission to Rio, Jeffie got nervous. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling. Somehow, she got it into her brain that if she gave Sammy a kiss on the cheek first, and promised him the real thing when he got back, he’d have to make it back safely. Logically, it made no sense, but emotionally, it was the perfect plan.

  Sammy’s mission was supposed to be no more than eight hours. At fifteen minutes after the eighth hour she started glancing worriedly at the clock hanging above her bed. At half an hour past, she sent a text to Byron asking if the team had reported in yet. Byron never answered her. After one hour she knew something had definitely gone wrong. Another hour went by, and she panicked. Rosa Covas, whose sister was also on the mission, joined Jeffie in the dorm, and they tried to console one another.

  When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she went to the fifth floor and waited. Finally, Al walked through the door, but he was a bloody mess. He wouldn’t speak to her, but his face told her everything she needed to know.

  Brooding isn’t going to help you, Jeffie. Get your head back in the sims. The voice in her head sounded an awful lot like her father’s. Obediently, she walked to the panel on the wall and punched the command to restart.

  With the Fletcher in her hand, she continued shooting. But her problem didn’t go away. Each time the holo-targets appeared, her mind superimposed on it the image of a grotesque Thirteen with the red-melted-into-black uniform and haunting red eyes surrounding the pupils. Then, inevitably, she would shake ever so slightly. The trembling hands threw off her aim.

  Glaring at the target, she pulled her hair into a tighter ponytail to cool her neck and face. She rehearsed in her mind the mantra of steps Commander Byron had taught her, but it didn’t help the shaking. She gritted her teeth and let the urge to swear pass.

  “Focus!” she hissed at herself.

  Jeffie restarted the trial again. The trembling in her hands had subsided a bit. She fired the first shot. Hit. The shaking in her hands got worse, but she worked through it and fired off the second shot. Hit. Now her hands were doing a lively jig. Her face contorted as she tried to concentrate on staying still. She fired the third shot. Miss.

  More swearing ensued. Then another memory of Sammy filled her thoughts.

  “Does it ever scare you?” she heard herself asking him. They were sitting in the cafeteria, late on a Saturday night, the Game having ended only a couple hours ago. Sammy’s team had won, of course, and most of the Betas had gone to bed, exhausted. A few were gaming in the rec room. Jeffie had forced Sammy to stay up with her and talk.

  He picked a peanut butter chunk out of his ice cream bowl and ate it, looking at her with a puzzled face. “Does what scare me?”

  “Oh, come on, you know . . . one day we’re going to be soldiers—agents—whatever you want to call us. We’ll really be fighting for our lives.”

  “Yeah, sure. Sometimes. But that’s not going to be for a while, right? I mean, we still have years of training. I think by then I’ll be ready. Don’t you?”

  Jeffie nodded. Her chair had a squeaky leg, and she subconsciously rocked on it, enjoying the noise. “Some days I think it’s exciting. I get this rush during hand-to-hand combat in the sims. I never felt anything like it during a basketball game—not even the close games.”

  “Really?” Sammy wore an expression of genuine surprise.

  “Yeah. Is that bad?” she asked, mortified that Sammy might think she was a freak.

  “No—no, not at all. Just interesting.”

  “And why is it . . . interesting?” Jeffie intentionally employed the tone of voice her mother had taught her to use when she wanted to make it obvious she was flirting. As usual, it had no effect on Sammy. He was the smartest boy in the world and oblivious to everything going on around him.

  Sammy fumbled with his words as he scratched his head. “I—I don’t know. I think I do, too, sometimes. I mean, I get excited when I pass a trial.”

  “But I’m saying I enjoy beating the crap out of people.”

  In that way she loved, Sammy’s eyebrows furrowed together as he thought about her response. She could sit for hours and just watch him think.

  He made a gesture with his hands to show her he’d given up trying to figure her out. “It’s probably got something to do with psychology. Your older brothers; fighting, wrestling, all that stuff.”

  “Maybe . . . but they were never much of a challenge.”

  Sammy snickered, and she took the opportunity to steal from his bowl. “Combat totally changes once you get into the advanced level. It’s scary sometimes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. The first time I fought a Thirteen . . . I was so scared I could hardly move.”

  “Have you ever had a time when you’re just absolutely terrified, and you feel like all that emotion is going to blow up inside you? I used to get that right before a big game.”

  “I hate that feeling.”

  “What do you do for it?” she asked quietly.

  “I breathe. Deep breaths. And I tell myself I have ice in my veins.”

  “Seriously?” Jeffie laughed. “Ice?”

  “My dad used to say it. Anyone who’s really good in clutch moments, he’d say, ‘That man has ice in his veins.’ So I tell myself I have ice in my veins.”

>   Jeffie didn’t say anything except “Hmm.”

  “Yeah. Panic is probably the worst thing that can happen, don’t you think? When—when I found my parents—you know, dead and all that blood, I went crazy. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. It was almost like being blind even though I could see. So, if I’m in a situation or a fight where I think I might lose, I tell myself that, and I force myself to think logically about my best chances, and usually go with the first thing that comes to me.”

  Jeffie recited Sammy’s words as she prepared to fire the Fletcher. Breathe, Jeffie. You have ice in your veins. She already knew the steps to fire an accurate shot. Thinking of the conversation with Sammy helped calm her. Instead of embracing her fiery hate, she reminded herself that if she allowed her body to tremble, she’d never pass the trial and never advance to the sims she wanted to be in more than anything: Advanced Combat.

  Holding the image of Sammy in her mind, she aimed steady and true. In one fluid motion, she pulled the trigger. The Fletcher jerked her wrist upward. A small mark appeared on the target over the left side of the breast where the heart would be. Then she quickly reset her position and fired again. And again. Three hits.

  That’s three less Thirteens, she thought with a satisfactory nod.

  She left the sim room two hours later. Brickert was just coming through the stair door. He’d been letting his brown hair grow a little long recently, almost shaggy. It brought out the blue in his eyes and made him look older, although he was still shorter than everyone else.

  He called out to her.

  “Hey, Brickert. What’s up?”

  “Staying late again?” he asked. His eyes told her he knew exactly what she was doing.

  “Yeah, just trying to do some more weapons training . . . I’m finally done with the stupid Fletchers. What about you?”

  “I left my com in the sim room. Took it off during one of my trials. I think I need a new one. This one digs into my ear.”