The Trust (The Downlode Heroes Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  He looks very pleased with himself, Hank thinks, and he turns to Seb. “Did you see that? What do you think he said to Noah?”

  “How should I know?” Seb flashes him a look. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”

  “Yeah, but Noah, he—”

  “Seriously,” Seb interrupts. “I need to do this, Hank. And so do you. You don’t want to be the last one here do you?”

  Hank stares at him. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “I sure as hell did,” Seb says. “So stop talking for a minute, all right?”

  “Sure.” Hank looks up at the large screen. There are already four more names displayed, and Kwan is busy shaking hands with the successful students. Hell’s teeth! Hank focuses on the screen. It can’t be as simple as imagining his name up there. The screen must have a name or a unique ID or something. But without a menu or an interface, how can he explore the network and find the right screen?

  He tries to relax back in his seat. Kwan hasn’t set them an impossible task. Noah completed it within a minute, so it can be done. What would I do if I was in a game? Hank asks himself. He pictures the screen in his mind, mentally transforming it into a battered computer monitor sitting on a scorched desk, surrounded by the clutter and debris of an abandoned operations room. Use monitor, he thinks. And for a split-second, the suggestion of a UI presents itself before his eyes, the words and icons floating in midair. But when he tries to look at them, they vanish.

  He lets out a sigh of frustration then tries again. This WPR system must have some sort of interface, but he doesn’t know how to summon it, so it might as well not exist. He takes a steadying breath. If he allows it, the interface might somehow pop into his mind. It must be out there somewhere, he thinks. I just need to focus.

  But Hank’s thoughts are tumbling over each other. This room, the teacher, the other students: it’s like they’re all calling out to him, screaming his name, demanding his attention.

  He watches the screen fill with names, and he blinks rapidly. I’m too goddamned tired, he thinks. I just can’t get it. And a cold sweat prickles his brow. More and more students are standing up and making their way over to Kwan. The room fills with the buzz of good-natured chatter, and some students share a joke with Kwan as they shake hands. And then the name David Garrick appears on the screen, and Garrick stands and saunters over to meet Kwan.

  “Oh no,” Hank murmurs. “I didn’t know that asshole was even in the room.”

  But Seb doesn’t reply. He’s in a world of his own, his eyes darting from side to side, focusing on something Hank can’t see.

  Hank tries once more to focus on the screen, but from the corner of his eye, he can see Garrick leering at him, an insolent grin on his lips. Hank concentrates on the task, pushing all other thoughts from his mind. But what’s this? Seb’s name is already on the list.

  “Yes!” Seb cries. He jumps to his feet then gives a guilty start. “Oh, sorry, man. But don’t worry, Hank. You’ve got this, all right? No problem. I’ll just get out of your hair.” He hesitates. “I’ll see you later. Or tomorrow. Whatever. Good luck, man.” He walks down toward Kwan, and though Seb doesn’t exactly race to the front, he has a definite spring in his step, and the relief on his face is obvious.

  Hank looks across the room. There are still a few students left in their seats. One girl sniffs loudly and hangs her head, her long blonde hair covering her face. And then her shoulders start to shake. Kwan watches her for a second, then he gets up and walks over to her. He leans forward and says something quietly, and the girl nods and mutters, “OK. Thank you. I’ll try again.” And when Hank hears her accent, he remembers the girl from the jungle combat demonstration in Austin. She was from Austria, and her name was Alice or something like that.

  The name Alise Lindberg appears on the screen, and the girl lets out a sigh of relief. Come on, you idiot! Hank tells himself. What the hell is wrong with you? He breathes out slowly and focuses on the top right-hand corner of the screen as if seeing it for the first time, letting that tiny square of white light become the center of his world. He takes in the texture of the screen, which is not quite as smooth as he first imagined. And without wondering how it works or worrying about completing the task, he turns his full attention to the simple act of observing. And when the UI appears, he doesn’t even look at it. Instead, he lets the meaning of the menus and icons come to him, like letting a curved ball come to his catcher’s mitt. There. The WPR interface reaches out its invisible tendrils to probe his mind. But there’s something in the way, something blocking him: a dark shape, a presence. The UI flickers, fades, but Hank keeps his nerve. There’s nothing in his way. No one can stop him. He’s imagining things because he’s tired, that’s all. But he can do this. He can and he will.

  The white screen blurs and dims as the UI brightens, and Hank sees how the task can be accomplished: the letters of his name appear before him, one by one. And when the screen snaps back into focus, the words Hank Settler have been added to the list.

  I’ve done it! Hank closes his eyes and exhales noisily. I made it—just like everyone else. He thinks of his new friends, Seb who went to Harvard, and Noah who knew the names of ancient battlefields, and the contrast hits him like a slap in the face. What the hell do I know? Nothing. Nothing worthwhile anyway. But still, he’s done the task. He’s cleared the first hurdle.

  Hank opens his eyes and smiles. But when he looks around, his smile disappears. He’s the last student in the room. Only Kwan remains, and he’s standing at the front, his arms folded, staring at Hank in the way that a buzzard might watch a wounded mouse.

  “Why don’t you come down the front?”

  Hank stands uncertainly and grabs his bag, then he winds his way through the rows of chairs until he’s standing at arm’s length from Kwan. “Sorry it took me so long. It didn’t come easy.” He forces a smile. “I got it now, though, so I’m pretty sure I could do it much quicker next time. Definitely.”

  Kwan nods slowly, his lips pursed. “It’s Hank, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please show me your device, Hank.”

  “My phone?” Hank grabs his phone and holds it out to Kwan. “It’s all right, isn’t it? I know it looks different, but it had my name on so I figured…” he lets his voice trail away.

  Kwan studies Hank for a moment, a bemused smile on his lips. “Hank, did you get into trouble a lot at school?”

  Hank’s shoulders slump. Here we go, he thinks. Found out at last. He sighs under his breath. “Yeah. Some. Maybe more than most.”

  He looks at Kwan and waits for the familiar scowl of the disappointed teacher: the look of scorn and contempt that always arrives sooner or later. But Kwan simply narrows his eyes and says, “Ah, I thought as much. But you’re not at school anymore. Try and remember that.” He gestures to Hank’s phone. “May I?”

  “Sure.” Hank steps forward and hands the phone to Kwan, who takes it carefully between finger and thumb.

  Kwan brings the phone close to his eyes and turns it around slowly, then he holds it flat in the palm of his hand and looks at it. His eyes lose focus for a second, then he says, “Yes. They did a good job. Very good indeed.”

  Hank digs his hands deep into his pockets. “Is it OK? I mean, you can take it back if I got the wrong one. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  Kwan shoots him a look. “This phone is yours. It has been allocated to you.”

  “Yeah, I know, but—”

  “You don’t understand,” Kwan interrupts. He offers the phone back to Hank. “Take it, Hank. And don’t be so keen to give it up.” He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his voice has lost its stern tone. “Hank, you have been presented with a unique opportunity today. Your device is already becoming attuned to your neural patterns, but at this early stage, I can still glimpse some of its settings and parameters. And I can tell you that this device, this thing that, despite its complexity, you will insist on referring to as your phone,
is one of a kind. It incorporates a number of developments I’ve been working on for years. It’s so advanced that it’s little more than a proof of concept—an experiment.” He pushes the phone closer to Hank. “Take it. It’s yours.”

  Slowly, Hank reaches out and takes hold of the phone. He looks at it doubtfully. “Is that why—”

  “Yes. It will be harder to use—at first.” Kwan moves his lips soundlessly for a moment as if struggling to find the right words. “I do not know why you have been given this device. On the face of it, it makes little sense. But this is not the result of an accident. Someone at the Trust has placed a lot of faith in you, Hank. Someone believes in your abilities. Perhaps it’s time for you to believe in them yourself.”

  Kwan’s eyes bore into Hank’s, and an uncomfortable silence fills the room. Hank looks away for a second, then he does his best to meet Kwan’s gaze. “Yes, sir. I’ll certainly try. I’ll do my best.”

  “Very good,” Kwan says. “And if I was you, I would guard that device very carefully and keep it very close.”

  “Right. I’ll do that, sir.”

  Kwan shakes his head. “You’re not on parade, Hank. You’re free to go up to your room.” He pauses, and the suggestion of a smile lightens his expression. “And whatever else you’ve learned from today, Hank, remember this one thing—for God’s sake, call me Kwan like everybody else, OK?”

  Hank almost laughs. “That’s something I can understand. Thank you.”

  Kwan dismisses him with a wave, but the gesture isn’t unfriendly. “Go on. Go and find your room. If you get lost there’s always someone to ask. But somehow, I think you’ll be all right, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Hank says. “I think…I think I’ll be fine. No problems at all.”

  CHAPTER 32

  WHEN HANK GETS BACK TO THE LOBBY, the girl with the long dark hair, Asmita, is still behind the desk. She gives him an inquiring look. “Is everything all right? Are you the last one to come out?”

  Hank covers his mouth as he yawns, and the room slips out of focus for a second. He shakes his head to clear his mind. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m the last one to leave. But, I’m not quite sure where my room is. Could you point me in the right direction?”

  Asmita pulls a slim phone from her pocket and checks the time. “Yes. In fact, if you wait a minute for my replacement to arrive, I can show you over myself.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I can probably find it anyway.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Asmita says. “Anyway, I can see someone coming to cover for me, so I’m heading over to my flat anyway.”

  Flat? Hank thinks. But before he can ask, the main door opens and a man wearing a dark suit walks in. He has the same air of relaxed vigilance as Douglas, the man who drove them from the airbase, and he looks Hank up and down before crossing the lobby to join Asmita. He raises a hand in greeting, and when he speaks, his deep voice has an Irish accent. “All right, Asmita? I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  “Hi, Matthew,” Asmita says. “No. You’re right on time as always.” She looks at Hank. “Our gallant security team cover the desks at night, so I’m finished for the day.”

  Matthew stands at the side of the desk. “You work too hard, Asmita. You always seem to be on duty on one desk or the other.”

  “I like to be useful,” Asmita says. “And anyway, it’s part of my commitment to the Trust—my way of giving back.”

  “I know, but I’m sure most people don’t put in as many hours as you.” Matthew gestures toward the door. “Off you go. I can answer this young man’s question.”

  Sanjay picks up a shoulder bag then steps out from behind the desk. “That’s OK, Matthew. Hank just arrived today. I’m just going to walk him over to CDH and show him how to get to his room.”

  Matthew raises his eyebrows. “Like that is it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” Asmita says firmly. “Goodnight, Matthew. Have a good shift.” She turns to Hank. “Let’s go.”

  “Sure,” Hank says, and he follows Asmita to the door.

  ***

  The night air is even colder now, and Asmita barely speaks as they hurry along the gravel path to Charles Darwin Hall. So, this is where I’m going to live, Hank thinks. The ultra-modern building is almost identical to the other two blocks, but at least it has drapes up at the windows, and somehow that makes all the difference; the place looks lived in. He risks a sideways glance at Asmita. “You live in this block too?”

  “Yes. Final year students get a bit more space up on the top floor. It’s like a little flat—I guess you’d call it an apartment.” She gives him a smile. “It’s small but it’s home.”

  “And you like living out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  She walks on for a few steps before answering. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Hank, but you don’t seem to have made your mind up about this place.”

  “No, it’s not that. Not really. I just—”

  Asmita suddenly stops walking and Hank stumbles to halt. She turns to face him, and out here, in the shadowy softness of the silent night, her perfectly sculpted cheekbones are thrown into sensuous relief, and her dark eyes glitter with a ferocious intensity.

  Hank swallows hard, and a single word fills his mind: Beautiful.

  “Listen to me, Hank,” Asmita says, and her voice is soft but perfectly clear in the still evening air. “Northridge can be seem very strange at first. It can be overwhelming. But what nobody will tell you is this—pretty much everyone feels like a fish out of water to begin with. But we all find our place sooner or later. We fit in, you know? And you will too, but you’ve got to give it a chance.”

  “Yeah,” Hank says. “I guess…I mean, I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Good. Come on, it’s freezing out here!” Asmita smiles and turns away, breaking the spell, then she strides toward the building, with Hank trailing in her wake.

  At the entrance to Charles Darwin Hall, Asmita pauses for a split-second before pulling the door open. “They’re usually only locked at the end of the day. It’s easy really. You’ll soon get used to it.”

  “Yeah,” Hank says. “Sure.” He forces a smile, thinking, Maybe tomorrow, when I’m not so tired. And so damned cold.

  Asmita darts inside, holding the door open while Hank joins her. “Your room will be on this floor,” she says. “There’s a cafeteria and a common room on the same level, but you’ll have to go down to the basement to find the gym and the cinema.”

  Hank looks around. The lobby is similar to the one in the Learning Hub, but the walls are painted in a warm shade of pale brown, and the carpet is a deep red. A profusion of potted plants softens the open space, and colorful, abstract canvases brighten the walls. The woman behind the reception desk gives Asmita a nod, then she studies Hank. Another security guard, Hank thinks. I guess I’ll have to explain who I am.

  But the receptionist gives him a smile. “Good evening. If there’s anything you need, give me a shout.”

  “Thanks,” Hank says, then he hesitates, unsure what else to say.

  “Hi, Helen,” Asmita says. “I’m clocking off. See you tomorrow.” Then she sets off across the lobby, and Hank hurries to catch up with her.

  Asmita doesn’t say a word as she leads Hank along the corridor. She goes ahead, setting a fast pace, while Hank follows, looking around, taking it all in.

  “Here we are,” Asmita says. She stops beside a wooden door with an inset window, then she turns to face him. “The rooms for first-year students are just through here. I’m sure you’ll find yours. They usually put names on the doors.”

  Hank smiles awkwardly. “Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem.” Asmita takes out her phone and glances at the screen. “Right, I must be going.”

  “More work to do, huh?” Hank asks.

  She gives him a guarded look. “No. I have to meet someone actually.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s
all right,” Asmita says. “But I really do have somewhere I need to be.” She smiles and the warmth returns to her eyes. “Welcome to Northridge, Hank. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.” Then she turns and walks away.

  “Thanks,” Hank calls after her. And without stopping, she looks back over her shoulder and raises her hand in a wave. Wow! Hank thinks. Then he smiles. Finally, someone gave him a genuine welcome: a few friendly words with nothing expected in return. And when those warm words came from someone like Asmita, it made all the difference in the world.

  Hank opens the door and steps into the corridor, and sure enough, every door bears a label with a clearly printed name. He reads the labels as he walks along, and although he passes Noah’s room, Seb’s is nowhere in sight. And then, about halfway along the corridor, he finds his own name on a door and breathes a sigh of relief. But he doesn’t pull the door open. He doesn’t even reach for the handle.

  What if it’s locked? he thinks. What if I can’t even open it? Asmita’s words come back to him: It’s easy really. You’ll soon get used to it.

  Hank takes hold of the door handle and presses gently. It doesn’t turn, so he closes his eyes, trying to recall the sense of connectivity he’d felt in the orientation exercise. I haven’t set a password, so how would this even work? He takes a breath and lets the WPR system reach out to him. Don’t overthink it, he tells himself. It’s only a door, not a bank vault.

  There. The UI wants him to know something. It’s picked up his name from his phone, but it wants him to think of a pass-phrase: a word and an image. Asmita, Hank thinks, and he pictures her eyes: the deep, warm chestnut of her irises, the sweeping curves of her long, dark lashes. And the door handle turns beneath his hand. I guess that’s one password I won’t forget, Hank thinks, and he opens the door slowly and steps inside.

  The ceiling lights come on automatically, bathing the room in a gentle glow, and Hank closes the door and lowers his bag to the floor. The room is divided into two, with a compact study area near the door, and a larger space to sleep and relax over by the window. He runs his hand over the sleek desk, then he crosses the room. This is more like it, he thinks. One wall holds a large, slim TV, and there’s a micro hi-fi on the shelf below. The place is brightened up by a striped rug, and an enormous, brightly colored beanbag sits in the corner. Someone has even left a few paperbacks in the bookcase so it doesn’t look so empty. He strolls across to the bookcase and reads the titles on the spines: The Catcher in the Rye, Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mocking Bird. Hank lets out a quiet snort, thinking, No sci-fi? No LitRPG?