Once they got in the car to drive to the lake, Sammy sensed something different. His dad’s usual excited chatter was forced. His smile looked wrong. He didn’t sing the “Wishin’ You Were Fishin” song. But Sammy knew his dad would talk eventually. Sammy simply had to wait until that time. When they rented the boat, he helped row a half kilometer onto the lake, never going too long without sneaking a glance at his dad. It was about an hour after they set up their rods when his dad finally spoke.
His father stared out over the water and the low sun reflected pricks of light off his pupils. He stirred for a bit, then spoke. “Sammy, Mom’s going to be gone for a while.”
“Why?” Sammy asked, straightening up on his little fishing chair. “Is it because she’s sick? She seems sick lately.”
“Yes. In a way.” His voice dropped off, and he mumbled something to himself. Sammy wanted desperately to know what he’d said. “Can you keep a secret from your mom if it’s really important?” He turned and looked directly at Sammy.
From the countless times he’d watched his dad take calls from clients, Sammy learned the way to determine the seriousness of a conversation: counting the wrinkles on his dad’s forehead. The more wrinkles, the more critical it was. Right now, Sammy Sr. had too many wrinkles to count.
“I’ll keep a secret,” Sammy Jr. answered.
“You remember when she lost the baby last time?”
Sammy nodded.
“It was harder for her than you realize, buddy. She tries to be very happy for you and me, but she really hurts inside.”
Sammy nodded again, but he didn’t fully understand what his dad meant. It was a while before either spoke. A large fish broke the water several meters off, breaking their silence.
“Remember when we had that long talk about drugs and how sometimes people will try to trick you into taking them? Do you remember that, Sammy?”
“Yes,” he said, but didn’t understand what that had to do with Mom.
“There’s a reason. Your mom was given some pills from a—from someone she thought was a friend. Those pills, son, weren’t what she thought they were. They were pills—stimulants— no, well, they were drugs, Sammy. And your mom . . . has been unable to stop herself from taking these for almost a year. Her friend has been using her to make money off us.”
The weight of his father’s words and the undertone of anger in his voice sunk deep into Sammy. Now he got it. My mom’s addicted to drugs. He felt guilty for not noticing. Sammy’s mother, Sarah, was a more than just a homemaker. She was his best friend. She was his confidante. Sarah Berhane always waited for him outside when he came home from school so they could talk. Before his dad came home, they ate a snack she’d baked or played sports at the park. The idea of all that being gone was like a punch to the gut.
“How long will Mom be gone?” He blinked quickly to stop tears from forming.
“Probably three months. She doesn’t want you to know, buddy, because she thinks you’ll look down on her. You won’t, will you?” Sammy heard a pleading tone in his father’s words. “Can you step up and be a man now?”
Sammy shook his head, tears now freely flowing down his cheeks. “No, Dad, I won’t think bad of her, and I won’t tell her anything.”
Samuel Sr. reached over and hugged his son so they could cry together.
Exhaustion set in as Sammy lay on the bed in solitary, but he woke early and couldn’t fall back asleep. It was Saturday. The Betas might be in the Arena right now. Strangely, it didn’t bother him that the Game would go on without him; he didn’t care if he ever played a Game again.
By noon the boredom had really set in and the idea of never playing the Game seemed like unending torture. He would have even welcomed another showing of the cheesy Psion Training movies. “Why not show me a movie about how to get a girl to like me?” he yelled at the wall. It was as if a vortex had formed around the room itself, and the day had become a revolving eternity.
Sammy had finally gotten used to the pervasive silence, and it was just lulling him back to sleep when the door opened. It startled him so badly that he jumped off the bed. As he composed himself, Commander Byron entered carrying a covered plate of food.
“Come with me, please.” That was all he said, then he walked back out.
Too scared to ask questions, Sammy followed him out of the room. He wondered if Byron planned to lock him and Kobe in the same room to make them talk it out, but Byron headed for the stairs. They climbed up to the fifth floor and stopped at the top of the stairs. Only Commander Byron had access to go any higher. The commander scanned his eye and led Sammy up one more flight. He stopped at a landing with two doors. One said: Roof, the other: Commander Byron. Sammy went through the latter door.
They entered a beautiful sitting room with plush rugs hiding almost every centimeter of the floor. Several pieces of exotic Mediterranean furniture upholstered in bright, vivid colors waited for use. Dozens of holo-pics decorated the walls. It was a nice home, but even Sammy could see it needed a woman’s touch.
This must be where Byron lives.
Byron gestured for Sammy to sit down at the dining table, then set the plate in front of him.
“Here, eat,” he said pushing the plate toward Sammy, who reached to uncover it.
Chicken cordon bleu. His favorite. How did Byron know? Sammy looked at it, shaking his head. All the shame of what he had done came rushing back, replacing his hearty appetite with hot, sick guilt.
“Do not tell me you are not hungry.”
“I don’t deserve that,” Sammy said weakly.
“I know you feel that way, but you have not done anything so unforgivable that it merits starving yourself. Hunger will not help you deal with your problems—only add to them. I thought you had learned that in the old grocery store you snuck into.”
Byron smiled.
“Why aren’t you angry?” Sammy asked. “I thought you’d kick me out.”
“Because I understand things better than you,” Commander Byron answered. “You are not the first Beta to brawl like an uncivilized baboon.”
Sammy smiled and took up his utensils. Food rarely tasted so good.
Commander Byron said, “I will talk to you while you eat. If I say something surprising, you have my permission to spit anything out so you do not choke.”
Sammy laughed.
“Do you remember our first conversation a few months ago? When I recruited you as a Psion?”
Sammy nodded and chewed.
“On that day I said you had anomalies? Do you remember? Well, you never asked me what that meant. I still find that interesting. Why have you never asked me what that means?”
“I don’t know,” Sammy said through a bit of food. After swallowing, he finished his thought. “It didn’t mean anything to me. I didn’t even believe that I belonged in this place.”
“So it meant nothing to you because you were not even sure you had the abilities I talked about?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Even now, Sammy couldn’t grasp what the big deal was.
Byron nodded thoughtfully. “I have monitored your progress closely, Samuel. Perhaps closer than I have with most who have passed through this facility—and not because of favoritism in your behalf or a prejudice against you.”
He paused, but Sammy showed no reaction. Why would Byron care more about me than the others?
“Have you learned about Anomaly Eleven since you began your instructions?”
“No.”
“But you do remember that I told you that you had this anomaly also?”
“Vaguely.” He stopped chewing again because his stomach was starting to hurt from eating too fast. “Most of that conversation is a blur.”
“The reason, Samuel, that I have observed you so closely is because you are the first and only Anomaly Fourteen with—” He paused again. Sammy couldn’t read the commander’s face, but his expression scared Sammy a little.
“—multiple anomalies. Anomaly Eleven, like F
ourteen is categorized with five stars. NWG puts a high priority on employing those with it, as you can imagine. In fact the first five-star anomaly to be discovered was an Eleven—a young boy named Ivan from Ukraine. Nice man, I hope you get a chance to meet him someday. Loves math, though. Math makes my head spin.”
The commander gave Sammy a little wink.
“People with Eleven use a higher percentage of brain neurons—they have a higher mental capacity. Sharper memory, extended planning ability, faster capacity to absorb information. Truth is, Eleven is still a mystery. You, for example, grasp concepts very easily in your instructions. You play your instructions at the highest possible speed because your brain works faster than most people’s, allowing you to break down the information easier. It’s also helped you identify combat patterns easier in the sims. Your brain has learned to focus a gun faster than most people do.”
Byron caught the look of surprise on Sammy’s face when he heard this. “Oh yes, I know all about your instruction habits. I said I was watching you closely. Now while there are many others with Anomaly Eleven, some of which have a much higher capacity than you, I think you can understand what an extraordinary contribution you can make to our war efforts.”
Sammy’s brain buzzed and he could only nod. It explained so much: the chess game, instructions, Star Racers. He couldn’t wait to tell Brickert. But would the others understand? Would Jeffie or Kobe stop feeling the need to compete with him, or would it make him even more of a freak? Either way, he liked having answers.
“Can you see why I watch you so meticulously? I want you to succeed. And you have! Today you received a perfect score on your history exam. Most students struggle to get the required eighty percent.”
“But—No—I . . .” Commander Byron simply raised his hand and Sammy fell silent.
“You were going to say you did not achieve a perfect score. I know. I intentionally put two questions in your exam that were more subjective than the rest of the test. Of the five answers you were given to choose from, one of them was the correct answer that any textbook would have you pick. Another one of these answers was a morally correct answer. You missed both of those questions because you picked the correct choices in my answer key, not the computer’s. So in reality, you scored perfect marks on the test.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I have my reasons,” Byron answered mysteriously, but waving it off with his hand. “More important is how you performed overall.”
“But sir,” Sammy said, “why are you telling me this now? Just because I got in a fight with Kobe?”
“You have great potential, Samuel. You may possibly contribute more to bringing our world to peace than anyone else. I have great expectations for you.”
He drove home these last words, looking directly into Sammy’s eyes. Sammy was grateful for the information, but nothing Byron said changed how he felt about Kobe.
“Let me show you something,” the commander said, getting up from the table. He was only gone from Sammy’s view for a few seconds, and came back holding a holo-pic. He showed it to Sammy. The picture was framed in gold adorned with silver flowers and birds.
“It’s beautiful,” Sammy whispered. He wanted nothing more in the whole world than to hold a picture of his mom and dad, but he had none.
Byron handed the picture carefully to Sammy. It was much heavier than it looked. The gold and silver in the frame gleamed brightly, boasting of the care the commander must frequently give it. He looked into the picture and saw a younger commander posing with a stunning brown-haired woman. Both of their gazes were fixed below the frame at something Sammy couldn’t see. The joy in their faces reminded him of his own parents.
“She was more beautiful than any picture could capture, Samuel.”
“I’m sure.”
Byron’s expression was wistful and far away, lost in his own thoughts. Sammy sat silently, occasionally glancing at the picture, but letting the commander have his moment.
“She was one of the first I trained, you know.”
“She was a Psion, sir?”
“Yes. And very talented—very enthusiastic about life. We fell in love and were married in secret about twenty-five years ago. It was wonderful—just wonderful. After we told our superiors we had wed, she lived here and we trained the Betas together.
“Not long after our second honeymoon, the first battle of the war happened. We were part of several missions to rescue refugees, including Kobe and Kaden’s parents. Many people wanted to come to the NWG, but were stranded, cut off, and hiding in the sewers. All of the missions we did were dangerous. The CAG caught onto us and sent the Thirteens to trap us. They overwhelmed us and the battle turned . . . deadly.
“Emily, my wife, fought like a warrior. Like a warrior-princess,” he added with a half smile, but his hands trembled badly. “I always called her my princess. So many of them. A handful of us. We got through the worst of it, but she caught two braxels in the back.”
Sammy almost lost his lunch. He knew from weapons training what a braxel could do. Braxels were small, blunted projectiles carved into drills and fired from a flesh jigger. They were specifically designed to continue burrowing after impacting into the target’s body. He had seen some of the worst things they could do to the human body, and it made him sick to think the commander’s wife had suffered such a painful death.
“She was still alive when we got into our atmo-cruisers, but they had already dug so deep, one into her heart, we could not stop all the internal bleeding.”
Sammy understood the emptiness the commander felt from such a loss. “I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Thank you, Samuel,” Byron responded, and his face became more firm again. “I know what happened to you in Johannesburg—why you lived in that grocery store. Can you see now how petty and insignificant your argument with Kobe is in perspective to what people have lost because of this war?”
Sammy nodded soberly.
“I watch the Games, too, Samuel. I know you targeted Kobe—made him lose on purpose. I also know why. I heard what Kobe did to you in the simulators. I understand why two ordinary boys would lose their tempers in such a situation. But think about this, Samuel: you and Kobe are not ordinary boys. You do not have the luxury to fall prey to your petty rivalry. You took an oath. You took upon yourselves the responsibility of fighting in a war. A war that killed my wife, and may someday claim the life of someone else you care about. Maybe Brickert or Gefjon. The harder you train, the more successful you will be in protecting the ones you love. Okay?”
“Yes sir.” He knew Byron was right. He did not have to like Kobe, but he should not let his personal feelings overshadow the more important issue. The greater good.
“Work hard. Be a great person, a great friend, and let Gefjon sort out her own feelings. Take that as the only love advice you will ever receive from me,” he said, smiling again. “Can I have my picture back now, please?”
Sammy adjusted the frame in his hand and gripped the handle over a dove carved into the silver. It depressed slightly under his hand. He must have activated a switch or something because the picture leapt out of the frame into a hologram hovering in the air. There stood the commander and his wife, Emily, as they looked down on a tiny infant they held together in their arms. Byron took the frame from Sammy, and the hologram disappeared almost as soon as it appeared.
“I—” Sammy swallowed hard and watched Byron’s face for signs of anger. “I’m sorry, it just—it was an accident.”
“No need to apologize,” Byron said, giving Sammy a reassuring look. “But please keep the information that I have with you shared about myself, and my family, very private. Just between the two of us.”
“Yes sir, absolutely.”
“Thank you,” the commander said, standing up. “You will become a capable Psion, I have no doubt.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sammy said sincerely, standing up as well.
He shook the commander’s hand, and turne
d to leave, assuming he was excused. He reached the door, and was about to open it, when Byron called to him.
“Yes sir?” he asked.
“Two more hours of solitary,” Byron said, smiling.
When Sammy returned to solitary, the door opened by itself. Everything was exactly the same as before except for a small person with unruly black hair facing away from Sammy on the restraining table. This boy wore a bright yellow prison uniform and battered shoes that dangled carelessly in the air.
“Feet?”
The shaggy head turned around to reveal the small face of Sammy’s long lost friend. Grinning from dimple to dimple, Feet laughed when he saw Sammy. They ran to embrace as old friends who thought they’d never see each other again.
“Brains!” Feet cried. Sammy hadn’t heard his old nickname in months. “You’re really alive. What happened to you? Are you okay? Who are these nutty people?”
“I live here,” Sammy still couldn’t stop smiling. “How’d you get here?”
“Bunch of stiffs in suits found me in the Grinder,” Feet explained when he calmed down. “They pulled me into the office up front and got in my face. ‘Do you know Samuel Harris Berhane, Jr.?’ they asked.” Feet quoted them in his best deep-man voice. “Totally nutty dudes, Brains—I even forgot that Sammy was your real name. They told me if I came with them to talk to some commander, I’d get six months knocked off my time.”
Sammy barked a laugh.
“I’d have come whether they knocked off time or not, though.”
They lounged around on the floor, talking about everything. Sammy had so many questions about his friends, and Feet answered them all. They had new plans for breaking out of the Grinder. Since Sammy had orchestrated their last attempt, he offered his advice. At one point, Feet dropped his voice and asked, “Are you here because of what you did in the alleyway? You know, your teleka—your powers?”
Sammy smirked. “I told you I don’t have any powers.”
Psion Beta (Psion series #1) Page 16
