The Academy tc-1

by Zachary Rawlins

  “I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “It’s very important to make sure the record is complete.”

  Michael sighed and shook his head.

  Five

  Alex knew he was in a hospital before he opened his eyes, from the soft beeping sounds, the starched white sheets against his skin, and the pervasive antiseptic smell. Given the dull, insistent pain in his back and abdomen, and the more immediate pain in his forearm, that seemed like the right place for him to be. Alex rested a bit longer, comforted by the various chimes and chirps of the hospital electronics. He wondered briefly how he would pay for all this, and then put it out of his mind with an effort. After a while, he decided to try opening his eyes.

  He was not expecting the huge dreadlocked black man next to his bed, wearing an immaculately tailored grey suit and brilliant red tie, looking at him with an expression that managed to convey concern and amusement simultaneously. Alex hadn’t figured on anybody being there, but if he’d expected anyone, it would have been the cops. And this guy, with his ridiculous grin and his beautiful suit, he was definitely not the cops.

  But wasn’t there a half-destroyed park filled with dead wolves somewhere?

  Alex was a rational person, or at least he tried to be. Life, he knew, did not always conform to that standard — in fact, it often didn’t, at least in his case. But he tried to be reasonable about things, to stay realistic. He didn’t delude himself. He wasn’t crazy.

  At least he wasn’t this crazy.

  That left only one option he knew of, namely, that the world was not as described to him. For anyone else, that might have been a troubling notion. For Alex, that idea had vaguely positive connotations. How much worse could it get, after all? He had nothing to lose, they way he saw it, or nothing he’d miss much anyway, so he was more curious than he was frightened.

  “You don’t look like a cop,” Alex said, opening his eyes and yawning. This was actually understatement — Alex was absolutely sure he wasn’t a cop. After being institutionalized for a while, it had become an instinctual thing, instantaneous recognition.

  Michael looked both surprised and delighted.

  “No?”

  Alex shook his head. The black dude looked tough, but he didn’t seem angry or anything. In fact, he looked as if he might to start laughing, though Alex couldn’t figure out what was so funny.

  “Nope. You don’t look much like a werewolf, either,” he added.

  “Is that so?”

  Michael appeared to be stifling laughter.

  “Well, okay, I’m not sure what a werewolf looks like when he’s not, you know, being a wolf, or a wolf-man-thing,” Alex admitted. “But you don’t seem like the type to me.”

  “You’re right. I’m definitely not a werewolf.” Michael affirmed. “This is probably a good thing for you.”

  Alex inched his way up in bed and took a long look at the man sitting confidently in a hospital chair by his bedside. He was thirty-something and built, but in a practical sort of way — like he might do physical labor, Alex thought, not like he spent a lot of time in the gym. He appeared to be heavily tattooed, black line work creeping up his neck and peeking out from his sleeves on his wrists, the spidery designs only marginally darker than his skin. He smiled broadly, and for the entire world seemed utterly benevolent.

  “Who are you?”

  “You don’t want to know where you are? That’s what people in your situation usually start with.”

  “I’ll decide what I’d like to know, thanks,” Alex said tersely. He regretted it immediately and softened his tone. No point in making unnecessary enemies, particularly when he didn’t know what was going on. “Who are you, exactly?”

  Michael laughed abruptly, and then nodded.

  “Alright, Alex, we’ll do it your way. You don’t mind if I call you Alex, do you?”

  Alex shook his head.

  “My name is Michael Lacroix; we’ll shake when you’re feeling better. I work here.”

  “You’re supposed to be a doctor?”

  “No, nothing of the sort,” Michael said with his wide, disarming smile. “This isn’t a hospital Alex; it’s the medical wing of a university. There’s nothing to worry about, though. You are getting the best medical care possible.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Alex said, looking pointedly at the pitcher and water glass on his bedside table.

  “It could be,” Michael allowed, pouring water into the plastic cup and handing it to Alex, “that is a definite possibility, what with the sorry state of the world. But there’s another possibility I’d like you to consider with me, Alex, one in which this whole experience costs you nothing at all, not one cent. Not financially, anyway.”

  “Alright,” Alex said, sipping water from the cup slowly, holding it with his good arm. His other arm was wrapped in bandages and had a cast up to the elbow. He couldn’t see much of his injuries, but the pain in his left forearm was severe, and he wiggled his fingers nervously, just to be certain he still could. “Tell me all about it, Mr. Lacroix.”

  “Well, as it I see it, there’s a few different ways this could go,” Michael said blithely. “I’m not an expert in this, mind you, but I’ve got colleagues who are. And this is how they see it.”

  Michael leaned forward and spoke confidentially.

  “One way it could go, Alex, we patch you up and send you home. The cops will hold you for a while, check out whatever story you tell them, then they’ll probably let you go. ‘Fraid we’ll have to stick you with the bill, so sorry. You keep on doing whatever it is you think you’re doing in that pathetic little town; whatever parody of life it is you think you are living, right? Your big bright future, yeah?”

  Alex let it pass without comment. He felt completely bewildered. The man’s face beamed with positivity, but he felt a bit pissed at the tone he was taking. Not that he’d said anything that wasn’t true, but it seemed rude to come right out and say it.

  “The other way we can do things is a lot more interesting.” Michael grinned again. “From my perspective, anyway.”

  “Oh?” Alex said, finally, when it became clear that the odd man not only expected a response, but seemed prepared to wait however long was necessary to get it.

  “Yes, I think so. A private institution, the very Academy that we currently occupy, as a matter of fact, has taken an interest in you, young Alex. We would like to offer you a place among our students, a stellar and far-ranging education in a number of esoteric and often-overlooked subjects, with the promise of eventual lucrative employment. This would obviously include full coverage of your medical expenses and a, shall we say, intervention in your legal affairs to preclude any further problems with the police,” Michael finished cheerfully.

  “I see,” Alex said doubtfully, not at all sure that he did. “Um, can I ask why?”

  It all felt like a hustle to Alex, an impossibly elaborate scam, but he felt too wary of Michael to make a fuss about it. Whoever this man was, he was sure that he wasn’t to be taken lightly, sunny disposition aside. The whole thing could be a con, but Alex was sure that Michael was not to be messed with.

  “Because you have potential, Alex, potential that we can help you develop,” Michael answered sincerely. “Because there is something — a number of things, really — that can only be done by people with that kind of potential, and the only place capable of fully realizing that potential is here.”

  Alexander looked at Michael’s open, honest face for a long moment, and then nodded.

  “Alright,” he said firmly.

  “Just like that? No more questions?”

  “Oh, I have lots of questions,” Alex replied, yawning. “I have questions about pretty much everything. But I’m tired, and my arm hurts, and I don’t want to deal with the cops, or the bills.”

  “Alright, then, excellent…”

  Michael stood up, and began to push the chair to the side of the room.

  “But so we understand each other,” Alex said, carefully l
owering himself back down on the bed. “I don’t really want to go to your school, whatever it is. I can’t really think of anything I want to do right now.”

  Alex laid his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes, the pain in his arm beginning to bother him.

  “But, no one has ever said I’ve got potential for anything but trouble. And I don’t have anything else going on, Mr. Lacroix,” Alex said moodily. “So, I’ve got questions, and reservations. And if I don’t like what happens from here on out, I’ll walk away. If you want an answer, then that’s mine. Whatever it is you’ve got in mind, it’s probably better than my other options.”

  “I understand you, Alexander,” Michael said, nodding. “I’m okay with that.”

  “Like I give a shit,” Alex said, rolling onto his side, facing away from Michael. “Do you have nurses around this place? Could you please tell them that I am in a whole lot of pain? Is that possible?”

  Michael nodded seriously. He liked the kid already, and anyway, he had something he really needed to look at in the boy’s charts, rather urgently, before anyone else got the same idea.

  Six

  “How are you feeling, Mitsuru?”

  Gaul kept his voice mild, looking over the battered Operator on the other side of the desk. She had refused to be treated for any of the injuries she’d sustained during the operation — something that worried Gaul, even if it was mostly minor cuts and bruising. She’d changed into a loose t-shirt and black yoga pants, but she had dried blood caked on her wounded hands, and the faint remnants of her nosebleed stained her nostrils. Mitsuru’s relationship with injury disturbed Gaul.

  Mitsuru met Gaul’s stare, her crimson-tinted irises almost identical to his own. He was surprised to see tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  “If it’s all the same with you, Director, I would prefer to discuss this with the Chief Auditor first,” she began, sounding as tired as she looked.

  “I’m sorry,” Gaul said, shaking his head curtly, “but that isn’t how it works. Alistair works for me, and so do you. I decide who does what and when. Right now, the Chief Auditor is coordinating the mop-up for today’s operations, and we are debriefing. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitsuru said quietly, eyes on the floor. Gaul felt the frustration he’d been suppressing since the morning well up inside him.

  “I’m certain that when his tasks are completed, your mentor will come to collect you,” he said, with more venom then he’d intended.

  Mitsuru’s sob was immediate, and he looked away, guilty and confused. He didn’t care much for Alistair, or for his pet Operator, for that matter. Even Gaul had to admit that Mitsuru was a brilliant field operative — but defective, unfit. He understood the need for tame monsters; after all, he had spearheaded Alice Gallow’s ascension to Audits decades ago himself. However, he didn’t feel that Mitsuru was tame, just monstrous.

  Which made him totally unprepared for her to start crying.

  Gaul had taught Mitsuru years ago, and in his own limited way he liked her. Moreover, he respected her abilities and her potential. But if it had been up to him, he would have had her put down years ago, when it became clear that her liabilities outweighed her assets. And he resented Alistair and Rebecca for stopping him. But impoliteness was not Gaul’s style, and it irked him to have spoken so harshly to a crying woman. Clearly, he thought, the events of the day were weighing on him.

  “Operator Aoki,” he said formally, standing up and looking away from her tears, out the window, towards the grounds and the yellow moon, “let’s return to the matter at hand, shall we? Were you injured during the operation?”

  “Not in any meaningful way,” Mitsuru sniffled.

  “Excellent. Then you can explain to me,” Gaul continued, folding his hands behind his back, “how it is that you managed to activate a protocol that was only partially downloaded, yes?”

  She shook her head morosely, and Gaul felt annoyed again. Mitsuru was almost mute, she was normally so detached — this was the first significant emotion he’d seen her show in years. And she was moping? Ridiculous.

  “Come now,” Gaul scolded, “you must remember something. What made you think to try it in the first place?”

  “I’ve never been able to raise Central like that, sir,” Mitsuru said, raising her blood-red eyes to look at the Director’s back. “I don’t know how I did it, and I don’t know why I did what I did after that. I just felt…”

  She hesitated. Gaul watched her reflection in the window, as Mitsuru struggled to find the words, her hands making vague, abortive gestures. He saw tears well up in her red eyes again, and wondered what had happened.

  “I’m not certain, sir. I felt strong. I felt assurance — as if I had done it before, many times, as if I’d threaded all the probabilities and arrived at an operational certainty.”

  “It didn’t occur to you that you might fail?”

  “No.” Mitsuru said definitively, and shook her head.

  “Or that the consequences of that failure could have been catastrophic for you, personally?”

  “Central requested intervention, Director,” Mitsuru responded, in her usual flat voice. “Clearly, the analysts felt the risk was merited. I do not question my orders, sir.”

  Gaul winced at the knock on the door. Firm, insistent. Could only be Alistair.

  “Come in,” he said, sitting down behind the desk and taking off his glasses so he could rub the bridge of his nose.

  Alistair opened the door, shot Mitsuru a sympathetic look, and then took the chair next to her.

  Alistair was young-looking, in his low thirties, with blond hair and a uniform tan. He was still dressed in his worn fatigues, obviously having come directly from Central once the cleanup had been completed. He was a bit short, with a broad chest and a narrow waist, and he moved with a compact grace that reminded Gaul more of a dancer than a soldier. While Alistair had been on duty since the night before, he showed no particular sign of being tired, which annoyed Gaul all over again.

  “Hey Gaul. What’s going on?”

  Alistair had grown up some place outside of D.C., in Virginia, and there was something lazy and drawling in his speech that recalled it, though it wasn’t exactly a southern accent. Something about this also got underneath Gaul’s skin, a gift that Alistair had in abundance.

  Gaul shrugged and gestured at the file folders on the desk in front of him. He’d been trapped at the desk for hours now, and could feel it in his sore back. And unlike some other people, he was very tired.

  “I am trying to make sense of what happened tonight.”

  It came out more defensive than he would have liked. Gaul had never been clear whether his personal dislike of Alistair was reciprocated. Alistair had always treated Gaul as if he were a close friend — but, he seemed to treat everyone that way.

  “Trying to make the pieces fit a pattern.”

  “You can’t force it — you’ll start seeing patterns everywhere. Well, then,” Alistair said innocently, “why don’t I debrief Mitzi, and give you and the analytical pool something to chew on, eh?”

  Gaul nodded diplomatically, knowing he had no other options at the moment. He was the Director, and within reason, he could operate more or less how he liked. But he could not demand that she deliver her report directly to him, in violation of standard procedures; not without having a reason to pull Alistair out of the chain of command. And as little as he liked Alistair, Gaul knew he’d never give him one.

  His Chief Auditor was smart, careful, and above all, capable. Gaul wouldn’t have picked him for the job otherwise.

  “Fine. Send me your report as soon as you’ve completed it,” Gaul said, waving dismissively at them and then returning to the paperwork on his desk.

  The walk was not long, as Operations and Audits were only separated by one barren hallway. The central office of the Audits Department was mostly deserted under flickering fluorescent lights, only a few determined technicians plugging away at the
ir workstations. The space was a mess, crammed from ceiling to floor with office partitions, file boxes, laptops and piles of paper on every surface. There were several ashtrays on the main table, all full, and paper plates stained with soy sauce, the remains of tempura shrimp, and flecks of fried rice. Alistair sighed and led Mitsuru past the disarray, into his small back office, which was immaculate by comparison.

  He sat her down in one of the wide leather chairs that faced his old walnut desk, and then walked to the cabinet behind it. A moment later he handed her a short whiskey with ice in a square-cut glass, and put another down on the desk for himself, then sat down across from her. He sipped his drink for a moment while looking at Mitsuru frankly, taking stock.

  He’d seen her look rougher, he thought. But it had been a while.

  “Mitzi, what’s eating you?”

  Mitsuru looked up at him, red eyes wide and confused.

  “Alistair, what happened to me back there?”

  Alistair hesitated for a moment, trying to remember what he was and wasn’t allowed to say, then shrugged. He’d never cared much for keeping Gaul’s secrets.

  “The kid’s a catalyst, Mitzi,” he said cheerfully, holding his drink up to the light, “a powerful one. Somehow, when you tried to probe him, I guess, he boosted your abilities.”

  “Then it wasn’t me?”

  Alistair smiled sympathetically.

  “Not all of it, Mitzi.”

  “Damn it to hell,” Mitsuru said, her drink sitting untouched in her right hand. “I thought… well, I’m not certain what I thought. But it seemed…”

  She trailed off, staring at her hand, at the mostly closed wound in her palm.

  “You’re an exceptional Operator, Mitzi. You were successful tonight, more successful than anyone had a right to ask or expect,” Alistair said reassuringly, meeting Mitsuru’s red-eyed stare with his own sincere expression. “Eventually, we’ll convince them to make you an Auditor, I promise. But you need to stop worrying about it so much. It isn’t helping anything. You can’t start jumping to conclusions — we aren’t going to change the situation in one night, at least not for the better.”