But the eerie voice had seemed to echo back to her; yet she couldn’t make out where the sound was coming from; nobody, it seemed was looking in her direction. She felt a shiver of nervousness tingle up her spine, but told herself it must be the result of too much travel and disorientation.
*
It was dark by the time the cadets were allowed to leave the debriefing room. Their heads were throbbing with security codes, rules, regulations, restrictions and warnings that if they did not tow the line their scant privileges would be rescinded. Timetables were allocated to each cadet, different depending on which Corps they were assigned to. They were a weary bunch of adolescents whose heads were drooping and whose eyes were bloodshot with tiredness. The pressure of the air compressed capsules which had transported them to the first city did nothing to help their feelings of lethargy.
Not many of them noticed the small disc descending quickly on the horizon as the sun dipped its last edge into the butterscotch coloured sky; but Jocasta did. She watched in fascination, twisting against the straps of her backpack to get a better view of the Martian sunset, knowing it was something she would never, ever get used to.
They were supposed to be marching in line but the senior ranks of the Corps seemed to be making allowances for their shoddy footwork. Just an occasional ‘Keep up,’ and ‘Into line!’ and ‘Do you call that a march, Hensen?’
Thankfully, their baggage had been delivered while they had been ensconced in the debriefing and beds already allocated. Jocasta looked at hers, longing to lie down for a few minutes but they’d been instructed to unpack and shower before they would be allowed to eat or sleep. Each accommodation room had been divided into six sections, providing every girl with their own tiny ‘room’. But considering the lack of personal areas that they’d been subject to on the spaceship, each girl was quite pleased with her own individual space. There were dividing sections between the beds, giving them privacy and storage areas. Jocasta carefully unpacked her belongings, making sure her precious stones were placed in the centre of the middle shelf along with the data images of her family. She kept the strange object from Will hidden safely in the back of a drawer.
A momentary wave of homesickness washed over her as she gazed at the familiar faces and wondered what they were doing at that particular moment. Then, remembering each cadet had been promised a two-minute link up with his or her family within the next forty-eight hours she regained her composure and continued unpacking.
The girls chatted amicably to each other as they unpacked. Marcella was a French student who very nearly didn’t accept the Elite invitation to come to Mars because it had usurped her plans to become a jazz singer.
‘Ooh, what do you sing?’ asked Cally eagerly, picking out her data stick from her stuffed bag. Of all of them, she seemed to be the most enthusiastic about her future in the Elite; which wasn’t to say that the other girls weren’t thrilled to be there, but rather that the Elite had clearing been Cally’s calling. ‘I’m sure I’ve got some Various Artists on here,’ she continued, ‘d’you want a sing-a-long?’
‘Uh, not right now,’ Marcella had graciously declined, much to the other girls’ relief. Krysta, who had shared their compartment on the train, had, much to Jocasta’s disgruntlement, known about her talent from as far back as she could remember, though she was disinclined to talk about it.
‘I don’t want to get in trouble for talking about it,’ Krysta had said in a hushed voice, as though Elite Agents might have room bugged.
‘Can’t you just give us a hint?’ Marcella wheedled. ‘I mean, I know I can pick up vibes from people, you know, random moods and emotions, but that’s definitely a handicap rather than a gift!’ She laughed. ‘Sometimes I feel really down or overjoyed and it’s not actually anything to do with me.’
‘Uh, oh, well,’ Krysta procrastinated, ‘think of it as tele … kin-et … ism. I guess. You know. Moving stuff just by thinking it.’
‘Show us!’ Cally demanded.
‘I… don’t think I should!’ Krysta whispered urgently. ‘I’m not risking getting sent back home!’ And with that she engrossed herself in her data-pad, on which she was reading the latest horror fiction by A. B. Trayer.
For the next few minutes each girl concentrated on folding her clothes, or in Cally’s case, arranging every item in meticulous colour coded order, when a loud and vehement curse made them all jump.
‘Sorry,’ said Tara, who had a carton of Elite-distribution energy drink in one hand and was mopping at her chin with a tissue in the other one. ‘I keep forgetting that I can’t drink with my studs out. Those pox-stickers made me take my piercings out for that one tinsy journey- can you believe it? It’s against regulations. And now every time I drink it sprays out the holes in my lip. Damned inconvenient. Sorry,’ she added, noticing that Cally was staring at her with a kind of disgusted fascination. ‘Didn’t mean to gross you out. But it’s not like I’ve got a tongue tattoo.’ She stuck her tongue out at Cally, who turned away looking affronted, though not before informing Tara that she should really get some purple pads to stop that from happening.
Jocasta grinned to herself, imagining what her mother would say if she suggested getting a tongue tattoo. They had a nasty habit of inflating when you were least expecting it and getting in the way of food, which could cause an awful lot of embarrassment. She’d had to suffer her mother’s displeasure for weeks after getting her kingfisher emblazoned on her cheek and would probably have been banned from the kitchen, or perhaps the house, if her mother thought she had a tongue tattoo.
The other girl in the room, who Jocasta thought looked vaguely familiar was neatly sat on the folded sheets of her bed not speaking, just staring out of the small glass window at the view of Mars. Obviously, she wasn’t in a sociable mood. She was quite unremarkable, her hair was pulled back into a neat bun; she wore her identity ring on her designated left index finger, and didn’t have one of the facial tattoos that had proved so popular among many of the female cadets. Unlike Marcella, who had a spontaneous smile and laugh, and certainly unlike Tara with her holes in her lips and neon blue streaks running through her hair.
As she exited their room later that day, Jocasta made a point of looking at the list of their names outside the door. Marcella Anders, Cally Henbest, Jocasta Jackson, Tara Miller, Krysta Sakharov, Antigone Thrace. Quite a collection of characters she thought to herself, I wonder how we’re all going to get on?
Chapter Eleven
After their initial assembly and introduction to yet more rules and regulations, the cadets dispersed to their separate sections. Each section had its own motto which they had to stand and recite.
‘We of the Air Corps, pledge to open our minds and learn from each other. To promote understanding and protect our freedom. To use our talents to the best of our abilities. To serve the Elite in all that we think, say and do. For the good of humanity.’
It had gradually occurred to Jocasta over the past few weeks that as she was in the Air Corps she must be some sort of telepath. But, as she had confided to Nikki, on more than one occasion, she couldn’t understand how.
‘I’ve never been able to read anyone’s mind,’ she’d complained. ‘Although I can usually work out what Imogen’s thinking, but she’s my sister so I suppose it’s not unusual that I can do that.’ Nikita hadn’t been particularly sympathic, pointing out, quite diplomatically that Jocasta, in her opinion, was quite lucky. She, Nikki, would have been only too pleased not to have known about her handicap until she’d arrived on Mars.
‘It was really worrying on that stupid spaceship, I kept dreaming the sails were giant birds carrying us to the outer edges of the universe and then having to quickly think of something horrible when I woke up- like Captain Braun and his stupid training circuits, to stop my own wings from developing.’
‘I suppose I can see your take on it, but I still wish I knew more about my skills, or not as the case may be.’
This was foremost in her mind a
s she made her way with the rest of the newly arrived Air Corps to their first lesson at the top level of the Elite Training Building. Although the Elite had large bases in the other three domed cities, the large training building dominated this one. It was over ten storeys high and shaped like a five pointed star with its limbs reaching far out into the modules of the city. Each Corps had a base in the central part of the building and then had different halls, rooms and offices which stretched out into the space of its chosen point. The fifth remaining angle housed the security section, whose grey uniforms were edged in black.
Lt. Wing Commander Wren ushered her fifty students into a large triangular room, its high slit-like windows dissecting the white walls at regular intervals, through which they could just make out the top edges of another section of the building. From the ceiling of the room a globe, roughly the size of a space helmet, was suspended in mid air. It seemed as though it was made of a blue-green glass like substance and shimmered slightly as it moved almost imperceptibly from side to side; it appeared to be completely empty.
‘Cadets, please take your seats. You can locate them quite easily as each one is numbered with your date of birth and initials.’ There were two circles of grey seats, an inner circle of twenty and the outer of thirty. Jocasta found her chair in the inner circle and sat down quickly, her eyes drawn towards the slowly bobbing sphere.
‘Once you have found your positions, we can begin.’ Lt. Wing Commander Wren spoke impatiently as two boys seemed unable to agree over whose chair was whose.
‘Think there must be a mistake here,’ one of them turned questioningly towards their tutor.
‘And what gives you reason to think that, Cadet Matthewson?’
‘Johan’s in my seat.’
‘No I’m not,’ Johan retorted, ‘it has my initials and my date of birth.’
‘Please,’ said Lt. Wing Commander Wren wearily, ‘resolve this before we waste any further precious time. It is unlikely that the Elite would have made such an error.’
Ed raised his hand. ‘They must share similar dates of birth, but you – Jamie, yes? From Western State, aren’t you? Where they state the month before the day. Jamie, when’s your birthday?’
‘Third of September.’
‘Johan, when’s yours?’
‘Ninth of March.’
‘So, Jamie, yours is JM three-nine, Johan’s is JM nine-three; he’s in the right seat. Interesting to have such a similarity though.’
‘Quite correct, Weisz,’ said Lt. Wing Commander Wren, as Jamie, looking suitably embarrassed took his correct seat. ‘Now we’ve established that the Elite is clearly without fault, and uses the agreed international dating system, perhaps we can concentrate on other, more important matters.
‘Please place your MICs under your chairs. Place your right hand, palm up, under the left hand of your right neighbour, whose hand should be placed palm down flat against yours.’
After a few seconds of disconcerted glances and fumbles each cadet had their hands touching as instructed, some more firmly than others, and were facing Commander Wren, who had lowered the sphere until it was at a height where she could place her hands lightly on its diameter.
‘This class is your first lesson in trying to control and enhance your telepathic powers.’
Jocasta’s heart took a dive to the pit of her stomach as she tried to imagine what it was going to feel like to be the only one in the room without the slightest idea of how to behave.
‘Not all of you will be able to achieve contact with the sphere today, as I am quite well aware that only a third of you have experienced full telepathy as yet. I imagine at least a dozen of you have wondered what you are doing here, as you have no previous knowledge of your dormant skills. You are probably feeling like frauds at this moment in time, but as we have already demonstrated; the Elite does not make mistakes. We do not always comprehend its methods but you are here today to be educated and encouraged by fully qualified and expert staff. Such as myself,’ she added, seemingly as an afterthought.
Jocasta felt just slightly less worried by this talk, but even so her anxiety had made her palms start to sweat a little against the warmth of her neighbour’s. Her right hand had completely disappeared under his large paw like one and she felt uncomfortable as his grubby fingernails were drumming impatiently on the inside of her wrist. She lowered her hand just slightly in the hope that he would take the hint, but he seemed impervious to her and carried on staring at the centre of the sphere.
‘Cadet Dimitri, we have not started yet, refrain from trying to access the orb until we’re all ready.’ Commander Wren spoke sharply and much to Jocasta’s relief the drumming on her wrist ceased.
‘Now class, who can tell me the correct name for this sphere?’
About half a dozen hands shot up around the room as the question seemed to hang softly in the atmosphere. Commander Wren’s eyes alighted on Cally whose bright eyes glowed with excitement in her flushed face.
‘Per- Perceptor, Commander,’ she answered. ‘I found its name in the third chapter of my MIC encyclopaedia this morning.’
‘Well done, I’m pleased to see some of you have already started to investigate your powers in traditional ways.’
Jocasta, along with several of her peers, felt more than a little annoyed that she hadn’t thought to check her MIC out more thoroughly for clues about telepathic instruments. She’d been far more concerned, she thought ruefully, worrying about her own abilities rather than exploring the facts and gaining assistance from her computer.
‘Yes it is indeed a Perceptor, Cadet Henbest. And do you know or have you any information on how it works?’
‘It can pick up thoughts from a telepath and forward them to a receiver- a Psy-link I think it’s called, where they can be stored.’
‘Well that’s one of its uses, yes and today we are all going to try and send a thought to the Perceptor and then collect someone else’s from it. Now please stand and remember to keep hand contact.’ She smiled at them with a confidence that Jocasta felt, in her case, was misplaced.
‘In case you were wondering why I have asked you to make physical contact with each other, it will, hopefully, enhance your powers. Touch is a strong conductor, and although you will not always have the opportunity to use it; today we should benefit from its use, as an added training tool.
‘Now,’ she continued, ‘you all must send your thought to the person on your left and in turn you will attempt to collect a thought from the person on your right. The Perceptor will be programmed by me to bounce each vibrating thought back into the room. Please, no rude or offensive ideas should be created. In fact so that we can ascertain the quality of your achievements I want you all to send out a description of one of your parents; a physical attribute, and if possible something unique to them. Begin when you are ready. In silence of course.’ Her gaze rested upon a few cadets in the second row, where some anxious whispers could be heard.
Jocasta’s mind jumped from one parent to another trying to think of some discerning feature to focus on, but by the time she’d decided to concentrate on her mother’s golden hair, Lt. Wing Commander Wren was telling them to sit down and try and recall the thoughts they had received.
After a few long seconds when the only thing in her head was a sense of failure Jocasta heard them each being asked to relate what they had each experienced. Much to her relief most of the students had been unable to receive a clearly defined thought. Only Ed had been able to pick up exact descriptions and that had been from the person on his left, not right, which had caused a moment of light hearted amusement amongst the class.
‘Well I see that wasn’t very satisfying.’ Lt. Wing Commander Wren sounded a little disappointed. ‘I was hoping for at least a fifty percent success rate, we’d better try it again but this time,’ she added, ‘I think we will try and empty our minds first.’ She released the Perceptor, allowing it to settle about thirty centimetres above her head.
‘Please re
main seated and close your eyes, either allowing your hands to rest upturned on your knees or gently clasped in front of you.’
This was much easier for Jocasta who had practised meditation all through school. It had been encouraged as an aid to concentration and memory retention. She let herself slowly relax and clear her mind of all encroaching thoughts until there was a slowly expanding space where a sense of calm and serenity resided.
When Lt. Wing Commander Wren seemed satisfied that they were all fairly empty headed she asked them to stand and take their positions as before, reminding them to keep their eyes looking straight ahead until they had focused on a past life event, one which had some particular importance to them.
Once again she held the orb lightly between her fingers and instructed them to look straight at it while sending out their thoughts in a concentrated line.
‘Try to visualise your thoughts being stretched on a taut line; hitting the Perceptor and returning at a sharp angle to the person on your left hand side. Hold on to it. Hold on to it,’ she repeated as eyes began to falter. ‘Just a few seconds more.’
Jocasta had tried so hard but nothing, not the slightest trace of a thought had penetrated her mind. And either hers had failed to reach the Perceptor or it hadn’t enough power to return, because Marcella, on her left, had failed to pick up anything either.
She felt such a fraud as most of the other students had at least a limited amount of success. Retelling half stories from each other’s memories, which had, she supposed, been quite interesting. She left the class feeling as despondent as ever, even though Commander Wren had emphasised that at such an early stage those who had been unable to achieve a result were not to worry.
Their next lesson was to be in the adjoining room and as they filed down the corridor Jocasta found Ed alongside her.
‘Slow down a bit, titch,’ he chattered. ‘What’s with the face?’
Deborah Hockney Page 9
