The Recoil Trilogy 3 Book Boxed Set: Including Recoil, Refuse and Rebel
Page 7
I wanted to listen to the rest of Hawke’s speech, but I battled to stay focused. I was too aware of the lean figure next to me. He was standing so close that our arms were pressed against each other, and I could feel the warmth of his body through my jumpsuit. I snuck a sideways glance at him. Although he seemed to be watching and listening intently, he somehow radiated an air of skepticism. Perhaps it was in the fold of his arms across his chest, or the small frown between his eyes, or in the evaluative tilt of his head. Once he shook his head very slightly and sighed softly.
It must have been a good speech, though, because when Hawke finished speaking the gathered recruits applauded and nodded enthusiastically. When the holo-zone reverted to the ASTA logo, gray eyes looked down at me, eyebrows raised as if to say, “Well, what do you think of that?”
I shrugged. I had been more focused on the guy next to me than the man on the screen, but judging from the odd phrases I had caught, the Pres had said more or less the same things he always said when he made a speech on T.V.: be vigilant, report suspicious people and activity, serve your nation in the war against terror and the pandemic, play your role as a loyal citizen.
Now a new transmission began playing. On the landing was a life-size hologram of a short, compact woman of around fifty years, wearing a navy skirt and jacket over a plain white shirt. The image shifted to a head-and-shoulders view, showing more detail: high cheekbones, dark eyes and an asymmetrically-cut bob of sleek black hair. When she moved her head, the underside of her hair flashed a deep iridescent violet, like the purple-skinned pokeweed berries Dad had pointed out to me on our family vacations in National Parks around the States. The woman was striking, but not beautiful. Her mouth was too small for her face, and the blood-red lipstick which was the only make-up she wore only emphasized the thinness of her lips.
“Welcome, new recruits, welcome. I am Roberta Roth, Chief Executive Officer of the Advanced Specialized Training Academy coming to you via live-stream from Washington. I’m sorry not to be able to welcome you in person. I want to commend each and every one of you for showing exceptional skills in your different fields of expertise. What I tell you next is confidential, and you are reminded that you have signed a legally binding contract not to disclose to anyone what you may learn here today.”
She paused and let the warning sink in before continuing.
“Few beyond these walls know that the primary function of The Game, which all of you have been playing so skillfully for these last several years, is not that of mere entertainment.”
The Game wasn’t just a game?
“Yes, it is fun to play in your various gamer roles, and that is all it will ever be to most who play it. But for the last three years, The Game’s real purpose, its most important function, has been to help us identify those gifted individuals who may be able to employ their valuable skills in serving the government and citizens of this great nation at a time when our very existence is threatened by heinous terrorists. In short, The Game is a recruitment tool.”
A low murmur of surprise buzzed around the room at these words. I was pretty astonished myself. I mean, I’d guessed, from Fiona’s presence at the game simulation and on the transport this morning, and from the fact that PlayState and The Academy were neighbors, that there might be some connection between them, but I hadn’t figured that the Game’s main purpose was to identify and recruit workers for the government. I snuck a glance at the pirate, but he was staring fixedly at Roth.
“You need to know this in order to make an informed decision about whether you wish to proceed with your induction and training here at the Academy. ASTA is a private agency mandated by our government to identify, recruit and train the brightest of this nation’s teenagers. The goal is to train you to become skilled allies in the fight against the terrorists who have decimated our population with their evil disease, and reduced our freedoms and traditional way of life to shadows of their former selves.”
Beside me, the pirate shifted his stance restlessly.
“Your skills have been developed through gaming. Your performance — online and in real-life simulations — has been monitored and your proficiency noted.”
What the heck? All the time I’d been playing, some person or program had been monitoring my performance, comparing and evaluating me against other players? It sounded like even the simulated sniper mission had been a test of sorts. I thought back to that day, seeing everything differently in the light of this new information. Had Sarge, Fiona and Juan been observing us, to see if we could carry over our marksmanship and keep our cool in a “real-life” situation? If so, Graham had obviously disqualified himself by losing his nerve when under pressure. And had that disgusting dead rat been placed in the arena deliberately? I was sickened by the idea that someone had killed an animal and brought it to that precise and nauseating stage of decomposition merely to check how we would respond. Maybe the hostage situation had also been some kind of test. Would I have been ruled out of selection if I’d surrendered, as I had first wanted to?
“Some of you,” continued Roth, “are our latest recruits to programs that already exist, but a few of you will be our first participants in a newly established unit. We believe that all of you have the talent and potential necessary to become skilled specialists in the service of your nation, and we would like to invite each of you to join our world of skilled and protective service. If you stay, you will be signing up for a period of training and employment of not less than eighteen months. During that time, you will be paid a small monthly stipend and will amass a wealth of training and experience which will stand you in good stead for getting an excellent job afterwards. If you are not wholly enthusiastic or willing to commit yourself fully to a program which will, I warn you, be challenging, then you are free to leave. Simply raise a hand now, if that is your choice, and you will be escorted safely home.”
Everyone in the room looked around, but no one raised a hand. I hesitated.
I was being offered an out from the confined stir-crazy of home, as well as the chance to do something meaningful to help bring about the end of the war which had kept me trapped, kept all of us trapped, for the last four years. Part of me — the part whose job it was to worry about Mom and Robin — nudged me to raise my hand. But the rest of me, the selfish parts, I guess, wanted to stay here more than I had ever wanted anything. Maybe Robin would be late in submitting his school assignments, maybe Mom would work too late into the night designing websites for her clients, but they’d be safe at home. Besides, Mom would want me to serve my country, wouldn’t she? And Robin knew how much I chafed against the restrictions made necessary by the plague. He escaped into his books; he wouldn’t deny me a chance to escape using my skill.
I moved my hands, but only to clasp them together behind me. I was smiling widely behind my mask.
The pirate looked down at me, an odd expression in his eyes.
“You all wish to stay? How wonderful!” said Roth, her thin lips curving in a brief smile. Was she watching us via a live-stream, too? “Right, you will all now be taken to the medical and intake section, located down the corridor to your right, where you will be processed and assigned to your units. I look forward to getting to know you during your stay here. Please refrain from speaking to each other until processing is complete.” With a final flash of violet, her hologram disappeared.
As we all trooped down the stairs to the intake and processing department, I followed behind the pirate, admiring the way his wide shoulders tapered down to his lean waist.
First stop was the registration table.
“Ladies first,” said the pirate, stepping aside.
The uniformed official standing behind the table checked my registration slip off against an online list on his touchscreen computer, took my bags and labeled them. Then he issued me an empty cardboard box and a sealed package which he fetched from the packed tall shelves behind him.
“You’re in the black unit,” the official said.
Blue. Crap.
Next, we were directed to the row of unisex decon shower booths. Another official, wearing the same sand-colored uniform, mask and gloves as the man behind the table, directed me to a booth as soon as the green light beside its door indicated that it was free.
“Shower, change into the garments in the package and put everything you are currently wearing into the box. When you are finished, exit via the door at the other side of the booth and proceed to the medical examination.” She repeated the instructions to each recruit as they reached the front of the line.
I nodded and entered the booth, and the door swung closed behind me. In the tiny changing booth, I stripped and placed my folded clothes, underwear and shoes into the box. Both my box and package were labeled with black stickers bearing the same number: JJ20027. As soon as I stepped under the showerhead in the adjacent stall, the water turned on automatically. It was good and hot, but it was also yellow and smelt funny. Though it was probably only some strong sort of disinfectant, it felt like showering in pee.
The walls of the booth and shower were high enough not to be able to see over, but they reached down only to just below my knees. From where I stood under the spray, I could see under the booth walls into the lower section of the adjacent booth’s changing area, where a pair of checkerboard sneakers lay on the ground. I was hyper-aware that I was naked and showering next to the pirate, with only the three-quarter shower wall between us. Now and then I saw a foot and ankle in the gap. Could he see my feet, with their long second toes and blue nail polish?
When the water stopped, I opened the package. Inside I found a disposable drying cloth, latex gloves and a new mask, as well as clothes — a bra and panties, a pair of black sneakers, socks and three black, all-in-one, zip-up jumpsuits. Everything was in my size.
I dressed, put on my gloves and mask, and tried to find a way to open the door at the other end of the shower cubicle, but apparently that was automated, too, because there was no latch or handle and it didn’t open when I pushed. A few minutes later, it swung open with a soft ping. I exited and joined the next line, directly behind the pirate, who was now wearing a blue jumpsuit. When he noticed me, he stretched out a hand and brushed my dripping hair off my chest. I looked down to see that he had exposed the name embroidered in white thread and block capital letters over the breast pocket of the suit.
“Jinx?” he asked softly.
I nodded.
I read the name on his breast pocket. QUINN O’RILEY.
“So we’re in different units?” I whispered.
“Looks like it,” he said.
“What are you —” I began.
But Quinn held a finger up to his mask-covered lips and then, keeping his hand close against his chest, he pointed upwards and tilted his head a bit back. My eyes flicked above and beyond him. A small camera, like a dark, round fisheye, was mounted in the ceiling of the room. That was odd. Why would there be security cameras down here? Surely no one would want to break into the facility to use the showers?
I said nothing more but twisted my head to scan the line growing behind me. About ten positions back, I recognized the dark skin, short, spiky hair and temple tattoo of Leya. I was pleased to see she was also in a black jumpsuit, so at least I’d have a friend in my unit. We smiled and waved at each other. Soon Quinn was directed into a medical examination booth, and a minute or two later, I was sent into the booth next to him. Things worked like clockwork around here.
Inside the booth, a bored-looking medic with hot-pink hair and matching contact lenses took my blood pressure, stuck an infrared thermometer into my ear, and extracted a blood sample from a vein in my arm. Then she pulled down my mask and swabbed the inside of my cheek with something like a long, transparent mascara brush before twisting it closed in a glass vial. I felt exposed with my mask off — hers was still firmly in place — but not as exposed as when, a moment later, she told me to open my jumpsuit, peel it down to my waist and remove my bra for the examination. I did as she instructed, while she tossed the protective plastic nozzle-cover from the thermometer into a biohazard disposal bin.
I stood, rigidly uncomfortable and self-conscious. No one, as far as I could recall, had ever seen my body before except my mother. I hadn’t gotten sick since we took to living inside years ago. A couple of years ago, I’d tripped and fallen down the stairs, landing hard on my wrist. Mom was worried I might have broken it, so she set up a consultation where the doctor examined my arm over video-call. He’d sent me for x-rays at the hospital, but no one had actually touched me, and I hadn’t had to take off any clothes. I hoped the medic wouldn’t mistake the blush of embarrassment I could feel spreading across my face and chest for the flushed rash of rat fever.
She checked my torso for the telltale spots and listened to my lungs through a stethoscope as I sat, naked from the waist up, all too aware of Quinn in the next booth. I could hear him speaking, asking something in his lilting voice.
“Two new masks and a box of gloves,” replied another male voice, probably that of the medic examining him. “These will last you the ten days until your quarantine is lifted.”
“Why only ten days? Don’t the samples take twelve days to culture?” I heard Quinn ask.
“Are you complaining?”
“No. I was only wondering why the quarantine is shorter than normal.”
“Because we have you under constant observation, that’s why. We’ll soon pick up if there’s a problem. Now please read and sign these forms.”
My medic told me I could suit up again, gave me a package of gloves and masks, and then handed me three forms, preprinted with my details, instructing me to check that the information was all correct, before signing them.
The first form was a medical questionnaire and declaration of physical fitness, which came with a warning that it was a federal offense to lie or withhold information. The second was a waiver which indemnified ASTA against any legal claims in the event of me being injured or killed. Real overkill, as Robin would say. The third form was another confidentiality agreement.
I scanned the small print briefly before I signed. Though it was phrased in difficult-to-understand legalese, I figured I might just have promised, on pain of definite imprisonment and possible death or disembowelment, not to tell anybody, anything. Ever. More overkill. I was only going to shoot rats, and that surely couldn’t be a state secret. Then again, I didn’t know what the other divisions were up to. I had only The Game to go by. If we had been recruited according to the specialized roles we’d played, maybe some of these recruits would be helping with code-breaking or spying. That work would be much more sensitive than rat extermination.
“Do you understand what you have read and signed?” the medic asked when I handed back the papers.
“Not really,” I admitted. “I’m not clear what I am and am not allowed to talk about, and with whom.”
“You may not talk to anyone on the outside about anything — anything,” she emphasized, “that you see, hear or do at this facility. You may speak freely to members of your unit once you leave this processing unit, but for the first six weeks of training, you may not converse about any aspect of your unit’s specialized training or work to any recruit from another unit. If you can’t cope with that level of confidentiality, then you won’t be the sort of person we want working for us. Any breach of this rule will result in immediate expulsion from the program and, as you’ve seen,” she tapped the contract, “serious legal consequences. You are free, of course, to liaise with recruits from other units as long as you talk about non-sensitive subjects.”
“Such as?”
“Religion, money, politics,” she said, with a brief laugh. “Plus there’s always the weather.”
“What happens after six weeks?”
“You graduate and are presumed to be trustworthy.”
She countersigned the agreements, slip
ped them all into a manila folder with my name on it and stuck another of the black stickers on the outside.
“Left- or right-handed?” she asked.
“Right.”
She grasped my left arm and wrapped a stainless steel band around the wrist.
“This is your ID bracelet. You are officially now an ASTA cadet.” She sealed the band closed with a special clamp. “You are not to remove this under any circumstances.”
“Right,” I said, studying the band. It had the JJ20027 engraved into it, but not my name.
“Here’s a map to your quarters and the whole facility. You’re in room twelve, ground floor, west wing.” She pointed to the highlighted rectangular petal to the left of the central oval marked gymnasium. “You may proceed to your quarters now.”
“What about my clothes and stuff?”
“All your belongings will be delivered to your quarters once they’ve been through decontamination and inspection.”
“Inspection?”
What were they looking for — rats? Syringes filled with contagion? I wondered what they would make of the bottles of vitamins and immune-boosters my mother had packed in my bag.
“We check for alcohol and illicit substances. You’d be amazed what people try to smuggle in.”
Uh-oh. I wondered if my economy-sized pack of peanut-butter cups would count as an illicit substance? Maybe we weren’t supposed to have brought in food.
“Right, Cadet James, that’s you processed. Goodbye and good luck.”
Outside the medical processing unit, Quinn was leaning up against a wall. He pushed off when I emerged and walked over, his hand extended to shake mine.