The Ninth

by Benjamin Schramm

  “I’ve asked you not to sneak up on me,” Jack said irritably as he returned to his seat.

  “I seem to scare you even when I try not to,” the boy said, rounding Jack’s desk and taking a seat that was too big for him.

  “So you were trying to sneak up on me.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Now, Brent, we’ve talked about this.”

  “Why are you always late?”

  “Because I don’t take the mass transit system like the others.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Let’s just say I have a thing with crowds and leave it at that.”

  “Are we going to run more tests today?”

  “Yes, Brent, we are. Is that a problem?”

  “Not really, but it would not be nice to skip the party.”

  “Party? What party?”

  “The going away party for that sad doctor, the one who gives me shots.”

  “Well we can’t miss a party, now can we, Brent.”

  “It would not be polite.”

  “All right then, for today, just today, we’ll skip the tests.”

  With that, Brent got up from his seat, saluted Jack, and calmly walked out into the hallway. Jack had never seen the boy run or play like a normal child, always moving in a cool and collected manner. At first they had simply called the child Lazarus after the project, but when the child grew old enough to speak, he protested the name. He said that people acted strangely when they learned his name, and he wanted a better one. The doctors on call gave dozens of suggestions, but the child turned down each. The child then stared at Jack expectantly. The only name that Jack could bring to mind was that of his late father, Brent Davis. The child nodded and asked everyone to call him Brent from that point on.

  Following in the direction of Brent’s departure, Jack made his way to the doctor’s lounge. Jack wondered why no one had told him about Doctor Humphrey’s departure. He wasn’t really part of the staff, but he had been around long enough to get on the good side of most of the real physicians. Jack had already sensed the large group of people and their merriment, but at a facility like this, it wasn’t so out of place to draw attention to itself. Entering the lounge, Jack found the majority of the staff chatting to one another over various sweets. The varying emotions of the group were starting to give Jack a small headache. Jack was used to the headaches, but something else was bothering him, something he couldn’t put his finger on. Deciding to get to the heart of the matter, Jack made his way through the crowd to Doctor Humphrey. She was smiling and laughing with the rest of the staff.

  “So, I hear you are leaving us.” Jack tried to sound pleasant.

  “I am. Sorry to say it, but this is my last day. Sorry for not telling you. It was a sudden reassignment.” Doctor Humphrey was honestly disappointed to be leaving.

  “It’s no problem. I understand . . .”

  “Of course he does,” a man shouted over Jack, his emotions jumbled enough to indicate intoxication. “A rugged sailor of the stars! Never staying in one port for more than a night!”

  “I think Richard is drunk!” Doctor Humphrey giggled.

  “I am not! I assure you I’m perfectly fine. It’s the rest of you. You are all far too sober.”

  The group broke into laughter. Jack made his way to an edge of the room and took a seat. Searching the room, he found Brent sitting on the other side of the room, watching the doctors and staff members enjoy their party.

  “I’m going to miss Janet.” Jack overheard a group of nearby nurses.

  “I never would have thought it; she was so cold when she first got here.”

  “I know, but she really warmed up to this place.”

  “Just when we are really getting to know her, she has to leave. It’s not fair.”

  With sudden inspiration Jack jumped from his seat. The nearby doctors turned to look at the commotion. Jack recognized the faces, but they were different somehow. That thing that had been tugging at him since he entered the lounge was now literally staring him in the face – the doctors had changed.

  Running back to his office, Jack pulled up classified personnel files. Scanning through them as quickly as possible, he found what he was looking for. This facility was basically a retreat, not just for patients but also for doctors. Mental fatigue, stress, breakdowns, and depression – half the staff were in worse condition than the patients. Doctor Humphrey was leaving the facility because she was cured. She had been transferred into the facility after an attempted suicide. The women Jack had just talked to would never commit suicide. In fact, Jack would swear she couldn’t commit suicide; it wasn’t possible for her anymore. Those kinds of emotions simply weren’t in her. Searching through the personnel files, Jack found one case after another of complete reversals, doctors and nurses at the end of their ropes in a better mental condition than they had ever been before. Brent’s comment rang in Jack’s head, “that sad doctor.”

  “You know I would not be able to sneak up on you if you arrived as early as the others,” Brent said, entering Jack’s office.

  “You mean the other doctors.”

  “You are not a doctor.”

  “Oh? What makes you say that, Brent?”

  “You can’t be a doctor; I like you.” The boy smiled.

  Jack was forced to blink. Brent had smiled. He couldn’t feel any emotions, but somehow Jack knew the boy’s gesture was genuine. For the first time in a very long time, Jack felt fear.

  “I’m not that scary, am I?” Brent asked sincerely.

  Jack was lost for words; a shiver ran down his spine. What was Brent capable of?

  Unforgivable. To make Jack wait this long when he had such important news. In the last six years everything had changed. Brent was growing in unexpected ways, and Jack knew that action must be taken quickly before it was too late. Above the entryway a view screen sprung to life; Jack was finally being allowed to see the council. The eight council members were seated in a semicircle behind a raised desk that elevated them above the platform Jack was to speak from. A cute trick officials often employed to give them a psychological advantage; looking down on the speaker reinforced their power. Tricks like this were pointless with Jack; he could feel their anxiety and they knew that.

  “Weaver Davis, we have granted you this audience out of respect for the accord reached over the handling of the Lazarus child.” A council member sitting in the center of the semicircle started, apparently the leader of the group.

  “What urgent matter do you bring before us today, Weaver?” The council member on the far right asked. There was a strange worry in him.

  “The Lazarus child, the one we call Brent, must be relocated immediately.” Jack wasted no more time getting to the point.

  “Relocated where?” The head council member did not trust Jack.

  “Brent is to be moved to an academy. This must be done immediately; time is short.” Jack answered.

  “Why are you intent on this? Trying to get the child into the hands of the military?”

  “Squabbles over the child’s ownership are pointless. He must be moved to an academy; it is the only place we can teach him.”

  “Teach him what? We’ve granted you access to the full resources of Tricra. Are you saying that an academy has better instructors than Tricra?”

  “In certain fields, yes.”

  “So you want to teach the boy how to kill, is that it?”

  “No, council member, I want to teach the boy control, so he doesn’t kill.”

  “Is the boy dangerous?” The far right council member broke into the conversation, his fear increasing.

  “Not yet, council member, but I fear he may be soon.” Jack wondered at the fear of the far right council member; he knew something.

  “What makes you think that, Weaver?” The head council member disliked being interrupted. “We’ve reviewed your findings and there is no indication the boy is dangerous in any way.”

  “I believe Brent is a Weaver,
but not like any we have seen before. If I’m right, he could be more dangerous than any weapon.”

  The council was shocked by the news, save for the far right member. How could he have known? Jack had been careful to omit any mention of Weaver-like abilities in his reports. The only thing people feared and misunderstood more than jump drives were Weavers.

  “That is disturbing news, Weaver. However, the military doesn’t hold monopoly over Weavers.” The head council member felt sure of his decision; the others were starting to worry. “If this Brent, as you call him, is a Weaver, he will be sent to a government facility for his further development.”

  “An academy is the only choice,” Jack asserted. “Brent feels uneasy around the scientists of the institute as it is. If they learned he is a Weaver it would only get worse. He must be moved to an academy, one where Weavers are commonplace.”

  “Hold on a minute, Weaver. Did you say Brent feels?” a council member to the left asked. “I had gathered from your reports the child has no emotions.”

  “I’ve been noticing changes in the boy. Starting about six years ago he started slowly developing a personality, and recently basic emotions are starting to surface. That is why time is of the essence. We must get him into an academy before he develops fully.”

  The far right council member readjusted his position uncomfortably when Jack mentioned Brent was developing.

  “I am still unconvinced, Weaver.” The main council member was digging in his heels. “I see no reason why the child need be moved.”

  Jack knew he would get nowhere debating the council. Their leader was dead set against everything Jack said even before he said it. It was time for a parlor trick. Jack hated stooping to such lows, but time was of the essence.

  “Please explain the why to everyone else; you already know the answer.” Jack turned to face the far right council member directly, ignoring the rest.

  “What are you talking about?” The councilman choked out the words. The rest of the council pulled away.

  “Are you seriously going to play dumb to a Master Weaver?”

  “But it doesn’t mean anything.” The councilman was starting to sweat.

  “And now you choose to lie to me! Explain it to them, now.” Jack was laying it on a bit thick.

  The council member slouched in his chair, beaten. Taking a deep sigh, the council member started.

  “My nephew has always been a black sheep to the family, a habitual liar who’s failed at everything he’s ever done. About ten years ago he had the worse setback of his life; a plot of his fell through and there was a criminal investigation. Maybe I took pity on him, I don’t know, but I got him admitted to a mental institute to avoid punishment. I didn’t know at the time, but it was the same one that Brent was staying at. Two years after being admitted, my nephew was released a new man. I don’t mean metaphorically, he was a different person – a better person. He is now a governor with a family on a rim world. I couldn’t believe the transformation, so I looked into the matter. It was about that time I joined this council and learned of the child.”

  “And you expect us to believe it was the doings of the child?” The head council member sounded firm, but Jack knew he was shaken. “Impossible!”

  “I have records of hundreds of cases from the institute to support the councilman, all of them after the child arrived at the institute.” Jack pressed the head council member’s concern; maybe he could be broken yet.

  “I’m afraid that’s not the least of it.” The far right councilman addressed his superior.

  “There’s more?” the head council member asked.

  “During my investigation into my nephew’s change, I came across a Protectorate report. It requested the redeployment of dozens of women and men, all of them away from the institute.”

  “Why?” The head council member was honestly intrigued now.

  “They had nothing to do. The local area around the institute crime rate dropped to zero.”

  “Impossible . . .”

  “That report was over fourteen years old. Since then I’ve been gathering any Protectorate report dealing with crime rates and redeployments. There is a zone around the institute, a zone with a radius of nearly three hundred miles, of absolutely no crime. It started soon after the boy was brought to the institute, and it expanded continually until six years ago. About the time Weaver Davis started to notice changes in the boy, the zone stopped growing.”

  “Has it receded?” Jack asked, silently pleading that his assumption was wrong. “Has the crime rate increased since then?”

  “The zone hasn’t increased or decreased. There is some minor crime, but the Protectorates attribute it all to newcomers, people who moved into the area sometime after six years ago.”

  Jack had been right, his theory about the boy confirmed. It was now even more important to get the child into an academy before it was too late. The entire council was shaken; all they needed was a nudge and they would allow the transfer.

  “Councilmen, before this assignment I was deployed at an academy. My sole purpose was to train young Weavers to refine and control their abilities. Brent needs that now. If he is not taught to control his power, one day very soon it could overwhelm him. That zone of control he emitted six years ago could return, perhaps even larger, and instead of fixing people, he could break them.” Jack had nudged.

  The office was larger than Nathan was comfortable with. Back with Lazarus he had gotten used to the cramped but comfortable architecture of the old fortresses. Every room was just big enough for what was needed, where close relationships were forged out of necessity. There is nothing like sharing a room with four people, one barely big enough for three people, to build strong bonds. This office, on the other hand, felt cold to him; loneliness and pointless busywork were the only things waiting for him here. However, Nathan was never one to complain, and this position at an out of the way academy wasn’t all bad. After the catastrophe, Nathan was content that his next assignment wasn’t in front of a firing squad, though it was hard for Nathan not to return to those days in his mind after a few hundred meaningless forms. For him, those days were more real than the many that had passed since.

  “Administer Bloom, I trust you haven’t forgotten your schedule, again.” The shrill voice of Nathan’s secretary intruded in his reverie.

  Shaken, Nathan dropped his pad. Sometimes Nathan wondered if that firing squad from his nightmares would be preferable to another day with his secretary. Muttering to himself, he leaned over to retrieve his pad. Nathan couldn’t help but smile whenever he had to collect his pad. When he was a young lad, he had seen a comedy set in ancient times. As he got older, he realized it was satirical, a thinly veiled insult against some politician or another, but those details faded with time. What struck him at the time and continued to amuse him to this day was one scene after the politician’s election, where his advisors were giving him one suggestion after another – in song no less.

  What made it funny was, instead of sending the idea via pad, they handed each of their ideas to him on a single rectangular slice. As the suggestions built up so did the stack, until the dictator couldn’t hold it anymore and dropped the entire pile, sending thousands of thin sheets flying through the room. Every time Nathan collected his pad, he envisioned himself behind a stack of sheets, sending them flying at any occasion. Of course, the pad had replaced those countless sheets long ago, and the gag wouldn’t make sense to the recruits at his academy. He sighed as he wondered if even the older staff would get the joke and how ancient that prospect made him feel.

  Sifting through the documents and forms on his pad, Nathan searched for his schedule. As the Administer for the entire academy, he was always behind with endless strings of things to sign, to watch, and to approve, and yet, on top of all that, his secretary delighted herself in constructing an exhausting to-do list. Meet with this instructor, lecture at that assembly, inspect this, look at that, or some other meaningless task designed to wast
e his time and give his ever-growing stack of documents time to grow. Finally, Nathan found his schedule, and, as he expected, it was packed. Getting up from his desk, he sighed as he prepared for another long day. Putting on his formal wear, he noticed something off on his pad. There was an hour break without anything planned. Rushing out of his office, half dressed, Nathan jumped in front of his secretary’s desk.

  “Jessica, what’s the meaning of this break at 3 o’clock?” Nathan demanded.

  Ignoring him, his secretary continued reading her pad, the reflection of a cosmetic article taunting him in her glasses. Sighing, Nathan returned to his office, sat in his chair, rested his pad in its alcove on the desk, and activated the intercom.

  “Miss Fields, there is a break in my schedule from 3 o’clock until 4 o’clock.” Nathan forced calmness into his voice.

  “Yes there is, Administer Bloom,” the shrill voice replied.

  “Why is there a gap in my schedule, Miss Fields?”

  “You have a meeting that hour; they asked me not to make a record of it.”

  “Who made the appointment then?”

  “I don’t remember the name, Administer. I believe it might have been someone called Mavis.”

  “Mavis? I don’t know anyone by that name. Have they arrived?”

  “I’m your secretary, Administer Bloom, not the dock master.”

  “Fine, Miss Fields, I’ll go check it out myself.”

  “But your schedule, Administer Bloom . . .”

  “I have one more question, Miss Fields.”

  “Yes, Administer?”

  “You weren’t going to tell me about the meeting, were you?”

  “No, Administer.”

  Nathan finished getting into his formal wear and left his office, wondering if there was any chance he could throw his secretary out a docking port and make it look like an accident. Rushing down the identical hallways, Nathan made his way to the dock master. Many instructors had complained to him about getting lost in the corridors of the station, as if as the Administer had any say in matters of construction. Each time he gave out the same answer: “You’ll get used to it in time.” It was easy for him to say. Nathan had gotten lost thanks to the precise directions his secretary gave him on his first day as Administer and had learned the layout of the station the hard way. It took him five hours to find his office. Maybe making it look like an accident wasn’t so important.