The Academy

by Zachary Rawlins

  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.”

  “I know,” she replied emotionlessly. She seemed to remember her drink then, and drained it in one go, setting the empty glass down on the corner of the desk.

  “A silver Weir, huh?” Alistair mused, putting his arms behind his head and leaning back. “That’s pretty rare, you know. I haven’t seen one since that whole thing in Crimea, back in the eighties…”

  “Alistair? Who was it who finished the operation?”

  “Some Hegemony guy,” Alistair said, frowning with the effort of remembering. “North, I think.”

  “Was anyone conducting an operation in the area that I didn’t know about?” Mitsuru’s tone was chilly, her expression blank.

  Alistair nodded, unhappy. He’d already wondered the same thing, the moment the information had been relayed to Central. He knew what was bothering Mitsuru. There were only a few hundred Operators of North’s caliber altogether, and more than half of them were in Central at any given time.

  The chances that he would be operating in the same California city on the same night as Mitsuru by coincidence were minimal.

  “Central didn’t sanction any operation on the West Coast in the last twenty-four hours, other than yours. But you know how it is,” he said apologetically, “that doesn’t mean that there wasn’t one, just that the cartel didn’t register the operation with Central. What was your briefing when you were sent out tonight, anyway?”

  Mitsuru shrugged and brought her feet up onto the chair, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “Recon and field analysis. Analytics knew about the pack, that they’d been hanging around the area recently, wanted to determine the extent of the problem.” Mitsuru shook her head, looking worried. “But they were wrong about the size of the pack, and they were wrong about why they were there. The Weir were supposed to be hunting.”

  Alistair finished his whiskey, and then collected the glasses and made them disappear behind his desk.

  “The Weir were waiting for that boy, Alistair,” she said, biting her thumbnail absently. “For him specifically. And they knew he’d come to that spot, too. They sat and waited for him, like they had an appointment.”

  “Someone was running them,” he agreed. “They were probably running the kid somehow, too, if they were that confident that he’d show.”

  “North’s cartel, then? Another Hegemony cartel? Do they even have those kinds of capabilities?”

  “At this point, I’m not ruling out any possibility, Mitzi. But using a pack of Weir for a removal,” Alistair said, frowning, “that’s something that I’d expect the Witches to do. Anyway, there are quieter, more deniable ways to take out one kid, if that’s what the cartel wanted.”

  “Is it actually possible this is a coincidence?”

  Alistair shook his head.

  “I doubt it.” Alistair got a headache, just thinking about it. “The analysts say it’s highly unlikely, and I sure don’t believe it.”

  “Then what?”

  “It wasn’t a hit, Mitzi,” Alistair said with a shrug.

  “What?”

  “The Weir were probably hired to hit the kid, don’t get me wrong,” Alistair said with a tired smile. “They aren’t clever enough to fake something like that. But, I don’t think that is what their client intended to happen at all. I think that they arranged the whole scenario to try and jar the boy’s talents into activation, probably in the most traumatic way possible. And if you hadn’t intervened…”

  “Then they would have, whoever they are,” Mitsuru said, dully completing his sentence. “Either they anticipated my involvement, or they had someone else waiting in the wings, and hung back when they saw me.”

  “Could be.” Alistair nodded thoughtfully. “But, North being there doesn’t necessarily mean he had any direct involvement in the attack. For all we know, the whole thing was a Black Sun operation, and North was keeping an eye on it, and took the opportunity to bail Central out when it arose. We don’t have enough data to say anything for certain about that yet. Maybe Gaul will get more out of him when he conducts the Inquiry.”

  “Then, what now?”

  Alistair’s grin was more genuine this time.

  “Well, I’m going to need someone to keep an eye on the kid, for the time being. His name’s Alexander, by the way.”

  Mitsuru’s face was a mixture of slow realization and dawning horror.

  “Don’t worry,” he said comfortingly, reaching forward to pat her shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll be a great instructor.”

  Seven

  If there was one thing life had repeatedly taught Alex, it was the value of avoiding unnecessary confrontation. He didn’t like uniforms. But he started putting it on, anyway, because he didn’t see any other good options.

  There were certain things in life that were going to happen – institutional life had taught him that. You would, for example, wear your uniform as directed. You would be in your cell by six. Lights would go out at nine. You would be up, dressed and bed made by eight the next morning. All of these things were going to happen, whether you felt like doing them or not. The only option that Alex had been offered was whether or not he would prefer to have his teeth kicked down his throat in the process.

  And you’d have to be stupid to make a choice like that. They said this was a school, and that was fine. But, in Alex’s experience, school wasn’t so different from any other institution – with uniforms, rules, privileges, dormitories and grounds; there would be principals imparted and edges smoothed out. He’d been the target of such manufacture before, and he knew that he’d gain nothing by getting caught up in the gears.

  Add to that, Alex thought, pulling on the button-up shirt awkwardly over the sheath of plastic that wrapped his injured forearm, the fact that Michael was one scary dude, smile or no. Alex didn’t really know that many black guys personally, but he didn’t think that made much of a difference, in this case. He’d never met anyone who looked like him, with the tattoos and the dreadlocks and then the suit, but apparently he worked as some kind of teacher.

  Alex fumbled the top button on his collar into place, and then wondered if it was actually supposed to be that tight. Maybe guys usually left the top one undone? He couldn’t remember.


  Michael seemed pretty friendly, and that was interesting on its own. Alex hadn’t met many people who didn’t despise him, and he wasn’t overly eager to make him angry. If he was going to be a part of this school, or whatever it was, then Michael seemed to be in a position to make it all go easier for Alex. No, he thought, wincing as he pulled on the tight slacks. There was no point in arguing with Michael. Alex was sure that he would lose, and he didn’t pick fights that he knew he would lose.

  He would practice patience, he thought, tucking his shirt into his pants with his off-hand. He’d treat it the same way he’d handled guards, administrators, psychologists, teachers, all that noise – he’d smile when they expected smiles and he’d stay quiet when he could. Whenever possible, he would tell the truth, because lies were more complicated – telling lies meant being meticulous, consistent, remembering who’d been told what. It was a burden, at best; at worst, it could ruin whatever opportunities he might have here. That said, when he chose to speak, he’d try and make as sure as possible it was what they wanted to hear.

  And the whole time, he’d be watching. Keeping careful track of everything they said and did. Observation was important. And he knew already that they’d misjudged him, and he’d helped it along a bit. He almost laughed then, as he tucked his feet into the leather shoes, because it was so clear that they didn’t get it – he didn’t lack social skills, not because he came from a town that openly despised him.

  Not when it took extraordinary skills just to make it through the day. But, in a lot of ways, it might be better if they thought of him as a bit lost, a bit naive. It would make them more likely to help him, and Alex wanted their help, he wanted it very badly indeed.

  Alex didn’t trust Michael, but he liked him, at least a little bit. Alex didn’t want to go to school, but the way he figured it, they’d make him go either way, at least for a few more years. And it couldn’t possibly be any worse than repeating his junior year.

  Alex looked himself over in the mirror grimly. He looked battered, skinny, and the blazer and slacks felt unfamiliar and tight. It wasn’t, he thought, the presentation he’d like to make for his big introduction. He’d have to do his best, then, to avoid making those kinds of impressions.

  Alex shrugged and walked out the door and into the hallway. He was so absorbed in trying to find his way to the downstairs lobby that he didn’t even notice when Michael started walking next to him, wearing that smile that Alex liked but didn’t trust one bit.

  “You look uncomfortable, kid,” Michael said cheerfully. “Nervous about this whole thing?”

  “Well, yeah,” Alex admitted, “who wouldn’t be? But I didn’t think that the school would have uniforms,” Alex said, gesturing at the blue blazer and slacks, “it seems kind of, I don’t know, weird. Like some prep school thing.”

  Michael laughed and clapped Alex on the back.

  “Don’t worry about it too much – you only have to wear it for lectures. The rest of the time, you can dress however you want.”

  Michael led him to a bank of elevators, and then pressed the down button. There was almost no wait, and the door chime when the elevator opened filled Alex with a strange, comforting familiarity. Elevators, at least, he understood.

  Well, okay. He didn’t understand them at all. But they were a recognizable part of his world.

  “What happened to my clothes, anyway?”

  The elevator started its descent with an unholy squealing of metal on metal, and worn gears grinding, that caused Alex to flinch, but Michael didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Sorry, but they were pretty much bloody rags by the time you got here – and anyway, I think the doctors cut them off you in order to operate,” Michael said apologetically. “We got someone to go around to your place, though, and collect your things. I’ve had them dropped off in your new room.”

  Alex nodded a bit skeptically. He wasn’t entirely sure what his ‘things’ could have possibly constituted – he’d lived in his grandmother’s tiny trailer, and most of the things in it had been hers. Only some clothes, his MP3 player, and maybe some movies could be considered his, so he was curious what was waiting for him. He had a vision of his grandmother’s absurdly large Christmas gnome cookie-jar sitting on a desk in a dorm room, and had to choke back a giggle.

  The elevator opened on to a lobby that looked to Alex’s eyes to be identical to the lobby of every hospital he’d ever been to. Only Michael, towering over the bustling crowd of nurses and patients, dreadlocks hanging down to his shoulders, looked out of place. He strode across the lobby briskly, and Alex found himself struggling to keep pace with the big man’s stride.

  The grounds outside the hospital did look to Alex like a university – concrete paths winding through grassy areas, a number of angular buildings made out of a strange, dull stone, set back discretely from each other, surrounded by old oak and birch trees. The weather was warm fall weather not unlike California – and not for the first time, Alex wondered where they were, exactly. Somewhere that the weather was pretty similar to home, anyway, if that meant anything.

  They followed a winding path through the grounds, Alex trailing a few feet behind Michael, who made no attempt to converse. Occasionally, they were passed by other students, or at least other people in uniforms similar to his own. Alex didn’t seem to attract much more than passing glances, though everyone acknowledged Michael with at least a nod, and received a cheerful greeting in return. Alex was not particularly surprised to discover that Michael appeared to know the first name of everyone that they came across.

  The building Michael led them to, a few minutes’ walk from the hospital, reminded Alex of a church, or one of the older government buildings in D.C. – made from the same grey stone he’d seen earlier, with ornate columns and a weird round overhang out in front. The windows on either side of the giant wooden door were stained glass, done in an abstract and colorful style. It was imposing, even in the mild afternoon sunlight, dark wood with dull metal inlays, formal and a bit grotesque.

  Alex wondered how they were going to enter the building, given that the door appeared to be twelve feet tall and cut from a single piece of wood, but as they got closer, he realized that the door had a secondary, standard-size entry set in it, so close to flush that it was invisible from a distance. Michael held it open, gesturing for Alex to enter.

  It was cold inside the building, and Alex shivered as he walked inside the enormous central chamber, a long expense of alternating black and white marble tile with curled stairways at intervals along the hall, climbing up to the ornate girding of the second floor. The hallway went far enough along in a straight line that Alex could not see the end of it. The building appeared sparsely populated, as he saw only a handful of people moving purposefully from office to office, dressed in typical business attire rather than the school uniform.

  “Welcome to the Administration building, Alex. We’ve got a few things to take care of here, regarding your enrollment, then we’ll see about giving you a look around the campus, and get you set up in the dorms. Right through here…”

  Michael led him down the hall, then up the third staircase on the right, through a heavy walnut door, and into an airy office with an excessive number of potted plants. There was a heavy-set woman in a purple dress there, working behind a white-painted desk, who smiled cheerfully when they walked in. Michael greeted her with a wave.

  “Mrs. Nesbit, my secretary extraordinaire. Alexander Warner, a new student. Could you prepare the paperwork?”

  She nodded and began tapping away at her keyboard, while Michael led Alex through another door to a smaller back office. He sat down behind a desk littered with books, piles of paper, and an aged desktop computer, nodding wearily toward a comfortable-looking chair in the corner of the room. Alex sat down gratefully, his back sore and his forearm aching, even after his stay in the hospital.

  “You’ve got good timing, Alex. We are between sessions right now,” Michael said, clearing an area in fron
t of him by moving what appeared to be a partially disassembled firearm, piece by piece, into a desk drawer. “Most of the students are back at home. We’ll be able to get you installed at the dorms and enrolled in class right from the first day.”

  “What kind of classes?”

  Alex spoke in monotone, unable to hide his unhappiness at the thought.

  Michael laughed.

  “I doubt very much that you’ll find it boring, Alex, but I can’t tell you much until we figure out what you can learn, okay? We won’t try and teach you anything that you don’t want to know.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Michael seemed terribly amused by Alex’s recalcitrance.

  “Don’t worry about it too much. At first, it will be general stuff. We’ll have you do some tests, so we can figure out the proper placement for you. It’ll probably be a bit hard, to start with, but I think you’ll find that it’s not that bad once you get the hang of how it all works.”

  “Will everyone know what’s going on but me?”

  “No, but you will be at a disadvantage,” Michael said thoughtfully. “No use pretending otherwise. Sometimes the talent runs in families, but mostly it doesn’t. Some of the students here have been raised as part of a cartel, but most of the others, like you, were discovered in the world, as children or early teens. It’s a bit unusual to be starting at your age, but it’s not unheard of. But yes,” Michael added sympathetically, “most of the students will probably have a better idea of what’s going on than you do.”

  “You’re going to have to explain it, then,” Alex said firmly. “I’m going to need to know about it all, Michael.”

  “I’ll do my best to explain,” he said, as Mrs. Nesbit entered with a quick knock and deposited a stack of folders on a recently cleared patch of desk. “Two coffees, Mrs. Nesbit. How do you take yours, Alex?”