Pandora Jones: Admission

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘Speaking of which . . .’

  Wei-Lin interrupted Nate. ‘No time at the moment. We need to get cleared up here and off to our lesson. Get your bowls, and follow me.’

  They took their bowls to the side of the hall where there were rows of basins filled with tepid water. Each student washed his or her spoon and bowl and stacked them to dry in racks along the wall. The water was oily and filled with a suspension of grainy food remnants. Pan doubted her bowl was any cleaner by the time she had finished scrubbing its surface. Nate grinned. He had a cute lopsided grin.

  ‘Just gets better and better, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘We need to ask that helicopter pilot dude to pick up a serious industrial dishwasher on his travels.’

  ‘Hey, Wei-Lin,’ said a boy in front of Pan. ‘Heard you’d left your old group. This your new bunch, huh?’ He looked over the eight students and didn’t appear impressed. His mouth narrowed into a sneer.

  ‘Best group in The School, Mitch,’ replied Wei-Lin. ‘Kick your sorry arse any day.’

  ‘Whoa, girl. Them’s challenging words.’

  ‘Any time, Mitch. Any time.’

  The boy chuckled. ‘I love pissing contests,’ he said. ‘Bring it on.’

  ‘You in Gwynne’s weapons class next up?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Excellent. We’re coming to watch. It’s your chance to impress us, Mitch. Make sure you don’t drop the weapon on your toe. I hate to see grown boys cry.’

  ‘“Coming to watch”?’ He feigned a shiver. ‘What a tough bunch of guys. I’m crapping myself, Wei-Lin.’

  Wei-Lin smiled before turning back to her group. ‘Follow me,’ she said. ‘Gwynne’s a hard task-master, but he knows his stuff.’

  She led her team out into the pale sunshine, Cara and Sanjit trailing at the rear.

  Chapter 5

  Thirty students were assembled on a large rocky outcrop. The cold seemed to have intensified despite the weak sun, and Pan wondered if it was ever warm in this place. The instructor paced up and down in front of the class. He was a short, stocky man with a shaved head. His features appeared to have been forcefully rearranged a number of times in the past. His nose had clearly been badly broken and even more badly reset. He wiped at it constantly and sniffed.

  ‘Right,’ he barked. ‘Beginners weapons-training. Range of weapons and how best to use them.’

  Wei-Lin and her group stood off to one side. The instructor glanced in their direction and then ignored them. ‘That’s Gwynne. Ex-military,’ whispered Wei-Lin. ‘And with the sense of humour of an Uzi submachine gun.’

  ‘Today, simple staff work,’ the instructor continued. ‘A staff. Oldest and noblest of weapons.’ He strolled up and down in front of the students. ‘And easy to find. Readily available. Later I’ll show you how to make one. Wood, sharp knife. Result, lethal weapon.’

  ‘Does he always talk like that?’ whispered Pan.

  Wei-Lin laughed. ‘Oh, yes. Sometimes I think he looks on words as bullets. Quick sprays are best. Don’t waste your ammunition.’

  Gwynne picked up a length of gnarled wood from a pile behind him and shifted it in his hands.

  ‘Balance is key. Not just staff, but also you. Weapon becomes extension of body. Practice. Very important. Objective is you don’t know you’re even carrying it. Okay. Basic techniques. Volunteer?’

  No one moved. I’m not surprised, thought Pan. This looks dangerous. Gwynne glanced along the line of students.

  ‘What? None of you chickenshits?’ he said.

  ‘I will.’

  The voice came from Pan’s right. She glanced around. Jen’s hand was raised. Of course, thought Pan. What had Jen said about her interests? Martial arts?

  Gwynne frowned. ‘Haven’t seen you before,’ he said. ‘New?’

  ‘Yes. But I know something about Hapkido.’

  Gwynne sniffed and wiped at his nose.

  ‘Hapkido?’ He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. ‘I call it stick-fighting. Hapkido. Interesting. Step forward.’

  He tossed the staff to Jen, who caught it expertly and hefted it in her hands, testing the weight and balance.

  ‘Right,’ said the instructor, wiping once more at his nose. ‘Now, basic moves – defence, blocks and counterattacks. Avoid injury. Protective clothing. Put it on.’ He indicated a pile of clothing next to the jumble of staffs. Jen pulled out a padded helmet. It was like a cyclist’s helmet, but with extra panels built in to protect the ears and the neck. There were also arm and leg guards and a bulky vest. Jen placed the helmet on her head and fastened a buckle under her chin, cinching it tight. Then she took the protective gear, simple pieces of moulded heavy-duty padding that joined with Velcro strips. It took her only thirty seconds to be ready. Gwynne looked her up and down, nodded and then addressed the waiting students. He was clearly not quick to give praise or encouragement.

  ‘Watch,’ he said. ‘We’ll do this slowly. I will attack. She will employ basic defensive manoeuvres. We’ll do this a few times. Then you lot, in pairs, go through the moves.’ He moved closer to Jen and examined the position of her hands. He nodded again, but it seemed, to Pan at least, a grudging acknowledgement. ‘Must have hands like this. Pay attention. See? This position allows you to move without changing grip. Changing grip, time-consuming, dangerous. Now watch. I bring staff over. Roundhouse blow to top of head. I connect, game over. Luckily, it’s easy to block.’

  He stepped forward and brought the staff in a very slow and lazy curve towards Jen’s head, stopping as he reached the highest point of the arc.

  ‘Now. Simple block.’

  Jen immediately brought up her hands so the staff lay parallel to her shoulders, a metre or so in front of her face.

  ‘Good,’ said Gwynne. ‘Note barrier protects head. Safe, even from solid blow.’ He took a step back and then brought his staff down quickly. There was a resounding thud as Jen’s staff met his and halted its downward movement.

  ‘Excellent. Note how the new girl kept hands fluid. Easy to get knuckles rapped. This happens. Important not to drop staff when it does. Do not grip too hard. Staff must be able to move, slide between fingers. Note how the new girl moved hands wider, means more staff to block thrust. Again.’

  They went through this routine half a dozen more times, the circle of students watching carefully. Jen blocked each attack with ease, her feet shifting to maintain balance. After the fifth time, Gwynne took a step back.

  ‘Name, new girl?’ he said.

  ‘Jen.’

  ‘I’m impressed, Jen. How much do you know about stick-fighting?’

  Jen shrugged. ‘Enough. But I’m always eager to learn more.’

  Gwynne nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘The reason we are here. Right. Time for other manoeuvres, in slow motion. I will try to break Jen’s defences, attack her side and legs. Legs are particularly important. Sweep away opponent’s legs, you win. Almost certain. Difficult defending yourself from the ground. Watch.’

  This time Gwynne moved his staff slightly quicker. He started with the same attack on Jen’s head, but followed it immediately with a thrust to the side. Jen blocked both easily and fluently. When Gwynne went for her legs she skipped backwards and blocked that too. Gwynne stood with his legs slightly apart, the staff planted between his feet.

  ‘Jen makes this seem easy. It isn’t. Plenty of practice, plenty of bruises. Right. This time I will attack, full speed. My opponent defends, attacks if given chance. Okay, Jen?’

  Jen stretched out her arms, the staff balanced on her palms, and bowed towards Gwynne. He smiled, but it appeared an unaccustomed action.

  ‘Another world, young Jen,’ he said. ‘Advice. This is no longer a sport. No meaningless rituals. Think only of survival. Bow again and I’ll hurt you while you’re distracted.’

  Jen smiled.

  Gwynne rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, took a couple of paces to the side, his eyes never leaving Jen’s face. His attack was sudden and brutal. He fe
inted a blow to Jen’s head, but then immediately moved his staff so that it traced an arc towards her feet. Jen skipped back and blocked, brought her own staff up towards Gwynne’s head. He parried and performed a complex manoeuvre that managed to attack his opponent on a number of different levels, apparently simultaneously. His staff moved so quickly that it was a blur in the air. Jen took a couple of steps back under the pressure of the onslaught, but she blocked every attack. It’s in the feet, Pan thought. This might look like a couple of people trying to smash each other with sticks, but it was also a balletic sequence in which balance, rhythm and timing were of paramount importance. There was something almost beautiful in it.

  The ending happened so quickly that no one watching could quite understand how it occurred. One moment they were dancing around each other, the next Gwynne was on his knees and clutching his stomach. Pan had an unimpeded view of his face, which was screwed up in agony. For a moment she thought he was going to vomit. Jen stood motionless, her staff pointed straight towards her opponent. It was clear she had connected with a straight jab to Gwynne’s stomach, knocking the air out of him. I’d have to watch that in slow motion, thought Pan. Maybe frame advance, it was so quick.

  Gwynne took a minute to get to his feet, his face ashen. He picked up his staff and straightened gingerly, taking in deep lungfuls of air. The silence was intense. Jen had returned to a position of rest, the staff balanced on her palms and parallel to the ground. Gwynne sniffed and rubbed at his nose with a sleeve.

  ‘You know where you went wrong?’ he asked finally. It was clear the words were a considerable effort. Jen cocked her head.

  ‘I was on ground,’ Gwynne continued. ‘Should’ve finished me. A sharp blow. Back of the head. All over.’

  ‘You didn’t have protective gear on,’ Jen replied.

  ‘So? My mistake, your advantage. Should’ve capitalised. Now I am back up, ready to fight.’ He coughed. ‘Well, nearly ready.’ There was a titter of nervous laughter among the audience. ‘If I beat you next time, then your mistake may have cost your life. Never let an enemy get up. Never, understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Jen. ‘But in this case, it doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Gwynne.

  Jen smiled. ‘Because I’d just beat you again.’

  The knife appeared in Gwynne’s right hand so quickly that it seemed as if it had always been there. He gripped the blade lightly between thumb and index finger. This time he cocked his head.

  ‘You’ve a throwing knife in your neck, young lady,’ he said. ‘Game over. Take note. I didn’t bow. I didn’t pose. I didn’t admire my own skill. Now I’m alive and you’re dead. Maybe there’s a lesson in that somewhere.’

  Jen watched Gwynne and then slowly nodded.

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Anyway, next time I’m wearing protective clothing.’ He smiled and this time there was some warmth in it. ‘What’s your skill set?’

  ‘Skill set?’

  ‘Talent or gift. You’ve been told about that? The School, identifies student strengths, develops them. Core part of curriculum.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jen. ‘It was mentioned.’

  ‘I want to work with you. Martial arts. We could learn from each other.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jen.

  ‘Excellent. Four-thirty to six-thirty, Monday to Saturday, you’re mine. Meet me here, understand?’

  ‘Including today?’

  ‘Of course today,’ said Gwynne. ‘What else do you have on? A hairdressing appointment?’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  Gwynne nodded and turned back to his group.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Protective gear on, pair up. Doubtless, it amused you to see your instructor beaten. Enjoy it while you can. The next hour will be high on pain and low on chuckles. No joke.’

  Wei-Lin rounded up the rest of the group, while Jen took off her helmet and pads. Wei-Lin moved towards the path, the group trailing behind, and on the way she tapped Mitch on the shoulder.

  ‘Kick your sorry arse, Mitch,’ she whispered. ‘Told you. The best group in The School.’

  Mitch smiled, but it came out twisted.

  ~~~

  Wei-Lin’s group sat in the same chairs they had occupied that morning. The mood was a little better, almost celebratory after Jen’s performance at weapons-training. Nate congratulated her, as did Wei-Lin, Sam and Karl. Pan didn’t join in and neither did Cara or Sanjit. Those two are dysfunctional, thought Pan. They seem removed from everyone else. Maybe their demons refuse to be tamed. Not that anyone’s memories can be tamed, I imagine. Perhaps the rest of us are better at containing them during waking hours.

  Jen didn’t say much, but it was clear she was pleased with the attention and the acknowledgement of her skills. I should congratulate her, thought Pan, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was something feral within the beauty of Jen’s dance and it scared her.

  ‘Okay,’ said Wei-Lin. ‘Back to business, guys. I still have to go through the curriculum of The School with you and answer any further questions you might have. Should we start with the questions?’

  Nate immediately jumped in.

  ‘Seems our biggest problem is still the virus,’ he said. ‘Do we know what it is, whether it is still a threat to us and what it means to the world out there?’

  Wei-Lin folded her legs beneath her and rested her chin on a hand.

  ‘Excellent question,’ she said. ‘Actually three excellent questions, but I can only answer in part. Do we know what it is? According to Dr Macredie, there were a number of outbreaks about a decade ago of something that the media called bird-flu and the scientists called the H5N1 virus.’ Wei-Lin smiled. ‘She’s been doing a lot of reading up on this. Basically, some birds, both wild and domestic, often from Asia, became infected with a virus that was easily passed from one individual to another. This influenza virus was well-known but it had undergone either a mutation or something happened that the scientists called reassortment, which is when genetic material is exchanged, giving rise to a new form of virus with different characteristics and abilities. Whatever happened, a number of people became infected with H5N1. Roughly half died. The only positive thing from all this was that the new virus strain didn’t appear to have the ability to transmit itself from one human host to another. At least, not easily. There were a few cases of people infecting other people, but basically it was not able to spread. The worry was that further reassortment or mutation might take place within the virus, in which case we would not be so lucky.’ Wei-Lin paused. ‘Sorry, this is all a little technical. Are you following me so far?’

  There was general nodding.

  ‘Okay,’ Wei-Lin continued. ‘Dr Macredie thinks that’s what happened. Reassortment, not mutation. Because mutation, by definition, takes time. This new virus was both highly infectious and deadly. It killed within hours. Whole cities died within a day. The rest of the people on the planet followed within another forty-eight hours. And there was no time to identify the virus. These things take years and years, and the scientists, I imagine, who were tasked with working on it are most likely dead now. It’s probable we will never know.’

  ‘So it’s possible,’ said Sam, ‘that this virus is natural, but it’s also possible that it’s man-made, isn’t it?’ She turned to the rest of the group. ‘I mean, you’ve all probably heard about governments putting big money into chemical and biological warfare. Isn’t it just as likely that some military lab somewhere had an accident and let this bug out?’

  Nate laughed. ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘There’s only a few of us left but conspiracy theory is still alive and flourishing.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Sam. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Distinctly possible,’ said Wei-Lin. ‘But I’m not sure it matters where it came from. It’s out there, and for some reason we are immune. Which brings me to Nate’s second and third questions. From what I r
emember of Biology in school, once you’ve had a disease you are normally resistant to it. So I would guess that it’s unlikely the virus will hurt us again, though there are no guarantees. What it means for the world is that there are billions of bodies out there, decaying, polluting drinking water.’ She shuddered and closed her eyes briefly as if fighting off unwelcome images. ‘No way we can move them, burn them or bury them. So we wait, here in The School, until nature takes care of the problem. A year, maybe two. We’ll have to see.’

  ‘Why are we separated from the village beyond the wall?’ Pan didn’t fully understand why this question felt so important, but she couldn’t help herself asking.

  ‘This region has been divided into distinct sections,’ said Wei-Lin. ‘Possibly the existence of the wall dictated it in the first place. We are students, here in The School, preparing for when the world is ready for us to graduate. The others in the village are generally older and either not physically up to the regime we have in here, or they simply weren’t interested in becoming staff or students. Instead, they go out to collect supplies, retrieve what is retrievable out there, and bring back food, animals and other items that The School believes are important to our survival. Generators, for example, and the fuel to run them.’

  ‘Who decides what’s needed?’

  ‘School staff in consultation with the student representative council. Any one of us can put ourselves up for election, by the way. Similarly any of us can put in requests for items we need, but don’t hold your breath that they will be delivered.’ Wei-Lin smiled. ‘I have asked for weeks for some decent arrows and a good quality bow, but that’s not top of the list of priorities, apparently, because I am still waiting. So I wouldn’t rush out and put in an order for a computer, Karl. Sorry.’

  Cara put her hand up. It was a gesture both endearing and amusing. Surprising also. It hadn’t been clear that she had been paying any attention whatsoever.

  ‘Go ahead, Cara,’ said Wei-Lin. ‘And you don’t have to put your hand up here.’

  ‘Can I go to the village, then?’ she said. Again, the members of the group had to lean forward on their chairs to catch her words. ‘If I don’t like it here in The School?’