Freaks of Nature (The Psion Chronicles)

by Wendy Brotherlin

  I gape at the official for a moment too long, and he snaps at me again.

  “Get your ass on this platform now, soldier!”

  I jump to my feet and step onto the hovering platform. The official gestures for me to sit behind him in the jumpseat while he stands to pilot the craft. As I sit down, I glance over at the med tech who’s working hard to revive Sylvia, and my insides wither with despair. The earthmover is deathly pale, her lips as blue as her starburst eyes; the bandage on her temple is saturated with blood.

  I know my actions in the arena are responsible for that girl’s condition, and I shudder at the thought that she might die. The Psi Games are not meant to be a killing field. Sure, accidents have happened in the past, but never like this. Why were things allowed to go so far this time?

  “Hold on,” the official says to me before maneuvering his platform between the med-sleds and out into the arena.

  As we speed away, another med-sled arrives with two more medics, and a part of me brightens a bit with hope. No matter how horrible it was for me and my squad out there tonight, I didn’t want anyone to die…not Sylvia, not even Artie.

  The platform I’m riding on slows down midway across the arena, and I look over the siderail to see what’s going on. Below me, there are more than a dozen administrator platforms gathered around the humongous pile of dirt, and about thirty facility guards digging through the earth in hopes of finding Artie alive.

  “They should call in another earthmover,” I say, more to myself than to the official.

  “An earthmover has been called,” the official replies. “But the facility is over twenty minutes away.”

  “Do you think that maybe I could offer my services?” I ask the official tentatively. “I could perhaps burrow an energy thread through the mound and locate him—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the official says. “You need to get out of here.”

  I’m about to press him once again about helping Artie when I realize that I am not wearing a disruptor band. I stare hard at my wrist, and then spot the disruptor band lying on the floor next to the official’s spit-polished dress shoes.

  Psi-Game officials wear boots, not dress shoes.

  And those dress shoes are definitely military issue.

  “S-s-sir?” I say the word softly, my mind a whirlwind of disbelief, my heart drumming with fear. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

  From where I’m sitting, I can see his shoulders visibly relax, like he’s relieved that I have figured out who he is. “I’m getting you the hell out of here.”

  “You mean back to the facility.”

  “No, son,” he says, turning to me. He presses a button on the side of his helmet and his faceshield retracts. “There’s no going back to the facility for you.”

  “I don’t understand, sir, I—”

  Major General Allen holds up a gloved finger. “You’ve always been my best and brightest, Vahn. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to just hand you over to a no-account private corporation so they can turn you into a mindless mercenary for hire. Where’s the honor in that?”

  “A private corporation, sir?” I am struggling to keep up with the deluge of information that the major general is throwing at me.

  He nods. “The Stillwell Agency for Psionic Integration and Development, aka The Agency.”

  “That’s where Emily is,” I say without thinking.

  “No, son, Emily isn’t at The Agency.”

  “Then where is she?”

  The major general sighs. “I don’t know. It was the federal authorities who took her, and they were tight-lipped during the whole affair.”

  “The feds,” I feel my heart sink to the floor. “But Arthur had Emily’s necklace, he said he’d spoken with her, he said—”

  “Artie has no honor. He’s a liar and an egotistical, smart-mouth punk. If he had a necklace of Emily’s, then I have no idea who gave it to him. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “But what about what you said at the beginning of the games? All that ‘new age of warfare—embrace it or be conquered’ stuff?”

  “I may be a son of a bitch when it comes to tactical training, son, but I want you to know that I had absolutely no part in the planning of these games. None. I’ve been held prisoner since last year in my own facility by my very own administration.” He pauses then, the hover-platform once again picking up speed and heading toward the arena exit.

  “Now…you got that back gate key card I left for you?”

  I can’t help but grin like an idiot. “Yes, sir.”

  Major General Allen returns my grin with one of his own. “Very good, Captain. Very good.”

  Chapter Nine

  MAJOR General Allen guides the hover-platform out of the arena, through a transport tunnel, and into a vast arched dome that serves as the central staging area. As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I realize that it’s a hive of activity. Hundreds of psi facility guards wearing full riot armor swarm into the staging area from the monorail station thirty meters above. Almost all of them carry retractable shovels in addition to their guns and neuro-stunners. They are all on a mission to rescue Artie.

  A large hover-barge crowded with over fifty guards pulls away from its docking moors just ahead of us.

  “Get down,” the major general orders, and I crouch low behind the railing.

  Looking up at the ceiling, I notice the monorail station high above us. From what I’ve been able to figure out over the years, the monorail has only two destinations. The first is the five-star Imperium Arena Hotel; the second—and the only route that I’ve ever taken—goes directly to the psi facility. The exact place I would be headed to right now if it wasn’t for the major general.

  It’s still a bit hard for me to wrap my mind around that fact that the major general was held prisoner by his own administration. That kind of betrayal must have cut deep for a man of honor like himself. Yet he never let on to any of us. Was that to keep us safe from the powers that be?

  More importantly, I wonder if my absence will make things harder on my squad. I can’t imagine any of my troops willingly serving as mercenaries alongside Agency psions named Skullcrusher and Carnage.

  “There’s a helmet in that duffle bag beneath the jumpseat,” the major general says, eyes locked on the airspace ahead. “Put it on.”

  Reaching beneath the seat, I remove a black psi-facility-issue duffel bag. I unzip it, pull out the riot helmet, and shove it onto my head. Before I lower my faceshield, I see that the bag is packed with a complete set of riot gear, along with two extra sets of boots. The major general has indeed come prepared for our escape.

  With my face now hidden from view, I find that I can relax a little in the knowledge that I will be harder to spot from above. I can hear the hundreds of booted feet stomping across the unloading platform of the monorail as the psi facility guards race down to the arena floor.

  “Do you think they’ll find Artie in time?” I ask.

  But the major general doesn’t reply. He continues staring straight ahead.

  I’m about to chastise myself for asking such a stupid question when I hear him say, “Hold on.”

  Gripping the rail tightly, I brace my feet against the base of the jumpseat just as the hover-platform makes a sudden dip and veers right. I watch the monorail’s giant concrete columns rise up around me like a haunting alien forest, while the tracks above me get farther and farther away. The hover-platform sways as it dives into the bowels of the arena. Everything appears jumbo size above me and much, much darker. I retract my faceshield so that I can see more clearly the strange structures that have been built down here.

  Red blinking lights attached to the monorail’s massive concrete supports are our only guide as the major general whips us about the maze of support columns and a gracefully arching glass-and-steel structure, which looms like a giant silver spider. It’s too dark for me to make out just what that building houses, but it gives me a chill just the
same.

  “Uh, sir?” I say. “That building…what’s in there?”

  It’s almost pitch-black out here, but the glow from the control panel enables me to see him lower his head in resignation. “Dissection rooms.”

  “What?” I have never heard of such a thing…and all at once, I’m very frightened. “Emily’s not—”

  “No, no, no… Emily’s useful; she’s in no danger of that.”

  “Then who is?” I ask, trying hard not to sound like a scared child. “Why would anyone build dissection rooms beneath the Imperium Arena?”

  The major general takes a deep breath and slows the hover-platform before answering. “They’ve been pressuring me for years to make the Psi Games a fight to the death. The strong versus the weak. But it was just an excuse.” He pauses to retract his faceshield. “The truth is, the government’s not going to rest until they find out what makes you kids tick.”

  “It was that vaccine they gave our mothers during the Ebola-X pandemic—that’s what did this to us.”

  “Is it?” the major general quietly asks. “Or is that just what the government wants you to think?”

  I hesitate, his words shattering things that I thought I knew for certain. “What are you saying, sir?”

  “I’m saying that not one scientist in all the world has yet been able to replicate the psionic syndrome in a lab. Haven’t you ever wondered why there haven’t been any youngsters born with starburst eyes in the last twelve years?”

  “Then how did we happen?”

  The major general chuckles. “I think you happened by the grace of God, son. And you have as much right to this earth as any of us.” He levels his gaze at me. “We’re monsters for what we’ve done to our own children…and I hope that, one day, you can find it in your heart to forgive people like me.”

  I have no idea how to reply, because I’ve seen the major general as the warden—and my own personal oppressor—for so long that to hear him ask for forgiveness is almost as absurd as him asking me to sprout wings and fly. Has he ever truly been my oppressor? Or was that the only way in which he knew how to protect me—all of us—from the whims of a cruel and unjust world?

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I say. “Baselines have a right to be scared of us.”

  “But not a right to cage you, use you, and then allow a horde of scientists to pore over your remains,” the major general says in disgust. “And it’s only going to get worse as all of you get older. The governments of the world are panicking. They want to cull the number of psions.”

  “Cull? You mean kill.”

  “Yes, son,” he says, looking grave. “They mean to lower your numbers to a more manageable headcount. And they plan to keep alive only those who they feel they can control.”

  “So, none of us are safe.”

  The major general lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry, son.”

  I stagger under the weight of his words and find myself gripping the railing for support. My mind reels from the sheer magnitude of the information, and what it means for me, my classmates…Emily. And suddenly, I have to know—

  “Is Emily safe?”

  The major general nods. “For now. With her newfound power boost, I’m sure the feds will keep her alive. Indefinitely, perhaps.”

  “Good,” I say. “Then I have a little time to find her.”

  “Yes…perhaps a little.”

  I look at the major general then and really see him for the first time. Not as my commanding officer, but as a fellow human being. And as perhaps the greatest ally I never knew I had.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He looks surprised by my words. “Whatever for, Captain?”

  “Well,” I say, hoping that my sincerity will carry my meaning well beyond my simple vocabulary, “for protecting us for all these years. I’m sure it couldn’t have been easy.”

  He flashes me a grin before returning to the control panel. “Well, for whatever it’s worth, you’re welcome. Now let’s get the heck out of here.” He takes the projected guidance controls in both hands and we speed off into the darkness.

  This time, I ease myself into the jumpseat, mindful of my injured shoulder, and buckle in. With my helmet on down here, I don’t expect anyone would be able to identify me from a distance. The hover-platform dips and rocks as it glides around support structures and giant sewage pipes. I spot a red light in the distance that appears to grow in size as we approach.

  “I know it’s dark,” the major general says, “but do you think you can get into that guard’s uniform? It’s in the bag.”

  “You want me in the armor, too?”

  “You bet. Oh, and Vahn?”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t forget the boots.”

  I grin. “Yes, sir!”

  I don’t bother taking off my battle suit, because the high-tech fiber is extremely thin, skin-tight, and supple. It offers extra protection, and it could prove useful in case we run into trouble and I need to power up. Unlike regular clothing, my bladed projections won’t tear my battle suit to shreds. So, retaining my dignity during a fight will be one less thing I’ll have to worry about. After I remove my boots and unstrap my utility belt, I manage to pull on the guard’s uniform, taking care not to jostle my injured shoulder too much. The pants and shirt are a bit loose, but it’s nothing that anyone will notice under the layer of riot armor.

  By the time I finish latching the last shin guard to my boot, I resemble any other psi facility guard in the area—except for the starburst eyes, of course. Thank goodness for the helmet’s polarized faceshield.

  The last thing in the bag is a neuro-stunner, and I hesitate before picking it up. Neuro-stunners resemble long billy clubs and transmit a neon blue glow when activated. The weapons act very much like disruptor bands in that, upon contact, they instantly neutralize a psion’s power. Unlike the more humane disruptor bands, any psion a guard feels the need to zap gets whacked with fifty thousand volts of electricity.

  I shudder at the memory of my first and only encounter with a neuro-stunner. I was ten and desperately trying to break up a fight between Jason and this really huge kid whose name I can no longer recall. The guards rushed the room without regard to the situation at hand and I was zapped in the neck with such fury that I was laid up in a medical suite for two days with second-degree burns and minor nerve damage.

  A neuro-stunner was a weapon that I definitely didn’t want to mess with.

  “You’re going to have to take that, too,” says the major general over his shoulder. “Neuro-stunners are standard issue down here.”

  “Why? Are there wild psions on the loose?” I ask, only half-joking.

  “No,” he replies, shaking his head. “Large rats.”

  “Oh.” With that little gem of information, I decide to holster the neuro-stunner without further thought.

  The flickering light in the distance has grown considerably, and I can feel the heat radiating from what I can only assume is a boiler room. The massive arena must consume a lot of fuel to keep its VIPs extra cozy as they watch the midwinter Psi Games. From the massive size of the building that looms before us, I’m confident that this boiler room also heats the surrounding ten smaller domes that host the early rounds of the games.

  Noticing how bright it has gotten from the glow of the flames heating the boilers, I lower my faceshield and belt myself back into the jumpseat. I can see people in coveralls moving along metal ladders and catwalks on either side of the arched docking bay before the concrete-and-steel building.

  Without a word to me, the major general guides the hover-platform into a docking stall and waits for the magnetic clamps to attach before signaling me to hand him his boots. He pulls them on without a word, then motions for me to follow him as he steps onto the concrete dock and walks to a ladder at the far end of the station.

  I try not to gawk at the bright orange glow that flickers twenty meters above our heads as I match pace with my commanding officer. I am thankful for
the riot-gear gloves the moment I touch the first rung of the ladder; it’s hot. The gloves keep my hands protected, but just barely. With my injured shoulder, I climb the ladder awkwardly at first. It’s hot and exhausting work, but my grip is strong; by using my legs and favoring my good arm, I fall into a rhythm as I ascend. The warmth I feel is uncomfortable at best, and I must constantly remind myself not to brush any other part of me against the metal rungs.

  I join the major general on the catwalk at the top of the ladder. He gives me a nod and we cross into a huge room where a row of large industrial furnaces burn brightly behind thick metal doors. I am awed by the sheer size of this place. Dozens of men wearing blue coveralls and yellow safety helmets move effortlessly along the ladders and catwalks that crisscross the room in a dizzying display. Gigantic pipes extend every which way throughout the room, disappearing into the walls, floor and ceiling at irregular intervals. I barely have time to glance around as the major general confidently strides across the catwalk ten meters above the boiler room floor.

  It’s clear to me now that, on my own, I would never have been able to find the back gate, let alone make it there alive. What the hell had I been thinking?

  The heat is oppressive, and I am relieved when we step into a dimly lit hallway. The major general takes a left, and I follow suit. He picks up his pace, leading me through a maze of hallways, catwalks, and stairs. Smaller pipes and ventilation shafts snake their way out of the boiler room above our heads. The hiss of steam and gurgle of water are constant.

  The major general signals for me to hold up, and I immediately lean back against the wall to wait. Instead of gripping my neuro-stunner, I ready my psionic ability by conjuring up a power thread until I can feel it tingling just beneath my skin.

  I hear the footfalls and voices of two psi facility guards as they approach. My heart drums harder in anticipation of an encounter. Though it’s been one long, hellacious day for me in the arena, the combination of my military training and the ample amount of adrenaline coursing through my body has left me more than up for the challenge.