by Jon S. Lewis
“Me and the fellas, we were impressed with what you did at Trident. You really went toe-to-toe with one of them lizards?”
“It’s not like I knew what I was doing,” Colt said. “I just got lucky.”
“Ain’t no such thing as luck,” Hayden said. “But you know that already, don’t you?” He started to say something else, but he must have thought better of it. “Now, are either of you carrying a cell phone, camera, or any other type of recording device?”
“I left mine in the van,” Colt said.
“My phone is in my purse, but—”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave that with me,” he said.
“How am I supposed to call my parents?”
“You’ll have to work that out with your commanding officer.”
Hayden entered a series of commands into a control panel, and their hologram replicas disappeared. A moment later the flying spheres returned to their docking stations behind the counter.
Danielle looked at Colt like she wanted him to intervene, but he just shrugged. “It’s just a phone,” he said.
“My entire life is on that thing—all my pictures . . . contacts . . . a video of Wolfgang. How am I supposed to text anyone?”
Colt looked over his shoulder as a very irritated Danielle disappeared behind a set of double doors that led to the women’s locker room. For the first time since the night his parents died, he felt completely and utterly alone, and it was almost more than he could bear.
“This way, please,” spoke the synthesized voice of a robot that stood patiently in the shadows—that is, if machines were capable of patience. It wasn’t much taller than Colt, with glowing orange eyes set into a narrow head. Armored plates covered vital areas like its chest, shoulder joints, and pelvis, but the rest of the machine looked like a walking metal skeleton.
“I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to the CHAOS Academy,” it said as it shuffled down the dimly lit corridor. A light pulsed like a heartbeat from somewhere inside its chest, and Colt wondered if that was a critical part of its programming or something the designer added to give it the illusion of life. “I understand that you have experience with robotic life forms?”
“Yeah,” Colt said, though he’d never heard that term before.
“Excellent.” Its eyes actually lit brighter, and the voice sounded genuinely pleased. “I am an SVC-9 service bot, assembled at the Yoshikawa Corporation in March of this year. My artificial intelligence programming is unparalleled, and I am able to converse in over three hundred and twelve languages.”
“I’m Colt, and I pretty much just speak one,” he said. “I was taking Spanish, though.”
The SVC-9 stopped at a door, and its eyes flickered in a rapid sequence—like some kind of combination—before it opened. “After you,” it said, bowing slightly as Colt stepped through the threshold.
The room was about the size of Grandpa’s garage, but instead of a lawn mower, spark plugs, or a rusted coffee can filled with mismatched nuts and bolts, there were hairbrushes and combs, shears, clippers, and three barber chairs that faced a giant mirror.
The door slid shut and Colt felt like an animal trapped in a cage.
“My sensors indicate that your heart rate is slightly elevated, and it would appear as though you have begun to perspire,” SVC-9 said without inflection. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” Colt said, but then he changed his mind. “Well, maybe.”
“Please explain.”
“It’s just that . . . I mean . . .” He couldn’t stop stammering. “Are you going to cut my hair or something?” It wasn’t that Colt was vain. If anything, he really didn’t care about his personal appearance. He was a good-looking kid, but his idea of fashion was anything that was comfortable—flip-flops, a worn T-shirt, board shorts or an old pair of jeans. But his hair? That was another story. He liked to wear it long, especially on top, but it looked like that was about to change.
“I’m afraid the current length of your hair does not fit within acceptable parameters,” the machine said. “In order to be in compliance, it must not be excessive, ragged, unkempt, or extreme. Nor can it fall over your ears, your eyebrows, or touch the top of your shirt collar.”
As Colt looked in the mirror, it was painfully obvious that his hair violated just about every one of those standards. He ran his fingers through his bangs and shook them out so they covered his forehead. They were definitely over his eyebrows.
“Where should I sit?” he asked, resigned to his fate.
“Any chair will do,” the machine said. “Do you know how you would like it styled? I’ve been trained in several techniques, and would be happy to—”
“Wait,” Colt said. He was about to sit in the center chair.
“You’re going to cut my hair?” He looked down at the robot’s hands, wondering how it would manage to hold the scissors.
Besides, his last experience with a robot hadn’t gone well. All it would take was a quick jab to the eye with the scissors, or maybe his ear or his neck, and game over.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Well, yeah, I guess,” Colt said. “It’s just that I didn’t know robots actually cut hair.”
“We can be programmed to serve any number of tasks, from simple assembly line duties to complex surgical procedures,” the SVC-9 unit said. “Now if you don’t mind, we’re on a bit of a schedule. We still need to get you fitted into your uniform before the orientation begins.”
Colt sat down, and the robot draped an apron around his neck so his hair wouldn’t get on his clothes. Then, from some kind of relay system hidden behind its chest plate, it projected a hologram of Colt’s disembodied head. The image cycled through a number of haircuts until Colt told it to stop. “That’s it,” he said. “I want that one.”
“Very well.”
Colt closed his eyes as the SVC-9 unit ran the clippers through his hair like a lawnmower cutting through grass that had been neglected for an entire summer. Thick shocks of wheat-colored locks fell to the floor.
“There you are.” The robot held out a small mirror. “Would you like to see the back?”
“I doubt it looks any better than the front.” Colt ran his hand over his scalp as the robot swept his discarded hair into a frighteningly large pile. Instant regret struck as he thought about what Lily would say, but then he remembered that it didn’t matter. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look like a soldier,” the robot countered. “Now let’s see about getting you some proper equipment to go with that haircut.”
:: CHAPTER 29 ::
The SVC-9 unit escorted him into a locker room where a dozen or so boys milled around in various states of undress. Colt felt like he was walking into a wolves’ den where the other males were trying to determine where he was going to fit in the pack.
A few of them were built like Olympic athletes, their bodies sculpted to near perfection, but not everyone looked like they had been synthetically designed in a laboratory. One boy couldn’t have been taller than Colt’s armpit, and Colt wasn’t very tall to begin with. Another was so thin that he looked like a mad scientist had stretched a sheet of skin across a skeleton. He stood next to a kid who must have weighed close to three hundred pounds, and Colt wondered if he was going to have trouble making it through the physical training. Then again, he might have been brought in to be part of the information security team with Danielle.
“This way, please.” The machine walked passed a bench where a wiry boy with blond hair was pulling a shirt over his head. It looked like it was made with neoprene, the material used to make wet suits.
“Is that what our uniform looks like?”
“Yes, but we’ll get to that in a minute,” the SVC-9 unit said as it stopped at what looked like a closet door. “Please disrobe.”
“Here?”
“Your modesty is admirable, but I can assure you that there are no female specimens anywhere in the room.” Without warning, the ro
bot took him by the wrist, turned it over, and proceeded to stab the tip of his finger. It squeezed, drawing out a drop of blood that it collected before it released Colt’s hand.
“Very good,” the robot said as it pulled out a syringe and a vial that was filled with liquid so green it looked like sour apple hard candy.
“You’re not thinking about sticking me with that, are you?”
“In fact, I am.” The robot cleaned the meaty part of Colt’s shoulder with a sterile pad before it jabbed him with the needle. It burned like acid, and it took all the self-control Colt could muster to keep from screaming.
“What is that?”
“A blend of vitamins and supplements that will help maximize your physical development.”
“Like a steroid?”
“Not exactly. It’s quite safe and rather legal, though I suppose the results will be similar.” The machine discarded the needle in a medical waste bin and opened what looked like a closet door. It pulled out a white duffel bag with Colt’s name and a black CHAOS insignia embroidered near the handles.
As Colt unzipped the bag, he saw the kid with blond hair talking to a tall cadet with a shaved head. He said something under his breath, and they both looked at Colt and laughed. Colt ignored them as he pulled out a shirt, pants, socks, underwear, boots, some kind of wristwatch, and what looked like aviator goggles.
“If you put it on, I will help you make the proper adjustments,” the robot said.
Nothing fit quite right. The pant legs were too long, the waist was too big, and the sleeves hung past his wrists to the end of his fingertips. “Are you sure this is mine?” Colt asked.
“Quite.”
The fabric started to shrink. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking at his sleeves like they were covered in spiders.
“Your uniform is made using nanotechnology that allows us to control the fibers remotely,” the machine said. “They are also equipped with sensors that relay your vital signs to our central computer, including your heart rate, body temperature, and other key data, such as your hydration level and your body fat composition, which is currently at two-point-four percent.”
Colt ran his fingers over the surface of the fabric. It was smooth, like rubber, yet it felt soft and comfortable. He slid into the boots, which were a perfect fit, and turned to look at himself in the mirror.
The uniform was extremely white, with a thick black stripe that went from his sleeves up to his armpits and then down his side all the way to his boots. The only other design element was a CHAOS insignia on the chest. It looked like a cross between a superhero costume and something an astronaut might wear beneath his spacesuit. It was definitely a snug fit, but thanks to the padding his chest looked bigger and so did his shoulders.
He reached inside his bag and grabbed the wristwatch. It had a thick black band and an oversized face that looked like it was probably a video screen of some sort. Colt strapped it on and the screen flared to life, showing a CHAOS logo.
“As you may have guessed, that is your communicator,” the SVC-9 unit said. “It will allow you to speak to your fellow cadets as well as any instructors. All messages are encrypted to protect our interests as an institution; however, you should know that your communications are monitored by staff as a safety precaution.”
“What about these?” Colt asked, as he slipped the goggles over his head.
“Ah, yes,” the machine said. “The goggles will not only protect your eyes against wind and particulates, but they are equipped with an advanced scanning technology.”
“Scanning?”
The SVC-9 unit projected a hologram of a small creature with caramel-colored fur and enormous ears.
“Scanning object.” The voice sounded like it had come from somewhere inside the goggles, and Colt watched as a complicated wire frame formed around the creature. The splines were green, and there was a series of words that flashed as though the goggles were cycling through some kind of database, looking for the right entry. “This specimen is known as a Moklok. Native to the forests on the planet Nemus, they are reclusive and territorial. However, they are not considered dangerous unless provoked.”
“How do the goggles know what to scan?”
“Over time they will grow accustomed to your thought patterns, but for now all you need to do is focus on an object and the goggles will do the rest.”
“What’s next?”
“Orientation.”
He started to follow the robot toward the door, but the kid with the blond hair asked him to hold up. According to the patch on his shirt, his name was Bowen. He was an inch or two taller than Colt, with a sharp nose and green eyes flecked with gold.
“Hey, were you in the van that ran that guy off the road?”
Colt looked at him, wondering how he’d found out.
Bowen smiled with a confidence that bordered on cocky. “Our driver got a call after he picked us up at the airport,” he said, as though it should have been obvious. “He told us that it was one of the shapeshifters. Is that true?”
“We didn’t stick around to find out,” Colt said, uncomfortable with the direction their conversation was heading. He didn’t know what it was, but something about Bowen rubbed him the wrong way.
“Come along,” the SVC-9 called over its shoulder. “We don’t want to be late.”
:: CHAPTER 30 ::
The amphitheatre was perfectly round with rows of tiered seating that looked down on a stage far below. There were at least five hundred chairs, most of which were empty, but cadets continued to stream through the doors that lined the outer wall. Most stuck to the shadows toward the back, but a few ventured up front. Colt figured they were the overachievers, eager to make a good first impression.
The room was basically divided in half, girls on one side and boys on the other, like a junior high dance. He smiled, wondering how long it would take everyone to forget about girlfriends and boyfriends back home, but that made him think about Lily, and once again he felt sick about the way he had left things. There was nothing he could do about it now.
He was about to sit down when Danielle walked in with Ms. Skoglund. Her uniform looked like his, white with the black stripe down the side. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her goggles were perched on top of her forehead. The two of them hugged, and Danielle walked down the steps to sit next to a group of girls while Ms. Skoglund sat in what looked like the teacher section. Giru Ba was there as well, but she was on the far end of the row.
“No wonder I couldn’t find you.”
Colt turned around and saw Oz loping down the stairs. Somehow the uniform made him look even bigger, if that was possible. It fit snugly around the contours of his muscles, looking more like skin than clothing. He took his enormous hands and placed them on top of Colt’s head, rubbing it like it was a magic lamp.
“Knock it off,” Colt said, pushing him away.
“I can’t believe you went cue ball.” Oz took the seat next to Colt. “You know you didn’t have to do that, right?”
“It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”
Oz shrugged. “Anyway, it looks like your little incident on the parkway made the news. Some guy took a video of the accident and posted it online. The driver of that car you ran off the road had green blood pouring out of his forehead. You know what that means, right?”
“Yeah, he’s a shapeshifter.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
Colt shrugged. “Danielle ran the number on the license plate,” Colt said, watching Oz to see how he would react. “It was registered to Aldrich Koenig, but we don’t think he was the one driving.”
“Maybe one of his guys went rogue and decided to come after you.”
“Maybe.”
There were footsteps, and Colt turned to see a cadet with green skin standing in the doorway. His hair was—well, it was actually tentacles, and they were swept back over his head like dreadlocks. He wore enormous goggles along with some kind of breathing appa
ratus filled with bubbling water. It was connected to a pair of tanks that hung on his back like scuba gear, and even though they looked heavy, he didn’t seem to mind.
“Name’s Bar-Ryak. He’s Undarian,” Oz said. “They live underwater, so he needs the tanks to breathe whenever he’s on land.”
“He’s one of the cadets?” Colt asked. “But he’s . . . you know.”
“An alien?” Oz smiled. “What was your first clue?”
The house lights dimmed, and a thin man wearing a black military uniform walked to the center of the stage, his heels clicking on the tile with every step. The room turned deathly quiet as he stood with his hands behind his back. His hair was cut short and neatly combed to the side, his cheekbones were gaunt, and his face lacked even the slightest hit of warmth.
“Welcome to the CHAOS Military Academy,” he said with impeccable diction. “My name is Agent Reginald Graves, and it is my honor to welcome you to this prestigious institution.” He paused, his eyes roving the room as he walked in a slow circle. “For decades, our agents have worked in the shadows, protecting mankind from supernatural forces that were once thought to be nothing more than myth and legend. But as recent events have proven, the likes of aliens, wolf men, and others of their ilk are all but too real.
“World leaders have assured the masses that we have everything under control. They have repeated time and again that the gateways opened by the Thule on September 24 of this year have not only been sealed shut, but that we have locked the doors and thrown away the proverbial keys.”
Agent Graves folded his hands and placed his long index fingers against his lips. “I am afraid that those gateways are the least of our concerns. You see, we believe the Thule are nearing completion on a machine that will allow them to create traversable wormholes—a kind of bridge that connects two points in the universe. Once that happens, they will fill our skies with warships and hunt us until we are extinct.”
The cadets fidgeted uncomfortably.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have been summoned in the middle of our term because time is running short. Not only are you the youngest class in the history of this institution, but there is also a chance that you will be among the last class who passes through these halls. Our hope . . . indeed, our prayer is that you will rise up and lead us to victory. If not, we may be in the last days of our existence as a species.”
