Then toward the end of the second week, while Jim and I and company were out on the yard readying ourselves for another afternoon of gladiatorial round ball competition, our detention officer and referee, Jacob Wexler, announced with a conspiratorial grin: "You people are in for a special treat today."
As we all stood waiting for some high-ranking official in the prison bureaucracy or maybe Sparky the Clown to come waltzing triumphantly out, some tall, blond-haired dude in a baseball cap and sunglasses strode through the yard main entrance. Two steps into the yard, and I knew who he was. It wasn't the unusually long arms and legs or the broad shoulders: it was the way he moved.
"Holy shit," I whispered.
Ragnar Norquist walked up to me and doffed his hat, turning in a slow circle to admire the building and the fenced grounds.
"Nice digs," he said.
As the other "detainees" stood there gawking – Jim giving me a "WTF?" look – Ragnar thrust out a hand. My hand seemed to vanish into his huge mitt as we shook.
"How did you find out about me?" I asked. "Assuming you're here because of me."
"Why else?" He lowered his voice, glancing at the others, who were maintaining a respectful difference. "I found out from your mom. I called your phone a few times and got nothing, so I tried her. I was wondering how you were handling this summer."
"Oh," I said. "Well, um, thanks for coming. That was super-cool of you."
"Not a problem. It's been a slow summer." He smiled and nodded to my teammates. "Who are your friends?""
"This is Jim, Robbie, Baxter, and Merrill. Meet Ragnar Norquist."
"Dude," said Jim, affecting a bow. "I'm not worthy."
Ragnar laughed. "We shall see. Looks like you were about ready to play? Have room for one more?"
"No shit," Robbie laughed.
"I'll sit this out," said Merrill, a thin youth who was probably our least imposing player – other than me.
We moved under one basket, while an argument was breaking out among the other players.
"That's it!" announced our coach/supervisor, Jacob Wexler. "I'll choose the opposing team."
He called out five names and dismissed the others from the court.
The other team tossed the ball in. I noted that Jacob had selected arguably the best five players in the facility apart from our own team, including Abrim, a 6'4" skinny black dude, was probably our best athlete and regularly dunked in games.
On their first play, the opposing team's guard had the bright idea of lobbing the ball in for Abrim, who'd sprung free on the baseline. The ball sailed up and up – and then Ragnar sailed higher, intercepting it with one hand. He was nodding to me as he hung in the air, as though standing on some invisible podium conducting an orchestra. I raced down court. Ragnar tossed the basketball just ahead of me, and I scooped it up, managing not to fumble my dribble long enough to drive in for a lay-up.
Ooos and Ahhhs echoed over the courtyard, followed by some scattered applause.
The game continued in a similar vein. Ragnar didn't attempt a shot. He played a kind of roving "point center," dishing out the ball to open players on the offensive end, while on defense he drifted around the key blocking shots, grabbing loose balls, and generally forcing our opponents into a jump shot game out on the perimeter. One play stood out for me, when Abrim snuck behind Ragnar and launched himself in one of his explosive leaps toward the basket. I couldn't see any way he wasn't going to dunk, but then Ragnar sprang after him, barely bending his legs, and – whop! – the sound of his large hand smacking the ball away several inches over the rim.
On the final play of the game, Ragnar slapped a ball free and then tossed it ahead to me. The court ahead was clear, but I turned and tossed the ball back to Ragnar. The kids started cheering, and he sprinted toward the opposite basket with a smile.
Ragnar accelerated as if an express train had struck him from behind, reaching the free throw line at a full sprint. He launched himself into the air – the express train switching to a fighter jet – turning sideways as he flew, scooping the ball up from his waist at the last instant with two hands and slamming it through the hoop.
This time the applause was thundering. Even Jacob Wexler joined in, grinning from ear to ear. Ragnar exchanged high-fives with his teammates and me. Others came forward, some with papers or items of clothing to sign, and Wexler produced a pen for them to use.
"Man," said Jim, standing to one side with me, "you are sure going to be the belle of the ball after this, dude. How did you meet him anyway?"
"After a game," I said. "He was signing autographs. We got to talking."
"That must've been some talk."
Ragnar broke away from the gathering and strolled over to us.
"You've got some potential," he said to Jim.
"Thanks." A faint blush crept into Jim's face.
"Still in high school?"
"Yeah."
"Any college recruiters talked to you yet?"
His face darkened. "A couple, but that's kind of off the table now."
"Well, don't get too down on yourself." Ragnar slapped him on the shoulder. "Things that fall off the table can often be put back on."
Jim gave him a hopeful, wondering look. Ragnar turned to me.
"Aiden, get your suitcases packed, man," he said, grinning at my disbelieving expression. "Your stay in paradise is over."
"No way!" I sputtered. "Are you serious?"
"What – do I look like some kind of joker?" He laughed as I hesitated. "Rhetorical question. But yes, I'm serious."
"How did you do it?"
"We'll talk about it when you get out. I'll be waiting in the parking lot."
TWENTY MINUTES later, I stepped through the front door and floated more than walked across the parking lot toward the man with the Kings cap lounging against a Jaguar XZZ3.
"I can't believe this," I said.
Ragnar grinned. "Get in."
His car purred out onto the nearby highway, and we headed south toward Jefferson.
"I called the warden," he said. "I offered to show up at the institution, meet the prisoners, and perform some kind of exhibition. He was sympathetic, but he couldn't release you without a judge's order. So I called the judge, who turned out to be a big fan of the Kings and me."
"And that was enough to get him to reduce my sentence?"
"She," he glanced at me with a smile. "I was pretty persuasive."
I sagged back in my seat. "Man," I said. "I don't know how to thank you."
"Funny. That's what she said."
I laughed along with him uneasily.
"So what was it like in there?" he asked.
"Not that bad, surprisingly. Some parts of it were kind of fun. I'd never played pickup basketball before, and I lucked out meeting some decent guys. I never thought I could be good friends with a jock, but I think I could be with Jim."
"Nothing like incarceration to open up new horizons."
"Ha. But I'm still happy to be out of there. If nothing else, those beds were killing my back. Why can't they afford to purchase some foam pads or something?"
"That's a for-profit prison, man. Your comfort is the least of their concerns."
I stared out the window, making a silent pledge never, under any circumstances, to do something stupid that might land me back in a place like that.
"My mom and Melanie must be happy," I said. "What did my mom say when you told her?"
"I didn't tell her. I figured it might make for a fun surprise."
His grin was so bright I thought I might need shades. I shook my head. The tabloids had mentioned that Ragnar was famous for his practical jokes. I guessed they got some things right once in a while.
"She's gonna freak out," I said.
Ragnar laughed. "In a good way, I hope."
"She might not even be there. She often works on Saturdays." I frowned. "Actually, on Sundays, too."
"She and your sister will be there. I invited them both to lunch. They know I was
visiting you."
We pulled up in front of the house. I had never been so freaking happy to be home.
We walked in. My mom was standing in the kitchen. She jerked around with fearful eyes – wondering, no doubt, who would dare simply enter without knocking – and then her eyes grew wide.
"Oh my god!" she cried. "Aiden?"
I strolled over to her, calm and in control, like the hardened ex-con that I was. Except for the pathetic tear running down one cheek. She clutched me to her harder than I remembered her ever doing.
"But I thought you weren't supposed to be out until the end of the month!" she said in a half-sob, thrusting me out at arm's length. "What happened?"
"Ragnar happened."
My mom peered over my shoulder, where Ragnar stood with hands in his pockets smiling blandly.
"How?" she asked, her eyes still wide and dazed.
"I just put in a good word for him," said Ragnar. "Considering my own exalted moral status, how could they refuse?"
"He agreed to come to the detention center and sort of put on an exhibition, in return for them letting me out," I said.
"Wouldn't a judge have to sign off on that?" my mom asked.
"She was agreeable." Ragnar's shrug and smile were all innocence.
I heard Melanie's bedroom door opening. I eased into the hall as she stepped out. She froze. I moved toward her. I'd covered about half the distance when she burst into motion, half-tackling me around the chest. She kissed my cheek. Then she kissed me – hard – on the lips.
"Mel, I..."
"I know. I'm just so happy to see you."
What universe is this? I wondered.
She pushed out of my arms. We both walked into the living room. Mom glanced between us, a small frown forming.
"Anyone up for some food?" Ragnar asked.
AFTER DINNER, Ragnar and I went for a jog.
"So what's really been going on with you?" he asked.
I believed that Ragnar was the one person I could truly come clean with, and yet I hesitated. Even with him, there were certain subjects I didn't want to bring up.
"This summer, when I went off Andrydox, it all just sort of went crazy," I said. "I got a little carried away – in one case, with the wrong person. Her fiancé broke in on us."
"Bummer. I've been there, believe me."
"Did you really have sex with that judge?"
He laughed. "No. I just sweet-talked her a little."
We approached Ace Boulevard, the main drag into North and South Jefferson. A cyclist pedaled past, waving a casual hand, and then slowed to perform a double take. He continued on, but kept cranking his helmeted head around to look back.
"You'd probably cause a traffic jam if your car broke down on the side of the freeway," I said.
"With the bumper-to-bumper traffic these days, someone breathing too hard can cause a traffic jam."
"Do you like being famous?"
"Sometimes. Most of the time I dig the quiet and the peace of no one noticing me."
"Except for the occasional cyclist."
"Right. But seriously, man, it's a double-edged sword. People go out of their way to do stuff for me – like that judge – which can be cool. But sometime people just get up in my personal business."
"You can have almost any woman you want?"
He gave me a dry smile. "The problem is that almost all women want me because I'm a basketball star or hyper – or both. They don't care if I'm funny, listen to classical music, or read Shakespeare. Sure, they might think that's okay, but that's not what they want from me. Make sense?"
"Totally. I've thought the same thing. Not the star part, of course." I snickered at that ridiculous thought. "The women just used me – even my best girlfriend, Gertie. They were getting all this pleasure from me, but it was like I was a big human-shaped vibrator or something."
Ragnar laughed. "I actually accused one of my girlfriends of thinking about me that way. But it gets worse: hyper pheromones trigger large quantities of oxytocin – the 'love hormone' – in women, so they're also chemically programmed to love you."
I winced as I thought of my sister. "So none of it is real? It's not possible to have a girlfriend who loves you for what you really are?"
"It might be possible, but..." He flipped one of his large hands. "Hypers almost never have wives or steady girlfriends – at least not until they're oldsters. And if you want to settle down and have a family, the odds of us fathering a child are next to zero. You got to adjust your mind to those things, Aiden."
"That seems like a downer," I said.
"You got a downside and an upside." Ragnar shrugged. "You can get off ten times a day, but you probably can't get anyone pregnant. You may have more energy and strength, but you have to eat like a goddamn horse. You may be able to attract unlimited hot women, but also women you don't want to be attracted to you."
"Yeah," I grumbled, thinking of Melanie and Gertie. "So what do you think I should do now?"
"What did you do when you were in kiddie jail? That had to be awkward."
"I took the easy way out. I used Melatin in low doses at strategic times, and channeled some of that energy into exercise."
"That helps," said Ragnar. "Ideally, you might find one or two girls or women you know you can trust – I mean, absolutely trust – not to tell anyone about you. The Hypersphere is full of women promising to be discreet as well as oversexed. Most of them advertise they will cover all the expenses in hooking up. I've used it on occasion myself."
"Hypersphere?" I'd never heard of it.
"Yeah. It's kind of dating/brokerage site for horny guys and women. Horny women, mostly. Along with a few hypers and subhypers or 'norm-plussers' – dudes who are less affected by MES to the point of being near-normal in the pre-Outbreak sense."
"Really." My imagination was threatening to run wild. "I should check that out."
"Just engage your higher mind if you do. For someone your age, it could get pretty hairy pretty quickly."
I mentally edged my image of the Hypersphere away from my sweaty palms.
"Or you might try what you did in jail," said Ragnar. "Work out so hard you can't see straight, and use small amounts of Melatin for those other times."
"How did you handle all this at my age? The Hypersphere? Someone you knew personally and trusted? You were never clear about that."
Ragnar issued a low chuckle. I glanced at him. I could've sworn the famously outspoken libertine looked self-conscious, even awkward.
"Dude," he said. "Let's just say I chose the personal trust option."
I debated pressing him more, but he obviously didn't want to elaborate, and I didn't need to know the specifics. Maybe I didn't even want to know them.
"You're going back to working with the evil corporation, right?" Ragnar asked.
"Yeah. They're anxious to have me back in their lab."
"I would bet they would be happy to make an arrangement for you. The last thing they'd want is for you to go back to jail."
I frowned. "And by arrangement, you mean...?"
"Companionship. Trustworthy companionship."
"No one ever offered anything like that to me."
"Did you ask?"
"Uh, no." I snorted out a laugh. "Hey, Dr. Blumenthal, would you mind providing some hot women as part of the deal? You know, just to keep me out of trouble?"
"Sounds about right." He shot me a grin.
"No," I said. I stared at him. "Seriously?"
"You better believe it. You could potentially earn them billions. You don't think they'd bend over backwards to protect you?"
"My mom would never go for that. Besides, they're already paying us, like, two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. We negotiated everything out."
"Two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars? Wow, dude, that's unbelievable!" Sarcasm dripped off his words. "Man, you do know CellEvolve is a trillion dollar corporation, right? It does business with a dozen other multi-billion dollar
corporations, including Monsanto, Baxter Pharmaceuticals, Merck, along with hefty contracts with the U.S. Government. So, first of all, it has no fucking ethics. Second, your 275K doesn't even add up to chump change for them. You could've asked for five million, and they probably wouldn't have blinked an eye."
"Jeez," I groaned. "I hope you're wrong about that. I'd feel like a fool."
Ragnar laughed and slapped me on the back. "A sixteen year old high school kid versus a corporation teeming with well-paid ghouls. You didn't have a chance, dude."
"My mom did most of the negotiating," I grumbled.
"It's pretty hard to play hardball with your employer. That's why we ballers usually let our agents do the negotiating."
"If they're so powerful, with an army of lawyers, why didn't they keep me out of Juvenile Hall? That cost them research time, didn't it?"
"Yeah, I wondered about that, too. I figure either they wanted to tame you down a bit – to show you what happens when you get out of line – or they didn't think a few weeks' loss was worth risking another scandal by twisting some people's arms."
Hoooooonk! I almost jumped out of my shoes as a car full of young women passed by holding down the horn and crying rabid wolf howls.
"I guess you need a better disguise," I rasped when I'd caught my breath.
"Did you ever think they might be howling at you, too?"
"Uh, no." As if anyone would notice me when Ragnar was around. "Maybe we should run a bit farther from the road?"
I veered off to a path running behind the adjacent cornfield, and Ragnar followed with a shrug.
"How far are we from your house?" he asked.
"About two miles."
"This jogging is getting boring. I say we race full on back to your house. Loser pays for beer."
"I think there's still some beer left from the last time you were here."
"Really? I figured you would've finished that off by now." He chuckled. "Then for bragging rights. You could say you defeated the great Ragnar Norquist in a race. Not that you have a snow bat's chance in hell of doing that."
What the hell was a "snow bat"? Before I had a chance to answer, Ragnar burst into a full sprint. I set my jaw and raced after him with everything I had.
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