Recoil (8 page)

Chapter 10

Asta

The Advanced Skills Training Academy was located on the same
private road on which the
PlayState
headquarters was
located, but about half a mile farther down, right at the tail end. It was
surrounded by the same dense woods and protected by the same massive security
fence with guard huts on the perimeter, and floodlights and video surveillance
cameras mounted in key positions. I figured the two had to be connected in some
way.

The complex was laid out roughly in the shape of a daisy — if
daisies could have rectangular petals and an oval center. The rectangle closest
to the road (about a quarter mile down a narrow drive) was the main Academy
building — five floors high, gray brick with long sealed windows that glittered
opaquely in the morning sunlight. This was where we began our processing, first
passing through
decon
units, then gathering in a
large marble-floored foyer along with around fifty or so other young recruits,
none of whom were talking. Weird.

Looking around in the hope of seeing
Leya
,
I noticed that the pirate was standing a few paces behind me. Bruce still stuck
to my side like a barnacle, nodding approvingly at a massive 3D hologram which
was projected on the first landing of the wide central staircase leading to the
second floor. A yellow-and-red logo of upward-pointing arrows, like the
chevrons on a sergeant’s insignia badge, rotated above the words Advanced
Specialized Training Academy (ASTA)
Inform, Protect, Improve.

When recruits from another transport were ushered in, I took
advantage of Bruce’s momentary distraction to move away from him, off to the
side of the room. The sound of introductory music made me glance up to the
landing, and I discovered that the pirate was now standing next to me. He
turned to look down at me — he really was very tall — and I could have sworn
those gray eyes were smiling again. When the hologram started speaking, he
turned his full attention to the
holo
-zone. It was a
live transmission from none other than Southern Sector President, Alex Hawke,
who welcomed us warmly to the Academy and wished us the best of luck in our
training.

I wanted to listen to the rest of Hawke’s speech, but I battled
to stay focused. I was too aware of the lean figure next to me. He was standing
so close that our arms were pressed against each other, and I could feel the
warmth of his body through my jumpsuit. I snuck a sideways glance at him.
Although he seemed to be watching and listening intently, he somehow radiated
an air of skepticism. Perhaps it was in the fold of his arms across his chest,
or the small frown between his eyes, or in the evaluative tilt of his head.
Once he shook his head very slightly and sighed softly.

It must have been a good speech, though, because when Hawke
finished speaking the gathered recruits applauded and nodded enthusiastically.
When the
holo
-zone reverted to the ASTA logo, gray
eyes looked down at me, eyebrows raised as if to say, “Well, what do you think
of that?”

I shrugged. I had been more focused on the guy next to me than
the man on the screen, but judging from the odd phrases I had caught, the Pres
had said more or less the same things he always said when he made a speech on
T.V.: be vigilant, report suspicious people and activity, serve your nation in
the war against terror and the pandemic, play your role as a loyal citizen.

Now a new transmission began playing. On the landing was a
life-size hologram of a short, compact woman of around fifty years, wearing a
navy skirt and jacket over a plain white shirt. The image shifted to a
head-and-shoulders view, showing more detail: high cheekbones, dark eyes and an
asymmetrically-cut bob of sleek black hair. When she moved her head, the
underside of her hair flashed a deep iridescent violet, like the purple-skinned
pokeweed berries Dad had pointed out to me on our family vacations in National
Parks around the States. The woman was striking, but not beautiful. Her mouth
was too small for her face, and the blood-red lipstick which was the only
make-up she wore only emphasized the thinness of her lips.

“Welcome, new recruits, welcome. I am Roberta Roth, Chief
Executive Officer of the Advanced Specialized Training Academy coming to you
via live-stream from Washington. I’m sorry not to be able to welcome you in
person. I want to commend each and every one of you for showing exceptional
skills in your different fields of expertise. What I tell you next is
confidential, and you are reminded that you have signed a legally binding
contract not to disclose to anyone what you may learn here today.”

She paused and let the warning sink in before continuing.

“Few beyond these walls know that the primary function of The
Game, which all of you have been playing so skillfully for these last several
years, is not that of mere entertainment.”

The Game wasn’t just a game?

“Yes, it is fun to play in your various gamer roles, and that is
all it will ever be to most who play it. But for the last three years, The
Game’s real purpose, its most important function, has been to help us identify
those gifted individuals who may be able to employ their valuable skills in
serving the government and citizens of this great nation at a time when our
very existence is threatened by heinous terrorists. In short, The Game is a
recruitment tool.”

A low murmur of surprise buzzed around the room at these words. I
was pretty astonished myself. I mean, I’d guessed, from Fiona’s presence at the
game simulation and on the transport this morning, and from the fact that
PlayState
and The Academy were neighbors, that there might
be some connection between them, but I hadn’t figured that the Game’s main
purpose was to identify and recruit workers for the government. I snuck a
glance at the pirate, but he was staring fixedly at Roth.

“You need to know this in order to make an informed decision
about whether you wish to proceed with your induction and training here at the
Academy. ASTA is a private agency mandated by our government to identify,
recruit and train the brightest of this nation’s teenagers. The goal is to
train you to become skilled allies in the fight against the terrorists who have
decimated our population with their evil disease, and reduced our freedoms and
traditional way of life to shadows of their former selves.”

Beside me, the pirate shifted his stance restlessly.

“Your skills have been developed through gaming. Your performance
— online and in real-life simulations — has been monitored and your proficiency
noted.”

What the heck? All the time I’d been playing, some person or
program had been monitoring my performance, comparing and evaluating me against
other players? It sounded like even the simulated sniper mission had been a
test of sorts. I thought back to that day, seeing everything differently in the
light of this new information. Had
Sarge
, Fiona and
Juan been observing us, to see if we could carry over our marksmanship and keep
our cool in a “real-life” situation? If so, Graham had obviously disqualified
himself by losing his nerve when under pressure. And had that disgusting dead
rat been placed in the arena deliberately? I was sickened by the idea that
someone had killed an animal and brought it to that precise and nauseating
stage of decomposition merely to check how we would respond. Maybe the hostage
situation had also been some kind of test. Would I have been ruled out of selection
if I’d surrendered, as I had first wanted to?

“Some of you,” continued Roth, “are our latest recruits to
programs that already exist, but a few of you will be our first participants in
a newly established unit. We believe that all of you have the talent and
potential necessary to become skilled specialists in the service of your
nation, and we would like to invite each of you to join our world of skilled
and protective service. If you stay, you will be signing up for a period of
training and employment of not less than eighteen months. During that time, you
will be paid a small monthly stipend and will amass a wealth of training and
experience which will stand you in good stead for getting an excellent job
afterwards. If you are not wholly enthusiastic or willing to commit yourself
fully to a program which will, I warn you, be challenging, then you are free to
leave. Simply raise a hand now, if that is your choice, and you will be
escorted safely home.”

Everyone in the room looked around, but no one raised a hand. I
hesitated.

I was being offered an out from the confined stir-crazy of home,
as well as the chance to do something meaningful to help bring about the end of
the war which had kept me trapped, kept all of us trapped, for the last four
years. Part of me — the part whose job it was to worry about Mom and Robin —
nudged me to raise my hand. But the rest of me, the selfish parts, I guess,
wanted to stay here more than I had ever wanted anything. Maybe Robin would be
late in submitting his school assignments, maybe Mom would work too late into
the night designing websites for her clients, but they’d be safe at home.
Besides, Mom would want me to serve my country, wouldn’t she? And Robin knew
how much I chafed against the restrictions made necessary by the plague. He
escaped into his books; he wouldn’t deny me a chance to escape using my skill.

I moved my hands, but only to clasp them together behind me. I
was smiling widely behind my mask.

The pirate looked down at me, an odd expression in his eyes.

“You all wish to stay? How wonderful!” said Roth, her thin lips
curving in a brief
smile.
Was
she
watching
us
via a live-stream, too? “Right, you will all now be taken to the medical and
intake section, located down the corridor to your right, where you will be
processed and assigned to your units. I look forward to getting to know you
during your stay here. Please refrain from speaking to each other until
processing is complete.” With a final flash of violet, her hologram
disappeared.

As we all trooped down the stairs to the intake and processing
department, I followed behind the pirate, admiring the way his wide shoulders
tapered down to his lean waist.

First stop was the registration table.

“Ladies first,” said the pirate, stepping aside.

The uniformed official standing behind the table checked my
registration slip off against an online list on his touchscreen computer, took
my bags and labeled them. Then he issued me an empty cardboard box and a sealed
package which he fetched from the packed tall shelves behind him.

“You’re in the black unit,” the official said.

“Thanks.” I lingered behind to hear which unit the pirate would
be in.

Blue. Crap.

Next, we were directed to the row of unisex
decon
shower booths. Another official, wearing the same sand-colored uniform, mask
and gloves as the man behind the table, directed me to a booth as soon as the
green light beside its door indicated that it was free.

“Shower, change into the garments in the package and put
everything you are currently wearing into the box. When you are finished, exit
via the door at the other side of the booth and proceed to the medical
examination.” She repeated the instructions to each recruit as they reached the
front of the line.

I nodded and entered the booth, and the door swung closed behind
me. In the tiny changing booth, I stripped and placed my folded clothes,
underwear and shoes into the box. Both my box and package were labeled with
black stickers bearing the same number: JJ20027. As soon as I stepped under the
showerhead in the adjacent stall, the water turned on automatically. It was
good and hot, but it was also yellow and smelt funny. Though it was probably
only some strong sort of disinfectant, it felt like showering in pee.

The walls of the booth and shower were high enough not to be able
to see over, but they reached down only to just below my knees. From where I
stood under the spray, I could see under the booth walls into the lower section
of the adjacent booth’s changing area, where a pair of checkerboard sneakers
lay on the ground. I was hyper-aware that I was naked and showering next to the
pirate, with only the three-quarter shower wall between us. Now and then I saw
a foot and ankle in the gap. Could he see my feet, with their long second toes
and blue nail polish?

When the water stopped, I opened the package. Inside I found a
disposable drying cloth, latex gloves and a new mask, as well as clothes — a
bra and panties, a pair of black sneakers, socks and three black, all-in-one,
zip-up jumpsuits. Everything was in my size.

I dressed, put on my gloves and mask, and tried to find a way to
open the door at the other end of the shower cubicle, but apparently that was
automated, too, because there was no latch or handle and it didn’t open when I
pushed. A few minutes later, it swung open with a soft ping. I exited and
joined the next line, directly behind the pirate, who was now wearing a blue
jumpsuit. When he noticed me, he stretched out a hand and brushed my dripping
hair off my chest. I looked down to see that he had exposed the name
embroidered in white thread and block capital letters over the breast pocket of
the suit.

“Jinx?” he asked softly.

I nodded.

I read the name on his breast pocket.
QUINN O’RILEY.

“So we’re in different units?” I whispered.

“Looks like it,” he said.

“What are you —” I began.

But Quinn held a finger up to his mask-covered lips and then,
keeping his hand close against his chest, he pointed upwards and tilted his
head a bit back. My eyes flicked above and beyond him. A small camera, like a
dark, round fisheye, was mounted in the ceiling of the room. That was odd. Why
would there be security cameras down here? Surely no one would want to break
into the facility to use the showers?