Psion Alpha (12 page)

“Ma’am,
I am so sorry! There was this—this light across the street. I just glanced over
at it—and—and—”

The
Queen calmed herself a little. “It’s not your fault. My dog, he—” she glanced down
between the dog’s back legs, “
she
darted out when she saw the light. She
hates things like that. It made her go crazy!” She raised her palm so Clyde
could see where the dog’s leash had cut her.

“Still,
I feel terrible. Can I give you a lift to the veterinarian? I think there’s one
only a few blocks away. Please let me help.”

The
Queen covered her eyes and shook her head dramatically. “Look at her! She won’t
survive. Oh my goodness! I just … I can’t believe this!”

Clyde,
now kneeling in the street, rested his hand on her shoulder and consoled her
clumsily. “I am so, so very sorry. Please tell me I can do something—anything.”

Giving
a long sniff, the Queen wiped her eyes and looked at Clyde helplessly. Several
cars had stopped to watch the scene. Clyde’s face dripped with a cold sweat,
his eyes strained in either worry or fear. His offer of assistance did not
surprise the Queen. She’d studied the psychological profile N Corporation had
completed on him before offering him a job.

“Do—do
you think that maybe you can give me a ride home?” She offered him a sad, but
brave smile. “Please?”

Clyde
looked shocked that she would accept his offer to give her a ride after running
over her dog. He got up from his kneeling position beside her and went to the
back of his car. After popping the trunk, he lifted the dog up and asked her
with his eyes if it was all right to lay the dog in the rear. The Queen joined
him and petted the dog’s mashed head gently and lovingly as he set it down
delicately in the otherwise clean trunk space.

Stupid
animal
, she thought as Clyde closed the trunk. Then she covered
her eyes once more and gestured for him to give her a moment.

“I’ll
be, um, in the—the, you know, the car.” Clyde hung his head as he opened the
driver’s side door and got in.

The
Queen watched him with her hand over her mouth and nose, grinning delightfully.
Got you.
Then, assuming her most morose expression, she joined him.

The
ride was solemn, the only words spoken were the Queen’s whispered instructions
on where to turn. Clyde always seemed on the verge of apologizing again, but
stopped himself each time his mouth opened. Opera music streamed softly from
the radio. The Queen wondered if Clyde knew the music was still playing, or if
he was too lost in his own guilt. As they approached her “home,” she prepared
herself for the final, and most important, act of the day.

“It’s
there,” she pointed to the left side of the street, “those apartments.”

Clyde
obediently pulled the car over to the side of the road. Across from them stretched
a row of modest apartment buildings. Her rent was low enough not to attract
attention to her activities, especially since she hoped her covert operation
would only last a few months. Clyde surveyed the apartment complex, then her.
His long pale face had a permanent frown. “Again, ma’am—geez, I don’t even know
your name. You mind if I ask?”

“Kellie
Plummer. My dog was … Poochie.”

“I
am so sorry about Poochie.” He played with his sideburn and pulled on his
collar even though it wasn’t at all tight on his neck. “What can I do to make
amends? You need some help getting him up to the apartment? Can I offer to buy
you a new dog? I really want to do something to—to fix it.”

The
Queen hesitantly rested her hand on top of his as it rested on his lap. The
skin on the back of his hand was cool, the hair sparse. Confusion filled his
eyes. “You’ve been so kind to me. Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Clyde.”

“Clyde.
I like that. You know, most people would have driven off.”

“No,
no one is that heartless.” Clyde’s protest was genuine, almost charming in a
naïve way that the Queen found utterly revolting.

“Poochie
was old. And sometimes annoying, but.… ” She pretended to struggle over her
emotions again. A few more tears even fell from her eyes, “… he—she was my
friend. I don’t have many of those here.”

Clyde
leaned toward her as if to hold her, then pulled back. She read in his body
language his lack of self-esteem and fear of human contact. He wanted to do the
decent thing, but was afraid of coming across as brash or opportunistic.
Instead, he settled on placing his other hand on top of hers, forming a hand
sandwich of sorts, with hers in the middle. She recognized his gesture by
squeezing the hand on the bottom.

“I
think I’ll bury Poochie next to my parents. You don’t think the cemetery would
mind if I did that, do you?” As she said this, she scanned the perimeter of the
complex for a dumpster.

“Uh
…
well, I don’t know. That might not be legal. You should call your vet and ask him
or her what to do.”

The
Queen nodded quickly as though the tears threatened to spill again. “Thank you,
Clyde. Don’t feel guilty about what happened. Okay?”

Clyde’s
face showed nothing but guilt.

“I’m
serious. You know what you can do for me? What would really cheer me up?”

“What?”

“A
meal with good company. Would you—maybe—want to take me out for dinner?”

A
sharp intake of air was Clyde’s answer. “Uh, really? Me?” He looked at her
face, neck, and below, seeing her properly for the first time. “Tonight?”

The
Queen rolled her eyes unseen.
You really are a helpless idiot, aren’t you?
“No,
I still need to bury my—”

Clyde
smacked his forehead. “Of course. Yes. Forgive me. When would work for you?”

The
Queen put on her most friendly, innocent expression. “Sunday evening?”

Still
bewildered by the turn of events, Clyde let out a small cough. “Sunday works
fine for me. Do you have a certain place or, um, a type of food you prefer?”

Opening
her door, the Queen said, “Surprise me.” She opened his glove compartment and
found a pen and paper to jot down her number. “I’ll be waiting to hear from
you.” After touching him gently on the cheek with a sad smile, she went to the
back of the car, fetched her dead dog, and waved goodbye to Clyde with the
right mixture of hopefulness and sorrow. All in all, the plan worked perfectly.

His
phone call came while she was in the shower on Saturday afternoon. The Queen
heard her com announce his name and cursed as she ran through her house naked.
By the time she picked up, the line was dead. When she called him back only
moments later, he sounded shocked to hear her voice.
You assumed I changed my
mind, didn’t you?
They set plans for dinner the following evening. He would
pick her up outside her apartment building.

The
Queen spent all of Saturday hunting down the exact outfit she needed to match
what she thought would have the greatest positive effect on Clyde’s psyche. It
needed to be assertive yet subtle, alluring but not provocative. She ended up
choosing an expensive pink dress with matching shoes. The dress had one strap,
but invoked a tasteful sense of style. It had a silvery white pattern printed
into the fabric and ended immediately above her knees. She avoided looking too
glamorous, holding back on her makeup and hairstyle. When she finished
preparing herself, the image staring back at her was of a smart, sensible,
well-dressed woman in her mid-twenties who had a natural, but unrealized
beauty.

Perfect
.

Clyde
arrived punctually at 1900. The Queen made him wait exactly two minutes before
coming down the stairs and exiting the front door of her complex. Unexpectedly,
he played the role of the chivalrous date, going so far as to open her car door
for her when she got in and out of the vehicle. Despite his palpable
nervousness, he seemed determined to do the date right. He kept the
conversation light and friendly, most likely to get a feel for what the date
meant to her. Neither Clyde nor the Queen mentioned Poochie.

The
place chosen was an upscale sushi restaurant in downtown Seattle. The dim
lighting and soft gagaku playing from the speakers provided a soothing and
enjoyable atmosphere. Clyde insisted the Queen order for both of them,
something she had anticipated. She picked dishes she believed he would enjoy.
As they waited for their meal, the Queen carefully directed their conversation
to schooling and employment. It didn’t take long for Clyde to reveal what she’d
known all along.

“I’m
a geneticist,” he said, “for N Corporation. In fact, last year N promoted me to
Chief of Research in our department.”

“You’re
kidding!” The Queen convincingly feigned her surprise. “I’m in UW’s genetics
PhD program right now.”

“No!
Really?”

“Yes.
I’ve got a year left. Maybe eighteen months.”

They
spent several minutes talking about their respective micro-fields of interest.
The Queen had familiarized herself with enough jargon that she came across as
competent and energetic about her studies. Clyde’s face slowly began to take on
an enamored expression throughout the meal until the Queen knew she had her
hooks in deep.

Clyde
talked about how he’d gotten an entry level job with N right out of his
graduate program. When he first started, he’d worked exclusively on their
designer pet lines with several other geneticists. However, even from his
astonishingly modest version of the events, the Queen garnered that he had
drawn attention to himself as a brilliant mind, and steadily worked his way up
to the “bigger” projects. No matter how hard she pressed, he wouldn’t divulge
any information about what these were, though she already knew quite a bit from
her time spent around the fox. She had no doubt Clyde spent much of his time
working on the Thirteen-Fourteen Hybrid project.

“That
is so incredible,” she stated, smiling at him with a coy flirtatiousness. “I
love rubbing against bright minds like yours. It feels so empowering.”

Clyde
tried to hide his own grin behind his glass of wine, but ended up spilling on
himself. When he saw what he’d done, he cursed softly.

“Let
me help you,” the Queen offered, getting up with her napkin. She mopped up the
small spill on his shirt, then his pants. As she cleaned him, she stared at him
innocently. “You know what I’d love to see the next time we go out?”

“Uh.…
” As Clyde swallowed, she heard an audible
gulp
.

“Your
lab. I want to see everything you do. Whatever you can show me.” Then she
pecked him on the cheek, letting her lips dwell for just a small extra moment
before pulling away. His face was almost as red as her lipstick.

To
ensure his embarrassment didn’t last, the Queen returned the topic to genetics.
Clyde’s guarded attitude over his work relaxed ever so slightly, and she found
this small defect in his barrier promising. He offered her dessert, which she
declined. They took a short walk around the city, then returned to his car so
he could drive her home. The atmosphere between them was friendly and engaging.
The Queen vaguely wondered if this playful pretend personality she had adopted
was what she might have been like had she not been transformed into a higher
state of being through her anomaly. Several times she brushed Clyde’s hand with
hers, and she leaned toward him as they spoke so her body language conveyed a sexual
attraction.

When
they arrived at her apartment building, Clyde’s mannerisms became clumsy once
again. The Queen steered him through the goodbye conversation, ensuring him
that she’d love to go out once more, and hopefully soon. He got out of the car
and opened her door. He even offered her his arm as they walked up to the
apartment. The Queen noticed the slight trembling in his muscles.

“Well
… ” he began, “I sure had a great time. You are—you are not what I expected. I
didn’t know how this would go, you know. Me being a scientist and all, I guess
I kind of fit the stereotype a bit, don’t I?”

“I
think you’re just fine.” She winked at him and grinned cheerily. “Very fine, in
fact.”

“Thanks.”

“So
next time do I get to see your lab?”

“Uh.…
”

“Please?
Pretty please.”

Clyde
rubbed the back of his head. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

The
Queen leaned in and kissed Clyde on the lips. His entire body stiffened up in
shock. She wrapped her arms around him and held him until he relaxed.
Good
boys must be rewarded when they do the right thing.

He
kissed her clumsily, wetly. She ignored this and thought of Sammy. The intensity
of her kiss increased. She thought of the fox. She thought of her freedom, and
her imagination left her breathless. Clyde grinned, probably thinking it was he
who had such an effect on her. She thought of the solution in her veins and
kissed him again.
Always freedom
.
Always
.

CHAPTER
SEVEN
– Aviation

April 2055

THREE
months passed at the Elite Training Center. Trapper’s habit of referring to
Walter by his last name had stuck. Byron, as everyone now called him, had
fallen into the swing of things as best he could. A letter came every few weeks
from his mother, but never his father. Monthly phone calls from Byron kept them
up to date on what was happening in his life. He noticed in their voices how
they tried to sound excited for him, but weren’t. And he understood why. Still,
their encouragement was appreciated, especially as time wore on.

Byron
had adopted Trapper’s friends as his own, and the five of them sat through
lectures, hung out, ate, and studied together. The only thing Byron did on his
own was study scripture for a couple of hours in the small Elite chapel on Sundays.

Byron
noticed how his group gravitated to Trapper. Trapper always sat in the middle.
Trapper made the final decision about activities or assignments. The other
four, Byron included, rarely dissented. Trapper resolved arguments,
particularly between Emerald and the other three young men. In fact, if it
weren’t for Diego and Omar’s daily tormenting, Trapper would have seemed
untouchable. It jarred Byron how someone could be such a strong leader among
some, yet be mercilessly bullied by others.

It
wasn’t uncommon for Omar to spill a drink on Trapper in the cafeteria, smack
him in the back of the head during a lecture, or walk behind Trapper in the
hallway speaking loudly with an exaggerated lisp. Occasionally it was worse,
like the night Omar and Markorian, Omar’s small, blondish friend, grabbed
Trapper in the bathroom, stripped him down, and wrapped him in duct tape. It
was Byron who helped his roommate remove the tape, along with much of Trapper’s
body hair. Neither of them had told the rest of the group about the incident.

Trapper
took it all in stride as best he could, sometimes laughing it off, and
sometimes not. Late February was Trapper’s eighteenth birthday. His parents
sent him his grandfather’s antique Rifleman’s knife with a wood and copper
hilt. Trapper’s grandfather had an ancestor who’d used it during the French and
Indian war. Despite its priceless value, Trapper slipped it under his pillow
and left it there. Byron worried that someday things between Omar and Trapper
might escalate to the point where Trapper might consider using it.

One
of Trapper’s first pieces of advice to Byron had proved most wise. On his own, Byron
would never have survived the ETC. In fact, if Trapper hadn’t adopted Byron
into “Team Oddball,” as they were now called by the rest of the school—thanks
to Omar and company—Byron would have left in less than a month.

The
classes were astoundingly brutal, some mentally, some physically, and a few
both. The teachers all landed somewhere between eccentric and clinically insane.
It made sense; anyone who volunteered to teach a group as intense and dynamic
as the Elites-in-training in the middle of the Siberian wasteland could not have
a normal brain. Team Oddball spent an hour or two each morning improving their
physical fitness, and between three to six hours each evening studying and
quizzing each other in preparation for exams.

The
two years of basic Elite training were divided into four semesters, although
some students applied for post-graduate courses and stayed for an extra year. Many
considered the first semester to be the “weeding months,” meaning that the
course load was so wicked that it forced out anyone who wasn’t fit, ready, or
willful enough to be there. Byron’s first semester classes were combat,
aviation, math, engineering, geography, crisis management, and psychology.
After three months, he still wasn’t sure which he disliked the most because
they were all so difficult.

He
did know, however, which teacher he liked the best. Professor Wright, the
aviation instructor, was a kind but wacky man with wavy brown hair and an airy
smile. Most importantly, he shared Byron’s passion for flying. Their first
several lessons focused on the basics of aviation: yaw, pitch, and roll. Byron
envied Professor Wright’s ability to teach boring concepts in colorful and
imaginative ways.

Other
teachers used unique methods to drive home their lessons. Perhaps most
frightening was Dr. Narayan, the crisis management teacher. He was a
middle-aged man with a thick Indian accent. “You never know when a crisis will
hit. One could happen RIGHT NOW!” He liked to stomp his foot whenever he yelled
words. “What if I suddenly grab my chest or my left arm? Myocardial infarction!
How will you save my life? HOW?” He also liked glaring around the room, daring
anyone to answer his questions. “Because if you do not save my life, all the
knowledge in my brain will disappear forever!” He stomped the floor again. “You
will all be stupid because I cannot teach you everything I know. Dead people do
no teaching!”

His
idea of a pop quiz was not to surprise the class, but to sneak up on a first or
second semester student and grill him or her on potential crises and their best
solutions. It happened to Byron while he was sitting on the toilet during his
second month at the ETC. From out of nowhere, Narayan appeared over the top of
his stall and shouted, “I AM CHOKING! How will you save me?” His sudden
appearance scared Byron so badly that he nearly fell to the floor.

“Black
saps! I mean, back slaps!” Byron cried as he covered himself with a large ball
of toilet paper.

“Didn’t
work!” Narayan screamed.

“Ab—ab—abdominal
thrusts!”

Narayan
put up three fingers. “Three tries, I am still choking. My lips are blue! A big
apple chunk is lodged in my throat. Save me, Byron, or you will be STUPID
because I can no longer teach you!”

“Uh—uh—finger
sweeping.”

“I
am nearly dead! You have one last chance!”

“Perform
an emergency airway puncture,” Byron gasped. “Then get help establishing a
clean airway.”

Dr.
Narayan smiled widely. “Very good, Byron! I am still alive thanks to your cool
head and quick thinking. One hundred percent.”

And
then, as quickly as he’d arrived, Dr. Narayan disappeared leaving Byron with
something similar to a myocardial infarction. His friends teased him about it
for weeks, especially Xian. “Nothing helps you empty your bowels faster than a
pop quiz, right, Byron?” was his favorite line.

Another
slightly (or not so slightly) insane teacher was Nicoletta Clardonsky, the
combat instructor. As strong and as large as a man, her favorite hobby was
demonstrating painful techniques on students and humiliating them by reminding
them that she was an old woman. In reality, she was only in her forties, and
also an expert at more martial arts and fighting styles than Byron could even
name. Her favorite and most frequently asked question was: “Does this hurt
yet?”

She
guaranteed anyone an A in her class who could beat her in a fight, and in her
seven years as an instructor, had never given one out. Thus, the best grade any
student could really hope for in her class was a B.

Often
cropping up in Byron’s mind were the golden skulls that Trapper had told him
about on his first day. Of the three of them—combat, academics, and aviation—Byron
had no interest in earning the one for combat. And while he thought the
academics skull would be nice, it was the aviation skull that he craved. It was
his highest priority. To earn it meant he had to excel not only in the
classroom exams, but also the flight simulations during his first year and the in-air
flight exams during the second year.

As
his first aviation sim exam drew nearer, Byron spent a larger chunks of his
spare time in the aviation wing using the simulators. He wasn’t the only one.
Several students coveted the same golden skull as he. In fact, many students
dedicated themselves to achieving what had never been done: winning all three
of them.

“They’re
crazy,” Trapper said when the topic came up again during breakfast on the
morning of the first aviation exam. “It’s impossible.”

“Nothing
is impossible,” Emerald said. “Someone will do it eventually.”

“I
actually agree with Trapper, Em,” Xian said, receiving her patented glare of death
as he spoke.

“Don’t
call me, Em.”

“Sure
thing, Em.”

“Nothing’s
impossible,” Otto added. “But you also have to see reason. There’s not enough
time in the day to do everything. You can’t be incredible at aviation, ace all
your classes, and still be the top dog in combat.”

“What
if someone comes to the ETC already an excellent pilot,” Byron suggested, “a
genius, and his father is … a martial arts expert who, you know, taught him
lots of stuff?”

Emerald
rolled her eyes.

“Xian’s
right,” Trapper said. “A guy might be able to get two.
Might
. But something
has to give.”

“Look
at me, bro” Xian said, kicking his feet up onto the table. “I’ve given up on
earning any of them. Life is so much easier once you embrace mediocrity.”

Byron
wanted to laugh at Xian’s comment, but with his stomach so full of knots about
the aviation exam, and his head swimming with flight techniques, he couldn’t
even crack a smile.

“Anyone
want to put a bet on which of us gets the top score on today’s exam?” Otto
asked, licking his lips.

 “What
does the winner get?” Trapper asked.

Otto
thought about it. “We’ve got room inspections coming up next week. How about
the winner gets his room—”

“
Her
,”
Emerald interrupted.

“—
his
room cleaned the day before inspections. The other four have to pitch in.”

“I’m
cool with that,” Trapper said. “Especially given how much time Byron and I have
put into the simulators.”

“You
still have to help if you lose, bro” Xian pointed out.

“Aw,
poop,” Trapper said in a cartoonish voice that got Otto and Emerald to laugh.

Not
long after, Team Oddball and the rest of the first year Elites-in-training sat
at their stations, each a little smaller than a golf cart. Red and black colors
decorated the outsides with the burning skulls of the Elite, reminding them of
their commitment to excellence. Each station was an enclosed dome with an
omni-projector at the center of the ceiling. Inside the domes, the chairs moved
and shook, reacting to the conditions of the simulations.

Byron
twitched and shivered as he sat in his unit.
Calm yourself. Be in control. I
know how to do this
. He repeated these words several times until he began
to believe them. Professor Wright had told his students that their first exam
would be simple, but include a small twist. It was the twist that had Byron
nervous. What would happen?
Will I run out of fuel? Get struck by lightning?

He
took a very slow breath and held it. As the exam began, the line of a poem his
mother had reminded him of in their most recent phone conversation sprang to
mind; yet Byron heard it in his father’s voice: “‘Self-reverence,
self-knowledge, self-control, these three alone lead life to sovereign power.’”

This
poem, more than anything, dampened his jitters. Per Wright’s instructions, each
student flew a small jet: the Phantom 200. The video definition on the screens
surrounding Byron was so incredible he wouldn’t have known he was in a
simulation if he hadn’t been told. The headphones covering his ears delivered
highly realistic sound to his brain. Byron communicated with the tower via his
headset as they gave him instructions for takeoff. Then he directed his jet
onto the runway and gave it enough thrust for takeoff.

Once
airborne, Byron’s anxiety vanished. Flying was familiar. Flying was
second-nature. Flying was where he belonged. Everything below shrank to
insignificant sizes. Above him stretched the most endless and pure blue he
could imagine. He minded his controls, made sure he kept the plane in between
the minimum and maximum altitudes, and performed minor adjustments when needed.

The
turns, banks, and rolls he found simple—he’d practiced them dozens of times
already. They’d become effortless, elementary, and almost boring. He had
prepared well.
But there is still the twist Professor Wright said would come
.…
As Byron entered into his final lap around the airbase, he steeled himself for
the worst. Only seconds later, strong winds crashed into the plane, buffeting
it fiercely. Byron maintained his composure and directed his controls to deal with
the winds as he’d been taught. This had happened a few times in his practice
rounds, and he’d specifically asked Professor Wright how best to counter such
an event.