Psion Alpha (8 page)

Walter
kept his head down as he wandered the halls of the Elite Training Center. It
was impossible to get lost. The buildings were perfectly symmetrical, including
the hallways and classrooms. He crossed two bridges until he came to the
northwest building marked LIVING QUARTERS. The bottom floor where he entered
was a giant lounge. Several large televisions hung on the walls, all tuned to news
stations. Couches and chairs were scattered about, some arranged into small
circles. Ping pong tables, air hockey machines, and other similar games lined
the walls. A few students eyed him curiously as he entered. The vast majority
ignored him.

A
swarm of butterflies attacked Walter’s stomach as he looked around for a sign
directing him to his room. Everything was suddenly real and tangible.
Breathe.
He found a sign telling him to go upstairs. He climbed three flights before
reaching the floor for rooms K through O. Then he wandered the halls until he
found number 26M. Eagerly, he knocked on the door.

“It’s
unlocked,” a voice called from inside the room.

He
entered a tiny room. Two beds about the size of cots occupied opposite sides. A
double desk sat in between with two chairs. A closet with mirror-plated sliding
doors faced the desk on the opposing wall. Everything was immaculate. Items on
the desk sat neatly arranged as though copied from a Feng Shui book. One side
of the room had two motion posters on the wall. The first showed a continuous
loop of the New York Yankees making a play to win their fortieth World Series.
It was a play Walter knew well since it had happened three months earlier, and
he’d watched the series (cheering for the Oklahoma City Royals). The second
poster was a mosaic of Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out, pulling it back
in, and blinking. Beneath the posters, sitting on his bed and writing on a pad
of paper, was Walter’s roommate.

“Are
you a Yankees fan?” the boy of seventeen asked.

“Uh,
no.”

“Then
get out and don’t come back!”

Walter’s
face fell as he took a step backward. “Wait, what? Are you—”

His
roommate smiled and set his book down. “No, I’m kidding, man. You must be Walter
Byron.” When he pronounced
must
, he did so with a slight lisp. “Welcome
to hell.”

“Uh
… thanks,” Walter responded. “Who are you?”

“Trapper
Jones. Nice to meet.”

“Walter—oh
wait, you already know my name.”

Trapper
was tall with fair skin, thick reddish-brown hair, and a face like someone who
belonged in movies. He had a mild Northeastern accent like Boston or Brooklyn
or somewhere near there. He smiled in a crooked, almost cocky way. On his lap
was a copy of Shakespeare’s
King Lear
. Walter liked him immediately.

“No
bags?” Trapper asked.

“Long
story.”

Trapper
squinted at Walter, leaning forward as he did so. “How old are you, man?”

“Seventeen.
Why? Do I look older?” Walter knew he’d given his answer too fast, but couldn’t
help it now.

“No,
I’m
seventeen. You look about fourteen. Maybe thirteen. Not that I care,
I’m sure you’re a better roommate than the last guy.”

“Why
is that?”

“He
was a gunkhead. Got kicked out for getting high as a kite and then dancing on
the roof in his underwear. Ballet dancing. Don’t ask me how they missed it with
all their tests and whatever. I spotted it the second I met him. Punk was a
tool of the lowest order.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.
Wow. For the last week I’ve been known as the guy with the ballerina, druggie
roommate. Now I’ll be the guy with the kid brother for a roommate.”

“No,
seriously, I am—”

Trapper
put up a hand. “It’s cool. Whatever. Were you on the waiting list or a late
scholarship accepter?”

“Uh
… scholarship. What about you?”

Trapper
smiled and smacked the top of his bed. “Figures. Me? The hard way. I applied
like the other three hundred morons here.” He jumped out of bed. “You want me
to show you around? You don’t want to get lost in this place and be late for
class. No one will help you.”

Walter
gladly accepted the offer. His roommate took him around the living quarters
building first: the bathrooms, the cafeteria, a small non-denominational chapel,
the recreation areas, the study areas. In all these places hung the same red
banner with black lettering:

FEAR
IS MY CLOAK. PERFECTION IS MY DAGGER. EXCELLENCE DRIVES ME. I AM THE BEST. I AM
ELITE.

Then
they moved to the buildings where classes were held. Each area was divided up
by field of study: mathematics, theories of combat, emergency training,
physics, leadership, basic engineering, health science, and, best of all,
aviation.

The
northeastern building was for lectures, the southwestern for training. In the
latter building, Trapper showed him rows of virtual reality flight simulators,
engineering laboratories, padded and unpadded dojos for combat, and other
hands-on training rooms. Elites-in-training were everywhere. Studying, working
the simulators, sparring in the dojos, and, least of all, using the
recreational facilities.

In
the center of the four buildings was a quad covered in snow. In the center of
the quad stood a large statue of an Elite male and female soldier, each holding
a gun in one hand and making a fist with the other. Walter had thought Trapper
was joking at first about how no one would help him, but as he saw more of the
facility, he grasped the pervading sense of competition. The air was thick with
it. Everyone—
everyone
—seemed to thrive on it. He saw it in their faces,
in the masks of concentration and focus, the strutting around like puffed up
birds, the looking over the shoulders.

“They’re
all nuts here. All of them. Before long, you and I will go nuts, too.”

“Why
is it like that?”

“Don’t
know for sure. Maybe the signs.” Trapper’s face went slack, his eyes bulged,
and his arms waved in front of him. He looked like a zombie. “Fear … is … my …
cloak.… ” The voice coming from his throat sounded completely different than
his normal one.

Walter
laughed.

“Really,
though, it’s the golden skulls.”

“What
are those?”

“They
talked about them in orientation our first day.” Trapper held up three fingers.
“Academics, combat, aviation. The top student at the end of the two years gets
the academic skull, top pilot gets aviation, and to get the combat skull … you
have to fight and beat the guy who holds it. Unless that guy graduates, in
which case a match is set up by the faculty.”

It
took little effort for Walter to imagine himself getting a golden skull in
aviation. In his mind’s eye, he held up a giant skull of gold like Hamlet.

“See,
Byron?” Trapper saw Walter’s expression and pointed at him. “You’re already
going nuts, aren’t you, man?”

“What?
No. Well … I think it would be cool. I want to fly. That is why I came here.”

“Uh
huh. How old are you really?”

“Seventeen.”

Trapper
rolled his eyes. “Whatever, man,” he said as he walked away. “We need to pick
up your stuff.”

The
way he said “stuff” made Walter smile. “What stuff?”

“They
issue you stuff. Tablet, uniforms, gear, bed sheets … all that crap.” Trapper
regarded Walter skeptically. “Anyone tell you anything before you came here?”

“Yeah,
they did. It was all so fast, though.”

“I
started preparing months ago. I knew what I was getting into.”

Walter’s
face grew warm. “So—so did I.”

Trapper’s
expression turned sorrowful, leading Walter to wonder if he saw through his
lies. “We’ll see tomorrow if you’re right. I wasn’t kidding when I called this
place hell. I do hope you’re prepared, but if not … I don’t mind having my own
room.”

The
two roommates spent the rest of the day preparing Walter for the next morning.
They picked up his gear, ate a late lunch, and chatted in their dorm while
Walter got himself settled. About two hours before lights out, a knock came at
the door; it was an Elite bearing Walter’s personal belongings —those that had
survived the crash, at least. Walter hesitantly told Trapper about the plane
crash. Trapper listened to the story and shook his head when Walter finished.

“Why
do I get the feeling there’s more to you than what you’re telling me?”

That
night Walter slept fitfully, dreaming about falling into an army base full of
deranged, mutant snowmen in Elite uniforms who gang-tackled him until he froze
to death. The next morning began the routine that would define his life for the
first several months at the Elite Training Center: wake, fitness, shower,
breakfast, classes, lunch, classes, dinner, study, sleep.

At
breakfast, Walter followed Trapper through the line, staying close to the only
person he knew. “I’m going to introduce you to some friends I’ve made,” Trapper
said. “Everyone has a study group or clique or whatever you want to call it.
You don’t survive on your own—not academically and maybe not mentally. You’re
welcome to join my group if you want.”

With
tray in hand, he led Walter to a table where three others sat waiting for him.
“Guys, this here’s Byron, my new roommate. Doesn’t do drugs … so far.”

Trapper’s
comment made everyone laugh.

“Byron,
this is Otto.”

“Hey,
dude,” Otto said. He was a thin young man, at least eighteen years old, with
braces, short, pointy red hair, and lots of small moles on his face. He crossed
his arms over his chest like a tough guy and nodded coolly to Walter. The first
impression that popped into Walter’s mind was
nerd
.

“Next
to him is Xian.”

“Sup,
bro?” Xian, almost twenty-one, had a shaved head, wore glasses, and reminded
Walter of the kids in his high school who spent all their free time playing
first-person shooters. Apparently, during one of Xian’s late-night gaming
sessions, he’d decided to apply for the Elite program. He was even skinnier
than Otto but had a friendly smile.

“And
that’s Emerald.” Emerald was a girl—one of the only girls Walter had seen at
the ETC, but as he glanced around, he saw several more. She looked about
Trapper’s age with her chubby face and stomach, a small nose, and pretty brown
eyes that told him she thought he was scum. When Trapper said her name, she
brushed her oily brown hair out of her face. It had a not-so-subtle tint of
green; Walter guessed she’d recently dyed it to be in compliance with the Elite
code of conduct and grooming. Her nose, ears, and lips bore traces of recently
removed piercings. She had rolled up the sleeves of her uniform, exposing a few
inches of the colorful tattoos decorating her arms. With her brown eyes, she
surveyed him with something between boredom and disgust.

“Uh,
hi, everyone,” Walter offered.

“Byron
pretends he’s seventeen, by the way,” Trapper added.

“Yeah,
wow, bro,” Xian said. “I was about to say no way you’re seventeen. How old are
you really?”

Walter
rolled his eyes and sat down next to Emerald. The moment his butt touched the
seat, he noticed a faint, bad odor coming from her. She immediately moved a
seat away, and Trapper filled the spot vacated by her.

“Where
you from, Byron?” Otto asked.

“Wichita.”

Otto
and Xian exchanged a look. “Where’s that?”

“Kansas?
The Wizard of Oz?”

Otto
and Xian wore blank expressions.

“Never
mind. Where are you guys from?”

“Berlin,”
said Otto. “Well, near Berlin, but no one’s heard of Hennigsdorf.”

“Shíji
ā
zhu
ā
ng,” Xian answered.
“You heard of it, bro?”

Otto
patted Xian on the back and said, “Gesundheit.”

“I’m
from my mom’s vaginal canal.” That came from Emerald.

“Gross.”
Otto moaned as he let his porridge drip from his spoon back into the bowl.

“Thanks,
Emerald,” Trapper said. “Now my ham and eggs look so appetizing.… ”

Otto
reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook. “Enough chit chat,
dudes. I spent the weekend planning out a study schedule. I want your input on
this.” He tore out three sheets and passed them around. Walter did not get one.
“Sorry, dude,” Otto explained, “didn’t know you’d be here. I’ve given each
class an equal amount of time down to the minute, but we can always adjust
based on the difficulty of the course and our individual needs. To allow that,
I’ve also blocked in bathroom breaks and individual—”

“We
get the point, man,” Trapper said. “Thanks, though. I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”

It
was then Walter realized he’d been inducted into the club for the rejects of
the Elite. Most of the other young men and women were bigger, stronger, and
meaner. In fact, Walter noted how most of the girls resembled the boys in looks
and mannerisms.