Psion Gamma (10 page)

“Maybe you’re thinking about this all wrong, Brains,” Gunner suggested. “Try it from a new angle.”

“No . . . I’m not.” He rubbed his temples as if he could somehow massage his brain into giving him the answer. “We pick the lock and open the door. Five seconds for all of us to go through it. We sprint across the factory. Twenty seconds for most of us. Twenty-five for Chuckles’ fat butt.”

Fro-yo and Honk laughed at this. Chuckles flipped them off.

“The Blues realize what we’re doing in five seconds. They reach the factory door in . . .” He looked at Watch to finish the sentence.

“Six seconds tops,” Watch reported.

Sammy flipped his fork up in the air and caught it by the handle. “By the time we’re halfway through the factory, the Blues have cut us off because they’re that much closer to the exit.”

“Only if they catch on right away,” Feet pointed out.

“I’m assuming the worst,” Sammy said. “Less surprises that way.”

“If Brains says so, it must be true,” Fro-yo said while examining his hair in the reflection on the back of his spoon. “If you’re going to do nothing but think, can I eat your toast?”

“Why do you care what you look like?” Sammy asked as he pushed his plate over. “I see no girls here.”

Fro-yo grinned and winked at Sammy, then puckered up and kissed the air. “Be a pal and pass the butter, will you, Feet? Brains didn’t even have the decency to butter his own food.”

“It’s not butter,” Feet said. “It’s margarine.”

“So what? They taste the same.”

“No, they don’t,” Chuckles responded. “They’re totally different. Butter is made from milk. It’s sweeter and healthier. Margarine is oil based and tastes like—”

“Butter isn’t healthier than margarine,” Feet answered back.

While his friends argued, an idea clicked in Sammy’s head. He went over it repeatedly during his morning classes. During his work time in the factory, he double-checked the whole plan once more, making sure he hadn’t missed something.

At dinner time, he announced quietly that he had the solution. They would escape in three days, on their next cleaning night.

The night of the escape, Sammy stayed in the gathering room and mopped so he could keep a watchful eye on everything else in operation. Watch was entrusted with the sacred task of picking the lock while the others pretended to be cleaning. What they were really doing was packing food and supplies to keep them alive as they wandered through the forest.

It went like clockwork. When the packing was finished, Feet gave Sammy a thumbs up. Sammy mopped his way over to the factory door and gave the waiting Watch the go-ahead. About a minute later, all hell broke loose.

The seven of them hustled into the factory just as the security door burst open. There were fewer Blues heading them off than Sammy had expected. But the Blues didn’t get very far.

Earlier that day, just before the factory had closed down for dinner, Honk had accidentally spilled a large can of mustard on the factory floor while preparing sandwiches for next day’s lunch. When he reported this to the supervisor, he was ordered to clean it up immediately. This he did, except, instead of using cleaner, he used a large tub of melted margarine as his cleaning agent, coating a very large portion of the floor near the security guards’ door.

When the Blues came out of the door, they slipped and could not get back up.

Sammy and his gang howled with laughter as they raced down their own clear path, burst through the emergency exit, and emerged in the blustery night air. He noticed Gunner, Honk, and Fro-yo had grabbed makeshift weapons along the way, others had not. He’d told them they wouldn’t need them.

He was wrong.

Three more Blues blocked their path into the forest, wielding the only weapons the Blue were allowed to use: pepper spray and clubs. Sammy realized security must have had access to some other exit he didn’t know about, giving them a quicker route to the grounds.

“Remember your promise!” Sammy bellowed as he ran straight for the nearest guard.

“Never come back here again!” Feet yelled.

The pepper spray was unleashed as the Blue raised his club. Sammy threw his shoulder into him and ran on, ignoring the stinging in his eyes.

The two other Blues gave just as much fight before bowing to the overwhelming numbers coming at them. Honk and Gunner swore in anger as the pepper did its work.

“Keep going to the fence!” Sammy shouted.

Chuckles hit the ground screaming, clutching his face when they were only a few meters from the fence. The rest of the Blues emerged from the factory exit. Sammy ran back to help Chuckles as his friends scaled the fence. When the boys had all crossed, they ran for the woods, shouting taunts and obscenities at the Blues who didn’t even bother to give chase.

Ten more days went by and Sammy relied more and more on his memories to get him through his time with Stripe. He saw no chance for escape. Guards escorted him through the halls at gunpoint, and his arms stayed shackled whenever they moved him.

On his fifth trip to the room with the black door, he was caught off guard. After the escorts secured him to the chair and left, Stripe sat down in his chair. He was wearing the same suit Sammy had first seen him in: the one with the striped tie and white shirt. Stripe flattened his tie against his chest and stomach with a sigh.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said in his unusually deep, nasal tone, looking at the floor. “I can’t stand hurting you. Or other people, for that matter.”

Sammy stared at Stripe with his mouth half-open. He didn’t believe he’d heard Stripe correctly, but then Stripe looked up. In his cold gray eyes Sammy detected no sign of humor or deceit.

“They expect me to play this role for them. To be this sick man.” He looked at his hands as if they were giant mutant fish fins or something similarly awful. “I hate this. I hate this. GAH!” He slammed a fist down on the table and made both Sammy and the cream tubes jump.

“I don’t understand, Stripe,” Sammy said hoarsely.

“What was that?” Stripe asked. “What did you call me?”

“Stripe.” Sammy realized then that he’d never called the man anything out loud before. “It’s just . . . I don’t know.”

Stripe looked down at his tie, then over to the hook where his hat hung serenely in the corner. He smiled a little. “No, that’s okay. You can call me that.”

“I don’t understand what you mean when you say that you hate this.”

“They make me do these things to you. They make me do them because they have to have information to keep people safe. We have to know who the families are to test them and see if there are others. It’s all about ensuring the safety of our people. So they try to get us to scare it out of you. And if that doesn’t work, we have to hurt you. They watch me to see if I’m doing my job right.”

Stripe’s comments didn’t make sense. It seemed to him that there were several holes in the logic he was hearing, but for the first time in a while, he couldn’t put a finger on what they were. And he desperately wanted to believe that Stripe was telling the truth.

“Can you imagine what my wife would think of me if she saw what I do every day? Or my children?”

Sammy heard real dread in Stripe’s tone. “But you aren’t being watched now, are you?”

Stripe shook his head. “Sometimes they are. Sometimes they aren’t. I can tell when, but they don’t know that I know. Does that make sense?”

Sammy nodded and licked his lips. Perhaps Stripe could help him after all. Maybe Stripe even wanted to.

“If I can manage it, I’ll sneak you out of here and take you back to your family. How does that sound?” Stripe stared into Sammy’s eyes. Excitement and kindness blazed in the Aegis’ eyes, and Sammy couldn’t look away. “I’ll help you if I can. But you need to help me, too.”

Sammy’s heart was thunderous in his chest, and his arms trembled from the wonder of the moment. But he couldn’t say yes. Not immediately. Something told him to wait, even if just for a little while.

“Can I think about it, Stripe?”

Stripe nodded. Sammy relaxed even more. “I’ll go easy on you today, okay?” Stripe said gently. “They’ll know if I don’t do anything, but I’ll cause as little pain as I can.”

When Sammy returned to his cell, the girl was gone. He wasn’t sure if she’d been taken to another room, but he didn’t miss her. All she did was cry and drool and not talk. Still, the room felt a little emptier without her.

He couldn’t sleep. His mind turned over his conversation with Stripe. As the hours passed, and the girl didn’t come back, he knew she wasn’t returning. He didn’t know how he knew that, but, deep in his soul, he knew it and he didn’t question it.

She talked. She told them who she was. They finally broke her and she talked.

The next thought in his mind was:
But not Stripe. Stripe wasn’t there. He was with me.

Either Stripe is toying with me or he’s the one being played by someone even higher up
. Perhaps Stripe believed he could help Sammy, but the moment Sammy told Stripe his identity, he’d end up like the girl that never returned. It didn’t matter which reality was true. Sammy knew he couldn’t tell anyone.

The next day, Stripe came into his cell just after Sammy had licked the last bit of soupy oatmeal from his bowl.

“Good morning,” Stripe said. “Did you sleep well?”

Sammy sort of shrugged. It was the same thing every time Stripe arrived.

“Was it better than the gutter you came from?”

The old Stripe was back when the black door shut, leaving them alone.

“I want to introduce you to a friend of mine,” Stripe said. “Mr. Wake-up.” He then waved a wire in front of Sammy’s face. “This will make sure I don’t give you more pain than your body can tolerate. I don’t want you passing out on me.”

He gave Sammy a wink. “Anything you want to tell me before we begin?”

Sammy shook his head. Stripe looked disappointed. Then he put Sammy through the ringer. Fire on Sammy’s lips and nose, so it felt like his face was melting off, and sharp on the soles of his feet, as if he’d stepped all over glass. It was just as bad the next time. And the next. Sammy yearned for the nicer Stripe to come back—for a day when “they” weren’t watching. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out as the pain Stripe inflicted on him grew worse.

As the torture went on, Sammy coped by forcing himself to build on the lies he’d told Floyd Hernandes. He was Albert, a boy who’d run away from abusive parents. He loved swimming and building model train sets. His favorite color was fire engine red. His father was a pilot, his mother a nurse. He liked enchiladas more than anything. And when the moment came that Sammy’s courage ran out and he could take Stripe’s methods no more, with tears streaming down his dirty face, he screamed out, “
My name is Albert!
”

Stripe sat next to Sammy and put his hand on Sammy’s trembling hand. The hand was warm and soothing. In a soft, nasally voice, he asked. “Albert what?”

“ALBERT CHOOCHOO!”

January 19, 2086

“
G
OOD MORNING, PSIONS
. Good morning, Psions. Good morning, Psions.”

Jeffie lay in bed with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The woman’s words didn’t even register anymore. She was thinking about the dream she’d just had—the one the alarm had interrupted. The image of Sammy kissing her, wrapping his fingers in her hair, faded away with a slow sigh of longing.

Two months
. . .
It’s been two months.

Beneath her, Strawberry Plack stirred. “Unh . . . what time is it?” Her pillow muffled her voice and made it deeper.

 Jeffie glanced across the room at the clock blinking dim red numbers. “Almost seven.”

“Feels like . . . earlier. Is it time for the Game?”

“Yeah.”

“So stupid.” Strawberry’s feet hit the floor and she wobbled wearily.

Jeffie smiled as her roommate left the dorm. Each morning, with fanatical consistency, Strawberry did the same thing: roll out of bed, change into her jumpsuit (today it would be the noblack color for the Arena), then head for the bathroom to shower and do her make-up. That was Strawberry, the girl who thought it a sin not to look perfect. Jeffie considered her to be a nice change from Brillianté, her old roommate, not that there’d been any bad blood between them.

Still, it amazed her how different she was from Brickert’s sister. Jeffie was tall and blonde, Strawberry a short brunette. Jeffie played sports, Strawberry liked to dance and couldn’t dribble a basketball. Jeffie wore make-up, but Strawberry would not, could not, leave the girls’ floor without it. Jeffie loved competition, while Strawberry could not care less about winning. They rarely saw eye to eye, yet they had quickly become friends.

When Strawberry came back in the room fifteen minutes later, she noticed Jeffie hadn’t moved.

“Is something bothering you?” she asked in her cheery, naturally high-pitched voice.

Jeffie shook her head slowly.

“Come on. Tell me what’s up.”

“Nothing—really, nothing. I’ve got to get ready.”

Jeffie recognized the extra buzz in the cafeteria when she sat down, but it didn’t interest her. It usually meant someone new had been picked for honcho or Byron had thrown an insane scenario at them. She was sitting between Brickert and Strawberry, letting her oatmeal fall off her spoon and into her bowl like snow sliding off a hot roof. Natalia and Kawai were across from her, talking with Brickert and Strawberry. The panel on the wall had only lit up minutes ago, but several bodies were congregated in front of it, blocking the wall from view.

“What do you think is up?” Brickert asked.

Kawai and Natalia just shrugged. Jeffie didn’t even answer.

“Okay, well, don’t everyone jump up all at once.” Brickert let his fork clatter to the table. “I’ll check it.” He had to stand on his tiptoes to see over Rosa’s shoulder. When he sat back down, he turned to Jeffie with a huge grin and said, “You’re up.”

“Huh? Me?”

“Yeah, you’re honcho. So is Miguel.”

“Miguel?” Jeffie repeated in astonishment. “They’re putting me up against Miguel on my first run? Yes! That’s way better than going up against . . . I don’t know—Kaden or Marie.”

“Hey, Jeffie!” Miguel called out a table away. “Good luck!” He gave her a wink and then went back into conversation with Ludwig and Kaden.

Kawai came back from examining the panel. “Kaden’s on the other team, but I think you can do it. Miguel’s nowhere near as good as his big sis.”

“He hasn’t lost his last three times at honcho, though,” Natalia said. “Or is it four? Shoot. I can’t remember.”

“No, it’s his last two,” Asaki told her from the next table over. “Sammy beat him, remember?”

“Either way,” Brickert said, “he’s really good!”

“You’ve got the better team,” Kawai reminded her.

Jeffie attempted to clear her thoughts of Sammy beating Miguel, but couldn’t. She forced herself to smile back at Kawai. “I’ll beat the pants off him.”

“The Game’s not about winning, Jeffie,” Brickert replied in a mock bossy tone, “it’s about—”

“I know what it’s about,
Commander
.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and swallowed some oatmeal. It didn’t go down easily; her throat was too dry. She loved what she was experiencing now. The pressure. The need to win. The drive to be the best. It was in her blood—in her DNA.
Tvedts are winners. Tvedts thrive under pressure.
Oh gosh, I sound like my dad.
Then her father’s voice came back to her as clear as if he were in the cafeteria with her.

*

“This is not just a bunch of games, girls. It’s the Under-16 Olympics!” Coach Tvedt yelled at twelve girls sprinting up and down the basketball court at the end of their final practice before their first game. Jeffie was a full line ahead of her teammates. She mopped her forehead with her blue and white jersey and pushed on as her father gave them his standard motivational speech.

“I know each of you want the championship just as badly as I do . . .”

Jeffie knew her father well, but she doubted he wanted the trophy as badly as she did. She’d lost count of how many times she had dreamed of standing on the pedestal with a gold medal around her neck.

“So you’re going to have to be perfect!” he roared at them. “You can’t make bad passes. You can’t take bad shots. If you play your game the way you should, none of the territories will beat you. Some of them won’t even be able to give you a lick of trouble.” He blew the whistle once and the girls, conditioned after months of practice with him, doubled their efforts. Then he blew the whistle twice, shrill and commanding, and they stopped. Jeffie bent over to catch her breath. “First game is tomorrow. Shower up! Be in bed by 2100 because rise and shine is at 0600.”

“Go Norway!” all the girls yelled as a team. Then they ran to the locker room.

*

Shaking herself out of the memory, Jeffie looked at the panel to see exactly who was on her team.