Allies (2 page)

Wyatt closed her eyes, seeing faint, ghostly images swirling in the patterns behind her lids, the sedative taking hold. She found herself thinking, just as he asked. But she wasn’t pondering loss. Nor was she considering mathematics, the possibilities of cognitive enhancement. She found herself thinking of Marissa in the garden and her grandmother in the nursing home and the way she always had to plan everything she said to her mother in advance so she didn’t upset her . . .

Wyatt thought about finally having that thing she didn’t seem to have been born with like everyone else—a means of relating to other people. A means of connecting with them. She understood suddenly what lay before her, what this opportunity was. For the first time in her life, she had a chance to alter herself, to drastically and permanently shift her own personality, her own perception.

One computer in her brain, and she could obtain something most everyone else had been born with. She knew what this Lieutenant Blackburn was trying to tell her. She was uniquely gifted; she was capable in ways no one else she’d met was . . .

But intellectually, she knew she’d always wonder what it might have been like, being like everyone else. She’d always wonder what she could have become if she’d just tried.

She didn’t want to wonder.

She opened her eyes, and Blackburn must’ve seen the resolve on her face. He sighed and conceded it with a nod, then rose to his feet.

“You’ll see me around this place,” he told her.

He’d intended to help her. Wyatt understood that.

“Thank you,” she said, and for one of the only times in her life, she was sure she’d said the appropriate thing.

T
HE NEURAL PROCESSOR
made her brain faster. One download and she could memorize a textbook, a language; and she simply knew information now that she’d never learned for herself.

But it wasn’t that jarring—not compared to the other thing.

For the first time in her life, Wyatt experienced loneliness.

Lieutenant Blackburn’s warning rang in her ears time and again:
You won’t be you anymore. . . .

And she was sure she wasn’t. Surely
she
wasn’t the one who felt this aching emptiness, alone her in her bunk, hearing voices drift in from the hallway outside. Surely she wasn’t the one who couldn’t focus on her work, because she was wondering what the people she’d spoken to today thought about her.

People had always been strange to her, and she’d been able to remain safely across a chasm from them, separate, and glad of it.

It was all different now.

She noticed their faces, their eyes. She noticed changes in their voices. She noticed how they held their bodies, how they moved them. And she pondered what they were thinking. She
cared
about what they were thinking, and she’d never in her life imagined how painful that could be.

She got off to a bad start with her roommate, Marrion Trout, right away. Mostly because her lips twitched when Marrion’s personnel profile flashed before her eyes, and Marrion exclaimed in frustration, “Why does everyone think my name’s funny?”

Put on the spot, Wyatt tried pointing out the fact that Marrion was a fly-fishing champion and her last name was Trout, but Marrion wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

Later, in Programming class, Wyatt picked up on the subject right away. It was simple, logical, clean-cut to her. She felt this crawling anxiety inside her, knowing she’d already annoyed her new roommate, so she tried to be helpful. She pointed out an error in Marrion’s code. Marrion smiled tentatively at her, and Wyatt felt a strange sensation like warming inside her at the sign of approval.

Suddenly it was the opposite of the anxiety she’d felt all day. Instead of a cool draft, the sensation of acceptance was like a flower unfolding in her chest, soaking in sunlight. She’d never felt anything like it.

“You’re so good at this for the first day,” Marrion told her.

Wyatt fumbled for the right reply, her brain racing. She might feel sensations of acceptance, but after a lifetime of being isolated, she didn’t know the gestures, the words. “It’s really easy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Marrion said with a laugh. “I’ve been here four months and it’s like hieroglyphics.”

“Maybe I’m just smarter than you,” Wyatt suggested.

It had been the wrong thing to say. Wyatt only meant to be helpful, to assure Marrion there might be a reason for her failure to understand Programming, but the other girl’s toothy smile sprang shut like a trap, and that was the last time they talked civilly. Marrion complained about Wyatt going to sleep too early, about Wyatt opening the curtain when she wanted it down, about everything, until it all came to a head and Marrion stormed out, then requested a bunk reassignment. She received it.

Every morning meal formation, breakfast where they had assigned seating, Wyatt found herself alone at one end of the table, all the other girls in her level and division clustered at the other end. It felt like she’d been placed in quarantine.

Matters grew worse a few weeks later, when a new plebe, Vikram Ashwan, joined her Applied Simulations group. He was a good-looking kid with a high forehead over a long, broad nose, and full, mobile lips. His eyebrows formed twin bold slants over close-set eyes sparkling with humor. At first, he seemed nice enough, with such a huge grin, she could see his gums. Then he discovered that certain things in the training simulation—like alcohol—modified their perception of the sim just like the substances would in real life. Wyatt considered it a test: the military wanted to see if they were responsible enough not to abuse their opportunities. But like a lot of idiots who were new plebes, Vikram was not at all responsible. He downed a bottle of whiskey during a training simulation of the First Battle of Bull Run.

“I am drunk,” Vikram declared, stunned. “I am actually drunk.”

Wyatt shifted his arm irritably over her shoulder. She and another plebe, Stephen Beamer, were hauling the inebriated Indian boy out of the line of fire. He wasn’t going to be any use in battle, and was likely to just get in the way.

“I think I’m going to get impaled by a bayonet after this,” Stephen told Wyatt thoughtfully.

She eyed him warily, because the redheaded boy confused her immensely. He somehow managed to die in most every simulation. “Why?”

“Never done death by bayonet.”

He was very strange. Wyatt shook it off and helped ease Vikram down. He caught her arm, his eyes unfocused. She was alarmed for a moment as he groped her forearm clumsily, but he just rolled up her sleeve, mesmerized. “Are your hands like this in real life?”

“Like what?” She snatched her arm out of his grip.

“They could envelop whole planets,” Vikram slurred.

Stephen began giggling. “You are so wasted.”

Wyatt flushed and examined her hands. She’d shot up in height the first week at the Spire when the neural processor caused her hGH to spike. She’d grown to five foot nine, and her hands and feet had grown, too. It had never occurred to her before to be embarrassed.

“They’re giantess hands,” Vikram marveled.

“No, they’re not,” Wyatt cried.

“Man hands,” Vikram amended giddily.

Wyatt glared at him. “Shut up!”

But he kept giggling drunkenly, so she shoved him, hard, sending him crashing back to the ground. Vikram kept laughing where he’d fallen, murmuring about, “Can’t get up . . . got battered by Man Hands. . .”

“Hey, don’t manhandle him,” Stephen told her, then realized what he’d said and began laughing.

Vikram began laughing harder. “Manhandling!”

“I hate you both!” Wyatt cried, and left to fight the Yankees. With utter dismay, she realized a terrible new nickname might have been born.

Maybe Vikram was too drunk to remember?

H
E HADN’T BEEN.

She wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that Vikram sometimes liked to drop down next to her in the mess hall and tease her in a way he didn’t seem to realize was sincerely bothering her, or the fact that no one else was talking to her at all.

But there was something worse, though it seemed very innocuous at first.

Wyatt met Heather Akron.

Or rather, Heather decided to meet her. Wyatt was sitting alone in Programming, as usual, when she saw a flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye, and then a girl flounced down right next to her.

“You don’t mind if I sit here,” she said to Wyatt. It wasn’t a question.

Her profile flashed before Wyatt’s vision:

Heather had a shining mane of dark hair, and slanted, catlike eyes fringed with dark lashes. A broad, gleaming smile lit her lips. She wasn’t just pretty—she was beautiful, and Wyatt couldn’t help it. She began contrasting her mental image of herself with Heather. Her lank brown hair with Heather’s vibrant, dark hair; her straight, solemn eyebrows with Heather’s graceful, arched ones; her long nose with Heather’s small, upturned one.

It was irrational, even comparing herself with this girl. It was as irrational as comparing her brain to this girl’s, when they were likely to be equally imbalanced. . . . But Wyatt had started to realize people spoke to people differently, depending on how they looked. She’d known that intellectually before, but now that she’d grown increasingly aware of other people, now that something inside her reacted depending upon the behavior of other people toward her, things took on an increasing importance.

And some things just hurt more.

“You’re Wyatt . . . obviously. And as you see, I’m Heather.”

“Yes,” Wyatt mumbled, her shoulders tight. She was ready to hear something cruel. She didn’t want to feel the knife of pain inside that came with knowing someone disapproved of her.

But Heather just smiled. “I’ve heard you’re brilliant.”

“Really?”

“Mmm-hmm. I figured I’d rather share a bench with an incredibly smart person than some of the idiots up there.” She rolled her eyes and gestured up toward the front of the room. “So how do you like it here?”

“I hate it,” Wyatt blurted out.

She winced, because it seemed like the kind of personal admission that would lead to ridicule, to disdain. She suspected even telling someone this was opening herself up to some sort of attack.

But when she dared to look at Heather’s face, the older girl’s expression had softened, her mouth an
o
of concern, her brows drawn together. “Oh, poor sweetie. Are people being mean to you?”

Wyatt nodded bleakly.

“Have you ever gone to school before?” Heather asked her unexpectedly.

She shook her head. “I had private tutors. I was too smart for other kids.” She wanted to clap her hands over her mouth, because that’s what got her in trouble with Marrion. She’d be eviscerated.

But then Heather’s hand squeezed her shoulder. Wyatt jumped at the unexpected contact. She held herself rigid, but as Heather’s hand stayed there, it took on a new quality. It became comforting.

“I’m so sorry. It has to be hard, your first time with other people your age, and
here
of all places.” She rolled her eyes. “People are bastards here. I’ll be honest: there’s this weird, quasi-machismo culture where everyone has to act invincible and unflappable, but half the people here are just dumb, hormonal adolescents who think they’re geniuses simply because they have computers in their heads. Add in the fact that we’re all essentially competing with each other for a chance at Combatant status, and, well, you’ve got the Pentagonal Spire in a nutshell. It’s not because there’s anything wrong with you; it’s just because you seem like an easy target.”

Wyatt’s eyes stung, and to her horror, she realized she was tearing up.

“No, no, don’t cry,” Heather warned her softly, her hand tightening on her shoulder. “Never cry here. That’s rule one. Rule two: never go to the social worker. They say she’s here to help us, but really, going to her is like an admission you’re too much of a wimp to cut it. You don’t want the vultures to start circling.”

“I should just quit,” Wyatt whispered.

She thought of getting the neural processor removed, going back to herself. Going back to the comfortable space where she was never lonely, even when she was alone.

But Heather was still stroking her back, which made her feel slightly less alien, slightly less strange, slightly more a part of something. “Oh, but you’re missing rule three.”

“What?” Wyatt said hopelessly.

“Rule three is listen to me, because I’m going to help you, Wyatt. I’m taking you under my wing.” She winked. “I can be like your mentor.”

Wyatt looked at her, and she knew then she couldn’t go back. Not really. She would know she’d lost this. She’d know she’d left this behind, those rare moments when she felt connected to people. She would always know she’d chosen comfortable isolation rather than overcome pain.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Wyatt asked her.

Heather smiled, still stroking her back. “Oh, sweetie, it’s just because you seem to really need it.”

R
EALLY, THOUGH, IT
was because Heather had figured out Wyatt was the best computer programmer among the trainees.

And an easy target.

Later, Wyatt reflected bitterly upon how easy it had been. All Heather had to do was sit with her in class sometimes, and Wyatt was pathetically grateful. All she had to do was be nice when she talked to her, and Wyatt felt this great rush of affection like she’d found a best friend. She told Heather everything, and Heather always knew the thing to say to make life seem a little better.

So when the day came that Heather confided one of her own problems, Wyatt was pathetically eager to return the favor.

“I can’t get into CamCo. I have no future here. I just have to accept it,” Heather lamented.