Jaden Baker (19 page)

“Okay,” Jaden said. “You’ll do your best to get me out of here, if I learn how to control it. You swear to me?”

The strange look came back and remained. It was awe. “Yes, I swear it,” Dalton said.

“Okay. It’s a deal.”

Back in the test room, Jaden sat at the table and allowed William to attach the sensors to his brain. Even if they did know how his PK worked, they’d never be able to have it themselves. It wasn’t his first choice, none of this was. He had to exercise patience or he would be here forever. The quicker he learned PK, the faster he would be free.

Keeping his promise and gaining Dalton’s trust was a good idea. He was going for long term satisfaction, simply playing a part, and getting better every minute.

He stared at the ball. Memorized it. It was soft, light, and therefore harder to control. How he knew that, he couldn’t say. What was his experience with light objects? It was easier to throw a baseball than a paper airplane. Would mental power be the same, he wondered. He shut his eyes and imagined the ball in his mind, feeling its softness and lightness. Goosebumps spread over his skin and the air cooled. It was working.

He screwed his eyes shut, yet saw the ball from every angle: above, behind, from below as if he laid on the floor, staring up at it through a glass table. Up close the ball had texture, like an orange rind. He wasn’t sure how he knew this ball would take little effort, like the paper airplane. If he hit too hard, it would fly easily yet erratically.

The key was flicked, the task elementary. This had to be rolled with control and required focus. He examined the ball again, thinking hard. How was he going to roll it?

“Is there something wrong?” Dalton asked.

Jaden considered telling him his dilemma, weighing the benefits and drawbacks of revealing his problem. If he conferred, he would let Dalton in on a secret. An exclusive tip. Dalton would feel special, privileged, if allowed to help. He decided to convey the problem.

“Yesterday it was just a flick. I didn’t control it, I just flicked it. I don’t know how to move it across a table.”

“All right,” Dalton said. “If you were to do it with your hand, you would keep your hand on it and roll it? Keep that in mind. Use your hand to guide you.”

That made a strange amount of sense, especially since he did something similar the day before. This situation was no different, it was only different in his head. So Jaden reached his left hand over the ball, like a hovering guide.

He squint his left eye and moved his hand steadily across the table. The ball inched along, starting and stopping jerkily. Jaden realized he held his breath. He breathed regularly, which did the trick. The ball followed his hand to the end of the table and did not, surprisingly, fall off the edge. He’d watched it the entire way, never glancing at Dalton.

Dalton grinned with such pride and pleasure it bordered recklessness. He didn’t try hiding his delight or feigning indifference. From his cheery eyes to his impish laugh, it was obvious Dalton had probably never been happier. When he looked at Jaden his grin broadened.

“That was amazing,” he said. Dalton sat on the table’s edge and clapped his hand on Jaden’s shoulder, gently nudging it. “That was incredible.”

In the midst of Dalton’s bliss, in what he clearly thought was an accomplishment that equaled walking through space, Jaden felt a terrible and lonely grief. His eyes found the paradoxical scene in the reflection of the observation mirror. There stood Dalton, a fatherly pride splashed over his perfectly tanned face and sun-flecked hair, with his hand on the short, skinny, bald little boy, with wide gray eyes and an electric collar around his neck.

Jaden became increasingly frustrated with the absence of time. Without it he could not know how many days it took to master Dalton’s elementary task of ball-rolling. He was surprised by how challenging the exercise became. At first it had been quite simple, then Dalton added variations which shook Jaden’s confidence. Once he got the hang of it, Jaden was assigned newer and more challenging tasks.

At the start of every supposed day, a member of the staff led Jaden into a test room. Dalton typically sat at the table or stood alone, ready to dole out orders.

Happily, as each new exercise was given to him, Jaden adapted. He still followed his rules by pretending he was having difficulty with his new assignments, but soon it would be foolish to continue the ruse.

Now he knew why everything was bolted to the floor, and why the only objects he tested with were soft and light. One day Jaden would be strong enough to lift and hurl objects. One day everything would be a potential weapon.

After straight lines, Dalton had him trace patterns on the table using the ball. Circles and squares, triangles and stars: the movements became more complex as time passed. His accomplishments would have been cause for celebration if he was anywhere but here. Dalton had been right: PK was a tremendous thing. Rather than rejoicing, Jaden felt as though the more he performed, and the better he became, the more power he surrendered. Jaden reminded himself daily that his obedience was an act, a simple means to an end. His cooperation was a role to play till he was ready to break free. An end was in sight. He told himself to persevere and remember what he was doing. There was an end. There had to be.

He missed the outside. It was cold and gray here, the light glowed with artificial life and a depressing monotony. The only sounds were the clanking of the thick doors, the buzzing of the florescent tubes, and soft squishing of his feet on the padded floor. The staff all wore uniforms of white. The walls were gray, the floor was gray; in fact the only color in the entire facility came around Dalton’s neck in the form of pinstriped ties, sometimes checkered, otherwise solid. Pale greens, soft blues, deep reds. Jaden found himself fascinated by them, mesmerized by their unapologetic display of color.

Before he fell into unsettling sleep each night, Jaden tried envisioning places he’d seen in his short life. He yearned to remember how trees moved in the wind, their smell. He thought of storm clouds and the exciting sound of thunder as it boomed through the sky; the way lightening flashed and made night day; how billions of stars speckled the night; and city lights inked the dark sky orange.

What he missed most was the sun: walking outside and being hit in the face with it, like a hot brick; its unrelenting brightness and comforting heat. As he lay in bed, his eyes shut so tight they hurt, Jaden tried remembering the feeling of the sun, how it crept over the windowsill and crawled across his body as the day progressed.

Jaden always ate alone. Alan or Casey, sometimes Douglas, who’s only facial expression was a frown, brought his food and set it across the room, making Jaden wait until they left before he could retrieve it. He dined on the floor. Sometimes after practicing all day, Jaden was left in his cell without food for hours. Then he paced relentlessly, his stomach growling and churning. He resented how it made him feel. Like a lion pacing its cage.

Waiting was bad; being abandoned was worse. Being let out of his cell was a grim happiness; he almost looked forward to the change of scenery. Jaden was let out every day to work, and Dalton was there to monitor and study his progress from novice to intermediate psychokinetic. But just before Jaden advanced to hovering objects, Dalton was gone. There was no explanation for his absence. The staff did not deviate from their routine, so they obviously knew something that Jaden did not. They left him in the dark.

Maybe he should have been grateful that Dalton was gone. But he wasn’t, not at all. The surplus of free time made Jaden anxioushe obsessed about Dalton’s sudden vanishing and the meaning behind it. He still didn’t know who Dalton was, and what he did. This place, this whole operation was something evil. Was Dalton just the mad scientist, or was there something more menacing pulling his strings? Even if Jaden asked for details about Dalton and the force behind this “facility,” he was sure no answers would be given.

Three meals came every day, he never left his cell. With nothing to do, Jaden spiraled into a deep depression, obsessing about the freedom that lay somewhere above him. He paced his cell excessively, punching the walls with unspent energy and frustration. How much time had passed? What month was it now? Did anyone wonder what had become of him?

The staff rotated three days on, two days off, making it difficult to determine the day of the week. Just when Jaden thought he saw a pattern, it changed. They didn’t want him to know anything. There was no sense of time.

At dinner on the fourth day of Dalton’s mysterious nonappearance, Jaden waited at the door instead of the corner. He wasn’t sure if anyone was going to come in, he needed to release this energy. He pitied whoever came through the door. Rules be damned. He needed to hit someone, knowing if he was hit back, a firing would follow.

It opened to reveal Alan, standing stock still, on the other side. The two stared at one another, measuring strength in a gaze.

Alan was strong, perhaps the fittest handler here. He suspected that Alan, and perhaps several others, had extensive training in self defense, martial arts, or police experience. Since the figurative signing of Dalton’s false contract of Jaden’s eventual release, no member of the staff had sparred with him. Jaden was on his Best Behavior, except when mild resistance was called for. Did they miss exercising their superior strength over him, tackling him three to one?

“I can’t come in unless you stand in your corner,” Alan said.

Jaden clenched his fists and shook his head.

Alan came inside anyway, breaking protocol. Walking past Jaden, he took the tray to the far corner, sure Jaden would remain stationary. He did, but pivoted, keeping his eye on Alan. Once the food was down, Alan walked towards the exit.

Jaden punched at Alan’s face with his right fist.

Alan caught it, spun Jaden around, and pushed him. When Jaden faced him, he was shocked to see Alan still standing there, smiling. Interesting.

Fighting with Dalton’s staff was surely frowned upon. Something, perhaps it was instinct, encouraged Jaden to play this out and fight Alan. There would be no contest for the winner, but Jaden didn’t care. He had to expend his energy, he was so frustrated. Dalton was not here to save him, to object, to do anything. Game on.

Jaden ran at him, and Alan deflected again, not striking back or trying to restrain Jaden. Alan laughed under his breath then set the dinner tray on the bed.

“You’re fighting out of anger. That makes you lose control.” Alan beckoned Jaden away from the door with his hand. “Come on.”

Jaden was perplexed. Learning to fight clearly wasn’t on Dalton’s list of required reading.

“I’ll teach you,” Alan said, smiling again.

“Why?” Jaden asked.

Alan shrugged. “I can leave if you don’t want to. I thought you’d want to do something. You looked bored.”

“You’re watching me?” Jaden asked, knowing it was true.

“We have to,” Alan said. “To make sure you’re okay. Do you want me to teach you or not?” Alan asked.

To make sure he was okay? Jaden learned a while ago he was constantly monitored, but he was curious. What did they think he was going to do in here all alone? More importantly, with Alan here, who watched now? Was there always someone in the observation room? Why did Alan want to teach him to fight properly?

“Okay,” Jaden said slowly. This felt...odd.

Alan beamed.

He first showed Jaden the correct way to stand to get the best balance.

“You want to bend your knees, sink low, to center yourself. Try it,” he said, sinking his own knees and bobbing like a buoy in water.

Feeling foolish, Jaden bent his knees and mimicked Alan. He was more balanced, though; the difference was clear.

“Good. Now let’s go over some basic punches. We’ll start with the jabs,” Alan said. He held his angled arms up to protect his face, alternating small hits in the air at his invisible opponent.

As Alan instructed him in the basics of self-defense, Jaden wondered why he was doing this and if it wasn’t a trick. The people here prided themselves on keeping him as ignorant as possible, switching schedules to throw him off, only taking him through certain doors but leaving the rest closed. A cocktail of curiosity, boredom, and frustrated energy bubbled inside him. He decided to play it out and go along with what Alan wanted him to do.

Alan. The question mark. Neither Martin, Patrick, Douglas or William showed any liking toward Jaden. But he’d had a suspicion about Alan since first contact—Alan was different, he exhibited subtle sympathy. Jaden wondered, as he watched the way Alan looked at Jaden’s face, with endearment, if this was the answer. Alan was human, capable of feeling guilt.

Apparently Jaden had been throwing punches wrong. Alan demonstrated the correct way, striking straight and sure, protecting his face with his other hand. Alan’s demonstration reminded Jaden of Derek, who had jokingly said he would teach him to box.

Alan spent a good thirty minutes instructing Jaden in the basics of boxing, including the proper stance, turning into the jab, hitting fast and pulling his arms back into him. Alan held out his hands for Jaden to strike. Hitting something released a small amount of tension, he only wished he could hit for real, not into palms.

“Swing your torso into it,” Alan said. “Use the natural momentum of your body to throw the punch. Keep your other hand up to protect your face.”

With a deep breath, Jaden struck Alan’s open fist, and was happy to see a small flash of pain on Alan’s face.

“Good,” Alan said, smiling. “It’s okay to turn your feet and pivot. You want to keep moving.”

The more he moved the better he felt. Jaden aimed three fast alternating punches. The first to Alan’s hand, the second at Alan’s gut (which Alan deflected and laughed) and the third in Alan’s back, which made contact.