Psion Alpha (37 page)

“Come
on, you stupid thing!” Sammy shouted, banging it again. The other members of
his team gathered around to listen, grave expressions on their faces.

“To
discuss the events, we have brought back our Congressional Correspondent,
Senator Harsh Kansagra. Thank you, Senator, for joining us.”

“Thank
you for having me.”

“Senator,
what can you tell us about the events of last evening?”

“First
of all, I want to tell the people of the NWG that nothing is possible without
the full support of every person, every family, every community, and every
territory. Now is the time to band together and renew your faith in the cause
of freedom and liberty. What we witnessed last night is just the beginning. We
sent a clear message to the CAG to prepare for war because we will not go
quietly. Last night’s victory—”

This
time it was not static that interrupted the radio but cheering. Sammy, Jeffie,
and every other member of the team jumped and cried and hugged each other. It
was the news they’d been waiting to hear for weeks.

“—if
not for the brilliance of Commander Havelbert and Ivan Drovovic, we would have
lost Seoul, and possibly the war. Instead, they, along with our brave soldiers
and volunteers, have injected our people with a renewed sense of hope and
purpose. We’ve received more requests to enlist in the last twelve hours than
in the last twelve days. But it doesn’t stop there. We’ve received the pledges
of allegiance from three more territories that were previously deemed as
‘fence-sitters’ by the NWG Congress. This is remarkable. I can’t describe the
sense of optimism I feel in the air, in the people I pass on the streets and
talk to in the halls. Finally …
finally
people believe that we can win
this war.”

Sammy
turned off the radio and stared at it. Then, without another word, he stowed it
away in his pack. No one in the group protested. No one even looked angry. He
took a deep breath and looked them all in the eye. His body was tired, but his
spirit had more than enough strength to make up for it.

“All
right, guys,” he said, letting out his breath slowly, “let’s finish this.”

CHAPTER
NINETEEN
- Death

December 2055

XIAN’S
funeral service took place three days before Christmas so his body could be
returned to his family before the holiday. Byron suspected the true purpose of
holding a service was not for Xian’s friends to gain some sense of closure, but
to give Commander Wu an opportunity to observe those in attendance in the Elite
Training Center’s small chapel. It was no secret that a facility-wide
investigation had been launched. Wu admitted as much in his address during the
funeral. He even pleaded for those with any information to come forward
anonymously. Byron kept an eye on Omar and Diego, but both wore their poker
faces for the entire service.

Byron
noticed how upset Trapper appeared during the ceremony. The emotions ran deeper
than the pain of losing a friend. He looked scared. When the service ended and
they returned to their dorm, Trapper slumped onto his bed and put his hands
over his face.

“It’s
bad, man,” he moaned. “Real bad.”

“What?”

“I—I
left our room the night Xian died. Emerald … I wanted to see her before she
left the next morning. A couple people saw me wandering the halls. At the time,
I thought nothing of it. But obviously it’s a big deal now. They’re
investigating anyone who was out of their rooms. And, man, there aren’t many
besides me. No tests, no classes, no reason to be out so late. Like I said, it’s
bad.”

“What—what
were you doing in Emerald’s room? How long were you there?”

Trapper
didn’t look at Byron when he answered. “Most of the night. We—uh—we … broke the
code of conduct. We had—”

“What
were you
thinking
?” Byron asked. “You put yourself and her at risk to
get a little action before she left?”

“Hey,
don’t judge me!” Trapper’s face grew red and twisted in anger. “You know how I
feel about her—how long I’ve liked her.”

“Is
that your excuse for getting her kicked out of Elite training? That you
like
her? Wow, Trap. Way to show her you care.”

“Calm
down! It’s not like I forced her to do anything!”

“I
never said that, but if you had gone to sleep instead of sneaking down to her
room you would not have this problem.”

“Thanks
for the advice, Byron. It’s very helpful now.”

“You
want some advice? Learn to control yourself!”

“I
don’t need to hear this from you!” Trapper roared in a voice so unlike himself
that it startled Byron. The lisp vanished, replaced by a nasty, belittling
tone. “Especially not your self-righteous, sycophantic, backwoods bull crap!
You think you’re so much better than me? I’m the only friend you have! You
would have NOBODY if it weren’t for me. So you can take your little crush on Emerald
and cram it. She’s mine! And she proved that to me.”

“I
do not have feelings for her!” Byron yelled back. “Listen to yourself.”

Trapper
stared at Byron with the same wild, unhinged look Byron had seen on the day he
revealed to Trapper his blasting powers. Then Trapper’s shoulders sagged, his
expression changed to one of deep sadness, and he pulled Byron into a tight hug.

“I’m
sorry, man. I’m so dumb. I’ve been scared about being caught, getting in
trouble for something I didn’t do because I made a bad choice. And now I don’t
even know if she’s coming back. I told you this place is hell, didn’t I? I told
you it’d make us crazy.”

Byron
hugged his roommate back, though it took great effort. It was the only thing
stopping him from yelling or even hitting Trapper.
Why am I so angry?
The things Trapper had called him were words, just words, and he knew Trapper
hadn’t meant them. But this didn’t change the fact that he really wanted to
hurt Trapper. The urge to flee from the room could not be ignored. Byron stood
up and stepped toward the door.

“I—I
have to go for a while,” he said. “Study.”

“You’re
really going to study over the break?”

Byron
nodded. “I want to get a jump on classes before the next semester starts. I
have my goals. Hopefully those will keep me sane, if nothing else.”

After
he left the room, Byron did not go to the library or to any study rooms, he
headed to the chapel for meditation and prayer. While sitting in silence, he
felt the need to talk to someone, anyone, who wasn’t in the ETC. He wasn’t scheduled
to call his parents until Christmas, still three days away, but several rooms
were empty. Byron picked up a phone and started to dial his home number, then
quickly set the receiver down. He didn’t want to speak to his parents, he
realized. Instead, he looked up a number on his tablet and dialed that one
instead.

“Hello,”
came a familiar voice from thousands of miles away.

“Emerald?”
Byron asked quietly.

“Byron?”
she responded. “Is that you? I can barely hear you.”

He
cleared his voice and spoke again. “Is this better? Sorry. I—I just wanted to
talk to you. How are you?”

“I’m
fine. I heard about—about Xian. It’s awful, Byron. I should have been there for
his funeral.” Her voice sounded thick and sullen. “I’m sorry for not speaking
to you for the last two months. That was stupid. Now that I’m out of that
nuthouse I see things so much clearer.”

“Me,
too. Well, I mean, I feel the same way. Sorry. I should have swallowed my pride
and apologized weeks earlier. How—how did you find out about Xian?”

“Commander
Wu called me two days ago. He told me. And he asked me a lot of questions about
you and Trapper.”

“Yeah?”

“How
are you—you guys all doing? How are you coping?”

“Okay,
I guess. The break has been nice.” Byron tried to swallow, but his mouth had
gone dry. “Is it true you were with Trapper right before you left?” Byron
hadn’t meant to ask the question, especially not so tactlessly, but the words
had just come out.

“Uh,
why are you asking me?”

Byron
paused to ask himself the same question. “I—I am not sure. Are you coming back
for the second year?”

An
equally long moment of silence followed his question. “I haven’t decided.”

Disappointment
filled him when he heard the tone of her voice. She wasn’t going to return.
“Okay, well, I should probably go. Uh, so, Merry Christmas to you and your
family.”

“Oh
… okay. Goodbye, Byron.”

Byron
hung up the phone, even more upset now than during his conversation with
Trapper. From that day until the end of the break, he avoided his roommate as
much as possible. Whenever Trapper wanted to spend time together, Byron had an
excuse: studying. Between hitting the books and spending two to three hours a
day in the dojo (much of that with Clardonsky), he saw very little of anyone.
Byron didn’t know why, but he could not stand the sight of his roommate.

Nicoletta
Clardonsky noted his anger and frustrations in their daily sparring sessions.
She encouraged it by goading him, then turned it against him with ridiculous
ease. Byron knew she wanted to teach him a lesson about rage and self-control,
but he had no desire to learn it. As each day passed, she beat on him more,
languishing in his stubbornness and ineptitude. It got so bad he started having
nightmares about her knocking him around until he hit the mats, his face as
swollen and disfigured as Xian’s had been after the attack. The last scene in
each dream featured Trapper crawling over to Byron, trying to shake him awake
while whispering, “Don’t die, Byron. Don’t die on me.”

“You’re
sucking again,” Clardonsky taunted him one day as he writhed on the floor, his
arms clenched around his gut. “Really sucking.”

All
Byron had for an answer was a groan of pain as he drooled on the mat.

“At
least you agree. Get up.”

He
staggered to his feet, forcing down the urge to regurgitate his breakfast.

“Are
you wearing your cup today?”

Byron
tried to say “yes,” but knew if he opened his mouth, something other than words
would come out. Instead he nodded his head in dread of what was coming.

“Good.
For some reason men have this noble thought that kicking another man in the
testicles is beneath them. It’s not! Aim for the nuts, Byron, if you ever have
a clear shot. Eyes, temple, throat, solar plexus, groin. In that order. Say
it!”

“Eyes,
temple, throat, solar plexus, groin.”

“You
blind someone, you win the fight. You hit him in the temple, you disorient him
or knock him out. The throat collapses his windpipe, he can’t breathe, and you
win. Solar plexus and groin can cause debilitating pain. The question you have
to ask yourself in each situation is not what type of damage can you do, but
what type of damage should you do?” Clardonsky’s eyes flickered up to her large
row of trophies on the shelf surrounding the room. Byron saw a fleeting moment
of sadness in her gaze.

He
aimed a punch at her temple and swung as fast as he could. It was a rule she
insisted on following. He could try to catch her off guard anytime during their
lessons. Thus far, he had never landed a blow. He almost did this time, but she
blocked with her arm and countered with an elbow. Byron blocked, too, and her
foot went for his midsection. His arm went down and slapped her foot away, so
she used the same arm to backhand him across the face. Even with her backhand,
she packed quite a wallop.

“Good.
I see improvement.”

She
attacked him again as he stood up straight, knocking him onto his back. He
hooked her ankle with his own and brought her to the mat. This seemed to
genuinely surprise her, but she instantly recovered and grappled with him,
making him pay for the small success he’d had. Before he realized what was
happening, she had him on his stomach with his hand behind his back,
threatening to pull his arm out of its joint.

“You
like that one?”

“How
did you get me on my stomach so fast?” he grunted through the pain. “And when
will you let me up?”

Rather
than releasing him, she tightened her grip. The intensity of it made Byron gasp
as his eyes watered. “Momentum, Byron. You know what that is, don’t you?”

He
could barely nod because any movement sent a searing heat through his back and
shoulder.

“I
used my momentum, distributed your weight, and flipped you. Practice that
move.”

“Okay!”
he gasped.

Finally,
she released him. Byron worked his arm and shoulder several times to make sure
nothing had torn. “Have you ever, um, you know, killed or maimed anyone?”

Clardonsky
paused a moment. Again, her eyes flickered to her trophies. “Of course I have.
You realize that back when I was a clandestine agent with the German
government—”

“Are
you German?”

“No,
not originally, but I worked for them until they joined the New World
Government. I have killed many people, more with my bare hands than with guns
or knives. One day, you will know what that feels like.”

“Me?”
Byron almost laughed. “Kill someone?”

Clardonsky
smacked him hard across the face. “Why do you think I train you? You think old
man Wu will let your talent lay dormant? You think he sent you here at age
fifteen—”

“I
am sixteen.”

Clardonsky
swung at him again, but Byron blocked it and tried to elbow her across the
face. She ducked it and signaled him to stop. “I know your age, you stupid boy.
You will have blood on your hands. Wu will see to that. He sent you here to
learn to kill. What you won’t learn here is how to deal with seeing that blood
every time you look at them.”

“What?”

“Your
hands.” She glanced up again, and this time Byron saw which trophy she kept
staring at: a towering gold cup with her name embossed into a side of the bowl.
“I won that in a women’s mixed-martial arts tournament. One million dollar
purse. I made it to the finals easily. My competitor, she wasn’t much of a
match. I didn’t even bother to learn her name before the bout. She was tough.
Stubbornly tough. And I was angry and hungry to win. You can see … ” she waved
her hand around the room, “… I was used to winning. I beat on her badly. Her
manager should have thrown the towel, but I watched her between rounds. She
refused. So I punished her. I beat on her. She never woke up from the knockout
punch.”