Psion Gamma (2 page)

“He was too young, Dad.” Albert’s words came out like a croak and his eyes were red. “Sammy was too young. I should’ve picked someone else.”

Byron turned and looked at the rows of pictures with his son. They were all too young. Each picture had a unique story to tell. Some stories were particularly painful to recall. They made him wonder if he merely spent his days cutting short children’s adolescences. For a long time he’d resented his own teenage years. His youth had been robbed from him.

It was the curse of being a Psion. He tried not to dwell on thoughts like that. They made him feel pessimistic, something he couldn’t afford. Besides, he enjoyed working with the Betas. He loved watching them shoulder new responsibilities with a courage most adults have forgotten. He believed all youth had a well of untapped strength. Sometimes he thought of himself as a gardener, tending seeds, protecting them from the elements, helping them grow strong and self-reliant. All of the pictures represented, in some fashion, his children. His life’s work.

But now I do the same thing to others that was done to me. Does that make me a hypocrite?

Questions like this were often on his mind lately, cropping up at inopportune times. As always, he reminded himself that it was a time of war.

In his experience, war made hypocrites out of everyone. It turned black and white into gray; right and wrong into neutral, perhaps war could even mix water and oil. He considered himself to be a man with clear principles and allegiance, and yet, some days, when he thought too much about the people he fought against, he questioned—even doubted—himself.

He still believed he was a good man doing the right things, but when he looked over all the pieces of metal sitting on the shelves to his left (awards, they called them) all he saw were decisions he’d made: battles he’d fought: people who had died from his choices. Had he done right in those moments? Did the benefits outweigh the cost?

Commander Byron cleared his throat. Albert blinked twice and looked at him. “Have you spent much time with Marie lately?” he asked his son.

Albert shrugged. “A little.”

“Is she upset that we canceled the mission for her Psion Panel?”

“I don’t know.”

“After what happened, I doubt there will ever be a Panel mission again.” Byron searched for more words to say, but couldn’t come up with much. He was thinking about the night of Albert’s mission. How eight hours had turned into ten. Then twelve. He had gotten so worried that he’d thrown up, something he hadn’t done in years.

And now Albert seemed intent on cutting himself off from everyone around him. He should have graduated to Psion Alpha two weeks ago, but had requested that his commencement be delayed to work on his project of reconstructing the Rio mission. On the surveillance cameras stationed in the sim rooms, Byron watched his son work like a man obsessed. Albert pushed himself eight to ten hours a day, rarely taking breaks to eat or exercise. Nothing would stop him until he figured out what exactly had gone wrong and knew for certain that Samuel was dead.

“Just remember that no matter what happens, you did your best.” All the care and worry he held for his son came to a crest, and he felt it in his throat and heart. For Albert’s sake, he maintained his calm. “Let go of all this guilt. You did your very best. You have been more diligent than we—than I could have asked.”

Byron glanced wistfully at the holo-records of his late wife Emily and his son. He saw the jewelry box displaying her wedding band and engagement ring. Behind the box was a leather-bound, glass-covered frame with two halves: in one half was their marriage certificate, and in the other was a picture of their wedding in a large white castle in Bern, Territory of Switzerland. He missed his wife badly right now.
What would you say to him, Emily?
he asked her.

“Your mom is proud of you. I hope you know that.”

Albert nodded silently and stood to leave. As he reached the door, Byron called out to him.

“I love you, Al.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

December 19, 2085

M
IRTH RANG THROUGH THE CAFETERIA
at Brickert’s joke. Sitting next to him, Jeffie giggled hardest, clutching her sides as if they hurt from all the laughing. Her golden blonde hair, tied into a ponytail, bounced on her back. The light in her bright green eyes lit up as her smile grew, stretching her face until the corners of her nose flared out.

I love it when her eyes do that
.

In celebration of Al’s graduation from Psion Beta, food and decorations filled the cafeteria. Finally, after living six years at headquarters, he’d be moving on and joining an Alpha Squadron. Marie solemnly watched the party from a distance as Alphas spoke enthusiastically about Al’s future. Kobe and Kaden stacked their plates obscenely high with cake, pie, and pastries. They walked delicately, trying to balance the towers of food threatening to topple. Miguel and Martin chanted at them, cheering them on.

Across the room, platters of chicken, ham, roast beef, and turkey let off pillars of steam each time someone cut off a small slice of meat. Cooked vegetables, boiling gravies, and sparkling salads were nearby, waiting to adorn the entrées. Another table bore circular arrangements of fruits surrounding fountains of fondue.

Just give me a handful of that food. One plate. That’s all.

Kawai, Natalia, Brickert, and Jeffie chatted on about their sims and instructions, comparing who was further and giving each other tips. Brickert made another funny comment, and everyone laughed again. His eyes shone with delight, basking in the attention—especially the looks Kawai discreetly shot him when no one else could see.

Brickert’s sisters were right. It’s easy to tell when someone likes your friend, so much easier than telling if someone likes you
.

As the laughter died down, Brickert, still smiling at himself, got up from the table with his empty bowl and crossed the room to the ice cream dispenser. As he reached for the handle, a small red ball formed on the lip of the nozzle and glistened in the light. The drop grew unnoticed until it was too heavy to cling to the plastic and splashed on the spill guard below.

That’s not right! Brickert shouldn’t get ice cream from there!

Sammy desperately tried to cross the cafeteria and stop his friend, but his legs were now made of mud and he could barely move. He yelled and screamed but, despite his protests, Brickert’s hand reached up and pulled down on the handle. Instead of ice cream, thick red blood gushed into his bowl spilling up the sides and over the edge. At first, Brickert didn’t notice. He was too busy looking back at his friends and laughing with them. But when he turned back and saw the blood covering his arm, dripping down onto his shoes, and pooling around his feet, he screamed. It was high pitched, toe-curling—a wail that echoed around the room.

Like the Aegis I blasted into that hot field
. . .

Then everything in the room sped up to a hyper-fast pace. Every head jerked around to see what would cause someone to scream out like that. The lights in the room went dark. Sammy continued to run across the cafeteria, but he hadn’t sped up like the rest of the world. Panicked voices yelled out in the dark, but were silenced by animal-like shrieks that filled the cafeteria. Red eyes shone in the blackness, approaching from impossible directions: the ceiling, the floor, the walls. They grew brighter and more menacing as they drew closer.

Red eyes! I have to warn them!

“THIRTEENS!” Sammy shouted as he jerked awake.

Gasping for air, he sat up shakily. Drops of sweat matted the edges of his shaggy, curly brown hair and trickled down his face. “It was a nightmare. Get over it! Only a nightmare.” He put his hand on his chest and clutched the skin over his heart. “Just calm down . . .” Gradually, his breathing slowed.

“It was so real,” he told himself.

That described most of his dreams lately. He lay back down and stared up at the ceiling of the bunker. Then he closed his eyes.

In his head he could still hear perfectly the voice of the women over the intercom at Psion Beta headquarters saying, “Good morning, Psions. Good morning, Psions.” He muttered the same words several times using a falsetto voice in a well-practiced imitation.

“Get up. It’s a big day.”

His bed was made of torn cushions, laminated maps, and polyester stuffing. He never bothered making it. He wouldn’t know where to start.

The morning routine was always the same. He’d become so dependent on routines and schedules after nine months in headquarters that he lived one now to keep himself grounded. First, he splashed water on his face. Then he coaxed crusty toothpaste onto his finger from an old, worn tube and rubbed his teeth until he heard squeaking. When he finished, he pulled on the same torn, smoky-gray jumpsuit he’d worn for the last four weeks and started his exercises.

Four weeks.

Four weeks without any human contact. Four weeks stranded in the secret compound of a resistance group underneath a factory in Rio de Janeiro. Four busy weeks.

No.

Four frantic weeks. Four nerve-frying weeks. Four panicked weeks.

The first week he’d spent just figuring out a way to leave the bunker underneath the factory. When he finally managed it, he explored the factory and security records only to learn that Al’s Rio mission had gone wrong because a Psion—not just a Psion, a member of Psion Command—Commander Wrobel—had betrayed them and organized an ambush. The image of a Psion and a Thirteen working together was like a nail in his brain. He dreamed about Wrobel or Thirteens or both almost every night. During the day, he bent his willpower on one thing: finding a way to get back home and warn Commander Byron about the traitor.

The task was daunting. How could he travel halfway across the world to Capitol Island? How would he move safely through CAG-controlled territory? Travel and communication between CAG and NWG territories was highly regulated and closely monitored. He couldn’t just take a jaunt from Rio de Janeiro to New York City to London and tell everyone he was traveling for pleasure. Nor could he simply pick up someone’s com and call Byron. The CAG operatives would be on him in minutes. Besides, everyone back home probably thought he was dead.

He had no money, no identity, no contacts; nowhere to start and nowhere to go.

During the second week in the bunker, people had come and dragged away bodies. He’d heard the muffled sounds as their feet crunched the rubble above and muttered a few words here and there. That day was one of the most terrifying of his life. He’d shut off the generator and crawled into a corner where he huddled for hours trying not to go mad.

Since then, he’d either heard or imagined hearing random sounds: small things like distant shouts, always in very short, staccato-like bursts. They sounded eerily similar to the Thirteens’ bizarre form of communication. Occasionally rubble tumbled down through the ceiling hole. Those times were always followed by long, sleepless nights.

He knew that eventually people would come back to the factory. It was just a matter of when. Many nights he lay on his makeshift bed, wishing he had somewhere to go and thinking about all the things that might go wrong when he tried to leave.

The only thing he had to wear was the torn, gray flight suit that every Psion wore. What if someone was watching the facility and recognized his clothes? He’d have to swipe something immediately after he left, even if it came from a dumpster. And another thing: his voice. He didn’t have a local accent. He wasn’t sure how similar English here was to his South African vernacular. What if he gave himself away as a foreigner the first time he spoke?

He’d spent days scouring the few rooms in the bunker for anything useful. There were many broken gadgets on the shelves and scattered across the compound floors. Possessing a limited knowledge of mechanics gleaned from his instructions at Beta headquarters, he set out to fix whatever he could, hoping something might be worthwhile. After many frustrating hours of tweaking and tinkering with unnamable devices in various states of disrepair, he managed to put a couple things back into working order.

The first was a flashlight. He even found a battery for it, and it lasted roughly five seconds before dying out. Another discovered device was a small black pair of thick glasses that Sammy originally thought was old-fashioned, pocket-sized binoculars. The strangely tinted glass lenses were not broken, but the frame had been damaged in several places. He messed around with some honey from the food stores and balls of cotton for hours before getting the frame to hold together long enough to look through.

He was so disappointed that the stupid gadget wasn’t binoculars that he almost chucked the glasses across the room. One thing stopped him. In the corner of the room, on one of the maps he’d been sleeping under, were blue and red markings he hadn’t noticed.

He walked across the room, pressing the gadget against his face, and looked again at the maps.

“I’m sure they weren’t there . . .” He looked at the map without the glasses. No markings. Again with the glasses. Markings.

Some letters and numbers had been scrawled across the page, but most of the markings were thin arrows radiating outward and inward to and from little blue houses drawn like a box with a triangle on top. At first glance, Sammy thought of missile strikes.

“What is this all about?” he asked himself, then immediately answered. “Some kind of special ink that only these lenses pick up.”

He looked a few more times with and without the lenses at different maps.

“Yeah . . . Must be.”

He’d thought the maps were peculiar from the start. They’d been hidden in a room full of bird cages (and a few dead birds), and he had dragged them out to help make his bed. After discovering the markings, he’d gone over all of them again with the special glasses. Once he sorted out the marked and unmarked ones, he examined just the marked maps.

Some were of North America, South America, or both. Others were of only one territory. They all had one thing in common: CAG territory. After staring at the writing and symbols for two days, he’d gone to sleep with maps on the brain. That night he dreamed about catching a chicken and eating it. In the dream, he’d done all the work himself; feeding, killing, plucking, dressing, and roasting. Just when the time came to eat, the chicken jumped off the platter and flew away. When Sammy woke up, he could
see
the answer.

“Carrier pigeons. The dead birds were carrier pigeons.”

He jumped out of bed, found the glasses, and went over the maps again.

“The blue houses represent the other resistance compounds.”

He traced his fingers all over the maps. “These lines were pigeon routes. All of them centering around . . . this one.” Sammy jabbed his finger into the map of Mid-American Territory. There, in blue ink, was a mysterious inscription that appeared to have been scrawled out in haste:
Sedgwick C. Plainpal
. And it was right over the city of Wichita.

“That has to be the main compound of the resistance. But what does ‘plainpal’ mean? And who is Sedgwick C?” He searched through his memory. Thanks to his Anomaly Eleven, his brain was like a powerful computer in many ways, but nothing he could think of matched such an odd description. “But if these people were fighting the CAG . . . maybe they’d help me.”

The new revelations from the maps had been enough to light a fire in Sammy. He spent more time poring over the maps, interpreting data, plotting possible destinations, and the safest routes to travel.

This new hope helped push away his fears of the unknown. His information was likely very outdated, but still useful. Most of the blue routes and stations radiated outward from that area. If there were any resistance left, wouldn’t it be there?

With no better alternatives, he resolved to make for Wichita. As for Sedgwick C. and “plainpal,” he hoped to find out the meaning of that either when he got there, or sometime along the way. To prepare for his departure he made himself a serviceable traveling bag out of a cushion cover and some wire, then stocked it with food, water, and some maps.