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Authors: Stuart Gibbs

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BOOK: Spy School
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Erica stepped into the hall behind me.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, right?” I asked her. “I mean, I’ve had no training in
anything
yet. I’ll bet no one does well on this test when they first get here.”

“I aced it,” she told me. And then she left without so much as a good-bye.

Thus, a mere twenty-three minutes after my arrival at spy school, I had learned something extremely important about it: It wasn’t going to be easy.

INTIMIDATION

Armistead Dormitory

January 16

1750 hours

Moving from home to a boarding school where I
didn’t know anyone would have been difficult under normal circumstances. After my frightening and humiliating initiation, however, it was traumatic. I was tempted to head right for the phone to call my parents and ask them to come pick me up, but then I realized a few things:

1. The SACSA exam was probably
designed
to weed out people. Being a spy wasn’t going to be all good times and glory. If I couldn’t handle a fake life-or-death scenario, how could I ever be expected to handle a real one?

2. I hadn’t made a very good impression on Erica, but if I left, that’d be the
only
impression I’d ever make on her. If I stuck around, I’d at least have a chance to recover.

3. Things couldn’t possibly get
worse
. Therefore, they had to get better.

So I decided to stick it out at spy school for at least a little while longer.

Immediately after being dressed down by the principal and blown off by Erica, I found my belongings piled in a slightly damp heap in the hallway outside the office with an orientation packet balanced atop them. Inside was my class schedule, a map of the campus with directions to my room, and a pamphlet detailing emergency procedures for everything ranging from poisoning to nerve gas attacks.

My room was on the top floor of Armistead Dormitory. All first years were sequestered up there. I originally presumed this might be nice, having a room up on top with a view, but this, like 100 percent of my presumptions about spy school, turned out to be wrong. The top floor was basically an attic that had been haphazardly divvied into cramped little rooms. Our dog got more space when we boarded him on vacation.

The walls were thin enough to hear through, and the ceiling, which was really the peaked roof of the building, slanted so precipitously that I could stand upright only in half the room. There was a small dormer window set into the slant,
which let in a tiny bit of light and a staggering amount of cold air. Apparently, it had last been weatherproofed during the Kennedy administration. The furniture was army surplus, circa World War II: a spindly cot with a rock-hard mattress, a squat wooden night stand, an iron desk with corners sharp enough to put out an eye, a footlocker, and a folding chair.

There was no personal bathroom. Instead, there was a communal restroom at the far end of the hall with three ancient toilets that made disturbing noises when you flushed them and four showers that appeared to be a breeding ground for rare foot fungi.

There was a small communal lounge at the top of the stairs—a few tattered couches and a yard sale coffee table—but since it was frigid on the floor, no one was hanging out there. I could hear some of my fellow students in their rooms, but none emerged to welcome me to spy school—or even say hello.

While I unpacked in my tiny room, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Mike.

How’s loser science school?

It was supposed to be a joke, but it made me feel lousy anyhow. Lousy and lonely.

Awesome.

I wrote back. The great thing about texting is, no one can ever tell when you’re lying.

Someone knocked at my door.

I jumped, startled. Most days I probably wouldn’t have, but I was a bit skittish after my initiation. I crept to the door and peered through the tiny peephole.

The kid in the hall looked as though he’d stepped off the cover of a glossy magazine. He was several years older than me, well past his awkward teenage phase. He had perfectly coiffed brown hair, a chiseled jaw, and broad shoulders. He wore an expensive sports coat over an even more expensive sweater. If you’d asked me to design the prototypical spy-to-be, I would have drawn
him
. He waved at the peephole knowingly. “Just open the door, Ben. I know you’re in there.”

I reached for the doorknob, then paused, wondering if this was another test.

“It’s not a test,” the guy outside the door said. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve kicked the door in thirty seconds ago. I’m just the welcome wagon.”

I opened the door.

The kid breezed in, flashing an acre of teeth as he grinned. “Still shaky after your SACSAs, huh? I get it. I was too. But you’ve got nothing to worry about from me.” He extended a friendly hand. “Chip Schacter. Nice to meet you.”

I shook it, pleased to finally meet someone friendly. “Ben Ripley. But I guess you knew that already.”

Chip laughed. “Yeah. Every student gets full dossiers on all the new meat. Yours was better than most, though.”

“It was?”

“Absolutely. Especially those cryptography scores.” Chip whistled appreciatively. “I haven’t seen cryptos like that since Chandra Shiksavelli . . . and she went right from here to being a Level 6 at the NSA.”

“Wow,” I said, trying to seem nonchalant, although I was secretly thrilled. I still wasn’t sure how I could be so skilled at cryptography and not know it, but it was nice to finally have some good news. For the first time since I’d arrived at spy school, I actually felt like I might belong there.

“Anyhow,” Chip went on, “your first days here can be pretty rough. I figured you could use a friend.”

“I could,” I admitted. “Thanks.”

“I’ll take you around, show you the ropes, introduce you to the right people. In a few days you’ll have this whole place wired. And all I ask for in return is a little favor.”

“That’d be great,” I said . . . and then caught myself. “What favor?”

Chip glanced out the door, as though to make sure no one was within earshot, then shut and locked it. “Nothing much. Just a little harmless computer hacking. The kind of thing friends do for each other all the time.”

Any enthusiasm I’d had seeped out of me like air from a punctured balloon. “Uh . . . I’m not so good at hacking.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can walk you through the toughest
stuff. But there’s a rotating sixteen-character daisy-chain password protecting the firewall. I can’t crack it, but it ought to be a piece of cake for someone with your mad skills.” Chip patted me on the shoulder proudly, trying to bolster my ego.

The sad thing is, it sort of worked. I already knew this guy was trouble, and yet, somehow, I still wanted his approval. “What computer would this be?”

“Just the school’s mainframe. There’s some classified information I need to get off it for a class.”

“What kind of information?”

Chip’s face clouded. “What’s with all the questions? I’m trying to be a friend here, and you’re giving me the third degree.”

“Sorry, but . . . I just got here. I don’t want to do something that’s going to get me in trouble.”

“You know what’ll
really
get you in trouble? Making me an enemy rather than a friend. ’Cause I can be a real good friend . . . or a real
bad
enemy.” Chip’s muscles tensed, straining the seams of his sports coat.

I gulped. This was unbelievable. At regular school there was one thing I’d been exceptionally good at: avoiding bullies. (The trick was to blend into the crowd and let them pick out prey more obvious than you.) But now I hadn’t even made it to my first meal at spy school before one set his sights on me.

Worse, Chip Schacter wasn’t like a public school bully.
Those guys were mostly out to cause you embarrassment rather than pain; the worst they might do was yank down your pants while the cheerleading squad was passing. There was something far more menacing about Chip. He was obviously after much more than my lunch money—and the penalty for standing up to him appeared to be pain.

“I don’t want to be your enemy,” I said, backing up as far as I could in my tiny room.

Chip’s muscles relaxed. He flashed a disingenuous smile. “Good to hear. Let’s get to it.” He ushered me toward the door.

I stayed put. “You want to do this
now
? I haven’t even unpacked.”

“Exactly.
No one
would ever expect you to do something like this yet. Plus, everyone will be in the dining hall. Dinner starts in five.”

“Just out of interest . . . is what we’re doing against the rules?”

“There are no rules at spy school.”

“So . . . if we get caught . . . ?”

“Ben, I’m your friend, right?”

“Right.”

“And friends look out for each other. I’m not gonna let you get caught.” Chip clamped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, sending a shock of pain through my body. “Now, let’s stop gabbing like girls and go do this.”

He turned to the door, expecting me to follow. I immediately tried to assess what other options I had, but I couldn’t come up with any, other than fleeing through the tiny window in my room, which would have merely left me on a steeply slanted, icy roof four stories above the ground.

Going along with Chip didn’t seem much safer, however. I already knew not to trust him. If I screwed up hacking the computer—which I was bound to do, as I didn’t even know what a rotating sixteen-character daisy-chain password
was
, let alone how to decrypt one—Chip would certainly let me take the fall for it. Which meant I could be bounced from spy school within only hours of arriving.

While I dithered about this, Chip started out the door. As he grabbed the knob, there was a sudden sizzling sound, like that of a steak being dropped on a hot grill. Chip’s body went rigid and his hair stood on end while tiny blue bolts of electricity arced between his teeth. He finally managed a grunt of surprise, then collapsed, quivering, on my floor.

The door opened, and a boy about my age with a mop of dark hair draped over one eye peeked in. He prodded Chip with a foot to make sure he was unconscious, then held up a small device that he’d wired to the outside doorknob. “Palm-size Van de Graaff electrostatic generator. Very effective, but only for five minutes. If you want to stay in one piece, I suggest you get far away from here in that time.”

INFORMATION

Mess Hall

January 16

1820 hours

“Here’s the first thing you need to know about spy
school: It sucks.”

Murray Hill, the kid who’d rescued me from Chip, crammed another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. We were in the mess hall, which everyone simply called “the mess,” eating dinner. Most of the rest of the student body—three hundred students ranging in age from twelve to eighteen—were gathered in clumps around us. Though no one else had bothered to introduce themselves, everyone was obviously aware of my presence. Every time I glanced
toward one of the clumps, I’d catch someone quickly averting their eyes from me.

The mess wasn’t terribly far from my room; it was right next to the dormitory. I’d been concerned that it was the first place Chip would come looking for me, but Murray claimed there was safety in numbers. And besides, he was starving.

“Everything you hated about regular school?” Murray went on. “We still have all of that here: rigid social cliques, lousy teachers, incompetent administrators, terrible food, bullies. And on top of that, occasionally, someone tries to kill you.”

Murray was thirteen and should have been a second-year student, but he’d been held back after flunking his self-preservation exam the spring before. During the final combat simulation, he’d accidentally shot off the principal’s toupee. (They were only using dummy bullets at the time, so the principal was unharmed, but his beloved hairpiece was damaged beyond repair.) Having to repeat his first year didn’t seem to bother Murray much, but then, nothing really seemed to bother Murray. Unlike everyone else in the mess, he didn’t appear to care how he looked—or what anyone else thought of him. Our fellow students sat ramrod straight and were impeccably dressed, as though concerned that someone might be grading them on their posture and grooming. For the most part, they wore pressed jeans and nice sweaters,
clothes that looked professional but would also allow them to move freely in case of a sudden ambush. On the other hand, Murray seemed to be making a deliberate attempt at slovenliness. His hair was unkempt, his shirt was untucked, his sweatshirt was stained a dozen times over—and was currently getting a fresh coat of spaghetti sauce. He had the posture of a piece of wet linguine and his socks didn’t match. He was obviously intelligent, though, and when he had something to say—as he did now—he was determined to say it. I was having a hard time getting a word in edgewise.

BOOK: Spy School
6.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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