The Chamber of Five (2 page)

“Do you know what the Pilkney Foundation is?”

“No.”

“The top two percent of all math students in the country go there, and I’ve got a chance at making it. They have the best and most radical quantum physics program in the world. Full scholarship if I’m accepted into the foundation.”

I swallowed, regretting my words and suddenly feeling like an absolute nothing next to this social outcast. “Wow.”

He nodded. “There’s only been three students from Lambert accepted to Pilkney in the last twenty-two years. All three were members of the Group.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. Statistically speaking, my odds skyrocket.”

“There’s only thirty-three members of the Group.”

“They’ve all been chosen?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention at the last meeting.”

“Would you put a word in for me again? Please?”

“Sure.” I glanced at my watch. “Listen, I’m late, and tryouts for the team start today. I’ll talk to Carter.”

A
S
I
SUITED
up for tennis, I thought about Elvis. I reasoned that if any kind of good could come from being a member of the Chamber, it would be to help him. Maybe even others like him. It just sucked that I didn’t want to be a part of it. If my father knew I had no intention of following him into politics, he’d take the congressional pin from his lapel and kill me with it.

My mother once told me I’d inherited her family genes. She wasn’t born into royalty, though she was honest enough to say she liked the benefits of marrying into power. And though she was a trophy wife, the older I got, I realized that she was a trophy wife with a well-kept secret. She had a brain. I just couldn’t figure out why she didn’t use it.

Coach Yount called for pairs on the court for tryouts, but my usual partner from last year, Pauly Olson, was out with the flu. His father had picked it up in France the week before, and Pauly
had been puking his guts out in French for the last two days. Parisian flu was classy, he’d told me on the phone. When you puked, you did it with flair.

As the team split off in pairs, choosing courts within the ivy-laced fence, the last guy left besides me was a freshman: a knobby-kneed rail of a kid with big ears, big feet, and a body that was too small for either. Not short, not tall, and all of fifteen years old to my seventeen. I groaned. I’d bet my bottom dollar the kid had never even hit a tennis ball.

I knew I’d make the team because I’d been one of the best for the last two years, and my uniform said so; the ranking on my sleeve showed it to everybody. Everything at Lambert had rankings. They lived on rankings. Status was everything.

I’d seen Big-ears around, and the word was he didn’t talk. The silent type, keeps to himself. Fresh meat for Lambert. As I looked at him, dressed in cheap sweats, a wrinkled Lambert Physical Fitness T-shirt, and Payless tennis shoes, and holding an old racket, I almost felt sorry for him. Newbies tried out in the lowly and generic Lambert shirt; no official tennis uniform until you made the team.

As I looked him up and down, he kept his eyes on my face. He wasn’t here because of his parents’ money, that was for sure. I was tempted to ask him what made him a brilliant freak of nature, but I figured I’d get some sort of scientific equation instead of English. “Come on,” I said, gesturing to our side of the court.

He followed, and as we took the court, he didn’t know where to stand. I sighed. We’d be eaten alive. “Over there.” I pointed with my racket. He moved. “Closer to the net. Three steps.” He moved again. “There.”

I looked across the court, and unfortunately, Hayden Kennedy stood there, a wicked smile on his face. Hayden Kennedy was in the Chamber of Five, the five that I’d joined less than twenty minutes ago. His father was a huge lobbyist, and just like his dad, he was nothing but a big polished turd with a mouth. He bounced a ball, laughing. “Got yourself a new pet, Weatherby?”

“Serve the ball, Kennedy.” I readied myself. I’d be returning the serve, and Kennedy, despite being a complete smart-ass, was an ace on the court.

In another moment, Kennedy tossed the ball and smashed the hell out of it. It sped straight toward the new kid at almost eighty miles an hour, and just as he flinched to get out of the way, the ball nailed him square on the chest. The thud echoed over the other courts, the kid doubled over, and I shook my head in disgust. Leave it to Kennedy to pull something like that on a frosh.

As the yellow projectile bounced its way to a slow stop, Kennedy smiled at me from across the court, calling to the kid, “Sorry about that. Little bit rusty.”

I shook my head as the newbie straightened. It had to have hurt. It couldn’t not hurt. He’d have a bruise for weeks. “You okay?” I said. He went to the ball, bent, picked it up, and tapped it back to Kennedy. The kid didn’t look at me. I called to him again.

He gripped his racket, staring over the net.

“You okay?”

He readied himself.

Kennedy guffawed. “Maybe he’s deaf, Weatherby. You’d think with those radar dishes bolted to the side of his head he could pick up transmissions from Mars, but who knows, huh?”

I got in position as Kennedy bounced the ball. “Play it right, Kennedy. Don’t be a dick.”

“Sure, Weatherby. Sure. Sometimes I forget I live for making you happy.”

So we played. The kid sucked so bad it wasn’t funny, and halfway through the tryout, he excused himself to go to the restroom. Probably to slit his wrists. It was painful. It was so bad that Kennedy, the guy who never stops tormenting people, stopped taunting him when he got back. He just continually drilled the kid.

The kid didn’t return a serve. He didn’t say a word as I positioned him correctly, giving him hints and tips. He missed ball after ball, and when Coach Yount finally made his way to our court to observe and score, it took him all of five minutes to make four checks on his clipboard, shake his head, and move on.

The kid had an icicle’s chance in hell of making the team, and I wondered what kind of self-hate had brought him on the court in the first place.

By the end of tryouts, I’d whipped up enough on Kennedy to get his mouth going again, which made me happy. Coach blew his whistle, and as we filed through the chain-link gateway to the gymnasium, the kid fell in line beside Kennedy, and of course Kennedy, at least five inches taller, bumped him aside with his shoulder and took his place.

Freshmen coming into Lambert were schooled quickly and efficiently on how things worked. Upperclassmen were everything; freshmen were nothing. Freshmen did what they were told, especially by Leadership Group members. The Chamber of Five were untouchable, and if you dared touch them, they ground you to dust.

As we filed into the locker room, I noticed the kid changing quickly, not bothering with a shower, and splitting before anybody else. I could almost feel the shame burning in him. Then Kennedy bellowed, his voice echoing from the walls, “WHO DID IT!?!”

I looked down the aisle of lockers. Kennedy was holding up his white dress shirt by the hanger. It was wet. It was yellow. I would have smiled if it didn’t mean that somebody would die, and even though Kennedy had enough ex-freshmen enemies to last a lifetime, I knew who did it. Big-ears. Kennedy, after a moment of sluggish thought, knew, too.

As I hung my tennis shirt on the hanger and grabbed my bag, I wondered what the kid’s deal was. He had to know Kennedy would be gunning for him. Maybe he was emo in disguise, death wish in hand. He was dead meat.

C
ARTER
L
OGAN
S
AT
in a high-backed chair, one of five around the circular and deep-colored mahogany antique table set in the center of the Chamber. Next to him sat Hayden Kennedy, and two more guys, Michael Woodside and Steven Lotus, filled the chairs next to him. One remained empty. I stood at the door, which was adjacent to the study hall we’d met in the day before.

The Chamber was located in the main building on the third floor. The building was basically an ornate and hollow box ringed with three balconied floors of spacious rooms, including library, study hall, and administrative offices, and the Chamber was set directly opposite the main entrance down below. Often enough, you would see the five members standing at the railing outside the Chamber doors, looking down on the peasants scurrying through the indoor courtyard.

Only the five could enter the room without an invitation.
There was a lock on the door, and only five keys. The Chamber was off-limits.

Carter smiled, waving to me. “Welcome, Jason. Come over.”

I walked in, nodding to each as he stood and shook my hand. All except Kennedy. He smirked at me, still pissed about tennis the day before, sure that I’d put the kid up to it somehow. He’d had to wear his tennis uniform around for the rest of the day due to his pissed-on shirt, and I’d cracked up every time I’d seen him.

Carter rolled his eyes. “Protocol is the foundation of civilization, Hayden. We’re in the Chamber.”

Kennedy grunted, standing and shaking my hand. He sat. I did, too. Carter nodded. “Welcome to your first meeting of the five. Jason, I’d like to extend you the chalice.” With that, he reached for the goblet at the center of the table and slid it to me. “Drink.”

I looked around, then at the contents of the cup. Dark red liquid. “What is it?”

Carter smiled. “The first tenet of the Chamber is trust, Jason. Implicit and total trust. You are amongst brothers now.”

I took a breath, putting the goblet to my lips and sipping. Relief flooded through me. I was safe unless pig blood tasted like cherry Kool-Aid. After swallowing, I slid the goblet to Michael, who took a sip. As it was passed around, I looked at the wood-paneled Chamber. Antique globes, weathered and ancient maps, a marble chess set, framed copies of the United States Constitution and Bill of Rights, several pictures of past presidents, and other artifacts dotted the well-furnished room.

Carter rested his hands on the table after he’d taken a drink. He stared at the goblet in the center of the table. “
Novus ordo seclorum
. Do you know what that is, Jason?”

“No.”

He pulled out a dollar bill, handing it to me. “Read the back, under the pyramid.”

I did, and saw the words:
NOVUS ORDO SECLORUM
. “What does it mean?”

Carter smiled. “The translation is
A new order of the ages.
”

I frowned. “What does it mean?”

Carter nodded. “It means that our forefathers created a new order of power in the world. A power that would cover the globe. A power that we are a part of.”

With that, Carter nodded to Kennedy, and Kennedy rose, walking to a desk in the corner of the Chamber. He brought back a black briefcase, setting it in front of Carter. As Carter turned the wheels of its combination lock, he spoke. “The Youth Leadership Group began over fifty years ago, and the Chamber of Five forty years ago. That man”—Carter pointed to a framed portrait on the wall—“was the founder.”

He opened the briefcase. “The country was at war with itself over the Vietnam conflict, and the government was losing its power base to the hippies, freaks, dopeheads, and general do-nothing-for-something scum. A power base that had stood the test of time, but was eroding. The common people, simply put, were caught up in a cultural revolution that spelled out doom for the United States if it continued.” He pointed to the picture again. “Senator Logan approached thirteen of the best private high schools in the country, this being one of them, and orchestrated the group to groom us for leadership. We are but one of thirteen groups, and the Chamber of Five is actually a chamber of sixty-five. There are lines of power in this country, Jason, and we’re a part of it.”

I looked at the picture. “Senator Logan?”

Carter smiled. “Yes. My grandfather.”

I looked around the table. “Lines of power?”

“Yes. What do you think would happen if the majority of leaders in this country did not share a common view of power?”

I shook my head. “They don’t. That’s why we have political parties. We debate.”

He chuckled. “We debate, yes, Jason, but what we debate is not important.
Who wins
is, and both Democrats and Republicans make sure who that winner is.”

“Who wins, then?”

“
Novus ordo seclorum
, Jason. Republican or Democrat, it doesn’t matter. Sure, they trifle with small issues that consume the people, but party lines only matter to the man blinded by idealism, and the American people, for their own good, are blinded by the charade of politics.”

“Then tell me what the new order of the ages is.”

Carter steepled his hands. “Money. Money equals power, and power equals control, Jason, and our government makes sure it stays in the right hands. Did you know that only men who owned land could vote when our country came into being? A small percentage of the population controlled our ‘republic’ until the law was changed, and it’s been a struggle ever since. Our forefathers knew that to give power to the man with nothing would be the beginning of the end for America. Daily politics simply keeps the people focused on themselves.” He paused. “The lines of power must be maintained, and we are the inheritors of that power, for the good of those who don’t know any better. It’s why we exist. It’s why you were chosen.”

“Because of my father?”

He nodded. “Not just your father, but this.” With that, he took a file from the briefcase. My file. He opened it, sliding three sheets of paper toward me. “That is your personality profile. You remember filling it out?”

I stared at it, remembering. My father had stood over my shoulder while I answered the questions, correcting me, telling me what would look the best. I could almost feel his shadow over me right now. “Yes, I remember,” I said, looking away. That profile was pure fiction; what my dad wanted me to be like, not what I was.

Carter nodded. “You are a born leader. Born into the blood of leadership. Just like all of us, and to one degree or another, the entire history of the Group. So welcome, Mr. Weatherby, and congratulations. You are a part of something tremendous.”