Psion Gamma (14 page)

“Of course not. But I’ve got a responsibility to—”

“You do not!” Byron’s voice rose despite his attempt at self-control. Instantly he regretted his actions and took a moment to calm himself. “Forgive me, but this responsibility is not yours. Your accountability for Samuel ended the moment you finished your briefing two months ago. You have a duty to two people. Your squadron leader second, and Marie first.” Byron dropped his voice, pleading in a whisper. “Do not miss this! Let other people take care of this now. Look around your room. Remember what I always taught you? You worship what you put on your walls. If you want your life to center around work then, by all means, come with us to Rio. If you want to live the good life, as your mother and I did, stay here and be with Marie.”

“My mind doesn’t simplify things that easily. I—I should be able to do both.”

“Trust me. It is impossible.”

Albert took another bite of his sandwich, but it was much smaller and he barely chewed it. Byron wanted to press further, but after nineteen years of raising this boy, he knew when to talk and when to shut up. He busied himself by taking a long drink of water from the glass his son had set in front of him. It cooled his throat and calmed his nerves.

“I didn’t want this to happen.” Albert’s voice was heavy and he put a hand over his face. “I haven’t meant to neglect her.”

“I know. But you still need to fix things.”

“How?”

“If she were Emily, I would know what to say, but only you know Marie well enough to make that judgment.”

Albert nodded. He looked at his plate of food and pushed it away. It was Byron’s cue to leave. He stood up, hugged his son, and said goodbye.

February 19, 2086

A
LBERT CHOOCHOO RESTED IN THE CORNER
of the white room with his neck secured by a collar that kept him chained no more than a couple meters from the wall. He laid his head on the floor, unsure if he was awake or asleep. Things like consciousness, time, and location weren’t terribly meaningful to him. All he really knew was Stripe, pain, and the black door that came with both of them.

Life had gotten worse after telling Stripe his name. Visits into the room with the black door became more frequent, the pain more severe, but Stripe hadn’t lost his patience. Every so often, he’d plead with Albert to reveal his real name so he could help him. But Albert didn’t understand. He had already told Stripe his name. Why didn’t Stripe believe him?

Everything was so confusing now. Was it days—weeks—months—years he had already endured in the chamber with the black door? He had no clue. There were no Mondays, Tuesdays, or Wednesdays. There was only fire, ice, pressure, sharp, and others. Sensation after agonizing sensation until his mind fragmented inside his skull.

He spent so many hours alone in his cell that he began looking forward to time with Stripe. At least with Stripe, there was still the hope that he was on Albert’s side.

He had grown used to the devices Stripe used on him. Some days were worse than others. He no longer threw up after wearing the helmet, but he still felt woozy and disoriented. The pain levels he endured depended solely on Stripe’s mood.

His cell door opened and a bowl of sludge slid across the floor. Albert devoured it in four seconds. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he held the bowl to his mouth. This moment was what he looked forward to each day. He opened his eyes to see if Stripe was coming.

“Good morning, Albert,” Stripe said.

There’s his voice
. . . If Stripe was nearby, then everything was okay.

“Did you sleep well?” His voice was a salve, a balm of great relief. Seeing him was like seeing the face of an angel of mercy. “Was it better than the gutter you came from?”

Albert nodded.

“Are you ready to play?”

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’m ready.”

Albert allowed himself to be led from his cell. He didn’t even notice if guns were trained on him or not anymore. His existence was contained between these two rooms.

Stripe performed his work. Each time—sometimes sooner, sometimes later—Albert broke down and cried like a baby. Today was no different.

Right on cue, Stripe said the same thing he always said, “Just tell me what I need to know, Albert, and the pain goes away.”

The black door opened before Stripe had finished, a rare occurrence.

“A word with you,” said a man wearing the same green-brown uniform as Stripe.

Stripe stepped out, but didn’t close the door completely.

“Orders came down today,” the new man said. “They think you’re wasting time.”

“No. I’ve never failed to finish an assignment. I’m not giving up.” Albert heard the care in Stripe’s voice and was touched. He didn’t care so much about the words, but the tones.

“It’s not my call.”

“You have sway. Use it. I’ve learned more from him than I have with the last ten they’ve brought me. Give me more time. I have to break him”

Stripe came back in and slammed the door shut. Albert noticed Stripe was angry. He braced himself because when Stripe was angry, the pain was worse.

As more time passed, Albert noticed a sense of urgency from Stripe. The pain was worse than ever. He had long ago learned why the girl had drooled on herself the way she had: after spending so much time screaming, his jaw was too tired to close, so the spittle just rolled off his lips.

One morning, maybe even the next day, another appeared boy in his cell.
How long has he been here?
He screamed and cried and begged the way Albert and the girl had before they realized how useless it was. The boy was talking to Albert, but Albert didn’t really care to pay attention because he knew the boy didn’t matter. In fact, it angered Albert that someone else would be brought into his little room and invade his privacy. He wanted to hurt the other boy.

After finishing his sludge, Stripe came and went through the usual questions and statements. He motioned to two heavily armed friends, who entered the room and grabbed Albert. Floating down the hall, Albert saw the black door open, heard it close behind him, and felt the hard wood of the chair beneath him. With guns trained at his head and heart, he allowed the chair restraints to be tightened into place. Stripe knelt in front of him to check the security of the bonds at his feet, too.

“Did you do your homework like I asked?” Stripe asked.

Instantly, tears flowed down Albert’s cheeks. He had tried so hard to finish his homework, but he had not been able to do it.

“I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Stripe. I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve given you harder assignments than that since we’ve known each other. Why was this one so difficult?”

“I don’t know,” Albert wailed. The shame of not being able to do his homework was so embarrassing . . . but he had tried so hard.

“Then you know I have to hurt you more today, don’t you?”

Weakly, Albert nodded. He understood.

“I know I’ve said it before, Albert, but you are so lucky. You know why, don’t you?”

Albert nodded again, albeit reluctantly. “Most people have to learn pain through cruelty and anger. But you care about me.”

“Yes. I do,” Stripe said, his eyes searching Albert’s. Albert wanted to scream out the truth for Stripe. He wanted to give Stripe whatever was wanted. But Stripe spoke again. “Let’s try one more time. Maybe you can do it after all. Which would you prefer today? Sharp or pressure?”

At that question, Albert lost his senses completely. All the rage he’d felt toward the other boy in his cell was gone, replaced with helplessness, weakness—surely he was not responsible enough to make such an important decision. Certainly Stripe could choose. He always made the right choices. Albert managed to voice this to Stripe.

“If you can’t pick one,” Stripe said paternally, “I’ll have to do both.”

It was no use. Albert could not pick between them. “Okay,” he mumbled through tears and uncontrollable gasps for air.

“Others have told me that the combination of these two sensations is like an alligator biting them. Perhaps you’ll experience similar results. Let me know.”

Albert nodded as Stripe turned to his bench to grab the appropriate tools and tubes. He carefully selected the right ointments to administer, wearing a grim smile the entire time. As Stripe rolled up a leg of Albert’s pants, Albert experienced a mixed rush of terror and excitement at what was about to happen.

It’s going to hurt! HURT! No more pain!

But Stripe needs to do this to me. He needs to know where I’m from
, he reminded himself.
I should tell him. He’s kept me alive. They wanted to kill me, but he wouldn’t let them.

You can’t tell him, Albert
, repeated the small voice in the very back of his head—the voice getting quieter every day.
Remember the girl!

Goosebumps formed on his leg as the creams were applied to his skin. Stripe artistically placed both types in such a way that the pressure would be more widespread, and the sharp would be in rows, like a mouth of jagged teeth.

“I was quite liberal, this may be worse than anything you have yet experienced.”

Beads of sweat formed like a crown on Albert’s temples and forehead. Slowly the pain began to set in. His mind went elsewhere . . .

“Things aren’t always what they seem, Sammy,” his father said as they walked side by side through the African wilderness. Dry grassland and muddy slopes stretched out for miles around. In the eastern sky, the red sun was rising, already warm so early in the day and casting its light far out onto the landscape. Not a trace of wind was to be found.

Sammy bounced his binoculars on his hand as they walked. They were a cheap pair, picked up last minute at a gift shop near the preserve check-in. “I know, Dad, but sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

“There’s a trick,” his mom added from the other side of Samuel Sr. “You watch closely, for a long time, and eventually the truth is revealed.”

“Do you want to see an example, Sammy?” Brickert asked. “Look over here at this waterhole. Seems normal right?”

They stood at the top of a long, deep slope of mud and sparse grass. Down at the bottom was a puddle of water not much larger round than a child’s pool and probably less deep. Due to the nature of Brickert’s question, Sammy assumed there must be something wrong with it. He watched closely for several moments but saw nothing.

“Right,” Sammy answered, “totally normal.”

Feet and Chuckles tugged his sleeve and pulled him down behind a dried shrub. Feet lifted his binoculars, silently telling him to use them now. “Wait here patiently and watch the water.” The excitement in Feet’s voice was contagious.

Together, Sammy, his parents, Feet, Chuckles, and Brickert squatted down and spied on the waterhole from only thirty or forty meters away. The waterhole was as still as death on their side. Across the way, up the opposite slope, a herd of gazelle approached, the leaders eyeing the waterhole for several minutes. Sammy wondered what they were looking for. He saw no ripples of water, nothing. But his heart beat faster as he sensed something going on, something perhaps he had no way of detecting.

As the sun climbed higher in the east and the temperature rose, the adventurers continued to watch and wait, almost perfectly motionless. The gazelle continued to inspect the hole, darting in and out in quick movements. One gazelle in particular seemed determined now to make its way to the hole. Sammy squinted at the animal. It had Jeffie’s face.

As it drew closer to the water, its behavior became more curious. Every few steps, the gazelle with Jeffie’s face got spooked and ran back a meter, maybe two, but it always made up the distance and then some, drawing closer and closer to the water’s edge. Sammy licked his own lips in thirst, knowing what a powerful temptation drew that Jeffie-gazelle. And sure enough, it conquered the nervousness of the beast. Twitching in apprehension, the gazelle lowered its head to the water.

The tension surrounding Sammy was palpable.
Something’s going to happen, but what? What does everyone else see that Jeffie and I can’t?

Small ripples, emanating from the gazelle’s lapping mouth, traveled across the small waterhole. Its ears twitched often and its muscles jerked every few seconds as though it wanted to run but needed the water too badly.
What is it so afraid of?

From deep within the muddy water, a huge crocodile raised its body up, with its jaws wide open, and crunched its teeth down around the neck of the Jeffie-gazelle. The gazelle’s body jumped back, finishing the commands of the now disconnected brain.

“Remember, Sammy,” the five people around him repeated in unison. “You must watch and wait.”

Pain jerked Albert—
no, Sammy!
—out of his reverie and he screamed in utter agony. His cries were so guttural—so visceral—he did not even recognize them as his own. In his ears, a grown man was in the room with him, dying.

“It hurts, Stripe!
Please
! It’s eating my gazelle!”

Stripe had not lied. This was the worst pain he’d ever felt. He looked down at his leg and saw the monstrous crocodile biting, gnawing, tearing at the skin and bone of his leg. At any moment the entire appendage would be ripped away.