Sirius Academy (Jezebel's Ladder) (14 page)

The team had their Christmas party early in the girls’ room
because it was raining too hard to eat outside. The spending limit was twenty
dollars. Most people gave luxury food items because they wouldn’t be able to
enjoy such treats on the trip. Sojiro gave colorful dream catchers, due to
Red’s recent spate of nightmares. Zeiss bought Herkemer an e-book on building
rabbit snares. Toby got a Swiss Army knife—used, from a surplus store. Risa
received a folding, ceramic gardening shovel. He gave Red a slingshot. “It
arrived yesterday. It goes in your hair.”

Red knit her eyebrows. “Thanks?
I’ll play with it when I get back. You don’t know much about girl stuff, do
you?”

Zeiss turned to Herkemer without
saying a word. The Polish man told the team leader, “He knows what a real hair
clip looks like; he’s not stupid.”

Sojiro picked up the theme. “He
wants you to
conceal
it.”

“On the trip,” clarified Toby, when
she still wasn’t getting the clue.

“Why?” she demanded.

“If he told you, he’d be breaking
the rules,” said Risa. “Even I know that, Monita.”

“Always with the rules,” Red
complained. “Is that why you suggested this whole gift exchange?”

The TA opened a new drink instead
of answering or even facing her.

“Don’t I get a present?” asked
Sojiro.

“Oops.” Zeiss pulled out a new
badge on a blue lanyard. “You’re my student assistant for special projects.”

“Cool. I’m a deputy, pardner,” the
artist said with a horrible John Wayne accent. “What for?”

“Keep that under your vest,
please,” Zeiss requested. “Mainly, it’s in case something happens to me on my
trip. Professor Horvath can get you into my room, and that’s the emergency key
for my computer. I have a big experiment for my dissertation running this
weekend, and if I don’t make it back, someone needs to read the results.”

The Japanese artist gripped the
lanyard, touched. “Sure. Your dissertation’s safe with me.”

“Plus, if you trip any alarms on
project eighteen while we’re gone, you can push the emergency button on the
badge and call Horvath. Consider it a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Sojiro seemed dubious until Red
told him, “She’s a meddling, dictatorial hard-ass, but you can trust her with
your life.” She looked at Zeiss strangely. “Nobody’s told you what eighteen is
yet. Right?”

“I trust you, and I know it’s
important. But if manga boy gets busted, he could get tossed from the island
before we return.”

“Thanks, Z,” Red said. “How come
she gets the shovel?”

“Cause it’ll fit in my bra,” her
roommate ribbed.

The guys all made comments like,
“Oooo, burn,” except Zeiss.

“On that note, I need to leave,”
claimed the TA.

“Before the karaoke?” asked Sojiro,
disappointed.

“Ha! You should be grateful; I’m
tone deaf. Besides, faculty has to leave before the students to get to the site
first.”

The guys shook his hand, Risa
hugged him, and Red slugged him in the shoulder.

After he left, Sojiro said, “Wish
I’d brought that mistletoe.”

Red slugged him next.

****

For the seaplane to come alongside,
they had to stop the island’s engines. The tropical ocean waters were choppy
from the high winds, and they couldn’t risk docking at speed. The mils had to
suspend their target practice because of a plane nearby and stood around
talking by the tunnel.

When the plane tied off, the
captain shouted, “This trip is going to be cramped. Please hand all your backpacks
over to the gentleman in blue and we’ll all fit.”

Red waited nervously at the end of
the line to board. Her hair was streaked white in honor of the arctic camouflage
she wore. She had her cooler full of energy bars and was snacking already. The
man in blue didn’t want to give her permission to carry the food on, but she
refused to hand the container to anyone else. “I have a security exception;
read the tag.”

The sea-plane captain held up
everything while he waited for the approval from Sirius Tower.

Sojiro, who’d come to see them off,
complained, “You’re eating as much as Herk.” He pulled up his windbreaker hood
to blunt the effects of sea spray on his hair.

“I can’t help it,” she protested.
“I’m going through a mutant growth spurt of some kind.”

“That’s how guys feel all the time,”
explained the artist.

Daniel flickered into existence
beside Red on the dock. She knew he was Out of Body because he was standing and
the wind didn’t ripple his clothes. Sojiro couldn’t see or hear him. Her uncle
said, “I don’t have long; the whales are pulling away and my tranqs are about
to kick in. Trina has to be on the bridge for startup procedures because any
failures or fires tend to happen then.” Her face fell a little. “We love you
Mira. I’ve sent as many angels as I dare to watch over you, but you have to do
this yourself. Like my heartless father always said . . .”

“The butterfly must fight its own
way out of the cocoon or it can never fly,” she finished.

The astral image smiled and
vanished like the Cheshire Cat.

Sojiro said, “That’s almost haiku,
but you’d need to add a season.”

The sea-plane captain waved her
onboard.

Red hugged her first friend in the
Academy. “I prefer Zen koans.”

“That would be more like: what is
the sound of a one-winged butterfly clapping, or something.”

“Good-bye,” she giggled as she
walked up the bobbing gangplank to join the other nineteen students taking
their final survival-training trip.

Sojiro waved to the rest of the
team as the plane took off, and set off past the firing range to get to the
tunnel. Without warning, someone threw a blanket over the artist’s head and
shoulders, and squeezed his arms against his body. “You don’t have your little
fag-hag or butt-buddy here to protect you anymore, do you?”

“What’s your problem, Merrick!” wheezed Sojiro.

“I’m at the range practicing with
my buddies right now. Aren’t I?” A fist hit the Japanese student in the stomach
so hard he could no longer breathe. “You’re just real clumsy, Zipper-eye.
That’s all anyone out here will say.”

Another fist hit his face, lighting
the inside of the blanket with white pain. Sojiro tasted blood. His nose was
broken. Desperate, he bit down on Merrick’s arm as hard as he could. Because of
the layers of fabric, it only pinched and didn’t penetrate. However, the man
didn’t let go—he was a Rex, immune to the pain. “You left a mark. That means I
can, too.”

Before the blow fell, Sojiro
wiggled his finger to tap the new badge dangling above his navel. “Professor—”

The brute spiked him into the
tarmac. Someone else kicked him in the kidneys. Art supplies scattered across
the deck. After two more kicks, Sojiro vomited. The men instinctively jumped
clear of the sound, squeamish. This gave him the breathing space to say the
word, “Horvath.”

The badge beeped. The crowd swore and
Merrick said, “Everybody out. The cameras are pointed the other way. Meet at
the bar later.”

Still curled on the deck, Sojiro
slid the blanket open to breathe and saw pairs of sneakers running away.

Despite the crippling pain and the
shaking in his hands, the artist smiled. That’s when a men’s size 8 dress shoe
stepped on the back of his left hand, splaying it flat on the deck. The shoe
was polished black leather and Sojiro could see about four centimeters of it
from under the blanket.

“
Who
are Horvath’s prime suspects?”
demanded the man in dress shoes.

Sojiro tried to wiggle free and his
captor sat on his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You
disappoint
me. Pretend
I am your Yakuza and failure will be dealt with severely.” Sharp iron gripped
the artist’s left index finger just above the center knuckle. “What are
Horvath’s search parameters for the spy?”

“I don’t know!” Blood jetted out as
the bolt cutters tightened. “Arrg . . . God! That’s my drawing hand. Stop!”

“I know all about project eighteen.
You are the lead programmer. Tell me everything I wish to know or this will be
a very
painful
day.”

“Okay . . . okay,” Sojiro said,
panting like a dog after a run in this tropical heat.

“How many suspects has your search
program narrowed the list to?”

“It doesn’t work like that. You
have the wrong—”

Snip.

A dark-brown hand picked up the
severed digit. “I am a patient man. I can do this forty times before I have to
get
creative
.” His interrogator heaved it into the ocean. “One chance,
gone forever. We move on to the next.” The artist bucked but the man held him
firmly. “Why is it called project eighteen?”

Sojiro’s right hand brushed across
a pencil. From the lilt in the voice, he realized who was holding him.
“Professor Solomon, you’re sworn to non-violence.”

 “The real Solomon died the day he
got his acceptance letter. I am not so . . . ouch!” Sojiro stabbed the pencil
toward the man’s side as hard as he could. The spy swore and snipped the second
finger onto the tarmac. “Very well. This next one will be your thumb—
both
joints! I read lips and your handler has used the term whale-level secret. What
does this refer to?”

The agony prevented the artist from
speaking as he realized that the spy would never let him live. Any answer he
gave would only hurt his friends, the only family he had. Therefore, he had to
goad the man into killing him sooner. “Moby Dick.”

“What?”

“The big white tumescence.”

“Speak English!”

“A sperm whale, full of seamen it
swallowed,” Sojiro giggled.

“I am warning you . . .”

Sojiro shrieked over the heavy wind,
“Just shoot me, you fuck!”

When he heard the three pistol
shots, the young man stopped breathing for a moment. The agent thudded to the
ground beside him. Soon after, someone ripped the soiled blanket off Sojiro’s
head.

“Thank god,” Horvath said, calling
into her head set. “Emergency medical evac flight crew to the flight deck. Ice.
Microsurgery team, plastic surgery team. I don’t think we have time for an MRI.
Shit, cauterizing. Dentist. Damn, you’re a mess, boy.” She took field bandages
out of her fanny-pack and applied them anywhere she could. She joined the second
finger with its missing tip just to keep the two together. Then she twisted the
corner of the blanket into a mini-tourniquet for the fingers.

Sojiro hugged her ankles with his
right arm, weeping hysterically and whispering, “Thank you, thank you.”

Just before the medical team
arrived, he mumbled, “Solomon . . . dead.”

“That’s right, I killed the SOB.”

“No, real one killed before he
accepted job.”

That’s when the depth of the
betrayal hit her. “Get me DNA from every square centimeter of this deck,” she
ordered. “And get me sample biometrics from the family of every student and
teacher that’s ever been on this island! I want old school, nothing off of a
computer.”

****

The flight to the survival testing
site was almost a day. They had to transfer planes. Red videoed constantly
because she was behind on her logging hours. When Herk complained about the
delay, Red told him, “They’re trying to confuse us or waiting for dark to
begin. My goggles put us on a vector for Mongolia before I lost satellite
reception.”

As they landed at the deserted
location, the pilot said over their headsets, “Attention: we’re beginning
Simulation 63. On your way back from splashdown retrieval, your plane strays
over enemy territory. Your plane is shot down. Everything in the storage bay is
deemed lost in the crash.”

The students cursed and complained
loudly at this. Red hid her energy bars as the news got worse. “You are warned
that hostiles in the area will hear any gunfire and capture you.”

When Herkemer buried his face in
his hands, she asked, “What’s wrong? You read that book on snares three times.”

“Yes, but the wire I practiced with
is with the luggage.”

“We’ll think of something,” Risa
hoped. Their pleasant campout had just turned into a few days of hell.

As they lined up to leave the
craft, Mr. Rogers came over their radios. “You will leave the plane in teams of
five at five-minute intervals, to avoid detection. You’ll be assigned to separate
compass points. Use of weapons or radios will be for one purpose only:
requesting life or death help. Requests for help will be considered an
admission to failure, and those students will be dropped from the program.”

Subzero air washed into the cabin.

Toby zipped his coat and then
discovered, “Crap on a stick—my gloves. I left my damn gloves in the pack.”

“Who do we pick for our fifth?”
asked Red.

The Polish bomb technician scanned
the crowd. Only one person still appeared calm—a Tibetan national by the name
of Tenzin. “Him.”

Red squeezed through the milling
masses and cranked her smile up a few hundred watts. “Would you like to join
our team?”

The Tibetan shrugged. “What’s in it
for me?”

She whispered, “I kept a case of
ten energy bars. We each get an even share.”

“Half,” demanded Tenzin.

Her smile vanished.

“Does anybody have spare gloves?”
she shouted. “I have two energy bars to trade.”

“One glove, one bar,” shouted
someone.

When no one claimed both, Red said,
“Sold.” She handed Toby the bar to trade. “I have another bar for a piece of
wire.”

One enterprising vandal popped a
panel open behind the TV and ripped out a bundle of wires. “Works for me,” said
Herkemer, performing the trade.

“Next . . . ,” Red began.

“Three, I’ll do it for three,”
offered the Tibetan.