Teacher of the Century (3 page)

*****

As Cilla lifted the wrinkled photo from her desk drawer, she swung back in time to the happy moment when the photo had been taken.

It had been at least thirty years ago, back when people still took photos instead of posting images to the hivenet. Period Three had been amazing that year, unbelievably sharp, hardworking, and well-behaved; on the last day of school, the kids had surprised her with a party in her honor. They had even baked her a cake and made her an afghan in Home Economics. Every last one of them had hugged her on their way out the door.

In the photo, she and the kids from Period Three were mashed together in a happy crush, all laughter and light. How had she gone from that life to the one she had now, she wondered? When had the kids gone from hugging her to pissing on her?

Placing the photo in the box into which she was packing her possessions, Cilla reached back into the desk drawer. This time, she withdrew an enamel pin shaped like a shiny red apple; the lettering on the apple read “World's Best Teacher.”

Kim Warwick had given her that. Out of all the students she'd taught through the years, Cilla still remembered that one.

Kim had been one of the stars of Cilla's career...not that Cilla imagined she had had much to do with her success. As a high school senior, Kim had already been writing like a master, composing achingly perfect novels of exquisite intricacy, depth, and emotional resonance. Cilla had given her the tiniest bit of guidance and all the encouragement in the world...and for that, Kim had never failed to credit her as the greatest teacher she'd ever known. She'd even dedicated a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel to Cilla, back in the days when the Pulitzer Prize still meant something.

Cilla dropped the pin in the box and pulled a magic marker drawing of a bull from the drawer. That one came from Jayvo Endymion, her hyperactive but beloved “bull in a china shop” from forty-odd years ago. Was he even still alive, she wondered? So much could happen in forty-odd years.

With a heavy sigh, Cilla dropped into her chair. Though there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that it was time to retire--well
past
time, in fact--cleaning out her desk was turning out to be harder than she had expected. As she piled mementos into boxes, the memories of better times and better students piled onto her shoulders, pressing her downward.

As she looked around the room, tears welling in her eyes, a thousand schooldays replayed in her memory. She saw herself standing in the front of the room, pacing her little track from wall to wall, lecturing energetically. Phantom students raised hands, chewed gum, passed notes, watched the clock. How many children had there been, she wondered? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? A million? She had no idea, no head count.

But she did remember every face, every name. A good teacher never forgets, she always thought.

And she was a good teacher, if you listened to Kim Warwick and Period Three from thirty-odd years ago and the America's Teacher of the Century selection committee. Or maybe not so good, if you listened to the little voice inside her that laid the blame for the rise of the godlings at least partly in her lap, since after all, she had done her part to shape the minds that had given birth to this warped generation.

Either way, she was now an
ex
-teacher, and glad of it. If ever a change had been overdue, it was this one; thinking back, Cilla thought she should have retired at least ten years ago...more like fifteen.

She would have only one real regret in leaving when she did. There was one person she would miss seeing again, one student she would have liked to have said goodbye to before she left for good.

As she thought of him, like magic, his voice broke the silence.

Unfortunately, the sound was not as welcome as it usually was to Cilla. He wasn't speaking calmly from the doorway or his desk.

He was screaming for help from somewhere down the hall.

As a hundred horrible possibilities leaped into her imagination, Cilla instinctively leaped from her chair and headed for the door. Leaning out into the corridor, she heard him scream again; this time, his cry for help became a shriek, his voice shooting up an octave and breaking as someone or something hurt him terribly.

Without hesitation, though she was seventy-five years old and unarmed, Cilla followed Byron's cries down the darkened hallway. Seventy-five was a lot younger than it used to be, but she was still fragile and unaugmented, certainly no match for the frailest godling; whoever or whatever she was about to face, rushing to her student's aid was a courageous thing to do.

Three doors down on the opposite side of the hall from her room, Cilla could see a bright red light dancing on the polished floor outside an open doorway. Though Byron's screams ominously ended, ceasing to guide her, Cilla had no doubt that he was through that doorway, amid that fiery light.

Sure enough, when she got there and looked inside, she saw him, huddled on the floor of a blazing classroom. Everything that could burn was on fire--hammocks, bedding, the teacher's desk, window blinds, light panels,
wall-mounted flat screen computer displays. In the middle of the roaring flames, Byron was curled in a fetal position with arms wrapped around his head, trying to protect himself from the blows that rained down upon him.

He was being bombarded...but not, as Cilla might have expected, by the fists of savage godlings. A torrent of blows pounded him in quick succession, one after another, and not a single one was delivered by a human hand.

The child was being hammered by A.I. spheres. A swarm of them boiled around him, thirty or more, enough to coddle a whole class of godlings. She'd never thought of them as dangerous in a physical way...but now the gleaming eight balls were wrecking a human body, pelting down hard and springing back up in the air only to bounce back down against battered flesh and bone.

Apparently, the godlings could reprogram the spheres more extensively than she had guessed, making them do a lot worse than turn their lenses to the walls. The tattooed monsters had transformed their own surrogate parents into lethal weapons.

And poor Byron Spencer was the beneficiary of their genius. The attack was so effective, he wasn't even moving anymore.

Cilla's stomach lurched at the thought that he might never move again.

Desperately, she looked around, wondering how she could possibly help him. There was still a clear path through the flames from the doorway to Byron, but what could she do when she got to him? She had no doubt that if she tried to shield him and drag him from the room, the orbs would turn their fury on her. As hard as they were hitting, Cilla knew that it wouldn't take long for them to break her seventy-five-year-old body.

She needed some kind of help herself...but by the time she could bring someone back, Byron might be dead. For all she knew, he was dead already.

If she had any hope at all of saving him, Cilla had to act fast...and, she realized, she needed more than her bare hands to do it. To fight off the A.I. spheres, she needed some kind of a weapon, something within reach.

Even as she realized what she would use, her feet were whisking her down the hallway toward her classroom.

Breathing fast, not used to exertion, Cilla hurried through the doorway of her room and went straight for her desk. What she wanted stuck out of one of the cartons she had packed, too big to fit inside under a lid.

It was a souvenir of days long gone, a talisman of ancient times when teachers had still possessed power and students had feared them. It was a piece of history that she had kept in the back of the bottom of a drawer, as if imagining that it might someday return to service, that a wind would sweep away the incompetent leaders and restore the schools to the centers of discipline and learning that they had once been.

The wood felt solid in her hand as she drew it from the box. The miraculous return to past glories had not come for the schools, but the artifact would see action again after all those years.

Cilla rushed back down the hall and flung herself without hesitation into the burning classroom. Byron still wasn't moving; the cloud of eight balls was still raining down on him.

Cilla wrapped both hands tightly around the handle and stepped forward. She prayed that she still had the strength to do the work that lay ahead.

Then, she drew back the paddle, the very same paddle that had stung many a student's bottom, and she swung it as hard as she could at the ebony spheres.

With a crack, the flat of the paddle smacked into two of the eight balls, sending them spinning. One looped drunkenly across the room, weaving toward the windows, while the other dashed itself against a blazing wall screen and burst into flames.

Heart pounding, Cilla wrenched the paddle back and swung it again, spraying three more orbs in crazy trajectories around the room. Her next swing caught one full against the wood, chucking it down to shatter in sparks and black shards upon the floor.

Surprised at herself, she pulled back and swung again. Spheres flew from the flat of the paddle like bees, whizzing into walls and fiery hammocks, shattering windows.

As she struck at them, some of the orbs protested with A.I. voices, filling the air with the strident cries of parents. If anything, the babble strengthened her resolve and made Cilla swing harder.

“Cease this behavior immediately!” screamed one of the spheres, just before Cilla drove it into a corner.

“This is a violation of our rights!” wailed another orb in the voice of Ludwig's mother. True to form, this particular orb never shut up until Cilla's paddle shattered it against the floor.

Cilla continued to swing away, breaking apart the awful swarm. As grave as the situation was, as much as a precious life depended on its outcome, a part of her was enlivened by the release, the realization of a secret fantasy from frustrated daydreams.

Oh, how she'd wanted to demolish those damned chattering eight balls.

Cilla's head throbbed, and her arms ached. As she swung again and again, she prayed to God to save the life of the boy at her feet, even if it meant the loss of her own.

One of the spheres struck her between the shoulder blades, but she ignored the flash of pain. Eight balls thumped her sides and legs, threatening to report her to the superintendent as they peppered her with bruises. She cried out as one of the balls clocked her kneecap with staggering force.

Tears flowed down her sunken cheeks, but she refused to fall. Knuckles white, she clenched the paddle in a death grip and swung, preventing the malevolent spheres from landing another blow on her motionless charge.

The flames leaped around her, burning through to bare walls, consuming everything...finally catching even the end of her paddle when she swept it through a fiery fall of ceiling tile.

Even as the paddle burned, Cilla kept right on swinging.

*****

Solemnly, the president of the United States of America stepped up to the podium. As the assembled audience fell silent, he took a moment to review the text of his remarks, displayed on the screen of the implant in the palm of his hand.

Newsglobes captured his every move, hovering at a respectful distance. Their all-seeing lenses flexed in and out, perfecting the framing of their shots. Images of the leader of the free world were instantaneously transmitted onto the hivenet, accessible to every mind with the brainware to receive them.

The president looked up, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“In this world of technological miracles,” he said, “knowledge is abundant. Information is downloaded directly into the human mind. Thanks to the hivenet, the sum total of human experience is available to anyone at any time.

“And yet, we have found no substitute for traditional learning,” said the president, looking around meaningfully at the attentive faces in the White House rose garden. “No technology can match the magic that occurs in the face-to-face communion between teacher and student.

“Traditional education is the backbone of our nation,” said the president, and the audience applauded. “It is because of this that we single out a Teacher of the Year, an example of the excellence that enables our children and nation to flourish.”

Again, the audience clapped. At the president's side, Principal Caesar beamed. In deference to the occasion, for once, he had concealed his naked body beneath a suit and tie.

“In this, the final year of the century,” said the president, “we will go a step further. In honor of the accomplishments of all our nation's teachers over the past one hundred years, we will single out America's finest teacher not only of the year, but of the century.”

The president nodded proudly. “Let me tell you, this woman is more than deserving of the title I am about to bestow upon her.”

The audience applauded with rising enthusiasm as the culmination of the ceremony approached.

“She has served with distinction for over fifty years at some of our nation's finest schools,” said the president. “During her career, she has helped to mold the minds of some of our most distinguished and accomplished citizens.

“Her contribution to our greatness cannot be overstated,” said the president. “By embracing progress while holding fast to the time-tested tenets of American education, she has linked the best of our yesterdays to the best of our tomorrows.”

As the crowd applauded, the president consulted his palm screen. “I'm sure you already know her,” he said, returning his sincere gaze to his listeners. “Every year for the past decade, she has been named America's Teacher of the Year.

“Now, she is about to receive the highest honor in the land for a member of the noblest profession on Earth. There is no one who deserves it more.

“For excellence in the field of teaching...for contributions beyond measure to the success of our great nation...for unswerving devotion to the children of America...I hereby pronounce Cilla Sullivan Franklin America's Teacher of the Century!”

As the crowd burst into wild applause, the president turned and guided Cilla to the podium. She looked radiant in her frilly white dress, bathed in an aura of bright sunlight that shimmered around her and haloed her silver hair.

“Congratulations, Cilla,” said the president, handing her a translucent plaque that pulsed with rainbow light. “And on behalf of all citizens of the United States of America, thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Cilla said softly, peering around at the ring of newsglobes scoping their lenses in her direction. The globes made her nervous, reminding her of the eight-ball parental A.I.s.

“You are a national treasure, Cilla,” said the president.

Cilla nodded and smiled, but was unimpressed by the flattery. To her thinking, the whole Teacher of the Century honor was meaningless, given the state of the world of education. How could anyone be honored to be a teacher when the schools were such a joke, when students and principals alike ran naked through the halls and the only learning taking place was the godlings' learning new methods of mayhem?

“Now, Cilla,” said the president, the applause fading at the sound of his voice. “I have a surprise for you.”

Cilla glanced at the newsglobes again, then forced herself to focus on the president. As unimpressed as she was by the honor she had been given, she still felt a small thrill at being so close to the most powerful man in America.

“Three months ago,” he said, “you performed a true act of heroism. When an accident threatened the life of one of your students, you risked your own life to save him.”

It was no accident
, thought Cilla, but of course she kept it to herself. The party line of the school administration, force-fed to the public by Ludwig's pet, Caesar, seemed to be the only truth that mattered.

“That student,” said the president, “Byron Spencer, is alive and well today because of you.

“And he is here today to share in this historic occasion.”

Cilla immediately brightened. She couldn't help herself.

It was the one thing she hadn't expected. It was the one thing that could truly make her happy.

As Byron walked out of a nearby door and headed for the podium, the crowd sprang to their feet and applauded like mad. In contrast to the way he had looked three months ago, battered and huddled on the floor of the burning classroom, Byron was bright-eyed and impeccably groomed, wearing a sharp navy blue suit and striped tie. His arms were full of red roses.

At the sight of him, Cilla was overcome with pure joy. He was the only reason she was at the White House that day, the only reason she had kept teaching long enough to qualify for the Teacher of the Century award.

Because of Byron, she had finished out the school year at All Einstein. After the life-threatening incident, he had bravely insisted on staying to complete his senior year. She had been unable to walk away then, knowing that the one good student in the place would be alone at the mercy of the murderous godlings.

Normally, one seventy-five-year-old teacher would not have provided much protection against a school full of techno-savages...but Cilla had been shielded from the godlings until the award ceremony by Caesar's bargain with Ludwig. She had become a guardian angel, using her special status to hold the savages at bay when Byron was endangered. There had been many tense moments, and Byron had taken his share of knocks, but she had managed to get him through his senior year alive.

He was going to graduate. He was going out into the world, and she was sure that he would do great things.

Seeing him there, alive and healthy and brimming with hope, meant far more to Cilla than the plaque in her hand or the applause of her peers or the president of the United States standing at her side.

“These are for you, Miss Franklin,” said Byron, handing her the bouquet of red roses. “Thank you for being such a wonderful teacher.”

Tears of happiness flowed down her face as she accepted the flowers. She wanted to hug him but held herself back...then gave in and hugged him anyway.

That moment was all the reward she needed. After all the years of futility since the rise of the godlings, she had managed to help one more student, one promising student who loved learning and appreciated her. How wonderful that she could retire on a positive note, reliving one final time the teacher-student bond as it was meant to be.

As she drew back from him, Byron beamed. “There's another surprise, Miss Franklin,” he said. “There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

Still smiling, Cilla tipped her head inquisitively.

“Come on out, Sara,” said Byron, looking toward the door from which he had emerged.

As Cilla followed his gaze, the door opened. A girl stepped out, smiling shyly.

She looked close to Byron's age, and about the same height. Her sandy, straight hair hung in a glossy fall to the middle of her back, a style that Cilla hadn't seen in years. She wore a pretty blue knee-length sheath, and her green eyes sparkled like pale emeralds.

“This is my younger sister, Sara,” said Byron. “Sara, meet my teacher, Cilla Franklin.”

Shifting the roses and plaque to free an arm, Cilla shook Sara's hand. It felt soft as the petal of a flower in her grip.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Franklin,” said Sara.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Sara,” said Cilla, staring at the girl. Byron hadn't been kidding when he had promised a surprise. Cilla could not remember him ever mentioning a sister...and yet, as she searched Sara's features, she could see that the family resemblance was unmistakable.

“Sara has been home schooled until now,” said Byron, “but next year, she'll be attending All Einstein High School. She'll be a senior.”

“I can't wait to have you as a teacher,” said Sara. “Byron's told me so much about you. You're the only reason I'm going to All Einstein instead of continuing my home schooling.”

Cilla kept staring, completely thrown for a loop. She didn't know what to say.

The girl gazed hopefully up at her. “I brought you something,” she said, pulling a hand from behind her back. “So we can get off on the right foot.”

It was a shiny red apple.

As the audience laughed and applauded, Cilla stared at the apple in Sara's hand. She was truly on the spot, now. Though she had filed her retirement papers, Caesar had neglected to tell Byron that she wouldn't be teaching next year. Cilla had never mentioned it to Byron, either, and now she was stuck.

When she shot a look in Caesar's direction, he leaned over and patted her shoulder. “We're all excited about next year,” he said to Cilla. “Another batch of fresh faces for you to work your magic on.”

Then, he leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “And no Ludwig.”

Which was supposed to mean that she was in the clear, that the death sentence was null and void, but she knew better. Ludwig's godlings could take her in the street, or at home...and there would be another horde to replace them in school the next year. She had seen them in the halls already, the eleventh graders, naked and tattooed and looking every bit as inhuman as the last bunch.

But then there was Sara Spencer.

“Sara aced her home school equivalence exams,” Byron said proudly. “She got the highest scores on record.”

Sara blushed and looked at her feet, then back up at Cilla.

Cilla could feel the intelligence radiating from the girl's emerald eyes. Even if Byron hadn't mentioned her test scores, Cilla would have known that she was in the presence of another excellent student, another hard-working and respectful young person, another hope for the future.

Her brother's sister, through and through.

And she was a home schooler, inexperienced in the savage ways of the merciless tribal school culture. When it came to interacting with the godlings, she might as well have had “fresh meat” tattooed on her forehead.

Sara fixed her with a gaze that was full of need and frank adoration. “I can't wait till next year,” she said softly.

Cilla's heart melted. Abandoning that child to the godlings would be like offering up her own daughter to be killed.

In that moment, Cilla knew that she would be back in front of a classroom after all. She did not know how much protection she could offer this gentle, brilliant soul, but she knew that she could not turn her back on her.

She had risked her own life for Byron Spencer. If she did any less for Byron's sister, she would not be able to live with herself, anyway.

Cilla took the apple from Sara's hand. “See you in the fall,” she said with a smile.