The Miscreant (24 page)

“Ah, Martin, you make it too easy for me,” Garran said and went to work creating his crime scene.

***

Campus Constable Commander Elric led two of his men across the grounds toward Hayworth House. The pervert had left a trail of undergarments leading straight to the dorm, making it a simple task to find the perpetrator. He thought he might have to wake the entire dorm to perform a search, but the thief left a pair of the purloined panties sticking out from under the door. His surprise at so easily finding the deviant was compounded when he realized this was a prefect’s room.

Commander Elric rapped on the door. “Campus constabulary; open the door.”

Martin’s subconscious heard the pounding, and he forced his eyes to open. He tried to command his body to move, but it resisted his dictates. Only with great effort and concentration was he able to get out of bed and force his shaking legs to support his weight.

Commander Elric nodded to his men, turned the handle, and barged into the room. Martin blinked at the intruders, desperately trying to clear the fog from his head.

“Prefect, you need to come with us.”

“Wha—what’s happening?”

“I think you know precisely what is happening. You sneaked into the women’s dorm and made off with their unmentionables.”

Martin cast his eyes around the room. Women’s undergarments were strewn about and covered his bed. “No, there must be some mistake. I didn’t take anyone’s underwear.”

Elric pointed at Martin’s midriff and swirled his finger in the air. Sir, you have a pair hanging off your…”

Martin looked down at the silk dainties displayed on his mainmast like a ship’s pennant. “This is all wrong,” he mumbled.

“It is very wrong. Let’s get some trousers on you.”

Garran peered around the dorm room’s doorway and saw the officers lead Martin away. He smiled as he watched Martin vacate what would soon be his room.

CHAPTER 6

Garran woke with great reluctance. He cursed the sun streaming through the window and assaulting his eyes. He saved several choice words for his dormmates who were using the weekend to catch up on some sleep. Chasing the fog from his head with a stiff drink, Garran rolled out of bed and got dressed.

“Good morning, labias and genitals,” Garran sang as he stood in the doorway. “It is a new day with a new choice in leadership. I hope I can count on your votes.”

Garran ducked a haphazardly thrown shoe. “Go eat shit, Holt, and let us sleep or you won’t get any of our damn votes.”

Garran walked to the far end of the dorm and performed an exaggerated march back to the doorway. “Allow that to soak in so as to remind you of what your every waking morning will be like if I do not have my own room.”

“What are you talking abou—oh my god! What the hell, man? Someone open a window!”

“Remember, a fresh start to a new day begins with your vote. Vote Holt for prefect! Toodles!”

Several shoes went flying through the doorway as Garran strode down the hall. He crossed the grounds to a secluded area Victor had chosen for his training. Still aching from the drubbing Aniston had given him, he was not looking forward to another day of arms training. Garran found Victor waiting in the clearing, his agitation clearly written on his face.

“You’re late.”

“You’re ugly. Are you here to train me or just tell the time?”

Victor grinned, but Garran got the uneasy feeling that only part of it displayed any sort of amusement. “Grab that sword over there and we’ll begin your lessons.”

Garran saw a sword in its sheath leaning against a small maple tree. He had taken a few steps toward it when Victor slapped him on the back of the head with the flat of his blade. Garran took an involuntary step forward and clapped a hand to the back of his head.

“Ow, what the hell?”

“Lesson number one; don’t be a smartass.”

Garran rubbed his head and reached for the sword. “Sorry, I’m not a morning person.”

The agent’s sword smacked against his backside. “Lesson two; never turn your back on an enemy.”

The student rubbed his stinging posterior with both hands. “I didn’t realize we were enemies.”

“We sure as hell ain’t friends, and even friends are enemies when they’re holding a sword to your neck.”

“Are these really lessons, or do you just get off causing me pain?”

“A little of both but mostly the latter. Draw your sword and set yourself.”

Without taking his eyes off his opponent, Garran slid the blade from the sheath. “Hey, these are sharp.”

“Of course they are they’re swords not salamis.”

“In school they are dulled. We aren’t wearing armor?”

“We’re agents not soldiers. We’re supposed to be smart enough not to put our flesh in the path of sharp and pointy things. Now set yourself.”

Garran splayed his feet about shoulder width apart and pointed his toes in the direction of his foe. “How’s this?”

“Great if your goal is to knock apples off the branches with a stick. Lower your blade, widen your stance, and hunch down a bit. Relax. You have all your joints locked in place, and you’re squeezing the hilt too tight. Hold it like you do your prick when you abuse yourself.”

Garran grinned. “If that’s the key to swordsmanship, then I should have it mastered by the end of the day.”

Victor laughed. “It ain’t, but it’s a start.”

The agent lunged, knocked Garran’s sword aside, and whacked him on the right shoulder before withdrawing. Garran growled and set himself again, rolling his wounded shoulder. Deciding that going on the offense was going to be more productive, he waded in and swung his blade with wild abandon.

Victor easily parried the strokes and soon put Garran back on the defensive. He knocked Garran’s blade out wide and again smacked him on the hip with a backhand blow before the student could bring his sword around to block it.

“Use your momentum to bring your blade back in line. Don’t try to arrest the swing and reverse it. It takes too much time and wastes energy. When someone knocks your blade out wide, it’s often faster and easier to just complete the loop, but that means you have to learn where the next strike will land by watching his movements. The slightest muscle twitch will give away his next move if you know what to look for.”

For several minutes, Garran and Victor danced around the clearing, but Garran still took more hits than he blocked, and his muscles were quickly failing.

“You’re supposed to be a transcended, so transcend already. What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know how to do it. Last time, it just happened. I was about to die,” Garran answered with labored breath.

“Well, that’s easy enough to recreate.”

Victor’s attack became more concerted. He stopped checking his swings, and Garran saw the change in his movements and the intent in his eyes. A second “brain” seemed to awaken in his sword hand, and he began to move a bit quicker. He stopped thinking about what to do and followed his arm’s instincts. Despite the sudden improvement, he could still not defeat Victor’s superior skill and deadly intent.

Victor’s next slash slipped past his guard and opened a long, bloody line in Garran’s shirt. The cut stung and welled up blood. Real fear took ahold of him, and his heart’s pounding doubled its cadence. Victor seemed to check his follow-up attack, but then Garran noticed a bird flying by, its wings beating impossibly slow.

He grinned, knowing he had just slipped into the swifter currents of time, and went on the attack. Garran’s smile vanished when Victor’s sword flashed into motion once more and intercepted his stroke. The agent stole Garran’s smile and wore it as his own as he too willed his body and mind to transcend. The two fighters spun, leapt, and slashed around the clearing in an incredible display of speed and ferocity. Since Garran was still raw as a swordsman, Victor’s skill prevailed even in this space between time and was never in danger of losing the upper hand.

The amazing battle lasted for several minutes, although only a few score of seconds passed for anyone watching. Garran’s mind began to reel and he stumbled. He looked up as the sky spun around like a rolling wagon wheel. Victor’s smiling face hovered over him and blocked most of his view.

“Lights out for you, kid.”

Garran’s eyes rolled back into his head, and the world vanished in a storm of supernovae against an all-encompassing field of blackness.

***

Light returned like the sun shining through a rose-tinted stained glass window. Garran’s eyes fluttered open then snapped shut against the overwhelming brilliance. He possessed just enough awareness to roll onto his side before violently heaving. His empty stomach thwarted his attempts at vomiting and soon gave up the effort.

Garran managed to hold his eyes open and spotted Victor sitting against a tree. “What happened?”

“You burned yourself up and passed out. You need to learn how to control your transcendence and step out of it before you lose consciousness.”

“No shit. You really are an exceptional agent.”

“Don’t get pissy with me just because you suck at everything.”

“Sucking at everything has suited your mother well all these years.”

“I’m going to assume that remark is a result of your current condition and choose not to crush your skull with a rock.”

Garran forced his body into a sitting position. “I was wrong. You suck at being an agent if you think that.”

Victor shook his head and grinned. “And they think I have a bad attitude. Are you gonna make it, or do I need to drag you to the infirmary?”

“I’ll make it. I just need to find something to eat and take a nap. What really happened? How do I fix this?”

“You need to learn how to transcend and step out on your terms and not by accident. Right now, you are letting pure emotion, mostly fear of imminent death, put you in a transcended state, and you don’t come out of it until your body fails you. It’s like an ocean.”

“Yeah, Cyril said something like that.”

“Shut up and listen. It’s like an ocean. You’re letting a big wave come and wash you off the shore and sweep you out to sea, and you don’t come out until the current washes your body onto the beach. You need to learn how to dive in on your own and then swim back to shore before you drown.”

“It sounds obvious in theory, but how do I do it?”

“That’s what I’m here to teach you. That and how not to get your ass handed to you by every kid with a stick or old woman swinging a broom. You fight like shit.”

“I’m sure with such an encouraging teacher I’ll get better soon.”

“You will…if you live long enough.”

“Encouragement is one thing, now you’re just fawning. Have some dignity, man.”

Victor chuckled. “I don’t know whether to like you or kill you in your sleep.”

Garran grinned. “My mother wrote that exact thing on my birthday cake.”

“That’s not right.”

“I know! Who uses strawberry icing on a chocolate cake? The woman is renowned for her bad decisions.”

Victor laughed long and hard. “Go get some rest, kid. Try to reflect on everything that happened today. If you spent half as much time mentally rehearsing your fighting skills as you do thinking about women or destroying your brain, you might show some improvement.”

“If I dedicate that much time in thought, I’ll whoop your ass by the end of the month.”

“Let’s see if you can.”

Garran plodded back toward his dorm. His legs felt as though he had just run twenty miles and protested his every step. He came to a fork in the trail, decided that Toby’s shack was much closer than his dorm was, and made a detour. Garran staggered into the barn, grabbed a bottle from his stash, and loaded his opium pipe. With lunch taken care of, he let all his pain and fatigue float away on a cloud of chemically induced euphoria.

***

Garran took a seat next to Aniston in the auditorium. Espionage was the last class of the day three days a week with martial training being last on the alternating two days. The first-year students from all four houses settled in. Today was the day Professor Lyndon was supposed to launch a surprise exam, and dozens of eyes flicked expectantly in Garran’s direction.

Professor Lyndon stood next to his lectern and addressed the class, the amphitheater shape of the room carrying his voice all the way to the back seats without effort. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a surprise for you. Given the political strife of late, the university has decided to accelerate the intelligence-gathering portion of your training. To facilitate this, I have devised several hands-on exercises, the first of which begins now.”

Murmuring filled the auditorium, and nervous eyes flitted around the room. Their first test should not be for at least three more weeks. Garran suddenly found himself the focus of nearly everyone’s attention.

“Early this morning, agents, under my direction, stole each of your houses’ pennants. Your duty is to gather information, create contacts, and discover the location of your pennant as well as the identity of the perpetrator. In order for you to meet the criteria for passing, any accusation must be supported by facts obtained by using the skills briefly discussed in the previous week. Identifying the wrong culprit or failing to substantiate your allegations will result in failure. Failure for any of these practical exercises will be massively detrimental to your grade and possibly graduation. Time is of the essence. Not only will your maximum score drop for every day that passes, those who complete the exam successfully will have the remainder of this class time to do with as they please for the rest of the week. Are there any questions?”

Garran looked from side to side before standing.

“Yes, what is it?” Professor Lyndon asked.

Garran cleared his throat. “Sir, Garran Holt, Hayworth House.”

“Ah, Hayworth, I can guess your concern. Normally, your prefect would be of instrumental importance in leading you through this exercise. I understand Hayworth House has suffered a blow and currently has no prefect. I am sorry, but I cannot provide any sort of leniency for your prefect’s expulsion. You will have to do the best you can without him. If you are successful, I might feel inclined to adjust your score a few points if I think your performance suffered unduly due to your loss.”

“No, sir, that was not what I was going to address.”

“Then what is it?”

“I would like to submit my accusation on behalf of Hayworth House.”

Anxious muttering filled the room once more, most vocally from those of Garran’s house.

“What the hell are you doing, Holt?” someone cried out from near the back.

Garran craned his head around. “What I said I would! Shut up and let me do this.”

Professor Lyndon cleared his throat. “Young man, you do understand what I meant by factually supported accusations?”

“I do.”

“Let me clarify once more just so we are both clear. If you are wrong, your house will fail this exam. Even if you are right, you must support your accusation with facts and evidence obtained by using recognized intelligence and espionage techniques. Otherwise, your house will fail this exam. Failing this or any of the future exams will make it very difficult to pass this course. Are you certain you wish to make your accusation and submit your evidence?”