The Ninth (25 page)

“You were manipulating me,” he said in a calm tone.  “I won’t let that happen again.”

“Really?”  The plump boy stood.  “You don’t know your place here.  Perhaps you just don’t know nothing at all.  Let me give you a lesson myself!”

The plump boy’s face was contorting again.  Brent braced.  He fought back a smile when he noticed the moist pants of his opponent.  The contortions were the worst Brent had yet seen.  He waited, but surprisingly nothing happened.  He felt exactly the same.  Relaxing, he noticed the plump boy was still straining.

“Guess there isn’t anything for you to work with.”  Brent turned to leave the room.

Suddenly his hands clenched into fists.  All consuming rage filled him.  Without any warning, Brent moved to strike the nearest Weaver, anger fully enveloping him.  As he was about make contact with the Weaver, Brent realized he was being manipulated again.  He fought against the anger in his mind.  The Weaver he was about to attack jumped to his feet and backed away as Brent froze in an internal battle of wills.

He could imagine the plump boy’s face continuing to distort as he resisted.  These boys were all disgusting and needed to be put to death.  Brent’s mind filled with momentary clarity.  He knew he didn’t really believe that.  This wasn’t the first time something tried to turn him into a murderer.  His answer was still no.  He would not allow others to twist how he thought ever again.  With new resolve Brent fought to hold himself back.  The anger increased and demanded bloody action.  Every muscle in his body tensed.  As the battle grew more intense, his body felt as if it was ablaze.  His muscles started to ache and cry out for relief, but still Brent resisted the anger.

“Philip!”  Brent had to strain to place the voice as Jamie’s.  “What do you think you are doing?!  That Weaver just told us not to use our abilities!”

“He started it.”  Philip’s answer sounded labored.

“Well, knock it off.”  Jamie sounded bored.  “I’m not going to have a
Master
Weaver mad at all of us because you couldn’t control yourself.  Now stop playing, make the new kid do whatever you need him to do to make yourself happy, and let’s hit the observation deck.”

There was no response from Philip.  Mustering all his internal resolve, Brent forced his legs to move.  Slowly but surely they responded.  He forced his body to turn to face his attacker while the assault pressed him to strike out.  Philip’s face was starting to turn a sickly purple color.  It was starting to dawn on Jamie that his fat friend wasn’t playing around.  A nasty grin tugged at Jamie’s mouth as his left eye squinted.

Suddenly, a tremendous new surge of rage engulfed Brent.  As if of their own volition his hands started to ball back into fists.  Slowly, he started to turn back toward the Weaver Philip had first intended him to strike.  The only thought in his head was a blind rage focused entirely on the Weaver.  The image of him ripping the boy apart, limb from limb, flashed before his eyes.

“Okay, you’ve both made your point.  Call him off.”  The Weaver Brent was facing down was dripping in sweat.

“Aw, don’t worry.  We won’t let him hurt you.  Much.”  Jamie laughed.

As Brent edged closer to the terrified Weaver, the image of his shadowy double rending flesh back in the mess hall came to mind.  He refused to let his will be controlled by others, be they boys called Weavers or voices in his head, or unfeeling metal squids.  Focusing everything he had, Brent forced himself to stop moving.  Turning, he faced the two boys.  The plump one was a deep purple, and the tall one’s eye was twitching rapidly.  Brent could feel the rage they were forcing on him; it gnawed at him like an animal.  He took two labored steps toward them and placed his shaking hands on their shoulders.  Moving his head between them, he whispered.

“You are manipulating me.  I won’t let this happen again,” Brent spoke through gritted teeth.

Philip fell to the floor, seemingly unconscious, while Jamie rubbed his eye.  The rage vanished as quickly as the two stopped working on him.  Every muscle in Brent’s body relaxed.  He struggled to keep his balance while his legs went rubbery.  Triumphantly, he headed toward the exit, hoping to leave the room before he collapsed himself.  Brent was so focused on reaching the hallway he didn’t notice the murmuring of the other Weavers, each one realizing what had just happened.  The doorway seemed to move farther away with each step he took.  Finally it opened for him.  The last couple of steps to freedom were harder than all those before.  As it sealed behind him, Brent collapsed to the floor, panting.

“Looks like you’ve got some potential.”  A gruff voice greeted him.  “However, you need to keep a handle on that anger of yours.”

Struggling to look up, Brent found an outstretched hand.  As he was helped to his wobbling feet, he realized it was Weaver Davis giving him the assistance.

“Neither of those boys have an ounce of talent with anger, and yet look what they did to you.”  Weaver Davis helped Brent keep his balance.

“What do you mean?”  His strength was slowly returning.

“Philip J. Rollins, second tier Weaver.  His specialty is fear and panic.  James H.  Turner, third tier Weaver.  He works best with paranoia.  Neither have even a trace of talent with anger.”

“So Weavers
can
manipulate more than their specialty.”

“Of course they can.  However, it’s like a great painter trying his hand with construction.  With his paintbrush in his area of expertise, he can create magnificent works of art.  Meanwhile, any structures he made would be crude and likely fall apart as soon as he stepped away.”

“Maybe that’s why I feel like I’ve been beaten with a hammer,” Brent joked.

“To produce such useless Weavers, the military has some odd ideas on how they should be trained.  At least this won’t happen again.”

“If you feel so strongly about misuse of power, you could have stopped them.”

“Would you really have wanted that?” Davis asked skeptically.

Brent paused for a moment.  He wasn’t sure how to respond.  The experience had been a difficult one, but he had learned from it.  He would never let anyone manipulate him again.

“Perhaps not,” he said at last.  “Oh, do you know where I’m assigned?  My pad tells me I’m assigned, but not
where
I’m assigned.”  Brent had regained enough strength to stand on his own.

“Of course.  Let me see your pad for a moment.”  The smallest trace of a smile pulled at Davis.

He watched as Davis quickly worked at the pad.  In only a few moments, the Weaver had found what Brent had searched all day for.  Taking the pad, he read the information twice to make sure he hadn’t misread it.  Finally, he would be able to rest.  At least, he hoped so.

“Cassandra!  Wait up!”  Cain shouted as he ran down the hallway.

Pausing, the hulking armored figure turned.  It was always easy to track down Cassandra; she was
always
in full armor.  Normally, troopers only wore it for trials and certain training exercises, but Cassandra never took hers off.  It was a large bulky affair that completely hid all her features.  She even wore it with the face shield up even though there was no harmful radiation inside the station.  The golden reflection hid her face completely.

“Did you enjoy the show?”  Cain panted as he caught up with the girl.

“It certainly was unique.”  Cassandra’s voice was a strange muffled thing as it passed through the armor.  “Wonder if anyone will bother to watch tomorrow’s exams.”

“I’m sure a few will.  Besides the division leaders, there are always a few diehards who never miss exams.”

“Good news for you, I’m sure.”

“How so?”

“More people for you to fleece.”

“I’m hurt.  I thought we had outgrown simple stereotypes.”

“Cain, you
are
a stereotype.  I’m sure after you finish here you’ll move on to a career of selling magical cure-alls to ignorant rim worlders.”

“Who said I don’t already?”  Cain smiled and winked.

“Is there something you want from me?”  Cassandra chuckled despite herself.

“You’ve got it all wrong; I’ve got something
for
you.”

Cain placed a pad in Cassandra’s armored hand.

“Don’t tell me you want to gloat?  Let me guess.  I’ll find a complete record of your profits for today.”  Cassandra didn’t even glance at the pad.

“Come on, am I really that bad?”  Cain realized he had been rhetorical as the golden faceplate stared at him silently.

“Fine, fine,” Cain grumbled.  “I get the point.  I know you detest my side job, and I tend to rub your nose in it from time to time . . .”

“Time to time?” the muffled voice protested.  “You make it sound so rare.”

“Anyways, that isn’t my pad, and I’m not trying to gloat.  I’m returning it to you.”

“Returning it?”

As Cassandra brought the pad before the faceplate, her other hand reached into a compartment, presumably where she thought her pad had been.

“When did you . . .,” Cassandra asked while studying her pad.

“This morning.  When you grabbed my pad I grabbed yours.”  Cain smiled.

“Forget magical cure-alls; you’re already a pickpocket!”

“Please, like it takes any skill to snatch a pad from a pocket you can’t even feel.”

“Regardless, what have you been doing with it?”

“Well, as you know, I’m not allowed to place any bets on the exams, a conflict of interest.  I know all the odds, so I have an unfair advantage.  However, there is nothing that says I can’t place bets for my good friends.”

“I don’t make bets with you; I never do!”

“True enough; however, today you just couldn’t resist!  After Administer Bloom put down such a healthy wager, you felt
compelled
to place one yourself.”

“I see.  How much did
I
wager?”

“Not as much as the Administer for sure; we don’t get paid that well.  Pity that we don’t get paid until the end of the week; a few extra creds would have been nice.”

“Cain, how much?”

“To tell you the truth, I was surprised.  The way you pinch and save your creds I would have thought your account would have been bursting at the seams.”

“
Cain
.”

“Check your balance.”  Cain grinned

“Twenty
thousand
?”

“As it turns out, that Brent kid managed to pull it off.  An untrained rookie was the only one out of a hundred to pass each and every exam.  Of course, I took a conservative cut of the profits.”

“There isn’t a conservative bone in your body.  How much did you take?”

“Enough.  Don’t sweat the small stuff.  You’ve got quite a windfall on your hands.”

Cassandra calmly put the pad back in its proper place.  With a single swift motion she grabbed Cain by the neck and lifted him off the ground.

“Normally I tolerate your tomfoolery, Cain, but you’ve crossed a line.  Maybe you would have made good if you’d lost my credits, maybe not.  Regardless, if you
ever
stick your nose where it doesn’t belong again, I will personally remove it from your face.  Do I make myself clear?”  Cassandra’s voice was cold as ice.

“Crystal,” Cain gasped.

She released him, and Cain fell gracelessly to the ground.  He knew Cassandra had a temper, but he hadn’t experienced it personally before.  He’d seen the remains of troopers who had upset her carted off to Medical.  Still, the odds had been too good.

“One more thing, Cain,” Cassandra shouted as she walked off.

“Yes?”  Cain coughed.

“Split your winnings with the kid.”

Cain wasn’t sure which had been more painful, nearly choking to death or knowing he would
have
to give up credits.

Weaver Davis had given him the location of his new home and pointed him in the right direction.  Walking down the corridors, Brent would occasionally check the glow of the etchings.  Now that he had an understanding of the layout of the station, he was confident in his ability to find his way around alone.  Naturally, the hallways were starting to fill with troopers, now that he didn’t need their assistance.  However, as Brent progressed, he found he longed for the empty hallways – they hadn’t stared at him.

Some troopers would stare as he passed while others would make double takes as it dawned on them who he was.  Apparently, the guys in maintenance weren’t the only ones watching the exams.  A group of girls would giggle, a couple of guys would snort, others unsuccessfully pretended to ignore him, and some just outright stared.  All in all, it was more annoying than flattering.  Brent quickened his pace, eager to get away from the troopers.

The worst part was he had no idea how to respond.  Should he acknowledge their stares or ignore them?  Should he smile warmly or glower at them?  All he knew for certain was he didn’t like the attention one little bit.  Brent couldn’t reach his destination fast enough.  He almost shouted for joy when he came to the doorway matching the location Davis had given him.  As the door gracefully slid open, the second largest room he could remember ever seeing greeted Brent.  Only the monolithic mess hall could compete with its size.