Oliver Invictus (Annals of Altair Book 3) Page 3

  “I wish there had been,” Oliver said.

  General Stone’s jaw clenched, but when he spoke it was with forced cordiality. “What was the name of that handler you liked so much? You two were as thick as thieves back when we first met. What was her name?”

  An instinctive blush crawled up Oliver’s neck. He tried to ignore it and hoped that his practiced nonchalance would negate any notice from the two adults. “A handler? Those worthless meat-sacks you keep with us because it makes for more intensive monitoring than a robot would? You expect me to remember one in particular?”

  General Stone ignored his sarcasm. “What was her name?” he mused, studying the ceiling.

  Principal Gates consulted his computer screen. “What was the time frame?”

  “It would’ve been right when Oliver transferred here. They transferred together, him and his handler, as I recall.”

  “I don’t remember one useless meat-sack from another,” Oliver lied, overly aware of his quickening pulse.

  “Emily Brent,” Gates read from his screen. “That’s right. I remember her. She had a startling effect on the boy. They were almost friendly with one another.”

  “Handlers and Prometheus students don’t make friends,” Oliver said. “That’s why you rotate them every eight weeks, isn’t it? To prevent any friendly attachments from forming? And the system works.”

  Except in Emily’s case, but there had been extenuating circumstances. Her internship had ended almost three years ago, though. She would be far beyond the reach of Prometheus by now, if she was smart.

  But of course, she was an idiot.

  “Whatever became of Ms. Brent?” General Stone asked.

  Principal Gates clicked through to another screen. Oliver had the sneaking suspicion that they had worked out this back-and-forth between them prior to his coming. He clamped his mouth firmly shut, determined to say nothing further, even as his ears perked to hear the answer.

  “It says here that she abandoned her plans for a doctorate and started teaching instead. She’s a high school English teacher in Milwaukee.”

  “It’s cold in Wisconsin at this time of year,” General Stone said, “cold and wet and windy. Perhaps Ms. Brent would like a short vacation from her classes. What do you think, null?”

  Oliver narrowed his eyes. Were they really going to threaten Emily, someone he hadn’t even glimpsed in ages? He had been her first student to handle, and she’d cycled through a dozen or more after him. He’d cycled through dozens of handlers since her. Did they really expect him to care whether they threatened her?

  Had he really expected such a ball of lead to form in his gut at the prospect?

  “It’s not all that much warmer here,” Principal Gates said out of the blue. “It wouldn’t be much of a vacation for her. Although,” he added, “it’s an inner-city school she teaches at. She’d probably welcome the reprieve.”

  “What do you think?” General Stone asked Oliver again.

  He swallowed his fears. “I think you guys are grasping at smoke. I don’t really care what you do.”

  The general grunted. “We’ll see.” He punched a button on the desk phone, and Maggie’s voice crackled from the other end of the line.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Dunn needs an escort back to his room. We’re finished with him here.”

  Oliver had a tense afternoon. As much as he pretended not to care, his palms sweated and his nerves stood on end.

  Would they really pull Emily back to Prom-F? Would she even come? She was free of the system, had paid her debts to the GCA and—smart girl—had apparently abandoned the further education that would indenture her again. Would they coerce her somehow? Or would she come willingly, for his sake?

  Did he want her to come?

  He could lie to the administrators until he was blue in the face, but the stark truth was that he thought about Emily Brent almost every day of his life.

  Two months. That’s all the time she had spent by his side. It had been a miserable two months, too. They had transferred from Prom-A to Prom-F, had traveled through the Southwestern US in search of some renegade projectors, had been attacked by a flock of shrieking birds and spent three solid weeks in a GCA holding cell in Arizona under suspicion of subversion. Oliver had even been tranquilized by a spy in their midst. Twice.

  And through it all, Emily had done the unthinkable. She had worried and fussed over his welfare as if she actually cared about him.

  Part of him wanted to believe that she did.

  He had cycled through handlers for as long as he could remember. Emily had been the first to show him true kindness, the first to defend him against the accusations of others, the first to treat him with dignity, even when he did not show her the same respect. In fact, she was his only handler to do any of these things, and she had done them without guile.

  She had come to him starry-eyed and naïve, her spirit unbroken by the oppressive atmosphere that reigned over all of the Prometheus campuses. Their time together had torn that naivety to shreds. Oliver had watched her cycle through other students afterward, though, and had seen her give them similar care. She was, by nature, a compassionate person even after the scales of idealism fell from her eyes.

  Of course she would go on to teach public school kids. The world was one big project, and she was going to fix it. Oliver had been the first in a long line.

  Still, he liked to think he had been more than just a project to her.

  Much as she preoccupied his thoughts, he did everything in his power not to show it. He resumed his games of solitaire, careful not to let his emotions register on his face. Someone would be watching the security feed of the camera in his room, observing for signs of weakness in him as closely as they would observe the rest of the student body for signs of the projector he refused to identify.

  He knew who the culprit was. If Gates and Stone were serious about dragging Emily into this mess, Oliver could save her a lot of trouble right now. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, in so doing, he would play right into their hands and seal his own fate in the bargain. He had no proof that they would follow through on their veiled threats to cause Emily trouble. They were more than likely manipulating him, and he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of caving to their demands.

  They would pinpoint the rogue projector sooner or later. She would get sent off to Prom-E with Oliver, and no one would ever hear of him or her again.

  But in the interim, he might get to see Emily one last time.

  And there lay the crux of his internal dilemma. His tightly hidden anticipation for that prospect overrode any concern for the trouble it would cause her. He was selfish. He knew it, and he didn’t care.

  Chapter 4

  Anticipation Destroyed

  Wednesday, February 20, 8:15 AM MST, Prom-F

  Breakfast arrived the following morning: scrambled eggs, toast, and a box of soymilk. Oliver skipped the drink and managed to eat half of his eggs. The kitchen always put too much water in them, so that they looked like pale pellet-globules instead of proper scrambled eggs. The toast, dry though it was, was the most appetizing aspect of the meal.

  His stomach twisted into knots. He took up a position by the window that afforded him a mere glimpse of the front gates. Perched on the sill, he absently shuffled the deck of cards. At this point, anyone watching him over the video surveillance feed would know he was waiting for something, but he decided that being cooped up in one room with the likes of Cedric would drive anyone to window-watching. He spent as much time looking up at the clouds as he did peering out toward the limited-access road that led to and from Prom-F.

  Cedric, the spoiled brat, seemed to think that the world owed him constant entertainment. Oliver had consented to play a couple of card games with him the night before, but as Cedric always whined when he lost and he always lost because Oliver wasn’t about to coddle him, the games soon turned to a point of contention. Today there would be no reprise. Shuffli
ng cards at the window sill was a much more tranquil way to pass the time.

  After an hour of idle gazing, movement out by the security gates caught Oliver’s attention. He glimpsed the corner of a government sedan as it passed through on its way to the front of the main building. Much as he craned his neck, he could see nothing further. His heart thumped erratically in his chest as he settled back against the window frame.

  “Isn’t it my turn to have the cards?” Cedric said from across the room.

  “I thought you were doing your homework,” Oliver replied, still shuffling.

  “I’ve done all my assignments. It’s not fair for you to hog the cards all the time.”

  “Fairness is a myth,” said Oliver. “Get used to it.”

  Cedric, though, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Oliver saw him rise, foresaw the imminent struggle, and forestalled it by flexing and spraying the stack of cards in the boy’s face as he approached.

  “Fifty-two card pick-up,” he announced, abandoning the sill. “Have fun playing.”

  It was a mean trick to pull, and Cedric voiced his protest. Oliver, too jittery with nerves, flopped onto his bed as though he intended to nap.

  Could Gates and Stone really have pulled Emily from Milwaukee this soon? The time frame allowed it, but it still seemed too sudden. If she had come, would she be angry? Concerned? Annoyed?

  Would she be happy to see him?

  He flipped to his side and pulled his blanket to his chin. The air by the window had been chilly, making him colder than he had realized. Cedric, who didn’t even know how to play solitaire, contented himself with ordering and shuffling the cards upon the floor.

  A tepid knock jarred Oliver more than it should have, were he truly calm. He would have recognized Maggie’s touch anywhere. With practiced impatience, he looked up from his pillow as the lock slid open. She poked her head into the room.

  “You’re to come with me,” she said to Oliver. He hefted himself from the mattress slowly, forcing reluctance upon his body even as his instincts commanded him to bolt for the door.

  Cedric was tired of being detained like a prisoner. “What about me? They haven’t let me out of here since Monday night.”

  Maggie remained unmoved. “It’s just Oliver again.” She stepped aside to allow her quarry access to the hall, and then she resolutely shut the door with Cedric still inside.

  Oliver shoved his hands into his pockets, no cards this time to fiddle with. “Where to now?” he asked. Maybe if he talked, he could keep his voice from shaking too much when they arrived. His heart and heels bounced with nervous energy.

  Maggie only grunted.

  “Are they going to try more bribery?” he pressed. “Maybe they’ll switch tactics and try some torture this time around.” He wouldn’t put it past Principal Gates or General Stone. Mentally he kicked himself for speaking such a suggestion aloud in a corridor replete with recording devices.

  “They have a special treat for you,” Maggie said. “Not that you deserve it.”

  “No kidding.” Oliver’s palms had gone clammy again; he grasped at the inner fabric of his pockets to wick the sweat away. “I certainly haven’t done anything that merits a treat.”

  She voiced her agreement in another grunt. They retraced their steps of the previous day, straight to the open door of Principal Gates’s office. Voices traveled from within as they approached.

  “Well, now, you understand this is an unusual situation,” said General Stone, his gruff tones tempered as though he were trying to persuade his listener to agreement. “The sooner it’s resolved, the sooner you can go back to your normal life.”

  Whoever he was talking to hummed in acknowledgement.

  “You should remember the routine here,” Principal Gates said. “You know to keep the cell phone we’ve provided with you at all times. It has a copy of our policies and procedures in its documents file, if you want to review that.”

  His listener hummed again.

  She wasn’t happy. Oliver recognized the utter lack of that emotion, even in such terse, wordless responses. He steeled himself against the rejection that was coming. His mind tumbled through a dozen thoughts at once. How could he look sullen and surly and not give away his utter excitement to see someone who was irritated to get called back to Prometheus because of him? What would his ten-year-old self do? Would she recognize him in the taller, more broad-shouldered teen he was now?

  He had no time to collect himself. Maggie was already knocking on the open door, already ushering him inside, and there was Principal Gates and General Stone and a smartly dressed woman with her hair swept up in the tidiest of ponytails.

  “Ah, here we are. Oliver, you remember Ms. Brent, I’m sure,” said Principal Gates. Next to him, General Stone wore a triumphant smirk on his leathery face.

  Oliver, though, barely registered any of this. On instinct he had stopped short, confusion and dismay crashing in shambles around him.

  The woman who stood in front of him, her close resemblance notwithstanding, was not Emily Brent.

  In fact, he’d never seen this woman before in his life.

  Chapter 5

  Impostor

  “Oliver, you’re so grown up!”

  The unknown woman plastered a smile on her face and closed the distance between them to envelop him in a hug. She pulled back and viewed him at arm’s length. Oliver stood stiff as a board while she chattered.

  “You’re so tall now! I can’t get over it! Oh! You don’t hug, do you? Sorry, kiddo!”

  She backed away with a nervous laugh and spared a self-conscious glance toward their audience. Principal Gates and General Stone had fixed their attention on Oliver to gauge his reaction.

  Principal Gates gestured toward the woman. “Oliver, Ms. Brent is going to resume her duties as your handler for a few days.”

  What was their game? Oliver eyed the four adults as his mind ran through the possibilities. What did they gain by substituting an impostor in Emily’s place? Were they testing to see if he could tell the difference? If he would exhibit anger or concern? Had they not been able to locate Emily? Were they stupid enough to think that a substitute would have the same effect? Or were they trying to send a subtle threat that they could erase the real Emily Brent from the world just as easily?

  A chill swept down his spine. Had they already erased her?

  “You look different,” Maggie blurted. She narrowed one eye as she scrutinized the unknown woman.

  Not-Emily laughed. “It’s the bangs. Everyone tells me I look like a different person since I got them cut this way. You look just the same, Maggie.”

  It wasn’t the bangs. It was the shape of her eyes, downturned slightly more than Emily’s were. It was the width of her forehead and the narrowness of her chin. It was the color of her hair, off by just a shade. It was a thousand other tiny details that Oliver saw in a glance. True, she would match a physical description for Emily Brent, but she was not Emily.

  The explanation mollified Maggie, though. Or, it was meant to seem that way. If all the administrators were in on this switch, perhaps they were trying to disarm Oliver’s suspicions by bringing up the woman’s differences themselves. Was it all a big, stupid mind game?

  Oliver’s lips twisted into a sneer, but as he opened his mouth to call them on their failed subterfuge, the woman sent a fleeting glance in his direction—a frightened, vulnerable glance. The words choked in his throat and a second possibility struck him full force.

  What if the administrators actually believed she was the real Emily Brent?

  Handlers at Prometheus were all but invisible. Administrators rarely had direct dealings with them and barely knew any of them by name. Principal Gates or General Stone probably couldn’t pick a past handler out of a crowd because the peons constantly cycled in and out of the school. Almost three years had passed since anyone at Prom-F had talked to Emily, and hundreds of other handlers had traversed those halls in her wake.

  Gates and Stone
had consulted his file to even recall her name.

  Oliver swallowed his ire and looked to the wall as this possibility assaulted his mind. What if, out in the real world, the real Emily Brent had somehow switched places with someone? It was a ridiculous notion on the surface, but not entirely without merit. During her time at Oliver’s side, she had encountered Altair, had even had frequent, personal interactions with one of their agents. Who was to say, after her disillusionment and subsequent exit from the Prometheus Institute, whether they had recruited her to their ranks?

  It was possible. Emily was stalwart enough in her principles to join.

  Among other things, Altair created “ghosts,” people who didn’t really exist except on paper. These roles allowed their agents to act as sleeper cells, sometimes for years before they were needed in an operation.

  If Emily had become a ghost, someone else would have to become Emily. And if Oliver was standing face to face with an Altair agent, the last thing he wanted to do was expose her presence to the very people who would gleefully destroy her.

  If she was Altair, she could be his ticket to freedom.

  If she was Altair.

  “So do I have to write reports, like before?” Not-Emily asked, her voice tentative.

  “No,” said Principal Gates and General Stone together. They glanced at one another, perturbed, and General Stone elaborated.

  “Under the circumstances, that won’t be necessary.”

  She nodded. The look of relief that crossed her face seemed more genuine than contrived. “Are we… supposed to go to class, or something?”

  “No,” said Principal Gates. “The school’s in lockdown. You can take Oliver to the library if the two of you want to catch up.”

  “Ohh-kay. But honestly,” she added with another nervous laugh, “he doesn’t look all that happy to see me.”