The Paladin Prophecy (21 page)

“Rather than have you worry, I want a more complete picture,” said Kujawa. “Run more tests, cover all the angles, and see what they tell us.”

“We’d need your consent, of course,” said Robbins. “And your parents’ as well. Would you ask them to okay this?”

“I’ll call them today,” said Will.

“The sooner the better,” said Dr. Kujawa. “Use my phone if you like.”

“They wouldn’t be reachable now. I’ll try later,” said Will. “Does this mean it’s okay for me to work with the cross-country team?”

“Mr. West, based on what I’ve seen, you could run from here to the border of Canada without even breathing hard.”

PROFESSOR SANGREN

For the second day in a row, for different reasons, Will walked out of the medical center with his mind reeling. This time he hardly noticed the glacial air.

This explains the running, at least, but how on earth did it happen? Am I some kind of freak? No wonder my parents didn’t want me on a cross-country team; I’d end up on
Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
And once they start poking around in my insides, what else will they find?

As he walked toward the quad, bells rang nearby. Will tracked them to a tower atop Royster Hall, near the middle of the commons. Visible from anywhere on campus, the large clock on the tower’s four sides read 11:00. Sounding the hour.

Will pulled out the schedule McBride had given him. The first of his five classes started at eleven.
Right now
. Room 207, Bledsoe Hall. He summoned the campus map in his mind and located Bledsoe Hall. He calculated direction and distance—over a quarter of a mile—and started running.

He reached Bledsoe before the bells stopped ringing. Will hurried in, dashed upstairs, and found room 207. He saw shapes through the door’s rippled glass window and heard a male voice. Will took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Six rows of curved mahogany desks on low risers ascended in a terraced half-circle amphitheater. A wall of windows was covered with louvered wooden blinds. Twenty-five students filled the desks, their tablets propped in front of them.

Every student looked attractive, poised, and physically fit. A diverse group of races and ethnic groups, all, without exception, put together and self-assured. If this sample was any indication of the Center’s student body, Rourke was right; these kids were
way
above average. If they weren’t already rich and famous, it was only a matter of time. Will felt like a skunk at the opera.

The instructor—a boyish, energetic man with a shock of long sandy hair—stood before a square blue screen that took up most of that wall. On a lectern in front of him sat some sort of built-in computerized control panel. The man stopped speaking as Will entered.

“And you are?” asked the teacher.

“Late,” said Will.

“Only by … two months,” said the instructor in a deep, resonant voice.

The class laughed.

Will glanced at his schedule: CIVICS: PROFILES IN POWER AND REALPOLITIK.
Professor Lawrence Sangren
. “Really sorry, Professor Sangren,” said Will.

#72: WHEN IN A NEW PLACE, ACT LIKE YOU’VE BEEN THERE BEFORE.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome if you would the
late
Will West,” said Sangren, holding a hand toward Will like a talk-show host introducing a guest. “And did we bring our book with us today, Mr. West?”

“I was hoping I’d get the textbook once I got here.”

For some reason the class laughed at that as well. Will’s cheeks burned hot.

“Like primordial life emerging from the sea, learn to crawl before you walk,” said Sangren. “And take a seat.”

Will swallowed his anger and climbed the risers. He spotted Brooke in the middle of the third row. She winked at him, then nodded at an empty desk to her right. He slid in gratefully beside her, then noticed Elise sitting behind him, isolated, chin propped on her palm, staring at him. Shaking her head.

“Miss Springer,” said Sangren. “Please explain to Mr. West why he should bring his
note
book to class.”

“Current text, study guide, and notes are uploaded wirelessly onto your tablet during every class,” said Brooke, then whispered, “That’s why we bring them everywhere.”

He hadn’t brought
anything
with him: not even a pencil. Woeful.

#40: NEVER MAKE EXCUSES.

“How big a loser am I?” he whispered.

“We don’t have units of measurement that size,” Brooke whispered back.

“I am so doomed with this guy.”

“Probably so.”

“Thanks, I feel better now,” said Will.

“Are we finding the accommodations satisfactory, Mr. West?” asked Sangren.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now please refrain from speaking unless you’re struck by either an original thought or a meteorite. The odds of which I would estimate are about even.”

An even bigger laugh. Even Elise gave a little smirk at that smack-down.

God. Just. Kill. Me. Now
.

Sangren ran his fingers over the console on his lectern. Overhead lights in the room dimmed; the louvers on the windows closed automatically. The blue screen behind Sangren transformed into a map of Europe that took up the entire wall.

No, much more than a map, Will realized. Some kind of hybrid satellite image: intensely photo-real, with precise topographic three-dimensional contours. Engraved borders defined countries. Names of important places and geographic features conformed to the shapes of the ground below. Mountains jutted straight out of the surface toward them: The line of the Alps plowed south toward Italy.

Every detail looked startlingly vivid. Large cities—Rome, Vienna, Paris, London—appeared as broad flickering pockets of light, teeming with life. Currents and tides animated oceans, rippling and swelling around ports and shorelines. No map he’d ever seen more plainly showed the influence of geography on the creation of societies. Clouds drifted overhead, and sunlight and shadows played across the entire continent in a way that only an astronaut, or maybe God, could have seen them.

Will glanced around; the
same
map appeared on the tablets of all the other students. Astonishing.

“The name of the class, Mr. West, is Civics: Profiles in Power and Realpolitik,” said Sangren. “The
point
of this unit is to look back and grasp what’s relevant to us as Americans—at
this
moment in time—about the struggles of our human predecessors. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sangren moved his hands on his console. Animated three-dimensional images blossomed all over the map; time came to life before their eyes. Roman legions advanced on barbarian camps. Napoleon’s Grand Army rode toward Moscow. Dust rose from ancient roads to the drumbeat of hooves on paving stones, the clang of weapons, gunfire, and artillery. Merchants loaded sailing ships in harbors. Armadas clashed on open seas.

“We don’t teach history here; we let history teach us. The way it did the people who lived it: the way you experience the present, as a living field you can reach out and touch. The human story. A long compelling tale fueled by one common theme: the lust for power. Driven by men and women who understood the tools and the rules of the
exercise
of power. What might those be, Miss Moreau?”

Elise glanced at Will as she answered. Biting off each word with a snap. “Brutality. Terror. Corruption. Greed. Bloodshed. Deception.”

“Don’t forget obsession, madness, and seduction,” said Sangren.

“Oh, I never do,” said Elise.

The class chuckled.

“In other words, we look for the
truth
behind the common assumptions,” said Sangren. “And the truth isn’t very pretty, is it, Miss Moreau?”

“No, sir. But it sure is interesting.”

The class laughed again. All except Brooke, who rolled her eyes.

“Empty your mind, Mr. West. Forget those nice stories you’ve been told about history as ‘progress’ and the ‘goodness’ of humanity. Chock full of idealism, fairness, decency, the innate nobility of man, all that heartwarming flapdoodle. Nothing wrong with it, by the way. And if you’re interested, you can learn all about it in another class just down the hall. It’s called
fiction
.”

The class laughed again. Will’s eyes felt stuck wide open. He’d never heard a teacher chomp into the neck of a subject like this before. In the schools Will had attended, Sangren would have been banished for opinions this outrageous.

His floppy hair waving as he moved around, Sangren continued with the passion and energy of a conductor driving an orchestra to the end of a symphony.

“This is the big con of the ruling classes. The one they’ve convinced the masses to buy since the dawn of time, that submitting to the will of those in charge
is in their best interests
. Even if it costs them their cash, their livelihood, or their happiness. Even if it
kills
them, which more often than not is exactly what happens.”

On the map, more images appeared: battlefields littered with casualties. Wagons carrying stacks of wooden caskets. Military graveyards. Rows of white crosses fading into the mist.

“So ask yourself, Which of these ‘demographics’ do you aspire to? Spending your life at the nickel slots in a cut-rate casino? Or at a table in the high-roller penthouse where the game’s really played? That’s the velvet rope of the great divide. Which side are you on?”

The question hung in the air. Sangren looked directly at Will.

“Don’t answer yet. Pay attention. You’ll be shocked by what you learn. Before the penny finally drops, there will be nights when you want to cry yourself to sleep. Then, one fine morning, you’ll wake up, look around, and see the world the way it really is. Lucky, lucky you.”

The dire images faded away and a breathtaking image of the earth floating in the dark void of space appeared on-screen.

“After all, this lovely, fragile little blue sphere is going to be
your
amusement park someday,” said Sangren. “Isn’t it in your best interest, before that comes to pass, to learn how it really works?”

When class ended, Will staggered down the risers toward the door. In one hour, Sangren had stretched his mind in directions no teacher had taken him before. He felt invigorated, but overwhelmed: He had a
world
of catching up to do. Brooke waited for him outside, but before he reached her: “Mr. West!”

Professor Sangren, packing his valise at the lectern, beckoned Will over.

“We’ll talk later,” said Brooke, squeezing his arm. “Hang in there.”

Will walked back to Sangren and realized he was actually taller than his teacher.

“I frightened you today,” said Sangren.

“That’s all right, sir—”

“I’m not apologizing. That was my intention.” Sangren regarded Will with a patronizing smile. “We need to determine, rather quickly, if you belong here. Not many do, and there’s no shame in that, but this will be trial by fire. Get that through your head: The Center is a meritocracy, not a charity day-care facility.”

Will felt his guts churning and struggled to hold in his anger.

“Do you know what’s at stake? We’re in a global knife fight. Will America and the Western democracies remain the most powerful, resourceful, and innovative force on earth? Or are we just going to wave China and India on ahead and say, ‘Yo, catch you later.’ Your generation’s going to make or break this battle. You’re either smart enough and strong enough to lead on the front lines, or you’re not. As teachers, we need to state the stark reality of what’s expected and demanded of every student. You’ll have to do whatever it takes to survive here, and it is going to be
hard
.”

Will noticed something peculiar about Sangren’s eyes. His left iris was solid black, as if dilated by an optometrist. Something about this weird contrast made it feel as if two different people were looking at him through the same set of eyes.

Sangren smiled again. Will didn’t like it. “I’m guessing none of our cuddly old softies in administration explained it this way.”

“Not in so many words.”

“Then let me be the first to use
this
many words: You have five weeks to make the grade. Best of luck to you. It appears you’re going to need it.”

Sangren strolled away, lifting onto his toes with each step, swinging his case, whistling “Singin’ in the Rain.”

Will watched him go. The little professor had just dumped ice water all over his sense of security. If Sangren was telling the truth, what if he
didn’t
make the grade? If they showed him the door five weeks from now … where in the world would he go?

Will wandered out into the hall. His only class for the day over, he felt lost and a little helpless, and paid no attention to where he was. He heard piano music from down the hall, classical, expertly played. A woman joined in, singing in a foreign language—French, he thought. Her voice stopped him cold; powerful but restrained, it was deeply emotional. He tracked it to a room and opened the door.

A grand piano stood in the center of the room. Sitting at the piano, both singing and playing, was Elise. She stopped when she heard him come in.

“Sorry,” said Will. “Please, don’t stop.”

She scowled at him. “You’ve never heard
Lakmé
before?”

“I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

“Well, don’t get all moony over it, Jethro,” she said. She started again, improvising the classical phrase she’d been playing into effortless jazz.

“Where did you learn …?” he asked, astonished by her skill.

“Dad’s a first violin. Mom used to headline at a nightclub in Hong Kong. So it’s not as if I had a
choice
, okay?”

“You sound embarrassed about it.”

“If you’re not embarrassed about your parents at our age,” said Elise, “you’ve got a plate in your head.”

Will listened as she riffed the same melody into pop, R & B, and hip-hop idioms. Dazzling.

“You ought to just turn pro,” said Will. “I mean it. Right now.”