Песах Амнуэль - Zion's Fiction - A Treasury of Israeli Speculative Literature

Nuphar nodded, turned back and moved away from us, out of the sphere.

We breathed in. We breathed out.

Shir smiled.

There was pain, and then there was nothingness.

The bus is full, but when it stops at the Indianapolis Academy only I get off.

I’m sweating in my bra, and it’s not even hot. My panties are too tight in one place and too baggy in another. My dress is too conservative. They’re going to know.

I watch until the bus disappears behind a turn and a hill. I wait a couple more seconds, take a deep breath, and turn around.

It’s like there’s a huge gate in the middle of nowhere, with a seven-foot wall stretching in both directions, deep into Indiana country. To one side of the gate is a small booth with an armed guard.

“Hi,” I say, coming closer, being cute.

He steps out of the booth. “You’re new.” All business.

“Yes.” I’ll bet he knows everybody’s faces.

“ID, please.”

I shuffle a bit in my purse and then give him my ID. He puts it in some portable computer thing; it bleeps; he pulls out my ID and hands it back to me. His hand accidentally grazes my finger as he does so, and I get a small sense of him. He’s not a telepath. He’s attracted to me. God, I hate myself.

He goes back to the booth, presses a button, and the gate slides open.

The Academy is inhumanly large, a twentieth-century architectural construct, meant to look like it was built in the seventeenth century somewhere in Europe. I feel as if I’ve shrunk to half my size.

“Good luck,” he shouts after me.

“Thanks,” I call back.

I put on my gloves.

The gate shuts behind me. God, I hate myself.

The lecture hall is built for three hundred.

I get there first, which is oh-so-joyful.

I pick a place somewhere in the middle.

One by one, they come in. And as each of them enters, they all sit in the front row. A minute before eight, I pick up my things and join them.

Professor Bendis comes in at eight on the dot.

Ancient. Smart. Godlike.

He takes his time getting to the podium and looking at us.

He can read my mind. I cross my legs.

He lowers his chin, looking down at us. “There are six students,” he begins without preamble, “in the class of ’14. One of you will probably learn that this is too tough, that this isn’t for him or her, and will drop out within the first month. If this does not happen, we will expel one of you after two months.

“After your freshman year, one of you will be dropped out.

“After your sophomore year, one of you will be dropped out.

“After your junior year, one of you will be dropped out.

“Of the two that are left, only one will graduate. Only those who graduate will be free to return to civilian life. All those who are dropped will be sent to our sister institution.” He looks at us all. Yes, we all know what that means. “We do not take our talents lightly. They are new, few, and far between. So far. We must learn to police ourselves and behave responsibly before the government sees fit to step in any more than they have and police us.”

He looks at us all. “Good luck to all of you.” He leans back. “Now, to your first lesson.”

I am way over my head here.

“In this class, in our profession, we deal with truth . The whole truth.” Professor Parks is only ten years older than I am. I’m ten yards away from her and I can sense her strength. Jeez.

“During your first year here,” she continues, “you will become intimate with each of your fellow students. I am not talking about physical intimacy. I am talking about a greater intimacy. You’re going to let each of your fellow students into your head. For an entire year. You will analyze each other to the core. You will bore out the truth. You will touch on complexes, truths, hates, fears, loves, and secrets. And you will have to share everything that’s in your mind or you will be kicked out of the Academy.

“There will be no running from the truth here. There will be no hiding the truth. There will be no secrets.

“It will be the hardest thing you have ever done. It is the most basic act we require of you.

“In being truthful with others, you will be forced to be truthful with yourselves.”

I’ve only known these people for three hours, and I already know one’s a whore, one’s a gasbag, one’s socially inept, and I don’t know anything, yet, about the other two except that they scare the daylights out of me.

They’re going to know this.

They’ve already judged me .

Freshmen get the sleazy duties. Each student, in his or her own turn, went into the office and came out looking as if someone had just pulled their teeth.

I’m the last one. I go in.

A black-haired Adonis sits behind a table. He’s probably a senior. “Alexandra Watson?”

“Yes.”

“You’re….” He looks closely at his list. “Ah.” He raises his eyes from the list and looks at me. “You’re in the morgue.”

I swear my brain freezes for a second. “What? I’m sorry, what?”

He just looks at me. He knows I didn’t mishear. My vision becomes spotty. “The morgue? But this is an academy. It’s an academy for psy—”

“We have a morgue,” he cuts me off quickly. “People have been donating their bodies to science for decades. We’re a new science. People advance scientific knowledge by donating their bodies to us.”

“But what good is a—”

“You can still read a man’s mind after he’s dead.”

“What!”

At least for a while. Doctors autopsy bodies. We autopsy personalities. For our own safety as well as for the safety of innocent bystanders, the Academy is maintained by as few people as possible. We all have to chip in. We all have to pull our shifts at the morgue. I did it. Everyone in your class will do it. Right now, you’re doing it. You will report there now. Three floors down.”

“There are five horizontal refrigerators for five bodies. At the best of times we only get one, so there’s no danger of us being overbooked.”

The woman briefing me hates the way I look, and she doesn’t mind beaming that emotion at me while she talks.

“You get a body, you get it off the gurney, you put it in the fridge. Okay so far? Great. If someone wants to use the body, you pull it out… like so. When people are done with it, you put it back, make sure this door is closed… see? Then you leave the room and lock it. Understood?”

I nod.

“The room temperature must always be kept at ten degrees Celsius or bad things happen to the bodies. It must be kept at that temperature even when the freezers are empty, in case a body comes in. This is the keypad responsible for this.

“You are accountable for this room. You are responsible for anything that happens to it even when there are no bodies in it. Times like right now, when we have no bodies—which is most of the time—you keep the room clean, you keep the temperature steady, and you let no one in. Someone comes in and does something—even if someone breaks in—it’s your responsibility.

“When there’s a body here, this is what you do. If anyone wants use of the body, if a class comes in, they need permission from you. They need you to open the doors for them and to roll the body from the fridge to this room. Only the dean has the other key, and he makes it a point to never use it.

“You watch the class come in, you watch them leave. Anything happens to the body or the room, it’s your responsibility and your ass. There are no set hours in which you’re supposed to be here. Just make sure you maintain this place. Is everything understood?” She smiles at me when she asks, but I clearly hear the word bitch in my head. My god, she’s good. She’s not even near me.