Chapter 18: Train to the Station
Jack sighed. “How slow exactly do we age?”
Lindsay shrugged with one hand. “It’s mild at first and gradually tightens up. By age sixteen and seventeen, it's a year behind and three years at twenty-one. From there, it’s something between thirty and forty percent of what it otherwise would be. So I added seven years, but look like I added only something over two. Arguably. Our life expectancy varies depending on our role, but even the non-combatants are deemed likely to begin getting complications of potentially fatal severity near a century of life, on average. Basically, age will catch up eventually, just not necessarily the way it does with the Franks.”
“Ah. Got it.” I could be different, but I’m pretty sure Memoria wants that kept very tight-lipped. Not going to risk such a discussion. “Thanks for being… frank with me on the subject.” He grinned shamelessly.
Lindsay rolled her eyes with a sound of disgust. “You clearly need rest. I hope.”
“I can’t argue. My brain needs a reset. Maybe my body, too. So, whatever it is you do, power-wise, would it be better now or later?”
She laid her hands palm-up on the table to either side of the cleaned plate, then wriggled her fingers. “Let me do a quick delve. Just to set the stage and help align my understanding of you more three-dimensionally. We can do the heavier, more specialized stuff tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.” Jack placed his hands over hers, then raised an eyebrow. “Now what?”
“Close your eyes and be generically receptive.”
“While you read my fortune like a Beforetime sorceress? Awesome.” He closed his eyes.
“If your power is your fortune, then yes. But there’s a lot of the present and little of the future in that. We can’t avoid uncertainty. Or choice. Now, shut up and relax. Get more receptive. You’re not being receptive enough!”
“I’m so sorry, Taskmistress Lindsay,” Jack muttered in exaggerated mock obsequiousness. He then tried to do as instructed, taking several deep breaths in an attempt to relax.
He felt a sudden pressure in his head and a pulse or flash behind his eyes. There was the distinct impression of his brain being ‘heated’ or energized — not quite ‘touched,’ in the same way that the various new mental communications he’d received weren’t flagrant. But if those were little focused heat rays, this was more like being dunked in steaming water, brain-first.
He also became aware of those ‘connection points’ from his brain to the convoluted, unseen supernatural construct above and beyond, as he’d seen from Quallakuloth’s ministrations. A latticework of tight threads or wires; endless lengths collapsed into an unknowable mass. In Lindsay’s case, Jack felt like she was taking some sort of snapshot scan of it all, filling any space not occupied with that new heat and energy. The ‘core wiring’ was the only thing not energized.
Jack made a noise he wasn’t sure about. It was maybe like an ‘eep.’ But no sooner than he felt everything, it ended, and Lindsay was slipping her hands away. Jack blinked his eyes open.
“That protective layer is something else,” she declared, eyes otherwise lost in thought and not looking at him. “I can tell it won’t budge. Your brain is still vulnerable, but not your powers. They can’t be messed with directly.”
“Is that a common issue?”
“No.” She studied him again and leaned on the table toward him. “I’m not really sure if Memoria wants me digging into this conspiracy with you, but your situation brings in a lot of weird questions. She wanted me to understand you as much as possible, though, so here I am, privy to deep, dark secrets. I’m left to wonder why the seal is important with respect to your having powers. How and why you were ‘marred.’ Why nearly everyone is, apparently. It’s… crazy, you know?”
Before he could react, Mini-Mem was in his head instantly.
Jack was quite shocked by the development. He held a finger up to Lindsay, to ‘wait,’ as he considered the matter.
Could be a lesser of two evils thing. Keep the information contained in a larger, more secure vessel with some wiggle room, rather than the stoppered, fragile bottle of One Mere Man. Plus, Lindsay is a bona fide in-house loyal agent, where if I crack under pressure, I’ll end up with psychiatric aid or ‘advice’ from outsiders. Then again, maybe even Memoria doesn’t know what is going on?
That was quite a thought. If true, she might’ve subtly assigned them to a mystery they’d burn with passion to know. Well, in his case, he did. He didn’t know Lindsay well enough, yet.
He shifted his held-up finger to rub his face, letting out a weary breath. “It would seem I’m allowed to dig with you, Lindsay. Not sure if it's just for my mental health, but you’re my assigned confidante.”
She shrugged. Grinned. “Fine by me. Just imagine if we’re allowed to bring Stitcher into it.”
Jack blinked. “Damn. That’s a fine manipulation, there. And a bonus steak to your other agendas, you rogue.”
“Hey, hey, don’t get it twisted! The steak was the primary motive, potentially helping you the secondary, and potential conspiracy ally the tertiary.” She held up one hand with the other over her heart. “So I swear on the Shrine of Coffee.”
“Infused?”
“Yes. The Shrine of Infused Coffee, Jack!”
“In that case, I believe you. At least I know your priorities — strange as they are.” He sat back and rolled his neck a few times. “I’m all full up on conspiracy for the day, though. Some other time.”
“Very fair. I otherwise have what I need. Are you ready to see your community and your room quarters, then? To see Everywhere Hall?”
“Yes. Let’s take this day’s train to the station. I think I’ve had enough of the longest day of my life.”
?? ?? ?? ?? ??
There was no particular indication that anything had changed with the train. Jack took a seat on the cushy couch, swirled a great number of things in his head in the quiet, and in something shy of ten minutes, Lindsay was standing up just before the doors of the train opened.
She smiled and said, “Follow me,” as she walked by.
Jack rose and did so. “How do you do that, by the way?”
“Do what?”
“The…” He stepped out into what looked like a barren museum. Immediately facing a station area with stylized, retro seating was a big stone archway, with ‘Everywhere Hall’ in bold, gold lettering. Underneath, smaller print read, ‘Now You’ve Been Everywhere, Man.’
Inside, directionally lit glass cases with displays took up most of the space. Some were old suits and outfits, another a guitar, and even an entire ancient motorcycle. One wall was decorated with many-colored glowing panels… album covers.
Another brick wall had a retro banner painted on it, looking like a giant advertisement in an old magazine, reading, ‘The Fabulous Johnny Cash Show!’ in white on red, with a black and white portrait of some broody ancient man.
“You gotta be shitting me,” Jack said. “Who the hell…?”
“Johnny Cash, obviously.” Lindsay turned to him and gestured like ‘Ta-da!’ with her hands out, in a showy pose with a big smile. “Welcome to Everywhere Hall! This is the home of the Linewalkers. This refers to ‘I Walk the Line,’ a song and popular pop culture phrase of the period, and even after. The Hall’s name is another song reference! Isn’t that just swell? Memoria managed to scavenge many actual artifacts from an actual museum dedicated to this singer and entertainer! Everything here is a perfect replica, of course, as the originals are kept secure in a vault, immune to vandalizers or spurious cultural iconoclasms.”
“You can’t be serious. And what’s with the tour guide routine?”
She continued unabated. “This dedication is one of many special preservations of ancient culture. There are seven Halls for the juniors of the Agentus at this time, each creating a club dedicated to a cultural figure most people wouldn’t know. Learning more deeply about an ancient and their life can be an inspiration even if we sometimes lack context about their greater society. It’s the personal struggles and victories that are important.
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“Furthermore, many members are students spending years of learning and training in these halls. The clubs, very quickly after creation, began to equate to a certain style and approach suiting the members. They developed their own slogans, symbols, and rituals. They got more competitive. Note that these were human evolutions, not dictates. Memoria adapted to us in this case. But the relevance desired was relevance granted. It means something — to most members, at least.”
Jack looked around the museum, frowning. “A singer and entertainer? Why was I assigned this one? Is getting assigned normal?”
Lindsay gave him a level look. “It’s a guided thing, not a dictate. This was a ‘speed things up’ call. If you have a problem, you can request a transfer, but this one was pretty obvious. You should look past the surface of things, Jack. The slogan of the Linewalkers is ‘We Walk the Heights in Black for Those Below.’ Their emblem is a simple, black long coat.
“You take pride in your role, whatever it is, and will try to make yourself the new face of it. You’re decisive and relish decisions — you won’t hesitate to make a call, to take the mic. You have a rebel’s heart that, if tamed, could make for the ideal balanced agent. Many leaders came from this Hall, but you’ll also find a lot of self-sufficient specialists, or even people recommended because they could use a little of the things promised within the club. It’s unwise to associate Linewalkers with certain powersets, but they’re usually drawn to more well-rounded mutations.”
Jack stared back at her, left rather speechless and unsure how he felt about the analysis.
Lindsay smiled. “Well. You can talk to some of the members. And whoever else you bump into. These are fraternal orders within the same program. Most simply refer to the greater area as The Halls, short for The Halls of the Junior Agentus Academy. They’re connected in a continuous circle, either by a long, liminal walk or by train. This is a section of the tower — you’ll find some classes and training here. Other classes are deeper inward, as is the mess hall and commissary, accessible by a train system exclusive to cadets and special exceptions like myself. Instructors who aren’t cadets themselves utilize a separate elevator system and don’t normally frequent the Halls by custom. They can and do make use of the commissary, as it's less trafficked than the main base version. A somewhat larger number of staff do make use of the mess hall.”
Jack nodded along. “Alright. Cool. Back to college for me, I guess.”
“You went to flight school. I’m sure you’re used to being pampered, then.”
“Har har. For your information, I had plenty of extraneous classes to take at AMMA throughout my education. Among the common soldiers and techies, unlike you golden children. I definitely kept busy.”
“I’ve reviewed all of that, and it doesn’t look very tough. You skipped tons of electives and volunteer programs that would have improved your career.”
Jack shook his head and squinted his eyes at her, disbelieving his ears. He crossed his arms. “Well, shit, it's a shame I didn’t have a genius like you around back then to needle my dumb ass about it!”
“Yes! Keep preaching, Jack. I’m loving it.”
“Tch! So which ‘club’ are you from, anyway? Something based on a giant pain in the ass, has to be. Maybe some barbed comedian?”
“Ooh, let’s make a game of it! A test. I’ll forward you the people and slogan for each club, and you get one guess.”
A request pinged in his head for a text-based transfer, which he accepted immediately with a sigh.
Jack laughed incredulously at the last one. It also had a ‘link’ or highlightable underline, which, after focusing on, gave a pop-up text that said ‘Insert Custom Slogan Here.’ “What is with the Philip K. Dick club?”
Lindsay shrugged as she leaned in place with one hand on her hip. “A lot of misfit types. Incredible agents end up from it nonetheless. We need our wildcards and monkey wrenches, after all. Some just need, um… a little extra TLC to incorporate correctly? But yeah, a lot of young agents that end up elsewhere think they should be D-Heads, but in reality need the refinement of another club. On the other hand, some people are just never going to be anything but fierce independents. Some end up as liabilities in the standard structure. Or just wash out. Fail. Memoria prefers to extract something from the potential instead of nothing, so they’re facilitated as non-agents. Consultants without earned jackets.”
Jack perused the list as he listened and nodded. Lindsay definitely wasn’t a Mantle or a D-Head. The rest seemed possible… he felt like she was something ‘soft’ due to her supplementary role. Ultimately, her words about the D-Heads decided things for him.
Feeling rather confident, Jack grinned at a suddenly suspicious Lindsay and declared, “I think you’re a Lovelace kinda gal. An Interlacer.”
Her eyes bugged at him, and her mouth fell open. “Dude, how the hell did you guess that?”
“Maybe I’m psychic, too. Ha- who am I kidding? You’re just such an open book, anyone could see it!” It’s Just Desserts to tease her a little.
Lindsay crossed the space between them and grabbed him by the arms, shaking him rather comically and pleading, “Tell meeeeeee…”
“ ‘Tell meee’… what?”
“Pleeeease… pretty please?” She showed her teeth and raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.
Jack laughed and shook his head, finding her impossible to resist. The lack of professionalism was appreciated. “Alright, alright! In addition to sounding like those who are happy to be helpers and mediums to people, you analyzed and refined that hypothetical D-Head. Wanting to ‘incorporate’ them, which is a similar word to the slogan. And then you said they needed ‘refinement’ which is a direct keyword. So there. I’m a grade-A listener, what can I say?”
Lindsay narrowed her eyes in thought, going back over her words. “Holy shit. I did, didn’t I? That’s pretty damn Freudian.”
“Yep. Maybe there should have been a Freud club? Might’ve helped you out with that.”
“Oh, tee hee, Jack — tee hee! Actually, I’d say studying Freud probably makes it worse. Anyway. All the clubs are based on those who wouldn’t typically be studied in primary classrooms. Their work is also simply one part of the tribute. It varies, and what we’re looking at is more who they were within it, and a unique vision of their nature. Anyone can be memorialized and made into an icon. Everyone is important wherever they are in the mix.”
“And where was this Ada Lovelace? In the background?”
“Pretty unsung, I think. But I love her story, her aesthetic, her personality. Charm, grace, brilliance, being an inspiration to her friends, meeting on their rather high levels — we’re talking about Charles Babbage, here — and contributing to it. Refining it, breaking it down, and realizing new potential. Babbage designed a mathematical engine never built, and Lovelace designed an algorithm for it, all in a very primitive era unable to facilitate them. She also saw patterns beyond the numbers, which you might say was a dream of a bigger picture. That the numbers could represent other symbols or meanings — that an engine could make its own music. One could argue it the first mirage of ‘System Sorcery,’ so to speak.”
“Huh. And here, I don’t think I ever heard of her. It sounds like subtle stuff. But I’ll have to at least visit that museum, too. She sounds like quite a lady.”
Lindsay grinned. “Very privileged, though. You might hate her.”
“Bah. You’re pretty up there yourself, and I don’t hate you.”
She poked his chest with a finger. “Yet. Don’t think trying to butter me up will save you from my sheer ruthlessness with your schedule. Orders are orders.”
“Alright, I won’t. I’ll just stand here and shake in my boots contemplating your pitiless, resolute might.”
“Bar that, Soldier — because it’s time to move!” She turned on her heels and marched off through the museum/train station, in the direction of a wide opening on Jack’s right. There was little for Jack to do but follow.
They proceeded up the semicircular platform stairs to a wide hall with more decor and showpieces of the museum. Mr. Cash’s ‘eras,’ apparently. Entire ‘eras’ of one person’s music? He doesn’t seem too obscure. This should be open to the public. Elsewhere.
Another arch was passed, this time labeled ‘Linewalkers’ with the symbol centrally emblazoned under the letters. On the slightest of curves, the walk continued over marble tiles. The walls to either side were plastered with art and decoration, but this time there was no theme — it was a giant scrapbook of members, essentially, arranged aesthetically and balanced. Paintings, banners, sculptures, hanging structures, photos. A lot of small groups of people smiling for the camera. Teams, he imagined. Most he didn’t know.
Jack recognized a few, though. Prominently, Whirler, a flying Blaster that covered herself in spinning air distortions and manipulated the same at range, strong enough to shred trees — or monsters. Surrounding one of her iconic symbols in silver — a flying feminine silhouette surging upward with a swirling hurricane symbol flaring from her hand — were pictures of a young woman. Laughing with friends; wearing a birthday party hat; holding up a tall medal version of her symbol with tremendous excitement; in uniform with the blue longcoat, saluting with a proud, rosy-cheeked smile.
It took Jack a minute to connect the girl with the hero he knew. Wow. I can’t believe it’s Whirler! I get to see her face! She looks so young. Just as gregarious as I would’ve imagined. She’s second generation, though. Old enough, she fought with a veteran Chromey here and there. Or maybe a lot. It’s not like we saw more than a flash here and there of their careers.
Jack had to stop and admire it. “I wish everyone could’ve seen that smile. Would’ve been just as iconic and also humanized her.”
Lindsay came to stand next to him and look, too. “Mmn. But you’re seeing her in youth, here. Don’t recognize most of those she’s with, eh? Even in the hero shots? They died young. She got harder and colder after losing most of her friends. As an instructor, they called her Madam FrigidAir behind her back. She was brutal. The first and second generations had it brutal, though. Growing pains.”
“Really? Damn. Guess that’s why we only have a handful of icons. The rest didn’t make it. I think I kinda hoped that wasn’t true. I figured it was mostly because so many stuck to the standard uniform. Secret identities.”
“That too, for some. Shall we continue?”
“Yeah, sorry. Lead on.”
Understood that you have missing info, which club do you think you'd end up in?
