Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(4)
Even though Jack knew about the neural enhancements they had received on the Bandolier Ship, he wanted to find out their limits. More than that, Mark knew that Jack wanted them to discover their limits.
Even though Mark loved that they were learning things very few people would ever know, he felt as if they would have made a break for freedom if it hadn’t been for the weekends.
Sci-Fi Saturdays and Sundays is what they’d come to call them, a sequence of Twilight Zone episodes driven by Jack’s desire to learn everything about the Bandolier Ship, its technologies, its agenda, and what it had done and was still doing to his three trainees. The lab sessions ranged from fascinating to downright spooky.
Recently Jack had them working in total darkness, letting their minds convert sound to images, a form of echolocation that produced imagery of their surroundings: the louder the noise, the brighter the resultant mental pictures.
Luckily, Friday and Saturday nights had been reserved for rest and relaxation, local R & R Janet called it. On those nights they could almost be mistaken for a family, Jack and Janet taking them to San Javier to stroll through the town, to stop for dinner over some Bolivian beers, to laugh and talk.
One thing Jack had said during their training sessions had imprinted itself on Mark’s brain. “This world will try to beat you down. Only laughter can counteract that. Laughter is ammunition. Resupply often.”
Mark remembered the sound of Janet’s throaty laughter echoing through the room at that remark, driving the point home. But since the birth of their baby, Robby, eight weeks ago, Jack had been their principal trainer.
Even the childbirth had been incorporated into their training. Yachay, the indigenous midwife, had managed the delivery, assisted by Mark, Jennifer, and Heather. The intensity of the experience had branded its details into his mind’s eye.
Janet had endured an agonizing eighteen hours of labor as Jack sat beside her, holding her hand and guiding her through a variation on Lamaze breathing exercises. A credit to her self-discipline, Janet never whimpered or cried out, although the sweat beaded on her forehead, forming tiny rivulets that Jack wiped away with a damp cloth.
As for Mark, Jen, and Heather, they had been kept busy doing whatever the Quechua midwife demanded. When the baby finally came, it had been Mark who assisted with cutting and tying off the umbilical cord, but not before a panicked few moments of wondering if the baby boy would start breathing. Although Mark had thought all new babies cried as a part of taking that first breath, this one hadn’t made a sound. Only a sharp word from Yachay had snapped him out of his frozen state and gotten him moving as she directed.
By the time they had finished all the post-birthing tasks, the three young friends hadn’t even bothered to eat, dragging themselves off to their rooms for rest and recovery, more bone tired than at any other time in their training.
“Heather, you’re up.”
Jack’s words brought Mark out of his reverie as Heather stepped forward and Jennifer stumbled onto the seat beside him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Although she hadn’t been bloodied, she was clearly teetering on the edge of muscle failure.
Every Friday was evaluation day, during which Jack tested their mastery of the training they had received thus far. Mark knew one thing for certain: never again would he think TGIF. Fridays flat-out sucked.
Suddenly Mark’s attention shifted to the center of the padded mat that covered the small gym’s floor. One of Heather’s punches had managed to penetrate Jack’s defenses, her small fist striking his chin a grazing blow. As the two combatants shifted stance, Mark caught a glimpse of Heather’s eyes. They’d turned milky white.
Shit. She’d gone deep, fighting Jack in the now as her savant mind gazed into the future.
Once again she lashed out, but this time Jack slipped the blow. For the briefest of moments, Mark thought Jack’s eyes glinted red. Then, as Heather whirled into an axe kick, Jack chopped her sharply in the solar plexus, sending the air whooshing from her lungs in one great burst. Heather doubled over on the mat, then rolled on her side, simultaneously struggling to draw breath and rise to her feet—for the moment, failing to do either.
As Mark and Jennifer started to move, Jack’s stern gaze sent them back to their seats. As he stood above Heather, watching her intently, Jack made no move to assist her. A month ago Mark would have been unable to contain his anger. Now it all made sense. For Jack to baby any one of them would be to dishonor that person. Before they’d started training, Jack and Janet had briefed them on the rigors of the program they would endure, and they had each consented. Too late now to back out.
With a Herculean effort, Heather raised herself from the floor, once again moving into a ready position.
“Excellent.” Jack said. He motioned to Mark and Jennifer. “Everyone have a seat out here on the mat.”
As they complied, Jack walked to a corner closet, retrieved a box from the shelf, and then seated himself on the mat directly in front of Heather.
“You have a unique ability,” he said to her. “All of you share various talents as a result of the neural augmentation you received from the Bandolier Ship headbands. But your minds have their own natural strengths and preferences.
“Heather, I’ve watched you play chess. There’s not a person in the world that can beat you, certainly no computer can. You see all the possibilities and know what is most likely to happen from any setup. It’s why you were able to hit me just now.”