Gamma Group

By Cristian Englert

MIRACLES OF THE MIND
There’s something special about these kids, and this makes them a precious commodity for any number of governments, agencies and ruthless individuals. If they’re lucky, they might get recruited by the Jules Verne Academy. If they’re not...
Jules Verne Academy is home to hundreds of science and technology prodigies and to some of the best teachers in the world. And this is exactly why teenagers with paranormal abilities are welcome here, where for the first time in history tools are in place to better understand and develop these powers.
Magni and Clara wake up to a world where their abilities, far from being just cool party tricks, are seen as valuable, sought for... and worth killing for. On Academy grounds they are safe, but as soon as they step outside all hell breaks loose.
They’re on their own now and things don’t look good. When there’s no one left to trust, can you put your trust in the enemy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cristian Englert
• Release date: Nov 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310141638

Book preview

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Gamma Group

By Cristian Englert

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Copyright © 2015 by Cristian Englert – All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Prologue

I. Friends and Foes

II. A Failed Rain

III. Alone

IV. Gamma

V. A Spot on the Brain

VI. Of Magnifiers and Dictionaries

VII. A Volleyball Game

VIII. The First Training

IX. Revolution

X. Feeling Blue

XI. Nocturnal Visitations

XII. A Nasty Case of Cough

XIII. Kaboom

XIV. Defense and Attack

XV. Catacombs

XVI. The Other Castle

XVII. Keep your friends close…

XVIII. Breakfast of Champions

XIX. A Game of Pool

XX. Conversations in the Dark

XXI. Blind

XXII. Convalescence

XXIII. Weekend Preparations

XXIV. Collision Course

XXV. Once Again, with Feeling

Epilogue

Prologue

Throughout its history, mankind has fought thousands of wars, defeated countless enemies, solved myriads of baffling problems. Alas, one continued to equally elude the best warriors and the wisest philosophers: controlling one’s urge to sneeze.

Many have tried to master it - to no avail.

It starts with a mere tingling at the back of your mouth, so you tend to ignore it. But no… the tingling is not about to go away! As you realize a sneeze is building up, your jaw drops in surprise while your eyes narrow. You don’t look particularly intelligent either. By now a full battalion of ants is marching along your nostrils and you draw air again, and again, and again. The skin of your cheeks is overstretched and ready to yield…

Now you’ve got a couple of choices, and the most honest is to just let it go, ejecting the air with explosive violence: aaaaaahchoo! Then there’s the polite version, where you heroically try to protect the nerves of the people around you, sneezing with your mouth half shut (never, ever try this with a runny nose!) – the result is a modest and feminine atishoo.

But what would a spy or a thief do? Do they have some special training, would they be able to completely stop the sneeze if lives are at stake? Now, that would be a skill only Shaolin monks, for instance, must be allowed to teach, dreamily pondered Magni.

Without being a thief or a spy, Magni Matisson was having right now the perfect reason to wish he could stifle his sneeze. Namely, fermented onion skin tea, a vile looking concoction invented by a criminal mind somewhere in Japan. No sugar. The most efficient remedy, according to his mom, for the cold and the flu.

Still, the sneeze seemed impossible to avoid – the tickling inside his nose had become almost intolerable. Oh, he would have scratched it! But the epicenter of the sensation was deep enough, impossible to reach.

He just kept eating his cereals, eyeing warily the red paper box on the kitchen cupboard’s topmost shelf, with the infamous Engrish label: Save your cold, make your blood flow higher. Sure – easy to make fun of it when you notice it by chance in a store, but a whole different business when you’re about to swallow a full cup of the said poison!

There are worse things in the world, pondered the boy, almost hopefully. Spoiled eggs, definitely. The eyeball soup in the Indiana Jones movie. Surstromming. As a Dane, Magni had had the opportunity to try the infamous Swedish fermented herring dish and could still remember the absolute horror of it. And then there’s…

Aaaaahchoo!

As usual, the sneeze found him totally unprepared. A good, honest sneeze, which would make a lawn mower envious. Wiping the tears off his face, he sighed heavily.

That’s it, any second now his mother will…

Inge Matisson entered the kitchen with all the gentleness of a tropical storm. She shot him a dark look over her reading glasses and, as she was stretching to the top shelf of the cupboard, started to scold him. (That’s mom, stoically thought Magni, no trouble at all in doing more than one thing at the same time...)

"Happy now? Did I not tell you to wear that jacket yesterday? It’s cold in the forest, anyone knows that! Well, anyone but your father… Keep listening to him and here’s what you’re going to get! Thank God for the onion tea, otherwise I’d have to keep you home for the day! I wonder what’s going on in that head of yours?! What’s going on in both of your heads? (Ouch, it’s daddy’s turn now! Magni thought dejectedly) Every time you decide to go out in the nature (she said it with a twitch of her lip, like it was a dirty word), same thing happens. And then, who needs to take care of everything? Who’s getting to fix everything, you tell me!"

She paused for the dramatic effect, also offering the boy a cue for some heartfelt apologies. Unfortunately, that was the exact moment Flemming Matisson, Magni’s father, picked to enter the kitchen.

And you, you… just look at yourself! exploded Mrs. Matisson finally, then, without giving him any opportunity to ask what’s going on, spun on her heel, grabbed the smelly teapot, filled a cup, dropped it in front of Magni and exited the room like a cyclone.

With a weak smile, Mr. Matisson went to the cupboard, where a big pot of fresh, black coffee was waiting for him.

She’s having troubles with somebody at the publishing house. Or, should I say, somebody’s having troubles with her? he said with a wink. The barometer indicates storm. Better drink your tea and get somewhere safe.

Magni started to smile but froze. The tea! Looking all nice and golden and harmless in its cup, just in front of him! Giving the cup a hateful look he thought: It would be really funny if dad could taste some of this poison! Then he extended his hand and grabbed the cup’s handle.

At the same time, Mr. Matisson and his son lifted their cups.

Aaaaaaaaaieeeeeeaaaagh!

They exchanged a shocked look. It was Mr. Matisson and not Magni that screamed, and Mr. Matisson’s face was now contorted with disgust.

Usually, Mr. Matisson presented the world – and his wife – a perfectly calm face. This time however, he completely lost his cool. Darting towards the sink he nervously dumped the rest of the liquid from the cup, emptied the big pot, rinsed his mouth, grabbed his bag from the table and exited the room, growling.

Now all alone in the kitchen, Magni took his time to finish the delicious potion in his cup, smiling a blissful smile.

***

Do you know why you’re here?

When confronted with a teacher peering angrily at you over an intimidating-looking desk, no one has a clear conscience. Oh God, Clara thought, is it about the Chemistry class where I… Or maybe the…? No, it has to be the Chemistry, but then why isn’t Mr. Weiss here with us? She shifted in her chair, troubled by the headmistress’ official tone of voice. She knew that tone – it was normally reserved to the bullies and truants in need to be disciplined, and her status as the best student in the school had always kept her away from it. As a matter of fact, every single time they met, Miss Tomescu was sugary to the point of causing diabetes.

She stole a glance at the man sitting in the armchair next to her. He seemed to pay little attention to the conversation between the teacher and her student, engrossed in studying the papers he held in his lap. He was a tall, dark man, elegantly dressed, wearing a pair of ridiculously expensive looking gold framed glasses. Probably a school inspector, thought Clara. But then it doesn’t make sense…

I asked y…

Please excuse me, Clara interrupted, I was trying to guess but I’m afraid I…

Miss Tomescu picked up a pencil and started rolling it between her fingers. Clara thought she’d seen on her face concern, fear, indecision, all in the space of a couple of seconds. She looks even more scared then I am.

I called you here, the teacher started hesitantly, almost struggling with each syllable, "so we can have a talk about the school’s newspaper, The Future".

Clara nodded slowly, waiting for her to continue. Without realizing, her feet had started to gently tap the floor to the rhythm of the spinning pencil in Miss Tomescu’s hands.

You’re the founder and chief editor of the newspaper, is that right? the headmistress went on, grimacing in the direction of an imaginary point on the ceiling.

Duh, Clara thought, like you wouldn’t know! Like you’re not the one that praised me last week for the article on saving energy in schools! Instead, she just nodded, letting out a sigh.

And you’re also the one that writes the editorials every single week? How do you call this series? She tapped the desk with her finger, and Clara noticed the last but one issue of The Future sitting on the desk, just in front of her eyes.

"Stories from Ulmu, she answered automatically, now more than a bit confused. It wasn’t a new series and, again, the headmistress knew it too well. Obviously, this was a show for the mysterious visitor’s benefit. She decided to play along. It’s… I’ve imagined a tiny, remote village, somewhere deep in the Carpathian Mountains, inhabited by only a couple of hundred people, where time seems to stand still and where the old Romanian traditions are kept alive. I thought it would make a sharp contrast with the rest of today’s Romania, where people are mean and hasty and with no respect for the law…"

The teacher narrowed her eyes.

How did you come up with this idea?

Well… first I wanted to write something about kids that copy their essays from the Internet and then I thought that, while they take other people’s work without any effort of their own, there might exist a completely different place in Romania, a place where other kids have to walk many kilometers to the closest public school, and they have to do their homework late in the evening, after they finished feeding the chickens and sweeping the courtyard… I thought that if I talk about their life and difficulties, the others will feel a bit… I don’t know… ashamed. Maybe challenged enough to improve themselves. She shrugged. Then I realized that the life in such a place would not only be tough, but also simple and beautiful. And that I can start every single article with a short story from this village…

The man to her left shook his head. Annoyed? Miss Tomescu interpreted this her own way and insisted.

Well, OK, but… why Ulmu?

Um… I don’t get it, Clara said defensively. Something else was hiding behind the question, something that she couldn’t quite grasp. Intelligence alone was not always enough if you wanted to understand grown-ups – whenever they approached you in a roundabout way you could bet they have ulterior motives.

Why not Vidra, the man finally said, "or Peștișani, or Dealu Mic or some other village? Why not... Căpățânai?"

There was a cold menace in his tone, and that made her a bit uneasy. She shrunk in her chair.

"Um... I really don’t know... One evening I was sitting in my bed and tried to imagine how life could be in such a place. The name Ulmu immediately came to mind. Then I thought of Agârbiceanu and Sadoveanuii’s stories – they’re all in the curriculum, she added quickly, unconsciously pleading for the teacher’s sympathy. Then I started to picture everything else that could happen in this village and... I started to write."

Miss Tomescu and the mysterious visitor exchanged a long look. The headmistress opened her mouth to say something, but the man was faster.

Rubbish, he said. Are we going to beat around the bush for another half an hour?

To her credit, Miss Tomescu looked embarrassed. Placing her elbows on the desk she leaned forward and spoke quietly, carefully picking her words.

Look, Clara. You’re a smart girl. Too smart for your own good, I would say. I’ll ask you directly: did you or did you not know a village named Ulmu really exists?

The fear she felt before suddenly changed into something else. What? Her invention, the metaphor of idyllic life... Ulmu... really existed? Feeling a wave of dizziness, she shook her head weakly.

Of course not.

The teacher snorted in disgust, as if the answer was far from satisfactory, then she reached for the last issue of The Future and lifted it above her head.

I’ll read from your last week’s article, and please do not interrupt.

By now you’ve realized, I’m in love with Ulmu. With its houses spread thinly among the hills, with its people, young and old, who live a slow paced but honest life, in perfect communion with the mountain they seem to have been born from, with its apple orchards and its haystacks, Ulmu got into my soul like a cherished icon. Still, is Ulmu heaven on Earth? Far from it. I was writing a couple of weeks ago about uncle Eremia’s son, who left several years ago for the city, leaving his old father to take care alone of a big flock of sheep. He’s not the only one. Aunt Ana’s Eftimie, Gheorghe Decusară’s Tița and Victor, Valeria’s son Ioniță, all have left for the city, looking for jobs. The world of the village, as they can all remember, seems to be under siege by the modern civilization, by cars and TV sets and pop music... and the fight is not going well. Unheard-of things happen lately. Mihai’s son Mitu scared the whole village several years ago when he stole most of the silver chalices from the village’s church and ran away to sell them in the city. In his wake people didn’t turn vengeful, but gathered around old vicar Anania and helped the church recover. Mitu lives now in Cluj, busy with a thriving stolen cars business during the night and politics for the governing party during the day. In his own village he left a wound that’s not going to heal easily, if ever. This is the risk I ...

Enough, the man interjected, then tapped lightly the briefcase leaning against his armchair. Let’s see what she has to say.

Clara, the headmistress sighed, you have to tell us where you know all of these from. This gentleman here – she glanced his way – is Senator Dumitru Mihai’s lawyer. He arrived here on his client’s behalf and – she hesitated for a second – you have to tell him everything you know.

I see you’re a clever girl, the lawyer said, staring at her intensely. You should know by now what a libel trial is and what kind of consequences one – he cast a heavy look at the headmistress – can expect. The law doesn’t go easy on slanderers. Obviously the newspaper will cease to exist, but that’s not all. It’s in your best interest to cooperate... we wouldn’t want such a prodigious – he grinned ironically – journalistic talent to disappear.

Lost for words, Clara searched her headmistress’s eyes for a shred of support but all she could find was fear and anxiety. The battle was lost before it even began.

So, the man insisted, „let’s proceed one step at a time. You’ve got someone in the village and you’ve got someone in Cluj. I want names..."

***

Noah turned his head for no particular reason, and then he saw them, reflected in the mirror. From behind they might have looked like a perfectly normal family: the husband and wife, and between them the thirteen years old boy, all sitting on the green leather bench in the airport’s terminal, most likely eagerly waiting to go together in just another adventurous trip.

How wrong first impressions can be! Now look at them, as they really are: emptied of words and regrets, cold and rigid, sitting in uncomfortable positions on the edge of the bench, using the child between them as a buffer. Even if they’d have wanted to exchange a look they wouldn’t have dared, not because they were two strangers, but because they knew each other too intimately. At this point nothing was left unsaid and nothing was left untried.

Slowly, clumsily, mother’s hand slid along the backrest towards Noah’s shoulder. It touched him lightly then seemed to lose even the little determination that led it there; it wanted to pull back but Noah grabbed it and held it between his fingers for a while. The palm of her hand was damp with a cold sweat and Noah first wanted to joke about it then thought this would be terribly inappropriate and stopped… None of them said anything, the silence floating in the air, more real than the cold touch of their hands.

Are you going to be OK in France? he asked eventually, the same question he asked one hour ago or two, or this morning or yesterday morning.

Yes, baby, Mrs. Miller (Hudson, only two days ago) answered. She half turned her head to him and tried to smile. Of course, it’ll be a challenge to unlearn the kids to spit when they say their ‘R’-s – their private joke about French language – but this will only make things more interesting.

At least you’re going to enjoy a decent weather, Mr. Hudson mumbled, vaguely pointing his hand at the rain outside. "The traffic on M4iii is going to be crazy."

He talks like he would drive the car himself, Noah thought. Actually Albert was going to battle the traffic while, on the back seat of the limo, his father was going to read The Wall Street Journal. And Noah… Noah was going to look through the window seeing nothing but his mother’s face, feeling like he’s not getting back home but getting away from it.

Big, heavy tears filled his eyes. Trying to stop them he clenched his fists as hard as he could, but to no avail. He groaned.

Both parents flinched, then hugged him. His mother’s arms went around his chest, while his father big, strong hands started to stroke his hair and forehead. Even now, Noah thought, even now. Each one takes care of a different part of me, like they would be too scared to touch the other by mistake. Without opening his eyes he read their minds. Dad: pity, despair, a fair amount of embarrassment for doing this in a public place. The secret wish he’d get out of it by means of an unexpected phone call. Rationalization: it’s mainly her fault, she should take care of this. No, he’s my boy, he should grow up strong. Mom: pity, despair. A glimmer of hope: France is a new beginning. They would be better off without me. Noah can spend his holidays with me. Some more pity: my poor child, he was always so sensitive!

On a sudden impulse, Noah shrugged off their hugs and stood up. He looked each of them in the eyes.

It’s not me you should be worried about! he groaned in despair. It’s you… you two should be together! Stop paying me so much attention… I should… I should disappear! It’s all my fault!

He was slowly raising his voice and now people around them really started to stare. He felt their inquisitive minds, anticipating the scene that would make waiting for their flights a bit more entertaining. He didn’t care. Abruptly, he took his mother’s and his father’s hands and held them together, forcing father’s fist to close around mother’s fingers.

What are you talking about? his father asked, oblivious to his ex-wife’s hand. "Where did you come up with such nonsense? Make no mistakes, we are at a fault, mom and I… and you… you are right in the middle of it!"

His mother was crying as well now. Heavy tears trickled down her face, but she kept her eyes on him.

That’s right, my sweet boy. Dad and I couldn’t… can’t… we’re just not able to live together anymore. But this has nothing to do with you, nothing at all! You are the best thing we managed to do in our years together. Trust me.

And they were honest, both of them.

How could he break the truth to them? How could he explain his skill of reading other people’s minds and to talk to other people’s minds? How could they believe if he’d told them he already knew about this for years now? Long years during which he’d experimented his gift at school, on the playground or on his holidays, but mostly… at home. Recently, he’d finally understood that all couples and all friendships survive not only because of communication – that pattern of thoughts, feelings and words that’s woven between the two – but mostly because of its absence. There are deserted beaches on private islands where each one should be able to bury frustration and grudge and discontent. How could he tell them because of me you know each other so damn well that you can’t stand yourselves anymore? And because of me there’s no keeping your secrets and no sweet lying? Or I was the wind that whispered every single small mockery or insult or frustration in the other one’s ears? How could he make them understand that the son they’re so proud of is a weapon out of control? And how could he plant in their hearts – full of unconditional love – or in their minds – full of devotion – the concept that their only son, their baby, the best thing they managed to do in their years together could be, definitely and beyond redemption, bad?

After all the years he’s trained his ability Noah had experimented and done a lot of things, but he had no clue how to do this. Parlor tricks, those came easy, but when he had to do something that really mattered he felt paralyzed. He couldn’t, or he didn’t wish hard enough? This was the question he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

Overwhelmed by the magnitude of his inability, he let go of his father’s hand. Weak and powerless, father’s fist opened. Mother’s hand slipped between his fingers, just as frail. As they were sitting on the bench in front of him, equally lacking strength and hope, they looked to Noah like two trees defeated by winter: leafless, blackened, sagging, abandoned to the frozen winds of the north.

I am the poison at their roots, the boy thought. Without me they would have had a chance. Without me.

Friends and Foes

So this is the school’s canteen?

All innocent and harmless words – if they’d been said by anyone else than Mrs. Matisson. She, however, was not a supporter (and Magni was unable to imagine her to ever have been, even in her early childhood!) of the sweet-talk approach. Every one of her words could hide a trap, an irony, a dagger. Without being mean, she had a very critical eye (and ear, or nose or taste buds) – the kind of person that kills you with her love and care. If Mrs. Matisson paid you a compliment you’d better start packing, if she arched an eyebrow you’d better start running without looking back.

A while ago Magni had started to consider writing a dictionary – most likely his most important contribution to humanity – that would translate some of his mother’s expressions and sentences into common tongue. In such a dictionary the word beautiful would translate as You bought it already and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s your money. I like it could mean either even my mother in law could have made a better choice or poor you, you grew up in the countryside, didn’t you? A simple good afternoon could be translated in Magni’s dictionary as get lost and a there’s not much to say as an I’ll keep reminding you about this for the rest of your (bitter) life.

Exaggerations, of course, but in a didactic manner and spirit. Mom should have her own hazard symbol, like the one they use for nuclear radiation or biological waste, thought Magni.

Normally, so this is the school’s canteen? would have carried a mild dose of disdain. This time, however, while asking Dean Gould the question, Mrs. Matisson’s right eyebrow arched slightly, which, as a general rule, would double the value of the expressed feeling. Magni swallowed hard, his cheeks burning.

One of the three canteens, Mrs. Matisson, the Dean answered genially, fully unaware of the danger that lay ahead. This one is particularly popular during the summer, thanks to the scenery. He waved his hand, indicating the faraway, impossibly white, zigzag of the Alps.

Oh, Mrs. Matisson said, looking straight through the Alps.

This made Magni wonder whether for the next several years he was going to get via courier, every single day of the week, meals prepared in the home kitchen in Copenhagen.

He glanced around guiltily. He would have expected everybody to stare at his mother and him reproachfully, but to his relief other students seemed to have similar troubles in keeping their parents under control. A short girl, her dark hair tied in long, meticulous braids, was having an inflamed conversation with her father. A red-haired boy, slim and tall, was struggling to no avail to free himself from his mother’s grasp. Two plump women, looking like twins, were comparing on a tablet computer holiday photos, without paying any attention to the Dean or their own boys. Another woman was quietly crying - big, round tears streaming in rivulets down her face, while her embarrassed, red faced daughter was trying to put as much distance as possible between them. Next to them a father and his son were entranced by the Dean’s words, the two of them similar down to the smallest detail: eyeglasses frame, freckles on their noses, slightly ajar lips, general air of nerdiness.

This quick survey lifted his spirits a bit. There was a fair chance that at this school he wouldn’t stand out in any way, and for now this was all he wanted.

They proceeded further, with all the discipline of a gaggle of geese, towards a building with yellow walls and red roof.

"This is La Maison Fourieriv, where most of the Physics and Chemistry labs are located, the Dean recited, struggling hard with the French name. You’ll probably notice most of the buildings in the complex are named after great physicists, mathematicians or astronomers.

On one side of the building there was a small, round park, and in its middle one of those hedge mazes Magni had only seen in movies. There was something mysterious and menacing about the tall, thick and forbidding walls. Instantaneously Magni felt attracted by the bizarre labyrinth. Without thinking twice he left the small group and stepped through one of the narrow arches in the dark green wall. The maze was too small to make orientation a real problem, however Magni chose to be systematic: at every split of the path he took a left. He arrived shortly in the middle of the maze, a round area about five meters across, covered in white gravel and low flowering shrubs, two wooden benches and, right at the center of it, a small fountain.

Calcium, a funny, high pitched voice came from behind him, making Magni jump.

He turned to the newcomer, too shocked to be furious.

What?

This maze, said the other, a boy about his own age or maybe a year older, thin, with his forehead and his eyes half hidden under a mess of black hair untouched by brush or comb in months. Contrasting with his physical weakness, an arrogant smirk was plastered on his face, unbearably annoying. Trying to keep his balance on the fountain’s edge, he continued: "Of course you realized it describes