***
“Gramps?”
Damien was stooping over the balcony edge. He enjoyed the view and the remarkably subtle fragrance all the flowers on the terrace created. He was contemplating how to mimic this paradise, when he heard the voice behind him.
“Gramps, is that you?” The voice was closer now.
Damien’s stomach sank.
Damien still leaned over the balcony railing. He was sure that it was Swarley behind him. He glanced up at the sun, and it had barely moved. Maybe an hour had passed, and he hadn’t even noticed. He was in a hurry, and he had stopped to literally smell the roses.
What the hell was wrong with him? Was he so far removed from who he had been?
Obviously.
Regardless, he had to do something—and fast—if he wanted to remain unnoticed by the higher-ups of the Academy. Swarley obviously recognized him. Despite feeling better than he had in years, Damien put on his best old man act and pushed himself slowly off the balcony's edge. He turned around to stand face to face with a black-haired young man with freckles and dark eyes (what an odd-looking boy, he thought). He stood a head taller than Damien and was thick all over his body, but not fat: well-muscled.
“What's that?” Damien said, as he turned. He lightly wiped his nose with his index finger and thumb.
Swarley eyed him carefully and said, “I was told that my uncle was here for a late birthday celebration. I had a message come through during my exams telling me that he would be on this terrace. My birthday just passed a few weeks ago, and I don’t have any uncles.”
Of course, you don’t, Damien thought. His mind raced, and he stood silent.
“I figured I needed to see what was going on. So I asked my proctor if I could have a few minutes for a break.”
Damien thought about his options. On one hand, he could go with the story and act as though somehow senility had gotten to him. On the other, he could come clean and tell him why he was at Ennd’s, but he had no idea what kind of person Swarley was. He was certainly not the twelve-year-old he had been when Damien had last seen him. There was a chance he might even report Damien to security. And that couldn’t happen.
“I didn't know what to expect,” said Swarley. “But then I saw you.”
Damien Vennar blinked and finally spoke, “Well, hello.”
Swarley smiled. “How is Ceril doing these days? Professor Nephil told me that he got sick and had to go home right when we started Phase II. I haven’t seen him since. I figured he would come back to school, but…”
“He's doing well, from what I hear,” Damien said, dropping the old man charade. “He doesn’t live with me anymore.” He had no real idea how Ceril was doing, but the last part wasn’t a lie.
“I’m glad to hear he’s okay. Tell him to send me a message sometime, if you don’t mind. I’d like to speak with him again. Catch up.”
Wouldn’t we all? Damien thought.
“I don't have a lot of time, sir, but it's good to see you again. I still remember visiting your house that one summer with Ceril and working with you two in your garden.” The young man smiled. He was at ease. “Is there something I can do for you? I mean, I would have been able to see you even if you hadn't said you were my uncle.”
Damien put his arm on Swarley’s shoulder and led him to the purple tree with the blooming vines. “Well, Swarley,” he said, “I’m going to be honest: I didn't even need to see you. I just needed to get inside Ennd's without them knowing who I am.” Swarley pulled against him, but Damien held on. “Have you ever seen these plants?” he asked and gestured to the blossoms that were spiraling ridiculously fast with the two sets of feet walking in their direction.
“Can't say that I have, sir,” Swarley said and then changed the subject back. “Why did you not want them to know who you are? I mean, your grandson was a student here.”
“It’s…complicated,” Damien said. They now stood directly in front of the gnarled tree in the center of the terrace. “I'm sorry for this, Swarley.” He glanced around to make sure no one else was around; luckily, the terrace was deserted except for the two of them. Damien’s hand still rested on Swarley’s shoulder, and black liquid oozed from under Damien’s fingernails. It colored his fingers black and ran smoothly up Swarley’s neck and into his mouth.
The nanites expanded inside Swarley’s throat and stopped all airflow. He would not be alerting security. There was no struggle, and if anyone had been looking—which they were not—all that would have been seen was an uncle enjoying the botanical terrace with his nephew. As the nanites poured into Swarley’s neck and expanded, Damien wrapped his arm more tightly around his victim and excreted more of the tiny machines. They coated Swarley and hardened into a cast that held him upright while he suffocated.
It wasn’t as though Damien liked doing this to one of Ceril's friends, but it was unavoidable. He was never supposed to have even seen Damien.
That was Damien’s own fault, though. He had stopped in the terrace and let too much of being Gramps sneak back in. That wasn’t who he was anymore.
The nanites informed Damien the moment Swarley went unconscious. Now, all he had to do was wait. If he let up now, the boy's autonomic functions would kick in, involuntarily breathing for him. Damien couldn't have that. He had truly hoped to avoid a situation like this. Loss of life in any form disgusted him, and taking one himself was something he only did when he felt it was absolutely necessary.
Until recently, he had thought it would never be necessary again.
Another five minutes passed, and Swarley had not stirred once, nor had anyone come to admire the foliage on the terrace, either. A tendril of blackness pierced Swarley's chest and reported to Damien that his heart was no longer beating. Just to make sure his work was finished, Damien commanded the nanites to flood Swarley’s heart and lungs. They rushed out of his throat and into the organs. Pressure began to build and in seconds, Damien felt more than heard three distinct, wet pops from inside Swarley’s chest.
Damien frowned. He retracted the streams of nanites that had manufactured Swarley's death.
The corpse collapsed without the nanite shell to hold it up. Damien extended his arm over the body beside him. His black blood descended toward the body and wrapped itself around it. He flexed his fingers expertly and directed the blackness to lift the dead body into a standing position. From there, Damien controlled it with the grace of a lifelong puppeteer. He forced the dead man to climb over the retaining wall directly in front of him and then lie down at the base of the gnarled, purple tree. The movements were so natural that he could almost pretend that Swarley had just wanted to curl up and take a nap.
But he knew better.
When his blood was back safely inside his own veins, Damien watched the blossoming vines wrap around the corpse. He hadn’t expected that to happen, but he considered it a lucky break. It should be practically invisible for anyone not specifically inspecting the tree and its pod. He hoped to be long gone from the botanical terrace before that was an issue.
He assumed that all of Ennd's students would be equipped with tracking mechanisms similar to his visitor's pass, though he doubted they were able to verify life. Either way, he would still have to double-time it from here on out; if Swarley's test proctor were to check on him, Damien could and would be in some hot water.
He glanced once more at Swarley and said to the body, “I'm sorry, kid. I didn’t want that to happen. Blame that girl up front, if you have to. I’ll give Ceril your best if I get to see him again.” It wasn't the most eloquent or sympathetic eulogy ever given, but it would have to do. There was no doubt that his parents, friends, and teachers would give him the ceremony he deserved. Damien just didn't have the time. And even if he had, he did not have the inclination.
With a parting glance and a nod of his head to the life he had just ended, he walked a beeline to the elevator and the door opened as he neared.
“Hello, visitor. I hope your time on the floor
seven botanical terrace has been rewarding and enjoyable. Where may I direct you?” The voice waited for his response.
“I need to see Headmaster Squalt,” Damien said.
“I am sorry, visitor. The headmaster's office is not on your approved list of destinations. Your visitor's pass allows you access to the botanical terraces on floors three, five, and seven. You may also visit the dining hall on floor three and the observation deck on floor eleven. Where may I direct you?”
He tried to recall the school’s basic floor plan. “How much renovation is done annually to the Academy?” he asked.
“The Academy is in a constant state of renovation, visitor. Each year, the headmaster determines one outdated section of the interior architecture and implements a plan to renovate it by the year's end.”
“Each year?”
“Yes, visitor.”
“What are the most recent additions to the campus?”
“The most recent renovations done were a complete redesign of the Phase hallways in order to facilitate the most efficient flow of student traffic.”
“To what extent were the Phase hallways restructured?”
“Approximately 86 percent of the Phase hallways were renovated, visitor. It has led to an almost-47 percent increase in traffic efficiency.”
So much for relying on what I know about the place, Damien thought.
He had to start somewhere, though, so he said, “Take me to the dining hall,” and hoped that his next move was not the mistake his first one had been.