‘Right,’ said Thaddeus, after Terry had finally finished. ‘So would you like to have a quick look at one of the lecture rooms before you leave? Stuart? Lanna?’
‘Oh – uh – yes,’ said Mr Piggott.
‘Thank you so much,’ said his wife, addressing Terry, who flashed a big, white grin at her. Then he saluted Thaddeus, muttered a shy farewell, and loped off down the corridor, his ponytail swinging.
Lanna’s gaze lingered on his receding back.
‘Nice bloke,’ Stuart remarked absently, pulling a handkerchief from his front pocket. He used it to mop his sweaty brow. ‘One more stop, did you say?’
‘One more,’ Thaddeus agreed. Again they all crowded into a lift and were carried to the ground floor, where Thaddeus showed them a seminar room, a lecture room, and his own office. The seminar room was small and beige, with a stack of plastic chairs. The lecture room had been fitted out at least a hundred years before with rows of wooden benches, an elaborately carved lectern, and huge, dangling lights.
Thaddeus’s office was very handsome. Through its gothic window you could see a stretch of green lawn, and a jacaranda tree. On either side of this refreshing view hung heavy velvet curtains. There was a Persian carpet on the floor, and a large, mahogany desk on top of it. Thaddeus sat behind the desk in a leather-upholstered wing chair, while the Piggotts faced him, each perched on a straight-backed chair of English oak. The carvings on these ancient pieces of furniture dug into their backs, making them shift and squirm.
‘So.’ Thaddeus addressed Stuart and Lanna. ‘You’ve seen enough, now?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘What about you, Cadel?’ Thaddeus’s eyes were keen under drooping lids. He pressed his fingertips together. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?’
‘No.’
‘Where’s the money coming from?’ Stuart demanded suddenly. ‘There’s obviously a lot of it knocking around.’
‘We have some private benefactors,’ said Thaddeus. ‘They’re listed here.’ He pushed a small pile of literature across his desk. ‘If you can’t find what you want to know in here, you can always give me a call.’
Stuart grunted and seized the proffered booklets. Lanna rose. She tapped her gold watch with one crimson fingernail.
‘I’m so sorry, doctor, but my flight leaves in eighty minutes.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
‘It was very interesting. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Maybe we can call Cadel a taxi? To take him home? Rather than dragging him all the way to the airport.’
‘An excellent idea,’ said Thaddeus, lifting the receiver of his telephone. A taxi was summoned. Later, after the Piggotts had left, Thaddeus took Cadel out to the gates of the Axis Institute, where they waited together for Cadel’s taxi.
‘What do you think?’ Thaddeus inquired, laying a hand on Cadel’s shoulder. ‘Can you make use of this place? Dr Darkkon would like to think so. But it’s entirely your choice.’
Cadel craned his neck to look back at the towering seminary, with its bristling turrets.
‘He’s paying for all of it? Everything?’
‘Everything,’ Thaddeus replied. ‘It’s part of his plan to undermine the society of morons and procrastinators in which we’re presently forced to live. If things go on as they are, Cadel, we’re heading for disaster. The entire ecosystem is going to collapse, for one thing. We need a person in charge with a few brains. Someone who can make informed decisions and have them carried out by specially trained cadres of operatives.’ Thaddeus squeezed Cadel’s shoulder. ‘So what about it?’ he inquired. ‘Do you want to give it a try? You’ll find it very invigorating, I guarantee you that. A really thorough preparation for life.’
Cadel reflected on what he had seen. In front of him, a traffic jam was inching along; the hot air was laden with exhaust fumes, and horns parped irritably. On the other side of the road was a furniture warehouse, only partially painted, next to a dentist’s office with a ‘For Sale’ sign in the window.
Behind him, the stately old seminary building stood surrounded by closely cropped lawn. A sprinkler sprayed a glittering arc of water across a bed of glossy azaleas. It was very calm. Very quiet. It was like another world.
It was another world.
Cadel peered up at Thaddeus, whose grey hair was swept back from his forehead like a lion’s mane. He had the sharpest, most penetrating eyes that Cadel had ever known.
He was waiting, patiently.
‘All right,’ said Cadel. ‘I’ll give it a try.’
‘Excellent.’
‘As long as you explain it to me,’ Cadel went on. ‘I don’t quite understand, you see, what everyone’s supposed to be doing.’
‘All will be explained, Cadel.’ This time, Thaddeus patted Cadel’s shoulder before releasing it. ‘All will be explained, I assure you.’
THIRTEEN
At his next session with Thaddeus, Cadel found out more about the Axis Institute. Dr Darkkon was only too pleased to answer all of his son’s questions.
‘Oh yes. Dr Vee. We call him the Virus.’ Dr Darkkon’s spectacles had been confiscated by suspicious warders who had come to realise that he could see perfectly well without them, so he was now speaking into a toilet bowl. This piece of plumbing, which stood stark and gleaming in the corner of his cell, had been modified with a transmitter and a screen of thin plastic that floated on top of the water. Its only drawback lay in the fact that Dr Darkkon now had to feign illness all the time. ‘The Virus is extremely talented,’ he croaked, and pretended to retch before continuing. ‘It’s quite true – he does design customised firewalls. On his days off, he also creates methods for breaking through the same firewalls. That’s the way he keeps himself in business.’
‘Then why does he teach at the institute?’ Cadel queried.
‘Because he can do whatever he likes,’ Dr Darkkon explained, ‘without having thickheads continually snooping and interfering. He likes the challenge, too. He likes the sort of minds we attract. And of course we pay well. Very well.’
Cadel pondered this. After a while, he said: ‘What about that Brendan guy? Why is he at the institute?’
‘Because no one else will hire him,’ Dr Darkkon revealed. ‘He puts people off, being autistic. People find him hard to deal with. Personally, I don’t care what he says to the students. It’s no skin off my nose.’
‘Brendan doesn’t understand why he can’t move numbers around at will,’ Thaddeus interjected. ‘For him, tax laws are simply obstacles to be surmounted. He has no comprehension of rules at all. Thinks they’re illogical. He just wants to get on with things.’
‘And Art?’ said Cadel. ‘What does he do?’
Dr Darkkon coughed into the screen for a few seconds, his shoulders heaving. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
‘Art’s our Forgery lecturer,’ he advised Cadel. ‘Art’s very good, but not good enough to feed his hunger for the finer things in life, which is why he makes extra money by doing a bit of teaching for Axis. Carla’s our Contagion expert. She has a difficult personality, and some of her habits worry people so much that she can’t get a job anywhere else. She’s interested in the breakdown of dead tissue – she likes to plaster her office with pictures of decomposing corpses. In many ways she’s not entirely stable . . .’
‘You’ll hear about her vial,’ Thaddeus broke in. ‘She carries a vial around in her pocket. It’s supposed to contain some sort of lethal micro-organism that she’s been tinkering with. She likes the feeling it gives her, having access to that kind of power.’
‘So don’t push her against a wall, for God’s sake,’ said Dr Darkkon. ‘Terry is Professor of our School of Organic Perversion. He has the kind of tastes you can’t indulge in a normal university environment.’
‘He’s had some trouble with the RSPCA,’ Thaddeus added, and Cadel suddenly recalled the red smear on Terry’s thumb.
?
??A lot of our staff are being blackmailed,’ Dr Darkkon continued cheerfully. ‘Deakin’s one of them – Barry Deakin. On campus, he calls himself Dr Deal. There are a few little skeletons in his closet, so I’ve been able to force him to work for us. Plus he likes all our young female students, at the institute. You’ll meet Barry – he’ll be teaching you Law.’
‘Law?’ said Cadel.
‘It’s part of the introductory program. You can’t get around the law unless you know what it is.’ Dr Darkkon retched again, half-heartedly. ‘Who else? Adolf’s being blackmailed, too – he teaches guerilla tactics. People call him the Fuhrer. The other School of Destruction staff tend to be ageing mercenaries who don’t want to go travelling all over the world to earn their living in swamps and deserts. Luther Lasco’s one of them. He was a hired assassin. His specialty is poisoning. He’s Professor of the School.’
‘You won’t have much to do with him,’ Thaddeus told Cadel firmly.
‘Or with Tracey Lane,’ said Dr Darkkon. ‘She’s a former television newsreader, but she got too old. Can’t find another job for the same money we pay her. She teaches Misinformation.’
‘Otherwise known as Media Studies,’ Thaddeus supplied.
‘Who else will be teaching him, Thad? Max, of course.’
‘The Maestro. Yes.’
‘Max teaches Pure Evil. He’s got his own reasons for working at the institute. Philosophical reasons.’ Dr Darkkon grinned. ‘Seems like he’s trying to rationalise all the questionable things he’s done in his life.’
‘And Alias, of course, is looking for recognition,’ Thaddeus murmured, whereupon Dr Darkkon laughed out loud. He quickly tried to disguise this laugh with a fit of fake coughing. ‘Alias is our teacher of disguise,’ he wheezed. ‘He’s as slippery as an eel, but he does like to think his talents are appreciated.’
‘We’re helping to hide him from the CIA,’ said Thaddeus.
‘And that’s about all, isn’t it, Thad? No one else that Cadel will be dealing with?’
‘The staff find Axis enriching,’ Thaddeus assured Cadel. ‘The students certainly keep them on their toes, and we believe in very strict discipline – as you’ll discover. The faculty appreciates our discipline code. Naturally they all have their own agendas, but nothing we can’t deal with.’
‘Choose your tools,’ Dr Darkkon stressed. ‘That’s the secret, Cadel. Choose your tools wisely.’
Cadel nodded. He was a little overwhelmed, though he knew it wouldn’t take him long to process all this information. Sure enough, he had soon composed in his mind a three-dimensional model of the institute’s personnel structure. There were a lot of gaps, but he felt reasonably satisfied with it.
And when the first semester started, he was quickly able to fill many of the larger holes.
Mr and Mrs Piggott had agreed with Cadel’s decision to enrol at the institute. Stuart wasn’t entirely happy with what he had seen, but didn’t care enough to make trouble. He conceded, in any case, that Cadel was young enough to make a few mistakes without suffering too much for it. So Cadel was enrolled. His fees were paid. And in early February, just three months before his fourteenth birthday, he arrived at the Axis Institute with a backpack slung over his shoulder, ready to begin his studies.
He had been told to report to Lecture Room One for his introductory session. It was a drizzly day. Running through the front gate, shielding himself from the rain with his course handbook, he realised with a start that the institute’s car park was three-quarters full; even on such a wet morning there were people scurrying about like ants. Getting into the seminary building was quite a challenge, but Cadel was well prepared. He had all the necessary cards and keys and had been given detailed instructions about the correct sequence in which they should be used. The process could take up to three minutes, or even longer if you made a mistake.
Upon entering, Cadel encountered a loose crowd of people (most of them quite young) who were waiting to pass through the security scanner just inside the front door. A few were talking, but most slouched against the walls, silent and watchful. Cadel joined them. Patiently, he allowed his person and his luggage to be scanned for guns, explosives and electronic listening devices. Then he headed for Lecture Room One, which he had already inspected with Thaddeus. The door was closed. He tried the handle, without success.
Locked, he thought.
‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded.
Cadel turned. The young man standing beside him was of medium height, but well-muscled, with a thick neck and close-cut fair hair. His complexion was reddish, as if he had spent too much time in the sun. He had a burn scar on one hand.
‘Who are you?’ this person repeated, looming over Cadel in a threatening manner. ‘Get the hell out. You shouldn’t be here.’
‘Yes I should,’ Cadel replied.
‘Piss off, ankle-biter!’
‘I’m enrolled,’ said Cadel, standing his ground. His gaze swept the faces of a converging crowd, but not one of them looked concerned. They were either bored, amused or impatient. ‘My name is Cadel Darkkon, and I’m enrolled in the School of Deception.’
A hush fell. All eyes turned towards him. At last a pale, slim, wild-eyed young man with lots of curly black hair and a straggling goatee broke the silence.
‘Darkkon?’ he said. ‘As in Phineas Darkkon?’
‘That’s right,’ Cadel rejoined. Thaddeus had enrolled him as Cadel Darkkon for his own protection. ‘Normally,’ Thaddeus had remarked, ‘the son of a university’s founder would have a lot of trouble with the rest of the student body, but this won’t happen in your case. Everyone’s familiar with Dr Darkkon’s reputation.’
Surrounded by these dead-eyed, gum-chewing, oddly dressed undergraduates, Cadel decided that Thaddeus had been right. He did need protection.
‘Phineas Darkkon is my father,’ he added, to ensure that he was not misunderstood. The red-faced bully immediately edged away.
‘You’re kidding,’ said one of the two blonde girls hovering near him. They were clearly identical twins: both were tanned, pretty and dressed in skimpy clothes, with their golden hair twisted up into matching ponytails. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Nope.’
‘The guy who started this place? You’re his son?’
‘Yes.’
Both girls rolled their eyes at each other. Then the one who hadn’t yet spoken said, in a bright voice, ‘We’re Gemini. I’m Jem, and this is Ni.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Cadel,’ said Ni.
‘I guess you’re really smart, huh? Like your dad. I guess that’s why you’re here so young.’
They wriggled forward, all gleaming teeth and smooth brown skin. They smelled nice. Shyly, Cadel shook their manicured hands.
‘Hi,’ he mumbled.
‘You’re cute,’ Jem trilled. ‘He’s cute, isn’t he, Ni?’
‘He sure is.’ Ni ruffled Cadel’s curls. ‘He’s prettier than you are.’
‘Oh!’ Jem gave her sister a playful slap. ‘You bitch!’
‘It’s nice to see we’re not the only good-looking ones around here.’
‘What are you studying, sweetie?’
Jem was addressing Cadel. He was slightly confused; these two bouncy, beautiful girls, with their shiny lipstick and piercing voices, weren’t what he had expected. Thaddeus had given him a quick description of every student in the first-year intake. Jemima and Niobe, Cadel recalled, were a pair of troublemakers with ESP potential. Since the age of nine they had been robbing stores by means of a scam that they had refined and perfected. Just before closing time, they would choose a shop with only one attendant – preferably male. Jem would go in and plead to use the toilet. Ni, who was identically dressed, would then wait until the attendant wasn’t looking, sneak into the shop, thank him for allowing her to empty her bladder, and depart again, very noisily. When the attendant had left and the shop was locked up, Jem (who had been hiding) would emerge and take what she wanted before rejoining her
twin.
Mostly this method worked, though sometimes it didn’t. The girls were caught several times without suffering any serious consequences because of their youth. Finally, Thaddeus, as a qualified psychologist specialising in troubled teenagers, was asked to review their case.
He found them fascinating, simply because they seemed to have mysterious powers of communication.
‘It’s the sort of instinct that can’t be coincidental,’ Thaddeus had explained to Cadel. ‘I ran some tests. There was an extra level of EEG slow waves, and several other features, not all of them neurological. Your father and I thought that the twins might respond well to training.’
Cadel had expected a pair of mystic-looking figures wearing Celtic symbols and hippy clothes. He had expected gypsy earrings and haunted eyes and whispering voices. He hadn’t expected a couple of blonde bombshells in tank-tops.
‘I’m studying computers,’ he said. ‘Computers and Embezzlement.’
‘Oooooh,’ Jem crooned. ‘I knew he was clever. We’re doing – what are we doing, Ni?’
‘Channelling. A lot of channelling. Mindpower stuff.’
‘You mean you’re pyrogenic?’ the bully exclaimed, and his face turned an even deeper shade of red as the two girls turned their heads, in perfect unison, to look at him.
‘Say what?’ Gem drawled.
‘I’m pyrogenic. I do channelling too. I’m in your channelling class.’ The bully adopted a slight swagger. ‘You can call me the Bludgeon.’
The twins glanced at each other, and burst into a fit of giggles.
‘The Bludger?’ Jem squeaked.
‘The Bludgeon, not the Bludger. A force to be reckoned with.’ The bully sounded cross. ‘It’s time to leave your old name behind. Your old self. This is a metamorphosis.’
‘You mean we afta change our names?’ a worried voice suddenly piped up. It came from the transmission filter of a young man in a full-length, air-tight suit attached to a tangle of breathing apparatus – a suit like those commonly worn by technicians dealing with hazardous materials. ‘I didn’t change me name,’ he fretted, his voice muffled and distorted by the clear plastic mask he wore. ‘Were we supposed to?’