‘No we weren’t,’ replied the pale, curly-haired young man. ‘My name is Abraham Coggins and it’s staying Abraham Coggins. At least until I have a police record.’
‘Are you pyrogenic?’ the Bludgeon inquired.
‘No. I’m a microbiology student.’
‘Then butt out.’
Cadel looked at Abraham Coggins with interest. According to Thaddeus, Abraham was a graduate of medicine who was paying money to attend the Axis Institute because he was obsessed with the idea of creating a race of vampires. He had a theory about how it might be done and Terry had agreed to work with him.
‘But – but do we really want vampires?’ Cadel had stammered on being informed of this fact, whereupon Thaddeus had placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
‘We’re not going to get vampires,’ he’d said. ‘It’s all a mad dream. But the extra money will be useful. Most of our students are on scholarships – Dr Darkkon pretty much pays their way. It’s good to have a few fee-paying students to ease the load.’
So that’s Abraham Coggins, Cadel thought. And if this bully here is pyrogenic, he must be Clive Slaughter. Clive had been identified, by scouts of Dr Darkkon, as someone with pyrogenic powers. He had the classic profile of an accidental arsonist, though he came from a comfortable family background. Dr Darkkon wished to help him isolate and refine his powers, until he could be transformed into something resembling the super-heroes in a Marvel comic. It was a long shot, Dr Darkkon had said, but it was worth a try.
Cadel realised that if the bully was Clive, and the curly-haired guy was Abraham, then the youth in the protective suit must be Gazo Kovacs. Gazo was an interesting case. He had lived on the streets for most of his life, largely because he suffered from a unique condition. When stressed, he exuded an appalling stench – the kind that could fell a man at ten paces. Even at a greater distance, it could make people dizzy. For this reason he had been shunned, and had led a very lonely life until discovered by Dr Darkkon’s agents. Cadel’s father was interested in Gazo. He felt that Gazo might have a special, super-genetic power. He wanted to explore this possibility and had flown the friendless youth all the way from England for that purpose.
Gazo was boarding at the institute. He had to wear an airtight suit for the protection of other people. It was important that there should be no accidents at moments of high stress – during exams, for instance. Only when Gazo was alone, in his single-bed room, was he allowed to remove his suffocating outer garments and move about freely.
According to Thaddeus, Gazo regarded this restriction as a small price to pay for food, lodgings and friendly encouragement.
‘He’s not very bright,’ Thaddeus had admitted to Cadel, ‘but he might be worth the money. We’ll see.’
Gazo, Clive, Abraham, Jemima and Niobe. Cadel surveyed them all, committing their faces to memory, before turning his attention to the remaining students clustered around the door of Lecture Room One. There were only two: a man and a woman. The woman was fat and middle-aged. She wore a black t-shirt over drab tracksuit pants. Her face was puffy and sullen beneath stray locks of fine, lank hair. This, Cadel decided, must be Doris Deauville, the only other woman in Cadel’s year.
‘A poisoner,’ Thaddeus had recounted. ‘Another fee-paying student. She’s had a bit of success poisoning individuals in the past, and now she’s interested in doing it on a wider scale. That’s why she wants to study Contagion, with Carla.’
Cadel had frowned.
‘Will I – will I have to talk to her much?’ he’d queried, whereupon Thaddeus had shaken his head.
‘I doubt it. She’s a fairly solitary sort of person. Just make sure you don’t eat anything she’s baked.’ And he had laughed.
Looking at Doris, Cadel didn’t feel like laughing. On the contrary, his heart sank. Gazo and the twins interested him. Abraham was someone he almost felt sorry for. Clive was obviously of no account. But Doris?
She repelled him.
The last of the year’s intake – the person standing beside her – was a Japanese man who hardly spoke any English. Another fee-paying student, he was enrolled in the School of Destruction, and would be boarding at the institute. His name was Kunio Sumita. He wore some kind of military uniform.
‘All right, people!’ Thaddeus’s sharp tones sliced through the air like a knife, just as Clive was about to say something else about the need for a new name. ‘Let’s have a bit of quiet! Thank you.’
Thaddeus had emerged from his office, which was just down the hall. He was dressed in his usual baggy trousers and tweedy jacket, with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, but his lofty stature and piercing gaze managed to impress everyone. Even the twins shut up.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Most of you know me. For those who don’t, I’m Professor Thaddeus Roth, and I pretty much fill the role of Chancellor around here. Which is to say, I’m in charge.’ Students fell back as he headed for the door of Lecture Room One. Upon reaching it, he removed a bunch of keys from his pocket and proceeded to use them, one by one, until every lock on the door had been released. Then he pushed open the door and stepped aside.
‘In you go,’ he commanded, smiling to expose his long canine teeth. ‘Time to make a difference.’
FOURTEEN
‘As you already know,’ Thaddeus announced when everyone was seated inside the lecture room, ‘this institute was founded by Dr Phineas Darkkon, five years ago, because he had a vision. He wanted to train up an army of people with special skills and powers who could transform the world. Now we all know that the world doesn’t work. In fact, some of you are only too aware of this fact.’ Thaddeus glanced at Gazo for a moment, then at Cadel. ‘The power structures we see around us are entrenched,’ he continued, ‘and they are full of narrow-minded people with unremarkable genes. As a result, the human race is heading down a path that will almost certainly lead to its extinction, unless something is done pretty quickly. It is Dr Darkkon’s belief that if we harness and nurture mankind’s more hidden talents, then we might save ourselves. In the process, we might also find ourselves with a two-tier society of genetically superior overlords and a genetically inferior underclass. If so, then it’s the price we’ll have to pay for survival. Let me just give you some statistics, in case you’re in any doubt about the state of the world right now.’
There was a pause as Thaddeus adjusted his glasses. Cadel, who had heard all this several times before, was more interested in the reaction of those around him. Gazo’s face was hard to see through his mask, but his posture was attentive. Doris’s expression was blank. Clive was frowning, and Abraham was doodling. Jem and Ni – the only students who were actually sitting together – fidgeted uncontrollably. They were using a pair of very silly pens, with multi-coloured spirals and tufts of feathers and bits that lit up when pressure was applied to the nibs.
All at once the door opened, and everyone – including Thaddeus – looked over to see who was coming in.
‘Ah,’ said Thaddeus. He nodded at the newcomer, a short, sleek, plump man in a pin-striped suit, who wore a gold ring on the little finger of his left hand. ‘Max. Good. Come in.’
‘Thaddeus,’ Max replied. ‘Mind if I bring my boys?’
‘Not at all.’
Max swivelled and jerked his head. In response, two more men entered the room. They were very large. Though they were also dressed in suits, they would have looked more comfortable in leather jackets and studded belts. Both had huge hands, menacing glowers, and scars all over their shaven heads.
They positioned themselves behind the lectern, one on either side. Cadel decided that they must be bodyguards.
‘Some of you,’ Thaddeus informed the class, ‘might have difficulty with these new concepts I’ve mentioned. Your minds will have been programmed in certain ways, and you may find it hard to reconfigure them. To help you, let me introduce a man we like to call “the Maestro”, who has made it his specialty to examine that loaded word, “evil”. But before h
e does, I want to point out one thing. It’s quite simple. You’ve heard it before. No pain, no gain.’ Thaddeus’s gaze swept the room. ‘No pain, no gain,’ he repeated. ‘It’s something we’ve learned throughout history. It’s something we know in our gut. Read the Bible – Book of Revelations. Before the coming of Christ, we’re supposed to be getting war, famine, disease and death. Read Karl Marx. Before the new world order will come the revolution. There can be no gain without pain. So if you’re having any niggling doubts, just remember that. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Okay.’ He stepped down from the lectern, suddenly. ‘Over to you, Maestro.’
Max inclined his head. He had large, dark, melancholy eyes, and slicked-back hair. As Thaddeus seated himself on one of the wooden benches, Max began to address the class in a rather high voice that was stamped with a New Jersey accent.
‘Tank you, Dr Roth,’ he said, and put on a pair of reading glasses before removing a small stack of cards from his breast pocket. These he placed on the lectern in front of him, referring to them occasionally during his speech. ‘I won’t beat around de bush, ladies and gents. Next time I see you, we’ll have more time to concentrate on aspects of morality, but right now I wanna talk about an old saying: namely, “Hell Is Udder People”.’
He paused for an instant. Niobe tittered. The two bodyguards shifted from foot to foot.
‘If hell is udder people,’ the Maestro went on, ‘den so is evil. I’m convinced of dis fact. If you look up “evil” in any dictionary, you’ll find it means everyting you’d expect it to mean: harmful, wrong, malicious – you name it. And of course it’s a woid used by just about everyone when describing udder people. You never hear nobody call himself evil. Oh, no. Misguided, maybe. Mistaken. Lazy. Stoopid. Even cruel. But not evil. So what if you toss a cigarette butt out of a car window during a fire ban? It might make you careless, but it don’t make you evil. So what if you kill a nest fulla ants? Does it make you evil? Society don’t tink so. It don’t call you evil if you kill a million fish wid an oil leak from a tanker. Greedy, but not evil. If you went and shot fifty horses in a stable, den maybe you’d be evil. Because society loves horses, and it couldn’t care less about ants or krill.’
The Maestro cleared his throat.
‘Evil is just a woid,’ he declared, ‘used by society to condemn de actions of people it don’t like. Evil is the opposite of what society calls good. Some people might call bull-fights evil, but de Spanish don’t. Some people call war evil, but you don’t see it going outta fashion. De concept of evil is as flexible as a hunka clay. You can fashion it into practically any shape you want. So while some people might call dis institution evil, if dey ever found out about it’ – he flashed a closed-mouth smile at Thaddeus, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes – ‘let’s not forget what de real problem is. People like dat are using de woid because dey’re scared. Because Dr Darkkon’s ideas will rob ’em of any power. What dose people call evil is a respected philosophy of life known as “Survival of the Fittest”.’
At this point, the door opened again. Alerted by a cool gust of air, as well as by the movement of heads and the creaking of seats, Max peered over his shoulder. In the doorway stood a middle-aged man with long, grey hair tied back in a ponytail. He had a seamed face, a casual slouch and an earring in one ear. He wore very old clothes.
One of the bodyguards, Cadel noticed, had stuck his hand into his jacket. But he withdrew it when the Maestro frowned at him.
‘Come in, Luther,’ said Thaddeus.
Luther closed the door. He slipped into a seat near Thaddeus, while the Maestro waited, watching him with mournful eyes that contained not one spark of animation or enthusiasm. Not until Luther was properly settled did the Maestro proceed.
‘I want you to tink about dis woid, dis concept, “evil” ,’ he said. ‘I want you to reflect on de idea of right and wrong. How much is really wrong? Is it wrong to lie, or cheat or steal? Society says it is. But what if a lie does no harm? What if a cheater is a successful and benevolent businessman? What if a diamond-studded collar on some guy’s dog is stolen by a starving street kid? My friends, it will be my job, over de next few months, to try and answer dese questions – or at least to get you to ask ’em.’
Cadel, who had certainly never asked them, wondered why not. It was probably because of Thaddeus. Thaddeus had never left him any room for doubt. Thaddeus was the one who always asked – and answered – such questions for him. Thaddeus had always known what was right for Cadel.
As the Maestro wound up his speech, Cadel’s attention wandered. He became interested in one of the bodyguards. Was he wearing false teeth?
‘You need to free up your minds,’ Max finished. ‘You need to remember your goals. And if you do, the woild will be a better place. At least in de long run.’ He dipped his chin, and looked out at his audience over the tops of his glasses. ‘We’ll be re-examining dat loaded term “better”, too,’ he added, and Thaddeus chuckled.
‘Thank you, Maestro,’ he said, rising. The two bodyguards stepped forward to join Max, who surrendered the lectern to Luther with an abrupt nod. Thaddeus lifted a hand as the Maestro made his way out, one bodyguard behind him, one in front. They seemed to cast a pall over the whole room. Only when they had vanished, and the door had banged shut, did the atmosphere lighten.
People began to move again, stretching and whispering. One of the twins giggled. Thaddeus faced the class.
‘I hope that was clear enough,’ he said. ‘Anyone still in trouble can sort things out with the Maestro during the series of lectures he plans to give you. And now, to finish off, let me introduce Luther Lasco, Professor of the School of Destruction. He’s going to give you his first talk on the consequences that you might expect if you’re stupid enough to blab about Axis. Professor?’
Luther acknowledged Thaddeus’s words with a twitch of his lips. His face and body were oddly mismatched. While he had a shambling gait, and limbs that appeared almost jointless, and clothes that sagged and flopped, his face was as stiff and hard as flint. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. His accent was difficult to place. Was it a New Zealand accent, Cadel wondered? Canadian? Irish?
Luther didn’t bother to mount the lectern. He simply stood up and swung around to confront the class, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
‘This institution has been in existence for five years,’ he rasped. ‘It survives because its true purpose remains a secret. You were all given precise instructions about what you should say to anyone not involved with Axis. Should you fail to carry out those instructions, the penalties will be harsh. Very harsh. And if you think they don’t apply to you, think again. They apply to everybody.’
He spoke almost carelessly, as if reciting something that was a bit of a bore, and the effect was chilling. All movement in the room ceased.
‘We’ve had people over the years who have thought they could get away with breaking the rules,’ Luther pointed out. ‘Over the next few weeks, I’m going to tell you about them, and about what happened to them. Case studies. My first case study involves a guy called Titus.’
Cadel didn’t really want to hear about Titus. While Luther described how Titus had been caught boasting about the institute to one of his former gang buddies – and had become a ‘missing person’, as a consequence – Cadel watched the other people in the room. The twins were looking sulky. Abraham Coggins had sunk low into his seat, as if trying to make himself small. Kunio was nodding. The Bludgeon was chewing gum, very slowly, like a cow.
Thaddeus appeared to be examining his fingernails.
‘. . . because to make a problem go away, you have to be well organised,’ Luther continued. ‘Planning is the essence of all success. Without planning, you create more problems than you solve. Any questions?’
Cadel blinked. He could feel the surprise of those around him.
‘Well?’ said Luther, impatiently. ‘Are there any questions?’
Silence. People tried not to cat
ch his eye.
‘All right then. Since you haven’t got any questions for me, I’ve got one for you,’ Luther growled, folding his arms. ‘What happened to Titus? Can anyone tell me? Anyone?’
There was a pause. It was at least ten seconds before the Bludgeon raised his hand, and replied.
‘Uh – you made him disappear?’
‘Wrong,’ snapped Luther, and the Bludgeon turned red.
‘But you just told us – !’ he spluttered.
‘Titus is alive and well and working on a South American container ship,’ Luther interposed. ‘We’ve got proof that he is. No one else has got proof that he isn’t. You get my point? Hmm?’
His gaze travelled from face to face. One by one the class nodded, solemnly.
‘Anything else you’ve heard, it’s a rumour. No one can even prove that he was ever here. That’s the way I work, and it’s the way I expect you to work.’ Luther cracked an unexpected half-smile, which broke up the planes of his jaw like a chisel. ‘There’s a rule around here: no killing on campus,’ he said. ‘Well, that holds as long as you can’t prove that it didn’t happen. Sloppy assassinations cause us a lot of trouble. They’re as bad as shooting your mouth off. Smart assassinations – they’re called accidents. And we all know that accidents happen. It’s a part of life.’
There was a subtle shifting of bottoms on seats.
‘But let me warn you,’ Luther added, his smile fading, his eyes narrowing. ‘We’re not stupid. We’ve seen it all. So don’t think you’re going to pull it off, whatever it is, because you won’t. You might fool the police, but you won’t fool us. Not ever. You’ll come to realise the truth of what I’m saying this semester, when I tell you what happened to the other punks who thought they were smarter than the faculty.’
Without warning, he flung himself onto a bench. Cadel realised, with a start, that he had finished. Thaddeus stood up. He smiled benignly at his colleague.