The Focus Effect

Sixteen

Kingshire lays out the agenda for the next two weeks. The calendar I've asked for hangs on the wall next to the TV in the Safe Room. I glance at it while he talks. Christmas is in a week.

"There's a night operation coming up on New Year's Eve. There will be a briefing the day before. This is how missions are handled. You are going along mainly to observe but may be asked to perform some small tasks. Remember, this is more about seeing how you handle yourself in the field and how well you can follow orders. Although it is categorized as a low risk mission, I won't lie to you, it will be dangerous. I've seen low risk missions deteriorate, fall apart and people die. How do you feel?"

"Good," I reply automatically. I appear focused, in the zone. I'm totally lying. The thought of this mission-so soon-leaves me feeling slightly unbalanced. But I can't show it. I can't risk messing this up.

He bobs his head up and down. "The next two weeks belong to you," he says. "I would suggest that you continue to polish your aikido techniques and meditation. Transmogrification is especial-"

I'm not really hearing anything he is saying because a thought so forcefully enters my mind that it consumes me. I struggle to contain the emotion that blooms so quickly in the pit of my belly. "I want to fight you."

The look on his face is someplace between insulted (I interrupted him, and I have a feeling that no one interrupts this man), confused and maybe even amused. "Excuse me?" he asks.

"You know," I smile, trying to ward off the anger I'm feeling. "For a peek at my file. I want to fight you."

He genuinely seems to have forgotten about his challenge for a moment. When he remembers, he smiles. "Of course. I think that can be arranged." Kingshire clears his throat. "As I was saying-"

"When?" I interrupt him again.

There is a flash of anger in his eyes-the same look he had when he punished Jameson with the cat-o-nine tails. But that look slips away to reveal a smile, like an icy sheet of snow sliding from a rooftop in the warm sun. "What? You don't want it to be a surprise?" he inquires.

"Surprise me now," I answer.

"Okay. Christmas morning. My gift to you. A chance to kick my old and tired arse. May I continue now?" he says, clearly becoming agitated with my interruptions.

"Yes, of course. Sorry," I add for good measure.

"Transmogrification is essential over the next two weeks. You need to keep your radiation levels down. Although you'll be wearing the nanocarbon suit for protection and the mission is a twenty-four hour operation, we don't want to have to rely on your suit for anything more than stopping bullets. As I said before, things can and do go wrong. If you're stranded in the field for an extended amount of time, for example, taken prisoner or separated from a rendezvous point, you might not have time to bring your radiation levels down on your own if the suit malfunctions. The public doesn't take kindly to civilian casualties when things go wrong. My point is that the suit is a prototype and should be treated as such."

"I will," I assure him.

"Do you have any questions for me?"

"Yeah," I huff. "Are you at least sure the suit can stop bullets?"

He chuckles. "Of that, I am certain. Anything else?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes."

He gives me a questioning look.

"What becomes of people like Doctor Bryson?" The look in his eyes says that I shouldn't have asked this question. I try to back pedal. "I mean, if you don't kill them and they are of no use to the program...I'm just curious."