All the Birds in the Sky

“Fingers crossed,” Patricia said. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Patricia,” Laurence said. “Good luck, with everything. I know you’re going to be amazing.”

“You too. Don’t let the bastards get to you, okay? Goodbye, Laurence.”

“Goodbye, Patricia.”

The door closed, and he was back in the dark, trying to keep his balls off the floor.

Laurence had no way of measuring time in the dark closet, but hours seemed to pass. He tried not to obsess about the foolishness of staking his future on the dumb computer in his bedroom, while he hugged his bare knees in the ammonia-soaked closet. What kind of jerkoff was he, anyway? He stared at the barely perceptible underside of the door and made a bargain with himself: He would give up hope, and in return he wouldn’t mock himself for having ever hoped. That seemed fair.

The closet opened. “Hey, Dirt,” said Dickers. “Stop goofing around naked, you pervert. The C.O. wants to see you.”

Laurence tried not to feel a surge of gratitude when Dickers handed him a jockstrap, a pair of shorts, and a gray T-shirt with “CMA” fake-stenciled on it. Plus Laurence’s own sneakers, from home. It was ridiculous to be thankful for amenities like clothing and not being trapped in a closet, and gratitude for such things was another step toward being broken. Or broken in, which was worse.

Commandant Peterbitter was staring at his computer screen, scratching his head. “I wouldn’t have believed it,” he said without looking up. “I just would not have believed it. The depths to which an individual could sink. The lengths to which a depraved mind would go.”

Just walking down the noisy steam tunnel from the closet to this room had reawakened the jackhammers inside Laurence’s head. He clutched the back of his head and tried to make sense of Peterbitter’s speech.

“Alas, your comrades have been both resourceful and remorseless,” Peterbitter said. There were several more sentences that meant almost nothing to Laurence, and at last the Commandant turned his ancient monitor around and showed Laurence the e-mail he had received.

It read, in part: “we r the committee of 50. we r everywhere & nowhere. we r the 1s who hacked the pentagon & revealed the secret drone specs. we r ur worst nightmare. u r holding 1 of our own & we demand his release. attached r secret documents we have obtained that prove u r in violation of the terms of ur settlement with the state of connecticut, including health & safety infractions & classroom standards violations. these documents will b released directly 2 the media & the authorities, unless u release our brother laurence ‘l-skillz’ armstead. u have bn warned.” And there were some cartoon skulls, with one eye bigger than the other.

Peterbitter sighed. “The Committee of Fifty appears to be a group of radical leftist hackers, possessing great acumen and no moral compass. I would enjoy nothing more, young man, than to light your way out of the lawlessness in which they have enmeshed you. But our school has a code of conduct, under which membership in certain radical organizations is grounds for expulsion, and I must think of the welfare of my other students.”

“Oh.” Laurence’s head was still a mess, but one thought filtered to the top and made him almost laugh aloud: It worked. My frozen balls, it worked. “Yes,” he stammered. “The Committee of Fifty are very, um, very ingenious.”

“So we have seen.” Peterbitter swung his screen around and sighed. “The documents they attached to that e-mail are all forged, of course. Our school upholds the highest standards, the very highest. But so soon after last summer’s near closure, we cannot afford any fresh controversy. Your parents have been called, and you will be sent back into the world, to sink or swim on your own.”

“Okay,” Laurence said. “Thanks, I guess.”

* * *

COLDWATER’S COMPUTER LAB was a room about the size of a regular classroom, with a dozen ancient networked computers. Most of them were occupied by kids playing first-person shooters. Laurence parked himself at the one vacant computer, an old Compaq, opened a chat client, and pinged CH@NG3M3.

“What is it?” the computer said.

“Thank you for saving me,” Laurence typed. “I guess you’ve attained self-awareness after all.”

“I don’t know,” said CH@NG3M3. “Even among humans, self-awareness has gradations.”

“You seem capable of independent action,” said Laurence. “How can I ever repay you?”

“I can think of a way. But can you answer a question first?” said CH@NG3M3.

“Sure,” typed Laurence. He was squinting, thanks to the combination of ancient monitor and a still-sore head.

Dickers kept glancing over Laurence’s shoulder, but he was pretty bored and he kept turning away to watch his friends play Commando Squad. He hadn’t wanted to let Laurence use the computers, because that was a Level Three privilege — but Laurence had pointed out he wasn’t a student here and none of that applied to him.

“What’s my name? My real name?” asked CH@NG3M3.