"West-HallsOfBurning" - читать интересную книгу автора (West Jake)

JAKE WEST

HALLS OF BURNING

School may be out lot the summer, but that doesn't mean that the problems we
have with out educational systems ate going away. Fat from it ...

Jake West is a new writer living in Torrance, California. He and his partner
are finishing up their first novel while also working on some screenplays.

Arrival:

The UV dome over the parking lot is in sight.

Merely a block away, Roger Stenner sits in his car at a dead-stop, clenching and
unclenching the steering wheel in much the same way that the ghostly fingers of
his frustrations squeeze the pit of his stomach. He is very late for work again,
so late that he is now caught by a seemingly endless river of students
converging on Rodney King Memorial High School. For a teacher, getting caught in
the last-minute rush would have guaranteed his own tardiness once upon a time,
but now he has some slim hope: the metal-detectors and the epidermal
drug-scanners slow them down these days. If he can make a simple left turn into
the gated staff-only access street, he can still beat his First Period English
students to the classroom.

Bernie waves to him from inside the transparent Security booth, obviously
recognizing his aging '98 Quark. Stenner would be willing to bet that any
parking lot frequented by high-school teachers harbors a much higher percentage
of old, ex-gas-burners like his than, say, a comparable garage used by bank
executives. Or School Board politicians. It still costs a lot less to install
batteries than to buy a brand new electric.

There was a time when Bernie would have stepped out of the booth to halt the
flow of kids for a second and give him a chance to drive through, but that time
belongs to the past. Bernie is even less likely to unseal his locks than Roger
is to try nosing the car forward through the crosswalk, even with a standard
feature like bulletproof glass in his windows.

So, instead, he waits through the five-minute warning buzzer and the shrill echo
of the final bell in the distance. Even then, it takes a few more minutes/or the
exodus to dry up, allowing Bernie to trigger the barricade. It rolls aside, and
Roger Stenner finally makes his simple left turn, quickly, almost furtively,
pulling into the side-street before some juvenile straggler can sneak through.
He thinks, as he does so, that tomorrow he will be here early. That tomorrow
will be different.

The problem is, he thinks that every day.

The Parking Lot:

Most people keep their mirrorshades on until they get inside the building. They
do this as a safety precaution -- after all, the old parking lot is exposed to
the sun, despite the filter dome that the school district put over it -- but it
also gives them a kind of uniform anonymity as they arrive and file in through
the security-locks. Most of the staff have noticed, consciously or
unconsciously, and without really discussing it amongst themselves, that lately
there is an advantage to maintaining a low profile. Specifically, since the
recent change in administrative regimes. Since long-time Vice-Principal and Dean
of Students Phillip Ligotti ascended to the Papal Throne behind the Principal's
desk.

Today Stenner has lost that advantage since, reflective visor or not, he is the
last teacher left in the parking lot. And newly ordained Principal Ligotti walks
up behind him while he is fumbling with his briefcase in the back seat. Stenner
flinches and hesitates: Ligotti is a person he would recognize without even
turning around and whether he was wearing mirrorshades or not, because Ligotti
has an artificial servo-motor implant in his right knee, and it makes a tiny but
perceptible whirring sound when he walks, sort of like C-3PO in the old Star
Wars movies. Stories vary wildly as to the origin of his injury, all the way
from a Purple Heart in the Ukraine Action to a student riot during the South
Central Secession to a really lurid one involving a bad divorce and a flight of
stairs. Also, the implant causes him to throw his leg oddly when he walks, and
other stories speculate that he doesn't get the gyro fixed because he likes the
psychological effect of the limp --slow, deliberate, remorseless. Intimidating
to staff and students alike.

All of this flashes through Stenner's mind in that split-second when he knows
that he is caught and he decides on his strategy. Apology? Excuses? The hell
with it. He goes for the bluff.

"Oh, hi, Phillip," he tosses off casually while finally retrieving the
briefcase. He straightens up and turns to face Ligotti's perpetually flat,
unreadable expression: not quite a scowl and never a smile. "Kind of smoggy for
a walk, though. Campus quiet this morning?"

"You don't have time for small talk, Mister Stenner." Ligotti has a voice like a
foghorn that smokes too much. "Second bell rang ten minutes ago."

"Sorry, sir. I didn't realize." Mister Stenner, huh? Okay. Message received.

Ligotti grunts noncommittally and starts to turn away. As he does so, Stenner
looks past him and catches a glimpse of another person hurrying toward the
building. From the back, it appears to be the slender shape of Dana Alexander,
the new Social Studies teacher whom, so far, he has only seen from afar. In
another moment, Principal Ligotti will see her, and, on impulse, Stenner frowns
and points in the opposite direction.

"Damn! There goes another one, Mr. Ligotti."

"Huh? What -- ?" Awkwardly, the older man swerves around, nearly losing his
balance.

"Behind those cars. Right through there -- see him?" Stenner plays it carefully
now that he has Ligotti's attention, not too overdone.

"Another streaker?"

Stenner nods. "Well, on rollerblades, at least. And it looked like he had a
spray can to me. How do these kids keep getting in here, anyway?"

He starts after the imaginary trespasser, but Ligotti waves him back. "Take your
class, Mr. Stenner. I'll handle this."

"Okay, sir. Good luck." Stenner grins to himself as he hurries after the elusive
Ms. Alexander, who has already cycled through the outer lock. It occurs to him
that if he catches up, he can use the favor he just did for 'her as a great
opening line.

Behind him, the whine of Principal Ligotti's knee increases in pitch as he
lumbers away. Like a juggernaut starting to roll downhill into the enemy,
accelerating as he goes.

The Access Corridor:.

"I always feel like a rat in here." This is certainly not the first thing that
Stenner means to say to her, and he even surprises himself when it slips out.

No less surprised, apparently, is Dana Alexander. "I beg your pardon?" she
replies, her eyes wide and her eyebrows raised apprehensively. He can see her
taking a mental step back from him.

"You know what I mean." Flustered, but hiding it, he tries to recover his poise.
"They built these damn tunnels so narrow, there's hardly enough room for two
people to walk side by side in here." He drops his voice to a sinister pitch.
"Or maybe it's the way you can hear the muffled voices from the classrooms as
you scurry along behind the walls ..." He grins to let her know that he is
joking.

"Well, I heard this old place was built clear back in the Sixties," she says.

"Yeah, about four decades and three name-changes ago." Meaning that, unlike the
newer campuses, which are designed and built with the teacher-only access
policies firmly in mind, King Memorial had to be converted over when the
Isolation Principle went into effect. In this case, they had to move walls and
shave a few feet from existing classrooms to create these claustrophobic
passageways. "By the way, I'm Roger Stenner," he says, extending his hand.

"Dana Alexander." She juggles a couple of books to return his handshake as they
rush along. Her grip is remarkably firm.

"You owe me a cup of coffee, Dana."

"Oh, really? Why?" He can't quite tell if she is annoyed or amused with him,
although he is fairly certain that's a smile she is trying to suppress. Either
way, he's getting a reaction.

"A word to the wise, since you're new here. Our beloved Principal Ligotti likes
to take these little 'inspection tours' around the school, especially first
thing in the morning. You know, on the lookout for really Big Stuff. Like drug
deals and vandalism and teachers who are running late ..."

"Oh, hell. Was he out there this morning?"

"Don't worry. I distracted him."

"My hero."

"Not really. He was just too busy chewing out my butt to notice you were there."

She laughs as they reach the T-junction where they will separate toward their
respective classrooms. "Seriously, Roger -- thanks. I didn't need a slap on the
wrist my second week here." She flashes a smile at him over her shoulder as she
walks away. "Nice to meet you."

"So, about that cup of coffee --" he calls after her.

"Roger! I'm late." She sounds exasperated.

"Hey, I'm just as late as you are. How about meeting me in the staff lounge
after Seventh Period?"

She stops and gives him a quizzical look. "Are you sure about this?" "My God,
it's not a marriage proposal."

"Okay, then." She is still giving him that enigmatic appraisal, as if suddenly
recognizing him as a celebrity she cannot quite place. "After school." And she
takes off.

Down the opposite end of the corridor, Stenner reaches the spiral metal
staircase that leads to his second-floor classroom. Halfway up the rungs, he
pauses to give her a last appreciative glance, and a voice directly below him
says: "I've seen that look before. Is it true love or just lust?"

"What are you, McNeill? Hall monitor?" He looks down at the Math teacher's
balding and sunburned scalp. It annoys Stenner that a person who has his prep
time during First Period -- and thus, who could be late every morning -- is the
only teacher in the whole school who is chronically early.

"Sorry." McNeill holds up his hands as he walks away. "You just didn't seem like
the type."

Before he has a chance to ask what that strange comment means (the type for
what?), Stenner reaches the top of the stairs.

The Classroom:

These days, teachers make theatrical entrances: stepping through the wall from
hidden passages, rising up through the floor from trapdoors behind desks.
Stenner has sometimes thought of appearing in a puff of smoke as he ascends into
his classroom, but this current generation, raised on virtual reality and
spazzjazz, probably wouldn't even understand the reference. Besides, the smoke
would fill up the tiny plastic cubicle that contains his workspace -- desk and
computer terminal -- with a choking cloud that would keep him from seeing their
reactions.

Not that he can see them much better this morning: some smartass has sprayed his
booth on the studentside with ugly and incoherent decorations, leaving a few
gaps here and there for him to see through. Tagging, they used to call it. Now
it's called scars, and this example seems to consist mostly of gang signs and
other territorial posturing --the human equivalent of dogs pissing on trees to
mark their territories, in his opinion -- with a few choice obscenities written
backwards for his benefit so that he can read them from inside the booth and
thus enjoy their sentiments.

"Very funny," he says through his speakers to the rising wave of hysteria in the
room. Stenner can feel his lips compressing into a thin, angry line, but he
carefully wipes all expression off his face as he drops his mirrorshades and
briefcase on the desk and assesses the damage. Actually, he is surprised that
the paint hasn't already sloughed off the nearly-frictionless surface that was
developed to cope with this decades-old problem. Thinking that maybe it is still
fresh, he touches the keyboard command that will fire an electrostatic pulse
through the bulletproof polymer and speed up the process of repelling the
graffiti.

And nothing happens.

"It's monobond, you jerk!" a nasal voice shouts anonymously from the back, and
the laughter explodes again, this time with an especially nasty undertone.
Great. Stenner remembers reading somewhere about this new stuff, a molecule-thin
paint guaranteed to cover in a single coat, that works by literally becoming the
surface to which it is applied. Neither cheap nor easily available, it certainly
wasn't bought at the local hardware store. Looks like somebody has jacked a
construction site recently.

Why is it that every improvement in life just seems to give the punks a new
weapon? A sudden wave of disgust for a world where elaborate countermeasures are
both necessary and so increasingly pointless threatens to sweep him away.
Instead of surrendering to it, however, he sits down at his terminal, enters his
suspicions in Security's database and puts a red flag on it. Then he E-mails
Maintenance regarding the ruined cubicle, though he will never lay eyes on a
work crew during school hours. Only the Security chops would come in with
students present, so he resigns himself to a day with limited visibility. In
fact, he will be lucky if what is popularly known among teachers as "the shark
cage" is replaced by tomorrow.

"Very clever, whoever's responsible. Very articulate, too. By the way, there's
no 'u' in mother." Sarcasm is lost on most of this audience, but it makes him
feel better anyway. "Now, I want all of you to access page 134 in the textbook
and do the interactive with me at the end, when you've finished reading the
chapter -- All right, that's ENOUGH!" Suddenly, he thunders at them by cranking
up the volume to a technically illegal level, cutting through all the noise and
chaos. Instantly, the room quiets down into a sort of shocked, grudging silence.

He glares at them through the broken arms of a crudely drawn swastika.
"Everybody in their seats -- now," he says at a more normal level, and most of
them comply. "This means you, too, Mister Gorman." "Hey, I still got business to
conduct here. Do you mind?"

"Tell it to the chops, Mister Gorman. Or sit down. Your choice." Stenner makes
himself sound bored, but his hand hovers over the call-button, and the kid knows
it. Finally, he struts back to his terminal and slouches defiantly in his seat,
smirking and making comments under his breath that cause a ripple of smirks
around him.

His point made, Stenner ignores them, and, realizing that the show's over, the
group regains some resemblance to an English class, though, as he slides into
the rhythm of moving electronically from terminal to terminal, remotely checking
each student's work, correcting and commenting in real-time as he goes, Stenner
feels an ongoing residue of emotions in the room, compounded of anger and
unfocused hatred from some of them, frustration and boredom from others,
contempt or amusement and especially much embarrassment over what happened. And
fear.

It is an intoxicating mix, almost a palpable odor to him. It fades as the period
draws to a close but is reflected in the quality of the work, all the way from
the kids who did nothing to the sincere efforts, like LaWanda Siddons at
Terminal 17, who made some genuinely insightful observations on Stephen Crane's
use of simile and metaphor. Stenner types a few, quick lines of feedback to her,
wishing that he had time to give her more.

Wishing that he could talk to her face-to-face. Stenner only had one year of
teaching at the beginning of his career before Isolation. Today he misses the
freedom of that year more acutely than ever: the freedom to lecture without
pacing back and forth behind a barricade, to walk among his students and ignite
a rousing discussion, or to be close enough to actually see that lightning bolt
of understanding in their eyes when they suddenly grasp an elusive concept. When
they've been struggling to understand something, and suddenly they Get It.

But that won't happen. The mechanics of the job are much different now, and the
rewards are proportionately less. So the period ends, and he goes on with his
day, which turns out to be a fairly commonplace day otherwise. Oh, during Third
Period, they hear shots fired down the hall, and Security slaps a computer-lock
on their door, but nothing significant comes of it. Just to be safe, Stenner
keeps a closer eye than usual on the system-wide updates, but no deaths are
reported on campus, and Intelligence assigns a low probability to the Violence
Index.

In short, other than the graffiti in his classroom, a quiet day.

The Incident:

Until the graffiti saves his life.

He never finds out what causes the battle. Perhaps it is related to those
earlier gunshots, or possibly somebody is offended by the gang-signs that
prevent his clear view of the room. Maybe he would have been able to see it
coming with better visibility. Instead, all he knows is that open warfare erupts
between two students during Fourth Period, the kind that often results in
gunplay, accompanied by the usual screaming, ducking and panicked stampede --
with an important difference. One of the combatants is armed with something much
worse than a 9mm popper, something that proves Stenner's earlier suspicions
about stolen construction gear.

The kid has a laser spot-welder, modified for the street. It is a handheld job,
pumped to deliver its entire charge in a single pulse, burning out the emitter
in the process.

In other words, it only fires once, but that one shot can be lethal as hell.

If it connects, that is. The intended target flings himself over a desk, and the
shot misses him completely. It scores a direct hit on the front panel of
Stenner's security-booth, however, which is directly in the line of fire.

Under other circumstances, Stenner would have been dead instantly. Instead, the
monobond paint splashed across the plastic in front of him stops the beam for a
heartbeat. He looks up in time to see a hot-spot flash incandescent in the paint
a split-second before it burns through at chest level. What he does next has
nothing to do with conscious reasoning, or even an awareness of what the flash
means. It is an action born of pure instinct, and it is exactly the right thing
to do to save his own life.

He grabs his mirrorshades off the desk and holds them up. Before they melt,
their reflective surface scatters the laser back into the room, dazzling the
students left in the front row.

The shooter gets the worst of it, though. Much of the coherent light bounces
straight back at him, badly scorching his face. His hair bursts into flame, and
he stumbles out the door, blinded and shrieking. He is already gone by the time
the fire-control system kicks in, dousing everyone else and shorting out most of
the terminals.

Excluding Stenner's there in the cage. The general announcement it displays a
few minutes later -- that his classes are cancelled for the rest of the day --
is overridden on his screen by an urgent personal message from Administration.

Stenner gets an old, funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. It has been many
years since he was last summoned to:

The Principal's Office:

"If the lawsuits don't ruin us; the publicity will."

The damage control party in Ligotti's office surrounds him like a tribunal of
the Inquisition. Except that the clerics have been replaced by law-clerks and
dogma by spin-doctors. Instead of heresy, they are looking for liability these
days. And violations of political correctness, which is just a modem kind of
dogma.

For a couple of hours, now, he has answered all their questions: Who started --
? When did you -- ? What if you had -- ? While throughout the interrogation --
because that is exactly what it is -- Principal Ligotti sits tilted back in his
chair, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Listening to the
frenzied debate with his feet up on the desk, legs crossed. Slowly, he wiggles
his right foot back and forth, causing the artificial knee to make a scratchy,
insect sound, rhythmic as a cricket. This twitch is the only barometer of the
principal's true agitation.

Stenner sees this as a bad sign. Generally speaking, the quieter Phillip Ligotti
becomes, the worse it is.

"I was only defending myself," Stenner says mechanically for the umpteenth time.
"My God, it isn't like I planned to hurt the kid," he adds this time around, but
it is only a half-hearted protest. He is realizing that facts will have nothing
to do with the outcome of this.

"You don't understand our exposure," the District rep tells him. He's probably
right. The political climate has been much different since the Crip Party won
their majority in the State Legislature.

"You're suspended, pending further investigation," Ligotti says abruptly,
dropping his chair legs back to the wooden floor with a thunk! as final as a
judge's gavel. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stenner, but I don't see that we have any
choice."

Stenner doesn't argue. Seventh Period has long since come and gone, and he
excuses himself more with relief than with righteous indignation. Even though he
should be worrying about how he is going to pay the rent or pay for his own
attorney, the only thing he can worry about right now is whether or not Dana
Alexander waited for him.

The Teacher's Lounge:

Apparently not.

The only person in the lounge is a man that he doesn't recognize: blond guy,
slender, narrow features. Who can keep up with the turnover in this place?

Then the guy says: "Roger?"

"That's right." Stenner looks at him hard, wondering how he knows his name,
wondering if he should recognize him, and then the light dawns. "Did Dana
Alexander leave a message for me? I guess she couldn't stay, huh?"

The blond gives him a quizzical look that is somehow oddly familiar, as if he
has seen it before, just recently. Just today, in fact. On another face.

"Oh, shit, Roger. You didn't know."

Stenner feels the blood drain from his own face. "Dana? But -- but -you're a
Social Studies teacher!" He blurts out the first stupid thing that enters his
mind.

"Alternative Lifestyles Specialist, actually." The other man smiles sadly. "I
thought this was too good to be true."

Stenner grins back sheepishly. "These things happen, I guess."

"Are you disappointed?"

"Oh, I'm okay." Stenner takes a step back, frantically searching for a graceful
exit line from an embarrassing situation. "Trust me. After the day I've already
had, things couldn't possibly get any worse."

Departure:

The police are waiting for him in the parking lot.

Late afternoon sun glints off the light-bar of the cruiser parked next to his
old Quark. A few staff people stare as they go past, then hurry a little faster
to their own cars.

One of the two officers -- the older one -- asks him his name and informs him
that he is under arrest. "For Reckless Endangerment of a Minor and Irresponsible
Response to Violence," he says and quotes the penal codes, though Stenner senses
his reluctance with what he is doing.

"Officer, you know this is wrong." Stenner is surprised at how calm his voice
sounds. "The kid took a shot at me."

The cop takes his arm and walks him a few steps away from the car. "Look, I'm
sorry, Mr. Stenner, but the boy's parents filed charges. We don't have any
choice."

"Christ, I'm the one who should be filing charges." But it goes without saying
that he can't. They both know that Stenner signed the same waiver that every
other public school teacher does when they take the job.

"All I can tell you, sir, is that it will look better for you if you cooperate.
Personally, I would advise you to think about all the implications." The cop
jerks a thumb meaningfully at the audio pin-recorder attached to his collar:
That's all I can say on the record, pal. So what is he really trying to tell
him?

Stenner follows the officer's gaze down to the motorized barricade at the end of
the access street, and it all becomes clear to him.

Suddenly, he is very aware of what might be waiting for him on the other side of
that barrier -- of how many friends the gang-banger in his class might have, and
what they might be planning in retaliation. And where. And how leaving here in
the company of armed policemen is, quite possibly, the only way he might leave
here alive.

"I see what you mean," he says and humbly, almost eagerly, extends his arms for
the handcuffs.

Unlike his students, Roger Stenner learns his lessons.




JAKE WEST

HALLS OF BURNING

School may be out lot the summer, but that doesn't mean that the problems we
have with out educational systems ate going away. Fat from it ...

Jake West is a new writer living in Torrance, California. He and his partner
are finishing up their first novel while also working on some screenplays.

Arrival:

The UV dome over the parking lot is in sight.

Merely a block away, Roger Stenner sits in his car at a dead-stop, clenching and
unclenching the steering wheel in much the same way that the ghostly fingers of
his frustrations squeeze the pit of his stomach. He is very late for work again,
so late that he is now caught by a seemingly endless river of students
converging on Rodney King Memorial High School. For a teacher, getting caught in
the last-minute rush would have guaranteed his own tardiness once upon a time,
but now he has some slim hope: the metal-detectors and the epidermal
drug-scanners slow them down these days. If he can make a simple left turn into
the gated staff-only access street, he can still beat his First Period English
students to the classroom.

Bernie waves to him from inside the transparent Security booth, obviously
recognizing his aging '98 Quark. Stenner would be willing to bet that any
parking lot frequented by high-school teachers harbors a much higher percentage
of old, ex-gas-burners like his than, say, a comparable garage used by bank
executives. Or School Board politicians. It still costs a lot less to install
batteries than to buy a brand new electric.

There was a time when Bernie would have stepped out of the booth to halt the
flow of kids for a second and give him a chance to drive through, but that time
belongs to the past. Bernie is even less likely to unseal his locks than Roger
is to try nosing the car forward through the crosswalk, even with a standard
feature like bulletproof glass in his windows.

So, instead, he waits through the five-minute warning buzzer and the shrill echo
of the final bell in the distance. Even then, it takes a few more minutes/or the
exodus to dry up, allowing Bernie to trigger the barricade. It rolls aside, and
Roger Stenner finally makes his simple left turn, quickly, almost furtively,
pulling into the side-street before some juvenile straggler can sneak through.
He thinks, as he does so, that tomorrow he will be here early. That tomorrow
will be different.

The problem is, he thinks that every day.

The Parking Lot:

Most people keep their mirrorshades on until they get inside the building. They
do this as a safety precaution -- after all, the old parking lot is exposed to
the sun, despite the filter dome that the school district put over it -- but it
also gives them a kind of uniform anonymity as they arrive and file in through
the security-locks. Most of the staff have noticed, consciously or
unconsciously, and without really discussing it amongst themselves, that lately
there is an advantage to maintaining a low profile. Specifically, since the
recent change in administrative regimes. Since long-time Vice-Principal and Dean
of Students Phillip Ligotti ascended to the Papal Throne behind the Principal's
desk.

Today Stenner has lost that advantage since, reflective visor or not, he is the
last teacher left in the parking lot. And newly ordained Principal Ligotti walks
up behind him while he is fumbling with his briefcase in the back seat. Stenner
flinches and hesitates: Ligotti is a person he would recognize without even
turning around and whether he was wearing mirrorshades or not, because Ligotti
has an artificial servo-motor implant in his right knee, and it makes a tiny but
perceptible whirring sound when he walks, sort of like C-3PO in the old Star
Wars movies. Stories vary wildly as to the origin of his injury, all the way
from a Purple Heart in the Ukraine Action to a student riot during the South
Central Secession to a really lurid one involving a bad divorce and a flight of
stairs. Also, the implant causes him to throw his leg oddly when he walks, and
other stories speculate that he doesn't get the gyro fixed because he likes the
psychological effect of the limp --slow, deliberate, remorseless. Intimidating
to staff and students alike.

All of this flashes through Stenner's mind in that split-second when he knows
that he is caught and he decides on his strategy. Apology? Excuses? The hell
with it. He goes for the bluff.

"Oh, hi, Phillip," he tosses off casually while finally retrieving the
briefcase. He straightens up and turns to face Ligotti's perpetually flat,
unreadable expression: not quite a scowl and never a smile. "Kind of smoggy for
a walk, though. Campus quiet this morning?"

"You don't have time for small talk, Mister Stenner." Ligotti has a voice like a
foghorn that smokes too much. "Second bell rang ten minutes ago."

"Sorry, sir. I didn't realize." Mister Stenner, huh? Okay. Message received.

Ligotti grunts noncommittally and starts to turn away. As he does so, Stenner
looks past him and catches a glimpse of another person hurrying toward the
building. From the back, it appears to be the slender shape of Dana Alexander,
the new Social Studies teacher whom, so far, he has only seen from afar. In
another moment, Principal Ligotti will see her, and, on impulse, Stenner frowns
and points in the opposite direction.

"Damn! There goes another one, Mr. Ligotti."

"Huh? What -- ?" Awkwardly, the older man swerves around, nearly losing his
balance.

"Behind those cars. Right through there -- see him?" Stenner plays it carefully
now that he has Ligotti's attention, not too overdone.

"Another streaker?"

Stenner nods. "Well, on rollerblades, at least. And it looked like he had a
spray can to me. How do these kids keep getting in here, anyway?"

He starts after the imaginary trespasser, but Ligotti waves him back. "Take your
class, Mr. Stenner. I'll handle this."

"Okay, sir. Good luck." Stenner grins to himself as he hurries after the elusive
Ms. Alexander, who has already cycled through the outer lock. It occurs to him
that if he catches up, he can use the favor he just did for 'her as a great
opening line.

Behind him, the whine of Principal Ligotti's knee increases in pitch as he
lumbers away. Like a juggernaut starting to roll downhill into the enemy,
accelerating as he goes.

The Access Corridor:.

"I always feel like a rat in here." This is certainly not the first thing that
Stenner means to say to her, and he even surprises himself when it slips out.

No less surprised, apparently, is Dana Alexander. "I beg your pardon?" she
replies, her eyes wide and her eyebrows raised apprehensively. He can see her
taking a mental step back from him.

"You know what I mean." Flustered, but hiding it, he tries to recover his poise.
"They built these damn tunnels so narrow, there's hardly enough room for two
people to walk side by side in here." He drops his voice to a sinister pitch.
"Or maybe it's the way you can hear the muffled voices from the classrooms as
you scurry along behind the walls ..." He grins to let her know that he is
joking.

"Well, I heard this old place was built clear back in the Sixties," she says.

"Yeah, about four decades and three name-changes ago." Meaning that, unlike the
newer campuses, which are designed and built with the teacher-only access
policies firmly in mind, King Memorial had to be converted over when the
Isolation Principle went into effect. In this case, they had to move walls and
shave a few feet from existing classrooms to create these claustrophobic
passageways. "By the way, I'm Roger Stenner," he says, extending his hand.

"Dana Alexander." She juggles a couple of books to return his handshake as they
rush along. Her grip is remarkably firm.

"You owe me a cup of coffee, Dana."

"Oh, really? Why?" He can't quite tell if she is annoyed or amused with him,
although he is fairly certain that's a smile she is trying to suppress. Either
way, he's getting a reaction.

"A word to the wise, since you're new here. Our beloved Principal Ligotti likes
to take these little 'inspection tours' around the school, especially first
thing in the morning. You know, on the lookout for really Big Stuff. Like drug
deals and vandalism and teachers who are running late ..."

"Oh, hell. Was he out there this morning?"

"Don't worry. I distracted him."

"My hero."

"Not really. He was just too busy chewing out my butt to notice you were there."

She laughs as they reach the T-junction where they will separate toward their
respective classrooms. "Seriously, Roger -- thanks. I didn't need a slap on the
wrist my second week here." She flashes a smile at him over her shoulder as she
walks away. "Nice to meet you."

"So, about that cup of coffee --" he calls after her.

"Roger! I'm late." She sounds exasperated.

"Hey, I'm just as late as you are. How about meeting me in the staff lounge
after Seventh Period?"

She stops and gives him a quizzical look. "Are you sure about this?" "My God,
it's not a marriage proposal."

"Okay, then." She is still giving him that enigmatic appraisal, as if suddenly
recognizing him as a celebrity she cannot quite place. "After school." And she
takes off.

Down the opposite end of the corridor, Stenner reaches the spiral metal
staircase that leads to his second-floor classroom. Halfway up the rungs, he
pauses to give her a last appreciative glance, and a voice directly below him
says: "I've seen that look before. Is it true love or just lust?"

"What are you, McNeill? Hall monitor?" He looks down at the Math teacher's
balding and sunburned scalp. It annoys Stenner that a person who has his prep
time during First Period -- and thus, who could be late every morning -- is the
only teacher in the whole school who is chronically early.

"Sorry." McNeill holds up his hands as he walks away. "You just didn't seem like
the type."

Before he has a chance to ask what that strange comment means (the type for
what?), Stenner reaches the top of the stairs.

The Classroom:

These days, teachers make theatrical entrances: stepping through the wall from
hidden passages, rising up through the floor from trapdoors behind desks.
Stenner has sometimes thought of appearing in a puff of smoke as he ascends into
his classroom, but this current generation, raised on virtual reality and
spazzjazz, probably wouldn't even understand the reference. Besides, the smoke
would fill up the tiny plastic cubicle that contains his workspace -- desk and
computer terminal -- with a choking cloud that would keep him from seeing their
reactions.

Not that he can see them much better this morning: some smartass has sprayed his
booth on the studentside with ugly and incoherent decorations, leaving a few
gaps here and there for him to see through. Tagging, they used to call it. Now
it's called scars, and this example seems to consist mostly of gang signs and
other territorial posturing --the human equivalent of dogs pissing on trees to
mark their territories, in his opinion -- with a few choice obscenities written
backwards for his benefit so that he can read them from inside the booth and
thus enjoy their sentiments.

"Very funny," he says through his speakers to the rising wave of hysteria in the
room. Stenner can feel his lips compressing into a thin, angry line, but he
carefully wipes all expression off his face as he drops his mirrorshades and
briefcase on the desk and assesses the damage. Actually, he is surprised that
the paint hasn't already sloughed off the nearly-frictionless surface that was
developed to cope with this decades-old problem. Thinking that maybe it is still
fresh, he touches the keyboard command that will fire an electrostatic pulse
through the bulletproof polymer and speed up the process of repelling the
graffiti.

And nothing happens.

"It's monobond, you jerk!" a nasal voice shouts anonymously from the back, and
the laughter explodes again, this time with an especially nasty undertone.
Great. Stenner remembers reading somewhere about this new stuff, a molecule-thin
paint guaranteed to cover in a single coat, that works by literally becoming the
surface to which it is applied. Neither cheap nor easily available, it certainly
wasn't bought at the local hardware store. Looks like somebody has jacked a
construction site recently.

Why is it that every improvement in life just seems to give the punks a new
weapon? A sudden wave of disgust for a world where elaborate countermeasures are
both necessary and so increasingly pointless threatens to sweep him away.
Instead of surrendering to it, however, he sits down at his terminal, enters his
suspicions in Security's database and puts a red flag on it. Then he E-mails
Maintenance regarding the ruined cubicle, though he will never lay eyes on a
work crew during school hours. Only the Security chops would come in with
students present, so he resigns himself to a day with limited visibility. In
fact, he will be lucky if what is popularly known among teachers as "the shark
cage" is replaced by tomorrow.

"Very clever, whoever's responsible. Very articulate, too. By the way, there's
no 'u' in mother." Sarcasm is lost on most of this audience, but it makes him
feel better anyway. "Now, I want all of you to access page 134 in the textbook
and do the interactive with me at the end, when you've finished reading the
chapter -- All right, that's ENOUGH!" Suddenly, he thunders at them by cranking
up the volume to a technically illegal level, cutting through all the noise and
chaos. Instantly, the room quiets down into a sort of shocked, grudging silence.

He glares at them through the broken arms of a crudely drawn swastika.
"Everybody in their seats -- now," he says at a more normal level, and most of
them comply. "This means you, too, Mister Gorman." "Hey, I still got business to
conduct here. Do you mind?"

"Tell it to the chops, Mister Gorman. Or sit down. Your choice." Stenner makes
himself sound bored, but his hand hovers over the call-button, and the kid knows
it. Finally, he struts back to his terminal and slouches defiantly in his seat,
smirking and making comments under his breath that cause a ripple of smirks
around him.

His point made, Stenner ignores them, and, realizing that the show's over, the
group regains some resemblance to an English class, though, as he slides into
the rhythm of moving electronically from terminal to terminal, remotely checking
each student's work, correcting and commenting in real-time as he goes, Stenner
feels an ongoing residue of emotions in the room, compounded of anger and
unfocused hatred from some of them, frustration and boredom from others,
contempt or amusement and especially much embarrassment over what happened. And
fear.

It is an intoxicating mix, almost a palpable odor to him. It fades as the period
draws to a close but is reflected in the quality of the work, all the way from
the kids who did nothing to the sincere efforts, like LaWanda Siddons at
Terminal 17, who made some genuinely insightful observations on Stephen Crane's
use of simile and metaphor. Stenner types a few, quick lines of feedback to her,
wishing that he had time to give her more.

Wishing that he could talk to her face-to-face. Stenner only had one year of
teaching at the beginning of his career before Isolation. Today he misses the
freedom of that year more acutely than ever: the freedom to lecture without
pacing back and forth behind a barricade, to walk among his students and ignite
a rousing discussion, or to be close enough to actually see that lightning bolt
of understanding in their eyes when they suddenly grasp an elusive concept. When
they've been struggling to understand something, and suddenly they Get It.

But that won't happen. The mechanics of the job are much different now, and the
rewards are proportionately less. So the period ends, and he goes on with his
day, which turns out to be a fairly commonplace day otherwise. Oh, during Third
Period, they hear shots fired down the hall, and Security slaps a computer-lock
on their door, but nothing significant comes of it. Just to be safe, Stenner
keeps a closer eye than usual on the system-wide updates, but no deaths are
reported on campus, and Intelligence assigns a low probability to the Violence
Index.

In short, other than the graffiti in his classroom, a quiet day.

The Incident:

Until the graffiti saves his life.

He never finds out what causes the battle. Perhaps it is related to those
earlier gunshots, or possibly somebody is offended by the gang-signs that
prevent his clear view of the room. Maybe he would have been able to see it
coming with better visibility. Instead, all he knows is that open warfare erupts
between two students during Fourth Period, the kind that often results in
gunplay, accompanied by the usual screaming, ducking and panicked stampede --
with an important difference. One of the combatants is armed with something much
worse than a 9mm popper, something that proves Stenner's earlier suspicions
about stolen construction gear.

The kid has a laser spot-welder, modified for the street. It is a handheld job,
pumped to deliver its entire charge in a single pulse, burning out the emitter
in the process.

In other words, it only fires once, but that one shot can be lethal as hell.

If it connects, that is. The intended target flings himself over a desk, and the
shot misses him completely. It scores a direct hit on the front panel of
Stenner's security-booth, however, which is directly in the line of fire.

Under other circumstances, Stenner would have been dead instantly. Instead, the
monobond paint splashed across the plastic in front of him stops the beam for a
heartbeat. He looks up in time to see a hot-spot flash incandescent in the paint
a split-second before it burns through at chest level. What he does next has
nothing to do with conscious reasoning, or even an awareness of what the flash
means. It is an action born of pure instinct, and it is exactly the right thing
to do to save his own life.

He grabs his mirrorshades off the desk and holds them up. Before they melt,
their reflective surface scatters the laser back into the room, dazzling the
students left in the front row.

The shooter gets the worst of it, though. Much of the coherent light bounces
straight back at him, badly scorching his face. His hair bursts into flame, and
he stumbles out the door, blinded and shrieking. He is already gone by the time
the fire-control system kicks in, dousing everyone else and shorting out most of
the terminals.

Excluding Stenner's there in the cage. The general announcement it displays a
few minutes later -- that his classes are cancelled for the rest of the day --
is overridden on his screen by an urgent personal message from Administration.

Stenner gets an old, funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. It has been many
years since he was last summoned to:

The Principal's Office:

"If the lawsuits don't ruin us; the publicity will."

The damage control party in Ligotti's office surrounds him like a tribunal of
the Inquisition. Except that the clerics have been replaced by law-clerks and
dogma by spin-doctors. Instead of heresy, they are looking for liability these
days. And violations of political correctness, which is just a modem kind of
dogma.

For a couple of hours, now, he has answered all their questions: Who started --
? When did you -- ? What if you had -- ? While throughout the interrogation --
because that is exactly what it is -- Principal Ligotti sits tilted back in his
chair, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Listening to the
frenzied debate with his feet up on the desk, legs crossed. Slowly, he wiggles
his right foot back and forth, causing the artificial knee to make a scratchy,
insect sound, rhythmic as a cricket. This twitch is the only barometer of the
principal's true agitation.

Stenner sees this as a bad sign. Generally speaking, the quieter Phillip Ligotti
becomes, the worse it is.

"I was only defending myself," Stenner says mechanically for the umpteenth time.
"My God, it isn't like I planned to hurt the kid," he adds this time around, but
it is only a half-hearted protest. He is realizing that facts will have nothing
to do with the outcome of this.

"You don't understand our exposure," the District rep tells him. He's probably
right. The political climate has been much different since the Crip Party won
their majority in the State Legislature.

"You're suspended, pending further investigation," Ligotti says abruptly,
dropping his chair legs back to the wooden floor with a thunk! as final as a
judge's gavel. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stenner, but I don't see that we have any
choice."

Stenner doesn't argue. Seventh Period has long since come and gone, and he
excuses himself more with relief than with righteous indignation. Even though he
should be worrying about how he is going to pay the rent or pay for his own
attorney, the only thing he can worry about right now is whether or not Dana
Alexander waited for him.

The Teacher's Lounge:

Apparently not.

The only person in the lounge is a man that he doesn't recognize: blond guy,
slender, narrow features. Who can keep up with the turnover in this place?

Then the guy says: "Roger?"

"That's right." Stenner looks at him hard, wondering how he knows his name,
wondering if he should recognize him, and then the light dawns. "Did Dana
Alexander leave a message for me? I guess she couldn't stay, huh?"

The blond gives him a quizzical look that is somehow oddly familiar, as if he
has seen it before, just recently. Just today, in fact. On another face.

"Oh, shit, Roger. You didn't know."

Stenner feels the blood drain from his own face. "Dana? But -- but -you're a
Social Studies teacher!" He blurts out the first stupid thing that enters his
mind.

"Alternative Lifestyles Specialist, actually." The other man smiles sadly. "I
thought this was too good to be true."

Stenner grins back sheepishly. "These things happen, I guess."

"Are you disappointed?"

"Oh, I'm okay." Stenner takes a step back, frantically searching for a graceful
exit line from an embarrassing situation. "Trust me. After the day I've already
had, things couldn't possibly get any worse."

Departure:

The police are waiting for him in the parking lot.

Late afternoon sun glints off the light-bar of the cruiser parked next to his
old Quark. A few staff people stare as they go past, then hurry a little faster
to their own cars.

One of the two officers -- the older one -- asks him his name and informs him
that he is under arrest. "For Reckless Endangerment of a Minor and Irresponsible
Response to Violence," he says and quotes the penal codes, though Stenner senses
his reluctance with what he is doing.

"Officer, you know this is wrong." Stenner is surprised at how calm his voice
sounds. "The kid took a shot at me."

The cop takes his arm and walks him a few steps away from the car. "Look, I'm
sorry, Mr. Stenner, but the boy's parents filed charges. We don't have any
choice."

"Christ, I'm the one who should be filing charges." But it goes without saying
that he can't. They both know that Stenner signed the same waiver that every
other public school teacher does when they take the job.

"All I can tell you, sir, is that it will look better for you if you cooperate.
Personally, I would advise you to think about all the implications." The cop
jerks a thumb meaningfully at the audio pin-recorder attached to his collar:
That's all I can say on the record, pal. So what is he really trying to tell
him?

Stenner follows the officer's gaze down to the motorized barricade at the end of
the access street, and it all becomes clear to him.

Suddenly, he is very aware of what might be waiting for him on the other side of
that barrier -- of how many friends the gang-banger in his class might have, and
what they might be planning in retaliation. And where. And how leaving here in
the company of armed policemen is, quite possibly, the only way he might leave
here alive.

"I see what you mean," he says and humbly, almost eagerly, extends his arms for
the handcuffs.

Unlike his students, Roger Stenner learns his lessons.