Perhaps there’s hope for us yet.

8

Entry:

All the lessons at Bamarren were harsh. Like my father, no one wanted to repeat an order or instruction. If they did, you paid the painful price. If you had to relearn a lesson it was made doubly difficult. Consequences always escalated. Like every other group the ten of us traveled in a tight and disciplined pack; we covered each other’s backs and punished stragglers who jeopardized our safety. We learned very quickly that group integrity was paramount, individual effort an alternative only when there was no group solution.

The lessons I came to look forward to in Level One took place in the actual Mekar Wilderness. At irregular intervals we were taken out to desolate areas and, depending on the exercise, were assigned to hunt as a group or evade capture as an individual. If it was the group hunting exercise, we were told that a certain number of individual enemies were operating somewhere in our part of the Wilderness, and that our task was to track them down and take them into custody. We were given no supplies, no navigational instruments, and no information as to their location. If we returned without having captured all of them our mission was considered a failure. Needless to say, all failure at Bamarren had serious consequences.

We were quite successful at the group exercise. Since we had no idea in which direction to begin our hunt, we used an elaborate system of whistle calls and signals as we radiated out from a central base. When one individual was located, only those hunters in that particular quadrant were assigned to apprehend him. The others continued the search in their respective quadrants, and we all reported back to the center, with or without our prey. There was only one instance when the length of the hunt far exceeded our supplies such that by the time we returned to Bamarren we were all dangerously dehydrated and exhausted. Six (the student who fainted in the Pit) had the hardest reaction to this exercise. He was studious, and excelled in a classroom situation, but while he wasn’t as slight of build as Eight he didn’t have the latter’s stamina. For a while he was near death, and spent nearly two months in recuperative care. It was to his credit that he returned to the group.

We learned about each other through this training. One of the things that quickly became apparent in the Pit, the classroom, and the Wilderness was that our initial numerical designations were not truly indicative of ability. The numbers assigned to us were presumably based upon our previous school performance record. But just as important and rarely mentioned were our family and class status. Eight also came from a “service” family background, and it was soon clear to everyone that he should have been designated One Lubak, a fact not lost on the actual holder of that designation who, judging from his behavior and speech, came from the highest echelons of our society. Nine, however, came from an important political family but was as dim as a moonless night. Three wasn’t much brighter, but his physical size and strength–as well as his family’s connection to power–gave him a higher place.

The patterns of political alliance within the group had about them the inevitability of iron filings on a magnet. To keep the low‑born but gifted Eight in his place, One immediately recruited Three and Nine. Not only were they of the same class, but One could mentally dominate them. Two went along with this group, but his political adeptness enabled him to remain on good terms with everyone. Four also went along with this group, but the only thing that captured his interest was finding a way to make contact with the women. This preoccupation–and his well‑developed shoulder ridges–made him seem older than the rest of us. Five was an athlete who also did well in class. I could see that he was attracted to Eight. As indeed I was. Seven seemed to be the youngest and most unformed of the group. He was another “service murk,” and his allegiance went to whatever person he’d spoken to last. Six, when he wasn’t recuperating, preferred his books and kept his distance. He wanted desperately to succeed at Bamarren, but he was vexed by his physical limitations. We all knew that these allegiances and predilections existed under the surface of our everyday interactions, but we also knew that the dominant mask we were required to wear was one of unity. Especially in the Wilderness.

My first exercise as the hunted individual was not successful. Four, Eight, and I were taken to separate desolate areas, as all the hunted students are, and set loose with the lone instruction that we make it back to Bamarren without being detected by any of the hunting groups. We carried nothing but the clothes we were wearing.

Once I was left to my own resources I despaired. This was not the city. The landscape was unyielding and harsh; it held no clues that I could read as to what direction the Institute was in or how far. I wandered about in the searing heat, doing everything in my power to be captured. I was in terrible agony. Of course, it took no time at all for the Furtan Group to accommodate me. Four was captured, but only after a much longer hunt, and Eight successfully returned to Bamarren without being detected. I was judged an abysmal failure and assigned to solitary detention, as an example of what happens to lackluster effort and to think about how I could change for the better.

But it was in the Pit and my work with Calyx that I suffered the most. My dreaming made me “an air man.”

“You have no grip, no focus. How can you find your strength if you can’t hold your place? Living in your dreams is like living in exile.”

His critique cut to the heart. It was only my determination to somehow find my place in Bamarren–in the group, in myself–that kept me from total despair. But I was very close to giving in.

After a particularly brutal session in the Pit, when Three pinned me face down in the sand and nearly broke my neck, I lingered in the training area to be alone and deal with another bitter defeat. The worst thing about it was that it was self‑inflicted. I wasn’t as strong as Three, but I was much smarter and my instincts were truer and faster. However, there was always one point during a strategem where I would panic and lose control. It would happen the same way every time: A difficult move under pressure against strong physical resistance from an opponent . . . and something would snap. A painful blow might set it off, a whispered insult, perhaps just a thought or a feeling of hopelessness, and I would suddenly lose control and lash out like a madman. I became suffused with a raging, crimson anger that poured out from some black hole somewhere deep inside me. At first I appeared ferocious, and my opponent would back off. But it was Eight, of course, who efficiently exposed my lack of strategic control and the utter impotence of such behavior. Without Eight, Three would never have gotten past my berserker appearance.

As I sat on a bench and went over the moves that had led to my latest failure, I heard a female voice in the adjoining area. The voice was saying something about what constitutes a crime in a covert assignment. I heard no voice in reply, and I thought I was having another one of my visions. I started to leave before it took over–this was the last thing I wanted. But the sweetness of the voice stopped me. It had a piping and melodic lilt, firm and confident. And there was a soothing quality as it spoke of dry legal definitions. It acted as a balm for my bruises and bitterness. I began to feel such longings. It was like hearing music that you love when you least expect it. How I missed Mother, and working with Father in the flower beds. How I longed for home. I dropped my guard and surrendered to the voice. The tears I was determined never to shed accompanied choking waves of shame and relief, sadness and joy. I finally was able to admit to myself how unhappy I was.