potential.”
The director leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingertips touching in front of him. Anyone could read the cold defensiveness, the go-for-the-throat approach of the embattled academic. But Cooper saw more to it. Something in the easy way Norridge maintained eye contact, the steadiness of his speech as he said, “I would have thought that an agent of the Department of Analysis and Response wouldn’t need to be told.”
“This isn’t really my area.”
“Still, surely you could have gotten these answers without a trip—”
“I like to see for myself.”
“Why weren’t you academy trained, Agent Cooper?”
The suddenness of the topic change wasn’t what surprised Cooper—he’d seen it coming in the fold of the man’s lips and the crinkle of his eyes—but the content threw him.
I never told him I was gifted, or that I was tier one. He could tell on his own.
“I was born in 1981.”
“You were in the first wave?”
“Technically second.”
“So you would have been thirteen the year the first academy opened. Back then we could barely manage fifteen percent of the tier-one population. With the opening of Mumford Academy next year, we expect to be able to train one hundred percent of them. That’s not public knowledge, of course, but imagine it.
Every
tier one born in America. A shame you were born so early.”
“Not from my perspective.” Cooper smiled and imagined breaking the administrator’s nose.
“Tell me, how did you grow up?”
“Doctor, I asked a question, and I want an answer.”
“I’m giving you one. Indulge me. Please, your childhood.”
Cooper sighed. “My dad was army. My mother died when I was young. We moved around.”
“Did you know a lot of children like you?”
“Military brats?” The old snide side coming out, the part that didn’t handle authority figures well.
But Norridge didn’t bite, just mildly said, “Abnorms.”
“No.”
“Were you close to your father?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a good officer?”
“I never said he was an officer.”
“But he was.”
“Yes. And yes, a good one.”
“Patriotic?”
“Of course.”
“But not a flag worshipper. He cared about the principles, not the symbol.”
“That’s what patriotism means. The others are just fetishists.”
“Did you have a lot of friends?”
“Enough.”
“Did you have a lot of fights?”
“A few. And you’ve about hit the limit on my patience.”
Norridge smiled. “Well, Agent Cooper, you
were
academy trained. Your childhood is essentially what we try to replicate. We turn up the intensity, of course, and we also provide access to programs to develop their gifts, resources your father couldn’t have dreamed of. But. You were lonely. Isolated. Often punished for being what you were. You never had the opportunity to learn to trust other abnorms, and because you so often had to defend yourself for being one, you were unlikely to seek them out. You didn’t have many friends and lived in a constantly shifting environment, which means you placed special value on the one rock in your world—your father. He was a military man, so concepts like duty and loyalty came easily to you. You grew up learning all the lessons we teach here. You even ended up working for the government, as the majority of our graduates do.”
Cooper fought an urge to lean over and bang Director Norridge’s face into the desk three or four times. It wasn’t the things he was saying about Cooper’s life, all of which were true, and none of which had stung him for years. It was the condescension, and worse, the bullying gleefulness of the man. Norridge didn’t just want to make his point. Like the blond boy on the playground, he wanted to dominate.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why?”
“Surely you know.”
“Indulge me,” he said.
Norridge gave a tip of his head to acknowledge the returned volley. “The gifts of the vast majority of abnorms have no
The director leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingertips touching in front of him. Anyone could read the cold defensiveness, the go-for-the-throat approach of the embattled academic. But Cooper saw more to it. Something in the easy way Norridge maintained eye contact, the steadiness of his speech as he said, “I would have thought that an agent of the Department of Analysis and Response wouldn’t need to be told.”
“This isn’t really my area.”
“Still, surely you could have gotten these answers without a trip—”
“I like to see for myself.”
“Why weren’t you academy trained, Agent Cooper?”
The suddenness of the topic change wasn’t what surprised Cooper—he’d seen it coming in the fold of the man’s lips and the crinkle of his eyes—but the content threw him.
I never told him I was gifted, or that I was tier one. He could tell on his own.
“I was born in 1981.”
“You were in the first wave?”
“Technically second.”
“So you would have been thirteen the year the first academy opened. Back then we could barely manage fifteen percent of the tier-one population. With the opening of Mumford Academy next year, we expect to be able to train one hundred percent of them. That’s not public knowledge, of course, but imagine it.
Every
tier one born in America. A shame you were born so early.”
“Not from my perspective.” Cooper smiled and imagined breaking the administrator’s nose.
“Tell me, how did you grow up?”
“Doctor, I asked a question, and I want an answer.”
“I’m giving you one. Indulge me. Please, your childhood.”
Cooper sighed. “My dad was army. My mother died when I was young. We moved around.”
“Did you know a lot of children like you?”
“Military brats?” The old snide side coming out, the part that didn’t handle authority figures well.
But Norridge didn’t bite, just mildly said, “Abnorms.”
“No.”
“Were you close to your father?”
“Yes.”
“Was he a good officer?”
“I never said he was an officer.”
“But he was.”
“Yes. And yes, a good one.”
“Patriotic?”
“Of course.”
“But not a flag worshipper. He cared about the principles, not the symbol.”
“That’s what patriotism means. The others are just fetishists.”
“Did you have a lot of friends?”
“Enough.”
“Did you have a lot of fights?”
“A few. And you’ve about hit the limit on my patience.”
Norridge smiled. “Well, Agent Cooper, you
were
academy trained. Your childhood is essentially what we try to replicate. We turn up the intensity, of course, and we also provide access to programs to develop their gifts, resources your father couldn’t have dreamed of. But. You were lonely. Isolated. Often punished for being what you were. You never had the opportunity to learn to trust other abnorms, and because you so often had to defend yourself for being one, you were unlikely to seek them out. You didn’t have many friends and lived in a constantly shifting environment, which means you placed special value on the one rock in your world—your father. He was a military man, so concepts like duty and loyalty came easily to you. You grew up learning all the lessons we teach here. You even ended up working for the government, as the majority of our graduates do.”
Cooper fought an urge to lean over and bang Director Norridge’s face into the desk three or four times. It wasn’t the things he was saying about Cooper’s life, all of which were true, and none of which had stung him for years. It was the condescension, and worse, the bullying gleefulness of the man. Norridge didn’t just want to make his point. Like the blond boy on the playground, he wanted to dominate.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why?”
“Surely you know.”
“Indulge me,” he said.
Norridge gave a tip of his head to acknowledge the returned volley. “The gifts of the vast majority of abnorms have no
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