Running Jump (1257 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by JMG114 (View user info) at 2006-10-23 17:53:29 EDT
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Ms. Lasner, a pale first-grade teacher with a body like a matchstick, said, "Your daughter Emma is extraordinarily accelerated."
Mr. and Mrs. Greene sat in small chairs in their daughter Emma's first-grade classroom at Richmond Elementary School. Emma herself, a petite little girl with dark hair and dark eyes, sat between them. Mr. Greene, a small business consultant, adjusted and readjusted the curling lapels of his white dress shirt. Mrs. Greene, a fashion designer who was currently "between jobs" was busy caressing her daughter's shoulder. Emma, in her too-big, dark green sweater looked down at the floor, silent.
"Accelerated how?" Mrs. Greene asked.
Ms. Lasner replied, "She's just off the charts. She excels at reading, mathematics, and even science. I have to ask, have you ever gotten her tested?"
"Tested?" Mrs. Greene asked. Her red plastic earrings jangled annoyingly.
"Yes. IQ tested. She's reading at a college level. Surely you must've noticed."
Mrs. Greene recalled putting several Sesame Street readers in Emma's playroom, and had left her alone with them. She had rarely seen her daughter reading. After all, who had all day to spend with their children nowadays?
"I know she's a big reader," Mrs. Greene said, "But college level?"
Mr. Greene shifted uncomfortably in his too-small chair.
Ms. Lasner nodded. "Emma's been taking out some of the most advanced books from our school library, and she's able to tell me what they're all about. Also, she shows a mathematical aptitude far beyond any grade schooler, or actually any junior high schooler that I've ever seen. Have you noticed any of this sort of behavior?"
Mrs. Greene tussled Emma's hair. Emma frowned slightly. Mrs. Greene said, "That's our little sunshine! She's always been the smartest one in the family." Mrs. Greene laughed and glanced at her husband. Mr. Greene had been busy wondering (again) why his daughter's hair was so dark, when no one in his family or his wife's family had such dark hair. Maybe it was just genetics. Maybe.
Ms. Lasner said, "Well, the school district has recommended that she be tested to see if she can in fact place out of first grade."
"You mean skip a grade?" Mr. Greene asked, speaking for the first time, anxious to appear concerned.
"That's right. Although in Emma's case, she might be able to skip more than just a grade. All I know is that she's leaps and bounds ahead of any other first-grader I've ever seen."
"Wow," Mr. Greene sat back, pleased with himself, "Talk about starting school with a running jump, eh, kiddo?" He tussled Emma's hair. She frowned again.
Emma was scheduled for two days of testing with a Dr. Marianne Landon, Ph.D. The child psychiatrist administered Rorschach tests, free association exams, and a multiple-choice IQ assessment. The highest score Dr. Landon had ever previously witnessed was that of a gifted individual, clocking in at 142.
Emma fell into the cognitive designation, "extraordinary genius." She scored 170.
Three national papers picked up her story, and she was even interviewed in USA Today. "Of course, she learned pattern recognition and her more creative side from me," her mother beamed to the Washington Post.
Emma was packaged and shipped off to a private charter school, to do whatever it is that young geniuses do all day.
One day, not long after, Robert Heller, another student in Ms. Lasner's class began showing signs of extraordinary scholastic aptitude. "I could hardly believe one student in my very own class," she said to the New York Times, "But to have two students with genius IQs? The odds must be incredible."
Naturally, Robert was also taken out of school. He was placed in a pre-collegiate program at a local college, where his mathematical prowess stunned the faculty.
Two weeks went by with the superintendent of schools, proud parents, and even Ms. Lasner herself taking public credit for the extraordinary burst of genius taking place in the first grade at Richmond Elementary. Ms. Lasner was featured on the cover of Teacher Magazine. The mayor of Richmond himself declared a town holiday in honor of the prodigies and presented each family with the keys to the city.
Clearly, something special was happening in Richmond.
This could not have been made any more apparent than by the revelation, a week later, that five more students in the Richmond School were suddenly showing signs of inexplicable mental prowess. Two of them, a pair of fifth graders, were not even in Ms. Lasner's class, and two of them, a fifth and first grader, were brother and sister.
The mayor hit the airwaves again, boasting about Richmond's spectacular public schooling system. After one such one-sided interview, he took a call from Washington D.C.
"This is Mayor Rogers in the smartest city in America. Can I help you?"
"Mr. Rogers, please hold for a call from United States Surgeon General Ellen Hastings."
A slight, sickening wash flowed down through the mayor's chest. What could the surgeon general want with him? A moment later, a deep female voice came from the other end of the line.
"Mayor Rogers? This is Ellen Hastings."
The mayor sat down in his leather chair. He idly swiveled it back and forth. "Yes, Ms. Hastings. Can I help you?"
"Doctor Hastings."
"I'm sorry?"
"Nevermind. Mayor Rogers, I've learned that a group of children in your community have recently tested high on intelligence aptitude tests."
Mayor Rogers grinned. "That's right! Calling to find out our secret? Heh."
"Mr. Mayor, it's a bit of a statistical anomaly for so many students with no prior evidence of above-average intelligence to suddenly, 'smarten up,' don't you agree?"
The mayor rolled his eyes. "Ms. Hastings, call it whatever you will. The fact is that we have a magnificent educational system here in Richmond. We were a national blue ribbon school of excellence in the mid-nineties—"
"The President has authorized me to send in inspectors."
Mayor Rogers felt that strange feeling again. "What? Why? What's this got to do with—I mean, what's this all about?"
"Mr. Rogers—"
Mayor Rogers suddenly felt a momentary tingling sensation, as if his brain was a sponge and someone was slowly wringing it dry.
"Agh—!" He slumped down in his chair.
"Mayor Rogers? Are you all right, sir?"
The mayor was silent for several moments. He closed his eyes and opened them. Everything seemed brighter, and at once, he knew exactly what to say.
"You're not allowed to send in any sort of government team without filing a US-109 form of intent, filled out in triplicate with a copy sent to myself, the state government, and one kept in your office for your own records."
The silence on the other end of the line gave Mayor Rogers time to wonder how he had known that information.
By the end of the day, close to one-hundred people in Richmond found themselves far, far smarter than they had ever been before. Whatever it was, it was spreading.
The surgeon general (who took special care to fill out form US-109) sent in her team. By the time they arrived two days later, most county residents had developed the strange intelligence bug. It became the top national news story, and the international press had also noticed.
The government team interviewed scores of the new geniuses. Warm, happy people who seemed at a loss with their newfound abilities greeted the inspectors.
"It's incredible, I know things that I never knew before and I see the world in a whole new way. Everything makes perfect sense."
"I feel like I majored in everything in college."
"I finished a New York Times crossword puzzle for the first time!"
When Dr. Hastings called the inspection team leader later that week, she was surprised to find that he sounded far more intelligent than she had remembered.
"The team and I believe, Dr. Hastings, that we're dealing with some sort of contagion that affects the neocortex. Whatever it is and however it developed, it seems as though it not only increases rational intelligence, but it's also highly contagious."
It was a disease that made you and everyone around you smarter. The media called it, "Emma's Gift." Within ten days, most of the eastern United States had been infected. Emma herself was taken out of school and placed in the government's custodianship for study.
Then, the United States closed it borders, claiming to need time to "decipher" the outbreak and "contain" the fallout. Aside from essential trade shipments, no one was allowed into or out of the country. After all (to quote one of the joint chiefs), "Superior intelligence would do us no good in the hands of our enemies." Foreign tourists and diplomats who had caught the bug were placed under varying versions of surveillance, their communications monitored.
In less than a month, most of the country's population had been infected with Emma's Gift, or HSS—Human Superiosis Syndrome.
A spokeswoman at Harvard Medical School said in a press release, "Its cause appears to be a new strain of bacteria previously undiscovered. We're investigating how it performs this miraculous, beneficial symbiosis."
The United Nations played host to more and more screaming matches between delegates from developing nations and the United States regarding how beneficial HSS could be to the world at large. Public officials were at a loss. Doctors worked overtime. Clearly, this would change everything. Everyone was waiting for something.
They didn't wait long. One night, something was announced live on several news channels.
" . . .in a resolution spearheaded by Venezuela, 124 countries have signed a petition demanding that the United States open its borders to allow free access to HSS. Of particular note is a clause refusing to rule out pre-emptive sanctions or military strikes against the United States should it continue to restrict the spread of HSS. President—"
The anchor suddenly put his hand to his ear, where a small receiver was hidden. He listened for several moments before speaking again.
"This just in, Emma Greene, the first person diagnosed with HSS, has gone missing from Logg Military Base in Junction, Connecticut. Again, 8-year-old Emma Greene, who had been undergoing study at Logg Military Base in Junction, Connecticut, has gone missing . . ."
Emma paused in the dark for a moment under an elm tree by a marsh in Clayton, Connecticut. Thankful that military dogs weren't affected by HSS, she had thrown off her light jacket and a sock miles away, hoping to slow them down. She heard their faint barks and the not-as-faint approaching helicopters. With a shudder, she reflected that they must've factored in her potential escape as a true possibility, given how quickly the pursuit had been organized. It didn't matter, she thought. In less than an hour, she'd be out of their reach.
After the helicopters had passed overhead with their searchlights, the dogs and soldiers sounded much closer. She turned south and ran.
"The fate of the world probably rests with me," she thought momentarily, but quickly reprimanded herself. "Such thoughts will only slow me down."
A half-hour later, she was at the foot of a gated driveway in a wealthy neighborhood. There were no streetlights and her pursuers sounded farther off. She pressed a white intercom button and felt a raindrop on her right cheek.
"Hello?" a female voice asked through the intercom.
Emma glanced over her shoulder, then said, "Is Ambassador Ilkin home? It's an emergency!"
"I'm sorry, the ambassador doesn't take guests at this hour—"
"He'll take me. I'm Emma Greene."
The gate opened.
A few minutes later, Emma was ushered into a white-upholstered and dark wood-finished living room before Ambassador Baki Ilkin, permanent representative of Turkey to the United Nations. He was in a dark blue suit, dressed as if in a hurry. He smiled, didn't shake her hand, and pressed a finger to his lips. He handed her a folded piece of paper. She opened it.
"I am being monitored."
Emma looked up, just as the sounds of commotion came from the front foyer. They had found her.
Ambassador Ilkin took her hand. "This way! Quick!"
He yanked the little girl through the house, pulled a small two-way radio out of his pocket, and spoke into it. "Asil, get ready to receive passenger."
They made it into the garage, where a white Toyota was waiting. Ilkin explained, "Our foes will be expecting a black town car. I have an emergency route that they won't know."
He opened the side passenger door and Emma climbed in next to a 20-something driver with dark amber eyes. Before Ilkin closed the door, he said, "I think I know why you came to me. There's a ship at Kyelin Point. We have not stopped them, but we will give you a running jump. God keep you."
Shouts and barking came from inside the house. In less than a minute, they would be upon her.
Ilkin hit the roof of the car twice and it sped through an underground emergency tunnel that opened out to a hidden entrance on interstate 95.
Emma turned to the driver, whose white knuckles firmly held the steering wheel. She asked, "Will I be taken out of the country?"
The driver nodded.
Emma sat back and smiled. She wondered if she'd have time to pick up warmer clothing.
Less than an hour later, she was on a small cargo ship bound from Long Island Sound to Nova Scotia. She had met the captain and told him what he needed to know. He gave her a little room in a hollow, dark cargo container with some old blankets and a pillow.
Emma dreamed.
A pair of gray (green?) eyes watched from the sky as she climbed an icy mountain with surprising ease. The eyes bore no menace and yet were cold. They simply were there. It was a good dream. Emma woke up. Someone was banging on the cargo door.
A young shipman opened it. "The U.S. Coast Guard has asked permission to board and inspect our cargo. We've got to get you out of here. Captain's orders."
Emma was momentarily sad to leave her little space, but realized that it, like all things, were transitory. It, like all things, would remain. She couldn't help but smile again as the shipman led her through the maze of cargo containers towards the aft deck. He stopped just before the end of a container row and knelt to the ground. Emma watched as he inserted a small silver key into a tiny crack in the metal floor. A panel, which had previously been set into the deck and nearly invisible, popped open.
Emma watched as the crewman pulled out bags of marijuana and cocaine, piling them up hastily alongside the compartment. He then beckoned to her. She looked down into the newly emptied contraband nook. It was dark and seemed just barely large enough for an 8-year-old girl. She asked, "You'll let me out once the coast guard leaves?"
The crewman nodded. She slid into the compartment and he closed it shut behind her.
Three hours later, he returned to let her out. They had passed inspection and had been instructed to lay anchor ten miles off of Nova Scotia in order to prevent the transmission of HSS to any Canadians. Another coast guard team, in protective gear, would meet the ship and unload its cargo onto a barge, which would then complete the journey to the mainland.
Emma returned to her cargo compartment. Many hours later, they arrived in Nova Scotia. Her container was loaded onto a barge and moved into a warehouse at the docks. When she heard nothing outside, she opened the container door and slipped out of the building.
Nearby was a small airfield. "As I figured there would be," she thought to herself. She made her way to the business office through the chill morning mist, where a big man who hadn't shaved in three months greeted her.
"Can I help you, little miss? Looking for mommy and daddy?"
Emma shook her head. "Actually, I need transportation."
"A-ha ha ha! And where might you be off to, mmm? Tell Papa Henry."
Emma smiled. "As far east as you can take me, Papa Henry. I'm going to Varanasi, India."
Henry stared at Emma. She thought that he was going to belly laugh again, but he bent down over his desk and spoke in a serious, low voice. "Why would you want to go to Varanasi, eh? What's there, little one?"
Emma shook her head. "Not what. Who."
Henry frowned and sniffed at the air, which smelled vaguely of gasoline and body odor. He said, "What say I make you some warm soup and call your mommy and dad, little angel? They must be worried sick about their little one."
"I doubt that highly. However, if you could bring me as close to Varanasi as you could, I'd make it worth your while."
Henry folded his arms. "How would you do that, little miss?"
"I'll give you HSS."
"Ha!" Henry laughed, "Ha ha hoo! You're pulling Papa Henry's fat leg, little angel. There's no way to get that 'cept in America. Guess they're the only ones allowed to be smart. Makes sense, if you think like they do . . ."
"I can give it to you, and what's more," she leaned in towards the giant man. He knelt down and tilted so that his ear sat close to her whispering lips. "I already have."
Henry stared at Emma for several moments. His mouth opened and he didn't blink. "Lord save us," he whispered, "You're her . . .that little girl on the news. I knew you looked familiar. Your whole country is looking for you. You've got to be the most valuable little girl in the whole world right now."
Emma took a step towards the door, suddenly wondering if Henry would turn her in. He asked, "How did you get here? What's your plan?"
"Are you going to turn me in?"
"Fuck no! Begging your pardon. You want to spread HSS, I'm on your side. I'm just amazed, you'll have to forgive me, amazed that you're here. You. Here. Who's in Varanasi?"
"Krishnanda."
"Beg pardon?"
"Krishnanda. He—or she—is a Hindu mystic. Probably the smartest person in the world without the aid of HSS. I'm going to see him. Or her. Nobody actually knows his or her gender."
Henry stared.
Emma added, "He—or she—is around 3000 years old. Formed at the coupling of a human woman and a snake, or so the legend goes." Emma shrugged.
"A woman fucked a snake? Beg pardon."
Emma sighed, "That's just a legend. Nobody really knows much about Krishnanda. What I do know is that I must see him or her, and that he or she is very likely expecting me."
Henry looked away for a moment, wondering what to do. Emma said, "Wherever we land to refuel, I'll infect some more people with HSS. That'll upset my government, and you'd like that."
Henry couldn't help but smile. Emma continued, "And the incubation period seems to be a few days to a week, so they should be a few days behind tracking us, at any rate. Unless they have another way to tell if someone's infected. I'm not sure."
Henry smiled at the little girl, remembering his own mother's mantra, "God put you here a-purpose, Henry lad. He has a special plan for you."
Henry wiped his brow. He put on a faded Blue Jays hat and grabbed his keys. He switched off the naked bulb that hung from the ceiling and followed Emma out of his office. He flipped over a sign on the door that said, "Back in..." and had an image of a clock with two red plastic hands. Henry looked down at Emma, who gave him a smirk. He pulled the hands off of the sign and tossed them to the ground.
"We're going to have to stop in Greenland," Henry said as he lifted Emma into the passenger seat in his small private plane, "To refuel and plot the rest of the course. I probably can't take you as far as you want to go, but I know some people who can help us."
"Thanks, Papa Henry."
After refueling stops in Greenland and Iceland, Henry and Emma landed in Oslo, Norway. From his many years of flights, Henry knew someone who knew someone who was a low-level civic official.
The Norwegian government, pleased to learn that Emma was willing to infect the populace with HSS, quietly arranged safe passage for her through a private commercial carrier.
Henry hugged Emma goodbye before she boarded the jet. "Thanks to you, I've just come up with a new engine and wing design that I'm going to build as soon as I get back home. You take good care of yourself, little angel. You go and change the world."
"Thank you, Henry. I'll never forget you!"
Emma boarded the Norwegian flight and took off, bound for India.
Back at the runway, a broad-shouldered Norwegian diplomat in a dark suit turned to another and asked, "Did we just do the right thing? The U.S. is going to find out that we've just let their number one missing person escape."
The other one, a tall woman with a pale face, replied, "Our people are more important than any ally."
They both walked away in silence.
A day later, a phone call came in to the U.S. Secretary of Defense. "Sir, our intelligence in Norway tells us that a pocket of HSS has spontaneously sprung up out of nowhere. The symptoms are showing in a few people, it seems to be spreading fast through the population. We've sent you a briefing."
The Secretary of Defense typed into his computer monitor. "Hmm," he muttered, using his HSS-enriched intellect, "How long do you think it would take for a little girl to make it from Connecticut to Norway?"
There was silence on the other end of the line. Nothing more needed to be said.
The Norwegian flight, having received special diplomatic permissions, landed in Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi. A car from the Norwegian consulate was waiting to whisk her nearly 500 miles to Varanasi. In the back of the car was a small portable tape player, a pair of headphones, and a package of Hindi language tapes. Emma placed the first tape in and began listening.
It was sunrise as the car drove over the Kaimur hills that overlooked Varanasi, the holy city. The Buddha himself was rumored to have given his first sermon nearby, and the gods themselves were said to have walked the streets.
The car snaked its way to the Viswanath Temple. Dedicated to Shiva, it was easily one of the holiest shrines in eastern religion and philosophy. Its distinctive gold cupola shone brightly, as if competing with the morning sun.
Many saffron-robed monks came out to greet Emma as she stepped out of the car.
"You have been expected," they said.
She was ushered into the temple and robed.
At that very moment, a convoy of U.S. Marines under special orders from the United States government (and given hasty permission by the Indian parliament) drove up the ridge into Varanasi.
Emma stood alone in Viswanath Temple's main room, waiting for further instruction. The tremendous room glowed greenish-blue from an unseen source. She smelled incense. She looked up at the interior of the great dome, her eyes tracing the beautifully painted images of Brahma sacrificing ten horses for Lord Shiva. An old monk with a shiny, bald head came up to her. He spoke in Hindi, and Emma understood every word.
"The Holy awaits you. You do not speak to Holy. Holy speaks to you. You do not look at Holy. Holy looks at you. You do not hear Holy. Holy hears you."
Emma nodded and was led into an anteroom, a long hallway with a six-foot long, black image of Shiva on the floor. The doorway into the innermost sanctuary lay just beyond where Shiva's head had been painted hundreds of years ago.
The monk said, "You must not step on Shiva. You jump over Him."
Emma took three steps back, ran, and jumped over the image, landing neatly on her two feet on the other side. When she turned around, her guide was no longer there. She turned again and faced the innermost sanctuary. With a nervous tickle in her throat, she entered the room.
She walked into what seemed to be a smaller version of the main hall. Blue and green tapestries hung from the pillars and walls. A shaft of sunlight hazily illuminated an altar against a wall at the far end of the room. In front of the altar was a thin, smoky blue veil and behind the altar was the vague shape of a sitting person. It was Krishnanda.
Emma kept her eyes low and concentrated on the sounds of her bare feet on the strangely warm stone floor.
Far from where she could see or hear, against the protests of the monks, the Marines unloaded their convoy and shoved their way into the temple.
Emma stopped less than ten feet away from the veil. She bowed low and kept her eyes to the ground. She heard faint breathing, but it seemed to come from inside of her.
Inside of her mind, the image of a scrawny, ancient human appeared, with skin like painted wax. He—or she—was hairless, and his/her mouth seemed permanently pulled into a smile. Emma couldn't help but smile herself, in awe and respect.
A soft voice inside of her head said, "You are here. Thank you for your gift."
Emma nodded.
Krishnanda continued, "Popular wisdom tells of the pilgrim asking the sage three questions. I therefore ask you three questions."
Emma nodded again.
Krishnanda asked, "Where is Heaven?"
Emma smiled and pointed to her head.
The shouts of many men came from outside.
Krishnanda then asked, "Where is Hell?"
Again, Emma pointed to her head. Krishnanda nodded imperceptibly. The shouts sounded closer.
Krishnanda asked, "And where are you?"
Emma hesitated for a moment, guessing the answer to be different from the previous replies. The soldiers had entered the inner sanctuary's anteroom. In moments, they would be upon her.
Emma focused on the sunken, gray (green?) eyes of the mental image she saw.
She extended her arms outward from herself and swung them around slowly, pointing in all directions.
Krishnanda smiled like a small child as the government agents swept into the sanctuary.
A voice rang unsullied and clear in Emma's mind.
"Exactly."
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