I
Dr Ward repositioned the metal frames of his glasses. The two of them had gathered in an office lavishly decorated with heavy volumes of various disciplines such as psychology, sociology and anthropology. The boy was pleased when he spotted the name of his great-grandfather, Arthur Ashford, on one of them. Dr Ward held out the thick book, entitled On the Control of the Social Mass, an equally groundbreaking and controversial essay on the mechanisms that enable the perpetuation of the statu quo. Dr Ward revered Arthur Ashford as his main academic point of reference. In his honour, and as the greatest milestone of his career, he ran for and was elected headmaster of the preparatory school that the noble scholar founded for his offspring. A school to which his six-year-old great-grandson, whom he interviewed to assess his aptitude and character, and then some. The Stewarts referred to it by the euphemism "distinguishing". To "distinguish" a Stewart was to educate them in a certain way of being and a certain way of thinking. This time, the Stewart to be distinguished was Earl Ashford's heir apparent, Alfred, a slim-bodied boy with androgynous features, generally quiet, though anxious and impatient; gifted, but not to the level of genius of his twin sister; very suspicious and naïve.
If Alexia had been born an ordinary person, she would have shared a chair with her older brother. If Alfred had been born an extraordinary person, Lord Ashford would not have turned to Dr Ward to educate his son. On the contrary, he would have shared a chair with his younger sister to be personally educated by Lord Ashford. On this fact, Alfred lamented that Alexia was not with him. Dr Ward asked him why and he said that he felt good to have her with him. He had read about the supposed psychic connections between twin siblings, but Alfred and Alexia were not identical twins and his yearn for his sister seemed to stem from an ordinary childish desire for play. In any case, he reviewed his notes and went on with the interview. It was time to evaluate the child's conception of human society.
"Alfred, why don't we talk a little about our society?" He lit his pipe without bothering to keep a safe distance from the interviewee.
The boy began to tickle the tweed on the sleeves of his jacket, not knowing what to say.
"In our society there are rich people and poor people; people with a lot of money and people with little. Why do you think poor people exist?"
"Poor people are stupid," Alfred said bluntly.
"And why are they stupid?" continued Dr Ward with a laugh.
"Uhm... They have no education."
"School education or family education?"
"Both. My family says they don't know how to behave."
"All right." Smoked. "What place does your family have in our society?"
"We're the best." Alfred smiled proudly.
"Why are you the best?"
"We are special. We are smart. We work hard."
"Has your father or any other member of your family ever told you about the origin of your fortune?"
"My great-great-grandmother Veronica had a lot of business."
"What kind of business?"
"Factories. Land in Asia."
"Aha. Have they told you about those businesses?"
"A little bit."
"Like what?"
"That she employed a lot of poor people. Many families from the North[1]."
"Did you know that children used to work in factories back then?"
"Yes. I read about it in the history books."
"What do you think about it?"
Alfred turned his attention to the statuette of a horse. He had stopped scratching the tweed and Dr Ward couldn't tell whether the boy was uncomfortable with the question or thinking about the answer.
"They are children like me, but they are poor. They work for us."
Dr Ward noted the comment. Lord Ashford had asked for an earl to match, and he would produce what had been agreed.
II
Obedience brings discipline.
Discipline brings unity.
Unity brings power.
And power brings life.
The audience applauded. Having done his job, James Marcus retired to his office. Miller turned to the congregation of students waiting in the centre of the main hall.
"Dr Marcus' first lecture has been scheduled for tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m."
The crowd dispersed. Miller looked around for the pair of minors.
"You guys. Come over here."
The two minors approached him at the same time. He could not identify either of them.
"Can you remind me of your names? So I can put you on the list of residents," he lied.
"William Birkin." A blond-haired, acne-ridden teenager appeared, neatly combed and apparently well-dressed. This was supposed to be the fifteen-year-old they had hired at Harvard.
"Albert Wesker." Another blond teenager with smooth skin and a stoic attitude. He wore jeans and a red bomber jacket like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. He had been hired at Columbia [2] after leaving West Point[3] without graduate.
"You were seventeen, weren't you?" Miller turned to Albert Wesker.
"Yes."
"When do you turn eighteen?"
"August ninth."
Miller mentally recorded the date.
"Do you like your bedroom?" Miller had put them in the same room so as not to mix them with the older ones.
"Yes. Not bad," said Birkin, with his hands behind his back.
"Yes," Wesker replied dryly.
"Good. In that case, I'll leave you to it."
Miller hurried off to his office. William Birkin and Albert Wesker were left alone in the lobby.
III
The bedroom lacked any decoration and the furnishings were restricted to the basics. A curtained double window ensured privacy. The wooden slats under her feet did not creak and her mattresses rested on a solid wooden frame that looked decent. A couple of simple wardrobes for storing clothes and a couple of desks with chairs. Nothing else. To the left, by the door, Wesker slept. On the right, on the long back wall facing the entrance, Birkin.
They agreed to nothing. As soon as they entered, Wesker threw his backpack on the bed, marking his territory. Birkin was more careful, leaving the suitcase next to the headboard of his own. Wesker made him nervous. From the looks of him, he looked like a tough guy, and he didn't like that at all. Wesker looked like the bullies who fucked him up until he was twelve, when his college entrance got him off the hook. He had learned to distance himself as much as possible from those cretins and to retreat into himself to minimise the damage. For this reason, he focused on getting his desk and cupboard in order, ignoring the other boy's presence. But the other boy was not ignoring him. He felt its sibylline blue eyes on the back of his head, watching him.
Birkin nervously swallowed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wesker pull a small metal object out of his backpack and tuck it under the mattress, probably thinking Birkin hadn't noticed, and lay down on the bed. Birkin finished and sat down in his desk chair to do whatever it was.
"Where are you from?" Wesker spoke suddenly behind him.
"Baltimore." He turned around. "I'm from Baltimore. And you?"
"New York."
Birkin swallowed again. His reclining posture lessened the sense of menace, but did not encourage him to let his guard down.
"Where in New York? State or city?"
"City. Brooklyn."
"Ah. I've never been there."
Quiet. Birkin began to rock the stiff metal chair, and Wesker lay back, staring at the ceiling.
"And what are you doing here?" Birkin ventured to satisfy his curiosity about his roommate's profile.
"Same as you," he replied.
Birkin wiped the sweat from his hands on his trousers. He recognised his stupidity.
"Where did you study?" he rephrased.
"Columbia."
"Oh. On a scholarship?"
"Yes."
"I came from Harvard. A bachelor's degree in microbiology."
"How old are you?" Wesker cut him off.
"Fifteen."
Wesker turned around, and now he was the one with his back to her. He didn't understand the move. Was that supposed to be a good sign or a bad sign? He hadn't hit him yet, though.
Yet.
Notes:
[1] North of England. In this case, from Yorkshire to Northumberland.
[2] Columbia University, New York.
[3] United States Military Academy (USMA) (West Point).