It was a cat. Luke got no image, just the word, as big and bright as a Budweiser sign in a bar window.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, sport, if that’s how you want to play it. Take a deep breath, go under, and count to fifteen. Put a howdy-do between each number. One howdy-do, two howdy-do, three howdy-do, like that.”
Luke did it. When he emerged, Dave (last name unknown, at least so far) asked him what animal he was thinking of. The word in his mind was KANGAROO.
“I don’t know. I told you, I’m TK, not TP. And not even TK-pos.”
“Down you go,” Zeke said. “Thirty seconds, with a howdy-do between each number. I’ll be timing you, sport.”
The third dip was forty-five seconds, the fourth a full minute. He was questioned after each one. They switched from animals to the names of various caretakers: Gladys, Norma, Pete, Priscilla.
“I can’t!” Luke shouted, wiping water from his eyes. “Don’t you get that?”
“What I get is we’re going to try for a minute and a quarter,” Zeke said. “And while you’re counting, think about how long you want to keep this up. It’s in your hands, sport.”
Luke tried to surface after he’d counted to sixty-seven. Zeke grabbed his head and pushed him back down. He came up at a minute-fifteen gasping for air, his heart pounding.
“What sports team am I thinking about?” Dave asked, and in his mind Luke saw a bright bar sign reading VIKINGS.
“I don’t know!”
“Bullshit,” Zeke said. “Let’s go for a minute-thirty.”
“No,” Luke said, splashing back toward the center of the tank. He was trying not to panic. “I can’t.”
Zeke rolled his eyes. “Stop being a pussy. Abalone fishermen can go under for nine minutes. All I want is ninety seconds. Unless you tell your Uncle Dave here what his favorite sports team is.”
“He’s not my uncle and I can’t do that. Now let me out.” And because he couldn’t help it: “Please.”
Zeke unholstered his zap-stick and made a production of turning the dial up to max. “You want me to touch this to the water? I do that and you’ll dance like Michael Jackson. Now get over here.”
With no choice, Luke waded toward the edge of the immersion tank. It’s fun, Richardson had said.
“One more chance,” Zeke said. “What’s he thinking of?”
Vikings, Minnesota Vikings, my hometown team.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Zeke said, sounding regretful. “USN Luke now submerging.”
“Wait, give him a few secs to get ready,” Dave said. He looked worried, and that worried Luke. “Flood your lungs with air, Luke. And try to be calm. When your body’s on red alert, it uses more oxy.”
Luke gasped in and out half a dozen times and submerged. Zeke’s hand came down on his head and gripped his hair. Calm, calm, calm, Luke thought. Also, You fucker, Zeke, you fucker, I hate your sadistic guts.
He made the ninety seconds and came up gasping. Dave dried his face with a towel. “Stop this,” he murmured in Luke’s ear. “Just tell me what I’m thinking. This time it’s a movie star.”
MATT DAMON, the bar sign in Dave’s head now said.
“I don’t know.” Luke began to cry, the tears running down his wet face.
Zeke said, “Fine. Let’s go for a minute forty-five. One hundred and five big seconds, and don’t forget to put a howdy-do between each one. We’ll turn you into an abalone fisherman yet.”
Luke hyperventilated again, but by the time he reached one hundred, counting in his head, he felt sure he was going to open his mouth and suck in water. They would haul him out, resuscitate him, and do it again. They would keep on until he either told them what they wanted to hear or drowned.
At last the hand on his head was gone. He surged up, gasping and coughing. They gave him time to recover, then Zeke said, “Never mind the animals and sports teams and the whatever. Just say it. Say ‘I’m a telep, I’m TP,’ and this stops.”
“Okay! Okay, I’m a telep!”
“Great!” Zeke cried. “Progress! What number am I thinking of?”
The bright bar sign read 17.
“Six,” Luke said.
Zeke made a game-show buzzer sound. “Sorry, it was seventeen. Two minutes this time.”
“No! I can’t! Please!”
Dave spoke quietly. “Last one, Luke.”
Zeke gave his colleague a shoulder-shove almost hard enough to knock him off his feet. “Don’t tell him what might not be true.” He returned his attention to Luke. “I’ll give you thirty seconds to get fully aerated, and then down you go. Olympic Diving Team, baby.”
With no choice, Luke inhaled and exhaled rapidly, but long before he could count to thirty in his head, Zeke’s hand closed on his hair and shoved him down.
Luke opened his eyes and stared at the white side of the tank. The paint was scratched in a couple of places, maybe by the fingernails of other children subjected to this torture, which was reserved strictly for pinks. And why? It was pretty obvious. Because Hendricks and Evans thought the range of psychic talents could be expanded, and pinks were expendable.
Expand, expend, he thought. Expand, expend. Calm, calm, calm.
And although he tried his best to enter a Zenlike state, his lungs eventually demanded more air. His Zenlike state, which hadn’t been very Zenlike to begin with, broke down when he thought that if he survived this he’d be forced to go two minutes and fifteen, then two minutes and thirty, then—
He began to thrash. Zeke held him down. He planted his feet and pushed, almost made it to the surface, but Zeke added his other hand and pushed him down again. The dots came back, flashing in front of his eyes, rushing toward him, pulling back, then rushing toward him again. They started to swirl around him like a carousel gone crazy. Luke thought, The Stasi Lights. I’m going to drown looking at the—
Zeke hauled him up by the hair. His white tunic was soaked. He looked fixedly at Luke. “I’m going to put you down again, Luke. Again and again and again. I’ll put you down until you drown and then we’ll resuscitate you and drown you again and resuscitate you again. Last chance: what number am I thinking of?”
“I don’t…” Luke retched out water. “… know!”
That fixed gaze remained for perhaps five seconds. Luke met it, although his eyes were gushing tears. Then Zeke said, “Fuck this and fuck you, sport. Dave, dry him off and send him back. I don’t want to look at his little cunt face.”
He left, slamming the door.
Luke floundered from the pool, staggered, almost fell. Dave steadied him, then handed him a towel. Luke dried himself and got back into his clothes as fast as he could. He didn’t want to be anywhere near this man or this place, but even feeling half-dead, his curiosity remained. “Why is it so important? Why is it so important when it isn’t even what we’re here for?”
“How would you know what you’re here for?” Dave asked.
“Because I’m not stupid, that’s why.”
“You want to keep your mouth shut, Luke,” Dave said. “I like you, but that doesn’t mean I want to listen to you run your mouth.”
“Whatever the dots are for, it doesn’t have anything to do with finding out if I can go both ways, TP as well as TK. What are you guys doing? Do you even kn—”
Dave slapped him, a big roundhouse that knocked Luke off his feet. Water puddled on the tile floor soaked into the seat of his jeans. “I’m not here to answer your questions.” He bent toward Luke. “We know what we’re doing, smartass! We know exactly what we’re doing!” And, as he hauled Luke up: “We had a kid here last year who lasted three and a half minutes. He was a pain in the ass, but at least he had balls!”