THE TWELVE -- Chapter 2 - Djaisiuk

In his room, Djaisiuk had indeed been preparing.  In his situation, he had to be ready for anything that might happen, however unlikely.  Quickly, but without haste, he sorted through his data and stored what he considered important and indispensable on his secret data chip.  Not even all of the other boys knew that he had this.  His data chip, stored inside the skull behind his right temple, undetectable by electronic and biologic scanners, invented by himself and accessible only by a device created by himself, could hold an enormous amount of information.  He used it as an emergency backup.  It had been created for ease of access, so that he would have the data that he wanted wherever and whenever he wished, but, in such a time as this, it was of inestimable value.

All of the information from their mission thus far, all of the more important data that he had stored on his computers here, all of the recent research that he had done, and all of the plans and schematics for the delicate equipment that he had invented over the last few years and that he would now have to destroy was soon stored safely in this secret storage compartment that no enemy could access.
 

Once the data was safely in storage, Djaisiuk proceeded to erase it all from his larger storage units.  He incinerated the small device used to access his data chip, knowing that he could easily build a new one at a later time.  He also carefully destroyed all of the more delicate instruments in his workroom, most of which he himself had created, and removed and destroyed vital parts of the larger, less destructible instruments with which he worked.
 

They made a mistake in allowing us time after informing us of their purpose, thought Djaisiuk.
 

The lights had been turned out in the rest of the ship, but Djaisiuk’s room was powered separately: from within itself.  Consequently, though the rest of the ship was in darkness, Djaisiuk had plenty of light in which to work.  Had the lights remained on outside, the Vukasovians could have watched the ship’s cameras (what few there were) to see what the boys would do and to hear what they would say.  As things stood, they could hear, if they wished, but they not see anything that happened.  This could still be a reason for granting them time for the fact of their capture to sink in.  It would enable the Vukasovians to learn something about the boys through observation before assigning them to whatever lay ahead.  In Djaisiuk’s case however, it was a mistake.
 

There were no cameras in Djaisiuk’s room nor in the hallway immediately outside of it.  The Vukasovians could not observe his room nor the work that he now did inside it.  Djaisiuk knew that none but himself could enter his workroom regardless, but it was not inconceivable that the Vukasovians would find a way.  Like as not, the security devices within the room would have destroyed everything in it before anyone could force an entry, but Djaisiuk would not take that chance.  Everything of importance must be carefully destroyed first.
 

Djaisiuk was glad for the delay for other reasons as well.  It gave him time to think.
 

This is not a simple case of piracy, he thought, this is kidnapping: a universal offense.  None of us are considered adults under the Treatise of the Confederation, so this act would be punishable by death without appeal for any who took part in it.  The Vukasovians as a whole would not risk this.  It would put their entire civilization at risk of interplanetary condemnation.  No, it would be too hazardous.  This is an isolated incident.  Either the government of Vukosava does not know, or it pretends to not know what is going on.  Does it know?  That is harder to say.  Any facility large enough to take our ship, assuming that it is based on the planet, and to attempt to ‘integrate’ us into their society would have to be known by the governing authorities.  The most logical assumption is that the government is well aware of what is going on, but has chosen to pretend that it does not know, with good reason. 

Djaisiuk could not have voiced these thoughts to the other boys.  Quite apart from his dislike of speaking (stemming partly from the physical pain that it gave him because he so seldom spoke but mostly from personal preference), he knew that the Vukasovians were probably listening.  Anything that he chose to say to the other boys would, most likely, be overheard.  Besides this, his thoughts moved so quickly that he moved through the entire argument just set forth and began to make plans based on hundreds of contingencies in the space of time that it would take an average person to speak aloud the first sentence of his thoughts.  No, he could not tell the others of his thoughts or plans.  Even if he wished to do so and knew that he would not be overheard, there would not be time.  He had far too much to do.
 

By the time fifteen minutes had elapsed, Djaisiuk had nearly completed both his preparations and his plans, as well as he could under the circumstances.  He checked to make sure that all in his room was done away with as it ought to be.  Sufficiently satisfied, he walked to the shorter wall on the right-hand side of the room and laid his right hand gently against it.
 

Here was a difficulty that he did not know how to remedy.  Djaisiuk did not dare to open the hidden compartment, knowing that the sight and feel of his instrument would make it all the more difficult to leave it behind.  It was not possible to bring it with him, but he doubted that he would be able to work easily for more than a few days without it.  He had functioned without it for years before he’d known of its existence, but since then he had come to depend upon it greatly.
 

Music was an integral part of Komislavian culture, and nearly all of the boys played some musical instrument: Jade played the lute; Leil played a Komislavian wind instrument called a svinzer; Creole the guitar; Christopher an electric mandolin; Faquire the synthesizer; Wysire played a small hand instrument called a juniel; Detrin played the flute; and Cycil played the violin.  Sandy liked to mix synthesized percussion on the computer, if that can be called an instrument.  Jaeger and Eriane played no instrument, though Jaeger liked to sing (but usually only when he was alone).  Those who played instruments understood the special bond that Djaisiuk had with his piano.  A musician and his instrument are not easily parted.
 

Djaisiuk had been a severe introvert from childhood.  His inability to relate to others frustrated him and caused him to withdraw further and further into himself as he grew.  In any other student of the IC School, the instructors would not have allowed this: they would have addressed the problem again and again until it was fixed.  With Djaisiuk, the instructors were so overwhelmed by his intelligence level that they often allowed “smaller issues” to go unaddressed.  A few of them really did try to work with him on his personal issues, but Djaisiuk would only grow distressed and more frustrated when he couldn’t seem to grasp exactly what was expected of him.  One by one, even those few instructors stopped trying, seeing that Djaisiuk worked and learned far slower when under emotional duress.
 

Now, at age seventeen, Djaisiuk was both the single most intelligent and the single most socially inept member of his race.  He was very kind, and he had the heart of a servant, but he would not speak to people or even look them in the eye unless he felt that it was unavoidable.  All who knew him loved him.  And all who knew him pitied him.  Djaisiuk’s inability to relate to people did still distress him at times, but those were the times when his piano was the most comforting.  Somehow the music helped to relieve the pain that he felt at being always alone.  It was the only way that he knew to relieve the stress that no one knew he felt.
 

Djaisiuk never understood why the old piano gave him such comfort.  His introduction to it had been a mere chance occurrence.  In visiting the living quarters of an instructor when he was six years old, he had seen the instrument for the first time.  It was taller than was Djaisiuk, several feet wide, and about two feet deep, yet it seemed, at first glance, to have no purpose to justify its existence.  The instructor, seeing him look at it with more than a cursory glance, offered to show Djaisiuk just what it was.
 

Djaisiuk did not know then, nor had he ever been told, but at that time, the instructors as a whole had been quite concerned about him.  They had seen the problems in him, but had not yet decided to let them go unaddressed.  Djaisiuk was, at that time, not yet seven years old, but from his entrance into the school until then, he had never shown emotion.  He remained always very withdrawn, never seeking the company of others, preferring always to be alone.  This, in his race, was very unusual, generally signifying a deeper, psychological problem or former emotional injury.  The instructors had tried, both individually and working together, to determine the root of the problem.  This had, in time, proved a futile exercise.

* * * * * * *

From birth, Djaisiuk had shown himself to be very different from his siblings.  He was always quiet, crying and making noise far less often than would a normal baby.  He seemed introverted and withdrawn from the start.  Before he was two years old, he showed himself to possess an extremely great intelligence.  His maturity, however, seemed to be accelerated only in the area of intellect; his physical growth and emotional maturity both seemed retarded.  But as he grew, Djaisiuk became more and more quiet and withdrawn.  He never played with other children, except occasionally with his older brother, nor did he ever speak unless someone asked him a question.  Even then, he did not always respond.  He would rarely -- if ever -- look a person in the eye.
 

When Djaisiuk was four, he was taken to the IC School for testing, partly in the hopes that there among others of his intellectual level he would be better able to learn to relate to others.  At the school, before he was even tested, Djaisiuk's parents were told that the school would not accept him until he was at least age six, but that he could be tested now to see whether they ought to bring him back at six, at ten, or not at all.  The test results astounded everyone.  Djaisiuk, in his untrained state, was more intelligent at age four than most boys schooled there were at age twelve.  Upon consideration, the head of the school agreed to accept him then and there.
 

As time passed and Djaisiuk did not learn to relate to others, many of the instructors became concerned.  Some suggested that Djaisiuk’s emotionally withdrawn state was due to the separation from the rest of his family at such an early age; they said that he ought not to have been accepted until he was six.  These instructors suggested that he be sent back to his family, arguing that his own emotional well-being was of far greater importance than were his contributions to the school through work or research.  Others disagreed with this, citing Djaisiuk’s own parents’ report when they had first brought him to the IC School, saying that he had never related well to others, even to his own family.  These instructors suggested (for lack of any better answer) that Djaisiuk was a unique individual in whom emotions were simply unnecessary; he obviously functioned well enough without them.  True, he did not seem ‘happy’ per se, but neither was he unhappy.  No full consensus was reached, but it was, at last, agreed upon by all that Djaisiuk should stay at the school.  The instructors ceased in their efforts to change him, agreeing rather to watch and wait, ready to step in at once should the problem appear to be worsening.
 

There was one instructor alone who disagreed with both the causes and the conclusions reached by the others.  He believed that the root of the problem was deeper and that the answer existed, but that it had simply not yet been found.  This instructor was very interested in Djaisiuk and worked hard to understand him.  He would talk to Djaisiuk, more than only in classes and training, trying to draw him out into a conversation.  He would encourage Djaisiuk to look at a person when they spoke and to answer questions that were not directly asked.  The former was attainable, but the latter seemed only to distress Djaisiuk when the instructor said it, for he could not seem to understand what exactly was expected of him.  The instructor did not give up, however, but worked ever harder, though always very gently.
 

It was this instructor who had introduced Djaisiuk to music of his own.  One day, about two years after Djaisiuk had joined the school, the instructor had invited Djaisiuk to come to his quarters.  Most of the instructors lived at the school, and their quarters were, therefore, where they and their families lived.  Students were sometimes invited to visit the quarters of different instructors, generally in small groups.  To be invited individually was considered a rare privilege.  The instructor had invited Djaisiuk alone, hoping to make him more comfortable and at ease in a quieter, less formal setting than in the classroom.  As Djaisiuk entered, his eyes had scanned the entire room and come to rest on the piano.  When the instructor saw Djaisiuk’s apparent interest in the piano (made obvious by the fact that he looked at it for longer than was necessary to determine that it did indeed exist), he was quick to offer to show Djaisiuk how it worked.  Djaisiuk did not object (indeed he said nothing), so the instructor proceeded to play a piece.  Djaisiuk seemed fascinated.  He approached the piano and watched the instructor’s quick fingers moving up and down the keys.  He then delighted and astonished the instructor by asking what the instrument was called.  That was the first time that that instructor had ever heard Djaisiuk ask a question.
 

From that day onward, the instructor had had Djaisiuk come to his rooms often to see the instrument and to learn to play it.  Djaisiuk learned enjoyment through the music.  It required very few lessons for Djaisiuk to master the piano.  He had soon played every piece of written music that the instructor owned and had begun to compose his own.  In time, Djaisiuk ceased using written music altogether.  He had but to play a piece once or twice, and it was memorized.
 

The instructor came to love to watch Djaisiuk play.  Sometimes he would play a piece that he knew; other times he would write his own music as he played.  At times, he would combine written music with his own in his mind, playing beautiful renditions of ancient works.  He would sit with his eyes closed or half-closed, his face perfectly expressionless, his fingers moving quickly up and down the keys.  Sometimes the music would be slow, sometimes fast; sometimes light, sometimes heavy.  It was as if Djaisiuk was using the music to express the emotions that he wanted to feel but that people thought that he did not understand.  It was his release.
 

Djaisiuk did experience what he would call emotion.  He might be annoyed if he could not solve a problem; he might be tired if he had worked long; he might be satisfied if he had finished a very difficult project.  One emotion that he felt often, though he would never have identified it as such, was loneliness.  He understood it only as a strange, shallow longing that nothing seemed to fill.  The depth of the emotions that he felt was so shallow that a normal person might never have acknowledged their existence, but it was all that Djaisiuk knew.  And it was this that he expressed in his music.
 

On the day that Djaisiuk had received his first permanent assignment on board a ship, the day also that he turned seven, the instructor had given Djaisiuk a gift of the piano.  Djaisiuk had been completely taken aback, so much so that it did show (albeit only slightly) in his face.  He looked at the piano for a long moment, then stepped forward and took hold of the instructor’s hand.  He was silent for a moment, not looking up, then he swallowed and said, “Thank you.”  That was all.  But that was more than even the instructor had expected.
 

Djaisiuk used his piano (his “instrument” as he always called it) often on the ship.  When working on a difficult assignment, he would play, working the problem out in his mind.  When tired, he would relieve whatever stress he might be feeling by playing.  When lonely, which was often, he would play his instrument rather than seek the company of the other boys, for even as he grew into his teenage years, he still did not relate well to people.  His voice grew hoarse and his vocal cords stiff from lack of use, such that when he did speak, it caused him real, physical pain.  But the less he spoke, the more he played.

Djaisiuk stood now, eyes closed, with his hand resting lightly against the wall that concealed his beloved instrument.  He knew that he probably had very little time left before the ship would arrive at its destination.  They would then all be taken from these familiar surroundings and placed in a strange new environment.  And he could not bring his instrument with him.  He could not guess how long they would be here, away from their homeland.  He wondered how long he would be able to work in this new place without his instrument.  He had come to depend on it so greatly over the last ten years that he found it difficult to imagine working without it.  And if they did eventually return to their own planet, the likelihood of his instrument returning with him was almost none.
 

At last, Djaisiuk opened his eyes and looked around the room a final time.  There was much yet that could (and should) be done, but he knew that time was running short.  He could feel that the ship was beginning to land, and he had to be out of his own room and back into the engine room before the Vukasovians turned on the lights or boarded the ship.  He looked carefully over the counters to ensure that he had missed nothing of vital import.  The last thing that he did was to pick up his own tiny Bible and slip it into an inner pocket of his shirt.  He then turned off the lights and walked out of the room.
 

The door closed.  No one who did not know of the room’s existence would have guessed that a door was there.  When it was closed, the door appeared to be simply a wall.  There were no markings whatsoever to indicate where an opening might be.
 

Djaisiuk sealed the room well behind him.  At any time, once the door was closed, none but Djaisiuk could open it.  Though it could not be forced open, it might be cut through.  Consequently, there were extra precautions and added protection that could be engaged to better secure the room.  These were engaged only in greatest need.  That is to say, they had never before been used.  However, Djaisiuk now employed them.  Should anyone attempt to manually cut through the door or walls, the inner room would begin to incinerate itself.  The person or persons outside the room would be informed of what was happening within and warned (by the ship’s communication system) to stop lest all inside be destroyed.  Sure as he was that the Vukasovians would eventually find some way to get into his room, Djaisiuk had no intention of making it any less difficult for them than he was able.  This done, Djaisiuk returned to the other boys.