See These Bones

by Chris Tullbane

  I’d seen the ocean in vids, of course. Even a painting once, though that had been of a stormy night, with the water black and hungry enough to swallow anyone who dared approach it. But nothing had prepared me for the real thing: deep blue waters, waves crashing toward shore, and just fucking open space and possibility, stretching as far as the eye could see.

  Later, I would learn about the very many ways the Pacific could kill you, not even counting the Powers who called it home, and I would learn why the Free States had never been able to re-establish contact with places like Japan or Australia. I’d learn a lot of things, and the world being what it was, too damn few of them would be good, but for that moment, seen through almost-eighteen-year-old eyes… the ocean was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in years.

  To be fair, Smiley’s ass was a close second.

  •—•—•

  Another thing the vids had gotten wrong was the Academy itself. I recognized a handful of landmarks, the field where the Graduation Games took place among them, but there was so much more that the vids never showed; dozens of enormous buildings on multiple acres of green, the whole campus surrounded by an enormous wall.

  Either there were a lot more Capes than I’d realized, or more than just Powers went to class here. Or every student got their own building.

  We descended a steep hill toward the Academy grounds, but a block or two before we reached the gate, Smiley took a sharp right into a cross-street and brought our car to a shuddering stop.

  “This is as far as I go, Bakersfield. Hop on out.”

  “Afraid to be seen with the man who moons the university?” I joked. If I put particular emphasis on the word man… well, I was only a day or so away from that being legally true, after all.

  “Not interested in being seen at all,” she corrected. “Capes tend to have a black and white view of the world. Don’t take kindly to those of us who see it otherwise.”

  “Are you saying you’re a bad, bad woman, Your Majesty?”

  That smiley-face turned to regard me, the silence so profound that even I could hear my joke crash and burn. “I’m a professional. I take the jobs that pay. Some are good, some are bad. As for what that makes me?” She shrugged slim shoulders. “I’d say practical.”

  I met her shrug with one of my own. “Well, you saved my life. Maybe I’m just already going crazy, but that makes you good in my book. So thank you.” I glanced in the direction of the Academy. “And nobody’s going to hear about you from me.”

  When she said nothing in reply, I pulled my bag out of the back, and hopped down off of the car. “See you around, Your Majesty.”

  “Hold up a moment.” Just like that, Smiley was standing between me and the Academy. “I don’t know what sort of game you’ve gotten caught up in,” she continued, her voice lacking its usual metallic snarl, “but odds are, it’s going to get worse before it gets better. And if it does…” She offered me a small card.

  It was as black and glossy as the glove that held it, blank except for a series of seventeen digits in silver.

  “Is this your… number?” Just like pre-Break, communication was done via land lines, and telephone numbers had only six digits—seven including the city code—but I couldn’t figure out what else it would be. Coordinates, maybe?

  “It’s a one-time net address for a drop box location I check daily. When you’re in the shit, you might just need a bad, bad woman to bail that sweet little ass out.” The humor re-entered her voice, and for a moment, the smile across her visor seemed sadistic. “Fair warning: if you use it for a booty call, I’ll take your cock away with me as a souvenir afterward.”

  With statements like that, my dick was in real danger of becoming an innie rather than an outie, but the rest of me was oddly touched. I was about to enroll at the most secure institution in the country, and I couldn’t see why I’d ever need protection, but the fact that she had offered…

  Her Majesty was totally into me.

  CHAPTER 12

  Turns out that showing up to the Academy in blood-soaked clothes with no escort, school identification, or any sort of acceptance letter sets off a few alarm bells. Not just figurative ones either; before I could trot out my whole stranger danger speech, I’d been whisked off to some small, underground room to be run through half a dozen scanners under the watchful eyes of three guards and a fully automated turret. I was a breath away from having someone shove their gauntleted hand up my ass when word came down that the school dean wanted to see me.

  Apparently, he and I had different definitions of wanting to see someone though. I spent thirty minutes sitting on my almost-violated ass outside the guy’s office, under the watchful eye of a steel-haired matriarch who was both the dean’s assistant and way scarier than any of the guards had been. My one attempt to enter the dean’s office had been swiftly derailed by little more than a grim, bespectacled glare and a meaningful shake of her head.

  It was like Mama Rawlins had a secret, long-lost, and fucking terrifying older sister.

  There were four seats in a row along the wall, and I’d been deposited in the one furthest from the door to the dean’s office. The next two chairs were unoccupied, while the last one…

  “So what did you do to get sent here anyway?”

  …held Mr. Fucking Talks-a-lot, who had come in halfway through my wait and seemed completely oblivious to my very obvious attempts to ignore him.

  I was trying to be on my best behavior but there were limits.

  “What?” I finally answered, infusing the single word with every bit of annoyance and irritation that I could muster.

  “School hasn’t even started and you’ve already been sent to the dean’s office,” he replied cheerfully. “That takes some skill. So what did you do? Dig a tunnel to the girls’ dorm over the break? Hack a faculty net account? Have a wild orgy with the gardener’s rose bushes?”

  “With the bushes?”

  “Not a Druid then, I take it?” He nodded pleasantly. “Probably for the best. Bush fucking is something the faculty takes pretty seriously here.”

  I cautiously upgraded him from clueless asshole to clueless-but-funny asshole.

  “Are you a student?” He looked to be about ten years older than me, but the wrinkled tee, torn jeans, and sneakers pegged him as either a student or a writer.

  “Nah, though I did run through the support curriculum a few years back.”

  “The what?”

  “Support curriculum.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s one of the tracks the Academy offers to non-powered students.”

  “I thought this was a college for Capes?”

  “It is,” he agreed, “but it offers degrees to the rest of us too, mostly specializing in Cape-related sub-fields. You know; marketing, PR, product development, information technology…”

  “And support.” Whatever the hell that was.

  “Yep. Everything a Cape team needs to run smoothly, and a half-dozen other related careers to keep the Free States plugging along.” He eyed me, dark eyes curious. “But since this is news to you, I’m guessing you’re here to become a Cape?”

  “Yeah. A Finder picked me up yesterday and took me to a testing station. I passed.”

  “And then the two of you fought through a horde of screaming pygmies to reach Los Angeles?”

  “What?”

  “Just trying to explain what’s left of your jeans.”

  I scowled. Funny was one thing. Nosy was something else entirely. “I don’t think that’s any business of yours. And what the fuck is a pygmy?”

  “On second thought, that must be why you got sent to see the dean,” he mused, ignoring my question. “What a shame. I was hoping it would be the bush thing.”

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t want to be a dick, but I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, this school’s asshole dean has been keeping me waiting for no fucking reason, and answering your questions is way the hell down my list of priorities.”

  That little s
peech won me another arctic glare from the desk-bound assistant, but my cheerful interrogator just shrugged. “I guess that depends.”

  “Depends on what?” If I had any control over my necromancy, this guy would already be ass-deep in zombies.

  “On whether you want to attend my school or not.” He flashed a wide, shit-eating grin, and offered a handshake. “I’m the school’s asshole dean. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Son of a bitch.” I didn’t realize I’d said the words aloud until the dean shrugged a second time.

  “Truer than you know. But I’d prefer you call me Bard.”

  •—•—•

  The dean’s office was half again the size of the waiting room, but felt even bigger away from the assistant’s sharp-eyed death stare. Bard took a seat behind the wooden desk that dominated the office and motioned me to one of the two chairs in front.

  I eyed the chair he’d indicated, scowled, and dropped into the one next to it instead.

  Bard raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. Leaning back, hands steepled in front of him, he watched me carefully, as if I was some sort of lab rat, or an equation gone surprisingly wrong.

  I tried to match his casual indifference, but the truth was, I wasn’t feeling particularly indifferent. I’d nearly died the night before—twice, if you included Her Majesty’s sexual invitation, three times, if you added in my electrocution—and I badly needed some food, a shower, and an explanation, not a staring contest with a guy who, not five minutes earlier, had spoken to me about bush-fucking.

  “Are you really Bard?”

  “Last I checked.”

  “The Bard?” Even I had heard of him; the Academy’s founder, and one of the Free States’ richest and most powerful individuals.

  “Well, no,” he admitted. “He died three-hundred and sixty-odd years before the Break.”

  “Huh?”

  “William Shakespeare?” He noted my confused look. “Never mind. If you were asking whether I founded this university, the answer is yes.”

  “Then what was the deal with all that… nonsense… in the waiting room?” With great—some might even say heroic—effort, I swallowed my usual assortment of expletives.

  “I’ve found it easier to get a picture of who someone is when they are unaware of my identity.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Anal probes and lies. So far I’m not thrilled with orientation.”

  “Orientation isn’t for another two days, Mr. Jameson.”

  “Banach.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Damian Banach,” I corrected. “I don’t use my father’s name.”

  “Duly noted.” He flipped open the manila folder on his desk and made a correction. “As I was saying, this interview is not your orientation. This is where we decide whether or not you will attend the Academy at all.”

  That cut right through my sulk. “What are you talking about? I tested as a Cat Three!”

  “So I read. But as I find myself having to tell one or two prospective students every year, there is more to attending the Academy than your Test. Enrollment at the Academy is earned, not given.”

  “Earned how?”

  “Through multiple years of education in high school, a battery of academic and psychological evaluations, and long-term observation,” he replied.

  None of which I’d had.

  “The usual procedure,” he continued, “is to funnel people like you back into the system. Assuming you then re-emerge as a candidate, you would be properly prepared.”

  “I’m eighteen. I have no family. I can’t afford to do that!”

  “It’s a problem,” he admitted, “as is your particular power, of course.”

  I frowned. “Mr. Grey seemed to think my admission was all but guaranteed.”

  “Mr. Grey?” Bard glanced down at the sheets of paper on his desk. “Ah yes, your Finder. While the Academy works in conjunction with the government, we are not under their authority. A Finder may designate a candidate for consideration—a right infrequently exercised, mind you—but I am the final arbiter when it comes to enrollment.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that this is your opportunity to persuade me that you deserve an exemption to attend my school, that the potential gains outweigh the very real negatives, and that you are more than a foul-mouthed, poorly attired, obnoxious troll.”

  “Takes one to know one,” I couldn’t help but shoot back, proving his point.

  “I suppose it does. But my future is secure, while yours is anything but. Now, do you want to continue trying to impress me with your attitude, or would you like to make an actual effort to convince me that you belong here?”

  I winced. It was a week for getting my verbal ass handed to me. One word from Bard would doom me to a short and ugly life on the streets.

  Or worse; turning into my dad.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Where did the blood on your clothes come from?”

  “We were attacked coming down from the north.”

  “You and Mr. Grey?”

  “No. He and I parted ways at the testing station. Said he had more kids to find.”

  Bard picked up a pen, made a quick notation, and continued. “So who escorted you from there?”

  I told him the story, sticking mostly to the truth, although—mindful of my promise—I replaced Her Majesty with a burly male mercenary who had taken down our attackers by more conventional means.

  “And this mercenary left you before you reached the school?”

  “He dropped me off around the block,” I lied. “I thought if I showed up alone, then…”

  “The other students would think you cooler than you are?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t give a shit what the other students thought, but if that worked for him… “I guess so. I didn’t expect the guards to go nuts though.”

  “Security here is extensive because it too often needs to be. As for impressing your classmates, they won’t be arriving for another day. Still, it wasn’t the dumbest scheme I’ve heard.” Bard shook his head. “That honor goes to the first-year who attempted to parachute into orientation, was nearly atomized by our automated defense systems, and still managed to break a leg crashing into the cafeteria.”

  “And this guy had already passed all your tests and screenings?”

  “It was a woman, actually, but I’ll admit that our screening remains a work in progress.” He made another notation and then flipped to the next sheet. “Anyway, onto the standard intake form. I already have your name, of course, as well as date of birth—happy almost-birthday, by the way—and measurements.”

  “Measurements?”

  “Height, weight, body mass, and other diagnostics, courtesy of one of the many scans you endured upon arrival,” he replied absently, still working his way down the form. “And thanks to yesterday’s testing, we know you are both a Crow and Category Three, so that piece of the puzzle is likewise taken care of. Which leaves only your basic psych profile and academic evaluations.”

  I didn’t like the sound of any of that.

  “Now, I’ve retrieved the records filed when you were a resident of the Bakersfield Home for Lost Children—”

  “Already?” That was the official name of Mama Rawlins’ orphanage, though there wasn’t a kid there who called it that.

  He nodded. “Not all of the scans you underwent were necessary, but security stalled until I had your paperwork in order. On the bright side, I can also inform you that you are not, and never have been, pregnant.”

  I was too pissed to even roll my eyes. Bard was damn lucky they hadn’t gotten around to the anal cavity search.

  “As for Mrs. Rawlins, she described you in her records as moody, withdrawn, and prone to violence.”

  Mama Rawlins had never been the sort to sugarcoat the truth, even when it hurt.

  “I particularly liked this line,” he continued. “Whenever there is any manner of confrontation, it is a given that Damian will be
in the middle of it—”

  But there was such a thing as taking honesty too far.

  “—but although he does everything the hard way, his heart is in the right place. The little ones look to him as a leader and a protector, and he has stamped out the vast majority of bullying and abuse.”

  I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat. Maybe the old woman had been paying more attention than I’d thought.

  Bard nodded at whatever emotion he saw in my face. “That quote is the primary reason we’re even having this interview, Mr. Banach.”

  I made a big show of shrugging. “People shouldn’t pick on those who can’t fight back.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” he agreed. “I always preferred this one: ‘What use strength, if not to defend those who have none? What use power, if not to promote peace?’”

  “It’s a bit wordy,” I decided.

  “Should you meet Dominion, you can tell him so.” Bard made another notation. “As I said, what records we have of you suggest you might have the instincts to be a Cape. However, it takes more than just will to be a Cape… it takes power.”

  I winced and nodded.

  “When did you first realize you were a Crow?”

  “Nine.”

  “Weeks or months?”

  I frowned. Who the fuck got their power nine weeks after they were born? “Years. But it wasn’t until yesterday that the idea of being a Cape even seemed possible. While the other kids were talking about which power they wanted, and how they were going to be the next Paladin, I was busy hoping that the power I already had stayed small, so that I at least wouldn’t cause too much damage when the madness took over.”

  Bard stared at me, eyes wide.

  “Well, excuse me for oversharing,” I said, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Nine years?” At my nod, he frowned, and scanned the papers in front of him. “Are you certain?”