by M. R.
"Move the white ball."
His eyebrows furrowed; his upper lip trembled. The white ball vibrated. He gasped and the balls fell.
"Good. Improving."
Julian shut down, looking to the corner of the room, away from the balls. She needed him to reengage; she walked around her desk and started picking up the balls, until they floated, gliding into the box.
"Thank you, Julian." She looked to him and smiled.
His eyes met hers; he nodded.
Cassandra returned the box to the floor and came back up with a partition and the white ball. She placed the board, standing, in front of the white ball, hidden from Julian's line of sight. The ball floated. She took a box, placing it over the ball in midair. The box lowered, landing on the desk–the ball clanked.
"Raise the ball again, the ball only."
He closed his eyes, trying to dissociate the physical from the mental, to understand his mind did not need a clear path to the ball–it was with the ball. His hand trembled; his head shook. His eyes rolled–
"Enough!"
He didn't stop; his body started to seize. Doctor Farling rushed to him, stretching his eyes open–"Look at me!"–his eyes took her in–he went limp. She scanned his field. Diagnosis: he just needed to nap it off.
<<>>
Derek got too much credit; the plan went too well. Flare, born Reginald Gumpton, lived to maneuver, a strategist by nature. Quake had followed his plan to the letter, his execution so perfect even Coach O'Brien fell into the trap designed for Derek. Coach didn't know where his props were truly due.
The plan was to hit Derek once, getting him into gear, then navigate around him with an increasing flurry of attacks. It was no secret to Flare, who made a point to observe all his classmates' training sessions, that Derek grew quicker, more agile, with each blow the training robot landed. He didn't know if it was a part of his power or just a psychological tick–but no matter. The purpose was to hit him once to get him on his toes, then repeat the attach without making impact to set up an offensive evasion, avoiding any attack by keeping his feet dancing on the field. The results were two fold: first, Derek would let his guard down as he got cocky, thinking Quake was just an overpowered meathead who could easily be outsmarted; and second, he'd accept the futility of his approach and change the game, running for the woods. The best plans strung your foe up like a puppet blind to the strings.
The key to Derek was entrapment. Testing his resilience with takedown tactics was too risky. Even if successful, coach would've called off the challenge concerned for Derek's safety, and Quake would've looked like a heartless monster, pushing the threshold between combat partner and bludgeoning bully. He would've been disqualified and proved himself too insensitive to be a fit leader. Quake was to drive Derek into the woods, into the trees, justifying the creation of the first pillar as he searched the treetops. Then he'd get Derek against that wall and conjure the second slab, pinching him in. Finally, he'd bring up the side walls, one by one, just half way, an earthly prison built wall by wall.
But Quake had lost his temper–he hated Derek. His loathing possessed him, wiping out all sense and reason. (Why was he crying forfeit when pushing Derek towards the forest was the plan?) His wrath must've sprung from deep: the earth rose up around Derek from both sides, all walls squeezing in. Quake, who could only move one slab at a time, just learning to maintain the formation of two and three slabs at the same time, was now simultaneously forming two walls while moving two more. He hated Derek–and sacrificed the long term good of their team by becoming leader in favor of putting him in his place...for ten seconds. Coach couldn't see the plan as a plan, but just as the actions of a hothead with no self-control, a danger. Everything looked accidental, emotional–trust was gone. Worse, from another perspective it didn't look unintentional but deliberate, calculated by pretty boy Derek.
The second challenge was their chance to save face. Flare had an idea. To everyone, even coach now, they were just red-necked hicks who hated queers and hung up confederate flags on their bedroom walls–thanks completely to Quake. But now, thought the firestarter, it was time for a master lesson. They were going to know who ran this.
Now, Flare and Klug flanked Quake on the field. They were suited up like their leader, Flare in a black mission suit with red shielding, the colossal, bald Klug towering over them in a navy blue suit with light blue armor. The plan was in place, no need for talking.
Derek was huddled with Abbey and Connor, Meghan next to coach. The team versus team challenge required each team be equal in number, three on three. They finished the details to their strategy then faced their adversaries.
With a shot of Coach O'Brien's pistol, Flare and Connor acted. Flare dropped to the ground, flicked open his lighter, and the flame jumped onto the grass, rushing forth in a line of fire–the world went dark. He was blind.
"We get 'em?" said Klug.
Derek's team was quiet–they were trapped in a circle of fire. With a blink of his eyes, Connor activated his power, depriving seeing eyes of their sight. Unimpressed with Derek's strategy, he foresaw this first maneuver, memorizing the terrain and the locations of the players, but all went black before he could see if his own plan had progressed: Did Quake raise an earth wall to keep them from running back? Had his firewall risen high enough and moved fast enough to keep them from escaping to the sides? Time was passing...no attack:
"Derek," he said, "I know you're trapped. You would've attacked by now."
Derek looked through the crackling flames: Flare and his comrades were calm, unmoving.
"Forfeit, and it's all over," said Quake.
"Yeah," said Klug. "Give up and it's all over."
Connor looked to Abbey: "You got anything, sis?" The fire circle moved in, tightening around them. The flames licked Connor's jacket; he patted out the flames: "Not Dad's jacket."
"I'm not concerned about the fire," said Abbey. "It's what happens next I have to think about."
Flare and Klug reached out, touching Quake's shoulder. Slowly, they shifted behind their leader, all back to back. Shuffling in a circle, they rotated until Klug, the juggernaut, was in front, his teammates protected behind him.
Abbey wore a white mission suit with her favorite hot pink half-coat. Over her right forearm was a dark blue cybernetic shield, coordinated to match her knee high, mission-approved boots.
"Talk," she said. And the boys talked, as she went behind the slab of earth, to the rear of the fire circle.
"You aren't going anywhere," said Flare. "We'll just stay here 'til time runs out. First time someone loses a challenge with no points."
Coach O'Brien observed. He moved to get a view of Abbey: She reached behind her calf, unwrapping her boot, the material springing into a rigid sheet as it was uncurled. It was sheet metal, with some enhancements.
Abbey used her powers of magnetism to slide the sheets of both boots along the ground, smothering the flames, creating a portal in the fiery wall. She walked out the circle. Running around, she waved to Derek and Connor, barely containing her glee. The boys looked at each other then ran behind the earth wall to find Abbey's sheets glowing red. Derek went to jump, but Connor pulled him back–the fire wall covered the metal sheets, blazing with fury.
Flare had felt the break in his wall and compensated, reforming the wall:
"One of 'em is loose," he whispered. They tightened ranks refocusing with a new vigilance.
In the circle, Derek and Connor thought. "What now?" whispered Connor.
Derek dug up dirt, making a mound. Connor followed suit. They hurled the dirt over the fire; the fire spat and sputtered, fighting for breath, then smothered. The wall, as if sensing threat, expanded over the dirt. Flare needed a source to produce his flames, hence the lighter and touching the grass. But this was new, making fire from fire, the flames bridging over the metal and now the dirt. First time it took a while, but now it was immediate. The wall had become as impenetrable as Flare's concentration, observed Der
ek, who then said:
"We'd have to smother the wall in multiple places at the same time and over a large enough area to stretch Flare's concentration until it weakened." He was forcing a constructive tone and mindset, determined to not lose hope, to not just give up and call it a day. He was ticked at Abbey. She should've told him what she was doing–she was showing off. The three of them could have laid out her metal, gathered dirt, and taken out enough of the wall to all escape in one move. But now, they'd lost their chance: Flare had locked his concentration on the wall, the fire now an extension of his own mind.
Abbey could see the disappointment on Derek's face. He was too nice to blame her, which made her feel worse. She had to do something. She crept towards the enemy.
"No," whispered Derek. "Abbey..."
She neared Flare. If she could surprise him, maybe the wall would give. She looked to Derek and Connor, pointing to her target. Derek shook his head.
Looking at Flare from yards away, she prepared to charge–Flare locked eyes with her.
"Over here!" he shouted. Quake and Klug spun around.
"Oh God," said Abbey.
"Get outta there!" yelled Connor. His power had expired: he'd have to wait before he could blind the same targets again.
The fire wall grew higher, hotter.
"Get her," said Quake.
Derek called out to Coach O'Brien: "Forfeit! We forfeit!" He hated himself.
The firewall diminished, the earth slab sunk into the ground, and the victors roared with glory. The defeated couldn't look at one another, ashamed of their respective failures. If only Connor could've held on longer, if only Abbey had acted as a team, if only Derek had been faster, smarter, a better leader. Know what? He would've been better off alone...and he felt worse for even thinking that way. It was his fault, no one else's.
"Great show, all of you," said Coach, stepping out between the two teams. Meghan ran over and threw her arms around Derek. "But suffice to say, Team Quake wins." Team Quake yelped and hollered like a pack of wolves. "However, overall individual score still goes to Derek. Derek, pick your team. Later, you'll meet with Dr. Farling for mission briefing. You all head out early tomorrow."
Flare expected as much, but he proved his point–he was just as smart and just as good as any of them. The confidence, the cockiness, the entitlement he had drained from Derek's typically upbeat and assuredly naive mug was all he needed. He had never felt so deeply contented. Unlike Quake, he didn't care if August kissed boys or if Derek was a boy scout–who was he to tell anyone how to be?–but no one thought they were better than him, ever.
<<>>
Constant floated before Dr. Farling, calm and still. Years of flying around, looking at books like he had never seen them before time after time, touching every pen, painting, and sculpture as he soared about like a kid in his first toy store, and now he just hovered. His disposition had calmed long ago, no longer as hyper and distracted, but getting him to sit in the air as he was now, in lotus position with chest out and chin raised, was the final phase of his therapy. It was time.
The Ellington boys were the same height, had the same round faces, the same round spec of a birthmark on their forearm, the same dimple above their right knee. Upon their arrival at Hyperion Academy, every inherent physical feature was identical, an "impossibly" infinitesimal deviation in likeness and proportions. Only after years of socialization did the first physical difference emerge: August needed glasses. Then later, as Julian developed his sympathy, his body adapted to the physicality of his power by being more muscular.
But Constant's disposition always contrasted from his brothers. August and Julian were guarded, but Constant was impressionable and trusting to a fault. He always did what he was told with no regard for his well-being, assuming everyone was good natured, only acting with the best interest of others. But there was one command he never followed: to put his feet on the ground–because he never seemed to understand. He always flew. The best Dr. Farling had accomplished was getting him to mime the movements of walking in the air. Also, even though his didn't have pupils or irises, his eyes did see. And he never talked, communicating by instilling impressions and intuitions in the listener. Talking to him was a process, an acquired skill, like knowing the different coos and cries of a baby, requiring a sensitivity that matched the spirit of the boy himself.
Dr. Farling could never read Constant's emotional field, because he didn't have one. So many years she had tried to figure out why, then recently when she just accepted the observation and moved on, the answer revealed itself. She had taken Constant hiking into the New Mexican desert, climbing to a plateau, where they picnicked, taking in the vast plains from under a yellow sun umbrella. That night, she slept in their deluxe tent, slipping away from the world into a realm of abyss where lights twinkled like stars. She felt...infinite...one with the universe. But she awoke, feeling at once exhilarated and diminished, having to return to the finitude of physical existence. A dream? She had never dreamed like that...and the feelings. She looked to Constant, who slumbered in the air, his blanket draped over him, hanging down. It was him. She just knew. He was potential, pure potential.
There were times he'd go missing. Every nook and cranny of the academy was checked, the forest and hillside scoured. She knew he was there, with the stars. And now, as Constant flew into her office, hovered in the center, and erected his posture as he tucked his legs under him, it was time. All her work in getting him to calm, learning to communicate with him in a way that opened worlds instead of collapsing them into limited, mundane ideas with objectifying labels had accumulated towards this moment, where he had control over his connection to that plane.
"Constant," she said. He looked to her. "Remember the other perception of reality?" He nodded. "Please transition us to a state where we can see it?" He smiled.
Closing his eyes, he wiggled his shoulders then rested them. He inhaled, held his breath, then slowly exhaled. Her office faded away, fading into the cosmic void she had dreamed, leaving them floating amongst sparkling stars.
CHAPTER TWO
Dream-Believer
Derek lay in bed, staring into the dark hovering under his ceiling, Meghan cradled into him. Her hair smelled of mangoes, her skin soft as her arm lay on his chest. For weeks he had told her he just wanted to hold her, to not do anything, preoccupied with training as the weeks began to accumulate towards the reality of him leading his own team. It was a partial truth: he had come to await August. But he wasn't sure–
"Hey." August stood in the doorway, in jeans and a white t-shirt, barefoot. Derek felt a lightness within him that sunk–Meghan. He looked to his side: no one. He smiled, impressed.
"You're inside my head." He got out of bed. He was dressed, also in jeans, but in a black t-shirt. The floor was cool against the soles of his feet. His door had been closed but was now open, his comforter was black but now red–the room looked the way it did the last time August visited. They had stayed up late, sneaking rocky road ice cream and nacho cheese chips from the kitchen and just...talking.
August sensed an unease in Derek, who stared at the bed. They were in Derek's mind, psychic forms, bodily manifestations of their own consciousness existing in a thoughtscape designed by August from their shared memories and impressions, conscious and unconscious. Derek may have believed his thoughts were in his form, but they were all around them. Sealing himself, both of them, into this psychic moment, August blocked himself from the thoughts resonating outside, feeling their gentle pounding against the walls of the room like waves against the shore. He entitled Derek to his privacy. But, he couldn't help but be sensitive to his feelings; so, to make his friend more at ease...
They stood in a field, an old tree with lush foliage and sprawling roots at its heart. In the shade of the tree grew little white and purple flowers, surrounded by a land of waving, amber grain.
"Picnic?"
Derek turned to see August sitting on a blue and white checkered blanket, a basket
of treats, cakes and pastries, to his side. He sat too, taking a lemon bar, sweet and tangy, silky and powdery.
"You must've nailed your evaluation, Augie," he said.
August sighed. "I held back."
"'Held back?'"
"I don't know why. I just wasn't ready. This is all you."
"Not even. I helped...and was happy to. I mean–I don't know. I've enjoyed hanging out."
Derek had spent years not particularly noticing Ellington, assuming they only needed each other. But as sympathy and combat training began to intensify, he knew his chance was coming to put his name in the running for leader. And a leader needed friends. So for the first time, he reached out to August. They had never talked; yet it felt as if they had, as if they were just two acquaintances chatting about the day: training, classes, and what not. So for the past three months, they had been meeting in Derek's mind, Derek guiding his recruit through his visualizing exercises–a developed psychic was an asset afterall. First, Augie would knock, sort of. He'd feel a slight nudge, then a release as he let August in, hearing his voice in his own head. Then they'd work deeper and deeper, creating objects, then scenes. But now it was seamless, and August wanted–needed–to tell Derek why: a conditioned rapport was forming between them, a psy-link that allowed a two-way flow of thoughts, feelings, and perceptions. They were becoming entwined, and August was afraid. What if it was all too much for Derek?
"I need to tell you something."
"It sounds serious. Tell me tomorrow." Life was good–Derek felt good–nothing could change–he didn't want anything to change...between him and life, Augie and him. This person, his friend, knew things about him, his past, Connor never knew. And now the mission–
"It's a rescue mission."
"Excuse me?" August had been gazing into the sky, a flock of birds were migrating. The sun's rays were bright, but cool. He didn't like the heat.