by Russ Linton
Weren't the Giants playing tonight? I've got a paper due in Intro to Philosophy, but I can manage a few thousand words of bullshit while I watch the guys pick blades of Astroturf in the outfield. Probably be another no-hitter.
"Buzz-buzz ... disorder ... buzz-buzz ..."
Wait. That's my phone.
When Professor Ingram turns to scrawl whatever hieroglyphics he's putting on the whiteboard, I sneak my phone from my bag. It vibrates again. Incoming text.
One good thing about these auditorium seats is the solid sheet of metal wrapping in front of the rows. Ingram hates cell phones. Pretty sure he still uses a rotary in his office. The text scrolls across my screen.
What up jint!
Eric. Man, I haven't heard from him since the "event". I'm not sure what else to call it in my head. I'd use the "Happening", but that's already been taken and the little twist it put in my life was decidedly more interesting than apocalyptic shrubbery.
Class. Learning about Dad, I reply.
History?
Psych.
Yeah? How's the major?
You'd better be referring to leagues.
No-hitter! The Doc is definitely an Augment.
Okay, so the pitcher this season is a beast. Some seven-foot guy named Hu out of a remote province in China. The nicknames had been relentless until "The Doctor" finally stuck. He'd been leading the Giants to one scoreless game after another, but he wasn't an Augment. Or was he? When Eric of all people said stuff like that, you had to listen.
Augment, really?
Naw, I'm shittin' ya.
The guy in the seat directly to my right raises his hand and asks a question. A whole auditorium, and he can't leave a buffer seat. I look up from the phone and stroke my chin like something profound has been said.
"Funny you should use that terminology, Peter," says Professor Ingram. "A personality disorder is a mental disorder, but there are loads of questions regarding whether that should be the case." He says "loads" and stretches out the vowels like he's been watching too much BBC. "What do you think, Mister Alexander?"
The professor's scraggly white eyebrows are knitting behind the wire-rimmed specs. I've been made. Ingram's honed in on me, and I have this No-Personal-Space Peter guy to thank for it.
"I think if you're messed up, I'm not sure debating the terminology matters," I say.
"I'd prefer we didn't use terms like 'messed up' to refer to those with psychological disorders."
The phone vibrates in my palm. I press the damn thing into my thigh to try and muffle the sound. I'm sure it isn't near as loud as I think it is, but the prof has that look in his eye that usually proceeds his favorite activity, above even the whole teaching thing. I heard he grabbed a freshman's phone mid-text and spiked it like a game-winning touchdown. I'd rather not have that happen to my Qualfor Unity 5 Delta. Not only would I lose the recording of this lecture I haven't been listening to, but I'd have to reload six months' worth of apps and hacks.
He goes back to talking about the mentally disordered in the most mind-numbing way possible. I check the screen.
Hey, something's up.
Man, it's important.
You there?
Pretty sure I want to say, no. Of course Eric has probably already dismantled any security on my phone, dialed in on my exact GPS coordinates, and has control of the camera, the display ...
"Spence?"
... and the speaker. My lap is talking to me. Nice.
Only Peter seems to have heard. The rest of the class is verging on comatose, and Ingram just hit his stride with a rousing discussion on anger management issues associated with some other disorder. My guess is he won't be mentioning his phone spiking credentials.
In class. STFU, I type. I subtly flip-off the camera for good measure.
His next message includes a middle finger emoji and the words, Dude, this is important.
More important than school? I know that statement will translate into sarcasm over the monotone rantings of the net, but I mean it.
Way more.
Augment stuff?
Yep.
I told you, I'm out. Me normal. Me live normal life.
It's about your Mom.
I'm dumbstruck by the words. Or typestruck. Mom? How could there be anything to do with her? I'd left her on a beach in some psychic freak show's idea of a family playground. And I do mean freak show, no matter how insensitive Professor Ingram might find the term.
A hand snatches the phone.
Ingram managed a sneak attack along the empty row behind me, despite those god-awful, swishing, corduroy pants. I see a glint of triumph in his eyes. He twists the phone under the pale flood lights like he's inspecting a precious gemstone.
"You know, Mister Alexander," he purrs as he walks back toward the outer aisle, "I don't allow phones during class. Texting. Twerking. Vining. Facing. Whatever it is you do. I find it highly disrespectful."
I try to control my breathing and restrain myself from a twerking demonstration. Maybe I should've been listening to the anger management stuff, though, because I can feel veins throbbing in my temple. Eric had mentioned Mom. He wouldn't be joking about that.
"I'm sorry," I say, though I don't think it comes out as believable. "It was an emergency call. If you'll just give it back, I can take it outside."
"An emergency? Hmmm," says Ingram. He reaches the podium and props an elbow on the lectern. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he begins thumbing across the screen. "Ah yes, the Giants. Major emergency." He smiles at what he thinks is a joke.
This is about the point where I wish I'd been given superpowers. Augmented, like my dad. I don't think anyone would grab his phone. An undersized college freshman like me, who constantly gets asked if he graduated high school early? Sure. But not a six-foot tangle of muscle who looks more CGI than real, and who can take a tank shell in the chest and live to throw the offending weapon into orbit. No. He keeps his phone.
"Augment stuff," says Professor Ingram, reading from the phone.
"Look, Prof, I'm sorry."
He raises his arm.
I'm out of my seat before I even know it. "Don't you dare—"
"It's cool, I backed you up," comes Eric's voice. "Phone's toast soon, anyway."
Ingram looks startled. He recovers quickly and starts speaking into the wrong end of the phone, a smug look spreading to all corners of his face. "Well, hello, and who may I ask is this?"
"Sorry, but that's classified," says Eric. "I need you to hand the phone back to Spence."
"Classified? Really, now? Are baseball matches top secret, hmm?"
Silence. Ingram really thinks he's gotten one over on me, but the dead air only tells me that Eric is busy typing and looking at whatever monitor he's glued to at this particular moment.
"Professor Reginald Ingram, right?" Eric says.
It's started.
The prof purses his lips and gives me a nod like he's ready for what's coming. Ready to show up the impudent freshman and his buddy on the talkie box. I almost feel sorry for him.
"Yes, my reputation precedes me."
More silence.
"Oh, boy," says Eric. "You give that lecture on sexual deviancy yet?"
There's the first sign of confusion from the once-game professor. "Are you a student? Because if you are—"
"Aw, no! Nooo!" Eric warbles over the tinny speaker. "Whoa, Spence, you might want to warn the others in the class. Too late to drop?"
"Professor, really, just give me the phone back," I say.
He narrows his eyes, the bushy brows sinking behind his glasses. "I demand to know who this is."
"Man, no way I'm telling you. Not after what your porn downloads look like. Holy shit! I mean actual Scheizers, Prof, you are one sick dude."
His face is whiter than those eyebrows which unfurl from behind the glasses as he gapes.
"I don't ... never ..."
"Eric, stop," I say.
A few giggles spread across the r
oom but mostly there's a stunned silence. Everyone's eyes are flicking back and forth like a hungry lizard's between me and the spectacle up front. This isn't how this was supposed to be. I walked away from the crazy in my life so I could be who I am—normal—and forget my dad was an indestructible, weaponized human. Forget that I spent the better part of my high school years in an Arctic bunker, hiding from a psychopathic super villain. I'd made a new identity and created accounts all the way from banks to a brand-new Steam profile. We'd even hacked the Social Security office and issued a worry-free card—no need to steal one from a dead guy. Spencer Alexander, not Spencer Harrington, had enrolled for the spring semester at GWU. Spencer Alexander had a job in the microbiology lab. A future.
What made me think it would ever be that easy?
The professor raises the phone high, his arm trembling.
"I'm sending someone to get you," says Eric. "Like I said, don't worry, the phone's already—"
Crashing into the tiled floor. Dammit.
I'd seriously considered a military-grade phone case, given my previous life ... a life I apparently can't ever escape.
Light wraps the room like colored cellophane. It crawls through different shades of green and gold in wispy streamers until it ribbons into a form. She? He? is standing at the front of the auditorium, next to the remains of the phone. Ingram staggers into the podium and falls straight on his ass, but continues to stare.
The newcomer is the light. Translucent wisps smoke from the body and trail the head as it scans the room.
"Spencer?" the form asks.
Peter cringes and points at me.
"Thanks, Petey."
"I need you to accompany me."
I know a lot of Augments, but I don't know this one. I used to track them back in the day, after I found out my dad was one. In the lead-up to the insanity of my "event" last year, Eric and I went through his files on every known Augment. They'd all been rounded up by the Black Beetle, who, turns out, might've actually been doing the world a favor. I might not have cared what he'd been up to, had he not been the one who kidnapped my mom.
I don't want to relive those events. I can't. But how could this have anything to do with Mom? I'd already tried to save her and failed. She was nothing but a psychic afterimage, and one I promised I'd find a way to release, but a year in college hasn't been enough. A lifetime might not be enough.
"Do I have a choice?" I ask.
It waits before answering, the voice a strange mix of reverb and the distant sounds you hear at the bottom of a pool. "I was not told to give you one."
This is it. Not even one year of normal. Whatever this is, I know my dad is behind it. His bullshit is always more important than my life.
I climb over Peter, who's frozen in his seat. Everywhere else, the once-banned smartphones are coming out. People are staring into the screens, aimed toward the front of the room, as though what they might see will be different, more real than what's actually there. Pretty soon they're all tapping and mashing power buttons with confused looks. At least I wasn't the only one short a phone.
Eric better have backed up every byte.
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They were never designed to be heroes. Hurricane. Ember. Aurora. Danger. State-sponsored superhumans known as Augments. Weapons created to end a war.
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Can the powerless son of a superhero do what his father couldn't?
With no superpowers of his own, Spencer stumbles through a web of conspiracies and top secret facilities armed only with his multi-tool and an arsenal of weapons grade smart-assery. Along the way he rallies a team of everyday people and cast-off Augments, but soon discovers that his father's nemesis, the Black Beetle, isn't his only enemy or even his worst.
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Long forgotten gods have passed judgment on the Age of Man. Sidge, a pious orphan, must unravel a lost past to understand their divine will. But first, he needs humanity to see him as more than a slave.
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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialog are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Empty Quiver: Tales from the Crimson Son Universe. Copyright 2015 by Russ Linton. All rights reserved. No pa
rt of this book may be used without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Edited by - Heather Bungard-Janney
Cover Art - Johnny Morrow
Design - Russ Linton
Contents
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FOREWORD
THE 'CANE TRAIN
FAT MAN AND LITTLE BOY
CODENAME: DANGER
AURORA
ALTER EGO
SNEAK PEEK: CRIMSON SON 2
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