by Drew Hayes
Close Combat class had yet to involve an actual punch. So far the emphasis had been on finding the right martial art for each member. While this sounded simple on paper, it in fact required every member to study at length the histories, philosophies, and manuals of several major martial art forms. Even the ones already trained were given this task because, in Professor Fletcher’s opinion, knowing an enemy’s tactics was almost as important as knowing your own. In a week they’d studied wushu, karate, Kuk Sool Won, and Sambo, with only three students finding a style they connected to.
Weapons had been even worse, with Professor Cole demanding they know the name, traditional style, and advantages versus disadvantages of every weapon in her collection. This would have been a far more accomplishable task if her collection didn’t require a miniature warehouse in which to store it.
Ranged Combat was similar; although Professor Baker put the emphasis on learning to use ranged weapons, she also demanded her students begin learning the principles of climatology and how to calculate decreasing velocity of a projectile along with wind resistance.
Control was something all its own. Professor Hill instructed his students in learning how to view the world in little more than terms of a physics problem. Instead of weight, they were calculating mass and volume, seeing every object in terms of the space it occupied in relation to the things around it, and being drilled constantly on their spatial awareness of their own bodies. Most of the students ended this class with migraine-level headaches.
Focus was a welcome relief during the actual class. After the first day, all Professor Stone had worked with them on was the principles of meditation and how to achieve a clear mind. The homework, in contrast, was beyond daunting. Poets, philosophers, artists, the students had to analyze the works of dozens of them and turn in essays with their own interpretations of or counterarguments to the pieces. These were inked liberally with a red pen pointing out the flaws in their thinking and returned to the students after meditation each class period.
Subtlety had been strange compared to the others. After the second day fiasco, the classes had consisted of a riddling tournament (which was won by Richard Weaver), an hour-long lecture on the dangers of wearing a hidden microphone, and a day where everyone was instructed to spend all their class time playing jacks while Professor Pendleton surfed the Internet. The class itself was a piece of cake so far, but that left the majority of the students with the uneasy feeling that they were missing something important. After all, no class in the HCP could really be that easy.
So it was that when Friday afternoon rolled around, it was greeted by the student population with significant gusto. Alice had solidified her plans for a girls’ night, the scope growing to include Mary, Stella, Violet, and Selena (added at Alex’s request). Once afternoon classes were completed the ladies took off, heading toward downtown, the spa, and a break from everything related to Lander and the HCP. This left the gentlemen up to their own devices, a gap in planning that was thankfully filled by Thomas before Nick could take the reins.
* * *
Dean Blaine heard his door open without so much as a knock. He sighed inwardly; whoever it was would probably require significant time, which would lead to him working yet another late night. This always seemed to be the cosmic curse of Fridays. He raised his head and saw Sean standing opposite him, patiently waiting to be acknowledged.
“Is there something you need, Professor Pendleton?”
“Indeed there is, Blaine.”
“Need I remind you that we are on school ground and I am your boss?”
“True, but we’re off the clock.”
“No, Professor Pendleton, only you are off the clock. Some of us have much to do and would greatly appreciate being left alone to do it.”
“Fine, fine,” Sean said, tossing up his hands. “Did you get the e-mail about what happened in Tuesday’s class?”
“I did.”
“Well, I wanted to take a look at the video footage from the entrance hall that morning. I doubt whoever did it placed the notes on everyone there, but it’s the best place to get at their backpacks. I’m sure we recorded at least one instance of them slipping in the papers.”
Dean Blaine relaxed a little. That was an easy request to fill.
“Certainly; all HCP staff has access to our archives. Go to room C-142-L and press your palm against the square pad. It will let you in and I trust you can figure it out from there.”
“I do have a knack with computers,” Sean agreed. Dean Blaine remembered Sean’s “knack” quite well. It had resulted in many a disabled alarm system at looted crime scenes.
Sean turned to leave, but Dean Blaine spoke up to delay him.
“If I were you, I’d focus the majority of my initial video watching on Nick Campbell,” Dean Blaine advised.
“The kid with the sunglasses? Why him?”
“You don’t think he is capable?”
“Not really. He was one of the first people out in the riddle contest, so he doesn’t have much creative thinking. He nodded off during my lecture, so he doesn’t have the willpower and dedication to take in a myriad of details that seem boring. Not to mention he was terrible at jacks, so he likely lacks even the basic dexterity to skulk, sneak, and steal when necessary,” Sean replied.
“Trust me on this one. Watch him first. Just call it a hunch,” Dean Blaine insisted.
“If you say so,” Sean grudgingly agreed.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Dean Blaine added.
“Yes?”
“I know you find it tedious, but you really should read through the files of your students,” Dean Blaine told him.
“I’d really rather not. When you go in with impressions of people before you meet them it tends to taint your judgment of someone off the bat, rather than allowing you to come to your own conclusions. Even if it’s things like psych profiles and aptitude tests I’d still rather see those traits demonstrated than read about them. That’s your problem; you always liked charts and numbers. I prefer to learn by assessing the people,” Sean defended.
Dean Blaine smiled at him with what was probably an altruistically knowing and not-at-all-smug smile. Probably.
“If you say so.”
23.
The girls sighed with relaxation, almost in harmony, as they rested in the just-warm-enough room. Each had been scrubbed, rubbed, and hot-tubbed to the point of pure decadence. Many of the ladies had been resistant to Alice’s spa idea at first: Violet and Stella didn’t see themselves as girly-girls and Camille was ill at ease being massaged by a stranger, but as they simmered in their state of saturated relaxation, there was no regret in the room at electing to attend.
“This is the first time all week I haven’t had my teeth clenched in stress,” Violet commented offhandedly.
“Amen,” Selena agreed. “I didn’t realize how badly my body needed to get away from that world.”
“I did,” Alice said. “I really freaking did.”
“Yeah, good call,” Stella complimented. “I wonder how the boys are burning off their stress.”
“Depends on if Nick manage to finagle control of their outing or not,” Alice pointed out.
“Thomas said he had already made plans,” Camille informed them.
“They’re fine then,” Violet concluded. “Thomas is ridiculously responsible and proper. He even asked permission to kiss me at the end of our first date. I bet he takes them to a crafts workshop or some crap.”
“I hope they have a little more fun than that,” Mary volunteered. “It would hardly be fair if we get this and they only get instructions on woodworking.”
“Nothing to be done for it,” Selena said. “Our boys are, for the most part, just the habitually responsible types.”
* * *
The blood arced through the air, sailing past the metal wires of the cage and landing on the cold concrete of the bare floor. It pooled there, joining its brethren of spittle and sloshed beer where it would li
nger until an unfortunate and underpaid worker took a rag soaked in cleaning solution to it some hours later. For now, the blood lingered, slowly spreading into a stain only a few yards away from Alex’s feet.
“Holy shit!” Nick yelled as the blonde fighter dropped to his knee and then all the way to the floor. That last punch had sent his head rocking like he was at a mid-eighties metal concert and pushed his brain straight into dreamland. Or, more likely in this poor soul’s case, into nightmare château.
The fighter sporting a multicolored mohawk tossed his arms skyward in victory, and the crowd screamed their approval through hoarse throats and increasingly drunken hazes.
“The other guy really should have bobbed to the side,” Alex pointed out.
“Wouldn’t have helped,” Thomas replied. “His opponent was ready for that and had his leg positioned to sweep him to the ground.” Over a year of experience in combat had honed his battle perceptions nicely, allowing him to appreciate the mixed martial arts match on a more detailed level than the average spectator. Of course, what he appreciated the most was that for once he was watching someone else get knocked around instead of filling that role himself.
“This is amazing,” Vince said, his voice still somewhat awestruck. “I never knew that people had made this kind of fighting into a sport. All I’ve ever seen was boxing.”
“Yeah, mixed martial arts has really come into its own over the last decade or so,” Alex informed him. “Though I had no idea that a crew was going to be in town.”
“It was good fortune,” Thomas said. In truth it was because one of his sparring partners from back home was in the organization and had given Thomas both free tickets and a heads’ up, but if one looked at networking as a type of luck then good fortune it was.
“I wonder if they accept challengers,” Hershel mused thoughtfully. "I've got a hip flask and Roy probably deserves to have a little fun, too."
“Even if they do, it won't be ones like him,” Nick replied. “You know the rules: our type has to go to the SAA. Which might be a good career move for Roy if this whole college thing doesn’t pan out.”
“They actually recruit heavily from HCP washouts,” Alex said. “I got a call over the summer from a local scout who assumed I hadn’t made sophomore year.”
“For a scout he can’t judge talent very well, then,” Thomas told him. He’d grown fond of the leaner brown-haired boy, and after last year’s midterm had acquired a healthy respect for his ability.
The next fighters began walking down the runway to the ring, a myriad of boos, coos, and yahoos greeting them as they descended. The crowd ratcheted up its intensity by several degrees as the combatants actually entered the ring, the bloodlust almost palpable as the spectacle drew nearer to starting.
“Thank goodness the chicks wanted their own night,” Nick said. “This kicks the crap out of anything they might have wanted to do.”
* * *
Carl Fletcher sat in the small apartment Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport had at the back of Melbrook, sipping on his fifth cocktail and feeling pretty good about life. The boys had recovered significantly since he saw them on the beach, bouncing back with the kind of vigor and determination that had led him to recruit them in the first place.
“Been a long time since we all sat together and drank,” Carl noted casually. It really had been. He’d retired over five years ago, and communication with those still active wasn’t exactly smiled upon. “How are Stop and Tracking holding up?”
“Resplendent as always,” Mr. Numbers replied. “They’re assigned to protect some diplomat’s child between situations, so they’re staying at an ultra-posh hotel in New York.”
“Tracking always did have a way of finagling the best assignments,” Carl remembered. “That girl could collect favors like they were bottle caps.”
“She has an exceptionally useful ability,” Mr. Transport said. “That calls for her services to be needed in unofficial capacities quite often.”
“Meanwhile, Mr. Transport and I get hopped around the globe frequently since relocation is easy for us,” Mr. Numbers said, a rasp of bitterness detectable in his voice. “This is the longest we’ve managed to stay in one place since we started.”
“Chin up, Numbers, they did the same thing to me and I wasn’t even paired with a teleporter,” Carl said. “On to happier topics. How’s that girl of yours? Still keeping tabs I assume?”
Mr. Numbers smiled; not a grin or a smirk or a sneer or a calculated pull of his lips to show teeth, but a genuine smile. “She’s doing really well. Just got her doctorate in molecular biology.”
“At her age? That’s pretty impressive,” Carl said.
“That’s my niece,” Mr. Numbers said simply, his intense blue eyes shifting out of focus as they looked beyond the physical realm of the room and into his memory.
“What about you, Transport? Still flying solo?”
“You know the job,” Mr. Transport said simply.
“Yeah. Yeah, I know the job.” Carl took a deep draw from his drink and let the line of questioning die out. There wasn’t more to say, nor more that needed to be said. Carl already understood; after all, Carl had his nice home on his nice beach which was nice and quiet with no spouses talking or grandkids visiting.
Carl knew the job, all right.
24.
It was midway through the third week of classes when a white document appeared on the wall in front of the gym. It said very little, only listing a date and the numbers “1 vs. 4” and “2 vs. 3”. It said nothing else and was gone the next day. For its minimal appearance of importance, that one sheet of paper stirred up the sophomore class more than a pickup truck careening through a bee hive. There was excitement, titillation, trepidation, curiosity, wonder, worry, and of course good old-fashioned fear. Fear of the incoming, fear of the unknown, and a particularly poignant fear concerning the fact that the date on the paper was only three weeks away.
* * *
Alex and Camille arrived at Melbrook that night around the same time. No one had told them to show up after classes because no one had needed to. It was obvious they’d need to talk with their team. They entered the dorm and found the others already sitting in the common room. Hershel had given the night over to Roy since the weaker Daniels brother wouldn’t be participating in any upcoming events. The muscular man sat on the couch, working so hard to look carefree that it appeared more as though he were trying to quiet an upset stomach. Mary and Alice were perched on a couch while Vince sat near them by himself. Only Nick was standing, his narrow shoulders leaned against the far wall as he watched the two non-residents walk in.
“And then there were seven,” Nick quipped.
“Sorry we didn’t call first,” Alex apologized. “We just figured with the matches being announced...”
“You’re fine,” Mary assured him. “We were expecting you two to come over and talk about the plan with us.”
“What plan?” Alice asked. “All we know is who we’re facing and when. We don’t know anything about what sort of match it will be so I’m not sure how much actual planning we can do.”
“More than you might think,” Mary told her. “We don’t know what we’re facing, but we do know our team composition and the lineup of the others. That should at least allow us to come up with some comprehensive strategies for several scenarios so we’re not totally flat-footed when things start.”
“Seems like a waste to me,” Roy said. “There’s no type of challenge they can throw at us that can’t be beaten with enough force.”
“Oh? That why you failed my little scavenger hunt?” Nick asked.
“That was different,” Roy snapped.
“Different in that the stakes were lower and your failure more excusable? Yeah, I suppose it was different,” Nick replied.
“Settle down, you two,” Mary commanded. “We need to have some strategies if we want to get through our first match with the kind of scores we’ll probably need. Britney is a damn
ed fine leader and has placed well in all of our exams so far by using good tactics and plenty of forethought. Since she’s the captain of team four it is safe to assume they won’t be caught in a panic, even if they get thrown a few curveballs. We should try to play in the same league.”
“Not to be a downer, but how do you propose to do that?” Alex asked. “Nick’s photo hunt that ran us around town did an excellent job of showing just how much we lack in the planning department. We’re all smart, capable Supers, but we don’t have much experience with having to think like tacticians.”
“Actually, I’d say that night taught us one person in the group has a tremendous amount of experience in thinking like a tactician,” Mary disagreed.
“You mean Nick?” Alex’s voice did not convey a tone of reassurance at this revelation.
“I do,” Mary confirmed. “I might be the captain, but being in charge means delegating on tasks you know you aren’t the best option for. When it comes to strategy and thinking ahead, I’d say Nick is by far the greatest among us.”
“If you say so,” Alex said hesitantly.
“Alex, I know the image Nick gives off: that he is an irreverent, uncaring, sunglasses-wearing douchebag slacker who is just here wasting everyone’s time,” Alice said.
“I feel that was a little excessive,” Nick complained.
“But,” Alice continued, ignoring Nick’s protests, “we four know him better than anyone else. We lived with him for the past year and fought against Coach George with him. The fact that we’re totally on board with Mary’s suggestion should tell you that there is more to him than gelled hair and a sack of shit where his heart should be.”
“Okay, that one was just mean,” Nick spoke up again.
“Alice is right,” Vince agreed.
“Dude!”
“Oh, sorry, Nick, not about those things, but about us knowing you and what you can do,” Vince clarified.
“I believe you all,” Alex said. “It’s just strange to hear. I don’t mean to be offensive, I just never saw you as the type to plan ahead much. Quite the opposite, really.”