by Drew Hayes
The good thing about having Hershel’s memories was that Roy didn’t have to blunder about, hoping to find what he was looking for. He automatically knew the shelving system and was intimately familiar with several sections. Sadly, the book he was looking for wasn’t science fiction or fantasy, so the latter knowledge wasn’t as useful as the former. Before long, Roy found his destination, rows and rows of books all crammed with tidbits and facts from the span of human history. A special area of these shelves was dedicated to a subject most people found frequently fascinating, especially given the special curriculum it was known that Lander offered. These books were all about Supers and Heroes, ranging from autobiographies to sheer speculation. Roy loaded up his arms with a few choice selections and found a table where he set up shop.
He’d take home as many as he could, but first he needed to weed through the ones that didn’t cover his topic of interest. A quick perusal disqualified several selections, not for their style but for their substance; they only dealt with Supers whose powers were unlike Roy’s.
A better understanding of his own abilities was key; that’s what Professor Fletcher had told him. So far the private tutoring sessions weren’t working. Roy was still at the same weight he had been months ago. That was why he was wasting a beautiful afternoon surrounding himself with books. If understanding was key, then learning about everyone else whose abilities resembled his own seemed like a logical jumping off point. When Hershel took back over and looked at these memories, he would find himself surprisingly proud of his muscular brother.
More books were read and set aside. Roy was beginning to notice a pattern: while people like himself frequently dotted the landscape of Hero history, they rarely took center stage. Strongman was just a role people had in groups, much like healers. They were useful, but ultimately ancillary. After all, lifting a car was impressive to humans, but it didn’t quite have the shine of turning oxygen into atomic energy. The more he searched, the more frustrated he became. His whole suite of powers was merely an accoutrement for some Supers, a small piece of what they could do. It began to make sense why Chad was so defensive about his abilities: he didn’t want to get lumped in with people who couldn’t really do anything besides give and receive powerful punches.
There were exceptions, of course: a few like Roy who had risen high in the esteem of the public and Hero community alike. These he took note of and set their books in the checkout pile. The last book he read concerned possibly the most famous strongman in recent history, one whose abilities bore a striking similarity to Roy’s. This book was immediately set in the discard pile and left abandoned as Roy gathered his selections and headed for the front desk. In truth, it was a testament to his emotional growth over the past year that the book was not thrown with enough force to send it through the well. Still, regardless of how useful the information contained within might be, there was simply no way Roy would be rifling through that book’s contents.
In Roy’s opinion, he already knew far too much about its main subject, a Hero named Titan.
84.
Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport did not, to their credit, fidget as they waited in Dean Blaine’s office. They had attended far too many clandestine meetings in locations much scarier than this one to let their nerves show so easily. That said, neither man felt quite as confident as he normally would have. Some Supers looked at their abilities as a gift that was made more special by using it rarely; others considered their talents a useful skill in their day-to-day lives. Then you had Supers like the two men wearing suits and purposely not fidgeting, Supers who used their abilities so often that being denied access to them was akin to temporarily removing a leg. It was possible to still stand, even to have some sense of mobility, but it left them precariously off-balance.
Dean Blaine popped open the door and strode in without so much as a glance in their direction. He carried a stack of papers in one hand and a cup of coffee that seemed dangerously close to spilling over in the other. After a bit of brief involuntarily juggling, he managed to deposit everything on his desk and take a seat. Still, it was only after a long draw of java that he turned his attention to the men he had summoned for this meeting.
“You’ll forgive the mess, things are a bit busy preparing for the various classes’ exams. The freshman’s labyrinth is particularly time-consuming.”
Both men nodded their understanding. Despite the way the HCP staff liked to make things seem effortless, they had experience enough to know that crafting that illusion just took all the more time and energy.
“I’ve called you here for a brief comparison of notes. As you may know, I’ve been to see George multiple times and all I’ve managed to pull from him are sarcastic barbs and cryptic allusions. I know your company has been looking into the incident as well and I’m hoping they have managed to have a bit more luck.”
Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport very much did not exchange a conspiratorial glance. Instead, Mr. Numbers resettled in his chair and addressed the question.
“I won’t say they haven’t found a few clues; however, that doesn’t mean they’ve shared them with us. As you may recall we aren’t exactly considered exemplary employees these days.”
“Yet you retain your posts.”
“Only through very exceptional fortune and a lot of effort to make things better,” Mr. Numbers pointed out.
“You misunderstand. I don’t mean that because you retain your posts I expect that the company still trusts you. I mean that because you are still tasked with watching over those students I expect your company to give you some warning if they have any idea who might be knocking down the door to Melbrook Hall.”
“I wish they thought that way,” Mr. Transport mumbled.
“What my partner means is that despite the logic of your argument, we were given this assignment specifically because we are thought capable enough to handle any situation without the aid of a warning.”
“Just like you did last year,” Dean Blaine said, his voice pleasant but his eyes growing steadily less friendly.
“Do try to remember that our original assignment was not so much to protect our charges from the world as it was vice versa,” Mr. Numbers said. “Keeping them safe was always a priority, of course.”
“Yes, but only in the general sense. So long as most of them were okay then it was all right to let a small number be lost.”
“That was the company’s stance,” Mr. Transport agreed. “If you recall, it wasn’t ours.”
Dean Blaine realized he’d been inching forward in his seat as the discussion progressed. He leaned back and took another sip of his coffee to calm down. Over-protectiveness could be a good trait in a person who watched over children, but it had to be focused properly. There was no sense in getting angry at two men over policies they’d nearly lost their jobs in defying, especially when they might have information that could prove vital to his efforts.
“You’re right; I apologize,” Dean Blaine said. “I suppose I’m just frustrated. After all these months we still have almost no idea who was pulling the strings behind George and Persephone.”
Mr. Numbers resisted the urge to tilt his head forward in interest. “Almost no idea?”
“George has claimed it was everyone from the President of the United States to one of the janitors up on the main campus. He has only given me one hint that seemed like it might be more valid than the others. That’s what I was hoping to confirm in this meeting.”
A flick of the tongue across his teeth was the only sign Mr. Numbers showed of the internal war currently being waged. Information was a currency in his world, something to guard and protect more fervently than gold. Money could always be reclaimed, but once a secret was out there was no hope of gaining a refund. Still, Dean Blaine had defended them when interviewed by the company’s agents. It had taken a lot of research to uncover this fact for certain, but Mr. Numbers knew it to be true. If there was one thing he loathed more than giving away information for free, it was be
ing in someone’s debt. Besides, he wouldn’t mind seeing just how deep the hole George crawled out of went.
“There is one thing. They never said anything specifically; however, about a month ago, one of our fellow agents showed up while the students were in class. She installed a specialized wire system through all the outer walls, one set to trigger an alarm under very specific circumstances. We were instructed that if that alarm should go off, we would do well to grab all the students we can and teleport to a pre-determined location immediately.”
“All the students you can.” Dean Blaine gulped down more coffee and stayed his temper. What they were told and what they did could be very different things. “So, what were the circumstances that would set off the alarm?”
“She didn’t tell us,” Mr. Transport admitted.
“I did a little digging afterward,” Mr. Numbers added. “As near as I can tell, the wires are programmed to detect when any part of the outer walls are destroyed without registering significant heat or impact.”
“An alarm tripped by disintegration,” Dean Blaine surmised. “That is... unfortunate.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to make this a two-way street of sharing and tell us what it means,” Mr. Transport said.
Dean Blaine rose from his desk and walked to the bookshelf. His finger slid along the spines of many selections before stopped at a thick leather one. A deft hand plucked it from the shelf and nimble fingers rifled through the pages with effortless dexterity.
“What I am going to tell you stays in the strictest confidence. It seems one of my old classmates is either running this game or is at least another pawn in it. Unfortunately it is one I had hoped I’d never have to contend with again.”
The book made a damp thud as Dean Blaine set it on the desk. He pointed to a picture in the upper right-hand corner, one of himself and a smiling young man both clutching diplomas high overhead in a sign of victory.
“Gerard Cooper, better known to the world as Raze, has returned.”
85.
Nick flipped through the pages once more, almost willing them to hold more correct answers than they previously had. Sadly, his desire was no match for reality and the white paper was still doused liberally in red ink. It had been over a week of constant study, practice, and effort, all of which had yielded an increase from getting fifty percent of the questions right to fifty-five percent. If he and Vince had possessed infinite time it would have been an encouraging trend, but with a week left, it was only slightly less depressing than a death sentence.
There wasn’t blame to be thrown about either, except perhaps at the education Vince had received as a child. Both students had burned the candle at both ends trying to bring him up to speed in time for the test; however, this particular branch of math was like a foreign language to Vince. Even if he could get a grip on the vocabulary, he was lost when it came to tenses and conjugation. The guy might know more about fighting and surviving on the run than anyone else Nick had ever encountered, but it was becoming very clear that any type of advanced math was a lost cause.
“Looks like we’re going to Plan B,” Nick mumbled to himself. He sat alone in his room, illuminated only by the light of a small desk lamp and his monitor. Vince’s latest series of practice exams sat scattered on his lap, confirming the fear he’d been nursing since beginning their endeavor. If it had been anyone else in this situation they would have been thoroughly screwed. No passing grade on the test meant lower than a C in the class, which would get one immediately booted from the HCP. This policy had endured since the inception of the HCP, despite many protests from educators that it was unnecessarily harsh. Someone in Vince’s situation was effectively looking down the barrel of a gun aimed directly at all their dreams. With hard work proving a failure, he didn’t see any options left. Nick, on the other hand, was not so limited in his range of tactics.
He’d been laying the groundwork for this scheme since the first time he saw Vince struggle through a few practice problems. It would be time-consuming, and possibly expensive, but it would work. At the moment that was all that mattered. Nick needed Vince on their team, not just because of his constantly-growing skill level but because he brought a certain amount of heart to their efforts. The kid was inspiring, at least to those who were prone to inspiration. Losing both a competent warrior and a force to rally the troops was an unacceptable cost to playing by the rules. So Nick would do what Nicholas Campbell did better than anyone else.
He would cheat.
* * *
Jill’s phone began vibrating again, rattling across the table’s rough wooden surface. She silenced it without a thought, but not before Will noticed.
“How many times does that make so far?” He didn’t look up from the book he was making notes in, didn’t even pause the careful stroke of his highlighter.
“Four,” Jill lied. It had been seven, but she’d caught the signals from the others before the phone had been obvious in its tremors. Jill’s own book was far less written in than Will’s; her mind had been elsewhere since their cram session began.
“Four calls in the span of three hours. That seems a bit excessive.”
“He probably forgot we made plans to study and wants to grab dinner,” Jill defended.
“It’s past nine. He must be a late eater.” Will didn’t accuse outwardly; even his tone was completely neutral. It wasn’t his way to seem judgmental. He knew Jill well enough to understand that would send her running in the opposite direction just to be contrary.
“Glenn is excitable. When he wants to do or share something with me he just gets persistent. That’s all.”
“Of course.” Jill and Glenn had been dating for three weeks now, ever since meeting in class, and Will had disliked him for two weeks and six days. He was semi-good looking and seemed affable enough, but there was something in his eyes that Will didn’t trust. There was an edge of obsession, and the possessive way Glenn had gripped Will’s sister’s hand left the twin brother with his teeth on edge. Jill had a habit for picking the ones who tried to hold her just a bit too tightly, a trait not uncommon in children who suffered abuse in their formative years.
The phone buzzed across the table again. This time Jill didn’t silence it; instead she flipped it open and got up from her chair. Will sat quietly, continuing his work, allowing her to relocate without so much as a glance. He could pick up snippets of the conversation, hushed reassurances like “I told you I had to study” and “Yes, I’m with my brother”. Soon she would come into the room and feign a headache or some such nonsense and say she needed to go back to her dorm. She’d actually go to see Glenn, and if Will was a betting man, he’d put down twenty dollars that Glenn would spend the night passive-aggressively making her feel like shit for having any priorities in life other than him. She was lonely and Glenn could be nice when he wanted to be. Will understood; he’d read all the psychology texts long ago. Will didn’t blame her for falling into these patterns. He didn’t even blame Glenn for being an asshole.
Will blamed himself. If he’d acted sooner, if he’d been quicker to grasp the situation when they were kids, maybe he could have gotten her out of their mother’s house before things had reached the point they did. He had no excuses for his failure, only regret and a burning desire never to see it repeated.
“I’m pretty beat. I think I’m going to head home so I can actually wake up in time for my morning class,” Jill said as she walked back into the kitchen. She began putting her books away immediately, stuffing them indiscriminately in her backpack with no regard for which papers belonged in which books.
“Sure thing. Think you’ll want to study again sometime before finals?”
“I’m positive I’ll need it. I’ll give you a call when I think I have a free night.” Jill finished her haphazard packing job and gave her brother a quick hug. “Love you, Bro.”
“Love you, too.” Will let her leave without objection; no words he had would rectify the situation. Instead he clos
ed the book he’d been working in and pulled out a black spiral. Inside were schematics and calculations that would have given a hard-on to any corporate engineer who laid eyes on them. Will rifled to the last page, where a new design was still incomplete. It seemed he needed to work faster than expected on it; he’d expected the relationship’s escalation to be more gradual.
Will’s pencil danced across the page, quickly filling the gaps in the design. By tomorrow night he could start the building process. He’d move fast, stay up until dawn if need be. It would be ready. He would be ready. His only regret in life was moving too slowly the first time. Will was determined that there would never be a second time, regardless of what preventing it might cost him.
86.
Testing season commenced across Lander with a flurry of final all-nighters and a run on energy drinks at the surrounding gas stations. The exams were spread across a three-day period, allowing for some recovery time if a one had a fortunate schedule and a gauntlet of intellectual trials if one were not so lucky. As the days advanced, the populace dwindled, students hightailing it back home on winter break as soon as their final blue book had been handed off to a sullen TA. By the final day only a smattering remained; those who had tests on the last day were cursed or blessed depending on whether they prized the extra study time over the chance to take an early leave.
Vince counted himself in the blessed category as he pored over a practice test, eyes darting between failed problems and the steady progress of the clock on the wall. He was so engrossed he didn’t even notice the sound of the front lounge door opening as Nick entered, backpack slung low over his shoulder.
“Damn it, Vince. I thought we talked about last-minute cramming.”
Vince jumped in surprise, knocking his knee against the wooden table. He let out a mumbled curse and turned toward Nick, who was glaring at him like a father who had just caught his son looking through brochures for ballet schools.