by Peter Moore
If I could have gone back in time then, I probably would have said something different.
No more than a few seconds later, the trembling and shimmering in the room faded away, returned to normal, as his face went back to its usual form.
I glanced at Virginia. She was shaking her head at me, like, You don’t even need enemies. You’re your own worst one.
I couldn’t argue with that.
Mr. Q cleared his throat. His cheeks were flesh again, but they were bright red with embarrassment. “Well, once again, you got us completely derailed from our lesson.”
I was about to point out that he was the one who’d engaged me in conversation that was off topic, but there was no point. He worked some keys on his computer, and I knew I was about to get a demerit on my record.
When I heard three tiny clicks in my IDent card, I looked over to Mr. Q, confused. Disrespect is a one-demerit offense, two at the most for multiple infractions. He wasn’t allowed to give me three. But that was what he’d done, and he was smiling at me, waiting for me to object.
The truth was, it wasn’t just getting the demerits that bothered me. What really pissed me off was the fact that Mr. Q gave them to me just because he could and he knew that I wasn’t in much of a position to object.
“Anything else you want to say?” Mr. Q asked.
Like that he was a washed-up old hack whose powers were never that great anyway? Or maybe that he was just like all the others who took advantage of their powers to subjugate anyone in a weaker position? It took every bit of self-control to keep my mouth shut.
“I’m inferring that you have something you want to say to me,” he said with a grin. “If you do, then let’s hear it.” He folded his thick arms across his chest.
“I have nothing to say.” I hated that I didn’t have the guts to stand up to him. It really got to me that he’d imposed such a strong punishment when what I’d done hadn’t even been so bad.
“Good. Then let’s just get back to—”
“Oh, except the fact that you hit me with three demerits instead of one, which is kind of a violation of my rights.”
“Your rights?”
“Well, yes. I mean, we are supposed to be about justice here, aren’t we?”
The skin part of his face started to go red again, and I wondered if the metal would turn fluid, too. “Okay, I’m done with you. You can go discuss your rights—and your wrongs—with the principal.”
“Seriously?”
“Serious as a heartbeat.5 Get up and go to the main office. Now.”
He started typing my transgression into the computer system even before I’d closed the classroom door behind me.
By Any Other Name
Iwalked down the hall to the main office, not even setting off the power suppressors on the walls. My enhanced intelligence barely registered unless I passed right next to them, and even then it was only a very faint hum that could have just been residue from being around kids with powers.
Mrs. Kolczyk, the principal’s secretary, was a Regular, but she never seemed like someone who resented people with powers. I always figured she liked being around in the learning period of the students at the Academy, some of whom would eventually become famous heroes. Oh, Velocity? I knew him when he was a little ninth grader, she could say. And let me tell you, he may be able to run a hundred miles per hour now, but back then? That boy was late for school every other day! From the few times I met her, I figured she was basically a nice enough woman. “Bradley Baron, right? Mr. Q just sent a message that you’d be in. The principal will be with you in just a moment.”
I went to the bench and sat down. On the other end was a girl I vaguely recognized. Colleen something. She was either a junior or a senior—that’s about all I knew. I hadn’t heard anything else. Nothing about breaking speed records, feats of strength, invulnerability, invisibility. Not a thing I could remember.
She was slouched down low on the bench, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She wasn’t wearing the requisite dark blue uniform for Academy Hitters. The jeans she was wearing, not to mention the holes in them, were strictly against school rules. And on top, she had on a gray jacket, which she had completely unbuttoned and open, showing a light green shirt underneath. Then it came to me: she wasn’t in the Academy; she was in the alternative program, the A-program. No wonder I didn’t know her.
She slowly turned my way and took me in with a bored look. Whether it was her sleepy gaze, her slightly-too-big lips, or her light brown hair and green eyes, I couldn’t say, but I immediately got that nervous and clumsy feeling that I got whenever I was alone with really good-looking or cool girls. (Which wasn’t often, I’ll admit.) She wasn’t classically pretty or perfect-looking, as were just about all the other girls at the Academy, but there was something about her, something I couldn’t put my finger on, that made her really attractive.
She looked over at the IDent tag hanging from the lanyard around my neck, noticing (no doubt) the terrible hologram portrait (maybe the dorkiest one in the whole school) above my name.
“You’re Brad Baron. I heard about you.”
What could she possibly have heard? There was no significant crossover between kids in the A-program and the rest of us. “Really?”
“Your brother is Blake Baron, right?”
Of course. What else? “Yep, he’s my brother.” Let’s change the subject. “You’re Colleen…” I tried to get a look at her IDent tag to find out her last name, but she had put small ANARCHY NOW! stickers over her name and face on the tag. Strictly against the rules. Then I remembered. “Colleen Keating, right?”
“For better or worse. Hopefully worse. Anyway, I go by Layla, not Colleen.”
“Layla,” I repeated. “How does that come from Colleen?”
“It doesn’t. But Colleen Keating? I’m just not into the whole hero-name-alliteration thing. My friends call me Layla.”
And then I remembered the one thing I’d heard about her, the only reason I even knew her name. If I had it right, there was a rumor that she had been the prime suspect when the biochemistry lab was blown up one night last year. No evidence, no charges, but her name had definitely been mentioned.
She squinted at me. “So what did the younger brother of a big-shot hero do to get sent to the principal’s office?” She made hero sound like a slur. Like loser.
Sarcasm wasn’t something you heard much at school. It was considered unseemly and disrespectful. And that might have been what was getting to me. Even though what she’d said was a slam on me—intentional or not—that attitude she had, well, it made her totally hot.
Mrs. Kolczyk cleared her throat. “Colleen, stop bothering Brad.”
“What do you mean? I’m not bothering him. I’m not bothering you, am I, Brad?”
“Bothering me? No. Not at all.” Trying to play it cool. As cool as Kelvin, as they used to say. (Before he got melted by Inferno, that is.)
“See?” she said to Mrs. Kolczyk. Layla turned back to me and rolled her eyes. “Anyway, so, like I was saying, why would a good little scout like you—”
“I’m really not so good.” Ha.
“Yeah, right. What did you do to get sent here? Return a library book a day late?”
She thought I was a total stiff. And from her point of view, as a student in the A-program, I could see how she would. But I didn’t like it. “I pretty much went off on Mr. Q in aeronautics class.”
She raised an eyebrow. I couldn’t tell if it meant she was impressed or that she didn’t believe me. “Really. What’d you say to him?”
I shrugged like it was no big deal. Still, I kept my voice low, not wanting Mrs. Kolczyk to overhear. “He was just going on and on about flight vectors and updrafts, and I let him know that I thought aeronautics class was a waste of time for anyone who’
s not a Flier.”
She grinned. “Yeah? Nice job.” She didn’t make any effort at all to keep her voice down. “I can’t stand that dickhead.”
Mrs. Kolczyk shook her head and typed on her keyboard. I heard two demerit clicks register on Layla’s IDent card. She toyed with the ID and then shrugged, apparently not bothered in the least.
“How do you know him?” I asked. “He doesn’t teach in the A-program.”
“He comes over to lecture us A-holes sometimes, saying that we should still be ambitious and try to adopt hero values. But you can tell he thinks we’re just scum. He’s been retired for, like, twenty years now. All he knows about flying in battle is what he’s seen looking up from the ground.”
“That’s pretty much what I told him.” Not even close, but hey…
“Good! That…” She paused and glanced over at Mrs. Kolczyk, then went on. “That fine example of a teacher needs to be taken down a few pegs every so often. You did a public service by calling him out. If he got run over by a bus, the world would be a better place.”
“Oh, Colleen,” Mrs. Kolczyk said. “Don’t you ever get tired of saying mean things about people?”
“Oh, Mrs. Kolczyk. No, I don’t. Not when they deserve it.”
The office door opened and our principal, the Colonel, came out. He looked at me with his craggy stone face. “I saw you out here, Mr. Baron. Seems like you crossed the line with Mr. Q, eh?” He turned his gaze on Layla, then back to me. “And now, consorting with Ms. Keating? Hm. Very ill-advised.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, taking mock offense.
The Colonel adjusted the tie around his 38-inch collar. His big, blocky finger scraped his jaw, granite on granite. “Oh, I’m sure you can interpret my comment accurately.”
“Probably,” she said. She smiled at me with a conspiratorial look.
The Colonel shook his head and said, “All right, Brad. You first. This young lady can wait a little longer.”
I got up and turned to Layla.
“See you around,” she said.
“Yeah. See ya later.” But I knew that, just like we hadn’t really crossed paths before, I would probably never actually talk to her again.
Principal Concern
The wall behind the Colonel’s desk was covered with framed pictures of heroes who had been students. Most of them showed the heroes next to the Colonel, either with their arms around his shoulders or in a handshake.
One of the pictures that didn’t have the Colonel in it showed the Justice Force from about twenty years ago. Just to the left of center was Dad, in his twenties, probably, dressed in his full uniform as Artillery.
Next to that picture was another one showing the Justice Force but with a few personnel changes. Dad was gone by the time this was taken. And Blake had grown and come of age. He’d stepped up to become Artillery. The uniform had been retired when our Dad died, but when Blake was ready, the Justice Force modernized it a little. Sleeker and slicker, but the same colors and basic look.
Most important was that Artillery was still a Baron. The public loved the whole idea of the son taking on the role of the fallen father.
“Quite a bunch of alumni, isn’t it,” the Colonel said.
“Impressive.” Which was the truth. Probably close to half of the heroes from America who were in the big leagues were on that wall.
“Your father, there. He was a student here before I was principal, but I did get a chance to meet him the one time. You never met him, though, right? He was killed before you were born?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Tragic. A real loss. I don’t care what the conspiracy theorists say. I believe the Justice Force was ambushed and your father died a true hero. I remember where I was when I heard about it. I was in this coffee shop and…well, that’s another story. Just a real shame. Your brother, though, of course I know him well. And he did a great job today. Very impressive.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Very impressive,” he repeated. “I love when I can show students footage of our alumni in the act of doing something heroic, in real time. Just love it.” He glanced at me and then cleared his throat with a rumble that made the pens on his desk buzz. “And now, here you are. Sent to me for disrupting a class.” His stony brows furrowed. “Not exactly what one would expect from a Baron, is it?”
“I wouldn’t say that I was ‘disrupting the class,’ really.”
“Well, that’s what I read in his message.”
I could have explained that it was Mr. Q who had started the argument and he had been the one who’d kept it going, but I felt that saying He started it was lame and would only make me seem like a little kid. So, once again, I did what I always do when I feel like I’m in a losing battle: I shut up and shut down.
“Look,” he said. He leaned forward in his chair and rested his massive elbows on the desk, which creaked in protest. “Whatever happened in Mr. Q’s class happened, and I’m going to trust you—on your family honor—not to be disrespectful to teachers again, and we’ll just leave it at that. I have other worries about you.”
“You do?”
“I do. This whole incident that happened on the flashbang field. That’s a real concern.”
Finally, a school official was addressing it. “Yeah, it was pretty bad. But I’m mostly okay now.”
“Well, that’s good, of course. But I’m still concerned about you being reckless on the field.”
I wondered if I’d heard him right. Or maybe he was kidding. He had to be kidding. I waited for a smile, but it didn’t come. “I’m not sure I get what you mean when you say I was reckless.”
“No offense meant, but it’s not too great an idea for someone your size and strength to try to take on someone like Rick Randall.”
“I didn’t try to take him on. He came after me. Why would I go after him? I’m not suicidal.”
This conversation needs to end. It was a terrible time to hear voices.
“Well, I’m not saying you ‘went after him,’ exactly. But let’s face it: you really shouldn’t be playing with the big guys like him, should you?”
“Are you saying I’m going to be excused from PT class?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. I can’t do that. What I’m saying is that this could have had a terrible outcome.”
“I know. But like I said, I’m pretty much okay. The doctors did a good job fixing up my neck.”
“That’s good. Because it would have been awful if they couldn’t. It could have destroyed any chances of getting brought into the Sentinels.”
I laughed. “I really don’t think there’s too much likelihood that I’d get drafted into the Sentinels.”
Now it was the Colonel’s turn to laugh. “No, I meant Rick Randall’s chances, of course. He’s on their short list, and, well, if he had injured someone, even if it wasn’t his fault, they might have second thoughts.”
“Um, Colonel, I don’t think I’m understanding what you mean.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Well, now. If you had gotten seriously hurt—”
“I did get seriously hurt.”
“I mean, if you had gotten more seriously hurt, like permanently, then it would have looked horrible, and I’m sure you would agree, being from a family of heroes and having a strong sense of patriotism and justice, that it would be a terrible loss if, due to your actions, Rick Randall were for any reason unable to serve.”
“A terrible loss…” I repeated. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Yes, so I want to make sure we don’t have any other close calls like that. When your PT class is playing any physical games, like flashbang, for instance, I hope you’ll be more careful about jeopardizing any other student’s career.”
Stunning. Totally stunning.
If I hadn’t seen his stony lips moving, I would have had to wonder if I was hearing things again. “So what exactly am I supposed to do?”
“I think the best thing you could do for all concerned is to stand by the sidelines and just watch.”
“Just stand by and watch.”
“Well, yes, Brad. That’s certainly the best place you can be. Don’t you think the safest thing for you to do is just keep your distance from any heavy action?”
What could I say? “Yes, sir. I’d have to agree you’re right.” I knew he was talking specifically about PT class, but it made me wonder if I was ever going to see action—action of any kind—at all.
A newspaper clipping I keep in my desk drawer even though it was written before I was born:
MASSACRE AT HOOVER DAM
The Justice Force was ambushed by an unidentified group of Phaetons while trying to repair a potentially disastrous fissure in the Hoover Dam in Arizona. As members of the Justice Force worked to prevent a more serious rupture, an event that could have cost inestimable loss of human life and extensive property damage, the Phaetons attacked and killed Artillery (Buckminster “Buck” Baron) who had been in a temporarily weakened state due to his exertions to hold the crack in the dam shut while it was being repaired. Also assassinated was the newest JF member, Marguerite “Aguafemme” Mendez. She is believed to have been crushed by falling debris. As of the present time, her remains have not yet been recovered.
Oh, Brother
Aweek later, when I got home from school, I found Blake sitting on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, and looking like he owned the world. Which wasn’t too far from the truth.
He still had on his red, blue, and gold flight suit, though the front was unzipped down to his waist. Custom-made to fit him perfectly, of course, it was some kind of top secret material the Justice Force team had designed just for them. Impervious to friction from air resistance, highly resistant to extremes in temperature, and tough enough to withstand medium-caliber gunfire. (Not that he needed that particular feature, but still…)