by Peter Moore
“Hold on,” I said. “You can’t just—”
Blake turned on me. There was none of that amiable friendliness the public was used to seeing in his sparkling eyes. “No, little brother, the best thing for you to do is to just let them go out. See, if they stay while I talk to you, you’re gonna be real embarrassed, because—”
“No, it’s okay. We’re gonna go,” Layla said.
“See you in school,” Boots said.
He’s just like you said he was. What a dick, Layla thought.
Go on to the car. I’ll be right out.
I waited for the door to close before I turned back to him. “What is your problem?”
“You’re my problem. One of them, anyway. And I got a whole bunch of them, so I sure don’t need to worry about you, too.”
“Good. Don’t, then.”
“I’m not going to let you bring dishonorability on this family—”
“That’s dishonor.”
“Okay, fine. Dishonor. You think you’re so smart, but let me tell you: intelligence isn’t everything. If it were, people all over the world would worship you instead of me.”
“Hey, I don’t need—or want—people all over the world to worship me.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s just you rationing67 because you know you won’t ever get it to happen. And anyways, that’s not my point. I told you before and I’m telling you now and I’m not going to tell you again: I don’t want you being with losers like them.”
“As far as what you want goes, I really don’t give a flying f—”
“Watch it there, chief. We don’t use language like that in this house. You can talk that way with your trashy friends, but not here.”
“Fine, then. I’ll go and talk that way with my trashy friends.” I walked toward the front door.
“Hey. Don’t walk away from me,” he said, keeping his voice just under the volume that would have made the glass in the windows tremble.
“You want me to stay so we can continue bonding?” I asked.
“I want you to stop running away from your responsibility.”
I stopped at the door. “Stop running from my… ? Listen. You don’t determine what is and isn’t my responsibility.”
“Well, you sure don’t. And that’s your problem. You always think about what you want, instead of what is needed.”
“Well, please tell me, Blake, oh wise one. What is needed?”
“What’s needed is people like me, little brother. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, since you only think about yourself. But it’s true. The world needs heroes.”
“Yeah, well, who says I have to be one?”
He was about to speak, and then he stopped. He looked totally stunned, like someone had just suggested that the sky is really green, not blue. It didn’t make one bit of sense to him. “What?”
“Not everyone wants to be you.”
“Wait—what?” he said again. And he still had that dumbfounded look on his face when I left him there. I slammed the front door shut behind me.
A Theory of Relativity
After we dropped off Boots, Layla drove up the street, pulled over, and touched the steering column to kill the ignition on Javier’s car.68 She turned to me.
“Okay, I’ve been real patient. Why were you so desperate to see your brother’s DNA and your own?”
“I think it has some information that I want.”
“Duh. Which is?”
“It’s complicated.”
Layla shook her head slightly and turned away to face the driver’s side window. I’m getting sick of playing Twenty Questions with you.
“Okay, listen,” I said. “Mainly, I want to get raw data on my genome and my brother’s.”
Layla turned to me, then faced forward and pursed her lips in a way that made me want to kiss her. But I figured this was a key moment in our relationship—The Time He Proves He’ll Be Totally Honest With Her—so I let the feeling go without acting on it.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I want to compare.”
“You want to compare yourself to your brother at a base genetic level? Does that sound like maybe the most extreme sign of sibling rivalry ever?”
“Well, when you put it like that…” She didn’t smile. “No, see, it just doesn’t make sense that, coming from the same genetic sources, he would get all those powers and I would get absolutely none.”
“Except amazingly strong telepathic powers and enhanced intelligence. Let’s not forget those little things.”
“Well, yeah. There is that. Still, none of it makes sense to me,” I said.
“It doesn’t make sense? Or do you mean it doesn’t feel fair?”
“Well, okay. Both.”
“I don’t know. I thought you were…I believed you were better than that.”
“Better than what?”
Her face was half in light, half in shadow, which somehow made her look like someone else, someone I didn’t know. And I probably looked the same way to her.
“I thought you were past this thing of admiring your brother or being jealous or whatever. I thought you had come around to seeing him for what he is. You know what all this sounds like.”
“Hero worship,” I said, my voice catching a little.
“Pretty much. And I thought you were with us.”
“I am. This isn’t about me wanting to be like him. Not his personality, anyway. But if I could know exactly where his powered genes are and then check my DNA…”
“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking that you could get DNA from him and somehow graft the powered genes onto your own DNA. There’s a word for how that turns out: Phaeton. You can’t possibly be thinking of doing anything that completely stupid.”
“Okay, but I have this theory. It may sound more ridiculous than trying to gene-graft. The thing is, I have a totally different idea about hero genes.”
“I can hardly wait. Do tell.”
This was it. I could totally change the subject or I could tell her my theory.
No secrets.
“The Kraden Project scientists in the 1950s thought they’d created ‘powered genes’ and, by using an early version of genetic engineering, had used them to graft powered genes onto regular human DNA. But I have this idea.”
She looked at me with a steady gaze. “Care to read my thoughts?”
“Um, I don’t have to. I’m going to guess that they include ‘I’m losing patience’ and ‘Just get to the important part.’ Close?”
“Very. Get on with it.”
“My theory is that the powered genes were always there. The first heroes were not actually created during the 1950s; that was just when the scientists inadvertently activated dormant genes, genes that had been there all along. The geneticists and government agencies thought they were building new genetic material, but it would never have worked if the base genes hadn’t already been present. And here’s the cool part of my theory: the powered genes have been present since the beginning of man. They just became inactive. All the powered genes had been present, but unexpressed, buried in what’s typically viewed as junk DNA.”
I let her take it in. “Doesn’t seem completely crazy,” she said.
“Reserve your judgment. Here’s the coolest part. All the legends and myths about heroes and demigods are so prevalent and found in just about every culture because, at one point, they were just about real. Samson. Hercules. The Titans. Trickster. All of them actually existed, but the most powerful ones killed one another off during prehistory. Their offspring and descendants had remnants of the genes, but the genes became latent, recessive to the growing dominance of regular genes, and they eventually turned into ghost traces of genetic material. Comatose. Like a light that’s unplug
ged: the ability to light the bulb only happens if it’s plugged in and switched to on.” I waited for her to comment. She didn’t. “What do you think?”
“Well, I think that’s all very interesting. I also think it’s all academic and makes no real difference to our lives.”
“Unless, of course, I’m right about the idea that everyone holds powered genes, genes that went dormant in ancient times. If this theory is correct, then it’s a matter of identifying those latent powered genes and finding some way to activate them.”
“Oh, is that all? Just activate them?”
“I know. I haven’t figured out how that’s possible. Not without hurricanes and nuclear bomb tests. But I believe there’s a way. Why the genes activated for Blake and not for me is also a big question. A huge question—for me, at least. But if I can possibly figure out where his powered genes are and where they’re dormant on my DNA, I have a shot at trying to figure out how to activate mine retroactively.”
“Wow. That is…some theory.”
“Insane?”
“Well…unusual.”
I gave her a few minutes to think.
“Layla, the thing is, what if I could have all those powers?”
“You’re the strongest telepath and the smartest person I’ve ever met. Isn’t that enough?”
Not, apparently, enough for her. Not enough to get her to love me.
“Having telepathic powers is great, but what if I have a bunch of latent powers hidden deep in my DNA, just waiting to be unlocked. If I’m right, if I could activate the same strength or flight or speed that Blake has? Or maybe even something new, something undiscovered? Add that to my telepathic powers and just think. Talk about power.”
She nodded a few times, taking it in. There was a sound of laughter from outside the car, maybe fifty yards away. I glanced through the windshield, looked up, and saw a pack of six or seven middle school kids passing overhead in a game of fly-tag.
I turned my attention back to Layla. I could have read her, but I wanted to give her these few minutes of privacy. Her chest rose and fell slowly as she breathed.
“If you’re right,” she finally said, “it would put us in a whole different league.”
“Not just a bunch of teenage villains.”
“No. This would shoot us right to supervillain status. We could really make a difference.”
“That’s my point,” I said. “Just think about all we could do.”
The possibilities were limitless.
Rogues’ Gallery
She didn’t have much time to mull over my theory. Her cell phone rang.
“Javier, what’s up?” she said into the phone. She listened, then said, “Okay, got it.” She hung up and turned to me. “It seems we’re wanted.”
This time we were meeting Mutagion on the loading dock of a shipyard. I figured that he liked to stick close to water so he could make a fast escape in his little submarine if he needed to.
We had gone straight from where we were talking in the car over to the lair so we could change into our costumes. We met up with the others and got to the shipyard a few hours after dark and walked through the maze of shipping containers the size of RVs, following the directions we were given. Finally, we found the location.
Not far from the water were five Phaetons sitting near what looked like a card table. The light above this section of the yard just happened to be out, leaving the Phaetons at the table in partial shadow. What a coincidence.
The huge bulk of Mutagion was sitting in a cast-off easy chair. I still couldn’t see too much of him. He had on the single blue monocular vision enhancer, and his face was half covered like last time. Without the red light that lit the inside of the sub when we first met, I could see that his skin was white and waxy, like there was a translucent layer on the surface.
There was a regular-sized man with long, shaggy hair, wearing what looked like a World War I–era gas mask. Sitting close behind Mutagion was a guy I figured suffered from some kind of dwarfism, except his arms looked to be regular length, leaving just his legs really short. He wore one of those commedia dell’arte masks with the long birdlike nose.
A woman was sitting in the fourth chair, across from Mutagion. I guessed she was in her early thirties. Her face, though, had absolutely no expression. Then I noticed her hands, which looked like they belonged on someone’s great-grandmother. Same with her neck.
Leaning back in another chair was one more guy, who looked completely run-of-the-mill—except for the knobby bone projections that poked through his shirt on both sides of his torso, like an extra set of ribs, except on the outside of his body. Oh, and the other thing that was a little out of the ordinary was the enormous shotgun/grenade launcher that he held diagonally in front of him in a military port arms position.
“Greetings,” Javier said to them, making me wince with embarrassment.
Mutagion spoke before Javier could go on. “We don’t have seats for you kids, but that’s okay because this is going to be a quick meeting. Just so you don’t think I have no manners, I’ll introduce you to my crew. You’ve probably heard or read about most of them, but this fellow here in the gas mask is Groetesk. He doesn’t talk; the speech center of his brain was destroyed during his mutation. Our lady friend is Pariah.” She didn’t change her gaze or expression when Mutagion mentioned her. “The gentleman back there with the peashooter is Scattershot. And of course, you already met Caliban,” he said, pointing at the little guy.
“We never met him,” Peanut said.
“Whatta ya mean? We was together for, like, a long time the other night, on the dock,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice.
Him? “Oh. You seemed…” I started to say, not wanting to finish.
“Taller,” he said. “Yeah, them’s my legs over there.” He pointed to a pair of shiny steel alloy prosthetics, wired up with myo-response computer systems.
“All right,” Mutagion said. “Let’s just get to the point. You said you were going to get me information about the kids in the Academy, and then I would give you my seal of approval in public.”
“We haven’t had a chance to take care of that yet,” I said. “We didn’t forget about it.”
“Well, you can forget about it now. I decided there’s something I want more than that information.”
“Okay…” Layla said, her voice a little shaky.
I figured, maybe he wanted us to join his crew straight out. I would have had to think about that one. Getting aligned with Phaetons might not be our best bet after all, not at the beginning, anyway. And not too directly. But they did have a fear factor about them; the public was more afraid of Phaetons than of human powered villains.
Mutagion had another coughing fit, made a horrible gulping sound, and then cracked his neck. “Yes, so what I want is for you to do something for me.” He was pointing a huge, gnarled forefinger at me.
“What, me?”
“You.” He was overtaken with that wet, hacking cough again. Whenever he tried to take a breath, he only coughed harder. The small guy, Caliban, hopped down off his chair and opened a case on the ground next to Mutagion. First he took out what looked like a gallon jug of water. He unzipped a pocket near the collar of Mutagion’s coat and poured the entire contents of the jug in. I didn’t see any water spill out from the bottom of the coat, under the chair, or anywhere else. Then Caliban reached into the case and uncoiled a clear, ribbed hose with a metal nozzle. Mutagion took the end and put it inside his woolen shirt, apparently attaching it to something. Caliban turned a switch in the case, and something inside made a chugging, pumping sound. Mutagion’s coughing lessened, but he still struggled to get air. He nodded to Caliban, then waved his hand to the woman, Pariah.
She pointed to me. “Mutagion wants information from you.”
“I’ll try to
help, if I can.”
“Yes, he wants to know why Blake Baron is not working with the Justice Force.”
“Why…wait, what? How would I know about that?”
“Do not lie to us, or Mutagion will have you and your friends killed instantly.” This woman’s face did not change expression in the least as she threatened us with death. It was like a cheap cartoon where the only part of the face that moves when the character talks is the mouth.
“Listen,” I began.
“We know he’s your brother,” Caliban said in that gravelly voice.
Mutagion waved at Caliban and pointed at the case next to him. Once the machine was switched off, Mutagion removed the hose and shook it out. He said, “Did you really think I haven’t been watching all of you? Do you think I’m stupid? Yes, many of us did lose some cognitive abilities when we—kaff, kaff—embarked on our course of self-initiated mutations, but I was not one of them. I couldn’t have risen to the leadership position I’m in now if I had lost my intelligence or cunning. Of course I know who all of you really are. You are not dealing with some two-bit thief—Kaff, kaff, kaff.” It sounded like the guy was going to cough up a lung. “And you’re going to get us information about the Justice Force. That’s a great deal more useful to us than report cards and SAT scores from the kiddies at your school.”
There was a gurgling sound from the gas mask that the Phaeton called Groetesk wore. The canister at the end of the hose swung back and forth like an elephant’s trunk.
Mutagion moved in his chair. “So answer my initial question.”
I saw where this was going. “You want to know why Artillery hasn’t been seen with the Justice Force for a while.”
Mutagion said, “Artillery. Blake Baron. Your brother, yes.”
“You’re asking him to betray his own brother?” Layla said.
“I don’t believe I was talking to you, Miss Keating.” There was a disturbing rumble in his voice. He turned his gaze back to me.