by Drew Hayes
Super Powereds: Year 3
By Drew Hayes
Edited by Kisa Whipkey (kisawhipkey.com)
Cover by Barry Behannon (barrybartist.com)
Copyright © 2015 by Andrew Hayes
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to those who founded the legacy that would steer my fantasies toward capes flying across the sky. To Joe Shuster, Jerry Siegel, Jack Kirby, Stan Lee, and the myriad of other creators too numerous to name. You turned what might have been a practical, normal, child into a hopeless dreamer, and I will never stop being grateful for that.
I also have to take a moment and thank my amazing beta readers. To E Ramos E, Priscilla Yuen, and Bill Hammond; you three really kicked this up a notch.
Foreword
Damn, made it to Year 3, didn’t we? Only one more left after this one, though it bears mentioning that there is a spin-off currently running on DrewHayesNovels.com. At this point, I think you know what you’re in for. There will be booze, and violence, and even a bit of the old sexual themes. And, last but never least, a healthy amount of curse words. By this point, you probably saw all that coming though, but, on the off chance you just picked this up without reading the other two . . . don’t. That’s a bad idea. It’s not how a series is supposed to work.
All right, you know the score for what’s ahead. I’ll shut up now and let you get to the good stuff. Hope you enjoy!
Prologue
Nicholas was waiting for a fresh drink when he spotted a familiar figure practically stomping through the casino below. A thin smile touched his lips as he charted the figure’s path from his balcony. The figure was male, and he was a few days later than Nicholas had expected, though he was certainly moving with haste now that he was here. Nicholas briefly entertained the idea of letting security deal with the clearly irate man, but then thought better of it. For right now, he needed to play a gentle hand; being too antagonistic would work against his long-term strategy. Besides, this was not a man one trifled with lightly.
“Diane,” Nicholas said as his waitress appeared with a fresh cocktail. “Bring me a glass of scotch—whatever Gerry keeps on reserve should be fine—and tell security to show the man they’re tracking to my table.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
Nicholas paused for a moment, then responded with two words: “Crab cakes.”
Orders taken, Diane dissolved into the regular area of the restaurant, from which she’d emerged. Nicholas was sitting in a private section that jutted out, overlooking the casino below. It was reserved for high rollers, visiting celebrities, Heroes of a certain caliber (who were really just another type of celebrity), and friends of the Family. It was where he took most of his meals, at least the ones he ate in view of the public.
The scotch had been delivered and Nicholas’s own drink drained by a quarter when his guest finally arrived. Nicholas rose from his seat, slapped on a happy grin, and extended his hand in welcome.
“Dean Blaine, such a pleasure to see you.”
Dean Blaine, to his credit, did a better job concealing his frustration now than he had when dealing with the lackeys below. Rather than giving into the temptation to deck his former student right in his smug little face, Dean Blaine merely ignored the extended hand and took a seat at the table.
“What,” he began, striking the “t” against his teeth, “do you think you’re trying to pull?”
Nicholas lowered his hand and sat back down. His left hand twitched as he suppressed an urge to adjust sunglasses that were not, and had not been for months, still present on his face. Strange that though Nick was gone, the tics he’d crafted remained.
“I’m having dinner. The drink is for you, by the way, and we should have some crab cakes here in a few minutes.”
“You know perfectly well that’s not what I’m talking about.” Dean Blaine reached into his jacket pocket and produced a folded stack of papers. He set them on the table, and then pushed them across. “This is your class schedule for the coming year. At Lander.”
“I appreciate it, but I already printed a copy when I registered,” Nicholas said cheerfully.
“Which is, essentially, the core issue we seem to have. You were expelled. While most of your memories of the HCP were obscured, that part should have remained very clear.”
“I remember it so well I even recalled your name, didn’t I? No, you were very clear, and I am under no misimpressions. I understand perfectly that I have been expelled . . . from the HCP.” The weight Nicholas put on his final words left no doubt at their implication.
“Lander and the HCP go hand in hand,” Dean Blaine replied. “We welcome back those who merely fail out of the program; however, being expelled carries the understanding that you are no longer welcome on campus.”
“You’d think so, but our lawyers were able to find a surprising amount of precedent suggesting that not to be the case.” Nicholas paused while Diane returned with the plate of crab cakes, still steaming slightly and looking positively delectable. Once she was gone, he continued. “While grades at Lander can hinder one’s progression in the HCP, it seems that’s a one-way street. Leaving the HCP, situation regardless, is not in itself reason for the college to bar a student from regular classes.”
“You’re not the only one with lawyers,” Dean Blaine said stiffly. “And let me assure you, the ones we keep are good enough to make it a much cheaper, and easier, solution to just change schools.”
“Sadly, my heart is set on Lander,” Nicholas shot back. “And the fact of the matter is that I can make a stronger case for staying than you can for me leaving. My HCP memories are gone—I can’t blow the whistle on any of the Supers I was in class with, thanks to the memory mojo—and I’m sure you’ll make everyone aware of the fact that they should steer clear of me. On the other hand, all my class memories are intact, I have a community of friends and teachers outside the program that I don’t want to leave, and consistency is a key factor for growing minds, like my own.”
“You never talked to anyone outside the program.”
“I had enough interaction that my lawyer can paint me as a boy being victimized by the big bad HCP. I even had a girlfriend freshman year; maybe I want to rekindle things with her, now that I have free time.”
Dean Blaine took a long drink of the scotch in front of him. It wasn’t bad, but he’d definitely had better. “So, you can probably come back. But that still doesn’t answer the question of why you’d want to. You seem far more at home here.”
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, surveying the room around him. Dean Blaine wasn’t wrong. This was his kingdom, his domain. Here, he was a prince being groomed for a throne. Here, he was someone special, with or without his ability. His hand twitched again, breaking his concentration.
“My reasons are largely my own, Dean Blaine. I’ll tell you this much though: HCP or not, Lander is far from boring.”
“Far from boring,” Dean Blaine repeated.
“Indeed.” Nicholas glanced away to spear a chunk of the crab cakes cooling on his plate, and, in doing so, he missed the instantaneous flash of a smile that lighted upon Dean Blaine’s face, then vanished just as quickly.
Which just went to show, a moment’s distraction can ma
ke even the most skilled manipulator miss the clues that he is being played.
* * *
Vince coughed roughly, a few flecks of spit and blood splattering onto the ground. They were quickly absorbed by the thick layer of dust that coated everything in this awful place. He pressed his hand into the dirt and pulled himself to his feet. A few blinks cleared more of the damned dust from his eyes, and he was ready to go again.
The sun gleamed off George’s metallic form, a tactic he’d already used several times to blind Vince just before an attack. Unlike the younger man, he wasn’t affected by the scorching heat, nor by the bits of brown dirt that swirled around them constantly. This environment was only taxing for someone made of flesh. It was one of dozens of variables specifically calculated to leave Vince weary and weak. Personally, George thought it was overkill, but he wasn’t the one calling the shots.
“Need me to get you a rock to sit on?” George taunted. “I don’t think you’re going to make it through another day. Best to call it quits, and get back to the safety of your dorm.”
There was no response from Vince; he’d learned by the third day that responding to George’s barbs only sapped him of saliva, intensifying his sense of dehydration. Periodically, the robotic man would stop to demand Vince take a drink from the nearby canteen. No one wanted him to drop dead, it seemed, but he’d over-taxed himself and passed out more than a few times. He always got back up, though. He always kept going after his opponent. Not out of some sense of duty or obligation, nor even a misguided belief that there was nobility in fighting a hopeless battle.
Vince pressed on because of the deal they’d struck on their first day here.
He charged forward, feinting right, then darting left. It wasn’t going to fool George—Vince knew that already—but it would force him to expand his observational field, in case Vince did it again. And that would dilute his attention, even if it was only by a fractional amount. Every little bit helped. Vince reached down deep and grabbed some kinetic energy. Electricity was wasted on a man who could convert it into his own power source, and fire would only make this wasteland more hellish on himself. Besides, the way George was knocking him around, there was no shortage of kinetic energy to replace it with.
Vince spun forward, just shy of George’s reach, dancing back a half-step, then barreling toward him with renewed intensity. It threw off the timing of the punch George had directed toward his face, catching Vince in the shoulder instead. He was ready for this one, though; the bone-shattering force of the blow instantly became part of Vince’s internal arsenal, rather than sending him flying. His own attack was deflected by George’s nimble hand, jerking him off balance and loosening his shoulder in its socket. Vince was able to stop himself from falling over, but the momentary distraction meant he wasn’t ready for the knee George drove into his ribs.
Vince let out a soft whimper of pain and collapsed. With extreme care, he poked his sides. Two ribs were broken, and at least one more was bruised. But all of it would be gone in the morning. Vince didn’t know why his broken bones vanished as he slept, nor why the continual healing did nothing for his everyday aches and soreness, but he’d come to accept it as just another part of this strange situation.
“Nice try, kid. Now, how about we get you to a hospital and let things be done.” George backed off to let him recover. It may have seemed like this was a kindness, but in truth, it was almost sadistic. If he hammered on Vince without pause, the young man would be beyond repair; he wouldn’t be able to fight on. That would mean this deal, and his suffering, were over. So instead, George let him get back up, and the excruciating process dragged on.
“Bet you thought you’d have figured something out by now. Bet you were feeling all kinds of badass after that little spectacle you put on at Lander. Sorry, kid, but you need to accept reality. Just because you were able to hold back a few sophomores for a couple of minutes doesn’t mean you’re ready to play with the big boys. Especially when you had to have Campbell brain-jack you before you could pull off even that. Give it up.”
Vince dragged himself back to his feet, his breathing labored as each gasp drew protest from his ribs. The first few days, he’d been fired up, taking George’s barbs and coming back harder and faster. After a week or so, he’d learned to steady his emotions. George once said that inner fire might make you scary, but inner cold made you dangerous. Vince was beginning to understand what he’d meant.
An unsteady step forward confirmed that he could at least still walk under his own power. Good. As long he could keep going, he hadn’t lost. The deal was still in full effect.
It wasn’t a complicated bargain—neither party was that sort of thinker. George had merely made him a proposition, once his seeming captive had awoken: Vince was free to go at any time, and if he ever reached a point of injury so great that he couldn’t continue, he would be transported to a hospital and abandoned. The flip side was that, if Vince was able to beat George, even once, then George would willingly return himself to jail. That alone might have kept Vince going, but then George had added a cherry to the top of the offer. If Vince beat George, he got more than returning a fugitive to rightful incarceration. George would also take him to see his father. With that carrot dangling in front of him, Vince never, even once, considered giving up. George could taunt him, beat him, and ridicule him all he wanted. Vince wasn’t quitting. And if he could at all help it, he wasn’t going to lose by injury either.
The silver-haired young man took two more weary steps forward, drops of sweat falling from his forehead into the damned dusty ground, and charged.
* * *
Mary jumped slightly at the sound of a tree being shattered into kindling. She’d gotten lost in her book and hadn’t noticed when Alice switched her training. Looking up from the depths of the dense tome, she noticed her blonde friend had moved toward the edge of the clearing for this round of practice.
Alice’s face was furrowed in concentration as she focused on reversing, then intensifying, the flow of gravity in a defined area. The small tree she was staring at began to shiver as one of the natural forces of the universe was suddenly thrown out of whack. A quick sweep of her hand removed a lock of sweaty hair from Alice’s eyes. She’d been training for a few hours, alternating between using her body and her power, and if she followed the routine she’d established, it would be several more hours before she was done. If Mary had feared allowing her to come would fill this silent sanctuary with chatter, those worries had been unfounded. Whatever Alice was going through, she’d evidently found more solace in training than talking. Not to say she was unfriendly or aloof, merely constantly occupied.
The tree tore from the ground as the upended gravity proved to be too much for even strong roots to struggle against. It drifted into the air lazily, the powerful pull reduced almost immediately to a sense of weightlessness. It had taken Alice two weeks to get a sapling out of the ground, and another three days before she’d been able to keep one from flying off into the air. That had been some time ago; the tree currently suspended in mid-air was far larger than a mere sapling.
Alice took hold of both ends with opposing gravitational forces, pulling them tight and bringing its drift to a stop. She’d wasted more time than she cared to admit trying to fine-tune this trick to the point where she could actually pull the tree in half. No matter how much she put into it though, she was never able to conjure enough force to overcome the structural integrity of one of Mother Nature’s oldest designs.
Another prodigious cracking filled the air as the tree shattered at its center, then fell to the ground. Alice couldn’t pull them in half, but she could now add a third pull of gravity in the middle. Once it was pulled tight, not even a mighty oak could overcome the laws of physics.
A quick walk to a new target—a few feet away—began the cycle anew. Alice would do this for some time longer, working hard at focusing her mind on singular tasks, learning to blot out all other thoughts, all other distractions, all o
ther curiosities. Learning to blur out everything but the task at hand.
Especially things related to her parents.
* * *
Hershel stretched backward, listening to the soft pops from his spine as it crackled, giving him blissful but all too short relief. He’d gotten better at lifting with his legs—that much had been necessary to avoid serious injury—but even after several months of work, he still hadn’t quite managed to eliminate using his back entirely. That meant, by the time he was ready to change into Roy, his body had acquired quite a number of throbbing aches and pains. And that was on the good days. Sometimes, he didn’t even get to turn into Roy, which meant the pain persisted through the night.
With a mighty haul of effort, Hershel yanked two pails loaded with feed up from the ground. Grunting and snorting came from the stalls, all reinforced with a myriad of metals designed to keep the altered animals contained. They worked well, for the most part. There had been an incident or two, but from the way everyone else shrugged them off, Hershel had assumed it was par for the course around here. Of course, after the first one, he began keeping an emergency container of whiskey on him at all times. Hershel was easy-going, not stupid.
“Hurry up!” Gus yelled from the arena. “We need you to check the saddles before tonight’s show!”
“Hurrying,” Hershel called back, throwing his already pained body into motion. This hadn’t really been the sort of training he was anticipating when he asked his mother to find him a teacher, but if the protesting in his muscles and smaller waistline on his pants were any indication, it was certainly yielding results.
Roy was less optimistic about their situation, but then again, what was new about that?
* * *
Sean Pendleton looked around the room anxiously. It was strange; there was a time when he’d have been filled with comfort to see so many masked faces perched atop flamboyant costumes. Then again, he would have been wearing one as well. Nothing so ostentatious, obviously, as Subtlety Heroes tended toward more muted color schemes. When Sean had been Wisp, his outfit was done in black swirls and soft grays. It didn’t have built-in armor, like many of the others, so it was thin enough to wear under street clothes when need be. The mask and gloves he’d been able to carry, but the real issue had been the boots. Those boots were a pain in the ass. Not that any of that mattered anymore. Wisp was gone, and Sean was dearly hoping no one recognized his lean face as the one that once been under a mask.