by Drew Hayes
“Hello?” Vince said tentatively. The woman looked up from her desk and greeted him with a warmer smile than he’d been anticipating from her professional appearance.
“Vince, right on time. Please, shut the door and take a seat,” she instructed, gesturing to a large, cushioned chair that would have looked more at home in someone’s living room than in an office. Vince complied automatically, pulling the door closed and settling into the indicated chair. It was even more comfortable than it looked.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” the woman said, once he was situated.
“Yes, ma’am,” Vince confirmed. “No one else seemed to have this class.”
“That’s because this isn’t a class, per se,” she told him. “I think it’s best if I start from the top. To begin with, my name is Dr. Moran, and I’m the head physician here at Lander.”
“I didn’t even know we had a head physician,” Vince admitted.
“That’s because most of my work is overseeing the healers taking care of you students. Healing is a discipline that one can only improve through practice, so except in very extreme situations, I leave all the patching-up work to the students who need the experience. Of course, in years where we have no healers, I take a more active role, but right now, we have many skilled Supers with healing talents in attendance.”
“My friend, Camille, is a healer,” Vince supplied, still unsure of what he was supposed to say.
“And a wonderful one at that. Camille is one of the most skilled students I’ve ever had the chance to work with,” Dr. Moran told him. “However, we aren’t here to discuss that kind of healing. Vince, in addition to being a Super with a healing ability, I am also an M.D. who has done fellowships in Internal Medicine and Psychiatry. I even ran my own practice before coming to Lander. I’m telling you this to assure you that you are in safe, experienced, and professional hands.”
“I don’t really understand what you’re talking about,” Vince said.
“You were informed that your continued attendance at Lander would come with special requirements, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This is one of those requirements. You and I are going to sit here for an hour, once a week, and talk. The goal is to make sure that you’re handling everything that’s been thrown at you well, and to provide help if you need it,” Dr. Moran told him.
“Oh. So you’re making sure I’m not crazy,” Vince surmised, understanding finally kicking in. “Awesome.”
“If you choose to see it that way, then I can’t stop you,” Dr. Moran said, setting her hands down on her desk. “What you get from therapy rests more on your attitude than anything I have the ability to say. But Vince, if I may be so bold, I think you would benefit from having someone to talk things through with.”
“I’d rather if that someone wasn’t working for Ralph Chapman,” Vince said defiantly.
Dr. Moran’s smile darkened, just for an instant. “I do not work for Ralph Chapman. He wanted to bring in his own personnel for this task, but he was unable to find someone more qualified than I. And let me assure you, Vince, standard confidentiality applies. Unless I suspect you are about to become a danger to yourself or others, everything said in this room will remain between the two of us.”
“That’s not so bad, I guess.” Vince paused for a moment as he contemplated this new information. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I should have assumed you were working for Mr. Chapman so suddenly. This whole situation of being constantly screened just has me a little worried.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Dr. Moran said. “In your situation, a little bit of suspicion is not only excusable, it’s healthy.”
“Still, I don’t know why I need to be in therapy.”
“Vince, I believe a good relationship between doctor and patient is built on trust, so I’ll be honest with you. Yes, part of it is to determine if your mental state is healthy enough to continue in the HCP. But I’ve read your files extensively, and I sincerely doubt I’m going to find you unfit for this program. As to what you could gain out of it, I can cite two incidents that make my case for me. One, when you learned about Globe’s reemergence, you inadvertently began releasing fire until you were sealed away. Two, when Nick Campbell convinced you someone you loved was in danger, you reacted with the kind of murderous rage one would hardly expect to see in a person of your demeanor.”
“Those were extreme situations,” Vince defended.
“It is in extreme situations that our true natures can be seen,” Dr. Moran countered. “You are a kind, respectful, very loyal young man. But it seems evident to me that there are emotions inside that you are not dealing with. Anger, fear, frustration, and that’s all just what I could get from those two examples. I’m sure you could tell me far more.”
“I keep myself under control.”
“Except when you don’t,” Dr. Moran said. “It seems to me that a Super with such a perpetual fear of losing control of his power would be more inclined to address the one avenue where he’s lost that control multiple times.”
“That . . . is a good point,” Vince said, his own rebuttal failing before it could leave his mouth. She was right. Even if no one had made a big deal out of it, he’d still gone overboard both of those times. Maybe he did need to address some of the things inside himself that he’d purposely left unattended. Which, it dawned on him, was exactly the conclusion she wanted him to reach.
“You are really good at this,” Vince said.
“Of course I am. That’s why I’m at Lander.”
18.
“It’s certainly unique, I’ll give you that,” Professor Cole said as she examined the curious instrument in her hands. It was about three-quarters the length of a normal staff, with a curve slightly off center for no discernible reason. One end held a silver-colored blade, made from a metal Professor Cole highly doubted she’d be familiar with. The other had a small protrusion of what looked like geode crystal, but again, probably was something very different. The crystal did seem to be giving off a slight blue glow, which Professor Cole found to be worth noting. Along the shaft of the weapon were various switches and what appeared to be compartment hatches, though she was unable to get them to open.
She and the designer were in the hall outside her classroom, a few minutes before Weapons class was due to start. Will had tracked her down to get his weapon vetted in private, which, given the apparent complexity of it, made ample sense to Professor Cole.
“I designed it to be augmentable,” Will informed her as her cloth-wrapped hand ran carefully along the length of his weapon. “I presume there’s no objection to that?”
“No, as long as you can design the modifications, then you’re free to make them. Though we don’t often see the need for such things, it would, in principle, be no different than choosing different bullets for a gun.” Professor Cole handed Will his strange weapon, noting the way he gripped it along the curve and held it with the blade halfway raised. Odd though it was, she was experienced enough to glean ample information just from the way an unfamiliar weapon was handled. “Tell me about the tips.”
“The blade is mostly just a blade, though I tinkered with the metal’s composition and set it to run a variable electrical current.”
“Shock and slice, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am. Our fight with Professor Fletcher last year made it clear to me that electricity is probably the most common weakness among Supers. Likely because it interferes with the nervous system, which many of us rely on to utilize our abilities. Since I needed a martial option, I saw no reason not to rig it in a way that imparted maximum stopping power.”
“Smart call. Tell me about the other end,” Professor Cole instructed him.
“Variable by design. Currently, it is set so that, upon contact with the epidermis, it causes a tremendous amount of agitation.”
“If you touch people’s skin, it makes them really itchy?” Professor Cole was about to chide him
on the silliness of that, however, she paused for a moment before speaking. Will had done an impressive job in a few short days; she highly doubted he would have slapped a silly gag on his weapon. “How itchy?”
“Roughly enough that it would cause insanity if it were not temporary. I designed it as a mechanism to stop those with enhanced endurance, since their ability renders them immune to most pain I could impart.”
“I like it,” Professor Cole complimented. “It’s an inventive workaround. Though I should point out that some of them will be immune to that too.”
“I suspected as much. That’s why I made it augmentable, so that, as new ideas manifest, I can implement them.”
“That was forward thinking of you. Okay, I see no objection to your weapon, with one caveat.”
“Yes?”
“You need to get all augmentations approved by me before you’re allowed to use them on fellow students. There’s a fine line between effective neutralization and unnecessary cruelty, and I’ll be the one making that determination.”
“That seems very fair,” Will replied.
“Even if it wasn’t, we’d still be doing it,” Professor Cole told him. “Now come on, everyone else is already inside.”
Will moved a few steps ahead of her, walking in and joining the other students in the concrete space set aside for Weapons training. Professor Cole entered moments later, her eyes taking in the neat row of Supers, many of whom were already holding their choice of weaponry.
“Glad to see so many of you took the assignment seriously,” she announced as she took her usual spot in front of them. “Today, we’ll start by you showing me what weapon you’ve selected. I may ask you some questions about why it was chosen, so I hope you all put genuine thought into it. If you didn’t . . . well, a year is a long time to make sure a student regrets something, and I have ample practice at it.”
The students gave no reaction, not because they doubted her capability to make them regret lack of forethought, but rather because each had come into this class already knowing the consequences if they didn’t take the assignment seriously. The HCP was not a place that forgave laziness or incompetence. After two years, even the most stubborn among them had learned that.
“No questions? Then let’s get started. Violet Sullivan, since you’re at the far end, bring me your weapon choice.”
Violet complied immediately, stepping up and handing the professor a cumbersome hunk of jingling metal.
“A spiked chain? Aren’t you more of an up-close, brawler type?”
“I am, that’s why I picked this,” Violet explained. “Last year’s fight with Alice showed me my need for something with range. Since I can change the density of objects, this seemed like it could be useful with practice. Make it heavy for blows, but light for building up momentum.”
“Well-reasoned,” Professor Cole said, handing back the weapon with as little jingling as was possible. “Approved.”
The professor continued to call up students from the line, not needing any explanation for Britney’s rapier or Rich’s staff. When she got to Roy Daniels, however, her voice grew stern as she examined the weapon he’d handed her.
“A metal baseball bat? I didn’t think I stocked one of those here.”
“You don’t,” Roy told her. “I bought it at a sporting goods store.”
“Did you now? I must assume you have a dazzling reason for this choice then.”
“Sort of. I’ve never really been much of a weapon user, obviously, so I don’t know how to correctly wield any of this crap. I probably won’t have time to learn it worth a shit either. I’m a brawler; it’s what I do. But I wanted to try, so I chose something similar to what Hershel uses in his LARP games. Even if it's second-hand, I have at least a little bit of knowledge on how to wield that. It seemed like my best bet.”
Professor Cole remained silent as she handed back the hunk of aluminum. Roy accepted it with an equal lack of words. Both stood silently for several moments, until Professor Cole finally made up her mind.
“That won’t hold up in real battle. It’s not made to take on quality weaponry. But, as surprised as I am to admit it, you clearly put a good bit of thought into that choice. It’s logical too, and in a curious way, a simple, blunt instrument fits your fighting style. Take that back to the store; I’ll have a sturdy one commissioned. It will weigh a bit more, but I suspect that won’t be an issue for you.”
“No, it won’t,” Roy concurred.
“Then your weapon is approved; conceptually, at least.”
19.
The door to Dean Blaine’s office slammed open without so much as a knock. He glanced up, his face impassive, while his hand pressed against a switch beneath his desk that would simultaneously fill the area with tear gas, detonate a concussion blast, and send an electrical current through every living being within fifty feet of the office. When dealing with Supers, emergency procedures tended toward overkill, so much so that Dean Blaine would be caught in his own defense measures if he used them. He’d requested it be that way; holes in security only gave the cunning a place to slip through.
As it turned out, this was unnecessary. The man coming through the door was Mr. Numbers, though a far less composed Mr. Numbers than Dean Blaine was accustomed to seeing. He was unshaven for at least a day, and his suit hadn’t been pressed in some time. Briefly, Dean Blaine wondered if the task had been too much and had driven his calculating brain over the precipice of madness. Then he noticed the sheets of paper clutched tightly in Mr. Numbers’ hand, and it all came together.
“You found something?”
“I did,” Mr. Numbers replied. Mr. Transport followed a few steps behind, more put together than his partner, which was a curiosity in itself. The duo sat down immediately, and Dean Blaine paused the conversation long enough to pour them both some water. He then got up and shut the door firmly, flipping the light switch a curious number of times. Only when this was done did he retake his own seat.
“All recording devices and cameras are off. I’ve expanded my negation field so that our minds should be unreadable. This room is specially insulated and equipped to make it impossible to hear through, even with augmented senses. In our world, it is impossible to say if anything is truly secure, however; this is as private as I can possibly make our conversation. Did you find a hole in security?”
“No,” Mr. Numbers said. “So far as I can tell, your internal systems still haven’t been compromised. What I found was something that made me think it’s time to shift the focus of the investigation entirely.”
“Oh?” Dean Blaine tried hard to hold on to his detachment. There were precious few options outside of having been hacked, and none of them were positive.
Mr. Numbers slid the pages across the desk. “Despite months of scouring information, I’ve yet to see a single sign that someone entered any part of the Lander system without authorization. However, in my reviews, I did notice something peculiar. On the day of Mary and Hershel’s kidnapping, there was an authorized access and a large download of information. The user was George Russell.”
“Not to be a doubter, but all of the teachers access the system and the data stored within on a regular basis. Helping our students often requires sorting through massive amounts of historical information, searching for past students who have faced similar personal obstacles, or had the same type of power, and what tactics worked best for them. I’ll give you that it’s curious, however, I fail to see what conclusion it could lead to.”
“There’s something more,” Mr. Transport told him.
“Yes, yes there is. Two things, really. One, the part of the system this data came from is not connected to any pathway or archive I’ve seen so far. I’m assuming you have a few chunks of data not meant for just anyone, even professors, to see?”
“There are certain pieces of information which are considered too dangerous to be given out freely. Board approval is required for access,” Dean Blaine admitted. “Even I’m not
privy to all the information on those servers. The only time I accessed one was back in my Hero days, when a former student turned villain was threatening a town with a doomsday device. He’d created something similar in his time here, and looking at the schematics aided me in finding a way to defuse it. That’s the sort of information kept on those files. Too useful to destroy, too dangerous to spread.”
“Well, George found a way in, and he took a big-ass chunk of it,” Mr. Numbers replied.
“That data is heavily encrypted. Even if he downloaded it, he wouldn’t be able to read it,” Dean Blaine assured his guests.
“Encryption can be cracked,” Mr. Transport reminded him.
“We utilize an incredibly complex one. It would take centuries to break, if ever.”
“Complex by whose standards? Because I can do computations in my head seven times faster than the best computer built so far. Then again, that Murray kid hasn’t taken a swing at it yet, so maybe I’ll lose my record before I die. Or maybe some Super out there has the gift of looking at a scrambled code and reading it like a daily newspaper.”
“Point taken. We can’t dismiss anything as impossible,” Dean Blaine yielded. “But while I grant you that this does finally give us a stepping off place on their motive, I fail to see how it informs us about our leak in security.”
“Because George made the download at eleven that night. Or rather, he connected at eleven and finished his business at one the next morning. Seems it took him some time to access what he was looking for,” Mr. Numbers explained. “And we know with certainty that that is . . .”
“Impossible,” Dean Blaine finished, comprehension dawning at last. “Because, at that time, he was already involved in a kidnapping.”
“Correct,” Mr. Numbers confirmed.
“And we were using Mrs. Tracking at the time, so if he were using a teleporter to hop back and forth between locations, we’d have known about it,” Mr. Transport added.