by Peter Clines
Then I’m trapped. I can’t leave without the plug fracturing, and I can’t fly fast enough to outrun the water that’s going to come erupting out of there. So I stay, trembling slightly.
“Are you shutting the mains off?” I yell. No response. I wait—wait for the panic to subside and someone to remember what needs to be done. They’ll need to call the city guys, get a crew here, all that. It takes time.
What the fuck am I doing? I don’t owe anyone anything. The City of Detroit shafted me good and hard already, back when I wore a mask as a member of Detroit’s Teen Corps One.
I was drafted into the Teen Corps after “an anomaly” showed up after a routine doctor’s visit. I’d been keeping my power a secret from everyone exactly like you are not supposed to do, so right away, that put me on every watch list in the country. It wasn’t literally a federal offense like it is now, so they put me into a pair of tights and told me I was an apprentice.
I was a sidekick. It was worse than driving school. Due to federal regs, I wasn’t allowed to go solo until I was twenty-five, so I was paired with an older paranormal who would train and oversee me.
A day shy of my sixteenth birthday, my mentor messed up a simple bust and put a woman in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. She sued the city for millions and won. My mentor blamed the whole thing on me. He told me that since I was a minor, they’d go easy on me whereas he had a wife and kid to support and a pension to protect. A year or so in therapy, and I’d be free. I was an idealistic fool and signed the papers saying I was at fault.
I got my year in therapy all right courtesy of a federal supermax facility. The ACLU went to bat for me and won my release on some technical grounds, but things didn’t get much better. I was out of prison but not free. Any paranormal that messes up and hurts a normal with his powers gets put on permanent probation. One strike, and you’re back in prison forever. Depending on your ability, they also dope you up so you’re not a public nuisance. Your parole officer comes by once a week to give you a shot, and you get to play normal for the rest of your life. My gift was too powerful to blunt with the drugs they had at the time without killing me, so they did the next best thing.
They took my mask.
Most metahumans wear masks for the same reason narcotics cops do: to prevent retaliation by the people they bring to justice and to give plausible deniability to their higher-ups in case something goes wrong. “Kid Kinetic” became simple Calvin Carmichael of such-and-such address. My family was put into Witness Protection, and I haven’t seen them since. Most of my rights would never be reinstated. If I ever moved from the federal housing project they installed me in, I’d have to get signatures from everyone in the neighborhood after explaining I was a potential metahuman threat. There was a lot more. I lived under a set of restrictions that made me yearn for the freedom of a repeat sex offender.
“Cal, what the hell is going on here?”
His voice paralyzes me for a second. I guess I knew they’d send him. I take a deep breath, pretend I’m having trouble maintaining the plug.
I look to my side, sweat pouring down my face. Black Saber, head of the Detroit Defenders, the state-and-local-backed team of emergency-response metahumans. He was taller than me by a head and was dressed in his working clothes: black, skintight Preflex uniform with gold and white highlights and accessories. He wore a crossed-swords emblem over his broad chest.
Saber is a super-speedster, able to run about fifty times the speed of sound. The only other alpha-level talent in the city besides myself. My former mentor. He trained me, and then he betrayed me. He was also the guy they sent when there was a mess to clean up.
“Ah, just another day on the job, Saber. Holding back about a hundred tons of pressurized water. Everyone out of the sub-levels?”
“They are,” he said casually, eyeing the water surging against the doorway. He smiles tightly. “You always tried to do the right thing. What’s your plan here?”
“You grab me and super-speed out of here, and their basements flood until the city gets around to shutting off the mains. Nothing is wrong with the foundations, so everyone wins.”
“No can do,” Saber says casually. “The mayor is heavily invested in this building; it’s the centerpiece of his renovation initiative. If it’s late going up, he stands to lose a bundle.”
I set my jaw. “Dude, really? It is going to flood. Nothing can stop that…” I paused. Oh.
He saw the look on my face and nodded. If the building flooded and they spent six months pumping it out and exposed all the substandard plumbing, the mayor would lose both his shirt and the next election. On the other hand, if the building were damaged by a metahuman terrorist, then it was ice cream and insurance payments for everyone. Guess what industry the mayor’s brother had in his back pocket? Hint: He didn’t own a Baskin-Robbins.
“So,” I said way more casually than I felt, “They really just need a body.”
“A trial would take too long, Calvin, and it would certainly blow up into a federal matter.”
“Can’t have the Feds sniffing around the Defenders program,” I said, my voice carefully flat and reasonable. That I did know. Just the kickbacks and under-the-table benefits coming to light would bring a squad of federal super-soldiers down on Detroit. The entire program would revert to federal oversight, and it would be the end of the gravy train.
A small voice said, At least you won’t go back to prison.
No. No, I was still in prison, and I was damn tired of it.
Slowly, I expanded my plug against the arch, pushing microscopic cracks down and out as far as I could through the concrete. I closed my eyes and bowed my head like I was resigned to my fate, was waiting for the blow that would save face for everyone. Actually, I was pushing myself further than I ever had before. With each heartbeat, I pushed harder and harder, extending those cracks while keeping the concrete solid.
Black Saber smiled, his mouth and jaw visible, the armored cowl rendering his eyes into unreadable white slits. Any split-second, he’d go for the Mach-4 snap-punch and break my neck, the way he used to do to crackheads on Eight Mile. In his mind, he was doing me a favor For Old Time’s Sake by not letting me drown.
“I knew you’d understand, Kid,” Black Saber said softly.
I dropped the plug the same instant he tried to kill me, my reflex shield shunting the energy of his multi-mach punch off into the surrounding walls. They shattered like glass, sending an earthquake-level shockwave ripping through the entire structure and down into the very bedrock. The foundations and every load-bearing support turned to gravel. Then, the mains and sewers blew upwards, turning everything to quicksand. There was a blaze of pain, and the world disappeared into a tornado of muddy water as I fought to keep my shield intact.
Here’s a little-known fact: When your paranormal power is “I run really fast,” being underwater sucks balls.
If the mayor wanted a body so badly, let him have one.
I rose out of the wreckage flaring like a star bright enough to throw shadows in the suburbs, the energy of the domino-effect collapse feeding into my own. Emergency crews fled as I threw two of the backup Defenders through a nearby office building. The looky-loos scattered. See the monkeys run. Run, monkey, run.
I didn’t bother going back to the shitty fed apartment. The only thing waiting for me there was a lifetime of four walls and shock therapy.
I’m not going to live like a prisoner anymore. Not me and not the thousands like me and not the thousands waiting to be born. Paranormal Pride, bay-bee.
It feels good to put on a mask again.
G-Child
Malon Edwards
As I freefall from the UH-60L Black Hawk helicopter, I point my chin to the ground and my toes to the sky. The shit is hitting the fan on Oglesby Avenue below. Homes have been reduced to splintered wood and rubble. A steady stream of small arms fire flashes from a house to my left. I smile. Finally, a true test of my abiliti
es.
The PR people for the Institute of Psionics thought giving us code names would be a cute and easy way to gain public sentiment. They call me Bliss. That big, bald, black dude in the middle of all the carnage down there is Rayge. Looks like Ray J is living up to his code name.
Just before I hit the ground and splatter into yet another grease spot on the streets of Jeffrey Manor, I manipulate the air flows around me to slow my descent. My sleek, black and yellow carbon fiber titanium suit aids the aerodynamics and—arms outstretched, palms up—I descend to Earth like a goddess from on high.
Usually, when Ray J or I go to the South Side of Chicago, someone always bumps Wiz Khalifa’s “Black and Yellow” like it’s our theme song. But not this time. It’s quiet except for the occasional rat-tat-tat of gunfire. Folks or Vice Lords or Gangster Disciples. I should know which gang, but I never paid attention during the gang training the Institute gave us. All I care about is the social dynamics of the North Side and the north suburbs. I figure since the South Side is Ray J’s territory, he should know.
Speaking of which, he disappears into that house I saw coming in halfway down the block. Almost immediately, an explosion levels it. Nothing moves.
“Is he dead?”
I turn and see Kee-Kee. Ray J’s baby-mama. Their little boy Ray-Ray clutches her, his chubby fists trying to find good purchase on her too-tight jeans. He looks at me wide-eyed and then hides his face in her hip. I put up a telekinetic shield around the three of us and frown at Kee-Kee.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask her. “Go home! Get out of here!”
“I ain’t got no home no more.” Kee-Kee points behind me to where her house used to be.
Shit. I rotate my wrist and speak to the inside of it. “Mother Bird, I need an evac. Two civilians. Mother and child.” I look around. I hope there are survivors in the burned out garages and under the overturned cars. “Possibly more.”
My wrist communicator crackles. “Roger that, Bliss. We’re on our way.”
Ray-Ray peeks out at me from behind Kee-Kee. I bend down and smile at him but speak to his mother. “What happened?”
“They killed Ray J’s father.” I raise an eyebrow. “It was a drug deal gone bad.” Ray-Ray presses his face into his mother’s hip again. Kee-Kee looks down at him. “Ray J hadn’t seen him since he was Ray-Ray’s age.” Tears stand in her eyes. “He told Ray J he was clean.”
Ray J is from the Manor. He grew up on Oglesby. Today is his day off, and he got a special day pass to go see Ray Sr. He was nervous. He’d told me last night that he didn’t want his father inside the Institute around all of those government people, so he was going back to his old stomping grounds to meet him. And is he ever stomping the shit out of it.
The wind picks up as the Black Hawk lands behind us. I lower my shield and motion Kee-Kee and Ray-Ray toward the helicopter.
“He’ll be all right,” I shout over the rotor blades. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Two tears roll down her cheeks. She doesn’t believe me. She sees the destruction he wrought. But she puts Ray-Ray on her hip and goes to the ‘copter because there’s nothing she can do here.
I throw up my shield again, a crackling dome of mental energy, and walk toward the inferno that was a house just moments ago. It’s up to me to stop him. I’ve never been able to in our training exercises, and that’s with him pulling his punches.
I’m almost at the burning house when an enormous streak of fire slams into me. I come to one street over in someone’s living room. Shit. My shield barely saved my life.
#
When my mother was five months pregnant with me, her obstetrician suggested she participate in clinical trials for an experimental prenatal supplement at Great Lakes Naval Hospital. She’d been having complications from pre-eclampsia. Headaches. Hypertension. Problems with her kidneys and liver. For African-American women like my mother, pre-eclampsia was more likely to result in death. But that was something my mother was willing to risk if it meant she could bring a happy, healthy, beautiful baby girl into the world.
#
I stagger to my feet and wipe away a trickle of blood from my nose. My fists glow blue with psionic energy. Fine. If Rayge wants to have a slug fest, then let’s have a slug fest.
#
I was her first child. Her only child. It had taken my mother and my father fifteen years to conceive. At first, my mother refused to risk her only chance at having a baby for an unproven drug that probably wouldn’t even work. She told my father that if something went wrong because of the prenatal experimental supplement—that if she lost me—she would never be able to live with herself. My father reminded my mother what she always said: She was a tough old bitch, and the Good Lord Himself didn’t have the balls to mess with her.
#
I can see Ray J’s fury before he gets to me. It manifests itself as two malevolent, violet-black probing tendrils as big around as my thigh. Ray J’s schtick is to take all of his pent-up anger and unleash it as physical rage. When we train, it always takes everything I have to hold off his blows with my telekinetic shield long enough to flip the calm switch in his brain. But never before have I seen his fury this massive.
#
Eventually, my father convinced my mother to participate in the clinical trial with tears. He had grown up with Dr. Shimada and told my mother he trusted her with his life. When my mother asked him if he trusted Dr. Shimada with the life of their unborn child, the only child they would probably ever conceive, my father, who had taken a few performing arts classes during undergrad at Sophia University in Tokyo—where he met my mother—answered her with tears on his cheeks.
#
I can sense the two purple-black tendrils probing the half-destroyed house, looking for me or someone that Ray J can lay the smack down on. The tendrils search down the hall and go into the bedrooms, hesitant, careful, and sneaky. They move slowly. They search thoroughly. They peek around corners. I close my eyes and take a deep breath to clear my mind. Send out my own tendrils. They’re slender. They’re bright blue. And they’re badass.
#
It was a big deal for my father to show emotion. He was raised Japanese old school. Not like these sensitive Japanese boys today. My father was taught that Japanese men weren’t supposed to cry, and they damn sure weren’t supposed to cry in front of their wives. But that was exactly what my mother needed. She showed up at Great Lakes Naval Hospital with ninety-nine other pregnant women happy and smiling. But two months later, when twenty women miscarried and another twenty women bore odd, squalling, premature babies, my mother told my father she wasn’t going back to the hospital.
#
But not badass enough. Ray J’s tendrils seize mine. My eyes snap open. Roll back into my head. The pain is excruciating. Like nothing I’ve felt before. My tendrils turn black. Begin to rot. Decay creeps down their length. Toward my mind. I’m awash with intimidation. Fear. I can’t pull away. I can’t shake free. I can’t order my mind. So I do the only thing I can. I open my mouth and scream.
#
My mother went back to Great Lakes Naval Hospital though. How could she not? Her headaches were gone. Her kidneys and liver were stable. Her blood pressure was down. But she wasn’t happy. Every night, she woke to the screams of misshapen, grotesque babies. My mother dreamed about them so much that she was surprised she carried me to full term and I came out normal. And that’s how I stayed. For twelve years. And then I turned thirteen and linked my mind to my fifty-eight-year-old mother while she was having sex with my sixty-year-old father.
#
My fight-or-flight psionic response allows me to break free of Ray J’s rage and intimidation. I need to get out of these people’s house before it’s destroyed any further. When I step out the front door, Ray J is standing there. He smacks me three blocks over to Luella Avenue. My psionic shield takes the full brunt of the impact. But something is wrong with me. I should have known he
was there. I should have sensed him. And then I do. I look up and see Ray J coming in feet first, hard and fast, ready to get his stomp on some more.
#
My mother told me I couldn’t live at home after that. It was just too weird for her. I knew my mother’s orgasms. I knew her every thought, emotion, and experience. She sent me to the Institute of Psionics in Hyde Park with the other eighty prenatal supplement children who freaked out their mothers. I didn’t want to go even though knowing her so intimately was weird as hell for me too. I kicked and screamed and bit and cried. My mother told me it was for my own good. My father just looked away. That was five years ago, and I haven’t forgiven either of them since.
#
Dazed, I manage to drag myself out of the way as three hundred fifty pounds of Ray J smash through the street where I just lay. My fists blaze blue again. I try to stand, to pick myself up off the ground, but Ray J does it for me instead. The street beneath me erupts, and we arc toward blue sky and sun, human rockets launched high. Ray J snatches me to him in a wicked embrace amongst the chunks of flying concrete. As we begin to level out, he crushes me against his sixty-two-inch-chest with his thirty-five inch arms. The breath is forced from my lungs. I see bright spots. My vision fades. Stupid me. I didn’t put up a shield.
#
I don’t call the North Shore home anymore. But I can’t bring myself to call the Institute home either. What bothers me is I’m starting to like the Institute and its rigor. Scientists from Great Lakes Naval Hospital train and teach us from a curriculum sanctioned by Homeland Security. We’re separated into four classes. They call the preemies beta children. Us drama kings and queens are gamma children. The smelly kids are delta children. And the normal kids are epsilon children. (The dead babies—God rest their souls—are alpha children.) I met Ray J the first day at the Institute. He told me his mother died of breast cancer. I told him my mother could go fuck herself.