"I’d be able to do all of this?"
"It’s theoretical," Alan reiterated, "but, yes, I believe it will work. Now remember, Steve ... if you want, your new eyes would just allow you to see. The two technologies are compatible, but the projects were originally developed separately. We would repair your vision first, and then the vortex and other abilities would require further adjustments and a second series of implants." Despite their privacy, his voice lowered even further. "The PCA doesn’t know about this yet, Steve. This would be my last favor to Joseph, not to them. You can have your sight back, and the PCA doesn’t have to know either way. Just you, me, and a handful of your father’s most loyal, trusted people — we all loved your dad." He paused, perhaps waiting for some response from Steve. When none was forthcoming, he continued, "It’s up to you, Steve. If you don’t want this kind of responsibility, there’ll be no pressure for you to change your mind. We’ll wait another few weeks, then present the vortex wave to the PCA like it has just been developed, and they can do whatever the hell they think is best. Or ... we can keep this under wraps and proceed our way, at our own pace, and then, when you decide you’re ready, you can join the PCA yourself ... and help them hunt McLane down to the ends of the Earth."
With that, Alan finally fell silent.
Steve grappled with his thoughts. Did he want this? The morning he’d been attacked he’d been stewing over his future, but he’d certainly never envisioned spending it working for the PCA. He could just walk away, take his new sight and try to lead some kind of normal life ...
Steve, who the hell are you trying to kid?
Who was he trying to kid? He couldn’t walk away. When he thought of his parents, John, Dan ...
And Richard McLane ...
"I want it, Alan."
"Your sight?"
"All of it."
SHOCKWAVE AND TAKAYASU
The drone shot one direction, then another, then another. Its tazer sights remained locked on their target, ready to neutralize its opponent at the first opportunity.
Shockwave did not intend to give it that opportunity.
The casual observer would have been confused at first. There was no obvious reason for the drone to hold back at all — Mark Westmore appeared to be totally defenseless. But a little more scrutiny would have revealed the subtle ripples in the air around him as the power at his command swirled to and fro, protecting each angle that the drone sought to lock in.
Of course, Mark could have simply lashed out with a shockwave large enough to take out the drone and the entire wall behind it, but the assholes in charge insisted that this was a test of his "precision and accuracy," so he was waiting for a shot clear enough to hit the drone and only the drone.
In an unexpectedly sharp maneuver, the drone zigged, then zagged, then zigged again, this time lower than Mark was prepared for. When his kinetic guard flowed the wrong way, the drone launched forward, its floatation servos turning it from a hovering craft into a speeding rocket. Mark threw himself to the side just in time — making a conscious effort, of course, never to drop his cocky grin — and twisted at the waist in mid-flight. Before the drone could reacquire, before he even hit the floor, he lashed out. Not with his fist, which he usually found was the easiest method for him to focus his waves, but with a single, pointing finger. A pencil-thin wave extended, punching a neat hole through the back of the drone. The device hit the floor ten yards away, but its circuits were dead long before its momentum.
"How about that?!" Mark called out to the room in general. "You wanted precise, you got precise! Who’s buyin’ the first drink?"
"Thank you, Shockwave," a disembodied voice drifted from nowhere in particular. "That will be all for today."
"That’s it, huh? No drink? You pussies ever heard of a celebration?!"
The voice did not deign to reply.
"Tight-asses," Mark muttered as he climbed to his feet and headed for the towel rack. "Should go rogue right now and tear the place down around their damn ears."
The training arena had been empty except for him — none of the other paranormals liked to work out when Shockwave was on the loose — but as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and out of the goatee of his Van Dyke, he spotted a trim Asian kid headed toward him from the observation booth. The kid was dressed in sweat pants and a T-shirt, and looked as though he’d just finished a workout of his own.
"Mark Westmore," he stated in a smooth voice.
"Not ‘til I clock out, young’n," Mark answered as he dropped the towel carelessly onto the floor.
The kid smirked. " ‘Shockwave,’ then."
"That’s what the sign on my locker says, and if you dumbasses are gonna hang that stupid moniker on me, then you might as well stick to it. Makes me feel like someone’s seen X-Men one too many times, you know what I’m sayin’?"
"Sure," the kid agreed with that same smirk.
Mark headed for the locker room. The kid followed.
"You new around here?"
"Yep. Just got transferred in from the Academy last week."
"Oooooh," Mark waggled his fingers in condescending adoration. "First of the Academy brats graces us with his presence. Let me think ... that makes you an ensign, right?"
"Yep."
Mark was a little torn about how to react to this new face. He was both impressed and annoyed by the fact that, so far, the kid wasn’t really responding to his shit. Probably didn’t realize that Mark could kill him with a thought. "You got a name?"
"Takayasu. Ensign Michael Takayasu."
"You a Jap?"
"Half-Jap, actually. Father’s side. You a bigot?"
That brought Mark up short. Then he laughed, and decided that he did kind of like this kid after all. "Half-bigot, actually. Mother’s side." He stuck his hand out and Takayasu took it in a firm grip. "Pleased to meet you, Ensign."
"Likewise, Shockwave," the kid returned in matching tone.
Then it clicked, and Mark snapped his fingers. "Okay, I’m on your page now. Latest partner, right?"
Takayasu nodded. "Yep."
"All right, I’m with you. Brase said something about you yesterday. I wasn’t payin’ much attention, of course."
"Of course."
Mark chuckled. " ‘Lieutenant Commander’ Brase, if you can believe that shit."
"Right up there with ‘Ensign’ Takayasu, I guess."
By now they had reached the locker room doors, and Mark led the way in. "I thought I’d gotten away from dumbass ranks when I quit the Army."
"Actually, you were kicked out of the Army," Takayasu corrected. Mark looked at him sharply in irritation, but he pressed on as he headed for a locker a few down and across from Mark’s. "You and Captain Jarrah have something in common. He likes the Naval nomenclature about as much as you do."
Mark relaxed again. "Jarrah’s an okay guy, even if he does sound like a woman." Takayasu smiled at that, but said nothing. As the kid pulled off his sweaty T-shirt, Mark noticed for the first time that he had burn scars all over both hands up to the mid-forearms. He decided to save any smart comments on those for another day. He hadn’t met too many PCA guys without a stick up their ass, and decided he didn’t want to push this one away just yet. "I take it you like being called ‘ensign?’ "
"I don’t care one way or the other about how it ties in with the Navy — I just close my eyes and pretend I’m on ‘Star Trek.’ "
As they headed for the showers together, Mark continued, "Yeah, well, I might as well warn you, kid, I’m not real easy to get along with."
"We seem to be doing fine so far," Takayasu commented as he stepped onto the tiled floor and reached for the faucet knobs.
"Just wait’ll you get to know me," Mark assured him as he started his own water flow. "I rub everyone the wrong way eventually. I have what you might colorfully call a ‘strong personality.’ "
"Well, I suppose an ‘asshole’ by any other name..."
Mark stopped his lathering and slowly turned to
face his terrifically brave — or remarkably stupid — new partner. Takayasu continued to wash for a moment longer, then looked over his shoulder innocently. "Oh. I’m sorry. I guess I forgot to mention that I have what you might colorfully call a ‘blunt personality.’ Given your strength and all, I figured you’d appreciate that."
Shockwave stared daggers at him, flexing his muscles. A kinetic ripple twitched across his body, briefly deflecting the water in an arc away from him, but the kid didn’t so much as flinch. He just stopped his scrubbing and looked Mark right back in the eye ...
... until the older man could no longer hold back his grin.
If this young Academy-fresh ensign — a complete norm, if Mark recalled Brase correctly — could look impending death in the face that calmly, on top of keeping step with his every wisecrack and then some ... maybe the PCA was turning into an interesting outfit after all.
"You’re all right, kid," Mark said, slapping Takayasu on the shoulder before returning to his personal hygiene, "you’re all right. If anybody in the office gives you grief, you just whistle and I’ll come running, you know what I’m sayin’? I got your back."
"And I got yours, ‘Shock.’ "
"Don’t push your luck, kid."
POWERHOUSE
"Read’m and weep, boys!"
"Shit."
"Damn it."
"Great."
Carl laughed at the muttered frustration around him, tossed his full house triumphantly onto the table for all to see, and scooped the considerable pot into his disorganized stash.
Ben, Deak, and Lincoln weren’t really upset — they knew that Carl’s victory entailed far more luck than skill. By the end of the evening, things would fall together about as they always did, with everyone coming out pretty much even.
"Anybody want a beer?" Lincoln offered. He didn’t even wait for the three affirmatives before rising to his feet and stepping over to the fridge.
The sliding door behind them whisked open, and Tommy stuck his head into the kitchen. His eyes searched for his brother for a moment before spotting Lincoln, and he opened his mouth to call him over.
"I’ll be right there, Tommy," Lincoln said. He delivered the beers quickly and hurried to lead the boy back out into the rest of the apartment. He never bothered to hide his siblings from his co-workers — he figured that if the authorities ever got around to asking questions at the construction site, it would mean he was as good as caught, anyway — but the guys tended to be a little foul-mouthed, so he tried to balance his personal fun with his semi-parental duties and keep some space between his two worlds.
"What’s up, Tommy?"
"Sarah’s not feelin’ too good."
Lincoln’s heart kicked into overdrive. Now more than ever, he couldn’t risk a trip to the doctor’s office ...
and why is that, Linc? don’t want any members of the medical profession taking too good a look at you right now
(no that’s not it just don’t think about it don’t think)
Stepping into the kids’ room, he called softly, "Sarah?"
"Hi, Lincoln," drifted her scratchy voice, followed by a cough. That brought him some relief — it was a dry cough, without the chest rattle that would suggest bronchitis, or worse.
"Are you okay?" he asked as he sat down on the bed next to her.
"My throat’s kinda sore."
He felt her forehead. No fever.
or is there a fever and you just can’t feel it anymore?
"Do you have a headache?"
"No." She coughed again, with a little more chest rumble, but not much. "I told Tommy not to bother you. I know you like playing cards with your friends ..."
"Sarah, you never bother me. Okay? I’ll always be here for you."
"Thanks, Lincoln. I love you."
"I love you, too. Tommy," he called back over his shoulder, "can you get the children’s aspirin out of the bathroom for me?"
"Sure, Linc," the boy answered, already on his way.
"Do you want me to wait?"
"Nah, I’m okay. You can go back now."
"All right. Don’t take more than two. If you don’t feel better after a while, send Tommy back out to get me, okay?"
She nodded, then reached out for a hug. Lincoln leaned forward in response ...
careful now, big fella, don’t squeeze her too tightly
... and very gently patted her shoulders. Sarah looked confused for a moment, then Tommy was back with the medicine, and Lincoln returned to the kitchen.
what’s the matter, Linc? all she wanted was a hug
"Everything all right?" Ben asked as he slipped back into his seat.
"Yeah. Who’s dealin’?"
PCA
A couple of hours later, things began to wind down. The cards were set aside, and Carl lit up a cigar while Deak told them all the latest rumors of buyouts and cutbacks and layoffs. Lincoln quietly moved to the sink and began rinsing all the plates — Sarah and Tommy had helped him make spaghetti for the dinner, and the guys had arrived before they could properly clean up.
"Hey, did you hear who just turned paranormal?"
Lincoln almost dropped the glass he was holding. All he could do was freeze in place for a moment until his breathing returned to normal.
"Who?" Ben asked.
"Billy Acuna," Deak stated knowingly.
"Acuna?" Carl spat around his smoke. "No shit?"
"No shit."
"What’s his new trick?"
"Huh? Oh, I dunno. Somethin’ low key, like growin’ all his hair back overnight."
"Class One or Two?"
"Ben, what kinda stupid question is that? How could someone be a Class One hair-grower? Turn into a big fuzzball or somethin’?"
"Hey, since the White Flash, you never can tell, right?"
"I guess."
"Seems to me," Carl held forth, "that if there really was a God, then all the women in town would suddenly pop out with Class One tits."
They all laughed, except for Lincoln, who was just now slowly returning to his chore. He hoped he looked fine on the outside, because he sure as hell didn’t feel like it.
"Yeah, well," Deak continued, "seems to me that if there really was a God, then the White Flash never woulda happened."
Ben waved it away. "What will be, will be."
"I don’t think the guy who wrote that song had the rogues in mind at the time."
"Whatever. I’m just sayin’ that most of the paranormals ain’t no bigger deal than Billy Acuna. So the guy’s not bald anymore. So what?"
"So what?" Deak returned with indignity. "Sure, Billy’s gettin’ hair don’t matter, but what about the bastard who brought that wall down on those school kids? Or the winged freak who flew through the engine of that seven-forty-seven last year? That’s a lotta dead people who shouldn’t be dead."
"I’m not arguin’ with that, you moron. I’m just sayin’ people make too big a deal about it in general. So there’s seven more big stars in the sky at night. So Acuna’s got hair again. You know damn well that for every Class One, there’s like a hundred or so Class Twos. And half of those seem like they should be ‘Class Three’ or somethin’."
"Now what I’d love," Carl said thoughtfully, "is a woman who can give a Class One blowjob."
Ben laughed hard. Deak rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Carl, we’re actually tryin’ to have an intellectual conversation here. Why don’t you can the jokes for a change?"
Carl shrugged. "What makes you think I was jokin’?"
Lincoln tried to throw in a chuckle just to follow along, but they didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him at this point.
"Whatever. I just think the freaks should be locked away the minute they turn so that God’s normal folk can live their lives in peace."
"I’ll remind you of that," Ben said, "when you turn paranormal with the superhuman ability to shrink your penis."
"Couldn’t happen," Carl offered. "Can’t shrink it much more than it already is."
<
br /> Carl and Ben laughed as Deak fumed. "Whatever." Then his attention honestly shifted elsewhere. "What’s that sound?"
They all held off the chatter long enough to listen. Sure enough, an odd squeaking noise was bouncing through the small kitchen.
"Linc? You know what that is?"
Paranormals (Book 1) Page 8