King Henry Short Pack One (The King Henry Tapes)

by Richard Raley

  “Language!” Delores snapped.

  “I thought you were Math, Mrs. Dingle?”

  Jethro’s laughter didn’t help at all.

  Endeavoring to ignore outbursts, or they’d never finish with King Henry, Keith continued, “Four months and in that time you’ve been caught three times fighting with another student.”

  The boy put up his palm. “The fifth or some shit.”

  “You’ve also been accused of theft.”

  “But not proven of theft . . . I’m telling you, all of Welf’s backpacks, school supplies, and colors walked off, I saw ‘em. No idea why they ended up in the Park though, maybe they were looking for a teacher to report themselves to.”

  “But these . . . irregularities are not taken into account for this evaluation,” Keith finished. “A fact you should be happy over, King Henry, or we would automatically mark you as last in the entire year.”

  The boy seemed taken aback. “I’m not last? In the class? Or the year?”

  “Neither,” Kumiko said, with an encouraging smile.

  “Think you guys messed up some numbers then,” the boy decided.

  Russell told him, “I’m responsible for the numbers, K.H.”

  “Well . . . you sure I’m not last? I was kind of looking forward to being last . . .”

  “You’re not last.”

  “This ain’t just cuz I’m in the High Five is it? I don’t like that elitist commie shit.”

  “It’s not,” Russell said.

  “Well . . . what the hell I do to get out of last?”

  Keith took over again. “Did you ever bother to look at your grades when we returned your tests, homework, or papers, King Henry?”

  “No . . .”

  “You actually aced a number of tests, even one in my class.”

  “The shit . . . how’d that happen?”

  “You cared,” Keith said, eyes burning holes towards King Henry.

  “Where I rank then?”

  Keith looked to Russell and mouthed academic, so Russell answered for the teachers, “Based on test scores alone you are twenty-seventh in the class and three-hundred twenty-fourth in the year.”

  King Henry was shocked silent for once. But it eventually ended. “You telling me there’s three people stupider than I am in my class? I know those people, man, and you’re crazy.”

  “We’re not allowed to tell, you’ll have to ask around later in the day,” Russell said. Jesus Valencia didn’t speak English, Malaya Mabanaagan barely did, and Jason Jackson had been largely uneducated before coming to the Asylum, though all three were improving rapidly and would pass King Henry if he kept up the same attitude.

  “Too much work, guess I’ll just be blissful like.”

  “This evaluation, however,” Keith interrupted, “isn’t based purely on academics.”

  “Hell yeah, back down to thirty I go.”

  Keith grimaced. “Twentieth, Mr. Price, Twentieth.”

  King Henry looked like he’d been shot. “The fuck?”

  “Language!” Delores hissed again.

  “Mathematics,” Jethro correct.

  “Don’t you dare, Smith!”

  “I’ll dare all I want, Dingle!”

  “Children!” Keith yelled, getting silence throughout the room. “Twentieth,” he repeated.

  King Henry recovered to say, “Bullshit. No way.”

  “You ranked first in the Camping Scenario, Mr. Price,” Keith explained. “Not only did you correctly view it as a test instead of an attack, you subverted the voting process to see a key ally in charge of the group, you were able to survive the mass capture of the next night, and then were able to lead those with you out of the woods and to safety in a cave. Since Mr. Samson found Pocket and Naomi first and was led to your cave by them, you are also considered the last to be captured.”

  “This is badass . . .” was the only remark they received. Russell put the numbers into the computer with a rueful smile. I’m going to have to call C.D. and let her know about this, she always loves K.H. stories.

  *

  Twentieth. Fuck yeah!

  King Henry would have high stepped his way down the hall if his height would have allowed him to do anything high. Instead he settled for a strut. Take that, you bastards, all laughed about how I was going to be number four-hundred in the year, now ten of you are going to be eating shit until the next one of these things.

  This presented a problem and his strutting ended halfway down the hallway, so did any movement at all. King Henry had managed his rank mostly because of the camp bullshit Samson had set up. That was going to be worth less and less going forward.

  Twentieth. As high as he was ever going to be? “Unless I fucking do the tests,” he whispered to himself. Give in, play the Asylum game. Fuck that. The Mancy, sure, he did okay on those tests, he figured. But science and math and shit? Why should he bother? If it wasn’t interesting, it wasn’t interesting . . . why waste time on it?

  All for a rank?

  Twentieth. “Guess Ceinwyn would call this feeling special and rightly mock me for it, wouldn’t she?” he whispered yet again.

  Twentieth . . . enjoy it while it fucking lasts, because I ain’t changing my ways for no one, much less no rank!

  He hit the door into what was apparently a waiting room. Shitload of couches all together, reminded King Henry of the waiting room at his dad’s warehouse, where all the secretaries worked and the wives came to deal with insurance or paycheck problems.

  Asa sat by herself, hugging her blue colors around the middle, looking anxious. Her head snapped up, hair not moving a bit on account of it being less than a quarter of an inch long, tight to her black scalp. “And I was enjoying the quiet,” she mouthed.

  “Love you too,” King Henry said, throwing an air smooch her way and receiving a disgusted scowl in return.

  Miranda, Welf, and Boomworm all sat in a row across the other side of the room. There was an interesting mix of emotions. Annoying know-it-all, complete asshole, and then one awesome chick. Boomworm waved his way, Miranda rolled her eyes—King Henry had only saved her ass in the camping thing, not removed the stick lodged up said ass after all—and Welf barely controlled his face, his shoulders and arms shivering.

  “Sup, fellow geniuses,” King Henry greeted before plopping down across from them on another couch.

  Miranda rolled her eyes again. “Thirtieth?”

  “Nah . . . you know me, full of big surprises,” he leered.

  “Twenty-ninth?” Boomworm tried, all smiles and apparently happy for him, “beat out Jesus maybe?”

  “Yes,” Welf said, under his breath but loud for all to hear, “beat out the Mexican orphan unable to speak English, let us all give King Henry applause for his feat.”

  “Heinrich!” Boomworm scolded.

  “I’m sorry . . . you’re right, Valentine . . . did you managed twenty-eight then?” Welf corrected, nodding up and down like he spoke to a simpleton.

  King Henry’s anger worked up inside of him and with it anima woke up, building. Keith Gullick had been teaching them calming exercises all year, but they were one of his worst grades…he thought…he really needed to check those papers now. “Twentieth,” he spat in Welf’s face.

  All three of them looked shocked, only Boomworm quick to recover and give him actual applause. “How’d you manage that, King Henry?”

  He shrugged. “Guess I was first place on the camping thing.”

  “Better than last I suppose!” Boomworm laughed, joking about her own placement, which had happened solely because she was a Firestarter and the teachers didn’t let them take part in the camping test apparently . . . on account of some stupid ass bear that sung about forest fires and shit.

  King Henry grinned. “Yeah, lot better than last.”

  He had to hear about how Valentine was third and Miranda was first and Welf was second. The rest of the class came out one by one, filling up the waiting room one couch at a time. The look of shock on
every person’s face when King Henry shouted ‘twentieth’ never failed to get him to laugh.

  Through it all, Welf kept staring his way, arms shaking. If I didn’t know better, King Henry thought after a few minutes of it, I’d think he wants to knock my ass out. He got second, what’s he got to be pissed about?

  THE END

  Friendship is Madness

  A mirror of “Little King Henry,” this short acts as a prologue for the entire series, but wasn’t published until after “The Foul Mouth and the Cat Killing Coyotes” so readers would be familiar with Tyson Bonnie, the story’s POV. It answers the question: How did T-Bone and King Henry meet?

  Tyson Bonnie dressed sharp for his meeting. Business casual or geek formal. Pressed khaki cords, long-sleeved white business shirt, and a navy blue sweater vest. One pocket had his wallet and a flash-drive with his most important files—backed up twenty times over but if you work on computers long enough a small amount of paranoia always sets in. Never trust the enemy and all of them are your enemy.

  The other pocket had his car keys for his brand new electric car, his smartphone, and an inhaler he never used but his mother always asked to see if he ever came within ten feet of her . . . better to have it on him than to get yelled at on the off chance he ran into her, even if the odds of doing so among Fresno’s almost million people were long.

  Dressed for success or not, Tyson paused outside the door of the mall. You can do this, he told himself, all the rumors have to be overblown. Tyson glanced at his reflection. It’s not like he’s a woman you’re trying to date . . . and Miss Dale is going to be there as backup. You can do this. It’s business, think of it like business . . . okay, so most of your business is over the phone or in a chat room . . . but . . . but . . . but . . . oh, this is bad . . .

  Tyson clasped his hands together and stared directly into the eyes of his reflection. You can do this, he repeated.

  The crowd of people entering and exiting the mall moved around Tyson’s still form without being asked. The security guard on the other side of the glass also kept an extra eye on Tyson without being asked. Geek formal, yes, but not many geeks were six-foot-four-and-a-half, two-hundred and eighty-eight pounds, and African-American.

  They also couldn’t shoot lightning bolts from their fingers . . . probably a good thing you couldn’t tell that just by looking at his clothes or skin color or he’d get even more long looks from security guards than he already did. It was just part of his life since he’d graduated from the Institution of Elements a few years back. Real life . . . racism, assumptions based on his skin tone, more assumptions about how violent he was based on his size. Assumptions that he must be stupid based on his size as well. That one hurts the most, I think. He’d learned to ignore it. Pretend he didn’t notice.

  Besides . . . he had more security badges for local law enforcement in his wallet than most FBI agents. That made you feel at ease even when you were six-foot-four-and-a-half, two-hundred and eighty-eight pounds, and African-American. Plus the whole lightning bolt thing . . .

  Electromancer, Stormcaller.

  The reason I’m meeting Miss Dale at Fashion Fair of all places, to meet this Price guy. Only other Ultra living in the whole city . . .

  Tyson finally went through the tinted reflective glass doors, smiling at the security guard, nodding his head, just as normal as any other typical customer. Lightning bolt!

  When he’d first learned to use the Mancy, he’d picked up a bad habit of pooling anima when nervous. This had led to a few chairs being accidentally magnetized during tests and eventually Mr. Gullick, the Institution’s Elementalism teacher, had noticed and taken it on himself to teach Tyson better control.

  It took more than tests now . . . but occasionally—like when he put his finger against the mall’s map kiosk to see where the food court was located—a small arc of static electricity burned a hole in the plastic. Meeting the new Ultra in town, Tyson thought, adding it to a list of moments that included the first time he’d kissed a girl, the Winter War four years running, when he lost his virginity, and when he’d gotten his driver’s license.

  The driver’s license test had only shorted out the car’s radio . . . the girl he’d lost his virginity with walked around with a static afro for the better part of two days. One of these was worse . . . guess which. Tyson rubbed at the melted divot and sighed. Nothing he could do about it. Calm down already, not like you’re going to have to deal with the guy all the time, it’s only two Ultras to a whole city.

  Plenty of space for everyone.

  Fashion Fair was the premier indoor mall of Fresno, California. When Tyson had left for the Institution as a teenager it had been slightly run down . . . now . . . someone had sunk millions into it. Skylights, custom molding, lighting, and signs for each storefront; you couldn’t go five feet without running into a kiosk trying to sell you phone cases or sunglasses. Buy, bright, buy, loud, buy, pretty, buy, BUY!

  Tyson liked shopping, for video games . . . for computers . . . even for electronics that had no applicable use besides being awesome. But not for what the mall offered, which from what he could tell was nothing but clothes for people who weren’t six-foot-four-and-a-half and two-hundred and eighty-eight pounds. It’s 2017, part of me can’t believe physical stores are still in business.

  Video games, computers, electronics.

  Tyson’s whole life. Securing servers, mainframes, and websites. Playing every type of video game he could get his hands on day after day. Taking apart electronics and figuring out how they worked. Most days he didn’t even use the Mancy. Not a whole lot of room for lightning bolts. Though that’s far from all he could do . . .

  The food court was huge. Church huge. Auditorium huge, about the same size as the one in the Institution’s library. But for food. Food was something Tyson would also add to his likes. Most of his two-hundred and eighty-eight pounds came from no exercise, but some of it came from Fresno’s vast sampling of cultures, all of them trying to sell you a meal.

  The food court was as commercialized as the rest of the mall, Panda Express, McDonald’s, Hot Dog on a Stick, buy, buy, BUY. Hundreds of people sat at the tables cafeteria-style, every person plagued with high school flashbacks. Tyson had one. First week at the Institution, trying to find the sign that signaled where his class was supposed to sit down for lunch as hundreds of other students did the exact same thing all around him.

  No sign now. No big huge dot that meant Single surrounded by the thirteen stars that meant Ultra.

  Tyson stood just inside the food court, ignoring lunch and trying to find Miss Dale. He managed quicker than he expected. People packed the food court but Ceinwyn Dale sat alone, eating a piece of cake and a couple scoops of purple ice cream. Probably some sickening sweet type of berry flavor knowing aeromancers.

  Best part of being an electromancer: the Mancy doesn’t control our eating habits. He’d always felt bad for the majority of mancers, some more than others. Floromancers: nothing but water to drink. Faunamancers: no meat. Necromancers: enjoying the foulest, most fermented, taste-bud killing foods. Electromancers: the Mancy treats us well, lets us eat what we want.

  A pair of teenage girls made a move to sit at the opposite end of Miss Dale’s table. Miss Dale raised her head, stared at the girls for a second with bright blue eyes that seemed to know everything about you, and then smiled so sharply it almost cut the air.

  The girls picked up their plates and scuttled elsewhere.

  I have the same effect . . . but instead of smiling at them I just start talking about JRPGs . . .

  Tyson hesitated before going to join her. Every student at the Institution knew Miss Dale. Head of Recruiters, an aeromancer prodigy, the Last True Dale. Every Ultra recruit from Tyson’s year on had their own Ceinwyn Dale story. Then there were the others . . . the folktales and adventures, about how the Recruiters under Miss Dale’s leadership weren’t just recruiters but . . . problem solvers, diplomats, the Learning Council’s scouts. Then .
. . the whispers: a lover lost and a friend killed in revenge . . .

  Tyson’s Ceinwyn Dale story wasn’t one of the more outlandish ones. It had been a simple series of meetings between Miss Dale, Tyson, and his parents. Now she was forty or close enough, although still beautiful, still a force of nature . . . then she’d been in her late twenties and Tyson hadn’t been able to say a word to her without looking away from her face.

  The first time they’d met had been at his middle school, El Capitan. She’d taken him from his algebra class, walked with him in a loop around the school’s fence. ‘Let me tell you a story about your uncle, not your adopted uncle, your real uncle’, she’d began and did tell it. Madness and early death, special abilities and genius.

  Tyson often wondered what story had been told to his parents to get them to agree and if it had been as honest. Some mancers told their parents about the Mancy . . . Tyson hadn’t. He was adopted and yes, they were the only parents he’d ever known . . . but . . . His dad was an accountant, his mom was a nurse. They were proud that he owned his own consulting company. They were happy he’d enjoyed his time at his weird and old-fashioned boarding school. They don’t need to know about the lightning bolts.

  Tyson finally went forward, moving through the sea of people with a surprising ease. You’d assume big people would have trouble in crowds, but Tyson had always thought it was really the other way around. Big people had practice, knew how to watch where they were going, to feel the current . . . people moved a whole lot like water, even if they didn’t realize it. It was the little ones expecting to be able to slide through any gap that you should watch out for. Too many people and suddenly they got trapped, then they started throwing elbows and stomping feet.

  Miss Dale didn’t look up from her ice cream when he sat down. “Tyson.”

  “Miss Dale.”

  Social pleasantries next: “How are you?”

  “Good.”