by Drew Hayes
Super Powereds: Year 1
By Drew Hayes
Copyright © 2012 by Andrew Hayes
All Rights Reserved.
Edited by Erin Cooley (cooleyrevision.com)
Cover by Barry Behannon (barrybartist.com)
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 or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Foreword
(AKA: Skip this and the book will implode)
Okay, fine, so the book won’t really implode. Well, probably. On second thought, I’m not going to make you any promises on what will or will not happen. However, I did want to draw your attention to these short paragraphs in order to explain the sizable length and chapter count of this novel.
Super Powereds began three years ago as a Webnovel over at my site: drewhayes.digitalnovelists.com. It is the first book in a series of four, and it was published chapter by chapter over the course of a year and a half. This explains the sheer number of chapters that are, admittedly, individually a bit shorter than what one would see in a classic novel. I debated rearranging them for this e-book; however, the chapter breaks often represented natural breaking points in the story, so in the end I decided better to be a little odd than risk wrecking the book’s flow.
I’ll keep the rest of this short and sweet, since I know as well as anyone that so few people read the forewords. Thank you for purchasing (or sampling) this novel. It is the culmination of years of work, none of which would have been possible without the wonderful readers who offered me endless encouragement throughout the process. I sincerely hope you enjoy it, so I’ll stop yammering and let you get on to reading.
Prologue
The two well-dressed men materialized outside of a small white brick building. The taller of the two pulled out a miniature notepad, made an entry with the slash of a few pen strokes, and then stowed it away once more.
“Where are we, Mr. Transport?” The speaker was the shorter man, wearing a black suit with a black tie and presently putting on a pair of black sunglasses to fight back the sun’s penetrating glare.
“Arizona, Mr. Numbers,” replied the taller man, who by elimination could only be Mr. Transport, as he adjusted the sunglasses he had put on before they departed.
“I was under the impression our next case was in Colorado,” commented Mr. Numbers.
“He was; however, there was an incident last week. Circumstances required he be moved to a location able to accommodate his specific needs.”
“I see,” said Mr. Numbers. With that, the two of them walked around to the front of the building and proceeded inward. They were stopped as soon as they entered, not by the expected, poorly-paid security guard, but rather by an elderly man wearing a white lab coat.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I’ve been expecting you,” said the white-coated man. “My name is Dr. Hubert.”
Mr. Numbers cocked his eyebrow slightly and Mr. Transport replied with an almost imperceptible nod. This exchange took the place of the relevant conversation, which would consist of Mr. Numbers asking if the name and the call ahead had checked out and Mr. Transport reporting that it had. This method was more efficient, though, and had the added benefit of allowing the duo to take people by surprise when things were not quite so congruent.
“We’d like to see the boy,” said Mr. Numbers.
“Of course you would,” Dr. Hubert agreed. “However, first I’d afraid I must ask you to take off anything electrical. Watches, phones, anything with a battery must go. I do hope neither of you has a pacemaker.”
Neither Mr. Numbers nor Mr. Transport had pacemakers. They did both carry expensive, high-powered phones, though, as well as top-of-the-line watches, and a pair of taser guns. All of these were deposited into a small safe in the front lobby area with Dr. Hubert’s adamant assurances that everything would be returned once they were done. Neither Mr. Numbers nor Mr. Transport showed any concern about the safety of their valuables.
Once that was completed, Dr. Hubert pulled out a small candle and lit it, then repeated the procedure twice more until all three men were equipped with a diminutive wax lighting instrument. Dr. Hubert kept expecting one of the men to ask why they had shed their electronics and were being handed candles in the middle of the day. They did not.
Dr. Hubert led them through the doors of the lobby, into a dimly-lit hallway covered in green tile. They made their way down it, coming to a solid steel door at the end. Dr. Hubert made a quick series of punches on the keypad and the door released, opening to reveal total darkness. As the trio stepped through, the door shut behind them, leaving them with only their candles to see by. Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport paused to remove their sunglasses.
Their eyes adjusted and they realized they had stepped into another hallway, this one formed of solid concrete. There were no doors to their sides, only another metal one at the end of the hallway. Dr. Hubert began the walk down, moving more briskly than he had before. Mr. Numbers observed that the deeper into this place they went, the more nervous Dr. Hubert became. He filed that away, and then began following a few paces behind.
They made their way down the hallway without incident then stepped through the next metal door. Inside was what looked like a large concrete bunker with a sizable glass window peering into the next room. Though both strained, they could not make out anything in the pitch black on the other side of the glass.
“He’s normally more stable than this,” Dr. Hubert said. “But unfortunately a few days ago he was trying to fix his toaster and he received a nasty electrical shock.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Numbers. “So that’s why a quarter of Colorado lost power last week.”
“Yes,” admitted Dr. Hubert. “Before he was able to sever the connection he had drained his own city’s power supply, along with that of all the areas surrounding it. We’re trying to help him burn off all that electricity, but it comes in spurts and is almost impossible to predict.”
“I see,” said Mr. Transport.
“It’s also affecting his natural abilities,” continued Dr. Hubert. “That’s why I had you remove all electrical devices and why we are keeping him out of the sunlight. He’s been pulling from anything that gets even remotely close to him.”
As if on cue, Mr. Number’s candle jerked violently in the direction of the window and went dark.
“I’m sorry he’s not more stable today,” Dr. Hubert apologized again.
“If he were, he wouldn’t be in consideration for our program anyway,” said Mr. Numbers, eyes still trained on his own dark candle.
“Oh, does that mean you’re still counting him as a possibility?” Dr. Hubert asked.
“There will be some preliminary testing and an interview process,” said Mr. Transport. “But if I were to offer my opinion, I would say we have a very viable candidate on the other side of that glass.”
* * *
Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport next materialized before a hospital in Nevada. Mr. Transport again produced his notepad, jotted down a few scribbles, and then put it back where it belonged.
“Another incident?” Mr. Numbers asked.
“Par for the course with this one, to my understanding,” replied Mr. Transport.
The duo then entered the hospital. They spoke briefly to a nurse, producing badges that rendered her silent, procured the information they needed, and then headed upstairs. It was something of a walk to ge
t where they were heading, and by the time they were done, they had crossed out of the main hospital into a more run-down attachment wing. The doctors here were fewer and more haggard, and the walls looked worn-down and repainted. Hospitals were never what Mr. Transport thought of as cheerful, but this area was enough to inspire one to end it all. Which very well might have been the point.
Mr. Numbers stopped at the appropriate room and the two entered. It was like the rest of the wing: worn-down, beat-up, and hopeless. This one had two unique additions, though: a young man lying in a hospital bed and a recently-exploded television that was still smoking.
“Mr. Campbell,” greeted Mr. Transport. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Call me Nick,” said the boy. He spoke with an easy tone that matched his overly-relaxed appearance. Despite the mandatory hospital gown, he had still taken the time to gel his thick hair. “And I take it you two are my interview committee?”
“Indeed,” confirmed Mr. Transport. “What happened to the television?”
“Beats me. I went to turn the thing on and I guess the tubes overloaded or something,” answered Nick.
“I see,” said Mr. Transport skeptically.
Mr. Numbers had been browsing through Nick’s chart during the exchange with Mr. Transport and chose this time to jump in. “So, according to the records, you won a ten thousand dollar scratch-off ticket, after which you were hit by a bus while celebrating in the street, which knocked you into a bounce house that had been set up nearby, a bounce house whose motor had the poor timing to overload and explode after your impact. Do I have everything correct?”
“You might want to tack on that my winnings just covered my hospital bill and damages owed to the bounce house owner,” Nick added.
“You were held accountable for the damages,” Mr. Transport said. It wasn’t a question, but Nick chose to take it as one anyway.
“Well, you know how it is. People tend to blame my kind first and ask questions later,” Nick said, not quite managing to mask the bitterness in his voice.
“We know, Mr. Campbell,” said Mr. Numbers. “That’s exactly what brought us here today.”
Mr. Transport walked over to the room’s entrance and shut the door firmly.
* * *
The two next appeared in a forest. This wasn’t a forest in the sense of parks that can seem sprawling or a cluster of spruces that can form on the side of an untended highway. This was a forest in an ancient and powerful sense, with trees that were massive and served as ecosystems within their ecosystem. This was a place untouched and unaware of all the progress Homo sapiens had made with their pitiful time upon the earth. Untouched, that is, with the exception of the trailer a few feet away from Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport.
Sitting in a rocking chair, sipping a glass of lemonade, was a young girl whose file said seventeen but whose face said fourteen. She was wiry and lean, with short hair that poked up in several different directions. She stared at the two of them unblinkingly, and the two stared right back at her.
The three of them stood in silence for several minutes like that, the girl’s eyes flitting between the two of them, theirs remaining constant on her. At last the girl took a long sip of her lemonade and said out loud, “That sounds lovely.”
A simultaneous nod came from Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport, and then they were gone.
* * *
“Hershel! Come downstairs. The nice men are here to see you.” The speaker was a dowdy woman in her fifties who was setting down a kettle and cups in front of Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport. “Are you sure I can’t get you gentlemen anything to eat?”
“Thank you, Ms. Daniels, but we are quite comfortable,” said Mr. Numbers.
“Oh, no need for that, please call me Sally,” Ms. Daniels replied, her eyes lingering on Mr. Numbers and the strong figure housed beneath the covering of his black suit.
“Good morrow, my men,” said Hershel as he descended the stairs into the yellow-painted kitchen. Hershel was a portly young man, long dirty blond hair dribbling down to his chin and a forest-green shirt underneath the rich royal-purple of his cape.
“Why are you wearing a cape?” Mr. Transport was unable to suppress his own curiosity.
“It’s a cloak,” Hershel corrected. “After we partake in a large lunch, my men and I are taking the castle up at Rothring Ring peak and doing battle with a foul vampire lord.”
“My little Hershel is a bit overly creative,” Ms. Daniels commented. “He and his friends are active in the community’s live action role playing club.”
Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport exchanged a look. There is no need for clarification on the meaning of this one.
“Well, we don’t want to keep you,” Mr. Numbers said honestly. “However, we were hoping to speak with Roy, if that’s at all possible.”
“Oh,” said Hershel, disappointment sweeping across his face. “Of course; everyone wants to talk to Roy.”
“It’s just that we have some things to discuss with him,” Mr. Numbers attempted to clarify.
“I’m sorry,” Hershel said. “I don’t think he’ll be around today. He went to a country bar last night and... well, he usually doesn’t show up for a while after uproars like that.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Transport. “That does explain the cleanup crew that was dispatched this morning.” Mr. Numbers shot Mr. Transport a look, but Mr. Transport merely shrugged, as if to say he didn’t find it to be of any importance.
“If that’s the case then we will be on our way,” said Mr. Numbers. “I don’t want to keep you from your... activities. We will need to speak with Roy at a later date.”
“Wait,” Hershel said, jumping to his feet. “I know what you’re here about, and I really want to get in. I’m tired of living like this. Never knowing when it will happen, never knowing where I’ll wake up. Please, if you can really help me control it... Please don’t leave.”
“It’s okay, Hershel,” Mr. Transport said as he patted the large boy on his shoulder. “We aren’t giving up on you just because of a reschedule. You’re a serious candidate for our program. I promise we’ll be back once we can talk to Roy as well.”
Hershel nodded his understanding, and then turned away quickly so the two men wouldn’t see the tears forming in his eyes. He didn’t know what his chances were at the moment, but he was smart enough to guess that crying in front of the agents wouldn’t help things.
Mr. Numbers tapped impatiently on Mr. Transport’s shoulder and gestured to his watch. Mr. Transport nodded, and then turned his head to Ms. Daniels.
“Thank you for the tea,” said Mr. Transport just before they vanished.
* * *
The duo appeared in a sprawling garden, under a gazebo and next to a pair of wicker chairs. There was a small serving cart on the far side of a stone table. Sitting next to the cart and sipping on a cocktail was a man. He wore a white open-throated shirt and a pair of khakis. This man was getting on in years but wearing them unbelievably well. It’s not that the signs of age weren’t present, but rather that they served to draw out and enhance his fine features rather than muddle them.
“I’m glad you could make it,” greeted the man in a voice that made clear, without apology, that he had never considered their presence optional.
“Our pleasure, Mr. Adair,” Mr. Numbers said hurriedly. For the first time all day, for the first time in years really, the pair was showing signs of nervousness. They had been told of their required presence for this meeting, but not about the subject matter that it concerned. That left both of them feeling something they were not accustomed to: vulnerable.
“Sit, sit,” said Mr. Adair. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’d like a gin and tonic, if it’s no trouble, sir,” said Mr. Transport. This was their final meeting of the day, so Mr. Transport didn’t see the harm in indulging just a bit.
“Just water for me, thanks,” said Mr. Numbers. Mr. Numbers was already writing out the riot act he was going
to read Mr. Transport for asking for alcohol while on the job, but facially he was working hard to keep everything upbeat and positive.
Mr. Adair pulled two glasses from the cart at his side, then a carafe from which he poured water into both. He handed the glass as it was to Mr. Numbers, but dipped his finger into Mr. Transport’s. Immediately the liquid bubbled and fizzed, stabilizing seconds later when Mr. Adair handed the glass to Mr. Transport.
Both drinks were delicious. Mr. Transport wished his had been made in the traditional way so he could have asked for a recipe.
“I know you boys are busy, so I won’t mince words,” said Mr. Adair. “You’re here because you two are the admissions committee for the new program that is launching.”
“Well, it isn’t quite that simple,” said Mr. Numbers. “There are evaluations and approvals and whatnot.”
“Humility is wasted on the powerful, Mr. Numbers,” said Mr. Adair. “You are two of the most trusted agents in your company, and with good reason. You both had abilities that could have made you well-known Heroes; instead, you chose to do the same work without the prestige. You are loyal, reliable, and dependable. Whomever you recommend for this program will be who gets in. You know it, I know it, and everyone who matters knows it.” Mr. Adair punctuated his words by pouring himself a glass of water and swirling his finger about until the liquid turned a deep golden hue.
Mr. Numbers didn’t have a reply for this one. He could already see any attempts to defer responsibility on that account were a lost cause.
“So, with that said, I asked you here to meet me because there will be one addition to the program that you will both endorse fully,” said Mr. Adair, pausing to take a sip of his cocktail.
“And who would that be, sir?” Mr. Numbers asked.
“My daughter, Alice,” said Mr. Adair. “She is a Powered, a person born with super human abilities, but unlike a Super she lacks the capacity to freely control them. Though I’m sure your thorough friend here has already found that out.” Mr. Adair gestured to Mr. Transport.
“My research had said that she was in the non-lethal category,” said Mr. Transport. “She flies, correct?”