Chasing Power (Hidden Talents)

by Pearson, Genevieve

  He looked at her, quiet. For a moment, Sam worried he might be doing it again. But she didn’t have that feeling, that feeling of unnaturalness. And she was still angry. He shook his head, finally: “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Sam leaned forward. What? That was too easy. What kind of guy listened to reason?

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, believe this. It is normally my policy to not influence people. Do I read them? Yes. Influence? Before today, I could have counted on my hands how many times I used that ability. It’s wonky ethically, I know. But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Maybe for other people,” Samantha said, “Not with me.”

  “All right,” Lane said, “I understand. So, from here on out, I will not influence you, at all, ever. I give you my word.”

  Their eyes met across the table, and for a moment Sam felt caught, again, the way she had in the library. The cynical part of her brain, the one that had kept her from getting burned in the past, told her to take this promise with a grain of salt. Despite this, deep down, she couldn’t help but believe him. She wanted to believe him.

  Lane leaned forward, knotting his fingers together and laying his arms on the table. His eyes crinkled in a smile that his mouth didn’t show. “Are we OK now?” he asked.

  The cynical part of her broke a little. “Yes,” said Samantha, “But don’t make me regret it.”

  “I won’t,” Lane said, the smile reaching his mouth, a lopsided grin. Sam leaned back in the booth, closing her eyes, lest her traitorous heart get any ideas.

  #

  It was a moment. Lane could feel it, hanging in the air, palpable. And then she leaned back, and the moment was gone. Cut off. The curtain had been dropped once more.

  Lane wasn’t lying to Harry when he’d called Sam a hard read. He’d met his share of confusing girls in his life, and this one took the cake. Though maybe ‘confusing’ wasn’t the right word. No, she was just private. She kept her own council, as his mother would say. And she took nothing at face value.

  They spent the next two hours talking quietly, intermittently. Even when she nodded and seemed to be agreeing, he could see the gears in her head spinning, turning over the information he gave her, inspecting it for truth and weakness. Lane wondered if he would know her long enough that she would automatically trust what he said, rather than doubt it. He hoped so.

  They formed a plan, or something approaching it. They would lie low until the car dealerships opened. Then they’d go and buy something used, with cash and a false identity so that it wouldn’t be traced to them.

  “But where do we go?” Samantha asked, staring at a small road map on his phone.

  “Seattle,” Lane said, in the tone of someone stating the obvious. Sam furrowed her brow, confused. Talking to her was so easy, she caught on so quickly, Lane had almost forgotten she was a new Talent. “Seattle is where our government is located,” Lane said, “National Talents United. I have friends there, enough Talents to keep you safe from anyone the Corp can throw at us. Even Hal.”

  “You mentioned him before,” Sam said, typing Seattle into Lane’s smartphone. Already sketching out routes, she glanced up at Lane through her lashes: “He’s the one who was responsible for the, ah, what we found?”

  “Yes,” Lane said, feeling a dark cloud settle over him. Jacobs. He hadn’t been that close with his boss since they both kept their business and personal lives separate. But he liked the man, respected him. Lane felt, acutely, the unfairness of the death.

  “So who is this guy? The killer?” Sam said, and she had that look in her eyes again. It wasn’t curiosity, exactly. It was more like a scientist, probing for answers.

  “He’s a very scary, very mean, very scary Talent,” Al muttered from beneath an armpit.

  “That’s not informative,” Sam said.

  Lane ran his hand through his hair and back again. “His name’s Hal. He’s an elemental, like Harry, but he controls fire.”

  “Is that rare?”

  “The way he does it. See, while most pyros are driven by impulse and emotion, Hal’s more calculating.”

  “Sun Tzu’s Art of War ‘calculating’,” Al interrupted.

  “Great. Stone, Hal, why are all the big scary Talents after me?”

  “Because all the scary Talents work for the same scary group. The Corp. And when the Corp decides it wants you dead, well, that’s that.”

  “The Corp? You’re telling me there’s a group of evil Talents? Like the Legion of Doom?”

  “Yup. Remember how I said there are rules about how you’re supposed to use your talent? The Corp is made up of Talents who don’t like those rules.”

  “OK. So, why do they want to kill me?”

  Lane shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine, at this point.”

  “So then why kill Jacobs? He had nothing to do with me, not yet anyways.”

  Lane went on, “Knowing Hal, the murder that you saw wasn’t so much an act of anger, but a deliberate calling card.” A flash of anger shot through Lane. That someone like Hal could exist, could take someone’s life with such cavalier flair. Like it was some sort of perverse game.

  “I’ve read The Art of War. I don’t remember a chapter on calling cards.” Sam brought her fingers up to the bridge of her nose, gently massaging the little crick there.

  “It’s about intimidation. He’s hoping to put the fear of God into us—so you’ll do something stupid, or we freak out and abandon you.”

  “Oh,” Sam said, “That makes more sense.” She dropped her hand, “And are you?”

  “Scared?” Al said, “Hells yeah.”

  “A little,” Harry said, eyes still closed.

  “I meant, going to abandon me?” Before Lane could answer, Samantha plunged on, “Because I would understand if you wanted to go our own separate ways. And I can cope. I can take care of myself.”

  “No,” Lane disagreed, iron in his voice, “Hal doesn’t change a thing. There are enough Talents at headquarters to keep you safe even from him. We just have to get there.”

  “Getting there, though, that’s going to be the hard part, isn’t it?” The last part of her statement hung in the air, a question unasked: Did he think he had it in him?

  “It may be hard,” Lane replied, “but I can handle it. We all can.”

  Chapter 7

  “Where are we going to get the cash for the car?” Samantha asked, “I’m not exactly flush right now.”

  “We are in Vegas.”

  Samantha glanced towards the casino floor. Al and Harry had given up on trying to sleep, and all four now stood in line for coffee. The casinos in town had realized the best way to make money was to keep people from leaving. To that end, the newer casinos on the Strip were their own microcosms, and no microcosm was complete without a gourmet coffee shop.

  She glanced back towards Lane and arched an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eyes: “Blackjack?”

  “I was thinking roulette.”

  “Blackjack has better odds.”

  “I have a feeling that with Al’s help, luck will be on our side.”

  Her second eyebrow climbed up to meet the first as she apprised Al, “Maybe this whole Talent thing has it perks. Is that what you all do when you need money, hit up the casinos?”

  “No. Actually, there are rules against this sort of thing. I’m hoping they won’t mind us bending them for emergency purposes.” They probably wouldn’t, Lane reckoned. Though there would be an inquiry. Sam didn’t have to know that right now, though. Government was government, and the division of N.T.U. they called “ethical applications” could come down on Talents as hard as the IRS came down on taxpayers.

  “So why would Jacobs come here?” Sam asked.

  “To catch the shows I guess. He was always one for the performing arts.”

  “A noble pursuit,” Sam said, “art on the Strip.”

  The pun took Lane by surprise, and he coul
dn’t help but laugh.

  “Why are you laughing?” Al asked, coffee in hand, “I don’t get it.”

  #

  “Ooh, ooh, ooh, this is going to be fun.” Al bounced up and down on the booth with glee.

  “Can you settle down?” Harry whispered, “Security is tight here, Al. We can’t draw any attention.”

  They stood on the outskirts of the casino floor, sipping their coffees. At this time in the morning, the casino was sparsely populated mostly by hungover tourists and senior citizens, but that didn’t matter to Al. To him, they were in the middle of Casino Royale. Lane sighed. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to live in Al’s world, where reality was just another video game.

  “Can we come up with a signal? We need signals.”

  The three fell into a discussion of plans. Samantha hovered on the outskirts, pretending not to be watching. But her attention was locked on them, Lane could read. She was just acting like she didn’t care.

  “Why can’t I make the bet?” Al asked. They were discussing who would get to hold the money.

  “Because you’ll attract attention,” Harry replied, “It’s better if Lane does it.”

  “It’d be best if he was farther away,” Sam suggested, “Out of sight of the pit boss.”

  “No,” Lane dismissed this idea out of hand. “Al has to be at the table.”

  “Why?” she asked, “He’s like Armani, right?”

  “No...” Al hesitated, “Not exactly.”

  Sam looked to Lane and arched her eyebrow, which Lane took as his cue to fill in her blanks: “Talents tend to fall,” Lane explained, “into one of three categories: Kinetic—that’s moving physical objects; elemental, which you saw with Harry, and pathic—those who can sense or control mental things, thoughts, feelings, etc. Then, within those categories there are various specialties. And of course, skill and power levels vary.”

  “I’m a kinetic who specializes in mechanical things,” Al elaborated, “So, I’m better at, say, manipulating gears and levers than Armani is, but the catch is, whatever I want to manipulate, I have to touch, or rather, touch something that’s touching it.”

  “It’s a mental block,” Harry said.

  Al’s face darkened and he glared at his shorter friend, “Or a mental advantage. I’d like to see Armani start a car just by touching it. Or do this.”

  Reaching out, Al touched a slot machine. Sam jumped, surprised, just as the machine started ringing, releasing a flood of quarters.

  “Al!” Lane hissed, “We get the point!” Grabbing his friend’s arm, he moved him away from the slot machine, trying to avoid undue attention. Sam and Harry followed without being told. Thankfully, a little old lady with a cigarette swooped in shortly after, claiming the machine and its winnings with dead seriousness. Lane breathed a sigh of relief. Al had always been sensitive about his talent. Of the three, Harry’s abilities were by far the most impressive. But Al and Lane, well, they were pretty average when it came to talent.

  Lane was highly skilled at using the power he had, but without the raw energy to back it up, he would never be an impressive mind reader or be able to control thoughts the way other pathics could. Not that he wanted to, he told himself. Al, likewise, had put a lot of time and practice into developing his talent. No matter how adept he became, it frustrated him that his range was still limited by touch.

  “Let’s get going guys, shall we?”

  #

  “C’mon big money, c’mon big money! THAT’S RIGHT!”

  Al’s idea of low-key hadn’t lasted long. They were up about seven grand right now, and Sam estimated that this bet would put them close to ten. Al was giddy and thrilled, despite not betting any of his own money.

  Sam, for her part, was on edge. It may have had something to do with the fact that every time Al leaned forward and touched the table, a little jolt went through her. Like static electricity but...different. Not entirely unpleasant, but far from normal. In fact, now that she thought about it, it felt like a faster, more intense version of the strange buzz she felt whenever Lane had used his powers to influence her. Could it have something to do with being one of these so-called Talents?

  Except I can’t call them that anymore, Sam thought wryly, not after this spectacularly impossible run of luck on roulette. So spectacular that Samantha spotted a pit boss making his way towards them now. Looking back towards Lane, tapping his fingers on the top of the table, Sam could see that he, too, had caught sight of the man.

  “We have a winner!”

  “WOO HOO!” Al jumped up and down, more excited than Lane. Then again, Al didn’t see the six-foot-two brick making a beeline for them. The dealer, a fake smile hiding his irritation, slid Lane’s chips over. Lane grabbed them with a broad smile, “Thanks. I think I’m going to cut loose while I’m ahead.”

  He turned and walked away from the table. Samantha took a more circular route, to intersect him by the bank where they cashed in the chips. Lane silently passed her about a fourth of his chips. The rest he divided between Harry, Al, and himself.

  Smart, Samantha thought. Big pay-outs required paperwork for the IRS. This way, they could take the money and run, so to speak. Within moments they had cashed in their chips and were heading out the door, thankfully without confrontation. Pockets heavy, they hit the Strip with another half an hour to kill before the dealership opened.

  “You need some clothes,” Lane said.

  “I do?” Samantha said. She looked down at what she was wearing. Her jeans were ripped and dirty; sure, crawling across a gravel parking lot would do that. OK, and maybe there was some oil on the flannel blouse she had on, but, “This stuff’s still good. No point in wasting good money.”

  “Is that stuff good for wearing another few days? Will it be comfortable to sleep in? And, most importantly, we have money to waste.”

  “You do,” Sam said, handing over her share of the cash, “I don’t. This isn’t mine.”

  “If it’s my money, I get to say how I want to spend it then, don’t I?”

  Sam faced off with Lane. She’d gone through life on a cash-basis. The first loan she’d taken out had been for college, and she avoided credit cards like the plague. Already she owed Lane her life. Money for clothes on top of that?

  “Look, you’re being stubborn for stubborn’s sake. Just take the money.”

  “Me?” Sam said, “What about you?”

  “I have clothes, thanks! I got to pack a bag! You expect to travel cross-country in filthy clothes?”

  “It doesn’t bother me. I’ll make due.”

  “OK, then, it bugs me,” Lane said, “To be honest, your clothes are starting to smell a little funky.”

  With a glower, Sam reached forward and snatched some twenties from Lane’s hand. Arching her chin in the air, without a word, she pocketed the money.

  “Low blow,” Al hissed to Harry. Sam could hear his stage whisper from ten feet away. So could the rest of the world.

  Chapter 8

  “You know, there’s not a lot of choice here.” The casino boutique and gift shop was the first place Samantha had walked into. It had the advantage of being on the way to the dealership. It had the disadvantage of catering towards a different taste than Samantha’s. Namely, that of a sexually promiscuous and color-blind tourist who didn’t mind his or her clothing being excessively flammable.

  “Pink, black, or blue, that’s not bad. I think any of those colors would look good on you.”

  Lane was referring to the warm-up outfits arrayed in front of them. Matching hooded sweatshirts and pants for the discerning woman who wanted to look like she was working out and yet still remain swathed in velvet.

  “It’s not the color that bothers me,” Samantha replied. She picked up a pair of pants and flipped it over, revealing the rhinestone text bedazzled on the backside: “Sex Kitten, Play Bunny, or Vegas Vixen. Stellar options, everyone.”

  “I like the pink one,” Lane supplied. That was the one that read Se
x Kitten.

  A salesgirl appeared, apparently out of thin air, smiling, “I think it would be super-cute with your complexion.”

  “I don’t wear pink,” Sam repeated, “I like blue.”

  “I bet your friend already has a lot of blue, doesn’t she?” The girl sidled up to Lane.

  The look Samantha shot the saleswoman could have been frozen ice. So what if she did? She liked blue. She had always liked blue. Blue was nice. It brought out the color of her eyes and went with everything, including the jeans she always wore and especially the closet full of blue stuff she already owned.

  “The pink looks really ho—good on you,” Lane agreed, “That wishy-washy blue makes you look sort of—”

  “Wishy-washy,” Salesgirl supplied helpfully.

  Whatever. She wasn’t paying. Sam handed Lane the top, “Pink it is.”

  Lane grinned, “Now, for something to go with it.”

  “I have the perfect magenta cami to go with that!” Salesgirl squealed and disappeared. Sam blinked. How could one person muster so much enthusiasm over something as straightforward as a tank top? Sorry, cami.

  “Magenta,” Sam said to Lane, “That’s pink, only slightly darker.”

  Lane shrugged and laughed.

  “You know, guys aren’t supposed to enjoy shopping.”

  “I don’t,” he said, “What I do enjoy is watching the sparks fly between you and the salespeople. She’s trying to help.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of helping myself.” And Sam didn’t like the way Salesgirl had assessed Lane and her and deemed them a non-couple. It’s not that she wanted to be considered Lane’s girlfriend, Sam reasoned, but she disliked being treated like she somehow wasn’t up to par for him. He was a nine, sure. But she had things going for her, too. Subtly, Sam turned to peak at herself in the mirror.

  “Your butt looks fine.”

  Sam’s eyes snapped to Lane and he shrugged again, “I have a sister. Take a breather, I told you I’m no telepath.”