See These Bones

by Chris Tullbane

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Class of 76, I would like to welcome you to Orientation. For the few of you who I’ve yet to meet, my name is Jonathan Bard, and I am the dean and founder of this Academy.”

  The smile faded, the spotlight winked out, and Bard’s next words were solemn.

  “More than eighty years ago, Dr. Nowhere broke the world. We don’t know exactly how it happened or why. What matters is that the world changed, and you are the direct result of that change. You are all here because you have gifts, and because you have shown a desire to use those gifts to defend the powerless. Lives are quite literally depending upon you. Every moment that passes, someone dies that you might have been able to save.”

  The speech had the air of words that were often repeated yet no less true for their repetition. I risked a glance at the other first-years and saw a variety of emotions parading across their faces.

  “I know,” Bard continued. “That’s a hell of a burden to put on anyone, let alone a group of teenagers. It’s a hard truth, but it is the truth. Because you’re not the only ones with powers, and a great many of those other individuals, both in this country and outside of it, are using their abilities to steal, to maim, and to kill.”

  “Normals can’t stop them. Neither can you.” He offered a small smile in acknowledgement of the murmured protests. “Not yet, at least. It’s our job to train you to do so. Equally importantly, it’s our job to teach you why and how you should do so. How to save lives. How to inspire others.”

  “Some of you are legacies, and have heard this all before. Some of you have grown up on the stories of older Capes, and some of you—” I could swear his eyes landed on me. “—are entirely new to the idea of being a hero. But as of today, you are all first-years together, and if you make it through all three years at the Academy, you will graduate with the hopes of a nation resting on your actions. From that day onward, you will be more than just a person. You will be a symbol, a shield, and yes, a celebrity with endorsements, speaking engagements, and—God help you all—fan clubs.”

  He waited for the laughter to die down, and then his next words sliced through the air like razors.

  “And then, one day, you will become a martyr for the cause. That’s the secret that every Cape carries into battle, from Dominion to the freshest of Academy graduates. Some of you will die in your beds, bearing the scars of decades of battle. Some of you will die in the skies above the cities you’ve pledged to protect. The only certainty is that none of you will be getting out of this alive.”

  If I’d had a pin on me, and had chosen to drop it at that moment… well, let’s just say every person in that auditorium would’ve heard it.

  “That’s a shocking thing to hear, I know, but as you age, you’ll realize it holds true for everyone; Cape or Black Hat, Power or normal. Life is finite. Eventually, it will end. Of the Ten who first heard Dominion’s call to arms, the Ten we honor and respect every Remembrance Day, three died within the first month. Three! None of the others lived long enough to see the Free States’ first birthday. This country survived not just because of their sacrifice, but because, as they fell, others took up the mantle, fought, and fell in turn, in a passing of the torch that has occurred ever since, and will continue to occur as long as those with power seek to rain down death upon the innocent.”

  “The Academy is where that passing of the torch begins, for you and for your professors. Some of the individuals behind me are Powers themselves. Some fought and bled as Capes. Those without powers have been no less vital, dedicating years of their lives to helping me refine the Academy’s training process. They are all here now to give you the benefit of their expertise; the skills, the training, and the foundational knowledge that you will need to make both your life and your death count.” Bard’s eyes scanned the auditorium, his words carrying easily in the dead silence. “Listen to them. Study as hard as you can, and train even harder. Remember why you wanted to be a hero, give everything you have to that pursuit, and when your time is over—whether that day is a week after graduation or fifty years down the road—you will be able to look back on your life, on the people you saved and the evil you stopped, and know that you made a difference.”

  With those words, Bard stepped out from behind the podium, breaking the spell he had cast over all of us. “That is the first and last speech you will hear from me until graduation, which I’m guessing comes as a relief to all of you.” He waited for the chuckles to subside, and then continued. “Now then… before I introduce your professors, are there any questions?”

  “Yeah.” The speaker was in the cluster of students near the back; broad-shouldered and over-muscled, his long, blonde hair pulled back into braids. “Why the hell do we have a Crow in our class?”

  Bard’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “Mr. Banach qualified for admission, just as you did.”

  “Sure, but the rest of us aren’t gonna go nuts and murder our classmates, are we?”

  I clenched my fists, listening to the knuckles crack and pop, as murmurs of agreement rose up from the other first-years.

  Bard’s words were mild. “Mr. Thorsson, on the off-chance that your fellow first-years are unable to determine your power classification simply by looking at you, would you tell them what it is?”

  The blonde kid rose to his feet. The seating made height difficult to judge, but I put him between six and a half and seven feet tall. He grinned easily, tossed his braids back, and flexed for the audience. “Titan. Strength, durability, and enough stamina to go all night long.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thorsson. Please return to your seat before your display of masculinity overwhelms us all.” Bard’s smile faded as he turned back to the rest of us. “Dozer. Steel. Jackhammer. Carnage. The Anvil. What do they all have in common?”

  “They’re Black Hats,” said a small woman with dark hair near the front.

  “Half the story, Ms. Mandelhoff. What is the other half?”

  “They’re Titans.” I couldn’t see who made that comment, but Bard was nodding.

  “Exactly. Every power group, from Titan to Stalwart and Flyboy to Jitterbug, has had its share of Black Hats. Many of those individuals have committed unspeakable atrocities. Should we deny all of you admission because of the actions of those villains who shared your power?”

  A few—a very few—heads were nodding thoughtfully, but the tall, white-haired girl from the day before—Penelope-something-or-other—spoke up. “It’s not the same thing at all.”

  “Are you sure, Ms. Von Pell?”

  “I prefer Winter.” She rose without being asked. “You said something similar yesterday… that it’s not about the power, but instead the person who possesses that power. But that’s not really true, is it?” She ticked off names on long, slender fingers. “Atlas. Incredible Ivan. The Iron Giant. Dominion himself. All Titans. All Capes.”

  “Are you certain you’re not making my point for me?” Bard asked.

  “That’s just it,” she said, her voice sharp. “Every power has its share of Capes and Black Hats… except one. Where are the Crow heroes?”

  Silence greeted her words, and I felt a few hard eyes turn in my direction.

  “Perhaps,” Bard suggested gently, “you are now sitting with the first.”

  Judging by the expressions of the other first-years, and even a few of the teachers on stage, not everyone shared Bard’s optimism.

  •—•—•

  Other questions quickly followed—most of them regarding basic information that had been covered in the Academy handbook—and then Bard provided a quick overview of what we could expect as students in the Academy. As first-years, our curriculum and schedules were set in stone; twenty weeks of introductory classes—Powers-related and otherwise—followed by mid-terms, a two week summer break, another twenty weeks of class and more exams. The school year ended in February with the Graduation Games and some sort of ultra-fancy Remembrance Day dance that a few of the first-year women were—impossibly enou
gh—already excited about.

  If we survived all of that and passed our exams—I didn’t miss Bard’s significant look in my direction on that last point—we’d be rewarded with another few weeks’ break and the opportunity to do the whole thing again as second-years.

  I wanted to be a Cape. I really wanted to stay sane. But forty weeks of classes? Not to mention the tests? It’s like they were hoping I’d snap and murder someone.

  That’s not foreshadowing, for those of you who are wondering.

  Unless it is foreshadowing, and I’m just lying to you. It’s not like there’s much you could do about it, if so. Time travel’s not a power Dr. Nowhere felt fit to give us. Probably just as well, or someone would have used it to go back in time and kill his anonymous ass before this whole thing started.

  By the time I’d finished freaking out about how much the next year was going to suck, Bard was introducing the instructors sitting behind him.

  Isabel Ferra was tall, slender, and classically beautiful. For a lot of the other first-years, it was love at first sight, and her voice, melodic and smooth like some pre-Break jazz music, didn’t hurt. However, she was one of the academics who had visibly disagreed with Bard’s optimism regarding my future, so I hated her even before I found out she’d be teaching Ethics of Power.

  My eyes were reserved for the woman next to her. Gabriella Stein was probably fifteen years older than Isabel, but barely looked it, with olive skin, sun-kissed golden hair, and curves that made me think of Alicia… or at least what Alicia might have grown up to be, had she gotten the chance. She introduced herself as Ms. Stein—meaning I still had a shot!—and would be teaching the classes on Control. Since I wasn’t even sure what my powers could do yet, let alone how to control them, I was looking forward to a healthy bit of… personal instruction.

  Yeah, I know… laugh it up. I bet you were all morons when you were eighteen too. Those of you who lived that long anyway. The rest of you are probably thinking ew, girls! Get used to that thought, kids; I didn’t name myself Baron Boner just because it sounded cool.

  No, I didn’t end up naming myself Baron Boner. But you get my point, right?

  Next was Nikolai Tsarnaev, he of the lantern jaw, crewcut, and muscles that made our own Titan look practically malnourished. To nobody’s surprise, he’d be teaching Close Combat and Physical Education. I had him pegged as a sadist from the very first smile; a flash of teeth that was cold and mean.

  Next was Amos Farshad, looking tiny next to Nikolai, his white hair and beard a sharp contrast to the deep brown of his heavily wrinkled skin. He would be our Professor of both Pre and Post-Break History. It was a subject he was uniquely qualified for given that he’d been born well before the Break. He’d been sixty-nine when Dr. Nowhere dreamed his little dream and now, so many decades later, he was still sixty-nine. Assuming nobody managed to kill his cantankerous, stodgy old ass, he would outlive us all, remaining that same age until his particular power burned out or the sun collapsed inward upon itself.

  As our youngest professor, Jessica Strich had a lot going for her, all of it negated by the fact that she shared more than just a last name with my former roommate. She was dark-haired where Matthew was blonde, and sleek where he was built, but the family resemblance was still plenty obvious. She was only in her mid-twenties, but would be instructing us in tactics and weaponry. Maybe she’d teach Matthew how to wield the stick lodged up his own ass.

  After that, the names and faces started to blur together. Robert Mance, also in his twenties, and the recipient of just as many lustful gazes as Isabel Ferra, would be teaching Philosophy to Powers and normals alike. Emery Goldstein, who hated me even before I told him he looked like a four-limbed penis, taught both Projection and Perception. Maria Curberas, late-thirties and plain as could be except for when the sunniest smiles you’d ever see transformed her into something angelic, was our Literature teacher. Professor Cade—no first name provided, leading to widespread speculation that his given name might actually be Professor—was pushing sixty in the worst of ways, taught mathematics, and didn’t seem the tiniest bit concerned with who or what I was. Last but not least was our Mobility instructor, Macy Johnson. Black, slim, and small, she was also a world-class Jitterbug, something Caleb learned only after a particularly shameless round of his usual boasting.

  The Powers class instructors would stick with us until graduation. That was less true for those who taught academic material. Curberas exclusively taught first-years. Cade taught lower and upper-level mathematics, but the latter was generally the domain of normals. Isabel Ferra, on the other hand… well, assuming I lasted until graduation, I’d be blessed with her instruction for all three years.

  Apparently, ethics were considered important for would-be Capes. Who knew?

  Anyway, those were the teachers we’d be studying under, arguing with, and—in a few particular cases—hating with fiery, all-consuming passion during our first year at the Academy. A lot of names, all at once, I know. Don’t worry if you can’t keep them all straight… God knows it took me time to do so, and I saw most of those fuckers on a weekly basis.

  We’ll come back to the ones that matter, soon enough. Maybe you’ll learn to see them the way I did. Or maybe you’ll decide even the worst of them were justified in their methods.

  Now that? That’s what we call foreshadowing. See the difference?

  CHAPTER 17

  After Orientation ended, I had the dubious pleasure of meeting my tutors, and they had the equally dubious pleasure of meeting me. I’m pretty sure it was mutual hatred at first sight, but I could have gotten past that if they hadn’t promptly loaded me up with chapter readings from a half-dozen different texts on five different subjects.

  Day one of school… no, day zero of school, and I already had fucking homework!

  I swung by the cafeteria, grabbed another sandwich, and retreated to the dorm, trying to ignore the festivities that were still in full swing out on the field. We first-years got an hour-long speech on how we were all going to die, while the normal students got a party. The Academy’s bullshit was already starting to stink.

  Back in my room, I flopped onto the bed, waited to see if Mom’s ghost was going to finally speak—she didn’t, of course—and then picked up my Glass. Like my three sets of school-branded sweats, the tablet had been part of my enrollment package, and I couldn’t deny the thrill of actually owning one for the first time in my life… even if I was being forced to use it for something as shitty as schoolwork. I thumbed it to life, loaded the first of the texts my tutors had assigned me, and got to work.

  It sucked… and not the good kind of suck, if you know what I’m saying. This was mind-numbing drudgery, and it sucked in the least sexual way possible. But flunking out, going crazy, and ending up in the prison known as the Hole with my asshole dad? That would suck even more. So I read and I studied and eventually, sometime before my roommate or the rest of the class got back, I fell asleep.

  And that was how I spent my birthday.

  Eighteen years old.

  Didn’t feel much different from seventeen.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mondays as a first-year are always the same, a bucket of cold water in the face to shake you free of your weekend passivity (and heaven help the asshole who stayed out late Sunday night drinking). That’s a metaphorical bucket of cold water, of course. Actual water would just make the first-year Hydros happy, and the Academy wasn’t in the business of making any of us happy. Especially not on Mondays.

  At six-forty-five A.M., every Glass in the dorm came to life, broadcasting a screaming noise like an air siren or a dozen children being sacrificed. I bolted upright in bed, grabbed the tablet from my dresser and hurled it across the room, where it dented the door, and kept on shrieking. Not sure what the devices were made of, but I only ever saw one get broken, and that took…well, let’s just call it superhuman effort.

  Anyway, nothing gets people out of bed quite like demon speakers shrieking in
stereo. We poured out of our rooms and into the group showers, and were lined up in the common room, dressed in our school sweats, by twenty past the hour. The women came out of the opposite hall to line up next to us, most of them just as bleary-eyed as we were. One woman, brown-skinned, brown-haired, and built like a tree stump, was actually falling asleep on her feet. If she’d been any taller or even a little less wide, I think she’d have toppled right over. As it was, she kept catching herself and shaking herself back awake.

  The last first-years to emerge were Olympia and Penelope ‘Call me Winter’ Von Pell. They both looked like they’d been up for an hour after getting the greatest sleep ever. Hell, they even had makeup on. Either the two of them had some new strain of superpower that the world had yet to classify or—and here, the demons in my head gibbered madly in terror—they were morning people.

  And people call Crows evil!

  I wasn’t going to complain about Olympia in makeup though. Even if my very presence did scare the glow right out of her. She and a few other women almost made our shapeless grey Academy sweats look good.

  We were all led across campus to the cafeteria by some second-year whose name I never caught, and who would end up dropping out before the year was up. Nobody was all that hungry but since our first block of classes stretched from eight to half past one, I was prepared to force myself to eat.

  On the off chance that reincarnation is a thing and any of you come back one day to follow in little Damian’s footsteps, take my advice: eat lightly on Monday mornings. Thursdays too, and occasionally Wednesdays, but especially Mondays. Especially that first Monday.

  Not that you’ll remember this. Or would listen, even if you did. You’ll be eighteen, just like I was, convinced you know better than every other fucker around you. Hell, after I’d gotten over my groggy morning funk, I was so thrilled with the idea of eggs and real bacon that I went back for thirds.