See These Bones

by Chris Tullbane

  “I have a sister and three brothers, all but one of them older—”

  “Real fights. Where you were worried the other guy was going to put you in the hospital or the ground.”

  “Uhm… none? I was big before my powers hit, and my brothers are even bigger. Besides, this is the Free States, not the Badlands.” He frowned. “You think that’s my problem? I had too nice a childhood?”

  “Paladin’s been training since he could walk. Orca’s never seen a fight she’d walk away from. Erik doesn’t have enough brain to get in the way of instinct. And Alan…” I shrugged, feeling something pop in one shoulder. “Well, he’s a fucking monster.”

  “And you? When was your first fight?”

  “I was six.”

  “You were getting punched when you were six?”

  “No, I was getting punched when I was five. I started punching back when I was six.”

  “Fucking hell, man.”

  “Put two dozen kids in a small space, most of them angry, all of them alone, and shit happens.” I shook my head. “Didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, of course, but at that age, aggression goes a long way.”

  “I don’t think aggression is my problem. After three weeks of this, I’d be more than happy to tear your arm off.”

  Something in his words struck me.

  “Okay… maybe I wouldn’t tear your arm off,” he relented, as my silence grew, “but I’d be happy to send you to Gladys for a change.”

  “I’m sure she’d love that,” I murmured, still lost in thought. “Old woman has a major thing for baby Crow.”

  “What?”

  “Actually, I think maybe aggression is your problem.”

  “I just told you—”

  “Shut up and listen. In Mobility class last week—”

  “Why are you in Mobility?”

  “I haven’t been able to use my power, and nobody knows what good it will be in a fight,” I pointed out. “Least they can do is teach me how to run away. Now do you want to go another round, or do you want to listen to what I’m trying to say?”

  Stonewall waved a large hand. “Yes sir, teacher sir.”

  I let the sarcasm slide, more because my hand hurt like a motherfucker than because of any generosity or patience on my part. If the rest of the first-years were anything like Jeremiah, it was a wonder our teachers hadn’t murdered us in our sleep.

  “In Mobility class last week, Macy was talking about flow. We all move differently, based on our body types, our powers, and even who we are as individuals.” I paused expectantly, but my roommate stayed blessedly silent. “So Winter, Supersonic, and Erin Pearson—”

  “Cyclone.”

  “Say what?”

  “Erin goes by Cyclone now.”

  “I don’t care. Point is, they all fly, but the way they fly—not just the mechanics, but the motion of it—is different. Supersonic is a bullet. Winter goes straight up in the air then mostly hovers, so she can rain down shit and attitude on everyone, and Erin—sorry, Cyclone—kind of flits around like a butterfly.”

  “And?”

  “And it just occurred to me that that’s true for Combat class too. We all have our flow. Orca moves like water. Paladin’s a robot programmed with a thousand ways to kill you. Erik’s a big-ass tank rolling forward, and Alan and I…”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re full-on aggression. Only he’s way better at it than I am.”

  “Where does that leave me?”

  “Trying too damn hard to be like Alan. Or me, for that matter.” I shook my head, annoyed that it had taken me so long to see it. “I thought you were just inexperienced, but that’s not the problem. You’re going against your own flow.”

  Jeremiah’s sigh was impossibly loud in the confines of the pit. “Either I have a concussion or you’re talking pure bullshit. Maybe both.”

  “It goes back to my original question. Why do I keep kicking your ass? And don’t blame the dampeners this time.”

  He paused, visibly swallowing the words. After a moment’s consideration, he shrugged. “You’re too fast. Speed kills.”

  “Paladin’s fast. Orca’s fucking magic.” I shook my head. “I’m a bit faster than you, but it’s not enough to make up for the difference in reach. At least it shouldn’t be.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  “I told you; you’re trying to be someone you’re not. You’re trying to be Alan Jackson, but you aren’t him. Offense like an avalanche isn’t who you are, and every time you try to be that person, you’re fighting your own instincts. That’s what’s slowing you down. That’s why I’m beating you. In your stone form, it’s even worse.”

  Jeremiah frowned. “So you’re saying I’m fucked.”

  “That’s not—”

  “A Shifter who can’t fight isn’t worth shit,” he reminded me.

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t fight. I said you couldn’t fight like Alan. If it’s not in your nature to attack, maybe you should try defending instead?”

  “But…” His words trailed off. “Like a counter-puncher?”

  “Yeah. Seems to me any Cape team out there would be happy to have some huge fucker who can turn into solid stone and defend a position. Combat class is about one-on-one combat, but in the real world, your team is going to have Lightbringers or Sparks or, if you’re really unlucky, pain-in-the-ass Telekinetics like Poltergeist.”

  Almost against his will, Jeremiah grinned. “Tessa doesn’t like you either. You should hear some of the things she says.”

  I didn’t let myself get distracted by the tangent, but it was a close thing. “Point is, they can all do way more damage than you can, and from a distance, but they’re just flesh and blood. On a team, they’re going to need someone durable to hide behind.”

  “And I could be that someone.”

  “Some part of you must have already known that,” I pointed out. “It’s in your codename.”

  •—•—•

  Two weeks later, Jeremiah faced off with Alan Jackson. He lost… but the fight lasted five minutes, and for the first time ever, it was almost competitive. As he was carted off to the med ward with a broken collarbone and a knee that squished every time he bent it, his bloody smile was victorious.

  At the end of class, Nikolai summoned me to his office.

  •—•—•

  It says something about Nikolai that none of us even knew he had an office. I’d pretty much just figured his place was right there in the observation room, gleefully watching his students knock the shit out of each other.

  Truth is, I could have happily gone through all three years at the Academy without ever seeing that office. Some professors have open door policies where students can come, eat cookies, and ask questions about the material. Others turn their offices into makeshift lounges for teaching assistants and a few exalted students. But with Nikolai, there’s only one reason you’ll see his office’s bland, grey walls, and it sure as shit doesn’t involve cookies.

  Not that I knew any of that when I first walked in. Not sure knowing would’ve made a difference, but I’d have had an easier time not laughing at the sight of the enormous professor wedged in behind a regulation-sized desk.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Take a seat, Banach.” He nodded to the single chair that had been positioned in front of his grossly inadequate desk. “I understand you had something to do with Stonewall’s performance today?”

  I shrugged as I dropped into the chair. “He just needed a nudge in the right direction. Anyone could have done it. In fact…” I trailed off.

  “Say it.”

  “You’re our Combat instructor. Why didn’t you see what was going on?”

  “I’ve been doing this for more than ten years. What makes you think I didn’t?”

  “The fact that you sat on your ass and said nothing?”

  Nikolai’s nasty smile made a reappearance. “You’ve got balls, which is why I like you. But if you’ve
got a problem with me or the way I teach, we can settle it in the pit.”

  “Dampeners on or off?”

  “It wouldn’t matter either way.” His massive hands clenched slowly into even more massive fists, knuckles popping like tiny bombs.

  “Maybe some other time,” I finally managed.

  “My door’s always open.” The smile faded and Nikolai leaned back in a chair that creaked alarmingly under his weight. “Of course I saw where Stonewall was going wrong. Hard to miss it, really. But being a Cape is about more than just following orders and punching things. It’s about understanding your own strengths and weaknesses. Even more importantly, it’s about teamwork.”

  “You were waiting for one of us to help him?”

  “Got it on the first try.” Nikolai sneered. “Guess you’re not quite as dim as the other professors say.”

  I ignored the dig. I’d passed all my classes first semester—even Ethics, although a D was nothing to cheer about—so my professors could say whatever the hell they wanted. “But what if none of us had?”

  “Then I’d have brought Stonewall into my office for a little chat.”

  I paused, glanced around, and swallowed. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not here because I helped Jeremiah, am I?”

  “Afraid not, kid.” It was the closest I’d seen Nikolai’s smile come to kindness. “It’s a shame, because you’re one of our best natural fighters, but combat isn’t fair. All the ability in the world doesn’t mean shit if you lack the power to back it up. And whatever it was you showed in that first fight against Paladin, we haven’t seen even a glimmer of it since.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying this isn’t the right path for you. Maybe you’ll do better in one of the other powers classes.”

  Clearly, he hadn’t spoken to my other teachers. “Come on, Nikolai. Give me a chance here.”

  “I’ve given you more chances than I should have. I’ve also had my ass reamed twice now by Gladys for the state you keep showing up in, and let me tell you, kid, that old bat has never squawked about my students before.”

  I should have known my overpowering attractiveness to older women would come back to haunt me. “I’ll deal with Gladys. Just give me some more time.”

  Nikolai was silent, lantern jaw tight as he studied my face.

  “I’m close to being able to use my power,” I continued, drawing on thirteen years as an orphan to make that lie believable. “I just need a little bit longer. Please. This is the one thing I’m good at.” That part wasn’t a lie. Given my complete uselessness in the two Ps, Combat was my only shot at making it to second-year.

  “One month, baby Crow,” he said at last. “If you haven’t shown anything by then, then you’re going to quit instead of making me kick you out.” He shrugged massive shoulders at my unspoken question. “Less paperwork for me.”

  “One month.” I nodded. “Not a problem.”

  I was so fucked.

  CHAPTER 52

  “It’s not fair!”

  “Life’s not fair—” I started to say.

  “We’re not talking about life! We’re talking about your life!” interrupted Kayleigh. “They can’t kick you out of college just because you’re still trying to figure out your power!”

  I shrugged. “Nobody’s said anything about kicking me out of the Academy yet… just Nikolai’s class. But if I can’t hold my own in a fight, what sort of Cape would I make?”

  “The same sort as me, I suppose.” Vibe’s voice had gone quiet, her cold fingers barely brushing against my arm.

  “Not even on my best day. Unlike necromancy, your power has plenty of applications outside of combat.”

  “Like what, exactly?”

  “Like being able to sense if anyone is in a building before you leave it? Or picking out the handful of people in a crowd that mean your team harm? Or even figuring out the best way to avoid a fight entirely! Any team would be lucky to have an Empath.”

  “Then the same should be true for you.”

  I shook my head. Vibe was one of the closest things I had to a friend, but she seemed hopelessly naïve sometimes. “The only productive thing I’ve done with my power since coming here was that first fight with Paladin.”

  “So you do think that was your power at work?”

  “I guess so. Everything I’ve read says necromancy is an external power, but maybe I’m different. It felt almost identical to when Sally had me use my powers to dismiss the ghosts.”

  “Sally!” Vibe sat straight up on the bench. “You should bring her back and ask for help!”

  “I don’t think it works like that.”

  “She said it was your power that called the ghosts. That called her.”

  “She came because of my power, but I’m not so sure she was summoned by it.” I looked down at the small Empath’s confused expression. “When has Sally Cemetery ever answered to anyone?”

  “She’s dead. And she said herself that—”

  “She also said that ghosts can’t talk and that they don’t have wills or personalities of their own.” I shook my head again. “I don’t know how much of what she said was true or why she’d lie about the rest of it, but something tells me I’ve gotten all the help from her I can expect.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “The same thing you’ve been doing since school started, I guess.” I shrugged and looked to the ocean. Early November in Los Angeles was only marginally colder than September had been, but the sunlight on the water lacked its usual brilliance. “Anything I can.”

  •—•—•

  “Are we boring you, Mr. Banach?”

  For the tenth time in as many minutes—and the thousandth time in the past week—I felt the emptiness slip right through my mental grasp, frustration pouring in to replace it, like water filling a basin. I cracked open eyes that had drifted shut somewhere in the process and glared across the room at Isabel Ferra. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Perhaps we can make the subject matter more interesting for you then.” The words themselves were almost pleasant, the tone anything but. Ms. Ferra’s smile was all sharp edges, her bared teeth so white they practically glowed.

  “Why start now?” Eight months since I’d started this dance with the slender Ethics professor and we disliked each other more than ever.

  Ignoring my retort, Isabel turned to the rest of the class. “Who can remind your inattentive classmate what it is we’ve been discussing for the past half hour?”

  Around me, almost every male first-year raised their hand, but the teacher pointed instead to the student at the front of the class. “Go ahead, Penelope.”

  Winter—because of course it would be Winter—rose from her chair. “We were talking about situational ethics in Cape life. Specifically, the needs of the many versus the needs of the few.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Isabel refocused on me. “And what does that topic mean to you, Mr. Banach?”

  As far as I was concerned, it meant we had another half-hour of total boredom ahead of us… but there were limits to the amount of shit I could give the teacher before our cold war went nuclear. “I guess it depends on the situation.”

  “Obviously. That is why it’s called situational ethics.” More than a few of the first-years snickered, although Silt—several seats away and carefully out of Isabel’s view—rolled her eyes and yawned. “If you’re having difficulties grasping the abstract principles at work, we can always focus on specific examples.”

  I shrugged away the implied insult. “Whatever you want, Isabel.”

  “Those may be the first intelligent words you’ve managed all year.” More laughs, but there was no humor in the teacher’s pretty eyes. “Gather around, first-years. This may be your only opportunity to hear a Crow’s enlightened take on ethics.”

  “That seems overly optimistic,” I said. “We’re all stuck attending your class until we graduate.”

/>   “Only those who actually make it past first-year.” Her smile could have drawn blood. “I’m told that’s unlikely to happen in some cases.”

  I met her gaze, tombstone grey eyes clashing with morning sky blue, determined not to let her know the words had struck home. “You were saying something about examples?”

  “Let’s start with a hypothetical. Major Disaster has hidden an explosive device somewhere in the city, but the Black Hat himself is nowhere to be found. However, intelligence has located an individual who reportedly has that information locked deep within his mind. The only way to retrieve the information is through telepathy that will lobotomize the individual in question… a man who is, as far as you or anyone can tell, entirely innocent. Do you shatter one mind to potentially save hundreds?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  “You’d let all those people die?”

  “I wouldn’t have to. Major Disaster doesn’t use bombs.” I waited for the obviousness of that statement to sink in. “If there’s no bomb, there’s no threat. And mind reading doesn’t exist, so it wouldn’t be an option anyway.”

  “This is a hypothetical, Mr. Banach.”

  “Then I’d hypothetically dream up a pretend-Telepath powerful enough to scan the man without hurting him.”

  It was Winter’s turn to roll her eyes. “You can’t change the hypothetical, Damian.”

  “Nobody asked you, Penelope.”

  “Just answer the question, Skeletor.” That was Santiago, barely visible past the dual bulks of Jeremiah and Alan Jackson. “Some of us actually have plans tonight.”

  “Fine. In this magical world where Major Disaster bothers to use bombs and telepathy is a real thing… “I gave it a moment’s thought and then shrugged. “My answer would still be no.”

  “So you would condemn hundreds to death?”

  “Potentially hundreds. You said yourself that we don’t know where the bomb is located. We don’t know how many people are at risk. We don’t even know for sure that the person being held has the information.” I shook my head. “I’m not lobotomizing someone just because it might save people.”