“What exactly do you do?”
“Genetic and non-genetic linking mechanism differential anomalies for the creation of non-regressive solutions.” Devon shifts to a casual stance, leaning on the high-top table beside him with an elbow. “That’s a lot to take in. Sorry.”
“No. I get it.” At least I think I do.
Devon’s brows arch in surprise. “Cool. So, all our subjects receive a generous compensation package and benefits. You won’t have to worry about anything for the rest of your life.”
Subjects. The word strikes against my chest.
They don’t want me to do research. Idiot. Of course not. All the excitement and hope that bubbled up from the moment I saw the name of the company on my list bursts in one shot. My shoulders slump and the weight of Harvey’s words press heavier on my back.
Devon continues his sales pitch, but my mind is already elsewhere.
I look up at the holographic slogan, surprised that the edges of my vision blur. Why be ordinary?
It’s all I ever wanted. To be ordinary. To have a Power. To belong. Why be ordinary? Because only those who’ve never been could possibly understand how wonderful it really is.
“So, what do you think?” Devon asks, clearly excited, assuming I’m interested. “We can get you started right away.”
“Ugene.” Mr. Springer appears beside me, eyeing Devon suspiciously. “A moment?”
“I’m… I’m sort of busy.” Is this a good idea? Should I really offer myself as a test subject?
Devon smiles so warmly that I want to stay. It can’t be bad, right? Someone has to do it, and I don’t have much else to offer the world. Maybe this is how I make a difference.
“We will only be a few minutes,” Devon says.
“It really can’t wait, Ugene,” Mr. Springer says, taking my upper arm and encouraging me gently to come with him. “It’s urgent.”
Helpless and confused, I flounder over words and let Mr. Springer guide me away from the booth, stammering apologies to Devon. He just offered me a hard sell, with the potential to be set for life. I can’t decide if this is a good thing or not, and Mr. Springer isn’t really giving me a chance to think it through.
We pass the last Paragon Diagnostics booth, featuring displays, testers, and equipment on the cutting edge of what they have to offer.
“What’s going on?” I ask as I’m dragged along with him.
The only response he offers is, “Just trust me.”
We pass booths for churches, palm readers, medical facilities, grief counselors. The best of Divinic Powers are out on display for everyone to peruse.
Mr. Springer enters the main aisle running through the center of the massive hall and lets go of my arm, but doesn’t let me slow the pace. We rush past aisle after aisle of Psionic businesses offering employment in sales, counseling, social services, detective agencies. Finally, we break free from the booths in the food court, surrounded by tables occupied by students gossiping excitedly amongst each other and teachers looking bored. Fresh pizza smells waft up my nose and make my mouth water.
“Where’s the fire?” I ask, dropping into one of the plastic Naturalist-made chairs. My stomach growls.
Mr. Springer glances around, then pulls up a chair closer to me and leans in. The urgency in his posture makes me nervous.
“You can’t go there, Ugene.”
“Where?”
“Paragon.”
I open my mouth to ask why, but the ferocity of that look in his dark eyes freezes any further protest in my throat. Tension seeps into my shoulders, and I sit up straighter.
Mr. Springer glances around again, then gives me a level gaze. “Go home.”
“I can’t yet. I still need—”
“Ugene, I’m not asking. What’s this?” He takes the brochure and grimaces as he gazes at the front, then tosses it on the table.
I stare at the discarded brochure, brows pulling together. “What’s going on?”
“It’s complicated, but I need you to trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong before?” He pauses to wait for my head shake. I oblige. “Then go home. I’ll tell them you got sick. Paragon wants you, Ugene.”
“Good. I want to go to Paragon.”
“No—it—” Mr. Springer growls low and runs a hand through his chestnut hair, greying at the temples. “I can’t tell you more here.”
The cryptic way he’s acting, the hard sales pitch Devon threw at me about non-regressive solutions, the way the garbage men looked at me with so much disgust and called me Powerless. Something strikes me as wrong about all of this, and Mr. Springer has answers.
Curious if my hunch is correct, I pull out the flyer in my pocket, smoothing it out on the tabletop. “Does it have anything to do with this?”
He snatches the flyer before I can let go, crumbling it again and tossing it aside. “Yes.” After a glance toward the booths, Mr. Springer shoots to his feet and yanks me to mine, then nudges me toward the exit. “This isn’t what your parents want. Stay away from Paragon. Go home.”
I stumble a step, confused. Questions tumble through my head in a jumbled mess as I start toward the exit. How does he know what my parents want?
As I reach the door, I look back in time to see Devon approaching Mr. Springer, who moved back toward the booths. At Devon’s side, a handful of broad-shouldered men and women in black, form-fitting Paragon security uniforms stand alert, their hands on their utility belts. No weapons would be allowed in here, would they? Their stance certainly appears menacing.
Security. Who did Mr. Springer tick off to bring security out? The guards scan the room with their eyes. What are they looking for? Mr. Springer’s urgency has my stomach in knots. It couldn’t be me, could it? Devon knew my face. I’m at the top of their list. But would they really come for me like this? It doesn’t make sense.
Fear grips my chest and I dart between two groups of students standing in the food court. The din of conversation and the scent of pizza and boiled meats overwhelm my senses, making me dizzy. What am I so afraid of?
When I reach the door, the cool tablet presses into my sweaty palm, reminding me of its presence. Afraid it may be able to track me, unsure what exactly it is I’m so scared of or why Paragon would search for me with security, I drop it on a nearby ledge like it bit me and slip out.
Everything has turned upside down, and there’s only one place I can go to clear my thoughts… my lab.
6
The noise of the city is too much. The encounter at Career Day is too much. Together, they make my heartbeat hasten. My own mind is at war with itself— one part wants to rush home and hide, and the other part wants to find out exactly what just happened.
As I slink away from the convention center, it’s impossible to shake the feeling that someone is following me. Every time I glance back, all I can see are the crowded city streets.
Downtown Elpis is compressed. Buildings butt up against each other, narrow and tall. Various shops—cafes, diners, pawn shops, music stores, specialty stores—occupy the first level of each building. Awnings loom over doorways and sidewalk cafes. Traffic is particularly heavy along the narrow street. Anyone who wanted to follow me would have any number of places to hide whenever I look back.
I head away from the gleaming spires of big business towering over the cramped buildings, stretching their necks proudly toward the clouds. Years ago, a great war between humans with and without Powers began. NonPowered feared those with them. During the Purge, when NonPowered people attempted to exterminate those with Powers, a young man we now call Atmos lost control of his Power. He created the perfect storm to trigger the apocalypse. Only a few thousand people with Powers survived the fallout.
Elpis began rebuilding the ruined city. It once spread across miles of land around several lakes, with the downtown as a hub for businesses and the university. Now, downtown is the hub of life as we know it, with Paragon Tower in the center of it all where the main campus of the university used to be.
Sunlight reflects on the glass walls, making them sparkle in the early evening light. It’s several blocks away, but the height of the monolith makes it feel too close.
Glancing back again, I cross the street to where a florist tends to her plants with delicate touches. Each time her fingers brush a flower, it perks up, standing straighter and renewed as if it had just bloomed. The scent of roses, orchids, and lilies mingle pleasantly as I pass. The myriad of colors is breathtaking, and for just a moment I just watch her work until something else catches my attention. A movement from the corner of my eyes. Startled, I turn quickly, only to be greeted by a holographic news display.
“Proposition 8.5 isn’t the end of our basic human rights,” the hologram of a pleasant looking woman says. Her calm demeanor is almost contagious. “It’s the final step toward the end of regression and the dawn of hope for us all. Together, we can step into the future stronger.”
Holographic news displays like this one are on every other corner, showcasing propaganda about city improvements, faith in the Directorate, and anything else the Directorate wants to brainwash us with. I stand in front of this one waiting for the holographic woman to expand on this, but instead, she changes to the improvements under way downtown and increased security along the borders of Elpis. I turn away and stuff my hands into my pockets.
The wail of a siren makes my back stiffen, and I step behind a post as a police vehicle whizzes past. I’m being ridiculous. Why am I hiding—afraid of some sirens? Why am I fearful in the first place? Because of Mr. Springer’s cryptic behavior and a few security guards? It’s irrational, and I know it, but I can’t help the tension in my shoulders and stiffness in each step.
I stop on a busy corner, waiting for the light to change so I can cross, and debate which direction to go from here. West, toward home, or east. In all my life living in Elpis, not once have I visited the east boroughs, Pax and Clement. My parents never visited anyone on that side of the city. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like on the east side. It’s where the lower-ranked citizens live, and I’ve heard my dad complain about the high crime rate in Pax and Clement. It gives the Department of Military Affairs quite a hard time. I suppose I’ll find out about life on the east side soon enough. I won’t be able to afford living anywhere else.
There’s another couple of hours or so until the sun starts to set. It won’t be safe for me then, so taking a trip east isn’t advisable today. Not if any Somatic thugs are out wandering with their Telepathic buddies, looking for someone weak enough to mug. A good Psionic Telepath will read me like a book, know I’m an easy target for mugging and sick their Somatic friends on me.
It’s a lesson I learned all too quickly in school.
Feeling eyes on me, I glance over my shoulder, afraid of seeing Paragon security. A skinny guy with narrow eyes and dirty clothes is watching me from a gap between buildings. Psionic. Most likely a Telepath. Now that he knows I’ve spotted him, he will either move in or abort. I turn the corner, hoping for the latter. As a distraction, I pat down my pockets and remind myself that they are shamefully empty.
The sound of their steps, heavy against the ground from one and light from the other, continues to follow me toward the metro entrance. I can’t believe they’re gonna mug me, I think. What are they gonna take? My shirt?
As I start down the stairs into the cool, but crowded, underground metro station, the sound of their footsteps disappears in the hum of the metro crowd. I glance back, thinking maybe the din of the crowd has masked the sound, but they’re gone. A sigh pushes out of my lungs, and I fumble in my pocket for the metro card.
~~~
Home. This is the moment of truth. Going inside means facing my dad. More than once he reminded me that this day was critical to my future. I had to wrangle job prospects, or I would become a basement-dwelling weight. Slowly, I grip the handle with a sweaty hand and press the other against the edge of the door to soften the sound. I slip in as quietly as I can and ease the door shut.
I pause inside the door. The stairs to my lab are just on the other side of the room, and I know the floorboards like a maestro knows a piano. My pulse beats against my eardrums. I peek around the doorway into the living room. Dad is on the sofa, pulling a needle out of his arm. What is he doing? Curiosity gets the better of me, and I step into the living room.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Dad jumps, pushing the needle down and out of sight. Too late, though.
“What’s that?” I ask again, nodding toward whatever he is hiding on the sofa cushion.
“You’re home early,” he says. “I assume that means you blew it today.” His eyes are hard.
A lump forms in my throat. “I only had three prospects because I have no skills to qualify me.”
“Oh, give me a break.”
The words are like a gut punch. “I tried, Dad. I really did. The first guy said he couldn’t because it would hurt his business. The second didn’t even want to consider me.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Dad says like he’s talking to one of his military lackeys. I flinch. “You used to have so much promise.”
Used to have. And now I’m good for little more than a test subject, and worth even less to him. All the anger I’ve held inside for the past two years erupts. “Do you have any idea what it’s like being me, Dad? Have you ever bothered to think past your ignorant perception of the world?”
His eyes flash dangerously. “Excuse me—”
“Other kids use me for target practice!” My blood is boiling, heart pounding, pulse racing. “I’ve been tortured every day at school since I was thirteen.”
“We all got problems, that’s no excuse for being lazy.”
“Lazy?” Some part of me knows I’m going too far, but my anger propels me forward. I can’t stop raging. The words pour out, molten hot. “I’m not lazy, Dad. I’m just not qualified. And now because of this new Proposition, I can’t even get hired as a busboy or garbage hauler.”
For a moment he hesitates, but it passes so quickly I may have imagined it. He continues glaring, my words like gnats buzzing around him.
I raise my hands in defeat.
His face turns red beneath his darker skin. The heat of our argument dims the sound of chimes of the in-home special alerts, used to automatically keep everyone updated on critical changes. But I push on, unable to stop myself.
“But you’re right. As always, Dad, you’re right. I’m worthless, and I enjoy being that way. I love the fact that girls won’t look at me because I have no prospects. I love the fact that I disgust you and everyone else because I have no Powers. It’s exactly what I wanted out of life!”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that!”
“Or what?” I hiss. “What can you possibly do to me that’s worse than what you already said or what I’ve already been through?”
Dad grits his teeth and clenches his fists. The veins in his arms pop out like they do when he’s pulsing with his Enhanced Strength ability. His military training should scare me—he could take me down in a second—but the anger burning through me creates a feeling of invincibility.
“Stop,” Mom calls, rushing into the living room and staring at the holotv.
Dad gives me one last glare before turning his attention to the TV as well. I cross my arms and join them, standing on the other side of the living room Dad.
On TV, Dr. Joyce Cass, CEO of Paragon Diagnostics, sits upright and pristine in a white chair. Across from her is Elpida Theus, the top reporter in Elpis. Dr. Cass’ blue dress suit stands out against her pale white skin and cropped blond hair.
“We are facing dangerous times,” Dr. Cass says calmly, long, pale fingers folded delicately in her lap. “Nearly twenty-nine percent of the population live with Powers at lower than thirty percent of what we know as the median for maximum potential. And that’s a fifty-eight percent increase over the last five years. If this trend continues, we face forty-five percent of the population on Testing Day having a sign
ificant decrease below the citywide average in the next five years. And in as little as twenty years, we could face a complete regression from Powers.
“The foundation of our society is built on our ability to use these Powers to survive, which begs the question, what will we do if this regression completes? Life as we know it faces total collapse. The world beyond Elpis will not be habitable in time, and our Powers are the only reason we still survive. That is why I, and my fellow board members at Paragon Diagnostics, fully support the Directorate’s proposition to institute mandatory re-testing on any who show signs of regression. It could help us pave the path to a brighter future.”
Mandatory re-testing. So, this is what Proposition 8.5 is about? Forcing people with weaker Powers to undergo further testing? The tests are already so brutal. I passed mine by thinking outside the box, but not well enough to show any sign of Powers. And what will these tests mean? My arms drop to my sides.
“This was recorded earlier today and edited,” Mom says.
“How can you tell?” Dad asks, sinking down onto the sofa, shifting the black bag beside him.
“Look at the background. It’s later than that.”
I squint at the image and see what she’s talking about. The windows of the building are tinted to protect from too much sunlight, but it’s clear the sun was higher in the sky. But what does that mean to us?
“Does this mean I have to test again?” I ask, unable to shake the chill gripping my spine.
Mom says, “no” at the same time Dad says, “yes.”
Before I can ask further, a pounding on the front door silences all three of us. Dad moves to the window, pulling back the heavy drapes to peek out. He looks at Mom and shakes his head.
“Okay.” Mom reaches over and takes my hand. “Ugene, go to your room.”
Her hand trembles in mine.
“What’s going on?”
“Go. Don’t come out until I call you.”
“But—”
“Go,” Dad says, the dangerous edge to his voice matches the look in his eyes.
What is going on? I’ve never seen my parents so unsettled.
Ordinary Page 3
