by Peter Moore
ALSO BY PETER MOORE
Red Moon Rising
Copyright © 2014 by Peter Moore
Designed by Abby Kuperstock
Cover design by Marci Senders
Cover illustration © 2014 by Shane Rebenschied
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023-6387.
ISBN 978-1-4231-7907-8
Visit www.hyperionteens.com
Again, for
Ellen
& Hedy
& Jake
with all my love, always.
INFORMATION CONTAINED HEREIN IS DESIGNATED AS STATE’S EVIDENCE
The People of the United States
v.
Defendant #5958375-Er/00-m
AND, AS SUCH, IS CLASSIFIED UNDER U.S. FEDERAL LAW.
THIS DOCUMENT HAS BEEN RELEASED IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE UNION OF NATIONS FREEDOM OF INFORMATION LAW, 355.34§478
Contents
Title Page
Also by Peter Moore
Copyright
Dedication
Classified
Epigraph
Part 1 Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part 2 Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part 3 Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Glossary
Endnotes
Hall of Heroes
About the Author
Here are a couple of quotes for you, just to get us started off right:
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
WILLIAM “BIG BILL THE BARD” SHAKESPEARE,
Hamlet, Sap of Denmark
Act III (methinks);
no recollection of which scene
And this cheerful little tidbit:
If only I had known the magnitude of the forces and powers our work would unleash, I would have shut down the project and destroyed every scrap of research. We have tampered with the very essence of what limits mankind. Our species cannot survive without those limits, and if the human race extinguishes itself, I fear it is I who must bear the blame.”
DR. J. LASLO KOLVASZ-ZIMMERMANN
Chief Biophysicist and Director,
The Kraden Project
Final letters, August 1964
So, what I’m going to write is the truth. Every word.
Honest.
Do you believe me?
Seriously?
Huh. Okay, then…
Flashbang
Iswear: the game was made to kill kids like me.
Gym class at the Academy—“Physical Training,” or “PT” for short—is kind of like a microcosm of the real world. If you have enhanced strength, you get an A. If you don’t have it, you get broken bones and bruises. Since I’m in the second category, I didn’t exactly look forward to the forty-four-minute periods dedicated to Survival of the Physically Fittest.
The Fliers were using the gym, practicing for the Flight Maneuvers certification tests that a bunch of the seniors would be taking within the next few months. So the rest of us who had PT—juniors, like me, mixed with seniors—were out on the flashbang field. Not that the kids outside were second-rate, in terms of powers. Almost every one of us was a solid Hitter.1 Some were playing hard because that was just how they were: born-hero types. Others were playing hard so they could score points for their PT cumulative grade. As far as I knew, I was the only unpowered kid on the field, and that meant I would have to play hard, too, just to get off the field intact. Or I could try to stay out of the way of the action and survive the period.
“Hey, Baron!” Mr. M bellowed at me. The former Mister Mastodon (of the Liberty Sentinels) had voice-amp powers that could rattle glass when he shouted, which made him pretty perfectly suited for a PT teacher. “What’s the deal? You stuck?”
“Huh?” I called, without a whole lot of effort or volume. I knew what he meant. I was hanging around in the left backfield, not wanting to get too close to the middle of the field, where the four offensive players from the opposing team were trying to break through our forward line.
Mr. M shouted to me: “You think Blake Baron would’ve been caught dead standing still for one second during a game of flashbang?”
“I’m not Blake,” I said.
He laughed, way louder than necessary. “No, Brad, you’re not Blake. Blake would be charging down the field, mixing it up, getting physical,” he boomed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. If your brother saw you just standing there like that, he’d puke.”
“I don’t think he’d really care,” I said. Which was a lie. He’d either be embarrassed or disgusted, or both. Blake had been a star when he went to the Academy. Even back then, he was twice the size I am now and busted out with new powers practically every day: enhanced strength, invulnerability, speed, and dexterity. Me? I had brains, but that wasn’t going to do me much good in a game of flashbang. Cunning wasn’t valuable in a situation that called for brute force.
“Wrong, chief,” Mr. M said. “Blake took pride in being here—he worked hard. That’s what it takes to be a hero. Now get your butt in the game or I’ll make you goalkeeper. H
ow’s that sound?”
It sounded to me like a guarantee that I would get killed. “I read you, sir, loud and clear. I’m getting in the game right now,” I called. “I am pumped! Ready and rowdy, sir.” I even saluted. Not really as suicidal as it might sound: Mr. M probably couldn’t spell irony, much less recognize it. Still, I trotted forward from where I was but kept my distance from the action, figuring at least a little movement would get me off Mr. M’s radar.
Unfortunately for me, a completed pass to Donna Dersh sent her running toward my new position, followed by a stampede of kids right behind her. Her teammates were blocking mine from reaching her and stealing the flashbang. She threw a lateral to a guy on her team. He caught it with one hand and did a quick pivot away from a player on my side. He faked left, then right, and came running in my direction, and I saw his face.
It was Rick Randall: a likely contender to get recruited to the Dawn Patrol or another coveted hero-league position straight out of high school. I could see the rugby ball–shaped flashbang, gripped tight to his ribs with one hand. It was glowing green, which meant it wasn’t set to go off within the next few seconds. Randall would have to pass it or make a straight run for the goal right away. He had more than enough time to cut across to my side of the field. Clearly, he figured he had a much better chance of getting past me than any of our other defenders. He was right.
Rick Randall was big. The guy was powered: six foot four and probably two hundred and forty pounds of solid enhanced muscle.
Coming straight at me.
You are so not Blake Baron. Perfect. I had been hearing voices once in a while lately. I was getting very nervous about it, wondering if I was going nuts, and this was not the ideal time for hallucinations.
Because I didn’t have a single physical enhancement power, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do to stop Randall. I ran through my options in my head: (a) try to slow him down enough for the other defense guys on my team to get to this side of the field and take him on, (b) square off with him and hope not to die, or (c) just get the hell out of his way.
Maybe the crap Mr. M had said got under my skin, but instead of getting as far as possible from this hurtling locomotive, I ran toward him from a flanking position, hoping that he would change direction. Not because I believed he was afraid of me, but, at the least, I might be an irritant that he’d rather avoid.
I saw him glance down at the flashbang, notice me, and start to slow.
The flashbang in his hand had just switched from glowing green to glowing red. And that meant it could go off at any second. Randall was still a good thirty yards away from our side’s goal. He must’ve decided that he didn’t want to risk going for the goal with a live flashbang in his hand.
I didn’t realize what he was doing until it was too late.
If his two-hand “tag” hadn’t knocked the wind out of me, then hitting the ground would have. Before I knew what was happening, he’d drilled his knee on my chest and pinned my right arm to the ground. A perfect force reception, and I could only watch as he pressed the flashbang’s contact plate against the lock plate on my wristband. The high-pitched squeal signaled that the flashbang was locked on.
“Nice one, Rick!” Mr. M called. “That’s the way to do it.”
Rick Randall rolled to the side, got to his feet, and ran like hell to get clear of me. The ball was flashing red. Forty-five seconds left before it would go off. Anyone who was within ten yards when it detonated would have ringing ears for days. Anybody with enhanced physical powers who was dumb enough to look at the ball when the flash went off would see floating white spots for the rest of the day. But the real fun part was the bang: anyone within ten yards would be hit with a concussive force blast that would cause full-body aches for at least a couple of days.
The others on the field would just shake it off after a day or so. But for someone without physical powers, like myself, the effects of the flashbang would be much more than an annoying penalty for slowness, hesitation, or bad tactics. For me, it would be temporary blindness, loss of hearing, and profound pain—right down to the bone marrow. So I wasn’t just going to stand around and wait for the damn thing to go off. But when the flashbang was locked and activated, the only way to disable it was to run it through the opposing team’s goal. Not kick it, not throw it, which I couldn’t do anyway, since it was locked onto my wrist. Run it through. And that meant I had to get past everyone on the other team.
Not too likely. But still, there was a chance, however small. And this was an opportunity for me to impress the other kids, to show them that even if I didn’t have physical powers, I could still make a run and maybe even score.
But Hitters don’t like to lose. They especially don’t like to lose face. And they most especially don’t like to lose face to kids with no real powers. They ran at me—eight of them? Ten?—and started bodychecking me, one by one. They dashed away, no one staying long enough to risk being caught in flashbang range. Bumper cars. I was getting knocked all over the place, not making much progress toward the goal. My teammates kept their distance, keeping out of the whole thing to avoid the blast of the flashbang, which would be going off at any moment.
Suddenly, the blue lights on the posts lining the field started to flash. At the same time, my feet felt the vibration from the electromagnetic lattice under the ground as it powered up. The power field engaged and pulled down on our vests, wristbands, and ankle bands, making us feel heavy, like we were fighting against increased gravity. I looked at Mr. M, who, being a typical sadistic gym instructor, was grinning. The purpose of Gravitygain was strength training, but I always believed the PT teachers used it to amuse themselves.
Kids with enhanced strength obviously had an advantage and were able to power through it. All I knew was that I was stuck to a beeping, blinking flashbang about to go off and I had to get rid of it fast, and the last thing I needed was to be slowed down. If one of the guys knocked me to the ground, I’d never be able to get back up.
“Let’s go, Hitters!” Mr. M shouted. “You gonna let a little extra gravity slow you down? Get moving. Look alive.” He clapped his hands, making a sound like staccato gunshots.
If I could make a straight run, lurch past the three guys who were between me and the goal only twenty yards away, I figured maybe I would have a chance. If I really dug in, I had a shot at diving through the goal and deactivating the flashbang before it detonated. There was a chance I could actually make it.
I can’t wait to see this! It was a voice that seemed to come from my right. I heard it, but it hadn’t been spoken aloud. Still, out of reflex, I snapped my head toward where it had come from.
And that was when my chance to score evaporated. There were rapidly approaching footsteps from my left, but before I could even look that way, Rick Randall slammed into me with a perfect form tackle.
I hit the ground. And I mean hard.
A loud crunch reverberated in my head. It was the sound of three vertebrae in my neck being shattered when they smashed against the ground. A chill like ice water shot down my spine.
I heard Mr. M’s baseball mitt–sized hands clapping. “Nice tackle, Randall. Nice! But I’d get away from there if I were you. Look alive, kid. Run.”
I could hear a bunch of Hitters laughing and high-fiving, and Randall’s thudding footsteps retreating as he made his run for safety. That was when it occurred to me: the worst was still to come.
The flashbang suddenly vibrated and let off a high-pitched squeal. Then there was an astonishingly loud sound like a prolonged gunshot in my ears. My eyes were clenched shut, but it didn’t matter. The bright light easily penetrated my closed eyelids; it was like looking directly into the sun. The concussive force of the detonation rattled every atom in my body, and just before I blacked out, I had one last thought:
I really, really, really hate this game.
Rep
airs
Iwas out of school for almost two weeks. There wasn’t really any way for me to go to class in my condition.
The flashbang was directly next to my face when it detonated. That left me blind for almost forty-eight hours, almost completely deaf for the same period of time. And to top it off, I bit my tongue most of the way through, so it was all swollen and stitched up, and I couldn’t talk.
Deaf, dumb, and blind. Emphasis on the middle one.
Thanks to Mom, who has a certain amount of pull in the medical field, the hospital got me fixed up pretty quickly. Osteomend helped my broken ribs heal faster. In about two days, otoneuro-growth stimulators repaired my hearing, and steroidal retinal enhancers cleared up my vision a day or two later.
And that was when Mom explained to me why I couldn’t move my head and why my arms and legs felt numb.
The doctors had to install complicated artificial vertebrae apparatuses: titanium rings, hydraulics, and some kind of smart nanotechnology. Pretty fancy.
Injections of Myoplexin sped up the healing of the muscles they’d cut through in my neck when they put in the hardware. All damage considered, it was pretty remarkable that I was discharged after only five days.
Still. Five days in the hospital. Big-time fun. I was supposed to rest up for two or three weeks once I got home, but I didn’t really want to. It was humiliating enough being squashed into a big splat on the field. The sooner I could get myself back to school, the better shot I had of looking, well, maybe not tough, but at least resilient.
The question was, though, was I trying to prove it to the other kids or to myself?
I still felt kind of sluggish, so I didn’t argue with Mom when she said I should take at least the rest of the week off.
Blake called a few times to check up on me. He couldn’t come home to visit, but that was totally understandable. The Justice Force was in the last planning stages of a top secret siege it had been developing for a while, and he just couldn’t get away.
