Storm Forged

by Patrick Dugan

  It was a quiet morning before second bell, for the most part. I almost spoke to Wendi, but my voice gave out when I tried. Our hands did touch when I handed her the folder she dropped as we passed in the hall on the way to history. It's official, I am a loser. I froze every time I saw her. She was elegant like a dancer; every movement flowing like mercury sliding across a mirror, her collar a symbol of royalty, not a shackle. The Norm boys treated her differently than the rest of us. There weren’t jokes and insults; they stared at her and drooled. Norms don’t touch Gifted, even if they are the most beautiful girl they’ve ever seen.

  Abby was a different story. I tried to speak to her a few times on the way to class, receiving grunts and glares for my trouble. Her hair hung straight, black as night, making the red side even more jarring. Her being taller than me and somewhat muscular made me feel even skinnier than when it’s just me and Marcel. She stomped down the halls, pushing past people as she went. A couple of girls made comments, and we had to keep her going. Attention is not healthy for Gifted.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Powell’s history class would start our day. Powell the war “hero” who had taken down the Cyclone Ranger of Omega Squad, one of the toughest Gifted around. Powell lost his whole team and displayed the scars and a pronounced limp from the lightning Cyclone Ranger used.

  We sat down before Powell entered the room. The bell rang and still no Powell. I was beginning to think I might have one class of peace and quiet without Powell but no such luck. Powell, in his perfectly pressed Reclaimers uniform as always, strode through the door a manila folder under his arm. He set his hat on his desk, pulled the folder from under his arm, and turned to face the class, tapping the folder on his bad hand. Powell’s grin told me he had something up his sleeve, and that it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  “Today, class, we will be discussing the penalties associated with the harboring of fugitives from the Reclaimers.”

  I’m sure the last thing a fish sees before the shark eats him sums up the way Powell stared at Abby.

  “Wendell, what is the punishment for stealing a car?” he asked, strolling around the class, like he had all the time in the world. Under the circumstances, forty-five minutes was an eternity in hell.

  Wendell scratched at his nose. “Prison, sir.”

  “Correct.” Powell grinned. “How about, oh…say, murder?”

  Wendell’s hand flew up, but Powell ignored him. Instead, he looked at me.

  “Mr. Ward?”

  “Prison, possibly the death penalty.” I waited for him to pounce. He only ever called on me to humiliate me in front of the class.

  “So, we have varying degrees of punishment for different crimes,” he said as he walked up and stood behind Marcel’s desk. “So, what determines the degree of punishment? Mr. Quinn?”

  Marcel actually flinched. Marcel feared Powell the way a claustrophobic does enclosed spaces. “I guess that would be the degree to which the legal system deems the behavior is unacceptable, sir.”

  “Correct, Mr. Quinn.” He clapped his hand on Marcel’s shoulder, beaming at his answer. This stank more than the locker room after wrestling practice.

  “So, we’ve established the more heinous the crime, the worse the punishment.” He stopped pacing and slapped the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Class, I have been irresponsible today.” He strode across the room and stood in front of Abby’s desk. I could see the tab on the folder now, it read Abigail Thompson.

  “Class, this is Miss Abigail Thompson. She joins us from far-away Argentina, but she hails from Boston.”

  A few snickers and catcalls of Slag, Mutt, and bitch floated around the room. Abby’s head was bowed, studying the clenched fists in her lap. Anger flared around Abby; her body shook with the effort to control it.

  “So, Miss Thompson, do you happen to know the penalty for people who harbor fugitives?”

  Abby’s head shot up. Her eyes blazed with pure hatred for Powell, a snarl any predator would have been proud of escaping her lips.

  “Mr. Powell,” I said in my best dumb but innocent voice. “Did you ever serve in Argentina during the Reclamation Wars?”

  He ignored me. “Miss Thompson, answer the question.”

  Abby shook, her fists unclenched to grip her thighs as she fought to control herself. If she struck Powell, she’d be in The Block before the end of the day, never to return. She took a deep breath and locked eyes with Powell, submitting defiantly. “They are executed.”

  “Why, yes, they are, aren’t they? And to answer your question, Mr. Ward.” He gave me his best “I won, you lost” look. “I fought on the east coast. I wanted to protect the country I love from a menace that almost destroyed it.” He turned and walked back to the board, tossing Abby’s file on his desk.

  “Thanks,” Abby whispered, her hands still gripping her thighs.

  I nodded. Powell started into the history of the sub-continental destruction, but I didn’t listen. I watched Abby out of the corner of my eye. On the outside she’s tough as nails, but I wondered why Powell got to her so bad.

  Marcel, who sat behind me, tapped me on the back. I leaned back in my chair so I could hear him better.

  “Bruh, Powell’s lucky she didn’t fatality his ass,” he whispered.

  I kept my eyes straight ahead, no reason to piss off Powell anymore today. When calm and rational, he was at his worst. I wondered if Cyclone Ranger messed up more than his face.

  “Bruh, if she’d hit him, it would’ve been all over.” I could sense him shaking his head in disbelief. “What are we going to do? Mr. T asked us to watch out for her.”

  I didn’t know any more than Marcel did. I wouldn’t wish being sent to The Block on my worst enemy. Well, that isn’t true. Brunner, I would make an exception for. And Powell, I would make an exception for him as well.

  The bell rang. I grabbed my bag and moved to intercept Abby. We needed to have a talk about how things worked here before anything got out of hand. Marcel had the same idea as we escorted her from the room.

  “Oh, Miss Thompson,” Powell said from the front of the room. “One week’s detention for not answering my question. You are dismissed.”

  “Welcome to the club.” It’s going to be a long day.

  5

  It had been a week since the fiasco at The Lair, and I still checked over my shoulder for Reclaimer soldiers. Having Marcel over for the weekend would have helped, but most weekends they “lost” the paperwork or closed the office early or a litany of other reasons. Every third weekend they delivered, having figured out that after three, there would be legal hassles.

  To make matters worse, it was the first Monday of the month, known as “field trip” day for the Gifted kids. Now I’m all for a day off school, but these weren’t fun excursions to museums or to see a play. No, we got to go to The Block. Each of us has our collars tested, and refitted if necessary, all to ensure the public’s safety. A Norm camera crew from some place in Texas followed us once to document the Reclaimers making the world safe for humanity. Overall, I think I would have rather been in school.

  All of the Gifted teachers accompanied us, but this month, Waxenby escorted our particular group. According to the rumors, he had been a fighter called Commander Gravity back in the day. He didn’t look heroic. He had a slight build with thinning sandy brown hair and a cheesy mustache. The only reason I gave any credence to the rumors is he walks with a pronounced limp. The kids are always making up names for him behind his back. Wonder Wimp and The Limp Avenger are the kinder versions I’d heard floating down the hall behind him.

  After homeroom, they loaded us all on the specially manufacture Gifted Transport unit; we called it The Chain. Any resemblance to a school bus was strictly accidental. Two rows of seats faced toward the center aisle.

  A guard from The Block searched me, finding nothing, as always. You learned early, anything on you ended up in the trash. In elementary school, the young kids would try to bring stuffed animals or blankets only to have
them torn from them. The sound of sobbing surrounded the process of loading the bus the first few months every year as newly collared elementary kids were sent here.

  The guards escorted me to my seat to buckle me in. This isn’t your mom’s seatbelt. Take a race car driving harness, add enough Carbinium to stop a rhinoceros, mix in a generous helping of damping circuits and you have the super seatbelt, guaranteed to stop even the worst offender dead in their tracks.

  The guards strapped me in quickly and efficiently, they didn’t get rough unless they felt you resisting. Abby made the mistake of pulling her arm away from one of the escorting guards, a woman who’d we nicknamed Helga, with a long blond braid down her back and a unibrow. She grabbed the shock stick from the holster and jabbed it into Abby’s back. She screamed as the energy surge hit her and crumbled like a used paper bag. A broken stream of obscenities flowed out of her mouth as she convulsed on the floor.

  The two guards scooped her up and dumped her into the seat across from me. She drooled a bit while they belted her in. The guard checked her harness and moved on to bringing in Marcel. They restrained him without incident in the seat to my immediate right. We could talk, though the restraints made it a difficult task.

  “What happened to her?” Marcel asked, watching the now twitching Abby.

  I shook my head. “She pulled away from the Helga.”

  Marcel whistled. “Is she crazy or suicidal?”

  “Got me, buddy.” Luckily the guards handled things professionally, unlike the Reclaimers who patrolled Redemption. Every once in a while you got a mean one. They could hurt you, and you couldn’t do anything to stop them.

  The rest of the ride went by uneventfully. Marcel told me about the new tablet he wanted to get later this year. It made the day go by faster when we could sit near each other, even when I could only understand half the words he said. With six buses full of kids and teachers, you didn’t always get to sit with your friends.

  After a fifteen-minute drive, I could see the top of The Block in the distance. I felt my heart pounding against my chest and sweat dripped off my finger, pooling on the floor.

  Get ahold of yourself, I yelled in my head. Every month the same panic attack, the rational brain fighting for control over the caged animal.

  Half a day and we’d be out, riding back to Redemption. Mom would have meatloaf for dinner. But what if they decided to detain me? What if I never saw my mom again? My brain ran wild with dark thoughts as we moved closer to our version of hell.

  The bus halted. I fought back a wave of nausea forcing its way up my throat. I gagged on the taste of bile but swallowed it down. The door’s pneumatic pump hissed as it opened. The guard approached me. He pulled out a scanner and verified my name and collar ID. I kept my eyes down, barely breathing. Then the guard left. I chewed my lip waiting to hear something confirming things had gone wrong, but nothing happened. The all-clear shout came, and we moved into The Block. I tried to see outside, just in case it turned out to be the last time.

  We drove into the terminal and stopped. The guards ushered us off the bus, with Abby dumped unceremoniously at our feet. Helga glared at both of us but didn’t say anything. Everything ran smoothly. We had been doing this since kindergarten when we arrived in Redemption, having failed the Gifted testing. No one knew what those Gifts might be, but the machine indicated we had them, so the collar went on and our freedom ended.

  Mom told me she guessed I’d be Gifted but decided I’d be safer collared than hunted for the rest of my life. Marcel’s parents, and a lot of other families, weren’t so lucky. A school official and two Reclamation soldiers in full combat gear brought him home. I can’t imagine opening the door to see your kindergarten son collared and soldiers with automatic weapons at the ready to kill any troublemakers. It had to be the worst day of their lives, especially since Marcel had two younger sisters, the stress of waiting for years, knowing their other children could be ripped away like Marcel had been. In the end, his father signed the papers as his mother sobbed uncontrollably. Marcel told me his mother had packed his teddy bear so he wouldn’t be scared. He had also told me he’d thrown it out, but I saw it in the back of his locker at the Institute. I didn’t mention it. He had been through enough the way I saw it. I guess if your best friend can’t cut you some slack, who will?

  The Block’s guards hoisted Abby, carrying her into the facility. Her shoes dragged on the polished concrete floor, smudging the perfectly shining surface. Hospitals could take cues from The Block. Everything was perfectly maintained; the white walls glistened. But if you knew what to look for, you could see the truth: you had no say in what happened here. The massive doors had Carbinium plating on the outside; the halls ran long and straight. Even where the hallways turned, the rounded corners kept you from being able to get a grip on the wall. They didn’t take any chances in this place. It made me even more impressed the Grim Reaper had found a way out.

  Marcel and I helped Abby into one of the chairs; her hands were zip-tied. Everything in the waiting room sat anchored into the concrete of the floor. The ceilings must be twenty feet high with turrets mounted at fixed intervals. If it took more than a couple seconds to kill the hundred plus people, I’d be surprised.

  Every few minutes, the door would buzz, and the guards would come out and get the next person in line. They carried shock sticks, but nothing that could be taken or used against the facility. Cameras tracked the guards’ every step. If anything went wrong, the operator sounded the alarm and all hell broke loose.

  Once you passed inspection, they took you to the Holding Tank, a mirror image of this room. No one could return to school until everyone had been checked. The Air-Lock didn’t hold a candle to The Block’s facilities. Of course, none of us knew our powers or how to use them if we did. Still, no one had ever escaped from the Redemption School system.

  The guards stopped in front of Marcel. He winked at me as they took him for his collar calibration. The Block had my nerves dancing like water on a hot skillet, but if Marcel worried about it, he never showed it.

  I looked over at Abby. She studied the room with a critical eye, her arms straining against the restraints. “Relax before you get yourself hurt. You’re lucky the guards didn’t do more than shock you.”

  She grunted, but her arms relaxed. The lights dimmed to the point of darkness, then popped on again. I’d never seen it before, but it had been one of those days.

  The guards retrieved me, taking my arms as I stood to go. Their grips were firm, but not painful. In a way, I admired the guards. Unlike some people, they tended not to be mean, just very serious about doing their job. As long as you didn’t give them trouble, you didn’t get any.

  We set off down the hallway to the room we referred to as “The Freezer.” This is the only room you are allowed to have your collar off. The door depressurized, swinging open without a sound. I always felt like I should be on the Death Star headed to the holding cells. No Luke Skywalker would be coming to save the day. I dropped into the chair, waiting while the guards set the wrist and ankle cuffs. Once they double-checked the restraints, they left and sealed the door.

  “Good morning, Thomas,” Dr. Sampson said from where he sat across the room. The ever-present drone of the dampeners filled The Freezer. Like everything else in The Block, nothing could be moved, and embedded lights filled the room with a blueish glow.

  “Good morning, Dr. Sampson.”

  He picked up a tablet from the silver table he stood next to. He swiped a couple of times before addressing at me. “How is school going?”

  Of all the people in Redemption, Dr. Sampson is my favorite Norm, a quick smile, always pleasant, and really cared about us. If you saw him in town, he would stop and talk to you. He played pro-basketball before the war and stood taller than any man I knew. His bald head was always a bit damp with sweat, which made it remind me of a piece of polished onyx I had seen in earth science.

  “Okay.” I shrugged. He tapped his tablet a couple
of times, and the wrist restraints popped open, though the ankle ones still held me firm.

  “Please take off your shirt, Thomas.” I tried to tell him not to bother, but he held up his hand to stop me. “We are sitting here until you do.”

  I groaned. I pulled up my shirt to reveal the purple and black bruises left over from the last beating Brunner had given to me.

  “Who did this to you?” Anger flared across his features. We had been through this before. The last time he had filed a complaint, Ms. Robinson asked a couple pointed questions and I got my butt kicked after school.

  “A guy at school, but you can’t snitch. The vice principal tells the guys who are reported, and we get it worse.”

  “Thomas, it isn’t right. You have the right to a safe education, regardless of your status.”

  “I know, but it only makes it worse.”

  He shook his head. I’m sure it killed him not to do something, but since the war, Gifted people were considered the enemy.

  “Okay, I won’t say anything. It appears your collar has gotten a bit small. I’m going to replace it.”

  He tapped his tablet, and a tray rose from the floor. A metal cover opened when Dr. Sampson reached for it. He took a tool from the tray, consulted his tablet again. The tray retracted into the floor with a hiss.

  The collars appear to be a solid piece of metal, but they aren’t. A latch holds the ends together so tightly the seam is invisible. The only people who can remove them work for the Reclaimers. Dr. Sampson brought over a thin, black device the size of a screwdriver and placed it at the back of my neck. The silver tube slid down and landed in my lap, more like a dead snake than the device stopping me from using my powers. Would knowing my power make it easier or just be more painful? My power could be screwing up, I do it a lot.

  Being free of the collar felt amazing. A blast of air from overhead tickled my skin. Years of collaring made the freedom from it that much sweeter. The lights pulsed three times as Dr. Sampson fit me with a new collar. It tightened until it didn’t move, but it didn’t pull my skin as the old one had. I had grown more than I thought. After about ten minutes of calibrating the collar, Dr. Sampson snapped the collar around my neck once more, a prisoner.