Rise of Heroes

by Hayden Thorne

  I expected footmen to hover along the periphery of the room but was surprised to find ourselves alone. Maybe, I thought, the staff had the power of invisibility. To test my theory, I veered off to the side and walked as close to the walls as I could. Then, while Peter helped his mom to a seat, I stamped my foot down on a spot where I imagined an invisible pair might be. I didn’t hear a disembodied voice yelp or cuss at me, though. It was a disappointing experiment.

  Peter looked up at me, startled. “Eric? What happened?”

  “Nothing. Just tripped over my own feet.”

  I took my place, and dinner began.

  The subject of Peter and Trent’s superpowers was deftly avoided for the first, like, fifteen minutes. The conversation drifted here and there. Peter and his mom talked most of the time, recounting funny moments from the past, interesting conversations, and funny accidental incidents from Peter and Trent’s childhoods. Little by little, I relaxed in Mrs. Barlow’s company. She was a smart, beautiful woman, and though she was filthy rich, she still came across as someone who was no different from my mom. She had her quirks, she had her biases, her girlish moments. She was extremely proud in so many ways. She was articulate and almost stiff at times in conversation, but she had a great sense of humor that crept out at odd moments and kept me snickering and snorting. It was almost hard wrapping my mind around the fact she’d given birth to a couple of superheroes.

  I must have fallen silent for a long time. In fact I must have lost myself in my own thoughts as I tried to figure things out, sort through my own preconceptions and replace them with facts. I wasn’t even aware Mrs. Barlow and Peter had noticed my distraction until Peter called my name, and Mrs. Barlow laughed gently.

  “Oh—sorry. I was just thinking,” I said, my face heating up.

  “I’m sure you were, but that’s fine, Eric. I know that you’ve got questions—a million of them, no doubt,” Mrs. Barlow replied, smiling as she sipped her wine.

  I lightly tapped my fork against my plate—a bad habit of mine at the dinner table, I was told—hesitating. An encouraging nod from Peter made me go on. “How did Peter and Trent get their powers?”

  “They were born with them.”

  “We were made-to-order babies,” Peter broke in.

  “We had our reasons,” Mrs. Barlow said, frowning at him. “Eric, Mr. Barlow and I have family histories of health problems. Cancer for me, Lou Gehrig’s Disease for Mr. Barlow. In my husband’s case, his dad died of ALS, but tests have shown that he didn’t inherit the genes. All the same, there was always that nagging thought in the back of our minds about sporadic gene mutations down the line. I’ve watched cousins, uncles, and aunts die from cancer. I might be safe right now, but again, what about my children? The situation to us was—at least back then—plain and simple.”

  I frowned, confused. “So—they were mixed in a genetic lab or something?” Like test tube babies, I wanted to add, but it all sounded so cold and sordid. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the thought of Peter being “created” in a lab.

  “It’s called Eugenics, which involves genetic technology. Their DNA was manipulated so that flaws and other risks—involving physical appearance and health—were eliminated, yes. Intelligence was preserved and enhanced.” She paused to refill her glass and take another drink from it. A faint, unsettling feeling swept over me as I watched her. She’d transformed a little, turned from an extraordinary yet ordinary woman into a pale, distant, calculating mannequin. “When those genetic labs were open, people from all over—those who could afford to, that is—flocked to those offices, anxious to be assured perfect, healthy children. I saw other parents, Eric. Some were scarred from past illnesses. Some couldn’t walk. There were a handful of cancer patients. Some had physical abnormalities. The unknown frightened us. We all shared the desire to make sure that our children wouldn’t suffer the way we suffered. Do you understand?”

  I glanced at Peter, who was now helping himself to more rice. I couldn’t believe how calm he was through all this. Then again, I suppose he’d already gone through so much angst and plain mental stress at being told about his genetic “designing.” I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he must’ve felt.

  “I guess so,” I replied. “But—what about the powers? Genetic manipulation stuff wouldn’t have caused them on its own.”

  Mrs. Barlow nodded and sat back with a heavy sigh.

  “You’re right, of course. It wouldn’t have. What none of us knew then was that a few geneticists were experimenting with our own DNA. In fact, that was the reason why the labs closed down. Yes, there were too many accidents, and there were too many people killed in the course of their operation. But these accidents had nothing to do with people hoping for a better life for their children. It had everything to do with what went on behind closed doors. The records vanished, the data destroyed. Some of the smaller labs were purposefully set on fire, according to police investigation, to prevent discovery, and the geneticists who knew exactly what went on either died or simply disappeared. The people who snitched were mostly those in housekeeping or security, and even then, what they said didn’t make much sense since they were never there during the experiments. They only suspected things based on random clues they found in the offices when they came in to work. The lab workers who only performed mundane tasks were never in on anything, either, so they could never really accuse anyone specifically.”

  “Pretty impressive cover-up, I say,” Peter said.

  “No kidding,” I muttered, stunned. “So these other lab types were kept away from the rest of them?”

  “They were. The labs were largely a commercial venture if you were to think about it. So smaller or more mundane procedures for individuals—or research done for corporate and academic clients—financed the labs’ daily operations. There was nothing illegal in what they did. It was only a select group of genetic engineers—scientific mavericks—that crossed the line.” Mrs. Barlow paused and stared at her food, her fine brows creasing.

  “They took advantage of people’s hopes and toyed with them—altered them somehow—and threw them back into the gene pool. I can only imagine that they hoped to step away and watch what would happen in ten, fifteen, twenty years’ time. What did they want from all of those things? I really don’t know. No one does. All of them are inconclusive, Eric. They’re all drawn from testimonies done by those housekeepers and security workers. Piecemeal information that was questionable at best—that was all we could go by when the labs closed down.”

  “So no one was arrested or brought to court?”

  “No one was prosecuted. Even the labs’ owners got away—as in they vanished. No one knew where they went. It almost seemed as though they never existed, just like the labs, their cohorts, and the experiments. We all believe that they masterminded the operation.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  “About five years. Some say it’s not long enough to cause significant damage, but I disagree.”

  I helped myself to more food but found my appetite had gone a little. I did manage to force an occasional rice kernel down my throat. “So now we’re all seeing the results.”

  “We are. Peter and Trent and your friend Althea are now coming into their powers. Yes, Peter told us about her. There are others out there, too. From this city and beyond. My guess is that the speed of their development depends on genetics. Not all of them will be good, either.”

  I gnawed my lower lip. “The Devil’s Trill, too?”

  “Yes. The Trill as well.”

  “Then—what’ll you do when others start showing up? Will you be forming a league or something? Then work together to, you know, keep the planet safe and so on?”

  Mrs. Barlow smiled. “That’s a possibility, but right now, my sons are on their own. It’s really up to them. Their dad and I can only try to be good parents. When their genes were altered, everything went well beyond our control.”

  Control. Boy, that was an ugly word all of a sudden
.

  I caught Peter’s face as he listened. A shadow momentarily darkened it, and he seemed to sink into a brief gloom. My chest tightened. Not once had I thought parents would go to certain extremes to ensure a better life for their children, pretty much leaving nature out of the loop. Even without the experiments done on him, Peter would still be, in some ways, unnatural if only “simple” Eugenics were the case.

  Without his consent, without his knowledge, he was purposefully designed to be as close to being a perfect human being as he could be. What the experiments did was push him several paces beyond that, with strange super abilities now a part of his manipulated humanity.

  Was his being gay a part of that manipulation as well? Or was nature just too strong a force to cheat completely? I could only imagine it was an unexpected development, and I was glad this particular “accident” had happened. It was bad enough Peter had shown—had lived under the constant pressure, in fact—supreme abilities in everything scientific and mathematical, while his heart had always lain in literature, art, and music. Was that a glitch in the system? I was inclined to think so. Was that because of Eugenics or those illegal experiments? I couldn’t say. At this point, anything was possible.

  There were limits to playing God, apparently. Reading Frankenstein should be a requirement in adulthood.

  I felt a mix of resentment and sadness for Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, though. On our way to the dining room, I’d caught sight of a corner of the drawing room—one that was, apparently, dedicated to their accomplishments.

  I remembered several framed certificates as well as photographs of either of them shaking hands with people I could only guess were big names in their field though I didn’t recognize any of them. Mr. and Mrs. Barlow had gained so much with the use of their natural abilities—Mr. Barlow in the field of geophysics, Mrs. Barlow in mechanical engineering. That they’d be so vain and frightened of mortality and of nature—to the extent they’d have their own children carefully designed to their specifications—shocked and nauseated me. It also saddened me in a way. With all their privileges and advantages, which people like me could only dream of, they lived almost like trapped rats in a maze.

  “Mrs. Barlow, are Trent’s abilities kind of weird?” I blurted out.

  Peter choked and then stifled a laugh behind a cupped hand. His face reddened, and he shook his head at me, still sniggering.

  Mrs. Barlow blinked. Her hand was frozen in mid-air as she held a fork up, piled high with food that dripped through the prongs. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Trent’s powers—I noticed something crazy weird on TV,” I replied, unfazed. Then I went on and described the strange appearance of the symbols on his chest.

  “Oh, that. I wish I could tell you, Eric. I really do. The thing is that our education happens while Peter and Trent develop their abilities. We’re really no wiser than they.”

  “Aren’t you worried about your own safety? I mean, you’re their mom and all…”

  Mrs. Barlow smiled wistfully. “Mr. Barlow and I have long learned to take life one day at a time. We’ve been chastened in the worst possible way. Humbled through the dangers our children were exposed to in those labs. It’s a lesson that’s ongoing.” She glanced at Peter with a look that I thought was apologetic, regretful. And I’m so sorry we did this to you, she seemed to say.

  “Is—uh—is this your headquarters?” I asked, now feeling a little goofy. I tried to avoid looking at Peter.

  “Headquarters…”

  “The chute where Peter and Trent transform—is that here somewhere?”

  Mrs. Barlow again glanced at her son, who tried to keep a straight face but failing miserably. “Peter…”

  “Sorry, Mom. I couldn’t help it,” he stammered behind his napkin. His face was worse than an overripe tomato.

  “Random information like that shouldn’t be thrown around,” she said, her voice firm. “You know you’re only exposing yourself and your brother to danger.”

  “It’s Eric, Mom. Of course, I trust him. He’s the only one I talked to about this.”

  Mrs. Barlow sighed, and I saw her mouth “teenagers” before sipping her wine. Then she looked at me with a tired, apologetic smile. “We’re candid about Trent and Peter on a number of things, but not all. It’s classified information, Eric. I’m so sorry.”

  Ah, yes. The pitfalls of having a superhero for a boyfriend. My initial resentment gone, thanks to Peter’s chirpy mood, I relaxed in my seat and carried on with the conversation. By the end of dinner, I really didn’t give a flying fig where headquarters were, where the chute was located, if there was an underground cave that housed a super computer, and all that. I plain didn’t care.

  For all of Mr. and Mrs. Barlow’s faults, they were still parents, and they still loved their children in their own way.

  When I subtly withdrew myself from the conversation in hopes of watching mom and son interact, they carried on without even noticing my silence. I was treated to a pretty funny—and yet natural—scene in which Mrs. Barlow scolded Peter for some of the things he did while in superhero mode. Lecturing him on the reckless way he’d work his way through crowded and dangerous neighborhoods at high speed was like lecturing a kid on his driving habits.

  “You don’t know what’s around the corner,” she said, gesticulating with her fork. “The way you rush around without checking your speed, you’ll run smack against a parked van or something worse—”

  “Mom, I can’t do that. I can’t. My reflexes won’t let me run into any obstacle. I thought you knew that already.”

  “So that means you’ll just go sashaying around the city at breakneck speed, without thinking ahead of any dangers that might be there? Peter, it’s not like you’ve got a built-in airbag that’ll help you.”

  “What’s the use of my sensors then? They’re the ones that keep me from crashing into anything. You’re worrying over nothing, you know.”

  Mrs. Barlow cocked a delicate brow. “We have a guest. Don’t be sassy. Oh, and if you’ll be out with Trent tomorrow, mind your curfew, please. Nine-thirty doesn’t mean nine-thirty-one, all right?”

  “Aw, Mom…”

  I received another apologetic little smile and an offer of dessert, which I gladly accepted. Mango cake—rich and heavenly. It was refrigerator-cold as I was told it should be. All that time, while Mrs. Barlow sliced up my portion and served it to me, she and her son continued their light argument over Peter’s need to master his speed. It was surreal and awesomely domestic.

  “Here’s my boy,” she seemed to say, “who drives me crazy as any kid drives his parents crazy—who’ll always be an outsider—and I don’t care as long as he knows how to handle himself.”

  Normalcy. Yeah, that was it. A made-to-order baby who was further altered for reasons unknown—who turned out gay—who’d kill to be a poetic genius, not a rocket scientist. A child who could hear with superhuman clarity, move at high speeds, leap over great heights and distances—he was normal. Me and my love affair with blue food coloring, blue crayons, blue hair dye. Then there was the depressing German fiction, what I could understand of it anyway, which was practically zilch (props for trying, right?). Normal, hell! Whose business was it, anyway?

  Yeah, I thought, my gaze straying back to Peter. He’s normal. He’s okay. Fuck everything, he’s more than okay, and he always has been. When our eyes finally met, I let myself go, not caring a jot if Mrs. Barlow saw me, and mouthed, I love you.

  I’d never seen Peter smile so wide.

  Chapter 24

  “So much for dinner with the in-laws.”

  I looked at Peter and watched his shadowy profile as he stared down at the black waters. We went to the park after dinner and spent some quiet time there, walking slowly around the lake, occasionally stopping to watch the moon on the gently rippling water.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I was hoping that Dad and Trent would be there.”

  “They were busy.”

  �
��They always are. Like dad, like son.”

  “I’ll bet you that the news is full of reports right now about Trent and what he’s done. Hey, he might’ve found the Trill’s headquarters while we were having dinner!”

  “God, I hope not. I told him not to hunt around for it without me.” Peter shrugged, his gaze still on the water. “Well—I guess next time would be better.”

  “Hey, I enjoyed talking to your mom. She’s pretty cool. Smart as hell, yeah, but really cool.”

  “Intelligence is a bad thing, eh?” Peter laughed.

  “You know how it is. Just kidding, of course.”

  “I’m surprised I didn’t end up seeing a therapist.”

  I gently ran my hand up and down his back. “You’re stronger than you think you are.”

  “How would I know that it isn’t because of genetic technology?”

  “We don’t need to know. I’m happy with what’s already there. The only thing I worry about is whether or not I live up to your standards. I mean—the gap wouldn’t be so much if it weren’t for Eugenics. Now it’s like, you’re a thousand times better than I always thought. Being average is suddenly—way less than average now. Know what I mean?”

  I felt his hand take mine and hold it firmly. No one else was around in that area at that time of the night, so we stood there, hands clasped.

  I returned home that night knowing a hell of a lot more and saying much less than I could. I’d sworn myself to secrecy, and I didn’t need Peter and Mrs. Barlow looking to me for reassurance to make that pledge. I loved Peter. That was enough for me to stay silent and guarded.

  * * * *

  I showed up at the breakfast table the following morning feeling nice and refreshed and abnormally cheerful. Dad and Liz, as usual, were talking about the news, which I missed when I returned home the previous night. I’d gone straight to bed after greeting everyone and giving them a vague, non-committal report about the Barlow household. Mom must’ve been disappointed as she’d always been curious about the family. Anyone outside our social and economic sphere, actually, fascinated her. Maybe it was a girl thing, I don’t know.