John managed to look affronted, though it was gone in a flash. “That's a pretty stereotypical assumption to make about someone my age.”
Keeping her face straight with serious effort, Kit put up her hands in supplication. “You're right, that was rude of me.”
“I mean, I could be happy because my dad bought me a car,” John protested.
“Very true,” Kit agreed.
“Or for a bunch of reasons,” John said. “Maybe I just had a really good morning.”
Kit let that hang in the air for a few seconds, then nodded. “So, is it any of those things?”
John wrinkled his face sourly. “No,” he said, before the smile crept back on his face. He mumbled something, though he knew full well how strong Kit's senses were.
“What was that?” Kit asked sweetly.
“Her name is Kristen,” John said with a grin.
The air outside was brisk but tolerable. Kit had been training John indoors until now, owing to the weather. Today would be a test for both of them. For John, it would measure how much control he had learned, for Kit, how effective she was as a teacher.
They stood just outside the main building, the office space which served as the tip of the massive iceberg that was the facility itself. Interlaced with lessons on meditation and channeling negative emotions, Kit had spent time teaching John how to use his abilities effectively.
To gain a real understanding of how far the boy—the young man—had come, she'd have to teach him their limits.
“Strip off your gear,” Kit said, motioning to a bare patch of dirt next to the office. “Take all the stuff out of your pockets, and remove your disruption watch.”
This elicited a surprised grunt from John, who shrugged and did as he was told. The watch had always remained on during their sessions, a safeguard against him losing control of his temper. Kit usually kept a small activation fob in her hand as they worked. Not today.
She threw off her coat, tossing it to the side.
John stopped cold when he turned back to her, his eyes dropping to her torso.
“Why are you wearing your gun?” he asked.
“Scared?”
“I'm invulnerable,” John answered. “Unless I trigger my watch, and even then you'd have a hard time hurting me. You've never used a gun with me before. I was just curious.”
She slid the sleek weapon from its holster, showing it to him. “Just a pulse gun,” she said. “No bullets.”
Kit didn't need superpowers to notice the gears turning in his head. Teenage boys were not known for their subtlety.
“What's on the schedule, then?” John asked. “What are we doing?”
Kit holstered her gun and glanced at her watch. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
The distant rumble of an engine, faint but audible, washed over them. It was a few seconds before John heard it. The vehicle was visible for a good long while as it navigated the narrow road leading to the facility, and it was a car both were familiar with.
John turned pink when he recognized it. “What is this, Kit?” he asked, voice cracking slightly.
Peep parked the car and hopped out, hauling a large basket of food and drinks with her.
John's skin deepened from pink to red. Though he pretended otherwise, Kit knew the boy had a serious crush on Kit's friend and roommate. Kit needed stress to get a good read on him, and there was no more sure way to fluster a boy of sixteen than to make him perform in front of an older woman he fancied.
“Hey, hey,” Peep said, pulling a small blanket from the basket and tossing it to the ground. “Heard I was getting a free show.”
The look John Franklin gave Kit was fire and ice, and though pangs of regret slapped against her mental defenses, she had a job to do. She smiled at him, and raised a hand to beckon him forward.
“Come at me,” Kit said.
John moved forward hesitantly, then in a rush. Kit understood the pause; she had spent months teaching him in a structured manner, instilling him with caution. Comparatively, this was chaos.
Kit amped up her time perception as she spoke, slowing the world down enough to keep pace with her student. She stepped to the side, turning her body just enough to be out of harm's way but close enough to hip check John as he sped by.
The young man careened to the side—his momentum sent at a wild tangent—and tripped. He tumbled and came to a stop sprawled across the ground.
“What went wrong there?” Kit asked.
John rose to his feet. “You're heavier than me,” he said. “By a lot. I was running, which meant my strength wasn't a factor.”
Kit nodded approvingly. “Right. One of your first lessons, and you remembered it. Too late, but it's good you can see your mistake. Physics is something most Next can bend, even break, but for you the fundamental laws of the universe still apply.”
She turned and walked away from the building, coming to a stop nearly a hundred feet from John. “Again!”
John was a blur as he carved a path through the dead grass. Kit stood motionless as he rocketed toward her. She caught the telltale moment when he reached his limit, slowing down by necessity. Kit launched herself forward with no warning at all, body flying toward John even as his burst of super speed cycled down.
Kit was curled nearly into a ball, steel muscles tightened to full power. Two feet from collision, she lashed out in the air with both feet, pumping a double kick into John's chest with enough force to shatter concrete.
The boy flew backward, skipping across the cold earth and sending up small puffs of dust each time he impacted the ground. Kit, her inertia mostly spent and what little was left reversed, landed lightly on her feet.
She had kicked incredibly hard, and it felt like she might have done some damage to her ankles. Nothing showed in her stride or on her face as Kit closed in on John.
“I want you to hit me,” Kit said as she walked. “Don't stop trying until you manage it.”
John sprang to his feet, this time moving at a normal speed. She smiled tightly as he circled her, watching for an opening.
“Good,” she said. “You know moving quickly isn't the best way for you to attack.”
It was true. John Franklin was a Black Band, and the classification was usually—but not universally—reserved for Next who had extremely strong abilities in two or more power aspects. John had four, one of them being speed. But it was a flawed power. Through testing, the OSA knew he could move at insane speeds, demonstrated by a bunch of complex reflex tests. That was on paper. In practice, John couldn't move any faster than Kit's own limited enhanced speed.
It was, Nunez explained, a defense mechanism put in place by John's brain. While his body might be capable of moving past the speed of sound several times over, the brain locked him out of using more than a fraction because John's perception of time didn't change.
Without that mental block, it was nearly unavoidable that John would turn himself into a human bullet moving so fast the world would seem to be a smear of light and color. With his invulnerability, that scenario would inevitably lead to disaster.
John raised his hands, holding them loosely in front of his body with palms facing the ground. Kit had been teaching him how to fight a little, and the boy thought he was being clever by having a few other agents do the same. As if Kit didn't know.
His movements were measured, though his face was red with barely-checked anger. Kit danced back twice as he probed, hands darting toward her. She never looked away from his eyes; in an older and more experienced opponent, this might have been a mistake. In someone as young as John, every movement and intention might as well have been splashed across a billboard.
The third time, he committed to strike. Kit saw the decision in the set of his jaw, the lines of his forehead. Her hand flicked to the pulse gun at her hip, firing at the lowest intensity as she surprised John by stepping into his swing instead of away from it.
A weak electromagnetic pulse washed over him, invis
ible but directed well enough to leave Kit untouched. It was about the same strength as the bracelet John wore, which disrupted his powers enough to make his sense of touch normal. It was a solution that lightened the boy's spirits, as it meant being able to enjoy a hug from someone he loved or a girl's kiss.
And while it didn't make him much more vulnerable to actual injury, it did make him able to feel pain.
Kit's gut punch bent John over, the sudden rush of nausea making him vomit. Kit walked away casually, heading toward an astonished Peep, who was gaping at her roommate.
Ray
“How's the pain?” Ray asked before taking a sip of coffee. Kovacs, leaning against the passenger door, shrugged marginally.
“It's fine,” he said. “That cute medic biomanipulator, what's her name...Tia, she took a second shot at me after I had a night to rest. I'm aching a little, but nothing I can't ignore.”
Ray smiled. “My last boyfriend was a tough guy, too.”
Kovacs nodded. “Yeah, I read the file.”
Those words pierced the relaxed atmosphere and let the joy drain out of the car. It wasn't that Ray was ever unaware of Ricky's death and the destruction which followed it, but since waking he had begun to come to terms with it. There would never be a time when he didn't feel guilt over the thousands who died in Fairmont, but Ricky at least had not been his fault. He had only recently been able to think about Rick and remember the good without a spike being driven through his chest.
The heavy silence that followed was noticeable. Kovacs glanced away from the building they watched. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I wasn't thinking. That was shitty.”
Ray waved away the apology. “It's not a big deal. I get reminded of what happened twenty times a day.”
Kovacs nodded. “It's easy for the rest of us to forget you're a real person, you know? That Rick was a real person, with hopes and dreams and all that. The world spent so much time turning you into this icon of how dangerous Next can be, it's easy to forget you aren't a story. Which is doubly fucked up since I saw people do the same thing to soldiers when I was in the service, not to mention how much everyone demonized the Iraqis and Afghans.”
Ray fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable. He knew perfectly well what people thought of him. It had been unavoidable that the agents he worked with knew his real identity, if for no other reason than to stop him should he ever show signs of going critical again. His awakening during the incident with the Maggard boy had not been quiet, at least not among the ranks of field agents.
“They look at me like I'm a nuclear bomb about to blow,” Ray said.
“Does it bother you?” Kovacs asked, eyes glued on the door set into the heavy stone building they were watching.
“Sure,” Ray answered. “Though I totally get it. Hell, I worry about it, too. I have way more control now, but I'm just as scared as ever that something will go wrong.”
Their earpieces chimed, the voice of agent Waid—suggested by Kit as their analyst—coming across the secure line clearly. “He's on his way out. At the front door in thirty seconds.”
“You remember your part?” Kovacs asked. Ray nodded.
Archer and Kit had decided against making a scene when sending agents to bring Dave Hammond, the second of Ginny Shane's attackers, to the facility for safe keeping. Kovacs and Ray would have gone after Kevin Gray, the third attacker, had he been in town.
Instead of counting on a large team, it was just the two of them. If James Shane was watching, they would draw far less attention. While Ray and Kovacs both carried pulse guns and traditional firearms, they didn't have to rely solely on them. One of the lesser-used parts of Ray's power set included the ability to manipulate the Surge itself. While he couldn't strip someone of their powers, he had been practicing what he could to—which was to cause chaos. Fritzing the powers of another Next, even for a few seconds, was more difficult than disintegrating things.
So far he hadn't tested it in the field. First time for everything.
They knew the exact moment Hammond would step through the doors and onto the sidewalk, thanks to Waid's stream of constant updates using the interior security cameras in the building. Ray and Kovacs were already out of the car and making their way casually toward the door.
“Glad we didn't have to wait all day for him,” Ray muttered.
“That was me,” Waid said. “I...let's just say I spooked him into leaving.”
Kovacs shook his head, smiling. A second later they had caught up with Hammond, bracketing him as he walked.
“Sir, we're from the OSA,” Ray said evenly. “We need you to turn around and get in our car. You're coming with us.”
Hammond stopped, fear on his face along with dawning anger. “I don't think so,” he said. “You can't arrest me. I'm not one of those freaks.”
Ray didn't even bristle at being called a freak, of course. On the long list of things people could and did say about him, it was easily the most tame.
Kovacs lost his trademark cool, however, which caught Ray off guard.
“First off,” Kovacs said, “we can arrest you. You might recall the more anti-Next authors of the McDonnell act made sure to give the OSA broad powers. Second, you probably want us to take you in, because we're trying to save your racist ass. If you want to keep breathing, you should come with us. No skin off my back if you want to die, though.”
A slow flush crawled up Hammond's face. Before things could get out of hand, Ray stepped in front of both men. If one of them was going to throw a punch, at least he'd have a shot at getting between them.
“Mr. Hammond, I understand you're confused and upset, but you really are in danger. Someone is targeting the men accused of attacking Ginny Shane. One of you has already been killed.”
Hammond's eyes widened in shock. “Who?”
“Robert Lile,” Kovacs answered.
Hammond looked around the empty sidewalk with the startled disbelief of a predator suddenly realizing it has become prey. “O-okay,” he stammered. “Let's get out of here.”
The three of them turned as one toward the car, and found the sidewalk no longer empty.
James Shane glared at them.
In the split-second look Ray managed, his brain lined up the reality with the dossier. The man was tall and thin, with short dark hair, light brown eyes, and several days of growth along his jaw. Though the weather was far from balmy, Shane wore no coat, showing the tattoos covering his neck and arms all the way to the first joint of his fingers.
Before Ray could do more than register Shane's appearance the man vanished. Kovacs threw his elbow back in a powerful strike, followed by a meaty crack.
Ray spun to find James Shane stumbling back, clutching his face as blood gushed from an obviously broken nose. The guy was tough, Ray noted, regaining his footing within a few seconds and lunging for Hammond, who was only partially blocked by the two agents.
The sidewalk beneath Shane's feet crumbled into dust, a circle just wide enough to surround both feet. The tall man stumbled again, but vanished before he could hit the ground.
Reappearing a few paces away, Ray was ready. He flexed whatever mental muscle allowed him to alter the flow of the Surge, squeezing with everything he had. Completely outside his control, his Surge Vision switched on. The world flipped into shades of green. Gone were the calm, smooth tones, however. Now a ring not unlike an explosion's blast wave emanated from Ray, spreading in every direction.
James Shane burned like a star in Ray's eyes, a green so pale it was nearly white. When the ring of disturbance washed over him, the smooth brightness trembled. It grew too bright to see for a moment, then faded back. Another wave crashed against him—Ray hadn't let up—and the process repeated.
Central to the plan was the fact that Ray could make it harder for Next to use the Surge energy fueling their powers. For most Next, this wasn't a game-changer. Teleporters, however, manipulated oceans of raw energy. It required precise control to manage to teleport at all, much less avo
id sending themselves to the top of a mountain, bottom of an ocean, or inside solid matter by accident.
Kovacs pulled and raised his pulse gun with a smooth speed Ray would have called superhuman had he not been looking at the man with his enhanced vision. There was no trace of Surge about him, of course; the man was just that good.
James Shane reacted quickly, already diving to the side as the tight beam of electromagnetic energy cut an invisible channel through the place he had been standing. Shane rolled, coming to his feet with practiced ease, and used every inch of his long legs to run away.
Ray raised a hand to create another hole in the ground, but before he could manage, James Shane popped away again.
He throttled back, letting his powers drop to a loud hum running through his body instead of the aching growl they had been amped up to. His vision returned to normal, though he kept his back to Hammond as he searched the area for their attacker. After a minute, it became clear Shane wasn't coming back.
“Get to the car,” Kovacs barked, pulse gun raised.
Hammond needed no cajoling to cooperate. It seemed the sudden appearance of a vengeful and powerful enemy who could literally come from out of nowhere had convinced him to go with the agents. Ray kept a hand on Hammond's elbow, his grip tight enough to bruise. The briefing just before this assignment had been clear in explaining that so long as someone was in physical contact with the man, Shane would have to take them both.
Ray tried not to think about how badly that could end. The world was big place, full of terrifying locales. In the blink of an eye, Ray knew he could end up in any number of awful places. The lip of an active volcano. The edge of Niagara Falls. Kansas, even.
He toppled into the back seat with Hammond, yanking the seat belt on as Kovacs rushed into the driver's seat and sent the car lurching forward. There was safety in being a moving target, both because it allowed Ray to keep an eye out for bursts of Surge energy that might signal Shane's arrival, and because it made the job that much easier. Teleporters might be able to travel anywhere in the blink of an eye, but aiming yourself into the cabin of a moving car was asking for disaster.
The Next Chronicle (Book 2): Damage Page 7
