by Hayes, Drew
“Nicholas Campbell.” Sherman knew the name well. No one who’d worked with Nathaniel had escaped hearing about Nicholas; the man had been cursed on a near hourly basis. Nathaniel had hated Nicholas with such fervent passion that he’d never cared about the fact he was being used as a pawn in something much grander. All he’d wanted, all he’d demanded from the deal, was the opportunity to put Nicholas Campbell in the ground. Certainly, the boy had had plans for what came after, but those were secondary to the burning fire of hatred he’d kept stoked at all times.
“Exactly. Nicholas Campbell. Nathaniel’s old rival from Vegas. Excuse me, Nathaniel’s old Powered rival from Vegas. Who up and decided to go to an HCP school roughly three years ago, seemingly out of nowhere. Who our people confirmed charged onto campus during the attack, not away from it. Who might have bested Nathaniel, even in his augmented state.” Crispin let the words flow gently; they were coming as quickly as his brain could dredge up the carefully tucked away details. “That, to me, seems far more like the actions of a Super than a Powered.”
“It is possible, sir—though, forgive me for saying so, unlikely.” Sherman hated to disagree, but it was his job to provide as accurate of information as possible, even if it went against what Crispin was thinking. “Given that Nathaniel and Nicholas both had deep connections to organized crime, the latter being allowed into the HCP seems like quite the long shot. Even the odds of him being selected for the beta group of such a procedure are exceedingly slim. If it went wrong, whoever organized it would have had very powerful enemies seeking vengeance for the death.”
Crispin set his hand on the files that had shown new facts implying the same conclusion: they were stuck for leads. “I understand that it’s a long shot, and I know snooping near an HCP campus is now exceptionally difficult. Just do a little digging for me. We don’t have much else to go on for the moment, anyway; this is the perfect time to spend a few of our resources grasping at straws. If something more promising turns up, we can shift our efforts toward that. Until then, it couldn’t hurt to do a bit of reconnaissance. For the sake of our dear departed colleague, Nathaniel, if nothing else.”
“I’ll find someone capable of handling the task,” Sherman said. It would be tough. The Sons of Progress was a shadow of its former self—the enraged Heroes had more than seen to that—so personnel was a precious commodity. Still, Crispin was right; thin a chance as it was, if this paid off, it would do more than just restore the organization to its former glory.
If they could uncover the secret of turning Powereds into Supers, it would throw off the shackles humanity had bound them with once and for all. That future, one where Supers took their rightful place as rulers rather than servants, was worth some risk. Even if Sherman had to do it himself, he would see Crispin’s orders carried out to the very end.
64.
Dean Blaine looked over the Sims carefully, casting a critical eye on the newest units brought in to Lander’s HCP. Beside him, Professors Pendleton and Baker examined the automated combat robots as well. Although she was far from tech-Super level, Ariel Baker had gotten a master’s in Mechanical Engineering during her own HCP and intern days and often served as the on-campus consultant for basic Sim-maintenance issues. Sean Pendleton, on the other hand, had just been nearby when Dean Blaine was alerted to the delivery and had tagged along out of blatant curiosity, with perhaps a hint of boredom mixed in.
“Is it me, or are these way better than previous models?” Professor Pendleton asked, hunching down over what was clearly meant to be a strongman-type Sim and poking it in the chest, taking note of the new, more dynamic designs.
“From what I can tell, it’s a marked improvement, though I was expecting as much,” Professor Baker replied. Her red hair was a blur as she darted between different groups of Sims, checking over details that neither Sean nor Dean Blaine completely understood. “It’s not something being spread about too much, but after last year, when they dealt with some pretty impressive robotics tech at Brewster, our people dug into the designs. Bit by bit, they’re reverse-engineering it, and the newer Sims have already benefited from the research.”
Despite what should have been good news, Dean Blaine let out a frustrated sigh. “Which means we no longer have an accurate assessment of their combat abilities, and therefore can’t allocate the right number for Friday’s trial. Why, why do they always insist on springing these upgrades on us midway through the year?”
“Probably something to do with budgets or red tape,” Professor Pendleton proposed. “Or the DVA just gets a kick out of screwing with us.”
“I’m going to second the screwing with us theory,” Professor Baker added. She finished looking over the batch of Sims equipped to simulate elemental-based abilities before moving on to a set built for flight.
“Well, in that regard, they’ve certainly succeeded. As if this trial weren’t hard enough.” Dean Blaine watched as his people worked, the gears in his head already spinning. They were only a few days away from an activity he dreaded every year. Sometimes it came in September, sometimes in October, and on rare occasions he’d even pushed the test back to November, but regardless, it had to happen. This was a key part in the students’ training, perhaps one of the most important moments they would face in all their time at the HCP. Necessary as it was, Dean Blaine abhorred it. Not because he found it unfair, or pointless, or even cruel.
No, Dean Blaine hated this trial because, when the dust settled, several of his students would be out of the program. It happened every year. Sometimes there were more, sometimes there were fewer, but loss was inevitable. Hard as those kids had worked to make it this far, once they got a real sense of the stakes they were playing for outside these walls, there would be some who walked away. Nothing could prepare them for this moment, not even last May’s campus attack.
Knowing that was what his kids were facing, Dean Blaine would be damned if he let them go into a battle that wasn’t properly calibrated. Moving slowly, unnoticed by Professor Baker and Professor Pendleton, Dean Blaine removed the jacket from his suit, folding it carefully and setting it down on a nearby chair before he proceeded to loosen his tie and roll up his sleeves until they passed his elbows.
“Professor Pendleton,” Dean Blaine called as he finished tucking his left sleeve into its new position. “Since you’re not actually needed to inspect the Sims, I want you to do me a favor. Go fetch Professor Cole and Professor Fletcher. Tell them to meet me in the Intramurals combat cell. And make sure they come ready to fight.”
“You know, usually a written reprimand is customary if you want to show an employee your displeasure,” Professor Pendleton replied. His snarky grin lasted until he made his way past the Sims and saw that Dean Blain had indeed been readying himself for action. “Um, I was joking around, but are you seriously going to try and beat up those two? ‘Cause if so, I need to run by the campus dining halls and see if I can buy some popcorn.”
“I am not fighting with my employees,” Dean Blaine replied. “Or not fighting against them would perhaps be a better way to phrase it. But I also will not subject the senior class to a battle where I don’t properly understand the power-level of their opponents. If I put too many in, they could easily be overwhelmed, and if I use too few, then the exercise will fail at its purpose. This trial, above all the others, demands a delicate touch. And since the DVA has decided, in their infinite generosity, to send me new Sims right now, I’m left with only one option. The staff and I will have to test them personally to ensure we have a firm understanding of their abilities.”
Professor Baker’s head popped up from behind the nearest group she was checking over. “That’s not a terrible idea, but you might want to leave it to Carl and Sonya. I haven’t had the chance to update these things with the conditional defeat protocols for the actual students yet, let alone for you.”
While conditional defeat protocols were an absolute necessity during exams—they were what allowed the Sims to shut down at a gl
ance from Rich or a touch from Camille—Dean Blaine usually only had his own added in as a precautionary measure. In the event that things went completely out of hand, his presence could neutralize entire sections of a battlefield, allowing the students to be moved to safety. Useful as that was for the actual trials, however, it wasn’t strictly necessary for what he had in mind.
“I can work with that,” Dean Blaine replied. “In fact, it’s better this way. I’ll serve as a stand-in for the students with no protection or endurance abilities.”
“But they at least have offense,” Professor Baker pointed out.
“I’m surprised at you, Ariel. As an instructor, you should know better than anyone that a properly trained Hero is never truly without the ability to fight. We are more than our powers, after all.” Dean Blaine paused to take another look at his mechanical opponents, wondering just how much stronger they were than the last batch he’d dealt with.
“Professor Pendleton, find Dr. Moran as well, please. I’d like to have our staff healer on standby, just in case.”
65.
Camille’s hand, dainty and graceful as a twirling blade, slipped through Vince’s guard and brushed lightly against his neck. He froze, then nodded to recognize her victory before backing away.
“You’re slower,” Camille said, also retreating to her side of the combat cell. Sparring with Vince was usually for her benefit more than his, as a lifetime of training had left him with reflexes and instincts she couldn’t match. Today, things were different, and the score reflected that. In the hour they’d been going at it, she’d managed to accumulate seven wins, while he’d only scraped out three.
“So I’m realizing.” Vince sat down on the cold concrete floor of their cell and began to adjust his body armor. Through Professor Fletcher, Vince had checked out protection for his torso, arms, legs, feet, and hands, all separated into sections that allowed for the maximum amount of flexibility. Unfortunately, the maximum amount still represented a steep degradation from what he could manage on his own, and the extra weight was shaving time off his reactions, time that Camille was using to slip between the cracks of his defense. But that was why they were training, so Vince could understand what the addition of armor would cost him, and if it was a price he could lessen through effort.
Though the kind side of Camille wanted to offer to help, to change the rules so that her victory demanded more than a touch, the pragmatic side of her squashed such notions instinctively. If she were fighting Vince for real, one touch really would mean his defeat, and there were more Supers than just Camille in the world who could win like that. Training, losing, made him more aware of his weaknesses and built the foundation for him to overcome them. Caring for Vince meant that she couldn’t afford to be gentle with him in these moments. If anything, she had to press harder, fight with all she had to forge them both into more powerful Supers.
Of course, she couldn’t actually say any of that. Even if they had cleared the major hurdle in their relationship, some things were best left silently understood. Instead, she turned the conversation to more relevant matters. “Are you going to wear armor for Friday’s exam?”
“To be honest, I’m still deciding,” Vince admitted, tightening the guard over his shin. “We’ve got two under our belt, and so far, things have been going smoothly. But knowing the professors, it will probably get a lot harder soon. I don’t think even they would crank things up on our third trial, though. End of November seems more likely. So if I want to give the armor a test-run, now’s my best chance.”
“You could always try and use your abilities defensively instead. It might be a better strategy overall, especially since I’m pretty sure the armor you get as a Hero is better than the generic stuff the HCP keeps,” Camille pointed out. “Probably won’t hinder your movements as much.”
“Maybe so, but that’s not going to do me any good if I can’t make it to graduation using this equipment,” Vince replied. “Besides, I might not always have the best gear on hand. If I want to use my power for offense, I need to be able to make it work wearing anything, even stuff that barely fits. I may try fighting defensively next time, depending on how this exam goes. But offense just seems like a better starting point. I’ve got all these energies and such a big capacity, I feel like that’s what I was made to do.”
Finished with his adjustments, Vince rose from the floor and took a fighting position. Though he had the advantage at range, Vince’s abilities were off-the-table for this training. Camille won with a touch, but Vince had to land a solid blow to claim victory. In an odd way, Camille appreciated that. She knew it wasn’t easy for him to attack her; however, Vince understood as well as she did that any enemies they faced would have no such hesitations. Fighting seriously, showing their failings, that was the best way either had to help the other grow. This was how they could protect each other, even when they weren’t around to do so in person.
Vince locked eyes with Camille, making sure she was prepared. “Ready when you are,” he said.
Camille gave a quick nod and got into a stance of her own. “Then bring it on.”
* * *
Mary sat, alone in her room, reveling in the quiet. Of all the things she’d learned since coming to Lander, all the tactics and strategies and techniques for using her power, none of them compared to the ability she’d been given before setting foot on campus. Being able to turn off her telepathy was still the greatest gift she had ever received. Even after years of having control, she sometimes enjoyed the freedom simply to exist, alone with her thoughts and disconnected from the world.
Now was a good and necessary time for such a peaceful moment, as the thoughts around campus were more hectic than usual. Though she hadn’t been able to glean the exact details, she knew that the professors were paying extra attention to their upcoming exam, which would no doubt prove troublesome in its own right. More concerning was the fact that the day after their trial—at a Halloween party, no less—she was going to bring Nick into Alice’s head in hopes of cajoling Abridail the dream-walker into giving up the goods about Shelby Adair. That alone was enough to strain her nerves, but it was not the reason Mary had been driven to find a bit of solitude, an island of peace amidst the sea of minds.
No, that honor belonged to Eliza—or rather, Eliza’s inability to marshal her own thoughts. The girl was good, no question about that. Despite going to Nick’s every Wednesday and being only one apartment away from his criminal associate, Mary almost never got anything of interest from the brain under those dark curly locks. But this week, things had been different. Guilt had fractured the mental wall Eliza normally kept in place, inadvertently revealing a secret that Mary would have been far happier never knowing.
That was what had left Mary taking sessions like her current one, turning off her ability and searching her soul for what to do next. She had to get through this weekend; that much was clear. Too much was at stake on both fronts for her to risk sharing the information she’d accidentally gleaned. But from there on, things grew murkier. As a rule, Mary always held that what lived in the heads of others stayed secret unless there was a dire need for the thoughts to be exposed. This was harder, though: more difficult, more delicate. By all accounts, she knew she should stick to her rule and let Eliza reveal the secret in her own time. But when it came out, if for one second Nick suspected that Mary had known, he would probably never forgive her for hiding it.
And she wasn’t entirely sure she would blame him for that.
66.
The senior class moved slowly as they gathered in the gym. This wasn’t due to any particular malaise or lack of sleep; no, these students were conserving their energy, making sure everything they had could be brought to bear in the coming trial. Throughout the room, small gestures of pre-battle jitters could be seen: Vince, adjusting his borrowed body armor; Chad, fixing the strap on his band of throwing knives; even Roy, testing the heft of his once-again upgraded bat. Rustling uniforms and careful movements were the
only sounds that echoed off the gymnasium walls until the crisp steps of Dean Blaine commanded their attention to the front of the room.
“Good morning.” Dean Blaine scanned the faces, noting the anxious looks barely masked in some of their expressions. He didn’t consider that a bad thing; any Hero who didn’t sometimes suffer from a case of nerves was one who didn’t truly understand their job. It was the ability to push those worries aside when the time for action came that mattered, and he’d seen that skill demonstrated by this group time and time again. Still, he lingered, looking them all over carefully, wondering which ones he was seeing in this gymnasium for the final time.
“What you are facing today is something we consider a worst-case scenario in the Hero world,” Dean Blaine said. “Last night, a group of captured Supers were in transport to a permanent containment facility when their vehicle was ambushed. The Heroes working escort duty are down, with most confirmed dead. The freed Supers, along with their accomplices, have fled to town. Since most of them were already facing serious jail time for their previous crimes, they have no expectation of being allowed to escape. To that end, they have dedicated their remaining time to causing wanton destruction and mayhem, along with working to kill any Heroes who try to stop them.”
Dean Blaine hated this scenario. Not because it was too hard or asked more than was fair of the students, but because he knew it was important. Most Hero work was containment of individual or small teams of Supers; very rarely did situations like this escalate to such levels. When they did, however, they went from bad to hellish in almost no time at all. Dean Blaine hated this scenario because at least some of the class needed this training for when they’d eventually be called in to handle something similar. And if they survived, the memories they carried would weigh them down for years, perhaps the rest of their lives. Not even healers could fix those kinds of scars.
