by Hayes, Drew
“Your units are the unlucky first to arrive on the scene. You are all being given communicators once again, and as before, they will allow you to speak to a central representative for information. Additionally, this time you should expect to receive more direct orders, as the situation demands immediate containment. Orders given are to be executed if at all possible, and failing to do so will result in serious discussion once the exam is complete. Be ready for that. I urge you not to hesitate.”
The students nodded like they understood, and Dean Blaine had no doubt that they believed they did. It was a forgivable mistake; the error in their minds was one of ignorance, not hubris. That, too, was what this exam was here to correct—along with testing the hardest part of being a Hero.
“There will be civilians in the city,” Dean Blaine continued. “And again, I urge you to remember that no matter how lifelike any Sims may look, you are the only real people in the exam space. Please keep that in the forefront of your mind at all times.” He paused, letting that last point sink in before he moved on to the one that would overtake all other concerns.
“Additionally, in this scenario the priority is shifted. Due to the highly destructive nature of the criminals and their demonstrated dedication to causing as much damage as possible, you are to prioritize neutralization of the criminal Sims over saving the civilians.”
For the first time that day, muttering floated up from the senior class. Not all of them were caught off guard—Dean Blaine had been hinting at this possibility for some while, even if he hadn’t yet explained to them what the Super classification system really meant. That talk generally went better after this test, when they’d seen for themselves why sometimes saving the most people meant letting a few die. That truth was a little too bitter for such idealistic people to swallow without context. Even knowing that their priority was shifted had shaken several of the students, who’d thought themselves mentally prepared for whatever came next.
“I don’t expect you to like that condition,” Dean Blaine told them. “In fact, I’d be deeply concerned about your place in the program if you did. But the fact remains: Heroes serve the greater good. We cannot allow criminals to cause unchecked destruction. We must stop them; you must stop them. And if that means letting one person fall from a building to stop someone from demolishing a school full of children, then you have to learn to live with that on your conscience. That is a Hero’s burden.”
Slowly, the muttering faded down as they wrapped their heads around it or resolved to be strong enough to just not let anyone die. There were always a few hopeless idealists who believed they could stop the bad guys without letting a single soul perish. Blaine had never been among that lot; he knew his limitations too well. That sort of dream had been left to people like Phil and Joshua. Even though the harsh reality of what they had to do would eventually crush such ambitions, Dean Blaine still took joy in watching his students try each year. Wanting to save everyone was pure delusion, yet he considered it among the most important aspects for future Heroes all the same. That hope—that dumb, boundless, impossible hope—was what assured him that perhaps the world wasn’t such a dark place as it sometimes seemed. And it was always possible that one day a student would prove him wrong. That was a day Dean Blaine Jefferies would very much like to see.
“Do not take the priority shift to be an open invitation to wreak wanton destruction,” he cautioned them. “While losses are inevitable, if you cause needless death, I assure you that you will be held accountable. You must walk a careful line in situations like these. Better you master that now, than when real lives are on the line.”
He gave one last look at his students, who were about to be fed into one of the hardest moments of their HCP career—but that, within a year of graduation, wouldn’t even crack the top ten of the toughest things they’d face. When it was all real, it was so, so much worse.
“For this trial, you may assume you are part of teams that were on call, if you want to be,” Dean Blaine said. “You have ten minutes to split into groups of no more than five, or you can work on your own. This will determine who starts off together and nothing more. Once you’re on the battlefield, everyone is part of the same team—Heroes versus criminals. Still, starting with people you trust in a hostile environment is no small thing, so make your selections carefully.”
The last of the instructions presented, Dean Blaine gave the nod for them to begin talking amongst themselves.
67.
Owen watched carefully as the students began to pair up. While the other Heroes—more than had come to any other trial, in fact—were bearing witness from the communal room, he’d once again elected to take a more rustic, and private, seat in one of the lesser facilities. It came with a bucket of beer, Mr. Numbers and Mr. Transport to fill him in on students he hadn’t helped train that summer, and the added bonus of not having to deal with anyone who might still have old grudges or agendas to grind. Getting back into the Hero world had been tough enough; dealing with the community was a task all on its own, and today, he didn’t want to bother with it. His attention was on the kids, especially the one he was genetically connected to.
“That’s interesting,” Owen said, noting the way the groups were forming. “Isn’t the Taylor boy living with Roy and his friends? I’d expected him to fall in with their group; instead, they’re bringing in the other telepath.”
“Strictly speaking, Alex Griffen isn’t exactly a normal telepath,” Mr. Numbers corrected.
“More to the point, they have a long history of working together.” Mr. Transport was a few seconds behind his normal clarification of Mr. Numbers’ detached analysis, due largely to the shock of hearing his coworker acknowledge Alex Griffen’s odd abilities. “Chad and Shane DeSoto are close friends, so in a hard battle he’d want to be covered by the person he trusts the most.”
On the screen, Chad and Shane were pairing up with Amber and Britney, making a team of four. Mr. Transport considered that an interesting combination. Between Britney’s reconnaissance abilities and Amber’s echolocation, they could be the most informed group on the ground: a fine complement to Chad and Shane’s precision, if played properly.
“They could have at least snagged the healer,” Owen grumbled. “Roy might be tough, and Vince has his absorption, but Alice, Mary, and Alex are all physically vulnerable. Camille would have been a useful asset.”
“Again, strong bonds,” Mr. Transport told him. “Camille has been close to Violet and Thomas since freshman year, and since Stella failed out, she no doubt wants to look after them. Besides, the Murray twins are both quite vulnerable as well, so she probably considers herself more useful to them. In terms of fighting power, that team needs a healer more than your son’s.”
“Looks like they aren’t the only one.” Owen pointed to the screen. Adam had talked briefly with Camille and, moments after touching her hand, shape-shifted into a perfect copy of her. “I almost forgot the class had a mimic. That is damn useful. Too bad he didn’t come up for training; a good mimic always has a place on Hero teams.”
“Adam Riley isn’t as close to your son’s peer group as some of the others,” Mr. Transport said. “Although there is no animosity between them, either. Different social circles, as I understand it.”
“I can see that. He’s linking up with a whole group of people I didn’t get to meet. The taller girl, Selena, she can enchant people with songs from what I remember during the other trials. And the one with the goatee stops people by looking in their eyes. What about the other guy, the one pacing?” Owen asked.
“Allen Wells. Destructive energy blasts,” Mr. Numbers informed him.
“Guess he didn’t make much of an impression in the last exams,” Owen said. “Hope he does better this time around. Still, two people with containment powers, a damage absorber, and a long-range attacker. That’s a risky combination. Theoretically great at neutralization, but without anyone to handle the heavy hits, they could wind up in trouble fast. Mig
ht work out well, though, if they play it smart.”
“The same could be said for any of the four groups.” Mr. Numbers walked over to the screen, carefully examining the structure of the teams. “It’s interesting, though. You can already see the results from last year’s attack on their thinking.”
“You can?” Mr. Transport followed Mr. Numbers’ gaze, not quite sure what those blue eyes were seeing.
“Oh yeah, you can,” Owen said. “Normally in a situation like this, the students try to figure out what the best overall team compositions are, gaming the system to give themselves an edge. They completely ignore the fact that working with people in a high-stress, high-stakes environment is more about trust and familiarity than specific powers. This group didn’t do that. They linked up with people they know, people who they’ve worked with before and trust to have their backs. That’s the kind of thinking that comes from tasting real action, from understanding just how crazy things get once you leave the safety of an HCP.”
“I see.” Mr. Transport reached over to the bucket of beer, twisted a top off, and took a long sip as he watched the students begin to leave the gym and head into the chaos waiting in the floors below. “Think it will work out better for them?”
“Hard to say.” Owen walked to the table, helping himself to a beer and sitting down across from Mr. Transport. “The emotional support is a good thing—you both know this is meant to push the kids in ways they aren’t comfortable with—so that element of trust might pull some through. But the downside is that people who think alike and have similar morals tend to befriend each other, and in this case, that could hurt.”
“Once the trial starts, the more emotionally detached students will have a serious advantage,” Mr. Numbers said, making no motion to sit at the table or take a drink. “If they were scattered throughout, they could help pull every team along until the others adjusted. Without that element, there’s a risk of entire teams freezing up and failing to execute their orders.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Owen agreed. “Most of them will get there eventually, but those first few minutes are crucial. Especially given the Sims they’re fighting.”
Mr. Transport took another lengthy draw from his beer, eyes trained on the now empty screen. He couldn’t help the students he looked after; what came next was entirely in their hands. All the same, he felt compelled to watch every second, as if doom would slip in the minute he glanced away. It was a silly, superstitious idea, like wearing unwashed socks when his favorite football team played, but all the same, he couldn’t shake it.
68.
It was the same city where they’d taken their first exam, yet things were different. New prop buildings of various heights had been constructed, altering the view. Roads that had once branched off in certain directions now went in entirely different ones. In some ways, this was worse than going somewhere utterly foreign, as the desire to lean on memory caused the students to mistrust their locations. Ultimately, this resulted in no more than a few seconds of hesitation for every team, but all of them were well-trained enough to know how precious those moments might turn out to be.
“We’ve got a group up ahead,” Alex said, waving for the others to follow him. Given the spread-out situation, the class had agreed on a divide-and-conquer method. Each team would make its way around, suppressing whatever rogue Sims they could find. The scenario was too volatile to risk working as one massive unit, even if it did make things more dangerous for individual teams. Luckily, between Alex’s ability to sense objects and Amber’s echolocation, information was being relayed across the comms and teams were moving toward their nearest targets. So far, no one had engaged yet, or at least not mentioned it if they had. Sooner or later, though, that would change.
“Can you tell which ones are civilians?” Vince whispered. He was keeping close to Alex, as was Roy, in case anything took him by surprise. Mary and Alice hung back, ready to unleash hell on whatever attacker didn’t have the sense to bring them down first.
Alex shook his head. “There are some huddled up in nearby buildings. I can’t get a read on the group, though. Some of them are destroying stuff, but they all feel about the same size. Maybe these are new models.”
“Well, no one has nearly gotten killed in a while, so fresh robots seem par for the course,” Alice muttered.
With no warning, Alex came to a stop, holding up his hand. “I don’t know if they heard us or not, but they’re coming this way. We’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they get here and we lose what little chance of surprise we might still have.”
“Attention team.” This was a new voice, one they’d never encountered before. It was crisp, female, and with a slight accent that none of them could place. Before they could ask who was speaking, it continued. “I am serving as your DVA relay for this exam; you may refer to me as Dispatch if you need to communicate directly. Right now, I’m here to alert you that the units approaching are all confirmed to be escapees from the prison transfer truck, ones with multiple murders on their records. In this engagement, you are to neutralize the targets as quickly as possible. Lethal force is authorized and recommended.”
“Don’t suppose you’d care to tell us what powers they have,” Roy asked, not expecting an answer.
“Two strongmen types, one energy blaster, one obfuscator, and one acid manipulator.” Dispatch didn’t hesitate, reading off the abilities at a pace so brisk, it was like she’d had the information in her hand, just waiting for a chance to use it.
“Wow. I could get used to that,” Roy said.
“Don’t. Knowledge of enemy abilities is usually limited, and full rundowns are rare,” Dispatch cautioned.
“Guys, they’re getting close.” Alex pointed to the corner of a nearby building, evidently the only thing keeping the Sims out of view.
“Given that grouping and no civilians in sight, we’re probably best off going in hot,” Vince said. “Roy and I will lead the charge, and I’ll drop an electric blast to knock out the three without enhanced endurance. Alice and Mary can swing around to mop up anyone who survives the first charge, while Alex lends aid to anyone who’s having issues. Objections?”
Even if they had some, there was no time to voice them, as now even those without Alex’s senses could hear the approaching footsteps. Waiting only a moment for someone to pitch new ideas, Vince took silence as agreement and tore off running toward the building’s corner. Roy was behind him by only a few steps, trying to keep a little distance between himself and the impending blast. After years of training together, Vince knew that he couldn’t take down Roy without concentrated effort, but an attack was still an attack. With Camille elsewhere, they needed to minimize damage as much as possible, especially given that Vince was going to try and drop all five with the first strike. They’d been given the clearance, and if he could bring the Sims down fast it would minimize chances of civilian involvement, plus allow them to move on to the next group and help the other teams.
All of that was on Vince’s mind as he rounded the corner, electricity already sparking from his hands, yet it was washed away the moment he laid eyes on his opponents. These were not the big, bulky Sims with the faceless heads, exaggerated appendages, and intimidating design. No, what stared back at Vince, blinking in what had to be simulated surprise, looked like a group of people. People wearing tattered white prison jumpsuits, sure, and one with his hand pressing against a wall, dripping green liquid that burned through the fake building’s exterior, but still… people.
The electricity faded as Vince’s resolve faltered. He’d run in ready to destroy a group of robots with no second thought because he’d allowed himself to forget one of the basic truths of what they were learning: the robots were just stand-ins. When it came time to do the real work, it wouldn’t be Sims he was “neutralizing.” It would be living, breathing people.
Behind him, Roy pulled up short as well, caught off guard by the unexpected opponents greeting him. All told, they p
robably only lost a few seconds due to shock. But it was long enough.
A man near the back of the group, with dark hair and impossibly realistic facial scars, took a deep breath and then blew. From his mouth poured a tidal wave of fog, washing over Vince and Roy first, then spreading over the rest of the team and the nearby landscape before anyone could react. It swallowed the whole terrain, leaving them functionally blind; neither Vince nor Roy could see more than an inch or two in front of their face.
It was only in that moment, suddenly cut off from their sight, that they realized perhaps they should have asked Dispatch for some clarification on just what, exactly, an “obfuscator” was.
69.
It was a curious, unexpected sight. Perhaps if they’d been facing a normal Sim, the wielding of a streetlight as a makeshift club wouldn’t have come across as quite so odd, but with its human camouflage in place, the scene became somewhat surreal. The Sim swung toward Chad in an attempt to crack open his skull. Nimbly, he darted to the side, sparing a single glance for the rest of his team and the six Sims they were going up against. Between Amber and Shane, crowd-control was something they should easily have had in hand, but the Sims’ new appearance seemed to have momentarily rattled both of them.
The human-like skins were quite impressive, although Chad’s careful eyes could easily pick out the small details that marked them as unnatural. For most people, he knew the illusions would be near-perfect, which was no doubt the point. This was why Dean Blaine had looked so worried before sending them in: not just because the scenario itself was dangerous or due to the orders to deprioritize civilians, but because he was moving the class closer toward facing the truth. Killing a giant, inhuman robot was one thing. Killing something that seemed human, even if they rationally knew it wasn’t, presented a much greater obstacle. Right now, many of his classmates were facing up to that harsh reality. There would likely be some who realized it wasn’t in them to take life, even in situations like these.
