by C. B. Lee
The teacher smiled at him. It was a nice smile, indulgent, and she shook the holo on her DED. There was a list of names, with little check marks next to all of them except one. He saw the letters and knew what they were. It was his name, but not really. He didn’t know what name he wanted yet, and Ma said that was okay, but this lady didn’t know that.
“Could that be you?” she asked in a gentle tone.
“No.”
“Okay,” she said, putting a check mark next to the name. “What do you want me to call you?”
He didn’t know! He was still picking! He wanted to explain to the teacher that he couldn’t decide between Starscream and Fireheart. But he got messed up, stumbling over the words. And it was all too much, so he just stuck his tongue out at her.
He spent his first hour of his first day of school sitting in the time-out corner for being rude.
The other kids were coloring and drawing, and every so often one of them looked at him curiously. He stuck his tongue out at them too. He didn’t like the corner, and it was unfair that he had to be there.
He wished he was home on the farm: running through the fields, laughing as the water sprinkled over him, pulling up vegetables, eating tomatoes off the vine, watching Dad teach his big brother to cook jambalaya.
His stomach rumbled. He’d forgotten his lunch. He remembered exactly where he left it, on the kitchen table—a little box of rice and beans.
The kids weren’t drawing anymore. They were sitting at their desks, pulling things out of their backpacks, and eating. One kid ate grapes noisily, slobbering and dropping them clumsily.
He closed his eyes, trying to ignore his tummy.
“It’s snack time.”
“Huh?”
“Snack time. Ms. Pike said to come get you. Where’s yours? You can eat now. My name’s Emma.” She said all of this in one quick jumble, and he had an impression of warm, brown eyes and big, brown curls shaking enthusiastically as she swayed back and forth. There was a bright red bow in her hair.
“Don’t have a snack.”
“You can have some of mine,” Emma said. “Come on.” She held out her hand, and he took it, following her to her desk. She pulled a whole apple from a little bag. “Oh,” she said, her face falling. “My mom forgot to cut my apple today. My other mom always makes my lunch.”
He nodded. In all his five-year-old wisdom, he knew many things and that some grown-ups are better at some things than other grown-ups, like how Dad is really good at cooking, but Ma burns the food.
“You can have all of it.” She made a face. “I can’t start it.”
He took a big bite, crunched into the apple, and handed it back at her.
Emma’s whole face lit up. “Oh! Thank you!” She munched happily on the fruit and gestured for him to sit down.
There was an empty spot at the desk next to her and a projector where he could put his DED. He sneaked a look at her desk; her projector showed Emma’s letters in a careful scrawl: E, M, M, A.
Emma showed him how to connect his DED to the projector, and it flickered to life, scattering pixels into the air. He laughed as she swirled her fingers to draw shapes. “You put your name here. So everyone knows this is your desk.” She handed the apple back to him.
He shrugged, biting into it. “I don’t know. I’m still picking.”
Emma nodded. “What do you want? Do you know?”
“Um, I want to be Starscream when I grow up,” he said matter-of-factly.
“That’s not his name name,” Emma said, laughing. “You’re silly. You can have a hero name but you also need a name name.”
He nodded, chewing his apple thoughtfully. It was good, crunchy, not as sweet as the ones they grew on the farm, but still nice.
“Michael?” Emma offered.
He shook his head.
“Joe?”
No to that too.
“Simon?”
He laughed. “That’s my brother!”
“Jeremy?”
He shook his head, and Emma kept running through names.
“Sean?”
“My brother.”
“Wait—how many brothers do you have?”
He held up two fingers. “You can have one of mine. Or both of them.”
Emma giggled. “That would be fun. What about you?”
“I just don’t want to have both brothers. They are loud and smelly and always eating my food.”
“But you always have someone to play with! I don’t have anyone when I go home.”
“You can come to my house, and we can play together.”
“That sounds like fun!”
He laughed. He’d never been called fun. Annoying, yes, by his older brothers, but never fun.
“I like your laugh. Sounds like bells.” She said it with a happy grin.
“What?” He’d heard bells, but they don’t sound like anyone’s laugh.
“I learned that yesterday. You can say that something is like something else and grown-ups think you’re very smart. It’s called a—” she leaned close, as if it were a Big Secret. “Met. A. Four.”
“Okay.”
“Shhh, listen.” Emma pointed to the ceiling, and a chorus of bells, light and chiming, rang out a melody, and then a deeper one pealed in harmony. They’d sounded earlier, at snack time, but he’d been too frustrated to notice.
They were pretty. He still didn’t see how his laugh sounded like them, but that was okay. He had a new friend.
She smiled at him. “Every time we do something new, they make a pretty melody.”
“Bells,” he mused. “I like that.”
Ch. 2...
“Now arriving in Aerial City,” the computerized voice announces as the train slows to a stop.
Bells steps off the train, throws his duffel bag over his shoulder, and takes a deep breath. His last three sessions were in the South; this is the first time he’s been so far north. He’s not used to the cold. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself and, on second thought, pulls the collar of his sweater up to his nose. The air feels different, lush and heavy with moisture.
Bells looks up… and up… and up. The city is actually built into the trees. He gasps at the sturdy trees that tower over everything. Sleek metal buildings wrap around the tree trunks and disappear into the clouds. Walkways connect the buildings, and many mechanized lifts rise into the trees, carrying people to the upper levels. Bells is fascinated.
He shakes himself; he doesn’t have time to be a tourist. He’s only got about ten minutes before the League representative is supposed to pick him up. Well, a version of him.
Bells rushes along the platform and finds a bathroom; he’s relieved to discover it empty. He needs to shift into the physical form he uses as a trainee.
He had qualms about lying to the League at first. His parents worried that giving the Department of Meta-Human Regulations his real name and identity would be dangerous, not just for the Broussards and their underground business, but because no one in their family had ever presented with any meta-abilities. Every meta-human ever registered with the Collective had a parent, or grandparent, or great-aunt, or someone in their family tree with meta-human abilities. All the published research on the meta-gene catalyzed by the flare in 2028 shows that everyone with powers now are all descendants of meta-humans from that time.
Bells’ parents said anything was possible and that he couldn’t be the only one without a traceable legacy, but would he be studied, like a specimen? At the least, it would mean extra surveillance, a bad idea when you run an underground food distribution network.
So, Bells came up with a plan: He’d shift into a completely different physical form and register as a meta-human with a new citizen identification number and name. There would be no record of Bells Broussard having any meta-abilities.
> Some people at the academy wear masks to protect their secret identities and some don’t care if people know who they are, but Bells takes disguise to another level. He stares at his reflection as he completely changes his face: His eyebrows become more prominent, his nose gets a bit longer, and his cheekbones sharpen. His stylish purple hair transforms into a straightforward buzz cut.
Barry Carmichael. Bells’ disguise is another Black teenaged boy whose face is the result of careful research, hours of poring over movies and holos, and blending various movie stars. He’s just good-looking enough to be disarming, but with forgettable features, unlike Bells’ own extremely handsome and memorable face.
Eh, maybe Barry is a bit too nondescript. Bells lets a tuft of hair go purple and clicks his tongue in satisfaction.
On his DED, Bells brings up the program Simon installed so it works with an alternative citizen number. A programmer in Grassroots helped him create the Barry identity, complete with home address, school records, and everything.
Back at the platforms, Bells looks for the uniformed Collective officer who will take him to the training center.
“Barry!”
Bells grins when he spots Christine, one of his friends from training. She’s wearing a long, flowing skirt and a tightened bodice over a blouse. It’s probably one of her own designs. Christine’s power is fabric transmutation, making cloth into anything she pleases. Last summer, she confided in him that her powers were rated lower than D-class. Christine wouldn’t be at Meta-Human Training if her parents hadn’t made a sizeable donation to the League, but Bells is glad she’s here. Even if the League thinks the ability to create and modify clothes wouldn’t be formidable in battle, Bells thinks it’s incredibly useful and cool. Christine’s creations are permanent, whereas Bells’ transformations disappear as soon as he’s not using his power.
Christine beams at him. Bells laughs as she pirouettes forward, holding her skirts and spinning around. “Hey, I missed you on the train!” She lives in Vegas; they usually take the train together.
“Ricky and I had a compartment to ourselves,” she says, winking at him.
“Of course,” Bells says, rolling his eyes. “And how is our favorite disappearing act? Has he managed to stay in the visible plane during your make-out sessions?”
Christine clutches her hands to her face, and her blonde curls shake as she laughs. “No!”
“Pierce. Carmichael.”
Bells recognizes the firm voice: Dylan, the officer who collected them last year. They’re wearing the sleek gray uniform of Collective officials, as well as a pinched, tired look on their face. Dylan glances at Christine and Bells, flicks through a holo on their DED, and checks them off with a carefully blank expression. “Come along. The others are already here.”
“And how are you, Dylan?”
“Fine. Let’s move quickly. The two of you are going to put us off schedule.” Dylan sets a brisk pace, and Bells catches Christine’s eye. He’d tried to engage Dylan in conversation last year, too, but the official never warmed to him. It’s all business with the officials and coaches at the training center. They’re here to teach control and how to efficiently use powers, not to chitchat.
It’s a pity. Bells has three, tree-related puns, and Dylan’s going to miss out on all of them.
Christine’s two heavy suitcases beep and whir as they hover behind her, following her through the station. Bells keeps bumping into the mechanized suitcases as they walk; he’s so distracted by Aerial City: the people, the buildings, the trees.
“Ready for another amazing summer?”
Bells laughs. “Of course!”
“I know the training center will be heated, but I brought several coats just in case,” Christine says. “I wish they would give us an exact location so I can plan for the right climate, but I made do.”
Bells snorts. “I’m sure you did.” He didn’t put much thought into his own packing other than making sure he had clothes.
“I wish we were in the South again! Seeing the ocean every day; that was great. What are we gonna look at here, trees?” Christine gestures at the lush canopy above them.
“You know they have to move every few years,” Bells says. “It’s not like we’ll have time to explore, anyway. We’re gonna be stuck at the training center the entire ten weeks.”
He’s still sad he didn’t touch the ocean the last three summers in Bahía Tortugas. He enjoyed the warm ocean breeze and the salty tang in the air, but he wished he had time to explore the city and the Baja California region. It’s likely to be the same here. It’s a pity; Aerial City seems amazing.
He marvels at the mechanical lifts that follow metal tracks up into the trees and at the many trackways and connections. He snaps picture after picture on his DED. In addition to people using the lifts to travel, they pass a number of teenagers laughing and chasing one another on metal hoverboards strapped to their feet. A group of teens zoom down a walkway. It looks like fun, practically like flying, but there’s no way Bells would ever want to do it. Just thinking about the height of these buildings makes him nauseous.
Christine follows his gaze. “Oh, yeah, all the rage here—I did some research on regional trends when I was taking a fashion class. You can get a hoverboard in all sorts of colors and patterns.”
“Never been on one,” Bells says. They seemed frivolous in Andover, where buses take people everywhere. He can see they’re useful on the many-tiered walkways of Aerial City. If he ever comes back he’ll stick to the lifts… and the covered walkways.
“They can be fun, if you like going fast! I had some at my party in the beginning of June. You didn’t come!”
Bells shrugs. A lot of the trainees hang out between sessions, but it’s a level of closeness he’s not ready for. Besides, he already has friends. He doesn’t need to be besties with everyone in the program.
“Sorry, was busy. Maybe next time?”
Christine nods as they join the other teenagers waiting in a private hoverlift. Christine waves to them, and Ricky, an extremely tall brunet, waves back. He nods companionably to Bells and then wraps Christine in a hug and pulls her into a kiss. His body flickers and disappears momentarily, like a holo.
“Hey, none of that,” Dylan says, annoyed.
Bells says hello to the others and is introduced to a few new faces as well as familiar ones. The twins, Tanya and Sasha, wave back. Most of these kids have been attending Meta-Human Training ever since they got their powers, and many of them are still perfecting their abilities.
The hoverlift comes to a halt, and they file onto a platform. The air seems fresher here. Fluffy clouds billow above, and the forest rustles peacefully. Aerial City’s buildings rise above them, and the silver-chrome shine surrounds the trees gracefully and disappears into the canopy. Bells admires the beauty of the large, impossible trees, and then steps away from the edge.
The next lift moves forward into the canopy on one of the many interconnecting lines between the trees and it keeps going until they’re far from the main city. Bells can barely hear the hustle and bustle of people; he can’t even see the sparkle of the buildings. They’re on a lone track, moving slowly far out into the mist. The gossip and chatter have diminished, and everyone glances at each other warily.
Time seems to stretch into an eternity; it could be twenty minutes, or an hour, or two hours, as they slowly move deeper into the forest. Bells doesn’t move; he doesn’t check the time on his DED. The trees cast far-reaching shadows and seem to whisper long-forgotten secrets, as if they’ve been here—from the time before the Disasters—and will be here long after these times are gone.
The late afternoon slowly fades, and the shadows deepen to dusk. Bells wraps his coat tighter around himself.
When the lift stops, Dylan holds up their hands for the students to wait, and they step onto the platform, and enter in a code on a lockpad.
The lift whirs and starts again, and the officer runs to catch up to it. They don’t close the door, which stays precariously open to the elements.
Out the window, Aerial City has long since disappeared; there’s just forest and the never-ending metal track of this lift heading somewhere into the thick of it.
Officer Dylan stands at attention in their uniform, arms folded, until finally the lift stops. They step onto the platform and silently motion to follow. One by one, the students step out onto the platform, leaving Bells alone. His heart races. He wills his hands to stop shaking and steps out of the lift.
The platform shakes in the wind, but barely disturbs the giant tree it rests upon. Bells falls into step behind Christine. Whatever happens, I hope it happens soon.
“You okay? You look a little green,” Christine whispers to him.
“Not too fond of heights,” Bells says, and if there ever was an understatement, that would be it. He takes a deep breath and tries not to look down. Needing a railing, something, anything, to hold on to, he clutches at the bark of the tree. The platform is large enough for all thirteen of them to stand and… what, wait for the next lift? Bells’ heart beats faster and faster as their lift departs, leaving them there.
Hushed whispers break out as the students wait. Bells glances at Dylan but they are silent. The wind picks up, rushing through the trees.
Bells is dizzy. He thought they’d be closer to New Vancouver, or somewhere in the forest, and that they’d be inside, in buildings or tents or something! But he can’t freak out now in front of everyone.
He holds on to the shift, trying his best to stay in control. Another lift floats up along the track and pauses at the platform. The officer gestures and the students file in. No one else seems disturbed by how high up they are, or how close they were to falling. Bells exhales as he steps into the lift. It’s something solid to stand on, not quite safe, as it’s still moving, but at least he’s not exposed to the long drop below.
The lift ascends, whirring softly. The other students are already babbling away as they drift into the canopy. The trees whisper softly; their branches rustle. Bells can appreciate how beautiful it is here—as long as he doesn’t think about how high up he is.
