Chapter 10
Before he knew it, Lane was shaken awake by Harry. “We thought we’d stop for dinner, dude, and to switch drivers. We also need to figure out a few things.”
“Like what?” Lane stretched, yawning.
“Like where we’re really going, route and stuff.” Sam’s voice was creaky with pain, but she was even more awake than he was. Probably because she’d already slept a lot of the day away. “And that cough syrup thing was not cool.”
“Let’s just say my brain needed a break.” He sat up, feeling his bones creak.
“OK, so it’s safe to say they know our route by now, right?” Samantha ignored him, “So I suggested that we take a little detour. Head towards Sacramento and catch the 395 up.”
“And waste all those hours?” Lane shook his head, “No, time is, literally, all we have. So, yes, the dog man knew we were coming, but we’re careful, and fast, and—”
Lane stopped. Al and Harry were exchanging sheepish looks, guilty. Sam’s chin was up, and her look was stubborn, unrepentant.
“Oh no,” Lane groaned, “You didn’t.”
“We’re just outside of Reno now,” Harry said.
“Guys! That’s hours, wasted! Wasted!”
“Not wasted,” Samantha said, calmly, “They’ll never expect us to take that kind of detour, and now—”
“You took advantage of me being asleep so you could bully them into listening to you,” Lane interrupted.
An eyebrow arched, “That’s no longer fair play, then?” Sam responded coyly.
Hmph. She had him there.
“Fine,” Lane said, “But for future reference, this is a democracy.” Sliding out of the car, he headed towards the gas station they were parked in front of.
“Fair enough,” Sam followed, “Then let’s sit down and figure this out.”
Heart’s Station was almost a self-sustaining city. Meant for cross-country truckers, it served as a small grocery store, drugstore, restaurant, gas station, and parts store all in one. They headed towards the back, where sub-sandwiches offered an inoffensive meal. After ordering their sandwiches, they slid into a hard wooden booth.
“So,” Sam said, “What next? If we drive all night, we can make it to Seattle in twelve hours, excluding pit stops. If we want to detour through Sacramento, it’ll add another four hours but might work better for hiding our trail. Though now that we aren’t on the direct route, I bet it’ll take them a while to figure out which way we went. I’m assuming we’re going to take turns driving?”
“I guess so.”
Sam pulled a pen and paper from her purse and went to work, sketching out a grid that soon took shape as a duty roster and schedule. Lane looked over her shoulder, shaking his head, and told her to cross Al off the list of driving duties.
“Now let’s not be too hasty,” Al said, reaching for the list.
Harry intercepted him, “No, Lane’s right.”
“Why not?” Sam asked. She’d gotten the impression earlier that Al wasn’t the best driver. But still, a bad driver was better than none in this situation, right? Heck, she didn’t know how to drive herself but was willing to learn if it meant they’d make better time.
“He can’t be distracted in case, uh, something happens.”
“What kind of something?”
“Oh, oh, can I demonstrate?” Al looked up from picking at his sandwich, grinning, “I’m going to demonstrate.”
A large jukebox stood nearby. Getting up, Al ran and put a quarter in, punching in some numbers. The jukebox came to life, belting out a song. Highway to Hell. Ha ha, Lane thought, appropriate.
“Tired of the music?” Al asked. Already tired of the theatrics, Samantha nodded politely. Placing his hand on top of the jukebox, “Now imagine this is the car.” He narrowed his eyes. The jukebox let out an unearthly screech and died again, “Any mech can do that to anything mechanical—even vehicles, depending on their range. So you need another mech around if you want to make sure they don’t do it, so I’m the one who prevents sabotage. Bottom line, death by mysterious brake failures is the number one killer in our community and I doubt any of us wants to be a victim.”
Something in this last statement caught Sam on an emotional level. Lane felt her emotions flip flop, and with them, her talent. She clutched the bridge of her nose, letting out a mewl of pain. The sensation Lane felt next was one he’d never experienced before. Like all of his power, all of his energy, was suddenly yanked from him. His empathic reading, an ever present fixture in his life, blinked off for a split second. And then came roaring back on as his energy came flooding back in from the environment. From the way Al and Harry jumped, it seemed like they’d just experienced the same thing. That wasn’t typical—even in the world of Talents. Meanwhile, Sam had her head on the counter, hiccupping.
“Sam, breathe deeply.”
“I can’t.” She gasped between hiccups.
Al and Harry looked at Sam with mouths agape. Sam rubbed her forehead.
“What the hell,” Sam said, in a low voice, “is happening to me?” Despair leaked from her like water from a faucet.
“I don’t know,” Lane said, “but something just triggered your talent.”
#
Taking her sandwich, Sam fled to the parking lot. She knew it was stupid to do—especially considering what had happened the last time she branched out alone—but she couldn’t stand the inquisitive stares. A trigger. What the hell did that mean? She couldn’t make her powers turn on when some dog was trying to rip her throat out, but Al mentions a car wreck and the generator explodes? She leaned against the SUV, soaking up the warmth of the car, looking out west, towards the setting sun. The clouds were illuminated, lavender and soft pink. A color that looked better in nature than on her, she thought wryly.
“I can give you some advice if you want, help the headache.”
Lane, of course. Following her out. Sam slitted her eyes, tilting her head forward to look at him over her glasses and pursing her lips. Lane held his hands out palms up, “No funny business, I promise.”
“If you try something, I just might—agghhgoddamnit—” Putting her hand against the car, Sam closed her eyes tightly and mouthed something silently to herself. A second went by. “Get rid of it!” she squeaked.
“I can’t,” Lane said, “Talents can only control their own energy. You have to deal with this yourself.”
Sam grunted in reply. Lane leaned next to her, “Now listen carefully. What you’re feeling now is energy—the potential to control your environment. It’s building up. If you don’t do something about it, it could very well do something with itself—like what happened in the bus.”
“Less talk. More help.”
“Learn to control that energy. I want you to think of this car as your ground, and the pain as electricity. Take that electricity and funnel it out of your mind, through your arm, and into the ground.”
“Can’t. Funnel. Electricity,” Sam said through gritted teeth, eyes still squeezed shut.
Lane rolled his eyes, “Stop being so literal. If you don’t like electricity, think of it as water, air, whatever you want.”
“Fine.”
Sam tried to do as he asked. She really did. She thought of the skull-splitting pain as an electrical bolt, bouncing around her head causing havoc. Then she made her arm a wire, and tried to guide the lightning from her mind through the wire into the car where she imagined it harmlessly dissolving into the earth. The pain made it difficult, but Sam had had a lot of experience ignoring pain.
But it didn’t work. The pain flickered, but otherwise, nothing. She sat there, tortured as the seconds dragged on.
“Are you trying?” Lane asked.
“Yes I’m trying!” It was all Sam could do not to throw a choice swear word in. Reaching out, Lane placed his hands on her temple. It was meant as a gesture of reassurance. Even so, Sam recoiled. But, amazingly, her headache eased. She gave Lane a look he was growing all too familiar wi
th, “You told me you weren’t going to do anything.”
Lane looked at his hands, confused, “I didn’t. It was just to comfort you.”
“Your little trick did something, though.”
Shrugging, Lane stepped closer to her, “There’s nothing specific we do. It’s just forming a connection between imagination and reality.”
Sam’s brow furrowed. She stepped back, “OK. That’s nice. How’s it really work?”
Laughing, Lane shook his head. Sam frowned, “What’s so funny?”
“You’re the first transitional I’ve worked with who wanted the dirty details, you know. And it really doesn’t surprise me. Look, I could literally write a thesis on how we use our talents. But bottom line, every being creates and expends energy. Talents can use that energy directly, without having to physically touch the world. But we don’t know why, or how, exactly. The ability is mostly unconscious. And it always starts as an instinctive response to a threat, or danger. We call that a trigger. It takes a while before you can summon your talent at will. Some never learn.”
“Why not?”
“My theory is that because it’s our subconscious that’s creating and managing the energy, your conscious mind can’t access it directly. So you access it indirectly using mental analogies that clue your subconscious into what you want. Like converting from digital to analog. But not everyone with talent can do that. Their converter is broken, or their mind never learns to forge that gap between the rational brain and the, well, lizard brain.”
Sam nodded, “Why didn’t you just say that to begin with?”
“Most people just like to think their magical pretenses are coming true.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I can see that.”
After that, they stood in silence, watching as the sun slid quietly down past the horizon. Twilight settled. “I know most kids dream of having super powers,” Samantha said finally, “but I don’t know if this is all that it was cracked up to be. So far, I’ve got headaches, Darth Vader’s bastard son trying to kill me, and a torn-up shoulder, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing.”
“I don’t know,” Lane said, “Those sweatpants are pretty cute.”
#
It was well past midnight when Lane finally consented that it was time they got some rest. He considered just pulling over at a rest stop, but worried it would leave them too exposed to attack. So they pulled into a small motel on the eastern outskirts of Sacramento. In the end, Samantha had won her argument. Frustration built at this. He was used to taking charge, to taking the lead. While Sam made salient points, he resented the way she could dig in her heels. Or maybe he resented the way he never could seem to say ‘no’ to her.
Yawning, Lane stumbled slightly as he climbed out of the car. He leaned against the door frame, gaining his balance. He must be more tired than he’d thought. He looked around as he emerged in the dark parking lot. Flat. Empty. There was another budget motel across the street, but that was it. Apparently, landmarks were too much to ask for in this part of the country. Unless you counted heat and bugs as a landmark.
He went up to check in. Luckily, the woman was already bored, more interested in playing computer solitaire. A little tweak and a soft suggestion, and her game went from a diversion to a fascination. She was only too eager to get him a room so he would stop trying to distract her. Come the morning, she would remember only that she had a customer and that she’d played solitaire most of the night. Such was the nature of the human brain. Had he tried to force her not to notice him, her mind might have rejected his influences and he would have had to use a lot more power. Going with the flow was much more effective.
Al and Harry were awake and waiting for him outside the car, Al doing what looked like his ‘I have to potty’ dance. Except that he was grinning, excitedly gesturing to Lane as he drew near: “Wait’ll you see this,” he hissed.
Curled up in a corner, Sam snored, a small line of drool curling down from the corner of her mouth. Her arms curled around herself.
“Can we take a picture?” Al whispered. Harry grimaced at the thought. Lane shook his head, muffling a laugh. Al had a point. It was funny to see the normally composed Sam in this kind of state. He doubted she would appreciate evidence, though. He leaned forward, planning on unbuckling her and carrying her into the hotel room. But she was startled awake as he leaned over her, her hand going up to his neck in a defensive gesture.
“Geez!” Lane coughed, feeling his windpipe, “Is it ever safe to wake you up?!”
Sam looked at him, eyes wide, pumped with anxiety and adrenaline.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, “I don’t like it.”
Taking a step back, Lane put his hands up in a placating gesture. Al gave Harry a look that said just what Lane was thinking: What the hell?
“I got you a room.” Lane held the key out to Sam, who took it, “And we’re sharing the one next door. OK?”
“Fine,” she said shortly, “but I hope you’re not planning on staying here long.”
“No longer than I have to,” he snapped back.
#
Sam let herself into the motel room. It was about as good as one could expect: the décor looked to be at least twenty years old, but it was clean at least. And any bed would do at this point. The only thing she didn’t like was the big glass picture window next to the door, facing out onto the narrow walkway overlooking the parking lot. Undefendable, that was. Even so, she locked the door behind her, first the door lock, then the dead bolt. She finished by sliding a chair under the handle.
At last, convinced she was as secure as she could get, she started to strip, only to jump when a familiar knock sounded on the door. Heart pounding, she looked through the peephole. Lane again. Sam quickly dressed and removed the chair, opening the door. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, but I thought you might not want to sleep in your new clothes.” Lane held a lump of fabric out to her and Sam took it. “G’night.” He left without another word. Sam unrolled the lump: a plain white T-shirt, large enough to be a nightie.
“No way,” Samantha said to herself as she undressed and pulled on the T-shirt, “There’s no way this guy’s for real.”
She wrinkled her nose as she climbed under the sheets. Smelled her pillow. Traced the scent to the T-shirt where she finally identified it as a mix of man, aftershave, and laundry detergent. It was nice. Somehow, the shirt echoed Lane’s comforting presence. What was up with that confidence, anyways? It was like he thought he lived in a little bubble of invincibility. And he somehow thought just being near him meant she would be invincible, too. Well, it was a nice thought. An alluring thought. But sirens were alluring, too, as they drew you to the rocky cliffs.
“Not for real,” Sam reminded herself once more before drifting into a fitful half-sleep, “They never are.”
#
When Lane came into the hotel room, Al and Harry were watching TV, channel surfing from news show to news show.
“Anything good?”
“Nothing on us. Nothing on Jacobs.” Disappointment filled Al’s voice. The TV blinked off. Al climbed off Harry’s bed and threw himself down on the cot they’d bought him.
“Speaking of which,” Harry said, “First Garret Stone, now Hal. Lane, they’re bringing out the big guns to get that girl.”
“What about the dog man?” Al said, “Oooh, I control puppies. It’s hardly the stuff of nightmares.”
“They got you to run,” Harry replied.
“Hey! You ran, too. But he’s small potatoes, we’ve never even heard of him. Or the girl.”
“A road block,” Lane answered, “thrown up to slow us down and scare us a little. I bet they have people like that all over, just sitting around waiting for us to come by. If it works, great. If not, they have other people in reserves.”
“It might help if she could, y’know, actually use her talent.” Harry fluffed his pillow, lying back and closing his eyes.
“Like dropping a bus on the dog man?” Al wrinkled his nose, “I think that might have been overkill.”
“Hell, I would have been happy with a moped,” Harry chuckled, “Something’s better than nothing.”
“But nothing is what we’ve got,” Lane said, sitting down on his own bed. And it was strange; she should have been able to do something. Nothing brought out adrenaline and instinct like being attacked by wild animals.
“Did we get the wrong person, do you think?” Harry said, speaking the question on everyone’s mind.
Al shook his head, “If her powers aren’t great, then why work so hard to kill her?”
“Maybe the Corporation got the wrong person, too. Maybe this is one big massive comedy of errors.”
“So, what, we ditch her?”
“Of course not,” Harry said, “I’m just saying we need to keep our options open.”
Lane sighed, rubbing his temples. He hated arguments; they always gave him a headache. Opening up his backpack, he pulled out his journal and started flipping through it absentmindedly.
“Dude,” Al said, “This is getting weirder and weirder. Lane, do you think there’s something she’s not telling us?”
Lane thought about this. She was hiding something.
Whether or not it had to do with the Corp or her powers, he didn’t know.
“Great,” Al said, “Now we have two mysterious silent types. Thanks for your input.” Al rolled over, pulling the covers over his head. A soft snort from Harry’s direction signaled that he’d already checked out of the conversation.
Lane had a harder time falling asleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he thought of Sam. That in itself was aggravating. More aggravating was the lack of answers he had. When he tried not to think of Sam, he thought of Hal or another power on a highway somewhere, closing in on them, intent on taking her to some horrible fate on a lab table somewhere, or locking her in a little box for experiments. Not for the first time in his life had he wished that his talent were more tactile. Something like Harry had. Something that might slow a real power like Garret or Hal down. What could he do, miraculously turn their anger into kindness and affection? Fat chance. The best Lane could hope to do was to sneak up behind one of them and hit them with something. Then again, he’d already wasted that trick on Stone. He tried taking notes, which usually helped him clear his mind. He couldn’t even fill one page with answers. The list of questions, however, threatened to be endless. He snapped his notebook shut, shoving it back in the bag.
Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) Page 9
