XGeneration 7: Dead Hand (XGeneration Series)

by Brad Magnarella

  “But what about the superheroes?” Aksakov asked when Dementyev had finished. “The Champions?”

  For the first time, the stern set of the general’s lips broke upwards at the corners.

  “Do not worry yourself, tovarish,” he said. “I have a plan for them, too.”

  2

  Thirteenth Street High

  Saturday, May 31, 1986

  8:21 p.m.

  Scott leaned forward, elbows on his knees, butt lifting from the bleacher seat. He had never been into sports growing up, never understood the big deal about running around with a ball, throwing it through a hoop, or hitting it with a stick. Now, ten feet behind the batter’s box, anxiety wringing his stomach, he understood it all.

  Thirteenth Street High was down one. Two outs, bottom of the ninth, one girl on second base, and one very special girl at home plate. Scott watched her fire-red ponytail shift over the number 15 on the back of her purple jersey as she edged forward, Louisville Slugger cocked.

  “C’mon, Janis,” he whispered.

  Three-two count. One more strike and Thirteenth Street High was out of the regional tournament, its season done.

  Scott watched the pitcher, her glove supporting the hand that readied the softball beneath her chin. He had attended enough games to recognize the pitcher’s talent, the best Thirteenth Street High had faced all season. He watched her practiced eyes studying the strike zone.

  Janis could easily tap into the girl’s thoughts to know her target. Similarly, she could access the astral plane, peer into the immediate future, see the path of the ball. But for this game—for every game that season—Janis had shut down those abilities. She wanted no advantages.

  Athlete versus athlete.

  Scott’s clasped hands began to throb as the pitcher wound into her throw. The ball flashed fast inside. Janis grunted into a swing. Scott stood as the ball cracked off the aluminum bat. It arced white through the high shine of the outdoor lights, the most solid shot any player had managed all night. Outfielders shouted and backpedaled. Janis had already flung her bat aside and started into a sprint, cleats kicking up chunks of red clay.

  “Go!” Scott shouted, shooting to his feet.

  Screaming cheers climbed around Scott as his gaze switched between the runners’ progress and the ball’s flight. The girl already on base rounded third as the ball collided into the chain-link fence in right field. Another foot, and it would’ve been a home run. Janis reached first as two outfielders chased the bouncing ball. By the time one recovered it, the lead runner had scored—tie game—and Janis was leaving second. A coach stationed beside third pinwheeled her arm and shouted for Janis to keep going, to try for home.

  Scott was jumping now. “Go! Go! Go!” It seemed the only word his brain could manufacture.

  The outfielder threw a one hopper to the second baseman. She bobbled it. That bought Janis, who had rounded third, more precious seconds. By the time the second baseman pinned the ball to her chest, Janis was halfway to home plate. Scott ran up to the fence and seized the chain linking.

  “Go!”

  His gaze beat rapidly between the second baseman and Janis. It was going to be close. Really damn close.

  The second baseman winged a line drive toward the catcher. Ten feet from the plate, Janis started into a spraying slide. The moment the ball thwacked into leather, the kneeling catcher swept her mitt toward Janis’s legs.

  The park fell silent as Janis’s hip grated to a rest over home plate. She and the catcher looked up at the umpire.

  Wave her safe, wave her safe, Scott thought desperately.

  The burly umpire stepped forward and, following a dramatic pause, pumped his right fist.

  Scott sagged against the fence.

  “Out!”

  “Look at you,” Janis said with a sidelong smile. “You’re more upset than I am.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  Though it was true he was disappointed in the outcome—Thirteenth Street High had ended up losing in the first inning of overtime—it was more the case that he felt bad for Janis. After all her sacrifices for the Champions, all the times she had bailed out the U.S. and much of the free world, he had really wanted her to score that winning run. It was the least she deserved.

  As they reached the dirt lot where Scott had parked, he switched Janis’s duffel bag to his other hand to fish his keys from his pocket. “I still say your coach should’ve held you at third.”

  “It was a gutsy call,” Janis agreed, “but with the way that pitcher was tossing strikes tonight, it was probably the right one. I only got that last hit because I figured she’d thrown enough curves and drops and it was time for a fastball. I got lucky, in other words.”

  “Well, for luck that was one hell of a shot.”

  Janis chuckled. “It drove in the tying run, anyway. I’m just glad I got a chance to play this year.”

  Scott smiled as he opened the Volvo’s trunk and dropped Janis’s bag inside. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Win or lose, Janis getting to play again, to experience some normalcy for a change.

  “I’m glad, too.”

  “And it’s kind of nice when losing doesn’t mean the end of the world.” She nudged a hip against him. “Right, Champ?”

  “For sure.”

  He tipped the bill of her ball cap back and pecked her cheek. Janis grasped his hands and used them to draw his face back down to hers. Her salty-sweet kiss ignited a heat in his chest that spread like fire.

  As always, he felt a little dizzy when they separated, as though a part of him had come unmoored. He rocked to the passenger side door to open it for her, but Janis hadn’t followed. He returned to the back of the car, where she was staring at the lights that burned above the softball field. Team managers lingered in the halogen glow, hefting bags of equipment. From Scott’s distance, the lit-up scene looked like a snapshot of Americana.

  “Something up?” he asked.

  She started as though she’d been caught daydreaming. “No, not really.” She hiked herself onto the back of the Volvo, setting her cleats on the bumper. “It’s just with everything winding down, I’m wondering when Director Kilmer will decide to take the next step. You know, something more than just letting me return to sports, or letting you use your personal modem.”

  Scott hiked himself up beside her. The final cars were leaving the lot, their headlights brightening and then receding from the space he and Janis shared. “Like freeing us from our obligations to the Champions Program?”

  He considered his own question. After all, the Scale was defeated, Titan locked in a maximum-security cell, the other members—Shockwave and Minion—still in some kind of assessment and re-education program.

  From a global perspective, the states of Eastern Europe had all but declared themselves independent that spring. The Soviet Union, or what remained of it, hadn’t made much noise in months. Neither had Janis experienced any more premonitions of nuclear war. A final Soviet collapse felt imminent. Why would a Cold-War Champions Program be necessary when there wasn’t a Cold War to win anymore?

  “You think Kilmer’s close to making that call?” he asked.

  “I peeked.” It came out a sigh. “President Reagan’s anxious to pull the plug.”

  Scott tilted his head to read his girlfriend better. He had always been the more stoked about being a superhero. Janis had her moments, sure, but the need didn’t burn in her as it did in him.

  “But that’s what you’ve sort of wanted, isn’t it?” he asked. “I mean, a return to this. To normalcy.”

  “Definitely.” She looked down at the scuffed toes of her cleats. “But this idea of going back to the way things were … They can’t, can they? If the Program ended tonight, we would still possess our abilities. We’ll never be free of them.”

  When Janis peered over at him, her eyes shone with a need to be understood. It reminded Scott of the night on the swing set up in the Grove a year and a half earlier, when they’d first reveale
d their powers to one another.

  “You can always turn them off, right?” he asked carefully. “Like you did tonight?”

  “I can, but it’s like putting a lid on a pot of boiling water. When I take the lid back off, it’s … overwhelming. Like now. Everything is suffused with astral energy.” Janis looked around. As her eyes caught the lights of the field, Scott saw that her irises had shifted from chestnut to an electric green. She almost didn’t look herself. “It’s not disorienting,” she went on. “I understand it now. But what if there comes a time when that’s all I experience?”

  Now Scott understood. She was afraid of becoming her powers, of turning into another being entirely. Scott had caught glimpses of that possibility—when she’d attacked Agent Steel more than a year before and, this past Christmas, when she believed Reginald Perry responsible for Creed’s death. Both times, she’d been consumed by a god-like wrath. Hard to reconcile with the girl sitting on the trunk of his car in clay-stained pants.

  Janis shook her head and laughed once. “I don’t mean to be a downer. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”

  “What about the psychic circuit breakers Mrs. Fern installed?”

  “They were designed to keep my powers from exceeding my capacity to process them. But my capacity keeps growing. In the last few months, I haven’t even come close to my limits.”

  “We haven’t had any campaigns,” Scott pointed out.

  “But we’ve had plenty of Agent Steel training sessions.”

  She was right. The same sessions used to exhaust her, but for the last three months she had been doubling them up with softball practice. It bothered Scott that he had not considered the implications of her growing power, not recognized the strain it was placing on her mind.

  She rubbed his back, having picked up his train of thought, evidently.

  “It’s my fault for not telling you,” she said softly. “I guess I thought it would resolve on its own.”

  “Do you promise to keep me posted from now on?”

  She pulled her lips in and nodded.

  Scott lifted her chin with a knuckle until their eyes were even. “We’re in this together. We’ll figure it out.”

  Janis blinked back moisture, and for a disorienting moment, Scott occupied her experience. It was nothing like entering a data system. It was much more intense, more frightening, like standing in the fragile eye of a category-five hurricane. Incomprehensible forces on all sides. How could anyone channel that? But Janis was, somehow. So far.

  The experience ended for Scott, its sudden absence almost as disorienting as its manifestation.

  “Thanks.” Janis nudged up against him, then hopped from the trunk. “Shall we?”

  The lights above the ball field cut out, the sudden darkness reducing Janis to a shadow. Scott lowered himself from the trunk. He reached for her, half expecting to encounter a phantom of energy. When his fingers touched the back of her polyester jersey, he flattened his hand against the warm, solid muscles beneath and guided her toward the passenger side door.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  But it wasn’t until the interior light clicked on and he had her safely inside that Scott allowed himself to relax. He kissed her before closing the car door, more aware than ever of the power beyond her lips.

  Is she? he wondered.

  3

  Last day of school

  Friday, June 6

  1:44 p.m.

  “The recipient of our Student of the Year award for tenth-grade history…”

  While Principal Munshin sorted through the scatter of certificates on his podium, Janis sat in the center of the packed Thirteenth Street High auditorium, head bowed, hands clasped white between her knees. Her skin prickled as she felt faces turning toward her.

  Please, I’m begging you. Don’t let it be…

  “Janis Graystone!”

  …me.

  As she groaned to her feet, she noticed that the applause for her had become more begrudging. This made award number four, and the principal hadn’t even gotten to English yet. She would be lucky if she escaped the auditorium without being stoned.

  Scott stood to make room for her. “You trying for a sweep?” he whispered, struggling not to grin.

  She gave him a deadpan stare and whacked his stomach for good measure. On stage, she accepted her certificate, shook the principal’s hand, and smiled stiffly for the school photographer. It was the Program’s fault, she told herself. Because her responsibilities to the Champions took priority over all else, her father had capped the difficulty of her high school courses at honors. All year long A’s had splattered her tests and papers like mayflies. She didn’t mind the accolades. It was the attention that made her want to dig a hole and crawl inside.

  Principal Munshin palmed the microphone. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he whispered. “Your name’s coming up again shortly.”

  “Great.”

  Janis paced back across the stage with her newest certificate. Before she could hurry down the steps, a premonition made her feet stutter. She touched the rail for support. The vision seemed so sensational, so improbable—especially after months of nothing. But it was real, and her hesitation proved costly.

  The doors at the back of the auditorium and along both sides clapped open. Men in SWAT gear stormed in. They wore balaclavas under their helmets and carried assault rifles. Startled murmurs rose from the audience of swiveling heads. Is this a joke? Janis heard them thinking. Is this real?

  “Shut up!” the men were shouting. “Stay seated!”

  Janis backed from the steps. A hand gripped her wrist. She looked over to find her P.E. teacher from the year before, Coach “Two F’s” Coffer, urging her to sit beside him. Janis lowered herself to the empty chair at the end of a row of seated teachers. What else could she do without exposing her powers?

  Scott’s voice broke into Janis’s confused thoughts. Are they ours? he asked.

  I don’t think so.

  She studied the fifteen or so men as they took positions around the auditorium. Though their uniforms were similar to those worn by Agent Steel’s team, the pattern of armor was different. She probed the thoughts of the man nearest her. They confirmed her suspicions. The men weren’t affiliated with the Champions Program. They weren’t even Americans.

  Russians, she announced.

  Russians? What in the world are they doing here?

  I think we’re about to find out, she answered.

  A commotion broke out at the podium as two men who had emerged from behind the stage shoved Principal Munshin aside. A third man, a head taller than the others and sporting a red band around his left bicep, strode to the microphone. When Munshin lowered himself to a chair, hands raised defensively, Janis enfolded her principal in the telekinetic shield she had erected for the teachers. A second, larger shield covered the student body.

  “Be calm and remain seated,” Red Band said in a thick accent. Not only was he taller than the other men but more muscular. The thick grip of a military pistol protruded from his belt. “We do not come to hurt you.”

  A scream went off on the balcony level as the realization dawned on someone that the assembly was being taken hostage. The panic set off more screams. The armed men shifted to make sure no one attempted to run.

  “I said to be calm!” Red Band shouted. “The only way you get hurt is to not listen!”

  That seemed to quiet the screamers. As Janis’s gaze roamed the auditorium, she was startled to find a pair of ocean-blue eyes fixed on hers—Tyler’s. She hadn’t realized he was here, but of course he would be. They didn’t have any courses together, but the assembly was for the entire sophomore class.

  She linked him up to her and Scott.

  And just when my name was about to be called, Tyler said dryly.

  It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Janis assured him. I’ve got you both covered.

  I sent a message to Kilmer, Scott said. He doesn’t want us to
act until he’s talked to Steel.

  Janis nodded. Roger that.

  It wasn’t like they had many offensive options, anyway. Scott was without his helmet; Tyler couldn’t use his electricity without blowing his cover; and she was putting everything she had into two shields that, if the situation went south, needed to be strong enough to repel automatic gunfire.

  But just what kind of an action was this?

  Red Band pulled an index card from a vest pocket and held it up. “I have a list,” he said, pressing the card to the podium. “When I call your name, I ask you to come up here.” Gray eyes possessing about as much empathy as a corpse moved inside the holes of the balaclava.

  Stay put guys, Janis said, sensing what was coming.

  “Tyler Bast.”

  Looks like I got my wish, Tyler remarked.

  “Scott Spruel.”

  An empty chuckle sounded through the rapport. At least you’ve got company.

  “Janis Graystone.”

  Surprise, surprise, she thought.

  “And Erin Chiras.”

  That’s all of the Champions at Thirteenth Street High, Janis observed. Erin, who had joined the Champions from the Beta team following the campaign against the Scale, was enrolled as a senior.

  Who are these guys? Tyler asked.

  I think they’re the Soviet mercenary team Kilmer mentioned way back when, Janis answered. The ones with standing orders to find us—and who I didn’t believe existed.

  A little late to the game, though, right? Scott said. Didn’t they get the message that the Cold War’s over?

  Red Band’s dead eyes roamed the auditorium. Most students had the good sense to keep their faces fixed forward, but Janis could see several gazes hunting for the four condemned students. Not the sharpest tacks, obviously. Red Band placed a gloved hand on the grip of his pistol.

  “I am waiting,” he said.

  “We have a situation,” Kilmer announced as Agent Steel entered his office.