Super Powereds: Year 3 Page 4

  “Actually, that’s the easy part,” Dean Blaine corrected him. “It was training. We can speculate on the why all we want, but there’s no other way to interpret his activities. Any HCP graduate will tell you the same.”

  Ralph snorted. “Seems like a waste of time. How much could this George fellow possibly have taught Vince in a couple of months?”

  Had Ralph been born with telepathy, he’d have heard a resounding chorus of thoughts wondering just how big a dumbfuck he could possibly be. Professor Stone had to cough into her hand to keep from laughing.

  3.

  Nicholas Campbell tossed the final empty box into his apartment complex’s dumpster with a curious sense of satisfaction. The moving company had done most of the real work—what little there was when moving into a furnished apartment—but he still felt as though he’d accomplished something by emptying the few boxes of possessions he’d brought with him. The items had been stored in closets and chests as appropriate, leaving a home that was far too organized to pass as the domicile of a regular college junior. He’d have to muck up the place before having anyone over. Such was the onus of blending in. At least his new persona wasn’t trying to fly below the radar in a program filled with superhuman teens and recent post-teens. All he had to do was convince those around him that he was living a regular college life. Well, almost everyone.

  He’d barely gotten the door closed before a light series of knocks echoed from the other side. Momentarily, Nicholas considered locking the door and ignoring it, but pursuing that option would cause him more headache than it was worth. Had it just been the two people he knew were standing outside, there would have been no issue. Unfortunately, they were not alone; they carried a directive from Ms. Pips, and that meant that, even without being there, she was still telling him to treat her employees with respect. Respect was a very important thing in their world, almost as important as money.

  “Yo,” Eliza greeted as Nicholas pulled open the door, throwing up a peace sign and walking in without invitation. She’d lost the biker gear and thrown on jeans and an unbuttoned plaid top tied in the middle. It made her look like a slutty farmhand.

  A strange twitch rippled through Nicholas’s mind—he felt like he knew someone who would approve, but then came up empty on who. It was probably Roy; he affected a southern persona, according to Nick’s notes. These twitches were a cause of confusion for Nicholas. His brain kept reaching for information in a place it was no longer allowed to access, then reconciling from data he’d only read. It made for a slower thinking process, which Nicholas considered unacceptable.

  “Afternoon,” said Jerome, walking up a bit more tactfully. Despite what one might expect from the name, Jerome was clearly of Asian heritage, though Nicholas had never been able to quite figure out exactly which locale. No one knew his real name, except perhaps Ms. Pips, which was effectively the same as no one knowing. He’d been caught stealing food from the buffets when he was ten, but ambition, and a useful ability, had persuaded the Family to offer him work, rather than taking the crime out on his flesh. Jerome must have appreciated how rare that opportunity was; the man was beyond reproach in his dedication. He was also proper and polite, which annoyed Nicholas to no end.

  “You may as well come in, too,” Nicholas sighed, swinging the door wider to accommodate Jerome’s mighty frame. Whatever his genetic ancestry, it was definitely one that favored large builds to which muscle came easily. “I doubt I’ll be getting rid of her any time soon.”

  “Why thank you, I’d love a beer,” Eliza called from the couch. She was looking through his bookshelf and had already managed to destroy its alphabetic arrangement. Oh well, he would have had to do that himself eventually.

  “So sorry to disappoint, but I haven’t had the chance to swing by the store.”

  “You sure? Check your fridge.”

  Nicholas did just that, also looking in the shelves and cabinets, confirming what he’d already suspected. All were full, stuffed with food and supplies enough to last a week or so. He’d only been down at the dumpsters for seven minutes, tops. This was pretty impressive work.

  He tossed Eliza a beer, helping himself to a gin on the rocks. That much, at least, he’d put in the cabinets himself. Jerome got tossed a beer as well, though he politely set it on the table. Jerome didn’t drink, so it would ultimately end up in Eliza’s stomach, but propriety demanded Nicholas make him the offer anyway.

  “Not bad,” Nicholas said, settling down in a chair that needed severe ergonomic overhauling to be comfortable. “Are those going to dissipate in three days?”

  “No, you got the originals,” Eliza told him. “Though I did duplicate a few of the better items for us.”

  “I expected as much.” Eliza was a Super, one with a very useful talent that made her the Family’s best counterfeiter. She could create duplicates of any non-living object she held. These copies were effectively real; they could be taken apart, would pass any examination, and were, molecule for molecule, identical to the original. The only difference was that hers would dissipate after seventy-two hours, or whenever she wanted it gone, whichever came first. “Ms. Pips give you a key?”

  “Yeah, but I picked it anyway. You need a better lock. I cracked it in under twenty seconds.”

  Nicholas frowned. For the price of the rent, he’d expected at least somewhat decent security. Evidently, this place thought the location alone—a few blocks from campus—made it worth the exorbitant cost.

  “I’ll look into it. Any word on Nathaniel yet?” The two had arrived and moved in (a few apartments down) a week earlier, their assignment to keep watch and see if they could find where that orange-eyed fuck was holing up over the semester.

  “Nothing so far,” Jerome said. “We don’t think he’ll show until classes actually start, and even then, he might come late.”

  “We doubt he gives two wet fucks about his G.P.A. or perfect attendance,” Eliza added.

  “Right. At any rate, the Evers family has ample holdings in the area, including a few hotels, so it is possible he moved into any one of them without notice, and we don’t have the resources to watch them all.”

  “Good, that would be a waste of time, anyway,” Nicholas said. “He isn’t going to break into my house in the middle of the night, or, if he does, it won’t be to attack me. They could have taken a shot at me in Vegas, if they just wanted me dead. Even our Family’s reputation doesn’t stop bullets.”

  “So, you don’t think he plans to kill you?” Jerome asked.

  “Oh no, I’m positive he plans to kill me, but that’s an outcome, not a plan. Nathaniel and I have been having these matches since we were kids. Matches that he, incidentally, always loses. Nathaniel wants me dead; however, he wants it to happen in a way that doesn’t start a war. And even more than that, Nathaniel wants to beat me. That’s the only reason for him to take this route. He can’t let me die without at least one mark in his win column, so he’ll undoubtedly engage us in some drawn-out game of wits and subterfuge.”

  “Sounds like a pain in the ass,” Eliza muttered. “I guess there’s no other way to deal with him, though.”

  “Of course there is,” Nicholas replied, taking a sip of his drink. “I don’t owe him anything, certainly not entertainment. I have enough on my plate, and I have no intention of playing whatever game he comes up with.”

  “So, then, what’s the plan?” Jerome asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Nicholas shot back. “When he comes to confront me in some idiotic manner, I figure out the game he’s trying to play, then I do what I’ve always done best: I cheat.”

  4.

  The underground section of Lander, the place only those currently enrolled in the Hero Certification Program could access, was bustling as the juniors filed through. The freshmen had arrived and taken their initial ranking exams yesterday, but the entry hall seemed thick with black uniforms and young, uncertain faces.

  “Were there this many of us during the first year?
” Alice asked.

  “Probably back in the beginning,” Mary replied. “Hard to believe though, given that only twenty of us are left.”

  The juniors were filtering down the lifts slowly, a splash of gray amidst the sea of black. Aside from alterations to accommodate growth spurts, each still had the same uniform from their sophomore year. Those who made it to senior year would earn the right to don a white one. No such uniforms were currently visible; they would have their orientation the following day. This one was devoted to sophomore team selections and whatever activity awaited the migrating juniors once they arrived.

  It took some time to traverse the crowded hallways of freshmen, but eventually, all of the juniors made it to the gym. Dean Blaine waited patiently for them to fall into a line, allowing for a certain amount of gawking as everyone tried to figure out who was missing. Professor Pendleton, Professor Fletcher, and Professor Stone all stood to his right. Professor Hill, Professor Cole, and Professor Baker were to his left. A man that most of the students didn’t recognize hung out near the rear of the gym. In contrast to the professors, he was exceedingly normal-looking, dressed in a polo shirt and cream-colored slacks that would have looked more at home on a golf course than in a heavily fortified training facility. Once the last student arrived, Dean Blaine began to speak.

  “Julia Shaw. Agatha Mason. Tiffani Hunt. Stella Hawkins. Nick Campbell. Michael Clark. Hector Morrison. Gilbert Reid.”

  At first, the students were confused as he rattled off names of classmates, however, as each recognized the name of a friend they knew about, a sense of uncomfortable understanding seeped in.

  “Those are the students that are not with us this year. They were friends of yours, people you bonded with and cared about. They are powerful, skilled warriors, who, for the most part, upheld the principles a Hero is meant to stand for. But they are gone, and the odds of them coming back are strikingly minimal.”

  Dean Blaine moved forward and surveyed the faces of the students before him. The sadness was nearly palpable. A shared dream united people, gave them a familial sentiment toward one another. The cost was that, when one had that dream die, it pained all who cared for them.

  “I know that’s hard for you to hear. It isn’t easy for me to say, either. I cared for all of them as I care for you. Losing our companions is a bitter part of this process, one that I have the unfortunate task of telling you will only get worse as this class shrinks. But trust me when I say that, as much as you dislike this, it is infinitely worse for those not currently wearing a uniform. I don’t say that to sadden you further, I just want you to know that it can be worse, and encourage each of you to try your hardest not to experience that side of the equation.”

  Reaching the end of his speech, Dean Blaine turned and began walking back.

  “Now that the past has been spoken of, let’s move on to the future—your year ahead, specifically. In light of last year’s . . . unplanned excitement, we didn’t manage to close things out properly. As a result, we never collected the information on which of your courses you wished to drop, and which you hoped to stay in. Given the hecticness of everything and this gaffe on our part, we’ve decided that everyone who has made it to this year may keep whichever two classes they like. When I finish, you will speak to your professors and let each one know whether you intend to drop or keep their course. At the end of this year, you will meet with your two remaining professors and decide which course will become your major. I urge you to take this seriously, as your designation will greatly influence the training you receive, as well as the expectations placed upon you at graduation.”

  Dean Blaine arrived at his original starting point, and then motioned to his educators. “They are excellent assets. You will never again have so much knowledge, in so many different areas, freely available to you. Make a wise selection. That said, there are three other matters to discuss. Firstly, I’m sure you are all wondering about the updated rankings. They will be posted tomorrow before the beginnings of your first classes. Until then, we will answer no questions regarding them. Secondly, as you all recall, last year was focused on learning to work in a team, how to allocate resources effectively, and how to use each member to their full potential. That was key training for your future careers as Heroes. This year, we will focus on a less pleasant, but equally, if not more, important aspect. You will be learning to take on multiple enemies at the same time. The nature of this conflict will vary based on your courses, so once more, I caution you to choose with forethought. We’ll go over the details for each as the first trial grows closer, however, I think those of you in more battle-oriented majors can draw a few informed conclusions.”

  Here, the dean paused and motioned to the man at the back at the gym. He came forward with a casual gait, nothing to suggest he felt nervous, despite an entire class’s worth of attention focused on him. The man gave the class a warm smile, then turned to the dean and waited to be introduced.

  “Our last matter of business is one relating to actual business. We understand that college is financially taxing for many students and their families, and that being in this program has prevented a lot of you from being able to earn money like regular students. Now that you have all made it to your third year, the odds of you staying in this town for the remainder of your college career improve significantly, so, as a courtesy, we set up a partnership with several local businesses to give part-time jobs to those who want them. These will be owners that know what you are and the demands on your time, and have agreed to accommodate those issues. The gentleman beside me is Kent Mears, the liaison who coordinates between eager students and these kind employers. Anyone interested in a job can speak to him in a few moments. For those who do, I urge you to do your best at any job you get. Remember that these positions require business owners to work around our program, and that a poor employee may make them less likely to offer HCP students any future opportunities.”

  A smooth step moved Dean Blaine back in line with his professors. He saw all the students waiting patiently and allowed a slight smile across his face. They had come so far from this day two years ago, and there was still so much ahead of them.

  “Okay, students, please begin.”

  5.

  The gym immediately filled with the distinct hum of chatter as the students spread out. Some made a beeline for their professors; others talked over the decision with friends, Dean Blaine’s remarks clearly inspiring them to doubt their original choices. Only a few headed for Kent Mears, though the fact that one of them was Chad Taylor did not escape notice by most in the room. It didn’t draw much curiosity, either. If anyone could handle a job on top of the demands of the HCP, it was Chad.

  * * *

  Roy finished letting Professor Fletcher know that he would definitely be pursuing Close Combat in the coming year, and then looked around the room for his next target. There was a mini-mob around Professor Stone, which sort of made sense. Focus was a useful discipline for any Super, it centered on calming your mind and drawing out more of your abilities, so they tended to toss anyone without a clear third skill into it. As a result, it was a pretty full course, so an ample number of students needed to tell her if they were keeping or dropping it. Roy’s eyes wandered over to Professor Cole, who somehow managed to look bored despite the layers of clothing and mummified bandages concealing her face. Not many people seemed to be competing to talk to the Weapons instructor, and Roy could take a decent guess why. He suspected the course’s already small number would shrink significantly after today.

  Not being one for lines, Roy walked over to Professor Cole. He threw a hand up in lazy greeting and gave her a smile. She might have returned it; there was definitely movement under her face-wraps.

  “Let me guess, you want to drop my class,” she said, once he got close to her.

  “I guess you noticed my lack of enthusiasm during all those drills last year,” Roy replied.

  “It’s hard to stand out at not caring, but you made it happe
n. Congratulations, I guess. You’re keeping, what, Close Combat and Focus?”

  Roy nodded. “Let’s be real though, we all know I’m majoring in Close Combat, this was just a question of who got the axe first.”

  “So you drop the one more closely related to fighting, rather than the one about a bunch of mental mumbo jumbo that won’t do you a dick whip of good,” Professor Cole said.

  “Learning to think on my feet has actually done me a lot of good.”

  “I’m sure it did, but you’re nearing the end of what you’ll get out of it. Once you’ve learned to fight with your head, there’s only so much Focus improvement a person with a purely physical power can do. You should be training your body, learning new skills to help give you options in battle.”

  “I’m a bare-handed fighter. What do you think I’m going to get out of a Weapons course?”

  “For starters, if nothing else, it will teach you how to deal with other Supers who do use weapons. For another, you shouldn’t be a bare-handed fighter. If you had listened to anything I said last year, you’d understand that a weapon’s primary purpose is to magnify your strength, to up the level where you can compete, something I’d have thought would interest a person like you.”

  Roy let a sarcastic retort die on his tongue. Those were actually good points, and a few months ago, they’d have been wasted on him. However, after Vince’s year-end shitstorm and the summer spent under tutelage, Roy’s ego had finally started accepting the fact that if he wanted to reach the finish line, it would mean taking every advantage he could get. Heroes were top tier, and you didn’t reach that summit by turning down things that might give you an edge.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “I guess, since I’m going Close Combat anyway, I don’t risk much by taking another year of Weapons instead of Focus.”