Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect (29 page)

“It’ll take you telling
Concorde to give me my damn headset back because he had no right to take it in
the first place.”

“As a representative of the
US Department of Homeland Security, Concorde has every legal right to approve
and deny flight clearance for superhumans in the New England region.”

“Except he didn’t revoke my
clearance due to a punishable infraction of FAA regulations on my part, or
because I was convicted of a felony crime, or because I was charged with a
criminal offense that would justify a temporary suspension of my flight
privileges,” I say. “He revoked my clearance to use the threat of arrest as
leverage to keep my team out of action.”

Hell yeah, legally
indefensible.

Crenshaw looks to Mindforce
for confirmation. Mindforce nods. Crenshaw grimaces and pulls at his thinning
hair.

“I swear, Concorde is going
to send me to an early grave,” he mutters. “Where did he go? I need to yell at
him some more.”

“Concorde flew on ahead to
HQ,” Mindforce says.

“I’ll call him ASAP,”
Crenshaw assures me.

“When you do, you might want
to remind him that the Hero Squad isn’t an official extension of the
Protectorate, which means he’s neither legally liable for us, nor does he have
any official authority to dictate our activity,” I say. “MacMurray v. Guardian
Brotherhood, 1991.”

Crenshaw does a double-take.
“How do you know —?”

“I did some reading over the
weekend. Law Library of Congress website. LexisNexis. Cornell University Legal
Information Institute. Wikipedia. Can I go now?”

“Come on, I’ll give you a
lift home,” Mindforce says.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I
say, marching off. I have no clue how to get off the grounds, or how I’ll get
home after that, but I’m not about to let that stop my dramatic exit. I’m
trying to make a point here.

“Miss Hauser, you can’t walk
home,” Crenshaw says.

“Watch me.”

“It’s more than a hundred
and fifty miles to Kingsport.”

“Then I’ll fly home. Oh,
wait,” I say, turning around. “I CAN’T!”

“Carrie, please,” Mindforce
says. “I understand you want nothing to do with us, but you can’t walk across
the entire state of Massachusetts, alone, at night. Please, let me take you
home.”

I come very close to telling
him to piss off, but I have no reason to be mad at Mindforce. He didn’t falsely
accuse me of violating US airspace. He didn’t report me to Homeland Security.
He’s been on my side the whole time.

And yet, it still burns me
to accept the offer.

Mindforce doesn’t attempt
conversation again until we’re halfway home. “It’s really your birthday?” he
says.

“Sweet sixteen,” I say, and
the uncomfortable silence between us settles back in.

It’s a few minutes after
nine when we land. The Bruins game’s probably well into the third period by
now, Mom and Dad are no doubt crapping bricks over my unexplained
disappearance, and no lie in the world is going to save my butt. God, this
night is never going to end, is it?

I reach for the passenger
bay door. Someone opens it from the outside.

“Have you called your father
yet?” Edison says. Oh, good, he’s out of costume. That’ll make it easier for me
to punch him in his stupid face.

“What do you care?” I say.

“You should call him, let
him know you’re on your way home.”

I hate to give the man an
inch at this point, but he’s right. I dig out my cell phone, wince at the
display (eleven missed calls over the past four hours), and pull up Dad’s
number. He picks up on the first ring.

“Carrie!” he says. “Where
are you? We’ve been worried sick about you!”

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” I say,
but before I can offer up an apology or a lie or a feeble excuse, Edison
snatches the phone from my hand.

“Hello, Mr. Hauser? This is
Edison Bose. I wanted to — yes, Mr. Hauser,
that
Edison Bose.”

“What are you doing?” I
hiss. Edison waves at me to be quiet.

“Mr. Hauser, I want to
apologize to you. It’s my fault Carrie missed your birthday date,” Edison says.
“She’s been considering an internship at my company, I asked her to come by for
a follow-up interview, and we had a little incident at one of our labs. I
assure you, your daughter was never in any danger, but — well, I’d really
rather explain it to you face-to-face, I owe you at least that. All right, Mr.
Hauser, I’ll have her home in a few minutes. See you soon.”

Edison hands the phone back
to me. “I’m not letting you give me a ride home,” I tell him.

“Then I’ll let you explain
why I showed up on your doorstep without you,” he says.

“God, you’re an ass.”

He grunts —
Yeah, yeah, I
know
— and starts to walk away. “Come on,” he says.

Mindforce, in his silence,
had the common decency to look remorseful. Edison does not. Not one tiny bit.

We drive to my place with an
oldies station playing on the radio, and at one point, when Elvis Presley’s
“Heartbreak Hotel” comes on, I catch Edison moving his lips the way people do
when they want to sing along but don’t want people to see them doing it. Under
different circumstances, I’d find it humanizing, maybe even endearing. Under
these circumstances, it’s dumping gasoline on the fiery rage blazing inside me.
So glad that having me thrown in Byrne for no good reason hasn’t impeded your
ability to rock out to the King, you callous jerk.

We arrive at my house.
Edison gets out and walks ahead of me to my front door. That’s right: He
doesn’t follow me, he doesn’t wait for me, he walks right up to my house and
rings the doorbell. It’s like I’m not even here.

Mom flings open the door,
her expression changing from one of anxiety and relief to confusion when she
sees Edison standing on the porch instead of me.

“Ms. Hauser, hello. I’m
Edison Bose,” Edison says, extending a hand. “I am so sorry about tonight.”

Mom shakes his hand, still
unsure of what’s going on, then spots me trudging up the walkway. She blows past
Edison and charges me, hitting me with a tackle hug that’d make Farley proud.
She lets go of me and I find myself immediately swept up in my father’s arms,
and he repeats, verbatim, Mom’s mantra of “Oh thank God we were so worried we
didn’t know what happened to you at least you’re safe what the hell happened?”

Verbatim. I kid you not.

Mom and Dad whisk me inside.
Edison follows, introduces himself to my father and says, with a smile flavored
with a touch of chagrin, “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about.”

What happened, he explains,
is that he called me to Bose Industries this afternoon for what he’d hoped
would be a final meeting to discuss a coveted intern position at his company.
He had a few solid candidates for the opening, but he’d been especially
impressed by me throughout the interview process. However, I’d been hesitant to
take the job since the technology field was not quite my cup of tea, and he
wanted to make a final sales pitch to convince me I’d fit in very well at Bose.

Near the end of our little
chat, a Code Black alert went off. Code Reds signify an accident in one of the
complex’s many production and R&D buildings, but a Code Black meant
something had happened at the facility where they manufacture the nuclear micro-cells.
As a matter of protocol, a Code Black initiates a complete and total lockdown
of the entire complex, and that lockdown includes a communications blackout. In
the event of a major emergency, employees’ first impulse is to try to call 911
or their families — or to post something on Twitter or Facebook, because some
people have trouble prioritizing — and the last thing anyone needs is for the
lines of communication to get gummed up. Only specified personnel are allowed
to call out during a Code Black, and only to the appropriate first responders,
so that’s why my parents never heard from me during this crisis.

“No, no, that’s perfectly
understandable,” Dad says. The tension begins to drain out of him, then flares
back up to full intensity. “Are you saying my daughter was present during a
nuclear accident?”

Edison puts on a pained
expression. “See, Mr. Hauser, that’s the part I find particularly
embarrassing,” he says. “There was no accident at all. It was a false alarm –
one of several we’ve experienced lately. We recently overhauled our security
system, installed new software that was supposed to be a huge improvement over
the old operating system, but the thing is buggy as hell. The thing’s been
nothing but a huge headache — and a huge waste of my money.”

“So Carrie was never in any
danger?” Mom says.

“No...which, I suppose, is a
good thing, but it somehow makes me feel worse that she missed out on her
birthday celebration with you, Mr. Hauser, over a non-issue.”

Dad breathes a sigh of
relief that goes on for several seconds. “As long as my girl is okay,” he says,
smiling at me. “That’s all I care about.”

I’d like to note for the
record that Edison rattled off his entire story off the top of his head,
without hesitating to think about where it was going, without tripping over his
tongue, without contradicting himself or exposing any plot holes. What’s more,
he was absolutely convincing. His demeanor never seemed forced or anything less
than one hundred percent sincere. Edison Bose is a master liar.

I am not impressed by this.
Honestly. Truth be told, it’s a little unsettling that anyone can shovel that
much BS and make it look so effortless.

That’s why I have to doubt
Edison when he tells my parents, “Despite this unfortunate turn of events, I do
hope it hasn’t soured Carrie on my offer to work for me. She’s an exceptionally
bright young woman, very independent-minded, driven, focused...well,” he
chuckles, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Oh, no. We are both very
well aware of Carrie’s personal qualities,” Mom says, placing patronizing
emphasis on
personal qualities
. Thanks, Mom. That wound needed a little
salt anyway.

Edison turns to me. “What do
you say, Carrie?”

The urge to punch Edison in
his smug face rises like bile in my throat. This is all a show, a smokescreen,
and this alleged job offer is at best a lame attempt to atone for his colossal
screw-up, and at worst the master illusionist’s final trick of the evening, the
big, bold, flashy show-stopper that sends everyone home convinced that what they
saw was real and not part of an expert deception.

Screw him.

“I’ll pass,” I say icily.

“Carrie, honey, this is an
amazing opportunity,” Mom says. “Working for Bose Industries, even if it’s only
an internship — that would be such a great addition to your college
applications.”

I stare right at Edison.
“I’m afraid my experiences tonight have indeed soured me on the notion of
working for you,” I say, enunciating every tiny little syllable, throwing each
word like a poisoned dart, “and I’d appreciate it greatly if you respected my
answer.”

Edison, after a pause, nods.
He turns back to my parents, shakes their hands, apologizes again, and says,
“Carrie, if you wouldn’t mind walking me back to my car? I’d like to have a
word with you in private, please.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

He doesn’t say anything
until we reach his car. Edison folds his arms, leans against the trunk, and
says, “I meant what I said back there. I want you to come work for me.”

“And I meant what I said.”
Edison scrunches his face, opens his mouth to speak, and that’s when the dam
bursts. “You’re not even going to apologize to me, are you? You have me
arrested and thrown in prison for something I didn’t do because you’re such a
damned control freak who doesn’t respect me enough to talk to me like a human
being and then you throw me a job offer like that’s going to make everything
okay and you can’t even apologize for completely ruining my birthday?!”

Edison lets out a low
whistle. “That was impressive. Have you been taking lessons from Missy?”

The punch that’s been
building inside me all night, the one I’ve held in check because I am a mature
young lady, and mature young ladies don’t punch people in anger — it breaks
loose, and this mature young lady swings wide and clocks Edison right on the
point of the chin. It doesn’t hurt him so much as shock the bejesus out of him.
He stares at me in wide-eyed astonishment for a moment, then straightens up and
does the very last thing I ever expect him to do.

“I deserved that,” he says.
“And you deserve better treatment from me. And you do deserve an apology. I
screwed up, badly, and I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe you,” I
say. “After that performance you gave my parents, I don’t believe a single word
coming out of your mouth.”

“Then let me prove it. I’ll
make this up to you. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

I hold out my hand. “Then
give me back my transponder. Reinstate me as a flyer. Un-ground the Squad.” I
see the hesitation in his eyes. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”