Chasing Power (Hidden Talents) (12 page)

“Sometimes you just have to do the best with what you have,” she said lightly.  Whether she was talking about the scar or the nose Lane didn’t know but he didn’t answer, intent on doing his work and trying to block her pain at the same time.  He swore to God she was better at tuning out her own pain than he was.  Finally, he finished the last stitch and leaned back with relief.  His color started to return.

“You know,” Sam said, inspecting the stitches with clinical interest, “if you experience another person’s pain this strongly, maybe you shouldn’t become a doctor.  I understand that you want to help people, but there are practical limits.”

“First of all, I’m going to be a research specialist.  I won’t have to deal with patients in pain.  Second of all, I don’t experience other people’s pain this strongly.”  Lane covered the stitches with protective cloth tape and wrapped a bandage around Sam’s arm and shoulder.  “Just yours.  You’re the first person I’ve met that I couldn’t block effectively.  It hasn’t been an issue up until now because, I
think
, you’re subconsciously preventing yourself from projecting.  But I guess when you’re in pain the wall goes down.”

“Oh,” Sam pursed her lips and tilted her head in thought, an expression Lane found simultaneously cute and infuriating, “That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Pain causing our mental defenses to drop is normal.”

“No, I mean, you not being able to block me.”

“Uh.”  Lane thought about denying it, but realized there wasn’t much point.  Her powers were not developing along the same lines of other Talents.  She was going to find out sooner or later: “Yes.”

Finished with the bandaging, he carefully packed away all of their shiny new first-aid supplies.  Then he handed Sam a fresh T-shirt Al had thoughtfully retrieved for her and helped her pull it on, careful not to pull her stitched arm.  Lastly, Lane poured out a capful of cough syrup and gave it to Samantha, who downed it dutifully along with the second capful.  “What’s the cough syrup for?” she asked.

“To put you to sleep,” Lane replied, “Since you don’t like me to use my mojo.”

“That,” Sam said, “is totally unfair, why, I should...I should...”  Sam never managed to finish her sentence, her voice trailing off as she drifted to sleep.  And, having finally completed his task, Lane sat back in the seat and passed out himself.

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 with, “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.