School for Sidekicks (30 page)

So, we were gladiators. That made a horrible sort of sense, forcing us to fight each other to become stronger.

But what about the weakness of our powers? The hero beam doesn't give us the same level of powers as those created by the Hero Bomb.

W
EAK
POWERS
FORCE
SMOKY
-
SWEET
/
GAME
PLAYERS
TO
WORK
AS
TEAMS
. I
T
TEACHES
THINKING
IN
PAST
/
PRESENT
/
FUTURE
OPTIMIZATION
PATTERNS
OVER
BRUTE
FORCE
. P
OWER
INCREASES
THEORETICALLY
POSSIBLE
FOR
LATER
IMPLEMENTATION
—
ACCEPTABLE
RISK
WHEN
WEIGHED
AGAINST
EXTINCTION
/
DARK
/
SOUR
.

Argh!

I
NVALID
QUERY
. R
EPEAT
/
REPHRASE
/
SWEET
?

This was so much more frustrating than working with Denmother or any of Foxman's other systems. It made me want to bang my head on something.

Again bitter/sharp picked the thoughts out of my mind.

Q
UERY
. Y
OU
ARE
FAMILIAR
WITH
USER
F
OXMAN
?

Yes, he's my … teacher. Does that matter?

U
SER
F
OXMAN
HAS
INTERFACED
/
SPICY
/
BONDED
WITH
THIS
UNIT
. U
SER
F
OXMAN
HAD
VERY
SIMILAR
QUESTIONS
. D
O
YOU
WISH
TO
REVIEW
USER
F
OXMAN
'
S
INTERACTIONS
WITH
THIS
UNIT
? A
LTERNATIVELY
,
USER
B
ACKFLASH
HAS
JUST
ENTERED
THE
GLOBE
. D
O
YOU
WISH
TO
ASK
HER
DIRECTLY
ABOUT
HER
—

I don't know what else the machine was going to say. I was already batting the interface tentacle away from my forehead. I had to get out of there! I rolled off the couch, touched the floor briefly with my feet … and landed flat on my face with an audible crack as my legs gave out and my nose took the brunt of my fall.

Reflexes trained in my various combat courses brought my arms forward to press my palms against the floor and launch me back to my feet. At least, that's what I intended. But none of my limbs seemed interested in doing exactly what they were supposed to. I realized then that I could more than half taste the nerve impulses running between my brain and the rest of my body. Apparently, interfacing with bitter/sharp had some less-than-happy side effects.

I could hear footsteps approaching. With no alternative, I dragged myself under the edge of the console. The space was small, not much bigger than I was really. I wedged myself as deep in as I could, and quietly wished I'd drawn invisibility from the powers deck instead of scabwebs. A pair of black Armex boots walked up to the console and paused for a moment before pivoting. The chair creaked and the boots vanished.

Now what?
I'd barely thought of the question when I felt my skin catch fire. It hurt so much that I actually checked my hand for flames.

My fingers weren't even pink, and I had to conclude that the burning sensation was a side effect of my interface with bitter/sharp, or possibly, of the way I'd broken it off. It went on for a long, long time and I actually bit through my lip to keep from screaming—for the record, fresh scabweb tastes like condensed essence of armpit. Eventually the burning faded and I found that I could move normally again.

Of course, I was still only two feet away from the scariest woman in the solar system. In her lab. Which I had broken into. Hiding under her computer. Which I had also broken into. After she'd warned me that she wouldn't hesitate to make very bad things happen to me if I continued to be a problem. Other than that, everything was great. Yeah, about that …

I edged my face forward a couple of inches and looked up. I could see the side of Backflash's face. All she would have to do to spot me if I moved so much as an inch forward was to turn her head. I didn't think she could see me if I stayed where I was, but I honestly wasn't sure. Which meant I had to get out of there, and the sooner the better. That's when I noticed the smear of blood on the floor where I'd broken my nose. So yeah, I needed to clean that up, too.

About the only thing I had going for me was that bitter/sharp's interface was pretty all-consuming. Or, at least, it had been for me—a kid—when I tried it for the very first time. Reassuring thoughts, those. Still, I had no choice.

Moving as quietly as I could, I turned my glove inside out and used the padding on the inside to mop up as much of the blood as I could. Not perfect, but not awful. Also, the easiest part of the operation by far.

Next, I reached above my head to find the end of the console. Grabbing on to the greasy-slick alien material there, I slowly dragged myself along the floor until my head and shoulders emerged into the open. If Backflash so much as glanced downward out of the side of her eye right now, I was dead. I couldn't bear to look and see if she was looking at me. I just shifted my grip and pushed myself the rest of the way out from under the console.

Backflash shifted on her chair.

I froze. This was it. I was a goner. But seconds ticked past and nothing happened. Maybe she hadn't seen me. Or maybe she was playing with me. She could always step back in time after she'd seen exactly what I was up to. I choked back bile as fear churned my stomach like a swirling acid smoothie. Finally, I couldn't bear the suspense any longer and I started moving again. Staying on my belly, I dragged myself around to the back of the console.

I was covered in sweat and sick to my stomach, but I was also out of the direct line of sight from Backflash's chair. Victory! Well, a small one anyway. I still had to cover half the length of a football field on hands and knees without getting caught by someone who could always timeshift back a few minutes and change the rules. Then I had to climb the ramp, get down the hallway, and catch the vault door timing exactly right. Oh, and did I mention that part about the floor being transparent? If anyone happened to wander into Backflash's office for any reason, and look up, I was cooked.

Whee.

I'll spare the details, which mostly consist of fear, sweat, and moving really, really slowly, and skip to the part where Speedslick pulled me through the open vault door about three million years later.

“So, did you learn anything?” he asked as the door quietly closed behind me.

“Uh, yeah, I did. But none of you are going to believe it. Let's go someplace where we can talk about it.”

“You know,” said Burnish, “I'm kind of digging the big patch of beige goo where your nose used to be. That's a good look for you, Quick. Remind me to punch you if it starts to go back to normal.”

“Oh, just get over yourself, Burnish.” NightHowl scowled at the older girl. “You're not half as cool as you think you are.”

Burnish's lips went thin and tight. “And you, remind me to push your face in when this is all over.”

“Whatever,” said NightHowl.

Emberdown stepped between the two of them, but they both dropped it at that point and we headed out.

It wasn't until that moment that I realized I'd actually done it. I might not have real Mask-level powers, and I sure wasn't some kind of superspy guy, but maybe I didn't have to be. I hadn't even really used what powers I had.

Maybe sometimes plain old Evan Quick was enough.

 

22

OutFoxed

It took a lot of explaining to bring the others up to speed on everything I'd seen and learned in the vault. Even then I didn't think most of them completely believed me. It
was
all pretty farfetched—time travel and aliens and metas as gladiators—and some of the looks I got reminded me of the way people had treated me after I broke the weight machine at Camp Commanding. Emberdown and Blindmark seemed especially skeptical, and even Speedslick sounded doubtful on a couple of points.

By the time I finally crawled into bed around five, my earlier sense of triumph had faded into a sort of dull gray fog. My dreams were lurid and crazy, full of taste-words and alien imagery, and when my alarm went off at eight, I felt like I hadn't gotten any sleep at all.

I spent the whole day in a weird sort of buzzing trance. Whether that was due to my experience with bittersharp or simply because of all the things I had to think about, was anybody's guess. The hours seemed to pass in a weird series of jumps with only bits and scraps of all that I saw and heard really sticking in memory:

Try reversing the polarity!

Right. Because comics and movies teach us that it's as easy as flipping a switch, and that it will transform electricity and magnetism into death rays and anti-vampire shields.

Wait, let me get this right, you shoot banana peels from your fingertips?

Completely frictionless banana peels. Very handy for stopping getaways. Explosive oranges and knockout cantaloupes as well.

The proper procedure for disposing of bio-agents and radiation devices is to call in a code thirty-eight to the OSIRIS hood-mat emergency line at …

Estimate Boy?

Yep, I can show you. Do you want a rough count of the number of days before she breaks up with you?

Then this tiny little tornado comes through and everything goes black and white.

But nothing else changes?

Nope,
weirdest
bad guy
ever.

Armex allergy?

Yeah, and it activates my powers in the weirdest way—I've melted three uniforms …

Don't touch that.

Why not?

It activates the transform beam and—there, now you've done it. Someone take Winslow to the infirmary.

Explanation Lad?

It started on an ordinary Thursday, much like this one. A boy—me—was minding his own business when …

I'm an eeeevil geeeeeeenius!

Of course you are, dear. Now turn in your homework.

While artificial wings appear to act as a psychological aid in controlling flight powers for some metas, there is no evidence that any of them actually provide significant lift or thrust. You're much better off not becoming dependent on them.

Almost before I realized it, classes were over, and I knew exactly what I had to do next. I had to confront Foxman.

*   *   *

“Denmother, where's Rand, we need to talk, now!” I was calling out before I even finished sliding down the ramp from the
Flying Fox.
And this time I'd checked ahead of time, so I knew he was back from wherever he'd been.

“In the kitchen, Master Quick.”

I bounced to my feet and went straight on through the door into the dome, dropping my bag on the first couch I passed. Rand was sitting at the counter in his pajamas, eating a sandwich, and taking giant gulps off a huge can of MaskerAde.

“Helloooo, Evan. Is it Thursday already? Because if it is, then I lost a day somewhere.” His voice came out fast and slick, like he was vibrating at a really high frequency, and he looked at the MaskerAde dubiously. “I
was
up for ninety-seven hours straight, but I don't think I've slept more than thirty hours since I sugar crashed. If I did, then I need to think about … Wait, it's easily solved.” He glanced up. “Denmother, what day is it?”

“It's Wednesday, sir.”

“Oh, good. That explains a lot.” He suddenly whipped his head back down to stare at me. “Well, except you. It doesn't explain you—I was pretty sure that you didn't come in on Wednesdays—unless you're a hallucination. You aren't a hallucination, are you? Because, I haven't had one of those in ages, and I'd prefer to avoid having them start up again. Especially since I'm not drinking anymore, so I don't have a good excuse for a hallucination. For that matter, hallucinations are usually way more blurry than you are, with these shimmery things off to the sides. You aren't actually blurry, are you? Because you don't look blurry. Or is that just me?”

“Rand!” I said angrily. “Shut up. We need to talk.”

“Are you sure? Because I hate the words ‘we need to talk.' I've never been involved in a single conversation that begins with ‘we need to talk' that didn't go horribly wrong.”

“I've been inside the vault on Deimos! I talked to bittersharp!”

Rand blinked rapidly and somewhat confusedly. “Bittersharp? I think I missed a step there.”

“Don't lie to me!” I yelled at him—he knew all this stuff and he'd never said a word to me. “I interfaced with the alien computer on Deimos, and it told me that you had, too. It even offered to play your memories back for me.”