Super Powereds: Year 3 (60 page)

                Mary blinked in surprise at that realization. Vince didn’t know about the memory fragments, couldn’t have even guessed at what was going on in his friend’s head, yet he’d called it perfectly. No one could bury Nick Campbell, at least not for long.

                In all her time dealing with Nicholas, Mary had been focusing on how to minimize his damage and use him most efficiently. She had never really allowed herself to hope that Nick might come back; the pain of the letdown would be too harsh. But Vince had committed to that idea without even knowing if it was a viable option. He’d assumed, on nothing more than blind faith in his con-man friend, that Nick Campbell was not the sort to go quietly.

                Perhaps it was time she took a page out of Vince’s book and showed a little faith of her own.

111.

Alice knew there were more layers to the cipher than she was seeing. While her code-cracking skills weren’t top-of-the-class grade, she had absorbed enough knowledge to recognize patterns when they cropped up. That same ability told her that everything beyond the first code was too complex for her to crack. Yes, given infinite time and a thousand monkeys with typewriters, she might be able to make sense of it all, but Alice didn’t have infinite time. Or a thousand monkeys with typewriters. And the final exam was only two weeks away.

                She was sitting on her bed, notepad open in front of her. One word. That’s all that had been at the end of the rabbit hole the first code had led her down. A single word scrawled in the locker of a gym changing-room. Presumably, there had been one on the men’s side too—she didn’t think that even Professor Pendleton was jerk enough that he’d make them break into rooms for the opposite sex. Alice had pictures of it, and had even gone back once to double-check that the word was all there was. But no matter what angle she looked at it from, the conclusion was clear: this was the prize she’d been working for.

                Alice started to set the notepad on the bed, but then thought better of it. Instead, she created a very small, very specific gravitational anomaly that pulled it from her hand and sent it careening toward the desk. Just before it hit, she reversed the pull, killing its momentum, and let it drift down gently under gravity that was only at a quarter of its regular strength. While she didn’t have the finesse or speed of a telekinetic, Alice’s ability had grown by leaps and bound in terms of functionality. Whatever the test was, she could almost certainly ace it from a Control aspect. So why was she trying so hard to win through Subtlety?

                The answer was, unfortunately, tied up in the subjects she’d been trying not to think about for the last month. Alice was surrounded by mysteries. Her mother’s fake death, her father’s lies, the dream-walker who seemed to hold answers, yet never surfaced; except for her Melbrook friends, Alice didn’t have anything in her life that was solid and real.

                A small snicker escaped her throat at a rogue thought: she’d mentally included Nick in her cast of Melbrook friends. Of all the things in her life, the one she counted on least was thinking of Nick Campbell as a person she could count on. It was odd, looking back, realizing how often Nick had told the truth, while burying it in sarcasm and teasing. If he were here, he’d tell her in no uncertain terms why she was so stuck on Subtlety. He’d say she wanted to prove she had the skills, because it meant she could start unraveling all the mysteries around her. She wanted control of her life, instead of a Control certification for her power.

                With a minor grunt, more from exasperation than effort, Alice got off her bed and walked over to her desk. She picked up the cipher, page nearly worn through from all the manhandling as she carried it about, and grabbed a pen. True, the odds of her cracking one of the harder codes was damned near impossible, especially given how long the first one had taken her, but Alice didn’t mind daunting odds. She’d come into the HCP as a flier, with no combat experience and a life spent being a rich and sheltered Powered. In two and a half years, she’d clawed her way to the top ten students, and in two weeks, she was going to kick ass in every direction, daunting odds be damned. Alice Adair was a woman who would at least go down swinging.

                Even if, tonight, she was only swinging a pen and some brain cells.

*             *             *

                Walter set down the last of the trashcans and stood up to survey his work. The carpet was covered under plastic sheeting, the kegs positioned in a triangular shape near the kitchen, and various liquors were stacked in the makeshift bar they’d set up on the dining room table. As he scanned the room, he caught Cameron heading toward one of the kegs with a tap in hand.

                “Don’t even think about it. The party is still two days away.”

                “Oh come on, just a few cups,” Cameron whined.

                “We’re using pump taps. That means the beer will go flat within a day or so of being opened,” Walter reminded him. “I’m already running behind on this thing, throwing it weeks after it should have happened. The last thing I want to do is serve flat beer.”

                “Can I at least hit the liquor?”

                “Fine, but you’re in charge of replacing whatever you drink before the party,” Walter relented. From anyone else, Cameron’s behavior would be a serious concern and probably signal the need for intervention. For a Super whose body converted alcohol into strength, energy, and health, however, it made sense for him to keep a semi-constant stream going into his bloodstream.

                “Look at you, Mr. Serious, suddenly caring so much about a party.” Candi walked down the stairs as she taunted him, dressed in something that was halfway between workout clothes and pajamas. The further they got in the HCP, the more they viewed everything as workout clothes.

                “It’s an important milestone for the freshmen. Remember how excited and nervous we were last year?”

                “I mostly remember Cameron having a sparring match with Roy Daniels, and idiotically going in without so much as a sip of hard liquor,” Candi replied.

                “Hey, I’ve gotten better about that,” Cameron defended. He walked over with a tumbler full of assorted liquors and some red-colored fruit juice. “Speaking of, ice-maker is on the fritz again. Walter, can you help me out?”

                “Fine, but we need to get it fixed before the party.” Walter focused on the drink, isolating the water mixed throughout the alcohol. It, like all water, obeyed Walter’s wishes. He lowered the temperature while swirling it about to make sure the cold reached the entire drink. After a few seconds, he nodded to Cameron, who took a test sip and nodded with approval.

                “Think ours will be as much fun as last year’s?” Candi asked.

                “Well, Cameron might start a fight with someone, so it’s possible,” Walter said. “Though last year’s had The Five from Melbrook. I don’t think we can match that.”

                “We might be able to get Roy, since we have free beer,” Cameron suggested. Ever since their match last year, he’d spoken of his upperclassman in reverent tones that only heavy drinkers and fighters who’ve lost to a superior opponent could understand.

                “I’m not sure the freshmen are even aware of them,” Candi replied. “It’s not like when we came in, and there was the kidnapping scandal. They’ve got their own stuff to worry about; they don’t care as much for rumors.”

                “Candi is right,” Walter said. “Besides, this is about the freshmen, not the juniors. We need to make them our focus.”

                “Too bad, I bet they’re up to all kinds of exciting shit,” Cameron said.

                “Keep things in perspective. They're just juniors like the rest of their class,” Walter told him. “Whatever they’re doing right now, I’m sure we’ll be doing the same thing this time next year.”

112.

               It was the smell that finally tipped him off. Everything else had been normal as Smitt walked up from his car, nothing to raise a mental flag that perhaps his apartment was not as secure as it seemed. Even the minor bit of trash he’d stuck near the doorway had been undisturbed. Whoever had broken in was good, damned good, which gave Smitt a very short list of immediate suspects. The scent wafting to his nose was expensive cologne; a pungent aroma that had clearly been left on purpose. They wanted him to know that they were here, which could only mean it was too late for him to get away.

                A quick glance to the rear showed him an empty hallway leading back to his front door. He could try and make a run for it, no counter-measures were perfect, and he might slip away. For a half-second, he was tempted, but then he changed his mind. This was as much a chance to gain information as it was to be pumped. So far, he hadn’t made any headway with the apartment trio; this might be his best shot at changing that.

                Smitt stormed into the living room, unsurprised to find the young man who lived in the solitary apartment—Dig Bixby according to his mail—sitting at Smitt’s dining room table. He’d helped himself to a glass of scotch and greeted the homeowner’s entrance with a smile.

                “Mr. Smitt, what a pleasure to see you. Please, come in and have a seat.”

                “How kind of you to welcome me into my own home.” Smitt scanned the area, checking for anything that seemed out of place. This kid was good, but he’d only been gone for twenty minutes; there was no way they’d had time to locate and remove every weapon squirreled away throughout the apartment.

                “I strive to be the epitome of hospitality. In fact, I’m such a gracious host that I even allowed you to walk in under the power of your own legs. Truly, I am magnanimous.” Nicholas couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but the further he slipped into this mocking, biting tone, the more familiar it felt.

                “If that’s your idea of a threat, you need to step it up a notch. I’ve been put under the gun by people way scarier than you.”

                “Dear Mr. Smitt, you say that with such certainty. It would only be polite to at least allow me to show you how fearsome I can be before making such a judgment. I might surprise you.”

                Smitt let out a weary breath and sat down across the table from the kid. “So, what’s the deal? You’ve got the big guy stashed in the apartment, and the girl covering the exit with a gun?”

                “Right strategy, but you flipped the positions,” Nicholas informed him.

                “Meaning it’s just you and the girl in here with me?” Smitt felt a surge of confidence at that prospect. He might not need to play games after all. This guy looked spry, but there was no way he could match the years of experience Smitt had earned in hand-to-hand combat.

                “Yes, though ‘the girl’ as you called her was really unneeded. I could easily deal with you alone; she’s here at her own behest. Seems you’ve quite thoroughly pissed her off.” Had he been wearing sunglasses (though why would he when it was late at night), he’d have tipped them down ever so slightly.

                “My ex-wife can attest that I usually have that effect on women.”

                “Can she? That’d be quite a feat for someone who doesn’t exist.” Nicholas took a long drink from the scotch in front of him, savoring the weakly suppressed surprise coursing across Smitt’s face. “No, you’ve never been married, Smitt, though you went to a lot of trouble to dummy up the fake paperwork to appear that you had been. You even created a fake family for her, a nice pairing to the imaginary parents you invented for yourself. Quality work all around, must have set you back a fair bit. All that effort to create an imaginary identity, just so that you could hide your real one; you must have some people you dearly want to protect, Mr. Smitt. You know, what the hell, we’re all friends here. Why don’t I just call you Ryan Sumter, since that’s your real name?”

                Smitt felt the creeping sensation of cold terror beginning to clutch at his gut as he stared down this intruder who’d easily broken through his layers of protection. Whoever he was, Dig Bixby wasn’t just good: he was 
connected
. The hacker Smitt had paid off had been top-quality; no one should have been able to unravel the cocoon of digital lies shielding Smitt’s real history. This guy, this kid, had done it in the span of weeks. Maybe less, depending on how long they’d known Smitt was watching. His eyes darted about, figuring out what the best avenue of attack would be. Odds of a peaceful resolution were pretty much out the window. In the meantime, he had to stall.

                “Nice work, I’m impressed. But now you’ve got me at a disadvantage, since I don’t know what to call you. Seems impolite, really.”

                A thin, dangerous smile slowly sliced its way across the young man’s face. “You can call me Nicholas, Nicholas Campbell. And yes, that is my real name.”

                “Sure it is. All right, Nicholas Campbell, why don’t you tell me what it is you want? I’m pretty sure you didn’t violate my privacy and break into my home just to steal some mid-range scotch.” Smitt was pinning every hope he had on goading the kid into a specific action. If it worked, he had a shot. If not . . . well, Smitt didn’t want to dwell on that.