The Empowered, page 6
I suddenly felt very tired, and stretched out on the bed. “A medical checkup and a pep talk. Is that the norm around here?”
Sanchez brought a chair over. “She’s right about your power. It is stronger than you realize and potentially very powerful.”
I snorted. “I can make weeds grow super fast, kill plants, and hear trees in my head. Tremble before me.”
“We’ll help you develop your power.”
I sat up, startling him. “So sure of yourselves, aren’t you?” His confidence pissed me off. “I never had enough control over my power, and it betrayed me.”
“We can help you see it differently.”
Jesus, but he wouldn’t stop with the confidence.
My anger ebbed away. I was so tired.
“Get some rest,” he said. “There’re a few instant meals in the kitchenette. Read the files. They include contact procedures, which we’ll go over again tomorrow.”
He got up and took the chair back to the desk. “Oh, and if you need to speak to Winterfield or myself, just say so in a loud, clear voice. We’ll be notified.”
“Okay.”
He shot me another thousand-watt smile. “Like I said, get some rest.”
“No kidding.”
He left, with the same damn buzz-click routine with the door.
I was alone once more. I needed to think, but sleep overcame me.
When I awoke, I ate one of the insta-meals—chicken couscous with broccoli— and then tackled the files.
I sat at the desk, flicked on the little reading light, and opened the folder.
I would move into an abandoned house in North Portland, that Support had set up for me. I’d be a petty crook squatter, pretend to be on the down and out. I would be “estranged” from my family. I must make Gus and the others in the cell believe that was the truth.
Well, it wasn’t far from the truth, if it wasn’t the truth already.
But I’d still be meeting with my parole officer, who was valiantly trying to get me to come back to the straight-and-narrow. What a load of crap, but that was the story they’d cooked up, so I had to go with it.
I was to call Winterfield’s number from pay phones. We’d still meet regularly because I was still pretending to be the good parolee as part of my cover. Seemed like a bit of flaw in Support’s infiltration plan—but the terse instructions emphasized the value of my not being a wanted criminal. Hatcher’s gang had just gone elsewhere as far as anyone outside Support knew.
How long would all this work? Especially since Ruth was going to believe I had gone back to crime.
I read about the Scourge cell next. There wasn’t much info. Support figured the cell had between five and seven members. Aside from Gus, Support had names for two. There was a young woman close to my age named Keisha McMillan. There was one photo from a few years ago of an angry-looking black teenager glaring at the photographer. The other was only a name, the leader, Kai Jones, nicknamed “Mutter.” Mutter: what kind of Empowered name was that? It sounded ridiculous. Stupid.
I had been named “Vine” back in the Renegades. Thinking about my old name brought on the memories again. “Eye-spy”—Tanya, my best friend in the group—had named me Vine because I loved to conjure and grow ivy vines, blackberry vines, any kind of vines; they were easy, and so useful.
I blinked away sudden tears. Damn it. We’d both been so young, and stupid.
I pushed the memories away. I had to focus on this. For Ruth and the twins.
Mutter had succeeded the Empowered who had originally formed the cell a year ago. That person had died in a mysterious “accident.” Awfully convenient for Mutter.
Since then, Mutter’s cell mostly spent its time lifting money from ordinary criminal gangs. No bank heists for him. Instead, crooks were his prey. I wondered how much of that money reached the Scourge’s inner circle?
The short file on Mutter said his power was manipulating air currents. He possessed “the ability to finely tune the flow of air, concentrate it, and restrict it.” His victims tended to be found asphyxiated. Not that there were many pleasant ways to croak off.
The report ending by claiming Mutter was believed to be extremely ruthless.
What had I gotten myself into?
The next morning, after an insta-meal breakfast, Sanchez—Alex—took me back to the briefing room where Winterfield made me recite what I’d read, and then went over it with me, again. It felt like hours, but when I groused about it, Winterfield told me it wasn’t even lunch time.
I hated studying.
Then it was time for paperwork. God, but I hated that more.
I signed I don’t know how many “allegiance”’ forms, which all amounted to pledging my loyalty to Support, the UN charter on Empowered Conduct, the Hero Council Code, and so on.
I finally finished signing my life away.
Winterfield put away the ream of paperwork I’d signed. “We’ve got one more thing for you before lunch.”
“What?” Damn him and his mind games.
“Just a little test.”
“What kind of test?” I asked.
“The necessary kind.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
He and Sanchez led me through a maze of yet more identical corridors to a huge, high-ceilinged, windowless room the size of a school gymnasium. The walls and the floor had some sort of padded armor. The floor felt and looked like metal that had some give to it.
In the center of the room were three big round wooden planters, spaced six feet apart. The left-hand one had what looked like a rose bush, the right-hand one, some kind of grass, and the center one, ivy on a little trellis.
A woman in a black jumpsuit and combat boots walked from the far side of the room to stand beside the right-hand planter She put a gloved hand on the planter’s rim.
She looked Chinese. Her long black hair hung in a braid down her back.
I swallowed. My stomach felt like I swallowed a ball of lead.
The air in here was moist, like standing in a hothouse, despite the only plants being the three in the planters in the center of the room.
I looked at Winterfield. “I’m expected to fight her?”
“Don’t be stupid, Brandt. Like I said, this is a test.” He nodded at the woman. “Go to her. We’ll watch from the sidelines.” He and Sanchez went to a corner, crossed their arms, and waited.
Great, I had my own peanut gallery.
Medico Blue entered the room, and joined them. The peanut gallery was getting bigger, and now I had my own EMT on hand. Medico Blue being here meant someone could get injured, unless she just liked to watch. My money was on her being available to give first aid.
Damn Winterfield.
I took a deep, slow breath but my stomach still felt like lead. I forced my legs to march toward the center of the room.
She watched me approach. Smiled at me.
“Good morning, Ms. Brandt.” Her accent sounded Philadelphian. I’d had a friend growing up who had come from our nation’s capital, Philadelphia, and this woman sounded just like her. You could almost hear the liberty bell, the joke around school used to go.
She had to be an American—maybe her parents or grandparents were refugees from China, after the destruction of Beijing and Shanghai in the Three Days War, half a century ago.
“Hi.” I shifted my stance. The flooring felt spongy and metallic at the same time. “What’s your name?” I asked her.
She ran a hand along the planter’s rim. “Sorry, I’m not allowed to say.”
“Not even your Empowered name?” Assuming she had one—she was probably Hero Council, although some members didn’t use an Empowered name most did. She wasn’t hiding her face, and most Hero Council Empowered didn’t. “We’re the opposite of masked bandits,” went the Hero Council line.
She gave me an apologetic look. “Not even that.”
Figured. “So, what happens now?”
“You use your power.” She pointed at the sharp-bladed grass in the right hand planter. “Reach into the sawgrass here with your gift, feel the sawgrass growing, taste it in your mind, tremble with it as it sways fractionally in the air currents.”
I frowned. “I don’t taste plants with my power, I hear them in my mind.”
She walked around the planters to stand beside me. “That’s because you are still numb to the greater part of your power.”
“It’s how I am. Numbness isn’t part of it.” My neck flushed with heat and I took a step back from her.
“There’s no need to get angry. I am here today to show you the depths of your power.”
Great, another helpful person telling me I didn’t know my so-called gift like I should. It had always worked this way for me—it wasn’t like my power was a world-beater.
“I’m not getting angry,” I said, unclenching my fingers. But I was. She was irritating me.
“No, of course not.” She pointed again at the saw grass. “Please extend your sense into the grass.”
I did as she instructed, half closing my eyes. The grass whispered sandpaper murmurings in my head.
“What does it taste like in your sense?” She asked. “When you taste it, you will know how to grow it.”
Taste it? That was crap. There was nothing to taste. “Nothing at all. I told you, I can’t taste a thing.”
“You can, if you try.”
I shut my eyes. Taste what? My irritation made it hard to concentrate. “I don’t need to taste the grass, as you put it, in order to make it grow.”
“Do you ‘make the grass grow,’ or spur it to growth, encourage it to grow?”
I unclenched my fingers again.
“Same difference.”
“Is it? That’s your challenge—to understand the difference. Tasting the grass with your awareness will give you more control, and control is the key.”
Screw this. She wanted me to grow the grass, I didn’t need to “taste” it to do so, so grow it I would.
The air felt rich in nitrogen and carbon dioxide—this room must have a higher mix in the air. The soil was rich with nutrients and moisture. I urged the grass to pull nutrients from the soil, and inhale CO2.
I pushed my awareness further into the grass, willed it to grow, fueling the growth with my annoyance at my tester and Winterfield.
The green blades swelled and stretched toward the ceiling.
She waved at me. “Not so fast! Slow down!”
The saw grass towered above us. I yanked my power from it, and the grass collapsed into a green tangle, a low screaming in my mind. Pain stabbed at my forehead. I winced, shut my eyes.
Something yanked at my boots. My legs shot out from under me and I banged my tailbone on the floor. God damn.
I jumped to my feet. I’d show her. I cocked an arm back to punch her and my traitor legs were yanked off the ground and I banged my butt again on the floor.
“Call me Flick.” She held her arms wide. She gestured, and my boots moved toward each other. I strained my muscles, fighting to get up, but I couldn’t move my legs. She lowered her hands and the pressure stopped.
My legs spasmed and I rolled on the floor, eyes squeezed shut. Finally, the spasming stopped.
“That’s an example of my power,” Flick said. She could clench my muscles, send me into spasms. I hadn’t imagined an Empowered could do something so precise.
I scrambled up. I wanted to punch the smugness off her face.
“You blindsided me.”
She nodded. “A demonstration. Here’s another.”
She flicked a finger across the room, to a table beside Winterfield, Sanchez and Medico Blue. A half dozen water bottles stood on the table. Flick crooked a finger and one of them sailed off the table and floated to me.
“You look parched.” Her face was deadpan.
“No thanks.” My breath was tight in my chest. Show off.
“Suit yourself.” The bottle went to her outstretched hand. She unscrewed the cap and took a long drink.
I licked dry lips. She wasn’t going to show me up.
I pushed the anger inside me down, forced my voice to stay level. “What’s next?” I sounded like an idiot, but I wanted to pass this test, already, and get on with my mission.
Flick strolled over to the left-hand planter and pointed at the rose bush. It had just begun to bud.
“Taste the potential before helping the rose to bud and flower.”
I sighed. I’d play her game. “Okay.” I reached into the rose bush, listened to its soft, wordless song. Taste it? How the hell could I do that? There was nothing to taste.
Flick continued. “Submerge yourself in your subject’s physicality.” She sounded like a school teacher.
“You’re a TK, right?” I spoke with my eyes still closed. “So, what does a TK know about melding with a plant?”
“Physicality, remember.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s all the same. I must feel what the object is experiencing.”
The rose trembled in my mind as I pushed my awareness deeper into it. Open up. I urged the plant to drink from the air faster, moving nutrients through its body more quickly.
The faintest scent of a rose petal. I pushed, harder. Drink deep I commanded the rose bush. It shrieked in my mind, and I staggered.
The plant died before me, leaves blackening, half budded flowers curling and falling away in fragments.
I'd killed it.
All because Flick pushed me to taste it. I pushed into the ivy vines on the trellis behind her, extended them.
“Brandt!” Winterfield shouted but I ignored him, concentrated on extending the vines.
Flick smiled, pivoted. The trellis pulled free from the soil. The ivy shrieked, even more sharply than the rose bush had.
I urged it to grow faster, extending roots into the soil. I was going to show her.
The trellis floated upward, the ivy stretching out like a man on a torture rack.
My heart jackhammered in my chest, my breath came in huge, ragged gasps. Pain spiked my temples, but I plunged further into the dead rosebush with my power, found the seeds for life, and willed a new one into being. I had to save the ivy.
Sharp thorns grew from spreading branches in an eye blink.
The newly-born giant rose bush swung branches outward at Flick’s back, inch-long thorns swinging toward her exposed flesh.
Flick pivoted, gestured, and the trellis flew into the rosebush, ivy vines entangling the rose branches.
The ivy vines moved without my command, constricted the branches. I pushed the vines to untangle, but they continued to constrict. How could Flick’s power be so finely tuned? I fought harder to move the vines, but they were wrapped tightly around the branches and between them. I switched to pouring energy into the branches, to saw through the vines, but the branches wouldn’t move.
I groaned. Exhaustion slammed into me, and I dropped to my knees.
The world dimmed. I fell to the floor, rolled onto my back.
Blue-gloved hands ran along my sides, and arms. Medico Blue knelt beside me. Behind her clustered Flick, Sanchez and Winterfield. Flick and Sanchez looked concerned, while Winterfield shook his head in disgust.
“You pushed yourself too hard,” Medico Blue said. Soothing warmth filled me, and the pain fled.
She and Sanchez helped me to my feet. My strength returned, faster than I imagined possible.
The rose bush and ivy were a snarled mess.
“What now?” I asked Winterfield.
He looked at Flick.
She shot me a sympathetic glance, turned back to Winterfield.
“Mathilda must connect with herself in order to grow in her gift. Until she does, she will remain where she is.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.
Winterfield nodded and looked at me. “You hear that, Brandt? You are your own worst enemy.”
Thanks for the insight. I gave him a cold smile. I never would have guessed.
“Experience is the key,” Flick added.
“If it doesn’t kill her first.” He nodded. “Thank you, Flick.”
She and Medico Blue left.
Sanchez and Winterfield spoke in low voices for what felt like forever.
The room suddenly seemed chilly. Nausea swam up from my roiling stomach and a cold sweat ran down my back.
I had failed the test. They would send me back for life.
Winterfield stared at me, his gaze hard, ice blue eyes unblinking. I looked away.
“All right, then,” Winterfield finally said. “You’re in, Brandt. God help us.”
“But I blew the test.” That didn’t make sense.
“I expected you would.”
“Then why--”
He cut me off with a gesture. “We needed an expert assessment, and we wanted to see how you behaved under pressure. And you desperately needed a lesson. From now on think more clearly before acting.”
Sanchez came over. “Like I said, we can help you grow into your power, but it will take time and, besides, we don’t want to make your old associate, Silco, suspicious about how far you’ve come. Your improvement needs to seem natural, not forced.”
Assuming I survived it.
And didn’t kill anyone in the process.
5
Afterwards, Sanchez and I went over contact procedures again in my room. I had to memorize phone numbers, code words, and the address for my new place. It was an abandoned house in North Portland, in a depressing part of town.
I started to argue with Sanchez again about having to move out of Ruth’s, but he wouldn’t budge.
“I don’t make the rules,” he said. We sat side by side at the little desk in my room.
“Mister Sanchez,” I began.
“Alex, remember?" He interrupted with a bright smile. "I’m only a few years older than you, after all. Besides, you need to think of me as a low-level crook rather than a Support agent.
I still couldn’t image Mister Charming here as a scummy lowlife type, but that was why they were called agents, I guess.
I struggled to remember how long I’d been in this prison-like place. It seemed like a month, but my confrontation with Raphe Hatcher’s little gang had been on Tuesday afternoon. Sanchez—Alex—had said I’d been unconscious for eighteen hours, so I woke up Wednesday morning. So it was only Thursday afternoon.
