Chapter 5
"I'm confused," I said. "What do we have to have by Monday?"
"Ms. Lovell said next week is going to be all about the impact of parahumans on society," Michele Washko replied with a touch of impatience. She was a mixed race girl who typically sported one of an eclectic assortment of vintage jackets over to her school uniform. Her thick-framed glasses highlighted her almond shaped eyes. Her hair was black and curly like mine, but she cut hers short and usually tied it up with a batik scarf. "By Monday all we need is a list of the capes we are writing about. If there's a conflict between groups over a particular cape, the first group to send her the name gets it. That's why I wanted to meet this afternoon so we can at least select the three parahumans we want to cover."
"Can't do Scion, the Triumvirate, or any Brockton Bay cape. Right?" Moira Christner added. She had long, sandy blond hair and a delicate build that matched her quiet personality. "I guess they don't want us doing ourselves or anyone we might know." She looked at me and blushed.
"I might be a cape, but even I wouldn't call myself influential. I mean I've only had powers two months, if that." I replied. Over the last week, I had gotten more used to the attention I attracted at Arcadia. I still wasn't comfortable with it, but there was nothing I could do to stop it and anything I might try would likely just make it worse.
"I can just imagine Melanie's group doing Glory Girl if they could." Michelle grinned. Moira offered a shy smile in return. I tried to remember who Melanie was and got a vague image of a dark-haired girl, but I could have been wrong.
"I take it Melanie is a cape chaser?" I asked.
"I'm not sure I'd go that far. She's just obsessed with Victoria," Michelle said. I had noticed she had a tendency to use people's full names. For me it didn't matter, but Glory Girl seemed to prefer Vicky. Not that the famous hero had said more than a few words to me. She seemed friendly enough. However, like most other capes, she was too uncomfortable to be around me for any long conversations. In fact, given her and her sister's reactions to me, I doubted I would be getting any invites to join New Wave, despite the fact I already had a public identity.
Moira pulled up the assignment on her tablet. We sat at a back table at Grinders, a coffee shop near Arcadia. There were a lot of other students there on a Friday afternoon. Many had laptops or tablets out, taking advantage of the excellent connectivity the cafe advertised. I was enjoying my tea. They had a great selection. Michelle was sipping an espresso and Moira was slurping on a giant chocolate something or other.
"According to the assignment, there are three parts," the shy girl read. "In a presentation on Wednesday, we are supposed to detail three positive impacts the presence of parahumans have made on either US or world society, three negative impacts, and offer details on three influential capes and their individual impact. On Friday, there is going to be a debate where each person has to be prepared to argue for or against the statement 'Parahumans have been a net positive for US society.' There's also a group paper due Friday on the stuff covered by the presentation."
"Lovell does love her debates," Michelle grumped. "This is what, the third or fourth this year?"
"Are these group debates?" I asked. This was the same class Mr. Gladly taught at Winslow, but they were further ahead at Arcadia. I had missed a few units and would need to self-study them before the final in May.
"Nope," Michelle popped her "p". "Lovell says that each person needs to know the content well enough to argue either perspective with little to no preparation. She says it reflects the real world better and shows we really know our shit. So how do we want to split this up?"
I tensed. This was where, at Winslow when I was assigned group work, the others would look at me to do all the work and then steal the results and give me no credit. "There are three parts," I said.
"Yeah. She usually does that for group stuff," Michelle replied. "We can either split it so that one person does the positive impact, one the negative, and one the cape profiles. Or, we could each do one from each category."
"I'm ok with whatever," Moira offered. I still couldn't figure her out. She was the mayor's daughter. Why would she be such a pushover? I wondered if she was trying to keep a low profile to avoid causing her father any problems. Her twin was nothing like her.
I looked across the cafe where Kyla Christner was sitting with a group of other cheerleaders and athletes. When she saw me, Moira's sister waved, drawing the attention of several people at her table. They all looked in my direction and waved as well. I thought they were gesturing me over, but had no desire to put myself in the spotlight. I turned back to my group, only to see them looking between me and the other table.
"If we can figure this out quickly, you can go sit with your friends," Michelle snapped.
"They're not my friends. I don't even know them, not really," I said, feeling like I had done something wrong. Deciding to get the conversation back on track I added, "I think we should each do one person and a topic from both categories. That way we are better prepared for the debate."
Michelle eyed me silently for a moment. Moira tilted her head so her hair hid her face completely, avoiding the growing tension. Finally, the Afro-Asian girl nodded. "Yeah, that could work. So which capes should we choose? I was thinking we should pick Vikare. He was the first real cape. I mean he could have used his powers as a soldier or cop or whatever. Instead, he put on tights and a mask and went out as a hero. He started the whole cape culture."
"That makes sense," I agreed. "I think we should have five or six names, in case someone else gets some of them first."
"Good idea," Moira added, coming out from behind her hair to start typing on her tablet.
"Taylor!"
I looked up. Kyla was there with a tall blond boy wearing a letter jacket with football and baseball patches on the sleeves. They were both smiling at me and ignoring the other two girls at the table.
"We saw you over here and wanted to invite you to a party at Alan's house tonight." Kyla gestured to the boy. Given his name, I recognized him – Alan Hitch, junior, varsity athlete, and general hyped as the hottest boy at Arcadia not dating Glory Girl.
"You're welcome to come," Alan said, his voice a smooth baritone. If he didn't make it in sports, he had a possible career in radio or TV. "We just didn't have your number so we couldn't contact you." He held out his phone, waiting for me to give him my digits.
Just then my phone buzzed – not the ring of a regular call or the chime of a text, but the blaring alarm of the PRT emergency signal. Everyone in the café stopped and looked at me as I drew the device out of my pocket and checked it.
"Sorry," I said to everyone. "I gotta go. I'll contact you this weekend to figure out the rest of the assignment," I told Michelle and Moira. They nodded back to me, their eyes wide. I looked to Kyla and Alan and just shrugged. "I guess I'll talk to you later."
I quickly exited the café, all eyes still on my back.
# # # # #
"We've got what we think is a new Case 53 holed up in an old church cum art studio in Johnson, Vermont," Deputy Director Renick reported. "The local authorities have cordoned off the place. Your task is to go in there and convince the Case 53 to come out, peacefully if possible. Remember, the policy on new Case 53s is that they are not responsible for their actions upon waking. We want to get them to the Hartford Assimilation Center so we can help them adjust to their new situation. On the other hand, they can still be dangerous. That is where you come in, Nemesis. You are the most likely to be immune from whatever their power is. Otherwise, we would not be sending you, as you don't really have the training. Special Agent Howard, our first contact specialist, will be going with you to provide that knowledge. You keep her safe. Got it?"
I looked at Howard and Hollis. They both nodded, so I nodded too. "It's a three and a half hour drive. We'll keep you updated, but I suggest you try to get some sleep. You're likely to have a long night. The HAC will send a helicopter to Johnson to take the Case 53 to Hartford once you've got them in a cooperative state," Renick finished.
I wondered why we couldn't fly there, it would be much quicker. Thinking about it, I wasn't even sure if the PRT ENE had a helicopter.
I was able to sleep some on the way. It was dark and cold when we got to the small town in northern Vermont. As we pulled into what passed for a downtown – a single road with a few stores, a gas station, two cafes, a mill outlet, and the red wooden church – we saw the snow-covered area lit with vehicle headlights and lamps on stands. They had cleared an area around the church. There must have been eight or nine law enforcement cars of various kinds, including a PRT van out of Burlington.
Howard took the lead when approaching the gathered officers. "PRT Special Agent Stephanie Howard," she introduced herself. "This is Team Nemesis - Agent Andrea Hollis, team lead. Agent Linda Beck. And of course, Nemesis."
"I'm Agent Doug Gibson, PRT Burlington. This is Lamoille County Sheriff Roger Mercoux, Sergeant Caleb Druckemiller of the Vermont State Police, and Johnson Village Manager Meredith Dylan." Gibson was an older man, tall and slim, with thick grey hair. "You got the reports?"
"I did," Howard replied. "A nude female with red, rocklike skin – estimated to be in her late teens – wandered into town this morning. She did not confront anyone, but seemed frightened and confused. She entered the Barbara White Studio and has remained there since. She did not interfere with anyone trying to leave the building. She has not contacted anyone. She has produced some sort of brick-like shell on parts of the exterior of the building and the surrounding grounds."
"That's correct," Gibson said. "Obviously a Shaker effect. Looking in the windows, you can see more brick-like growths on various interior surfaces.'
"Has anyone attempted to communicate with her yet?" Howard asked.
"We tried talking to her before the PRT got here, but she wouldn't answer," the sheriff replied.
"Alright, give us a minute to get set up, and then I'll try to initiate communication. If that fails, we'll have to go in." Howard said then gathered us with a nod. We followed her back to the van.
"Hightower, have you got the drones out?" Hollis asked over the van's radio.
"Affirmative. You should be getting the feed on channel seven." The reclusive tinker replied. I switched the monitor to the correct channel and we could see the image of the church expanding on the screen. I looked over at the building a block away, but couldn't see the stealthed drone that was sending the signal.
The old church had been converted into office and studio space for the Vermont Studio Center. The image showed several of the interior walls had been damaged, with rough partially humanoid silhouettes knocked through the wood and plasterboard. Bricks lined the walls and floors in strange, almost organic patterns. The device navigated the partially destroyed corridors, eventually coming to a large studio space, at least two stories tall. Inside a womb of bricks was a woman. She looked like a sculpture made of rough brick and concrete shaped into the form of a voluptuous body. Her face looked young. Her hair was shaped into stony dreadlocks, bound tight to her scalp. Torn books and crushed electronics surrounded her. She appeared to be crying.
I imagined the terror and desolation she must be feeling. From what I had read, Case 53s always appeared with no memories and no identities, though they still had a working knowledge of language and the world – though the details were not always the same. She probably had no idea where she was or what had happened to her. I could empathize a little, but at least I still had my home and Dad.
"Please put me on the external speakers," Howard requested. Hollis, who was back in the driver's seat, flipped a switch.
"TO THE PERSON IN THE STUDIO – PLEASE STAY CALM. THIS IS THE PARAHUMAN RESPONSE TEAM. WE'RE HERE TO HELP." Howard's voice boomed through the late evening air.
I saw the girl in the studio jump at the sound. She yelled something back. "Ek kin dy noch mal niet fokken begrijpen, idioaten!"
"She doesn't speak English," I guessed. Howard looked at the monitor and listened as the girl continued to rant in a vaguely familiar language with lots of gutturals and spitting. As she stomped around the studio, more bricks crept along the walls and onto the ceiling. Stalagmites and stalactites of masonry grew to form columns supporting the new structures. She didn't seem to be doing it deliberately, but it was definitely responding to her emotional state.
"WE ARE NOT GOING TO HURT YOU. IF YOU COME OUT PEACEFULLY, WE CAN TAKE YOU SOMEWHERE SAFE. CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" Howard tried again. The girl's response was more ranting.
"Is that German?" Hollis asked.
"I don't think so," Beck relied. "I was stationed in Germany for a while. This is different."
"So talking her out's not going to work." Howard sighed.
"Then we take her out," Beck said, reaching for her sniper rifle.
Howard held a hand up. "No, we bring her out as gently as possible."
"Let me try," I offered. "I can't talk with her, but a friendly face her own age – with no weapons – might help calm her down."
"Are you sure?" Hollis asked.
"That's what she's here for," Beck growled. "It's not like the freak can hurt her." I wasn't quite sure whether she was referring to me or the Case 53.
"Take your helmet off but keep an earbud in," Howard suggested. I nodded and started taking off the obvious bits of my armor – helmet, pauldrons, cuirass, and gauntlets. The left me in my kevlex body suit and jump boots.
"Hold up Nemesis," Hollis ordered. "Give us ten minutes to get in place and cover the other exits. Just in case."
"Alright." I replied.
While Hollis and Beck grabbed their weapons and gear, I put on a PRT jacket, to make it look less like I was wearing just tights, and snagged a couple of blankets for the girl. She was naked and it was February in Vermont. She might be cold. I know I was. My powers gave me some protection from extremes of heat and cold, but that was mostly avoiding actual damage. I still felt uncomfortable.
Several minutes later, I got the signal. "We're in place. Nemesis, you can proceed inside."
The snow crunched underfoot as I ascended the short flight of stair to the old church's main entrance. I gently pushed the door open. It was dark, but the soft luminescence from a glow stick hanging from my jacket pocket provided enough light to see easily without ruining my night vision. The bricks did not disappear as I approached them, meaning they were a permanent, or at least persistent, manifestation. They were real bricks, which formed in flowing lines and sharp angles. It was almost artistic, which fit the studio setting.
When I got to the door of the large space the girl was in, I knocked.
"Good. We don't want to surprise her." Howard said in my ear. "Announce yourself as well."
"Be prepared for her to attack once she knows you're there." Hollis cautioned.
"Hello?" I spoke loudly enough to be heard in the room. Then I pushed the door open slowly. The girl was on the other side of the long room, about thirty feet away, staring at me.
"Wie bisto," she said.
"Hi. I'm Taylor. I'm here to help," I stepped forward.
"Blijf werom!" she said excitedly and held her hand towards me, palm up. A wave of bricks raced along the ground from her feet towards me. As soon as it entered my negation radius, they stopped.
I held my hands out to my sides, palms up, and stepped slowly forwards. The blankets were thrown over my shoulder so my hands were free. "No need for that. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to get you someplace warm and safe." I kept my voice calm, like I was talking to a skittish dog.
"I think I have identified the language, or at least a few near cognates," Hightower said. "It is a variation of several western Germanic languages. The closest may be Dutch or Frisian. Try saying – Ik bin hjir om te helpen." The last bit was obviously produced by a computer.
I tried matching the pronunciation of the artificial voice. If I had my helmet, I could have simply played it though the speakers. Oh well, another good idea gone wrong.
"Wat? "Ek kin dy noch mal niet begrijpen," she replied, but she seemed to be looking at me in a less hostile manner.
"Try – Ek is hier om te help." Hightower prompted.
I repeated the phrase. I could tell it was a little different, but not much.
"Binne je heir om te helpen?" she offered slowly. – You are here to help?
"Ja," I repeated, nodding. Even I knew that word.
"Og dankie Christus!" – Thank Crist!
"Ik sprek dizze taal net. Ik haw in oersetter. Praat stadich." – I do not speak this language. I have a translator. Speak slowly. I said through the computer.
"Jy klinke regtig ferskriklik." – You really sound horrible.
"Dankie," I replied sarcastically, guessing the word from German and what she had said before.
"It spyt my. Wêr bin ek? Wat gebeurd aan? Alles is gek!" – I'm sorry. Where am I? What's going on? Everything is crazy!
"Here," I handed her the blankets and smiled. "Let's get you warm. We can find a translator to help explain everything. You're going to be ok."
She finally let me get close enough to drape her with the blankets and lead her out of the building. As the local PRT agents offered her food and drink, the helicopter from the Hartford Assimilation Center landed in the Millworks parking lot.
"What's wrong? Why can't I eat?" the brick girl cried. Her words were translated through a speaker on a drone. She was spitting out a food bar the local agents had offered her. It was obvious she had tried several and found none to her liking. She also found a sandwich from one of the sheriff deputies to be inedible.
"Don't worry," said Dr. Mylik Jupiter, the lead agent from the HAC. She had arrived with two other people while we had been trying to feed and comfort the frightened girl. "We'll get this figured out in no time."
Soon the HAC personnel had the brick girl bundled into the helicopter. Dr. Jupiter, a short, olive-skinned woman looked at me impatiently. "Well?" she finally said, obviously irritated.
"Well what?" I replied.
"We can't wait all night. Get in the chopper." She almost snarled.
"What do you mean? I'm not going with you." I looked to Hollis, my official team lead and responsible adult. "Renick didn't say anything about my going to Hartford, right? How would I get home?"
"No, he didn't," Hollis confirmed then turned to Dr. Jupiter. "What's this all about?"
"It's pretty obvious, I'd think," the HAC leader replied. "We can't risk taking an unknown, emotionally unstable Shaker on a helicopter. She could destroy the craft in midair. When we agreed to fly here, it was with the understanding that your negation Trump would fly back with us to keep the subject safely controlled. Otherwise, we will have to wait here for an armored transport to take her back."
Hollis wiped her hand down her face, muttering curses. Finally, she looked up at me. "It makes sense, Nemesis. Your presence will keep her contained. If you're willing to go, I'll make sure you've got a ride home."
"Ok," I reluctantly agreed. I didn't know these people. "But you're going to have to tell my Dad. If I do, he might try to refuse permission. I know that's not how the contract works, but it's better to avoid the problem."
Hollis winced then nodded. She turned to Dr. Jupiter. "You'll have to put her up for the night somewhere. She's only fifteen, so she can't drive yet or register for a hotel. Can you handle that, including feeding her? I'd suggest a buffet to save on expenses. I'll have someone pick her up tomorrow around noon."
"Yes, alright," the woman waived any other objections or caveats away and gestured for me to board the aircraft.
I put the rest of my armor back on and grabbed my go bag from the van. "Now I'm ready," I said.
The helicopter was a large one, with several rows of seats, a sickbay with medical devices, and a metal holding cell. It all looked faintly ominous and I could see the brick girl was nervous. I took off my helmet, setting it in my lap so Hightower could still translate through it, and sat next to her. She tentatively reached over and took my hand.
Once we were airborne, Dr. Jupiter brought up Jaw-jaw, a British linguistic Thinker, on an interior screen. The translator did a much better job than Hightower's computer driven attempts.
Dr. Jupiter introduced herself to the brick girl. Gone was the impatient and peremptory personality. The HAC head presented herself as kind, caring, and supportive. She asked a few questions confirming that the girl did not know her own name and had no personal background knowledge, or recollection of how she had gotten to Johnson. Finding all that to be true, the good doctor carefully laid out what was known about the origins of Case 53s – not much.
They appeared mysteriously, lacked memories, were almost all noticeably different from standard humans, and all had the omega mark somewhere on them. After a quick examination, the girl found it carved into her inner right arm. In North America, the PRT offered these amnesiacs the opportunity to acclimate to the world and find a way to move forward – often as Protectorate heroes, or Wards if they appeared to be minors.
I kept silent during the presentation. I could tell the HAC head had done this many times before. I thought it was interesting, but felt sad for the loss and loneliness these people must feel. It was different from a regular trigger, but while they didn't remember the trauma that caused them to gain powers, they lost everything else to avoid one bad day.
# # # # #
"So, you're off for the whole week?" Dad asked.
"Yeah. Youth Guard regulations say that mission transport time and overnight hours all count towards my weekly maximum allowance. So I'm off until next Monday." I was surprised when Dad was cool about my latest adventure.
"If we're treating this like a real job, then we both have to realize that work doesn't always fit the scheduled hours. Since the work still has to be done, we make exceptions." He'd said when I'd asked him about it. It was almost as if Dad understood how things worked.
"Good. Mr. Calle wants to talk with you about the lawsuits some afternoon this week. I was hoping you might want to come down to the docks. I was serious when I said the DWA might have work for you." Dad sounded hopeful.
"I probably need to meet with my World Studies group on Tuesday to prepare for Wednesday's presentation. But other than that I am pretty free." I said. "How are the suits going?"
"The Hesses settled. The school district is almost there. Like we expected, they fired Blackwell."
"Yes!" I jumped up and did a little dance, causing the house to shake just a bit.
"She's already declared bankruptcy, which under the new laws gets her out of any personal liability."
"That sucks, but she probably didn't have any money anyway," I said. "I'm just glad she can't screw over any more students. I know I wasn't the only one getting a raw deal there."
"That's one of the things Mr. Calle wants to talk with you about. The Barnes are still holding out, claiming that it was all 'childish hijinks' and the fallout of the regrettable, yet mutual, dissolution of a long-term friendship."
"That's bullshit!"
"Language! And, yes it is." Dad agreed. "If we can show you were not the only victim of her harassment at Winslow. we can counter that argument. The Clements are following Alan's lead. Finally, the BMA is close to a settlement. I still want the Enforcers to face criminal charges. Unfortunately, the DA and the PRT are closing on a deal with them where the three capes will have to sign on as Protectorate affiliates and undergo Protectorate 'Use of Force' training, along with probation and community service."
"That's not fair," I complained. I now understood that an affiliate agreement would give Director Piggot a hook into three more capes she could use during emergencies – something that was pretty valuable to her. It still sucked.
Dad looked angry as he continued. "A contact of mine in the DA's office told me that from the average voter's point of view what happened at the Boardwalk was just another cape fight, with all capes involved walking away from it within a day. The only people that ended up in the hospital were the two Boardwalk security guards. Looked at like that, it wasn't worth wasting tax dollars pushing a trial."
"But I wasn't a cape at the time." I protested. "That's how I got hurt."
"Most people don't know anything about trigger events," Dad reminded me. We hadn't until it happened to me. "It's assumed that capes are just hiding their powers before they go public. I think the PRT encourages that misconception. If people knew that deadly or dangerous situations might cause them to trigger, you'd have a lot of sick or desperate, or just stupid, people jumping off buildings hoping to fly rather than fall."
"I suppose…"
"Come on," he said, gesturing towards the door. "Let's go out of here. It's a nice day; at least it isn't raining or snowing. I'll buy you some pancakes."
"Sounds good."
Monday as I left school I got a call from Dad. That was uncommon. He still wasn't comfortable with me using a cell phone. "Taylor, are you doing anything for the next four hours? How'd you like to make $200 and help your old man out of a jam?"
"Uh… sure?" I stuttered. He'd never asked me for help before. "What do you need?"
"Can you get down to Pier 22. The crane just crapped out and we have a ship that needs unloading by 5 p.m. Kurt's the crew chief. Look for him when you get there. He can tell you what he needs."
"Ok. I'll hurry home, grab some work clothes, and be there in a half hour." I said, excited. Mom and I used to watch the dockworkers load and unload ships when I was younger. This sounded like fun.
"Taylor!" Kurt called when I got to the Pier. He was a big, muscular man with brown and grey hair tied back in a ponytail. He reached over and gave me a one armed hug. We were around the same height. "Kid, you got big."
"Been working out." I made little weight-lifting motions. "You knew, eating right."
"Yeah, sure," he smiled. "I'm glad you're here. First thing, we gotta get you some safety gear. I don't want you doin' anythin' that might get you hurt." While someone brought over a hard hat, gloves, and a weight belt, he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "I know yer strong. But, how strong? Can you lift one of those? We rigged a pulley system from the crane."
I looked over. The ship was loaded with the smaller containers – only about twenty feet long. They were stacked on the deck of the ship. The crane swung high over the ship and normally moved the containers one at a time. Kurt had rigged the block and tackle system from the crane to a long steel cable, which was coiled on the pier.
"I'll try." I said. I stepped to the cable and wrapped it around my wrist to improve my grip. Walking backwards, I pulled steadily on the cable. It looped through I don't know how many pulleys which reduced the effective weight on the end of the line, lifting the container off the deck of the ship. Once it was fully suspended, Kurt spoke on the radio and suddenly the pulley system was floating on the gantry track, enabling me to swing the container over to the pier, where after another adjustment I was able to lower it to the pavement. From there a giant forklift moved it to the holding area.
A cheer went up from the dockworkers. "Alright! Let's do this!" Kurt yelled, getting the spectators back to work.
I couldn't simply replace the crane. I didn't work the same way. More importantly, I didn't know the crew's normal work tempo and procedures. It took trying different things on several containers before we found what worked for us. By four, it looked like we were going to make the 5 p.m. deadline.
Then, I saw a rocket roaring towards my head, launched by what looked like a steam-powered giant.