Citadel (Book 1): Training in Necessity (20 page)

He left the couch and headed for the back door.  If Kerry and him being in the same room might cause Jenny distress, it would be better if he left from a different route than she would take to enter the house.

The Sparring Field

Melody Shift appeared, only to find Bruce Richards and more than forty identical trainees waiting for her in the combat dome.  No, not quite identical.  The majority of them were wearing a mixture of Citadel issue combat gear, but a dozen or so were in civilian clothes.

"Bruce, was it really necessary to meet here, of all places?"

"Sorry ma'am.  Needed a spot big enough to hold all of him, one that was private and, preferably, one that you knew well enough to jump to."

She sighed.  "I wish Juggernaut would stop using that video.  Maybe Sasha Strong would get over it if half the interns I send didn't freak out when they met her."

Bruce just shrugged.  "Find him a better demonstration and he will."

Melody's hand hurt. She'd been gripping her cane a little too hard.  "Fine.  Now tell me what this is all about."

Her deputy's posture changed dramatically, feet spread to shoulder width, hands clasped behind his back and standing straight.  "Hector Hive.  First phase operative trainee, scheduled to switch to second phase tomorrow.  Duplicator, obviously, power scale is practically off the chart.  Basically a one man army, and smart, too."

"I recognize the boy, Bruce.  Now quit singing his praises and tell me what he's done."

Bruce answered with a grimace, "He shot Nightmare."

"Tell me I'm here because he gota shaky hands during a training match."

"No ma'am, it was right after one."

"Go on."

"Ma'am, the boy beat Juggernaut-"

"What!?  Achala's one of the best we've ever had!  How did that child...?"

Bruce dropped his gaze.  "Was, ma'am.  I don't like it any more than you, but you know what he's gone through.  He's not what he was."

Melody fought back a snarl.

"Hector managed a win against Achala.  Duncan acted... incensed.  The others likely believed it was because Achala beat him, rather casually, during his own challenge."

"Duncan, he scared off two of our candidates during the ranking matches?"

"Yes ma'am.  Achala spread the word that he had him interviewed by one of our Reader types, that it was an unintentional side effect of his power.  The class believes that he should be able to reign in the fear effect, but he's never bothered to learn how.  It’ll play into one of the points I'm planning to address during phase two."  Bruce shook his head, disgust evident on his face.  He never could understand why most Empowered didn't bother training themselves, not without Citadel direction.

"Anyway, Duncan made an unprofessional comment and Hector took exception.  Two in the chest and one in the face, it was as smooth a draw as I've ever seen, pure reflex action.  Beautiful."

"I'm getting the impression that this young man was going to be one of your protégés, Bruce."

"I think he's got promise, ma'am."

"If not for Duncan’s… status, he’d be looking at attempted murder charges, Bruce.  He'd be lucky to avoid jail time.  Continuing at the Citadel would be out of the question."

"Attempted murder?  Director, Nightmare has been harassing him and the rest of that class since day one.  They’re under a lot of pressure by now."

"Doesn't matter.  We can't have an operative who lashes out because of a few harsh words."

He looked right at her.  "He said that Achala threw the match, implied Hector had a... relationship, with him.  I'd just shown him my video of the Carson City incident.  He hadn't known about the connection, not before that."

She thought about it for a moment.  "You think, if it had just been him, that he would've been fine.  It was the insult to Senior Operative Juggernaut that did it."

"Yes ma'am."

"Hm.  Not enough on its own.  You’ll need some sort of justification."

"What about Operative's Privilege, ma'am?"

"That's a discretionary power, Bruce.  Not a license to commit murder.  Besides, neither one of them is officially an operative, not yet."

"Not him, ma'am, me."

Melody's eyebrows raised.  "Go on."

"If we're treating this as a criminal act, then I was the operative on site.  In my judgment, it was a class five.  Maybe not even that.  Duncan's tough enough that he wasn't in any real danger from a pistol and I’m certain Hector knew that."

She considered it.  Operative's Privilege granted a lot of leeway when it came to determining whether or not to make an arrest, provided the subject didn't pose a future threat.  "It works on paper, but I don't like the message it sends to the other trainees.  He can't be seen getting off scot free."

Bruce smiled.  There was nothing cheerful about it.  "No ma'am.  Let me have him as a training assistant.  I guarantee, none of the others will think he's getting off lightly.  By the end of their training course, I promise you, it’ll be obvious Duncan got the better end of the deal."

She just looked at him for a moment.  She had a very good idea how creative the Richards type could be, when given free reign.  She looked over the assembled Hectors before answering.  "Fine.  Don't let me regret this, Bruce."  Then she vanished.

Bruce made an adjustment to the device on his belt, canceling the privacy field, then turned to face his new assistant.  "Good news, Hector."

Forty three faces shot up, desperate eagerness showed on all of them.

"You're still in the Citadel, and I've been given leave to make your life more interesting."

"What... what does that mean, sir?" the nearest asked.

Bruce's smile was predatory.

CHAPTER 9:  MENTORING

The Sparring Field

"One of the most dangerous men who ever lived was fond of saying, 'There are only two things that really matter about a guy.  What he wants and what he's willing to do to get it.'  Good morning class and welcome to Personalized Conditioning."

Isaac didn't trust their newest instructor, despite his friendly seeming smile.  He couldn't put his finger on what, but there was something off about the man.  Rather than meet in the training area or one of the lecture rooms, they'd been instructed to assemble in one of the combat domes.  Among the first to arrive, Isaac had considered speaking to the others.  That idea ended when he saw the looks on their faces as he approached.

He couldn't afford to let his reaction to that show.  Instead, he focused on the new instructor.  The man had arrived, exactly on time, accompanied by four of Hector's duplicates.  That had been a surprising relief.  Isaac hadn't seen the likable young man since Saturday and had been more than a little worried about him.  If he hadn't received an e-mail telling him that everything was under control, he'd have gone to one of their instructors with his concerns.

Between them, the Hectors had carried a large table, evidently quite heavy.  The instructor had been carrying an oversized metal briefcase.

"I am Bruce Richards and what I want is to turn you into operatives.  What you want, well, that varies.  This is a table.  It doesn't really want anything."

The instructor set his case on the table and opened it, keeping the inside pointed towards himself and away from the class.  The four Hectors took up a position just behind him.

"What you're willing to do.  That's what the last weeks have been about."  He began to pace, still keeping the table between himself and the majority of the class.  "Don't get me wrong, what we've been teaching is important for you.  But we needed to make sure you have something else, something that can't be taught in a few months."  He stopped pacing and faced the class again.  "Drew Stasis, please come here."

The boy just appeared in front of the table.

"Now, this is made from an unusually heavy wood and I don't have any physical powers."  The instructor raised his hand and made a fist, then slammed it into the table.  If the blow had any effect, on the table or the man's fist, Isaac couldn't see it.  "Now you try, Drew."  The boy mimicked the action, though he flickered immediately after his own blow hit.  "Okay class, who can tell me what we did wrong?"

"You're punching a fucking table?" offered Duncan Nightmare.

"Good point Duncan." replied Instructor Bruce, without any sign of offense.  He reached into the case, withdrew a pistol, and calmly shot Duncan.  The boy dropped and the instructor continued as if nothing unusual had occurred.  "If your target is harder than you, use a tool.  That's what they're for."

Isaac watched as the other trainees reacted.  Most pulled back, showing a mixture of fear and surprise, but a few crowded in around Duncan.  The instructor withdrew another object from the case and handed it to Drew, ignoring his wide eyed look of shock.

"This is a knife.  Now, attack the table again."

Drew did, stabbing more or less the same spot he'd punched before.  The knife sank in, no more than a fraction of an inch, and Drew pulled it free.  He still looked a little dazed.

"Sir!  Why would you-?" Jenny called out, kneeling over her fallen classmate.

"Get off me, dammit."  Duncan pushed her aside as he got to his feet.

The instructor ignored him.  "Not bad Drew, but why just once?  That table is your enemy, kill it."

It wasn’t exactly superspeed, just stepping in and out of stasis in time with his attacks so that he was only in real time while his knife was striking the table.  Drew flickered, reappearing as the knife hit the table again.  Over the next second or so, he flickered so many times that Isaac couldn't follow it and a noise like a heavy branch in a wood chipper filled the dome.  When it was done, there was a gouge more than half way through the table's surface, almost an inch deep and wide enough to fit a fist.

"Better." said Instructor Bruce, satisfied.

"What the fuck, you bastard!" called Duncan, "you're the same fuck from Saturday!  Stop fucking ignoring me goddammit!"

Bruce Richards shot him again but, this time, Duncan didn't go down.  He just staggered a little then gave a cry of wordless anger and charged towards the instructor.  Before Duncan had covered half the distance between them, the instructor pulled a small silver cylinder from his belt.  He gave it a snap with his wrist, causing it to extend out to a foot and half in length, and threw it towards Duncan's feet.

Duncan gave a startled cry as the rod was caught between his ankles, in mid-step, and he fell forward to land flat on his face.  Isaac watched Instructor Richards calmly side step the table and close the distance, arriving at Duncan's side just as the boy was rolling over.  He had a stun baton, just like the one Hector had had at Saturday's breakfast.

"Now Duncan," he touched him with the baton, "I know you're afraid."  There was an audible crackling and Isaac could smell ozone as Duncan started screaming and twitching.  "I know most of your classmates are afraid."  His limbs were flailing around, striking out at random.  "I know that all of that fear is making you stronger by the second."  The instructor moved slightly, avoiding a blow that cracked the concrete floor of the dome.  "What I don't know is why you would be foolish enough to attack one of your instructors, an operative."  The twitching and flailing subsided as he stopped pressing the baton against Duncan's body.

"Fucking.  Shot.  Me."  Still twitching, slightly, Duncan could barely speak.

"That?  Just a demonstration for the class, on the benefits of a weapon over their bare hands."  He lowered the baton, lightly touching Duncan, and the screaming resumed.  "Class?  Please remember this.  When facing someone with physical abilities equal to or greater than your own, find a workaround.  Electricity, gas, stun grenades, they all have their uses."  He bore down again, with the baton, and Duncan's screams grew louder.

"While Trainee Duncan's strength and resiliency are increasing by the moment, fueled by your own reactions, the conductivity of his skin is unchanged.  The current is no longer sufficient to do any harm to his tissues, but it does have a negative effect on his nervous system."  The screaming stopped and Duncan's movements reduced dramatically, though he was still twitching.  Instructor Richards stood and put the baton away, retrieving the rod he'd thrown earlier as well.

"Sufficient levels can even cause the heart to stop."

"No!"  Jenny cried out, breaking loose from the crowd of horrified students to rush to his side.  She began making rhythmic motions, pushing down on his chest.

"Calm down, Trainee Awesome, the boy's fine, just unconscious.  He'll wake up in a few minutes with a headache but that's all." said Bruce Richards, not a trace of worry in his voice.

"To return to my earlier point... Trainee Drew?"

"Yes sir?"  The boy's voice quavered, almost squeaking.

"What is the benefit of a knife?"

"Sir... it cuts things?"

The instructor gave a tolerant smile.  "Yes, but what lets it do that, anyone?"

Isaac spoke up, the first reaction he'd given since the lecture began.  "It's the edge.  It concentrates force into a smaller area."

"Exactly!"  The smile was broader but not exactly cheerful.  "A few of you, a very few, have a power that is variable enough, broad enough, that you don't need any sort of tool or weapon.  For the rest of you...  well, humans invented them for a reason."  He reached into the case once more and began withdrawing a number of different devices.

"Trainee Drew still has the knife.  It concentrates force along its edge or the point.  This is an extendable baton, it concentrates force to a lesser extent but also extends the leverage of your swing.  The result is that it hits harder than your hand.  I've already demonstrated the variable current stun baton.  This is a tear gas canister.  I assume you're all roughly familiar with the effects of the gas.  Keep in mind, many Strong types, as well as telekinetics, energy manipulators and the like, breathe just like normal people."  He looked around at the class, most of whom were beginning to settle down.  Duncan still lay on the floor, twitching.

"Most people think that the Citadel only takes the best.  That's not entirely true.  The candidates we accept are the ones with the
potential
to be the best.  This, right here," he gestured to indicate the table before him, "is one of the ways we make sure you live up to that.  Personal Conditioning is, obviously, a personal class.  I'll be meeting with each of you, helping you design a course of training to make the best use of your own abilities as well as suggesting various skills and devices you should familiarize yourself with."  His smile, this time, was wry.

"On the plus side, you won't have any more marathons to run.  You will, however, have a customized workout routine that you'll be responsible for maintaining on your own time.  Any questions?"

"Yeah."  The speaker was a short girl with red hair in a pixie style cut.

"Ah, the class's current number two."  He paused to consider.  "I believe you prefer to be called Kerry?"

She nodded.

"Please, ask your question."

"Okay, Instructor Bruce," she began, warily, "what makes you so sure you can tell us a better way to use our own powers?  I mean, we're all pretty unique and we've had them our whole lives..."

"Young lady, do you know what a Richards type is?"

"Isn't it the same thing as a Stark type, except your gadgets and stuff don't actually fit in with regular science?"

"Not quite, my dear, though that is a common misunderstanding.  It actually goes back to the two types' respective arch types."  He paused, as if organizing his thoughts.

"Andre Stark was a contemporary of Henry Ford.  In nineteen seventeen he redesigned the ethanol based internal combustion engine and designed an assembly line plant to produce them.  He didn't invent either concept, just refined them, built them better than anyone else ever had."  He looked around the group.

"Penicillin was discovered in nineteen twenty eight, more or less by accident.  It was considered a neat chemical, but not something with much practical use.  Two years later, Jerome Richards published a paper.  It gave a detailed description of a process he'd developed, one that would modify a common rhinovirus.  Those altered virus particles would, in turn, alter the human genome.  The intended result was a human being whose body released measured amounts of penicillin in the presence of infection."  The instructor's gaze returned to Kerry.  "Care to guess what happened?"

"It didn't work.  Richards made stuff never does, not for anyone else."

"Close.  No one else could understand the man's process well enough to use it themselves.  Although there were a dozen of his test subjects who were never sick again, for the rest of their lives.  Obviously, the procedure worked.  However, Dr. Richards didn't take the rejection well.  He thought, like you and everyone else, that it was his own power that let the procedure work.  It wasn't till the eighties that we had proof to the contrary."  He paused, waiting for her to make the connection.

"You're..." her face went white, "you're talking about the Bug Bomb, aren't you."

"Yes.  Its maker was a normal man, though brilliant.  Dr. Seth Brindle managed to adapt Richards' process so that, instead of penicillin production, the infected individuals changed.  They went from normal humans to... something else."  The instructor, and the class, were quiet for a moment.

"Anyway, to answer your question, both Richards and Stark types gain an intuitive understanding in their field of interest.  Starks work at, or a little beyond, the cutting edge of modern science.  Richards types, like myself, are capable of creating processes or technologies that are far in advance of anything comparable.  My own field of interest is personal combat, specifically Empowered combat."

More than one trainee was wide eyed at that.  Jenny was the only one who responded.

"So you're saying, what, that other Richards types make antigravity boots and laser rifles and stuff but you spend all your time figuring out better ways for people to fight each other?  But they're just as advanced?"

"That's right Jenny."

"Whoa."

"Now, if the rest of you will please wait outside, I'll finish with Drew Stasis and call the rest of you in one by one."

"Okay Drew, I take it you've figured out my point with the knife thing?  Or do you need a bit more time to consider it?"  The boy didn't seem to think it was funny.  "Well then, not to belabor it, but here's another knife."

Drew took it without comment, a puzzled look on his face.  He tested the edge against his thumb and disappeared when the blade sank half way to the bone.  The boy reappeared instantly, three feet to the left, the puzzled look gone and a scar on his thumb.

"That's the closest we can get to a monomolecular blade.  Basically, the edge is only a little thicker than a politician's conscience.  You'll find a bunch of anatomy charts and some exercise routines in your mailbox.  Mostly isometrics and the like, to take advantage of all your free time."