Class Fives: Origins (5 page)

No, he thought firmly, he couldn’t just ignore it, walk away. That was just wrong. As a human being he had to do something. And he did.

So what’s the worst that they can do to me, he considered? I jumped a guy and whacked him over the head with his own gun. What is that, assault? And what’s the penalty for that? Could I wind up in prison?

A chill rained through him and he shivered slightly at the thought.

No, they can’t do that, he told himself. They wouldn’t. He’d never been in trouble before in his life. In fact, ever since he’d discovered his unusual capability he’d taken extra care to hide it, not use it, stay out of trouble, call no attention to himself. And he’d managed it successfully for how many years now? Surely it wouldn’t all come crumbling down around him because of this ridiculous incident.

Or is that exactly what does mess things up? Senseless, meaningless things. You trip on the escalator and your life spins out of control, is that how it worked? Either way, he realized he was trapped, and his refusal to deal with it now would only make it worse. In fact, the longer he put off telling someone in authority about it, the worse it might look.

Ok, he told himself, shifting in his seat and straightening up to reach for the ignition key before he could argue himself out of at least doing something.

I’ll go talk to the police. Just go in, tell them what I can of what happened and get it over with. Because he was just an ordinary guy and that was what ordinary guys are supposed to do, wasn’t it? Innocent ordinary guys, anyway?

He cranked up the engine and dropped the car into gear. He knew where the local precinct was. He could get there in a few minutes.

Stupid, he heard a distant voice sneer somewhere deep in his thoughts.

Yeah, that’s me, all right, he thought.

Mr. Stupid.

It was getting tougher all the time, Roger told himself. He was having to be more and more aware, more and more focused, keep his mind fixed on every tiny move or bad things happened.

He stood very still, eyes closed, calming himself against the flare of anger that was struggling to break into that part of his brain that would surrender to it and set it free.

It’s nothing, he told himself. Just a goof. Happens all the time. Let it go.

Roger Malloy opened his eyes as the anger ebbed, and looked over at where he’d knocked the door of the kitchen cabinet across the room, half its length jutting out of where it had penetrated the wall.

He hadn’t remembered, hadn’t maintained his grip on it.

For anyone else it would have been nothing, a momentary annoyance that passed in a second and was forgotten. He’d opened the cabinet, half distracted by having to keep stirring the swirling contents of the bubbling pot, and had carefully poured in the cup of sugar, then realized he also needed to add the butter, which was on the other end of the counter.

A quick turn while leaning that direction, and his head banged into the open cabinet door.

For anyone else it would have elicited a curse, a jerk of the head and perhaps a forceful slam of the door.

A friend had once told him that most people just know, from experience or instinct, how much abuse things can take before they break. You can vent your anger by slamming a cabinet door because somewhere inside you know the only effect it will produce is a loud noise. You can slam a cooking pot to the floor because you know it’s made of metal and unlikely to be damaged. But if you grab a glass cup, something inside you knows how to measure if the anger is enough to require flinging it against the wall and shattering it to a million pieces which you will then have to clean up, or not. And something inside takes over, tells you to get a grip, fights the anger down and makes you put the cup back unthrown.

It was a matter of subtle internal distraction that everyone did, even though most people weren’t aware of doing it. It just happened. But not for Roger. It was just another of the million tiny things that made him different.

And it had happened so fast. He’d been focused on the cooking and the fact that he was in his own home, the one place he could truly relax, let himself just be. He hadn’t remembered that he might as well be living in a universe made of razor-thin glass and tissue paper.

His hand had shot up and slapped at the door, the kind of motion that for anyone else would almost have gone unfelt against their own fingers, and might have been enough to shove the door fully open so he could lean over to grab at the butter.

The door had shot back, hard, reaching the limit of its hinges which snapped off, actually shooting one of the screws across the kitchen where it was now embedded in the wall, just above the stove, and the door itself had rocketed to the side, like a massive blade, and buried itself halfway into the drywall just below the coat rack.

It was getting to be too much, he thought. The constant tension, the constantly having to walk on eggshells, because for him the world literally was like eggshells. If he were to raise his foot as he stood here before the kitchen counter and slam it down, not even with that much effort, it would go straight through the floorboards, and perhaps the shockwave would knock down part of the basement ceiling below where he stood.

Hell, it might even collapse entirely, sending the whole room and everything in it crashing to the concrete of the basement floor.

And the horror of it all was that it would mean nothing in terms of his own punishment for such a stupid act. Even if the entire house were to collapse around him, burying him in the rubble that was his life, he wouldn’t even feel it. It would be as if someone had dumped a trainload of Styrofoam peanuts on his head. It wouldn’t hurt him in the least. Because he simply couldn’t be hurt. By anything.

That’s really what reins in anger, he considered. The possible personal consequences if we unleash it. But there were no consequences for him. There never had been. And never would be.

Once, when he was six years old, he’d wandered into the street and been clipped by a car going a bit too fast down the quiet suburban lane with a driver who wasn’t paying attention.

Any other child would have been struck by the corner of the vehicle, just where the headlights gazed vacantly into the blazing midday sun, and been flung away, like a bug swatted from the face. But when the car struck him, it hadn’t even caused him to flinch. Instead, the entire force of the impact had instantly rebounded against the vehicle, crumpling the entire corner of it, slamming the engine block sideways and causing the rear wheels to jump high off the pavement, making the conveyance execute a full quarter turn in midair before it slammed back down. The driver had to be taken to the hospital. Roger was no longer allowed outside the house without direct, constant supervision.

That was when he sensed he was different from everybody else, and always would be.

He sighed, leaning to press his palms on the counter and consciously letting his body sag, rather than push, which would have caused the whole counter to collapse to the floor.

How am I supposed to go on living like this, he groaned in his thoughts. He could never relax, never take the slightest casual act for granted. If he forgot, for one instant, what he was capable of, he would cause unimaginable havoc.

That’s why he was so tense all the time. That’s why people looked at him and saw a moody, quiet, angry man. Because he had to be. He simply couldn’t risk anything else.

Why am I like this, he thought for the hundred millionth time. Why me? And why this?

He could never have a relationship like a normal man. If he lost control for even an instant in the throes of some passion, he could crush his partner, snap their bones, kill them before he was even aware of it.

And now he was beginning to lose his ability to keep a grip on himself.

That stupid truck, he thought. One selfish, stupid asshole blocking in his car and he’d just had to let it out. Ok, he reasoned, he’d controlled it, kept a tight hand on it, playing it out enough to just do what he needed done and that was all. He hadn’t let the anger have its way. So that was something.

If only he hadn’t stomped on the tail ramp, so that it had crunched like a piece of tin foil into a bent mess of metal. That was just childish. He’d done it to scare the guy, and it was obvious he’d accomplished that. So maybe in the future the idiot would think twice before acting like his concerns were an excuse to trample on other people’s rights. And that was something. 

But then the dark thought, the one that he had been pushing back and eluding ever since it had been scraped clear of all the thick layers of protest and self-justification and fancy logic tricks, was staring at him coldly.

Did he take down my license number? If he did… what then?

Roger suddenly realized that he’d lost his appetite.

Marvin felt his stomach clench again as he entered the elevator. They’d already moved at a brisk, military pace, through what felt like miles of corridors, making the oddly angled turns in the hallway that made this the Pentagon.

He still couldn’t believe it. It really was only a little less than a day since he’d made the call and walked the officer on the other end through as clear an explanation as he could of what he’d seen on the computer terminal, what the software was telling him.

The return call came less than an hour later, and less than two hours after that the dark car containing the two uniformed men had pulled up in front of the university Science Building. They had gently but firmly escorted him home to pack a single small bag, then they were off to the local airport, where a helicopter had been waiting. An hour after that, he was at yet another airport being bundled onto a jet and on his way to Washington.

A cascade of unsettling thoughts rattled around his mind at the magnitude of what he might have started.

After landing in the nation’s capital he was hustled to a hotel where he was quickly checked in, and then carried to the building that was the beating heart and soul of the most awesome collection of power on the planet.

And now he was riding down, far below ground level, to where a command center was already prepared for his presentation.

He decided he would prefer it not include the President of the United States after all, considering the jangling attack of pure nerves that was threatening to turn him into a blithering, shaking mess.

Beside him the muscular, craggy-faced officer stared straight ahead, as if allowing a human expression might get him shot.

The door to the elevator opened to another corridor that revealed a wide alcove containing a dull metal desk and a heavy-looking door that was flanked by a pair of uniformed guards, the pistols holstered at their hips surely loaded and ready.

Stepping briskly down the hallway, the officer moved to the desk, bent to pick up a pen and sign some document, then displayed the identification badge clipped to the breast pocket of his uniform to the Marine standing behind the desk. The Marine nodded and reached under the desk to press a concealed button.

The heavy door rolled open silently, revealing the surprisingly large room beyond.

The officer turned to stare at Marvin, who swallowed and stepped forward into the hidden chamber.

Inside was a long desk, bent to form a wide “U”, at the open end of which stood a podium behind which a large screen was deployed.

The officer snapped out an arm, the palm upturned as they moved into the room.

“Data stick?” he said, gruffly.

Marvin stopped, fumbled with the loose folder of notes and charts that he now tucked under his arm, and dug into the pocket of his slightly rumpled sport coat until his fingers located the little plastic object that contained his raw data as well as the brief presentation he’d created hastily the night before.

The officer nodded briskly and moved quickly across the room toward a small panel tucked into the corner.

Marvin took a moment to let his gaze sweep around the space and realized it was remarkably ordinary, more like a relatively nice but plain, windowless boardroom than a place where the destruction of some enemy might be decided upon.

And then the people began to enter through the door he himself had just traversed, moving with a kind of purpose toward what must have been pre-assigned seats around the large table. Some were in uniform, some in crisp business attire. Some turned to exchange quiet words as they worked their way to their seats, others looked down to scan pages in their hands.

These are the guys who run the world, it occurred to him, stunned by the realization.

How cool is this, he thought, unable to suppress a small swelling of excitement.

It took only a minute for the entire group to seat themselves and direct their attention toward the officer, an older man with a barrel chest and a short crop of steel gray hair atop his bulldog-like face, who had moved behind the podium.

Marvin glanced around quickly, wondering where he was expected to be.

“Last night,” the officer said without preamble, “Dr. Marvin Henry, Associate Professor of Astrophysics at St. John’s University, was overseeing a normal rotation monitoring the Deep Look System. At approximately twenty-three hundred hours the Deep Look software compiled newly obtained data and issued a Level Two warning. Dr. Henry will now outline that data.”

The man stepped from behind the podium, moving down along the table to an empty seat near its end.

A few of the seated people turned to glance at Marvin expectantly, and it was a few moments before he realized that was all the preparation he would be allowed. A chill shot through him and he shivered slightly, then moved toward the podium. He felt like he’d been invited to take part in some solemn and important ritual and no one had bothered to instruct him in what was supposed to happen.

Stepping behind the podium, he placed the folder containing his print-outs and photographs and opened it, rummaging through a number of sheets, mostly to give himself a moment to calm down.

At last he raised his eyes to his audience and cleared his throat.