Hero Worship (7 page)

TWELVE

Three blocks from where I left Yvonne at the bus stop, Eliza sits in her car waiting for me. I get in and she speeds away.

“Hey, you know that whole thing with Streak yesterday at the jewelry store?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“There wasn't a gang of dirties there.”

“Huh?”

“I was right there eating lunch. I saw the whole thing,” I say. “Streak getting hurt was just an accident. He tripped and fell. That's it.”

She shoots me a look and says, “You're confused.”

“No, I saw—”

“You're confused,” she interrupts. “Forget what you think you saw.”

We don't talk the rest of the way to the Loganstin River. There's an island in the middle of the river that houses the Core Mansion. Actually, calling it a “mansion” is unimaginative. It's
a monument to power. The base of the building would be a mansion in itself, but the spiraling tower is the tallest building in the city. Gargoyles perch on the rooftop turrets, around a dancing flame that's never extinguished. It's called the “Flame of Truth.” One of the most iconic photos of Loganstin ever taken is when dark clouds covered the city skyline. The top of the mansion tower was blanketed, but the Flame of Truth burned brightly through the darkness. A beacon of justice.

Stopping the car, Eliza slides open the console and presses her thumb against a scanner. A beam of light reads her fingerprint, and a mechanical voice says, “Identity verified.”

A section of road emerges and expands across the river. Not waiting until this bridge is fully formed, Eliza slams the car into gear and hits the gas, speeding over the river. The bridge is incredibly narrow. Turning the wheel just a fraction of an inch would probably send us careening into the dark, cold water. As if it has a mind of its own, my foot hits the floor repeatedly, trying to slow down the car. “Could you please slow down?” I ask.

Eliza removes her hands from the wheel. “Look! No hands,” she yells.

I grab the wheel and try to keep it straight. “What're you doing?!”

“Relax.” She peels my hands off the steering wheel. “It's on automatic.”

“Huh?”

“When a vehicle is on the bridge, it's controlled automatically.”

Sitting back in my seat, I notice that the car hasn't drifted even an inch without hands on the wheel. “Oh” is all I say.

Eliza reaches out and pinches my cheek. “God, you're so cute. I could just eat you up.”

We drive onto the island and head straight for the side of the Core Mansion, where the wall slides open on giant stone rollers. The car pulls inside.

The whole area is roughly the size of an aircraft hangar and looks like a showroom for exotic transportation, somewhere for people with too much money to shop. There's a tiny helicopter that looks like the aircraft equivalent of a go-cart. Resting next to it is the smallest jet plane I've ever seen, not much bigger than Eliza's car. “Do those actually fly?” I ask.

“Wouldn't do us much good if they didn't,” she says.

“Who flies them?” I ask.

“Pretty much any of the Core who can't fly on their own.”

“Even you?”

“I have,” she says, pulling the car into a stall next to a camouflage urban-assault vehicle with rotating turret and attached machine gun. “And you'll be able to if you join the team.”

“That would be tight,” I say, unable to suppress the grin that spreads across my face.

We get out and I follow her toward a door. On the walk, I'm scanning the vehicles. I'm looking for one in particular. Probably the most recognizable vehicle on the planet. Eliza sees me rubbernecking, and she rolls her eyes as she points, grumbling, “It's over there.”

Looking that way, I spot it: Mystic's Jet Car. It's leg
endary. The last three presidents have requested a ride in it. It looks like no other car. If a jet and a drag speedster had a baby, it would produce Mystic's car. “Can I touch it?” I say, admiring the pitch-black automobile.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs. “I guess. But hurry. We're already late.”

The closer I get to it, the blacker it looks. It's as if it swallows light, like a black hole. I marvel at how clean it is. It's spotless. Not a water spot, a smudge, or a speck of lint. It's perfect. Extending my hand to stroke the hood of the speedster, I hesitate. What if I leave a fingerprint or scratch the paint? I couldn't live with myself. Standing there, I stare in awe at it. It doesn't seem real. If it weren't for my reflection staring back at me in the paint, I'd think I was imagining this. Mystic's Jet Car.

Next to Lieutenant Mercury, Mystic is the most revered and respected member of the Core. And she's the only member who doesn't wear a mask. There's been speculation about why she chooses not to conceal her identity, but I subscribe to the belief that it's because she's beautiful. Wearing a mask would conceal her long, golden hair that's never messed up, even after flying through the sky at supersonic speeds when hitching a ride with one of the fliers. She must use a ton of hair spray, that's all I can figure. Also, a mask would cover her perfect café-au-lait complexion, which rivals those of any of the models featured on the covers of magazines. Mystic has the power to read minds, but I don't think she has to use her powers to know what most men are thinking.

“Are you going to touch it or what?” Eliza asks.

My hand hovers above the car's hood. “I can't.”

“Then come on.”

“When we're done, can I get a picture of me standing next to it?” I ask.

“Marvin, if you're going to be invited to join the Core, you've got to get rid of this fanboy-type attitude. It's not cool.”

“But it's Mystic's Jet Car.”

“Yeah, and it gets crappy mileage and the air conditioner never works,” she says. “If you get all dopey and gooey-eyed over everything, you're going to make everyone uncomfortable. You've got to chill.”

“But can I still get a picture of me next to the car?”

Eliza grumbles and storms off. She places the palm of her hand against a scanner. There's a humming noise followed by a green light, which moves from the bottom up as it reads her hand. The elevator door opens and we step inside. As the door closes, I notice there aren't any floor buttons. “Basement,” she says.

The elevator rapidly descends. I reach out and rest my hand on the railing to stabilize myself. “So, what's going to happen, exactly?” I ask.

“Some routine tests,” she says. “Dr. Klaus will take blood and urine samples.”

“Dr. Klaus?” I interrupt.

“The Core's physician.”

The elevator comes to a stop and the door opens. Eliza steps out and I follow behind her, finding myself in what could be mistaken for a medieval dungeon. The dark corridors are made of stone and lit by dim electric lanterns that flicker. It smells like centuries-old mold. We make our way down the corridor, passing a series of closed doors with enormous cast-iron handles.

Eliza stops outside a door at the end of the corridor. She knocks on it, which creates an echo that bounces off the stone walls. I hear the heavy sound of footsteps approaching, and the door swings open to reveal an attractive woman in a lab coat, a skirt that's tight in all the right places, and a silk blouse that if opened one more button would be scandalous.

She pokes her head out and looks around. “Eliza, I told you to call me when you were in the garage.” She motions for us to hurry inside.

Eliza takes my hand in hers and says, “Jeez, Lady, relax. Nobody saw us.”

The woman hurries to close the door. “Do you know how much trouble I'll be in if anyone finds out?” She enters a code into a keypad. When she hits
enter
, a series of locks fasten and there's a hissing of air. “So don't tell me to relax.”

“Marvin, this is Dr. Lady Klaus,” Eliza says. “Lady, this is Marvin.”

I'm struck by the room's pungent odor, which smells like antiseptic and bleach. The doctor notices my grimace. “Sorry about the smell. I just disinfected. I need a completely sterile environment to perform the tests.”

Everything about the lab is sterile, including the white ceramic tiles that cover the floor, walls, and ceiling. Floodlights blanket every square inch in a harsh radiance. The room is chilly, and I'm surprised I don't see my breath. On one side of the lab, there's everything you'd expect in an operating room: monitors, a stainless-steel gurney, respirators, and a small tray on wheels where shiny metal tools are neatly arranged—tools that make me nervous. The other side of the lab houses physical therapy equipment. There's a rack with weights of varying sizes and shapes. A section of the floor has a conveyor belt that looks like a treadmill for an elephant. There's a large Plexiglas tank filled with a green, bubbling liquid. It contains a single-person seat that looks like it submerges to the bottom.

Dr. Klaus stands by the stainless-steel gurney and pats it. “If you'd please lie down here,” she says. As I cross to the gurney, I step over a drain in the floor just in time to see a small trickle of light pink liquid disappear into the grate. It looks like blood. As I sit down on the gurney, Dr. Klaus says, “Oh, sorry, I need you to disrobe.”

My eyes dart from the doctor to Eliza. “Like, naked?” I ask.

“Just down to your underwear.”

As I remove my shirt and pants, Eliza hovers near me and takes them. She's like a mother in a dressing room with a child trying on clothes. “I need to take you shopping,” she says. “Your wardrobe isn't working for me.”

Feeling self-conscious in my underwear and socks, I sit on the lip of the gurney.

While inspecting forms on a clipboard, Dr. Klaus says, “Have you ever been tested?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I tested dirty when I took the test after my powers started.”

“No, I mean a real test,” she says.

“A real test?” I repeat. “I thought that was the real test.”

Dr. Klaus sets the clipboard down, pats the gurney, and says, “Lie down on your back.”

The gurney is cold, and I flinch as I lie flat. The doctor stands over me as she retrieves a stethoscope from her lab coat pocket. She places the end of it against my chest. “Deep breath.”

I inhale deeply and then exhale.

She moves it to the other side. “Again.”

I repeat the process.

Dr. Klaus removes the listening device, smiles, and places her hand gently on my chest. “Good. Everything sounds normal for a … how old are you?”

“What time is it?” I ask.

She looks confused. “Half past midnight.”

“Then I turned eighteen thirty minutes ago.”

“Happy birthday,” Eliza says, bending down and planting a kiss on my mouth. Her breath is warm and sweet. “You're legal.”

Dr. Klaus snickers. “Well, everything sounds normal for a healthy eighteen-year-old.” She picks up a pen light from the nearby table and clicks it on. Leaning over me, she shines the light into my right eye. Satisfied, she moves to the other eye. Standing up, she turns off the light and sets the pen light back down. “So far so good.”

“Are you going to get in trouble for doing this?” I ask.

The doctor opens her mouth to say something, but Eliza interrupts. “There's generally a protocol for this kind of stuff, but Lady agreed to do this for me as a favor.”

“A favor?” Dr. Klaus says. “Is that what we're calling sneaking around in the middle of the night?” She peels a film off of the back of a round sticker, like a bandage, and sticks the adhesive side on my chest, over my heart.

“What's that?” I ask.

“A blood pressure monitor,” she says. The monitor beeps, and Dr. Klaus leans down to read the display. “Your blood pressure is a little high.” After removing the sticker and discarding it, she scribbles on her clipboard. “Eliza, will you hand me the syringe?”

Eliza steps over to the table, shuffling my clothing to free up a hand. “Which one? The little one or the big one?”

“The big one.”

Eliza picks up the biggest syringe I've ever seen. The needle shimmers under the lights.

“What's that for?” I ask, trying not to sound as nervous as I am.

“A blood sample,” Dr. Klaus says, taking the syringe from Eliza.

“How much blood do you need?”

She inspects the needle before moving toward the foot of the gurney, where she grabs my ankle and positions the syringe at the sole of my foot. “You might feel a slight prick,” she says, right before sinking the entire needle into my foot.

I would love to be able to say I retain my composure and handle this incredible discomfort like a champ, but I can't—I howl like a sissy and thrash my head from side to side like a mortally wounded animal. When the doctor removes the needle, the syringe's enormous chamber is filled with blood. “Now, that wasn't so bad,” she says.

“Yes, it was,” I bark. “Why did you take blood from my foot?”

“The blood cells in an IWP—”

“IWP?” I ask.

“Individual With Powers,” Eliza says.

“Anyway, if the blood isn't taken from the feet, it produces zero information. It's like running a blood test on water,” Dr. Klaus says. “But for some reason, the blood taken from the foot yields information.”

“Why's that?”

“Don't know for sure. It's probably due to the compromised circulation in feet, but nobody really knows.”

“They didn't take blood from my foot when I tested dirty,” I say.

“Those tests are total bullshit,” Eliza says.

“What?”