SLAM (4 page)

Without warning,
she leaps directly up in the air. It’s a two-story jump, which
means she has to push her power out through the soles of her feet,
to send her high enough. She lands as quietly and lightly as a leaf
on the low surface of the roof, booted feet barely making a whisper
against the smooth glass.

For realism, the Arena is laid out in an
imitation of the City streets. After all, that’s where operatives
are most likely to be in danger; it makes sense for them to be
tested in that layout as well. There are several towering
buildings, although here in the reproduction you can’t get to the
top of those because they disappear into the ceiling after four
stories. Some of the buildings, like the one Serena currently
crouches on, are lower, wider, and sprawling. Her attention moves
to the streets and her gaze sharpens. She can make out movement a
few streets away, and hear scuffing noises to her right, as well as
in front of her.

Her opponents are on the roof. And they’re
armed.

Opponents, that’s all they are.
The enemy. Not Dom, who taught her to tie her shoes because her
father was too busy. Not Laurie, who knows all the best folk songs.
Just masked foes, trying to keep her from Damon.
Just like the real thing.

Hunkering into the shadow at the
edge of the building, she closes her eyes and slips deeply into
the
centre
of her power, imagining the
internal light of her Talent filling every cell. Her consciousness
has to align completely with her physical body so that she can be
both undetectable and ready to act – a perfect Zen state of
awareness that she’s spent years learning to achieve. She slides
into it, her skin tingling with energy that will protect or attack,
as she commands it. This is it, this time. No going back. They
won’t let her out on the streets unless she succeeds in this, so
succeed she must. And this is her last chance.

If she doesn’t get past the test
on her third try, she’ll get pushed into intelligence services or
worse.
I definitely don’t have the head to
be a teacher
. She snorts, just thinking
about trying to get a bunch of kids to listen to her without
resorting to dangling them upside down, then sobers.
I’m gonna
make
it
. Certainty trickles through her bones,
driving away the mild irritant of the armour digging into her hips,
and the coldness of the roof seeping into the balls of her feet.
It’s designed that way because cold saps psionic ability. Cold
steel is the worst, leeching the energy right out of you faster
than you can think. Making the Arena so cold lowers her chances of
completing the course.
Better move fast,
before it weakens me too much.

In order to avoid standing out from her
surroundings, she makes her mental shield as thin and unnoticeable
as possible. She tunes it to the frequency of the air and stays
perfectly still. Her defences are weaker like this, but she’s less
likely to be found. Those hunting for her have their own psionic
abilities and will use any advantage they can, any sign of her. And
even a tiny flaw in the skin of her protection could signal her
location – a beacon of power to lead them to their prey. The longer
she can stay hidden, the better chance she has of making
it.

Which means she has to be careful.

As subtly as possible, she spreads
her awareness out, pinpointing the locations of the movement she
noticed. The operatives’ shields are good, but motion displaces
air, creates environmental ripples. Tracking those ripples down
like the threads of a spider in a web, she nods once to herself,
and forms a mental map of her surroundings, complete with moving
blips to represent the people who are going to try really hard to
shoot her. No longer the freedom fighters she longs to join, they
are now standing in as Institute soldiers. Here, they’re just as
dangerous to her as the soldiers will be out in the real city, on a
mission. People die in the Arena if they’re not ready. Better that
than being taken because you were sent out into danger unprepared.
Still, dead is dead.
But not me, not
today
.
Alright,
suckers, bring it on!

Her movement is explosive.
Bursting across the roof faster than a normal human can run, using
well-practiced telekinesis to power her feet, she leaps out into
the air. She lands sure-footed on the next roof over, just before a
mental attack grasps after her, huge, invisible fingers trying to
catch hold of her moving figure and pin her down. A basic attack.
Unsurprised, she fends the operative off, slipping through the
reaching thought forms without missing a step. Dropping like a
stone into the alley below, she bounces into a run up the wall and
packs her hands and forearms with telekinetic power, ready to
attack with one of her favourite moves. She invented the technique
when she was twelve, and around ARC it’s called the Serena Slam – a
strike where she wraps her bones and sinew in Talent, bracing them
and increasing their strength. When he rounds the corner, only
inches from her, she smashes her fist into his face.
Perfect timing. The operative’s
shields deflect the force of the blow, or she’d
have torn his jaw clean off, but the muted power is still enough to
cause his eyes to roll up in his head. He slumps to his knees and
sideways into a messy heap.
One
down.

Sudden gunfire cracks through the air, making
her flinch, and she realizes there are already other operatives
headed toward her. The first guy must have sent out a telepathic
shout. Her cover blown, she dashes through the shadows, tearing
round the corner to take cover as the bullets tatter the air behind
her, several spun away by her shield, which she pushes outward.
Skin-tight armour is useless against projectiles, as it can’t
absorb that much energy directly, but she now has a protective
globe surrounding her, and charges forward, thoughts of stealth
mostly forgotten.

She almost runs into two more black-clad
figures as they close on her from the gloom, raising their hands
for a telekinetic attack. Screaming defiance, she mirrors them,
searching mentally for the best route away. They’ll drag her out of
the air if she leaps, so instead she calls her power in, letting it
fill her, and then unleashes it in a powerful wave, surging forward
in its wake. It rushes ahead of her like a tsunami – a moving wall
of energy, meant to sweep them out of her way.

The operative on her right is so
distracted by the brute force approach of her telekinetic attack
that he fails to react fast enough, and she delivers a sloppy
flying roundhouse kick, her foot slamming into the side of his
knee, and sending him to the ground. Before she can knock him out,
the other is on her from behind.
Abial,
her awareness tells her as
their shields and bodies crash into each other. Serena pours
everything she has back into her skin for protection, not allowing
Abial to find a weak point, or slide through her barrier with any
nasty, distracting surprises. Their powers push against each other
as they grapple, each trying to force the other away. Struggling
for a grip against the more powerful hands of her opponent, Serena
takes a chance and jerks her head backward, her skull colliding at
top speed with the bridge of Abial’s nose. There’s a satisfying
crunching noise, and the girl’s grip slips.

She always forgets to anchor her
shield around her face.
Twisting sideways,
Serena hammers at Abial’s shields with all her strength, aware of
footsteps closing on her.

Breaking loose, she bends her
knees and leaps up, using Abial’s head as a convenient boosting
point, the blow sending the other girl to the ground. Unable to
suppress a cocky smirk –
aw yeah
–
Serena dashes away
across the rooftop, scanning her surroundings. Rapidly figuring out
her new position, she senses movement and twists sharply to the
left, just in time to avoid another spray of bullets, which
whistles past. Two of them clip her shield, sapping more of her
strength as she absorbs the powerful blows.
Nuke, snipers on the roof.

She leaps from roof to roof,
barely pausing to balance, jinking left and right with
preternatural speed and grace to avoid the continuing gunfire. By
the time she approaches the edge of the building that guards the
exit to the Arena, she’s running at full speed. Heartbeat pounding
in her ears, she throws herself forward into a handstand and grabs
the edge of the roof. Her momentum carries her legs out over the
empty space below. As soon as her body is horizontal, she pushes
out from the wall, uses telekinesis to guide her into a perfect
gymnast’s landing, and sprints flat out for the end of the alley,
the end of the test.
Yes!
Exultation flows through her, reviving her
flagging muscles.

The bullets from the left take her
completely by surprise, but her shield just about holds, and she
dodges sideways, taking cover in a doorway and breathing through
her mouth in an effort to be silent. She trickles her awareness out
again, and discovers that she’s about fifteen meters from the exit,
from the end of the course. Two operatives bracket it, of course,
guns and shields held high. Bile rises in her throat.
I can’t quit, not an option. I’d rather take the
bullets and get carried out of here. If I get over the line, they
might let me contest the ruling, whether I ‘died’ or not. Depends
how many times they hit me.

“Nuke,” she swears under her
breath, rapidly calculating her odds. Within minutes, the other
operatives scattered through the course will be on her, called by
the noisy weapons or their team’s psionic connection. She has to go
immediately, or she’ll be facing eight strong, well-trained
soldiers acting in unison.
Well,
seven,
she corrects herself, remembering
the unconscious guy who had the bad luck of running right into her
super-powered fist. But she’s weaker now, tired, with her strength
and Talent depleted. There’s no way she’ll make it if she doesn’t
go immediately. And this time, she knows, she
has
to make it.

She takes a moment to centre herself and
recheck her worn-down shields, then grits her teeth and prepares
for the inevitable attack. Weapons bark as soon as she leaves the
safety of the doorway, but she whips the bullets around her body,
using physics to her advantage, and flings them back in the
direction of the operatives. One is taken by surprise, a redirected
bullet thudding into him as she powers forward at top speed. His
loud yell splits the eerie quiet, and the attack from the right
peters off.

The remaining operative has stepped in front
of the door, though, and his left hand is outstretched, hurling
telekinetic power at her and slowing her legs until it feels like
she’s running through water, a torrent of pure energy pushing at
her calves and feet. He’s trying to wrap his power around her, grip
onto her, but she’s too quick. She fends away his attempts so he
can’t gain purchase, almost as though she’s bending his mental
fingers backward and sliding her legs through the gaps. But
suddenly the gun in his hand jerks, its muzzle trained on her face
– the hardest area to shield.

She gathers the last dregs of her waning power
and pushes it downward and back, powering it out of her feet as she
leaps. It sends her hurtling wildly into the air; she’s at the end
of her tether, with very little control left. But the soldier
doesn’t have time to react and pull his power back from the
ground-level stream he sent at her legs. If he hadn’t committed so
fully, it’s possible he could have caught her, or at least padded
himself. As it is, he can’t. She crashes into him, body weight and
momentum powering another Slam, and he smashes to the ground with
her on top of him.

She hastily detangles herself,
sensing the approach of more soldiers, but the clumsy landing has
hurt her ankle, and she runs awkwardly for the exit. Her Talent is
totally drained; there’s not enough left to move a feather. That
last jump scraped the barrel dry. But right there, the exit
is
right there
;
all she has to do is make it four more meters. That’s all that
stands between her and going to find her brother.

She can’t even keep her head up,
though, and stumbles, careening off a wall. She must be close. So
close. Then a sunburst of pain explodes in the small of her back
and she’s catapulted forward, catching herself heavily on her
hands, face slamming into the gritty concrete ground. She lies
there, exhausted, feeling her heart break in her chest, unable to
believe she failed again. Inches away. Not good enough,
again
. Sobs catch in her
throat, tearing like glass shards. They won’t let her try another
time. That’s it. No one to go after Damon, no one who knows him
like she does. They’ll never find him without her. A soft cry
escapes as she presses her forehead against the hard ground, unable
to get up.

Then footsteps approach. She knows
she should try to drag herself upright, at least retain some
semblance of dignity.
I can’t. I don’t
care anymore.
She can see two
military-booted feet uncomfortably close to her head, and rolls a
little, gasping at the fresh stab of pain that lances into her
back.

“Well, if you stay down there you’ll have to
wait longer to collect your insignia.” Kion grins down at her, and
opens his meaty palm, revealing a shiny silver pin.