The Next Chronicle (Book 1): Next (12 page)

The attack made the news, though of course the facts were all wrong. The men and women with their neutral accents and homogeneous looks portrayed the boy as the aggressor. It was not a case of a child coming to power as the result of constant abuse—the truth—but rather a wealthy son lashing out at others in a tantrum gone horribly wrong.

The first day wasn't all that bad for the boy. No charges were filed on account of the police being in possession of the correct information. The boy was picked up from school by his parents within half an hour of the attack. At first he worried he would need protection when leaving the office. Many students were angry at him. Not because the rest of them had any love for the boys he had hurt—they were, after all, bullies—but because of what he was. He was a Next, and as far as the rest of the student body knew, he had been hiding it from them.

The last was an assumption on his part, but a good one. The boy had been singled out for being rich, a condition over which he had no control. It was easy to figure out what the angry stares and expressions of muted horror meant, based on practical experience.

The second day was worse. Mom and Dad had taken off work to stay home with him, as the school would not allow an unregistered Next to attend. The process, as it turned out, was relatively efficient. The principal had alerted the police after the incident, who in turn made a call to the local OSA office. The office called early on the morning of the second day to schedule an immediate appointment to test the boy's abilities.

The test itself took a few hours and consisted of scans, physical tests, and one long staring contest with a man who was supposed to determine if the boy had any latent mental abilities. At the end they measured his finger for a ring as a large man sat down to explain the category and registration system.

Every Next ability fell into one of three categories: physical, mental, and energy. The rings, typically silver bands with a thick strip of color running across them, were an easy way to display the general abilities of the Next who wore them. Blue for physical, yellow for mental, and red for energy. The intensity of the color also mattered, the boy learned. Navy blue represented more power than, say, sky blue.

Next with abilities spanning beyond one category were labeled with rings made of secondary colors. The boy would have found it all very interesting had he been reading about it on the Internet in a fit of boredom. In the boy's current situation, the big man's explanations only served as a reminder of how different he truly was and how obvious that difference would be to others when he had to put on the ring.

It was only when the ring itself appeared that the man explained about the Black Bands. Those, the boy knew perfectly well. Everyone did. They were Next with at least two categories of extremely high power, each measuring nine or better on the Hooper scale. If you knew nothing else about the methodology of classifying superhumans, you knew that much.

The boy's ring was silver at the edges, the stripe in the middle gleaming obsidian.

His heart nearly stopped. His parents, seated on either side of him, squirmed in their seats. The big man looked sad as he handed the ring over, explaining that the boy had scored at the very limits of the tests in strength, speed, and resistance to physical harm. He was, the man assured, growing stronger by the moment as his body adjusted to the energy it absorbed. He also possessed an as-yet-unknown but measurably frightening capacity in the area of using raw energy. Whether this would reveal itself as the ability to fire blasts of plasma from his hands, stop time itself, or any one of a thousand other things, the man could not say.

But it
would
eventually manifest. The man made sure to stress that very clearly.

The night of the second day saw all hell break loose. The boy had been placed on the national and local Next registry in compliance with state and federal law. The people following his story had been watching for it, probably with the aim of updating the stories about him with new information and with little expectation that any further bombshells would fall.

When his rating appeared, the story went from being moderately interesting on the local level and little more than a footnote nationwide, to an international headline. Black Bands were rare enough that their discovery was guaranteed to sell ads. Black Bands involved in crimes, even minor schoolhouse fights, increased the exposure several times over. For one his age to appear fueled interest to a dangerous degree.

On the third day, the bully whose ribs the boy had broken died.

The doctors in the facility clinic told Kit to stay in bed, under their care, for a few days. She slept there through the night and was in her office by the next morning.

Sleep was easier than she would have expected. The drugs probably had something to do with it. Her escape was not the daring feat of dexterity she imagined, either. Scans (by a machine resembling something from
Star Trek
) revealed dozens of tiny cracks in various bones and damaged muscles. Kit was a walking sprain.

Archer was sitting in her chair when she arrived.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly.

“
Hey,” she replied, a deep note of fatigue in her voice.

Archer stood and walked around the desk. “Why aren't you still in bed?”

Kit brushed him aside and plopped into her chair, firing up her computer. “I could ask you the same thing. Didn't a building fall on you twelve hours ago?”

Grimacing, Archer put a hand to his side. “Yes, and I'm reminded of the fact every time I breathe. I got lucky. From the reports your doctors gave me, you shouldn't even be able to walk right now.”

Kit rolled her eyes. “I heal quickly,” she said as she began scanning reports for any sign of the killer.

“
That's funny,” Archer said. “Your dossier doesn't mention that among your abilities.”

“
It's part of the total-plus package,” she said distractedly. “When they test you, they don't test for healing. I guess the people who designed the Hooper battery of tests thought it would be bad PR to start stabbing people they're already forcing to get tagged like livestock just to see how fast the cut would heal.”

There was a long quiet spell as Kit searched through every headline and police report she could find. Archer lounged on one of her couches. Ten minutes later she leaned back in her chair and scrubbed her hands across her face.

“Damn it,” she said in frustration. “We don't have a thing to go on, do we?”

Archer stood with a sigh. “No. Nothing to report. Which I would have told you if you'd have asked.” He considered for a second, then laughed. “Come to think of it, you would have still looked in case I missed something.”

Kit stared at the ceiling as she leaned back. “What's our next move?”

“
As far as this psychotic telekinetic goes, we don't have one. We have no way to track him now, no idea who he is. For the moment all we can do is hope the little boy is still alive and let the cops process the evidence to see if they can come up with any leads. Other than that, we've got the normal daily crap to deal with.”

Archer moved toward the door joining their offices, but stopped. “Oh, and tonight a bunch of us are going out to have a drink in honor of Towney. You're invited.”

Kit nodded. “I'll go. I'm not much of a drinker, but I'll be there.”

Archer smiled. “Good. He would have done the same for you.”

Much of her morning was spent on the phone. Defended by their assistant, Nicki, Kit and Archer were spared the need to talk to reporters. Instead they fielded calls from congressmen, senators, one very angry mayor, and the one person who truly mattered.

Robinson, the head of the entire department, was not happy. Archer took that call, for which she offered to buy him dinner. For a month.

Archer left shortly before lunch to meet with a newly discovered Black Band down in the testing area, a rare enough event to warrant his personal oversight. Kit worked through lunch with a fury. She finished every report and signed off on orders as fast as she could, desperate to be ready should a new piece of information show up on her desk.

As it happened, they did get a break. Rather than show up on her computer's news feed, it
woke
up.

Not long after Archer returned from his consultation in the testing lab, Kit received a call from the basement room where Ray Elliot slept.

“
Director,” said the woman on the phone in a voice thick with controlled panic, “You need to come down here right now.”

“
What's going on?” Kit asked. “Is he going to explode again?”

Archer, who was leafing through several files he'd spread out on Kit's couch, whipped his head toward her.

“I don't know, ma'am, but his vital signs are all over the place. One second his heart rate spikes, then goes back to normal. Then his brain activity changes and reverts, too. We have no clue what's going on, but we think he might be about to regain consciousness.”

Archer heard the last part, having slid over to the desk and put his ear close to the phone. The big man was already moving when Kit told the doctor they were on their way, tossing the handset in the general direction of the base as she struggled to her feet and limped to catch up.

The elevator doors were open and Archer punching in an override code as Kit stepped in. The ride down was faster than any trip through the facility she had taken, as all the safety precautions were thrown to the wind.

When they entered the room housing Ray Elliot, the scene in front of them was tense.

The three soldiers stood with rifles pointed at the still-unconscious form. Monitors beeped and pinged erratically, the readouts fluctuating across the screens. The medical staff tried to make sense of it, the physician in charge issuing orders in a terse whisper.

A nurse approached the patient, syringe in hand. Kit watched from the foot of the bed as the nurse plunged the needle into a vein. Or rather, as she tried to.

The tip never quite touched Ray Elliot's skin. As it approached, the metal dissolved in a rain of fine powder. The reaction spread up the syringe, disintegrating the entire thing before it stopped. Startled, the nurse jumped back, spreading her hands as the fine dust drifted onto the bed. Hands tightened on guns, and the room took a collective breath.

“
Wait,” Kit said to the three armed men. They nodded, and she found a moment to stand in awe of their self-control. Even faced with one of the most dangerous men on the planet, they did their duty well.

Ray Elliot shifted where he lay as if trying to find a more comfortable position. Then his body went still, unnaturally and completely. A moment later, Kit watched the IV lines, the tape holding them in place, the hospital gown, and the sheet laying over his body all fall to dust.

Like a man coming back to life, Ray Elliot's eyes flew open as he sat bolt upright.

He seemed unaware of the tension in the room as he rubbed his eyes and took stock of himself. Kit watched as he noted his own nudity, which seemed to bother him not at all. His head cocked to the side at the sight of the feeding tube dangling from his torso, and he grunted when he discovered the catheter.

“That's gotta go,” he rasped.

And just like that, the tube leading from his urinary tract—along with its contents—puffed into vapor. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked up, finally taking note of the people around him.

“Sir,” the middle soldier said. “I need you to stop using your abilities immediately, please.” There was no fear evident in his tone, nor aggression. It sounded like a reasonable if firm command.

Ray shook his head. “Sorry, guys. It's the only thing keeping me up at the moment.”

“That was not a request,” the soldier said. “We are under orders to halt the use of your powers at any cost.”

“
And I told you to wait,” Kit said.

The soldier's eyes flicked toward her. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but our orders come from higher up the chain.”

Ray watched this exchange with what Kit could swear was a bemused expression. “It's academic,” he said, still trying to clear the desert from his throat. “They aren't going to kill me.”

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Kit wondered if that was supposed to be some kind of challenge. “Are you insane?” she asked.

Ray shook his head. “No.”

Without warning, the soldiers found themselves holding air as their weapons were rendered into their component elements. Apparently expecting this, all three men pulled their knives and lunged forward at the same time. With an expression of mild concentration, Ray Elliot dissolved their knives and clothing, leaving each man stumbling and nude except for jewelry. It took the fight out of them.

“Gentlemen!” Kit said loudly before the nude trio could regain their composure. “It seems obvious Mr. Elliot has control of his abilities, at least for the moment. And Mr. Archer and I would like to speak with him. You can run along and find some clothes, or I will make sure every person in this facility knows the three of you got beat up by a girl while you were naked.” She clenched a fist loud enough to pop knuckles. “Your choice.”

Again to their credit, the men weren't ready to abandon their duty. “Ma'am, we've been ordered—”

“Yes, we're aware,” Archer said. “The facts are the facts, guys. You can keep trying to murder a man who is not presently a danger and get something broken when Ms. Singh steps in to defend him, or you can go take the rest of the day off. I promise I'll explain to Robinson that you did your best.”

Ray piped up. “And hey, at least I left your jewelry alone, right? I couldn't have done that if I didn't know what I was doing.”

The soldiers glanced at each other, then shrugged. “Fine,” the one in the middle said. “Understand I'm going to be reporting this as soon as I reach my office.”

Archer nodded. “Noted.” He turned to the rest of the staff. “Okay, everyone out. No, I don't care if you need to check him or whatever, you can do it after we're done talking to him. Get out.”

Then the three of them were alone. Kit lurched over to a chair, lowering herself into it carefully. Ray frowned as Archer threw a blanket over him. “Thanks,” he said, then looked at Kit. “You were bluffing, huh? You couldn't have fought those guys.”

Kit smiled weakly. “On any other day I'd have wiped the floor with them.”

Archer handed Ray a glass of water. “Here. I figure you're thirsty after not drinking for a decade.”

“
Thanks,” the haggard man said.

Archer leaned against the wall and fixed the younger man with a level stare. “No problem. Now please explain to us exactly what this little show was all about. How did you make yourself wake up?”

Ray took small sips, wetting his throat. “I've been absorbing energy for years. I guess it must have something to do with...what I can do, but I've been awake for a long time. I've been teaching myself how to use my abilities, and once I got the hang of it, I started absorbing as much as I could.”

“
Why?” Kit asked.

Ray took another sip. “Because I needed to be strong enough to wake up. I mean, look at me. I look like a starving third-world orphan. I shouldn't be able to talk or even tolerate the light, much less hold myself up in bed. Turns out I can strengthen my body, even fix it, with my powers.”

Archer glanced at Kit. “Sounds familiar,” he said.

Kit shook her head. “It's limited with me,” she explained. “Whatever part of the
Surge I take in, it's constant. I can't just grab for more like he does, only shift around what I have.”

“
At any rate,” Ray said, steering the conversation back on track, “I needed to wake up. You have no idea what it was like, being stuck in my own head. Knowing I was asleep but not being able to do anything about it. After a while I stopped wanting to die. Then I realized I might be able to do some good. I didn't plan on doing it so fast, but I saw what happened yesterday, or at least the aftermath. I saw her,” he said, pointing at Kit, “save your life.”

Archer frowned. “What do you mean, you saw it?”

Ray sighed and allowed himself to relax into a prone position again. “I can see the energy, if I concentrate. The Surge, you called it? I guess that's the stuff that gives us our powers?” Kit nodded. “I can see it, feel it all around me. It's all over the world, but regular people stand out. They don't have it. Every Next does. While my body was laying here sleeping, my mind was out over the city. I saw the flash of power when that building dropped on you and went to check it out.”

“
You can tell a Next just by looking at them?” Archer asked.

“
Yeah,” Ray replied. “Right now I'm using everything I have to stay conscious. Breaking apart all the medicine in my body without poisoning myself took a lot out of me. But with a little rest, a lot of food, and as much energy as I can take in, I'll be on my feet in no time.”

Kit grinned fiercely. “You can help us find the killer,” she said.

“Yeah,” Ray replied. “I don't know what you're talking about exactly, but people dropping buildings on other people seems like a bad thing. I want to help if I can.”

Kit shot to her feet and immediately regretted it. Only Archer's steadying hand kept her from falling over.

“Okay, I'm calling a time out on you,” Archer said. “I'll take care of everything. You go to your quarters and take a nap before we go out tonight.”

“
Come on, Archer,” Kit said. “I'm fine.”

He scowled. “You aren't. And I want you with me when we catch this asshole. So go on, get some rest and heal up. I'll take care of everything else.”