The Other Eight (5 page)

Aiken had hoped to do a thorough and
penetrating interview session with each applicant, but when more
than four thousand applications came in within the first three
days, it became clear he was going to have to handle this as a sort
of psychiatric lightning round. Steadily the interviews became less
psych evaluation and more job interview, relying on Aiken’s
admittedly unpracticed intuition to filter out the least functional
applicants. Fortunately, when it came to meta-humans, dysfunction
tended not to be subtle. Now with more than a hundred interviews
under his belt, he was beginning to get a feel for the best way to
go about it.

“Is there a Preston Logan outside? Send him
in,” Dr. Aiken said, pulling up the next file.

The door opened and a gangly man in his
mid-twenties entered. A little on the scrawny side, with unruly
blond hair and a stubbly beard and mustache, he wore jeans and a
plain red T-shirt, and had a nylon backpack. After the conga line
of esoteric, eccentric, and downright insane people that had been
interviewed thus far, Preston was refreshingly unremarkable. He
shook hands with Summers and Aiken and took a seat, a look of vague
nervousness on his face.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Logan.”

“No problem.”

“Let’s just go down the list here. You are
Preston Logan, codename: Non Sequitur.”

He nodded.

“Under origin you’ve written ‘Not sure.’”

“Yeah, for that did you mean the origin of my
powers, or when did I start the whole superhero thing?”

“Those are frequently the same event, but
we’re primarily interested in your powers.”

“Oh, good, because I never did any hero-ing.
I mean, one time I unlocked a car door in a hot parking lot to let
a dog get some air, but that’s about it. I got my powers when I was
eight years old. A grandfather clock that belonged to my
grandfather fell on my head. My dad said Grandpa was a gypsy back
in the old country or something like that. I don’t know, he died
before I was born. My grandfather, that is. Not my dad.”

As Preston spoke, Aiken took notes. The young
man’s mannerisms weren’t encouraging. He rarely made eye contact,
mostly keeping his eyes low or turned aside. His shoulders were
slumped, his hands in his pockets, and he became visibly uneasy
when he saw the guards at the door upon entering.

“And that’s when you got your powers of, er,
‘violating cause and effect.’ What exactly does that entail?”

“Yeah, it is a little complicated. Anything
that needs to be done before you need to do something else? I can
do the something else first, so long as I can get the first thing
done within, say, thirty seconds. So if I wanted to get on the
other side of a locked door, I could just open the door, but then
I’d have to flip the lock right away.”

Aiken raised his eyebrows. “That sounds
impressive, Mr. Logan. Is there any way, any
safe
way, that
you could demonstrate that for us?”

Preston glanced around. “I guess so. Is that
switch over there for these lights?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a flashlight or something, so I
don’t spook the guys with guns when I do this?”

“Private Andrews, would you please switch on
your flashlight and shine it on Mr. Preston?” Summers requested.
“Anything else you need?”

“If you could shine another on the switch so
I’ll be able to find it in the dark, that’d help.”

“Private Wood, if you would.”

The two guards did as they were told.

“Okay, ready? Watch.”

Without any indication that anything had been
done, the lights abruptly shut off. The light switch remained in
the on position, at least until Preston walked over and switched it
off.

“That’s astounding! Can you do it again?”
Summers said.

Preston stuffed his hands in his pockets, the
lights came on, then he removed one hand from his pocket and
flipped the switch.

“I must admit, that is a truly remarkable
ability you’ve got there. If I may, I’d like to ask you about your
childhood. What did your—?”

The ringing of the phone on the table
interrupted Aiken. Private Summers answered.

“Private Summers. … Yes, sir. … Absolutely,
sir.” She hung up the phone. “Mr. Preston, that’ll be all for
today. We’ve got your phone number, and we’ll be in touch with you
shortly about where to report for the next stage of the tryouts.
Expect the call in two weeks, and please clear your schedule for
the following weekend at the very least.”

“Oh. All right then. So I can just go
then?”

“Actually, I had a few more questions. You
said that—”

The phone rang again. Summers picked up the
receiver, but before she could even put it to her ear a booming
demand of “
Put Aiken on the phone!”
could be heard through
both the phone and the observation mirror on the other side of the
room. Summers passed the receiver to him.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

“This is the first person I’ve seen come
through here who has a power that is even remotely super. You are
putting him through.”

“I don’t feel that I’ve had adequate time to
assess him.”

“I don’t care if he spends his free time
wearing eyeshadow and high heels and walking up and down Hollywood
Boulevard. I can think of a hundred different covert and combat
applications for that little light-switch trick alone, and he is
going
on my team before the marines get wind of him. If
there’s anything we need to worry about, we’ll catch it with the
background check and the next round of tests.”

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Aiken said, handing back the
phone. “Well, you made quite an impression, Mr. Preston. We’ll be
in touch.”

“Great,” he said, his enthusiasm less than
abundant. “Thanks, I guess.”

One of the guards led the man out, and
Summers began to leaf through the next batch of applications.

“Make sure we get that background check
bright and early tomorrow. I want to take a good, hard look at it.
On with it, though. Let’s get the next one in here.”

“Well, I’m
sorry, Mr. Pollo, but with your checkered past and the evasive
answers you’ve given during this interview, I’m not sure I’m
comfortable moving you to the next stage,” Aiken explained to the
latest applicant.

“But I can write messages so illegible only I
can read them. That is the utmost of data security!” objected the
man, a wiry and wild-eyed man of Latin American descent dressed in
a yellow polo shirt and khaki pants. He slammed his fist on the
desk. “I am
perfect
for a military team!”

“Well, sir, to be perfectly frank, in order
for your powers to be useful there would have to be at least two
people who can understand your writing.”

“But you… but I…”

“Here we go,” muttered Summers under her
breath.

“This shall not stand!” he cried, springing
to his feet and thrusting his finger in Aiken’s face. “You will rue
the day you trifled with Chicken Scratch!”

“Andrews, Wood. If you please,” Aiken said,
motioning to the guards.

Escribir Pollo was dragged from the room,
swearing vengeance and misery all the while.

“Well, by my count that’s seven ‘rue the
days,’ four ‘your days are numbered,’ and one ‘revenge shall be
mine’ so far today, sir,” Summers said. “Funny how they always
choose such similar phrases.”

“I suppose there are only so many suitably
dramatic ways to get started down the path of villainy. I must say,
I hadn’t expected so many villain types to turn up. I suppose it is
an aspect of the meta-human condition to seek out a justification
for your subconscious moral alignment.”

“Well, if you don’t slow down with the
villain-making we’re going to have to issue you a security
detail.”

“You mean I don’t have one?”

“Andrews and Wood are just here for the
interviews. Other than that, there’s just me,” she said cheerfully,
elbowing him in the ribs. “And I don’t know if I’ll be a match for
the nefarious Chicken Scratch or… Who was that lady with all the
bee stings and leather?”

“Pollinatrix. In what world is the ability to
be attacked by bees on command a superpower? We’ll have to see if
we can track her down when this is over. I would really love to
find out what sort of underlying psychological trauma conjured up
that
power.” He shook his head.

Privates Andrews and Wood returned, bringing
with them a late-middle-aged man in a flannel shirt and blue jeans.
He had a canvas bag over his shoulder.

“Number 2-11. Floyd Heston, correct?” Aiken
said, referring to the page handed to him by Summers.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for the opportunity,
sir,” Floyd said, shaking hands and taking a seat.

“Okay, codename: Phosphor. You—”

Dr. Aiken was interrupted by Private Summers
bursting into a fit of laughter. He turned to find the private
holding a slip of paper that had been clipped to the application.
When she realized that she was being stared at, she fought the
giggles under control and handed over the slip. While she wiped
away tears, the odd snort or spurt escaping her defenses, Aiken
looked over the page.

“The contents of Mr. Heston’s pockets: one
wallet, one key ring, one disposable lighter, one pack of antacids.
The contents of Mr. Heston’s bag: four hundred seventy-one
four-foot-in-length fluorescent tubes.”

“That’s just when I finally convinced them to
stop counting, sir. I felt bad, them spending so much time on
me.”

“So you have the ability to pull an unlimited
number of fluorescent bulbs from your bag?”

“Yes, sir. Well, I don’t know if it is really
unlimited, but I do know I never seem to get to the bottom of it.
And I just found out that they go away if I get more than a few
miles away from them. You can thank do-nothing John McGuire for
that one.”

“Care to pull one or two of them out
now?”

“Sure I could,” he said, flipping up the flap
of his bag and reaching inside. A second later he awkwardly hauled
out a pair of forty-eight-inch fluorescent tubes. The satchel
wasn’t nearly deep enough to have concealed one, let alone two.

Aiken released a low whistle as Phosphor
slipped one of the two back into the bag. “I’ve got to say, you are
by a wide margin the applicant who has most thoroughly violated the
law of conservation of mass.”

“What’s that now?” Phosphor asked, the flash
of concern on his face making it clear that the possibility of
having broken a law of any kind was troubling.

“Nothing. It is a physics thing. Tell me, can
you do anything else with the bulbs, or just produce them?”

“I can light them up a little,” he said,
grasping either end of the bulb and squinting his eyes in
concentration. A slow, pulsing glow began to illuminate the
tube.

Summers, who was enjoying the interview
process more and more as the day went on, released a squealing
giggle and clapped her hands in appreciation.

“This is the best assignment I’ve ever been
on,” Summers whispered to Aiken.

“Well, thank you, miss,” Heston remarked.

“And your origin is that a ‘radioactive
spider bit a fluorescent lamp, breaking the bulb and sprinkling the
powder on your bag,’ correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know
that the spider was radioactive?”

“Well, I just sort of assumed, you know? I
don’t figure too many regular everyday spiders make bags start
spitting out T8 Emergency Glow-style fluorescent lamps all the
livelong day.”

Aiken nodded and jotted down “possible
hallucination” on the margin of the form. “You’ve got quite a list
of other abilities: general maintenance, carpentry, electrical
work, automotive, HVAC…”

“Yeah, I’ve always been sort of a Mr.
Fixit.”

“Any family?”

“Nah. I lost my wife a few years back. We
never did have any kids. Both my folks are still alive, though.
Good genes, I suppose.”

“Do you have any combat experience?”

“I did some amateur boxing when I was
younger. I’ve gotten pretty good at swinging a tube around,
too.”

“I imagine you would. Now to address the
elephant in the room. It says here you’re forty-eight years
old.”

“I am.”

“That’s a bit old to be starting a career as
a soldier. What made you come in today?”

“Well, sir, I just wanted to do my part.
Maybe I’m not the youngest buck, but I’ve got experience, and I’ve
got a gift. Maybe my best years are behind me, but if I can cast a
little light in the darkness before I’m through on this dusty ol’
world, then I figure that’s worth a try, long shot or no.”

Aiken nodded, made a few notes and stood.
“Mr. Heston, I think I can safely say you are of sound enough mind
to move to the next stage. You’ve left a callback number?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Good luck, Mr. Heston,” Summers said,
shaking hands. When Floyd walked out and the door closed behind
him, she turned to Aiken. “This is really getting good. Do you
think there’s anyone out there with juggling powers?”

A man with a
fit build and a lantern jaw was in the interview chair. He wore a
confident grin while Dr. Aiken looked over the paperwork. The
doctor scratched his head and showed the application to Private
Summers, who shrugged and took a sip of her coffee.

“I apologize, but I’m having a little
difficulty understanding this information,” Aiken said. “Your
codename is?”

“Seanman.”

“And you have what powers, exactly?”

“The powers of someone named Sean.”

“Does that mean that if someone has an
ability, and their name is Sean, then you have that ability,
too?”

“No, no. I have the one ability all Seans
share.”

“Which is?”

“The ability to be called Sean.”

“So your name is Sean.”