Story #269- Super Drew

Super Drew

“Get down!” Sal Gibbens screamed. “Down, I said!”

Drew laughed, glee clear in his voice. For a seven year old he was about as typical as they came, with the notable exception of his superpowers.

Sal had been reluctant to name them as such when Drew was born, but after three months of calling them “latent chromosomal characteristics”, he'd opted for the simplicity of the more colloquial term. It wasn't that he and his wife weren't excited for their first child, or impressed that they had somehow managed to produce an offspring that could lift cars, walk at sixty miles and hour and fly effortlessly around their living room, but more that raising such a child came with a host of issues unknown to other parents.

It had started with steel-plating the house, top to bottom, since that was the only way they could keep little Drew inside when he demanded it was time to go to the park. Thankfully, he'd quickly learned the lesson that hitting people was wrong, and so neither Sal nor Gloria ended up with more than few broken bones, but Drew had quite the temper when he decided he was being unfairly treated, and several holes in their walls had made for uncomfortable winters.

Drew finally settled down, coming to rest on the coffee table, hands on his hips. He looked very proud of his landing.

“Very nice,” Sal said, “now get your feet off of the table. You know your mother doesn't allow it. And what have I told you about flying in the house?” His tone was stern, and his face was set in a frown. It was difficult, thanks to his son's large blue eyes and wide smile, but he had to be harsh. Drew needed to learn control.

“I know, Dad, but -”

“Down, son,” he interrupted, and Drew hopped off of the table, shaggy blond hair bouncing as his feet struck the carpet.

“I got an A today in math, on the test I told you about – the one I was sure I was gonna fail!”

“Going to, Drew,” he said patiently. “The expression is 'going to', not 'gonna', and congratulations. I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad!” Drew said, smiling.

“Now, go to your room.”

His son's face darkened, and Sal did his best not to step back. Consequences for actions were something that he and Gloria had decided on early in Drew's development, but they were not always easy to enforce. For the moment, Drew was willing to abide by their rules, but in five or six years hormones would take over, and all of that would change. They had no definite plans on how to handle their super-sons teenage angst just yet.

“It's only for five minutes, Drew – and you know you broke the rules. Now go.” He turned toward the kitchen, doing his best to pretend that he was sure his words would be obeyed. The sound of rushing air told him his son had complied, and he let out a sigh of relief.

A check of the phone messages in the kitchen revealed a call from Drew's school, fortunately just praise for his hard work over recent weeks and his grade in math. Sal was still somewhat surprised that the school had been so accommodating of Drew's special needs, going so far as to have an iron-plated concrete desk installed, one that even his son could not move or shatter.

The sound of music upstairs told him Drew had forgotten all about his punishment and instead found something new to focus on. While the music wasn't offensive and came with a decent beat, Sal wished his son would spend more time with other children his age, rather than working on his audio collection. Interaction with ordinary kids in his class had been difficult, at least until one had been thrown clear across a soccer field to make a point and the others had been suitably impressed, and although Sal was certain Drew wasn't being bullied, he'd prefer it if at least one friend for his son could be found.

A knock at the door had him frowning; Tuesday afternoons were typically quiet in the neighborhood, and most salesmen and religious types knew they weren't going to get any bites on the block.

It was a young man that had knocked, one dressed head to toe in black except for a fitted white dress shirt. Tie, jacket and slacks and shoes were all exactly the same shade of midnight, and the doorbell-ringer looked like he hadn't slept in a month.

“Mr. Gibbens?” Black-suit said politely, and he nodded. “I'm Special Agent Timothy Wayfarer, may I come in?”

Sal stared at the man until he produced a small leather wallet and then flipped it open. There was no mistaking the crest of the Service, and if this Timothy had taken the time to fake one, he'd done an exceptionally good job.

“Come in, Agent Wayfarer.” Sal stepped back and led the Serviceman into his living room. “Now, what's this all about?”

“I'll come straight to the point, Mr. Gibbens,” Wayfarer said, his eyes darting quickly around the room. “Our nation is in trouble.”

Sal shrugged. Pundits had been saying that for years, fear-mongers that wanted to get to the hearts and wallets of the citizenry. “Isn't it always?”

Wayfarer flashed a humorless smile. “Of course. This time, however, things are a bit more serious, and we're going to need help.”

He sighed. He'd been clear enough on leaving that Service that his skills were no longer for hire, and that he had no desire to be contacted under any circumstances. Leave it to the government to disregard his wishes.

“I'm sorry, but I don't do that kind of work anymore. Find yourself another weapons specialist.”

“Actually, Mr Gibbens,” the agent said, pulling a thick sheaf of paper from his jacket pocket, “you're not the one we want; I'm here for Drew. As you can see,” he pointed to a familiar contract clause, one Sal had never given much thought to, “we technically own him.”

Sal frowed. How the hell was he going to tell Gloria?

- D

Story #268 - Pret a 'Porter

Pret a 'Porter

This wasn't Medoria, he was sure about that.

It was his fault for not checking the 'porter before he used it, but Kailee had assured him that it was set correctly. Of course, she had been avoiding him anywhere but the Central Station Core where she had no choice but to see him for work, so her words were not exactly sacrosanct.

Qunnel swore; the thick brush around him told him he'd landed on an outer world, and with his luck it would be one whose denizens took a sick delight in capturing scientists from the Core and holding them for ransom. So far as he knew, the Council had never paid for any of its people to be released, owing both to their tight-fistedness as a research organization and the fact that far more people were willing to work on the station than actually worked there. Losing a junior-rank that was fed into the 'porter at the insistence of senior members was not of great concern to the council – they could simply train another dime-a-dozen researcher to take over where the lost one had left off.

Not for the first time, he was sorry he'd ended things with Kailee. She was sweet and pretty, but the spark just hadn't been there, not like with Julia. Kailee had known that, but was willing to try and make things work anyway, in spite of his often boorish behavior, especially after a few bottles of wine. He'd finally decided it wasn't fair to either of them to continue on, but hadn't exactly been subtle in letting Kailee down. Technically, he was her superior, but it was only by a matter of months and not really enough that it got him respect from any of the techs.

A movement in the bushes beside him had him wishing he'd led her on a little further – at least then they'd been on speaking terms and he wouldn't have gotten in the 'porter just to avoid an uncomfortable silence. It was amazing what stunted emotions could do for scientific inquiry.

The movement came again, this time followed by a low growl. Staring into the dark green foliage revealed two deep red eyes, both locked on him, and both of which remained there as he moved slowly across the clearing where he'd been dumped. Qunnel had no idea what kind of creature owned the eyes – he'd never been much for exobiology - but he was quite sure that unarmed and alone, almost anything would be a match for him.

A hissing sound from behind him had his heart in his throat until he realized it was the 'porter re-opening, and he dove through the expanding blue slice in the air before it had time to fully coalesce. Another bad choice, since he couldn't be certain who had opened it or why, but he'd take his chances back at the station.

Metal flooring met his face as he tumbled through, and he could feel a large strip of flesh tear off his chin as he landed. Laying still for a moment, he thanked the god he said he didn't believe in for getting him home safe.

“You OK?” That was Kailee's voice, and after a moment he saw her crouch down in front of him, round face concerned. “I started thinking about it after I left, and realized Vurt had been in here earlier. Then I started to worry about you -” she paused. “you asshole.” Another pause. “And I decided that I should probably come back and check.”

Qunnel mumbled thanks as she helped him up – from the look on her face, the cut on his chin was none too pretty.

“Come on,” she said, slipping an arm around him, “let's get you down to see the doc. Who knows what's been spilled on that floor over the last few years?”

He had to agree. Though the cut stung, it wasn't something he would worry about under other circumstances, but the amount of alien dirt and grime that had come through the station was substantial, and the last thing he needed was some kind of other-worldly STD.

“Vurt?” Qunnel managed as Kailee led him down the corridor to the medical sector. “Used the 'porter?”

Kailee nodded. “Not sure why – he came by right before I was going to power down last night.”

Qunnel frowned, bringing a low moan of pain as his face protested. Vurt had always been a bit on the strange side, and two Council men had been asking after him just the other day, questions about his schooling, background, and political leanings. It wasn't out of the ordinary for the Council to meddle in business that wasn't theirs, but the interest had seemed focused, almost desperate. Any questions he had were turned aside, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Vurt had done something of great interest to the Council – and that usually meant bad news.

“Where?” He mumbled, trying to keep his sentences short. The pain was really starting to ramp up, and he was finding it harder to walk.

“Did Vurt go?” Kailee said, catching on, “I looked – nowhere that odd. All seven of the outer worlds, though, in one night. I'm not sure why he was in such a hurry.”

He began to stiffen up as the small woman at his side led him through the medical sector doors, his body going rigid as whatever he'd picked up on his face-ride into the ground began to take hold. “Captain!” He managed through clenched teeth.

“Don't worry,” Kailee said, moving away as the doctors crowded in, “I won't tell him. You'll get better soon, and he doesn't need to know.”

Her kindness was noble, but Qunnel balled his spasming hands in frustration. She didn't understand! Telewave told the whole story, but she wasn't much for the news; a traitor had been trying to broker an alliance with the outer worlds, giving them information about the Core and its defenses. It could only be someone with both knowledge of the Core itself and easy access to the worlds – someone like Vurt.

Qunnel felt fear wash over him as a powerful sedative took hold. What the hell would he wake up to?

- D