With Spring Comes the Fall
Date: 2010-10-29 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Zombies; Horror; Apocalyptic; Fiction; Dystopia; Science Fiction; Urban Fantasy
Description: Living With the Dead is a story told in real time that chronicles a small group of survivors before and during the zombie apocalypse. Told in the voice of primarily one man, with occasional offerings from a few of the other survivors, this collection is a thrilling look into the mind of a regular guy who is forced by circumstance to make impossible choices. When the dead walk the earth, the only option left for the survivors is to learn how to truly live.

Damage

The Next Chronicle: Book Two

Joshua Guess

©2015 Joshua Guess

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Joshua Guess, Author

Also by Joshua Guess

Living With the Dead

With Spring Comes The Fall

The Bitter Seasons

Year One (With Spring Comes The Fall, The Bitter Seasons, bonus material)

The Hungry Land

The Wild Country

This New Disease

American Recovery

Ever After

The Fall

Victim Zero

Dead Will Rise

War of the Living

The Next Chronicle

Next

Damage

Misc

Beautiful (An Urban Fantasy)(Novel)

Soldier Lost (Short Story)

Dog Dreams In Color (Short Story)

With James Cook

The Passenger (Surviving The Dead)

Prologue

It was night in Louisville. The hour was not late enough to leave the streets empty, but not so early to protect those below from the worse elements of the city. Five stories above the busy strip of bars and clubs, a man waited.

He was large, though this was not obvious as he perched on the corner of the roof. At first glance he seemed normal enough—aside from doing his best impression of a gargoyle. He wore dark clothing that, if viewed from a distance, would not seem out of place anywhere. A closer look told a different tale.

The thin coat he wore was leather, hand-crafted and snug. Inside, sewn with painstaking care, were some of the latest generation of ballistic strike plates. Many new and vastly improved protective technologies had come on the market in the recent months. Some said it was a Next blessed with super-intelligence looking to capitalize on the growing fear in the human population. Others claimed the opposite, that a consortium of normal humans in the defense business decided to create a front company to hide their identities, to provide cheap and powerful armor for the frightened majority.

The man did not care which was true, though for the record neither was. The entirety of his concern was the sweet curve of the cost/benefit ratio.

Beneath the jacket he wore a bulky stab vest. His arms and legs, even his hands, were armored in ways obvious and subtle. These were all necessary, of course, because his own abilities included only a limited resistance to damage. His bones would not break, but anything beyond a small-caliber handgun would pierce his skin. Knives were especially dangerous.

Had he walked through a store, the other patrons might have looked at his outfit twice and shrugged it off. Unless he also wore the last piece, the most important element of his gear.

The mask.

In a city where justice often failed its citizens, he believed in the responsibility of power. To have the ability to do something about it but choose not to? Unconscionable. The man watched the streets below, waiting. The time would come when—

“You have got to be kidding me,” a voice said.

The man spun, landing in a crouch. With practiced ease he drew two expandable batons, whipping them open.

“Frank Brawner?” the stranger said. The man blinked behind his mask.

“How do you know that name?” the man said in a low growl.

The stranger sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Are you or are you not Frank Brawner?”

The man relaxed somewhat, but did not move from his fighting stance. “I am. Who are you?”

“I'm Ray Cassidy,” the stranger said. “Agent Cassidy. From the Office of Superhuman Affairs. Might I ask why you're carrying those weapons while lurking on this roof?”

Despite the chill of the evening, Frank began to sweat beneath his armor. Thin drops formed between his face and the mask. “I'm patrolling,” he said.

Agent Cassidy closed his eyes for a moment. Frank could swear he heard the man counting under his breath.

After a few moments, the agent cleared his throat. “You are aware there are laws against vigilantism, aren't you? See, I know you're aware of this fact because our people brought you in four months ago for the same thing.”

Frank straightened, letting his batons hang loose in his hands. “This city needs people like me. We stand up for—”

“Let me stop you right there,” Cassidy said, putting up his hands. “You have no idea how often I get the 'the city is in peril' speech. And stop talking like Batman. You sound like an idiot.”

“There's no need to be mean,” Frank said in a higher and more natural tone. There was a hint of squeak in it, probably from scraping his vocal cords raw with his false, growling voice.

Ray Cassidy gaped. “You think that's me being mean? Listen, you're breaking the law here. You know you are. And you think me being honest about you trying to live out your preteen fantasies is mean?” He shook his head. “Go on, tell me what you were going to do if you saw a crime down there.”

Frank fidgeted. “I was...going to stop it.”

“Well, thank you,” Cassidy said acidly. “Glad you cleared that up. Care to be a little more detailed?”

Standing straight, Frank looked the agent in the eye. “I would have jumped down. Lots of people get mugged in this neighborhood, especially after the bars start kicking the drunks out.”

“Let me make sure I have this right,” Cassidy said. “You were going to drop fifty feet and wail on someone with your batons. That right?”

Frank nodded hesitantly. “When you say it like that...”

Cassidy smiled. “Yes, sounds pretty ridiculous. But let's assume you did it. Do you know what would have happened?” He didn't wait for a reply, losing patience with the situation. “Had you landed and actually managed to fight off some mugger or whatever, you would have been caught and charged with attempted murder.” Frank's eyes widened, an expression visible through the eye holes of his mask.

“That's right,” Cassidy said. “We knew you were going to be here. How? Because a few days ago, the city decided to send one of its Next police officers here in plain clothes because the area was dangerous. The officer saw you and kept an eye on you for the last few nights. He's stationed here, you see, because he can legally do the job you seem to think is your...” Cassidy paused, mouth pursing around the word in distaste, “destiny.”

Frank's shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Cassidy said. “You're Next, Frank. The reason people with super-strength aren't supposed to go out and fight crime is because you should be properly trained and legally deputized.” Cassidy caught his eyes. “We live under restrictions for a reason. You may not like it, but you do have to live with it. Also, if you had jumped, you would have seriously hurt yourself. You're tough, but five stories is too much. We know. We have your records.”

Frank sighed. “I just wanted to help.”

New fire lit Cassidy's eyes. “No, you didn't. You wanted to live out your adolescent fantasy. Helping was totally incidental in the equation. For god's sake, man, if you want to fight crime so badly, why not join a police academy?”

Thankful for the mask covering his face, Frank blushed. “I tried. They said I was unfit.”

Again, Cassidy gaped. “And you didn't take this as some kind of sign? Cops are cops for a reason. They have to learn how to do this stuff. Jesus, man. You need help.”

Fresh anger boiled from Frank. “You know what? Take me in. I'll do my time and be right back out here. Because people need someone to watch out for them.”

Cassidy stared at the costumed man for a long time, wondering if he would have to deal with an attack. “You don't get it,” he finally said. “I could take you to our facility. It's a jail for people like us. And let me tell you, man, you'd be about the least powerful guy there. At best you would be some other Next's lunch. More likely, you'd die. The weak don't fare well.”

There were a few threads of truth in that, though mostly it was bullshit. The facility held some terrifying customers, sure, but almost every prisoner was segregated individually. Not that Brawner needed to know that.

Cassidy ran a hand through his messy black hair, resting the other on his hip. The suit was black, with a white shirt and black tie. It could have been off the rack from any department store from its simple cut, but in fact cost more than most mortgage payments. He'd had it custom made, using materials not yet known to the rest of the human race.

And here he was, getting it dirty climbing up a ladder to talk to this idiot.

“The city doesn't need people like you, Frank,” Cassidy said. “It has protectors. Cops. Some have powers, some don't, but they're doing their best. Your problem is that you think you know better than everyone else. That somehow, you can be the hero that makes the difference. Would you still have felt that way when you accidentally killed a purse snatcher? I don't know, and I don't want to. This stops now.”

Frank tensed, raising his batons. “You can try,” he said, voice gruff once more.

Cassidy rolled his eyes. “Lord, give me strength,” he muttered. “I'm not going to fight you, dumbass. I'm going to do the one thing that might actually make you understand just how out of your element you are.”

“What do you mean?” Frank said, raising his weapons high.

“I'm going to help you,” Cassidy said, and gestured toward him.

A dim flash of green light swept over Frank's body, and suddenly he was cold. There was a patter like freezing rain. His hands were empty, his face unmasked.

He was completely naked.

“What the hell?” Frank shrieked, fumbling to cover himself.

Cassidy smiled, then pulled out his phone to snap a picture. “I'll be keeping this,” he said. “Have fun getting down from here without anyone seeing you. I'll be disintegrating the ladder as well, just so you know. You'll probably have to call for help. Oh, and if I catch you again? I'll leak this picture to the media when I take you to jail. That way you'll have some of that fame you're looking for waiting for you when you get out.”

Without waiting for a response Ray Cassidy, newly-minted OSA agent and amateur extortionist, turned and walked away.

“Fucking superheroes,” he mumbled as he lowered himself down the ladder.

Kit

The edge of the water had only the barest suggestion of a beach before sloping upward for a hundred yards. A bright moon danced off the waves as the team hauled their raft onto the shore, its engine long since turned off. There was enough light to make out the loose scrum which made up the hill, a mixture of rocks, sandy soil, and actual sand from which grew a surprising assortment of vegetation. Even purely human eyes could see as much.

Kitra Singh saw with a precision most people could only dream of. Her visual acuity wasn't easily measured as the tests weren't precise enough. She could see in near-total darkness, requiring only the smallest source of light.

Those were the least of her gifts.

She did a fast check of her team, a single glance processed by her enhanced brain almost instantly. Everyone accounted for, she signaled with a raised hand to begin the ascent.

The team spent two weeks memorizing the topography of the place, planning their direction of approach. They drilled eight hours a day to account for every contingency. The steep hill, soft and malleable though it was, offered no particular difficulty. They moved upward in a winding zigzag at good speed.

As planned, the team crested the hill directly beneath the spreading boughs of a stand of evergreen oaks. Here they paused, everyone checking and rechecking their weapons and equipment. As always, Kit would be first through the door even though Johnson was rated much more resistant to damage. It was Johnson's first field mission, and Kit refused to risk the team regardless of how eager the young man was to prove his worth.

“Give me checks,” Kit said in a low voice.

One by one they checked off, vocalizing their readiness. “Let's go,” Kit said, unhooking the custom helmet dangling from her belt and slipping it on. The front was open, though the edges hugged her mouth, widening around her eyes to keep her vision clear. It was a concession made out of practicality since her superiors knew she could recover from nearly any wound to her body, but a head shot was a head shot.

The land rolled in deep waves here, the foothills of the coastal mountains. The combination of verdant plant growth and desert ecology would have been fascinating in any other circumstance. The team whispered through the loamy soil, stepping between clumps of tall grass as they moved along in a crouch.

A shallow gully ran toward the ocean, the swell of a hill beyond. After weeks of studying the maps over and over, the sight gave Kit a sense of deja vu. She turned to face the others, signaling for them to remain behind. Johnson she touched lightly on the arm, nodding toward the hilltop.

Without the rest of the team, they could move at full speed. Johnson was physically much more powerful than Kit, though he kept slightly behind her as they dashed up the hill. Another small copse of trees loomed as they neared the top, only a handful but more than enough to give them cover.

They fell into a crawl just before breasting the hill, working their way forward to take their first glimpse of the target with their own eyes. The building looked much as it had in the surveillance photos. Johnson pulled a pair of binoculars.

“Looks good,” he muttered, breathing the words. “Quiet.”

Kit could see it fairly well, which wasn't good enough. She put out a hand, palm up. Johnson passed her the binoculars. She scanned the building slowly, starting over when she was done.

“Something's different,” she said. But what was it?

The world slowed, Kit's movements a crawl. Like a toy running out of power, the scene wound down until it stopped completely.

“What is it?” asked a voice. Only it wasn't a voice exactly. Kit's mind processed the intent of the thought into words because that was what she could understand.

The Syrian coast vanished, replaced by a wood-paneled office with subdued lighting. Kit sat across from an Asian man with concern on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Doctor Otomo waited patiently.

“I'm sorry,” she finally said. “That's a tough memory.”

The psychiatrist nodded. “I assumed as much, given your reaction. When I asked you to share a memory of loss with me, I knew it would be difficult. Do you want to continue?”

The question didn't surprise her, but it felt like a trap. Months had passed since the incident at the facility with Thomas Maggard, but Kit was still required to attend these sessions twice a week. Joseph Otomo was an empath, a very specific sort of telepath who could experience the memories of others. Being able to feel what his patients felt, see through their eyes, gave him an ability to identify with them in ways no other psychiatrist could.

But it also made him dangerous. On his word, Kit could be removed from her position. Not pushing forward could be a mistake.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let's get this over with.”

She felt a pull like a gentle vacuum as soon as the doctor touched her hand. He couldn't read her mind, he had no ability in that regard at all. Instead he was a receiver, extraordinarily sensitive to projected thoughts. All Kit had to do was focus on the memory, and they were once again reliving it.

“It's the flowers,” Kit whispered.

Johnson turned to her. “What?”

She stared at the building, which at first glance seemed to be nothing more than a remote villa. “The flower beds. They're new. They run all around the base of the wall. Why...” Then she saw it. Just a corner, but when she made out the shape hidden behind the low greenery, it was impossible to miss. “Fuck me, they've lined the outside of the place with Claymores.”

Johnson's mouth dropped open in horror. “Antipersonnel mines?”

Kit nodded. “If they put defenses outside, it means they know we're coming. They're probably watching for us.”

Johnson nodded in understanding. It might be his first rodeo, but the guy wasn't stupid. He knew just as well as Kit that his ability to shrug off bullets wouldn't matter at all in the face of one—much less many—of those mines. Hundreds of pieces of steel deformed into the shape of bullets by the sheer force of the explosion propelling them would shred them in the blink of an eye.

Kit smiled, proud he had grasped the situation well enough to begin retreating without being told. Even if they had been prepared to deal with the mines, the conditions had changed enough to warrant a mission scrub. Going up against an enemy who knows you're coming and has prepared for you isn't wise when you planned to have the element of surprise.

Later, Kit liked to think they would have escaped unharmed, that the course of events would have been smooth even in failure. She had no way to know, of course, because things hadn't gone smoothly, but the thought brought a small measure of comfort to her.

But for one loose rock, they might have retreated safely.

Johnson finished his step backward, still crouched. His boot came down on a piece of stone, which wobbled free beneath his weight and caused his movement to stutter. As his balance failed and he began to teeter backward, his instinct took over. Not the trained reactions of a man studiously learning to use his superhuman powers safely, but the base reflexes hard-coded into his muscles at earliest childhood.

His body straightened as he began to fall, arms shooting out for balance. Kit winced, shooting a hand toward him with incredible speed. She was still too slow.

Johnson tumbled down the hill, dislodging rocks and sandy dirt as he fell. That wouldn't hurt him, Kit knew. The man could take a head-on collision with a speeding car and carry on without a scratch.

It was the split second during the fall where he had been standing up. That was what killed him.

A motion sensor or camera must have been pointing at the stand of trees. It made sense, given how useful the spot would be for any approaching enemy. When Johnson popped up during his fall, a flood of light erupted from the building. Giant stadium bulbs scorched away the night from recesses beneath awnings, others nestled in the flower beds.

“Shit!” Kit hissed, rushing down the hill.

A klaxon began to howl behind her, the sound barely muffled by the hill. Though she couldn't hear them, she imagined the hoarse shouts of men piling out of barracks, terrorists thirsty for the blood of the people sent to neutralize them.

Those men might have been doing just that, but Kit never found out. Something else happened as her feet churned up rooster tails of sand, a new factor in the equation which turned her blood to ice.

The sound of the air being cut momentarily drowned out the alarm, followed by a bracing windstorm slapping her with displaced sand. In the midst of the maelstrom, a figured clad in dark clothing flashed by, the power of his flight ripping the hillside to tatters as he passed.

Before Kit could register what was happening, the enemy Next landed in the middle of her team, who had moved toward Johnson as a unit.

With a rush of adrenaline Kit rerouted the power inside her to gain speed. It was an ability unique to her, so far as she knew, and incredibly useful. By sacrificing her other powers, Kit could temporarily boost another immensely.

Her perception of time stretched, slowing everything down while she moved forward normally. It still was not enough. Between one footfall and the next the enemy superhuman casually raised a boot and stomped on Johnson's neck as he struggled to right himself.

The sickening, wet crunch of bone was accompanied by a jolt in the ground itself. Fury rose up in Kit, instant and consuming, washing away rational thought and driving her forward. The enemy Next blurred, a hand wrapping around the throat of another member of the team. They drifted upward, five feet, then ten.

Kit grunted as she launched herself off the side of the hill, bringing her knees nearly to her chin as she hurtled toward the murderer holding the struggling form of her teammate.

Thanks to her genetics, Kit had many advantages. She was stronger than any three men, faster than an Olympic sprinter on her worst day, and had the coordination of an ancient Kung-Fu master. These and many other interconnected abilities made her an excellent generalist, capable of a wide variety of acts beyond even the most skilled vanilla humans.

In this case, her weight was the best advantage she had. Clocking in at five feet and small change, petite of build, Kit still tipped the scales at better than two hundred pounds. Her muscles, bones, and organs were like stone compared to a normal person. And it made her dense.

Slamming into the killer sent a wild rush of feral satisfaction through her. She dimly noted that he dropped the struggling member of her team as she wrapped herself around him. The impact drove them sideways through the air, though this too was merely a piece of data her brain cataloged behind the rage.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locking over his groin. Kit snaked both hands onto his face, at first planning to simply lace her fingers together and try to break him. Then she thought better of it; he was probably too tough for that.

Instead she went for the eyes. Even if he was the sort of Next whose body was suffused by a protective energy field, his normal human reaction would be to panic as someone tried to attack his organs of sight.

As it turned out, he was not that type of Next. Like Kit, his damage resistance was purely physical in nature, confirmed by the wet spurt as her fingers slammed through his eyes with the force of pistons.

He screamed and thrashed, but Kit held firm. Her legs stretched, putting immense pressure on his groin, her hands sliding down the blood-slick cheeks and coming to rest on his mouth and nose. Leaning her head against his back, she pulled tight with every ounce of force she could muster. The world faded to near-blinding darkness as she once more pushed all her energy into a single ability. Her muscles thrummed with strength, burned with power.

The killer, despite the surely searing agony in his face, seemed to understand what was happening. As her hands cut off the flow of air, he panicked.

His own hands skittered over hers, trying to find purchase. The blood made it difficult, his wild fear only worsening the situation. In his mindless need to breathe the killer tried hurting her, slamming them both into the ground.

Kit felt a rib break as the man somehow managed to hit her with an elbow. She winced as a lightning bolt of pain circled her chest, but she did not loosen her grip. Now on the ground, rolling in the dirt, the killer tried once more to pry her fingers loose. It was a failing of many Next who grew too reliant on their powers; those men and women forgot in their arrogance about simple physical laws such as leverage.

Kit had it. The killer didn't.

His struggles weakened as his air ran out. Eventually his movements stopped completely, though Kit didn't release her hands for several minutes after.

When she finally did, she found the remaining members of her team staring at her in shock, horror painted in every line of their faces. Without a word, she lifted Johnson from the ground, as gently as she would a child, and moved back toward the sea.

Ray

The face in the mirror wasn't his, but Ray was getting used to it.

He left the tiny bathroom and stepped into his quarters. The facility—it had no name, only that general moniker—had more prison cells than any other single place on earth, and as a result there was a great need to house employees. Granted, most of the people staying in those tiny spaces were only doing so in between shifts or because they were on call. Ray actually lived here, which was why he rated a solo room rather than a cot in a cramped barracks.

Not that his quarters were palatial. There was a closet about the size of the door opening into it, just deep enough to hold clothes. A dresser hugged the wall next to it, with a space just large enough to walk between it and the bed resting against the opposite wall. The floor was brown linoleum, the rest of the room a drab gray, and even with its flaws Ray loved the place. It was his. It was also not without its comforts.

A large, expensive television hung over the dresser, several game systems plugged into it. The small, empty space where a tiny sofa had once been was being slowly filled with art supplies. An easel sat folded against the corner, waiting for him to finally have time to use it.

Which would hopefully be soon. Ray Cassidy, born Ray Elliot, was now officially a junior agent of the Office of Superhuman Affairs. The OSA, being an agency created by a frightening law at the dawn of the age of the Next, was among other things exempt from many regulations other government agencies had to deal with. As such, he could be given a position without experience in law enforcement, though he had spent three months in classes and undertaking other training to reach this point.

OSA agents, he had learned on the first day, were simply not police. Oh, they policed the superhuman population, that was for sure. What they didn't do was much in the way of investigation. They were the response team. The jailers. They were the heavy guns the cops called in once a suspect had been identified as Next.

Ray sat on his bed, running a hand through the short, stiff brush of dark hair on his head. Four months ago he had been in a coma, a man gone from the world for more than a decade. Not without cause, either; Ray had been the first Next to go public. He had done so by disintegrating a small town, leaving behind a crater more than a mile across.

A crater which had been filled in with a facility.

When he'd blackmailed the director of the facility into letting him become an agent—or at least to try, as he had still been required to pass the same tests the other applicants endured—Ray thought he'd managed a miracle. Surely someone with his history would be turned away, especially considering his infamy.

Instead, they had given him a new face. The Next who had reshaped his skin and bones had also done something to his body chemistry, making his hair come in even darker. The world, long believing Ray Elliot dead, would hardly bat an eye at the new identity he was given.

Ray Cassidy, low-level agent.

Over those months of training he had come to understand the reason why he had been allowed, against all logic and reason, to try for this job. His brief stint as an extortionist had only kept him from being summarily dismissed. In reality the need for someone with his level of power at the OSA was dire. It was for this reason none of the agents who knew his true identity spoke up to the media. They were a relatively small group of people faced with the impossible on a daily basis.

Ray evened those odds. Even Robinson, head of the OSA's parent department, the Department of Superhuman Affairs, recognized it. The old man had pulled the levers of power to secure Ray's new identity, creating an entire life from whole cloth.

All that work, the stress of secrecy, the danger someone would recognize him despite having a different face, voice, and being taller, and what did he have to show for it?

Junior agent.

It was a start.

He ducked in front of another mirror, this one on the back of his door, to double-check his tie. Satisfied, he stepped into the hall. Out of consideration for the off-duty employees sleeping in the rooms dotting the steel-lined corridor, Ray moved quietly.

Though his commute wasn't as long as it was for the people who drive from Louisville every day, it was still annoying. Past the employee quarters was the administration section, containing the paper-pushers who dealt with the day-to-day tasks of running the facility. Then he had to walk through Command, which was a fancy name for the dozens of banks of workstations monitoring police activity and various other streams of information to stay on top of any situations requiring OSA attention. The analysts hunched over those desks rarely noticed him on his daily trek through their office, at least since the first few days.

The facility was enormous, built on a scale that defied context. Since most of it was below ground it was easy to forget the office or mess hall you were in was part of one of the largest structures ever built by mankind. Walking halfway across it was a great reminder.

Eventually he made it to the surface, stopping only briefly at one of the many kitchens dotting the fabricated landscape to grab some coffee and a couple donuts.

“Now,” Ray muttered as he entered the main office, “where the hell is my partner?”

Ray flopped down at his desk fifteen fruitless minutes later. Dan Kovacs, his partner and senior agent, was late. Ray couldn't go into the field without Dan, and because of an agreement he'd made with Director Archer, couldn't leave at all unless it was for work. For the time being the facility was his entire world. The short trips outside were like small vacations, both in the enjoyment Ray took in them and the desire to come home eventually.

“Hey, Cassidy,” a voice said.

Ray glanced over his shoulder as Dan set his coat down on the desk butting up against his own. “You're late,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “We're on call this morning, you know.”

Dan nodded, slightly shaggy red curls jostling. “Yep. Do you know why I'm late, Cassidy?”

“Um...no?” Ray said innocently.

“I'm sure you don't,” Dan said dryly. “You know nothing about a naked man on a rooftop, do you? A man my partner told me was persuaded to give up his vigilante ways.”

Ray's lip trembled as he struggled to hold back laughter. Even Kovacs had mirth dancing in his eyes.

“I spent this morning convincing the guy not to press charges,” Dan said soberly. “Mostly it came down to me reminding him we could still bring him in for the vigilantism, though thankfully he didn't work out just how little evidence we'd have since someone turned it all to dust.”

Ray blanched. “Sorry, man,” he said sheepishly. “I was just so irritated. We've done like twenty of those runs this week. I was a little sick of playing nice with these idiots who think dressing up and kicking the shit out of a mugger makes them a hero.” Ray chewed his lip. “That's on me. It won't happen again.”

Dan studied him for a minute, blue eyes far older than his freckled face. “Don't worry about it,” he said with a sigh. “To be honest, I think you probably did the only thing you could. After talking with that guy, I'm not sure we shouldn't bring him in anyway for a psych evaluation.”

The words hung between them. In the civilian world—the human world—such a thing wouldn't be much of a concern. For Next, however, psychiatric holds were the next thing to death. Due to the far-reaching powers of the McDonnell act, which took certain liberties with constitutional law, Next who were determined to be dangerous to themselves or others could be held basically forever.

“We'll keep an eye on him,” Ray finally said. “If we hear anything about a mysterious shadow putting purse snatchers in the ER...”

Dan nodded, smiling again. “Deal. But next time, wait for me to come with you. I might just be a human being, but I'm still your partner. I should have your back.”

“That, and Kit will have your ass if anything happens to me,” Ray said. “Archer too, for that matter.”

Dan laughed. “Archer? Really?”

Ray put a hand to his chest in mock injury. “Why, Daniel Kovacs! I'll have you know the director has a special place in his heart for me!”

Just then, the phone on Ray's desk chimed. A soft female voice came from it.

“Agent Cassidy, the director would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

In the background, Archer could be heard shouting. “Screw his convenience! Tell him to get his ass up here NOW!”

The phone clicked off. Ray glanced at Dan, who grinned like an idiot. “A special place, huh?”

Ray frowned sourly. “I didn't say it was a good one.”

He trudged up the wide staircase leading to the second floor. The entire west quarter was occupied by the twin offices of the two directors. Kit was out, probably seeing her shrink, while Archer was very clearly in. Ray sighed in resignation as he passed their assistant, Nicki. The auburn-headed woman didn't bother looking up as her fingers flew across her keyboard.

“He's expecting you,” she said.

“I gathered,” Ray replied.

Slipping into the office was like stepping into a different world. The gleaming metal walls of the hallway outside were gone, replaced by a huge room which could have been yanked whole from decades in the past. The place looked lived in, which wasn't far from the truth. Archer was a big man, and had replaced the couch nestled in front of a massive bookshelf recently. The new one, which bore a distinct imprint of Archer's body, was an obnoxious mustard yellow with thin stripes of orange thread running through it.

The rest of the room was musty and secondhand, from the nicked and scuffed wooden bookshelves to the thrift-store furniture. It wasn't for lack of money—Archer had plenty—but rather a matter of comfort. The big man enjoyed things which had been broken in first.

“Sit,” Archer said, pointing at the squashy leather chair sitting in front of his desk. Ray eased himself into it, facing his boss.

Ray was tall, as far as averages went, but was otherwise well within the norm. He was of medium build and mostly unremarkable. Rowan Archer was not. Even seated he was obviously a big man. He stood half a head taller than Ray, shoulders broad and heavy, his frame packed densely. He looked like a pro football player running to fat, but it was something of a show.

Archer was, to the larger world, a completely normal human being. In truth he was Next, able to recover from nearly any injury. The cost on his metabolism was extremely high, forcing his healing ability to cannibalize his own fat and muscle cells to work. Ray had seen it in action not long after coming out of his coma, four months prior.

Big and blond and currently visibly angry, Archer was the sort of boss who gave you leeway so long as you showed him you weren't an idiot. Ray suspected he had crossed that line.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Archer said, his voice dangerously calm. “Do you have any idea how much danger you put yourself in last night?”

Ray blinked. He hadn't been expecting to hear words of concern. The two of them weren't friendly as a general rule, not the way he was with Kit.

“I'm sorry,” Ray said. “I know I should have taken Kovacs with me, but the guy didn't seem like much of a threat.”

Archer stared at him, then threw his hands up in frustration. “I'm not talking about the idiot you went after! Yes, you should have had your partner with you. You're as vulnerable as anyone in most ways. But I'm referring to your use of your powers in a situation that didn't require you to.”

Ray opened his mouth to defend himself, but came up short. In the heat of the moment, frustrated by weeks of low-level work, he had forgotten.

Archer, sensing weakness in his prey, stepped into the gap. “You know as well as I do that there are only a handful of people with powers like yours,” he said, each word hammered into Ray with measured precision. “You—the man you used to be—is officially dead. Has been for years. So when you're out there in the world, try not to make it so obvious you're the same guy.”

Ray nodded. “You're right. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

The big man raised an eyebrow. “Huh. That was easier than I thought it'd be. I figured you'd give me more of a fight.”

Ray shrugged. “I screwed up. I know it. Doesn't seem to be much point pretending otherwise.” He paused, then smiled faintly. “Besides, I know you went to a lot of trouble to give me the new identity. I'd hate to pay you back by screwing up all that hard work.”

A vast amount of work went into the Ray Cassidy persona. The details went deeper than he had to know, but on paper this new Ray had been a registered Next for seven years, with an entire lifetime of records going back to birth. Archer had hinted more than once that there were pieces of history added so subtly that they would fool even the most thorough investigators.

Even so, he had no desire to test those boundaries.

Archer surprised him with a smile of his own. The big man leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “Lesson learned, then. You need to be careful, but I don't think this episode will be much of a blip on anyone's radar. The Cassidy identity is registered as an energy-type Next with the same basic set of powers you have, if on a much smaller scale. It'll hold up as long as you don't do anything stupid. Or big.”

Don't disintegrate any more towns, you mean, Ray thought, though he only nodded in return.

“Now,” Archer said, his tone businesslike, “we can get to your assignments for the day.”

Ray suppressed a groan. “Okay. What costume-wearing screwball is on our docket this time?”

A grin which could only be described as malevolent—possibly nefarious—spread across Archer's face. “No vigilantes for you. This morning you get your wish.” He held out a slim folder, which Ray took. “This guy violated his probation. The cops called us, and we've got a cell waiting.”

Ray opened the file, his eyes widening. “You've got to be kidding.”

Archer laughed. Definitely nefarious. “Hey, you wanted something interesting. Grab Kovacs and enjoy.”

Ray stood and turned toward the door, his head oddly light. Behind him, Archer spoke.

“Make sure you come back in one piece,” he said.

With a sigh, Ray opened the door and left.

Kit

Still shaken from her visit with Doctor Otomo, Kit drove carefully. Under normal circumstances she would have made a beeline to the office, but reliving one of her worst memories in horrific detail left her with a profound desire to crawl into her bed and sleep.

Though she did drive home, it wasn't to vanish beneath the covers. Her apartment was in a turn-of-the-century building, on the second floor. The first was taken up in its entirety by a popular cafe, The Bean, which held the one substance on the planet with the power to help take her mind off the memory replaying endlessly behind her eyes.

Her roommate was outside when she pulled to the curb and parked. Peep, the only name Penelope Perkins answered to, was gracefully carrying an enormous tray of food and drinks. Kit watched her dance from table to table, her sheet of fine blonde hair moving in time with the hem of her heavy skirt. Even in February, the place had people sitting at the tables outside.

Kit climbed out of the car, drawing a few stares. They might have been for her, though she thought it more likely they gaped at the vehicle. It was new, and gorgeous, the sole luxury Kit bothered with.

Given the amount of time she spent on the road, Kit had decided to do so in comfort. The sleek lines of the diesel-powered European sedan drank in the thin winter sunlight, gleaming as if it had just come out of a car wash. It was an expensive piece of equipment, and stood out among the more common vehicles lining the sidewalk.

Peep caught Kit's eye as she stepped into the building, tilting her head in an unspoken question. Kit grimaced slightly, barely a twitch of the lips, but the message was clear. Four months of living together gave them an uncanny ability to read body language and non-verbal cues.

Kit waved at the baristas working the counter. “Usual, please. I'll be in the back.” The nearest nodded in acknowledgment.

She walked through the kitchen, letting herself through the locked door nestled next to the walk-in fridge. Behind it sat a landing with a broad staircase leading to the apartment. The space was large, much wider than the steps themselves. Peep used it for long-term storage, since no one but she and Kit had access to it. Since moving in, however, she had put it to another use.

The landing held a table and four chairs, taken from the storage space. They were extras, older versions of the patio furniture too scuffed and worn to be used for customers. The landing was bathed in sunlight from the high window set opposite the steps, providing a small private place to go when one of the roommates needed privacy.

Kit sat at the table, folding her legs under her in the chair. She set her face in her hands, and she wept.

They were not tears of sadness, exactly. Kit had cried those for weeks after the failed mission where a young man lost his life. These were born of anger and grief at having old scars reopened. They were a protest of the invasion required by her superiors. They were tears of raw hurt to go along with the raw memory. It was a curious sensation; even though she had dealt with Johnson's loss long ago, it felt as if she had just lost him.

The heavy door scraped open, then closed. A gentle hand touched her shoulder as the tears began to slow, the searing pain beginning to become overshadowed by rage.

“What happened?” Peep asked. “Another bad session?”

Kit pulled her hands away, wiping her cheeks. A plate sat in front of her, a cup next to it. The BLT and coffee pulled at her senses, which, magnitudes sharper than human norm, caught every subtle smell.

She took a sip of coffee. “The good news is there aren't any worse memories to look at. I don't know what Otomo was hoping to get out of it.”

Peep frowned as she took a seat across from Kit. “What's the point of all this, anyway? Why can't they just use a regular psychiatrist?”

Kit pursed her lips. “They need to be absolutely sure I'm not unbalanced. My position is pretty sensitive. This way is more invasive, but Otomo says it gives a much clearer picture of my mental state.”

Peep scowled. “I hope he explains why he had to drag you through this, then. I'd like to know what possible purpose making you relive all these horrible things serves.”

Kit gave a halfhearted shrug and picked up her sandwich. The worst of it was passing. She knew enough biochemistry to understand the effect crying had on her brain. The chemicals being released were evening her out. Normality began to reassert itself, helped along by the bacon and coffee.

“Shouldn't you get back out front?” Kit asked between bites, a few minutes later.

“Nah,” Peep said. “That's the good thing about being the boss. People can't complain when you decide to take a break.”

As Kit finished her lunch, she resolved herself to asking the questions Peep raised. There were limits to what she was willing to endure without proper explanation why she had to endure it.

Next time she saw her boss, she would get answers.

She was three blocks from The Bean when the secure OSA line buzzed. Her phone fed the call to the car, piping the alert through the speakers. The dispatcher rattled off the information with practiced speed, and Kit's hands tightened on the steering wheel. The location was fairly close.

“Private line,” Kit said to the car. The touchscreen in the dash changed, the icon for a private line appearing. “This is Singh. Give me details.”

“Two agents were on scene, Director Singh,” the dispatcher said. “One of them was injured. His partner stayed with him, according to protocol, and called for assistance.”

“Who do we have that's close?” Kit asked.

The dispatcher, doubtless staring at one of the huge monitors displaying the location of every agent in and around the city, answered immediately. “You're the only one within the immediate area. A response team is leaving the facility now, arrival time estimated at eight minutes.”

Kit smiled grimly. “I'll take it,” she said. She reached into the pocket of her coat, fishing out her earpiece. She nestled it into her ear, securing the hook around the back and turning it on with a tap of her finger. “I assume we've got tracking on the target. Give me a dedicated feed from one of the analysts.”

There was barely a pause between the order and its execution. The last few months had not been idle for her; one of Kit's policy changes being the implementation of this new system. Before, communication and information gathering had been highly isolated. Teams in the field essentially did all the work. Now, any field agent could request and receive real-time information and analysis as they worked, with the entire resources of the facility at their command.

This, combined with several minor tweaks such as tagging any suspect with a tracking device designed and built by OSA scientists, made for a highly efficient and effective means of both catching renegade Next and preventing civilian casualties.

At the moment, it meant Kit got to vent some of her frustration by kicking a little ass.

The analyst in Operations—or Ops, as some fan of science fiction had dubbed it—spewed information across the line in a constant stream, beginning with the exact location of the tracker placed on him by the agents he had attacked. Kit's GPS was remotely accessed by Ops, the custom software integrating the analyst's data seamlessly. The tracker's green dot appeared on the screen.

“Give me a rundown on his stats,” Kit said. The analyst rattled off the pertinent information without missing a beat, and Kit made a mental note to give Deakins, the head of Ops, a raise.

Then the analyst said something that almost made Kit wreck. “Say again?” she sputtered.

“Subject is rated total plus in the physical category,” the voice said.

“Shit,” Kit muttered.

“I'm sorry, Director, I didn't catch that,” the analyst said.

“Nothing,” Kit assured him, suppressing a sigh. “Just minor commentary on how little fun the next few minutes are going to be.”

As she closed in on the moving dot on her GPS, Kit's brain worked on how to approach the situation. She herself was rated at total plus, a classification modifier for a small fraction of Next that covered a wide spread. At the least, it meant the guy was going to be a challenge. At worst, today was going to be in the running for largest number of shots needed to forget about it.

Rather than focus her attention on the GPS and risk hitting a pedestrian, Kit let the analyst do his job. That was what the system was for, after all, trusting the other party to provide you with support and information so you could do your own job more efficiently.

Following his directions, Kit turned left sharply. The road was wide, one of the main surface streets bisecting the north and south halves of the city as it ran east to west. She caught a vague flash of orange and blue lights—the colors OSA vehicles used—down a side street in the distance. That had to be the agents who had tried to bring the suspect in.

The police had done a good job clearing the streets. Procedures had been put in place for situations like this after the nightmare with Thomas Maggard a few months before. Kit was glad the public didn't know the details, that the boy himself was the danger rather than an abductor as the official story claimed. That would have turned the situation from a cautionary tale to a full-on witch hunt.

As a result, she could drive down mostly empty streets at a speed she wouldn't have dared otherwise. The suspect had a solid head start on her, but despite his impressive physical abilities, he wasn't moving especially fast. Either he was injured—unlikely, given the report said nothing about it—or he was trying to avoid drawing attention.

“One hundred yards,” the analyst said. “He's directly ahead.”

Kit resisted the urge to pick up speed. She was already above the speed limit by more than she was comfortable with.

She crested a small rise in the road and saw her target. He happened to be looking back as her car appeared. Something, probably the sudden existence of a vehicle moving at high speed where no others traveled, gave him warning. The man poured on the speed then, racing away as fast as he could go.

It wasn't faster than the car.

Kit hit him at forty miles an hour, easing off the gas and tapping the brakes at the last second to lessen the impact as much as possible. She noted the tracker stuck to his shirt right in the middle of his back as the hood of the BMW crumpled under his weight.

As his body tumbled up and over, Kit slammed on the brakes fully and threw the car into park. She barely had to think before snatching her gear from the seat next her. The small bundle unfolded easily as she lifted it, its strap going over her neck with practiced ease. The other item she grabbed stayed in her hand as she opened the door and stepped from the car.

“Henry Griffin,” she said in a commanding voice, “stay where you are.”

Griffin was already rising to his feet, unhurt by the impact with the car. The man straightened, and it was like watching a puzzle unfold. It seemed impossible for one person to be so large, as if he should have stopped the process of standing and squaring his shoulders much earlier.

At seven feet tall and with broad shoulders to match, he was the biggest man she'd ever seen. His frame was obscenely packed with muscle. Kit felt a thrill of fear in her chest, warm and reassuring.

“You hit me with your fucking car,” Griffin said. “You could have killed me!”

“I didn't even scratch you,” Kit retorted. “You're rated pretty high for durability. I have your stats. You weren't in any danger.”

His eyes narrowed. “What about now,” he asked, jerking his jaw toward Kit's right hand. “Am I in danger now? What's that thing?”

Kit raised the weapon, giving it an experimental twirl. “This? This is a baseball bat. Well, sort of. It takes the basic idea of one and, with a little math and science, streamlines and improves on it.”

It was something she had requested, a weapon for situations exactly like this. Thinner than a traditional bat, it had a more narrow profile. It was also made entirely of metal alloys, several of which were proprietary creations of facility R&D.

Griffin didn't move. “I'm not going to jail,” he said. “I didn't do anything.”

Kit raised an eyebrow. “You did. Yesterday you broke a man's arm. That's a violation of your probation.”

“He was trying to stab me,” Griffin growled. “What was I supposed to do?”

Kit sighed. “They hold us to a higher standard, however right or wrong it is. You should have run.”

“Anyway, that's not what I meant,” Griffin said. “I shouldn't have even been on probation. I never did anything in the first place.”

His words were even but his body language told the truth. His fingers curled into fists, then relaxed before doing it again. The thick ropes of muscle draped across his frame twitched and tensed. The set of his legs shifted slightly in preparation for an attack.

“Listen to me, Henry,” Kit said calmly. “I'd rather not fight you. Hell, I'd rather not take you in. But the fact is, you hurt a man badly yesterday. Maybe if you hadn't also put down one of my agents, I'd be a little more sympathetic. I can promise you, if you come with me quietly, I'll look into your original charges. If they were bogus we might be able to work something out.”

For a second, she thought it had worked. Then he frowned.

“What'd you mean, your agents?”

“I'm one of the facility directors,” she explained. “Kitra Singh.”

Griffin's hands balled into fists so hard his knuckles cracked. “So. You're the traitor in charge.”

Whatever she might have said in response was lost as he launched toward her at full speed.

Ray

By the time Ray saw Kit's car streak by the police and EMS had already arrived. His heart was still hammering in his chest from their brief encounter with Henry Griffin, which had consisted of an introduction and a partial reading of charges. The last part was interrupted by Griffin lashing out lightning-quick, knocking Kovacs into their car hard enough to break ribs.

“That was Kit,” Ray said.

“Director Singh?” Kovacs gasped from his seat on the back of the ambulance. “She have anyone with her?”

“Doubtful,” Ray replied. “She was already in the city, probably doing her...appointment.” He stopped himself from blurting out in front of civilians that his boss was seeing a psychiatrist. Enough of them already mistrusted the Next.

Kovacs frowned, brow furrowed. “Go help her, then,” he said. “She shouldn't go up against that monster alone. Take the car.”

“You sure?” Ray asked.

Kovacs nodded, then winced in pain. “Yeah. Go, go!”

Ray got in the car and took off in Kit's direction. His earpiece already carried a feed from Ops. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Yes,” his analyst said. “It's a straight shot down this road. You...won't be able to miss them.”

“What do you mean?” Ray asked, worried. “Is she okay?”

“We're watching through a traffic camera,” the analyst replied. “She hit him with her car.”

Despite himself, Ray smiled. “Of course she did.”

“Now she's talking to him in the street,” the analyst continued.

Ray rolled his eyes. “Of course she is,” he said in a much different tone of voice.

He was twenty yards away when Griffin lunged toward Kit, his immense frame moving faster than it had any right to. Ray swore and gunned the engine, screeching to a halt in time to see Kit land on the roof of her brand new car. She had seen the attack coming—she was good that way—but Ray had his doubts her skills could stand up to that sort of brute strength, regardless of how sharp those skills were.

His car came to a rest fifteen feet from the fight. Ray stepped out and back, drawing his weapon and carefully setting himself into a shooting stance.

The gun was a newer creation from the R&D wing, a complimentary weapon to the now-standard pulse gun. Unlike the pulse gun, which fired electromagnetic pulses in narrow bursts to short out Next abilities, this one fired solid rounds. Those rounds were tiny pulse generators which used fancy science Ray didn't understand to stick to whatever they hit until removed by someone with the right tool.

Heeding Archer's warning about using his powers, Ray waited. The fight in front of him was going too fast. Griffin rolled after missing Kit, barely coming to his feet before shooting into the air like a missile, trying to spear Kit. The last thing Ray wanted was to hit her, weakening her powers when she could least afford it.

Not that she needed his help.

Kit jumped smoothly, drawing her legs up as she rose in the air and twisted. That damn bat she'd had Nunez and his people make for her flicked out as fast as a fencer's blade, the impact against Griffin's ribs hard enough to send a meaty crack reverberating through the air. Her other hand made a flipping motion, a small silver orb sailing through the air to hit Griffin in the back.

As her body spun in the air, she kicked out in perfect time to push her foot off Griffin's passing ankle. The maneuver launched her in the opposite direction. Ray marveled at her grace as she casually flipped and landed, as if that had been her plan all along.

Griffin wasn't as lucky. The force of her kicking off him threw his momentum into chaos, sending the enormous man crashing to the pavement on the other side of the car.

Ray swore again. His line of sight was blocked. He began to move sideways in small steps, making slices to gain view of Griffin while exposing himself as little as possible.

“Stop, Cassidy,” Kit said.

Ray glanced at her. She wasn't looking at him, all her attention on the area around the car.

“Don't give him a reason to come after you. Just stay back. Take a shot if you've got it, but be sure. I can handle him a lot better than you can.”

Ray wasn't a coward, but neither was he an idiot. “Roger that,” he said, somewhat glumly.

The BMW rocked as if shaken by the unseen hand of God. Griffin had probably leaned against it while he gathered his thoughts.

“Listen to me, Henry,” Kit said, her voice deadly calm, almost empty. “My offer is still good, but you have to give up now. If you keep on, that little love tap I just gave you is going to feel like a massage compared to what I'll have to do.”

“Fuck you,” Griffin grunted from the other side of the car. “I could flip this thing over on you right now if I wanted. You aren't taking me down.”

“You could be right,” Kit said in a voice thoroughly convinced he wasn't. “Except you're feeling strangely weak right now. That's because the part of your powers you get from the Surge is being disrupted.”

Ray let out a long breath, happy she hadn't mentioned the EMP on his back. The guy could have just pulled his shirt off to get rid of the thing, though the battery probably wouldn't last much longer anyway. Once it ran out, Griffin was going to be back at full strength.

Kit didn't seem to care.

“I know what you're thinking right now,” Kit said. “You're doing the math in your head. You and I both know your body doesn't just rely on the Surge for your powers. You've had physical changes, too. You're stronger than any five men, even now. You think this gives you an advantage.”

Ray watched her pull several pieces of equipment from the emergency bandolier slung over her chest, holding them tightly in her hand. “It doesn't,” she said. “I'm like you. My abilities have grown past the need to rely on the Surge. I'm not as strong as you, nowhere close. But I'm not some asshole who uses his powers to hurt people now and then. I've spent most of my adult life training to be better than people like you.”

The car rocked again, almost in perfect time with Griffin, who flung himself across the top of the car so smoothly he could have been auditioning for a metahuman version of Dukes of Hazzard. Ray fired but too slowly, the EMP round slapping harmlessly into the trunk of the car.

Kit ducked to her right, throwing her handful of silver spheres at Griffin's face. From the pure speed of it, Ray guessed she was using every ounce of her power to boost the throw. Griffin reacted as any person would, throwing his arms up to protect his eyes.

That was what they taught you in the OSA classes when it came to fighting those more powerful than you; don't think about the strengths they have that you don't. Instead consider what strengths you have that can be exploited against the same human weaknesses everyone shared. Kit had literally written part of the book on it.

Kit's now-empty left hand shot to join her right on the handle of her bat. The wind-up was perfect, if faster than any pro ball player had ever managed, and the swing would have been a home run had it connected with a baseball rather than the side of a giant man's knee.

Ray cringed slightly at the sound of shattering bone, his mouth narrowing into a thin line as Griffin's left leg deformed on the landing. The joint stopped working as intended, a piercing howl tearing from the man's throat as he crumpled to the street.

The cleanup went as well as could be expected once backup arrived. Ray mostly stood back and let the retrieval team work to stabilize and secure the prisoner, taking in the scene and trying to learn from it. Whatever ego he had fostered earlier in the morning had collapsed to dust after seeing Kovacs get injured and finding himself pushed to the sidelines.

He gave Kit a ride into the office after the tow truck hauled her car off to the shop. It was a silent drive, though not the nervous sort of quiet many of the other agents would suffer when stuck in a car with their boss. Ray knew Kit as a person first and employer second, and his own value was high enough to assure him that no amount of small error could cost him his position.

No, Ray was simply embarrassed. During the months of training Kit had personally instructed him in certain aspects of how to understand and manage the limits of his powers. It was a specialty of hers. As a result, he felt no guilt for not being up to the task. Thinking back to the night before and his talk with Archer filled him with shame now that his head had been deflated to a normal size.

How had he let himself get so cocky? Was it his growing control over his powers, making him forget all the lives he'd taken in Fairmont? The idea troubled him deeply.

“I can feel you brooding over there,” Kit said, pulling him back to reality. “Don't have to read minds to know what you're thinking, Ray. This wasn't your fault.”

Ray snorted. “Easy for you to say.”

“Not really,” Kit replied evenly. “I'm your boss, which means ultimately I'm responsible for what happens to my agents. I know you feel guilty—because I know you—and that's totally normal. But it's not on you. I got a couple reports while we were cleaning up, and you didn't do anything wrong. The guy you were sent to bring in got the drop on you, and nothing you could have done would have made a difference.”

Ray frowned, staring out the windshield as sparse drops of rain began to patter against it. “Archer sent us out to make a point. He knew I was getting a little full of myself.”

Kit nodded. “I'm sure that was part of it. That's what good managers do; they make sure their people are mentally prepared for anything, even failure. It's part of the job. Sometimes things go sideways and it can't be helped. Today was good for you, I think. There's a lesson to be learned here, and no one had to die to teach it.”

Ray's frown deepened. “But Kovacs got hurt. That is on me.”

Kit shook her head, a small smile playing across her lips. “Trust me, he's had much worse. I've seen his dossier. A few cracked ribs and a day off in the hospital with some painkillers is the closest he's had to a vacation in five years.”

Ray bristled, but didn't argue. Kit seemed to sense his frustration, because she put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Trust me, Ray, this was a good thing. Lessons like these can be a lot worse.”

Kit

The next few days were busy, though no more hectic than any other time since the attack on the facility four months earlier. If anything, things were getting better. Kit had taken the lead in managing the repairs and new construction required after poor Thomas Maggard died in a scene of furious destruction.

The boy had torn a path through dozens of offices and into the main hub of Research and Development, requiring a breathtaking amount of money to fix. Since most of the damaged areas hadn't been updated in the years since the place was built, Kit took it upon herself to make sure that happened. Which included the new data center housing Operations and its analysts.

Construction was done, though it would have taken only weeks instead of months had she been allowed to contract Next to do the work. With the added load of that project lifted from her shoulders, the day-to-day paperwork and other aspects of directing the facility with Archer felt immensely less difficult.

The proof was obvious in her surroundings if nothing else. Before the attack her office had been neat and tidy, almost Spartan. In the intervening months it had undergone a slow descent into entropy, filling with piles of paper, discarded items, and a dozen other small proofs of how busy she had become. That trend had been reversing for a while now; the office was mostly clean. The squashy couch was in disarray from the last time she'd fallen asleep here, but otherwise the place was serviceable.

After years of living in semi-isolation at the Helix base, Kit was now in the world again. She had an apartment. A car. Clothes for more than simple utilitarian uses. She had even gone on dates. Her mother would be proud. For the first time since her Next abilities had awakened, Kit's life was coming together.

Just as the thought came to her, the sense of impending achievement coalescing into a conscious idea, her intercom beeped.

“Singh,” she said absently as she sorted through the papers on her desk.

“Director, this is Agent Waid in Ops,” the caller said in a familiar voice.

“You're the analyst I worked with the other day,” Kit said.

“Yes, ma'am. There's a flag on our system to notify you or Director Archer whenever a possible Next-related homicide is reported within a thirty mile radius. I just got a request from Louisville Metro for a consult. They're asking for a full response unit.”

Kit paused her sorting. In murder cases the locals didn't usually request a full unit. Typically a pair of agents would be sent out to determine if the crime required OSA oversight. Every agent had training aimed at recognizing the signs of superhuman involvement, though it was far from a definitive analysis.

If the locals were asking for a full forensics and investigative unit they had to be certain what they were dealing with. It was the sort of thing she or Archer might leave the office to oversee. She looked at the half-sorted pile of paperwork and smiled to herself.

“If they want a full team, then we should send one. In the spirit of cooperation I'll even go check it out myself. Wouldn't want those officers to think my record keeping is more important than their case,” Kit said.

What might have been a muffled chuckle echoed from the phone. “No, ma'am. Wouldn't want that.”

The door connecting Kit's office to Archer's opened, the big man stepping through. “I need to talk to you,” Archer said.

“Hang on, Waid,” Kit said, and put him on hold. “We're private. What's up?”

Archer fidgeted, rolling his shoulders inside his rumpled suit. “Right when you took that call, another one came in. From Robinson. He said you need to call him back, that it's urgent.”

Their eyes met, and though neither said a word—unsafe to say certain things out loud, even in their own offices—an entire conversation seemed to pass between them in a moment. Robinson, Secretary of the Department of Superhuman Affairs, was their boss. An almost legendary behind-the-scenes figure in Washington, the man was a war hero who knew much more about the destruction of Fairmont and the appearance of the Next than he let on.

He had recruited Kit twice; years before as a trainee agent in the newly formed Helix program, and again four months earlier as his backup. There were pieces of information that had to be preserved, he had explained, and Kit was the person who would hold onto them in case of his death. It was a position of trust, one which allowed Kit opportunities to ferret out exactly what secrets the old man was keeping.

It was dangerous, of course. Kit had to take what information Robinson would give, as asking the wrong question could tip Robinson off that she knew something of his role in the events leading to Fairmont.

Every meeting with the man was a gamble, another chance to bring new data back to the small conspiracy Kit and Archer had formed with the few people they trusted. Those meetings always came with the risk that Kit wouldn't return.

It was worth it, however nerve-wracking the situation might be.

Kit's brain processed everything at many times the speed of a normal human, so the pause after Archer's words wouldn't have been noticeable to most observers.

“Okay,” she said casually. “I'll give him a ring before I head out on this murder consult.”

Archer nodded. “You want me to stay?”

Kit shrugged. “Sure, if you want.” She took Waid off hold, told him to get the team ready but to wait for confirmation before leaving. Then she called Robinson's direct line, a number known to only four people, one of whom was the leader of the free world.

“Kitra,” the old man said in his polished-stone voice, forgoing empty chatter. “You need to be in Washington.”

Kit blinked. “When?”

“Now,” Robinson replied. “Don't stand by your coffee table.” The phone clicked as he hung up on her.

“Stand back,” Kit said. “Incoming douchebag.”

Archer stepped back just as a blinding light filled the room, resolving into the shape of a man.

“Directors,” Wes Christjansen said as he stepped forward. Robinson's personal mode of transportation was a familiar face, one Kit had been indifferent toward until being recruited as the old man's shadow. Kit suspected the man was angry to be overlooked for the job, but Kit didn't really see why it was anything to be jealous over. All it did was make her a target, information being the coin of the modern age. Whatever the reason, he had been cold toward her bordering on hateful ever since.

“Christjansen,” Archer said. “What's this all about?”

“No idea,” the other man replied. “I'm just the ride. Speaking of which...”

Kit put up a finger. “Hang on a second,” she said. She turned to Archer. “You should go on that run, the cops asked for a full team, you know how weird that is. Use Waid as your analyst, he's really good. Oh, and you might want to take whatever intern trainees need field time along with you. It'll be a good learning experience for them.”

Archer nodded, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sure. Anything else?”

Kit gave him a mock-serious look. “Your sarcasm is noted.” Her expression melted into one of genuine worry, hidden from Christjansen, who was half a dozen feet behind her. “Wish me luck,” she mouthed to Archer, who winked.

“Let's go, then,” she said, then vanished in an explosion of light.

Teleportation varied depending on several factors. Most Next who were capable of it managed the feat in different ways. Some simply poofed away with no fanfare to reappear elsewhere, like they'd stepped through an unseen door. Others, like Christjansen, made a sort of hole in the world, one they had to step through. The light spilling from that portal was otherworldly, flooding across her skin like water, though without any sensation at all.

The trip itself twisted her stomach in knots. However Christjansen's power worked, it took some getting used to. Kit had been traveling with him off and on for months, but the nausea and disruption to the delicate machinery of her inner ears seemed to have plateaued at tolerable (if still fairly shitty) levels.

Months of these last-minute, random trips had given Kit a solid set of reactions. She didn't speak even to ask where they were. While most of her jaunts were mundane in nature—meetings with Robinson to learn some vital secret or another, usually—twice they had appeared in highly dangerous situations.

That didn't seem to be the case today, but Kit played it safe. The room around them was old, the walls bedecked with centuries-old paintings, expensive molding framing the place top and bottom. The floor was marble, the lights ensconced rather than being overhead. The room wasn't large, and while Kit was sure she had never been in it before, the place had an unmistakably familiar design.

She caught Christjansen's eye, but the man remained silent. Kit choked back a derisive snort, instead turning her mind to trying to figure out why the place seemed so familiar.

It took a few seconds to click, and the realization sent a spike of ice through her guts.

“Are we in D.C.?” she asked quietly.

Christjansen's eyebrows raised slightly, but it was enough to confirm she was right. Before Kit's imagination could gear up into full-blown panic, the carved double doors opened on silent hinges. Robinson stood framed in the open doorway.

“Thank you, Wes,” he said, nodding to his valet. “I'll signal when we're done.”

“Yes, sir,” Christjansen said, vanishing in another flash of brilliant light.

Robinson faced Kit, and as always she was struck by him. He was older, hair beginning to turn solid white in places, though he always carried an air of vitality. There was none of the weight of middle age on him, and in the years Kit had known Robinson he hadn't slowed a step.

He allowed the doors to swing closed as he stepped into the room. His eyes appraised her openly with the hawkish scan of an old veteran.

“You're looking better than the last time I saw you,” Robinson remarked.

Kit grunted. “I'm just trying to be prettier than you, sir,” she quipped.

Robinson smiled. “Tall order. Now, we need to get moving. The hearing starts in a few minutes.”

Her mouth fell open. “Hearing? What are you talking about?”

“I told you there would be a hearing when your psychological evaluation was over,” he explained.

Kit frowned. “Yes, you did. But I still have a couple months left with the doctor.”

Robinson shook his head. “Things have changed, and the committee was getting impatient.” He hesitated, then added, “I tend to think they want to do the hearing when you're off balance and not prepared.”

Kit gave him a searching look. “Which you don't agree with, or you wouldn't have said anything.”

Robinson shrugged. “I've watched you for years, Kitra. I recruited you into Helix personally. If I didn't think you were trustworthy and could handle the job, you wouldn't have it.”

With that, he led the way through the gorgeous old doors and down the halls where powerful men and women walked, the cold in Kit's belly twisting with every step.

Ray

If you wanted to get technical about it, Ray shouldn't have left the facility. The rules were clear on what agents at his level could and couldn't do, and going out on assignment without your partner was a fairly crucial one.

Fortunately, Ray wasn't alone. Archer himself rode along with the team to investigate the body Louisville Metro had called them in on. Ray wasn't needed in any real sense; he wasn't an experienced investigator. That was what the forensics team was for. The OSA wasn't in the business of solving crimes, generally speaking. They caught rogue Next.

Exceptions like this one existed for a reason, however. Sometimes the nature of a crime pointed toward Next involvement, which meant a little more leg work. Ray would have no real part in that. His job was at the same time far more simple but infinitely more complex.

“Quiet down back there, or I swear to God I'll turn this thing around!”

The half dozen trainees in the back of the van settled into complete silence, though a low murmur of conversation resumed a few seconds later. Being a babysitter wasn't Ray's idea of exciting field work, but after seeing Kovacs get hurt a few days before, boring busy work was welcome. It would only be a few days until Kovacs was back to full strength, thanks to the magic of several Next capable of helping people heal quickly. Ray was happy to take the down time.

“You guys know what to do when we get there?” Ray asked, glancing in the rear view mirror.

A mumbled chorus of assent filled the van.

“Good,” Ray said. “What's rule number one?”

“Don't go anywhere we're not told to go,” answered a young woman.

“What else?” Ray asked.

“Observe but don't interfere.”

“Take notes on procedure.”

“Don't talk to the normals, especially cops,” someone said, almost too low for Ray to catch.

His eyes shot back to the mirror. “Hey,” he said, an edge in his voice. “That's an attitude you need to drop right now. We don't keep information from the agencies we work with because we're Next and they aren't. They aren't normals, because that's a shitty way to look at people. Don't set yourself apart from people who don't have powers.”

“Why not?” asked a young man, one of the non-Next trainees. “I don't have powers, but it doesn't really bother me for people to point that out.”

Ray shook his head. “Setting yourself apart is one step away from putting yourself above,” he said. “It's one thing to make a technical distinction between Next and the average person, another completely to think of yourself as being separate from the rest of humankind. We're all people. That's why I wanted to do this job, to help people.”

The silence following had a different texture than the previous one. It was not the quiet of the chastised, but more thoughtful. Ray had seen it in his own training, as various instructors brought up points designed to remind the students of their many ties to the rest of the human race. Philosophers weren't wrong about power corrupting, exactly, but the unwritten caveat was that it wasn't all that hard to set people on a better path. All it took was gentle nudges here and there.

He could almost hear the gears turning in their heads, thinking of friends and family, remembering the uncountable times in their lives when having (or not having) super powers mattered not one bit. The Next among them were doubtless recalling how they, too, had once been powerless. The others were surely reminding themselves of the many good times they had with their classmates, simple enjoyment with another person, no powers needed or considered.

At least, Ray hoped so. His fear for the younger people around the world was based less on the idea of power going to their heads than it was on the public attitudes about the Next. As with any societal upheaval there were blowhards constantly declaiming about the dangers posed by Next all over the world. The internet, television, and radio were full of them, and their audiences only grew.

The other side of the spectrum was filled with those who stood up for Next as the people they were, an attitude Ray found refreshing and hopeful. Idealism was rarely a practical solution, however, and if anyone knew about the dangers Next could pose, intentional or otherwise, it was him.

Caught between were the masses, people who believed what they were told because it had been repeated—shouted—at them so many times it appeared to be gospel. They were afraid, torn between the public figures trying to sway them, and convinced at every turn that the only solutions were drastic ones.

Ray sighed as they pulled into the crime scene behind the small convoy of other vehicles. There weren't any easy answers, but if he could do even a little good by helping the trainees think for themselves, it was something.

They waited in the van for a few minutes while the techs set up the scene. Because the OSA had access to technology unavailable to the rest of the world thanks to the many super intelligent Next working for them, there were certain precautions they had to take.

A white barrier was unfolded, a square thirty feet on a side centered on the body itself. Five techs carried cases inside, where the local police couldn't see. They were lucky the area was open, the closest trees several dozen yards away. Something tickled Ray's brain as he scanned the area.

“Why here?” he muttered.

“What was that?” one of the trainees said.

Ray tilted his head toward the field where the crowd of vehicles sat. “Why here? That's something you guys should be thinking about. This is an open field next to a well-traveled county road. There are businesses within a hundred yards, homes right next to them. The body is only, what, fifty or sixty feet from the road? Seems like a bad place to bury someone, especially without cover while you're digging the hole.”

As he spoke, Archer broke off from the main group and approached the van. Ray rolled the window down.

“Leave them in the van,” Archer said, his expression troubled. “I want you in there.”

Ray nodded. He turned in his seat and searched for the young woman who had answered his first question. “What's your name?” he asked, catching her eye.

“Graysen,” she replied. “Graysen Ross.”

“You're in charge until someone relieves you, Graysen,” Ray said. He let his face fall into what his boyfriend had lovingly referred to as his 'bitch gaze' and let every one of them see it. “That means the rest of you act like agents, or at least like adults. This is a crime scene, and your behavior reflects on the OSA.”

A round of solemn nods and mumbled agreement followed, which gave him hope the van wouldn't be set on fire and flipped over when he got back. For all the training and stress these kids endured, they were still college-age, which meant mature behavior was never a safe bet.

Following Archer toward the makeshift room in the middle of the field, Ray felt a lead weight drop into his stomach. In the office, Archer's mood was anywhere between playful and an angry god, but in the field the veil dropped over him. Ray had never seen him show anything beyond mild interest in the presence of other agencies.

Through the plastic flaps serving as a door, they walked into a scene that could have easily been pulled from a science fiction movie. There were numerous pieces of equipment already working, lights blinking and spindles whirring. Archer ignored them and the techs milling about.

Ray followed right up to the hole in the ground, now a solid six feet wide and growing. An agent whose name Ray didn't know stood at one edge of the hole with his eyes closed and hands out as if he were standing in front of a fire trying to warm them.

The dirt surrounding the body shifted, slowly peeling away in layers. Curious, Ray took a deep breath and closed his own eyes, focusing on the reservoir of Surge energy inside him. Practice had made his ability to see the Surge itself much easier to attain and hold, but it did take some effort.

Ray opened his eyes to a world painted in a million shades of green.

The agent's hands glowed, though not the blaze of light Ray caught off more powerful Next. He had to be careful not to look at himself, as his own form was like looking at the noonday sun.

Streams of energy flowed from the agent to the ground, and along the way those bright ribbons changed from a hazy sea foam hue to a nearly solid forest color. The dirt fairly crackled with power as the agent shaped and compacted it, smaller tendrils gently clearing pieces from the corpse.

As he took in this spectacle, Ray's gaze gradually took in the body they had come to see. His shock was so severe that his concentration slipped, letting the Surge vision drop.

“What the fuck?” he nearly shouted.

With his normal sight, the body still looked bizarre, but only his training allowed Ray to catalog the details. The rest of his brain reeled.

The corpse was big, probably a man. There were shreds of fabric mixed in with the soil, along with a dark brown goo he wasn't eager to identify. Pieces of bone showed at random, but the most interesting—and obvious—sign that this was more than a normal death was the large branch jutting out of the skull. The skin there was gone, leaving a pale expanse of bone bare and unbroken.

Even where the branch was sticking out of it.

“What did you see?” Archer asked. Ray glanced away from the body to find the everyone in the tent watching him.

“The body is surrounded by Surge energy,” Ray said mechanically. “Not like anything I've ever seen before, though.”

One of the techs, apparently the leader of the bunch, leaned toward Ray excitedly. “How is it different?”

Ray glanced at Archer, who nodded.

“Bodies don't usually retain Surge energy for very long,” he explained. “They release it on death, and the residue dissipates with time.”

“Of course,” the lead tech said. “The decay rate is measurable.”

Ray nodded. “That's not the weirdest thing. I've seen plenty of Surge variations, mostly looking at people while they're using their abilities, but this is new. Manipulation of the Surge always looks like organic things. The body...to me it looks like it's wrapped in geometric shapes. Complicated ones, with defined lines and patterns.”

Archer groaned. “Well, that's that,” he said. Turning to another agent, he jerked his chin toward the outside. “Send the locals away,” he told the man. “Get someone to take that van full of kids back. This area is off limits to anyone I don't personally identify and allow in. Got it?”

The agent nodded and darted off.

“What's going on, Archer?” Ray asked.

The big man sighed. “Based on what the locals said, this body must have been here for a long time. Months, if not years. This field hasn't been disturbed in a long time.”

“I don't get it,” Ray said slowly. “How did they find the body if there wasn't a fresh grave?”

Archer pointed to the branch sticking out of the dead man's forehead. “That was sticking out of the ground. Some kids tried to pull it up, and when they did something...weird happened to the soil. It started to get soft, like sand, and since the body was very close to the surface, they saw part of the skull.”

Confused, Ray looked back at the body, trying to understand. He racked his brain for answers, trying to remember any mention of similar circumstances from his classes.

“I'm sorry,” Ray said after a long silence. “I'm just not getting it.”

Archer smiled grimly. “No reason you should. There are some things field agents only learn when they reach certain levels. You're getting the lesson a little early.”

The big man ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath, as if steeling himself for what came next.

Then he explained it to Ray.

And Ray was terrified.

Kit

For the fourth or fifth time that day, Kit wondered whether she could get away with killing five of the highest ranking members of congress.

They sat across from her, the cramped size of the room no obstacle to the insatiable need for grandeur and importance. She and Robinson sat behind an ancient wooden table while her interrogators rested above her behind a semicircular desk much like a judge's bench.

The majority and minority leaders from the House and Senate sat on either side of the Speaker of the House, who almost never stopped looking at Kit with tired brown eyes.

“Were you aware at the beginning of the incident that the killer was a young boy?” asked Senator Lee, the Majority Leader.

Kit swallowed a hot retort, also not for the first time, and took a deep breath. “No, sir. As I've said before—in answer to most of your questions—that was in the report. It's all in the report.” Well, almost all. She left out the part about Archer being impaled by a support beam. He'd be in a world of trouble if anyone found out he was Next.

Senator Lee grunted behind his thick white mustache and darkened glasses. “You do understand, Director Singh, that we're here to make sure you're still fit for your job. If there were errors in judgment here—”

“Then Robinson would have sent me back to Helix, fired me, or filed charges against me,” Kit said heatedly, cutting him off. “As it's his call and not yours, I have to wonder why you brought me here just to ask questions you could get the answer to by reading our reports.”

Congresswoman Siegel, the minority leader, frowned at Kit and raised a gnarled finger. “Watch yourself, Director. We're not here to take any shit from you. You answer our questions.”

Kit wondered idly if the congresswoman would have been as...colorful in a public forum. Her guess was probably not, but the situation got no less public than this. They were deep below the Capitol building in a nearly forgotten room nestled between several storage areas. Robinson had mentioned in passing that even the janitorial staff rarely visited the area.

Kit was about to respond to Siegel when Robinson touched her arm. She bit back her response. Again.

“My apologies, Congresswoman. I've had a rough few months, and talking about it for so long isn't the easiest thing for me.”

Senator Ditko, the minority leader, smiled approvingly, as did the Majority leader, Congressman Shuster. Neither of them spoke, however.

“I wonder why you think we asked you here,” said the figure in the center, Speaker Kirby.

Kit blinked, then glanced at Robinson. Oddly, the old man smiled and gave her an encouraging nod.

She met Kirby's eyes and held his gaze for several long seconds. “How honest do you want me to be?” she asked.

Kirby's mouth twitched at the corner, which could have been the beginning of a smile or a sign of tightly-controlled rage. “Completely,” he said.

“There are several reasons,” Kit explained. “On the surface, I think you want to measure me, see how I react. You're deliberately pushing me by being as humorless and bureaucratic as possible, asking me things you know the answer to. Rather than simply ask the real questions, you're trying to gauge my response.”

Siegel and Shuster both reacted, small tells but obvious once Kit had nailed down their body language. Siegel sat back in her chair, lacing her fingers together, while Shuster rested his chin on a fist. It was as if they had shouted out that Kit was right, even if the other three had no more reaction than a stone would.

“You said that was the surface reason,” Kirby said. “Why else are you here?”

Kit poured water from the carafe on the table into one of the crystal tumblers and took a sip. “Well, the first reason is because you want to see what kind of person I am. You want to see how I deal with stress. Below that, you want to make sure you're covered. That you aren't allowing the incident at the facility to just pass by without comment. You know what I did, and you're worried about what will happen if the truth ever comes out. You want to be able to say you sat me down and grilled me.”

She felt Robinson tense beside her, but Kit wasn't finished. The row of faces in front of her were all grim, now, wiped clean of any trace of sympathy.

Kit met each set of hard eyes with her own stony glare. “But that's just politics. I get it. The thing that really brought me here was fear. You're afraid of what I am, and I think you're scared of what I did. It chills you to your bones that I made the call to let that boy die.” She paused, letting the accusation sink in and waiting for someone to shout at her to shut up. No one did.

Instead, Speaker Kirby sighed and leaned forward. “Should we be afraid, Director Singh? Don't we have a right to fear the things you can do? That other Next can do? Are we wrong to worry about a woman who can kill a child and apparently suffer no guilt afterward?”

Other people might have been outraged, even stood up and shouted, but Kit had spent every day since the incident thinking about it. There had never been any illusions about her privacy; Kit was aware that her meetings with Dr. Otomo would pass through many hands and be seen by many eyes. For the sake of accountability, every moment of her sessions would be scrutinized.

“You're right that I don't feel guilt about it, at least not in the way you're thinking,” Kit said calmly. The five members of congress were focused on her completely, now. “Guilt implies a crime. What I did, I did to save lives. You'll note from the record that at the time, I had no way of knowing John Franklin would save my life. I thought I was going to die, too.”

She took another sip of water, though more for a pause to rein in the torrent of rising emotions than anything else. “Don't make the mistake of thinking I don't care, though. I feel bad that Thomas Maggard died, and I hate that I was responsible for it. I've been through enough to understand how to cope with doing what's necessary, even if it's completely vile. I killed him, yes, and given any other option I wouldn't have, but there weren't any. None that wouldn't have cost many more lives, at any rate.”

Letting some heat back into her voice, Kit continued. “As for Next in general, my opinion is that you have reason to be afraid, but also that you and many others have let fear override your common sense.”

“How so?” Senator Lee asked in a dangerous tone.

“By making the same mistakes people have since the dawn of civilization,” Kit said. “You lump all of us together for what we are, and forget to look at who we are. You know the statistics. One in a thousand people in the world are Next. In America, that's more than three hundred thousand people. That's an army capable of leveling every city from coast to coast in a matter of days. Yet nothing like that has happened. The majority of us live our lives like everyone else. A lot of Next even use their powers to serve their communities. Should we worry about another Fairmont? Absolutely. It would be stupid and naïve to think that some insanely powerful person out there won't cause another disaster. But it's irresponsible to treat us all like rabid dogs, in no small part because history shows exactly what happens to minorities when they've had enough of the boot on their throat.”

That certainly made an impression. All five people behind the bench flinched, even unflappable Kirby. Their reactions varied from rage to horror, there and gone again in a blink, but for Kit that second lasted a long time

“You're on dangerous ground,” Senator Ditko said.

Kit snorted, shaking her head. “Do you really think I'm stupid enough to come in here and make threats, senator? If I had any ill intentions, I wouldn't tell you about them. Honestly, the fact that the public attitude toward Congress has never been more negative combined with the reality that no Next have decided to do anything about it should tell you just how dangerous we are. My own abilities are low on the scale compared to a Black Band, but even I could do a tremendous amount of damage to a room full of powerless people.”

The tension in the room could have stopped bullets, but Kit pushed on. In for a penny and all that.

“I'll tell you why you want me to stay where I am,” she said. “It's really simple. I can do what you can't. I can be the person in charge of catching rogue Next without alienating the entire community. I'm the one who can make the hard calls and live with them. I can enforce the law without being seen as the enemy, because I treat Next like people while still recognizing how dangerous we can be.”

Something like approval seemed to flicker across Kirby's face, but even pushing her perception of time to its limit, Kit thought she might have imagined it. “Are you done?” he asked.

Kit nodded.

“We're not in the habit of being berated,” Kirby said, an eyebrow raising slightly. “That said, you've made points everyone here has discussed at length more than once. Public sentiment is a powerful—and dangerous—force. Walking the line between being firm with Next criminals and trying not to be seen as oppressors is never easy. When Secretary Robinson told us he was appointing you, we agreed that someone with your experience would be the right fit. You weren't law enforcement, which wasn't ideal, but your practical experience dealing with Next more than made up for it.”

Kirby's voice hardened, his expression tight. “However, it's because of the delicate state of public opinion that we have to be sure there are no blank spots regarding Thomas Maggard's death. That includes determining whether you acted out of true necessity or because it happened to be an easy choice. I doubt you're aware, but we have had a handful of Helix agents lose their grip on reality over the last several years. The stress of the work can take its toll.”

Kit's eyebrows drew down. “I didn't know,” she said. “Anyone I know?”

Kirby waved away the question. “Not important. I mentioned it to give you context. You need to understand the sort of scrutiny you will always be under. More, now that Secretary Robinson has made you his shadow. You're being entrusted with secrets known by very, very few people.”

The threat implied in those words was clear, but Kit never got to find out what would follow.

The door of the small room opened fast enough to bang against the wall. Kit and Robinson turned in unison to find Wes Christjansen approaching. He leaned down between Kit and Robinson and spoke in a low but urgent voice.

“Archer has a possible Blue Box situation,” he said.

Robinson's eyes flashed at Kit as the gravity in the room seemed to vanish. The old man took stock, then cursed under his breath. “Wes, take Kitra to the scene directly. No, wait. One minute.”

Robinson faced the bench. “We've got a situation that can't wait,” he said to them. “Director Singh needs to be there now. What's your vote?”

Vote? Kit tried not to let her bewilderment show, but it wasn't easy.

“Mr. Secretary, this shouldn't be rushed,” Senator Lee began, but Robinson cut him off with a raised hand.

“No, sir, it shouldn't be. But as you know, Director Singh is experienced in tackling extremely difficult problems, and this is a Code One situation. She needs to be there now. So what is your vote?”

Speaker Kirby blanched. “Code One? Damn it. Fine, Robinson. We'll vote. All in favor?”

All five raised their hands. Whatever it was, it was unanimous.

“Sir,” Kit said to Robinson. “Why do you look so relieved?”

“Because you've just been confirmed as my backup,” Robinson said. Without pausing, he barked orders to Christjansen. “Take her to the scene and stay there. I'll be ready to leave here in an hour. Until then, you're to help her in any way she needs.”

Kit was trying to process a lot of information, but even her enhanced brain was overwhelmed. When the teleportation happened, Kit barely noticed.

Ray

In an astoundingly short span of time the scene around the body changed. Rapid phone calls were exchanged with several federal agencies, all by Archer and ending with an establishment of jurisdiction by the OSA. Ray watched and listened, taking in the efficient transformation of the scene from simple body dump to potential ground zero.

All nonessential personnel were asked to leave, though Archer asked Ray to remain. In short order there were only a handful of people inside the enclosure, and no one within a hundred yards who wasn't under Archer's command.

Dr. Nunez, head of research and development and the smartest human being to ever live, had taken command of the crime scene technicians. Ray had never heard of Nunez doing field work, but given the circumstances, he wasn't terribly surprised.

Ray was standing near the door when a flash of bright light flared through it from the outside. The flaps parted seconds later as Kit and Christjansen entered. She glanced around the enclosure before spotting Ray, who waved her over.

“What's the situation?” she asked, her eyes taking in the handful of bodies working a short distance away. Archer was still engrossed in a phone call.

Ray nodded toward the body, now surrounded by half a dozen pieces of equipment. “Nunez is doing a bunch of tests, but the early evidence points to the dead guy having been moved through time.”

Kit swore. “Blue Box is the code for it,” she said. “I had to do some training about how dangerous time travel is supposed to be, and I had to sign a mountain of non-disclosure papers about it. Damn.”

Ray ran a hand through his hair. “So this is for real? There are Next out there who can time travel?”

Kit pursed her lips. “Yeah, but as far as I know it's only happened once.”

“Once? Why is there an entire protocol in place for it, then?”

“Because the result was the 2004 tsunami. The one that killed several hundred thousand people,” Kit answered grimly.

Ray gaped in horror. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Kit said. “The really scary thing is that no one knows who did it. The leading theory is that time travel isn't something Next can really do, but is actually a by-product of teleportation gone wrong or some other malfunction. Since it's so destructive, logic says it doesn't happen often.”

“You are quite right, Director Singh,” said a smooth voice.

Ray jumped. He had been so intent on listening to Kit that he hadn't heard the doctor move in behind him.

“Fortunately,” Nunez continued, politely ignoring Ray's reaction, “this does not appear to be a case of time travel, merely bad teleportation.”

Ray's eyebrows drew down. “But the evidence...”

“Was not what it appeared to be,” Nunez said. “An easy mistake to make given the circumstances, and one we should be thankful for.”

“What evidence?” Kit asked.

Nunez waved a hand at Ray. “I should get back to work, actually.”

Kit turned her attention back to Ray. “What evidence?” she repeated.

He pointed at the branch sticking out of the skull. “That was the first red flag. Most teleporters essentially open a gateway between two places. That stick is fused through the skull, though, as if the body had been broken down into energy and reformed.”

Kit nodded in understanding. “That's what happened with the earthquake that caused the tsunami. Somehow a huge chunk of foreign matter materialized right inside the weak spot in the crust, which set off the quake.”

Ray shrugged. “The other thing was that the body looks like it's been in the ground for a long time since most of the flesh is gone, but we found a smart phone in his hand that only came out four days ago. Oh, and the weird patterns of Surge energy I saw are apparently some kind of marker for teleportation and time travel. Nunez said matter that has been dematerialized always has predictable readings.”

He had listened to the techs chatter to each other as they studied the readings on their scanners. It was amazing how much you could learn by simple observation, so long as you kept quiet and listened.

“Do we have any idea whether this was intentional or not?” Kit asked.

Before Ray could form a response, Archer's voice cut across the makeshift room.

“The bad news is, this looks like a murder,” he said. The room fell silent except for the gentle hum and low beeps of busy machines. “The good news is that we already have a suspect.”

Half an hour later, Ray sprawled on the couch in Kit's office with a company laptop nestled beside him. While Archer remained at the site to oversee the removal of the body and every molecule of dirt touched by it, Ray had ridden back with Kit to get a head start on researching their suspect. Kit had given him use of her laptop while she darted off to shower, and Ray found himself fascinated by the hastily-gathered dossier.

The suspect's name was James Shane, though the idea of him merely being a suspect was deceptive. According to Nunez even the very small number of Next capable of teleportation had proved enough of a population for serious study of their abilities, and every one of them was different. The strangely geometric nature of the residual energy Ray had seen was like a fingerprint, every pattern unique to the Next who had done the teleportation. While the scanners used at the scene didn't interpret the pattern visually as Ray did, they were able to distinguish properties specific to records which matched James Shane.

Ray's interest didn't lie with how efficiently the analysts in Ops had put the file together—though they had done so in minutes—but instead with how unlikely a suspect Shane appeared to be at first glance. The man had only been registered with the OSA for two months, had no criminal record, and was apparently an artist of some note. A summary of his public online activity, complete with screen shots of conversations on social media, painted a very clear picture.

He was a nice guy. Then again, Ray had been much the same before his powers erupted in Fairmont.

The major difference was that Ray's powers had to be tightly controlled, while James Shane, like all other teleporters, had to focus to make his work. Which meant the location of the body and its partial dissolution was at least partly intentional. It was possible Shane had teleported the man beneath the ground on accident, causing his death by the accidental collision of two separate forms of matter trying to occupy the same space, but Ray had his doubts.

He heard Kit walking down the tight spiral stairs leading up to the small sleeping quarters and bathroom attached to her office.

“Anything new?” she asked as she entered the room, toweling her short hair as she walked.

“Let me check,” Ray said, backing out of the document and refreshing the file. “Looks like it,” he said, glancing at the new icons in the folder. “More background information, looks like some more recent stuff from the locals.” He opened that one, another summary report compiled from multiple sources.

Ray read through it quickly. It was ten pages, but much of that was reference material. Photos, documents, citations, and links to outside sources.

“Shit,” Ray said when he was finished. “You definitely need to read this.”

“That bad?” Kit asked.

“Yep,” he said. “Looks like our dead guy and James Shane had some pretty serious beef.”

“In what way?” Kit asked as she made her way to the couch.

Ray frowned. “The wallet we found with the body identified him as Robert Lile. The report here says James Shane moved back to Kentucky three weeks ago to help take care of his sister, who had been assaulted by three men at a party.”

Kit plopped onto the couch, shaking the whole thing. Ray smiled; he sometimes forgot that Kit outweighed him by a fair margin even though she was tiny and slim.

“Sexual assault?” Kit asked as she reached for the computer.

“Not according to the charges she filed,” Ray said, a sour feeling growing in his stomach. “But the pictures are pretty conclusive that she was at least attacked.”

He watched Kit as she scanned the files one after another. It took her far less time, and Ray wondered whether Kit realized how quickly she was changing. Their friendship was still nascent, a handful of months old, but even in that short time Ray could see the acceleration in Kit's powers. Four months ago she would have needed twice as long to read through all those documents, something he had seen firsthand many times as he sat in this very spot while they worked together.

If he were to put money on it, Ray would have guessed she knew even if she never talked about it. There were other signs, both obvious and subtle. Increases in strength were easy to spot if you knew to look for them. Noting the less and less frequent appearance of any sort of fatigue was harder, but Ray had caught that, too.

“Well,” Kit said after finishing the file, “at least Shane did the right thing and notified us when he moved here. It'll make our job a little easier.”

“I can understand where he's coming from,” Ray said. “His sister gets hurt so bad she needs help taking care of herself, and the guys who did it get out on bail.” Low anger boiled in the back of his head, but like his powers he kept a firm leash on it.

“I don't like it either,” Kit said with a sigh. “We don't have much of a choice, here. James Shane might not have meant to kill Robert Lile, but he had motive and we know his powers were involved. We have to err on the side of caution, even if it means protecting these assholes.”

Ray's mood darkened at the thought. “Just because it's the law doesn't mean it's right,” he muttered.

Kit's mouth drew into a disapproving line. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Funny,” Ray said as he stood to leave the room. “I never got a trial for Fairmont.”

He took a moment to catch the rare appearance of surprise on her face before leaving, letting the door swing shut silently behind.

Kit

Being in charge was a sword with many edges. Kit's natural instinct was to micromanage, though she didn't see it as such. She wanted to be out in the field going after James Shane. Had the man been a bigger threat, she would have. As it was, Shane was only likely to go after the men accused of brutalizing his sister. He wasn't much of a threat beyond that.

Being stuck at the facility meant she didn't have to personally safeguard the men who had, according to the excellent police work done by the Louisville department, almost without a doubt beat a young woman unconscious, breaking several bones in the process.

Ray's words the night before struck a chord in her, a deep sense of unease she had long suppressed. With Helix she had operated in a morally clear but legally murky area. Going after terrorist cells backed with reams of data proving the guilt of her targets was the right thing to do, even if using Next to do it required exploiting several loopholes in international law.

Ray was right, to a degree. Since taking over as one of the two facility directors she had been forced to reevaluate her views on how the law dealt with the Next, and why. One of the larger drivers for that introspection was also her ten o'clock appointment.

Right on cue, he knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Kit said.

John Franklin entered the office. Just shy of sixteen, Kit wasn't sure the kid hadn't grown an inch since last week's appointment. She checked that thought and gave it another pass through her brain. Given the wide variety of Next powers and physiology, it was possible he had grown an inch in a handful of days.

Lean and getting broad in the shoulders, John was beginning to look less like a rough sketch of his father and more like a finished product. The anger Kit had been working mightily to temper and shape was nowhere to be seen; that was good. John had spent the first two months worth of meetings furious at the outset. Given what the boy had lived through recently, she couldn't blame him.

But someone with his power couldn't walk around with a chip on his shoulder, no matter how well-deserved it might be. That, too, factored into Kit's evaluation of the Next as a group. People who could bend space-time or punch through a brick wall had to be held to a higher standard. Practicality—and the base fear of normal humans, historically known for raising pitchforks when needed—demanded it.

“Good morning,” John said with a slight smile, his voice light.

Kit cocked her head at him slightly. “You're in a good mood,” she noted. “I'm guessing it's a girl.”

John managed to look affronted, though it was gone in a flash. “That's a pretty stereotypical assumption to make about someone my age.”

Keeping her face straight with serious effort, Kit put up her hands in supplication. “You're right, that was rude of me.”

“I mean, I could be happy because my dad bought me a car,” John protested.

“Very true,” Kit agreed.

“Or for a bunch of reasons,” John said. “Maybe I just had a really good morning.”

Kit let that hang in the air for a few seconds, then nodded. “So, is it any of those things?”

John wrinkled his face sourly. “No,” he said, before the smile crept back on his face. He mumbled something, though he knew full well how strong Kit's senses were.

“What was that?” Kit asked sweetly.

“Her name is Kristen,” John said with a grin.

The air outside was brisk but tolerable. Kit had been training John indoors until now, owing to the weather. Today would be a test for both of them. For John, it would measure how much control he had learned, for Kit, how effective she was as a teacher.

They stood just outside the main building, the office space which served as the tip of the massive iceberg that was the facility itself. Interlaced with lessons on meditation and channeling negative emotions, Kit had spent time teaching John how to use his abilities effectively.

To gain a real understanding of how far the boy—the young man—had come, she'd have to teach him their limits.

“Strip off your gear,” Kit said, motioning to a bare patch of dirt next to the office. “Take all the stuff out of your pockets, and remove your disruption watch.”

This elicited a surprised grunt from John, who shrugged and did as he was told. The watch had always remained on during their sessions, a safeguard against him losing control of his temper. Kit usually kept a small activation fob in her hand as they worked. Not today.

She threw off her coat, tossing it to the side.

John  stopped cold when he turned back to her, his eyes dropping to her torso.

“Why are you wearing your gun?” he asked.

“Scared?”

“I'm invulnerable,” John answered. “Unless I trigger my watch, and even then you'd have a hard time hurting me. You've never used a gun with me before. I was just curious.”

She slid the sleek weapon from its holster, showing it to him. “Just a pulse gun,” she said. “No bullets.”

Kit didn't need superpowers to notice the gears turning in his head. Teenage boys were not known for their subtlety.

“What's on the schedule, then?” John asked. “What are we doing?”

Kit holstered her gun and glanced at her watch. “Waiting.”

“For what?”

The distant rumble of an engine, faint but audible, washed over them. It was a few seconds before John heard it. The vehicle was visible for a good long while as it navigated the narrow road leading to the facility, and it was a car both were familiar with.

John turned pink when he recognized it. “What is this, Kit?” he asked, voice cracking slightly.

Peep parked the car and hopped out, hauling a large basket of food and drinks with her.

John's skin deepened from pink to red. Though he pretended otherwise, Kit knew the boy had a serious crush on Kit's friend and roommate. Kit needed stress to get a good read on him, and there was no more sure way to fluster a boy of sixteen than to make him perform in front of an older woman he fancied.

“Hey, hey,” Peep said, pulling a small blanket from the basket and tossing it to the ground. “Heard I was getting a free show.”

The look John Franklin gave Kit was fire and ice, and though pangs of regret slapped against her mental defenses, she had a job to do. She smiled at him, and raised a hand to beckon him forward.

“Come at me,” Kit said.

John moved forward hesitantly, then in a rush. Kit understood the pause; she had spent months teaching him in a structured manner, instilling him with caution. Comparatively, this was chaos.

Kit amped up her time perception as she spoke, slowing the world down enough to keep pace with her student. She stepped to the side, turning her body just enough to be out of harm's way but close enough to hip check John as he sped by.

The young man careened to the side—his momentum sent at a wild tangent—and tripped. He tumbled and came to a stop sprawled across the ground.

“What went wrong there?” Kit asked.

John rose to his feet. “You're heavier than me,” he said. “By a lot. I was running, which meant my strength wasn't a factor.”

Kit nodded approvingly. “Right. One of your first lessons, and you remembered it. Too late, but it's good you can see your mistake. Physics is something most Next can bend, even break, but for you the fundamental laws of the universe still apply.”

She turned and walked away from the building, coming to a stop nearly a hundred feet from John. “Again!”

John was a blur as he carved a path through the dead grass. Kit stood motionless as he rocketed toward her. She caught the telltale moment when he reached his limit, slowing down by necessity. Kit launched herself forward with no warning at all, body flying toward John even as his burst of super speed cycled down.

Kit was curled nearly into a ball, steel muscles tightened to full power. Two feet from collision, she lashed out in the air with both feet, pumping a double kick into John's chest with enough force to shatter concrete.

The boy flew backward, skipping across the cold earth and sending up small puffs of dust each time he impacted the ground. Kit, her inertia mostly spent and what little was left reversed, landed lightly on her feet.

She had kicked incredibly hard, and it felt like she might have done some damage to her ankles. Nothing showed in her stride or on her face as Kit closed in on John.

“I want you to hit me,” Kit said as she walked. “Don't stop trying until you manage it.”

John sprang to his feet, this time moving at a normal speed. She smiled tightly as he circled her, watching for an opening.

“Good,” she said. “You know moving quickly isn't the best way for you to attack.”

It was true. John Franklin was a Black Band, and the classification was usually—but not universally—reserved for Next who had extremely strong abilities in two or more power aspects. John had four, one of them being speed. But it was a flawed power. Through testing, the OSA knew he could move at insane speeds, demonstrated by a bunch of complex reflex tests. That was on paper. In practice, John couldn't move any faster than Kit's own limited enhanced speed.

It was, Nunez explained, a defense mechanism put in place by John's brain. While his body might be capable of moving past the speed of sound several times over, the brain locked him out of using more than a fraction because John's perception of time didn't change.

Without that mental block, it was nearly unavoidable that John would turn himself into a human bullet moving so fast the world would seem to be a smear of light and color. With his invulnerability, that scenario would inevitably lead to disaster.

John raised his hands, holding them loosely in front of his body with palms facing the ground. Kit had been teaching him how to fight a little, and the boy thought he was being clever by having a few other agents do the same. As if Kit didn't know.

His movements were measured, though his face was red with barely-checked anger. Kit danced back twice as he probed, hands darting toward her. She never looked away from his eyes; in an older and more experienced opponent, this might have been a mistake. In someone as young as John, every movement and intention might as well have been splashed across a billboard.

The third time, he committed to strike. Kit saw the decision in the set of his jaw, the lines of his forehead. Her hand flicked to the pulse gun at her hip, firing at the lowest intensity as she surprised John by stepping into his swing instead of away from it.

A weak electromagnetic pulse washed over him, invisible but directed well enough to leave Kit untouched. It was about the same strength as the bracelet John wore, which disrupted his powers enough to make his sense of touch normal. It was a solution that lightened the boy's spirits, as it meant being able to enjoy a hug from someone he loved or a girl's kiss.

And while it didn't make him much more vulnerable to actual injury, it did make him able to feel pain.

Kit's gut punch bent John over, the sudden rush of nausea making him vomit. Kit walked away casually, heading toward an astonished Peep, who was gaping at her roommate.

Ray

“How's the pain?” Ray asked before taking a sip of coffee. Kovacs, leaning against the passenger door, shrugged marginally.

“It's fine,” he said. “That cute medic biomanipulator, what's her name...Tia, she took a second shot at me after I had a night to rest. I'm aching a little, but nothing I can't ignore.”

Ray smiled. “My last boyfriend was a tough guy, too.”

Kovacs nodded. “Yeah, I read the file.”

Those words pierced the relaxed atmosphere and let the joy drain out of the car. It wasn't that Ray was ever unaware of Ricky's death and the destruction which followed it, but since waking he had begun to come to terms with it. There would never be a time when he didn't feel guilt over the thousands who died in Fairmont, but Ricky at least had not been his fault. He had only recently been able to think about Rick and remember the good without a spike being driven through his chest.

The heavy silence that followed was noticeable. Kovacs glanced away from the building they watched. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I wasn't thinking. That was shitty.”

Ray waved away the apology. “It's not a big deal. I get reminded of what happened twenty times a day.”

Kovacs nodded. “It's easy for the rest of us to forget you're a real person, you know? That Rick was a real person, with hopes and dreams and all that. The world spent so much time turning you into this icon of how dangerous Next can be, it's easy to forget you aren't a story. Which is doubly fucked up since I saw people do the same thing to soldiers when I was in the service, not to mention how much everyone demonized the Iraqis and Afghans.”

Ray fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable. He knew perfectly well what people thought of him. It had been unavoidable that the agents he worked with knew his real identity, if for no other reason than to stop him should he ever show signs of going critical again. His awakening during the incident with the Maggard boy had not been quiet, at least not among the ranks of field agents.

“They look at me like I'm a nuclear bomb about to blow,” Ray said.

“Does it bother you?” Kovacs asked, eyes glued on the door set into the heavy stone building they were watching.

“Sure,” Ray answered. “Though I totally get it. Hell, I worry about it, too. I have way more control now, but I'm just as scared as ever that something will go wrong.”

Their earpieces chimed, the voice of agent Waid—suggested by Kit as their analyst—coming across the secure line clearly. “He's on his way out. At the front door in thirty seconds.”

“You remember your part?” Kovacs asked. Ray nodded.

Archer and Kit had decided against making a scene when sending agents to bring Dave Hammond, the second of Ginny Shane's attackers, to the facility for safe keeping. Kovacs and Ray would have gone after Kevin Gray, the third attacker, had he been in town.

Instead of counting on a large team, it was just the two of them. If James Shane was watching, they would draw far less attention. While Ray and Kovacs both carried pulse guns and traditional firearms, they didn't have to rely solely on them. One of the lesser-used parts of Ray's power set included the ability to manipulate the Surge itself. While he couldn't strip someone of their powers, he had been practicing what he could to—which was to cause chaos. Fritzing the powers of another Next, even for a few seconds, was more difficult than disintegrating things.

So far he hadn't tested it in the field. First time for everything.

They knew the exact moment Hammond would step through the doors and onto the sidewalk, thanks to Waid's stream of constant updates using the interior security cameras in the building. Ray and Kovacs were already out of the car and making their way casually toward the door.

“Glad we didn't have to wait all day for him,” Ray muttered.

“That was me,” Waid said. “I...let's just say I spooked him into leaving.”

Kovacs shook his head, smiling. A second later they had caught up with Hammond, bracketing him as he walked.

“Sir, we're from the OSA,” Ray said evenly. “We need you to turn around and get in our car. You're coming with us.”

Hammond stopped, fear on his face along with dawning anger. “I don't think so,” he said. “You can't arrest me. I'm not one of those freaks.”

Ray didn't even bristle at being called a freak, of course. On the long list of things people could and did say about him, it was easily the most tame.

Kovacs lost his trademark cool, however, which caught Ray off guard.

“First off,” Kovacs said, “we can arrest you. You might recall the more anti-Next authors of the McDonnell act made sure to give the OSA broad powers. Second, you probably want us to take you in, because we're trying to save your racist ass. If you want to keep breathing, you should come with us. No skin off my back if you want to die, though.”

A slow flush crawled up Hammond's face. Before things could get out of hand, Ray stepped in front of both men. If one of them was going to throw a punch, at least he'd have a shot at getting between them.

“Mr. Hammond, I understand you're confused and upset, but you really are in danger. Someone is targeting the men accused of attacking Ginny Shane. One of you has already been killed.”

Hammond's eyes widened in shock. “Who?”

“Robert Lile,” Kovacs answered.

Hammond looked around the empty sidewalk with the startled disbelief of a predator suddenly realizing it has become prey. “O-okay,” he stammered. “Let's get out of here.”

The three of them turned as one toward the car, and found the sidewalk no longer empty.

James Shane glared at them.

In the split-second look Ray managed, his brain lined up the reality with the dossier. The man was tall and thin, with short dark hair, light brown eyes, and several days of growth along his jaw. Though the weather was far from balmy, Shane wore no coat, showing the tattoos covering his neck and arms all the way to the first joint of his fingers.

Before Ray could do more than register Shane's appearance the man vanished. Kovacs threw his elbow back in a powerful strike, followed by a meaty crack.

Ray spun to find James Shane stumbling back, clutching his face as blood gushed from an obviously broken nose. The guy was tough, Ray noted, regaining his footing within a few seconds and lunging for Hammond, who was only partially blocked by the two agents.

The sidewalk beneath Shane's feet crumbled into dust, a circle just wide enough to surround both feet. The tall man stumbled again, but vanished before he could hit the ground.

Reappearing a few paces away, Ray was ready. He flexed whatever mental muscle allowed him to alter the flow of the Surge, squeezing with everything he had. Completely outside his control, his Surge Vision switched on. The world flipped into shades of green. Gone were the calm, smooth tones, however. Now a ring not unlike an explosion's blast wave emanated from Ray, spreading in every direction.

James Shane burned like a star in Ray's eyes, a green so pale it was nearly white. When the ring of disturbance washed over him, the smooth brightness trembled. It grew too bright to see for a moment, then faded back. Another wave crashed against him—Ray hadn't let up—and the process repeated.

Central to the plan was the fact that Ray could make it harder for Next to use the Surge energy fueling their powers. For most Next, this wasn't a game-changer. Teleporters, however, manipulated oceans of raw energy. It required precise control to manage to teleport at all, much less avoid sending themselves to the top of a mountain, bottom of an ocean, or inside solid matter by accident.

Kovacs pulled and raised his pulse gun with a smooth speed Ray would have called superhuman had he not been looking at the man with his enhanced vision. There was no trace of Surge about him, of course; the man was just that good.

James Shane reacted quickly, already diving to the side as the tight beam of electromagnetic energy cut an invisible channel through the place he had been standing. Shane rolled, coming to his feet with practiced ease, and used every inch of his long legs to run away.

Ray raised a hand to create another hole in the ground, but before he could manage, James Shane popped away again.

He throttled back, letting his powers drop to a loud hum running through his body instead of the aching growl they had been amped up to. His vision returned to normal, though he kept his back to Hammond as he searched the area for their attacker. After a minute, it became clear Shane wasn't coming back.

“Get to the car,” Kovacs barked, pulse gun raised.

Hammond needed no cajoling to cooperate. It seemed the sudden appearance of a vengeful and powerful enemy who could literally come from out of nowhere had convinced him to go with the agents. Ray kept a hand on Hammond's elbow, his grip tight enough to bruise. The briefing just before this assignment had been clear in explaining that so long as someone was in physical contact with the man, Shane would have to take them both.

Ray tried not to think about how badly that could end. The world was big place, full of terrifying locales. In the blink of an eye, Ray knew he could end up in any number of awful places. The lip of an active volcano. The edge of Niagara Falls. Kansas, even.

He toppled into the back seat with Hammond, yanking the seat belt on as Kovacs rushed into the driver's seat and sent the car lurching forward. There was safety in being a moving target, both because it allowed Ray to keep an eye out for bursts of Surge energy that might signal Shane's arrival, and because it made the job that much easier. Teleporters might be able to travel anywhere in the blink of an eye, but aiming yourself into the cabin of a moving car was asking for disaster.

At no point during the nerve-wracking drive to the protection of the facility did Ray let his guard down. Training took over, forcing him to be aware of his surroundings and alert for any intrusion. None came.

In due course they made it to safety, the car rolling into the large garage situated next to the lone office structure sitting in the giant field that had been Fairmont. Ray stood watch as Kovacs hurried Hammond toward the elevator nestled in the corner. He heard Kovacs slap the button, the door thud as it closed, and the machinery engage. If what they knew about teleportation was true, Hammond would be safe from James Shane now. Or at least as safe as he could be.

Ray ambled through the massive front door of the garage and walked toward the office, though he came up short when he saw his boss kicking the crap out of someone.

Kit

John Franklin sailed through the air yet again, and Kit found herself impressed against her will. Not with herself, as she was practiced in taking down people far more powerful than her. And not with John's technique, though he was a quick learner and didn't make the same mistake twice. No, it was for the boy's self-control. Though she had seen anger and embarrassment eating at the edges of his face, he had managed to keep himself in check. No lashing out, no shouted curses. If anything, his concentration got better as the exercise continued.

“Last time,” Kit said, waving her pulse gun in a lazy circle.

John wasted no time, moving toward her in a tightening spiral. He had learned not to attack directly. In an hour he went from doing his best impression of a human cannonball to circling his enemy and watching for an opening. Kit didn't let the satisfied smile take root on her face, but she felt it trying.

Kit's foot caught on an uneven clump of ground. The tiny misstep didn't cause her to fall—in fact she caught herself immediately—but the stutter in her step was all the opening John needed.

The boy launched himself forward, but with control. Instead of trying to barrel into her, he slowed at the last second, sliding the last few feet. It was a good use of his abilities; fast and strong without overdoing it. The wind whistled around his arm as he struck out with a punch.

Unfortunately for him, Kit no longer occupied that space.

As she dropped to the ground, the pulse gun thrummed. This time it was dialed up to full strength, the electromagnetic pulse washing over John with enough intensity to visibly cause his hair to stand on end.

Then Kit kicked him.

John didn't fly this time. She had pulled the kick, giving it perhaps a tenth of what she was capable of, if not less. John's face turned crimson, a shocked and pained expression on it. He toppled over with hands clenched to his middle, and curled into a ball on the ground.

Kit hauled herself to a sitting position next to him, legs bent into lotus. She watched in fascination as the scrambling effect of the EMP wore off. John's skin seemed to tighten as his protective energy field reasserted itself. The pain in his eyes began to fade, though it didn't disappear completely.

“I know the last thing you want to hear right now is me giving you some lesson like a badly written mentor in a martial arts movie,” she said as the young man regained control of himself. “I want you to know how proud I am of you. You're learning to use your powers faster and better than I could have hoped. That's why I ended today's lesson this way. Most people wouldn't consider it an advantage to be able to feel pain, but my own training was the better for it. I never had the level of ability you do, the comfort of being able to endure almost anything. I always knew I could be hurt.”

John didn't seem especially interested in what she was saying. Kit briefly wondered if she'd kicked too hard.

“I guess what I'm saying is that I want you to learn to use what you have, to be comfortable with your powers. That's important, because you've spent most of your life without them. You need to be able to get through your day without accidentally tearing off door handles or breaking someone's hand when you go to shake it. The other side of that coin is that you can't rely on your powers, kid. Not solely. With people like you, it's easy to forget you can still be hurt. All it takes is getting hit with something like my gun here and you're back to being as vulnerable as anyone else.”

Kit saw the logic of it work through his brain. The tinge of anger tightening the corners of his mouth faded, replaced with thoughtfulness.

“I hadn't thought of it that way,” he finally said. “I get why you had to make me realize it, but did my education have to be so painful?”

Kit stood, offering a hand. Pulling him to his feet, she met his eyes. “You're lucky. I've seen others get broken bones to drive the lesson home. Nothing teaches caution like two months of agony every time you breathe because of a few cracked ribs.”

John nodded in hasty agreement.

“Beating up little kids? Isn't that a little below you?” Ray asked as he approached the group.

Kit raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a short joke? Because I just proved I can kick the crap out of people much stronger than me.”

Ray put up his hands in surrender. “I'd never dream of making fun of your height. I can't believe you think so little of me.”

She raised a fist and shook it at him mockingly. “Just for that, you get none of our lunch.”

Peep, who had been watching the lesson and letting out the occasional worried noise, had set out an excellent spread. John groaned slightly as he settled on the edge of the blanket. Kit plopped down next to him, while Ray remained standing with hands in pockets.

“I assume the retrieval went well,” Kit said as she loaded a plate with deviled eggs, ham, and mashed potatoes. John stared at the pile of food, though Kit had mentioned her caloric requirements to him before.

“Yeah, Kovacs is getting him settled now,” Ray answered. “I'm sure one of the analysts would have let you know if we'd lost the guy.”

Kit cocked her head slightly as she chewed on a mouthful of food. The news was good, but there was something off in his voice. She hurriedly downed her bite and looked at Ray. “There's more,” she said. “You're worried about something.”

Ray grimaced, eyes darting around. It took Kit a moment to realize he was scanning for threats. Shane must have scared the shit out of him.

“Our briefing was wrong,” he said. “Or at least it wasn't fully accurate. We were told teleporters need time to recharge, but Shane didn't. He seems to be able to pop in and out as fast as he can gather up his concentration. I think we got lucky, if I'm being honest. We caught him off guard. Next time, he's going to be prepared. Two agents won't be enough.”

Kit considered that as she popped a deviled egg into her mouth. It was true enough; any Next who could  make the fabric of space/time his bitch was dangerous. James Shane had apparently grown in power—or had hidden the range of his abilities during his tests—to the point where their information about him had to be considered suspect.

“Head in and let Archer know,” Kit said, jerking her head toward the employee's entrance. “Tell him I'll be in shortly, and to have Waid put together everything he can on Shane's abilities. I want the notes from the people testing him, anything that might help.”

“Sure,” Ray said before jogging off. Kit frowned as she ate. Worry or no, the workout had given her a mighty appetite, and experience had taught her not to ignore it.

“Sounds bad,” Peep said a little while later, breaking the silence. “Do you think you'll be able to catch him?”

Kit was aware of John watching her with interest. He hadn't made a secret of his desire to do something with his powers, whether it was joining the OSA or some other avenue. Like any teenager, his opinion on what his future should be changed with the wind. He had hinted more than once that the OSA, specifically working for Kit, was a serious option.

“One way or another,” Kit said. “Though we might have to rethink how we do it if he doesn't have to take time to juice up his batteries.”

They chatted for a few minutes more, though Kit was mostly silent as she wolfed down a frightening amount of food. Her comments came in fits and bursts between hurried bites. The thing about being in charge was that, at the end of the day, you were the one held responsible. Which meant you had to cut short lunches, ignore friends, and decide where to spend your time and energy. Even if it meant shirking duties like mentoring.

The good news, Kit thought as she said her goodbyes a quarter hour later, was that James Shane didn't pose the threat Thomas Maggard had. He was not a broken child capable of murdering thousands of people at a time. The bad news?

He was an adult who knew exactly what he was doing, and that made him much harder to catch.

An hour later, Kit sat at the head of a huge and gleaming conference table. The room occupied the far end of the office's second floor, a mirror image of Archer and Kit's offices but without a dividing wall. It was rarely used, as the directors were the sort to check in with their departments often and thoroughly enough not to need meetings to catch up.

This meeting was of a different sort; it was that rare occasion when a strategy needed to be worked out beyond Kit and Archer simply giving orders.

They sat at one end of the massive table, with Archer, Nunez, and Ray on one side. Kovacs, Deakins, and Waid sat on the other, with Kit sitting at the head. Waid was rapidly tapping and dragging his fingers across an over-sized tablet computer. Everyone else quieted as Kit leaned forward and laced her fingers together.

“You've all read the message I sent out a little while ago,” Kit said, referring to an email she had written briefly outlining Hammond's retrieval. “Ray and Dan here agree that we need to mount a better-staffed effort to bring James Shane in. Being able to teleport with only a slight delay changes things.”

“It'll obviously be tough to grab him,” Archer said. “We'll have to keep him still long enough to lock him down with an EMP.”

Nunez cleared his throat. “As to that, we have new prototypes which may be of use. A few of our engineers have been working on several new projectiles that seem ideal.”

“Waid?” Kit said, nodding at the analyst.

“On it,” Waid said. “I'll have the specs in a minute.”

Nunez seemed surprised by this, but said nothing. Waid had proven himself expert at finding any and all information as needed, but Kit felt no need to explain.

“We have the manpower,” Deakins said in her deep voice. “Between the freelancers we've taken on from Louisville and our trainees, there are plenty of bodies to go around.”

“I don't think we should use any trainees on this one,” Archer said.

Kit shook her head. “I disagree. They're going to have to get in the field eventually. Face danger. I'd rather it be someone like James Shane, who doesn't have an offensive power, than a Next capable of killing them with a thought or taking over their minds.”

Archer mulled this over, then nodded. “Makes sense, but we'll use them as support staff. Fair?”

Kit smirked. “I wasn't planning to make them part of the tactical unit, you know.”

“Agent Waid passed along the files he dug up on Shane,” Nunez said. “I read them just before we sat down.”

Waid looked up, confused. “That was something like fifty pages.”

Nunez smiled. “I am a very fast reader.” His expression became somber. “One fact we missed before, though thankfully it didn't cause any problems so far, is that our man isn't just a teleporter. He's a touch teleporter.”

Archer and Deakins grimaced, but the rest of the faces at the table registered no reaction.

“Explain, please,” Kit said.

“For most people with the ability,” Nunez said, “teleporting anything or anyone requires them to travel along. Touch teleporters are able to stay where they are, but send people and other matter somewhere else. All they have to do is touch their target. It is a remarkably useful ability in combat.”

Kit groaned. “Which means we won't be able to touch him.”

“Not without first disabling his ability,” Nunez agreed.

Which set off a long, winding discussion about how exactly to do that. Nunez pushed for technological solutions, as Kit knew he would. Deakins crafted reasonable arguments for using tactics based on the abilities and judgment of their agents, as she always did. Archer abstained from putting in his own thoughts, instead deciding to point out flaws and weak spots in what others said.

Waid was essentially tech support in this meeting, and wisely kept his head down save to answer questions. Kovacs and Ray put in their two cents where possible, and they were the ones Kit gave the most attention to. Field agents were the boots on the ground for the OSA. Their perspective mattered to her a great deal, a lesson she had learned as a field operative at Helix.

Once the discussion began to wind down, they had a loose plan in place. Kit would work with everyone to finalize it, but there was a key variable they simply had to work around, one they couldn't change.

“When is Kevin Gray coming back?” Kit asked Waid. Having been assigned to her full-time, he was aware of every detail of the case. More than she was, actually, since he was the researcher who fed Kit information.

“Three days, according to his employer,” Waid said without hesitation. “I checked his flight reservation a few hours ago, and it hasn't changed.”

“There you go,” Kit said to the group. “We've got three days to figure out how to capture James Shane. Let's get to work.”

Ray

The best thing about living in bourbon country, in Ray's opinion, was the fact that shots of prime spirits could be had for a reasonable price.

He sat hunched over the bar at Drake's, the watering hole frequented by OSA employees. It was mostly underground, the windows hugging the ceiling about even with the street outside. Ray had been reluctant to drink at first, worried about his ability to keep his powers under control, but careful experimentation eased his fears.

Archer, who had invited him out, sat on the stool next to Ray with one massive hand curled around a glass of dark beer. From the way the big man was putting them away, Ray thought Archer must be trying to put Drake's kids through college. Maybe even med school.

“It never fucking ends, you know?” Archer griped, then swigged his beer. “It's always one damn thing after another. I'm not talking about the day to day stuff. That's all fine. It's dealing with one crisis only to have another one fall into my lap. It sucks.”

Ray smiled, and didn't point out to his boss that this was the third or fourth time he'd said essentially the same thing. “But you handle it well,” he said instead, raising his tumbler in a small salute. “Without you and Kit, who knows where we'd be.”

It was an understandable frustration; they had spent the day going over (and over, and over) different methods they could use to capture James Shane. Ray figured into about half of them, since his powers were an effective way of cutting off the man's ability to teleport. He had been in the room as the group grew more frustrated, each pushing their own ideas while minimizing the input of others.

Hence the drinking.

“I know,” Archer said. “It's just...we have other stuff to deal with, remember?”

Ray's eyes flashed a warning, which Archer thankfully caught on the first try. Their small cabal—Ray, Archer, Kit, Deakins, and the mystery technopath whose identity Archer kept to himself—were stalled on their investigation into Fairmont. While Ray wanted to know the truth as much as, if not more than, any of them, circumstances were what they were.

In the wake of Thomas Maggard's attack on the facility there had been too much work to do for Archer and Kit to free up much time. Ray had been in training. Deakins, who had been inducted into their little club a few days after the attack, was tasked with setting up, staffing, and training the Operations department. Kit did what she could to weasel information out of Robinson when the man called her, but had to be careful not to raise suspicions.

That left their technopath, and from what Archer said he hadn't been able to find any new material. It was hard not to be frustrated, but Ray reminded himself that without the initial proof the technopath had culled from the NSA facility he had hacked, none of them would even know that Ray's explosion at Fairmont had been anything but an accident.

Archer had the good grace to look embarrassed, but Ray pointedly ignored it. There were few places and circumstances safe enough to talk about the situation, and a bar full of OSA employees was nowhere on the list.

“We're always gonna have a bunch of stuff to do and half the time we need to do it,” Ray said, because it was true and to cover for Archer's near-gaffe for anyone who might have overheard. “I did ten and twelve hours some days with training, and still made sure to do my required hour a day with Nunez so I could be his lab rat. It blows, but what are we gonna do? Quit?”

Archer shrugged. “I don't know, man. Some days it feels like quitting would be the best thing. The stress is just unreal.”

Ray laughed, unable to help himself. “You? No way. You sleep in your office most of the time. You're the most driven person I've ever met. Do you even have your own place anymore?”

“Sure, I still have my house,” Archer said defensively. “I was there...two weeks ago, I think.”

Ray shook with more laughter. “Two weeks? Wow. Dude, you need a life.”

Archer waved a dismissive hand. “If you'd seen the thing growing in my fridge, you wouldn't want to go back either.”

“Okay, big fella, in you go,” Ray said as he stuffed Archer into the passenger side of his car three hours later.

“Hahaha, that's what he said,” Archer slurred.

“Very funny,” Ray agreed, shutting the door and circling the car.

“Because you're GAY, get it?” Archer shouted.

Ray took a breath before sliding into the open driver's side door. “Yeah, I got that. And now everyone else in the parking lot is also aware.”

“Aww, don't be mad,” Archer said. “I was only kiddin'.”

“I'm not,” Ray assured him. “I grew up getting the crap kicked out of me for being who I am. You're not even on my radar.”

“That's good,” Archer said.

Ray shot him a glance. “Don't think I won't remind you of this in the morning, though,” he said. “I fully intend to get extra vacation days out of this.”

Archer laughed as if this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Ray sighed and started the car.

The Mustang roared to life, settling into a loud purr as they eased out of the parking lot. Under normal circumstances, anyone else driving Archer's car would have been grounds for an ass-beating of cosmic proportions, but he had given Ray the keys.

Fortunately the restored car had several modern conveniences, and the GPS had Archer's home address programmed in. Ray pulled up in front of a house on the edge of the city a short time later, tires crunching over the gravel driveway.

Rather than fumble with unfamiliar keys while trying to haul his oversize employer inside, Ray unlocked and opened the door to the house first. Archer was more responsive than expected—apparently that healing ability of his helped a little—but still stumbled more than once in the twenty feet from car to home.

Ray stoked his internal reserve of Surge energy, routing it into his muscles to make the job easier. In short order he had Archer situated on one of the couches in the living room—there were three—and made a quick circuit of the house.

Had he been forced to guess what Archer's house would look like before tonight, Ray would have been wrong. His opinion would have been based on the state of the man's office, which hovered somewhere between a messy dorm room and a library after some horrific disaster on any given day. The house, while somewhat messy, was otherwise disturbingly normal. It contained none of the signs Ray had come to accept as hallmarks of a place occupied by Rowan Archer. No stacks of books teetering, papers sticking out between them. No sheets of paper tacked to maps on the wall, with handwritten notes all over the place.

The place had a bath and a half, three bedrooms, a den, a living room, and an amazingly nice kitchen, clearly much newer than the house itself. Ray took time to splash some water on his face before hunting down a closet stocked with extra blankets.

When he returned to the living room, Archer was snoring softly. Ray smirked and covered him with a blanket, setting a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the coffee table.

Then an evil idea sprang into his head, and he set something else on the table.

He was still chuckling as he curled up on one of the other couches.

Ray was cooking breakfast and whistling softly to himself when Archer woke up. The living room was open to the kitchen by way of a pass-through opening in the wall, which doubled as a bar. As Ray flipped the bacon, Archer shot upright on the couch, looking around in confusion. His gaze fell to the table, sliding over the water and pills and resting on the last item there.

“What the fuck?” Archer mumbled, then seemed to notice the sound of frying bacon. He slowly craned his head toward the bar, catching sight of Ray, who smiled broadly.

“Good morning,” Ray said, waving the spatula.

Archer blinked, clearly trying to make sense of the facts in front of him.

“Ray? What are you doing here? And why is there an empty condom wrapper on the table?”

Ray paused, his face innocent. “Seems like you already put those two together.”

Archer's mouth fell open, his face disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

Ray tried not to laugh, he really did. After a few seconds he couldn't help it.

Looking slightly relieved, Archer shook his head and joined in. “Guess I had that coming. Good one.”

“Thanks,” Ray said graciously. “I'm guessing you remember last night, then?”

Archer nodded, then untangled himself from the blanket. “Took me a second, but yeah. I generally don't forget anything when I get hammered. What's for breakfast?”

Ray looked at Archer with uncertainty. “You sure you don't want to hydrate and take a couple of those?” he asked, pointing toward the aspirin with his chin.

“Nah,” Archer said as he seated himself at the bar. “I don't get hangovers anymore. I do get hungry.”

“Well, we've got bacon, eggs, toast, and biscuits,” Ray said. “If you give me a few minutes, I'll have some gravy made up, too.”

Archer looked impressed. “I didn't know I had all that stuff here,” he said.

“You didn't,” Ray explained. “I ran to that little shop on the corner when I woke up.”

Archer frowned. “You didn't have to do all this, man. You should have gotten me a cab and taken my car so you could sleep in your own bed, not babysit and cook for me.”

Ray gave him a sunny smile. “I don't mind. Really. This has actually been a lot of fun. I haven't cooked—for myself or someone else—in a long time. I haven't had a night out, either. I spend most of my time being the guy trying to make up for that horrible thing he did. It was nice to spend a night dragging a friend back home after listening to him bitch about his job. It felt...normal, I guess. The way my life used to be.”

Archer accepted a plate of food, onto which Ray poured gravy a minute later. “I never thought about it,” he admitted as Ray made his own plate. “You live at the facility, work there. Someone has to be with you when you go out. It must be rough.”

“It's not that bad,” Ray said with a shrug. “Not how I imagined my life would turn out, but at least I'm doing some good. Makes little things like this even better for how rare they are.”

“Now I kind of feel like a dick,” Archer said. “Here I am with all this freedom to go about as I please, and I'm always at work. Must seem like a waste to you.”

“Not at all,” Ray said. “Some people might think that way in my situation, but I don't. You're your own person. I'm not going to be jealous or upset just because you choose to spend your time how you want. That's a waste of energy.”

Archer's fork was halfway to his mouth, and froze. “Huh. That's a pretty good way of seeing things.”

“Wise,” Ray corrected with a smile. “I prefer to be called wise. Now, finish eating and go take a shower. We're on the clock in forty minutes, and since your brain isn't damaged by alcohol, you'll remember we've got some important decisions to make regarding James Shane.”

“Yes, mother,” Archer said, scooping the last of his food into his mouth.

Kit

The boys had asked her to go out and have drinks with them, but Kit declined. Instead she took a few minutes to straighten up the conference room in a vain attempt to keep the room from spiraling into the messy chaos which followed Archer to whatever work space he occupied.

Giving it up as a bad job she left the room and let the heavy doors fall closed and lock behind her. For a brief moment she reconsidered heading out to spend time with Archer and Ray, but the urge vanished as quickly as it appeared. There was something to be said for a night out, just not tonight.

She made a quick call to Peep as she drove home.

“Hey,” Kit said when Peep answered. “Want me to grab anything on the way?”

“Nope, I'm good,” Peep answered. “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.”

“Awesome,” Kit said, not bothering to ask what it was. Peep liked to surprise her. “I'll be there in ten.”

She let herself into the back door of The Bean a short while later, dropping the security bar into place before dashing up the steps two at a time. There was no smell of food wafting down the stairs through the open door at the top of the steps which was a slight disappointment.

Kit tossed her keys onto the table next to the door as she entered, and made her way to the giant squashy recliner she preferred to lounge on.

As always, she took a moment to appreciate the place she called home. The Bean was an old building, and designed without modern concerns about saving space or being efficient. The floors were aged hardwood, polished glass-smooth by decades of tender care. The living room was thirty feet on a side, with a kitchen half that size attached to it. The three bedrooms each had their own bathroom, and while none of them were as large as the common area, they were still bigger than any bedroom Kit had occupied before.

The apartment took up the entirety of the second floor, its high ceilings and ancient crown moldings a reminder of a time when even the small details of homes were pieces of art.

Kit loved the place.

Peep appeared from the darkened hallway leading to the bedrooms, hair wrapped in a towel. Her shower habits fell somewhere between compulsive and ritualistic, driven by the desire not to perpetually smell like coffee and baked goods. Kit found that baffling, personally, but supposed she would probably be tired of those things if she worked in a cafe.

Kit kicked off her shoes while Peep got comfortable on the couch opposite her, tucking her bunny-slippered feet under her legs. Peep had an impressive collection of pajama bottoms, which she liked to wear at all times when at home. Tonight's were thin cotton in a dark blue, with buckets of popcorn printed on them in a repeating pattern. She wore a bright pink tank top with the words 'World's Sexiest Grandma' scrawled across the chest in sparkling rhinestones.

“That shirt is amazing,” Kit said.

“Thanks,” Peep said with a grin. “I found it at the thrift store. Can you believe someone didn't want it?”

“Inconceivable,” Kit said.

“I don't think that word means what you think it means,” Peep said in a thick Spanish accent.

Kit smiled. “So I guess we're watching The Princess Bride tonight?”

Peep shrugged. “We can decide after dinner gets here, but I was thinking a couple hours of Call of Duty might be in order. You sounded frazzled on the phone.”

Dinner arrived a few minutes later, and Kit was happy to run down to pay the delivery man. Some days called for hot pizza, cold beer, and killing as many digital bad guys as possible.

Kit couldn't see anything. The darkness was absolute, but she refused to let that bother her. The weapon in her hands was cool, waiting to be used.

The lack of sight was an annoyance, but not the crippling disadvantage in a fight it would be for someone else. Without the distraction of visual information, she was able to focus her attention on her other senses. Even without amplifying them with the Surge—which she was currently doing—they were much sharper than those of a normal human.

The dozen background noises usually filtered out by her brain were as obvious as music, now. Each was a note which changed in predictable ways as she slowly made her way through the room, pinging off surfaces and objects to create a rough map for Kit to follow.

The enemy was close. Her nose caught the faint suggestion of a person, a mixture of natural odors and chemical ones unique to human beings. It was the change in air pressure which warned her, a difference so small that machines would have been needed to note it, were she not superhuman.

Kit threw herself sideways, sliding along the hardwood on one knee and firing her weapon only a fraction of a second behind her attacker. There was no thunder of bullets, only a dry snapping sound followed by a disgusted curse.

“That's so goddamn unfair,” Peep groused.

Kit grinned as she pulled the blindfold from her face. Peep stood several feet away with hands on hips, toy dart gun in one fist. “How do you win every time? Without being able to freaking see? In what universe is that fair?”

With a flourish, Kit twirled her own weapon like an old west gunfighter. “Hey, it was your idea to play tag. Not my fault I'm awesome.”

Peep tossed her gun on the counter. “We kicked the shit out of those guys online. Call of Duty wasn't much of a challenge. Man, I really thought the blindfold might even things up. Next time we'll have to add earplugs.”

Kit nodded agreeably but didn't mention the many other ways Peep had given herself away. Every footfall reverberating in the floor was a road sign pointing directly to her, as far as Kit's enhanced brain was concerned. The slow exhalation of breath before shooting had sent a wave of information outward. Kit could no more forget years of obsessively honing the understanding and use of her powers than Peep could suddenly forget how to walk.

But hey, maybe Kit would let her win one of these days.

Peep grabbed a piece of pizza from one of the open boxes—there were four, two of which Kit had emptied on her own—and leaned against the counter. “What's next? We could play some cards. Smoke cigars. Maybe talk about boys.”

The last had the sound of a joke, though Kit knew better. Her last relationship had been a brief if enjoyable month long, ending when the agent she had been dating got an offer he couldn't refuse. The shrewd operative in Kit, the one who measured every variable, had a suspicion that Robinson had arranged the promotion for Ben Carlton as a way of keeping Kit focused on her work.

Peep assured her this was paranoia speaking. Kit thought she might be right. Be that as it may, talking about Ben brought out the one trait in Peep that Kit truly disliked, which was a ceaseless interest in helping Kit develop a love life.

Kit didn't have a problem in that area. She liked dating, even the occasional pick up game at a bar or club, but it was her business.

“We're definitely not talking about boys,” Kit said. “Actually, I should try to get some sleep. Work is going to be a bitch this week.”

“Sure,” Peep said, half relieved and half frustrated. “Sleep tight.”

Just like that, the fun had evaporated from the night.

Kit shuffled to the end of the hall, not bothering to switch on the light. She locked the bedroom door behind her.

Recessed lights mounted near the floor slowly came to life, triggered by the room's scanners registering her identity. Being one of the higher-ranking OSA officials in the country came with advantages and responsibilities, and her bedroom was one of the few overlaps between the two she found beneficial.

Because she would occasionally need to work from home, her room was incredibly secure. The standard home package for OSA directors and above included climate control, a voice-activated digital assistant, a dedicated fiber optic internet connection, and a bunch of other stuff. Kit's favorite part was the projected interface, a combination system using lasers and sensors allowing her to gesture anywhere in the room and get a visual projection as big as a wall.

She was too tired to bother with that tonight.

“Alan, are you there?” she asked her computer.

“I am here, Director Singh,” Alan said in one of his programmed responses.

“Are my files synced with my office?”

“Yes, Director.”

“Project screen onto ceiling,” Kit said as she changed for bed, feeling luxuriously free as she stripped out of the clothes she'd been wearing all day and into an oversize t-shirt and a pair of soccer shorts.

“Would you like to switch to AirTouch interface?” Alan asked.

“No, stay with voice,” Kit ordered, pulling the covers back. “Put the projection on preset three, though.”

The home screen of her computer appeared on the ceiling above, angled precisely to give the best view from her bed. She checked for new material on James Shane, read several messages from department heads, and generally caught up on everything that had happened in the handful of hours since she left work.

“Alan, set a sleep timer for sixty minutes,” she said. “Give me a one minute warning on silent.”

“Timer set, Director.”

She worked for a while longer, not bothering to reply to any of the messages. They were all things that could wait until the morning, mostly administrative errata too minor for more than a single sentence in response.

Long before Alan's warning flashed across the projection, Kit had fallen asleep. The room went dark as the machine shut down, the light fading over a troubled and restless form.

Ray

“Son of a bitch,” Ray muttered as he ran at full speed toward the main office, dodging surprised workers and alarming more than a few onlookers.

He skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the ground floor, reoriented himself, and took the steps two at a time. The summons had been urgent, though Deakins hadn't explained why. Being called to the office by an order to drop everything was unusual, however, and recent history had led Ray to believe that bad news was far more likely at the OSA than it was elsewhere.

Every agent was gathered in the main office, a crowd centered on Kit, who stood on a chair to be more easily seen and heard. Ray saw faces that shouldn't have been there, which made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Being called in on your day off was unusual to the extreme when you were a field agent. The stress of the job wore on you, and it was more efficient to staff more agents than it was to lose them through burnout.

Ray joined the crowd along with a few other stragglers from the employee quarters below. When the trickle of new arrivals ceased, Kit nodded to the group and cleared her throat.

“As you know, Kevin Gray was out of the country,” she began. A low murmur swept through the assembled agents at her use of the past tense. Kit raised a hand and the room fell silent.

“Though Gray was out on bail, his employer managed to work out an agreement with the court to allow him out of the country for a scheduled business trip to Canada. If you've read the file, you know this man is almost certainly being targeted by James Shane for his alleged assault on Shane's sister. What you may not know is that Gray's employer, Quinn Dynamics, is a small but critical contractor with the DSA.”

Fuck, Ray thought. Going after someone important enough to the Department of Superhuman Affairs that he was allowed out of the country while on bail meant politics were going to come into play.

Kit gave them all time to process this, though it appeared many weren't as quick on the draw as Ray had been.

“Let me be crystal clear,” Kit said, her voice calm but forceful. “You're thinking we're about to stick our hands in a hornet's nest. You're right. But that will not stop us from doing our job. We will protect Kevin Gray because it's our job, and by protecting him we'll be making sure he gets his day in court.” She hesitated, then added, “And what's coming to him, if he's guilty.”

She took a deep breath. “You heard me say Gray was out of the country. That is no longer the case. Apparently someone at Quinn Dynamics thought to warn him about the situation with James Shane, though they didn't have any names to use. Whatever the case may be, Gray spooked and finished his trip early. His plane lands in four hours.”

A round of swearing followed this news, no small part of it from Ray.

“We were down to the wire with two more days to set this up,” someone griped loudly. “How the hell are we going to manage in four hours?”

Kit put up her hand again. “Good question. The answer isn't what you want to hear, but it's what we have. Shane will almost definitely find out about this; being able to move in and out of nearly anywhere means he has access to information that would normally be be out of reach. The advantage we have is that he may not know Gray is coming home early. Shane's file indicates he's very intelligent and his encounter with Ray and Dan shows he's both tactical and careful in his approach.”

Ray heard it in her voice, and idly wondered if anyone else had studied the small woman enough to notice it. That tone of pent-up tension, the vocal equivalent of the other shoe waiting to drop.

“We have two choices,” she continued. “Assuming James Shane is watching us, which we have to do, then he'll know something is up if we mobilize. If we don't send out teams to protect Kevin Gray on the chance it won't draw Shane's attention to the man, then we risk losing Gray without a fighting chance to keep him alive.”

“I know where this is going,” Ray muttered to himself. A tall, dark-haired woman next to him glanced his way with a curious expression. Ray shook his head.

“We're putting everything we've got into the field,” Kit said, just as Ray expected. “I'm not saying we'll use Gray as bait, but our best chance of taking out Shane is by having as many boots on the ground as possible.”

“I'm sorry,” the tall woman said, surprising Ray, “but isn't this overkill just to catch one Next?”

Kit folded her arms beneath her breasts. “I can answer that two ways. Philosophically, I don't think the time and effort involved is too much to save one life. Practically, the word from Secretary Robinson is that teleporters are about to be reclassified by Next Oversight as national security threats.”

Ray's mouth went dry, and the mood in the room instantly changed into the startled-deer caution of cornered prey. The McDonnell act weighed in at more than a thousand pages, so full of loopholes and provisos that no one knew every in and out. One section was famous—or infamous, depending on your outlook—in its treatment of Next with the threat classification. While the Constitution still technically applied to those poor souls, it was common knowledge those Next usually vanished.

They weren't just catching James Shane. They were consigning him to God only knew what kind of endless confinement, away from lawyers or any sort of help.

Or worse.

Ray shivered.

The underground garage located in the facility proper had almost nothing in common with its much smaller sibling above ground. Both held vehicles, but where the latter would be considered large by most standards, the former was cavernous.

Assembling the small army they were sending after James Shane had taken time. The facility itself was nearly a mile and a half across at its widest point, after all. Men and women from Research and Development and Fabrication and Production had been ferrying gear to the garage—the team's makeshift staging ground—almost nonstop since Kit had ended the meeting in the main office.

A fleet of custom, armored vehicles waited before Ray, several still being outfitted with special equipment. He had arrived early and managed to avoid the line for the quartermaster, who was doling out protective equipment and weapons. Ray was the only person in his field of vision not wearing a vest and carrying a small arsenal. Instead he wore only his usual pulse weapon, with an added backup and a pocketful of the newer pulse tags.

None of the field agents mulling around gave his lack of weaponry a second glance. His abilities were well-known, and they knew if he had to use his disintegration in a fight, there was a good chance he'd end up turning his gear to dust.

That was the reason he gave, and it was true enough. The deeper reasoning, known only to a handful of people, had two points. One was that the more restricted Ray's clothing was, the harder a time he had utilizing his powers. It was an odd weakness, if you wanted to call it that, but all too real. When Ray's powers were active, the sensitivity of his skin increased tremendously. Wearing even his suit felt like being squeezed. The one time he had worn a tactical vest when trying to use his powers, it had been a struggle to breathe under the assault on his senses, as if a giant were trying to crush his chest.

The other point, the one he hadn't told anyone, was that carrying pulse weapons was risky for him. That's why he had accepted no pulse grenades and carried none of the special restraints containing pulse technology. In a moment of curiosity he had once vaporized a fully-charged pulse grenade just to see what would happen to the electromagnetic energy waiting to become an EMP inside.

When the grenade flashed into a handful of metal dust, it went off. The pulse hit him hard, and he felt the energy inside him waver and nearly escape. It had been a sobering moment, the sensation distantly familiar. The only other time he had felt like that was right before Fairmont.

The room in front of him was filled with people armed to the teeth with the things, people who would be driving vehicles with even more pulse weapons integrated into them. To say Ray felt tense was an understatement on the order of calling the sun a bit of a fire.

A small group of people received their gear and made a beeline for Ray. Given his ability to throw powers out of whack, he had been relegated to a support role. He would be kept near the outside of the convoy, held in reserve until and unless his talents were needed. As a junior agent, he had just enough rank to allow him the privilege of riding herd on the trainees. Again.

He didn't recall the names of three of the people in the group, but the fourth was Graysen Ross, the girl he had spoken to the last time he had been saddled with the newbies.

“Hey, Agent Cassidy,” Graysen said as the group stopped.

“Hey, yourself,” Ray said in greeting. “You know your assignments?”

“We're backup,” one of the others said, a man in his late teens or early twenties. “Oh, and we're supposed to listen to the radio.”

Ray let his gaze linger on the young man for a moment, trying to give the sort of stern glance his own father had been so expert in. “You're absolute last line of defense backup,” Ray clarified. “You're not to leave our vehicle unless explicitly ordered to. The only way you even think about fighting is if you're attacked.”

Graysen's eyebrows shot up. “What if someone is attacked right outside our door?”

“You hope their training—which they have completed, unlike any of you—does its job and keeps them safe,” Ray answered flatly. He met the eyes of each of them in turn, looking for any sign of challenge. “If you have a problem with that, you're staying here. End of discussion. Any takers?”

The four trainees all shook their heads, as he expected. They had been selected by the lead instructor at the in-house academy as the most level-headed and trustworthy, a fact marred slightly by the fact the same instructor had admitted these four were the only ones out of his class he trusted to actually go into the field.

“As for the radio,” Ray said, moving on, “your job is to take one channel each. We're going to have a lot of analysts feeding us information on this trip, and you're the backups for that, too. You'll be listening and getting text files on your tablets just in case we lose communication with Operations.”

Not that it was likely for communications to fail, though in fairness Next powers had ways of surprising you with depressing regularity. Bringing them at all was a concession to the need to staff the capture of James Shane as well as possible. It really would be a worst-case scenario for the trainees to find themselves in combat, but according to the powers-that-be, such a scenario was worth the risk to bring the man in.

Ray didn't agree, but then he wasn't the one in charge.

“Load up!” came the call a few minutes later, followed by the rustle and clink of armor and guns. The sound of doors slamming on two dozen vehicles faded into the roar of engines, and they were off.

Kit

Luckily, they didn't have to travel through the heart of the city to reach Kevin Gray. The airport had been notified and ordered to keep the passengers on the plane until Kit and her team arrived. Rather than risk exposing the man in the crowded airport proper, her people would take him directly from the tarmac.

The drive was relatively short down the Watterson Expressway after winding onto the main roads from the edge of the metro area. Kit was a bundle of nerves as she rode in the passenger seat of her SUV, the feeling that someone was watching her as strong as she'd ever experienced.

Before developing powers she would have written that sensation off. Now, it was harder to do. Did you automatically assume paranoia, or did you entertain the possibility that you were picking up on something real?

The consensus was strong that James Shane would be watching the OSA since he knew they were protecting his intended victims, so it only stood to reason to believe what her senses were telling her.

Still, it bugged the hell out of her all the way to the airport, in much the same way a younger sibling felt when an older sibling shouted about not touching them while coming as close as possible to doing so. Or so Kit imagined; she had only seen that on television and in movies. Being an only child had some advantages.

Their caravan rolled through a service entrance and onto the tarmac minutes later, the vehicles spreading out around the rolling stairs leading up to the entrance of the plane. She listened over her earpiece as Archer ordered EMP generators brought online and put in ready position. Six agents, including one named Erica Bruno who could see about two seconds into her probable futures, ascended the stairs.

Thirty seconds later they exited the plane, huddled tightly around a man with a suit jacket thrown over his head and shoulders. There was no room between them, as planned, giving James Shane no ability to teleport himself directly to Kevin Gray. He would have to go through an agent. The tactic made for an awkward descent, eating up more seconds than Kit was comfortable with.

Her right hand was clenched on the door handle, the left on the butt of her pulse gun. She kept her perception of time pushed to its absolute limit, in case she had to react quickly. It made everything move at roughly the speed of tree sap rolling across a flat surface, but Kit didn't care.

Rather than scan the area as she would have done with most other threats, she kept her sights on Agent Bruno. If anything was coming, Bruno's reaction would give Kit warning.

It might even be enough.

Fortunately, the need didn't arise. Once the group reached the ground they hustled Gray into a waiting vehicle, an agent on either side of him as they squeezed into the back seat.

Next came the really dangerous part.

“We're ready,” Kit said across the radio. “Take the alternate route.”

The fleet of dark vehicles moved in near-unison, driving back to the service entrance but heading south instead of north, which was the direction they had come from. The precaution was necessary in case Shane had planned something along the route he had no doubt watched them take to get to the airport. It was especially risky for the fact that the route skirted the edge of the city, where there were more civilians, and because it would take longer.

The miles passed without incident, one after another, and the optimistic part of Kit untouched by the cynicism of the world found a small flicker of hope that they would get Kevin Gray to safety. Those dim flames grew stronger and more steady as the convoy looped around two one-way streets and turned onto the road that would take them from the city, almost all the way to the facility.

The convoy was at the fuzzy edge between urban and suburban, the last few commercial buildings about to give way to middle-class sprawl, when one of their transports slammed on its brakes. Kit had just enough time to realize it was the truck Agent Bruno rode in before a motorcycle appeared in a flash of light, rolling toward the convoy without a rider.

Two important facts were immediately obvious to Kit. The bike was strapped with several large plastic containers, the kind you put gasoline in.

Also, it was on fire.

There was no time for reaction as the motorcycle sped toward them, carried forward by its own momentum. It wobbled but held true, slamming into an SUV in a massive burst of flame. The occupants had already thrown their doors open wide, diving clear. One of them wasn't quite fast enough, horror taking root in Kit as droplets of liquid flame sprayed across the agent's coat.

Chaos erupted, doors flying open in every direction. A sea of agents moved like a colony organism, half toward the SUV holding Kevin Gray, the rest moving to assist the injured agent.

Kit should have called out over their earpieces, reining in reactions and getting the operation moving. It was the smart play, the one least likely to fail.

Instead, she joined the crowd. She rounded the front of her vehicle just in time to see one of the more bizarre sights of her career, and that was saying something.

Two agents were already on the ground clutching their heads, and it wasn't until she saw the small flash of light and a third agent fell that she understood. James Shane was somewhere nearby, watching them, and throwing baseballs as hard as he could. Kit's overclocked mind had the time to appreciate the cleverness of the move.

Shane had no need to aim. All he had to do was see his target and throw, teleporting the ball at the end of his pitch. While the man's ability allowed him to transport things across space by touching them, the fundamental physics of the object didn't change. Throw the ball at sixty miles an hour on one end, and it would appear at the other moving at the same speed.

Kit dashed forward, keying the general channel. “Don't stand still!” she barked. “He'll have a harder time hitting moving targets.”

Most of them obeyed instantly, dodging about in an effort to avoid being hit. The people helping the injured agent had a harder time of it, and sure enough one of them took a fastball to the base of her neck a few seconds later. Anger flared in Kit, and a rare burst of helplessness. She would throw herself at a Black Band without hesitation, but this was something she had no capacity to fight.

The mass of bodies surrounding Gray's SUV moved in and out of a rough circle, which to Kit's eyes almost looked like a dance. Several baseballs materialized among them—Shane must have a bucket of the things—but only one agent was hit, and that only a graze.

Then, possibly out of frustration, Shane changed his tactics. A hail of baseballs began slamming into the crowd, one after another. Agents brought their arms up to protect their faces, some stumbling. Kit, who was moving around the outside of the fleet, trying to split her attention between keeping an eye on her people and watching for Shane, realized what was about to happen a split second before it did.

“Down!” she screamed, making a running leap onto the hood of a truck and launching herself in an arc toward Gray's vehicle. She didn't bother with her radio; Archer was trying to establish order over it at any rate, and she would have just added to the confusion by cutting in.

As she sailed through the air, Shane delivered his next blow; rocks. The first and simplest of human weapons, aided only by gravity. Flashes filled the sky as hundreds of them fell upon the gathered agents, some as small as gravel and others the size of fists. Kit cursed as several of the latter slammed into her shoulders and head as she completed her jump, sliding slightly as she landed on the roof of the SUV.

Buckets fell along with the rocks, obviously having held the weapons and transported high into the air with them. Distract with the baseballs, then hit from above. The dossier had said Shane was smart, and Kit had a grim respect for his creativity. All around her agents groaned and swore, several more knocked unconscious and a great many bleeding from head wounds. Kit barely felt the places she had been hit. Her skin could stop bullets, after all.

But she could feel every one of the injuries suffered by her people, and she was pissed.

“What are my orders?” Ray asked over the radio. “Should I start disrupting the area?”

“No,” Kit said into her mic as she scanned the surrounding area. Small chance she would see Shane. The man could move freely in an instant. No reason for him to stay in one place for very long. “You'll just short out my powers, and it won't stop him from teleporting stuff at us. Just give me...”

In a single, flowing movement, Kit dipped her hand to the roof of the SUV and snatched a rock. She threw it in the same motion, sending an extra flash of energy into her strength and coordination. The throw was unexpected enough to catch Shane off guard, though the man managed to turn slightly from his hiding place between two bushes. Rather than stun him with a direct shot to the sternum, the stone hit him in the ribs.

He toppled, but the flash of light as he fell from view was all the warning Kit needed. She leaped backward, hard, doing her best to clear the agents below. Shane slammed down onto the SUV half a second later, cursing as he realized Kit had anticipated his attack. She hit the ground, rolling backward and grabbing a baseball.

The ball sailed through empty air. On pure instinct Kit threw herself sideways and spun. Shane's foot lashed out, barely missing her. Damn teleporters had a thing about surprising people from behind.

She fired with her pulse gun without raising it first. A hip shot was the only way not to give the man warning. Shane vanished before his kick was finished, but didn't immediately reappear. The entire fight so far had taken less than a minute, and none of the other agents had been able to keep up. Kit was running faster than normal, and unless she missed her guess, James Shane had something of an improved perception of time himself. His movements had been too coordinated and controlled for anything else.

Luckily, he only seemed to perceive time more slowly. Unlike Kit, he didn't move any faster, but was simply better able to use what he had.

Agents began to rise, others moving toward the SUV. In the respite, Kit recognized several things she had ignored during her mad dash. Several agents had fired pulse weapons, though the low whine of the guns had been distorted and slowed to her ears. It had been background noise, something her mind had filed away as unimportant, and that fact scared the hell out of her.

If Kit was one thing, it was observant. Especially in a fight. That she hadn't noticed—or at least cared about—EMP pulses possibly knocking her powers askew during this kind of danger, what else had she missed?

Ten seconds, then thirty, then a minute passed with no further incident. Shane seemed to have given it up as a bad job. The slight change in air pressure was her only warning, a lucky break that Shane appeared close enough to her to allow her to feel it.

She spun, dropping as low as she could to avoid his grasp. He began to tip, off balance from her surprise evasion. Kit was faced with only one option as the tall man began to fall toward her. She was crouched, and no matter how strong her muscles were, she couldn't avoid hitting him.

So she jumped, spearing James Shane across the hips with a shoulder tackle.

He was light enough that Kit took him completely off his feet. They sailed through the air together, her arms locked around his middle with vice-like strength. Her neck was pressed against his waist, affording a clear view of the ground approaching. There was a flash of light.

Then she was somewhere else. Somewhere cold, frigid enough to elicit a gasp from her, at which point she discovered the air was very thin.

It took her mind a moment to reorient.

She looked down, and many thousands of feet below, she saw Louisville spread out across the land. In her shock, her arms loosened. It wasn't much, but apparently just enough for Shane to vanish again, this time without her.

Kit fell.

Ray

When Kit blinked out of view with James Shane, Ray jumped in his seat. He threw open the door, but stopped when he was halfway out. He looked back at the trainees, who all stared in horror at the damage before them.

“Come help,” he said. “We've got injured people.”

Before the trainees could even open their doors, James Shane reappeared with a pulse of light. Alone.

Fury welled up in him, and with it came a rush of energy. The ocean of power stored in his body seemed to rush into his veins all at once, strengthening his muscles and sharpening his senses. The world flashed to shades of green.

“Where is she?” Ray thundered.

Shane spun to face him. He pointed a finger straight up in the air.

Ray looked to the sky and saw a faint green dot, bright against the heavens.

“Oh, God,” Ray breathed. “We need a flier! Do we have anyone who can fly? Kit's up there!” He pointed with his right hand.

The agents in front of him looked at each other desperately, even as they tried to close on their target. Shane blinked in and out, dancing between points in space in an effort to close in on the SUV holding Kevin Gray.

“I got her,” said a shaky voice from behind Ray. He looked back just in time to see Graysen rocket into the air, though not the way Ray had ever seen a flier do it. Rather than leap off from the ground facing upwards, she seemed to fall away from the earth. She flipped and turned as she dwindled upward, much as someone in free fall would.

“Deal with the problem in front of you,” Ray muttered to himself.

“Ray! Short him out!” Archer's tinny voice sounded in his ear. He had tuned out the constant buzz from his earpiece, but hearing his name reminded him he had a job to do.

“On it,” Ray replied.

He dashed into the fray, trying to time it just right. He had to time his disruption with Shane appearing, but the man was determined to make it as hard as possible. By the time Ray registered Shane being in a new place, he was already teleporting away.

Blink. Shane was gone. Blink. He appeared just long enough to punch or kick an agent. Blink. Gone. Blink. Attacking again.

He was a one-man whirlwind, flashing between points with a practiced ease Ray couldn't help but find impressive. He briefly considered taking a chance and disrupting the Surge at random, hoping to get lucky, but decided against it. Better to nail the guy for sure rather than risk losing him while also screwing up the powers of everyone nearby.

But how to know when Shane would appear ahead of time?

Inspiration hit him like a bullet. He couldn't know exactly where the man would pop up, or when. That didn't mean Ray couldn't affect him.

Ray focused his will on a careful application of his power. The effort required forced him to rein in the flood of energy suffusing his body, locking it away as he observed and planned.

Agents tried to fight, but there was no predictability to Shane's timing. Pulse guns were ineffective, fired too late. Pulse grenades were too slow, giving him the chance to flit away. Pulse tags did no good, as they had to make contact.

Ray watched James Shane come and go perhaps a dozen more times before he was sure about his next move. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handful of pulse tags, holding them tight in his fist.

His other hand stretched out, a wave of shaped power washing from him in a controlled torrent.

The asphalt vanished in a section as wide as the road itself and fifty feet long. Ray couldn't risk shouting a warning Shane might hear, but he figured the other agents would forgive him any minor injuries. Everything in the now-empty space dropped eight inches, including the vehicles. Agents swore as they stumbled and tripped, most of them falling.

James Shane appeared again, and while Ray couldn't read his mind, it was clear the man expected the road to still be there. Rather than lash out and vanish again in less than a second, Shane lost balance just like everyone else. Ray was ready, darting forward and throwing the fistful of tags with the rusty skill of a former all-star little league pitcher.

Several tags in the barrage hit home beautifully, latching on to pants and jacket and instantly sending out tiny but effective pulses. Ray, still running, saw confusion and then honest terror on Shane's face as he realized he couldn't escape. He looked up before Ray could get all the way to him, and had the presence of mind to block the blurring kick Ray sent toward his skull.

“He's tagged!” Ray shouted. Anything else he had planned to say was cut short by the vicious sweeping kick that took his legs out from under him.

No sooner had his back slapped into the newly-revealed dirt than the enemy was up, looming over Ray before dropping down to punch him in the face with shocking speed. Ray didn't try to impress anyone; unarmed combat was new to him and he wasn't proficient. Instead of making a vain attempt to fight back against someone who actually had experience, he put his forearms up defensively. His core muscles tensed against potential strikes.

Ray hoped desperately the beating would continue. It wasn't all that painful, if he was being honest, and his powers worked to heal him even as the blows landed. If they were very lucky, Shane was enraged enough to keep his attention on hurting Ray, which would give the others time to take him down.

All of this happened in the span of tens of seconds, enough time for the other agents to regain their feet and start helping out. From every direction, Ray heard the whine of pulse guns discharging, felt the sudden wash of their energy moving through him. His powers grew slippery, harder to hold on to, but he managed. One thing Archer was not was stupid. The first thing he had done was make certain pulse weapons didn't make Ray lose control.

The ground trembled beneath Ray, which coincided with the sudden end of the blows raining down on him. Then a shadow flew over him, temporarily blocking out the sun, and took Shane to the ground with great prejudice.

Ray sat up and stared at Archer, who was holding the prisoner down by his neck. There was a sharp snap and a shudder to Archer's huge shoulders as he straddled the smaller man. Ray's heart slammed against his sternum. Surely he hadn't...

Shane's feet moved, trying to throw Archer off. The big man stood, hauling his captive up by the arm. Brushed steel glinted at Shane's neck, LEDs blinking. Ray let out a relieved breath, his anxiety returning to sane levels. He'd heard the collar latching shut, that was all.

Other agents rushed in to take over, slapping on a specialized set of cuffs matching the collar. They weren't taking any chances.

Archer worked his way over to Ray, relief evident on his face, and put out a hand.

“Thanks,” Ray said as he was hauled to his feet.

“No problem,” Archer said as he grimaced at Ray's suit. “I think you fucked that one up beyond repair,” he noted, brushing some dust from the shoulder. “That was some good thinking, by the way. What you did with the road, I mean.”

Ray shrugged. “It was the only thing I could think of.”

Archer snorted. “You'd be amazed how often it works out that way. Hell, we were armed to the teeth and staffed to the gills, but he might as well have been fighting children. We weren't ready for this kind of assault.”

“Who could be?” Ray asked. “You saw the way he moved. How he appeared for a second at a time. No one can prepare to fight someone who can do that.”

Archer sighed. “You're probably right, but it still bugs the shit out of me. We knew from his dossier that Shane spent years studying martial arts, and not just as a tourist. He studied a bunch of them, the cultures they came from, their arts of war. He was obsessed with it.”

Ray laughed. “So are teenage boys who buy cheap swords at flea markets. Just because we knew he'd spent time learning all that doesn't mean we had any reason to expect him to hand our asses to us.”

Archer relaxed slightly. Very slightly. “We knew he was smart, though. Feels like we should have planned for the worst.”

Ray cocked his head. “Not that I mind being your shoulder to cry on, you big baby, but why exactly are you having this conversation with me?”

Archer smiled sardonically. “Usually Kit gets the honor of hearing me at my weakest, but I don't see her. Where is she, anyway?”

In the heat of the moment, Ray had forgotten. He looked up.

“Crap.”

Kit

If not for the probable and near certain fact of her death, Kit would have enjoyed herself. This was far from the first time she had fallen from a great height, but all those other instances involved either a parachute or someone carrying her. Dropping from cruising altitude without either was, she punned internally, for the birds.

The first thing she tried was calling for help over the wireless, but the roar of wind made it impossible. She would have attempted again, maybe cupping a hand tight over her ear, but the buffeting current managed to snag the device and rip it away.

Raw terror was an unfamiliar state of being, and it didn't last long. Long habit forced her to push down the fear and assert control over herself. She had been in enough dangerous, deadly situations that this barely rated on the list. While the gut fear still pulsed below the surface, the active emotion asserting itself as she quickly approached terminal velocity was exasperation, with a dash of annoyed disbelief.

She had survived being shot, stabbed, even fighting Next whose power made her look like an ant when compared to her own. Being killed in a manner befitting an animated coyote seemed more than a little insulting. If there was a God and that being did manage the universe according to some ineffable design, then God had a streak of whimsy a galaxy wide.

Kit held her jacket open as wide as it would go and spread her ankles apart in an attempt to slow down. Air resistance would help a little, and every second she could buy was a second someone might notice her.

Then she saw something odd. A small, dark dot appeared below her, then grew rapidly. It resolved into the distant shape of a young woman—barely more than a girl, judging by her frame—flying unevenly toward her.

“Don't catch me!” Kit shouted pointlessly, her words lost in the rushing wind. “You have to slow down!”

The girl didn't slow down; if anything, she sped up. Kit kept on yelling but closed her eyes against the inevitable collision. Young Next who could fly (and all trainee agents) took classes on the safe use of their powers. You never knew when a high rise might catch fire, after all, and it was important to know the physics involved. If the girl tried to catch Kit without slowing to match her speed, it would effectively be the same as hitting the ground. Except the girl's arms would treat Kit like an apple in a slicer, if she were strong enough. If not, Kit would be injured as she broke the poor woman's arms and likely ripped them off in the bargain.

When she wasn't dead or hurting a few seconds later, Kit cracked one eye open. The girl had slowed in a remarkably short time. Kit saw her sail up and past, and craned her neck back in time to see the girl drift back down to match speeds.

“H-hey,” she shouted, plummeting next to Kit. “You might want to close your eyes for the next part.”

Kit shook her head, able to understand the words but not processing them logically. The girl—a trainee, she realized, remembering her face from the picture on the roster—reached out a hand and grabbed Kit's wrist.

The world twisted. Kit's stomach flipped upside down, and she had to bite back the bile rising in the throat. She no longer felt like she was falling, her body telling her instead that she was on the upward arc of a very high jump. Physics confirmed this; she began to slow. Every sense she had but one swore to her that the sky was now down, the ground up, and she was about to reach the peak of her upward movement and begin the fall back down.

Her eyes stubbornly refused to agree with this assessment. The friction between those senses made her mind feel like a complicated clock whose gears had all changed sizes and speeds, a horrific grinding mess incapable of function.

There was a slight tingle in her skin—it reminded her of putting on a shirt fresh from the dryer—and the world suddenly righted itself. She and the girl stopped moving, the two of them hovering thousands of feet in the air, Kit's wrist held in a tight grip.

“I—wow,” Kit stammered. “Thank you...”

“Graysen Ross, ma'am,” the young woman said. “I hope I'm not in trouble. I wasn't really ordered to come get you, see—”

Kit stared at Graysen in sheer, open-mouthed amazement. After a few seconds she realized the girl wasn't joking, and burst into laughter. “No, you're not in trouble,” Kit assured her. “You just saved my life. If anyone so much as looks at you funny about it, I will personally break their jaw.”

Graysen smiled uncertainly, and actually blushed. “That won't be necessary, ma'am. I wouldn't want you to get in any trouble, either.”

Kit raised an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you you're kind of a Hermione?”

Graysen mumbled something so low even Kit's hearing didn't pick it up.

“What was that?” she asked kindly.

Graysen blew out a resigned sigh. “That was my nickname in high school,” she said.

Kit laughed.

As Kit drifted slowly to the ground, the gathered agents staring up at her in surprise, she began to understand what fliers felt. She wasn't being carried, as she always had been before. Other than Graysen's grip on her arm she felt no outside pressure, as if she were the one making this happen.

They touched down lightly. It was only after Graysen released Kit's arm that the difference became clear; her body suddenly felt incredibly heavy. Kit dropped to her knees, disoriented. A shuffle of rushing feet, hard soles slapping against the now-bare earth, approached. It was Graysen who knelt next to her, putting a hand on Kit's shoulder.

“I'm so sorry,” the young woman said. “I forgot you aren't used to it. Give yourself a minute and it'll get better.”

“What—” Kit gasped, trying to work moisture into a mouth gone Sahara dry. “What just happened? I've never felt that way after flying before.”

“We weren't. Flying, I mean,” Graysen said. “What you're feeling is gravity rebound. That basically means you went from experiencing very little to normal gravity really fast, which is what happened when I took my hand away. I should have increased it slowly, but I've never actually used my powers on anyone before and I...”

Kit, already starting to feel better, gave the girl a small grin.

“I'm babbling,” Graysen said, a slight blush reddening her cheeks. “Anyway, sorry about that.”

“Like I said, kid, you saved my life. I'm not complaining.” She chuckled. “And I've been through worse. At least this way I've learned something. I'll recover faster if I ever get hit with something like that, now that I know what to expect.”

Kit forced her mind to relax, falling back on her training to assert control. The sense of tremendous weight began to recede further. She noted how similar it was to the odd wrenching sensation from having her own gravity reversed, and really it was just another facet of the same thing.

Human beings were now able to do astounding, even miraculous, things. Having the ability wasn't what comic book creators imagined, for the most part. Even ignoring the practical effects of Graysen using her powers to help a person not at all practiced in dealing with their consequences, there were still countless examples in Kit's own life.

She reveled in being strong and fast, having the many perks that came with her abilities. Still, the average person didn't think—or even know—about the drawbacks. The ten thousand calorie diet, the need to constantly practice to avoid hurting people just by shaking a hand.

The social stigma of being Next.

She looked out over the destruction before her, and Kit felt the old familiar dissatisfaction rise up. James Shane had made their attempt at a quiet capture very messy and public, which would no doubt only fuel the flames of public discontent. Seeing the property damage and knowing the potential death toll the wrong sort of Next could cause, it was hard to blame them.

Archer appeared from the milling crowd and made his way over. He was smeared with dirt, the elbow of his jacket shredded, but otherwise looked fine. Not that his appearance was any way to tell; with his healing abilities, the man could have broken every bone in his body and been okay by now.

“Glad to see you're okay,” he said, surprising Kit with a quick but genuine hug. A relieved smile crept across his face.

“Thank Graysen for that,” Kit said. “She's the one who saved me.”

Archer turned his gaze to the young trainee. Though Graysen was a full foot shorter, she met his eyes evenly, without a hint of the nervousness Kit had witnessed over the city.

“Glad to see you again, Ms. Ross,” Archer said. “Especially since you just made yourself a hero. Thank you. I mean that.” He held out a hand, which she shook firmly.

It took Kit a moment to realize that of course Archer knew her; he was the one who selected trainees out of the general applicants. It was one of the many administrative tasks Kit abhorred that Archer didn't mind taking on.

“Just doing my job, sir,” Graysen replied.

Archer's mouth twitched at the corner. “Well, not your job yet, technically. But appreciated all the same.”

“Did we get him?” Kit asked, nodding toward the circle of agents.

“Yeah,” Archer answered. “Cassidy caught him off guard and I tackled him.”

Kit's brows knitted together. “You? In combat?”

Graysen partially muffled a squeak of surprise, possibly laughter, at Kit's words. From the trainee's perspective, it probably sounded as if Kit were implying Archer couldn't handle himself. He was a large man, not a regular fixture in training classes, and carried extra weight. It was the obvious assumption to make, and probably the only one the girl could make given what she knew.

The glimmer of embarrassment on Archer's face was perfectly acted, though Kit knew it for what it was. The man had to gorge himself constantly to keep the fat on his body, which his healing ability could use as fuel.

What Kit actually meant was that by going into such a dangerous situation, Archer had risked being injured badly enough to alert everyone around him of his true nature. As far as the world knew, he was human.

They had decided, upon cementing their small conspiracy, to divide the dangers up in the most efficient way possible. Kit, being openly Next, would handle the more risky elements. She was the one who fought, who dealt with Robinson. It was her job to be obvious and implement whatever physical actions they deemed necessary to find the truth about Fairmont.

Success depended critically on Archer staying in the closet, so to speak. As an administrator and bureaucrat, his searches for information, requests for certain personnel, and all manner of other less-dazzling but important tasks were seen as just part of the job.

“Well, just glad you didn't hurt yourself,” Kit said, forcing a smile.

Archer gave an award-worthy sigh, then smiled wryly as he patted his gut. “Guess I should hit the gym if I want to start getting in fights, eh?” He looked at Graysen expectantly, and the girl did a wonderful impression of a deer in headlights.

“Stop messing with her, Archer,” Kit said. “You know she's not going to answer that.”

They called in a cleanup crew, though James Shane was on his way to the facility long before they arrived on scene.

Ray

The White Room hadn't changed since Ray last sat in it, but that was a good thing. It was, after all, a space where no one could see or hear using Next abilities and was completely shielded from technological snooping. The lack of change was good, though the small table in the middle had more chairs than before. Ray had brought them in himself.

Kit sat next to him, silently watching the prisoner. Ray himself couldn't manage the absolute calm she showed, though he wasn't feeling afraid. Nervous, yes, but no fear at all. Not because of James Shane, at any rate. The storm cloud that had been Shane's only expression since being locked to his chair wasn't why Ray felt his glands spitting adrenaline into his bloodstream.

What they were about to do, to ask, was insane. It was also their only choice.

Two more empty chairs sat on either side of Kit and Ray. If Kit knew who the fourth chair was for, she wasn't telling. It couldn't be for Deakins, though she was in on the plan, because Deakins was covering for them.

The door opened with a slight hiss, the heavy seals parting. By necessity, the room had no ventilation of any kind, no sort of connection with the world outside. The lights were LEDs powered by batteries, the atmosphere regulated by a compact unit sitting in a corner. That small piece of engineering mastery was the least of the inventions created by the brilliant people in R&D, and Ray shook his head that a device capable of heating or cooling a room with no ventilation as well as scrub carbon dioxide from the air could be considered a minor invention.

Archer sat next to Kit, and after the door was shut and locked, a vaguely familiar man sat next to Ray. He was an agent—that much was clear from his suit and badge—but no name appeared in Ray's head at the sight of him.

More surprising was Kit's reaction; she looked utterly shocked when she saw the man.

“You?” Kit asked. “You're the technopath?”

The agent looked chagrined. “Yeah, sorry about not telling you. Archer said he was keeping my identity under wraps until we had no choice but tell you.”

The voice was definitely familiar, Ray noted. Where had he heard it?

“You're Waid!” Ray said, snapping his fingers. “The analyst.”

Waid bowed his head in acknowledgment, though it was Kit who spoke.

“You've been an agent all this time?” she asked. “Why did you attack the facility's computers, then?”

He glanced at Archer, who nodded.

“Well,” Waid began, somewhat nervously, “I wasn't an agent when I did that. I was in training. Archer found me, brought me up to speed on what he suspected. We planned the attack.”

Kit stared at him in stunned silence. Ray took the brief quiet before the storm to get a read on James Shane. The prisoner seemed to have temporarily forgotten about his captivity, watching the exchange in plain bewilderment.

Ray understood what must be going through his head. Here they were in this strange room, hustled through the halls covertly. He was chained to a chair, festooned with devices to make it impossible to use his powers, and witness to apparent admissions of crime committed by the people who had captured him. He had to be thinking the worst, Ray imagined; that he wouldn't be leaving the room alive.

“Why?” Kit asked simply, once she had regained her composure.

“To minimize exposure,” Ray said, understanding at once. “By forcing this place to limit how much it could put into the computer system, Archer controlled the information his superiors could access.”

“Very good,” Archer said. “Not just that, but I was pretty sure we were being monitored directly through our network. Waid confirmed it, tracked it back to the NSA. Not just looking at our emails and data, but actually watching and listening through our computers. We had to create a credible outside threat to justify going analogue for a good long time.”

“Until Waid became an agent, you mean,” Ray said. “So he could keep an eye on the system full-time.”

Archer nodded. “We also had to hold off until Operations was ready, to give him a reason to be in front of a computer all day.”

“Hang on,” Kit said. “We're talking about, what, a thousand work stations alone? More? Not to mention every other computer in the place. Research and Development alone has to be more than most technopaths can handle.”

Waid smiled, a glint of pride in his eyes. “My only ability is technopathy. I can sense machines, know their abilities and limitations. Enter them with my mind and control them. I can travel across internet, phone lines, even power cables. That's how I know there aren't any listening devices in here. I'm the best in the world at what I do. My actual power rating is a nine, not what it says in my file.”

Ray choked, Kit and James Shane having almost identical reactions. Individual powers at that level were uncommon bordering on rare.

“Now,” Archer said, guiding the discussion, “we're all caught up. That includes you.”

The last he said to the prisoner, who watched all of them with wary skepticism. Ray knew the feeling behind the look, as he'd been there himself. It was the overwhelming sense of defeat pushing you right to the edge of tolerance. Not long after Fairmont, that feeling had pushed Ray to attempt suicide.

Now that the man knew some of their secrets, the hard part could begin.

Convincing him to help.

Half an hour later Ray was beginning to think Shane would never talk. It occurred to him, as Archer and Kit alternated between explaining things, that during the entire drama over the previous days, he hadn't actually heard the man utter a word.

Ray sat back and observed, listening to Archer lay more of the groundwork of convincing this man to join them without making it obvious.

“We've told you that powerful people not only knew about Fairmont ahead of time, but may have planned it,” Archer said. They had explained it in broad strokes, anyway, but Shane gave them almost nothing in response. Ray thought it was reasonable to try to exploit the man's sense of right and wrong, at least on general principle, but doubted its effectiveness given recent events. Shane was a man driven by a personal need for justice—

“Why did those men attack your sister?” Ray blurted out loudly, drawing surprise from the others.

James Shane started in his seat, as if the question frightened him. The cool control cracked, then, his eyes darting between them nervously. His jaw clenched, set defiantly, and his lips drew tight.

“Ray,” Archer began, but Ray put up a hand.

“We've been sitting here talking at you and getting nothing,” Ray said. “We've been so focused on trying to catch you that we never asked that question. We didn't think about why the assault happened, only your response to it.”

It came to him, then, an intuitive leap ending in a fully-formed explanation. This man had nothing to lose by telling them on a personal level. They had him dead to rights for his attack on OSA agents if nothing else. The only explanation was that he was protecting his sister, and it obviously wasn't her dignity in light of the assault. Going after the men who crippled her had caused many people to look at her case.

He was protecting her from something.

“She's an unregistered Next, isn't she?” Ray asked.

He couldn't have elicited more of a reaction had he slapped the man. Shane's mouth dropped open in shock, which turned into bared teeth.

“What if she was?” he snarled. “Gonna bring her in for not registering? Put her in a cell like you'll do to me?”

Ray paused, understanding on instinct how important his next words might be.

Kit spoke up.

“Tell us what happened, James,” she said quietly.

Something in the prisoner broke, then, and Ray had to stop himself from reaching out to comfort the man. The defiant glare died away, the tension in his shoulders and arms drained. Personal experience had taught Ray how difficult it was to push yourself on nothing but anger, how isolation ate away at you. He thought it likely this man had spoken with no one about what had actually happened to his sister.

“She was at a party,” Shane said. “You knew that. She was drinking, having a good time. This wasn't some frat boy rager, either. Neighborhood thing. Anyway, she must have had a little too much, lost control.”

Ray cocked his head. “Did she hurt someone?”

Shane shook his head sharply. “My sister wouldn't hurt a fly. The only thing her power does is make her glow. She can light up a room, maybe a back yard if she really pushes it.”

Beside Ray, Kit's fingers tightened on the arm of her chair hard enough to make the steel creak.

“Those three assholes saw her. They were in the game room, just them and her. Robert Lile started it, so drunk he could barely talk. He told her how it was wrong she didn't wear a ring to let people know what she was. A freak, he said. Ginny didn't like that, and she let him know. Lile hit her, and the other two joined in.”

Archer swore. “She didn't tell the police what happened, because she didn't want to get in trouble.”

Shane nodded gravely. “Yeah. She was in pretty bad shape when the cops talked to her, but she was alert enough to leave out the part about her powers. She named the attackers, who categorically deny doing it, and the officers apparently grilled her pretty hard. They knew she was lying about something.”

“Cops usually do,” Archer said. “Since they didn't know about her powers...”

“They assumed she was lying about who assaulted her. Which is probably why the police didn't strain themselves keeping those pieces of shit off the streets.”

“Damn,” Waid said sympathetically, breaking his silence.

“This changes things,” Kit said. Archer nodded.

“What do you mean?” Shane said, visibly angry. “Now you have to go after her?”

“Not what I mean,” Kit said evenly. “Now that we know the truth, this falls under our jurisdiction. People forget, but the OSA protects Next, too.”

Shane shook his head. “If that's true, then you'll have to arrest her.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Ray said. “Since she didn't know about her power before that night, she shouldn't be in any trouble.”

James Shane opened his mouth to say something, then understanding flashed in his eyes. It was followed closely by suspicion. “Why would you do that, after everything I've done?”

Ray glanced at Kit to gauge whether she was angry for him speaking up—again—but she nodded to him with an amused smile. Go ahead, that smile said. You have the floor.

“First off,” Ray said, “you need to stop thinking of us as some mindless cogs in a big, evil government agency bent on oppressing you. We're human beings, man. So your sister can glow. You know just as well as I do there are thousands of people like her out there, low-level Next whose powers can't hurt anyone. They tend not to register, and we look the other way. We're not monsters, James. We're sympathetic for what she went through.”

Shane softened somewhat at Ray's words, a more thoughtful expression settling on his face.

“Ray's right,” Kit interjected. “We do sympathize. That being said, you're exceptionally lucky none of my people was seriously injured. The worst of it was the agent who caught fire, and he only suffered first degree burns. Damage resistance, in case you were wondering.”

Shane had the grace to look bothered by this, though Ray was unsure if it was genuine.

“Here's what I'm offering,” Kit continued. “I give you my personal guarantee that if these men are guilty, they get the maximum sentence. We have several means at our disposal to determine guilt that aren't quite ready for widespread use. If they did it, they will pay. Your sister gets a pass, and the OSA will take care of her medical care here at the facility. We've got people on staff who can help her heal faster and better than anywhere else in the world.”

Shane studied her through narrowed eyes. “What do you want from me in return?”

Kit didn't dissemble. “We want your help. In the short term, that means taking us a few places we need to go that we can't otherwise manage. Long term depends on how those jaunts turn out.”

“What do you mean?” Shane asked.

Kit fixed him with an emotionless stare. “We can keep you out of reach for a few days, maybe a week, but sometime soon you're going to be reclassified as a threat to national security. What that means is your crimes will be used as a lever to force you into working for some very powerful people. They won't hesitate to use your family, too, if it comes to that.”

Archer leaned in. “We're trying to figure out which of those people are behind Fairmont and the too-fast reaction to the Next. They knew what was coming. Maybe caused it. If you help us of your own free will, we'll be declaring war on them. We wouldn't give you up without a fight.”

Shane's brow furrowed. “What if I just ran?”

Kit shook her head. “You won't. I've read up on you, James. You're not a bad guy, not really. We're going to put those men in cages for a very long time. You'll get justice.”

He looked down. “I killed a man,” he breathed.

“You did,” Kit said. “Because of that, we'll have to take certain precautions. You'd have to wear monitors and power disruptors we could activate remotely. But the law is clear on how you can be utilized while serving your sentence.” Kit paused, then shrugged. “But the truth is, that won't matter. It might bother me, what you did, but I get it. We've discussed it, and if it means saving lives and exposing a conspiracy that ruined the lives of tens of thousands of people, we think it's worth the life of a man who crippled a woman for no good reason.”

“Besides, what we're planning is illegal as shit,” Archer added. “So we're not going to ride any high horses around you.”

“Why would you trust me after what I've done to you?” Shane asked.

Kit looked at Ray meaningfully. He raised his brow in return, and she gave him a fractional nod.

“Trust might be too strong a word,” Ray said. “Like she said, we'll take precautions. It's more of a second chance. Everything we know about you says you were a great guy before all this happened. You didn't abuse your powers for personal gain or out of spite. You did it because you thought justice had failed. It was wrong, but understandable. You think this is some trick, maybe. It isn't. They're willing to give you a chance just like they did for me.”

Shane looked at him quizzically.

“My name is Ray, but my real last name isn't Cassidy. It's Elliot.” Comprehension dawned on Shane's face, and Ray nodded. “Yeah. That Ray Elliot. I killed Fairmont. If they can trust me with a few caveats, I'm pretty sure you'll be a breeze.”

James Shane looked at their faces, again searching for something. After a long quiet, he finally gave a slow nod. “If you do what you say you will, I'm in. All the way. You can even use whatever lie detectors you were talking about before on me, if you want.”

Ray grinned. “Oh, they were planning on it.”

Kit

Kit took the next day off. It was the first time since joining the OSA, and the feeling was a little like skipping school as a child. The move was necessary, as they were short on time. There was no way to avoid Robinson knowing James Shane had been caught, which meant he would have transfer orders within a few days. Not that Kit had any intention of sending James anywhere if she could help it, but the situation did create a narrow window for the next phase of their plan.

Paranoid and certain there were at least casual observers looking for flags on her bank account, Kit had made it a point to withdraw cash from time to time over the previous four months. Though any plans she had for obtaining information from the NSA facility Waid had found were vague at best, there were few situations that couldn't be helped by a large wad of cash.

Now that things were in sharper focus, Kit needed time to put together everything she might need. This involved trips to a hardware store, two home improvement centers, a sewing and fabric outlet, and an enormous sporting goods retailer. By mid-morning, her trunk was full and the spillover had to be thrown into the back seat.

When she returned home, Peep goggled at the mountain of purchases and helped her haul it up the stairs. She had taken a day off as well, though The Bean was still open. Assistant managers made the world go round.

“What the hell do you need all this stuff for, anyway?” Peep gasped as they put down the last load. “You must have five hundred zip ties here. All sorts of sports pads...you know what? I don't want to know.”

Kit gave her roommate and friend a sunny smile. “That's a great idea. Want me to make lunch?”

“Absolutely not,” Peep said quickly. “I like my kitchen the way I like my hair, by which I mean not on fire. Here, take a beer, go sit down, and I'll make something.”

She took the beer thankfully. “I can just make a sandwich or something,” Kit said. “You work at a restaurant all day. I don't want you to feel like you have to cook for me.”

Peep snorted. “I own a restaurant,” Peep corrected. “Well, a cafe, anyway. That's an important difference. I leave most of the cooking to other people. Besides, I like cooking. Always have. There's something deeply satisfying about making a meal someone enjoys and appreciates.”

“Substitute for sex,” Kit mused.

Peep's head whipped around, eyebrows trying to crawl into her hairline.

“That's what one of my psych professors said once, back in college,” Kit clarified. “She did this entire module on platonic relationships. According to her, cooking is one way to cement a relationship. Sex is considered a need, with some exceptions, and so is eating. So it ends up being a substitute. By satisfying a basic human need, you're locking the other person's subconscious into seeing you as important.”

“I've never heard that before,” Peep said, appreciation clear in her tone. “Makes sense. I wonder if it works with providing shelter, too?”

Kit shrugged. “Build me a house and I'm pretty sure I'd have your babies.” Peep laughed. “I don't know if the theory is popular or accepted, to be honest. I took two psychology courses, but it was for the credits. I didn't have much interest in the subject outside of my GPA.”

“I've been thinking of going back to school,” Peep said from the kitchen, the sound of pots and pans rattling in the background.

“Why?” Kit asked. “You've got all that insurance money. You're loaded. Not to mention owning a popular business. Why would you bother?”

“I like learning,” Peep said, her voice slightly muffled. “I don't want a degree, just to take whatever classes interest me. When I was younger I told myself I'd do that if I ever had the means. You seem pretty surprised for someone who went to college herself.”

Kit took a sip of beer, her mind drifting back. Not to any specific memory of school—which now seemed to have happened to a different person—but to the general sense of how she felt during that time.

“School was always hard for me,” Kit explained, pushing away the storm cloud in her brain. “Not the work. I enjoyed that. It was the people. Getting along with the other students was torture. While I was there, I wanted nothing more than to be left in peace so I could do my work. Once I left it felt like a boulder was lifted off my chest.”

The conversation died, though it wasn't an awkward or painful death. Peep called out for Kit to hang on, the sizzle of something wet kissing a hot pan making it hard to hear anything else.

That was fine with her. Kit took the time to start sorting through all the things she'd purchased, going so far as to crank up her speed to get the job done faster. There were three sets of everything, all the bits of clothing carefully sized. Separating the gear was the easy part. By the time she was done creating the trio of bundles waiting to be used, Peep was finished with their meal. She came into the living room with a large serving tray in hand, the smell of pasta and various sauces preceding her in a delicious cloud.

“Here we go,” Peep said as she placed the tray on the coffee table. “There should be enough here.”

Getting used to Kit's need for a monstrous number of calories hadn't been too difficult; Peep just cooked enough food for four or five people whenever she decided to make a meal. Peep took the blue plate, one of the dishes she had owned before Kit moved in, while Kit loaded the green plate—one she had brought with her—with enough food to kill a lesser woman.

Chicken fettuccine piled next to ricotta-stuffed ziti in hand, Kit sat back from her purchases and set to.

“You said something about leaving college before,” Peep said, a note of caution in her voice. “I don't think you've ever told me what happened.”

Kit paused in the middle of shoveling food into her mouth at inhuman speed, then grunted. “No, I haven't.”

“It's okay if you don't want to talk about it,” Peep said. “I was just curious.”

Kit barely tasted the plate of food. There was no pushiness in Peep. No ulterior motive. Where Kit was—outside of work—usually quiet and introverted, Peep was expressive and social. She had been popular in school and maintained contact with the friends she had who hadn't died in Fairmont. Part of what made their friendship work was Peep's acceptance of Kit for who she was. Unlike Kit's parents, Peep never tried to get her to act outside her nature. Never attempted to put her in social situations she was uncomfortable with. Didn't tell her to lighten up or talk more when Kit fell quiet.

She accepted Kit wholly. Sure, they had similar tastes in movies and books, both enjoyed marathon gaming sessions and getting drunk enough to dance. Those things certainly helped solidify their friendship. But it was that easy acceptance that Kit had every right to enjoy solitude and to keep to herself—to be herself—that made it all possible.

Kit cleared the plate, just short of licking it clean, and set it to the side. Peep was still working on her meal.

Beginning to work on one of the more tricky projects she needed finished by the evening, Kit cleared her throat.

“If you want to know,” she began, “I'll tell you.”

Peep was surprised and clearly pleased, but seemed afraid of breaking the silence, as if that might risk Kit changing her mind. Instead she took a bite and bobbed her head.

Kit told her.

“There's no great mystery to it,” Kit began. “For most Next, it's usually a variation on the same story. One day they're normal people, maybe with a few odd happenings they wrote off, and then something happens. For a lot of fliers, it's suddenly hovering during a moment where they need to jump or reach a high place. Sometimes they've fallen and their power only kicks in to protect them.”

She opened a package containing an expensive scientific scale. “Statistically, flying is the most common power. People with advanced physical powers are less common. People like me, who have high levels of function across every bodily system, are rare.”

Kit put batteries in the scale, then opened several smaller containers. “With physical Next, it's almost always something getting broken. A doorknob, a steering wheel, generally something people hold in their hands. Less often you see a kid with a broken arm where his mom grabbed him, trying to keep him from falling or getting hit by a car. Super strength is tricky.”

She began to pour out the contents of the containers into empty plastic bags, carefully weighing and measuring. “For me, it was during a dorm party. My roommate at the time was a good fit; she was always busy with class or work, and when she was in she was sleeping or studying. We both liked quiet.”

The scene was still vivid in her mind, even years later. Kit liked to think this was a product of the improved function of her brain granted by her abilities, but deep down she thought it was one of those memories no one could forget.

“Kayla, my roommate, was asleep at the time. How she managed it with music playing down the hall and pot smoke drifting under the door, I don't know. I was working on a paper for a basic computer science class, and getting frustrated. I took the class thinking I'd get an easy A, but turns out I'm shit at programming languages. I was determined to get it done, though, mostly because I was even more stubborn back then.”

The plastic bags began to make a neat row, each filled to about a fifth of its capacity. “Someone slammed into our door. People were yelling in the hallway. It was the usual stuff, drunken kids going on about some dumbass thing or another. When the door rattled a second time, I decided to go out and at least go through the motions of asking them to keep it down.”

Here, she paused. It had been a long time since she had taken this memory out and turned it over. The vague guilt she had once felt because of that night had vanished, to her mild surprise, erased by maturity and experience giving her a certainty she had done the right thing.

“There wasn't anyone in the hall when I stepped out. I could hear a bunch of people in the lounge, so I went that way. There were people dancing, several couples making out, pretty much what you'd expect. I tried to get their attention, but between the music and the rest, I didn't have much luck.”

Her eyes grew hard. “That was when it happened. All of a sudden the music was way too loud, the lights too bright. Smells hit me like a whiff of ammonia, too overwhelming to handle. I thought I was having a stroke or something. My heart started pounding, and I stumbled back. I put my hand on the wall to hold myself up and did some calming exercises my dad taught me when I was younger and prone to anxiety.”

“What happened?” Peep asked in a quiet voice. It was only when she spoke that Kit realized she had fallen silent for a while.

“I closed my eyes,” Kit continued. “Tried to limit the input as much as possible. It was like trying to tune out a rock concert happening in your head. I focused on the voices, letting the music become a background buzz. That was when I heard it; a strange grinding noise. It was bizarre, like nothing I'd ever heard before. I knew it was coming from the small kitchen attached to the lounge, and I stumbled toward it. Just as I got there, I saw a guy sweeping powder off the counter and into a cup. He handed it to a girl sitting at the table—they were the only ones in the room—and she was so drunk she could barely hold the drink.”

Kit grimaced. “That son of a bitch actually helped her. He steadied her hand. Even now I can see how careful he was about it, how gentle his hands were as he guided the cup toward her lips. That's what set me off, the idea that this motherfucker had the capacity to drug this girl and could be so measured about it.”

Peep was rapt, her food completely forgotten.

Kit took a sip of beer. “Like I said, a lot of physical Next don't realize they've gotten stronger until they break something. It wasn't that way for me. Oh, I wasn't anything close to what I am now. My body had only begun to change. But I felt it. This rush of energy moved through my veins, made me feel like I could crush a car with my bare hands. I yelled at the guy, told him to put the cup down. He almost jumped out of his skin, not realizing I was there.

“He turns around and I see he's pretty sloshed himself, enough that he can't compute that I caught him red-handed. Instead of scurrying off with his tail between his legs, he gets in my face. I never got the chance to accuse him, because a few seconds later he pokes me in the chest with several fingers.”

Peep flinched, making a face. Someone had done the same thing to Kit a few months before, at a bar. It hadn't ended well.

“This fucker was a a foot or more taller than me, had to weigh two twenty at least. I broke those fingers like dry sticks, then threw him out of the kitchen. Literally threw him, I mean. He sailed for ten feet or so, screaming the whole way, then landed and bounced down the hall.”

Kit smiled. “Someone called campus police—not the jerk I hurt, he wasn't so wasted he'd incriminate himself—and things got interesting from there. I told the officer what happened, he took the cup and its contents for testing, and they shut down the party. The next day I went to my local OSA office for testing.”

“Wow,” Peep said. “You just decided to quit school after that?”

“Not exactly,” Kit said with a shake of her head. “The local office only had limited testing capabilities compared with larger offices and facilities. The agents knew my powers were uncommon, so they sent me to have more detailed examinations done. I was suspended from school during that time, both because of my pending tests and because I'd assaulted another student, so I didn't have much else to do. I waited for the results of the second test, but when I got them it wasn't a phone call. Robinson himself showed up at my dorm and offered me training for Helix.”

Peep's eyebrows shot up. “He recruited you personally?”

“Yeah,” Kit said, careful to keep her tone pleasant. “That was a big part of the reason I took the offer. The guy went out of his way to make me feel appreciated. Special.”

And that night, Kit would find out if the loyalty she had given Robinson was deserved. She hoped the man had nothing to do with the destruction of Fairmont, but there was little hope in her heart.

Ray

Ray closed the door to his quarters and engaged the locks before turning to face his visitors.

James Shane stood next to Waid, both men looking slightly uncomfortable. This could have been due to the situation—James being a recently captured criminal—though Ray thought it had to do with the intense anger he had been (barely) controlling for the last hour. All through the quiet removal of the prisoner from his cell, using Waid to fool security measures, he had seethed.

“Let's go,” Ray said tersely. “You know where we're heading?”

James nodded, pointing his chin at Waid. “He showed me a bunch of satellite images. I can get us close.”

“And you're sure you can take both of us at the same time?” Waid asked nervously.

“For the tenth time, yes,” James said. “It's all about mass. You two don't push my limit.”

With that James stepped forward and put hands on Ray and Waid. The world did a cartwheel, everything tasted purple for a second, and then they were standing in the darkened lot behind The Bean, staring at a metal door. Ray took a breath and steadied himself, then gently tapped a knuckle on the door.

Meanwhile, Waid vomited noisily.

“Nice,” Ray said. “Please don't do that again when you get where you're going.”

Footsteps inside grew louder, followed by the clank of locks moving and a bar being set aside. The door opened to reveal Archer's niece, Peep, who gave Ray a beatific smile.

“You're looking handsome as ever,” Peep said to him.

“Still super gay,” Ray replied with a smile of his own. “Can we come in?”

Waid had recovered with supernatural speed, peering with interest at the woman jokingly flirting with Ray. “I'm straight,” he said weakly. Everyone paused. Peep definitely wasn't holding back a laugh. That would have been unladylike and rude, Ray thought.

In the apartment they found Kit, who was just finishing pulling on a boot. She looked up at them as they entered, and for a moment Ray forgot why he was so angry.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Ray blurted out.

Kit smiled. “I'd have thought your first question would be to ask why you aren't going with us.”

Damn, she was perceptive. Ray shrugged uncomfortably. “You're the boss. It's your call.”

Kit glanced at Waid. “Are we secure?”

Waid's face went slack, though his eyes darted around madly. “Yeah,” he said after a few seconds. “No one is watching or listening to us electronically.”

Kit raised an eyebrow at Ray, who sighed. He brought up his Surge vision and looked for disturbances showing the presence of a remote viewer or any other Next ability. “Nothing,” he said. “We're solid.”

“It's not because I'm the boss,” Kit said. “This has nothing to do with work and you know it. You're not going—hell Archer's not going—because we want to minimize risk. James and Waid have to be there, and so do I. Besides, if you end up disappearing, Kovacs is going to start getting suspicious. We've already pulled you away a bunch of times recently. We can't rock to boat too much.”

“Then why am I even here?” Ray asked.

“Because I want you to try something,” Kit said. “I have a suspicion I want to check out.”

Ray gave her a critical stare. As usual, she gave nothing away. He sighed. “Fine, what is it?”

Kit put out a hand. “I want you to disrupt my powers. As much as you can.”

“What? Why?” Ray asked. “They'll just go back to normal after I stop.”

Kit grinned. “I've got a theory I want to test. Humor me.” She put out a hand.

“Cryptic, much?” Ray grumbled, but took her hand.

He focused on the touch, eyes zeroing in on the contrast between his pale hand and the darker skin of hers. It was there, as always, that reservoir of power. Ray drew on it and tried to direct the disruption of the Surge solely on Kit.

The aura of green energy around and through her wavered, going dim. She didn't glow as powerfully as many Next rated below her, but that was because her abilities were mostly based on actual physical changes. The Surge had set those changes off to be sure, but for Kit the energy acted as a means of augmenting and refining what she could now do without it, rather than being the only means.

Ray gritted his teeth as the Surge tried to rebound, glowing much brighter around her for a moment. He pushed harder, calling on more of his reserve. That made the glow dim to its lowest point yet, but the resistance was much worse. It was like trying to push your hand into a waterbed, easy enough at first but harder and harder the more you struggled. The Surge, like water, did not seem to compress. The best he could do was choke it off somewhat. Putting it out altogether was beyond him.

Two minutes later, sweat rolling down his face, Ray stopped. “That's the best I can do,” he said in a slight pant. “I couldn't shut it all the way...”

What the hell?

He absently noted the look of triumph on Kit's face, a fact without much importance. As expected, her aura had rebounded to a steady state after he stopped pushing on it. But it was now noticeably brighter than before, with not a flicker or variation to be seen.

“Yes!” Kit said, clapping her hands like a little girl. That alone was enough to make Ray's neck itch. Someone as deadly and serious as this woman should not do a little skip of joy. It wasn't natural.

“What did I just do?” Ray asked, though mostly from habit. He knew. It was obvious.

“You gave me a boost,” Kit said. “I've been looking into it for a while now. Ever since Thomas Maggard, actually. Some things Nunez said about you two having similar abilities when it came to the Surge, plus the fact that everyone around you has slowly been getting more powerful over time. I figured tonight was as good a time to test it as any.”

“Is it permanent?” Ray asked, examining her aura closely for any changes. It hadn't dimmed that he could see.

Kit shrugged. “How should I know? I didn't know this would work at all. Though I doubt it. I think you basically just gave me something like an overcharge. I think I'll burn it off and go back to normal, but it'll definitely be appreciated on this trip.”

“Now can we talk about what you're wearing?” Waid asked, looking askance at the odd clothing Kit wore.

“Sure,” Kit said. “You two need to change when I'm done.”

She wore baggy pants tucked into hiking boots, the bulge of knee pads visible. Beneath the loose pants she wore skintight compression pants. Her top was the same, a clingy material showcasing thin, hard plastic armor. This was cut from several pieces of football padding, she explained, and put back together to give their torsos some protection. Each of them had a hood and goggles, to completely hide their features, along with plasticized mechanic's gloves and elbow pads for added safety.

“Looking at those outfits, I'm half glad I'm not going,” Ray said when Waid and James went to change. “You really went to a lot of trouble, here.”

Kit shrugged as she went about fastening straps to her legs, torso, and waist. “Not much choice. I don't want either of them recognized, and the light armor means they're less likely to get hurt or leave behind evidence. I'm not planning on letting either of them get shot, but that doesn't mean some disarmed guard can't hit them in the gut and knock the wind out of them. Something like that can wreck an operation, if the guy getting hit can't recover quickly.”

Ray nodded. “I understand that. I just mean, why not take stuff from the armory at work? Would have been a lot easier, and probably better protection.”

“Call it a dedication to paranoia,” Kit said. “Might not be a big risk, but there's always a chance that would lead back to us. Maybe someone remembers seeing me take a box of stuff out. Or does an inventory. No, we're better off this way. More risky for us personally, but it keeps everyone else out of the line of fire.”

“Just be careful,” Ray said, his anger now low embers.

“I will,” Kit said softly as she added pouches to the MOLLE straps cinched around her. “I know how much you must have wanted to make this run. You don't talk about it, but Fairmont has to weigh on you. Getting to the bottom of it has to be...I can't even find a word.”

“Archer says it's an obsession,” Ray said. “Honestly, I get why I'm not going. I do. Doesn't mean my head and heart agree with each other, but I'll live.”

“You're a good guy, Ray,” Kit said. “You have my word; by tomorrow morning, you'll know the truth. I simply won't accept failure as an option.”

Knowing her, Ray believed what Kit said. She would do everything in her power to retrieve the information. What worried him wasn't her resolve, but what lengths the people who held that information would go to in order to keep it hidden.

Kit

Clad in black, three figures moved slowly through the darkened woods as they climbed the ridge. It was a low spine of earth, an afterthought next to the much larger wave of stone a mile distant. That feature dominated the landscape, a small mountain seated in the middle of a vast, empty plain.

Kit recognized it even in the inky blackness. Like the facility, built inside the crater where Fairmont stood, this place existed because of the Next. It was an artificial mountain with artificial ridges, the former raised from the bedrock and the latter an unintended result. Pictures of the place were popular on internet lists of fantastic sights to see, showing the strange formations in their daytime glory. Kit thought it looked like God had reached down and picked at the ground with a fist, much as she might do with a blanket.

Unlike the facility, this place had not been created by accident. The design was both intentional and planned, ostensibly as a means of testing large-scale geological manipulation. The official line claimed the mountain was sculpted in a manner meant to channel the strong winds of the great plains into a more focused sheet of air. This cover story might have the benefit of being true; there was indeed a large wind farm stretching out past the thing.

From the top of the ridge, their objective shone clear. The base of the mountain included an almost perfectly circular cutout, and nestled within was a building. The walls spread out at wide angles as a defense from the wind, seeming to fuse with the wall of stone behind it. Given the huge scale of the project, the government also claimed to be studying the effects of the changes created in the landscape from the inside, necessitating underground sections of building.

This also had the potential to be true. The building below acted as a cover, and good covers had strong elements of truth. Kit would have bet a reasonable amount of money that within those walls there was real geological research going on, along with the infrastructure needed to manage the wind farm on the other side of the mountain.

It was also what Waid called an NSA Blank Site. Kit had never heard the term, though as she knew what a Black Site was—a term coined by the CIA for off-the-books prisons—she got the idea. This place held a trove of secrets, some accessible by a talented technopath, others less so.

“What do you think?” Kit asked.

James watched the blazing lights below, framing the building in something close to full sun. “Kind of suspicious to have so much lighting and security on a research facility,” he said.

Kit smiled faintly beneath the hood covering her face. “We already know this is the place. I meant, what do you think about the approach? Can you get us there from here?”

James wore the same total-body suit as her, but she could have read the pride in his body language without enhanced senses. “That's a little insulting. I got you guys here from Louisville, didn't I? Five hundred miles wasn't hard. This will be beyond easy.”

“Don't get cocky,” Kit said. “How about you?”

Waid nodded. “Once we're in, I shouldn't have a problem with their systems. If I don't have to ride in on an outside line, handling security and the rest should be simple. I've done dry runs through their security systems a bunch of times. With my body being this close, I will be able to handle a lot more at once. I'm solid.”

“Okay,” Kit said, taking a deep breath. “Once we leave this ridge, no names. I'm One, James is Two, and Waid is Three. We refer to each other by those numbers and nothing else. James and I will be moving as a pair, with Waid stationary if possible after we clear the entrance. Everyone have their ear buds in?”

James and Waid nodded, tapping their ears. Waid, of course, didn't actually need one due to his powers. He could speak through them to the others directly with his mind. Kit wanted him wired up anyway, just to be safe.

“In we go,” Kit said, standing next to James. This would be the easiest part; getting inside meant traveling into a closed structure, though the entrance had enough glass to give James a clear line of sight. Kit was thrilled about that, as her desire to have her molecules fused with a table or chair was pretty small.

A hand on her shoulder, a flash of light, and they stood in front of the locked entrance. The trio stood there for less than the space of a breath as James reoriented and took them inside. Kit was glad he had taken the extra step; she would rather be sure of their arrival than surprised.

The lobby was empty, though that was likely to change. In fact, the plan hinged on it. Though the electronic security would be easy for Waid to manage, the people acting as guards had to be dealt with more directly. This was why Kit had made so many stops to buy things, rather than use even the most basic stun weapons from the facility. She couldn't risk the smallest association with the OSA.

If their arrival outside hadn't triggered any alarms, the sudden appearance inside the lobby surely had. Kit glanced to Waid, who nodded. Security was aware of their arrival.

“You two get down and stay out of the way,” Kit breathed. She pulled a baton from its sheath on her leg, whipping her hand to extend it. Though the guards would be carrying firearms, Kit refused to allow her team to carry any. There would be no killing of innocent men and women.

Hospitalizations, maybe. But no killing.

The idea was to draw as many of the guards as possible to one location in order to minimize the chance someone would sneak up on them later. Kit had no illusions in that regard, knowing full well there would be others smart enough to stay back and take defensive positions.

She heard footsteps thundering up a distant set of stairs, far enough to give her time to mentally prepare. Kit touched her belt, where two dozen zip ties hung from a Velcro strap. The loose loops were ready to be pulled closed. She listened to the footfalls, staring at the single door across the vast lobby—empty save for a few pieces of furniture—and hoped she had enough to go around.

“Kill it,” Kit said to Waid, who crouched behind the information desk occupying the north wall.

His timing couldn't have been better. Just as the door burst open to reveal a hallway packed with angry men holding pistols, every light in the place went out.

Kit jumped with all the force she could muster, avoiding the predictable panic-shooting. Only one guard fired in surprise when the room fell to darkness, which she counted in their favor. The fact that none of the others lost control even at the sound of a gunshot increased her appreciation for their training and skills.

Respect didn't stop Kit from lashing out with a foot as she descended, knocking the two front most guards into the men behind them. Her own vision was perfectly clear, if mostly in shades of gray. She dodged back and to the right, getting out of the way of the door as the men in the back angrily shoved their fallen comrades into the lobby.

Kit was ruthless, the numbers and situation demanding no less. While the bullets were unlikely to do her much harm if they hit her anywhere but the head, they would still hurt like hell. She dealt with this problem by swinging her baton in measured strokes, knocking guns into the darkness and breaking fingers and hands in the process.

The darkness filled with the sounds of curses mixed with shouts of pain. She let them come into the room, stumbling over the men in front, and mercilessly continued her assault. It was easy. Compared to the workouts she had with other Next, this felt as unfair as fighting a group of children. Here, she kicked a man in the knee just short of breaking something. There, she grabbed someone by the heavy leather belt and flung him in a low arc ten feet or more, only to crash into the marble floor.

The trick was to keep moving and unharmed long enough to spread them out. This took about forty seconds of normal time, much longer as Kit's brain stretched her perceptions. When the last man was in the room, she began darting between them. The baton slid into the back of her belt where she could easily grab it, her hands occupied with the task of restraining her captives.

Zip ties pulled tight, one after another, as Kit bound hands to feet. There wasn't much worry they'd break, the ties being the thickest she could find. In short order all the guards—eight of them—lay on their sides, hands behind their backs and knees bent. It wasn't a bad job, she judged. Three ties to each man, using all the ones Kit had at her belt.

Waid and James moved to help her search the men after the binding was finished, removing anything they might use to cut their bonds. Kit dumped the assortment of pocket knives, folding blades, and multi-tools in one drawer of the desk before quickly stripping every pistol down to its components and dumping them in another.

Most of the guards lay in terrified silence as the three of them moved to leave the room. Understandable, really. They had just had their asses handed to them easily, by persons unknown. They had to be afraid of what came next. Were they going to be executed? The fear had to be there. Kit said nothing to reassure them, however much she wanted to. She planned on not having her voice heard by anyone aside from her team.

“I'm gonna fucking kill you, you motherfucker,” one guard said as Kit walked past him. “You're one of those freaks, I know it.”

“Jesus Christ, Jerry,” another guard hissed. “Shut the hell up.”

Yeah, Jerry, Kit thought, shut up.

She kicked him in the head, just hard enough to get the point across.

Jerry shut up.

They moved down the stairs and through several rooms with no incidents. Waid found a space he liked two floors below the surface, a small room packed with racks of electronics he said was the security system.

“Stay safe,” Kit said as she closed the door on him. He nodded back to her, tapping his ear. The door locked as it shut, the electronic mechanism beeping. There wasn't even a place for a regular key, which made Kit feel a little better. They'd have to take an axe to the door to get the technopath out of the room.

Kit and James moved, dashing through doors whose locks disengaged just in front of them. Waid was as good as his word, managing the internal systems of the building with apparent ease. As they descended another set of stairs, a flashlight beam below alerted Kit to an incoming guard. She didn't hesitate, leaping over the rail and snagging a hand on it to change her momentum and direction.

Her elbow caught the guard in the space where neck met shoulder as she dropped onto the landing behind him. She pulled more ties from a pouch, securing the dazed man to the railing.

They kept moving, directed by Waid. Though the security system was not recording or even transmitting to the men watching the monitors, Waid was still able to watch through the cameras like a hundred eyes. His voice, tinny through the earpieces, led them clear of a few other guards and closer to their goal.

“Wait,” Waid said as Kit and James stepped into a server room. “I'm going to need to look around in here a bit, and that will take a lot of my attention.”

“How much of your attention?” James asked. “I'd rather not be caught by surprise.”

“I'll still be watching the cameras,” Waid assured him. “If anything moves, I'll know it and pull back out to let you know. I just want to scan through these servers to see if I can find anything interesting.”

“Roger that,” Kit said, taking a position to one side of the door they had come through. “Try to be quick.”

“I will,” Waid said. “I can process information pretty fast. Just hold tight.”

The wait was less than a minute. “These are the intranet servers for the research going on here,” Waid said. “Nothing important. Head to the door on the far side of the room and I'll direct you from there.”

Kit did as he said, motioning for James to follow. Waid kept his instructions short by necessity, as his questing mind had to reach out and scan every computer and piece of electronics in the building. He had explained it as a sort of progressive map of the place, created as they moved through the building. While his mind could reach any system within a thousand feet or so without the need for transmission lines of some sort—his mental WiFi, he called it—even his enhanced brain could process only so much information at once.

So they moved at a measured pace, letting Waid touch and sort through new data from systems they were near.

They were on the fifth floor below the surface when a triumphant laugh sounded through their ear buds. “I found it! You're close to the computer that manages the NSA vaults. I'm looking through it for indexes or some kind of directory now, but I can tell you where the entrance...oh. Shit.”

“What is it?” Kit asked more calmly than she felt. “Is someone coming?”

“No. Er, not exactly. Just hang on a second.”

Kit waited, though it was nearly two minutes before Waid finally came back online.

“Okay. The good news is that you're only thirty feet from the entrance to the vault.”

Kit counted backward from ten in her head, trying not to snap at him. “What's the bad news?”

“It doesn't have an electronic lock,” Waid said, his electronic voice somber. “It's manual. The door is four inches of steel, and there are four men behind it, armed to the teeth and ready for you.”

“No window, I assume?” Kit asked.

“No,” Waid said. “Which means we either give up now, or James has to teleport blind into a small space filled with people.”

A probable death sentence, Kit knew.

Ray

After James returned him to his room at the facility, Ray had to rush to make his appointment. Fortunately he had access to the internal transportation system, so getting to the research labs wasn't an ordeal.

After Fairmont and the botched suicide attempt he had been driven to by his guilt, Ray had consented to being placed in a coma and studied. He'd had no desire to attempt a normal life under the weight of the lives he had taken, and the idea that he might be able to help appealed to him. Dr. Nunez and his staff had learned a lot about Next, and that was with his powers mostly dormant.

Part of the deal Archer had struck with Robinson to allow Ray to become an agent was the continuation of that work. Ray's powers had evolved, or at least attained more of their potential, and Nunez was eager to study every scrap of data he could get.

Nunez never seemed to sleep, and was happy to schedule appointments at whatever time was convenient for Ray.

The lobby of the lab was packed with younger members of the department, playing video games as usual. Buried deep within the massive complex, Ray had often wondered why a huge lobby was even needed. Nunez shared the opinion, and so he allowed his employees to use it as their recreation room.

Ray waved at them absently as he jogged past and hurried into the lab proper. The path through the winding halls was second nature to him by now, his feet taking him where he needed to go without much need to think about it. Several people greeted him as he moved by, and the massive geneticist—McDonald, Ray thought his name was—chuckled as he pointed out that he was close to being late.

Nunez was flexible about scheduling the appointments, but he expected you to be there on time.

Ray burst into the private lab set aside for him just as the PA system overhead chimed the hour. Nunez turned from his work station, smiling at Ray. “Cutting it a little close, aren't you?”

“Sorry,” Ray said. “Lost track of the time.”

Nunez waved a hand. “It is no problem. Go ahead and change. We'll begin when you're ready.”

Ray shucked out of his suit and into a set of mint green scrubs. He wore no jewelry, socks, shoes, or even underwear. As he had learned the hard way, messing around with his powers ran the risk of disintegrating whatever he happened to have on at the time.

“First come over here and have a seat,” Nunez said, patting an exam table. Ray complied, hauling himself up with a grunt. Nunez rolled a table over, which held a tray with several instruments and one hypodermic needle.

Nunez went about his business efficiently, attaching leads to Ray's chest, checking and recording vital signs, and lastly rolling up his sleeve before injecting the contents of the syringe into the meat of his shoulder.

“What was that?” Ray asked.

“Same as last time,” Nunez replied as he put a taped square of gauze over the injection site. “The tracking fluid I designed to measure the energy absorption capabilities of your cells.”

Ray nodded. Nunez had seemed quite proud in his explanation of the stuff, which was a specialized molecule that reacted in predictable ways to varying levels of Surge energy. Ray didn't have the science to understand it (and thought that maybe no one on earth besides Nunez did) but made sure to appear suitably impressed.

Which he was, just more along the lines of a cave man being awed by fire rather than any real grasp of the achievement.

“What's on the menu tonight?” Ray asked as Nunez moved the table back.

“First, the standard tests. We'll do the usual measurements, but I think we've got all the data we need from stress testing, so you can stop looking so worried.” Nunez smiled. He knew how much Ray disliked those tests.

Running hadn't been terrible, though he was prone to not working out as much as possible. The tilt table had been much worse, and the sensory deprivation tank had ended with a need to buy a new one. He doubted Nunez had put 'irritated disintegration' on the requisition form, but you never knew.

Ray wanted to tell Nunez about his experience with Kit tonight, how he had managed to boost her powers, but worried the news would bring too many questions. Instead he sat in silence as the doctor attached wires to the leads on Ray's chest and ran him through the usual battery.

“Exactly what I expected,” Nunez said a little while later, examining the results. “Your ability to retain energy seems to increase smoothly over time. Fascinating. I wonder if it is a result of practicing control, or whether your physiology simply responds to the need as you use your powers more. I wish we could test that.”

Ray said nothing, but grimaced. They could test those things. It was physically possible. They just weren't allowed to. Robinson had insisted on the testing, though his interest was based more on security than scientific curiosity. As a result, he'd had a panel of experts put together hard guidelines for the process, and anything requiring Ray to push his abilities was off limits.

“Ah, well,” Nunez said as he turned to face Ray. “We're still getting excellent data. Tell me, have you been working on refining your control over the Surge itself?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ray said casually. “I've got disrupting down, just need to get faster at it. You'll have to come up with something new for me to try pretty soon.” He said this with a disarming smile, but Nunez pursed his lips rubbing the back of his fingers along his beard thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Ray asked. “You're debating something.”

Nunez met his eyes, then seemed to come to a decision. “I have been studying you, your powers, your tissue samples, for years. The truth is that I have been struggling with whether to tell you everything we have learned from you, rather than just what has been approved.”

Ray blinked. “Wait, you mean there's more?”

Nunez nodded solemnly. “Much more. Most of it considered too dangerous for general consumption.”

“I'm all ears,” Ray said. “Especially if it's something that could prevent me from hurting people again.”

“As to that, I cannot be certain,” Nunez said. “Though I expect you may take some satisfaction in knowing just how much our research has expanded what we know about the Next.”

Ray gestured for the doctor to continue. Instead, Nunez asked a question.

“Do you know how many varieties of Next there are?”

Ray shook his head. “Too many to count. Fliers, speedsters...” He trailed off at Nunez shaking his head.

“No, that is not what I mean. Abilities are expressions of type, not necessarily indicators. What I'm talking about is more concrete. There are people like me, for example. My ability is singular; my intelligence is beyond anyone who has ever lived. By a large degree.”

Ray knew that for a certainty. He had once asked Nunez how many doctorates he had, and the man had shrugged. “Lost count,” he had said.

Nunez continued. “But if you used your disruptive abilities on me, I would not suddenly become stupid. Nothing would happen to me at all, in fact, except that during the brief time your powers were focused on me, I would not become more intelligent.”

Ray frowned. “Why?”

“Because my power shares qualities with Kitra's. It changes me on a physical level, and those changes cannot be undone. My memory is perfect, capable of remembering in ways normal humans cannot. My synapses are more efficient by magnitudes, and connected in ways even I do not fully understand. These are permanent changes, yet my powers constantly push my brain to new levels.”

He gave Ray a meaningful look. “As you no doubt have realized, the Next are slowly getting more powerful. What you may not know is that Next in proximity to you are doing so faster than the rest.”

Ray nodded. “Yeah, I figured that out. Because I'm slowly radiating Surge energy, right?”

“Yes,” Nunez said. “You break down matter and convert it into Surge power, which you are now learning to manipulate. This information, combined with knowing you are making others improve slightly faster, should tell you something.”

Ray might not have the genius the doctor possessed, but he was still fairly smart. “It's the Surge itself pushing our abilities. The amount of improvement is affected by the level of energy.”

“Correct,” Nunez said with an approving nod. “Every scrap of research points toward the Surge being an extra-dimensional energy, intruding into our universe despite numerous models predicting such an event being instantly and catastrophically destructive. That energy continues to intrude, and in greater concentrations.”

Ray was following along well enough. He had years of practice wrapping his head around similar concepts. Thanks, Star Trek.

“Which brings me to my point. There are Next whose powers change them physically, others who are otherwise human but capable of doing incredible things, and many degrees in between. The common factor between all of them is the fact that continued exposure to the Surge increases their abilities. The Surge itself is opening the floodgates in their genes ever wider.”

“Okay,” Ray said slowly, “so what does that have to do with me?”

“Everything,” Nunez said. “What happened at Fairmont obviously sent a concentrated wave of Surge energy around the world, pushing those floodgates open with a shove. That is why so many people developed powers so rapidly. But it worked first and most strongly on you. Your genetics, your physiology, is a road map to what all of us might become.”

There was something in his voice, a sort of restraint Ray couldn't put a finger on. For all his talk of telling Ray truths kept from him, instinct practically screamed that the man would continue to hold something back.

“So, what are we talking about here?” Ray asked lightly. “Am I going to grow some new arms, start hearing what animals are thinking?”

Nunez smiled flatly. “Less fantastic than that,” he said. “The long and short of it is that we have discovered that every Next has the same genes when it comes to their abilities. Fliers have certain combinations of genes turned on, people with super speed others. But all have the potential for every ability.”

Nunez leaned forward. “I believe the Surge may be able to unlock more abilities. Not on its own, but when directed, pushed.” His eyes bored into Ray. “By you.”

Kit

“I'm on record saying this is the worst idea anyone has ever had, right?” James asked.

“Noted,” Kit replied. “Still gonna do it.”

They stood in front of the vault door, which didn't resemble its name at all. It was a plain steel door with a heavy, custom locking mechanism built into it, set in a concrete wall. Waid had given them the dimensions of the room beyond, along with a running commentary of the activity behind the door. They—meaning Kit—had come up with a workable idea, though it would mean disaster for all of them if she failed.

At worst, she would be killed and her identity revealed. That would almost certainly make James and Waid fugitives, as any investigator worth the title could figure out the teleporter and technopath had to be connected to her.

She would be dead, and thus beyond worrying about it, but she had no desire to ruin their lives if avoidable.

“I'm ready,” Kit said.

She held a baton in each hand, arms and legs spread wide. James touched her shoulder and suddenly she was falling. This time it wasn't from cruising altitude and she was ready for it.

The batons were already swinging as she materialized facing down in the air above the guards behind the door. While the floor space was limited, the ceiling was eleven feet high, giving her enough room to appear without doing so inside the space occupied by another body.

The flash of light signaling her arrival wasn't bright enough to distract the guards from their intense concentration. Right on cue, James slammed something into the door, causing a distraction.

None of them saw Kit coming. Or falling.

Two helmets cracked and split as the whistling tips of her batons smashed into them, the guards dropping instantly. Kit's knees came down on the other two men, her weight unexpected enough to drive them to their knees. She tried to catch herself as the fall and ensuing tangle of bodies threw her wildly off balance, and was met with partial success. Kit managed to get a hand under herself as she and the floor got reacquainted, but at the cost of several broken fingers.

Ignoring the flare of pain in her hand, Kit pushed against the ground for balance and donkey-kicked the two staggered guards in the chest. The force of it launched them up and back, helmets slamming on the far wall, while Kit was hurled forward. She spun and twisted as she tried to land in a crouch, but ended up sliding backward on her knees.

She waited for movement, but there was none. She quickly moved between the men, making sure she hadn't killed any of them.

All had pulses, and none of them were bleeding. All four had knots on their heads, and the two she had kicked probably sported broken ribs, but overall they seemed to be in good shape. There were none of the sounds or smells she would have recognized from a rib fragment sticking into a lung.

Kit signaled James to transport in, and they hurriedly restrained the unconscious men.

“I'm not going to be much help finding the hard copy,” Waid said over their earpieces. “There aren't any other guards inside the vault that I can see, and it looks like every inch of the place is covered by cameras.”

“Did you find anything new in any of the other systems?” Kit asked as she and James moved down a long concrete hallway toward the vault proper.

“No,” Waid said. “I'm still looking, but it appears the information I found before was scanned and entered in by mistake. Looks like that file was supposed to be in the vault, but got misplaced. You're going to be looking for shelf seven, but I don't know what section it'll be in. There's no electronic index for me to search, but the file I found before was labeled 2KF. Maybe look for that.”

“Okay,” Kit said. “We'll look around. Keep searching.”

“Will do,” Waid said.

James sighed. “How long do you think this will take?”

“We can't stay here too much longer,” Kit said. “Chances are someone is going to wonder why this place went radio silent, and that's going to bring attention.”

The hallway came to an end, capped by another heavy steel door. This one sat cracked open, a rock shoved between it and the jamb. Apparently the guards hadn't expected to lose.

Kit pushed the door open, ready to search her way through the vault's three levels. Instead, she stopped as soon as she took in what was in front of her.

“Holy shit,” James said as he stepped up beside her.

“Yeah,” Kit said.

Boxes of files were stacked in neat rows stretching all the way to the ceiling. They stood at the end of the rows, able to see the parallel towers running the length of the room. Kit counted twenty rows, and the room itself was nearly sixty feet deep.

Every single box was stamped 2KF.

“Dammit,” Kit said as they began pulling down boxes. “There's no way we're going to be able to search more than a fraction of this place.” She stopped, turning to James. “Wait. Between how much is here and how well organized it is, there has to be some kind of index. A file system, something. Look around.”

James darted away as Kit began to sort through the contents of a box. Her fingers blurred over the files, eyes scanning for anything that might stand out. From what she could tell, the entire box was full of records and invoices dealing with...concrete? There were reports on the strengths of different mixtures, costs per cubic yard, a yawn-inspiring variety of structural integrity estimates.

The next box wasn't much better. Rather than waste time looking all the way through each box, even by skimming, she risked missing something hidden by abandoning a box if the first few files were mundane things.

It was on the sixth container stuffed with files that the common thread between them became obvious; the sheer amounts of building materials and labor costs meant the records had to do with an enormous structure. An image from that very first box flashed in her mind, that of an inverted concrete dome, and it was suddenly obvious to her.

This was all from the facility. Her facility.

But why put it in this vault, secret it away? While the media was discouraged from discussing the underground structure, it wasn't as if people didn't know about it. There was no need to hide such boring information, at least not one apparent to her.

Hell, Kit even knew that someone, probably a group of people, had known Fairmont was going to happen. Had maybe even made it happen. That was the whole impetus behind tonight's activities. A quick scan of the dates on several pieces of paper confirmed that no one had been stupid enough to date any of it, leaving no obvious evidence that the research had been done before the destruction of the town.

What was it, then? What was she missing?

“Bingo,” Waid said through her ear bud. “There's a computer on the bottom level with an index on it. Thing is old, has no outside connections, but I made it in. I'm scanning the list now...”

James popped into existence just in front of the door, apparently alerted by Waid.

“Okay, I think I've got something. Head down to the bottom level and go to the fourth row to the right of the door. If I'm getting the system they're using, you want the sixth column back, boxes two and three.”

“From the top or bottom?” James asked as they jogged toward the stairs.

“No idea,” Waid said. “But you guys might want to hurry, the system is getting incoming calls. People are going to start noticing no one is home.”

Kit swore. “We need more time.” She put a hand on James' chest, stopping him. “Can you go up there and get him, and pop back directly to the vault?”

“Sure,” James said. “As long as I've been there before, it shouldn't be a problem.”

“Good,” Kit said. “Do it now, then the two of you run down to the bottom level. I'm going to make sure no one can get through that door.”

James vanished, and Kit ran back to the entrance. Pulling a handful of plastic bags out of a pouch she sized up the steel door and frame. She set the bags down and pulled a small container of putty from another pouch. With quick, efficient motions she slathered putty on the bags, stuffed them as far as she could into the crack between the door and frame, and stuck a thin piece of metal in each. The last bit was important; they wouldn't catch nearly as easily without those strips of magnesium.

Using a small but powerful butane torch cigarette lighter she'd picked up at a gas station, she lit the magnesium fuses and stepped back with her head turned away. Staring at a thermite reaction was a bad idea.

The bundles went up in sun-bright flares, the stench of burning metal suddenly oppressively strong. Kit kept her eyes squinted but still noticed when James reappeared, Waid at his side, both men giving startled yelps at the fiery halo surrounding the door.

After a short time the fuel burned out. Glowing metal showed at each of the spots she had rigged, sloppy welds formed. The one she was really worried about was the lock mechanism, but a quick glance was all she needed to see it wouldn't open short of being cut through.

“Think that bought us some time,” Kit said, gesturing for the others to follow.

When they reached the bottom floor and stopped in front of the column of boxes Waid indicated, Kit felt a rush of raw excitement. She grabbed the stack halfway up and put those boxes on the floor, taking off lids as fast as she could. James and Waid joined in without being asked.

“What am I looking for?” Kit asked as she scanned the contents.

“I'm not sure,” he replied. “The index was mostly stuff about the construction of the facility, based on the headings I read. The stuff on this level looks to be hard copy of the early responses to the Next. These boxes were labeled with a date before Fairmont, though. They were the only ones like that.”

Of course, there were no dates on the physical boxes. Kit lucked out and found something while digging into the second box. There was a lot of chemistry in there, right alongside medical records. Under the 'Subject' heading were the initials R.E.

Ray Elliot.

Something about the files bothered her, but she couldn't zero in on it. She needed more time.

“How much can you take with you when you teleport?” she asked James.

“I think I could take four or five boxes, if that's what you're asking,” he said. “More if I leave you two here and come back for you.”

“Do it,” Kit said. “Take this stack to my apartment, then we're out. Now that you've been here, we can come back if we need to. Assuming they don't move everything out of here after we leave.”

“Uh, guys,” Waid said, holding up a yellowed piece of paper. “You'll want to see this.”

“What is it?” Kit asked impatiently.

He handed the paper to her. It was a filing form, and while it was dated after Fairmont, it clearly listed the contents of the box Kit had been looking through. In the same handwriting was a signature Kit knew well.

Robinson.

Ray

The next morning Ray made his way to the main office as usual. He spotted Kovacs catching up on paperwork, and was about to move toward his desk when someone tugged on his elbow. He stiffened, unused to the contact since most people were terrified of him—and the hand let go.

“Sorry,” Graysen Ross said as he turned toward her. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

Ray waved away the apology. “No problem,” he said lightly. “I'm always a little jumpy before my first cup of coffee. What can I do for you?”

While it was still too early for her classes to have begun, it was still odd to see the trainee here. The office was generally avoided by them, an unspoken agreement between agents who didn't want to be bothered and trainees who desperately wanted to avoid rocking the boat.

“I need to see Director Singh,” she said nervously. Ray took a moment to really look at her, and found himself concerned. Had it been any other trainee he would have assumed they were looking for favor or trying to ingratiate themselves to the boss. Graysen had no need, of course, having saved Kit's life. This young woman had the dark circles and nervous tics of someone who had missed sleep and was being shredded by anxiety.

“Why don't you just make an appointment with her receptionist?” Ray asked.

Graysen shook her head. “I tried, but the secretary said she took the day off.”

Alarm bells went off in Ray's head. Kit had called off again? Or had Archer covered for her? Ice water ran through his veins at the thought something might have happened to her on last night's mission.

“Why are you asking me?” Ray asked, mostly to give himself a few seconds to think.

“Because people say you spend time with her. You two are friends. If you're not comfortable, it's okay. I just...it's really important. For her.”

Ray heard no lie in those words. If anything, the raw desperation in Graysen's voice made him suspect she was downplaying how scared she was.

“Okay,” Ray said. “I'll make sure she gets the message.”

“Thank you,” the trainee said, grasping Ray's hand with both of hers. “I promised myself I wouldn't embarrass either of us by hugging you, but just know it's really hard not to right now.”

Ray gave her a crooked smile, only half-forced. “Appreciated.”

He didn't have a chance to work out an excuse to run to Archer, because ten seconds later a voice spoke over the intercom asking Agent Cassidy to please report to the director's office. Ray wasted no time getting up the steps, and didn't slow down a bit when Nicki, the receptionist, looked up from her computer at his arrival. He went into the office and closed the door.

Archer was not alone.

“Lock the door behind you,” Archer said.

Ray did so, then moved forward to stand between the two men sitting in front of the desk. Waid looked tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, while James Shane seemed no worse for the wear. The latter wore the bland grays of a prisoner, still festooned with silver inhibitor cuffs on hands, ankles, and neck.

Archer nodded to Waid, who gave a thumbs-up. Then the big man raised an eyebrow at Ray, who got the message. He quickly scanned the room for anyone watching through the Surge.

“Clear,” Ray said. “Now, what's going on? Is Kit okay?”

“She's not hurt,” Archer said carefully. “Or taken prisoner. She's just taking an extra day.”

There was enough left unsaid in that statement to fill a book, Ray judged. “What aren't you telling me?”

To Ray's surprise, it was James who answered. “We found more than we expected. I managed to move a bunch of files back to Kit's place, and she's still looking through them.”

“I assume you've already heard all this,” Ray said to Archer.

“Yeah,” Archer replied. “I had to sneak James back into his cell early this morning, and he gave me a full report.”

There was still a heavy tension in the room, the sort you feel when you're waiting at the hospital for a loved one to pass away but can't bring yourself to talk about it. There was something almost funny about it. Ray couldn't help taking in the body language of the other three men, the lines around their mouths and furrowed brows, without imagining Kit at home, doubtlessly angry and trying to solve whatever problem had shaken these men so deeply.

“First thing we found was that Robinson knew about Fairmont, just like Archer thought,” Waid said. “He was the one to file away the reports about whatever was done to you, Ray.”

A cold waved seemed to wash over him, though Ray's heart felt like it was on fire. Habit and training took over, his brain forcing him toward calm. For the first time since the day he had destroyed an entire community, Ray didn't' want to be calm. Sure, they had suspected Robinson for a long time, but having it confirmed was different, more real. Schrodinger's cat was out of the box, no longer a field of vague possibility.

“You're sure?” Ray asked.

Archer nodded. “First thing they found was a box of notes and reports chronicling the properties of whatever you were treated with. None of us has the education to fully grasp it, but from what we can gather it was designed to push your powers to uncontrollable levels and keep them there. They made you into a bomb, Ray. Before they came back here, James and Waid stayed with Kit long enough to confirm that they planned this to happen at Fairmont during the bourbon festival. This was intentional from start to finish.”

Ray stumbled, the world washing out at the edges of his vision. The guilt he carried was still there, but now dwarfed by a rage suffusing his entire being.

He found himself sitting in a chair, James Shane standing next to him. The man must have guided him there, though Ray couldn't remember it. He'd almost passed out.

“What's our next move?” Ray asked, his voice shaky with anger. “Is there any way we can go after Robinson?”

Archer met his gaze and held it. “Legally? I don't think so. People in power obviously knew about this, but if I'm being honest I think the only thing that would happen if we showed our hand to anyone would be our arrest and quiet exile into a cell so deep we'd never see daylight again.”

“But we are going after him, right?” Ray growled. “There's no way we're just going to give up.”

Archer put up his hands in a calming gesture. “We're not giving up,” he said. “Though we can't risk you losing control. Kit is going to handle this part, Ray.”

“What?” Ray said through gritted teeth. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? This man ruined my life, Archer! He turned me into a mass murderer. You can't sideline me on this.”

“I can, and I am,” Archer said, his voice steel with authority. “I know how much you must hate me for this, Ray, and I don't blame you. I can't risk putting you in a position with that much emotional baggage. Kit is going to confront Robinson, while you and I stay here and act nice and normal.”

Ray tried to find words, desperate for the perfect explanation that would change his boss's mind. The finality of Archer's orders was clear, however. There would be no reasoning with him.

After a long and uncomfortable silence, Archer leaned forward. “I do think it would be good for you to see what the others brought back first-hand, so today your assignment will officially be helping Director Singh as she works from home. I'll send the order out to Kovacs after you leave.”

“What's he going to be doing while I'm helping Kit?” Ray asked. “It's not like we can risk him taking a look at what's in those files.”

Archer smiled. “You think a lot like me, you know,” he said. “Kovacs is under the impression that Kit is staying home because a threat has been made against her, and while she isn't worried for herself, she wants to protect my niece and her building from becoming collateral damage.”

Despite his anger, Ray laughed. “Kovacs will sit at a table, eat free food, and get paid for it. Smart.”

Archer gave a little bow. “It's glorified guard duty, but he'll be fine with it. The guy isn't a stranger to sitting and waiting for something bad to happen. He did a couple tours in the middle east, after all.”

Ray did as he was told, though a small part of him continued to burn with anger and hate, a portion of which now included a space for Archer. Reasonable or not, Ray couldn't help feeling betrayed. Robinson would pay. Somehow.

The Bean was busy when they arrived, mostly filled with neighborhood locals coming in for daily favorites before the larger lunch crowd showed up. Ray introduced Kovacs to Peep, who was acting as hostess. It was a position most cafes and diners didn't bother with, but it was difficult not to be charmed by the sunny warmth of the attentive and beautiful woman buzzing around like a honeybee.

“I suggest the BLT,” Ray said to Kovacs as he prepared to join Kit in her apartment. “Text me if you need me.”

Kovacs settled back in his booth, already getting comfortable, and raised the steaming cup of coffee that had been put in his hand almost before he'd been seated. “Same to you. I'm just a floor away.”

Ray let Peep guide him through the kitchen and unlocked the door leading to the apartment. He thanked her and stepped inside, the low rumble of conversation and rhythmic chime of utensils on stoneware suddenly cut off by the muffled clang of the closing door.

It was replaced by music. Ray made his way up the stairs to the melancholy notes of a familiar voice, a band called The Frames he had listened to growing up. The song was new, doubtless something recorded during his coma years, but the sound was unmistakable.

The slow, melodic song could not have been a more stark contrast to the scene beyond the open door of the apartment. Boxes, at least a dozen he could see, lay strewn about. Their tops had been piled in a corner, and not neatly. The floor was covered in papers like drifts of snow. There were neat stacks in places, ordered sets laying flat in others, and the madness even crept up the furniture and across the walls, pages taped in some cryptic pattern to the aging drywall.

In the middle of the paper maelstrom sat Kit, legs curled beneath her as she held pages in each hand, eyes scanning the words.

“Holy crap,” Ray said.

“Yeah, it's a lot to take in,” Kit said, not looking up.

Ray stepped inside, careful to avoid ruining any pages. “What is all this?”

“It's a time line,” Kit said, her voice liquid with the slightly-too-fast cadence she used when working at super speed. “Most of what we could find was stuff about the facility. These files are more specific. Government research on the Next from years before Fairmont, threat assessments, and of course the weird cocktail they hit you with to make you go critical.”

He bent down and snagged a piece of paper from the floor. It was the top page in one of the neat piles, a summary page about a biological delivery system for a chemical agent. Ray scanned over it quickly, but with enough care to be certain it was about him.

“Jesus,” he said breathed. “They really didn't take any chances, did they? Designer chemical to force my powers to overload, designer germs to carry it. I can't imagine what their endgame was. More power? Putting people in a state of fear to give them more control?”

Kit set her pages down and turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were rimmed in red, her cheeks ruddy. He had seen her in weaker moments after the death of Thomas Maggard, when her defenses were low. She looked more haunted now. Strange as it was, Ray understood. Maybe others didn't get Kit, but he did. Poor Thomas never had a chance; a child that age with that sort of power simply didn't have the ability to cope with the horrific actions he had taken. His death was one life to save many.

But this was truly monstrous. The deliberate and careful planning of it smacked of a callousness toward human life scarcely believable outside of mustache-twirling movie villains.

“Thing is,” Kit said, her voice slowing back to normal, “I'm not convinced this was some big government conspiracy.”

Ray eyed her disbelievingly. “Didn't you guys get all this stuff from, you know, a big secret government vault?”

Kit waved a hand. “The cover-up, sure, that was definitely handled at least by the NSA and a couple other agencies. What I mean is that everything leading up to Fairmont seems to have been handled by a very small group.”

“How do you figure?” Ray asked. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

She stood, waving a hand across the field of paperwork. “Almost all of the documentation about what they did to you is written in a consistent style. Most of the handwritten parts were penned by the same person. It's weird, and doesn't make sense.”

Ray let that linger in the air for a moment. “I guess you're gonna ask Robinson about that, huh?” he asked.

“You're goddamned right,” Kit said. “Pointedly.”

Robinson

The car dropped him off at home, and not for the first time Robinson wondered what the driver thought about the odd comings and goings of his frequent passenger. Though he worked primarily in Virginia and D.C., sometimes even being caught on television cameras, most nights he returned to his home in North Carolina. In the early days, the driver had commented on how he had seen a live news feed of Robinson at the White House, only to pick him up from the usual spot near a favored local diner a quarter hour later.

Even if he wanted to explain the daily duties of Wes Christjansen, Robinson couldn't. His own rules prevented him from doing so. And though he would never admit it, part of him enjoyed the air of mystery people had created around him.

“Good night, Chuck,” Robinson said as he handed the driver a tip. Chuck was a good man, one who had learned the importance of not asking too many questions after Robinson answered that first—and only—question with the dead stare he had once used on raw recruits.

“Have a good evening, sir,” Chuck said, then waved a goodbye.

“Unlikely,” Robinson muttered to himself as the car sped away.

He entered through the front door, a slab of ancient wood oiled and polished by four generations of his family. The house itself was like the thousand acres it sat on; old and cultured but well cared for. In its halcyon days the ancestral home had been a farmhouse, large enough for the posse of children every traditional Catholic family was bound to possess. In the years since it had been repaired and added to, remodeled and refined.

Now it was his, and for all the appearance of the grand old lady it was, the house hid many interesting new features. The inner face of the door, for example, was covered with an experimental alloy to prevent anyone from cutting through it. The locks were state of the art biometrics, and every floor and wall was laced with micro-sensors to detect intruders. There were even several countermeasures he had never been brave enough to test, though the thick instruction manual he had been given explained them in detail.

It was an expensive retrofit, one many might consider overkill since the old man was the only occupant. The justification was that of all the people in Cabinet-level positions, he was the one the country was least able to lose. Whether that reasoning was true was a matter for debate, though it could not be argued that Robinson had come up with solutions where others had failed in regard to the Next.

Indeed, the ten million dollars spent upgrading his home into a fair impression of a fortress was not money wasted. That it failed was not its fault. There was no deficit of imagination or design, but the simple fact that no engineer or programmer alive was capable of defending against this particular sort of assault.

The system did what it was supposed to do, letting Robinson in and reacting automatically to his presence. There was nothing in the familiar set of beeps and whirring noises as the locks engaged on their own to give him pause. He ascended the creaking stairs tiredly, but without fear. The long day weighed on him, and if he still had the physique of a younger man, his age showed in just how hard these long days were getting, to say nothing of the stress.

Call it a combination of exhaustion and complacence, but Robinson thought nothing of the door to his study being open just a crack. He entered the room, lights flicking on to predetermined levels automatically, and moved toward the large desk. Two fingers of the vodka he'd acquired a taste for in Saigon would do nicely.

At nearly the same moment his briefcase rattled onto the smooth top of the desk, the door slammed shut behind him.

Robinson spun, instinct forcing him to reach for a sidearm he no longer carried. He stared at the form standing in front of the scarred bookcases running from floor to ceiling, only broken by the door. For a few seconds he was confused, unable to grasp how anyone else could have gotten in without tripping the alarms.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” Robinson asked.

Kitra Singh gave him a death's head smile, the dark grin of a soldier about to do something reckless. “We need to have a talk, Mr. Secretary.”

She lurched forward. Robinson tried to fight back, futile as the gesture was. In the end, he was an old man. Had he been thirty years younger, it likely wouldn't have made a difference. She was what he made her to be, after all, and men with abilities far beyond his own had proven no challenge to her.

In less than a second she had his arms twisted behind his back.

“We're going to take a trip,” she said.

There was a flash of light, and they were gone.

Kit

She was already shoving Robinson away from her body when they arrived. The environment couldn't have been more different from the cozy, climate-controlled home they left behind seconds before. The old man tried to catch himself as he fell, one hand gouging a furrow in the sandy earth. He rolled to a stop, helped along by the stunted bushes dotting the landscape.

Kit coldly watched him collect himself. When Robinson stood he was dirty and scuffed, suit ruined. A part of her took deep satisfaction from that alone. Here, he wasn't the quiet man of power, feared and respected as he slid through the background.

“Please go back and retrieve our friend,” Kit said to James without taking her eyes off Robinson. She didn't want to name Waid, who was still in his hiding place in Robinson's house keeping the security system in check.

“When do you want me back here?” James asked.

“Take your time,” Kit said. “I'm sure we've got a lot to discuss. And I'm perfectly comfortable, so no rush.”

Robinson watched this exchange carefully, and Kit saw the tendon in his jaw twitch. She hadn't lied, she was comfortable. But then, the cold didn't affect her much. Her Next abilities saw to that.

The old man, however, wasn't so lucky. Kit thought she saw him suppress a shiver.

“Where are we?” Robinson asked after James popped away.

“I'm not sure,” Kit said. “Somewhere in South America, I think. James said he knew a nice, quiet place where the two of us wouldn't be bothered.”

The night was clear, though the thin sliver of moon didn't shed enough light to give much of a view of the world below. “This is a mesa,” Kit said. “Pretty tall one, too.”

Robinson set his jaw. “You planning to throw me off, Kitra?”

Kit gave him her sweetest smile. “Depends on what you have to say.”

He measured her quickly, a familiar experience from years of working under the man. With a sigh, he ambled toward one of the many large rocks scattered about and took a seat. “If you're going to kill me, I might as well be comfortable beforehand.”

The dry tone made Kit hesitate. She was reminded in that moment why Robinson wielded the sort of power he did. In a world of grandstanding politicians bent on using the moment to get the upper hand, he was a pragmatist. The sort of men who ran continuous election campaigns, the next beginning at the end of the last like a gross impression of a snake eating its own tail, would not have acceded to the reality of this situation so easily. There would have been bluster and threats.

Robinson merely sat with a tired grunt, and massaged his ribs.

Was this the sort of man who would plan the destruction of an entire town? Only one way to find out.

“Tell me about Fairmont,” Kit said softly as she padded toward a rock of her own.

Understanding flashed in Robinson's eyes. “You were the ones who hit the vault,” he said, not guessing. “You used James Shane to get inside.”

“I want to know everything,” she said. “Why you seemed to have known about it beforehand, why Ray was targeted, all of it.”

Robinson shook his head ruefully. “The funny thing is, you would have learned most of this soon enough. The vault was on the list of things I needed you to be aware of, should something happen to me.”

“Then you won't mind telling me now,” Kit said. “I think I've shown I'm willing to do what it takes to get answers.”

Robinson nodded soberly. “That you have. I shouldn't be surprised, really. I know how protective you are over the people you care about. Why would this be any different?”

He swallowed several times, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. “I suppose I should start at the beginning...”

“A few months before the disaster at Fairmont, I began receiving messages from an anonymous source. At first they seemed like the normal crank letters. You know the kind; conspiracy theorists convinced the government has secret alien ships locked up in the desert, that sort of thing. The only reason they reached my desk at all was because of the threats they warned of. Not invasion or anything fanciful, but realistic descriptions of all-too-credible threats.”

Robinson paused. “Understand, these letters were addressed to me personally. I was chosen as the recipient because, according to the author, I was reasonable enough to at least consider them.”

He sighed. “The author was right. Though the content of the letters was at first heavy with what we thought to be science fiction, soon enough we learned the truth. Our anonymous writer told us about a fire before it happened. He gave us details about where and when, along with a description of the circumstances.”

“You're not telling me he could see the future,” Kit said.

“No,” Robinson said. “The writer had been observing a man who he claimed had the ability to create fire from his own body. We thought it was nonsense, of course, but the urgency of the message made it memorable. Imagine my surprise when the fire happened exactly as described.”

Ah, now it made sense to her. “You thought your mystery man set the fire to keep his delusion alive.”

Robinson nodded. “Something like that. I had the FBI take over the investigation, and checked it out myself. We expected to find a mentally ill man in need of help, to protect himself and others. What we actually got was precisely what was promised. By the time I arrived, the investigation was well under way. In my briefing I learned that there was a single survivor of the blaze, a man at the point of origin. He was found naked and unconscious, but without a single burn. Even his hair was untouched.”

“You became a believer,” Kit said.

“Not immediately,” Robinson said with a shrug. “Had I been told about the unhurt man in the fire without any context, I'd have written it off as bizarre but overall unimportant. With what I had been told, though, I was forced to admit the possibility existed that a new type of human being was appearing. The author was the first to refer to them—to you—as Next.”

The stoic demeanor cracked, showing Kit one of the rare moments of the man beneath. The pained expression didn't touch Robinson's voice, however.

“We studied the fire starter,” he said. “Little more than a week later, we got another letter. This time we paid attention. Our preliminary tests on the man, who was kept in an empty concrete cell, supported the things our anonymous friend was telling us. I watched him burst into flames personally, not ten feet away.”

“What was the next incident?” Kit prodded, filled with enough genuine curiosity to make her forget to be angry, at least momentarily.

“It was at a shopping mall,” Robinson said. “A young woman working at a sporting goods store suddenly developed immense strength and total invulnerability in the middle of her shift. Our warning was less specific this time, only telling us the location of the mall and what day it was likely to happen.”

Kit whistled. “A Black Band?”

Robinson nodded. “Close enough. She tried to hand change to a customer and broke the man's arm. When she jerked back at his scream, she launched herself into a wall. Her body had no time to adjust. There was none of the gradual acclimation we usually see. One minute she was average, or near to it, the next she's tearing through walls and glass windows. Our people were on site, though they didn't know what was happening until the poor girl crashed through the railing on the second floor and landed twenty feet below, totally unharmed. It took them several minutes to calm her enough to allow the agents to take her into custody.”

The old man looked up, though whether he was stargazing or just trying to clear his head, Kit didn't know.

“We spread the story that the girl had taken drugs, and people were willing enough to believe it. The cover-up was difficult, given the large number of witnesses, and it became my full-time job as the weeks progressed. More incidents happened, one after another. On Monday I might be in Vermont trying to think of a way to contain a man whose control over water caused him to drown his wife while they slept. On Thursday I would be in California, consoling a child who tried to run away from her bullies and moved at supersonic speeds and afterward was unable to move even a pinky without breaking the sound barrier.”

Kit blew out a breath. “You must have suspected your writer had something to do with this, right?”

“Of course,” Robinson said. “I wrote him personally, using instructions for a dead drop he included with every message. I wanted to know everything; how he knew about these incidents beforehand, what his role might be. The response came via email, from an encrypted account we had no way to trace. He explained that his research had him stumble across the Next years before, and that he had come up with a way to locate them. Only those whose powers had grown to a certain point, he said, which allowed him to measure the rate of increase. This allowed him to predict when those incidents would occur.”

Kit raised an eyebrow. “If that's the case, why don't we have access to that technology now? The only scanner I've seen capable of detecting Surge energy was the size of an X-Ray machine.”

“You're getting ahead of me,” Robinson said, a note of pride in his voice. “At the time we had no reason to doubt the claim, though we were far from trusting. When I asked how he was able to test so many people across such large distances, he said that answering would potentially identify him. By then I was in charge of a task force composed of every agency with initials, and I put a team on trying to figure out what connection the Next we found might have. We needed to bring this man in, if for nothing else to get our hands on his technology.”

“We failed,” Robinson said. “The months wore on and no leads appeared. We dealt with bigger and worse situations, until one day I got a message that changed everything. I can see you've guessed, Kitra. It was Fairmont. He told us what would happen, the scale of it. Our anonymous author explained that there were certain Next he called Batteries, whose powers slowly magnified those of other Next around them. This particular Battery was a magnitude beyond any he had seen before. He could siphon energy from matter and convert it into Surge power. This also meant he could release it in huge waves rather than the normal slow radiation.”

“He told us what would happen,” Robinson continued, his voice cracking. “He knew the scale of it, the destruction it would cause. He didn't know precisely when or where, but it would be in Kentucky.”

“Go on,” Kit said. “I'm still waiting to hear your explanation for all the medical data we found about Ray.”

“That came later,” Robinson said. “Before Fairmont, all we knew was what we were told. Due to the scope of what we knew was coming, we didn't send any agents. There was nothing we could do, not with the vague information available. We were in the task force offices when the news hit. Literally five minutes after every channel on the planet switched to reporting on the disaster, a man walked into our office.”

Kit perked up. This was what she had been waiting for.

“He didn't introduce himself by name, not at first,” Robinson said. “He identified himself as the man I had been corresponding with, and showed me copies of his letters as proof. Much as I wanted him in an interview room, he insisted we speak privately.”

Now the cracks in Robinson's countenance split and shattered, revealing anger the likes of which Kit had never seen from the man.

“He told me the truth, then; that he had been the one setting off all the Next. He had developed some kind of treatment designed to temporarily overload their powers. He said this as calmly and pleasantly as if he were discussing his kid's baseball game. I sat there, so angry it paralyzed me. I knew if I moved, I'd kill him. The death toll from Fairmont was impossible to calculate that early on, but certainly thousands had died. Given the bourbon festival, we expected potentially tens of thousands by the time the counting was done.”

“When I asked him why he would kill so many people, there seemed to be real sadness in him,” Robinson said. “I know that sounds impossible to believe, but I've been measuring men a long, long time. This man admitted what he had done, and felt sadness at the act. That's the scariest sort of person...”

Kit nodded. “I remember. You said it a lot during the early days of my training. People who are willing to do something they know is wrong for what they think is a greater good. I always thought there were more shades of gray than that.”

“There are,” Robinson agreed. “We're proof of that, aren't we? What you did with the Maggard boy was necessary, after all.”

Kit nodded. “What did he say? The man behind this, I mean.”

“That it was an unavoidable decision,” Robinson said. “Every document he showed me is—or was—in the vault. He had reams of data in his briefcase, carefully explaining how the Next had to be pushed forward. How a Battery had to be overloaded in order to kick start powers and increase them in people who were already developing them.”

“Why?” Kit asked, completely baffled.

“His explanation was that doing what he did to Ray Elliot meant forcing people to learn how to use their powers sooner rather than later. His calculations predicted a point not far down the road where multiple Batteries would unleash their power in a short period of time, drastically increasing the level of Surge energy. Making nearly every Next just like that girl in the mall.”

The dark logic of it was clear to her. “By doing it, he also forced those other Batteries to learn to control their powers. It probably kept them from going nuclear.”

Robinson nodded. “Yes. I'm condensing a lot, here, but you've got the basic shape of it. We took him into custody, of course. At the time I was still trying to process what happened in Fairmont, so I didn't think of what I was doing when I reported all of this to my superiors. Had I taken the time, I would have waited. An hour later, he was gone from our custody. A day after that I was sent in to handle securing what was left of Fairmont. I learned a short time later that our mystery man had planned much further ahead than anyone knew. It was his idea to build the facility. He knew we'd need a place to put the more dangerous Next.”

“You said you didn't learn his name until later,” Kit interjected. “I'm guessing you ran into him again?”

Robinson nodded wearily. “I have no idea what kind of leverage he had, but rather than put the man into a cell inside some mountain and pretend he didn't exist, he was put on the payroll. The groundwork was being laid for the DSA, and while I oversaw the cleanup and construction, people way above my pay grade were considering me for secretary of the department. As such, I had to choose key personnel, but one position in the hierarchy we had in place at the time had been filled. Head of Research. I was too busy to visit the lab set up for him, but the reports I read claimed this scientist was making huge leaps in our understanding of the Next. It was several months before I finally met him, and when I did, I recognized him at once. My anonymous writer and mass murderer.”

Robinson met Kit's eyes. “You know him as Dr. Nunez.”

Ray

The intercom in his room blared, jolting him into angry consciousness. Ray had taken medicine to help him sleep, and even then it had been past two in the morning before he finally managed it. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Just past four. What the hell?

“Ray,” came Archer's tired voice. “Get dressed, you have an emergency.”

“What is it?” Ray asked, instantly awake. He snatched clothes from the dresser, certain that being called up in the wee hours of the morning could be nothing good.

“That guy you left on the rooftop, Frank Brawner?” Archer said. “He's standing on top of that new office building they're working on downtown. He has a hostage, and he's only willing to talk to you.”

Ray froze. “A hostage?”

“Yeah,” Archer's tinny voice said from the intercom, thick with emotion. “It's Graysen Ross. She was out with some of the other trainees last night, but said she was heading back early. Not feeling well. She never got back.”

“Fuck,” Ray said, furious with himself. “I'm such an idiot! Fuck!”

“Just get up here,” Archer said. “Kovacs is getting ready, too. He's on call tonight, so grab him on your way up. Don't focus on blaming yourself right now, Ray. Just think about getting Graysen home safe.”

Ray grunted and pulled on a t-shirt. “What kind of backup am I getting?”

There was a loaded pause as he pulled on a pair of jeans. “Archer?”

“No backup,” Archer said reluctantly. “Not close, anyway. He says if he sees cops or agents, she dies.”

Ray swore, even more colorfully this time. “No snipers or anything, I guess?”

“The cops are looking into it, but probably not. The building he picked was a good one. There aren't any good lines of sight. Not ones that will guarantee the shooters won't be seen. If the police come up with something, they'll let us know.”

An empty building, a psychotic with enhanced strength and durability, and no backup except Kovacs, who had the same frailties as any other human being. Great.

Ray slipped his holster and pulse gun onto his hip as he went out the door, tennis shoes squeaking on the concrete. Kovacs came out of the on-call barracks before Ray even got close to it, much less knock. The two of them ran to the nearest transport, a very basic elevator housed behind a wall panel that opened to the touch. This one was an emergency lift, not meant for everyday use. It went directly to the top level, which would make the trip much faster.

After the lift, they ran. Ray blew past Archer, who was waiting in the main office with a set of keys.

“God, I hope we're not too late,” Ray said as they tore away from the facility a minute later, headlights spearing through the predawn gloom.

“Radio check,” Archer said through Ray's earpiece.

“Clear,” Ray said.

“Clear,” Kovacs said.

“We'll be listening on this end,” Archer said. “I've got a hostage negotiator ready to patch in. Brawner is using a cell phone to contact us, and we can put him through to you if we need to. Other than that, we're flying blind.” Archer paused, then: “Try not to piss this guy off.” There was no trace of humor in the words.

“We won't,” Kovacs said. “Professional all the way. Neither of us wants anything to happen to that kid.”

They parked two blocks east of their destination. Ray was supposed to show up alone, but Kovacs was having none of it.

“I'll be there,” Kovacs said before they separated. “Not far behind you. He can't watch everywhere at once. After he sees you move in through the eastern entrance, I'll move around and come in from the west.”

“If you think you can do it without being seen,” Ray said hesitantly.

“I can,” Kovacs said reassuringly. “This isn't my first rodeo. We'll get her out safe. Just distract him when you get to the roof. Stall him.”

Ray nodded, then jogged off. He channeled his stores of energy into his own body, strengthening muscles, joints, and bones. He pushed until the sensation became almost painful, then backed off a little.

Never had he felt so alive, so powerful. The pavement blurred beneath his sneakers as his feet pounded against it with rhythmic slaps. The run took him a fraction of the time it would have otherwise, and when he approached the temporary fence surrounding the work site Ray didn't even slow.

From a dead run he jumped, curling his body in a partial front flip. His hands caught the top of the fence, directing his momentum up and over. Ray didn't stick the landing, however, overcompensating slightly as he came back to earth and not planning for the small pile of scrap lumber sitting near the inside of the fence. Luckily he managed to land without breaking anything, and darted toward the eastern door without too much self-recrimination.

Ray pounded up the steps two at a time, desperate to get to the top. The building wasn't exceptionally tall for the city, but was far enough away from the other high rises to stand out.

Still, he wished for a working elevator. Awesome super powers notwithstanding, Ray was gasping for air by the time he reached the top, his legs burning with what he knew would be agonizing soreness tomorrow. More than a fair trade if he got Graysen out of this alive.

He paused at the door leading to the roof. Brawner was unstable, but Ray wasn't sure if murder was in his nature. While Ray didn't want the girl harmed, he didn't fancy walking through the door without his pulse gun ready on the off chance he could get in a shot first.

Ray turned the handle slowly, then braced himself against the door to hold it open. He stepped through, pulse gun moving with his gaze as it swept across the roof.

No sign of Brawner.

Ray moved out and turned, checking around the entrance carefully. His first impression was right; Brawner was not on the roof. Graysen, however, was. He nearly looked past her, a dark tangle amid the white gravel on the roof. Ray rushed over and checked her pulse. Alive, if unconscious.

Deep, red rage filled him as he tried to move her. Half of Graysen's face was bruised, centered in a fist-shaped oval on her left temple and orbital ridge. There was swelling but no obvious deformity, though they would have to get X-Rays done to be sure no bones were broken. Ray sat her upright, which was when he discovered the handcuffs.

Her right wrist was locked to a low pipe running from an AC unit. Ray made short work of it, wrapping his hand around the chain and channeling a brief but intense disintegration field from his palm. The chain and locking mechanisms of the cuffs fell to dust, the remaining solid parts falling to the gravel with a muffled pinging noise.

“Graysen, wake up,” Ray said, gently patting the uninjured side of her face. There was no reaction at all. He tried to think of something he could do to wake her without hurting her, but nothing came to mind.

Then he had it.

Ray focused himself just as he had done in Kit's apartment, and sent a burst of energy through the girl.

She woke with a gasp, eyes the size of saucers. She looked at Ray, who held her shoulders gently while he crouched, then at the night sky. The momentary confusion dissipated in a few seconds. Graysen gave a small moan, putting a hand gingerly to her swollen face.

“I was going to ask what happened,” she rasped, massaging her throat, “but I remember now. That son of a bitch caught me off guard while I was walking back to my car. Punched me in the face.”

With her mobile, Ray could see the regularly-spaced bruises on her throat. “He choke you, too?”

She nodded. “I woke up after he got me up here and cuffed. I managed to kick him in the balls pretty hard. He must have cut off my air long enough to knock me back out. Fucker.”

“Don't worry, he's gonna get his,” Ray said. “But for right now, we need to get you out of here. Can you walk?”

She nodded, pushing herself shakily to her feet. Ray reached out and caught her shoulders again, steadying her.

“Thanks,” she said. “Little dizzy.”

Ray shook his head. If he took the hits she looked to have taken, chances were good he'd have been more than just a little dizzy. Tough as nails, this kid.

Before they could take more than a few steps toward the door, heavy footsteps rang out from the stairs. Ray cursed under his breath. “Think you can fly?” he asked hopefully.

“Not flying, exactly,” she said in a tone that implied she explained this often. “It's just picking which direction I fall...” She winced, shaking her head. “No, I don't think it'd be safe. Even touching my powers made me dizzy.”

There was a deafening clang as the door was kicked open. Brawner stepped around the corner, a body over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. He caught sight of Ray and Graysen, white teeth gleaming in the darkness as he smiled. “Well, there you are,” he said, tossing his burden to the gravel.

Kovacs tumbled bonelessly, sending a small wave of loose stone rolling across the roof. Ray's heart tried to burst from his chest, half in rage and half worry. He let the Surge roll up into his vision, trying to see if the man was alive.

The cold green filter over the world didn't help, of course. Kovacs wasn't Next. Even if he had been, bodies usually retained Surge energy for a time after death.

“Oh, don't worry,” Brawner said, his voice casual. “Your partner is fine, even though I told you to come alone. I hardly had to try. Caught him from behind.”

“I'm here,” Ray said through gritted teeth. “Like you wanted. Let them go and you can do what you like with me.”

Brawner laughed so hard he bent at the waist, hands on knees. “Oh, God, that's rich,” he finally said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Wasn't it just a little while ago you were making fun of me for acting like something out of a movie? Now you stand there and talk like every hero in every damn story I've ever read. That's a lot of balls.”

Every muscle in Brawner's body looked ready to explode; his bare forearms were sharply defined ropes snaking around his bones. Worse was his Surge glow, which was much brighter than their previous meeting. With Kovacs unconscious and Graysen unable to safely use her powers, it would be up to him to stop this man.

Even with his own powers pushing his body to the peak of what it could do, he was nowhere near a match for Brawner physically. The other man clearly knew this as he grinned at Ray, savoring the moment.

“Throw your gun over the side of the roof,” Brawner said, “or I'll kick your partner in the head. And it won't be a love tap this time.”

Ray didn't hesitate to comply, not doubting for an instant the man was deadly serious.

“Now come over to me, and the girl can pull your buddy over there with her.”

Ray glanced back at Graysen, nodding to her. The young woman was hollow-eyed where she wasn't swollen, her skin pallid enough to notice even in the gloom, but she looked determined. Ray had no doubt she would do everything she could for Kovacs. Ray only wished he could do more himself.

He stepped forward, but before his foot could touch down he found his windpipe squeezed shut.

There was a sharp pain in his shoulder, though he was unable cry out.

“That's supposed to knock out your powers,” Brawner breathed in Ray's ear. “He told me it'd make you easy to handle for a few hours.”

Darkness began to creep in at the edges of Ray's vision. His hands tore at Brawner's arm ineffectively, weakening by the second. Just before unconsciousness could take him, Ray was thrown down. Gravel scraped his skin and tore his clothes, but no amount of discomfort could tarnish the sweet, heavenly joy of that next breath.

Not even the solid kick to his ribs that came next.

Within five seconds, that wonderful moment was forgotten. For the second time in handful of days, Ray was beaten. That was as far as the comparison could go, however. What James Shane had done to him had been the candle to this man's bonfire. Human strength could do enough damage to kill, certainly, but there were physical limits to consider. Not so with Brawner, who rained down kicks and punches with the precision of a surgeon.

Ray wasn't hit anywhere that could kill him outright. Once or twice, Brawner stepped in to slam his head against the ground, more to keep him disoriented than cause harm. Brawner didn't want him alert enough to formulate an attack, but wanted the beating to last as long as possible.

The muscles in his legs were pummeled until Ray began to lose feeling in them. This was a blessing, if a short one, as his reduced screams caused Brawner to move on to Ray's arms.

He could hear Graysen shouting as if from a great distance, though he couldn't make out the words. Before he could try to focus on them, a new sensation began to spread through him.

It began at the site Brawner had used to inject him with whatever stuff was in the syringe. It was a curious feeling, separate from the agony wracking his body. Warmth spread through him, enveloping his entire body in a matter of seconds.

His Surge vision, lost after his concentration slipped during the assault, sprang back to life. No, that wasn't right. The world wasn't painted in shades of green. Only him.

And it was getting brighter.

Dread like death itself filled Ray then, as a profound understanding washed over him. This was familiar. So familiar.

The feeling of swelling, waxing one second and waning another, was what he had felt in Fairmont. Every beat of his heart brought a new height of power, the space between a momentary reprieve.

Brawner continued to beat him, but the fear gripping Ray almost tuned out the pain. Every shred of his willpower was spent on clamping down on his powers, forcing control on them. For the first time since his awakening, he felt that control slipping. It wasn’t beyond him yet, but at the rate the power grew, it wouldn't be long. Even now the energy squirmed and slithered, trying to find equilibrium through escape.

Teeth clenched so hard they felt about to break, Ray caught Brawner's foot in his hand. The resistance was unexpected, putting Ray's attacker off balance. Capitalizing on the moment of surprise, Ray pushed with all his might, using the leverage of his body against the building beneath him to force Brawner away.

It would only create space for a moment, but that was all Ray needed.

Brawner stumbled back to catch himself, putting him perhaps two feet away. Ray looked up at the man as Brawner glared down at him in surprise. Ray slapped his hand onto the roof, palm centered between Brawner's spread feet.

The roof vanished in a circle that stopped a little way beneath Ray's shoulder. Brawner hovered in midair for a fraction of a second as gravity asserted itself, then fell through to the floor below. Ray flopped himself over to the hole and looked down.

The thin light filtering down was barely sufficient to illuminate the man, but it was enough. Ray had no intention of letting Brawner—even now getting to his feet—come back up the stairs to threaten all of them. Ray squeezed tight on the growing energy inside him, letting out a trickle.

Another hole opened beneath Brawner, and it was not alone. Ray let the power flow for a few seconds, shaping it into a drill which cut perfect circles through eight floors. By the time Brawner hit the bottom, he would be in bad shape, or so Ray hoped.

The Surge continued to swell inside him, a raging flood threatening to breach its levees.

“Graysen!” he gasped, struggling to his knees.

She rushed to his side, joined by a limping Kovacs.

“Goddamn,” Kovacs said. “You look like you were put through a blender.”

“No time,” Ray said, hands clenched into fists. “He injected me with something. It's making it hard to control my powers. Almost impossible. They're getting stronger.”

Kovacs stared at Ray, his eyes hard. “What should we do?”

For all the determination in the man's face, his tone carried regret. Ray found it in him to smile.

“Don't know,” Ray said. “Whatever he did is going to make me explode, just like Fairmont. It's making me draw in more and more power. I don't have a lot of time...” He hesitated. “I'm not stupid. I know why you were put with me.”

Kovacs nodded, pulling his gun. “I don't want to. You know that.”

Ray shook his head. “If it meant saving thousands of lives, I'd let you do it in a heartbeat. My control is the only thing keeping the energy in check. If you kill me, I'm pretty sure it'll level the city.”

Kovacs flinched, letting the gun fall to his side. He blew out a breath. “So what do we do?”

Ray pointed to Graysen. “It's what she does, not us.” The young woman began shaking her head violently.

“I don't have any control,” she said. “I can't get both of us away safely.”

“You don't need to,” Ray said. “I just have to fall up.”

There was a second of doubt, and Ray saw the math working itself out in her head. It wasn't a hard problem to solve, not in the technical sense. One of the first lessons Ray had learned about the job—about being Next in this era—had happened before he was even an agent. He had seen Kit do what was needed to save many lives, no matter how much it tore her apart to do it.

In that brief span of time, Ray saw Graysen come to the same conclusion. She reached out and touched his shoulder.

The world flipped around, and Ray fell spinning into the sky.

Kit

Robinson sat calmly as the echoes of his voice faded over the plateau. Kit had listened to him talk for a long time, explaining how he had been stonewalled at every turn when trying to have Nunez brought to justice for his crimes. The majority claimed there was no proof linking Nunez to Fairmont, which was only true in the sense that such proof had been buried deep, far from Robinson's grasp. A bare handful, old friends of Robinson's, were honest enough to admit that no one wanted the scandal. Better a cover-up and a tragedy that could be used, instead of a deliberate act whose magnitude could destabilize the entire country.

Kit also appeared calm, though she was as far from it as she could be without hurting someone. “You've said you tried to take him down. That you couldn't. And that everything you've done as Secretary of the DSA has been to keep the peace. Do you know why I believe you?”

Robinson looked up, surprised. “I honestly didn't think you would, not after learning secrets I've kept.”

“It isn't because we have a history,” Kit said, her matter-of-fact tone as cutting as any insult. “That's done with, as far as I'm concerned. Any goodwill you've earned from me was used up tonight, when I didn't snap your neck and throw you over the edge for the vultures. I gave you a chance to explain because you earned that much. I believe you because I've been paying very close attention to you the last few hours.”

“What do you mean?” Robinson asked, clearly confused.

“I pushed my senses to the limit,” Kit said. “I've been listening to your heartbeat, watching your pulse beat in your neck. Looking at your mannerisms, your skin, how much you sweat. I can't measure your galvanic skin response, but there are little things I noticed that are almost as good. You've been straight with me.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Robinson asked. “Are we through here?”

“I'm telling you because your honesty got you a little more of that goodwill I was talking about. Before we leave, I have one question, and I before I asked it I wanted you to know I'd be able to tell if you're lying.”

Robinson swallowed, but nodded. “Ask.”

Kit met his eyes. “Are you planning to take me down for what I did tonight?”

The old man's eyebrows shot up, and he laughed. It was a deep belly laugh, a rarity. “Are you serious? Come on, Kitra, you know me better than that. I'm not thrilled you seem to have a small conspiracy going on here, but knowing what I've had to go along with, do you honestly believe I don't understand why you did this?”

He was being honest. Kit could tell, and knew that logically she should believe him, but the part of her brain stuck on his reaction had nothing to do with reason. “I took you from your home, kept you in the cold. Threatened to kill you.” She said it flatly, with no softened edges.

Robinson shrugged, hands out in a 'What do you want?' sort of gesture. “You thought I organized the deaths of a city full of people,” he said. “Hard to blame you for wanting answers. And so I've said it clearly; no, I won't tell anyone about this if you don't.”

He took a deep breath, holding out a hand to stop her from talking. “There is one more thing you should know before we head back to civilization—assuming you don't plan on leaving me for the birds.” He said it with a smile, but there was a smidgen of genuine concern.

“You get a pass,” Kit said lightly. “This time.”

“Thanks so much,” the old man replied mockingly. “While I don't have any real desire to end your career over this—though I'd rather you'd have just asked me—I would still need you regardless. Before you took me from my house, I spent the day in meetings with nearly every top-level official across the various security agencies. I also met with the senators and congressmen from your confirmation. Early yesterday morning, a DSA black site was hit.”

Kit gaped. “Wait, the Department of Superhuman Affairs has black sites? Why?”

“Don't pull that innocent bullshit with me, girl. I know better.”

Kit smiled. “Don't call me a girl if you don't want broken teeth,” she said.

“At any rate,” Robinson said, pushing on. “We have several of them, and for the same reason other agencies keep them. To house people and information we don't want getting out. This particular site was a...holding facility. Not a prison, exactly, but housing fourteen Black Bands whose personalities are unstable. These individuals are incredibly dangerous.”

Kit knew what was coming before he said it.

“All fourteen were taken.”

They appeared in Robinson's office a few minutes later. James stepped back, waiting by the door. Robinson eyed him for a moment, then walked around his desk. He opened his laptop and pulled up several files, gesturing for Kit to look.

“These are stills taken from the scene,” Robinson said, pointing. “The abductors were thorough, and left almost no evidence. The guards were tied up and gagged, but one of them heard two of the abductors talking. The first argued that the guards should be killed, the second told him that 'the doctor' wouldn't like it.”

Kit shivered. “Nunez again?”

“That's my guess,” Robinson said. “One of the friends I tried to talk to about Nunez was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the time. When I asked why we were just letting the man walk, he told me that Nunez claimed it was the only chance of avoiding 'phase two'.”

“Fairmont being phase one,” Kit guessed.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Robinson said. “The Chairman didn't get much out of Nunez other than phase two would be much, much worse. I think this might be a sign things are going south.”

Kit scanned through the files, looking at the dossiers of the kidnapped Next. The news was terrible, but that was par for the course with this job.

“Okay,” she said after a few minutes. “You want me to deal with all of this, that's fine. But the only way that happens is if I get full disclosure from you on everything. And I mean everything. I think I've proven by now I'm not going to disseminate information, but I can't work blind.”

Robinson nodded. “There's a lot to bring you up to speed on, but I'll make the time.”

“Don't agree so quickly,” Kit said, wagging a finger at him. “I have a few other needs, too. This isn't just about doing my job anymore. If Nunez is up to something and I'm going to stop him, I need control.”

Robinson narrowed his eyes. “Over what, exactly?”

“To start with,” Kit said, pointing at James, “I need him.”

The old man grimaced. “You want me to make sure he's cleared and at your disposal instead of sentenced and put to work doing god knows what for the NSA or CIA.”

Kit nodded. “Also, you need to authorize a panel of telepaths. His sister was attacked because she's Next, unregistered, and the remaining attackers are currently in my custody. I promised James we would punish those men if we determined their guilt. Telepaths are the best way.”

Robinson sighed. “They're only valid in an OSA court,” he said.

Kit shrugged. “It's an OSA matter. If they're guilty, they serve maximum sentences in my facility.”

“Fine,” Robinson said. “Anything else? That's already going to be a mountain of paperwork.”

“Other than having the freedom to manage my teams, time, and resources as I see fit without consulting you all the time, just one other detail.”

“Nothing too spectacular, I hope.”

“Not at all,” Kit said. “Since I'm allowed to drop the charges against James for the attack on my agents, I will. That just leaves the suspected murder of Robert Lile.”

Kit leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Lile's death will be ruled an accident. James walks, no strings. In exchange he agrees to work for me until we stop Nunez.”

Robinson nodded. “Fine. I was thinking the same myself. Not going to ask him about it?” He jerked a thumb toward James, who stood watching silently by the door.

“Already did,” Kit said. “Now, let me get home so I can take care of Nunez.”

Kit appeared in her office, now completely used to the sensation of teleportation. James stepped to the side, wavering slightly.

“Go get something to eat,” she said. “Then wait for me here. Make sure your direct line is open.”

“What about these?” James asked, holding up his hands. The silvery bands gleamed in the low light.

“I'm taking you at your word,” Kit said, unlocking his many restraints. “Everything I've read about you says you're a decent guy, James. I won't go back on my promises to you, and I won't lie. We're probably going to need you. If you skip out, I won't have the time to track you down. But a lot of people could die if you do.”

He smiled as Kit pulled off the last band. “You put those fuckers away, and I have no reason to go. Just as long as I have time to take care of my sister.”

It was her turn to smile. “Actually, I'm going to need as much of your attention as I can get, so I'm arranging full-time care for her, as well as rehab and medical care here. I told you before we'd help, and I mean it.”

“Thank you,” James said, briefly closing his eyes. “Uh, anyway, I'm gonna get Mexican. You want anything?”

“Depends on where you're going,” Kit said.

James raised an eyebrow. “Mexico.”

Kit laughed. “Surprise me. I'll call you if I run into trouble with Nunez.”

He was gone an eye blink later, and Kit was on the move.

She took the back exit out of her office, wanting to avoid being seen if at all possible. The small door set in the tiny bathroom was hidden from casual inspection, meant to serve as a bolt hole in an emergency. It pivoted closed behind her as she slid down the ladder inside, coming to a stop in the private service tunnel housed in the space between the first and second floors of the main office. It was tight; she had to move forward on hands and knees. Archer would have had a much harder time.

Kit followed the small tunnel to its eastern terminus, another ladder leading down into the facility itself. This was a better fit, as she only had to climb instead of moving forward. Less than two minutes from leaving her office, Kit found herself standing in one of the long walkway tunnels snaking through the facility like veins.

Though it was early in the morning, she wasn't worried about Nunez not being there. The man lived in quarters inside the lab complex, after all, and was usually up before dawn working. Chances were even she would find him guzzling a cup of coffee instead of waking him.

She jogged through the tunnel until she found one of the access panels placed at regular intervals. Kit entered her override, causing a small wedge of wall to pop out with a hiss. She entered the emergency transport section and punched in her destination.

Kit stepped into the lobby of Research and Development five minutes later. It was strange to see the place without employees bustling about. The lighting was minimal, a handful of LED lamps recessed near floor level to give just enough illumination to see.

She stalked silently across the smooth stone floor. A forced calm filled her, a necessary precaution. Kit knew herself well enough to know that if she allowed the enormity of Nunez's crimes to drive her, or even the personal betrayal of knowing the man had insinuated himself into her life as a friend deliberately, she would do something stupid. Probably fatal.

The door to Nunez's private office stood open a few inches, soft light filtering into the dark hallway. Kit pushed on it gently, trying to get a look inside before committing.

Nunez sat behind his desk, a large single piece of wood shaped and polished into an elegant set of curves. Various projects, components, and diagrams lay scattered about the space, taking up the majority of the room.

He looked up from the touch screen embedded in the desk, and smiled. “Kitra,” he said in his usual honey-smooth accent. “This is an early morning surprise. How can I help you?”

The pleasant tone caught her off guard for a moment. Not because it was pleasant—Nunez was infallibly polite at whatever hour—but for the nearly imperceptible false note in his tone of voice. Had she not been focused like a laser on the man, she would have missed the subtle strain in his manner, the slight creak in his words.

He knew something was wrong. How?

In the second it took Kit to have these thoughts, Nunez tapped something on his desk. A bolt of lightning slammed into her back, locking her muscles as she pitched forward. White hot rage flared to life inside her as the assault ended, control returning to her limbs. Kit managed to push herself into a crouch, breath coming in ragged gasps.

She tried to curse him, but her mouth wasn't as quick to regain contact with her brain as her arms and legs had been.

“Fascinating,” Nunez said. Kit raised her head to look at him, but saw no mockery on his face. “I calibrated that to match the curve of your power increases. I don't know that I can remember a time when my math was off.”

He tapped the screen again, and this time the bolt made the whole world dark.

Regaining consciousness was a slow process, made slower by Kit's unwillingness to make the trip back to the waking world. Some part of her was aware of what she faced, a testament to the level of pain her body must be enduring.

Reluctantly, she gave up swimming against those currents and let herself surface.

Her eyes opened along with her mouth, a scream choking off before it could escape. She looked down at her body, expecting to see burned skin if not open flame, every inch of her shrieking with the agony of being on fire.

She wasn't. Aside from being strapped into a heavy steel chair, Kit appeared unharmed.

“Here, allow me to help,” a voice said. Something cold touched her hand, followed by a familiar whine. The pain, all-consuming a second earlier, evaporated instantly.

“Sorry about that,” Nunez said as he stepped back. “I didn't know your body had begun to adapt that way. You absorbed much of the second shock, but your system couldn't handle the load.”

“What...” Kit coughed, her throat dry as any desert. “What did you do to me?”

Nunez sat across from her, leaning against his desk. Even standing still, his manner was plainly different. A dozen little things, from the way he held himself to the expression on his face, added up to a seemingly different person.

“First I hit you with two very high-powered taser blasts,” Nunez said, his accent and deliberately paced speech gone. “Then I locked you in that chair to keep you from taking my head off. The last bit was me hitting you with a pulse generator to knock your powers out, which forced your body to give up that extra energy.”

Kit looked down at herself again, this time absorbing what she was seeing. The chair was the type they used to interrogate Next with enhanced strength, essentially a throne made of thick steel with heavy, long cuffs that clamped over the forearms to hold them against the arms of the chair itself. It was designed to restrain people with far more power than she could muster, so Kit didn't bother struggling.

“Gonna torture me for information before you kill me?” Kit asked, staring daggers at Nunez.

He looked genuinely shocked. “Kill you? Torture? I don't plan on doing either of those things, Kitra. As for information,” he said, looking slightly amused, “there isn't much you could tell me about almost anything I'm not already aware of.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?” Kit growled. “If you aren't going to kill me, shouldn't you be running?”

Nunez shrugged. “I can assure you, no one will be looking for me until well after we're done here. I'm willing to take the time to speak with you because that was clearly your intention. You must have questions—though I'm sure your meeting with Robinson answered many of them—and I will answer what I can.”

Kit blinked. “How did you know about that? We weren't even in this hemisphere.”

“Several months ago you were kind enough to swallow some experimental nanotechnology,” Nunez said. “There was a compound of my own design mixed in, which allows me to track you by satellite. As I designed the satellites, accessing them is no problem. I can do it from my phone, even.”

“That was right after I got here,” Kit said. “You couldn't have known I would be onto you. I didn't even know until tonight.”

Nunez waved a hand. “It wasn't hard to predict. Robinson has spent more than a decade looking for a way to bring me to justice for Fairmont. As soon as the news spread that he was appointing someone from Helix as Director, I knew it would be someone with his same sense of morality. He aimed you like a missile at me, hoping you would either discover the truth on your own or decide to come after me once he told you what happened. How else do you think you got this job, lacking administrative experience as you do?”

Kit was unable to argue the logic. “So you admit to what you did at Fairmont.”

Nunez nodded, regret in his eyes. “I do. It was monstrous, but necessary, as I'm sure Robinson explained. A benefit of the act, of course, was to put me here. In charge of the largest collection of brilliant minds the world has ever seen.”

“Why the fuck does that even matter?” Kit asked, forgetting herself for a moment and angrily trying to yank her hands free.

“Be careful, or you'll injure yourself,” Nunez admonished. “To answer your question, it matters a great deal. What I did forced the world to act, to make plans and pool resources. I needed to lead the effort to address some of the many problems we face as a species. In short, Fairmont was necessary in order to avoid several catastrophic eventualities.”

Kit shook her head. “But you stopped all the Battery Next from doing what Ray did...”

“That was only the first—and smallest—of the problems in need of solving. I had hoped my time here would allow me the leeway to affect the necessary changes without resorting to more...extreme measures.”

Kit was reading him the entire time, cataloging his body language and other indicators. He, like Robinson, was telling the absolute truth, so far as she could determine. “You're crazy,” Kit said. “You sound like a Bond villain.”

“I'm not insane, Kitra,” Nunez said. “It's simply a matter of scope. Because of my unique ability, I can see and understand more than any thousand people could hope. I've been studying the world, every aspect of it, for more years than you might believe. I know more about everything than anyone else, and it all leads to one inescapable truth: if I don't act, the human race will go extinct. I have to save us.”

Kit snorted, unable to help herself. “No, you don't sound crazy at all,” she said. “How are you planning on going about that, if you don't mind me asking?”

Nunez sighed. “In order to set the proper variables where they need to be, I'll have to kill about seventy percent of the population.”

Graysen

“We should get you out of here,” Agent Kovacs said, putting a hand on Graysen's arm.

“We can't,” she said, shaking her arm loose. “Go if you want, but I'm staying right here.”

Kovacs sighed loudly, then took a seat next to her and put his elbows on his knees. “I could just knock you out and take you anyway,” he said. “I'm an agent. You're a trainee. It's my job to make sure you're safe, you know.”

“If you do that, Ray will die,” Graysen said distractedly. “I'm still controlling his ascent. It's really hard from this distance, and I still might lose him anyway, so if you want him to fall into space and suffocate or come back to the ground and splatter on the pavement before he kills a hundred thousand people, go ahead. Otherwise, be quiet and let me work.”

She felt him stare at her, though whether it was a glare or a look of appreciation, Graysen didn't know. Nor did she particularly care, absorbed as she was in trying to make sure Ray Cassidy lived.

Distance manipulation of gravity was still something she struggled with. It was an aspect of her ability with incredible usefulness, even if it did require her to touch whatever she was influencing with her powers first.

Another wave of nausea threatened to break her concentration, brought forth by the nearly blinding headache caused by using her abilities this way. She fought it back, forcing herself to breathe evenly, and keeping her eye on Ray.

Not that she could literally see him from this far. He was still rapidly gaining altitude, miles away by now. But Graysen could see the thin tether of power connecting them, a vague green tendril flung into the sky. There was a brighter green dot at the end of the line, the focus of her efforts.

“How high is he, do you think?” Kovacs asked.

“Hopefully high enough,” Graysen said, noticing a marked increase in the small dot's brightness. “Oh, shit! Look away!”

Kovacs dropped his eyes, throwing a forearm over his face. Graysen had no such luxury, needing to keep Ray in sight if possible.

Far above them the deep black sky with its endless field of stars disappeared. The light grew from a pinprick into a sphere of incredible size between heartbeats, washing the world out in green.

The bottom edge of the sphere was far above the earth, nowhere near causing any harm. Even as she watched, the bubble of destructive force tracked upward, centered on the still-rising form of Ray Cassidy.

After a few seconds, the light winked out.

Fighting another wave of nausea, Graysen stood.

“What are you—”

Not trusting her strained control to continue manipulating Ray at such a vast distance, Graysen took the only option in front of her.

She fell into the sky toward him.

Kit

Kit stared at Nunez in complete disbelief for a long few seconds. It wasn't the sort of disbelief you felt when you saw something you thought impossible, a holding action designed to let your brain catch up. It was actual disbelief. She just didn't buy it. Not that he thought he had to do it—he clearly did—but that he could do it.

“Goddamn, you're like ten times crazier than I thought,” Kit finally said. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

Nunez let out an irritated breath. “Honestly, this is going to go a lot easier if you stop thinking I'm insane. Do I need to bore you with tens of thousands of pages of documentation? Need me to show you the trends I've discovered through decades of painstaking analysis? Would you believe me then?” He gave her a measuring look. “No, you probably wouldn't. You saw the papers in the vault with your own eyes—yes, I tracked you there. Caught me by surprise, I admit. You saw the proof, yet you gave Robinson a chance to explain. You had doubt.”

He tapped a finger on his chin. “You operate on instinct. You read people, yes? Then ask yourself right now if I seem unhinged. Really look at me and decide if even a moment of my mannerisms or thought processes appears to be that of a mentally ill person. Go on.”

Kit said nothing. He struck right to the heart of it; only the things he was saying sounded nuts. How he said them, how he acted, was without a hint of being unbalanced.

“I thought not,” Nunez said. “You may not believe I'm right, but having seen the things you've seen, you can't categorically say I'm wrong.”

“Well, I'm pretty solidly opposed to killing seven out of ten people on the planet, regardless of reason,” Kit snapped.

Nunez raised an eyebrow. “Even if it meant preserving our species? Preventing us from self-destructing within the next fifty years, if not sooner? You wouldn't make any sacrifice to ensure untold trillions of human beings could exist in the future, even if it meant killing most of those living now?”

Kit opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself. Her first instinct was to say no, of course. It was such an obscene, monstrous thought that the mind recoiled from even considering it. But in the moment between thought and action, the memories of her meetings with Dr. Otomo sprang to the front of her mind. She had made peace with the awful reality of causing Thomas Maggard's death because doing anything else would have guaranteed many more deaths.

Except...

“No,” Kit said. “The difference between what you're saying and what I did? The threat was right in front of me. It was immediate. You're making claims about something that might happen fifty years from now. You can't know.”

Nunez shook his head sadly. “No, Kitra. I'm telling you what has already begun. What has been happening for the last hundred years, and is only gaining momentum. I see the channel the boulder rolls down, and the inevitable crash at the end. I've been watching it happen, and trying to change it, since the early twentieth century.”

“Wait, what?” Kit said, completely thrown. “What do you mean? Can you time travel? Is that how you know what's supposed to happen?”

“Nothing as dangerous as that,” Nunez said. “There is so much you don't know about Next, things almost no one knows but me. Our genetic gifts come with many benefits, one of which is en extremely slow aging process.” He gestured toward the gray in his hair, the deep grooves around his mouth. “This is cosmetic. My actual appearance hasn't changed much since I turned thirty, which was in 1911. Five years after I emigrated from Mexico.”

“Bullshit,” Kit said.

Nunez shrugged. “Doesn't matter if you believe me. The facts remain the same either way.” He looked at his watch. “One second. I need to check something.”

“Got a hot date?” Kit asked.

“Not exactly,” Nunez said. “I enacted several contingency plans today, when I suspected you would be coming after me. The first one should have gone off a minute or so ago.”

A blade of ice stabbed Kit's insides. “What are you talking about?”

The wall behind the desk hummed as two segments moved apart to reveal a large screen. The news came on, showing a flare of green light powerful enough to temporarily overwhelm the camera. Nunez turned to Kit as the feed showed nothing but pale green light.

“I arranged a repeat performance from Ray Elliot this morning,” he explained, that note of regret sounding in his voice again. “For what I have in store to work, it was necessary to force another large increase in the local Surge levels.”

“That's the middle of the fucking city,” Kit screamed, thrashing against her restraints. “How many hundreds of thousands...”

Nunez slapped a hand to his desk. “I just told you what lengths I will go to, must go to, Kitra! This is not a game. It has to begin here.”

Behind him, the screen began to regain contrast. The voice of a newscaster echoed from the speakers, detailing the massive flash in the sky.

Kit saw the skyline, and laughed. “Looks like you fucked up the math again,” she said.

Nunez turned to look at the screen just as the reporter shared the good news.

“Officials are looking for an explanation for the light show far above the city this morning, which was bright enough to cause temporary blindness in an unlucky few, but has otherwise left the city unharmed.”

“Well,” Nunez said, gritting his teeth. “The Surge will still be affected. As for the rest, I did say I enacted more than one contingency.” He pulled a phone from his pocket, swiped it open, and tapped the screen.

Fifteen seconds later, the facility began to shake. At first Kit was frightened in the mindless way anyone would be during a quake, then she remembered certain facts about the facility's construction and abject terror took over.

The room was moving appreciably, objects falling off desks and skittering across the floor. The facility, huge though it was, had been engineered to negate the effects of all but the most powerful earthquakes. The outer shell, between the bedrock and the structure itself, housed hundreds of compression coils designed to absorb huge amounts of energy during a quake. That system, combined with the network of water cisterns set just below the surface which transferred the shake of the building into movement in the water to further reduce the impact of a quake, should have made it nearly impossible to notice within the facility.

Kit's enormous metal chair shook, too. She stared in horror at Nunez.

“What have you done?”

He looked at the screen once more, which now displayed a scene straight out of a nightmare. Buildings swayed and clouds of dust glimmered in shafts of weak predawn light. The sound of concrete snapping filled the dim morning air like popcorn cooking, all captured in horrifying detail by the news team.

“I think it's safe to assume no one will be worried about looking for us for a while,” Nunez said softly. “There are many facts you will want to hear—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kit screamed, pushing every erg of power into her muscles and bones. She strained against the chair's heavy cuffs, tears of frustration streaming down her face. She collapsed back into the chair after a few moments, breathing hard. “I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit,” she snarled. “I don't care if you're crazy or not, if you're telling the truth about how old you are. All I want is for you to let me out of here so I can go help the people who survived that!”

Nunez nodded as if this was exactly what he had expected. “That's one of the things I've always admired about you, Kitra. Your dedication to using your gifts to help others. I didn't have any expectation I would sway you, to be honest. You're not morally inflexible, but you can't bend as far as I must, not without breaking.” He gestured toward the destruction on the screen behind him, which was becoming more clear by the second. “But as you can see, I have recruited others. Some even by their own choice. Speaking of which, please tell Archer I'm sorry for what happened to him this morning. It was unavoidable.”

Despite herself, Kit had to know. “What did you do? Is he alright? If you hurt him...”

“Please, Kitra. Spare me your threats. After today I'll discard this identity and take up another. I speak more languages than you've ever heard of. I'll vanish, and you'll never find me. Though I expect we will be in touch. As for Rowan, he's fine. I had one of my associates...borrow his body to get Ray Elliot where I needed him.”

Kit shook her head, wishing more than anything to suddenly wake up. This was too unreal, too bizarre.

“You wonder why I'd waste the breath to explain,” Nunez guessed, correctly. “It's because no matter what you may think of me, I'm not an evil man. I hold no personal malice toward anyone. In fact, I respect you a great deal. That's why I'm certain that even if you wanted to try to chase me down, you won't. You'll be too busy saving lives, because it's the right thing.”

“It won't take forever to do search and rescue,” Kit said. “Once that's done—”

Nunez smiled grimly. “I told you what I'm about to do, didn't I?” He waved at the screen again. “This is only the beginning, I'm afraid. The prelude to phase two.”

Kit watched the ticker on the bottom of the screen as reports came flooding in. There was too much chaos to allow for anything resembling accuracy, but the listings of destroyed structures and secondary emergencies grew even as she watched.

Nunez walked around his desk and tapped the embedded screen. A memory card popped out of the surface, which he deftly plucked.

“Here,” Nunez said, holding up the card. “There are documents on this that you will want to read.” He placed it on the edge of the desk. “I'll let someone know you're here after I leave.”

Nunez pulled out his phone and dialed a number. “I'm ready,” he said into it, then ended the call.

Five seconds later, Agent Christjansen appeared out of thin air. A brief hope flared in her, but died when she saw the man's face. The blank eyes and slack expression were all too familiar, signs of mental domination by a powerful telepath. Kit clenched her teeth.

“Goodbye, Kitra,” he said. “And good luck. You will certainly need it.”

A minute later her earpiece, which had been silent the entire time, squealed and cut in mid-sentence.

“—you there, Kit? Please answer if you are.”

“I'm here, James,” Kit said.

“What the hell?” James shouted. “I got the line to open just fine, but there wasn't any sound coming from your end.”

“I don't know, some kind of jamming device. Not important. You need to get down here and set me free.”

“Set you free? I don't—you're right, doesn't matter. Something's happened.”

“I know,” Kit said. “Nunez showed me. He's behind it. Come get me loose. We have to get to work.”

Ray

When Graysen snatched him by the arm to guide him to the ground Ray was in bad shape. Not from his injuries, which had already begun to heal thanks to the titanic volume of Surge energy coursing through him, but due to exposure. The air had become deadly thin and incredibly cold up there.

They drifted down slowly. He glanced over at Graysen nervously, but didn't want to backseat fly. The intense focus on her face was probably a good indication that distracting her was a bad idea. Much as he wanted his feet on solid ground again (and from there directly into a bed) he was happy to wait the ten minutes it would take to get there at this speed, rather than the much faster and more painful way.

“Holy shit!” Graysen shouted as the city below began to rumble. “What is that?”

“Earthquake,” Ray said, staring in horror. “New Madrid fault would be my guess.”

“That can't be a coincidence,” she said. “Can it?”

Ray shook his head. “Pretty unlikely. Unless what happened to me triggered it, though I don't know how it could have.”

They began to change direction. It wasn't a sudden shift since neither of them was up to dealing with the wrenching that came with having their personal gravity aimed in a new direction, but it was noticeable. Graysen angled them almost flat in the air, five thousand feet up. They still lost altitude, but moved far more laterally than before.

“You're aiming us at the facility,” Ray noted.

Graysen nodded. “At least outside the city. I'd rather not be standing anywhere near a tall building.”

They continued to drift for several minutes without incident. Ray guessed the two of them were about five hundred feet off the ground when Graysen began to falter. Her breathing quickened as her teeth ground together in concentration.

Ray was about to ask what he could do to help when they suddenly dropped out of the sky. Fear constricted his throat, preventing a scream. They dropped a hundred feet before Graysen was able to reassert control over their gravity.

“You're pushing yourself,” Ray said.

She nodded. “Never used my powers on someone else for this long. Using everything I have to do it.”

Ray mustered his own concentration and brought up his Surge vision. The problem was immediately clear; Graysen was straining to draw enough Surge to keep them aloft. The flow of energy stuttered before his eyes, causing another short drop before they were righted.

“You could drop me,” Ray said quietly. “I could probably survive if I made a tunnel in front of me as I fell. The dust would slow my fall.”

“I don't believe that any more than you do,” Graysen said. “I'll try to speed us up, but it'll make things harder.”

Ray doubted the young woman would let go of him even if it risked her own life. No one with the sort of grit Graysen displayed would give up now. Instead of trying to convince her to take an option he himself didn't want—living was suddenly high on his priority list—Ray took a chance.

Though much of his store of energy had been dispersed, there was still more than enough left in the well for his needs. Ray focused on the contact between them and funneled energy through that spot.

The result was immediate. Graysen's eyes widened as the flow of energy not only evened out, but strengthened considerably. She gazed at him in wonder, the deadly strain on her face easing.

The trainee wasted no time getting them to the ground. Inside sixty seconds they stood on a weedy stretch of county road. The shaking was over, though the world had not gone silent. The sound of grating stone and rending metal was replaced by the wail of sirens. They filled the morning in staccato bursts from every direction. Ray's imagination added the cries of injured people to the din, wondering what the quake would cost in lives. Which reminded him—

“Shit,” Ray said. “Kovacs is still out there. God, I hope he's okay.”

Graysen's iron grip on his arm slackened, somewhat belatedly, cutting off the transfer of energy from Ray to her.

She smiled at him. Then her eyes rolled up and she fell. Ray just managed to keep her from bashing her face into the road, but it was far from a graceful save.

He pulled her off the road, careful to cradle her head. God only knew how bad her injuries really were. As he got her settled against a tree, his forgotten earpiece crackled to life. The sound was rough and distorted.

“Ray, are you there?” asked a harsh voice.

“Kovacs, that you?” Ray said,

“It's Kit,” came the response. “Tell me where you are and we'll be there in a few seconds.”

“She needs a doctor,” Ray said when Kit and James appeared. “We had to leave Kovacs at the building.”

Kit glanced at James, who nodded. The tall, thin man demonstrated a strength belying his wiry frame by scooping Graysen up easily. He popped away as he walked.

“Are you okay?” Kit asked, kneeling next to Ray where he sat in the gold grass with legs splayed.

Ray nodded. “Bone tired, but not too bad.”

Kit eyed him critically. “You're covered in bruises. They look old. What happened?”

He quickly relayed the events of the previous hours. James reappeared in the middle of the story. He asked Ray for Kovacs's location and vanished again when Ray told him.

“He'll take Kovacs straight back to the facility,” Kit assured Ray when they were alone again. “Sounds like you did the only thing you could, Ray.” She smiled. “I'm proud of you.”

Ray shook his head. “Whatever that fucker injected me with almost caused another Fairmont, but worse. Even so, I think I caused this earthquake.”

“You didn't,” Kit said, stopping him cold. “Nunez did that. He has a team of Next under his control, and one of them is a Black Band who can cause quakes. My guess is Nunez aimed him somewhere with a natural instability to make it that much more powerful.”

It was then her turn to explain events to Ray, who by the end was barely able to contain his anger. “We thought someone did this to me,” he said, shaking, “but actually knowing...”

“It's a lot to handle,” Kit said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We'll talk about it, I promise. You can vent all you need, but for right now the city can use every hand it can get.” She stood and turned her attention to Louisville, where the clashing noises of emergency vehicles had grown even stronger.

“Give me a minute and I'll be ready to go with you,” Ray said. He dreaded trying to get to his feet, but his powers were perfect for clearing rubble.

“I appreciate the thought, but no,” Kit said. There was no room for argument in her tone. “Even if you hadn't had the living hell beat out of you less than an hour ago, I'm not comfortable with you using your powers until our people look you over. Just in case whatever Nunez had Brawner hit you with isn't out of your system.”

Ray frowned. He opened his mouth to argue and shut it again.

“You're right,” he said.

Kit arched an eyebrow. “I know I am.”

When James appeared again, he put a hand on Ray's shoulder and took him home.

Kit

Clad in jeans, steel-toed boots, and a thick, hooded sweatshirt she looked out over the city. The dust had begun to thin out, though columns of smoke still rose in dark smears against the brightening sky. Louisville had been brutalized. Below, broken streets wreaked havoc with emergency response. Huge chunks of concrete and brick littered sidewalks. Though the wind was strong and chill, pedestrians were everywhere.

She watched, listening to Waid through her earpiece as the reports came in. As always the information was distilled and collated into concise chunks that were easy to consume.

Easy to understand, at any rate. Nothing about what Nunez had done sat well with her.

Kit built a mental image of the city based on Waid's reports. Infrastructure had been badly damaged in every direction. Power and phone lines snapped like so many threads, water pipes sheared in the ground. She had briefly communicated with Archer, who was busy acting as the go-between for the facility and their superiors.

He had asked her to get a close look at what they were dealing with. Despite the amount of work she had piled on his shoulders over the previous weeks as she handled the more physical aspects of their hunt for the truth, Archer hadn't complained. Even with the exponential increase in his workload at present, he hadn't said a harsh word at being virtually ignored.

Knowing the man would work himself to exhaustion in the coming days, Kit made a note to herself to try to make it up to him—to shoulder more of the load herself.

“Director Archer needs you to come back,” Waid said, interrupting his own report. “Secretary Robinson is here.”

“James didn't have too much trouble finding him, then,” Kit mused, more to herself than Waid.

“He was at the White House,” Waid said. “Luckily Robinson told the guards to expect James to pop in.”

“I'm ready whenever he is,” Kit said.

James appeared, a sight Kit had already grown used to, and took her away.

Suddenly inside her own office again, Kit was slightly disoriented. Her brain needed a few seconds to catch up with the change in ambient temperature, lighting, and the many other small things people rarely had the chance to notice until they shifted suddenly.

Archer sat behind her desk. He looked up awkwardly, trying to keep the phone cradled between ear and shoulder from slipping.

“Sorry,” he said. “Deakins is using my office for staging. We've got visitors.”

“No problem,” Kit said. “What kind of visitors?”

“My kind,” Robinson said, stepping through the open door connecting the offices. “I'm throwing in where I can, helping deal with local authorities as they coordinate with the National Guard.”

Kit winced. “It's that bad?”

Robinson nodded soberly. “Worse. We think a man named David Gunther—one of the Next captured from the black site—was who Nunez sent to attack the New Madrid fault. New Madrid was expected to cause problems eventually, but Gunther amplified it. The quake was much stronger than it should have been, and lasted much longer.”

Robinson leaned against the door frame. “People felt it on the east coast. Buildings have fallen as far as five hundred miles from the epicenter. The damage is spread across eight states so far, with reports still coming in.”

Kit closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe normally. The urge to move was nearly overwhelming. Her powers came with the imperative to use them, which she tried to channel into useful work. But this...the scale of it was too large, the destruction too widespread.

“What's your take on the city?” Archer asked, bringing her back to reality.

Kit took a moment to consider the question, then boiled her response down to brass tacks. “We have two choices. The first is what I'm sure you're already planning, which is to organize every OSA agent with every volunteer Next we can find in order to aid the rescue effort.”

Robinson tilted his head. “You disapprove of the idea?”

“Not exactly,” Kit said. “If the National Guard is mobilizing, then at least there is one group out there working on a large scale to help. But they'll be normal humans. Which, given the extent of the work, means a limit to what they can do and how fast they can do it.”

Archer raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “They're trained to handle these sorts of things, though. We can give their units volunteers and agents to help, but it would spread the OSA pretty thin even if we used every Next the agency employs in all of the affected states.”

“You're right,” Kit said with a nod. “They know what they're doing, and we don't have numbers. What if we could supply the Guard with all the Next they'd need, guiding them to do the work. The Next would speed up the work, and because the Guard would be directing them, they wouldn't have to know exactly what to do.”

“That's exactly what we were just talking about,” Robinson said. “Except you seem to have some hidden cache of superhumans we're all unaware of.”

“Oh, you're aware of them,” Kit said. She pointed down, toward the heart of the prison below. “You're standing on them right now.”

What followed could at best have been described as a heated discussion. Kit made her case, arguing points and giving ground where it was clear the others wouldn't budge. She might have jokingly threatened to beat someone to death with their own arms, but in the end they agreed. Had the need not been so overwhelming she knew Robinson would have categorically shut her down.

Which was how Kit found herself sitting in Operations with her hand hovering over the switch to the facility-wide public address system. She took her habitual calming breaths, trying hard not to over think what she was going to say. Or think about it at all.

“Fuck it,” she said, toggling the PA on.

“This is Director Singh,” Kit began. Across the room, Waid gave her a thumbs-up without looking at her. She was being heard.

“As you may or may not know a powerful earthquake hit us today. Not just Kentucky, but nine other states and counting. Hundreds of thousands of people have been injured and displaced. Millions are without power and water. Thousands are likely dead, and many other trapped.

“The National Guard is working with the OSA to provide help in the form of Next volunteers. Many of us possess abilities which can be crucial in emergency response situations. The destruction is spread so wide, however, that progress is bound to be slow. We have an idea to help solve that problem. That's where you come in.”

She glanced at Waid's work station, where the array of monitors each showed feeds from four cells. The screens changed every two seconds as they cycled through a block of a hundred inmates. Every face was rapt, staring up at the speaker set in the ceiling of their cells.

“There's a program in the OSA some of you have heard of,” she continued. “It's called the REFRESH Project. It allows Next who have committed nonviolent crimes to apply for a sort of community service. You agree to work for us for a certain amount of time, and you get your sentence reviewed for reduction. Sometimes those who participate are pardoned.”

“We are expanding that program, effective immediately,” Kit said. “Every Next inmate convicted of a nonviolent crime will be allowed to participate. Violent offenders will be interviewed and allowed to join in on a case-by-case basis.” She had argued hard for that, thinking of Henry Griffin. She actually had managed to look into his record, and despite the fight he had given her weeks before—had it only been weeks?—she saw the telltale signs of a man who was mostly guilty of being Next. She couldn't be sure how many other inmates were in because a regular person got scared and called the cops, who then beat the Next in question for 'resisting', but she was determined to give chances to anyone who could help.

“This opportunity comes with heavy consequences if you violate the terms. Anyone who signs up is going to be working with the military until the current disaster is dealt with. That may mean weeks, but could be months. You will be required to wear security devices which can neutralize your powers in the event you decide to run or hurt someone.”

Kit let her voice go flat. “The bald truth is that if you take this deal you should be doing it because there are a lot of people out there who need your help. I think a lot of you are essentially decent people who have made mistakes. I expect you'll do your job and either go free or have your time seriously reduced.”

“But make no mistake,” she said, her voice as hard and sharp as any knife blade, “if you use this as a chance to run when you could be saving lives, I won't spend any time crying over your body. These soldiers will not hesitate to stop you from becoming another threat to the public in an already desperate situation.”

She let the words linger, hoping they would sink in. “Guards and agents are already moving through the detention levels with paperwork. This is your chance to do some good. Think about it, and I hope you choose to do the right thing.”

Kit clicked off the PA and sat back in her chair.

“I hope I'm not wrong,” she muttered to herself.

Kit stopped by medical before she left for the city. The temporary home of their clinical staff was the cavernous garage, which now stood empty of vehicles. In their place were hundreds of cots. One corner of the space held a canvas-sided storage area packed with supplies and equipment. Though most of the beds stood empty, emergency crews brought citizens in at a steady—if currently slow—pace.

Ray saw Kit and waved her over.

“What, didn't you rate a room of your own?” she quipped.

He smiled, though it was halfhearted. “All but a few of them are being turned into extra exam rooms. They're saving the rest for severe injuries.”

“How's Graysen?” Kit couldn't keep the worry out of her voice.

Ray gestured toward the cot next to his, which held rumpled covers. “She was taken a little while ago. The docs wanted to have some of the Next in medical take a look to make sure she didn't have any internal injuries they'd missed. Otherwise, she's fine.” His eyes lit up. “I forgot, she asked me to tell you she needed to talk to you the other day. Sounded important.”

“Well, we were a little busy,” Kit said with a small smile. “Which isn't likely to change any time soon. Let her know I'll stop by and see her when I get back today, okay? She can tell me whatever it is then.”

Ray bobbed his head in assent. “Guess that means I'm out of the field on this one, huh?”

“Afraid so,” Kit said. “Archer and Robinson pointed out that even if we weren't worried about side effects from whatever you were dosed with, it's still too risky to have you out there using your powers in public. The PR nightmare if anyone realized who you were would be...”

“Nightmarish?” Ray supplied with a straight face.

“Yeah, thanks,” Kit said. “Gimme a break, I'm not at my best right now.”

She cleared her throat. “Look, I came down here to see how you were doing, but I also wanted to tell you that if it were up to me, I'd have you out there with me.”

“Yeah?” Ray said.

“Sure,” she said. “Whatever you may think, you've done good work. I know you wanted to be out there with me. You restrained yourself and thought things through instead of letting your emotions push you into something stupid. I wanted to tell you how proud of you I am. I know that's probably weird since I'm younger than you...”

“No,” Ray said quietly. “No, it's not. Thanks. You have a city to save. You should probably go.”

Kit left.

A Humvee took her to the city. James was needed in more important roles than as her personal transportation, and the drive gave her time to think. What she said to Ray had only been the truth, but it seemed to have caught him off guard. His gratitude had been genuine, of that Kit was sure. She decided it made sense. The personal hell he had endured was one she could barely imagine, much less understand. His new identity afforded him the chance to understand what people really thought of him. Of Ray Elliot, who killed Fairmont.

Every day was a reminder of the pariah society had made him, right or wrong. How much must the trust and respect of someone he himself trusted and respected mean?

Over the years, Robinson had told Kit that she had innate qualities which made her a good leader. It was only now, thinking of the emotion in Ray's voice, that she began to believe it might be true.

Kit, Again

Though she was nominally in charge of her agents the National Guard officers she worked with were so calmly prepared and efficient that Kit deferred to them without hesitation. It was more productive to simply give over her command to the people who knew what the best options during such a disaster were, rather than have to relay their suggestions through her and to the agents.

Which was how Kit found herself working alongside those agents. She kept her earpiece on standby in case anyone needed her, but couldn't sit idle in the command post and watch others work when citizens needed help.

Being at street level brought a new sense of realism to the dire nature of the situation. Seen from above the damage caused could be considered almost fantastic, spread out as it was over such huge distances. It was much like seeing a painting by one of the old masters from afar, then stepping within arm's reach. The one presented a single, unified image you couldn't help taking in as a whole. The other showed you every rough swirl of the paintbrush.

Kit ran alongside a team of medics, four soldiers led by a petite Sergeant with short, blonde hair. Though the medical team carried sidearms, Kit and the two agents with her were tasked with ensuring their safety as well as helping as needed.

Their vehicles had been left behind half a mile back, the streets too cluttered and broken to make the trip. The call had been to an address deeper into the city than the Guard had been able to reach in numbers, so the medical team was sent in with escorts.

“Damn,” Sergeant Schneider said as they came to a stop in front of the address.

“I second that,” Kit replied sourly.

The building wasn't as old as some of the historical properties Kit had seen throughout Louisville, but it was far from modern. One narrow entrance in the front appeared to be the only way into the aged brick building. Even the first-floor windows were unlikely candidates, their sills eight feet off the ground. None of this would have been an issue under normal circumstances, but the quake had collapsed the heavy stone archway over the door.

“You think they'd have mentioned this when they called,” Schneider said.

Kit shook her head. “The emergency cell towers are overloaded with emergency calls,” Kit said. “They probably hit the maximum call time before they thought to tell the operator.”

A window on the left side of the building slid open. A middle-aged woman appeared, her head and torso sticking out. “Oh thank God,” she said, waving at them. “We were worried no one would show up.”

“We'll get inside as quickly as we can, ma'am,” the Sergeant said reassuringly. “Your entrance is blocked at the moment.”

The woman grimaced. “Two of the injured people aren't in any danger, but we have an older lady who was hit by a collapsing shelf. She's not doing well.”

Kit glanced at the rubble, a slope nearly as tall as her in the back and filling the entire width of the entrance all the way to the stoop. “It's going to take a while to clear that,” she said.

“We need to get in through a window, then,” Schneider replied. “Think you can give us a boost?”

Kit nodded. “Easily. It'll be awkward, though. And we'll have to leave people out here to clear the rubble. I doubt we'll be able to get anyone out through the window.”

She turned to the two agents, both vaguely familiar. They were low-level agents, usually working in the facility as guards. Fortunately that meant they had useful powers; both men had a degree of enhanced strength.

“Rodriguez, I'm going to help you through the window first,” Kit said. The man blanched, probably embarrassed at the thought of a tiny woman picking him up as easily as a bag of groceries.

“Coffee,” she said, turning to the other agent, “you stay with me. We'll clear the door as fast as we can.”

They made good time from there. Kit barely felt the weight as she braced herself against the wall. Rodriguez was used to dealing with enhanced humans and didn't bat an eye when Kit effortlessly raised his entire weight. The only part that bothered her was the heavy tread on the man's boots digging into her laced fingers.

The medical team, however, goggled openly. Kit smiled as Rodriguez clambered through the window, amused despite the terrible conditions. Certainly not because of them; Kit had never been one of those people who, like Archer and even Ray to a degree, handled stress and fear through humor.

“Come on, Sarge,” Kit said with a wink. “Up you go. I promise I don't bite.”

Schneider didn't hesitate, though Kit suspected it was more from a desire to be seen as strong in front of her team than a lack of nerves.

After their leader was inside the rest of the medics moved easily. Kit tossed up the bags of supplies and tools they'd set down in order to fit through the window, then moved to the doorway. Agent Coffee had already begun work.

“You can keep on working where you are,” Kit said as the man made to straighten and make room for her. “You stay down here. I'm smaller, so I'll climb up the pile and start clearing from the top.”

Coffee craned his head to look at the roof of the collapsed space. “Looks pretty unstable, ma'am,” he observed. “You sure you don't want me to go in there?”

“It's fine,” Kit said. “I'm tougher than I look. Faster, too.” With that she made her way up the pile of debris.

They worked in quiet unison for what felt like a long time, Coffee steadily eroding the base of the slope while Kit tossed chunks of brick and concrete out into the narrow front lawn. She made sure to keep the arc of her throws well above Coffee's head.

For Kit the world moved at a snail's pace, making every minute seem like four. She knew Coffee would be seeing her toss debris at great speed, but knowing didn't make the time go by any faster for her. Ten minutes in real time passed before necessity forced them to stop.

The smaller pieces of stone had been cleared from the main mass of the blockage, which resolved into a huge slab of concrete. Nearly as wide as the entryway and six feet long, the thing was uneven but thick.

“What the hell?” Kit wondered aloud.

“Looks like a shitty patch job,” Coffee observed. “Probably the second floor hallway above the door. Lots of contractors don't think about how these old buildings are put together. I bet they were supposed to remove the floor up there and reinforce it, but just dug up a bunch of the concrete that was already there and filled it back in.”

Kit gave him an appreciative look. Coffee shrugged. “I used to do some contracting work,” he explained.

“Well, let's see if we can maybe pull it out a little. Then one of us can go to the other end and push, once we make some space.”

Coffee nodded and braced himself to Kit's left, fingers gripping the slab hard enough to cause a few cracks. Kit mirrored him, crouching low and spreading her arms wide. “We only need to move it a few inches at a time,” she warned. “Don't hurt yourself.”

Coffee nodded, and Kit gave a count.

“One, two...” On three they pulled, though even their combined effort wasn't enough to move the slab. It couldn't be strictly a matter of weight since Kit was strong enough to do the job alone. The bottom was probably stuck on something. Friction alone wasn't enough to stop them cold.

Kit pushed herself, trying to lift and pull at the same time in an effort to loosen whatever might be holding the slab in place.

The flood of Surge that filled her veins did not have the intended effect. Instead of the usual flush of power giving her muscles an extra boost, it brought an overwhelming sense of vertigo. Utterly unprepared, Kit vomited as the world became a confusing blur. She felt her body moving, spinning, and then something hit her in the face.

It felt like a building.

“Ow,” Kit mumbled as she regained consciousness. Her eyes opened to dimly lit concrete above rather than sky. The odd combination of motor oil and antiseptic filled her nostrils. A deep, powerful throbbing had taken up residence in her head. The sensation seemed to have settled in for a nice long stay, and from what Kit was feeling had set up business. That business was pain.

“You look terrible, in case you were wondering,” a cheerful voice said.

Kit turned from her back slowly, trying not to shake her scrambled brain.

“Wha—” she said, stopping mid-word. Her jaw was restrained by something, making it hard to open. She ran a curious hand around her face and head. Bandages wrapped around her temples in a headband, another running from jaw to crown. She looked at the speaker, who turned out to be Ray. He was sitting with his right ankle propped on his left knee, an open book in one hand and a cup of tea in another. He looked fine. Perfectly, insufferably healthy. Bastard.

His eyes twinkled. “I know that look,” he said. “You're grumpy when you're hurt, did you know that?”

Kit waved at her face and raised a questioning eyebrow, though she couldn't be sure he could see the expression given her current status as mummy impersonator.

Ray got the hint. “You hit your head super hard. Gave yourself a concussion on the way up, then a hairline fracture in your jaw on the way down.”

Kit frowned, which she discovered also hurt. Carefully forming the words, she slowly asked what he meant by up and down. Had she jumped in her confused state, slapping her skull against a wall?

“That's a little harder to explain,” Ray said apologetically. “When he called in your injury, Coffee said you flew up in the air all of a sudden, like somebody picked you up and tossed you. That's how you got the concussion. Falling back down after you were knocked silly broke your jaw. Though it's not a bad break at all. The doctor didn't want you to hurt yourself in your sleep. He said you can take off the wrap to talk if you're careful.”

More confused than ever, Kit nodded. She carefully pulled the elastic bandage further down, resting it in the crook between her neck and the hinge of her jaw.

“Why did they let me sleep if I have a concussion?” she asked.

Ray shrugged. “You were out when James brought you back here. They couldn't wake you up no matter what they did. The tests didn't reveal anything beyond the obvious injuries, so they observed you for a few hours and put you here. The nurse said weird things like that happen with injured Next sometimes.”

“What threw me into the wall?” Kit asked. “Was it another Next?”

Ray looked uncomfortable. “Kind of.”

“What does that mean?” Kit asked, irritated.

“He means it's my fault,” a new voice said.

Graysen stepped into view. Kit hadn't seen her due for the simple fact that she hadn't wanted to move her head if she could help it, leaving the cots on her right out of view.

“But you were here,” Kit said dumbly. “How could you have done this?”

“I didn't, not directly,” Graysen said. “After I caught you the other day, I had to check in with my proctor in the training program. I hadn't used my powers on another Next before, and when that kind of thing happens we're supposed to be tested and get a check up.”

Kit nodded in understanding. That was part of the ludicrously detailed system of checks and balances the OSA kept in place to prevent accidents. Some Next could have adverse or even dangerous reactions to using their powers at all, or on other Next, or having another Next use their powers on them. The interactions and dangers were legion (and thankfully very uncommon), but the regulations were there for a reason.

She twirled a finger for Graysen to continue.

“Anyway, I went through all the tests and everything seemed fine, but when they had me use my powers on one of the doctors, they realized there was a side effect. Basically, because I didn't know what I was doing, my powers forced you to alter your own gravity. I guided you, but you were doing it partially yourself.”

“How?” Kit asked.

“It's complicated,” Graysen said. “Essentially my powers force the genes that make you Next to activate certain combinations that enable you to do what I do. It's rare, and I swear I had no idea.”

Kit pondered that for a little while. “Are you saying I can do what you can now?”

Graysen shook her head. “Not necessarily. What happened to you today was probably a side effect. When you pushed yourself, the extra power went into the circuit my ability opened up in you. The doctors say you'll go back to normal in a few days, maybe a week.”

Kit narrowed her eyes. “You're not telling me something,” she guessed.

Graysen sighed. “I spent an hour with your doctors and the ones who tested me. They told me what happened to you and we went over every detail and possibility. They talked about your powers and how they work, because they had to be sure you weren't going to have some insane reaction.”

“So?” Kit said, laughing quietly. “I don't care if you heard my medical history, kid. You saved my life.”

“No, what I meant was I know that you don't have a lot of power. Surge energy, I mean. Your body has changed a lot over the years, but the amount of Surge you can use to augment yourself has grown much more slowly.” Graysen hesitated, then threw up her hands. “They didn't want me to tell you, but I'm afraid if I don't, you'll do it by accident.”

She met Kit's eyes. “There's a chance you can force your body to adapt to my powers. If you keep using the Surge, it's possible you'll get a weaker version of what I can do. No one is sure what that would mean for your own powers. It could be really, really bad.”

Kit had no response to that, didn't trust herself to speak. She was a creature of habit and routine, comfortable with things changing slowly if at all. Her training and practice over the years had yielded a control of her abilities not often matched among Next. She took pride in not leaning solely on her powers as a crutch.

A deeper part of her, however, remembered the dream all children harbored at one time or another, and she wondered what it would be like to fly.

Archer showed up the next day to check in on her, the pair of them taking a walk to speak privately. The garage was filled to capacity, every cot containing a patient, so they ambled together outside. The weather was mild, the sun warming their shoulders.

“You're still benched,” Archer said before Kit could even ask. “Robinson put his foot down. He made it pretty clear you're to stay in medical until the doctors clear you or he'll break a foot off in your ass.”

Kit rolled her eyes but didn't argue. “I hate sitting in there with nothing to do,” she griped. “Especially when so many people out there need help.”

Archer laughed. “Have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?” he teased. “You're one person, Kit. You're one hell of a person, but still. You staying inactive for a few days so you can heal won't make a huge difference.” His expression sobered. “Besides, this isn't going to be over soon. The rescue effort is going well—better than we expected, actually—but the cleanup and rebuilding will take a long time. A lot of people will be homeless or without utilities for the foreseeable future. Nunez definitely knew how to hamstring us.”

Kit nodded. “That's the point. He wants us too busy to come after him. This won't be the last disaster he causes, you realize.”

“Yeah, given what he told you, we're thinking the same thing,” Archer agreed. “Robinson isn't about to sit back and let this bastard have his way, though. He's lobbying pretty hard to put together a task force to hunt down Nunez or at least limit the damage he can do. It's a slam dunk, really. At this point the only question is how large the budget will be.”

“Good,” Kit said, though her heart wasn't in it. A unit aimed at Nunez like an arrow, and she was stuck here.

“Ray was right, you are predictable,” Archer mused. “You get that storm cloud expression any time you're holding back your anger. I probably should have mentioned that Robinson wants you to lead the task force, which is why he wants to be sure you don't aggravate your injuries.”

Kit glared at him, then punched him in the shoulder. She decided against her usual gentle tap, slugging him hard enough to do damage.

“Ahhhh!” he shouted, laughing at the same time. “You tore something.”

“You'll heal,” Kit said with a smirk. “You fucker. Letting me get all worked up...”

Archer grinned as he worked the shoulder, the injury probably already gone. She'd seen him heal from being impaled in a matter of seconds. This didn't even rate.

“Couldn't help it,” he said. “Messing with you is one of the last joys I have in life.”

Kit looked out over the vast field where Fairmont once stood, past the distant form of the office building. She couldn't see Louisville from here, but it didn't stop her from looking.

“We're gonna get him,” Archer said, and Kit thought he was trying to convince himself as much as reassure her. “You'll stop him. I know it.”

Archer put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, an unusual gesture from the man. Kit put her hand on his, returning the gentle pressure. He left, returning to the mountain of work no doubt waiting at his desk, but Kit remained.

The sun burned low in the sky, blazing above the trees but nearly touching them. Kit let the light warm her face as she closed her eyes. She pushed away the worry. She forced the fear from her mind. The dark cloud hanging over the future wasn't so easy to forget, but Kit had never been one to shy away from grim possibilities.

Nunez might have been telling the truth, but had certainly been right about one thing; it didn't matter if he was. Everything Kit believed—everything she was—told her to fight. To prevent him from accomplishing his goals at any cost.

She took a deep breath and made her mind still, empty. The flow of energy she drew was thin but strong.

Kit rose into the air.

Author's Note

Man, what a year.

I published Next on April 1st of 2014. Right now it's early in the morning of April 6th, 2015. Just a shade over a year later, and the sequel is done. Not that I've been completely lazy since I did manage to publish the third volume of The Fall in that time.

Still, thanks so much for sticking around. I know it has been annoying for some of you.

As you may or may not know, I had surgery on my spine in October. Herniated disc, yadda yadda yadda. Recovery took a long time, and longer still to be able to sit and work comfortably.

Back, leg, and hip pain had been nagging me nonstop for 18 months. That's part of why I couldn't write as fast as I wanted. I didn't realize just how pervasive that pain was until it was (mostly) gone, but the proof is in the fact that I wrote about 70% of Damage in the last two months, my output increasing constantly.

As I've healed and been able to sit and work without pain, my productivity improved. Go figure.

I'm excited to continue writing in this world and in The Fall, my zombie series, not to mention the other books I'm planning down the road. I just wanted to use this space to show my gratitude. You're the best.

Joshua Guess (but you can call me Josh)

April 6th, 2015