The Other Eight (7 page)

“As a matter of fact, I came along to give
you a hand with your paperwork. Have you made any selections
regarding your top recruits?”

“Right there,” he said, indicating the
smallest stack. “Damn slim pickings.”

St. John scooped up the pile, which contained
five profiles. “Let’s see. Zed Cantrell, Preston Logan, Wilson
Howlett, John Gladstone, Perry Carp. Not bad choices.”

“I don’t see how I could make any others.
Logan with his cart-before-the-horse ability, Cantrell’s ability to
undo his previous actions, and Howlett’s power to do whatever it is
he does are the only worthwhile powers I’ve seen. Perry Carp at
least can do some damage with his seed spitting, and Gladstone…
come to think of it, I’m not sure why he made the list, but he may
as well stay there. I need eight of these people to make it through
basic training, and so far I’ve only got five I would even give a
second look.”

“Well, then I’ve got some good news. I have a
few names to add to that list. First, Nonsensica.”

“She was one of the ones in costume, wasn’t
she? The skinny one. Why would I want her on the team?”

“She’s entertaining, that’s why. She’s got a
good ‘on camera’ personality. There are tons of pictures of her
circulating from when she was standing in line. Plus, she’s a
woman, and she’s Asian American. It is good for the diversity of
the team.”

“I want an effective team, not one that
pleases key demographics, St. John.”

“I know, I know, and I’m not saying she
should win one of the spots. I’m just saying she should be in the
running.”

“There is no ‘in the running.’ There is no
‘win a spot.’ I pick and evaluate a team.”

“And that’s the other reason I came. I’ve
been chatting with some of the folks higher up the chain—”

“Damn it, Major.” He cleared his throat.
“
I
am in charge of this project.”

“I know, I know,” he said, hands raised and
head lowered, “and I wouldn’t dare take that away from you, nor
could I. I’m just the consultant, and as such I’ve just been doing
some consulting. The folks at the top of the heap and I ended up
seeing eye to eye on a few points. They’d like to stretch this out
a bit. Expand the visibility and the scope. Keep the organization
on the news and in the blogs. So we’d like you to pick sixteen
potential team members. Run them through some tests publicly. Maybe
keep a running score. Then, once it is all said and done, we’ll
split them up into two teams—”

“You will
not
turn this into a reality
show, Major.”

“No, no. Perish the thought, General. Nothing
so undignified or absurd. No. This is a competition. Legitimate.
Like the playoffs. Or the Olympics. Good old-fashioned
may-the-best-man-win skill trials. What could be more military than
that? And like all good competitions, yes, there will be cameras.
In the end we split the winners and the losers apart and have them
compete in a war game against each other so that the winners can
crush the losers. That’ll give America a warm feeling that they got
the best team, and you end up with the eight people you would have
wanted in the first place. And along with it you get better
equipment, more press, more prestige…”

“Sounds political. I hate politics.”

“Well, we live in a democracy. Politics are
how things get done. Now as I was saying, I’d like you to add these
to the list. Trixie Testa is a teenager. Important market for the
Internet. Music is big now, so I think Roger Astaire, Ginger Fosse,
and Fred Harmon are good additions. I like Floyd Heston for the
over forty crowd. Julio Verde will be good to keep the Latinos
interested, plus he and Frank Sapp are very green, which will make
the environmentalists happy.”

“Fine,” Siegel barked. “Make your list. Run
it by Aiken, and get this idiotic exercise over with so we can pick
our eight soldiers and see what they can do. The sooner it is over,
the better.”

“I knew you’d see the light, General.”

“The only light I’m looking for is the one at
the end of the tunnel. Give your selections to Roberts, and he’ll
deal with it. And Major?”

“Yes, General?”

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to be on hand
while these cameras of yours are recording this circus. The last
thing I need is my face replaying on the news every night when
something inevitably goes horribly wrong. From now on, Sergeant
Roberts will be overseeing the physical and aptitude trials. I
trust his judgment, and he can be trusted to comport himself in a
manner becoming of a soldier.”

“I would have preferred someone with a little
more personality… or really any personality at all, but I’m a man
of compromise.”

Siegel cleared his throat again. “And here’s
another compromise you’d better be comfortable with, Major. If this
comes crashing down, and the time comes to point fingers and assign
blame, don’t think I won’t remember whose advice this all was.”

“Trust me, when this is over, America will be
screaming for a super-powered military presence,” St. John said,
taking the stack of folders and heading out to the clerk. “I’ll
make sure of that.”

A muggy and
unpleasant morning two weeks after the interviews and applications
began, four dozen of the hopefuls were to report to the site of the
interview facility. The interviews had finished three days prior,
and a work crew was busy returning the place to empty-lot status,
but a few tarps had been set up to provide some respite from the
punishing Virginia summer sun. An olive-drab troop transport with
three armed soldiers waited at the curb, and Dr. Aiken, Private
Summers, and Sergeant Roberts were all present. The psychologist
blotted at his head, glancing at his two military associates.
Summers was her usual bubbly self, the heat not having dampened her
spirits beyond requiring that she switch to iced coffee for the
time being. Sergeant Roberts was simply standing bolt upright, arms
crossed behind his back.

“Look at him,” Aiken said quietly to Summers.
“He isn’t even sweating.”

“I know. He’s an old-school soldier. He’s
probably waiting until someone gives an ‘at ease’ order before he
starts sweating,” she whispered back.

“Or maybe he’s afraid he’ll short something
out.”

Summers snickered.

After they’d spent a few minutes swatting
away clouds of gnats, an ominous black van pulled up, and out
stepped a camera man, a sound man, and Major St. John.

“Morning, Doctor, Private, Sergeant,” St.
John said, shaking hands one by one. “These two men will be helping
us to document our little selection process from this point
forward. If you’d just hold still, the sound man will put a
microphone on each of you.”

“Hi,” Private Summers said, extending her
hand to the heavyset man strapped with fifty pounds of recording
paraphernalia. “Your name is…?”

“Please don’t address the sound or video crew
directly. The idea is for you to pretend that they aren’t
there.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. This is my first time
on TV.”

“Don’t think of it as television, just think
of it as an official record. All right, everyone mic’ed up?
Excellent. I’ve got a bit of an instruction packet here; I’ll leave
it with you, Private Summers. Just a few things we’ve decided will
help things flow for the cameras. I’ll leave you three to the task
at hand. Do try to keep it interesting.”

Major St. John returned to the van and
instructed the driver to return to HQ.

“What does it say?” Aiken asked as Summers
read over the contents of the packet St. John had handed her.

“He wants us to stick to codenames when
referring to the… oh lord, he actually called them
contestants.”

“That’s for the best. One of the aspects of
the meta-human condition is a sensitive ego.”

“That I noticed.”

“Calling them by their codenames will
validate their hero status. That should keep things going
smoothly.”

Just as Major St. John’s van drove away, a
taxi rolled up to deliver the first of the hopefuls. It took nearly
an hour before the last few of the callbacks arrived.

“Okay, I believe that’s everyone, except for
Bottleneck. It should come as no surprise that he’s late,” Aiken
said, raising his voice to address the crowd huddled beneath the
tarp. “Now, I’d like to thank you all for coming here today. Don’t
mind the cameras. It is just for documentation. If you are here, it
means that you passed the initial screenings and were considered
the best of the group that was interviewed. Congratulations. Right
now Private Summers is handing out your assessments. They contain
the class of powers you have, as well as some basic observations
about you that we felt were relevant in the decision-making
process. You’ll also find a sticker with your codename on it.
Please place it in a visible location, so that we can more easily
identify each other. I want you all to take a look at your
assessments, and if you have any questions, raise your hand.”

Summers tracked down each of the heroes by
name and handed him or her a thin manila envelope. There was the
murmur of a few dozen voices reading over the contents.

“Oh, cool!” said a young man who had
optimistically worn army fatigues. Combined with dark eyeliner, it
made for an unusual ensemble. “I got Class B. That’s pretty good,
right!”

“Yes and no, Mister…” Dr. Aiken began.
Private Summers checked her clipboard and whispered in his ear.
“Mister Dusk. That is just your classification.”

“But it’s like grades, right? B is second
best.”

“Wait, why did I get a C then!” cried an
applicant labeled “The Hocker” by his freshly applied tag.

“No, no, no. Something isn’t right here. I
got Class O,” Nonsensica said. “What is this, a blood type? Is that
good or bad?”

“There are no good or bad classifications. It
is just a set of terminologies to help separate you into different
groups. The classifications are B, C, H, O, S, and U.” Summers
whispered something in his ear. “Ah… evidently there are two
different Class Os.”

“Well gee, Doc. You think maybe you could
have made it a little more confusing?” Nonsensica asked.

“Well, if B isn’t a grade, then what is it?”
asked Dusk.

“B stands for baseline.”

“So, average then?”

“In a manner of speaking. It means that, from
the military’s perspective, you do not have any powers.”

“Don’t have any powers! But I resonate with
the energy of the sunset!” he objected.

“Yes, but that doesn’t really have any
quantifiable meaning, sir.”

The crowd began to get a bit unruly as those
with Class B reacted to suddenly being denied superhero status.

“Now please! A Class B rating is nothing to
be ashamed of! It is simply a statistical bracket and has no
bearing on your status as a meta-human.” The din quieted somewhat.
“However, and I assure you that this is a coincidence and has
nothing to do with your classification, all Class B individuals can
go; you were not selected to advance to the next stage of
screenings.”

The jilted members of the crowd erupted with
objections, and for a moment things looked like they might turn
ugly, but Sergeant Roberts chose that moment to step forward.

“The United States Army thanks you for your
interest. You are now encouraged to return to your homes or places
of business in an orderly and peaceful manner. Thank you!” The
statement was made in a clear, commanding voice, made all the more
compelling by the fact that his right hand rested on the grip of
his service pistol while he spoke it. The rejected applicants
wisely departed without further fuss.

“Well, now that the pretenders are out of the
way, what do the other classes mean?” Nonsensica asked.

“The initials stand for Baseline,
Combat-applicable, Handicap, Oddity or Other, Support, and
Utility.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Why am I Class H,” asked a
pale and frighteningly thin man in dark clothing.

Aiken glanced down at Summers’s clipboard.
“Well, er, Hemo. You have the ability to bleed on command.”

“But I can bleed
other
people’s
blood.”

“Yes, sir, but it still results in blood
loss, which is something the military prefers their soldiers avoid.
For reasons which I hope are clear, all Class H applicants can go.
Again, we thank you for your time and interest.”

There were the beginnings of an objection
from the crowd again, but a single step forward from Sergeant
Roberts was enough to convince them to rethink their actions and
disperse. With the Class B and Class H people gone, there remained
only about twenty of the forty-eight who had made it through the
initial screening.

“So I’m Class O. What does that mean again?”
asked a fellow with a tag marked “Gracias.”

“Oddity-class powers are powers that are
undeniably beyond what a baseline human being is capable of, but do
not have any obvious application in a military context,” Aiken
explained.

“Okay, but what does
that
mean?”

“It means we’re sideshow freaks, not
superheroes,” said a man with a sneer. His name tag dubbed him
Chloroplast, and since his arrival there had been an argument
circulating among the crowd about whether his complexion, which was
broccoli green, was the result of his powers or body paint in lieu
of a costume.

“Hey! I have the ability to make grass grow
on people’s butts just by thanking them. What part of that is
freakish?” Gracias asked.

“What part of that
isn’t
freakish?”
Chloroplast jabbed.

“At least I don’t have green skin like some
sort of scrawny, weak, wannabe Hulk!”

“How exactly am I an oddity?” Nonsensica
said, ignoring the argument behind her in favor of her own outrage.
“I’m able to verbally short-circuit brains! That’s totally a combat
power for sure!”