Metawars: The Complete Series: Trance, Changeling, Tempest, Chimera (5 page)

Since it was Dad’s Vox, I said, “Hinder.”

“Invalid identification. Identify.”

I grunted. We each had code names, given the day we officially became Ranger Corps trainees. My father chose mine—a name that matched my old powers.

“Trance,” I said.

“Identification accepted. Message sent.”

“Thanks.”

I put the Vox down on an overturned crate serving as my coffee table. It stayed in plain sight as I yanked a gray sweater off its wire hanger. Corps Headquarters still existed in Los Angeles—a crumbling monument to an era of failed heroics. Someone there would know what to do next.

Was that what I wanted? To walk out of my life and its never-ending cycle of dead-end jobs, which were relatively safe? To return to a life that had almost killed me once but had also, even as a child, made me feel necessary, like I was doing more than just floating through my life?

I was no hero, but I was sick of being a waitress—of simply existing, rather than living. It was time to get dressed and figure out how to get almost a thousand miles from my little apartment in Portland, Oregon, to Southern California as quickly as possible with no car and twenty bucks in cash. My next payday was five days away, so short of bumming train fare from a Good Samaritan or using my newly acquired powers to rob a bank, I would be hitching.

My other unique challenge: concealing my newly acquired amethyst eyes from the general public. I scrounged a blue knit cap from a box of winter clothes to hide the purple hair streaks. Odd-colored hair wasn’t altogether unusual; the eyes were harder. I finally settled on a pair of cracked sunglasses.

With my father’s Vox—mine now, I supposed—in my jeans pocket, and extra clothes, and the last of my cheap, taste-like-cardboard protein bars in the cloth knapsack slung across my shoulder, I set out, wondering if there was anything more pathetic than a broke superhero.

I
don’t remember dozing, just jerking awake with a cramp in my neck and no idea where I was. The faint odors of gasoline, deep fryer grease, and stale cigarette smoke assaulted my nostrils. The tractor trailer I’d hitched on was turning into a truck stop off I-99. It was busy enough, with dozens of rigs and trucks and traveling families coming and going at regular intervals. A huge fueling plaza was connected to a convenience store and greasy spoon diner. Two hundred yards away, across a service road, was a low-rent motel. It was after 6:00 p.m., dark again, and the place was jumping with activity.

“We’re in Bakersfield,” Cliff said.

I jerked my head toward him, self-consciously brushing a hand over my chin for a quick drool check. Sleeping upright in cars meant my mouth falling open, but I found no evidence of my slumber and sat up a little straighter. Some of the immediate panic died away, but not all. I’d fallen asleep—let my guard down while locked in a moving semi with a complete stranger. Stupid.

Neon lights from the diner sign glinted off Cliff’s bald head. His plaid flannel shirt was untucked, covering his lap and substantial gut. He navigated his rig through the lot behind the diner. It looked like a boneyard for trucks—I had never seen so many in one place. He found a space and turned off the ignition. His hands clenched the steering wheel. I held tight to my knapsack, which hadn’t left my side since we began our trip in the early-dawn hours. The rig’s engine hissed as it cooled.

The way he shifted in his seat made the skin on my forearms crawl. Maybe accepting the hitch had been a bad idea. I dreaded what Cliff might demand as compensation for this trip. We’d barely spoken when he picked me up. Enough words to communicate that our destinations coincided and he was willing to take on a passenger.

And that he didn’t want my money.

My bladder throbbed. “How long was I asleep?”

“About four hours. You up for a stretch and some dinner?”

“Definitely a stretch, but I really should be getting on my way.” And as far away from his leering eyes as possible. “I wish you’d take my money.”

“Nah, thanks, though. Didn’t chafe my ass any, since we’re going the same way. Where’re you headed to from here?”

“South. We’re only about two hours from L.A. I’ll get there somehow. Thanks for the lift.”

Meaty fists tightened around the wheel, and he still didn’t look at me. I eyed him, clenching my own hands, half expecting some sort of attack; a snarled demand for
physical reparations. Instead, he climbed out. He walked around to my side, opened the door, and then offered me his hand.

I smiled warmly, feeling a bit like an ass, and accepted his offer. I bounced to the ground and slung my knapsack over my shoulder.

“Sure I can’t buy you dinner?” he asked.

One more hash mark on the scorecard of things I would owe. No, thanks. “Thank you, again, for the ride, Cliff. I can manage it from here. Take care.”

His left eye twitched. He nodded. “Yeah.” With that, he pivoted and strode toward the diner. Okay, waddled more than strode.

My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten for hours. I eyed the convenience store. Food in there was overpriced, and I might need my cash for the rest of the trip south. The cold fist of hunger tightened around my belly. Dinner with Cliff, even if he gave me the squiggles, was sounding better and better.

Food later. Bathroom first, and then back on the road.

I chose the convenience store’s bathroom, since I needed a key to get in. I wanted the privacy, if only for a few minutes. On my way to the rear of the store, key in hand, I passed a large display rack of newspapers. Half a dozen different headlines screamed information at me. A man was placing fresh copies of the
Valley Gazette
on a smallish rack near the bottom.

“Fairview Hospital Fire, Two Dead, Accident or Arson?” Oddly professional headline from what looked like a low-budget
gossip rag, if the “Aliens Impregnated Me” story below it was any indication.

After washing my hands, I took a moment to let my hair down. A few more purple streaks had sprouted along my part, working their way from root to tip. It might have been a nice look if my damned eyes hadn’t gone all amethyst on me. Unusually colored contact lenses had been banned decades ago, when civilians started going around pretending to be Metas, and several got themselves killed. Even after the War, the ban wasn’t lifted. No one wanted to be a Meta. Few wanted to remember we’d ever existed.

I leaned closer and inspected my hairline. The lightest purple haze had settled over the skin at the top of my forehead, like the start of a bruise.

“Now I’m really going to scare the locals.”

Roughly half of the old Rangers had been able to blend into a crowd. I’d managed to pass, even with faint lavender streaks, and to use my Trance power without being caught. Now I looked like a reject from a last-century bubblegum band.

A shadow flickered behind me, reflected in the mirror. I froze. How the hell had someone gotten in? A woman’s face watched me, out of focus. Underwater. Eyes that were there one instant, and hollow the next. A coalescing swirl of color and nothingness. Impossible.

I spun around. A single toilet and handicap railing faced me. I was very much alone. Chalking it up to lack of sleep and fried nerves, I stuffed my hair back into the cap and left.

Back outside in the cool night air, I started to relax. Hunger
was making me see things in the mirror. I probably should have splurged on overpriced snack cakes, just to stave off my admission to the funny farm.

I navigated my way through the maze of the parking lot, past dozens of tractor trailers in long rows of angled spaces that stank of rubber and oil. Their drivers were either eating or sleeping. Furniture deliveries, grocery trucks, and unmarked trailers of all sorts, with license plates from across the country.

Something shuffled behind me; I froze. I glanced over my shoulder—only shadows cast by the trucks and moonlight. Their presence was oppressive, ominous. The rumble of traffic seemed far away, the din of the fuel plaza even farther. I doubled back, determined to get out of the truck maze and into the open.

As I passed a silver cab, something spun me around. The cloth knapsack fell off my shoulder, hit my ankle, and tripped me. I hit the grill with my left shoulder, cracked the back of my head, and saw stars. The sunglasses clattered to the ground. A meaty hand closed around my throat and squeezed, while a second grabbed my right wrist, twisted it, and pinned it against the cab by my head.

Idiot!

Panic hit me in the face like ice water. I raised my knee, hoping to find a soft target, and hit nothing. Hot air wafted over my face, reeking of stale smoke.

“Guess I wanted my twenty bucks’ worth after all,” Cliff said, coating my sense of smell with his noxious breath.

My stomach quailed. I tried to scream. His hand constricted
my throat, and he pushed his gut against my stomach. He had at least six inches on me, plus seventy pounds of flab in all the wrong places. I put my left hand on his shoulder and tried to push—like shoving against a granite pillar. I needed a weapon, something to get him off before he contaminated me with his stink. And worse.

A car rumbled past on the opposite side of the lot, its headlights briefly illuminating our row, giving me a glimpse of my fingertips. Their purplish tinge. The power orbs. I didn’t need a weapon. Hell, I
was
a weapon—untested, but had there ever been a better time?

I grinned, channeling my fear into my hands. The skin warmed.

“What’s so funny?” Cliff asked, squeezing my throat just a little harder.

My new eyes met his soggy gaze. He blinked. His brow furrowed. Ignoring my seizing lungs, I raised my left hand and snapped my fingers. Instantly a lavender orb of energy appeared and hovered above my palm. He gaped at it, the pale light casting a bizarre pallor on his jowls. His grip loosened, and I sucked in air.

“Let me go,” I said, “and I won’t shove this orb up your ample ass.” I found hitherto undiscovered confidence in the oxygen and my newfound powers. Okay, maybe they weren’t actually
my
powers, but they were proving seriously useful.

“What the hell are you?” he asked, tightening his grip again. The lack of constant air was making me light-headed, and I struggled to keep the orb bright enough to scare him.

“I’m annoyed.” He wanted to do this the hard way, fine. “And you’re in pain.”

His eyes widened. I slammed the orb into his left shoulder with a solid crack. His entire left side snapped backward as he bellowed—surprise or pain, I didn’t care which—and his hold loosened. I shoved. He hit the filthy pavement with a splat and rolled onto his left side, groaning.

Inhaling greedily, I touched my sore throat, disgusted by the slick substance I found. I wiped my hand on my jeans, then snapped my fingers. A second orb flared to life, roughly the size of a chicken’s egg. Paler and translucent, this one wouldn’t hurt as much; the larger the orb, it seemed, the less solid its form.

Probably. Granny Dell’s orbs had been nothing quite so controlled—one of the reasons, according to Dad, that she’d retired so young. Further testing of my orbs was required, and the perfect subject was squirming at my feet.

I pushed Cliff’s shoulder with the toe of my sneaker, and he rolled onto his back. He stared up at me with glassy eyes. His shirt wasn’t torn and the area of impact wasn’t bleeding, but I bet he’d have one hell of a bruise. I loomed over him with the orb and poised my hand dramatically over his crotch.

“Something tells me I’m not the first girl you’ve demanded your twenty bucks’ worth from,” I said, indignation boiling over.

My entire life I’d felt helpless to stop the violence around me. Compared to the more powerful Rangers and trainees, Trancing someone seemed weak and stupid. My cowardice
in Central Park had haunted me through my adolescence and four different foster homes while I ignored the school bullies I should have stood up to and absorbed the taunts of my foster siblings, who knew I was different but weren’t sure why.

I came to understand that I couldn’t count on anyone but myself, so I kept my head down and lived my life, the rest of the world be damned. I tried to block out the violence running rampant in the decaying cities and in the hearts of people I passed in the street every day. For years I’d felt weak and naked and unreliable, and now I stood with the power to take some of that control back. To make my life mean something.

Very cool.

And really friggin’ scary.

“Please,” he muttered.

“Please what?” I asked. “Please don’t burn my balls off? Would ‘please’ have stopped you from raping me?”

He didn’t respond, which was answer enough. I bent at the waist. Several strands of my hair fell loose from the disheveled cap and curled purple around my face. In the pale parking lot lights, I must have looked terrifying, because he started to whimper like a puppy whose tail I’d just ground into the pavement.

“How about we make a deal?” I said. “You get to keep your dick, and in exchange, you tell your friends about this. Let them think about me the next time they pick up a hitchhiker with the expectations of getting a blow job in exchange for miles.”

He nodded, still whimpering, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Who are you?”

“Trance?”

The new voice broke my concentration. The orb disappeared. I snapped my head toward the sound, intent on giving the arrival a taste of my annoyance. The barb died on my lips, as did all thoughts of the man at my feet. I gazed at a pair of black and silver eyes that shimmered and danced, swimming in brilliance, like a starry night sky.

A man about my age stood on the sidewalk, his lean, athletic body dressed snugly in black jeans, a black sweater, and a leather bomber jacket. He had a firm jawline, tousled brown-blond hair, and dark eyebrows that creased in a sharp V as he stared at me as if a third arm were growing out of my forehead. His face had changed, narrowed and aged, but those beautiful eyes were unmistakable. Eyes I hadn’t seen in a lifetime.

“Gage?” I asked.

“Call me Cipher. Remember?”