Sidekicks (11 page)

“You were wondering if you could skip class to study and observe it.”

“Only if you think it's OK.”

“Why do you need … ?”

“Scott,” I say when his pause stretches a little too long.

“Scott,” he repeats.

“I was thinking that he and I could partner up. He's a HUGE bee freak.”

Allison hits me with an elbow, too fast for the naked eye to catch. “I like bees,” I say. It comes out so stiff and
awkward that Allison looks at me and almost cracks up.

“Well, bees' nests are fascinating. And I do applaud your initiative …” He thinks about it for a moment, then says. “Go ahead. But be careful! And I expect a full report on this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jacobs!” She grabs my hand and drags me off. I manage to get a quick look at the class before we leave. There are more than a few envious male faces.

“How did you do that?” I ask.

“Just have to lay the groundwork,” she says. “I've spent years being a Goody Two-shoes. Years. So now, when I want to do something, I ALWAYS get the benefit of the doubt. Once you have that good girl label, you're set.”

“Oh.”

“Plus, all these teachers believe in unconventional teaching methods, otherwise they wouldn't be here; they'd teach at public school.”

We head out the front door. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, not sure where to go next. Allison keeps walking. “Shouldn't we stay close to the building?” I ask.

She stops and turns to me. “How fast can you get back here if you needed to?”

“As Scott or—” I look around, then whisper, “
Bright Boy
?”

Allison looks amused. “There's no difference, dummy.”

“Yeah, there is. I don't use my—
powers
—when I'm out of—
costume
.”

“OK, first of all, stop whispering. And second of all, we've been going to school together for how long? Did you ever see me use my powers?”

“No, but that's because you never—”

She's smiling at me.

“You use your powers all the time, don't you?”

“ALL the time. My God, I'm zipping around these halls like fifty times a day.”

“How come I never saw you?”

She shrugs. “Maybe you're just not that observant.”

I try to laugh her comment off, but it seems that there's more than a little truth to it.

“Come on,” she says, and grabs my wrist again.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I'm not
taking
you anywhere. You're a big boy with super-strength. If you don't want to go, no one's going to force you.” She lets go of my wrist and starts walking.

I catch up to her, walking in stride. I think about taking her hand, but I don't. She sees me looking at her
hand, and she smiles. I smile back at her. “Try to keep up,” she says, and sprints ahead of me.

I sprint after her. I'm breaking one of my rules … and it feels amazing. She looks back at me to see if I'm still behind her; she smiles when she sees that I am.

This is only a job … this is only a job … this is only a job …

a mile underground, trying to correct the trigger mechanism to his latest deadly invention. The pull is still too light, making it too easy to fire off an accidental shot … and you don't get to be Dr. Chaotic, Phantom Justice's most dangerous enemy, by firing off accidental shots. He starts to dismantle the trigger mechanism when the screwdriver slips from his hands. He snaps it out of the air quickly and with little fuss.

“I believe you were about to say ‘Nice catch,' yes?” Edward says to what appears to be an empty room.

There's a pause, then a voice comes from one of the darkened corners. “It was a nice catch.”

“How many times must I tell you that sneaking up on me is not possible?” Edward says. “The thrill you got from trying … it gave me a little tickle, right here.” He points to a spot on his head, directly behind his right ear.

“Well, at least I circumvented your alarms.”

“I turned them off. I had a feeling you were coming.”

“Oh.”

Edward quickly turns and pulls the trigger on the weapon he's holding, aiming it at the spot where the voice came from. The air is suddenly full of laser sound and ozone smell. Several large crates go flying, as if an invisible giant swatted them away.

“Still too light,” he says, putting the weapon back on the table. He picks up his screwdriver again and starts tinkering.

“What the hell was that?” the voice asks, now from a different shadowy corner of the room.

“Weapons testing. And please stop the dramatics. I'm guessing you avoided that blast by about ten feet.”

“Twelve.”

“My mistake. Now … how about coming over here and taking a seat? I have no interest in speaking to the
room for the next forty minutes,” Edward says.

“Fine.” Trent Clancy steps out of the shadows and laughs. “You're always so cranky when you can't get a trigger right.”

“They're always the hardest part,” Edward says. “I can build a damn laser that knocks over two-ton boxes, but I still have trouble making a simple trigger.”

“You always figure it out.” Trent sits on the arm of the worn leather armchair that's positioned like an afterthought in the middle of the room; he has a metal briefcase in his hand and a big grin on his face. “God, it's good to be working with a professional again! It's been strictly amateur hour around here since you took a break.”

“Yes, so I've been reading. Not a whole lot of staying power to the new guys.”

“Yeah. They have the speed and strength, but, man, are they dumb! They usually only last a couple of jobs before they quit.”

“Or get fired,” Edward says, and now he and Trent are staring at each other.

Trent is still grinning, but his eyes are cautious, watchful. “Accidents happen. Things … explode sometimes,” Trent says in his Phantom Justice whisper-growl.
“That's the risk you run when you deal with people who don't know what they're doing.”

“Mm-hm.” The two men stare at each other, their expressions inscrutable. “You know,” Edward says, “I got that chair specifically for you to sit in, not on.”

Trent laughs, and the moment is gone. “Whoa … Looks like you've got a case of the COMS today, Doc.”

“What is—wait … COMS … Cranky Old Man Syndrome.”

“Good guess.”

“I never ‘guess,'” Edward says. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this midafternoon visit?”

“I come bearing gifts,” Trent says, holding up the metal briefcase. He walks over to Edward, puts it on the table and clicks it open. It's full of neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “First installment. Do you want to count it?”

Edward smiles. “No need.”

Trent smiles back. “Nice to know that we're still on the same page after all these years.”

“It's an easy page to be on. “

“This is the first of seven,” Trent says, tapping the top of the briefcase. “IGO thought smaller chunks would be easier to hide.”

“Makes sense.” Edward looks at the money in the briefcase.

“Man, it's good to be making some real money again! The amateurs were really putting a ding in the numbers,” Trent says. “I'll tell you, Edward, if you said no to this, I think I would've had to turn them down. No way any of the other clowns had enough juice to pull off the kind of numbers IGO's talking about.”

“Well, I guess you're lucky that private school is so expensive.”

Trent looks at the weapon Edward is working on. “That for our next gig?” he asks.

“If I can get the damn trigger right.”

Edward hands Trent the gun. Trent aims at the same crates that Edward knocked over before and pulls the trigger. They go flying across the room.

“Battering force,” Edward tells him. “Same concept as the Pulverizer, but with none of that nasty laser burn. It may sting a little, but nothing too bad.”

“Trigger felt fine to me,” Trent says, handing the gun back to Edward. “Oh, and feel free to bring back the Pulverizer and use it on Bright Boy, if you want. That little pest could use some laser burn.”

“Problems at home?”

“Ugh! What a little crybaby!” Trent groans, then runs his fingers through his hair. “‘
Oh, my pants are too tight! Oh, people are making fun of me! Boo-hoo-hoo
,'” Trent says in a whiny voice.

“To be fair, his costume is a bit embarrassing.”

“The hell it is! It's an icon!”

“All right … calm down.”

“Maybe the problem is that he's just too old to wear it. Might be time to bring in someone younger, which would help boost the numbers in the youth demographic.” Trent laughs, but it has a tight, cold sound to it. “Nothing like a sidekick death to boost the ol' numbers, right?”

“I didn't realize you hated him that much.”

“Yeah, well, some days he can really push my buttons. You must feel the same way about …” Trent pauses.

“Allison.”

“Yeah … Allison.”

“Not really. She does her thing; I do mine. We try to stay out of each other's hair,” Edward says without taking his eyes off his work.

Trent watches Edward intently for a moment, then looks around the room. He picks up some papers, looks at them without really seeing them, then puts them back down.

“Something else is on your mind,” Edward says without looking up.

“Maybe.”

“It wasn't a question. There
is
something else on your mind, and you're trying to decide whether to tell me or not. It feels like this”—Edward taps the top of his head with one finger—“so … please … save me the headache.”

“Fine. The kids know about each other.”

Edward stops working. He puts his screwdriver down. “What do they know?”

“Each other's secret identities.”

“Hm. So that's what she was hiding from me this morning,” Edward says. “Is that it?”

“As far as I know, yeah.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“Well, I'd love to leave Bright Boy bleeding in an alley somewhere,” Trent says, a malicious grin on his face, “but I suppose I can wait.”

“Hm. Wearing your hostility for him a little close to the surface these days, don't you think?”

“He's insufferable. Sometimes, he just makes me want to … gahhh!!” Trent yells as he punches one of the nearby crates. His fist goes right through.

Edward sighs. “As stable as ever, I see. How did you find out about them?”

“Scott told me everything. Last night, he and Allison were fighting, and they ended up falling through a warehouse roof,” Trent says. “She lost her mask in the fall, then ripped Scott's mask off after he saw who she was.”

“Yes, well, it was bound to happen.”

Trent shrugs. “I'll tell you, though, it's a good thing your daughter's as mature as she is. I thought Scott was going to wet himself.”

“Why? What did she do?”

“She told him flat out that if he tells on her, she'll tell on him. So … now they have this agreement based on mutual distrust.” Trent laughs. “You know what Scott wanted to do?”

“Turn her in and throw his identity away in the name of justice.”

“Yeah, do you believe it?”

“Yes. I've met the boy, remember? His constant barrage of ‘heroic' thoughts feels like someone's giving me a noogie. You weren't planning on telling him about us, were you?”

“God, no! Can you imagine? He'd turn us in.”

“He's a true hero, Trent. You should be proud.” Edward keeps a straight face for a minute but then breaks out laughing.

Trent laughs with him. “Oh, I am. Wait 'til you hear the speech I wrote for his funeral.”

Edward goes back to tinkering with the trigger on his weapon.

“So,” Trent says, eyes fixed on Edward, “did you tell Allison … you know … about this?”