The Posterchildren: Origins Read online

  “Say, Dad? D’you think you could do me a favor? It’s, uh. It’s kind of a big one.”

  “You name it,” he said, without hesitation. “I owe you one, Champ.”

  Ernest sucked in a breath, then made himself spit it out.

  “There’s this new girl,” he began. He had to take another deep breath to keep going. “And I— I’d like to be her partner, I think.”

  His father’s eyebrows arched toward his hairline. “Is that so?”

  Ernest squirmed in his seat. His tone made it sound like he was only interested in her because she was a girl. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all.

  “Her name’s Juniper Lola Hovick, but she goes by June. I pulled her file. She’s a red-band pyrokinetic Beta, and she’s— I dunno. She’s different. I know that it’s up to the board, but do you think you could pull some strings? I mean, just tug on ‘em a little.”

  Dad smoothed the side of his glass with his thumb with a ruminative “Hmm.”

  Hmm worried him. Hmm meant that his father wasn’t happy about the idea. Hmm sounded awful disappointed.

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think she’d be a good partner for me,” Ernest blurted out. “She’s not athletic, but I am. I’m an infighter, but with her powers, she’s good from a distance. I just don’t think she’s got a fair chance. I could even out the odds.”

  Dad poured himself another drink. Ernest felt terrible for bringing it up. It was a bad time. He knew that it was a bad time. But if he didn’t ask him right then, he wouldn’t have another chance. The duos were going to be announced Saturday night.

  “You’re the top of the class, Ernie. You know that, don’t you? They’ve got you slated to work with Dylan Walsh. He scored high last block. Real high.” He caught Ernest’s gaze and held it. “This isn’t the time or the place to save the stragglers. Some kids, they’re just not cut out for this life. There’s no shame in it.”

  “Dad, listen. June tried to fight me. Me! Maybe she won’t win the fifty yard dash or nothing, but she’s got guts. You can’t grade those.”

  He smiled at that, but it was just a brief twitch.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” his dad promised, getting up. “Eat up, then get some sleep, kiddo. You’ve got a big week ahead of you.”

  “I know. ‘Night.”

  His dad kissed his temple, tousling his hair. He took the bottle of whiskey up to bed with him. Ernest listened to his footsteps upstairs, waiting until he heard the creak of bedsprings. Then he scraped his dinner into the Tupperware container with the rest of the uneaten spaghetti and started washing the dishes. He’d lost his appetite.

  °

  Mal sat in the back of the forum, always. He was the most comfortable when his back was against a wall and he had a vantage view of the situation. The nosebleed section of the forum suited him. With his sight and hearing, he didn’t need to be in the first few rows, and unlike many of his more ambitious peers, Mal was already a known entity in Foundation. He didn’t have to preen or posture to get their attention. His parentage and test scores said all that needed to be said about him.

  Classes didn’t start until Monday, but this assembly was more nerve-wracking than the rigorous training and practical testing ahead of them. For the first two blocks, the Academy students were judged by their own merit. At the beginning of the third block, the forty-eight students in each class were paired off. The two-man teams were meant to condition the students to group dynamics and relying on others, so they had practice under their belts before they were sorted into five-man teams during the capstone. It also gave everyone a clear idea of where they stood in the class pecking order, as accumulated score sorted the teams.

  During his first block, Mal had accomplished something no one had thought possible: he’d earned a perfect score of fifty points. He knew that he’d likely be paired with the second highest scorer, traditionally— Rosario Galán-Grant, a Beta and fellow legacy poster. It would be a fair match. Rosario tended to be a blunt instrument, but she was likeable enough. Likeability, Mal had learned, was not something that could be forced or manufactured. He’d tried.

  “Cortadino: eighty-three. Dillinger: eighty-one.”

  Mal listened to the scoring with half an ear. He recognized most of the names, however distantly. A few of the names were new. There were always forty-eight posterchildren per class per year, but they flexed between blocks. Anyone with less than half of the total possible points was dismissed, and one of the many names on the waiting list moved up a place. It wasn’t easy to get into the Academy, but it was harder still to stay in it. Since the names were called in alphabetical order, he didn’t pay attention until the S names came up.

  “Sullivan: seventy-nine.”

  “Underwood: sixty-seven.”

  It ran through him like an arc of electricity. His mouth went dry, and it took some fumbling to find his tongue and work it properly.

  “Excuse me?”

  When the Commander moved on to the next name on the list— Walsh: eighty-three— Mal stood up quickly, his chairlegs screeching against the concrete.

  “Excuse me!”

  Commander glanced up from his clipboard, a worry-line creasing his forehead.

  “Yes, Underwood?”

  “There’s been a mistake,” Mal said, loudly. “That’s someone else’s score.”

  The crease lining Commander’s forehead deepened. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then flipped back to the previous page.

  “Combat: five out of five,” the Commander read, “Ethics and Psychology: zero. Criminology: one out of five. Public Relations and Law: zero. Science and Mathematics: one out of five. Language: two out of five. History: one out of five. Strategy: three out of five. Acting: one out of five. Athletics and Kinesiology: three out of five. All together, that’s seventeen. With the fifty points you accumulated in the first block, you have a total of sixty-seven points.” He didn’t say it unkindly, but Mal felt each word like an individual strike to the soft gaps between his ribs. You. Have. Sixty. Seven. Points. “Now sit back down, son.”

  Mal obediently sat, his knees reduced to jelly by the buzzing whispers and high, nervous giggles. Shame silenced him; confusion numbed him. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible. Seventeen was an unacceptable score. If not for his performance in the first block, he would have gone into the third block with a failing grand total. No, he wouldn’t have gotten into the third block at all. He was so blindingly mad at the realization, he wanted to scream.

  He hated his father so much in that moment, with forty-seven obnoxious children laughing at him, the heat of his rage made it hard for him to breathe. Even dead, damned, and buried, his father still found ways to punish him.

  His ears were ringing. He was so furious, so intent on controlling any outside signs of weakness, he almost missed his name being called for the second time. At some point during Mal’s silent seething, the Commander had started naming off the pairs.

  “Lee and McKay.”

  The pairs that were matched according to accumulated score.

  “Walsh and Cortadino.”

  His lungs seized.

  “Maki and Griffin.”

  His partner was going to be a sixty-seven.

  “Underwood and Chance.”

  He hadn’t thought it possible to get angrier, but he was.

  Standing again, Mal stormed wordlessly out of the forum. He slammed the double doors behind him.

  He didn’t know who Chance was. He didn’t care. All he knew was that Chance had a combined score of sixty-seven, and for that, Mal hated him more than anyone he’d ever known.

  °

  Mal made a beeline for the training room. One of the upperclassmen was working at the weights, but as soon as Mal stormed in, he seemingly remembered that he had somewhere else to be. The stories about the Underwoods circulating the Academy could clear a room, and often did.

  Training had always been an outlet. Whenever he was frustrated by life at large, he fe
ll back on training to wear him out and drain the poison out of him. Sometimes, hitting things was the easiest, simplest way to calm himself down. Logically, he knew that fact didn’t say good things about his psyche, but he didn’t care. He just hit things harder.

  He didn’t hear the Commander’s approach, but that wasn’t surprising. Mal was good, but not quite that good. Not yet.

  “Leave some stuffing in there for the rest of the kids, son.”

  Mal had known that the Commander would want to talk with him, sooner rather than later. Leaving an assembly unexcused was grounds for disciplinary action. He expected to be running laps and cleaning toilets for at least a week. That punishment was preferable to being coddled by the man that had cried openly at Rook’s funeral.

  Mal furiously ignored the big man. He didn’t falter, continuing his kata with bone-shaking power.

  “I didn’t want you to find out like that,” the Commander said, sounding honestly apologetic.

  “The delivery wouldn’t have changed the fact that I only earned seventeen points. I knew that I was a disappointment to him,” Mal spat, still punching. The reverberations of each impact rattled from his fists up to his teeth. It hurt, but he enjoyed it in a savage way. It beat back the other kinds of hurt threatening to tighten up his throat and itch at his eyes. “But I didn’t realize how much he hated me.”

  “He didn’t hate you,” Commander sighed. It seemed like he had a lecture primed and ready to go, but Mal would have none of that. He didn’t need a good talking-to. He didn’t need a shoulder to cry on. He didn’t need anyone’s help.

  “But. He. Did,” Mal snarled between strikes. The blood rushing in his ears pounded out a beat of You. Have. Sixty. Seven. Points.

  The Commander grabbed his arm just above the elbow. The old hero was stronger than he was— stronger than he would ever be, probably— so it jerked Mal’s shoulder, hard. He was locked in place. He knew it was futile, but that didn’t stop him from struggling. Mal twisted back to glare at him.

  The Commander’s blue eyes were gentle. Patient. Like he knew, even though he couldn’t begin to understand what he was going through.

  “Let me tell you something, Malek. If there’s one thing I know about Corbin Underwood, it’s that he loved his kids more than anything.”

  “Then tell me another thing,” he growled, still trying to jerk himself free. “If he loved his children so much, why did he give up?”

  The Commander let go of Mal’s arm, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “There’s just...there’s some things that you’re not going to get until you’re older, son.”

  He hated that word. Hated it. It turned his insides molten.

  “I’m not your son. I was barely his!” That little bit of truth exploded out of him, as uncontrolled as a sneeze or a sob. He couldn’t reel it back in, so he pushed past the Commander, grabbing a towel and wiping down his face and neck. The sweat stung, making his eyes water. “So just— just leave me alone. I don’t need your platitudes.”

  “For what it’s worth, he only docked two points off your overall score. He gave you forty-eight out of fifty, but the board threw his assessment out. That seventeen’s got more to do with him than it does you. I tried to intervene, but. Well, I tried.” The Commander rested one of his big hands on his shoulder, squeezing. “Listen. The Academy wants you to prove that you’re not going to follow in the old bird’s footsteps. So you...you have to show them who you are. That’s what they want you to do.”

  Mal bunched up the towel in his hands, fingers flexing. Hesitantly, he asked, “...where did he deduct the points?”

  “One point in Ethics and Psychology, one in Strategy.” The Commander flicked his biceps with the back of his fingers before stepping away. “You’re bright as hell, but you’re going to have a hard time in life if you limit all of your strategies to include you, and only you. In the notes, Corbin said that he wants you to work on your team drills and managing your temper.”

  “I see.”

  The Commander turned to the door. He seemed very old, then. Tired. He didn’t age like most people, so even though he was nearing fifty, he looked a good twenty years younger. In the right lighting, though, his years showed. Mal was suddenly reminded of how his father had looked whenever he was sleeping off an injury: drained and pale, obviously missing something essential to living. He was recovering from a loss.

  “I know it ain’t any of my business anyway,” the Commander said, mostly a sigh. “Make sure to turn out the lights and lock everything up when you’re done in here, okay?”

  “Yes, Uncle John,” Mal croaked, with difficulty. “I will.”

  After he left, Mal coached himself on taking even breaths. He didn’t want to cry again. By his estimation, he’d already shed enough tears for his failure of a father. It was a good thing that he’d steeled himself, because he wasn’t alone in the training room. He felt the nagging prickle of someone watching him. Turning, he saw the girl.

  He didn’t know how he’d missed her slipping into the room. With her short, wild red hair, freckles, and bright yellow t-shirt, she was difficult to miss. Either she was very, very good, or he was more emotionally compromised than he’d thought. He wasn’t sure which option was less appealing.

  “I didn’t know that the Commander was your uncle,” the girl said, blinking at him. Even her eyelashes were spice-red.

  Embarrassment scuttled up his spine and burned in his cheeks.

  “He is my parents’ friend,” Mal said, stiffly. “It’s a familiar term, not a literal one. That conversation was not yours to overhear.”

  “I didn’t mean to!” The girl squeaked, flapping her hands. “And I didn’t hear all of it, I swear. Really! I was just going to wait my turn, y’know, just wait until the Commander was done talking with you, but I’m really not that great at waiting and I-was-kind-of-curious-because-he’s-the-Commandery’knowand— ”

  It was like she didn’t even breathe. Was that her power, maybe? It didn’t seem to be an overly useful ability. It was next to impossible to piece together what she was trying to say, since her words were blurring together in a senseless stream of consonants and vowels.

  Mal cleared his throat. Loudly, he said: “Who are you?”

  That got her to shut up, however briefly. She did breathe, then.

  “Chance!” The girl said, planting her hands on her hips. “Zipporah Chance. Your partner!”

  In his head, Mal damned every deity he knew of. It was a lengthy list, but he was thorough. His could no longer blame his worsening situation on the cruel whims of fate. No, this had to be the work of some vengeful higher power. He was being punished. He didn’t know why or by whom, but it was the only reasonable explanation available to him.

  “Call me Zip,” she prattled on, her smile wide. “Most everyone does, on account of my power and all.”

  “Which is?”

  She wore a baggy shirt with yellow sleeves and a yellow band around her left wrist, so he knew that she was a gold-band. Of course, anyone with eyes could see that. That meant that her powers had been classified under transportation. He would have thought the match fortunate had her score been anything more promising than sixty-seven. Each Capstone team needed a gold-band, so it would have been advantageous to begin building a working relationship with a gold-band so early in the process. It was just his luck that he was yoked to a defective one.

  For some reason, that annoyed him even more.

  “You didn’t read my file?” Zipporah asked, clearly disappointed.

  “No. I only kept up with the progress of the posters of my caliber,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I never imagined that the Academy would waste my time with someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Yes. Do you really think you’re worth my time?”

  She stared at him. Her muscles quivered under her freckled skin. She was beginning to hyperventilate, so he didn’t bother waiting for her to gather the air n
ecessary to form a response.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Zipporah,” Mal said, draping his towel over his shoulders and picking up his empty water bottle. “I suppose you deserve that much transparency. For the next three years, you’re my burden. I’ll carry you through the third block, but only because I must. Am I understood?”

  She blinked rapidly, shaking her head. A fat, oddly pearlescent tear rolled down her cheek. She was crying, but he could tell that she was angry. Mal had to squash down a reflexive surge of empathy. They were nothing alike, he reminded himself.

  Zipporah pawed at her eyes, fingers curled.

  “So I’m only good for one thing,” she shouted, still trembling. “I know, okay? I thought that maybe— since you’re— you’re so— I thought maybe you’d— never mind! I won’t slow you down, jerkwad!”

  And then she was gone. There was a displacement of air that ruffled his bangs, but nothing more than that. Zipporah didn’t leave a residue in her wake. No smell, no flash of light, no sound— nothing but the strange teardrop that had fallen on the mat between her sneakers. He dragged his fingertip through the substance, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. It was sticky. When he pulled his fingers apart, they were connected by a thin, glistening thread.

  Maybe it would be a good idea to read her file, Mal decided with a sigh.

  °

  Zip was excited for the beginning of the third block, and not even a great big wet blanket like Underwood could dampen her mood. She was awake for at least fifteen minutes before her alarm went off, bright-eyed and antsy. She’d laid her new clothes out on the desk the night before, so the sunny yellow t-shirt was the first thing she saw when she got up. It looked like a regular sport t-shirt, yellow cotton with a name on the back, but to Zip, it was special. It was her name and her color. She’d made it to the third block, and it felt like an all-new beginning. She even had a new roommate, though said roommate hadn’t shown up yet. Zip had been careful to arrange her things only in her half of the small room, so her roommate wouldn’t feel imposed upon. She was excited to meet her. She was excited about everything, and she wouldn’t let her snotty new partner ruin it for her.