School for Sidekicks (25 page)

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“So, this is … nice.” My dad looked like he'd swallowed a half a lemon as he touched the red leather wall of the hangar. “Very retro–lounge lizard…”

“Thanks.” Foxman adjusted the domino mask he'd slipped on while we were waiting—after noting that it was hard to eat dinner through a full-face helmet. It made a strange contrast with his armor. “That's not really the effect I was going for, but I appreciate your take on the style, Mr. Quick.”

“Call me Martin, Mr.…” My dad trailed off rather hopelessly.

Rand pursed his lips. “Probably best to stick with Foxman. If I told you my real name I'd have to kill you, and that would make dinner a little awkward.” He grinned at his own joke. Neither of my parents joined him, and I saw a little bead of sweat appear at his left temple and roll down past his ear.

As he opened the door to the main dome I heard him mutter, “Oh good, flashbacks to
my
parents. They never thought I was funny either.” Aloud, he said, “Come on, let's go through to the dining room. We wouldn't want to keep Denmother waiting.”

“Denmother?” my mom asked as she stepped through into the huge domed room beyond.

“My AI. The robot who runs the place, Mrs. Quick.” Not to mention the robot who'd done stellar work at clearing all the half-empty energy drinks and other wreckage away before my parents got there.

“That's
Doctor
Quick,” my mother growled. Then she paused and took a deep breath. “Sorry, academic reflex. Why don't you call me Madeline.”

“Thank you, Madeline. I don't think Meerkat told me his mother was a professor. What's your doctorate in?”

“Meerkat?” The growl was back in her voice. “Is that what this ridiculous outfit is about, Evan?” She poked me in the Armex-covered ribs, but I barely felt it—score one for the Armex.

“It's my code name, Mom, my handle. All Masks have them.” Then I turned to Foxman. “She's a mathematician. Actually, so is Dad.”

“But I didn't get the Ph.D.,” he replied. “Bailed out after my masters to become an actuary.”

“What's your education, Mr. Foxman?” my mother asked.

“Well, if you want to get technical about it, that'd be Doctor Foxman as well. Double Ph.D. in mechanical and electrical engineering after a triple B.S.”

“Triple B.S. sounds about right,” said my mother.

“Mom!”

“Evan, I am not going to pretend that I'm happy about you becoming a Mask.”

“Dear…,” my dad mumbled.

“Don't you dare
dear
me right now, Martin.” She turned a hard look on Foxman. “And you! What madness possessed you to think it would be a good idea to get a thirteen-year-old involved in crime fighting? Were you drunk?”

Foxman held up an armored finger. “Actually, that wasn't me. That was OSIRIS. I merely agreed to take Evan on as my intern after he'd already enrolled in sidekick school. Oh, and, rather surprisingly, no.”

“No what?” My mother demanded.

“No, I wasn't drunk. I'm sober now. Six months and change. I don't think that even OSIRIS would turn a thirteen-year-old over to an active drunk with an energy cannon and a combat jet. Not that I'd bet money on that.”

My mother gave him her best over-the-glasses death stare. “If that's your sense of humor, I don't find it very engaging … Dr. Foxman.”

“I wasn't trying to—I mean—I—serious there—” Foxman ground to a halt. “Hang on a second. I think I'm doing this wrong. I'm treating you like parents, and I'm terrible with parents.”

“We
are
parents,” my mother said frostily.

“Well, yes,” he agreed, “but not mine. And I've been dealing with you like you were. Which is, maybe, where I went wrong with
them
, too. Have to think about that. Later, when you're not here. Right now, I'm going to try something new and treat you like people. I do all right with people. So, first”—he peeled off his domino and extended a hand—“Hi, I'm Rand.”

My mother looked nonplussed, but my dad stepped into the breach. “Hello, Rand, I'm Martin. I take it from what you were saying about OSIRIS a moment ago that you don't think they have the best judgment about how to handle kids like Evan?”

“I don't think they have the best judgment about anything.”

“Then why work with them?” asked my mother.

“I don't.”

“And yet, here you are with my son as your intern straight from OSIRIS.”

“Oh, mentoring Evan has nothing to do with dealing with OSIRIS. That's eighty-three percent about pissing off Captain Commanding.”

“What are you babbling about?” My mother's voice was rising into the danger zone, and I noticed my dad very quietly sliding out of the blast area. “Why on earth would Captain Commanding care that Evan's interning with you?”

I decided it would be an excellent time to join my dad. Maybe I could show him the garage.

Foxman frowned. “Didn't Evan tell you about Captain Commanding blacklisting him after the Captain faked that video at the museum?”

“Evan James Quick, you stop trying to sneak away this instant! You, too, Martin.” My mother turned a very stern look on me. “What's he talking about?”

I looked at my feet. “The video from the museum isn't exactly what happened. At least, not the bit where Captain Commanding crashed through and saved the day. It was more … complex than that.”

Foxman raised his hand. “Can I cut in here for a second? Because I grabbed the original security-camera footage from the museum before it was erased. If you'd like to see the whole thing as it really happened, I can do that.” Foxman looked at me and shrugged. “Well,
I
didn't do it myself, but Denmother is programmed to automatically capture anything that has to do with Captain Commanding. Mostly, I delete it right away, but anything potentially embarrassing gets archived for future use.”

“Why would the real footage be embarrassing for the Captain?” asked my dad.

“Because your son saved the lives of everyone in that museum, including a certain masked red-white-and-blue jerk.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “To tell you the truth, that's the other seventeen percent of why I agreed to take you on.” He smiled wryly at my mom. “I have to admit that it was mostly to piss off Captain Commanding, but the part where your son has the makings of a real hero? That didn't hurt.”

“Show me this video.” There was a cold anger in my mother's voice—the kind she normally reserved for deans and other academic administrators. “Now.”

Foxman nodded. “If you insist. Denmother.”

When it was over, my mom, who had been pacing back and forth through the whole thing while making the occasional worried noise, stopped abruptly. “Roast that man.” Then she fixed her eyes on me. “I am not at all happy with the way your life is going right now, and I will
never
condone this Mask business, but that was terribly brave of you, Evan. Not very bright perhaps—goading a man like Spartanicus—but you acted in a way that makes me almost as proud of you as it makes me frightened for you.”

“You did well, son,” my dad added.

My mother rounded on Rand, “And you…” Then she sighed. “I came here planning on ripping you up one side and down the other. Now I have to thank you for trying to do right by my son, even if it is for the wrong reasons.” She rubbed her temples. “I could really use a drink.”

“Alas, I can't help you there,” said Foxman. “There's not a drop in the whole place. I don't suppose you drink MaskerAde?”

“To calm down?” She looked incredulous.

“Good point. How about a glass of sparkling juice?”

“I guess that will have to do.”

If you'd told me the evening would end with my mother giving Foxman a hug and my dad shaking his hand before they headed back to the hangar I'd have called you a liar. But maybe that's because I underestimate the value of being reasonable.

When we got to the hangar door, Foxman made a transparent excuse and left me with my parents.

My mother gave me a hug, then stepped back, but kept her hands on my shoulders as she looked me squarely in the eyes. “Evan…” She shook her head. “I was about to say that you were my little boy, but that's harder to do now that I have to look up a bit to meet your eyes. It's harder still to admit you might be growing up as well as getting taller, but this last month hasn't left me much choice—”

She stopped speaking and my dad stepped up behind my mother and quietly put his arms around her waist. “Given
us
much choice,” she corrected herself. “We weren't ready for this, for you to develop powers, and, well, all of it. I don't think any parent would be ready for one of their children to have to take on so much risk or responsibility at such a young age.”

I broke in. “Mom, it's not
that
much risk, and there's almost no responsibility. They won't even give me a real sidekick's permit for another two years. It's not like I'm supposed to be out fighting crime.” Sure, I
was
, but it definitely wasn't like I was
supposed
to be. And I certainly wasn't going to tell
them
that. Not yet anyway. “I'm just going to a different kind of school, sort of like a gifted and talented program. I mean, it's on Mars and all, but—” My dad lifted an eyebrow at me, and the absurdity of what I'd said brought me to a sliding halt mid-sentence.

“On Mars?” My dad's voice was incredulous.

“Well, Deimos, really. Didn't I mention that bit?”

“No.” He looked cautiously down at my mother—who had gone completely silent—like a man who realizes he's holding on to a ticking time bomb, and he sighed. “No, you didn't.”

“Mars,” she whispered. Then she took a deep breath and gave me her best dubious-mom-face. “We'll have to discuss that, and this whole sidekick's permit thing as well, but later. I was talking about risk and about responsibility and I want to finish that thought first, because it's got nothing to do with where you go to school, or what the government licenses you to do.”

“It doesn't?” I was confused. “What
did
you mean then?”

“Power. You may be taller than I am now, but you're still thirteen, and that's so very young to have the kind of power that you do now. That day at the museum you hit another human being in the head with a piece of rebar. You hit him hard enough to bend steel, Evan. You also knocked that horrible woman down by throwing a hundred-pound chunk of concrete at her. Think about that. If you did either of those things to a normal person, they'd be dead right now.”

“I, uh, I hadn't thought about it that way.” It was a very sobering realization.

“I wish that you didn't have to, but that doesn't change things. You now possess the ability to effortlessly kill another human being. It's like holding a gun or getting behind the wheel of a car. Except your abilities are inherent. You can't ever put them aside or step out of the driver's seat. That sort of strength comes with enormous responsibility to use it well and wisely every second of every day.”

I swallowed and looked at both my parents. “I'll try, I promise.”

My dad spoke then, “We know you will, son. We both love you, and we believe in you, even if we did say some things we shouldn't have when this first came out. Honestly, I think that's some of why we were both so upset. We've watched you grow up, seen how you play, and what matters to you. All those Masks Versus Hoods video games—you were never ever willing to play a villain. It's always been clear that you have a strong sense of justice and duty, and that you wanted to be a Mask to protect others.”

“But why would that make you upset?” I asked, more confused than ever.

“Because we know that it means that having powers will lead you to put yourself at risk,” said my mother. “And not just physically. If you have powers and you use them, you're going to end up in situations where you will have to hurt other people, possibly very badly. That's going to leave scars in here.” She put her hand on my chest. “Scars that no amount of regeneration can ever heal. Neither of us wants that for you, Evan.”

“I can see that.” I nodded because much of what had happened between us suddenly made sense to me in a way that it hadn't before. “But it's what
I
want for me. I always have. I have the chance now to help people in ways I never could have before, and even if you're right and I don't, or can't, completely understand what I'm taking on yet, I believe it will be worth the cost.”

“I hope you're right, son, I really do.” My dad frowned a very worried frown.

“Either way,” my mother added, “we'll try to support you as best we can. Because, no matter what, you're our son, and we love you.”

 

19

In Deep Water

“Say something funny, Quick!” Professor Roadhouse, who had been walking back and forth at the front of the classroom, suddenly spun on his heel and pointed a finger at me.

I felt sweat break out on my forehead as I desperately tried to come up with something better than, “I—uh—what?”

Before I could get there, Roadhouse shook his head. “Not
Quick
enough, eh, Evan?”

The rest of the class laughed as I blushed deeply. “I guess I wasn't ready.” Combat Quipping was my second-least-favorite class after math. My name had made me more the butt of jokes than a deliverer of them.

“Do you think that the Hoods are going to give you time to get ready, Quick?”

I shook my head. “No, sir—”

“Of course they aren't. The whole point of Quipping for Combat is rapid response and preemption. A well-timed joke can put an enemy off-balance for that critical moment that saves your life or even wins you the fight. Tell me, Quick, do you know what the most critical element of comedy is?”