The Next Chronicle (Book 1): Next (24 page)

At one in the morning, Kit stepped into her office. The room was dark but for the shaded glow of her desk lamp. A normal person might have jumped, but since the near-disaster, her senses were even more sharply tuned. Nunez suspected it had something to do with being so close to Ray as his powers swelled.

She didn't jump. Even before she opened the door, she identified the man inside by his breathing.

“Hello, sir,” Kit said.

Robinson sat behind the desk, the weak light casting his features into soft relief. He was tired, and not just the harried exhaustion of an older man. She thought there was a hard edge of strength beneath. Experience told her this instinct was right.

“Kitra,” he said in a voice that betrayed no weakness. “How are you holding up?”

The question shouldn't have bothered her. Years of working under his direction, meeting with him before and after missions, taught her how the man operated. He was firm but understanding, a soldier who had never forgotten his roots. The common image of the tough old drill instructor was wrong. Men like Robinson knew the stresses, the pain, and gauged their people by inviting them to speak honestly about both.

“I'll survive, sir. What can I do for you this evening?”

He surveyed her, hands laced together beneath his chin. “I have no doubt you'll weather the storm, young lady. And you can drop the 'sir,' Kit. I'm here because I'm worried about you.”

She sat in the chair opposite him, tucking her legs beneath her. “I'm going to the counselor, as ordered. I'm dealing with it. It's not as bad as I would have expected. No bad dreams, or...”

Robinson nodded. “I've read the reports. You're concerned because you haven't been feeling guilty. Think you're a monster for that, do you?”

Despite her earlier conversation with Peep, the words cut her. “No, but...”

“You feel there should be more,” Robinson said. “You're sad about what happened, but not dwelling on it.”

“Yes,” Kit said.

“It's not a sin,” Robinson said. “You've been at this long enough to put facts before needless hand-wringing. You deal with things no one else is capable of handling, and you do it well. What happened was tragic, but you saved a lot of lives.”

“This is different,” Kit argued. “At Helix I was fighting a war.”

Again, he nodded. “Exactly as you are now. Different enemies, different battlefield, but it's a war nonetheless.”

Something in his tone broke her calm.

“Is that why you hate the Next so much,
sir
? Because you see us as enemy combatants? A threat you have to manage?”

Robinson frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw how you looked at the Black Bands when you were here during the crisis,” she fumed. “You've got one of the best poker faces I've seen, but you slipped. You looked at them like they were enemies. So what does that mean, sir? If I'm fighting a war against my own kind, do you hate me, too? Or am I just one of the 'good ones' to you?”

The silence that followed was long. Kit refused to pull her eyes from his, but while she held fury in check—barely—Robinson was calm. Even thoughtful.

“You've got it wrong, Kit,” he finally said. He smiled. “I came here tonight because I was worried you might be losing that fire, that need to protect. I have been thinking about bringing you in on something for a long time now, but in light of recent events...well, let's just say I have had concerns.”

“
What about the Black Bands?” Kit asked. “Going to change the subject and refuse to give me an answer?”

“
That's complicated,” he said with a sigh. “You may not be aware, but I was very active in the construction of this facility. Nearly all of that group were part of the project. I worked with them closely. My distaste for several of them is specific to several incidents during that time.”

She thought of Archer's story, and bit back a reaction. If Robinson was an enemy, she would have to play dumb.

“At any rate,” he continued, “over the next six months I'll have a need for you, Kit. I have been grooming you for this. I may have my reservations about how you run this office, but I have always trusted you. Part of that is due to your charming honesty.”

“
What kind of job is it?” she asked. “Will I have to give up my work here?”

“
No,” Robinson said. “You may have to take time off here and there, but as you're still technically within the Helix command structure, I can pull you whenever I need you.” Here he paused, thoughtful again. “As for the nature of the work, part of it will be training Helix recruits. Only a few weeks a year. The rest is more...delicate. It will involve learning things you'd rather have gone on not knowing. Of all the agents I have worked with, you are the only one with the iron to do the job. You understand the difference between what's right and what is necessary. Don't you?”

Kit fought for calm. “Yes,” she said.

“Good. I'll be in and out over the next few months. I will have to have you cleared by a depressing number of agencies, but in the end I'll manage it. Just be ready, Kitra. You may not like some of the things you will learn.”

“
Why, sir? What am I going to be doing?”

“
You're going to be training as my second in command,” Robinson said. “You will report to the next man to take my office should something happen to me. There needs to be someone available for the transition, an agent who is up to speed in order to educate and inform my replacement, should one become necessary. Much of what you'll be doing involves learning the operations of the various DSA sections. Some of it will be more sensitive. It will require time and effort, not to mention discretion. I've put your name forward as the only real candidate for the job.”

Kit smiled thinly, the anger draining from her face. “Thank you, sir.”

Robinson smiled as well. “You'll do it, then?”

“
Of course,” she replied. “I'd be happy to.”

The old man stood, shaking her hand, and there was genuine warmth in it. Kit hoped that their long association was not built on lies, that Archer was wrong in his assumptions about Robinson.

Either way, she would soon be closer to the man than anyone. If he was guilty, there would be no better chance, no better place, to discover the truth than at his side. It would be risky, but she was willing. Archer was going to be thrilled. Somewhere out there, the facts about Fairmont and Ray Elliot were hidden.

And she would find them.

Keep reading for a special preview of Damage, book two of The Next Chronicle. Enjoy!

It was night in Louisville. The hour was not late enough to leave the streets empty, but not so early to protect those below from the worse elements of the city. Five stories above the busy strip of bars and clubs, a man waited.

He was large, though this was not obvious as he perched on the corner of the roof. At first glance he seemed normal enough—aside from doing his best impression of a gargoyle. He wore dark clothing that, if viewed from a distance, would not seem out of place anywhere. A closer look told a different tale.

The thin coat he wore was leather, hand-crafted and snug. Inside, sewn with painstaking care, were some of the new generation of ballistic strike plates. Many new and vastly improved protective technologies had come on the market in the recent months. Some said it was a Next blessed with super-intelligence looking to capitalize on the growing fear in the human population. Others claimed the opposite, that a consortium of normal humans in the defense business decided to create a front company to hide their identities, to provide cheap and powerful armor for the frightened majority.

The man did not care which was true, though for the record neither was. The entirety of his concern was the sweet curve of the cost/benefit ratio.

Beneath the jacket he wore a bulky stab vest. His arms and legs, even his hands, were armored in ways obvious and subtle. These were all necessary, of course, because his own abilities included only a limited resistance to damage. His bones would not break, but anything beyond a small-caliber handgun would pierce his skin. Knives were especially dangerous.

Had he walked through a store, the other patrons might have looked at his outfit twice and shrugged it off. Unless he also wore the last piece, the most important element of his gear.

The mask.

In a city where justice often failed its citizens, he believed in the responsibility of power. To have the ability to do something about it but choose not to? Unconscionable. The man watched the streets below, waiting. The time would come when—

“You have got to be kidding me,” a voice said.

The man spun, landing in a crouch. With practiced ease he drew two expandable batons, whipping them open.

“Frank Brawner?” the stranger said. The man blinked behind his mask.

“How do you know that name?” the man said in a low growl.

The stranger sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Are you or are you not Frank Brawner?”

The man relaxed somewhat, but did not move from his fighting stance. “I am. Who are you?”

“I'm Ray Cassidy,” the stranger said. “
Agent
Cassidy. From the Office of Superhuman Affairs. Might I ask why you're carrying those weapons while lurking on this roof?”

Despite the chill of the evening, Frank began to sweat beneath his armor. Thin drops formed between his face and the mask. “I'm patrolling,” he said.

Agent Cassidy closed his eyes for a moment. Frank could swear he heard the man counting under his breath.

After a few moments, the agent cleared his throat. “You are aware there are laws against vigilantism, aren't you? See, I know you're aware of this fact because our people brought you in four months ago for the same thing.”

Frank straightened, letting his batons hang loose in his hands. “This city needs people like me. We stand up for—”

“
Let me stop you right there,” Cassidy said, putting up his hands. “You have no idea how often I get the 'the city is in peril' speech. And stop talking like Batman. You sound like an idiot.”

“
There's no need to be mean,” Frank said in a higher and more natural tone. There was a hint of squeak in it, probably from scraping his vocal cords raw with his false, growling voice.

Ray Cassidy gaped. “You think that's me being mean? Listen, you're breaking the law here. You know you are. And you think me being honest about you trying to live out your preteen fantasies is
mean
?” He shook his head. “Go on, tell me what you were going to do if you saw a crime down there.”

Frank fidgeted. “I was...going to stop it.”

“Well, thank you,” Cassidy said acidly. “Glad you cleared that up. Care to be a little more detailed?”

Standing straight, Frank looked the agent in the eye. “I would have jumped down. Lots of people get mugged in this neighborhood, especially after the bars start kicking the drunks out.”

“Let me make sure I have this right,” Cassidy said. “You were going to drop fifty feet and wail on someone with your batons. That right?”

Frank nodded hesitantly. “When you say it like that...”

Cassidy smiled. “Yes, sounds pretty ridiculous. But let's assume you did it. Do you know what would have happened?” He didn't wait for a reply, losing patience with the situation. “Had you landed and actually managed to fight off some mugger or whatever, you would have been caught and charged with attempted murder.” Frank's eyes widened, an expression visible through the eye holes of his mask.

“
That's right,” Cassidy said. “We knew you were going to be here. How? Because a few days ago, the city decided to send one of its Next police officers here in plain clothes
because the area was dangerous.
The officer saw you and kept an eye on you for the last few nights. He's stationed here, you see, because he can legally do the job you seem to think is your...” Cassidy paused, mouth pursing around the word in distaste. “Destiny.”

Frank's shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Cassidy said. “You're Next, Frank. The reason people with super-strength aren't supposed to go out and fight crime is because you should be properly trained and legally deputized.” Cassidy caught his eyes. “We live under restrictions for a reason. You may not like it, but you do have to live with it. Also, if you
had
jumped, you would have seriously hurt yourself. You're tough, but five stories is too much. We know. We have your records.”

Frank sighed. “I just wanted to help.”

New fire lit Cassidy's eyes. “No, you didn't. You wanted to live out your adolescent fantasy. Helping was totally incidental in the equation. For god's sake, man, if you want to fight crime so badly, why not join a police academy?”

Thankful for the mask covering his face, Frank blushed. “I tried. They said I was unfit.”

Again, Cassidy gaped. “And you didn't take this as some kind of sign? Cops are cops for a reason. They have to learn how to do this stuff. Jesus, man. You need help.”

Fresh anger boiled from Frank. “You know what? Take me in. I'll do my time and be right back out here. Because people need someone to watch out for them.”

Cassidy stared at the costumed man for a long time, wondering if he would have to deal with an attack. “You don't get it,” he finally said. “I could take you to our facility. It's a jail for people like us. And let me tell you, man, you'd be about the least powerful guy there. At best you would be some other Next's lunch. More likely, you'd die. The weak don't fare well.”

There were a few threads of truth in that, though mostly it was bullshit. The facility held some terrifying customers, sure, but almost every prisoner was segregated individually. Not that Brawner needed to know that.

Cassidy ran a hand through his messy black hair, resting the other on his hip. The suit was black, with a white shirt and black tie. It could have been off the rack from any department store from its simple cut, but in fact cost more than most mortgage payments. He had had it custom made, using materials not yet known to the rest of the human race.

And here he was, getting it dirty by climbing up the ladder to talk to this idiot.

“The city doesn't need people like you, Frank,” Cassidy said. “It
has
protectors. Cops. Some have powers, some don't, but they're doing their best. Your problem is that you think you know better than everyone else. That somehow,
you
can be the hero that makes the difference. Would you still have felt that way when you accidentally killed a purse snatcher? I don't know, and I don't want to. This stops now.”

Frank tensed, raising his batons. “You can try,” he said, voice gruff once more.

Cassidy rolled his eyes. “Lord, give me strength,” he muttered. “I'm not going to fight you, dumbass. I'm going to do the one thing that might actually make you understand just how out of your element you are.”

“
What do you mean?” Frank said, raising his weapons high.

“
I'm going to help you,” Cassidy said, and gestured toward him.

A dim flash of green light swept over Frank's body, and suddenly he was cold. There was a patter like freezing rain. His hands were empty, his face unmasked.

He was completely naked.

“
What the hell?” Frank shrieked, fumbling to cover himself.

Cassidy smiled, then pulled out his phone to snap a picture. “I'll be keeping this,” he said. “Have fun getting down from here without anyone seeing you. I'll be disintegrating the ladder as well, just so you know. You'll probably have to call for help. Oh, and if I catch you again? I'll leak this picture to the media when I take you to jail. That way you'll have some of that fame you're looking for waiting for you when you get out.”

Without waiting for a response, Ray Cassidy, newly-minted OSA agent and amateur extortionist, turned and walked away.

“
Fucking superheroes,” he mumbled as he lowered himself down the ladder.