The Other Eight (19 page)

“It is a war
game,
General. And
besides, the networks have assured me that to reach the widest
audience, we should avoid using anything resembling realistic
weaponry.”

“Networks?”

“That’s right, General. For what I feel
certain is the first time ever, the US military will be simulcast
on NBC, CBS, and ABC without the footage being breaking news of a
war. It will be a two-hour long advertisement for the military, and
they’ll pay
us
for the right to air it.”

The general sat silently for a moment, his
resolve beginning to buckle. The brochure showed a reasonably
realistic facility. It was simplified certainly, but it was no
funhouse. He slapped the brochure down.

“Fine. Set it up. Anything to get this over
with. Put on your show, but don’t get used to this. Once we’ve
whittled the count down to a single eight-man squad, this team is
going back undercover. Sell your T-shirts and lunchboxes, but
further training, and certainly any field ops, will neither be
filmed nor publicized. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir. I imagine the finale will be
the crest of the wave of interest. After that, it is all
downhill.”

“Couldn’t happen soon enough for me. Is that
all?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll handle everything.”

“Hold on! I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not sure
that this is really wise,” Dr. Aiken objected. “Publicity aside,
meta-humans are, consciously or subconsciously, always desperate
for an audience. Thus far we’ve been able to get a reasonably
stable performance out of them by keeping the film crew limited and
unobtrusive, and even with those precautions we’ve seen some of the
more media-hungry of the applicants ‘showing off.’ If you elevate
it to the scale you suggest, it will severely alter their behavior.
It is called…”

“The Hawthorne Effect,” St. John
finished.

“You know it?”

“Know it? Of course I do. Anyone who has been
studying public trends for the last decade knows it. It’s the
driving principle behind reality television. Point a camera at
someone and they become what they assume the camera is expecting to
see. Great entertainment value, and as far as I’m concerned, just
another stress test to weed out the weak applicants.”

“If these recruits can’t act military with a
few cameras pointed at them, I don’t want them on my squad. And Dr.
Aiken, don’t second guess the wisdom of my decisions.”

The general stood, discarded his cigar, and
marched out of the room. St. John followed. Dr. Aiken sighed
heavily and gathered up most of the notes. Summers grabbed the
rest.

“Is there a name for the tendency for
authority figures to viciously defend even unpopular decisions when
they are questioned by perceived inferiors?” she asked quietly as
they walked out the door. “Because if not, they should call that
The Siegel Effect.”

The end of
the training period drew near, and it was becoming painfully clear
who the final selections were going to be. Testing was more or less
through, and, based on the performance thus far, Undo and Retcon
were a lock, with Third Person not far behind. Provided he could
prove his powers could be controlled, FM easily made the cut as
well. Omnivox had shocked everyone with his aptitude, and though
Hocker failed every physical trial and was borderline psychotic,
the fact that he was the only member of the group with a power
specifically for combat meant he was sure to get pushed through—in
the hopes that they could iron out the other wrinkles with
additional training. Johnny On the Spot was going to end up on the
team even if they didn’t want him to. That only really left one
spot. Spirits were low among those who had made the poorest
showing. As the sun set and the air began to cool on what had been
the warmest day since training started, a group of the less lucky
heroes gathered outside to commiserate.

“So who do you figure gets the last spot?”
Gracias asked.

“My money is on Primadonna,” said Bomb
Sniffer.

“Why?”

“They don’t have a girl on the team yet. And
it sure won’t be me. I didn’t pass a single test.”

“And you’re fourteen.”

“I’m twenty-three!”

“Well, there’s still me,” Nonsensica
said.

“Yeah, but if they’re going to put a woman on
the team just to put a woman on the team, who do you think they’re
going to pick?”

“Me! I’m clearly more dedicated, better
trained.”

“Yeah, but Primadonna has better
‘personality.’ And her costume is better,” The Number grumbled.

“Whoa, hey now. My uniform is much better
than hers.”

“I’ve got a news flash for you, pigtail,”
Chloroplast jabbed. “It only counts as a uniform if we’re all
wearing the same thing. That’s what uniform means. What you’re
wearing is a costume.”

Nonsensica gritted her teeth. “You are upset
about probably not making the team, so I’m going to let that go.
But if you don’t watch your tone, we’re going to find out if you’re
as green on the inside as you are on the outside.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And even if this
is
a costume, it is
still much better than hers.”

“I think what The Number was implying was
that formfitting costumes are usually worn by women with a certain
body type, and Primadonna is a better example of that body type,”
Non Sequitur explained, evidently deciding to abandon common sense
for a moment.

“Now what’s
that
supposed to mean?”
she snapped.

“He means Primadonna is stacked, and you’re
built like an ironing board,” Chloroplast clarified.

“You were warned, Greenie!”

The fiery little hero launched at her blunt
ally and the pair tumbled to the ground. After the scuffle had
lasted more than a few seconds, Phosphor intervened.

“That’s enough, you two,” he said, leaning
down and grabbing Nonsensica by the belt and hauling her into the
air with little effort. “We’re all a bit tightly wound. We just
need some time to cool off.”

He set her down, and Chloroplast climbed to
his feet and dusted himself off.

“What we need is a few hours away from this
prison camp,” The Number said. “I’m going stir-crazy over
here.”

“What we
need
,” Gracias said, “are
waffles.”

The comment was strange enough and delivered
with such certainty that it had roughly the same effect as one of
Nonsensica’s outbursts. He looked around to see the rest of the
group giving him blank stares.

“I’m serious. I stopped at a Waffle House on
the way to the big audition, and it was life-altering. Waffles
might be the solution to life’s problems.”

“I could go for some hash browns right about
now,” said Phosphor after a few moments of consideration.

“I’m pretty sure there’s a Waffle House down
in Dumfries,” Chloroplast said, rubbing his jaw where a
particularly successful punch had landed.

“It would be nice to have a few hours as a
group outside of this setting. You know, to see how we function,”
Nonsensica observed.

“Wait. We aren’t really considering this, are
we?” Non Sequitur asked.

“Why not? Most of us don’t have a chance at
the team anyway. And right now we’re famous, or at least Internet
famous. That kind of fame has the shelf life of milk. Maybe we can
get a dose of celebrity before if wears off,” The Number said.

“I don’t know. The last thing I think any of
us want is to get the army mad at us by running around after hours
without permission.”

“Who says they ever have to find out?”
Gracias asked.

“There’s a film crew recording us right now,”
Non Sequitur said, pointing to the camera man.

“Oh yeah… man, you guys really fade into the
background,” Gracias commended.

“I don’t think we should do it,” Non Sequitur
stated.

“Well, there’s a shocker,” Nonsensica
said.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“You’re a killjoy. You’re, like, the
designated killjoy of the group. That should have been your
codename. Commander Killjoy.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not that bad, am I
guys?”

There was a telling silence.

“You do come off as sort of… unenthusiastic,”
said Phosphor with his usual diplomacy.

“You’re kind of a combination between a
doormat and a wet blanket,” Gracias said.

The Number shrugged. “You’re not a bad
guy,
you’re just… uh…”

“A wet doormat,” Gracias reiterated.

Non Sequitur looked around at the rest of the
group and found no one leaping to his defense.

“Fine. Never let it be said I turned down a
chance at breakfast for dinner,” he said.

“Nice!” Nonsensica said. “Okay. All we need
is an escape plan. Everybody get what you’re gonna need for a quick
waffle trip, and we’ll meet back here. Break!”

A common
trait among meta-humans is the desire to elevate even mundane tasks
to a level of critical importance in order to justify the
application of their abilities and otherwise indulge their heroic
or villainous sides. The most socially adjusted meta-humans will
typically compartmentalize their lives into their “civilian” and
“secret” identities. As a civilian, behavior will conform to social
norms, but if an activity can in any way be associated to their
“special” aspect, they will display a tremendous impetus to
introduce drama and complexity commensurate with their constructed
illusion of what it is to be a superhero/super villain. It is
frequently during such indulgences that most closeted meta-humans
inadvertently reveal their abilities in a potential manifestation
of the subconscious desire to have their “gift” recognized.

Excerpt from The Psychology of the Meta-human
Condition by Dr. Richard Liefeld

After fifteen minutes to get changed, the
group reconvened. They gathered behind the cabins, near the west
fence of the facility. Nonsensica, Non Sequitur, Gracias, The
Number, Phosphor, Bomb Sniffer, and Chloroplast were all present
and accounted for. Afterthought was not, primarily because no one
in the group remembered that he was, in fact, part of the group.
Most of them had decided that civilian clothes were appropriate,
but Nonsensica had instead selected her “fancy” uniform, the red
and white starburst outfit she’d worn during her interview, along
with a pair of leather and brass goggles instead of her usual
rubber and plastic ones.

“Okay, I’m all set. What’s the plan?”
Nonsensica asked.

“I’ve been working on that,” Phosphor said.
“The way I figure it, the training grounds aren’t what you’d call a
high security facility. They built it pretty quick. Pretty much
there’s just this fence here around the main area with the front
and rear entrances, then the bigger fence around the hunk of
government land they set this place up on. Looks like they mostly
just want to keep curious folks from interfering with training and
testing, so there’s not likely to be a search at any of the
checkpoints.”

“Seems about right,” Gracias said, eager to
contribute despite not having anything useful to say.

“Now, I’ve noticed that every night, right at
9 p.m.—”

“Twenty-one hundred hours,” Nonsensica
corrected.

“Right, twenty-one hundred. That big covered
flatbed truck, like the one they brought us all here in, shows up
and takes away those big bins of trash from the mess hall and from
behind the cabins,” Phosphor continued.

“And you’re thinking we all hide in barrels
and let them load us up?” Gracias suggested.

“Er… not as such. I don’t rightly figure they
aren’t going to buy that we mysteriously had a couple hundred extra
pounds of garbage tonight. I’m thinking we set up a distraction
right before they head out, then we’ll all pile in the back of one
and hide until they stop somewhere.”

“Quick and simple, I like it,” Nonsensica
said.

“There are only a few issues. One is that
they’ve got all of our phones and wallets and other personal items
locked up in the administrative building. We’ll need to get them
out. Two is that Bomb Sniffer has a roommate who isn’t coming
along. How likely is it that Primadonna will rat us out?”

“Are you kidding? She’s been going to bed
before the sun goes down,” Bomb Sniffer scoffed. “She needs her
‘beauty sleep’ she says.”

“Right, so that just leaves the camera crew,”
Phosphor said.

Nonsensica turned to them. “This stuff isn’t
live, right? You hand over your tapes and stuff, and they edit
them?”

Reluctantly, the camera operator nodded.

“Okay, if you guys promise not to hand over
these particular tapes until after the final round of testing,
waffles are on us.”

The audio guy enthusiastically nodded,
eventually coaxing the camera man into doing the same.

“I’m telling you. Waffles are the universal
language of peace,” Gracias said.

“Would it be a wet blanket moment to point
out that we’re all here voluntarily, and we could probably just
ask
for the night off?” Non Sequitur asked.

“Yes,” came the unanimous reply.

He shrugged. “Just checking. I guess
Nonsensica and I will get the personal effects.”

“I’ll handle the distraction,” Gracias
said.

“Okay. Good. So we all meet behind the guard
post at the service exit at 2105 when the garbage truck is on its
way out,” Phosphor said. “That only gives us a few minutes; the
truck is already on the way. Let’s get this mission rolling.”

#

Nonsensica and Non Sequitur sneaked toward
the administrative building, a rather excessive name for what was
little more than a prefabbed structure dropped on the property on
the side of the testing facility opposite the cabins. It had more
in common with a shipping container than a bank vault, with
corrugated aluminum walls, a flat roof, a single door on one side,
and a few windows covered with wire mesh. Evidently “shed full of
file cabinets” was not an adequately military term.