Action Figures - Issue Three: Pasts Imperfect Read online

  “You’ve been playing that way since we were kids, man,” Stuart says.

  “Oh, yeah? If I’m so predictable, why aren’t the rest of you beating me all the time?” Matt says.

  “Because Sara makes wicked obnoxious decks that totally smoke us before we can get our good cards out,” Missy says, “and then she goes after you and by that point I don’t care if I win anymore because you’re entertaining when you lose.”

  “I’m so happy my misery brings you such joy.”

  “What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t mock your pain?” Stuarts says.

  “Yeah, okay, fair point,” Matt says, pushing away from the table. “I’m getting a refill. Anyone need their drinks freshened? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?”

  He’s dropping movie references again. He must be feeling better.

  “You buying?” I say.

  “Pft. No.”

  “Then I’m good.” No one else takes Matt up on his offer, which I suspect is nothing but an excuse to go flirt with Jill, Coffee E’s crack barista and resident hottie. She plays along, as always — not because she’s remotely interested in a guy ten years her junior, but because it boosts her tip. She’s no fool. Matt by his lonesome has probably paid off half her student loans.

  “Carrie, your phone’s going off,” Missy says.

  “I don’t hear anything,” I say. I reach into my jacket and sure enough, my phone (which I’d put on silent mode because I’m respectful toward my fellow customers) is vibrating away. I tend to forget how sharp Missy’s hearing is. The screen reads DR Q. “Huh. It’s Dr. Quentin.”

  “Doc Quantum?” Sara says, lowering her voice. “Why would she be calling?”

  Good question. Dr. Gwendolyn Quentin, better known to the world at large as Doc Quantum, is one of the most intelligent people in the world — possibly the most intelligent person in the world. She’s also the leader of the Quantum Quintet, and one of several local super-heroes who have my cell phone number. Can’t imagine why she’d be calling me.

  “Knowing my luck, she wants to experiment on me some more,” I say, recalling (not at all fondly) my last visit to the Quantum Compound. “Hi, Dr. Quentin.”

  “Hello, Carrie,” Dr. Quentin says. “Do you have any experience babysitting?”

  Wow, curve ball. “Um, some, yeah. I haven’t sat for anyone in a while, but I have some experience.”

  “Would you happen to be available Friday evening?”

  “Why? You need me to watch Farley?”

  “I do. MIT is hosting an alumni fundraiser, and I’m rather obligated to attend. It would be poor form to bow out, considering they named an entire wing of a building after me.”

  For the record, she’s not joking. Hey, it was the least MIT could do, considering she paid for its construction. Of course, that was the least Dr. Quentin could do, considering she was in charge of the lab experiment that gave her and her husband Joe their powers (and destroyed the upper two floors of the building in question — so, you know, full circle).

  “Farley’s not much for fundraising dinners, huh?”

  “Farley is five years old. His tolerance for tedious philanthropic functions is equal to mine,” the doc says. “I simply do not express my boredom to my fellow guests in the shrillest possible terms.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Are you available, then?”

  Well, let’s see. I might be partaking in on our weekly group dinner-and-movie outing. Better yet, I might be spending the night in the company of one Mister Malcolm Forth, who has expressed an interest in spending more quality time with one Miss Caroline Hauser.

  He would have to actually ask me out, though.

  Sigh.

  “What time should I be there?”

  “Five would be ideal.”

  “Five it is.”

  “Very good. I’ll see you then. Thank you.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Were you just asked to babysit for the Quantums?” Matt asks, having caught the end of my call.

  “Yes, and I swear, if you start griping that I was asked to watch Farley instead of you...”

  “I am not going to gripe about that,” Matt says.

  He’s a terrible liar.

  Mom was beyond thrilled that I was invited to participate in the Bose tour, and she signed off on my permission slip with no questions asked. Nice change of pace there.

  Mrs. Zylinski is our lead chaperone for the trip, which will keep me out of school for the day. I mostly object to this because I’ll miss the daily social time with my friends and Malcolm, but rare opportunity, opening doors, career path, blah blah blah. The group consists of me and nine other students, and I’m the youngest among them. I’m also one of only two girls. So much for getting the fairer sex more interested in the technology industry.

  No one speaks to me during the bus trip, except when a junior, a kid named Ned, asks me, “Aren’t you the girl Mal’s dating?”

  “Uh, yes?” I say, even though it’s a little premature to say we’re dating. Not undesirable, mind you, just premature.

  “Huh,” Ned says neutrally. “And you’re friends with that Steiger kid,” he says, less a question than a thinly veiled judgment.

  “Yes.”

  “Huh.”

  Yeah, nice chatting with you, too.

  The Bose Industries compound is a sprawling industrial park composed of numerous separate buildings, each dedicated to a specific enterprise, but all part of the same corporate family. The bus winds down a long central road, past several smaller facilities, until it reaches the corporate offices in the center of the park. Not much to say about it, honestly. It’s an office building, nothing especially sciencey or techy about it.

  The bus pulls up to the main entrance, where a tall African-American woman stands waiting. She greets us as we file off the bus and introduces herself as Miriam Roche, the company’s director of public relations.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she says, friendly but businesslike. “Welcome to Bose Industries. We’ve got a very busy schedule ahead of us, but Mr. Bose wanted to make sure your day started off with a bang — or should I say, a boom?”

  Ms. Roche gestures, drawing our attention somewhere behind us — behind us and up, and guess who comes roaring down for a close-range flyby? Concorde barely slows down, and he doesn’t wave or acknowledge us in any way, but the cameo is enough to spark a round of raucous cheering from my classmates.

  “Are we going to get to meet him?” Ned says.

  A man’s voice responds. “Unfortunately, Concorde is a very busy fellow. He won’t be part of the tour, but believe me, kids, you won’t be bored. Hi, everyone,” the man says, stepping forward to greet us. “I’m Edison Bose.”

  I manage to keep my expression flat, even though I have reason upon reason to be picking my jaw up off the sidewalk. I’ve met Edison Bose before — several times, in fact.

  Edison Bose is Concorde.

  FOUR

  When the Hero Squad, the Protectorate, and the Quantum Quintet flew into Salem last week — jeez, was it only last week? — to take down Kysztykc, the aforementioned demon lord, Concorde’s suit lost power. I saved him from falling to his death, but he had to pop his helmet in order to talk to me.

  The face I saw then is the face I see now, standing in front of me, welcoming me to his company — but if he’s here, who was in the Concorde suit for the fly-by?

  “Let’s get out of the cold, shall we?” Edison says, all smiles. “If you’ll follow me up to our meeting room, we have some breakfast waiting for you.”

  We file past Edison — Concorde — Mr. Bose — him, and he introduces himself to each student, shakes their hands. I’m the last in line.

  “Hi, welcome to Bose Industries,” he says to me with no hint of recognition. He extends a hand. “I’m Edison Bose.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bose,” I say, matching his absolute neutrality. “I’m Carrie.”

  “Hi, Carrie. Nice to meet y
ou.”

  Edison leads us across a foyer as large as the first floor of my house, into an elevator that can easily hold us all, and presses the button for the top floor.

  “First fun fact of the day,” Ms. Roche says, “you are standing in one of the few maglev elevators in the entire world. There are fewer than fifty in operation, and half of them are located on this compound.”

  “Who here knows what magnetic levitation technology is?” Edison says. No one raises a hand.

  What the heck.

  “Yes...Carrie, was it?”

  “It was,” I say. “Maglev technology employs electromagnetism as a means of propulsion. I believe the Concorde suit uses what’s called a baseless maglev system, which means, unlike bullet trains, it doesn’t need a powered base to repel off of; it uses the Earth’s natural magnetic field.”

  Edison, Ms. Roche, Mrs. Zylinski, they all beam at me, duly impressed by my knowledge — which, to be fair, I possess thanks to Matt, who’s regaled me with the mechanics of maglev tech I don’t know how many times.

  The elevator doors slide open to reveal a hallway. I swear, I never felt the thing move. It’s like we teleported to another floor.

  Edison and Ms. Roche take us to a gigantic conference room, which is anchored by a long, wide table ringed with high-backed leather chairs. I expected to find one of those steel coffee urns and a plate of pastries, but when Edison said he had breakfast waiting for us, he meant breakfast: A line of buffet tables sit along one wall, all of them laden with steamer trays filled with bacon, sausage, pancakes, and scrambled eggs. The table ends with a punch bowl filled with fresh fruit, a three-tiered tray of assorted muffins, and one of those coffee makers that use the little plastic cups.

  “Go ahead, help yourselves,” Ms. Roche says, “and once you’re seated, we’ll begin our initial presentation.”

  When you offer teenagers free food, you need to either lead the charge or stay the heck out of the way. I choose the latter and let my schoolmates swarm the buffet ahead of me. Besides, this gives me a chance to “casually” hang back with Edison.

  “That was very impressive, Carrie,” Edison says to me. “I don’t meet many young people with such a firm grasp of my maglev technology.”

  Mrs. Z butts in on our moment. “I think you’ll find that Carrie is a very impressive young woman all around,” she says. “I personally invited her to attend the tour.”

  “Did you?”

  “I thought she’d benefit from seeing your company, seeing the wealth of career opportunities available right in her own back yard,” Mrs. Zylinski says in that rehearsed manner of hers, speaking as if I wasn’t standing right next to her (annoying!). “Carrie has a lot of potential, but she needs a little guidance, a little motivation.”

  Edison nods, spares me a glance, then heads for the buffet. His poker face never so much as flickered.

  As we fill our plates, Ms. Roche turns on the giant TV on the opposite wall. We sit, eat, and watch a slick promo video for the company. High-end production values aside, it’s pretty dry, predictable stuff: a short history of Bose Industries, an overview of their areas of technological interest, and a self-congratulatory montage of their pinnacle achievements, which culminates with footage of Concorde flying proudly alongside a pair of US Air Force jets. I can’t help but notice there is nothing of substance about Edison Bose himself.

  “Now that we’ve put you to sleep,” he says, “let’s get to the fun stuff.”

  Mrs. Zylinski dithers and frets over the first stop on the tour proper: the weapons lab, which is, appropriately, teeming with security guards — security guards toting some rather intimidating firepower.

  “I know this lab was on the itinerary you sent over,” Mrs. Z says to Edison, who is co-leading the tour with Ms. Roche, “but I don’t know if this is appropriate.”

  “I understand your concern, Mrs. Zylinski,” Edison says with a disarming smile. “I don’t care for guns myself, which is why I think it’s important to stress that we specialize in non-lethal, defensive weaponry here.”

  “Those don’t look non-lethal to me,” Ned says, nodding at one of the guards.

  “The rifles are capable of firing conventional ammunition, but all the security guards on the property use hornet rounds, a non-lethal bullet developed in this very lab,” Edison explains. “Instead of lead slugs, the rounds fire a ball of graphene-infused silicone polymer. Imagine getting hit by a small ball of Silly Putty.”

  “A small ball of Silly Putty traveling at about twelve hundred feet per second,” Ms. Roche adds, but I’m the only one in the group impressed by this. Maybe because I’m the only one here who has ever traveled at twelve hundred feet per second.

  “The ball is also infused with oleoresin capsicum derived from the Ghost Chili, the hottest chili pepper known to man,” Edison continues. “On top of that, graphene is highly conductive. The rifles are modified to electrically charge the slugs when they’re fired. Upon impact, the rounds release both the chemical and the stored electrical charge. According to the brave individuals who helped us test the hornets, it felt like they were getting punched, maced, and Tasered all at once. Well, that’s what they told us after they were able to breathe again.”

  That makes an impression; all the other kids grunt and murmur sympathetically. Sorry, almost all the other kids...

  “What’s the point?” Ned says.

  “What’s the point of...what, exactly?” Edison says.

  “Making non-lethal bullets?”

  “I think the point is they’re non-lethal,” I say. “The person on the other end of the gun eventually gets back up.”

  “Guns are supposed to kill people,” Ned says, enunciating carefully, as people tend to do when explaining something to an idiot (real or perceived). “That’s what they were designed to do.”

  “So you’re saying guns can only be lethal weapons because — what, tradition? That’s short-sighted. And stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid.”

  “Habit is an incredibly stupid reason to ignore the potential for improvement.”

  “Well said, Carrie,” Edison says. “In fact, that’s the philosophy I drill into everyone here — though not in those exact words. People get married to doing things a particular way, and that hinders progress. I tell my people to always look for ways to do things better, and never be afraid to do things differently.”

  Take that, Ned.

  I cling to my little victory throughout the rest of the tour, because I’m totally lost once we get into the science and technology side of things. This stuff is so far over my head it’s not funny. I catch a bit here and a bit there — I have a basic grasp of the maglev tech, and I know what nuclear micro-cells are (having once almost blown up a nuclear micro-cell-powered battlesuit) — but mostly I keep quiet and nod a lot, as if I understand every single thing Edison says.

  I’d like to state for the record: Edison Bose is a perfectly affable host. Concorde is an ass, but Edison? He’s easy-going, friendly, even charming. Bonus: He seems like an awesome boss. He greets all his employees by their first name and they respond in kind, right down to the people working in the cafeteria where we have lunch.

  Sorry, did I say cafeteria? I mean full-blown restaurant complete with menus and waitstaff. No kidding. I have a salad the size of a tire, made with veggies so fresh I’m amazed I don’t have to check it for grazing rabbits. I chase that with a cup of coffee and (oh my God yes) a slice of the best mocha cheesecake I’ve ever shoved in my mouth.

  I don’t care if I don’t know jack about science. I want to work here.

  After lunch, we return to the main building. We’re taken to the human resources department, where we’re to meet with members of the HR staff and discuss possible career opportunities with the company. Ms. Roche takes me to a modest office and tells me someone will be with me soon.

  A few minutes later, Edison enters.

  “Carrie,” he says, taking a seat on the other side of the desk. />
  “Mr. Bose.”

  “Imagine my surprise, seeing your face in the crowd.”

  “I have to imagine it. You have a great poker face.”

  “Could say the same for you. You saw me and didn’t blink,” he says, his tone implying approval. Honestly, I didn’t react because I was so shocked, but if he wants to believe I’m naturally unflappable, I’m not going to correct him.

  “Nice trick with the fly-by,” I say. “Let me guess: Concorde-shaped drone?”

  “A little slight-of-hand to help keep my lives separate.” Edison takes a long breath — a cleansing, calming breath. “What are you doing here? You never struck me as having much of an interest in the technology industry.”

  “I don’t, but Mrs. Zylinski really wanted me to come. She’s convinced I’ll experience some grand epiphany and suddenly discover my life’s true purpose.”

  Edison nods. “What do you want to do with your life, Carrie?”

  “Oh, God, am I going to get this from you too? It’s bad enough Mrs. Z is hammering me...”

  Edison leans back in his chair, studying me.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you,” I say, “but I don’t understand why I’m being pressured to make a decision about my future right now. I have time. Besides, isn’t it better to think about it instead of rushing and winding up on a career path I’m not really suited for?”

  He nods again, but he’s not agreeing with me. “Life has a nasty way of running away from you when you’re not looking.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “What I mean is, if you don’t try to exert some control over your own destiny now, you risk losing control of your life entirely. That doesn’t mean you have to make an absolute decision about your future right this minute and carve it in stone, but you’re doing yourself a huge disservice by assuming your life’s path will magically reveal itself. You have amazing potential, Carrie, and I don’t want to see you — what’s that look for?”

  “I don’t get you,” I say. “Ever since we met, you’ve been...how do I put this?”

  “An abrasive jackass?” Edison suggests.