“Are we going to discuss the elephant in the room?” Damian asked.
Max choked on his chicken as the din of the other first years eating and talking filled the Dining Hall.
He coughed up bits of meat, covering his mouth to contain the spray. His intensely green eyes wide with concern, Damian stood, no doubt about to perform the Heimlich. With his free hand, Max waved him back down. He was startled, not choking to death.
Smooth move, Blackwood, Max chided himself as he coughed into a napkin, clearing his throat. Someone asks you a question, and you immediately act like you’ve got something to hide. Thank god you want to be a superhero and not a spy, because national secrets wouldn’t be safe in your hands with this lousy poker face. Relax. There’s no way Damian knows about being forced into the shadow realm in Mirrorkin’s chamber. How could he?
Max had resolved to not share his bizarre experience in the shadow realm with anyone. At least not until he found someone he could trust. Considering he was surrounded by wannabe criminal masterminds, he wouldn’t hold his breath.
Max drowned the frog in his throat with several gulps of milk. Blech! What was he, a baby cow? As he choked the milk down, he found himself glaring at the nearest servitor, one of the several scattered throughout Prometheus Academy’s large Dining Hall. The servitors who had served the first years their meals had insisted on giving Max milk instead of the soda he asked for. All of his food and drink, a servitor had said, was specially tailored by the school for his unique physiology based on the physicals he had undergone. Apparently, Max had a calcium deficiency. Hence the milk.
What Max wouldn’t give for a Coke and a big bowl of Mac and cheese, staples of his diet back home in Mississippi. But instead he had before him rotisserie chicken, roasted sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and a mixed salad with just vinegar and oil for dressing. Max considered all the greenery food that real food eats. Apparently Prometheus thought Max was a rabbit in addition to a baby cow.
To add insult to injury, there was a side serving of smoked herring that reeked like old gym shoes. “For the Omega-3s,” the servitor had informed Max. Whatever in the hell they were.
But, as much as Max hated to admit it, the food was fresh, well-prepared, and tasty.
Then again, that wasn’t the point. The point was he didn’t get to choose exactly what he wanted. Apparently, a place that didn’t have a problem kidnapping a minor also didn’t give a rat’s ass what you wanted to eat when it thought your micronutrient levels weren’t up to snuff. Imagine that.
Max looked with envy at Damian’s plate as he wiped his mouth. Damian had a burger and baked fries. Evidently, Damian’s micronutrients were just fine, as he had been allowed to order exactly what he wanted. But Damian wasn’t entirely exempt from the school’s rules. To bring his appearance into compliance with the dress code, his long wavy black hair had been trimmed to bring it above his ears. Also, his signet ring had been removed. Max noticed Damian kept unconsciously reaching for it with his thumb.
Max finally thought it safe to speak without running the risk of spraying food at the boy across the table from him.
“What elephant in the room?” Max rasped.
“The one where we share with each other our powers. You keep eyeing my insignia.” Like all the other first years in the Dining Hall, Damian wore the school’s charcoal jumpsuit with insignia on his chest. A servitor had given Max a handbook explaining the meaning of the various insignia after Max exited Mirrorkin’s chamber, and Max had memorized it. Knowledge was power. He figured he needed all the power he could get his hands on to bust out of this place.
Damian’s insignia meant Mirrorkin had placed him in the Apex Division. The brain symbol radiating waves meant Damian was a Psionic; the green bar meant he was Competent-level. Damian being Competent in the use of his powers was especially intriguing. Max had yet to spot another first year who was anything other than Initiate-level.
Max was very curious about Damian’s abilities, but that didn’t mean he was ready for show-and-tell. He said, “Didn’t Ravi tell us to not volunteer information about our powers? Something about not handing ammunition to our opponents and enemies.”
“But we’re not enemies. We’re friends.”
Are we? Max thought. Damian had certainly treated Max like they were fast friends, but he still wasn’t convinced Damian wasn’t a spy. A plant by Stiletto, Strategos, or someone else in this godforsaken place to keep an eye on him. It wasn’t wild-eyed paranoia. The fact Max had been shanghaied here for reasons unknown was proof he had enemies.
A look of hurt passed over Damian’s face as Max continued to hesitate. Feeling guilty, Max glanced at the first years they shared a table with, trying to pass off his hesitation as reluctance to be overheard. The two boys were at the far end of the long table, away from the others.
Max lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t think people can hear us talking, but ‘out of earshot’ loses all meaning in a roomful of Unreals. How many of these guys have super hearing?”
“No one is eavesdropping,” Damian assured him.
“Glad to hear you say that, Captain Confidence. But me, my code name’s Skeptical Squire. If my own mother told me she loved me, I’d ask for notarized proof. What makes you so sure no one’s listening?”
Damian smiled, showing teeth that belonged in a toothpaste commercial. “How I’m so sure brings us back to the elephant in the room.”
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Max’s intrigue about Damian’s powers deepened. “Fine. I’ll spill the tea if you will.”
Puzzled, Damian looked first at Max’s milk, then at his own sparkling water. “Spill the tea? Neither of us is drinking tea.”
“Never mind,” Max said. “It’s an expression. Tell me about your powers.”
Damian put his fork down and assumed a professorial air.
“How familiar are you with the work of Rupert Sheldrake?”
Max frowned. “The guy who started Fox News?”
“That’s Rupert Murdoch.” A smile flickered on Damian’s face. “I take that to mean you aren’t familiar with Dr. Sheldrake’s work.”
Damian leaned forward, his eyes bright.
“Rupert Sheldrake was a biochemist by training who came up with the ideas of morphic fields and morphic resonance. In simple terms, he believed that similar forms in nature—whether plants, animals, or even social groups—share a kind of invisible connection. This connection allows them to influence each other across time and space. It’s like having an unseen network that links similar beings, carrying information and patterns.”
Damian paused, gauging Max’s reaction.
“Imagine a bird learning a new song,” he continued. “According to Sheldrake, once this song is learned, it becomes easier for other birds of the same species to learn it. Even if they have no physical contact with the original bird, and are far away from it. It’s as if the song is stored in a collective memory, accessible to all of them through these morphic fields.”
Max raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Sounds like woo-woo BS to me. Like crystals or remote viewing.”
“Says the guy worried about someone with super-hearing eavesdropping on a whispered conversation from across a crowded room.”
Max opened his mouth, hoping a witty retort would pop out. It didn’t.
“Okay, you’ve got me there,” Max conceded. “This is a school packed with woo-woo BS. But what’s this morphic stuff got to do with you?”
Damian’s smile widened.
“The scientific establishment mostly agrees with your assessment that Sheldrake’s theories are woo-woo nonsense. But I know they are not. My Unreal power taps into those morphic fields. I can access that collective memory, that pool of shared experiences and abilities. It’s not telepathy or mind-reading. It’s more about tuning into the vast invisible network that Sheldrake theorized.”
Max also leaned forward, his skepticism mingling with a growing sense of wonder. “So, when you say no one is eavesdropping, you’re not just guessing. You’re . . . what, reading the vibes of the room?”
“Exactly,” Damian replied. “I can sense if anyone’s focus is on us, if there’s any intent to listen in. It’s like being attuned to the vibrations of the room.”
Even before becoming an Unreal, Max had long been fascinated by them. Damian’s power was one he had never heard of. He felt like a birdwatcher discovering a new species of bird.
“What else can you do?” he asked Damian eagerly.
Damian took a quick glance around, then picked up his steak knife, holding it close to his body to shield it from the view of most of the room.
He slashed open a long cut on his palm. Max flinched, but Damian remained calm.
“Watch,” Damian said, his eyes concentrating on his bleeding palm. Max looked closely, fascinated, as the cut on Damian’s palm began to close. Within moments, the skin knitted together, leaving only a faint mark.
“That’s incredible,” Max murmured.
Damian nodded, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “It’s a recent development. I can’t do major healing yet, but for small injuries like cuts or bruises, I can accelerate the healing process. It’s all about resonating with the body’s natural healing energy, amplified by tapping into healers’ collective experiences with injury recovery. Master yogis, for example.”
Damian wiped the residual blood away with a napkin. Then he folded it and stashed it in his jumpsuit’s pocket, rather than leaving it on the table for a servitor to dispose of.
Seeing the quizzical look on Max’s face, Damian explained: “Many unsavory things can be done with one’s blood. Especially by Mystics and magical creatures. I’ll burn this napkin rather than risk a sample of my blood falling into the wrong hands.”
Damian, Max realized, was just as paranoid as he, albeit for different reasons.
“My power is already quite versatile,” Damian continued, “but it seems I’ve only scratched the surface of what I can do. After my Awakening, my father retained some of the best tutors in the world to help develop my abilities. After working with me, to a man they agreed Prometheus Academy was best equipped to aid me in taking my abilities to the next level. Their tutelage is why I’m already rated at Competent-level. Father wanted to give me a competitive advantage over the other Prometheus students. As he is fond of saying, ‘Only those who stand at the summit are remembered, for history has no place for the second-best. Every man must choose between the zenith of success, or the nadir of insignificance.’”
If he always talks like that, Max thought, your dad must be fun at parties. He sounds like a real laugh riot. “Basically,” Max summarized, “if you ain’t first, you’re last.”
Damian cocked an eyebrow. “What an elegantly succinct way to express the sentiment.”
“I didn’t come up with it. It’s from Talladega Nights.”
Damian stared at Max blankly.
“The Ballad of Ricky Bobby,” Max added. “The movie.”
Damian’s blank stare continued.
“The one with Will Ferrell.”
“Who’s that?”
Suddenly, Max felt better about not knowing about Rupert Sheldrake and not having private tutors. At least Max knew who Will Ferrell was and what spill the tea meant. As cosmopolitan as Damian was, he didn’t know everything.
Max found himself grinning.
“It seems like we can learn a few things from each other. Will Ferrell is—”
Damian’s raised hand stopped Max. Damian’s head spun toward the other side of the Dining Hall.
“What’s the matter?” Max asked, taken aback.
“There’s about to be an altercation,” Damian said grimly.
Max followed Damian’s gaze. Damian was looking at the big Latino boy, the one who had insulted the plus-sized blonde girl in the Grand Hall before Strategos’ introductory speech. The blonde sat at the table in front of Max’s.
The big Latino stood up from where he sat with the other two guys who had been roasting the blonde girl. The Latino’s thick brows knit together in concentration. There was a subtle charging of the air around him, an almost imperceptible glow that bathed him in a faint luminescence.
Then, a pulse rippled away from him. It was some sort of energy wave, barely visible as it spread across the Dining Hall.
As the energy wave touched the servitors, the androids, previously buzzing around with trays and utensils, stumbled to an abrupt halt. They slumped over and froze, their glowing red eyes dimming to blackness, as if the pulse had sapped all their energy.
The Dining Hall fell eerily quiet as the other first years noticed what was happening. The Latino boy was sweating profusely now and looked exhausted, as if he had just run a race. His two companions stood and clapped him on the back, congratulating him.
All three began to stride towards the plus-sized girl’s table. The boys’ faces were menacing, a stark contrast to the Dining Hall’s jovial atmosphere of moments ago. As the three approached ominously, the other students at the blonde’s table edged away from her, their expressions a mix of fear and anticipation. The girl didn’t even look up as she continued to eat, as if she hadn’t noticed the approaching boys. But Max saw that her hands were trembling as she handled her utensils.
The trio stopped just short of the girl’s table, looming over her. The ugly look on their faces promised nothing good.
Max didn’t need Damian’s morphic resonance powers to sense trouble brewing.