The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

made it less than what it was. But she’s watched a look settle into his face that said he was back there, seeing it all again. Something about Emmeline Hirsch triggers that look.

“I never thanked you for building the cell downstairs,” he says. “The inhibitor is a piece of genius. Did it come to you in a dream?”

“More or less,” Fahima says.

“It’s strange when something comes along you didn’t know you needed. I’m thinking of having you build one for me in my house up in Maine. As a quiet room. A respite. Are there negative effects?”

“I wouldn’t keep anyone in there permanently,” says Fahima.

“Keeping Owen Curry locked up isn’t a permanent solution anyway. But I’m tired of permanent solutions.” He gives her a painful, tight smile that reminds Fahima how much of his story Bishop hasn’t told her. He leans forward and sets his glass down on the table. “So let’s talk about the girl.”

“We should talk about the thing in the Hive,” says Fahima.

“I’m more concerned about Emmeline Hirsch,” Bishop says.

“She’s a sweet little kid,” Fahima says.

“You’re giving me opinions,” Bishop says. “Start from what you know.”

Fahima sighs. When she was his student, she was so easily cowed by him. She used to wonder if he was using his ability against her, bringing her down a notch. He swore he’d never do that to her. He pushed her to think deeper, work harder. Remove anything but facts so you can see the thing clearly, he told her. Start from what you know.

“She’s an early bloomer,” Fahima says. “But her abilities haven’t manifested in the real world yet.”

“Any sense of what her ability is?” Bishop asks.

Fahima thinks of the file she has on Emmeline. Report cards and school forms. Teacher evaluations, a psychological assessment. She thinks of the way the girl’s Hivebody manifested, a stack of layered images. She remembers thinking it was as if the girl called in future versions of herself for help. None of this amounts to anything definite. At most, there’s an indication of a prescience, an eeriness about the girl.

“Not yet,” she says.

“Keep eyes on her,” he says. “And keep me updated.”

“Why all the interest in this one?”

Bishop shrugs. “What she did in the Hive was impressive.”

“What she did was impossible,” Fahima corrects. “But you were looking for her before you knew what she could do.”

“The girl is powerful,” he says. “She’s demonstrated the ability to manipulate Hivematter, which is within my area of interest. I have thoughts about her, but I don’t know anything.” He sips his drink, purely for effect. “Is that enough for you for now?”

“It’s all I’m getting, right?”

“I trust you to handle it,” he says. It’s Bishop code for I will continue to monitor you very closely and possibly without your awareness. “You want to ask me about the abscess.”

“You knew what it was,” Fahima says.

“I have thoughts on that, too.”

“You need to share them,” she says.

“I don’t need to do anything,” says Bishop. “The Hive is a special place. It’s what unites us, connects us to where we draw our abilities from. Without it, we’re a scattered collection of accidents. We’re a coincidence rather than a people.”

“So no one gets to know you built it,” Fahima says.

“Most of them don’t need to know,” he says. “You know. Patrick knows, and Sarah.”

“What if you can’t control it anymore?” Fahima asks. “What if someone else can build things like that abscess in there? The Hive could be dangerous.”

“The Hive will always be safe,” Bishop says. “We built it to be inviolable. If someone was able to manipulate it, I’d know.”

“Someone did, and you didn’t know,” says Fahima.

“We saved the girl, Fahima,” he says. “Take the win. Today’s not about that.” He looks down onto the street. People are gathering on the sidewalks, lining up.

“You should be out there with them,” says Fahima.

“Today’s not about me either,” he says. “Come to the window. It’s about to start.”

They forgot to feed Owen Curry this morning. His stomach grumbles and growls, and the emptiness there feels like the null, but not enough. Not nearly. An echo of a roar. Shadow instead of void. The almost of it makes the lack worse.

When the door slides open, he’s sure it’s the Islam bitch with his slops. Everything they feed him is so fucking healthy when what he wants is grease and fat. Vegetables leave him full but never sated. He wants to rip into food with his hands. Tear and rend.

But it’s not her or the blonde. Whoever the fuck it is isn’t carrying a tray. Pressing his face hard against the glass, Owen can see his visitor. He’s tall, lanky. His face is blurred like a television screen full of static. Owen’s heart leaps.

“You came,” he says.

“I told you I’d come for you, Owen,” says his friend. “Did you lose your faith?”

“I couldn’t hear you,” Owen says, clawing at his temples. “They put me under these lights, and you weren’t in my head anymore.”

“I was always there, Owen,” his friend says. He flips off the green lights. Then he punches in a key code, and the glass slides back. Owen can’t believe it. He’s afraid to step through the opening. He summons his courage and crosses the threshold, into the hallway.

“I’m going to null them all,” he says. “I’m going to wipe out this whole fucking building.” He reaches into the part of himself where the null lives and gets ready to let it out, all of it this time. He’ll null the entire world. There’s a stabbing pain in the middle of his head. Brain freeze times a thousand. It drops Owen to his knees, and he can feel the null pulling away from him, shriveling like a scared animal.

“Not. Yet,” says his friend. “I have a sentimental attachment to this place. And if you’re going to be my sword, you need to remember who holds the hilt.” Owen hears the words wrong