“Come over here, Max—we may as well get started. If you don’t mind, hop up on the counter there and forgive me for the formalities.” Nigel activated the recorder and leaned against a cupboard.
“Senior Recruiter Nigel Bristow initiating Standard Series of Potential Tests on Mr. Max McDaniels, age twelve, of Chicago, Illinois, United States of America.”
Holding the recorder toward Max, Nigel continued to speak in a clipped monotone.
“Mr. McDaniels, please indicate that you have been fully briefed and agree to participate in the following trials with full knowledge that they are highly experimental and likely to result in severe disfigurement….”
“Hey! Wait a minute!” shrieked Max, jumping off the counter.
Nigel chortled. “Just a bit of humor. Couldn’t help myself.” He waved Max back up onto the counter. “All right, then. First test to be administered: physical aptitude. Max, you’ve been to the doctor before, haven’t you? Well, this is similar to when he taps your knee with a rubber mallet. Only instead of a mallet, I’m going to hold this little contraption. It can’t hurt you, I promise.”
Max watched Nigel adjust a number of tiny dials on the handle. A small screen flickered on, and a ring of white light appeared within the empty oval head. The contraption began to whine.
Max squirmed.
“Nigel, are you sure that thing is safe? It doesn’t sound safe!”
“Perfectly safe, perfectly safe,” muttered Nigel, carefully guiding the contraption around Max’s dangling foot and up toward his knee. “Now, in a moment you’re going to feel a bit of a shock—nothing painful, but it will make you want to kick your leg out. I want you to resist that temptation and keep your knee within the boundaries. Do not touch the device! Ready…and begin.”
The machine’s whine rose to a fevered pitch, and Max felt a sudden jolt to his knee. He shut his eyes and focused all of his will on controlling the powerful impulse to kick. Sweat beaded on his face and trickled down his back. Glancing down, he saw his knee moving in a blur of tiny circles that approached but never touched the instrument. Finally, the machine’s pitch descended to a steady hum before slowing to a halt. Nigel studied the device’s screen and reached for his recorder.
“Lactic production rate: eighty-two. Lactic dispersion rate: eighty-four. Twitch speed: ninety-five. Muscular density, current: sixty-four. Muscular density, projected: eighty-seven. Synaptic bypass: eighty-four. Mental stress fatigue: fifty-two.”
Nigel frowned as he read the last number.
“Hmmm. Stress fatigue’s surprisingly low. Score is likely result of subject exhaustion following preemptive Enemy intercept. Recruiter recommends retesting at later date if applicable.”
Brightening, he looked up at Max, who was mopping his brow. Nigel switched off the recorder.
“Good show, my boy! Acceptable ratings across the board and you managed to keep from hitting the device. You’re a talented devil. I’ve only been recruiting for seven years, but I’ve never tested anyone who registered a ninety-five for twitch speed. Never even heard of it, actually.”
“What do those numbers mean?” Max asked.
“Oh, a lot of hogwash, really,” replied Nigel, seemingly distracted as he switched off the contraption. “They’re supposed to give us an understanding of your physical capabilities and, more importantly, your ability to control your actions in a stressful environment. I’m sure someone will explain all the numbers to you later if you’re really interested.”
Max glanced at the strange, silvery instrument.
“Is that thing magical?”
“Magical? Heavens, no! In fact, don’t let any of the Device people hear you say that! They take a lot of pride—too much, if you ask me—in making all kinds of useful non-mystic things. I’m just happy this new model works. The last one was—”
He coughed and glanced at Max, who raised his eyebrows.
“Well, needless to say, it wasn’t as reliable as this model. This one, however, is a peach!”
Nigel patted the device affectionately before letting it slip from his fingers into his case. It fell in without making an appreciable sound or dent within the smooth calfskin sides. Plucking up the recorder, he beckoned Max back into the living room.
“Right. One test down, and possibly two to go. Now, I’d like you to stand across the room and face the fireplace.”
With a sweep of his arm, Nigel extinguished the lamps. The fire was now the room’s only source of light.
“Wow,” said Max.
Nigel smiled and placed several more logs in the hearth. Firelight danced on the walls. Max waited nervously, his eyes adjusting to the darkened room. The fire burned much brighter when Nigel finally stood and turned to him.
“Max, the first test was not so unusual—bit of an elaborate physical. This next test will be a tad strange for you. I’m going to ask you to try something that you don’t currently believe you can do. I want you to extinguish this fire from where you stand.”
“Are you kidding?” said Max, shaking his head and laughing with disbelief.
“You have what it takes to do this, Max. Relax your mind. Imagine this fire ebbing to a low flame, then to a trickle of smoke, and finally to a cold hearth.”
Max’s eyes followed the brilliant oranges and yellows that writhed about the logs. He heard the wood crackling, watched the heat rise in steady waves. A log collapsed in a shower of sparks. Max flexed his fingers. He pictured the flames slowing to a halt, losing their intensity, and leaving the space cold and dark.
To Max’s utter amazement, the fire began to die. It was unmistakable, as if the wood was slowly but steadily absorbing the flames.
“Very good,” said Nigel. “Now finish the job and put it out….”
Max shut his eyes and focused his entire being on the glowing logs and embers. He clenched his fists, imagining the heat being drawn into the surrounding brick and diffusing throughout the house. His body shuddered; he felt utterly drained. Opening his eyes, he saw Nigel smiling at him.
“Bravo, Max. Well done, indeed.” Nigel swept his arm up and restored the lights. Max winced as Nigel grasped a log that had been burning only moments before. He tossed it to Max, who instinctively backed away and let it fall to the floor in a small puff of ash and soot. Crouching down, Max flicked at it with a finger. It was cool to the touch. Beaming at Nigel, he placed it back in the hearth.
Nigel tipped an imaginary cap as he activated the recorder.
“Test two completed. Subject extinguished a confined stage-two fire from a distance of seven paces. Subject successfully eliminated flames and further sapped residual heat from logs. Test completed in one minute and forty-seven seconds.”
Max’s chest expanded as Nigel shut off the recorder.
“One minute and forty-seven seconds is pretty good, isn’t it?”
“Well, Max, not to burst your bubble, but the modern record is under five seconds by our very own Miss Hazel Boon. Your score was, well, average among Potentials. Not to worry! It took this poor Recruiter over three minutes to squelch his first flame, and even then you could roast marshmallows over the logs!”
Max smiled at the thought of a miniature Nigel frowning in his blue suit while a Recruiter roasted marshmallows and reported the disappointing result.
“So, what’s next?”
“Oh, the last test isn’t so bad—you’ve already had the biggies! It’s just a bit of a puzzle. I’ve got it in my case in the kit—”
Before Nigel could finish his sentence, there was a deafening boom of thunder and the house went black. Squinting in the dark, Max saw Nigel sprawled on the floor. The back door had been smashed to pieces. To Max’s horror, Mrs. Millen eyed them from the kitchen.
Her hair was matted from the rain; her makeup was smeared into dark streaks on her fleshy face. She shambled toward them, bent and furious. Her cane smacked the floor at rapid and regular beats.
“Hoo-hoo-hoo! Thought I’d just gone away? Thought your friend’s little charms could keep me out?”