Unregistered

By P T Lacy

London. The year 2000. One in a million people are born with a power, known as Talents. They are forced by a hostile Government to place themselves under a regime of control called The Authority.

Red Line is the chief enforcer of the Authority. Besides fighting crime with his fists, a task he performs with cruel relish, his job is to root out the Unregistered.  

People like Susan, an idealistic young woman who uses her Talent to fight injustice, in memory of a lost parent, in defiance of the law. 

But Susan is the least of Red Line’s problems. Someone is killing the Talented, one at a time. And the clock is ticking, although Red Line does not know who is next, nor when the killers will strike. Red Line and Susan must work together to find and stop the murderers before they kill again, and again, and again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Dec 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805147411

P T Lacy

Born and raised in the South-West of England, the author tried his hand at many different pursuits before settling on his current career. He lives in Poland with his wife, where he works as an EFL teacher. Unregistered is his first novel.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER ONE

July 28, 2000

Four scumbags ride in an estate car, fleeing the scene of a robbery in the first glimmerings of the late July dawn, flushed with success. I know them, or at least I know the types. Some mother’s sons, her hopes and dreams, the same sad old story of good boys become bad men thanks to the whims of a cruel and indifferent society, or that’s what they’d have you believe. I can’t sing you the songs of their lives, but I can hum the tune.

They don’t know I’m up here watching them. If they could see through the roof of their car, they’d spot me against the sky, clad in my trademark suit of shiny black armour and matching black helmet. They’d recognise the red stripe that bisected both, running from crown to groin. And they would shout my name and run for the hills.

Red Line! would be the shout, and it would be a curse.

I watched the robbery as it went down. Watched a van pull up outside the target, painted in the colours of the Royal Mail. Watched and, as ordered, did nothing as the brains of the operation got out of the van with an unwilling accomplice, Julian Horrocks. They’ve targeted him, broken into his house in the dead of night, held guns to the heads of his wife and his children. They swore that they wouldn’t hurt his family as long as he did exactly what they wanted. What they wanted was for him to let them into the cash-processing facility where he is the security manager.

I stood on the roof of that facility as Julian opened the gate, went to chat with the men in the security office. The security guards weren’t armed. Julian’s new friend was, and he ordered them to surrender. The guards complied, ending up bound and gagged. The van drove in, and the rest of the gang darted in on foot. I saw it all happen, saw the facility staff get herded and locked into the vault as the gang piled cash into holdalls, filling up the van. I watched it all, my Talent rendering the walls virtually transparent. A textbook raid as far as these things went.

I follow the car, the van close behind, at a height of a kilometre as it speeds north through an industrial estate. I keep pace with them, the airspace clear, easing my way along as the convoy jolts and jounces over the pot holes at 60mph. The tactical radio net is buzzing, the images from my helmet’s visual feed crystal clear. I wonder whether the robbers have the slightest clue that their day is about to be ruined. The gang is unaware of my presence, just as they were unaware of the mole among them working with the Police. The Police are following at a sensible distance, vectoring in from my data. They put in a request for Talented help and I am it, the heavy mob. I am the one they call in when the risk is too high, when bullets whistle through the air and skulls need to be cracked. I’m the one who can fly and has super-strength.

I didn’t have anything better to do. It’ll be fun.

The one part of the plan the informant didn’t know was where the safe-house was. We are heading west now, the city limits behind us. The roads constrict down into little more than tarmacked lanes, the van winding its way between hedges. Ten minutes later, the van passes through an open gate into a disused farm, the farmhouse dilapidated and surrounded by outbuildings in ever-worsening states of decay. A livestock farm, judging by the barns, left high and dry long ago by falling economic tides. The house itself is grim, smashed windows and unlit rooms. The largest barn, though, stands with its main door open, a single weak light shining out. A man walks out into the yard raising a hand in greeting. He sees the van and the estate car and his hand curls into a fist, pumping in celebration. The van slows, crawls into the barn. The sentry slides the door closed behind it. The estate car slides to a halt in the yard, disgorging its passengers. They make their way around the barn to a side door and head in.

I’ve swung around to the left before flying over the barn. Frontal approaches are too risky. I’m quite easy to spot against the light blue sky. I come to a halt above the barn, hanging in the sky. I close my eyes and extend my Sense outwards. People, Normies, sometimes ask me what it’s like to have a sixth sense, to be able to see through walls. I always answer the same way - I don’t see through walls, no light is involved. I perceive in gravity with my Talent, almost as if it were like normal sight. In truth, it’s not too dissimilar from radar. It doesn’t matter how opaque something is, it only matters how big it is, how much it distorts the space-time continuum. It appears in my mind like it were thermal vision, a heat-map of local mass concentrations. I perceive everything larger than a few grams, spread out in three dimensions, in a radius of about fifty metres. Beyond that, everything gets imprecise and messy.

I’m glad the gang chose the barn as the base of operations. The farmhouse is solid despite the depredations of time and neglect, all stone walls and thick ceiling joists. The barn is little more than aluminium sheeting on an iron frame, itself on a base of brick. It’s a hive of activity. The van sits between three Land Rover Discoveries as the gang unload it. They aren’t waiting for the police to turn up and they aren’t taking the time to count the cash here. One of their number stands watch at a window. Four of the gang are moving the money. Two of them are standing and smoking, having a chat. The eighth man is in a back room with Julian, now sat on a chair, bound and gagged. A plan of attack coalesces in my mind. The priority must be the hostage.

The brains trust meeting breaks up.

Jase! shouts the leader. Need a word.

One of the loaders sets his holdall down in the back of a Land Rover.

What’s up, boss? he says.

Step outside for a mo, would ya?

The leader waves a hand at the door. Jase opens the door and heads out. Behind him, I Sense the leader pull a big pistol, a Desert Eagle or M1911 or something, out of its holster. Jase, being a sensorially-impoverished Normie, knows nothing of this. He walks out into the yard, turns around. The Boss is standing there, gun raised.

What’s u- he says as the rest of the gang fan out behind the Boss, all except for the one guarding Julian. He stretches out his arms parallel to the ground, palms facing his boss in the universally understood gesture of ‘let’s all just calm down, hey?’. I sink down onto the roof, touching down light as a feather. I stay back from the edge, close enough to Sense the action precisely but not close enough to see. I’m sure poor Jase is sweating bullets, eyes wide and darting to and fro.

What’s up? You know what’s up, Jase. Why don’t you tell us all what’s up, the boss purrs.

Don’t know whatchoo mean, boss. I ain’t done nuffin. The fear shudders up through Jase’s body and out through his voice.

The Boss clucks his tongue, a disapproving father. I know what’s coming, Jase knows what’s coming, the whole gang can see the future writ large in Jase’s blood and brains spread over the yard. And I could stop it, I could swoop down there right now, fists flying, the rounds ricocheting off my armour, the rounds of their Uzis no match for the layers of silk and titanium sandwiching a reactive gel. I could clear the yard of bad guys in a few frantic seconds of brutality, at no risk to myself, but for one factor. Julian would be dead a second after the first screams of pain, executed where he sat. The Police hate it when innocents turn up dead during these ops, they hate the paperwork it generates. They really hate the internal inquiry and official inquests. They’re not quite so bothered about dead arseholes killed by their own crew.

The Boss steps forward, gun levelled at Jase’s head.

Always a joker, our Jase. Did you know I got a man inside the Sweeney, Jase? Do you know what he told me?

Jase is shaking his head no, to go along with all the involuntary shaking his body is doing.

He tells me there’s a rat in our outfit. He tells me who he thinks the rat likely is. Does any of this sound...familiar to you, Jase? You want to clear your conscience with your last words?

Jase ponders his options. None of them seem attractive to me, especially since he isn’t actually the informant, who right now will be handing Julian’s family over to the Police.

Just fucking shoot him, one of the gang shouts.

Fuck all of you cu- Jase says before the back of his head explodes in a gout of blood and bone, his body flopping backwards. The Boss takes a moment to straddle his corpse and aim a gobbet of spit into his face.

Got a job to finish, lads, the Boss says, turning back to the barn. The gang file back in.

I open the tacnet, my voice low, my speakers deactivated.

Update: now seven suspects plus hostage. Request ambulance. Do not approach, repeat, do not approach. Wait for the all clear.

Received, the tacnet whispers into my ear. Waiting for all clear.

Once they’re all inside, I lift off again and drift round to the back of the barn, above the back room. I keep my Sense active, watching through the walls. I sink down, landing next to the door. The guard in here has his back to the door and window. The door is locked, made of old, weak wood, warped with time and moisture. Perfect. The guard raises a hand, stifling a yawn.

I erupt through the door, wooden chunks and splinters an aura around me. My fist snaps forward, connecting like a thunderbolt with the chin of the guard as his head snapped round at the sound of my entry. His mandible shatters and the force of my punch catapults him head-first through a table into the opposite wall. He might be dead, who knows. I grab Julian and dart out through the smashed door. I hoist him upwards, flying above the doorway, holding position.

Silence inside and out. The gang froze at the sounds of Talented-on-Normie violence. The Boss throws an arm up, points at the back room. Go check. One of the gang raises his Uzi and edges towards the inner door. He throws it open and creeps in, checking his corners. He’s been trained somewhere, only turning towards his fallen colleague when he’s satisfied.

Jesus fuck! he gasps. Mike?

The Boss steps into the room.

He alive, Paul? he says, before turning around. Keep loading! Fuck’s sake, get a move on!

Paul bends over the man, feeling for a pulse.

Think so. Paul moves to the shattered door. The Boss checks on Mike.

I glance over at Julian, who is clinging to me the way a drowning man clings to a life belt. He looks back at me with wide, pinned eyes. I raise a finger in front of my mask, shush. Julian nods back eagerly and screws his eyes closed.

Paul is almost exactly under me, scanning the ground behind the barn with his gun. Nothing out there but overgrown fields and neglected hedges. He takes his time, unaware I have the literal drop on him. He doesn’t come out the whole way, and he doesn’t look up. Nobody ever looks up.

He’s alive, says the Boss.

Paul backs away into the room. What the fuck, man? Is he gonna die? We can’t leave him here! The pigs-

Fuck the pigs, the Boss spits. Got bigger problems. Got a fucking Talented out here.

Which one?

No clue. Top dog, probably. The bastard in the black armour. Red Line.

Oh fuck. What are we gonna do, Carl?

The Boss, Carl, snorts. Try not to die, I reckon.

Carl goes back into the main room of the barn. Paul follows, shaking his head.

Drop that shit and get over here! Bring your weapons! Carl says.

The rest of the gang drop their shit and congregate around Carl. I drop back to the ground next to the smashed door, releasing Julian. He stumbles a little and looks where I point, trotting off to hide behind the thickest part of the hedge. I stay in place as Carl gives everyone the good news.

Listen up! Listen! he says. Police ain’t coming. We got a bigger problem!

What problem is bigger than the pigs?

The Sweeney?

Talented, lads. We got Talented problems.

Cue four variations on the theme of cursing, a symphony of frustrated vulgarity.

’S gotta be Red Line, Carl says, in which case we got two options and both of ‘em shit. We can run with what we got or we can stand and fight it out.

What about surrendering? Paul says.

Fuck that, someone says with a laugh. What happens if we run?

Simple. I chase you down, flip your car, rip the roof off and pound you unconscious. Think about all that could go wrong. It’s no fun being trapped in a Land Rover rolling at fifty miles per, it being a great place to get your neck snapped or skull crushed, not to mention the odds of a negligent discharge from your Uzi. The Uniforms won’t enjoy the mess but it’ll result in arrests and arrests result in crimes solved and convictions, and even the most bleeding heart copper knows that making omelettes means breaking a few bad eggs. Although if I’m honest, the whole chasing thing is a bit of a faff, so I’m not a fan of this choice.

We’re fucked if we run, Carl says. I’m starting to warm to him, for all that he’s a murderous brigand.

So we stay and shoot it out, yeah?

Let’s be honest, that won’t work either. I mean, OK, if these losers were packing 20 milli cannon or some kind of anti-materiel rifle, they’d be in with a fighting chance against my armour, but then I’d feel fully entitled to hose them down with my Calicos and the Uniforms would have to pick through the blood for forensics and they hate a charnel house more than anything. It’s hard to square it away with the Chief Constable after the fact. As it stands, with these six merely armed with burp guns, I won’t even need the Calicos. I’ll just stroll into the barn, get in good and close for fisticuffs and show these lads the error of their ways. Quick and easy, home in time for breakfast.

Carl demonstrates his wisdom once again. Still fucked, I reckon, but there’s a chance.

There’s a moment of silence. Each of the gang is weighing the choices in their minds. Death or permanent disability is a real possibility here, depending on how angry or excited I get. It’s funny how within the criminal community there’s a certain cachet derived from being enough of a bad-ass that it took a Talented to bring you in. Such a strange badge of honour.

Don’t much fancy dying today, Carl, mate, says Paul.

Me neither.

There’s a chance we shoot him down? says a third. What? Never ran from a fight in my life.

Shit, I dunno, says the fourth. The last one shrugs.

Carl sighs.

Right then, he says, better take cover.

They shuffle into position, checking their weapons and their fields of fire, trying to cover as many angles as possible. I fly around the side of the barn. I pull my Calicos one at a time from their holsters, making sure they are loaded, the huge helical magazines snugly in place, the fire selector set to automatic, before reholstering them. I reach the sliding barn door, still open just a crack. Jase lies in a puddle of his own blood not ten metres away.

My Sense tells me the gang are ready, cowering behind the thin metal of the Post Office van or the bulk of a Disco’s engine block.

Whoever’s out there, Carl shouts, let’s get this done. Come and get us!

My lips twist into a broad grin. I admire his gumption.

In answer, I grab the sliding door by its handle and heave it away, the door coming off its runners with a metallic shriek of protest. I hurl the door into the adjacent field, striking a pose in the doorway with light streaming into the barn. Six streams of bullets come racing the other way. Some of them find their target, my armour pummelled with multiple impacts, a few rounds whanging away off my helmet, leaving smears of lead. I let them soak in the sight of me silhouetted against the morning sun, whole and uninjured. I let them drink in the knowledge that they can’t possibly hurt me. Part of me wants to laugh out loud at their feeble efforts, but I’m one of the good guys and we just don’t do that. The incoming fire slackens and ceases and the blood pounding through my veins is calling me on to battle.

I suppose it’s sporting to give them the fuck-that option again, one last chance to surrender. I set my loudspeakers to their maximum setting.

Throw down your weapons! I say, the magnified voice booming off the farmhouse opposite. Throw them down and come out one at a time, hands on head. You won’t be harmed.

Go fuck yourself, freak! someone yells.

They had to make it personal, didn’t they?

Last chance! I say. They’ve made their decision. Some of them are reloading their guns and I’d swear one of them is praying. I give them five more seconds. You are all under arrest!

With my eyes closed, my gravity Sense scans the barn one last time. Two behind the Disco to the left, two behind the one on the far right, two behind the Post Office van.

I drift into the barn, into a hail of gunfire. More rounds impact my armour but for nothing, the 9mm slugs as much of a threat as a well-hit tennis ball. I approach the Post Office van first, bending down and grabbing it one-handed by the left rear wheel. I throw the van back-handed out of the barn, the bonnet of the van tearing a fresh hole, before the van spins and cartwheels away, shedding bundles of cash and assorted debris.

I dart towards the Disco on the left, the one with a tow bar, ignoring the yells of confusion and sheer terror from the gangsters. One foot squarely on the tow bar and I launch the car forward hard. The Disco picks up the two thugs cringing at its front end, ending their brief yells of shock as it carries them into and through the concrete divider behind them.

Perhaps it would’ve been better to run.

I turn my attention to the two men left exposed when the van flew away. I arrow through the air over to them. One of them swings his Uzi towards me, looking for a point blank shot, but I smack it away with my left hand, my right coming through in a blow to his cheekbone. He tumbles away stunned as his partner brings his gun down with an overhead sweep aimed at my helmet. I duck under it, grabbing him by his coverall and smash him into his comrade who is trying to shake his head clear. They roll away in a bundle of groans and limbs.

A boot crashes into my chestplate. I take a half step back and look up at my assailant. It’s Paul, yelling his war cry as he brings a baseball bat round in a wild swing at my head. He can’t see how broad my smile is and I raise my left arm to intercept the bat. It shatters as I block it and Paul shudders as I unleash a fierce right-left-right combo into his torso. A left uppercut lifts him up and lays him out on his back ten feet away. He might be dead. I fly over to check on him -

My helmet rings and jolts forward as a large calibre pistol shot impacts the back of it. Of course, Carl. I straighten up and sigh, the sigh emerging from the speakers more like a growl. Well played, Carl. I turn to face him and the barrel of his gun fills my vision. Turns out it is an M1911. Another round spangs off my faceplate, and another, and another, a whole magazine’s worth.

It won’t work. It never works, I say. You’d think word would get around after twenty years.

Carl is pulling the trigger on a dry magazine over and over, his eyes blazing.

I appreciate the effort, I say.

Carl goggles and gapes at me, dropping his gun. A rock-hard fist to the gut drops him. I pull the Disco off the bodies of his comrades. I think one of them is still breathing. I check Mike and Paul for good measure. Paul will make it at least as far as hospital, but Mike I’m not sure about. It takes me a few minutes to zip-tie the hands of the crims, drag them into the yard and pile their guns up in one place nearby. I wait on the roof of the barn as the sirens close in, the adrenaline draining out of my system, leaving behind only the hot rush of exhilaration. My faceplate swings up and the feel of the breeze on my face is delicious, a few strands of my hair tapping against my face, the country air clean and warm. I sit and the morning sun warms me through the armour.

CHAPTER TWO

November 12, 1985

Susan is sitting at her desk in Class One of Saint Sebastian Primary School. She is six years old. Everyone says she looks like her Mummy. She has the same long, black hair, which today Mummy tied up in a plait. She also has the same green eyes. Sometimes the other children at school are mean to her about her eyes, so she just stares at them even harder.

Stop looking at me! they squeal and squeak and they run away and sometimes it’s fun and they play a game and sometimes it hurts.

She doesn’t know why the others are scared of her eyes. They are normal eyes, they see just like everyone else’s. When she closes her eyes, though, that’s a different story. She can’t ‘see’ at all, but she knows where everything is and how much it weighs. Her closed-eye-sight makes everything all funny shapes, the edges fuzzy, and she can’t see very far. Some of her friends say they are afraid of the dark and there are monsters in it. Susan has never seen a monster in the dark. She has been looking very carefully, too.

She’s seen many other secrets in the dark. She can see where all the wires go in the walls and in the ceiling. She can see the pipes running away from the loos. She can see when the flush chases the poo and pee along the pipes. She can even see that right now, Tyrone is sitting in the boys’ loo crying for his Mummy again. He goes there to cry everyday. He’s gone there every day since they all started at school in September. Two months and he cries super hard when his Mummy brings him in the morning and super hard when she takes him home. He’s five years old, she thinks. Five-year-olds are babies. Susan remembers how sad she was on the first day. She cried a little bit but when she saw how much there was to do, all the books and crayons and toys and computers, she felt better. She loves Mummy, and Daddy, but she loves school too.

It’s breaktime but today is a cold and wet day. The clouds aren’t stopping as their raindrops fall into the playground. Rain means no playtime outside during the break. The classroom is hot and smelly. Susan is reading a book and she wants to draw on the pages. She isn’t because Miss Jones, her teacher, said it’s bad to draw in school books. Susan likes Miss Jones. She’s younger than Mummy and has short, blonde hair. She always wears pretty clothes with pretty colours and patterns, and today she is wearing her shirt with pink flowers and her pink glasses. Miss Jones had to stop a fight between Andrew and Mo. They wanted to play football in the playground as usual but it was raining. Now they don’t know who is better today. So they argued and arguments between silly little boys mean fights. They aren’t fighting and shouting now. They are crying and hugging themselves.

Maybe they won’t be friends any more. That happened to Susan and Anna. One day Susan and Anna were playing and Anna started poking Susan. Susan said Stop it! but Anna just giggled and started pinching her so Susan smacked her with a colouring book. Anna won’t talk to Susan any more but Susan doesn’t mind. Anna sometimes smells bad so it’s OK that they don’t play together.

Everyone is watching Miss Jones try to help Andrew and Mo be friends again. Susan puts down the book and picks up her red pencil. It’s short and fat and looks like a hecks-ah-gun on the bottom. The lead goes all the way through it like the words in a stick of rock, just not as sweet. She licked the lead once because she wondered if it tasted of strawberries but no, it was bitter and nasty. She looks over her shoulder. No-one is watching her, good. She puts her pencil on the table and picks up her book with both hands, holding it close to her face. She can’t see the pencil, but she can when she closes her eyes. She thinks about the pencil. She imagines it spinning around on the table, nice and fast, faster than the second hand going round on a clock. Then she hears a little clicking and clattering! She lowers the book to her chest, opens her eyes and sees the red pencil a whirling blur in front of her. A fierce joy burns in her chest. Nobody would believe her if she told them. They’d say she span it with her fingers but she didn’t. She used her mind. She moves lots of little things with her mind.

Susan jumps as the bell rings for the end of break-time. She drops her hand on the pencil to catch it.

Now say sorry to each other, Miss Jones tells silly Mo and Andrew.

Sorry, Mo says, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jumper, leaving a snail trail of bogies.

Sorry, says Andrew but he doesn’t sound sorry, he sounds angry.

Good. Now go and sit down on the rug. Everybody, come and sit on the rug. Miss Jones goes round to her desk next to the rug, in front of the big computer screen. The screen is really big, bigger than their TV at home, hanging on the wall like a picture. The class hustle and bustle towards the rug, pushing and shoving a bit so they can sit next to their best friend. Mo and Andrew aren’t sitting together. Andrew is glowering at the floor. Miss Jones turns on the big screen when everyone has sat down and is quiet.

Tomorrow is a special day, children, Miss Jones says, mouse in hand. Do you know why?

A hand shoots up.

Yes, Crystal?

It’s my cousin’s birthday, Miss. She’s nine tomorrow. I’m going to her party.

That’s good, Crystal, thank you. But it’s not the answer I need. Any other ideas?

Lots of heads shake and everyone says no.

Do you know what a superhero is? Miss Jones says. Everyone says yes. Which ones do you know? Hands up!

All the hands shoot up into the air. Phillip is making ‘ooh! Ooh!’ noises as he tries to get his hand higher than every other hand.

Naomi? Miss Jones points to a girl with curly hair.

Superman, Miss, the girl says.

What can he do? A picture of Superman appears on the big screen, big and handsome, blue suit with red underpants on top and flapping red cape and big letter S on his chest.

Ooh! Ooh! say Phillip and all the boys, hands held high and twitching, like a cat’s tail when it’s happy to see you.

He can fly, Naomi says, and he’s strong and he sees through walls and he has laser eyes and he’s Clark Kent.

Susan thinks Superman is boring. She can see through walls and all Superman does is fly around and hit things, like the boys in class except the boys run around and hit things.

Very good, Naomi, thank you, Miss Jones says and Naomi smiles a big, happy smile. Are there other superheroes? OK, Phillip.

Spiderman, Miss!

Superman disappears and Spiderman replaces him. His suit is also blue and red, but it looks like a spider’s web. He has a funny little spider in the middle of his suit and you can’t see his face because of his mask.

Spiderman is your favourite, isn’t he? Have you got your Spiderman socks on today?

No Miss! They’re dirty and Mummy didn’t let me wear them.

What can he do?

He can do anything a spider can! He can make spider webs and swing on them. He climbs on walls and he’s strong!

Good answer, thank you. Now, where do we see Superman and Spiderman? Are they real people?

No hands this time, only frowns of concentration.

Do we see them in cartoons and comic books? says Miss Jones.

The children all chorus yes.

Are there any real superheroes?

The children descend into the silence, their brains searching for an answer. Zak, the smallest child in the class, sends his hand trembling upwards.

Yes, Zak?

Red Line is strong and he can fly like Superman, Zak says.

Is he a superhero?

Susan’s hand shoots up.

He isn’t a superhero. He’s Talented, she says. Miss Jones clicks her mouse and a picture of Red Line appears. Red Line is tall and is wearing a shiny black suit of armour and a black helmet which covers his face. A thin crimson line runs from the top of his head down his mask and armour along the midline of his body.

Excellent answer, Susan. Red Line is Talented. His Talents are flying and strength. Talented are like superheroes, but they are real. What other Talented are there?

Zeus!

Pyro!

Brute!

Perfume!

What can Zeus do? Miss Jones says. Zak?

He shoots lightning from his hands, Miss.

My Dad says all he does is shuffle paper, Anna says.

What about Pyro? Ellie?

He makes things hot or cold.

That’s right. And Brute? Anna?

Brute’s the biggest strongest man in the world and he’s bad!

Thank you, Anna. What about Perfume? Tous?

She can smell like anything she wants, Miss.

You’re right! There are lots of different Talented, aren’t there? Did you know there are four different kinds of Talented? Miss Jones says.

Most of the children are shaking their heads. Miss Jones presses a button on her computer and Red Line vanishes and a word pops up. Physical.

Can anyone read this word? No? It’s a difficult word, isn’t it? Can we spell out the letters? she says.

The class chants the letters, some voices more hesitant. Susan says them all as loud as she can.

And that spells physical. Miss Jones pauses as the children try out the word.

It looks like puh-hi-zi-cal, Miss, Mo says.

That’s true. How can we say p-h, Phillip?

Fffffff!

All the children giggle.

A Physical is a Talented whose body can do things better than a normal person. Being extra-strong is a Physical Talent, or being able to hear very quiet things or see very far away things. Miss Jones clicks and a new word replaces Physical. Sensitive.

Anyone?

Sensitive! chirps Adaolisa. The children echo her.

"A Sensitive is a bit like some kinds of Physical. A Sensitive can see or