Chapter 1

June 22, 2006

Whateley Academy

New Hampshire

So there we were, sitting in an undesirable corner of Crystal Hall, the school cafeteria, relaxing after our final finals with some really fine food. Our little outcast group of socially undesirable misfits of the devisor subcategory. At least none of us were in traction after this year's combat finals.

"Man," Understudy moaned out loud after a bite of apple pie that left a crumbly trail down his no-longer-white labcoat, "I am so going to miss having food this great. It was bad enough on the summers, but now I don't have anything to look forward to. My mom can't cook worth shit, and if you try to gently nudge her about it, she goes after you with a frying pan. Dad lives on big Macs, and I don't know how I'm going to survive."

"You're joking, right?" Goggles goggled at him.

"Why would I be joking about it?" Understudy looked puzzled.

"She means, don't you have an autochef?" it was Decker, peeking up from his wristcomp.

"Yeah, I mean, doesn't everyone? What have you been doing with yourself, the last four years?" I asked, genuinely confused. "If you don't, haven't made some money? Enough for decent meals, at least?"

"Not everyone in Workshop came out fat and happy," Porcupine sneered at me. "Still," the prickly fellow conceded, "I mean, you really don't have an autochef? Didn't you go through Household Support Mechanisms? Doctor Greys is an absolute genius. Damn, the universal remote solution..."

"The superpaint TV..."

"The couch massager..."

"The bug hunter..."

"Hey, remember what Hydroflux came up with? Man..."

"Don't forget the instant clean-dry-iron-fold machine, I mean, wow!"

"Man's got a point, that one was serious stuff. Pity she couldn't turn it into a gadget smaller than a truck."

"Yeah, I could totally use something like that."

"Guys, gals, come on!" Understudy shouted, attracting a number of unfriendly eyes from nearby tables. There was only one gal sitting with us, but no one quibbled. Goggles was still put out about having to join our little group, really sensitive, and her auto-targeting system was very nasty. Never mind the payloads. "Ahem," he lowered his voice, "Are you telling me that all of you have an autochef? Really? You just program in recipes, and that's it?"

"Well, mine is about microwave sized, with an intake tube, but it doesn't get recipes, you need to feed it a sample of the dish. Then it gives you a really exact list of ingredients, and it can reproduce a reasonable facsimile."

"Hey! No jokes about my name," Fax groused.

"Hmm? No, it wasn't a joke. Well, not this time," I conceded. Really, Facsimile? What a stupid codename. Letting everyone know you're a shifter? The kind of mutant nobody trusts? Even telepaths have a better rep.

"Okay, that's enough grousing about food and shit like that. In and out, it's just fuel," Dirk interrupted. "So what's everyone going to do now? I mean, we exchanged contact addies, but maybe we can work together on something, or help with ideas? I mean, I could use some help. I've got some money, but not the big kind, and I'm not real eager for college and four more years of shit-study, not to mention dealing with baseline morons. I thought about marketing the stuff I make online, but not much beyond that."

"Well, I've got a company making lenses, contacts, armored glass and shit like that. With my devises, the costs are significantly reduced," Goggles put in her two cents. "If you need marketing, talk to the Hutt. Yes, I know he's disgusting," she cuts through the groans, "but he's professional about business, and he knows his stuff. If you wanna shop your stuff out, talk to him."

"I'll do that," Dirk nodded, obviously unhappy and concerned about bargaining with our dearly disrespected classmate.

"It'll be fine, Dirk. We've got your back, and Hutt ain't gonna mess with a gadgeteer. In Whateley, we may squishy and unimportant, but out there, we rule. Don't let the Alphas or the Future Superhero crowd shape your view of the world. Tech is everything, and we rule tech. Hey, just look at who the Syndicate big shots are. Amos Mazing, Dr. Thunder, and I could go on," Commlash whacked his roommate on the shoulder.

"Thanks for the pep talk," Dirk winced.

"So, guys, what are the rest of you planning? Hash, Comm, Crane, Fax, Decker, Perky? We already know Understudy needs some help planning his future," Goggles giggled.

"I've got a large server farm going, I'm gonna capture more of that biz. Efficient storage, faster Internet connection, better buffers and... , well, lots more. Commlash Solutions Inc."

"Mmmm? Oh, the future," Decker nodded. "I've got some biz from stock exchanges and the FBI, on detecting and blocking mutant type transactions. That'll take a while. After that, I figure I'll take on some other interesting project."

"Hadn't figured on you working for the MCO," Porcupine remarked, as snide as ever. Nobody picked up on that nasty little barb, but personally, I found myself in agreement with the Pork, for once. Not that Decker was going to get anywhere without magic. With everyone looking at him, Perky squirmed in his chair, "Ah, I've got a five-year deal with the CIA and the Army, making them devises. Should set me up for life, plenty of spare time to cook up things to sell. I think I'll go with you, talk to the Hutt," he nodded at Dirk. "And you, Hash?"