As soon as the door shut, I glared down at Peter, who never seemed to flinch under my glare.

"That was kind of rude," I observed. "You didn't even let me say good-bye."

Peter shrugged and walked faster. "No point."

I sighed inwardly. Peter's nonexistent manners came from his nonexistent social life. Too many hours spent in the lab gave him a perpetually cranky disposition. Of course, once you spent enough time around him, you eventually got used to it.

"Alright then," I said smugly, catching up to my little brother. "So, who's Helen?"

"Respected friend and colleague," Peter answered. He glanced at me sideways. "Part-time doctor, full-time medical student."

I made a twisting motion with my hands. "Continue, Peter."

"She's the top of her class. When she found out about me, she offered to monitor my conditions as a favor."

"What was that about a science fair?"

"Showcasing a project. Don't pry, Charlie."

Peter led the way to the tram station, pointedly avoiding my eyes behind a datapad.

"I thought you told Mom you were through with being a medical curiosity a few years ago," I said suddenly. "Why'd you tell Helen about it?"

Peter stiffened, and I could tell he was uncomfortable. That made sense. Peter was born prematurely, almost stillborn, and he had to use a respiratory unit for the first year of his life. For a while, he'd been under the care of a team of congenital pediatricians to help stabilize his condition, and our insurance hadn't managed to cover all the corrective Healing they'd had to do. After that, Peter had seemed normal at first, but as he grew older, his differences became obvious. He stopped physically growing around five or six years old, at which point the doctors said he would never reach puberty. Then there were the seizures, which came almost randomly every day. Still, he was fortunate, in a way. His conditions didn't seem to inhibit his Sonic abilities, and he also had his abnormal intelligence, a side effect of his developmental problems.

It was the intelligence that made the doctors swarm all over him, and it was the doctors that made Peter decide that he didn't particularly enjoy the company of other people.

Peter shrugged, and when he spoke, he sounded a little defensive.

"Helen's one of the best of the Institute and a Kinetic Healer to boot. After my first checkup, she was able to synthesize a nerve toxin to combat my seizures. Gets me through the day without any incidents, which is more than what the last doctor did for me."

"If she's really that good, why didn't she go to one of the Career schools?" I asked.

"The Career schools?" Peter asked, frowning. "Where they teach kids how to become warriors?"

I shrugged. The term "Career schools" applied to a set of ten elitist Academies renown for their advanced Kinetic courses. Their standards for admission were rigorous, testing applicants based on strength, skill, and endurance, but throughout Kingsfield, their graduates were famous for leading the nation through the centuries. Of course, because the Academies denied access to all aliens, only Kinetics could be accepted, but their reputation was still one to be admired.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "Those."

Peter shook his head, grinning.

"Charlie, people come here for the cutting edge research. She never would have gotten that at some Academy. Some people have dreams that go beyond learning how to use their Kinetic abilities to fight."

"Oh, right," I muttered. "So how about putting in a-"

"No," Peter answered. "Yes, Charlie, I noticed. You were practically tripping over yourself when she opened the door."

I shut my mouth quickly, my face reddening as I looked around at anywhere but my brother. I'd forgotten how good Peter's hearing was; he must have overheard my conversation with Helen.

We climbed the last steps to the tram platform, which was remarkably busier than when I'd last been here fifteen minutes ago. Before, there was virtually nobody there, but now I saw around fifty students lining up for the next tram.

"So...no more seizures?" I asked. "How long does your new medicine last?"

"Little over a day. I take it in the morning. What are you doing up here so early? Helen is oblivious to school hours, but that doesn't mean I'm not."

I shrugged.

"What'd you do now?" Peter asked. "Beat his high score on the flight simulator?"

"No, he just felt like it."

Peter snorted, but my answer was clear. He knew enough to not continue pressing me. I shifted my feet uncomfortably, wondering what Peter was thinking. As I did so, my hand unconsciously reached into my pocket, closing around the object hidden inside. To distract myself from our conversation, I dug it out, tilting the trinket to examine it in the light.

It was the color of dull bronze, a cylinder of sorts that was small enough to fit in my palm. It had a faint odor to it, partly the smell of metal and partly something else. The little brass shell I'd taken from the house. Apart from the crystal capping the tip, the shape particularly resembled a slug shell used in small firearms, but aside from that, I had no real idea what it actually was.

"Is that Dad's?" Peter asked. "When did you start carrying it?"

"It's from Dad," I confirmed, slipping it back into my pocket. "I picked it up only just before I left the house."

Peter didn't say anything. He'd never met our father, and I barely remembered him. Our father had died when our mom was still pregnant with Peter.

I opened my mouth to change the topic, but the arrival of the tram cut me off. Peter made us squeeze onto the tram, which was looking much more packed than when I last took it. Maybe they were all headed toward the science fair Helen mentioned.

From there, the tram moved onwards toward the central terminal, where Peter made us transfer to a tram with blue lines, which led us into the physical science dome. Once again, the entire department was constructed entirely with buildings every bit as ornate as the ones in our previous setting. I saw one that looked like a miniature hill of white metal, sawed in half and capped with a glass wall to reveal a terraced interior that held thousands of books. Another looked like a cube tilted to rest on a single corner, looking as if it were one precarious mishap away from toppling over. I craned my neck to follow the scenery until our tram entered the terminal, the walls of the station cutting off the view. As I slumped back into my seat, I found myself regretting not bringing a camera. Peter didn't let me rest long though, kicking me to get up and join him at the door before the tram even stopped moving.

"Where's your lab?" I asked after we stepped out of the tram station.

"Palmer Hall," was the reply.

Peter led the way down the street, toward a rather ordinary-looking building made of steel and brick. While it may have fit in with the urban setting in an ordinary city, the twelve-story building looked out of place amid the fanciful architecture here. The lobby, however, was a different story.

The entire floor was a massive interactive display, and a pulsing circle of light surrounded my feet wherever I stood. Holographic projectors were built in everywhere so that a floating display appeared in front of me at all times, offering a map of the building and the locations of key rooms. There was an automated lobby kiosk against the wall and a cluster of hoverchairs arranged in one corner. Fancy.

Peter steered me away from the displays, leading me toward a set of lifts along the wall. He reached up, placing a palm on a glowing circle on the wall to summon a lift, and when it arrived, he pushed me inside and stepped in beside me.

"Top floor," he said as the doors closed.

"Your school is filthy rich," I observed. "I'm pretty sure those holoprojectors are worth more than my school's computer labs."

Peter grunted. When the doors opened, he pulled out his datapad and stepped out. I followed, stepping out onto crystal tiles, glancing in awe at the walls. They were covered with large screens displaying news bulletins, mostly student internship opportunities and research being done at the Institute. Spaced out floor lamps lit up the hallway, providing dim illumination and angled to send streaks of light racing up the wall. Peter ignored all these, leading me down the corridor. He stopped at a door at the end of the hallway, whose design immediately struck me as a little strange.

It only took me a second to realize why. The door had no doorknob or handle that I could see, or a hinge to turn on. It also didn't have a visible access panel or a motion sensor. How did Peter expect to open it?

My brother stopped in front of the door and leaned in, whistling a tune I could barely hear. A moment later, the door clicked and slid open like a screen door, disappearing into the wall. Peter turned to me with a grin on his face. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Keeps people out of my lab," he explained. "I installed it myself. Pretty handy, huh?"

"How does it work?"

"It responds to a certain frequency of sound that's difficult for most sentients to replicate. I just used my Sonic to modulate my voice and replicate the frequency. Most people here aren't Kinetics, and even then, most Kinetics can't do what I did. That means nobody's getting into my lab without my saying so."

"Seems a little overkill but I'm surprised they let you do it," I said, following him into the lab. "Don't you need some sort of special permission?"

"Nah," Peter replied. "They pretty much let the students get away with murder here."

The lab room was larger than I'd expected, and like the one in the biology department, it was cluttered with complicated machines and half-finished projects. There were fewer computers here, and most of the tables held mechanical tools and robotic appendages that were probably used for precision. I was expecting that sort of stuff, since Peter was a mechanical engineering major. What I didn't expect, however, was the large variety of sharp objects and other suspicious tools strewn across the counters.

"You can unload those datapads on any desk. I need to take care of a few things."

I dropped my bag and took out the stack of tablets, depositing them onto the nearest countertop. While Peter made his way around the room, I busied myself examining the exotic devices lying around the lab.

"What happened to your classes?" I asked.

"Three day vacation," Peter answered from the other side of the room. "The students from the Ramoran States are heading back to their country for some centennial celebration."

"Oh."

Most of the junk lying around Peter's lab was the result of spare tinkering, mostly side projects of his to fill his spare time. That was good in my case, since I got to take some of his completed projects home to play with.

"What's this?" I asked, jabbing a finger at what looked like a four-armed robot. It held what looked like a small knife in two of its hands, with blades as long as my finger.

"Don't touch anything unless I tell you to," Peter warned. "That robot you're looking at was a malfunctioning workshop assistant. Haven't felt like fixing it yet."

I had a horrible image of the robot whirring to life and lopping off my finger.

"Right, no touching," I said, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

Peter grunted agreeably and pulled out a stool, using it to reach the tabletops. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised; while normal ten-year-olds drew pictures of robots with guns, Peter opted to build them.

Keeping my hands tucked away, I resumed my explorations around the room, leaning in and around tables to examine Peter's work. Various tools and workshop constructs cluttered every countertop, including clamps, drill bits, a compressed gas tank, and stacks of sketches. I found some of Peter's prototypes and inventions scattered among the clutter, some of them looking like they were taken straight out of an Outsider western sci-fi movie. Laser guns, robotic appendages, jet packs, and what looked suspiciously like rocket engines decorated the tables, but knowing Peter, most of them were probably never going to even make it out of the lab.

Along the walls, boxes of every size and shape were stacked in a near random order, most of which had signs that said "No Touching" or "This Side Up." One particular wall had a group of inventions that each sat on a pedestal. I saw a contraption with a satellite dish, an armored suit that only Peter could possibly fit in, and a blob of what looked like liquid metal that hung suspended between two magnets.

"I'm done," Peter said, snapping my attention away from the pedestals. He hopped down off the high stool and walked over. Now that we were in his lab, he seemed more at ease.

"Nice place you got," I said, eyeing a beanbag cushion that looked like it had been used as a bed.

Peter followed my gaze to the cushion, then shrugged nonchalantly.

"Spending nights in the lab saves me time from commuting from my dorm room," he explained. "But I didn't ask you up here just to help me tidy my lab."

"So...why am I up here?" I asked.

"Why, Charlie," he said. "You're here to help me steal from the Institute."

I gaped at him.

"I'm kidding," Peter sighed. "We're not really stealing, only technically speaking."

He spread his arms out to wave at the entire room.

"See all these?" he asked. "Most of these are independent projects, creations I conceived during the occasional bout of boredom. Unfortunately, the Institute has a policy that states that ideas and products conceived by students during their tenure must be turned over to the school after their tenure ends. So, with my early graduation upcoming, I am required, by contract, to turn over all of my inventions here."

"Oooh," I said, smiling. "I get it. You wanted me to come up during your holiday to sneak them home instead."

He grinned widely.

"We'll start with that one," he said, waving me over to the suit on the pedestal I was looking at earlier. "This is a suit I made after last summer when I spent a while studying my own Kinetic abilities.."

I brought over a spare box from the far side of the lab, wheeling it over on a hand cart. Peter was enthusiastically jabbering over each of his contraptions, pointing them out one at a time as we loaded them up.

"This one is my prototype for a negative matter highway modifier," he said, as we packed the giant satellite dish away. "It uses quantum triggers to change the structure of the highway and prevent interstellar ships from accessing certain locations."

"Uh huh," I said, inserting a packaging nozzle into the box. When I squeezed the trigger, condensed packaging foam filled the empty space in the box, expanding like a cloud. "Hey Peter, is there anything in your lab I can have for keeps?"

"And this armored suit was constructed to-" Peter said. "What was that?"

"Is there anything in your lab I can keep?" I asked eagerly.

Peter paused halfway through loading his suit of armor.

"I guess," he shrugged. "Once we finish loading the important stuff, you can have your pick around this place."

I grinned, sliding the lid onto the first box and slapping a label on it.

"Anyhow," Peter said, "I constructed this suit of armor to enhance my Sonic capa-"

"Hey Peter," I interrupted. "What're you doing after you graduate?"

This time, Peter completely stopped what he was doing, setting down the armor and turning to face me. He had the slightest hint of a smile on his face, as if he was excited but wasn't sure why.

"I have plans," he said vaguely.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Well," he said grudgingly, "first and foremost, I'm going to file for seventy-two patents."

"What?" I asked.

Peter went back to packing away his armor suit, motioning for me to bring the condensed packaging foam over.

"Why do you think I'm smuggling all this stuff home?" he asked. "I'm bringing back blueprints and prototypes for medical devices, vehicle modifications, home improvement tools, and hobbyist gadgets. Hopefully, they will supplement Mom's income."

I glanced at the next pedestal, picking up the object on it.

"Uh, is this a bomb?"

"Just don't drop that," Peter warned, finishing up the box he was working on.

I carefully laid it into a box and helped my brother package the object, labeling the boxes when he finished. Each of them was addressed to our place, and Peter said he was renting a mover's shuttle to cart everything home.

"Hey Peter," I said again.

"What is it now?" he replied, sighing.

"How did you get to know Helen?" I asked.

Peter didn't even glance at me.

"We worked on a project. Told you already."

"You never even said anything about working with a hot-"

"There was no need to," Peter said.

"Peter," I said. "You never tell anyone about your condition. And you hate asking for help. Why did you ask Helen to take a look?"

Peter turned to me, stopping his work.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked. "She forced her way into it."

I raised an eyebrow, unable to keep a grin from reaching my face.

"What?"

My brother sighed in exasperation.

"Alright," he said. "It's a long story."

"We have some time," I pointed out.

Peter sighed again.

"A while back, Helen won a prize for her submission in a medical device contest. She designed a new neuroimager that scans for neurotransmitter concentration."

"Good for her," I said. "But what does that have to do with you?"

"I wanted to use her device to get a readout for myself," Peter admitted. "But when I approached her about it, she turned me away, claiming that the machine was not for public consumption. So I went to the head of the department and used the device anyway.

"While the results of the scan were ultimately useful, Helen expressed concern over my heightened cerebral activity. She said I was overworking my brain. An understatement, but true."

"Uh, what?" I asked.

"My brain is deteriorating because my neurons sometimes don't have enough of a recovery period between action potentials. Sometimes, my cerebrum accidentally allocates a portion originally dedicated to maintaining vital functions to gain additional computational power."

At my confused look, Peter sighed.

"Okay," he said, "sometimes, when I think too hard, I lose control of my muscle movements and get a seizure."

"Oh," I said. "Keep going."

"Well, Helen tracked me down at my lab and offered a neurotoxin she developed. Of course, I reverse engineered it before using it for caution's sake, but after applying it, I found that the serum alleviated my symptoms for the duration of a week. I was intrigued, so I sought her help in improving her formula."

Peter walked to the wall and opened a small first aid kit. From there, he withdrew a pill box and showed it to me.

"This is the final result," he said. "One pill will completely prevent seizures, insomnia, and hallucinations from occurring for approximately twenty-four hours, and will alleviate symptoms for the next two days. My dose is one pill daily, at which I am capable of functioning normally and productively."

"Cool," I said.

"Why the sudden interest, Charlie?" Peter asked, stuffing the pill box back into the first aid kit. "You rarely ask after my colleagues. As I recall, you once said that I went to school with 'a bunch of airheads.'"

"Yeah," I said, "but you never said anything about having a hot doctor."

"Grow up, Charlie," Peter said without skipping a beat.

"You can't say that to me," I said. "After all, I'm older than you."

Peter snorted. "And you want to be a pilot when you grow up."

"I never said I wanted to be a pilot," I pointed out. "I just think being able to fly a ship is cool."

"You read the Skyrunner manuals," he recalled. "You play flight simulator games. And you're the only person I know who even cares what the pilot squawk codes are."

"Well," I said, a smile creeping on my face. "Maybe you ought to put those engineering skills of yours to good use and build me a ship so I can fly away from-"

Suddenly, a loud and piercing shriek split the air, a shrill sound that grated at my ears like nails on a chalkboard. I bit my words off and clapped my hands over my ears, flinching at the sudden siren that wailed through the building.

"What's that?" I shouted.

Peter glanced at me with a confused look on his face. At first I thought his Sonic was somehow protecting him from the sound; then I realized he could still hear the shrieks.

"I don't know," he called back. "But we're being evacuated!"

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