Inside Straight

Of course, she was put on a team with Drummer Boy—who immediately announced that he preferred to be called "DB." Then there was pretty blonde Curveball. Ana was small and drab beside them. Well, I'm not going to last long before they vote me off.

"You look kind of nervous," someone said. Startled, Ana turned to find Curveball—Kate was her real name—standing beside her.

"Yeah," Ana admitted, "aren't you?"

Kate shook her head, and her gaze gleamed as she looked around, taking in the old architecture and the crowd of people. "No, this is exciting. I can't wait to get started."

"So, I guess we're all on the same team." A man in his midtwenties, with scruffy brown hair and an amused expression, sidled up to them. He had his hands shoved in his pants pockets.

"You're Jonathan, right?" Kate said.

Jonathan Hive offered his hand for shaking, which she did. Ana was prepared to slink into the background, but he noticed her and shook her hand as well.

"Some of us seem to be a little more comfortable with this than others." Jonathan nodded at Drummer Boy, who was signing autographs for some of the crew.

With all those tattoos and that oddly shaped torso with its living drums, it was hard to look away from him. He seemed to enjoy being the giant in the room. He especially seemed to welcome the attention of the women. American Hero was blessed with—or rather, the producers had been sure to choose—a stunning selection of beautiful women, of almost every ethnicity. With six arms, Drummer Boy could flirt with all of them—resting a hand on one woman's back, another on a different shoulder, while touching a strand of hair of a third. The hair in question belonged to Cleo—or Cleopatra—who could teleport herself and whatever she was touching short distances, leaving behind a pop sound, as air rushed to fill the empty space. In response to DB's touch, Cleo laughed and sidled up to the joker, tucking herself by his side. Already, Ana had caught her new nickname among the production assistants: Pop Tart.

"Hey, is that Peregrine?" Kate said, and Ana turned to look.

It was, emerging through a hallway from another part of the building, followed by a lanky young production assistant carrying a clipboard and a cup of coffee. The talk show diva and perennial celebrity's wings fluttered slightly as she turned and addressed the assistant. Ana couldn't hear, but the exchange seemed odd—overly familiar, maybe. One hand on her hip, Peregrine pointed a finger, and the assistant nodded meekly at what turned out to be a lecture.

That wasn't a boss dressing down a subordinate, Ana realized. That was a mother admonishing her son.

Peregrine took the cup of coffee from him and turned her attention to another member of the crew, and the production assistant came toward them. He had coffee-and-cream skin and light, curly hair. Young, maybe twenty, his boyish face nonetheless had a tired look.

"Hi, I'm John Fortune," he said. "Looks like I'll be the traffic cop this afternoon. Let me show you where we need you to stand for the shoot."

It took a half-hour for him to break up the party and herd everyone to where they needed to be for the publicity photo session.

John asked, "Anything else you need? Is everybody okay?"

"I think we're fine," Kate said, returning his smile. She looked around for confirmation. "Yeah?"

"Great. We'll start in a couple minutes." With a mock salute, he left them.

"I'd watch out for that guy," Hive said to Kate. "Charm, multiethnic good looks—you may be doomed."

"Oh yeah?" she said.

"Yeah, I saw the way he looked at you."

"Kind of like how you're looking at me?"

Hive quickly glanced away and pursed his lips. "So what if I am?" Kate blushed, and Hive sighed. "Whew, we haven't been here an hour and we're already making great TV drama."

Another half-hour passed while the crew adjusted the lighting.

"Just like being on tour," Drummer Boy muttered. He was nevertheless smiling.

"This show business stuff must be old hat to you," Kate said, looking up at him.

"Old hat with a new twist. The scenery here's way better." He winked at Kate, who actually giggled.

Oh, this was going to be a long day, Ana thought. She was so out of her league.

A man Ana recognized from the audition detached from the mob of crew and regarded them all, a lord surveying his domain: Michael Berman, a network executive on hand to observe the proceedings. He was in his thirties, slick and intense. Even Ana could tell his suit and tie were expensive.

"This is fabulous. Thank you all for helping make this a reality. I can't wait to see what happens over the next few weeks. And I'm sure I can count on you to make this the best show possible." He rubbed his hands together with obvious glee.

"Is it a competition or entertainment?" Hive said with a smirk. "The world may never know."

"I don't think I like that guy," Kate whispered to Ana.

Ana had to smile. "I know what you mean."

The meet-and-greet was at the hotel, but the actual unveiling of the teams for the premiere of American Hero took place on a Hollywood sound stage that looked like a night club, all dark glass and chrome, touched with blue neon.

Peregrine was the emcee. In her fifties now, she was as poised and beautiful as ever, and her wings framed her perfectly. She wore a black strapless evening gown that shimmered gold when she turned, and her hair lay in loose waves around her shoulders and wings.

"Welcome to the first of what promises to be twelve weeks of excitement, astonishment, heartbreak, and—we hope—heroism the likes of which you have never seen. We've searched the country for undiscovered aces, for great powers, and for people who have the potential to change the world. This is American Hero."

Then came the theme song, a pounding, blood-stirring rock anthem that would no doubt be hitting the charts in weeks to come. Peregrine introduced the judges, two who in their younger days had been beloved aces in their own right: Topper, wearing her trademark tuxedo and top hat, from which she could pull any manner of items, and the Harlem Hammer, the massive, super-strong ace who had been coaxed out of retirement. The third judge knew his aces—had reported on them for Aces! for going on twenty-five years. Who better to judge the up-and-coming generation?

Thomas "Digger" Downs spoke seriously, regarding the camera as he would an old friend, "After sixty years of living with the wild card, you'd think we couldn't be astonished anymore. That we couldn't be amazed. We've seen alien invasions, madmen with the power to take over the world, plagues of crime that steal away your very mind, strangers who can peer into your soul. Women who fly, men who lift tanks, deformities that strain our definition of what it means to be human. We've seen witch hunts, assassinations, politics run amuck, the world brought to the brink and back. You'd think that surely we'd seen it all.

"But I can tell you that we haven't. Over the last few weeks I've traveled from one end of the country to the other. And I have been amazed."

He introduced the next segment: highlights from the seven auditions, potential contestants who tried and failed—sometimes to the great amusement of the audience—and those who tried and astonished.

A dozen concrete walls shattered.

A dozen cars rose from the ground, or disintegrated, or burst into flames.

A dozen bone-shattering falls were survived. A dozen aces flew to the tops of nearby buildings.

The sequence of clips paid special attention to the ace, Curveball. The show's editors were already deciding who their heroes were.

She threw a baseball with an underhanded snap. Her whole body seemed to pop like a spring, and the ball flew, faster than any major league pitch. It glowed yellow, then orange, scorching the air it passed through.