Initiation of the Lost (Book 1) (2 page)

Part One

Hyperion Academy

Ellington lounged in one of the many recreation rooms throughout Hyperion Academy. On the sofa, August read a book,
Behind a Mask
, while Julian, seated in an overstuffed chair, entertained Constant, who hovered over the coffee table. Outside, trials for team leader took place, but the triplets were exempt: they were overdue for evaluation and possessed no leadership aspirations. So the collective, singularly titled with their surname, Ellington, awaited their appointment with their teacher, evaluator, and mentor, Dr. Farling.

Even though they would not be joining their peers, Dr. Farling had asked them to wear their new mission uniforms, exosuits, as an act of solidarity to their peers. Their uniforms were variations of dark blue and steel grey–Constant's had a flight hood–and they were still hanging in the boys' closets. The triplets shared the same almond eyes, plump peach lips, and medium, African-American complexion, but they were still discernible as August still wore his dark blue tweed; Julian, his long trench coat; Constant, his light blue flight jacket.

Julian held a green rubber ball. Even though Constant's eyes were pure white, he could see his brother's eagerness. Flinging his arm through the air, Julian sent Constant flying out the room in pursuit of the ball he had slipped down his coat sleeve.

"Seriously, Julian," said August, his eyes scanning through his gold framed glasses the last lines of the page. He closed the book: "It’s bad enough you're playing
fetch
. Now you’re just mocking him."

"No, I’m not," said Julian. "We’re bonding. He likes this game, and you know, you're my older brother and...uh...as his older–"

"By three seconds, reportedly."

"And as his older brother by three seconds,
reportedly
, I gotta make sure he stays on his toes." He placed his unkempt boots–loose laces, caked with dirt–up on the rickety coffee table, and leaned back. August sighed. Constant flew back into the room, looking to his older brother.

Julian slipped the ball from his sleeve; Constant smiled.

"See?" said Julian. "He's happy."

August had no rational argument, but he was still bothered. Julian noticed, rolled his eyes, and threw the ball, sending Constant once more flying down the hall chasing the bouncing sphere as it ricocheted off ceiling, floor, and walls–a feat possible due to a few enhancements by Silby.

Hearing a holler outside, August left the worn sofa and stood before the window. His peers were lined up in their newly designed exosuits. It was truly happening: They were becoming superheroes. Years of just being kids who could fly and read minds, but now they were expected to be responsible, to save lives, and he seemed to be the only one who realized it.

Coach O'Brien now stood before the class, and August saw Derek, in his new red and black mission suit, step forward. Good for him, he thought. He was one of the few males who seemed considerate; he'd be able to rally spirits and cooperation like no other. But his own spirit deflated when he saw who stepped forward second. So, focusing on the back of Derek's head, he reached out to Derek with his mind and, in thought, said:

*Derek versus Quake: battle of the century.*

Derek nodded. *Hey. Glad you could be here. Any pointers?* A girl approached him from behind, wearing a matching red and black uniform. She took his hand and laced her fingers between his. An empath, Meghan had sensed a happy brightening of Derek's emotional field and, crediting it to her presence, now held herself close to her beloved.

*Um...yeah,* said August, gathering his wits back towards his mission. *Quake is planning an all out offensive. Aggressive, straight up guerilla.*

*Thanks, Augie. I consider you part of my team, you know.* He pulled his hand from Meghan's. (August resisted a smile.) *You up for another session tonight?*

*Sure. I'll stop by.* And August broke off the psy-link. He was knowing Derek's mind more and more–their links were occurring more naturally, seamless and effortless. Even more, he thought they were developing a rapport. The longer their minds linked, the more he could feel his mind reaching, deeper and deeper into Derek, not just reading his thoughts, but beginning to sense his feelings. He broke off to keep from intruding. But it went both ways, as he could feel his mind nestling into Derek's, his own thoughts and feelings were being pulled forth from him as if trying to be reveal to his friend. His powers were developing, but he needed help building walls, so he thought.

*August? Can you hear me?*

*Yes, Dr. Farling.*

*Wonderful. It's time for your evaluation.*

And August affectionately smacked his brother up side his head, a small act of justice on Constant's behalf, then made his way to Dr. Cassandra Farling's office. He sat in a gold gilded chair with floral cushions situated before her desk, where she was seated.

Dr. Farling was a crisp woman, her hair iron straight, an icy blonde. Her eyes were squinted in a scrutinizing stare, revealing a probing intellect that prompted offense or self-consciousness in those who came under its rays. Her immaculately haughty exterior did not reflect her inner nature: an almost desperate longing to see her students physically and emotionally safe–and understanding the necessity of being impartial, objective, to do so.

"How are you, August?" she said.

"Fine," he said.

An empath herself, she calibrated her interpretations to her readings of a person's emotional field and the person's responses. Analyzing fields was an art, requiring a sensitivity to self and others, picking up on the impressions and intuitions the field impressed on you, then knowing the patient well enough–their typical attitudes and the contexts, physical and emotional–in order to deduce what were the objects of the emotions and how the feelings were layered.

August's emotional mode at the moment was generally conducive to "I'm fine," but there was a concern underneath and, even deeper, an anxiety. Yet the layers were laced with an excitement.

"How do you feel being chosen for Derek's team?"

"You tell me."

She smiled. She liked him. All her students were like her own; she cherished each one's existence. But she saw herself in the young man brimming with potential; yet so hesitant to realize himself fully. The students thought her unaffected, uncaring, and she found this misperception worth a chuckle, confined under a grin. She attributed their judgments to the silliness of youth, not realizing the gravity of her persona. Only Ellington knew her better, because they met her during a much simpler time.

"Is anyone challenging Derek?"

"Quake." He crossed his legs and folded his arms.

"Quake? So you haven't–"

Eye roll. "No. I haven't told coach that his prized pupil is a racist, homophobic bigot who should've never left the backwoods he came from."

"Why not?" She’d let the “backwards” comments slide to stay focused on the issue.

"I don't know. It didn't seem important. No sense in bothering anyone."

"It's our job to ensure your safety and success." She knew August suffered from inferiority issues, thinking his thoughts and feelings were of no importance to anyone but himself. His peers thought him arrogant, unsocial, but she diagnosed him with hypersensitivity. So acutely aware of others and the smallness of his place in the order of life, he shut down, presenting a stiff and snooty façade to mask the vortex of thoughts and insecurities underneath. But still, he had come so far from his childhood at the academy.

And now it was time for the evaluation. Dr. Farling started testing August's  psychic abilities with increasingly difficult tasks. First, he would "guess" the playing card in her hand: "Queen of hearts," "two of clubs," "ace of spades." All accurate. So next, she thought a story and he transcribed the narrative of an orphan boy living in the mountains beyond his old village, who befriended a dragon the villagers feared and thirsted to see slaughtered. Fleeing, the boy and his friend flew away from the mountain, finding themselves on a new adventure: to defeat an evil wizard who stole the souls of children while they slept, sinking them into an eternal coma.

August completed the assignment with verbatim precision. His ability to sustain his psy-link had grown exponentially, Dr. Farling observed. He no longer showed the signs of fighting distraction or fatigue. But now came the challenge:

"I'm imagining an item. What is it?"

With pinpoint focus, August looked at her.

"It's not your eyes you see with. Disconnect from the need to mirror your psychic action with physical action. Your mind does all of the work on an invisible level."

He went through the relaxation protocol Dr. Farling had taught him: He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, imagining his breath entering him and relaxing all parts of his body. His mind quieted. He opened himself to his teacher and mentor–an apple.

"Apple."

"Excellent." Cassandra eased back into her chair. "It's only happening faster. But if you struggle accessing my visualizations, it means you are still having trouble visualizing within your own mind."

"I've been working on it," August said, guarded. He picked a piece of lint from his trousers and let it fall.

"Well, that's good. Keep working and you'll be able to create universes."

And the evaluation came to a close. He kept himself together, but she could sense his weariness, the toll the tasks took.

August took his leave; Cassandra jotted her thoughts down. His telepathy, mind reading was now mastered, a fluid ability that occurred with little forethought or effort. This increased mastery meant he could manifest more of his abilities with less energy output–hence the natural maturing of his visual reading. But his visual perceptions still required significant development, not to mention psychic force. She could sense the depletion in his emotional field as he tapped into all reservoirs of his energy system, emotional and physical, to complete the last task. If he did go on the first mission, maybe real world application of his abilities would be the key to accelerating his progress even further.

<<>>

Outside the academy, on the front lawn, Derek Peters and Quake stood amongst their respective friends, getting last second wisdom and encouragement. In a circle of intense focus and meditation, Quake and his comrades–Flare, a pale boy with raven hair, and Klug, a bald, towering juggernaut–centered themselves, their gazes connecting, communicating the tribal strength and support necessary for battle, a tradition instilled in them by their mentor, Coach O'Brien.

Meanwhile, Derek palled around with his buds, twins Connor and Abbey Bishop, his girlfriend Meghan Crichton to his side.

"You'll do wonderful," said Meghan in her saccharine tone. Her mission suit matched Derek's, black with red stripes down the center and sides. Holding his hand, the contrived, over eager words of encouragement put Derek off ease, but he smiled, supporting her in supporting him. "You'll be the best. My boyfriend, team leader."

Abbey rolled her eyes. "Anyway," she said, "Game on."

"That's right," said Connor, turning Derek to face the field and slapping him on the back. "Get 'em bud...and remember the plan." Connor and Derek were best friends but didn’t know much about each other, their relationship at its essence a partnership in training and studying fueled by liking the one you were with, a friendly competitiveness where the victor won bragging rights. At one time, never having had any other kind of friend, Derek thought this was the epitome of comradery and valued it deeply; but since getting to know August, he had learned there were depths two people could reach that made life...he didn't know...different–special–in another way. He remembered August's words to him, thought into his mind when he stepped forward to nominate himself for team leader. The field was before him, and Quake stepped out. The adrenaline pumped; he was ready.

He walked out onto the field and faced Quake, a muscular young man with rustled sandy blonde hair down to his shoulders. His opponent was fitted in a hunter green mission suit with dusty brown shielding strapped to his chest and arms. He dug his boots into the earth, clenching his fists.

Derek crouched low into a runner's stance; Quake glared like a rhino ready to charge.

"At the shot," said coach, raising a pistol. Aiming for the forest beyond the lawn, he fired.

Derek sprinted, heading for Quake. Their friends cheered their respective champion, but both challengers couldn't hear, their senses shutting off the outside, their world a place where only each other and the earth that separated them existed. Derek charged–a gleam in Quake's eyes: the earth shuddered and a slab of dirt broke forth slamming into Derek's gut, raising him off the ground.

Quake waited. Derek sprung over the pillar of earth and charged his adversary. The earth shook once more and Derek veered right as another slab rose before him. Darting left and right with a new agile reflex, Derek dodged and navigated around the rising earth, Quake's frustration mounting, the pillars rising with fury.