Initiation of the Lost (Book 1) (3 page)

"Tired yet?" said Derek. A smirk.

"I'm not the one who's broke a sweat," said Quake.

He could feel it now, his chest heaving, a burning, the drops of sweat on his forehead. His auburn hair was damp. He was resilient to force, a power that made him a human punching bag, but even more, it was like he thrived on being hit. The first attack made him spring alive. But he needed endurance.

The earth slid under his feet, a different attack. He jumped–the earth caving in under him–landing on his side. He scurried to his feet and ran.

Quake laughed. "Look! He's runnin' scared." He looked to his coach, expecting to see him sharing in his amusement, but he was met with a frown. "What? He forfeited, coach. He's weak."

"Look where he's running," said O'Brien.

Quake caught the last glimpse of Derek as he hopped over a shrub into the woods: "So what? I'll just wait here until time runs out."

"Go ahead. But you'll lose." Coach took his hat off and wiped his brow with his forearm. He spat a wad to his side, then replaced the cap. "Derek's score is higher: impressive evasion, changing terrains to his advantage–general psychological manipulation. If time runs out without you racking up some more points, you're done."

Just before the disappointment of possibly losing and the shame of noticing his peers' stares could settle in, an anger overcame him. Derek was some golden boy who took nothing seriously but got everything. He himself had trained harder, worked to be stronger, understood what was at stake, but the preppy S.O.B. flitting about just flashed a smile and the world was his–he was left with nothing. Worked for everything, but got nothin'. He stomped off towards the forest.

"Hurry up. You got about five minutes," said coach.

"Get it together! Pulverize him!" Flare.

"Y-yeah. Show him." Klug.

Quake, feeling a second wind shift him back into gear, leaped over the shrubs. He stepped with ease and deliberation on the grass, dirt, and twigs that gave to his step. The sun's rays gathered at the tree tops and streamed down in hazy beams. Flare was right; get it together. He’d have to stick to the stupid plan.

A pillar of forest ground rose under him, elevating him higher and higher, until he could see through the trees. He looked around–the soles of two feet swung for him, smashing into his chest. He flew back off the pillar into freefall. Summoning another pillar, the earth sped up from the ground crashing into him, breaking his fall. His back ached, breath broken. Dazed, he tried to gather himself. Derek appeared before him.

"Are you okay?" He reached a hand out to his fallen classmate.

Quake slapped the hand away as he rose. In a growl of pain, conjuring all his energies from his heart and body, the two pillars, the one under them and the one behind Derek that lead to the tree tops, shook. Derek had only one move: render his foe unconscious.

The pillars quaked; quickly, he lunged–a slab rose between them then glided, slamming Derek against the wall of earth behind him. Looking up: he had to climb back up to the tree tops–a slab slid from the wall, closing off the sunlight, shutting on top of the slab that pushed against him. The earth around him rose. He was entombed, the walls closing, squeezing–then releasing. Derek fell to his knees, panting, relieved, the sobs building in his stomach, wanting to swell forth–he pushed, resisted, sucking air.

Coach O'Brien held Quake by the throat, sternly staring down the rage that rippled through his pupil's eyes: "Calm down, son." He loosened his fingers; Quake pushed him away. The pillars descended; all returned to earth.

The boys and their teacher returned to the front lawn, where the two challengers stood once more with their classmates.

"Derek wins," said Coach.

"What?" said Flare. "Quake would've crushed the prep to goo. You don't even get how–"

"Quake got the advantage because Derek checked to see if his fellow teammate was injured. In field mission conditions, he would've remained under cover." He looked to Quake: "You showed power, great strength, but Derek demonstrated adaptability. You won the battle but lost the mission: to demonstrate the full range of lessons I've taught this year." To all: "Take five. Then back here for the second task."

The two teams headed back into the academy, both nursing wounds–one of body, the other of pride.

<<>>

Now Julian sat in the gold gilded chair before Dr. Farling. She scanned his field and found it at his particular homeostasis: a calm surface that grew increasingly erratic towards the core, his soul.

"Julian," she said, "What is 'sympathy'?" She leaned back in her chair, tapping her sterling silver pen against her notebook's blank lavender page.

"Did you ask August all this?" said Julian, stretching his legs out, resting his hands on his stomach. His lip was curled.

"Would you ask your brother if he knew 'all this'? And sit up in
my
office, please." Julian sat up, sucking on his teeth, his eyes averted from Cassandra's. She continued: "I'm not going to ask August if he knows something I know he knows. And if you feel insecure about that...study more. Now, what–is–'sympathy'?"

Julian smirked. "Holding hands. Caring enough to take the time from manifesting your Ferrari to post a pic of a charity case like us on your vision board next to the pic you cut out of a magazine of your future husband. Maybe even throw in an affirmation or two: 'This poor boy is smarter and smarter every day...This poor boy is smarter...'"

"You are intelligent, Julian. You just channel it too much into being a smart-mouth. Third time better be the charm, keep testing me." Normally, Julian's smart alec comments were accompanied with a feeling of shame, a depression in his field; so she would usually take a more tender approach with him. But the dip in energy striations was not there. He knew the answer and was playing with her. She was pleased (and slightly amused) but was not going to give him the satisfaction of thinking his clownery had an entertained audience. "'Sympathy.' What is it?"

He took a deep breath: "We're all psychics. Essentially..." And as August had done with the boy and the dragon, so did Julian now, reciting with verbatim precision the mini-essay his older brother had drilled into him before bed, upon waking, and sporadically in between. Every time he botched his recitation, it was no games with Constant. The fear of disappointing August and having to explain to his younger brother why there was no fetch–yes, he knew it was fetch–drove him to success. Three weeks and he finally had it.

Sympathy is a psychokinetic specialization, according to the Farling/Masters co-created curriculum. Psychokinesis is the general ability to manipulate matter or nonmatter with your mind. For example, a water sympathy means you are sympathetic to water, meaning you can move or alter the state of water with your mind. In PSYC 003, Theories and Metaphors of Consciousness (the aughts level indicating Hyperion Academy level courses; the 100 level, i.e. PSYC 101, reserved for Hyperion College) you learned your genetics created a disposition towards your sympathy, an affinity to things in your environment that related to your specialization. As a water 'symp,' you may feel drawn to the ocean. Your DNA may determine the ease with which you activate and the potential of your power, but only training and therapy will clear the physical and mental obstacles that block you from realizing your potential, which is unquantifiable and therefore should be regarded as infinite to ensure the optimization of your effort and results.

"Explain our theory of phenotype," said. Dr. Farling.

Phenotype is the physical expression of your power. Do you, as a water symp, move water from a pond, create water from the atmosphere, or turn water into steam or ice? You may have two phenotypes, such as the ability to move water and make it evaporate.

To explain phenotype we use one theory and metaphor of consciousness, the field, designed to create the widest range of possibilities for our development. If we were to take all that exists and look at it in increasingly smaller sub-levels–the molecular, then the atomical, then the subatomical, and so forth–we’d reach a level where all was uniform, a field of potentiality from which all that exists sprung, or Consciousness. Where we also call Consciousness "major consciousness," "middle consciousness," is the fusion of major consciousness and minor consciousness, or human psychology, that threads and weaves the fundamental levels of energy together, from the field to the outermost manifestations of major consciousness.

Minor consciousness consists of the levels of explicit (thought-filled) and implicit (subconscious) thinking and perceiving. It plays a large part in determining the depth and breadth of the connection to major consciousness, in turn allowing for the depth and breadth of our sympathy. The implication of this assertion is that someone who is shut off from potentiality on an explicit level by neurosis may still be open by natural disposition at a deeper level of major or minor consciousness, hence manifesting an unexplainable depth of power. On the other hand, someone who seems extremely open may still be shut off at deeper levels. Furthermore, energy, despite having one main source, still has many reservoirs that can be tapped into. However, a symp who overly relies on his emotions or physical energies to fuel his power is deprived of the opportunity of thriving from a more effortless and infinite source.

In conclusion, we will never be infinite in human form, but our potential is still vast. Our genetics and environment determine how our dispositions manifest, but Consciousness is the trapdoor that opens us to a universe of possibilities. In the end, rules were made to be broken...thoughtfully.

"Wonderful, Julian," said Dr. Farling. And good for August, she thought. Always articulate, always seeing the real world implications of her teachings, and now impressing them upon his brother–the growth since their first days at the academy. "Do you have any idea what you just said?"

"Nope."

"Someday you will."

Julian shrugged. And his evaluation began: The doctor took a ping pong ball from her top drawer. She held the bell out, between her thumb and pointer, then released...the ball floated in place.

Julian's powers first manifested as gale force winds, leading her to think he was an elemental. However, August's and Constant's mind powers led to an inquiry, and Silby's testing revealed Julian winds were furious, but diffused, lashings of sheer telekinetic force, a tempest that mirrored the rage of his nature at that time. The winds were only produced in moments of extreme anger, but as his nature calmed with the stability introduced by the academy, he focused, his power focused. With control, his true sympathy was revealed, a sympathy to objects, to manipulate their movements through psychic force. As he learned telekinesis, the gale winds diminished, focused through his mind into concentrated fields, but there were still moments when Dr. Farling knew the breeze wasn't a gift from Mother Nature.

The hollow ball was still: the force was balanced. The ball moved towards Julian, slow and steady, then raced in loops around the room, coiling down as if rolling down a slide, then slowing to a stop once more before Cassandra. She couldn't resist–the control, the steady focus–She smiled. Julian's eyes brightened, only to settle back to nonchalance when he noticed her watching. Too late, she knew he cared what she thought.

Reaching to her side, she picked up a small cardboard box and stood. She placed the white sphere in the box, then hurled the box at Julian, unleashing a flurry of red ping pong balls that sailed–then halted–suspended in the air, in his invisible TK field. He had struggled with this task in his childhood, used to focusing on individual objects, needing to learn to see many as one.

"Move the white ball."

His eyebrows furrowed; his upper lip trembled. The white ball vibrated. He gasped and the balls fell.

"Good. Improving."

Julian shut down, looking to the corner of the room, away from the balls. She needed him to reengage; she walked around her desk and started picking up the balls, until they floated, gliding into the box.

"Thank you, Julian." She looked to him and smiled.

His eyes met hers; he nodded.

Cassandra returned the box to the floor and came back up with a partition and the white ball. She placed the board, standing, in front of the white ball, hidden from Julian's line of sight. The ball floated. She took a box, placing it over the ball in midair. The box lowered, landing on the desk–the ball clanked.

"Raise the ball again, the ball only."

He closed his eyes, trying to dissociate the physical from the mental, to understand his mind did not need a clear path to the ball–it was with the ball. His hand trembled; his head shook. His eyes rolled–

"Enough!"

He didn't stop; his body started to seize. Doctor Farling rushed to him, stretching his eyes open–"Look at me!"–his eyes took her in–he went limp. She scanned his field. Diagnosis: he just needed to nap it off.

<<>>

Derek got too much credit; the plan went too well. Flare, born Reginald Gumpton, lived to maneuver, a strategist by nature. Quake had followed his plan to the letter, his execution so perfect even Coach O'Brien fell into the trap designed for Derek. Coach didn't know where his props were truly due.

The plan was to hit Derek once, getting him into gear, then navigate around him with an increasing flurry of attacks. It was no secret to Flare, who made a point to observe all his classmates' training sessions, that Derek grew quicker, more agile, with each blow the training robot landed. He didn't know if it was a part of his power or just a psychological tick–but no matter. The purpose was to hit him once to get him on his toes, then repeat the attach without making impact to set up an offensive evasion, avoiding any attack by keeping his feet dancing on the field. The results were two fold: first, Derek would let his guard down as he got cocky, thinking Quake was just an overpowered meathead who could easily be outsmarted; and second, he'd accept the futility of his approach and change the game, running for the woods. The best plans strung your foe up like a puppet blind to the strings.