Super Human (19 page)

“I couldn’t have known that Roz Dalton would—”

“Silence! The young humans are fickle, you told us. Aimless, easily distracted. They will accept the Fifth King with less resistance than the adults. Now I no longer think that this is so.” She fell silent for a moment. “I think that you lied. There are consequences for deceit.” Another pause. “You of all people know what I can do. What I
will
do, should you fail again.”

“I—”

The woman raised a hand. “Your punishment must wait. You will proceed with the preparations for the resurrection of the Fifth King. The children are a nuisance, but they know little of our plans. Leave them for now. It is unlikely that they can interfere at this stage. The Fifth King will rise again. Hail the Fifth King.”

Slaughter nodded, and waited to be dismissed.

Then in a voice colder and harder than before, the old woman repeated, “
Hail
the Fifth King.”

“Hail the Fifth King,” Slaughter recited. “The Earth is his plaything, the humans his property. His rightful place as sovereign of the Earth will be restored. His day is coming.”

The woman shifted a little, and her right hand fell into the light, allowing Slaughter to see the tattoo on the back of her hand: a blue eye inside a golden sun.

Slaughter couldn’t see the old woman’s face, but she knew she was smiling.

“Midnight has passed,” the old woman said. “His day is today.”

 

They drove through the night. Even the freeways—usually busy at any time of the day—were almost deserted.

The back of the truck contained nothing but small twisted fragments of jeep left behind following Slaughter’s escape. Lance and Thunder—trying to be gentlemen—had insisted that Roz and Abby ride in the cab with the corporal. Now, three hours later, Lance was regretting the act of chivalry. He felt like he’d fallen butt-first onto a pile of gravel from a height of at least twenty feet.

He shuffled about again, trying to get comfortable.
Should have told the girls that we’d take
turns
in the cab.

Thunder was lying on his back at the other side of the truck, eyes closed, breathing softly. He was wearing a too-big army jacket that he’d found in the cab. Lance wanted it for himself, but Thunder had shouted, “Dibs on the jacket!” before Lance had even spotted it.

Lance couldn’t understand how Thunder could sleep with the truck bouncing around so much. As if on cue, the truck hit another pothole. Lance’s head smacked against the side wall. “I
hate
this truck!”

Then Thunder said, “For crying out loud! Will you quit whining? You’ve done nothing but mutter under your breath and shift about for the whole time we’ve been in here. You’re driving me crazy!”

“You’ve been awake all this time?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . But you never said anything!”

Thunder turned toward him. “Didn’t have anything to say. What, you think we’re pals now or something? What would
we
have to talk about?”

Lance sneered. “Well, you could tell me all about those medals you’ve won for friendliness.”

“Get real. You and I have nothing in common, Lance. I’m black; you’re white. I’m a superhuman; you’re a thief. I’m sixteen; you’re, what, fourteen? I’ve got a near-genius IQ; you probably can’t count to twenty without taking off your shoes and socks.”

“Is that what you think? That I’m dumb just because I’m younger than you?”

“No, you’re dumb because you’re dumb.” Thunder rolled onto his side. “You broke into that warehouse, stole the jetpack, got yourself shot at. Paragon was on the way to the power plant when he had to change course and save your life. He’d have had time to stop the terrorists—he might even have stopped Slaughter.”

“Well, Mr. Near-Genius, if
you
hadn’t . . .” Lance faltered. He tried to remember something stupid Thunder had done. “You blocked out the sound when we were fighting Slaughter and Abby couldn’t hear me telling her I’d found her sword. She could have been killed.”

“If she’d needed the sword that badly, she’d have got it herself.”

“I’m the one who thought of going to Oak Grove.”

Thunder nodded. “All right, I’ll give you that.” He rolled onto his back again. “That
was
good thinking. Assuming that it doesn’t backfire and Pyrokine ends up killing us all. So what exactly can he do? You said he was a fire-starter, right?”

Lance stretched his arm over his head and scratched between his shoulder blades—he was more than a little concerned that the military weren’t particularly conscientious about delousing their vehicles. “He can control energy.”

“Like that girl who
calls
herself Energy?”

“Not really. She takes in heat and electricity and whatever and can channel it back out. Pyrokine sort of turns matter
into
energy. The documentary was mostly about the other prisoners—Texanimal, Brawn, Scarlet Slayer, The Gyrobot, a bunch of others—and how each one had to have a special cell. They only showed Pyrokine because he’s a minor and he shouldn’t really be in an adult prison, but there’s nowhere else to put him.” He scratched again. “I wonder what makes them turn bad. Somewhere along the way they must have made the decision to be evil. That’s if they
know
they’re evil.”

“You’re asking me?” Thunder said. “You’re the thief. That makes you one of the bad guys.”

“It’s not like that,” Lance said.

“You take things that don’t belong to you. In what way does that make you
not
a bad guy?”

Lance couldn’t think of a good reply. He’d always been able to justify his actions to himself, but now that someone was asking him, all of his answers seemed pretty weak.

“You know what I think?” Thunder asked. “You don’t have the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

Lance shrugged. “Nothing I’ve done has been really bad.”

“In
your
opinion. All right, what’s the best job you ever pulled? The most successful in terms of money.”

“In one go? The sandwiches,” Lance said. Just thinking of the word made his stomach growl. “I made just about six hundred dollars from that.”

“So tell me about it.”

“Right. Well, there’s this industrial park on the edge of Fairview. Not a lot of companies, but some of them are huge and there’s hundreds of people working there. The nearest place that sells food is like two miles away. I was going through on my bike one day about lunchtime and the traffic was really heavy. I realized that it was because pretty much everyone who worked in the park was going out for lunch. So I printed up a bunch of flyers listing lots of different types of sandwiches and how much they cost, and at the bottom it said that I’d be around every day at eleven to take orders. First thing the next morning I went around the entire park and left a bunch of flyers in every office and factory. I went around again at eleven and took all the orders. I made sure the prices were low enough that everyone would want them.”

“And I suppose they all had to pay in advance?” Thunder asked. “You kept the money and never showed up again.”

“Exactly.”

Thunder sat up and faced Lance. “Don’t you feel guilty about that?”

Lance shrugged. “Not really. No one lost more than a couple of bucks each.”

“Imagine you were one of your victims, then. You’re sick of having to go out for lunch every day, so when someone gives you the chance to have food brought to you, you jump at it. And then lunchtime comes around and you think, ‘Sandwich guy’s taking a long time,’ but you wait anyway. You keep waiting. And half an hour later you’re thinking, ‘It’s too late to go out for lunch now!’ If you made six hundred dollars and the sandwiches were only two dollars each, that’s three hundred people going hungry.”

“I’m pretty sure no one died from missing one lunch.”

“So they’re hungry, and upset that they’ve been ripped off. How are they supposed to concentrate on their work? Suppose that one of them is on the edge. He’s not doing too well in his job, trouble at home, whatever. Then you steal from him, make him go hungry, and the next day he comes into the office with a gun.”

Lance couldn’t help laughing at that. “If someone was that close to the edge I wouldn’t be responsible for anything he did.”

Thunder sighed. “I’m not getting through to you, am I? Look, let’s see those gloves you stole from the warehouse.”

Lance rooted through his backpack, fished out the gloves, and threw them to Thunder.

“Thanks,” Thunder said. He removed his own gloves and pulled them on.

After a moment, Lance said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You’re going to lecture me about the gloves, right?”

“No. I’m keeping them.”

“But . . . They’re mine!”

“They’re mine now. In fact . . .” Thunder got to his feet. Holding on to the truck’s side wall to steady himself, he walked over to Lance. “I want the backpack too.”

Lance pulled his backpack closer. “Get stuffed.”

“I’m bigger and stronger than you are. I’m going to take it anyway.”

“All right. You’ve made your point.”

“I made my point ages ago. You’re just too dumb and too selfish to understand it.” He suddenly straightened up, turned his head toward the front of the truck. “What was that?”

Lance looked. “I didn’t hear anyth—”

Thunder reached down and grabbed hold of the backpack. “Sucker!”

Lance wasn’t going to let go. They struggled for a moment.

“Man, what’s
in
this thing?” Thunder asked. “It’s heavy.”

“Let go! My mom gave me this for my birthday!”

There was a long, slow
rip
and the backpack’s contents spilled out onto the floor of the truck. The grappling gun slid toward the back of the truck and Lance made a dive for it. When he looked back Thunder was holding the two pages of numbers.

“Where did you get these?”

“Same place I got the keycard to get into The Helotry’s warehouse. From that guy’s briefcase. I think it’s some sort of computer code or something like that.”

Thunder pulled off the gloves and threw them aside—Lance snatched them up—then peered down at the pages in the semidarkness. “Oh man . . . You had this all along! You idiot!”

“What are you talking about?”

Thunder jabbed a finger at the first page. “These numbers here are the exact longitude and latitude of the Midway power plant! Look . . . Today’s date, sunset and sunrise times. These are the road numbers leading to the plant. . . . God, this column here: They look like Social Security numbers. Could belong to the people who work there—and
these
are license plate numbers!”

He flipped to the next page. At first glance it was almost identical to the first, but the numbers were different. The lists of Social Security numbers and license plates were longer. Thunder frowned as he stared at the coordinates. “Windfield . . . That’s only a few hours’ drive from here, I think. There’s a nuclear power plant there too. Went online a few months back.”

Lance shrugged. “So . . . ?”

“So it means that the guy Paragon caught in Fairview wasn’t just one of The Helotry’s henchmen—he was way up at the top of the pile!” He slapped the first page down on the floor. “This is everything they needed to know to take over the Midway power plant. And this one about Windfield . . .” He thrust the second page at Lance. “It has
tomorrow’s
sunset and sunrise times. Lance, this is where they’re going to strike next!”

4,456 years ago . . .

Shortly before dawn, Krodin strode out onto the balcony of his palace. The city was unmoving, the silence broken only by the gentle flap of flags in the morning breeze. Soon, the city would awaken and the humans would set about their daily routines.

He sometimes—though not often—wondered whether they were happy. There were no voices of dissent, but then such a lack can be caused by fear as much as contentment.

In the bedchamber behind him, his wife, Alexandria, stirred. She was lonely, Krodin knew. She could not connect with him and now that the children were grown and had families of their own, Alexandria spent her days working on her tapestries and pottery, tending to the palace’s rare plants, or often just sitting on the balcony and staring at the city for hours at a time.

She had few friends, for almost no one was brave enough—or foolish enough—to put themselves in a position that might attract the notice of the king.

Alexandria was an old woman now, almost sixty. They had been together for thirty-five years, and she had borne him four strong sons and three beautiful daughters. She had been his constant companion and had done everything he asked without question.

But she had never loved him.

Krodin didn’t know whether he was capable of loving or being loved. His parents had died when he was barely out of childhood, and his memories of them were tainted by the cruel, harsh time in which they lived. Every day had been a struggle against hunger, against the elements, and against the heartless, brutal despots who constantly battled over the land.