The Ascension: A Super Human Clash (8 page)

Lance climbed down and was a little surprised to see that the officer did the same.
Aw no…He's going to walk me right to the classroom!
“Thanks for the lift.”

“Stop. Where do you think you're going?”

“To class?”

The officer pulled off his shades as he entered the lobby. He looked at Lance as though he'd never met anyone so dumb. “You have to be signed back in.”

Lance made a big show of slapping his forehead with his palm. “Right, right. Of course.”

He followed the officer along the corridor.
So what do I do if there's another me here? The news said that Brawn suddenly appeared in Oak Grove Prison—but that's where he was back in the real world. If this is a parallel world, then what happened to the other Brawn, and the other me?

The officer pushed open the door to the principal's office and walked in without knocking.

Mrs. Mailer was sitting behind her desk. She was in her sixties, a good-natured woman who had always been far too lenient toward Lance's occasional habit of skipping classes or completely forgetting to come to school.

“Truant student. Lance McKendrick. Claims illness. Has permission slip signed by parents. On his way here when I picked him up.”

Mrs. Mailer frowned at Lance, then turned back to the officer. “Hmm.”

“Problem?” the officer asked.

The principal tutted. “Well, first of all the school day is almost over. You might as well have just taken him home. But more important than that: I
know
you, Eugene Ashton. Don't think I don't remember you coming to me in tears when you were thirteen because you had a crush on Sherrie Stanneck and she called you zit-face in front of your friends. You might be an officer of the law now, but that does
not
give you the right to be rude to me.”

Lance hid his grin by pretending to scratch his nose.
You tell him, Mrs. Mailer!

“And furthermore, you do
not
walk into my school and barge into my office without knocking. Do you understand me?”

The officer swallowed. “Ma'am, I have a task to perform and—”

“Do you think I don't know that? It wasn't so long ago that we had
real
police officers in this city. Men and women who were interested in helping people, not keeping them down. They weren't power-mad little upstarts like you, Mr. Ashton.” She sighed. “And you showed so much promise.”

“Criticism of an officer of the law is tantamount to—”

Again, she interrupted him. “Are those jackboots you're wearing, Ashton? Because the way you people push everyone around seems an awful lot like fascism to me. The state should work for the benefit of the people, not the other way around. Or is
that
sedition too, hmm? Are you going to report me as a possible dissident and have me dragged away to one of your death camps? Now you can just turn around and frog-march your way back out of here, young man. And next time show a little common courtesy. I know for a fact that your parents taught you basic manners, so use them.”

Well said
, Lance thought.
Always knew the old bat had guts.

As Officer Ashton turned to leave, Mrs. Mailer said, “Oh, and you can take this boy with you. He's not one of ours.”

“Ma'am?”

“I don't know what he told you, but he doesn't go to school here.”

 

At five in the evening, Mrs. de Luyando left the apartment to meet Abby's brothers off the school bus.

As soon as she was gone, Solomon Cord said, “All right. Let's go.”

“We should have left ages ago,” Abby said. “Max Dalton told us to go find Thunder.”

Cord tossed her the morning newspaper as he moved toward the door. “Top of page one, above the masthead. Today's curfew times are listed. Civilians are allowed out on the street between five and seven.”

“The people in this world are insane! How can they just sit back and take all this?”

Cord stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “It doesn't happen overnight. At first the changes are presented as being for the greater good. What's a little restriction in freedom compared with better security? This is how all the best dictatorships happen. It starts out with stricter border controls, then security cameras in all major population centers. Mandatory ID cards, then DNA logging, restricted areas, food rationing…And piece by piece everyone's freedom is eroded. By the time the average person realizes that the whole country has been turned into a prison, it's too late to do anything about it.”

Abby pursed her lips. “Sol…How are we going to get back to
our
world?”

“I don't know. If this is a parallel universe, then maybe we can use whatever brought us over to send us back. But if it's not…If the past has been changed and for whatever reason we're still aware of how things should be…then maybe there is no going back. This
is
the real world.”

“I don't know if I can live in a place like this.”

“Then we have to change things. Max said he's heard that Unity are planning a major strike against Krodin. He doesn't know many of the details yet, but it's going to be big, and it'll happen soon.”

Abby grabbed her bow and quiver from behind the sofa. “How soon?”

“Within the next couple of days. Krodin's armies are almost ready, and he's apparently got something in Louisiana that'll guarantee his success. Unity wants to hit him before he hits them. So we don't have a lot of time. Max is going to do whatever he can to get us all to safety before it happens.” Cord opened the door. “So where does Thunder live?”

“Maple Towers. A couple of miles outside town.”

Even before they reached the street, Abby knew it was going to look a lot different now that the curfew had been temporarily lifted, but the scene was far from anything she could have expected.

They stopped in the doorway. “This is unbelievable,” Cord muttered.

The people on the street—hundreds, perhaps thousands of them—were all moving at the same brisk pace, almost in single file. Those walking north kept to the outside of the pavement, and those heading south stayed on the inside.

Standing on almost every corner was at least one armed guard, constantly watching the people. Each one wore The Helotry's insignia on the shoulders of their uniforms: a blue eye inside a yellow sun.

Occasionally someone would break out of the line to enter an apartment building, or to join another line. A bus stopped three doors away, and children and teenagers in identical school uniforms filed out. As soon as the last one dismounted, the people at the bus stop climbed on, one by one. It was all done in complete silence, the only sound being the tramp of footsteps and the low hum from the bus's electric engine.

“Let's go,” Cord whispered. “You lead. Keep your head down and look like you belong here.”

Abby slung the bow and quiver onto her shoulder and stepped into a small gap in the line. Cord followed immediately.

When they reached the junction with Jarvis Avenue, the line broke up: Some people continued north across the street, others went right or left. Abby joined the line going left.

There were far fewer people going in this direction, so Abby looked back over her shoulder toward Cord. “They're like sheep,” she whispered. “Very well-behaved sheep.”

She jumped when a voice boomed out from above. “No talking!”

She risked a quick glance upward, and saw that there were now at least half a dozen of the surveillance cameras aimed at her, slowly moving to track her path.

Ahead, a small, squat, army-green vehicle glided silently around the corner, heading toward her. The craft was floating a yard above the ground.

It came alongside Abby and slowed to a stop.

Behind her Cord whispered, “Don't look at it. We're not doing anything wrong.”

The hovering vehicle reversed its direction, keeping pace with them.

Oh man…

There was a sharp hiss as a hatch opened in the side. A black-clad man climbed out and walked straight over to Abby.

“You. Step out of the line. Now.” His voice was stern and gruff.

“I'm just…”

He grabbed Abby's arm and pulled her onto the street. “Disobedience. Potential civil unrest.” He peered at the bow and quiver on her shoulder. “Unauthorized equipment. Let's see your ID.”

“I don't have it with me,” Abby said. She glanced back at Solomon Cord—he was continuing on his way.

“That so? That's four demerits right there. I'm taking you in.” He tugged at her arm again.

This time, Abby didn't allow herself to be moved. “You're not taking me anywhere.”

The man stepped back, his hand lightly resting on the grip of a sidearm holstered on his hip. “By order of directive 8772 I'm instructed to allow you five seconds to comply. One.”

Abby shrugged. The bow and quiver slid from her right shoulder and landed in the crook of her elbow.

The man frowned at this. “Two.”

Abby unclipped the bow from the quiver, took hold of the grip in her left hand. At the same time she straightened her right arm and allowed the quiver to slide the rest of the way—as it passed her hand, she snagged one of the arrows with her fingers.

“Three.”

Abby hit the release switch on the bow's riser and the limbs snapped into place. In one swift moment she nocked the arrow to the string and drew back.

The soldier whipped out his gun and yelled, “Weapon!”

Abby grinned. “Well spotted.” The arrow was aimed at the soldier's chest. “Drop your gun.”

SOLOMON CORD INWARDLY CURSED as he saw, on the edge of his vision, what was happening with Abby.
Dumb kid's going to get herself killed!

He followed the line of people around the next corner, then entered the first tenement building. He took the stairs three at a time, stopped on the fourth floor, and looked around.
Need some kind of weapon.

He knocked on the door of the apartment overlooking the street where he'd left Abby.

It was opened by a young woman in her twenties. “Yes?”

“Random inspection. Need to check your home for violations.” He pushed past her and into the apartment. It was almost devoid of furniture. A threadbare carpet, stained and peeling wallpaper, a strong smell of mold and soap.

She followed him. “Wait, who
are
you? You can't just barge in here—”

“Plainclothes division. You think we
all
wear uniforms so you can see us coming? I'll need to see your papers and permits. Now.”

The woman hesitated for a moment, then hurried over to a side cabinet and began rummaging through one of the drawers. “I have everything here. I'm not doing anything wrong, I swear. I don't know what you've heard, but it's not true!”

He moved to the window. On the street below, Abby was aiming her bow at the guard.
OK, think! Have to get out there and defuse the situation.

He turned around and the woman was standing next to him, a large bundle of papers in her hands. “It's all here.”

“Sorted by date?”

“Um, no…I didn't know I needed to…”

“Do it. Kitchen?”

She nodded toward a closed door. “Through there. Am I in trouble?”

“I think you know the answer to that, don't you?” Cord felt more than a little guilty about treating the woman like this, but he knew he couldn't let his façade slip. If she suspected he wasn't an authority figure, she'd scream for help.

He pushed open the kitchen door and looked around. There was an assortment of mismatched knives tucked into a small, badly made spice rack. He selected the largest knife—it seemed sharp and strong—then returned to the main room.

The woman saw him holding the knife and started trembling, the papers spilling from her hands.

“Are you aware that knives over a certain length are considered deadly weapons and are therefore prohibited?”

“No, I…It was a present.”

“Indeed. This is confiscated.” He moved back to the window again.
Still there.
“If you want to avoid prosecution, ma'am, you have one chance. Tell me the names and apartment numbers of any people in this building whom you know or suspect to be in possession of illegal firearms or other weapons that could be used against officers of the state.”

“I don't…”

“Very well.” He tucked the knife into the back of his belt. “I'm arresting you on the charge of—”

“Apartment 2C! I mean, I don't know for certain, but I overheard them once when I was going past their door. Someone inside was talking about getting hold of some ammunition.”

Cord was already moving for the door. “Thank you. Your cooperation will be noted.”

He felt like a complete louse as he raced back down the stairs.
If we get through this OK, I'll come back and…I don't know. Build her a new spice rack or something.

 

The soldier's gun hand was trembling a little, and a film of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. Beyond him Abby could see that there was another soldier inside the flying craft: The muzzle of his gun was protruding from the doorway, aiming at her.

This is probably not the
best
idea I've ever had
, Abby thought.

On the sidewalks on either side of the street, the drone-like pedestrians had all stopped moving, but few of them were looking in Abby's direction. She had the distinct feeling that they were all too scared to run for cover.

“Neither of us has to get hurt,” Abby said. “Put your gun down. Right now.” She shifted her aim to his arm. “If I let this arrow fly, you'll never be able to use that arm again.”

From above she heard the faint whine of electric motors as more of the surveillance cameras turned toward her. Then a voice burst forth from the nearest camera: “Unidentified dissident—terminate.”

Abby saw the soldier's arm tense—she ducked just as he fired, then released the arrow.

For a moment the man stood there staring at her, a baffled look on his face.

I missed him!

Then his face paled, a thin line of blood ran down his shoulder, and his gun clattered to the ground.

Still crouched, Abby threw herself forward, rolled past him, and snatched up the gun. The second man in the craft jumped out—Abby threw the handgun at him: It slammed into his forehead and knocked him back into the vehicle.

Then she spotted her arrow, buried a foot deep into the side of the vehicle.

She pulled out the arrow—it had passed through the soldier so quickly that it hadn't even picked up any blood—then turned around, grabbed her quiver, and ran.

 

Cord pounded on the door of apartment 2C. A man's voice from inside called out, “Who is it?”

“There's been an accident—I need your help! Quick!”

The door opened and Cord grabbed hold of the man and shoved him inside the dark apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. “Where's the gun?”

“What?”

Cord spun him around and slammed him against the door. “You heard.”

“I don't
have
a gun!”

“You have five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.”

“I swear I don't have a gun! I'm scared of guns—I wouldn't go near one!”

“We have it on good authority that you are in possession of an illegal—”

There was a sharp click from behind him.

The man said, “Oh, you mean
that
gun?”

 

Agent Paquette accompanied Max and Roz Dalton on the craft back to Manhattan. Roz had said almost nothing since her first look at the Jetman project, but now, as the Raptor flew over North Hudson Park heading for Manhattan, the agent seemed to remember that Roz was there.

“So, Rosalyn, how are you finding the training?”

Training?
Roz wondered. Aloud, she said, “It's fine. No real problems so far, I think.”

“Good. And the other recruits? Showing any potential?”

Not knowing how else to respond—Max wasn't very forthcoming with his telepathic hints—Roz made a “so-so” gesture with her hand. “You know how it is.”

“Of course. But we'll get them up to speed soon enough.” She turned to Max. “And the monster hunt?”

Max gave her a slight smile. “I'm sure you can guess my feelings on that particular project.”

“You still think some of them could be useful assets?”

“They're not much different from us, Amanda. Physically, yes, but most of them are smart enough to learn, and I'm sure they'd be only too happy to follow orders in exchange for greater privileges and the illusion of freedom. A sense of purpose is all many of them need.”

Inside Roz's head, Max's voice said, “Ask her about the Jetman project—I'm supposed to know everything about it, and I can't keep bluffing. If we can get our hands on some jetpacks, it'll really help us to get away.”

Aloud, Roz said, “Agent Paquette? I've been wondering about the Jetmen…. What are the criteria for selection?”

“No chance, Rosalyn. They're reconnaissance and front-line troops only. They go in, take out the enemy's major defenses, and we mop up afterward. Projections indicate they'll have a high casualty rate. But they're expendable—we're not. Only ordinary humans are allowed to become Jetmen.”

“That makes sense,” Roz said. “But still…It looks like good armor, and with the jetpacks they can fly. I'd love that. Well, who wouldn't? Those of us who can't fly on our own should
all
get jetpacks—it would make our jobs a lot simpler.”

“And that would make us easier targets for the dissidents. We've already lost enough people to those maniacs. And to Daedalus. Fifteen kills in the past ten days,” she added, shaking her head. “And we still don't even know where to begin looking for him.”

Max thought to Roz: “We need to find this Daedalus guy and get him on our side. Can't ask her about him directly, though…. Everyone I've met so far has been afraid of dissidents. It's pretty clear they're rebels who refuse to accept Krodin's rule.” Aloud, he said to Agent Paquette, “Right, the dissidents. What's
wrong
with those people? I mean, what do they think they're going to achieve?”

Agent Paquette looked at Max. “What is this? A test?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're acting like we barely know each other. What's going on?”

“Remind me of the rules regarding dissidents, Agent Paquette. As
you
understand them.” To Roz, he thought, “We've got her…. She's scared, definitely hiding something.”

Paquette began to recite: “Number one, any member of the Praetorian Guard caught giving aid to known dissidents will face immediate termination. Rule two—”

Max interrupted her. “You've never broken the first rule?”

“Of course not! Max, what are you getting at?”

“Never allowed a dissident to get away because he was just a kid?”

Agent Paquette's face paled. “How
dare
you! Stay out of my mind, Max! That was…” She looked away from him. “He was ten years old, Max. He'd just seen my men arrest his parents for sedition. What was he going to do—start his own resistance cell?”

“Kids grow up, Agent Paquette. Why did you never report this?”

The agent stiffened, her manner instantly becoming formal. “My loyalty has never before been called into question, Vice-Chancellor Dalton. You know that. You're the one who designed the machines that test us every month.”

“Correct. And there are some of us who have the ability to manipulate energy. Someone with that power would have little difficulty forcing the testing machines to give a false negative.”

“You know
I
don't have any control over energy! You think I'm lying, is that it? Am I under investigation?”

Max sighed and leaned forward in his seat. “Sorry. I had to ask. You know how it is, Amanda—we're
all
under investigation, all the time. After what happened today in Louisiana…we can't rule out sabotage. You're chief of the Manhattan Division. Someone with your skills and experience should have tracked down all the dissident groups by now.” He looked up at her. “
I'm
not saying that—I'm just repeating what I've heard.”

“Vice-Chancellor, my division has one of the highest success rates in the country. In the past six months we've shut down
eight
dissident cells.”

Roz said, “But there are others.”

Agent Paquette glared at her. “Yes. There are others. Getting them all out will be next to impossible.”

Max asked, “What's the strongest lead on a dissident cell you have right now? Because I'm thinking that between the two of us we stand a pretty good chance of success.”

“There are rumors of a small cell in the Flatiron District. Nothing concrete, though.”

“Take us there. We'll scout around, see what we can pick up.”

Agent Paquette left her seat and moved to the cockpit. As she was giving orders to the pilots, Max thought to Roz: “You're going to have to move fast. First chance we get, you find somewhere to hide. I'll cloud her thoughts, make her and the pilots forget you were with us. Then you run, Roz. Get off the island.”

What about you?

“It seems I'm too important. I'll be missed. You need to get to Midway, find Paragon and the others. I'll find someplace safe for us.”

There's just five of us, Max! Five against who knows
how
many of them! The odds of beating them are—

“You don't understand, Roz. We
can't
fight them. Unity's military is already moving into place! They're bringing the war to Krodin before he can bring it to them, and I am
not
getting stuck in the middle of that! They don't understand—they can't beat Krodin.
We
weren't able to do it and we're superhuman!”

We're just giving up?

“Yes. We're giving up. It's the only intelligent solution. We're giving up because Krodin has already won.”