Initiation of the Lost (Book 1)

by M. R.

  SYMPATHY-B

  VOLUME I

  Computations of Flesh and Starlight

  BOOK ONE

  Initiation of the Lost

  M.R. ADAMS

  Solemn Chanting Press

  ©2013 M.R. Adams

  All rights reserved.

  www.MRAdamsliterary.com

  Twitter: M_RAdams

  Facebook: MRAdamslit

  Cover Image:

  Explozoom 2/2 by jepoirrier (Jean-Etienne Minh-Duy Poirrier) on flickr

  Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE: Man in Charge

  ACT I: The Gantlet Heuristic

  PART ONE

  1 Hyperion Academy

  2 Dream-Believer

  3 First Priority

  4 The State of Our Great Projects

  5 Alone Together

  6 The Traitor Trade

  PROLOGUE

  Man in Charge

  They crashed through the roof, wood splinters and glass shards falling around him. James Crawford–Raijin–huddled into a ball, peaking to see three pairs of robotic boots: What were the Benzaiten doing in Colorado?

  "Target ten-eight-six: James Ryota Crawford, self-named 'Raijin,'" said Benzai-one in Japanese, "you are under arrest–"

  Raijin launched from his feet into the air, into the open sky towards the fat red moon and twinkling stars revealed by the decimation of the dojo's roof.

  "He can fly?!"

  He flew higher, glancing back to see the three Benzai–Japan's cybernetically suited law enforcers–in pursuit. They didn't know his powers; he had one chance for escape. First, he'd assess their capabilities.

  Benzai-one, in English: "Fleeing is not the answer. If you do not cease flight, charges will be appended."

  Benzai-two: "Target is descending."

  Raijin landed amongst the branches of a cherry blossom tree at the temple's inner wall.

  Benzai-three: "Remove yourself from the tree."

  "On what charges?" he said.

  The Benzai landed around the tree, touching down on the rocky ground. A high pitch rung through the air, the bar on Benzai-three's arm cannon glowed green. Showtime.

  "Look," said Number One, a woman, her voice calm, reassuring. But as Raijin looked at each of them, he only saw the cold sheen of their steel black helmets. "You entered Japan illegally. We have orders to escort you to headquarters for questioning. Just a few simple questions. That's all."

  He lifted off and hovered above the tree...then descended, coming to his hands and knees before the Benzaiten. Number Three approached. Looking at the moon reflected in the oncoming enforcer's mask, Raijin grasped the biggest rock and hurled the stone; it smashed into the helmet. Number Three fell back, raising his cannon–Number One rushed forth: "You can't!"–but the cannon fired, discharging the sonic boom, a radiation of concentrated sound waves. The air shimmered; Raijin took flight once more.

  BOOOOOOM! The tree exploded into daggers of bark cloaked in the confetti of the cherry-pink blossoms. Raijin raced the tree's remains as they shot in array. A throbbing in his leg unleashed waves of pain through his body. His legs and bare feet were scratched, but the throb came from the deep gash in his thigh. He couldn't use his second power in full force to shield himself, fearing the enforcers' notice.

  The Benzaiten recovered their senses and rushed to continue chase, sending a series of small booms into the air. Raijin’s assessment: They were on a capture mission after all. Number One was the leader; Two, a dutiful subordinate. Number Three was trouble. If his plan didn't work, he had to make sure their leader took him first.

  The pain zapped him, draining his energy and concentration–he staggered through the air. The enforcers gained ground. But flying over the forest, he was close to the outer wall. There! He had reached the gigantic bamboo shafts that made the temple's first barrier and swan dived, sailing head first towards the ground.

  "This is it," said Benzai-One. "He's making his last stand."

  "He'll be unlucky if he survives," said Number Three.

  "Silence. Our orders are to capture him alive and unharmed."

  "Too late for 'unharmed.'" A snicker.

  "Awaiting orders," said Number Two.

  "He's heading for the torii. I'll pursue directly. Three, flank left. Two, cover my right."

  And the Benzaiten spread through the sky and dove after the target. In seeming freefall, the ground headed for them like a speeding train. Raijin, moments before collision, pulled up and shot under the torii, a series of tall iron-red gates that arched over the stone steps that descended from the majestic temple like a dragon, coiling up and down the hills and valleys.

  Benzai-one knew she couldn't clear the first torii and pulled up to sail over the first three gates before dipping down to continue in the target's wake. Up ahead: the young man–smart, brave. To each side: her men had descended and they flew in V-formation. If she had come alone, she could have visited him in person and talked to him–the oppressive, "official" displays would have been unnecessary. They were making the situation more drastic than it needed to be.

  "Benzai-one, take the shot."

  "No, Number Three. We can't risk any more structural damage. We've compromised our presence enough."

  "The game is over. We destroyed–"

  "We?" said Number Two. "You are the only one who'll have to explain the evidence of any international incident that leads to war."

  "No," said Number One. "I'm the head of this operation; I'll take full responsibility. Let's just capture the boy. We can't have him escaping custody, especially knowing now he's a chikara. Make sure radar-cloakers are on maximum, and pray the Americans find some other scapegoat for the damage. When he exits the torii, disable him with a disorienting sonar pulse, then gas him. Understood?"

  "Understood, Benzai-one," said Number Two.

  "He assaulted an officer."

  "No, Three. He assaulted you," said Number One.

  Raijin conjured the last of his energy, draining every cell, reaching deeper and deeper into himself, scavenging his being for the will to...to what? Be free. Freedom. If they took him with no one knowing, he was theirs...forever...to be probed, dissected. He was being paranoid.

  Finally, he glided through the last torii and crashed into Kurenjingu Pond. The cold waters leeched him further and the crash left him dazed. He staggered to his feet, the cold rippling up his spine like vines of ice. The Benzaiten flew overhead and landed–splash!–the vibrations of their armor sending waves of continuous ripples through the pond.

  "So you tin cans are waterproof," he said, too tired to conjure his Japanese.

  "Happy to disappoint," said Number Three, raising his cannon.

  "Stand down," said Number One.

  "But–"

  "Abort plan. Rai–Target is disabled. Resort to apprehension."

  Number Three pushed a button on his cannon and took aim once more.

  Raijin screamed, raising his hands...

  Benzai-three: "What the–?"

  Spheres of lightning formed in Raijin's palms...

  Benzai-one: "Now we know why he calls himself 'Raijin.' Quickly: apprehension procedure."

  But before the cannon could release the binds, the lightning crackled, pulsating and ripping through the air. Away from the temple and forest, conducted by the pond, he fully unleashed his last defense, a devastating offense. He collapsed into the water...did he get 'em?...blackout.

  <<>>

  The murmurings of conversation. They were talking. The night air was cool, streaming–they were flying. He was numb. No pain. Raijin opened his eyes. Darkness. His
eyes hadn't opened. He went to move his arm. He was still. His attack was for nothing.

  Now harnessed on Benzai-two's back, the Benzaiten would return to their submerged vehicle and high-speed their return to Japan. All this because Raijin–James–ran away. But from where? He was old enough to not have to be home with his parents. And no one expected his return to the temple. But still he felt he had ran away to find his birth mother. She was beautiful, warm and welcoming. He–she–they were born from a lineage of fishermen.

  As he fell back into the haze of blackness, that point where conscious and unconscious meet, where he sensed but had no control over what he sensed, he did not see or feel the presence of his mother, birth or adopted, or his sister. No, he saw her, wearing a plaid skirt and cropped red jacket, looking at him through her blue rimmed glasses. She introduced herself, like the first time they had met, as Silby Masters, director of invention at Hyperion Enterprises and, more relevant to him, dean of admissions at Hyperion Academy.

  "Why am I here?" he had said. They were in her office, cluttered with machinations, piles of books, scatterings of papers, and blackboards covered in equations and diagrams. "I'm not good at science."

  "No. But you can fly. And you have an electrical charge to your immediate aura; so I'm sure you can do more." She smiled. "Do you know how you can do what you can do?"

  Raijin sat erect, proud of his ancestry: "I am the reincarnation of Raijin, God of Lightning."

  Silby looked to him kindly, awaiting to hear more. He grew self-conscious, almost preferring the mocking he was accustomed to as the discomfort grew.

  "Well," she said, "Perhaps I can explain the mechanisms designed in your physical nature that allows for the expression of your divinity."

  "Sure," he said, puzzled. Was he being patronized?

  But she explained. She explained his DNA, the building blocks of his life and all life, was unique compared to most humans, laced with two additional base pairs bound and supported by the presence of a third strand. Ultimately, his DNA consisted of six base pairs, as opposed to the usual four, arranged within the structure of a triple helix, as opposed to the double helix found in other humans. This third strand was often nicknamed "The Conscious Strand" and even "The God Strand;" however, the power was in the two surplus base pairs, the complementary burine and zycosine, which supplemented the four common base pairs–adenine, guanine, cytosine, and thymine–allowing for the expression of his abilities. She informed Raijin that others shared this trait and had manifested their own unique powers.

  He didn't want to hear any more, to think he and the others, his family, were gods reborn because of science. But as he lay hopeless and helpless across the Benzai, flying over the Pacific, he didn't feel like a god. He didn't feel unique, special in a way that made him matter. He wasn't unique, just back to being different, a freak. The kind of weak, useless freak that only a boy, not even a man, could be. But deep down, he had to have known this all along.

  Silby explained Hyperion Academy existed to help educate him and those like him in the use of their powers. He struck a deal–why not? He would enroll in the school, but only if she found his birth mother and got him into the country to see her. Without questioning the illegality of foreigners entering the Pacific Union or even furrowing an eyebrow as she pondered how to execute such a feat, she handed him a radar-shield, and a silent alarm.

  Deep down he had known he was just another man, not a God, maybe not even a man but a boy, because as he returned from Japan, back to his only sanctuary in America, Tengoku Temple, he heard the mechanized hum of the Benzaiten and triggered the silent alarm as he went to his bedroom in the dojo. And now, knowing the radar at some point had failed, he prayed, as only a man who knew the troubles of the world could, that his silent alarm was heard.

  ACT I

  THE GANTLET HEURISTIC

  Part One

  CHAPTER 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 bro
ke 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.