Ascendant- Nation of Nowhere

by Richard Denoncourt

  Pete took a step toward them. He spoke with the confidence of someone who had been leading their pack for a long time and was used to these situations.

  “Dom, let him go. He’s one of us, and you’re not. As far as I know, you’re still outcast.”

  “Oh?” Dominic said, pushing Ian away but keeping the boy’s pistol. “You need to lay off the shine, Peter. I wasn’t outcast. I volunteered to leave.”

  “Whatever,” Peter said. “Just take it easy. Ian didn’t mean anything. He has a problem with authority.” He stared hard at Ian. “Right?”

  “Spite yourself, Pete.”

  Peter glared, head rising slightly. “What did you just say to me, you little punk?”

  “Nothing,” Ian muttered, gazing away.

  Dominic’s attention shifted suddenly, and he was now grinning at Michael.

  “This is Mike Cairne,” he announced. “He’ll be your roommate as well as a new addition to the ment community. He’s a Type I, so you boys better watch your step.”

  “Type I?” Peter scoffed. “Stop messin’ around. They don’t exist.”

  Dominic, seeming bored now, shot Michael a quick glance before turning to leave. Eli stood in his way. Dominic squared his shoulders before the brutish boy. Michael expected another conflict, but then a warm grin spread across Eli’s face as he moved aside to let Dominic pass.

  “Age before beauty,” Eli said with a wink.

  “Wisdom before ignorance is more like it, knucklehead.”

  The boys ignored Michael as they made their way into the house, leaving him standing in the driveway with no idea what to do next.

  “Dominic, wait,” he called out, running to catch up to the man.

  Dominic paused, appearing uncertain as to why he was being hassled. He stood, fingering his bruises and shaking his head.

  “I’m not going to be your personal guide around here. You have to learn to fend for yourself.”

  “Okay.” Michael kept pace with him.

  “You can’t just follow me around everywhere.”

  “All right,” Michael said, matching the other man’s steps.

  Dominic whirled on him. “What do you want from me, kid?”

  Shrugging, Michael said the first thing that came to mind.

  “What do you do for lunch around here?”

  Chapter 3

  Louis Blake lit a cigarette.

  The men sitting around the table watched him, waiting for him to cough up smoke like he usually did. But he didn’t this time. Midas’s cough syrup was just that good. He would have to rustle up a gift to show his gratitude to the old doctor.

  The smoke hung near the ceiling of the small room. The only light came in through the window, intense sunlight that made Blake drowsy. It was around this time he usually woke from his afternoon nap.

  “He’s a killer,” John Meacham said, splaying the fingers of his big, rugged hands on the table. “He’ll bring death to this town, mark my words.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Blake said, putting the cigarette to his lips. “It happened under circumstances that were highly unusual.”

  “And what circumstances are those, exactly?”

  “Well”— Blake exhaled smoke—“for starters, he watched an FSD officer slice his brother’s neck open with a broken bottle while his mother and father froze to death inside an industrial freezer.”

  Frowning deeply, Meacham shook his head. “Jesus.” He sat opposite Blake at the other end of the table, by the window. Four other men sat between them, wincing at what Blake had just shared—Gerald Kepplinger, a drowsy-looking man who oversaw the staff running the power plant; Joe Bigg, a well-groomed man with dark features who oversaw the water purification and distribution plant and was the only person in town who wore hair gel that he had to make himself; and then there was Hugo Seneca, a broad, brown-skinned man who always looked like he wanted to punch something and then scream at it. Hugo oversaw agriculture, making sure people were producing the proper quantities of food assigned to them. The three of them were the town’s ministers.

  The fourth was Midas Ford, the town’s only doctor. He was a black man in his sixties, with gray hair that clung to his head in a curly fuzz, leaving a domed bald spot on top. His glasses took up half his face, and his cheeks were heavily pockmarked. He sat slumped in his chair, mouth moving like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

  A chair creaked as Hugo sat forward, twining his fingers together on the tabletop. “I’d like to say something if that’s okay with you, Louis.” He gave Blake a hard, patronizing glare.

  Blake sat smoking, watching the man.

  “This boy, by virtue of his involvement in the experiments, is property of the People’s Republic, which makes him the personal property of Harris Kole. What do you think is going to happen when Kole finds out you stole his property and brought it out here to the mountains? Where do you think he’s going to start sending his scouts and maybe even soldiers?”

  “Property?” Blake mildly asked.

  Meacham rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

  “Did you say this boy was government property, Hugo? Because the last time I checked, we didn’t share the same philosophy as slavers.”

  “Oh, to hell with that,” Hugo said, glancing at Meacham for support. “You know what I mean. The boy’s a Type I telepath, the only one in existence as far as we know. If Kole ever had a reason to send soldiers across the border, this kid would be it.”

  “I agree,” Kepplinger said, appearing as though he might fall asleep at any moment. His voice came out thin and papery. For a man who worked around electricity all day, his presence was as titillating as a dead battery. “That boy brings a certain amount of risk that our small community cannot”—he wagged a finger in the air—“and should not withstand.”

  “Thank you, Minister Kepplinger,” Meacham said, mild contempt apparent.

  Meacham was a thick-limbed man with powerful shoulders and a face that was always red from the time he spent in the sun. Aside from his job as mayor of Gulch, he delegated the collection and distribution of firewood, a process that needed to be done right due to the unpredictable climate in these mountains.

  “We can’t outcast the boy,” Blake said, “not after kidnapping him and bringing him out here.”

  Meacham got up, then leaned over the table. “If what you say about him is true”—he peered at Blake from beneath his shaggy brows—“then the boy would be better off in the New Dallas Republic. You did him a service by smuggling him over the border in the first place. You don’t have to be his nanny, too.”

  Midas spoke up unexpectedly, his voice humble and soft. As usual, everyone listened.

  “He wouldn’t survive a day out there, so you all listen to me now. I held that boy’s brothers and sisters in my hands once upon a time—children who came out of those experiments just like he did, only to die at the hands of men like the one I used to be.” The old doctor stood up with a grunt, wagging his index finger. “You outcast that boy, and I’m going with him. I don’t care if it costs my life. I’m not gonna have any part in another child’s death.”

  He shuffled toward the door, leaving the men in silence. On the way there, he stopped and rested a hand on Blake’s shoulder.

  “I know you’ll do the right thing, Louis.”

  Exhaling smoke, Blake stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray.

  “And quit smoking, damn it,” Midas said on his way out. “It’s gonna kill you.”

  The ministers chuckled as the door clicked shut. Blake used the distraction to do a telepathic scan of each one. Uncapping the lens in his mind, he opened himself to their emotional fluctuations. Mostly, he sensed fear, mixed with mild resentment toward him.

  “Michael’s not a threat to any of you,” Blake said.

  Meacham slapped the table. “That’s not what we’re—”

  Sounds from beyond the door interrupted them. It was Midas, and he was laughing with the kind of joy reserved fo
r a man greeting a son who had just returned home from war. The men at the table hadn’t heard Midas laugh in years. They all knew what it meant.

  Meacham closed his eyes. “Blake, you spiteful bastard.”

  Blake chuckled deep in his throat. He couldn’t help it. His lungs immediately began to tickle—a bad sign—and he took out the cough syrup and swallowed a quick dose just as the door swung open and Dominic strutted into the room.

  “Well, well,” Dominic said, winking with his swollen eye. “The Ministry of Control, with John Meacham as Over-Dictator. Much has changed in this tiny town.”

  Meacham stood bent over the table, white knuckles pressed to the wood, the beet-red skin of his face tightening with fury.

  “What are you doing here, Dom,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “I told you never to step foot on this soil again.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Dominic wagged his index finger from side to side. “Blake was mayor back then, and he’s the one who told me to never come back.” Dominic looked at Blake, who was still smirking. “Well, old man?”

  “Fine with me,” Blake said.

  Dominic grinned at Meacham.

  “Wipe that stupid smirk off your face,” Meacham said, straightening. The tightness in his massive shoulders was obvious. “I buried your older brother, and I’ll do the same to you. Just give me a reason.”

  Dominic remained calm, though a violent edge crept into his voice. “Is that all you want? A reason?”

  Blake sent his voice into Dominic’s mind. Don’t react. He’ll have you thrown out.

  He can try, came the response.

  “I’m not gonna stand for this,” Meacham said in a low, growling voice. He took several steps toward Dominic, his face deepening in color, a sure sign he was teetering over the edge of a tantrum. “You think you’re in control, but you’re not. You’re just like that boy you brought into my town—a danger to these people.”

  Easy, Dominic, Blake sent across the room. You’re tougher than he is.

  Mind your own damn business and get out of my head.

  Meacham had brought his face inches away from Dominic’s, nostrils flaring like those of a bull about to run someone down. Dominic didn’t move except for a slight twitching of his fingers. The scene lasted for a few seconds, with everyone else in the room watching in silence. Finally, Dominic backed down.

  “I’ll stay out of your way,” Dominic said. “I’ll even follow the rules. But from now on, you got something to say to me, you say it through Dr. Ford or Major Blake.”

  “And what about the boy, Michael?” Meacham said, sneering in amused contempt at Dominic. “We know why you went to all that trouble bringing him here, don’t we?” He gave a perverse wag of his eyebrows. “You being a cocksucker and all.”

  Blake winced. He could sense the tremors of rage running through Dominic. He was like a pillar supporting too much weight, ready to crack at any moment.

  Blake wouldn’t use telepathy to calm him, not this time. Dominic would take that as an insult.

  “Like I said,” Dominic told Meacham, surprisingly calm on the surface. “You want to say something to me, you go through Major Blake or Midas Ford.”

  He turned with his hands in his pockets. Whistling, he strolled out of the room. Once the door clicked shut behind him, Blake allowed himself to exhale. The ministers glanced at each other in disbelief.

  “He’s different,” Kepplinger said, no longer appearing sleepy.

  Bigg lightly prodded his gelled hair. “He’s a total drama queen.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Seneca said.

  Meacham gave Blake a guarded look. “You and I go back a long way, Louis, and you know as well as the rest of the men in this room that I got no problem with your kind. But”—he stabbed a thick finger in the direction of the door—“I don’t trust that asshole one bit. He doesn’t feel an ounce of loyalty to anyone. Not even you. He’s got other reasons for being here. I know it.”

  Blake got up, feeling for his pack of cigarettes. “You let me deal with Michael and Dominic.”

  He left the room, trying as hard as he could to hold back a tide of painful, hacking coughs until he was outside. The word “loyalty” reminded him of a promise he’d made a long time ago.

  If you can get him out, I’ll find him and protect him, Claudia. I swear it. Even if I have to turn my back on everyone I’ve ever known.

  He swallowed a mouthful of cough syrup.

  “I’m doing my best, sweetheart,” he said, eyes on the clear sky as he screwed the cap on the bottle.

  Chapter 4

  “Lunch is at one o’clock at the Cold War Café on Landing Zone Street, right off Missile Avenue.” Dominic told Michael after leaving him in the driveway. “Think you can find it on your own?”

  Landing Zone Street was one of the places Michael remembered from the drive, if only because of its strange name. But lunch wasn’t for another hour, which meant he had a huge chunk of time to kill. The time went by slowly.

  He spent twenty minutes sitting on the low stone wall surrounding the property, unsure whether to go inside the house or start for the café. Then it occurred to him it might be nice to explore the other houses on Silo Street.

  The trees and the cliffsides drowned the area in cool shade. Birds chirped all around him, and the gentle wind slipped through the trees like gushing water. It seemed so organic compared to the inhumane, mechanical cruelty of the sector in which he’d grown up.

  The other houses were just as impressive as the one he was staying in. At the end of the street, a pink two-story home with stucco walls and a brown-shingled rooftop drew his attention, though not because of its design or style. A girl emerged from the front door just as he was walking by. Hiding behind a tree, Michael studied her. She was the first Eastlander girl he had ever seen.

  She stopped on the front steps, surveying the yard. Michael could only make out the most basic details from this distance. Her hair, deep brown and sensuously thick, had been gathered in a loose bun, and she wore jeans and a collared blouse that failed to hide the significant curves of her body. Michael had always pictured Eastlander women as being skinny and malnourished. This one was the opposite, with a fullness that captivated him.

  He startled when he heard her voice.

  “William,” she called sharply. “Get over here now.”

  The woman—not really a girl at all—had rested her hands on her hips. She scanned the yard with an intensity that reminded Michael of the gun turrets built along the Line back home.

  A strange tingling sensation ignited inside his brain. Michael turned. A small boy stood in the street, watching him.

  Wiry with a fluffy mess of brown hair that matched the woman’s in color and thickness, he was squinting so deeply at Michael that his eyes were little more than slits.

  “Hey,” Michael said. “Are you William?”

  The boy only stared.

  “William,” the woman shouted, this time with both hands cupping her mouth. “I’m going to spank the wrath out of you if you don’t get over here right now!”

  The boy, no older than six, suddenly spun away and hobbled toward the house. He had a clubfoot, his orthopedic shoe a leathery, clunky thing that was obviously uncomfortable.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Michael said, smiling. He’d also been shy as a boy.

  Despite his disability, the boy scampered quickly onto the front steps of the pink house, where the woman stood with her arms crossed. When the boy arrived, he pointed at Michael. The woman squinted to see him in the distance.

  Michael tensed. He was about to leave when the woman waved to him. Awkwardly, he returned the gesture. He shouldn’t have stopped here at all.

  She said something to William before pointing into the house. William glanced back at Michael once more before clomping through the door. Relief softening her face now that the boy was safely inside, the woman let her arms drop to her sides and took hurried, confident strides across the yard.

 
As she came closer, Michael saw just how attractive and young she was—not a woman like he’d thought before, but a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Her full-lipped mouth had gathered into an indecisive pout, and her eyes—brown and darkly lashed—were narrowed in a way that made him wonder whether she was going to talk to him or smack him across the face.

  “Hi,” she said, coming to a stop at the edge of the property. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, even lifting them a bit as if they were too heavy to let hang on their own. Michael remained motionless on the paved road. “Are you one of Blake’s new boys?”

  “I’m just a new resident, that’s all.” Slipping his hands into his pockets, he rocked on his heels. “I just got here and—you know. From the People’s Republic?”

  Her mouth opened in awe, like he was famous and she had finally recognized him.

  “You’re a telepath,” she said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Blake only brings people here from the West if they’re telepathic.”

  Relaxing, Michael nodded. The girl was awestruck. “I’m a Type I, or something like that. According to Dominic.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, just details.

  “Well, you don’t have to brag about it.” She frowned. “Dominic’s back, huh? Swell.”

  Fear flashed through the girl’s mind like silent thunder, but then it was gone. Michael wasn’t sure how he’d picked up on it, but it most definitely had not been his imagination.

  “Anyway,” she said uncomfortably. “My name’s Charlotte.”

  “Michael.”

  Her posture shifted so she now looked extremely bored. There was a faint blush in her cheeks. Michael tore his eyes away from her, muttering the first thing that came to mind.

  “Almost lunchtime.”

  “Your shirt is on backward,” was her response. She gave him an arrogant smirk.

  “Huh?” Reaching up to the collar, he found the label in the front instead of the back. “I didn’t even notice.”