“Your opinions have little value, Slaughter. Do not waste my time with them. The early completion of the power plant forced our hand. There was superhuman interference?”
“Maxwell Dalton and his sister, then two others. Both in their early teens. Dalton has been incapacitated.”
The old woman paused. “This is not expected.” Another pause. “I see. These children—could they pose a threat?”
“It’s unlikely. They have very little experience.”
“Unlikely, but not impossible. You will disable them.”
“As you wish,” Slaughter said.
Again, the woman paused as though she were listening to a voice no one else could hear. “There is another matter. A human boy witnessed the capture of Marcus by Paragon and later broke into the warehouse in Fairview. We believe he may have stolen information that could undo our plans. The boy is with Paragon now. His name is Lance McKendrick. You will find him and kill him.”
CHAPTER 13
Inside the cramped FBI operations truck, Lance leaned back in the padded swivel chair. He felt like he’d been telling the same story for hours. Do they think I’m lying; is that it? “I was running for my life. They were shooting at me.”
Colonel Morgan looked away from Lance and cleared his throat. “We don’t have time for this, Paragon. What makes you think there’s a connection with the attack here?”
“Because Lance said that the men in the warehouse talked about their plans being moved forward.” Paragon had his back to them. On a desk in front of him was the stolen jetpack. He had removed its cover and was doing something to the circuits inside. Over his shoulder he added, “Could be just a coincidence that the power plant was finished ahead of schedule, but . . .” He stopped what he was doing and turned to face the colonel. “Two secret organizations discovered on the same day? We have to assume there’s a connection—and we don’t have much else to go on. Lance, is there anything else you can remember that might be useful? Sure they didn’t call each other by name?”
“Not that I remember.” He yawned. “When can I go home?”
“That’s not up to me,” Paragon said. He returned his attention to the jetpack. “Kid, you’re lucky to be alive. I’m not even sure how those guys managed to get this thing to fly at all. The afterburner control looks like it was put together by someone working in the dark and wearing boxing gloves. This thing is a death trap.”
Lance looked at the colonel. “Am I under arrest?”
“No. You’re helping us with our investigation.” The colonel sighed, and rubbed his neck. “From the top, Lance. . . . The only name they mentioned was Marcus, you said.”
Lance began to swivel back and forth in the chair. “Yep. One guy said something about how the plan was a wash-out if the cops could get Marcus to talk, and the other guy said something about how they’re going to be in big trouble.” He stopped swiveling and slightly chewed on his lower lip while he tried to remember the men’s exact words.
The most important skill when running a con wasn’t sleight of hand but the art of cold-reading, the ability to instantly evaluate a mark and pick up on tiny clues about his or her personality. Lance had practiced this over and over: He was now almost always able to tell just how far he could push someone. The key to cold-reading was observation: watching and listening.
Now, Lance felt certain that back at the warehouse he had heard and dismissed something vital. OK, think. . . . What was it they said? A mixed metaphor—one of the guys said something and got it wrong. . . . Lead bricks, that was it! “‘Like a ton of lead bricks,’” Lance said aloud.
He looked up to see the colonel’s puzzled face staring back. “What?”
“Yeah. As if a ton of lead bricks is going to be any heavier than a ton of ordinary bricks. That’s why that stood out. One of them said, ‘If the cops find this place with us still in it, The Helotry are gonna come down on us like a ton of lead bricks.’ ”
“You’re certain?” Paragon asked.
Lance nodded. “Yep. I knew I’d heard that word before.”
“So it’s the same people,” Colonel Morgan said. “There’s more than a few secret organizations around, and the FBI always knows at least something about them. But that’s not the case with The Helotry. We’ve never even heard of them before. Which makes them potentially very dangerous. Anything you can tell us will help.”
Lance shrugged.
“All right, Lance, let’s start again at the beginning,” Colonel Morgan said. “You were walking home when you heard the car, right?”
“Oh, come on! How many times do we have to go over this? Look, I’ve told you all I know. Now you tell me. What’s going on?”
Without looking up from his work, Paragon said, “Colonel, I think you should tell him.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the colonel said, “One of the terrorists said something. Most of them have remained absolutely tight-lipped, but this one guy . . . He was in a lot of pain—shot in the shoulder by one of his colleagues, apparently—and the medics had to put him under to operate. He started to talk before the anesthetic knocked him out. He said, ‘We’re bringing him back. We’re bringing back the Fifth King.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
The colonel shrugged. “We’re not completely sure. I consulted with a colleague who has a Ph.D. in history—he said that the Fifth King was a warrior from somewhere around the Mediterranean who lived over four thousand years ago. He was said to be a demigod, stronger than a hundred men, able to run faster than a horse. No one knows where he came from, but according to my colleague he once fought for the Assyrian empire and defeated an entire Egyptian army almost single-handedly. His followers called themselves The Helotry of the Fifth King and they worshipped him as a god. His real name is long forgotten, but some scholars—my friend included—think that his story was later absorbed into the legend of Gilgamesh.”
“Gilgamesh? My history teacher said—”
Colonel Morgan held up his hand. “Much of Egypt is desert now, but there’s some evidence to suggest that it was all once a thriving, fertile land. That ties in with the stories of the Fifth King. After he defeated the Egyptian army, he took control of the survivors and marched on Egypt. They burned down the forests, poisoned the fields, slaughtered most of the population. He established himself as the ruler of Egypt and Assyria. His goal was to enslave the whole world. He probably would have succeeded too, but something stopped him. There are conflicting legends about that. Some of them say that his arrogance had angered the gods and they banished him to the underworld as punishment. Others say that his own son—or maybe his nephew—killed him in his sleep. One legend has it that he was consumed in a pillar of fire. Another claims he was turned to stone and imprisoned inside one of the Egyptian pyramids.”
Lance said, “Could he have been a superhuman?”
“That’s what we’re thinking. That’s if he ever really existed—there’s no firm evidence. But even if he didn’t exist, it’s likely that The Helotry think he did. Lance, there’s nothing more dangerous than a religious fanatic. According to our research, one of the Fifth King’s methods was to sneak plague victims into his enemies’ cities—some of his followers even volunteered to be infected—then when the plague began to spread, the rest of his warriors would swarm into the cities and slaughter everyone left who was capable of fighting.”
“And now this flu thing is everywhere. . . .” Lance thought about this. “Maybe . . . Maybe the Fifth King was the first superhuman, the distant ancestor of all the others. If The Helotry are trying to bring him back to life, it could be that they released the plague because they don’t want any other superhumans to be as powerful as he is.” He stared at the colonel. “Your nose is running.”
Morgan wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Aw no. . . . Two-thirds of my men are sick already.” His whole body convulsed with a violent sneeze, and when he looked up, Lance saw that his eyes were bloodshot and his face had gone pale
.
Paragon pushed open the door. “We need a medic in here!” To Lance, he said, “Get out.” He picked up a flashlight and tossed it to him. “Go into the middle of that field and wait there until I come for you. Now, Lance!”
Lance grabbed his backpack and dashed between Paragon and the colonel. He leaped from the truck and scrambled over the fence.
He’d never been out of the city at night before, and once he’d left the glare of the portable spotlights, the darkness seemed to wrap around him like a thick blanket. He switched on the flashlight. The beam swayed and juddered as he ran.
He slowed to a stop after a couple of minutes and looked back. Soldiers were running toward the FBI truck and Paragon was bellowing orders at them.
I could be infected too. He practically sneezed all over me! Lance remembered a teacher telling him that when the symptoms showed up, the infected person was no longer contagious. Was that the flu, or just a cold? Is it even true, or just one of those things that people always say?
A few minutes later, Paragon flew over the field, the down-thrust from his jetpack leaving a wide circle in the grass as he touched down. “More than three-quarters of them are infected now, Lance. And we’ve checked with CDC—they’re getting reports from all over the world.”
“CDC?” Lance asked.
“The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. They have the facilities to monitor things like this. Their experts are saying that it’s definitely an artificial virus, but they’ve never seen anything quite like it. They figure it could take weeks just to unravel its RNA and create a vaccine. The only positive news is that the virus doesn’t appear to be immediately fatal.” Paragon hesitated for a moment. “Lance, I have to leave you here. I know that so far the virus is infecting only adults, but we can’t take that risk. I’ve contacted Roz Dalton. She’s going to pick you up. She’s also going to get in touch with Thunder and Abby. They’ll take care of you.”
Lance stepped closer, and stared up at his reflection in Paragon’s visor. “What about you?”
“I’ve got a place not too far from here. I’m going straight there now. I’ve got it too, Lance. I started feeling the effects a few minutes ago.”
Lance dry-swallowed. “But . . .”
“For all we know, Roz, Abby, and Thunder are the only superhumans who haven’t been infected. It’ll be up to you four to find out who created the virus.”
For a moment, Lance was silent, then he took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Why me? I mean, I’m just ordinary.”
“Ordinary? No, you’re not. You’re resourceful, and you’ve got guts. Heck, you rode a jet-propelled bike for almost two hundred miles and managed to stay on. Not many people could do something like that. I know you don’t have any superhuman abilities, but then neither do I. I have to go, Lance. Pretty soon I won’t have the strength to stand. Tell Roz everything I told you, OK?”
“Wait! Paragon, I need to know more! That guy who crashed his car—why were you chasing him in the first place?”
“The jetpack they built . . .” Paragon’s voice was weakening. “They did a few test flights ten days ago and were spotted by a military satellite. I was told about it, went looking for them. The fuel is a combination of dinitrogen tetroxide and ultra-concentrated hydrogen peroxide, compressed into a viscous liquid. When the jetpack is active it leaves a faint trace that can be detected if you know what to look for. I spent the past week checking out every place in Fairview where the jetpack could have been built. My scanner picked up traces of the fuel on that guy’s car. Enough to let me know that he was involved.” Paragon swayed slightly once more. “I just . . . I didn’t know who these people were. I just wanted to talk to them. You know. Talk shop. That was all. And then he saw me coming and made a run for it. That’s when I knew . . .” His shoulders sagged. “I’ve got to . . .”
Lance nodded. “I know. Go. I’ll talk to Roz.”
Paragon wished him luck, then took a few steps back and activated his jetpack. He roared into the air and left Lance standing in the field. Alone.
CHAPTER 14
4,491 years ago . . .
The throne room was enormous, immaculate, glorious. Visitors first noticed the polished obsidian floor inlaid with intricate gold patterns around its borders. Then their attention was drawn to the twenty-three white tree trunks on each of the room’s three sides. Curious, the visitors would approach the trunks and reach out to touch them, only to feel not warm bark but cold, hard marble. Then they would look up and gape openmouthed at the exquisitely painted ceiling.
The painting showed five scenes. In the center, Lord Krodin—rendered almost true to life—stood with his sword in his left hand, and the world in his right. The surrounding images showed Krodin slaying the kings of Egypt, Assyria, Sumeria, and Khamazi.
And then the visitors would look to the center of the room. Seventeen wide steps led up to the dais on which the throne itself rested. The throne had been carved from a single piece of oak. It was taller than a man and wider than his outstretched arms, polished smooth and black, inlaid with thumb-sized rubies and emeralds.
Krodin rarely used the throne. It had been built to his exact specifications, but the carpenter—an annoying but talented man—had been very pleased with his work, and Krodin didn’t like the humans to have a pride in their work that was stronger than their devotion to their leader. So when the carpenter was present, Krodin would often sit on the top step to the left of the throne as he conducted the matters of his empire.
But today he had chosen to stand among his people on the main floor. His advisers—most Egyptian, some Assyrian, some Greek, and one each from Thule and Iberia—waited in turn to impart their news and receive their instructions.
The senior adviser—the former Egyptian general called Imkhamun—ushered forward a slender young woman dressed in white robes. “Envoy Alexandria of Assyria, Lord.”
Alexandria bowed as she approached. “Lord Krodin, I bring news from Assyria.”
The woman had flawless ebony skin and pale blue eyes that would not look into his.
“Raise your head, Alexandria. Speak to my face, not my feet.”
With some hesitancy she said, “Lord. Our forces will reach Harappa within the week. But our scouts inform us that the people of the Indus have tripled their defenses. They are said to have powerful engines of war, metal dragons that can breathe devastating pillars of flame.”
“I have heard of such things,” Krodin said. “Their dragons use a flammable liquid extracted from the black oil beneath the Arabian sands. But the engines are large, cumbersome. A score of men is required to move them into position.” He thought for a moment. “Under a flag of truce you will send a small party—a dozen men, no more—into the Indus’ camp. They will offer the commanders ten thousand slaves in exchange for one of the dragons.”
The woman nodded. “As you say, Lord, it will be done.”
“The Indus are not fools, and will not accept the offer. But they will be boastful. They will display their dragons’ great power. That is when our armies will strike—when the dragons have breathed their fire and their steel bellies are empty. The dragons are to be destroyed.”
Alexandria bowed once more, and backed away into the crowd.
A large, pale-skinned, bearded man approached. Krodin recognized him as Ambassador Heriko. The man’s knowledge of the Assyrian and Egyptian languages was poor, but he was said to be the greatest warrior in all the Northern Lands. He was almost a head taller than Krodin, broad across the shoulders and with arms thicker than a normal man’s legs.
Despite the heat of the afternoon, Heriko was dressed as always in his layers of leather and fur. A wooden shield was slung across his back and a heavy sword hung from his belt. “Heriko bring news to you, Lord Krodin. The warriors of Germania did greet our envoy with smiles but returned only their lifeless bodies. They warn that Germania will never weaken before your power.”
Krodin raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?
Ambassador, you will send word to our forces in the North that Germania and its outposts are to be left alone for now.”
“As you say, Lord Krodin.”
“One thousand of your men will disguise themselves as Germanians and sail to the kingdoms of Albion. Lay waste to the land, but kill only one man out of every three.”
“Lord, with ease the warriors of Heriko’s land could—”
Krodin raised his left hand, and Heriko fell silent. “I am sure that they could. But enough of Albion’s men must be left alive to wage war on Germania.”
Ambassador Heriko nodded. “As you say, Lord Krodin. But—”
“Twice you would contradict me, Ambassador Heriko?”
The ambassador’s heavy brow furrowed. “Lord?”
“I do not like that. Remove your sword from its sheath.”
The other ambassadors, envoys, and servants formed a wide, murmuring circle as Heriko slowly withdrew his heavy, double-edged sword.
“You northern warriors claim to fear nothing, not even death. Let us put that to the test. Fall on your sword.”
Heriko lowered his sword, resting its point on the floor. With his free hand he scratched at his beard as he stared at Krodin.
“Do you not understand?” Krodin asked. “Or do you hesitate out of cowardice?”
The scratching stopped. “Heriko fears nothing,” the man said. He stepped closer to Krodin, looked down at him. “Not even the little king all others fear.”
Without taking his eyes off the warrior, Krodin said, “Imkhamun. Show this man your hand.”
The Egyptian shuffled forward, and raised his right hand so that Heriko could see the scarred stump where he once had a thumb.
Krodin said to Heriko, “Fall on your sword. If you do not, I will kill you myself. Then I will remove your thumbs. Your people believe that a warrior must do battle with demons to gain entry to the Hall of the Slain, but a man without thumbs cannot hold a weapon.”
Super Human Page 10
