by Matt Stark
“Sam,” said Craig. “Buller is responsible for Lucy’s death. He has to die.”
Sam’s eyes went to Craig’s hand. His tensed index finger probably already had four pounds of pressure on the trigger. Seven would be enough if it was set light and nine if it was heavy. But either way Buller was going to die.
For some reason Peter’s saggy face flashed in his mind. He was smiling. The penny finally dropped. That bastard Peter had known about Lucy all along. From the minute he’d woke up in Regent’s Park Sam had been used. It had been one big con. Peter had used him against his own people, and hidden the truth about Lucy. Pain burned in his chest.
No! No! No!
Buller couldn’t die, because he knew who was responsible for Lucy’s death. Sam couldn’t let that knowledge die with him. He’d never find peace in this life now, but he could punish the bastards who’d hurt Lucy. And top of that list was Peter fucking Stone. He balled up his fists tight, his face twisted into a snarl. Rage coursed through his body. Undirected, unfocused, but powerful. And there was one thing that he knew rage did.
It triggered his ability.
Sam was suddenly alert and aware. More aware than he’d ever been. He could hear the watch on Craig’s wrist ticking, the buzz of a fly in the far corner of the room. His vision glowed like a TV with the colour and resolution dialled up to the max. And there was something else. A background hum, like the sound of a busy train station. Thoughts – that was it. It felt like a hundred people were talking in his head. He blinked, overwhelmed for a moment, before realizing he was hearing the thoughts of everyone in and around Number Ten. But the rage burning inside him wouldn’t let him be overwhelmed. It wanted revenge.
Everything was moving in slow motion. Sam could see Craig’s finger squeezing the Glock’s trigger millimetre by millimetre, and knew it was set heavy, otherwise Buller’s brains would already be on the floor. He had to stop Craig before it was too late.
Hoping that Jean wouldn’t shoot, Sam shouted, “Craig, no,” in a slow, oddly distorted voice.
Time had slowed to a crawl. Craig’s finger squeezed some more, taking the pressure toward the nine-pound threshold that would fire a bullet at 820 miles an hour through Buller’s skull. No! A surge of power rushed through Sam. He heard the air around him crackle. He didn’t understand what was happening. This was way more than telepathy. His body was coursing with energy. He felt like he could rip the room apart if he wanted. He felt like he could…
Suddenly Craig’s arm dropped; the Glock slipped from Buller’s head. Craig stood frozen, as did Buller and Jean – like three waxwork dummies. But Sam could barely see them. The power in him was growing and blinding him to anything beyond it. He hadn’t expected his ability to feel like this – so overwhelming, so impossible to control. He felt like he would explode. The image of Lucy’s brutalized body lying on that slab flashed in his mind over and over. Every time it did rage surged through him, feeding the power. He squeezed his hands either side of his head, trying to contain it.
Come on, Sam, make this count.
He had power now, but he had no idea how long it would last. He might only get one chance.
He walked over to Craig. The man’s face was slack, his eyes lifeless. Sam put two fingers on his neck and felt the slow throb of his carotid artery. He was alive then. Sam pushed his fingernail into Craig’s cheek, but Craig didn’t respond.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Did I do this?”
As if to remind him to not fuck about, Lucy’s face flashed in his mind. Anger flared and the energy inside him surged again. He slapped his hand on Buller’s bruised temple and closed his eyes. A mental movie started. Buller was meeting with Peter and the Home Secretary in his office. Peter was briefing them both on the post-human situation. Sam watched the movie play out in his mind’s eye, before breathing out a long breath. Buller didn’t know about the surgical procedures, or the One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest ward in Vauxhall House. He thought post-humans were the bad guys and Peter was King Arthur. They’d kept him out of the loop.
Sam’s fists clenched, making the air crackle. “Shit.”
Another bolt of power shot through him. It felt like he was jacked in to an electricity pylon. Somehow he brought it under control. He wanted to kill Buller, even though he knew nothing, because he represented the norms – the enemy. But he wouldn’t. The PM might be more use alive, as a hostage to trade for information. But right now he was useless. Craig had to know which sons of bitches were involved. Sam’s hand was halfway to Craig’s temple when the New Dawn leader opened his eyes.
He shook his head and blinked at Sam, looking like a bear just out of hibernation.
“Hey, what happened…?”
Sam grabbed him by the shoulders.
“I want their names.”
Craig licked his lips and swallowed. It took him a moment to reply. When he did his voice was hoarser than ever.
“What?”
Sam dug his fingers into Craig’s neck. Bruises appeared then almost immediately faded.
“I want to know the name of everyone involved with Lucy’s death. From the bastard that gave the order to the surgeon who did the cutting.”
Craig swallowed like he had a golf ball in his throat.
“Who do you think did it, Sam?”
Sam was done with playing games. He grabbed Craig with both hands and shook him.
“Craig, you son of a bitch, tell me.”
“Peter – Peter orchestrated the whole thing.”
Sam put Craig down. He was going to find Peter and kill him, slowly. But not before he forced out of him the names of every other bastard who was involved. He would hunt them down one by one and kill them. Then he could die.
Chapter 28
Before Sam could stop it a pulse of telekinetic power shot out from his fingertips, hurling Craig across the room. Craig hit the wall hard, and fell to the floor.
Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly, brimming with power, fed by his rage and by the image of Lucy’s dead body. He had to work out what to do next. But he couldn’t think straight with the maelstrom in and around him. The hostages huddled against the wall watched him with saucer eyes. He could hear their thoughts:
My God, what is he? He’s crazy. Is he going to kill us?
Sam didn’t have time to reassure them. He had his hands full trying not to blow Buller’s office apart. The floor was shaking now, sending tremors up the walls to the ceiling. The windows were rattling as if an express train were running overhead.
He felt a tingle in his fingertips and a bolt of electricity discharged next to his feet, burning a hole through to the floor below. Several of the hostages screamed. Sam wondered how much power was running through him. That bolt must have been thousands of watts. How could he contain that kind of power and not be harmed?
He looked at around Buller’s office. Craig was lying on the floor where he’d landed. Jean and Buller were still in the artificial coma Sam had induced. But everyone outside of his cocoon of power seemed unreal, as if he were looking through a glass pane.
He shook his head. His mind was wandering. He had to focus on getting out of here and finding Peter before he blew the building apart. As if to confirm his fears another shockwave of power burst through him, forcing his arms out rigid and his neck back. All of the windows in the room shattered, scattering glass in tiny fragments. Then bolt after bolt shot from his outstretched arms.
Crack.
An inch-wide, six-foot-high fracture appeared in the wall.
“Jesus, no,” Blondie screamed.
Sam took a deep ragged breath in. He had to get control of this power before it killed him and everyone around him. But just as he finished the thought another bolt crackled from his fingertips. When he looked at the wall again the crack gaped three inches wide. Steadily now the vibrations in the floor and walls grew more violent. Sam stood like a stone in the middle of the room – immune to all that was going on around him – but unable to co
ntrol it.
Sweat dripped down his neck.
Shit, I have to stop this.
A vase fell off the PM’s table and smashed onto the floor. And the cord holding a glass chandelier from the ceiling gave way. It crashed alongside the vase and shattered. The whole room vibrated. Sam stood with head up and arms held slightly out from his body. His body hummed with energy. The muscles in his face rippled as if he were standing in a wind tunnel. Pieces of the vase and fragments of the broken window circled around him, like moons orbiting a planet.
“Sam.”
Sam turned and saw Craig pulling himself onto his feet. Hitting the wall the way Craig did should have broken every bone in his body. Maybe it had.
As he watched Craig, Sam realized his power had escalated beyond control. He wasn’t going to get to Peter now. He probably wouldn’t get out of this room before it came tumbling down around his ears. Craig took an unsteady step forward.
“Sam!”
In his mind’s eye Sam saw his body self-destruct, taking Buller’s office, Number Ten and half of Downing Street with him. He hoped Peter would be caught in the explosion. The idea of that bastard’s getting away made him sick. The thought triggered another surge of power. Incandescent light arced out of him like he was a van de Graaff generator. He wondered how many thousand kilowatts of static electricity had built up in him.
Then he closed his eyes and gave in to the power he’d been battling with. As he did, his mouth dropped open, and he let out a long sigh. He was going to join Lucy.
A faint voice said, “Sam, no.”
He opened his eyes and saw Craig was walking toward him, bent forward as if he were up against a hurricane.
“Sam, you can’t do it.” The tendons in Craig’s neck corded each time he spoke, and Sam realized he was screaming. But he’d had enough of Craig. With a flick of his mind he threw him back against the wall.
The power in Sam surged. He imagined he heard a gleeful cackle, as it was set free. The crack in the wall split with a sickening crunch; four, five, six inches – then a foot wide. Rubble fell to the floor. The hostages who hadn’t passed out screamed. Then Sam heard five words that made his blood freeze:
Daddy, Daddy, don’t do it!
***
Sam did a double take – thinking he must have misheard. The maelstrom around him faltered for a moment. His anger was mixed with confusion now. And that more muddied emotion wasn’t such good fuel for his power – so it faltered. The shaking in the room lessened.
Sam listened hard but just heard the hostages:
“Is it stopping?” said Blondie.
“No, don’t be silly. This guy’s crazy. We’re all going to die,” replied Pink Perm.
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. He’d wanted to hear his dead daughter’s voice so much he’d hallucinated her. His mind had conjured it up for him. It had done so much already – one more party trick was no surprise.
But his power was fuelled by anger. And if he believed Lucy was alive wouldn’t he be less angry? He felt pretty stupid thinking about his ability like this, but it did feel as if it had a will of its own. So why would it conjure up a hallucination that would weaken it?
He listened again. He couldn’t stop himself. He’d never heard his daughter’s voice. He didn’t even know he had a daughter until a few minutes ago. But when he’d heard the words Daddy, Daddy he’d been sure it was her. No, it was his mind playing tricks on him, feeding him what he wanted to hear. His power was going through the roof. He was seeing things – flashbacks and memories, hearing people’s thoughts. It was all so overwhelming, he didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. But what he’d heard had to be the product of a desperate mind. He’d seen Lucy lying on a mortuary table – hadn’t he?
He ducked his head and ran his hand through his hair. She’d been wearing Suzie’s necklace. But he had to be sure.
With a flick of his mind he threw Craig against the wall and pinned him there, spread-eagled like a six-foot beetle on its back. Then he ran over and grabbed his throat.
“Is she alive? Tell me the truth, or I swear to God I’ll pull your head clean off.”
Beads of sweat rolled down Craig’s face. He seemed to be struggling to speak.
“She’s dead, Sam. You know that,” he finally gasped.
“Then how come I just heard her voice?”
Craig’s brow furrowed. “You heard what?”
He couldn’t trust Craig, but had to tell him what he’d heard, if he wanted the truth about Lucy. He loosened his grip on Craig’s throat.
“I heard her.”
Craig’s face took on a look of pity.
“She’d dead, my friend. You saw her body.”
“She just spoke to me.”
“No, Sam, she didn’t. Lucy is gone. You can’t do anything to get her back now. But what you can do is get justice for her. We can do it together. “
Sam glared at him.
“Work with us. We’re your people, and with your power we can wipe the norms out.”
Sam released Craig, and blew out a breath. Craig was right. He’d imagined Lucy’s voice because he didn’t want to believe she was dead. But she was. Peter had killed her, and the man standing in front of him with his scraggly hair and wild beard could help him make Peter pay. And he very much wanted to make that bastard pay.
He’d work with Craig and Jean, dig out every sorry son of a bitch involved with Lucy’s death, and the persecution of the other post-humans, and make each one pay. He’d…
Daddy, Daddy. It’s me, Lucy.
Chapter 29
Sam froze.
This time he was sure. It was Lucy. She was alive. Craig had lied to him. He would deal with Craig, but not now. He had no idea how long the connection would last, and had to make the time count. Turning away from Craig he closed his eyes. Then he realized he didn’t know how to reply. He’d only ever heard thoughts before, not transmitted them. He guessed he just said the words in his mind. Feeling stupid he tried it.
Are you okay, honey?
Yes, Daddy.
The answer came back immediately, so loud it made Sam wince. It was like Lucy was shouting into his mind. He didn’t care. All he felt was immense relief. But she must have picked up on his discomfort.
Daddy, did I hurt you?
No, honey. You’re just a little loud.
Okay, Daddy.
He breathed out, and let the rigid muscles in his neck relax a fraction, still not really able to believe he was having a telepathic conversation with the daughter he thought was dead a few seconds ago. He wanted to ask her a hundred questions, but there wasn’t time. There was no telling when he’d lose this connection, or if he’d ever get it back again. His priority was to find her.
Where are you?
I don’t know.
He blew out a breath.
Tell me what you can see.
It’s dark.
For the first time she sounded scared. Sam was about to ask why, when his heart started thudding in his chest. At first he thought he was just panicking, then realized it wasn’t him panicking but Lucy. He was absorbing her fear – she was transmitting it to him telepathically. Up till now when he read people’s minds their thoughts were somehow separate from his – like he was listening to a radio. But Lucy’s came from a point halfway between his ears. If they didn’t have the intonation and cadence of a ten-year-old girl, he would have sworn they were his own. Unfortunately he also experienced Lucy’s emotions directly. He’d known what Suzie, Serina and Irfan were feeling, as a kind of background to their thinking. But Lucy’s emotions flooded his mind. And right now because she was scared shitless, so was he. He had to calm her down, or he wouldn’t be able to get through the next few minutes, let alone help her.
It’s okay, Lucy. I’m here, he thought, trying to transmit confidence, and hoping the emotional transfer would work both ways. I need you to stay calm, so I can find you. Is that okay?
I
guess. She didn’t sound convinced, but was less scared. He felt his heart rate slowing down.
What can you see?
I told you, it’s dark. I can’t see anything.
Suddenly Sam’s mind went into overdrive. Had the sons of bitches done something to her? Or maybe the surgery had damaged her vision – maybe she was blind.
Lucy – why can’t you see?
The man switched off the light and closed the blinds.
He felt a surge of relief for a brief moment, then for some reason an image of Lucy on the mortuary table flashed in his mind. He cursed, feeling the power surge in him again, and only just managing to bring it back under control. This emotional roller coaster was no good. He’d had no idea being a parent would make him feel like this. And being all over the place wouldn’t help Lucy. He was supposed to be a trained intelligence agent and a post-human with superhuman powers, not an emotional wreck.
He pinched the bridge of his nose hard. He had to get a grip. Power still coursed through him. It was eager to act, and Sam felt it pushing him on, cajoling him to use it. He could kill any of the people in the room with a flick of his mind. But what good would that do him? Right now the only thing that mattered was his link with Lucy. He had to focus on that, and try to keep a lid on the power inside him.
He should be concentrating on finding where Lucy was. But the image of her in the mortuary had reminded him of something. Her death might have been fake, but his gut told him it was her on the video. Someone had made it look like she was dead. But had they faked the scar as well? He had to know.
Clenching his jaw, he sent the thought:
Did they hurt you?
No.
He licked his lips.
Did anyone do anything to you?
A pause, then… I don’t understand, Daddy.
Sam swallowed his throat dry. How could he ask his daughter if she’d had brain surgery?
Reach up to your head and let me know what you find.
