The Ascension: A Super Human Clash

by Michael Carroll

  The sergeant smoothly got to his feet, still holding the gun on her. “I’m an expert marksman. If I wanted to, I could shoot off your ears in tiny chunks, one at a time. Now drop the bow.”

  Abby opened her hand, and the bow clattered to the ground.

  Then a shadow passed over her, and another, and a third. She glanced up to see that three of the large flying craft were hovering overhead, and from each one half a dozen soldiers were rapidly descending on steel cables. Another two were hovering nearby on jetpacks that were disturbingly similar to Paragon’s.

  Within seconds Abby was surrounded, the red dots from the soldiers’ laser sights settling on her head and torso.

  “Hands on your head,” the sergeant said. “Get down on your knees. Do it!”

  Abby did as she was told. They won’t shoot me until they know who I am, she hoped.

  The sergeant holstered his handgun and strode toward her, stopping ten feet away. In his right hand he held a small communicator. “Control, we got her. We’re taking her in. She’s strong, fast. Almost certainly superhuman. Contact the inquisition and prepare the vault.”

  She heard footsteps approaching her from behind. Then strong gloved hands grabbed her arms, pulled them down and behind her back. She felt the cold steel of handcuffs on her wrists, heard the ratcheting clicks as they were locked into place.

  To the other soldiers, the sergeant said, “Don’t take your aim off her—not for a second. She’s not human. She took down my Raptor with a bow and arrow.”

  Abby watched the man as he began to circle around her. “You raise a lot of questions, kid…. Who are you? Who are you working for?”

  “No one.”

  “Don’t lie to me, girl. I want to know who you’re working for, and how they recruited you. How many others in your cell? Who trained you? Where are they based?”

  “I’m not working for anyone,” Abby said, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. “I’m an independent operative.”

  Then a slight grin appeared on the sergeant’s face, and he leaned closer still. “I know who you are,” he said softly. “Don’t know why it never occurred to me before. Everyone assumes he’s a man, but there’s no reason that underneath all that bulky armor he couldn’t be a girl. A perfect disguise. It all makes sense now. It explains why we were never able to find you. But the speed you moved at, your strength, your obvious experience, the custom-built weapon…”

  Abby frowned. “What?”

  “Don’t try to deny it. You’ve been waging your one-man war against the state for years. How many of us have you killed? Got to be more than a thousand by now, right? Not to mention billions of dollars’ worth of damage. And look at you now. Without your armor and weapons you’re just a scared little girl.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do. You’re the biggest security threat in the entire country. The last surviving superhuman to oppose Krodin’s rule. You’re the one who killed a hundred thousand people in Anchorage. You’re Daedalus.”

  CHAPTER 12

  IN THE FURNACE ROOM of the tenement building Solomon Cord had been tied facedown to a large, heavy wooden table. Only his head was free to move, and even then he couldn’t raise it more than a couple of inches.

  The two men in apartment 2C had overpowered him with almost embarrassing ease. With Cord distracted by the man with the gun, the one at the door had grabbed the knife from Cord’s belt.

  They had beaten him and dragged his semiconscious body down to the basement, strapped him to the table, gagged him with a rag that tasted of oil, and left.

  And now the door at the top of the short flight of stairs crashed open. Heavy footsteps descended.

  A man said, “Interesting…Close the door behind me. Don’t want the screams to travel too far.”

  Cord heard the man walk around the table, saw the toes of dust-covered black work boots. A strong hand pulled the rag from Cord’s mouth. Cord coughed and spat to try to clear the bitter taste.

  “I’m going to ask you three times,” the man said. “Who are you? Praetorian?”

  “Definitely not,” Cord said. “I’m guessing you’re not either—which means we’re on the same side. Let me go and I’ll explain everything.”

  “Who are you? Resistance?”

  “You could say that. But we’re not affiliated with any other groups. I’m sure you know what happened outside—the girl with the bow. She’s with me. Did she get away?”

  “She shot the Praetorian. She escaped. And we’ve just heard she managed to take down one of their Raptors—alone. What is she, superhuman?”

  “Yes.”

  The man exhaled an angry grunt. “Unity has four thousand fighters and bombers ready to launch, eighty nuclear subs moving into position around the U.S. We are this close to getting rid of Krodin, and now you people show up and put the Praetorians on full alert!” He leaned closer. “Now I’m going to ask you for the last time. Do you understand what that means? If you don’t tell me what I want to hear…they’ll never find your body. Or at least, not all of it.”

  Cord nodded as well as he was able. “I understand.”

  “Who are you?”

  What do I tell him? That somehow the whole world has changed and only a handful of us know about it? That we come from a reality where Krodin died and most of the world never even heard of him?

  “Very well,” the man said. “If it’s any consolation, I won’t enjoy this. I just happen to be very good at it.”

  Cord winced as something sharp pressed into the flesh of his left arm. “My name is Solomon Cord. I’m not a Praetorian. I’ve come here to take down Chancellor Krodin. I know how to do it—I’ve done it before.”

  The man pulled away, was silent for a moment. Then he crouched down and peered at Cord’s face. “I don’t believe it….”

  The man was in his fifties, strong features, unshaven, a receding hairline. He stank of stale sweat and raw onions. “You are Solomon Cord.”

  “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Heard of you? We spent two years trying to figure a way to get to you. Krodin had you locked up so securely we thought you’d never see daylight again. How’d you get out?”

  “Cut me loose and I’ll tell you.”

  The man frowned. “What? You’ve just given us a gift, Cord. If the invasion fails, we can use you against Krodin. Why would we cut you loose? You’re a hostage.”

  In a gray concrete prison cell two floors below ground level in Northlands police station, Fairview, Lance McKendrick let the thin mattress drop back onto the uncomfortable wooden bunk fixed to the wall.

  Aside from the bunk the cell contained only a sink with one faucet—cold—and a toilet with no lid or seat.

  Officer Ashton had handcuffed him in Principal Mailer’s office, marched him out to the front of the school, and radioed for backup. Less than two minutes later a blue-and-gold-colored patrol car had pulled up, and Lance was bundled into the back and driven to Northlands precinct. He was immediately brought to the cell, his cuffs were removed, the barred door was slammed shut, and he was left alone.

  At first he’d tried calling for attention, loudly protesting his innocence, but no one had come.

  Now, after what felt like hours of nothing but silence punctuated by the echoes of his own voice, he heard keys rattling in a lock at the far end of the long corridor, then the loud squeal of the barred door being pushed open.

  Lance quickly pulled up his socks, walked up to the bars, and pressed his head against them. To the right he saw two people approaching, alternately lit and in shadow as they passed under the ceiling’s bare low-powered bulbs: a sullen gray-haired guard who stopped ten yards from the cell, and a slim woman with thick glasses and long hair in a tight ponytail who stopped on the other side of the bars.

  “At last! I thought you were going to keep me here forever!”

  The woman peered over her glasses at the copy of the arrest form in her hand. “Lanc
elot Aaron McKendrick?”

  He nodded. “Are you my lawyer?”

  “My name is Sheridan Pendlebury. I’m your court-appointed counsel.”

  “OK. So…Is that like a lawyer, then?”

  “I’m here to advise you of your rights. Pay attention.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She cleared her throat and began to read from the arrest form. “Lancelot Aaron McKendrick, you have been charged with and arrested for the crime of knowingly providing false information to an officer of the law. By willingly committing this act you have chosen to forsake all standard rights and privileges accorded to a citizen.”

  “What? But—”

  She cut him off. “You have been granted a period of five minutes of this officer’s time to present your plea against automatic conviction. If this officer believes that your conviction should be upheld, you will be taken to a juvenile detention center where you will be incarcerated for a period of two hundred and forty days.”

  “No, listen…!”

  Ms. Pendlebury raised her hand. “However, should this officer feel that there are grounds for appeal, you will be appointed an attorney and be granted a trial.” She looked at her watch. “You may begin.”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong!” I’ll find a way out of this, Lance thought. They’ll have to give me a phone call or something. Mom and Dad can bail me out.

  “As the charge states, you lied to an officer of the law. You informed him that you are a student at Martin Van Buren High School when you knew this not to be the case. You are in fact currently enrolled at Rutherford B. Hayes High School and have been so ever since your expulsion from Martin Van Buren High eighteen months ago.”

  “No, look…I never told the cop that I go to Martin Van Buren! I just said I was going to school. He must have just assumed that’s where I go to school because I’m in that district and that’s where he went. Ask him yourself. Ask the principal. He brought me there and I’m walking along the corridor thinking, ‘Why’s he bringing me here?’ but I didn’t ask him because, y’know, I was scared.”

  “You attest that you did not deliberately mislead the officer and that his arrest was in error?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. But I’m not blaming him. Not really. See, from what the principal said I think he had a pretty bad time when he was there, so it was probably on his mind. Not his fault—he’s only human, and we’re all allowed to make mistakes, right?”

  “Wrong. However, as there is no record of your conversation with Officer Ashton, I believe that there are grounds for appeal.”

  For the first time in hours, Lance relaxed. “Yes!” He sagged against the bars. “So you’re going to let me out?”

  “Mr. McKendrick, please understand that you have not been found innocent. It is merely that your statements have earned you the opportunity to present your case in a court of law. Until that time you will remain incarcerated.”

  “Oh man…OK, then you need to phone my mom and dad, get them to post bail.”

  “Bail? I don’t…Mr. McKendrick, I don’t know where you think you’re living. This is America, not some backward European state with an outdated judicial system! We do not have bail. You have been arrested and are awaiting arraignment. Why would we allow suspects back onto the streets where they could potentially re-offend or even abscond?”

  Lance backed away from the cell door, shaking his head. “No. No way! People are supposed to be considered innocent until proven guilty! What kind of insane world are you people running?”

  She raised an admonishing finger. “Be warned: Criticism of the law implies criticism of the state. That’s sedition, Mr. McKendrick. A mandatory sentence of five years minimum to be appended to any existing or pending sentences.”

  Lance dry-swallowed. This can’t be happening! “I want to see my parents.”

  “That is not permitted at this time. I think we are finished here.”

  “What…What happens now?”

  “You will shortly be issued a temporary uniform. Your clothing and other personal effects will be placed into storage. You will be given a blanket, which is to be returned at the end of your stay here. The cost of any damage caused to the blanket or your uniform or any part of your cell—other than standard and acceptable wear and tear—will be deducted from your salary.”

  “Salary? But I don’t have a job.”

  “Every convict or suspect is expected to work for no less than nine hours per day, tasks to be appointed by the Department of Incarceration. For each hour you work you will earn fifteen cents, minus six cents custody tax. Your work will begin this evening at twenty-hundred hours and terminate at oh-five-hundred hours.”

  “I have to work through the night? You say all that like it’s supposed to make sense.”

  “I already warned you once about—”

  “Sorry. You’re right.”

  “Prisoners working for the state do so outside the hours of curfew so as to minimize the impact on the law-abiding community.” The woman signaled to the guard. “Prepare the accused for processing.”

  The guard flicked through a large bundle of keys as he approached. “Move to the far wall and turn around. Stand feet apart at shoulder width. Place your hands flat on the wall at head height, arms stretched out.”

  Lance did as he was told and heard the keys turning in the lock. The barred door slid open, and he felt the guard’s hands on his shoulders.

  He tried not to flinch as the guard quickly and expertly frisked him.

  What if they give me some hack lawyer and I lose the trial? He shuddered. No, that won’t happen. It’s the cop’s word against mine. And I can get Mrs. Mailer to be a witness for me—maybe if she says the same stuff in court that she said to the cop, I can argue that he arrested me only because he was angry with her.

  “He’s clean,” the guard said.

  Lance turned around and shrugged. “I could have told you that.”

  As the guard left the cell and relocked the door, Ms. Pendlebury said, “Your evening meal will be delivered in approximately one hour. After that, I advise you to get some rest, Mr. McKendrick. You will have a long night ahead of you.”

  “Aren’t I entitled to a phone call or something?”

  The woman looked at him as though she had never heard of the concept. “No.”

  When the door at the end of the corridor squealed shut once more, Lance sat back down on the bunk. He slumped forward, head down and forearms on his knees.

  He remained in that position, barely moving, until Pendlebury and the guard returned. The woman told him that his day in court was scheduled for two days from tomorrow. Speaking softly, Lance nodded and thanked her for the information. He accepted the thin blanket and orange one-piece uniform the guard passed to him without looking either of them in the eye.

  She turned her back as he quickly stripped off his outer clothes and put on the uniform, and then he wordlessly passed his clothes out through the bars to the guard.

  When they left once more, Lance returned to his bunk and lay down on his side with his back to the door and the blanket pulled over him.

  Lance didn’t know whether there were any cameras in the cells. He hadn’t spotted any, but they could be concealed. So he kept his hands hidden as much as possible. It was important that, to anyone watching, he looked as though he had given up, as though he had been beaten by the system. For that to work he had to shield his hands from view so they wouldn’t see him slip them under the mattress and remove the slim cloth-wrapped bundle.

  Moving very slowly and carefully to avoid drawing any more attention to himself, Lance removed his right sneaker and sock and slipped the bundle inside. He was sure that he’d be frisked again at eight in the evening when they took him out to begin his night’s work, and he hoped that the guard wouldn’t search him too closely.

  When the guard had locked the door behind him, Lance had taken a good look at the lock. He’d already seen the guard’s keys, and seeing the lock it
self had confirmed his guess. The lock was a Model 8 Fordingbridge, considered absolutely unpickable without the right tools.

  Tucked inside his right sock were the right tools: Lance’s homemade tension wrench and half-diamond pick.

  Having lowered his cocoon of silence, James stared openmouthed at the devastation in front of him. A Praetorian vehicle was in the middle of Main Street, its front end half buried under huge irregular slabs of asphalt and tons of gray bedrock and brown dirt.

  Overhead three more craft were hovering, and next to the downed vehicle more than a dozen men were aiming their weapons at a small, dark-skinned teenage girl.

  Abby! James began to run. He hadn’t seen or even spoken to Abby since they’d returned home from the battle at Windfield, but even without her homemade armor and sword there was no mistaking her.

  And now she was in trouble. Big trouble, by the looks of things. She was on her knees, hands cuffed behind her back, facing a soldier wearing sergeant’s stripes.

  He was only thirty yards away now: He’d blocked the sound of his footsteps from reaching the soldiers, but at any moment one of them would spot him.

  James let loose a narrow-band low-frequency sonic blast, directed it at one of the flying soldiers. The man’s jetpack suddenly sparked and shuddered. He clutched his helmet and screamed. As his colleagues looked on in bewilderment, the man crashed to the ground and started desperately scrabbling at his helmet.

  “Get it off! Get it off! The noise—it’s killing me!”

  Two of the other soldiers moved to help him, and James hit them both with similar blasts, knocking them off their feet. Then he directed his voice to Abby. “Run. Now!”

  He saw Abby look around, confused. “It’s me, Abby. Thunder. Coming up on your left. Get out of there—I can’t blast them all.”

  Abby tensed her arms, snapped the cuffs binding her wrists, and threw herself at the sergeant. She slammed her fist into his stomach with enough force to lift him off the ground, then—using him as a shield—rushed at two of the other soldiers, knocking them aside like bowling pins.