Storm Forged

by Patrick Dugan

  “Guys, we are going to rescue Cyclone Ranger.”

  25

  “What? Are you nuts?” The chorus of voices chimed in after my grand announcement.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but they would never expect it, and it would let the Gifted see there is hope,” I said, glancing around at my friends. “Look, we can’t just sit by while they murder the most powerful Gifted. We have our Gifts now; we can use them for good.”

  Jon snorted. “It’s a suicide mission, but you have fun, Tommy.” He balanced on the back of the armchair, his normal roost.

  Marcel punched up the remote display, and all the chairs rotated toward the main TV. The sound boomed through the room as the mute came off. “Don’t get all triggered. If he don’t fight better, there’s no use getting salty.” Abby leaned forward with an intensity that scared me a bit, devouring chips at an alarming rate.

  Marcel had it right. Three turrets slid up from the floor, firing a stream of bullets, the casings clattering to the floor like rain on a tin roof. The guns centered on concrete pillars supported by metal poles, allowing them to swivel. Farley dived behind a concrete wall. Dad tried to use his wind Gift to force the guns to shoot at each other. Without warning, the walls dropped into the floor as new ones rose. They were out in the open, Farley still rolled in a ball on the floor, his arms covering his head.

  Cyclone Ranger couldn’t move Farley to cover. He threw his arms out in front of him, flickers of electricity dancing up and down them as he took aim. With a blinding flash, a bolt of blue lightning arced across the room. The closest turret exploded, scattering shards of burning metal around the combat floor. In quick succession, two more bolts found their mark, leaving smoking pieces of metal scattered across the floor.

  “Welcome to the party, Cyclone Ranger!” Chip Calloway’s voice announced the play-by-play. “I guess we are finally gonna see what the Ranger has left after all these years.”

  “Wow!” Marcel shouted. He jumped up, arms raised above his head in victory. “Awesome!”

  The second wave slid into position. Four chrome-plated robots, shaped like crabs with metallic whips for tails and circular buzz saws instead of claws, moved into the arena from concealed doors in the walls.

  They were low to the ground and surprisingly fast. A metal skirt protected the legs from damage. The deafening whine of the spinning blades drowned out the screaming of the crowd.

  Dad pulled Farley to his feet, forcing him to stand. Farley shook but stayed up this time. The crabs advanced as the barrier walls dropped. Other than the three concrete podiums and remains of the guns, there was nothing to hide behind.

  Dad blasted the closest crab, but other than knocking it back, it was unaffected.

  “Dang, they grounded the crabs.” Marcel flopped back on the couch. I swear Abby bounced next to him. “Now that’s not fair.”

  I wondered if Dad had thought the same thing. He grabbed Farley by the arm as he ran to the center pylon. The crabs moved to attack from the sides. Dad pushed Farley up on the pedestal. Farley screamed something, but it was lost in the crowd noise, pointing toward the crab moving in quickly. The metallic tail whipped at Dad, scoring a solid hit on his faceplate, cracking the thick plastic shield.

  “Cyclone Ranger now knows what eggs go through,” Chip Calloway quipped.

  “Bruh, that had to hurt.”

  “He needs to open up full on them crabs,” Abby said. I noticed she kept punching her own leg like she fought alongside Dad. I’d chosen well to sit over here.

  The crowd was going nuts. Nothing had even touched Dad until now, but they saw a crack in the armor and the scent of blood in the air.

  The crab slashed with a saw. Dad dodged, causing the saw to hit the pillar. Farley and the burnt remains of the turret gun both shook from the shock. Farley hugged the top of the pillar like a drunk hugging the toilet.

  Dad threw himself under the next swipe of the blade. The saw tangled with the cord that held the two Gifted together, sparks arcing as it made contact. Dad jumped on to the back of the first crab, caught the tail, and laid over the back.

  “Welcome to the rodeo folks, Cyclone Ranger’s on the bucking bronco now!” Chip Calloway said in a fake Texas drawl. “Head ‘em up, move ‘em out.”

  “He’s covering the optic sensor array of the robot. Ingenious.” Marcel’s voice was tinged with awe.

  The other three crabs converged for the kill. The first crab to arrive came head-on. Dad flipped the tether, freeing it from the wreckage as the other crab moved in. The crab’s saw, now unrestrained, shot forward, striking the second crab squarely in the center of its carapace. The shell split in two, pieces and parts flying out of the rent. With an ear-splitting shriek, the saw sliced through, stopping the other crab dead in its tracks.

  “Now that was a smart move,” Jon said. “But he’s still got three more out there.”

  The crab Dad rode spun back and forth trying to dislodge its unwanted rider. The tail would have been able to lash him, but it held fast under Cyclone Ranger. The saws couldn’t reach its own back.

  The next crab lashed out, striking Dad, leaving a wide cut across his legs. Blood dripped from the injuries. The lash flashed toward him a second time, but with much different results. As the tail approached, Dad rose up, grabbing the metallic whip. A flash of light, and he was on the move. He jumped off the crab and stood with his back to the pillar where a screaming Farley perched.

  Dad looked up at Farley. He must have been saying something because Farley ceased screaming and nodded. The two crabs charged at him, blades sweeping toward him. At the last moment, he spun and ran behind past the pillar, Farley jumping down and running with him, the tether swinging between them. The crabs went to either side of the pylon and stopped. Their tails had been fused together when he caught them. Now they were held by the pillar, neither one smart enough to back up and go around.

  “Wow,” Chip Calloway said. “They are stuck together after that maneuver. If Cyclone Ranger makes it through the Gauntlet, he could always work as a welder.”

  We all laughed. The sight of the two floundering crabs set us off. It was either the stress had gotten to us, or it was extremely funny. I’m not sure which.

  The two crabs sparked, out of commission, one left to deal with. Dad reached down and picked up a three-foot long piece of jagged pole from one of the guns. He turned, gesturing at the approaching crab, giving Farley instructions. The crab lashed out, trying to strike Dad again. He dodged, always barely out of reach, moving back from the whip-like tail.

  The real threat never showed up on the crab’s radar. Farley darted in and sprayed the crab’s sensors with a barrage of fireworks. The robot’s optics were fried by the high-intensity lights. With a swirl of winds, Dad flew. The pole, acting like a lance, stabbed through the controls and out the bottom of the crab.

  He pulled the bar out and jumped off the corpse of the crab. He severed the blades, tossed them into the air. They began to spin faster and faster as they rose, held aloft by the wind he generated. They spun toward the protective energy barrier that covered the arena; the crowd screamed in panic. Instead of breaking through, the blades sped downward toward the two trapped crabs, slicing them neatly in two.

  The crowd screamed in dismay as we rejoiced at the victory. Abby high-fived Marcel, knocking him over the arm of the chair he sat in. Wendi grabbed my hand, breaking contact too quickly when she realized what had happened. I felt Jon’s stare burning into me, but I ignored it.

  In the arena, Farley and Dad were shaking hands. The air horn blared, signaling the third round had begun. From the floor in front of the exit button rose a behemoth.

  Chip Calloway’s voice overlaid the crowd noise, dropping into a sinister register of a movie announcer. “And introducing the Enforcer.”

  The robot was ten feet of gray-green metal with four arms. The right arm ended in a wicked chainsaw; the left held a weighted net. The bottom arms ended with nasty hooks instead of hands. The head
was squat, two antennas coming from where its ears should have been. A glowing red orb strobed back and forth like Kit from the old Knight Rider show Marcel loves.

  “Will Cyclone Ranger reach the exit?” Chip Calloway’s voice dropped. “Or will the Enforcer put an end to his villainous ways?”

  I rolled my eyes. Dad had been in The Block for fifteen years—his “villainous ways” had been over since I was a baby.

  Screams ricocheted around the arena from the frenzied audience. Silver chains flashed against the charged protective barrier. The crowd threw them out when they thought Gifted would die. The camera panned the crowd showing red faces distorted as they screamed for blood. Veins bulged, eyes bulged from exertion, the cream of the crop of humanity.

  Dad and Farley moved behind the center pillar, heads close together. The Enforcer started its ponderous walk toward its victims. The roar of the chainsaw echoed through the TV speakers.

  “Oh, they aren’t happy to see the Enforcer from the way they are backing away from it,” Chip Calloway squawked. “No, folks, they don’t want anything to do with him. That chainsaw is as deadly as it is loud.”

  Dad and Farley backed behind the concrete pillars, leaping over the neatly sliced wreckage of a crab to do so. By all the hand gestures, they were formulating a plan. The Enforcer stomped across the intervening space, each step rattling the cameras.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Marcel groaned.

  From behind the center pillar, Dad launched a blast of air into the Enforcer’s chest. It didn’t have any effect. In response, the chainsaw swept down, sheering off the pillar at the floor. Sparks erupted as the pillar flew across the arena, resting against the left-hand wall, shiny bullets scattered around it.

  The Enforcer relentlessly marched forward, red orb sliding across its face. Dad dragged Farley to the left, headed to where the pillar laid on the floor. The Enforcer stopped, its head tracking its prey. The left arm came up, firing the net toward the running men. Dad rolled under the projectile, but it hit Farley, slamming him into the wall. The rope dragged Dad across the floor from the force of the net.

  Dad sprang to his feet, launching himself behind the fallen pillar. He took the metal rod from the turret, using it as a pry bar on the concrete. The Enforcer had made its turn, bearing down on Farley, immobile against the wall due to the net. The footage bounced with every ponderous step the Enforcer took. Farley panicked, his screams unintelligible over the TV feed, but the weighted net held him with no room to move.

  The concrete broke apart, a metal box clattering out onto the floor. Dad snatched it and ran to Farley. He slid under a hooked arm as he reached his trapped partner. He tugged up the part of the net so Farley could break free. Dad grabbed him around the waist, and with a jet of wind, they flew across the arena as the chainsaw slammed down where they had been standing a second earlier.

  “Oh my,” Chip Calloway said. “That was as close as a photo finish at a horse race.”

  They crashed in a pile but quickly got to their feet. Dad handed over the box and gestured to where the Enforcer was moving toward them. The camera zoomed into Farley’s face. Sweat ran out from under the jester’s mask he always wore, his eyes wide with fear. He nodded at Dad, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  They moved apart, Dad holding the metallic rope that tethered them together. He started to spin in a circle, Farley running around him. As the Enforcer approached, Dad combined the momentum with a gust of wind, propelling Farley, who soared over the outstretched arms of the robot. A second later, Dad launched himself after Farley. A hooked claw scored a hit, spinning Dad to the side, but he still managed to get over the top.

  “Whoa,” Chip Calloway yelled through the TV speakers. “What a mighty hammer throw!”

  Farley crashed with clang and a thud on the Enforcer’s right shoulder. The metallic box he carried slid from his grip, but he caught it before it fell. He jammed it under the Enforcer’s head, leaping clear as a bolt of lightning hit the box. The explosion was epic, the sound blasting through the speakers threatening to deafen us. Pieces blew in all directions forcing the two contestants to duck for cover. Sparks flew from the protection grid over the arena as the severed head struck it, cables trailing behind it. The headless robot toppled over with a boom after a blast of wind from Dad.

  “This is amazing,” Chip Calloway said. “Who would have thought to use the ammunition from the gun to take down the Enforcer? This is why Cyclone Ranger is a danger and must be stopped.”

  Now more than ever, I realized the Protectorate would kill Dad no matter what, and I was the only one who could save him. But how?

  26

  “Tommy, wake up,” was how my day started. I looked at the clock by the bed to see numbers I have never seen that early in the morning peering back at me.

  “Marcel, it is three-thirty.” I pulled the pillow over my head.

  He flipped on the lights. “I think I know what your Gift is, but I don’t want to advertise it.”

  That woke me up faster than a bucket of cold water. It bothered me everyone else knew what their Gift was, but after weeks of trying, I still couldn’t produce a spark. “How?”

  “I found an encrypted record in the old mainframe system that sounds like what happened to you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to test my theory. Meet me in the level seven gym.” He left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Level seven wasn’t the gym we normally used. I threw on my sweat suit and headed down the stairs, careful not to make any noise. Marcel’s level of caution might be exaggerated, but I would be an idiot not to follow his lead. I carefully closed doors behind me as I went. The soft glow of embedded lights made it easy to traverse the space, but with no darkness to conceal us, speed would have to do.

  The click of the stairway door sounded louder than an air-raid siren to me. I leaned against the stairway wall, sighing in relief. None of the others had the codes to open the doors to the lower levels. Marcel had pried them out of the Dresden systems. Frankly, it scared me at how easily he slipped into secure areas and retrieved classified data. The worst part, Marcel enjoyed it, maybe a little too much.

  The spiral stairs descended over forty levels, but lucky number seven held Marcel and the key to my Gift. At least I hoped so. My heart raced at the thought of knowing what I could do. Marcel had told me level seven had belonged to Titan. Aside from picking up buses and throwing them, the database indicated he topped out at eight feet and weighed over four hundred pounds. I’d hate to make him mad.

  I keyed the pad, and a ten-foot door slid into the wall. Beyond it lay Titan’s personal space. The huge furniture was solid Carbinium, worth more than some countries. Pictures of Titan with politicians and Hollywood stars covered the walls alongside newspaper headlines touting The League of Patriots’ victories.

  I stopped when I saw the front page from The Washington Post. It showed The League of Patriots together after the attack on the White House. Titan stood in the back, in front of him stood, according to the caption, Golden Avenger, Slipstream, Jinx, and Dominion. Even in the grainy photo, Dominion dazzled in comparison to the rest. Her beauty might be the only thing Powell’s story got right.

  I continued around the floor, marveling at the artwork on the walls and the expensive fixtures that hung everywhere. I hadn’t been on the private levels since Marcel had broken the security codes. Good thing it wasn’t public knowledge or Jose would be loading his car for the nearest pawn shop. I wish it surprised me that Marcel had directly disobeyed Waxenby.

  Following the lights that came from the right hallway, I entered into the Valhalla of workout warriors everywhere. Giant racks of weights gleamed in the overhead lights of the room, thick blue padding with golden paths covered the floors. Machines to do every conceivable exercise could be found here. The room had to have been fifty yards wide and deep. The cost just to excavate this room must have been incredible.

  “Hey.” Marcel was dressed
in sweats, duffel bag by his feet. He bounced on the thick padding like a kid on a trampoline, though I doubted he’d be doing flips anytime soon.

  “Okay, so what’s up with the Mission Impossible set up?”

  Marcel pulled out a small device, tapping on it quickly. The gym door shut, and the light over the door changed from green to red. “I want to keep these levels locked. There is a lot down here that would be bad if it fell into the Protectorate’s hands, so better safe than sorry.”

  “Makes sense.” Marcel always thought ten steps ahead. “But why couldn’t we do this with the others?”

  “Two reasons.” He held up a finger. “First, telling everyone the exact nature of your Gift isn’t the best thing to do. We don’t know all of Jon’s or Abby’s or for that matter Jose’s or Mr. W’s.” He put up another finger. “Second, I’m not sure it will work and don’t really want people seeing what I have in mind.”

  Marcel sounded ominous to me. “What exactly do you have planned?” I could hear the worry in my voice. I trusted Marcel more than anyone, but this was getting weird fast.

  “Just bear with me,” Marcel said as he knelt to pull some things out of the duffel bag. He handed me a two-liter bottle of Tab. How Waxenby drank it, I would never understand. “Go set this on the bench by the wall.”

  “Okay.”

  A wooden bench stood against a section of empty wall. I sat the bottle in the center and walked over to Marcel, who now stood by a huge punching bag.

  “We need to have a control for me to know if my hypothesis works.” Marcel pointed to the largest punching bag I have ever seen. “Punch it.”

  “What?”

  “Look, Bruh,” he said. “You are going to have to trust me. Some of the things may seem strange, but I have a theory on why you are able to generate electric potential.”

  “I’m blocked,” I said disconsolately. “I guess my Gift can’t work unless I’m stressed.”