Ascendant: The Complete Edition

by Richard Denoncourt

  They each had their own social lives. Eli and Ian sometimes took a few girls from town to go swimming in the lake beneath the power plant. Michael never tried to join, but he hoped for an invitation at some point. Peter often met up with Arielle to go for a ride on his motorcycle. More often than not, Peter and Arielle would fight, and for some reason Michael enjoyed hearing about it when Eli and Ian would gossip in the living room. Apparently Peter had trouble keeping his hands off some of the other girls in town. Why would Arielle stay with such an idiot?

  Michael couldn’t shrug off his mounting frustration. It was frustration at not learning what he wanted during his sessions with Blake and Dominic; frustration whenever he’d see Peter kiss Arielle in public; frustration at having Warren and Elkin scowl at him whenever they saw him around town. He was ready to break out in some way, he just didn’t know how.

  The answer came to him; he would start practicing telepathy himself, secretly and slowly at first. In his dreams, he was capable of exerting his will over those around him, even if, in reality, he didn’t have the first clue how to grab hold of the strings he saw in peoples’ heads.

  But that power was within his reach; he could taste it.

  His first target was a farmer he often saw at the Cold War Café. The man, named Fred Wurthers, always came in alone in the afternoons to drink coffee and get away from his nagging wife, Sandra, whom everyone in town loathed because of her bossiness. And every day, like clockwork, he’d leave the café at the same time to walk back home. Michael didn’t want to hurt the man; he just wanted to practice on someone who didn’t pose a threat to him.

  He followed Fred across town toward his house, making sure to act like he was running some minor errand. He even brought a load of firewood with him to add to the disguise. During the walk, he tried envisioning the string in the man’s head like he had done at the restaurant during the interrogation. The strings were easy to see, but difficult to manipulate. He tried several commands.

  Pick up that bottle, he sent into Fred’s mind as the man passed a broken bottle on the side of the road.

  Nothing.

  Stand still, he directed in hopes that the man would stop walking. This command made Michael a little dizzy. Still, he pressed on.

  Throw your cigarette away, he ordered Fred without opening his mouth, using only his mental voice. The string in Fred’s mind disappeared. Michael’s vision swayed.

  He held back in hopes the dizziness would subside. The weight of the wood in his arms had become overwhelming. At first he thought it was just his muscles giving out after a long haul, but then he felt his knees go weak. The wood dropped with a series of heavy clatters.

  Spots of blood had appeared on one of the logs. Had it come from his eyes? Fear struck him as he envisioned townsfolk dropping dead all around him, the result of his foolish experiment.

  He reached up to touch his face. The blood had come from his nose. Fear struck him again, doubly strong, as he remembered Blake’s warning about damaging the tissue of his brain.

  His legs gave out. Fred Wurthers ran toward him, shouting for help. Michael wanted to tell him to get Louis Blake, but he couldn’t move as a hammer made purely of pain swung inside his skull, knocking him out completely.

  “Wake up, kid.”

  The voice was deep and raspy, yet comforting. Michael awoke to the blinding glare of sunlight streaming in through a window. This was not his room in the attic. He was in an actual bedroom, on a soft mattress and even softer sheets. A man sat beside the bed, watching him.

  Michael tried to sit up, but Midas Ford motioned for him to stay down. The doctor was dressed in a faded green shirt tucked into brown slacks held up by suspenders. He seemed to be in his seventies or eighties. His skin was papery and brown, and his face was covered in age spots like flecks of chocolate someone had sprayed on him. His hair was bushy and white, and grew along the sides only, leaving him with a massive bald spot. With the sunlight in his glasses, Michael caught only glimpses of his serious brown eyes.

  “You gave us quite a scare last night, young’n.”

  Michael rubbed his eyes and blinked. Last night? He couldn’t believe so much time had passed. There was a sour taste in his mouth and his head hurt. Midas Ford handed him a water bottle.

  “You’re dehydrated. Drink that slowly. Just sips at first.”

  “Did I have an episode?”

  “Drink.”

  Michael uncapped the bottle and took long, eager swallows. His thirst was unbelievable, like he’d just crawled out of a desert.

  “Take sips, I said. You’ll puke otherwise.”

  “You’re a doctor, right?” Michael said, panting slightly. “I’ve heard of you. Midas Ford.”

  “You heard right.” Midas pushed himself off the chair with a grunt. “Come on. Let’s eat some breakfast.”

  “Breakfast? What time is it?”

  A minute later, Michael was sitting at a crude folding table in the kitchen, rubbing his nose to see if it was intact. At least the bleeding had gone away.

  The house was tiny compared to the ones on Silo Street. The inside would have been dreary and sad were it not for the sunlight pouring in through all the windows. Bookshelves covered every wall and lined the narrow hallway. There were even books stacked on the kitchen counters.

  “What happened yesterday?” Michael said as the doctor busied himself with the stove. He was frying a pan full of eggs and bacon by the smell of it.

  “You did something you shouldn’t have done.”

  “How do you know what—”

  “Heard you talking in your sleep.”

  Midas emptied the pan over two square, wooden plates and brought them to the table. Michael’s mouth salivated. He tore into the food, barely noticing Midas’s scowl. There were biscuits, too, which he used to sop up the runny egg yolk and the bacon grease.

  “So hungry,” Michael said around a mouthful of food. “Sorry.”

  “Just take it easy. Perfectly good bacon, don’t want it reappearing any time soon. Coffee?”

  “Nuh uh.”

  When Michael was done scarfing everything down, he drained a glass of lukewarm milk and took a moment to breathe before speaking. Then he gave Midas his full attention.

  “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just wanted to see…”

  “Of course you did,” Midas said, mixing sugar into his coffee. “I’ve told Louis before, give a kid a gun and a box of bullets, and it’s only a matter of time before he tries loading one into the chamber.”

  “I won’t do it again.”

  “No, you won’t, and you know why?” Midas sipped his coffee, bushy eyebrows sliding up his forehead. When Michael didn’t react, the old doctor continued: “You almost died yesterday. I had to decrease the swelling in your skull using a type of medicine that’s hard to get in these parts. You try something like that again, without the proper training, and you’ll be lucky to die.”

  “Why would I be lucky?”

  Midas set down the mug. “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather die than be a vegetable.”

  Michael sat back. His stomach tightened a little as his breakfast threatened to make a second appearance. He swallowed it back down.

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” Midas gathered the plates and got up. “Come on, kid. Let me show you something.”

  He took Michael out through the back door and into a field the sight of which left him stunned. It was a long stretch of earth that rolled toward a mountainous wall in the distance, a field that was more like an explosion of color, cut in half by a sparkling strip of water. It was almost too perfect to be natural.

  “Amazing the kind of work people will do when they feel truly grateful to be alive.”

  “Who made all this?”

  “The town. This is why I wanted you to see it. I wanted you to feel what I feel when I come out here. The people of this town are good, decent folk. A little rough around the edges, some of them. But basicall
y good. Many can’t pay me for my services, so they come out here and do some landscaping when the weather’s nice. I don’t even ask them to.”

  Michael nodded. “I understand.”

  “There isn’t a whole lot of tyranny in Gulch, despite what Blake and Dominic might have to say about John Meacham. He does what he can to make this the sort of place one can raise a family and not have to live in fear of slavers, that sort of thing.

  “So you can understand when someone like you comes here uninvited, a city boy with the whole world chasing after him, people just aren’t gonna accept it right off the bat.”

  “I know,” Michael said, sliding his hands into his pockets. He squinted at the gurgling stream, and could almost feel the cool water sliding against his skin. “What should I do, Midas?”

  “Study,” the doctor said. “Train. Learn how to use your talent the proper way, slowly and defensively, ’cause one day, someone’s going to come after you, and out here in the Eastlands, there aren’t too many people to watch your back. Work together with the other telepaths your own age. You can support each other.”

  “What about Ian? And his father?”

  “You won’t have to worry about Ian. He and his father don’t get along, and he’d follow Louis Blake if he had to choose. In the meantime, you stay out of trouble and get a regular job like the rest of us. Blake suggested motorcycle and car maintenance for you, and I think that’s a good idea. I got a whole library of books in the house that you can start reading. And there’s an old garage a couple blocks over run by an old friend of mine. He could use an apprentice. I’m sure you’ll be ready and on time each morning.”

  “I can do that. So, will I be—”

  “Paid?” Midas gave a single, firm nod. “Same wage as everyone else. Enough to buy the things you need.”

  “And what about my training?”

  “There is no training.”

  “But you said—”

  Midas turned to face him, eyes set in a squint. He was a lot shorter than Michael, but when he narrowed his eyes and set his jaw like that, he could be intimidating.

  “Listen to me real good, young’n. As far as anyone is concerned, the only training you’re receiving is from Reggie Smith, and that’s in marksmanship so you can help defend against raiders and bandits and whatever else this land got to throw at us. Anything else you might pick up along the way is strictly your business. Yours and no one else’s. I make myself clear?”

  So, it would be their secret. If he so much as said another word about it, the opportunity might vanish like a half-forgotten dream. At least that was how it felt. Michael kept his mouth shut and gave a single nod to show he understood.

  “Attaboy. You’ll be eating all your meals with me for the next few days, until things cool down. The whole town thinks you fainted from heat exhaustion, except for a few suspicious folks who think you were up to no good. Blake will be joining us for dinner tonight. He’ll want to know you’ve begun your studies.”

  “My studies? You mean—”

  “Motorcycle and car maintenance, like I said. I got a few books on telepathy in my attic, but I trust you’ll stay away from those.”

  He winked at Michael and patted him on the shoulder, then turned to walk into the house. He stopped at the door and looked back.

  “As for right now, if I were you”—he looked southeast, toward where the power plant loomed over the town—“there’s a nice little lake in the very back of the canyon, beneath the waterfalls. I like to go there and sit sometimes when I feel like being alone. I suggest you do the same. Dip your feet in the water and think about how lucky you are to still be alive.”

  Michael gave a solemn nod. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Dr. Ford.”

  “No problem, sonny.”

  The screen door slammed shut behind the old man. Michael breathed a sigh of relief as he looked out over the field and the mountains beyond. Then he began to walk.

  When he got to the lake, which was only slightly bigger than a large pond, he saw why Midas liked to come here. The twin waterfalls from the cliff overhead splashed into the water with a foamy white roar. Sunlight fell in like a thin mist, evoking stunted rainbows. One of these days he would dive in and see what it felt like to have a waterfall cover him completely, drowning out all other sights and sounds.

  His brother’s face rose in his mind’s eye.

  “Benny,” he said aloud, “if only you could be here to see this with me. I miss you.”

  “Michael?”

  He spun around, wondering how long she’d been standing there.

  “Arielle, what are you doing here?”

  “Gathering flowers,” she said, taking a few hesitant steps toward him. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I was just, uh—praying.”

  “Really,” she said, squinting one eye at him. “Praying.”

  He cleared his throat. “So, what’s up?”

  Arielle reached into the basket and pulled out a blue flower Michael didn’t recognize. No surprise there. Having grown up in a city slum, he wasn’t very knowledgeable when it came to flowers and wildlife. Nevertheless, he was stunned by its beauty.

  She reached out and offered it to him. From it came a strong fragrance that filled his nose at once.

  “Thanks,” he said. He looked around, eager to find some way to preserve it. It would get crushed in his pocket.

  “Here.” Arielle took the flower and stuck it above her right ear. “I’ll keep it for you. So, how are you feeling?”

  “Fine. I just wanted to sit by the lake for a little while. Do you—”

  “Want to sit?” she finished for him.

  “Yeah.”

  She brushed wheat-colored hair out of her face. “I guess I could for a few minutes.”

  Motorcycle engines revved in the distance, growing louder as they approached. Arielle’s smile fell away.

  “Is that him?” Michael said.

  They watched the bikes come to a stop in the distance. It was Peter and Ian, squinting at Michael and Arielle, clearly suspicious.

  “I guess you should go,” Michael said.

  “I should, but not because I’m worried about Peter.”

  Michael turned to face her fully. He didn’t care if Peter saw them standing this close. Let him get jealous for once.

  “Then what are you worried about?

  Arielle frowned, obviously uneasy with the subject.

  “It’s my—”

  She never got a chance to finish. A shot rose from the other end of the canyon, startling them both. Someone had fired a rifle. Michael grabbed Arielle’s hand and pulled her toward him, not even caring that Peter and Ian could see them.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary in the distance. No fires or signs of attack or anything like that. Arielle gripped his hand, which reminded him that they were now standing shoulder to shoulder. He caught a glimpse of Peter and Ian’s resentful scowls before the motorcycle engines started and the boys drove away toward the other end of town.

  “What do you think that was?” Arielle said. “A gunshot maybe?”

  Another pop echoed off the mountain walls, followed by a man’s shout of alarm.

  “The watchmen,” Michael said. “In the guard towers. Maybe it’s a training exercise?”

  “I hope so.”

  Michael turned to face her. “What were you going to say?”

  “What?”

  He searched her eyes. “Just now. You were going to tell me what worried you.”

  Another rifle shot. Arielle flinched.

  “Michael, this isn’t the time. We could be under attack.”

  “Right.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her along, feeling strangely exhilarated, glad Peter and Ian had roared away on their bikes. Arielle trotted alongside him, stopping only once to pick up Michael’s flower after it had flown from her ear.

  He took that as a sign.

  Chapter 13

  “Raiders! Raiders!”<
br />
  The shouts were coming from the watchmen, perched atop wooden towers overlooking the field stretching toward the canyon’s mouth. Three of these towers existed, and it was Blake’s duty, having trained men for war, to keep the day watch and the night watch prepared and ever vigilant for this exact kind of threat. Hopefully Blake was good at his job.

  Michael parted ways with Arielle at the bridge on Silo Street. She took off running, blonde hair flashing behind her. Michael watched for a moment, Arielle’s cool sweat still drying on his palm and fingers, and then he ran into town toward the shots. They were coming more frequently now; a battle had erupted. As he rounded the corner at Missile Avenue, he saw Warren, Elkin, and their two friends. He slowed his pace a bit, wondering how he could get past them unseen, when Warren turned and spotted him.

  “You brought them here,” he shouted at Michael over his shoulder. Next to him, Elkin turned and started toward Michael, but Warren grabbed his arm and spun him back around. “Later. Let’s get to the watchtowers before they do.”

  They turned down a side road. Michael continued along the avenue, stopping again when a voice formed in his mind like mist becoming solid.

  Over here.

  The voice accompanied a strong urge to move in one specific direction. He followed it until he reached one of the towers.

  Climb up.

  Was it Blake’s voice? It sounded like him, though not in the conventional way a voice sounds. Instead it was like the man’s entire personality was being injected into Michael’s brain, forming words on his consciousness like a finger inscribing on foggy glass.

  He climbed the tower and found Reggie Smith on one knee, perched behind a long hunting rifle with a beautiful, glossy wooden stock. Mounted on the rifle was an expensive-looking scope. In the People’s Republic, a rifle like this would have cost more than ten million koles on the black market, about as much as his parents’ restaurant made in a year.

  The rifle erupted as Reggie fired a shot. Michael heard a scream in the distance, though nothing remarkable happened at the other end of the field. He couldn’t see any intruders.