Ascendant: The Complete Edition

by Richard Denoncourt

  They were all squatting on the roof of an old office building. Down below, the streets were empty and cracked, with nothing moving over them but the wind and occasional flurries of trash.

  “This part of your training will be competitive. You’ll partner up and use everything you’ve learned so far to succeed in your mission”—he held up two flags, one red and one blue—“which is to obtain these.”

  The game was called “Capture the Flag.” Michael had never heard of it, but he got the gist of how it was played when Blake explained how it would help them advance in their abilities.

  The goal was for each pair to cross an invisible line—in this case, a street bisecting the Hollows—to find and capture their opponent’s flag and bring it back to their side. They had to do this without being seen, or “tagged,” as it was called.

  The pairs switched each week; sometimes Michael worked with Peter, sometimes with Eli, rarely with Ian. Blake’s decisions were based partly on personality types; Ian and Michael were more introverted than Peter and Eli, which affected the way they communicated. Combat telepathy, he told them over and over, was about balance. Eli was bigger and less stealthy, though his ability was strong when it came to sensing an opponent’s location. This made him a good fit with Ian, who was fast and capable of using an illusory technique known as a “decoy.” He could fool a person’s senses, making them believe they were seeing him in one location when he was actually in another. Peter was a natural athlete and could get from one location to another quickly while blocking an opponent’s telepathic radar. His position was one of support, mostly, though he was also the best of the group when it came to recognizing and communicating details about the environment that could provide hidden advantages. Blake called it “scoping the field.”

  Michael’s talent was more difficult to identify. He could do what Peter, Eli, and Ian could do, but not nearly as well. He was clumsy and often tripped while getting into position for a raid; his communication skills were decent, but he had a tendency to go quiet—Blake called it “going dark”—which happened when he was thinking intently about what to do next instead of following his intuition, as Blake recommended he do. Intuition was everything, but it took training to maximize its benefits on the battlefield.

  The first few times they played, Michael got tagged more often than anyone else, even Eli, who by virtue of his size should have been the easiest to spot.

  “Son of a bitch,” Michael cursed often.

  Your emotions will give the enemy an advantage, Blake sent to him as they played. They’ll smell it on you.

  Michael tried his best. Arielle would be great at this game, with her ability to sense a person’s emotional state from long distances and identify exactly who they were. He, on the other hand, was not great—or even good—at Capture the Flag.

  One day, during an exhausting session, he got fed up and pulled Peter aside.

  We need a decoy, he sent to Peter, as they hunkered in the shadows behind a building at the edge of the Hollows. They had twelve minutes to capture Ian and Eli’s flag and bring it back.

  Like one of Ian’s decoys? Peter sent.

  No. They’ll be ready for that. I mean something else, something we haven’t used before. Follow my lead.

  I hope you know what you’re doing.

  Peter followed Michael to a building overlooking the parking lot where Eli stood alone defending the flag. As long as you were in your safe zone, you couldn’t be tagged. Ian was most likely on the prowl, looking to sniff them out so he could tag them and win the round.

  I can’t block them much longer, Peter sent. Ian’s nearby.

  Keep blocking him. I have a plan.

  Michael mustered all of his concentration—eyes shut, with his fingers pressing against his temples—and projected the sound of a child crying.

  It wasn’t a real child, of course, but Eli didn’t know that.

  For all Eli knew, the sound was coming from one street over; the hideous wailing of a child in a hellish amount of pain. It took on a life of its own, and even frightened Michael a little.

  He’d heard a child cry like that back in the People’s Republic, when FSD agents had been stuffing a family into a van to be carted off to a labor camp. They had covered the mother and father’s heads in black hoods, leaving the two children alone on the street.

  The kids, a boy and a girl no older than six, had been left behind by the van, screaming and crying, a punishment to their parents for breaking Federal Law. Eventually, two women arrived to take them somewhere safe, probably one of the State-run orphanages where children were conditioned to love Harris Kole and the People’s Republic and become soldiers and Line guards devoted to their duties.

  Michael would never forget the way those children had howled that day, like their arms and legs were being broken. That pitiful wailing was exactly the sound he reproduced.

  He knew what he was doing. Eli wouldn’t be able to ignore the sound of someone in danger, especially a child. Ian probably could, and maybe Peter, but Eli just wasn’t wired that way. He fled the parking lot in search of the child, leaving the flag unguarded.

  Go now, Michael sent.

  Peter was off in a flash. Michael was impressed at how quickly he used the grappling rope to climb down the side of the building. Michael climbed down after him, and together they ran laughing back to home base, the red flag in their possession.

  They found Ian waiting for them, standing with his boot crushing their blue flag. He could have taken it to his own side, and the game might have been a tie. But he hadn’t. Something was wrong.

  “We made it,” Michael said in response to Ian’s crossed arms and heated gaze. “Safe zone, bitch.”

  Ian was scowling at them, obviously upset over something other than losing.

  “What’s the matter?” Peter said. “You gonna cry? Oh, you gonna cry like a little bitch?”

  When Ian spoke, his voice sent a chill down Michael’s spine.

  “Who did it?”

  “Did what?” Michael said.

  “The child. Who created the illusion?”

  Michael stepped forward, proud of his accomplishment, but uneasy with Ian’s tone of voice, and the disgusted way he was stepping on their flag.

  “I did,” Michael said.

  “You didn’t contain it.”

  Michael closed his eyes and let his head tip forward in shame. Containment was an essential part of crafting an illusion; otherwise it could attract enemies that weren’t threats before.

  “You’re right,” was all Michael could say.

  When they found Eli, he was already being arrested by Warren and Elkin and two other men. They had to force the bigger boy onto his stomach and restrain his arms and legs.

  “Get the hell offa me,” Eli was shouting, trying to wrestle himself free.

  Warren was grinning. The grin widened as Michael, Peter, and Eli came around the corner.

  “You followed us,” Michael said.

  Warren was clearly holding back laughter. “Oh, you boys really done it this time. The entire town heard it. Not just us, but everybody.”

  Elkin snorted laughter and kicked Eli in the side. “Stop squirming, fat boy.”

  The use of telepathy in any capacity within the town’s boundaries was illegal. The only exceptions were self-defense, or if you had a permit like the one Arielle had for administering therapy. It was Gulch law. John Meacham had written it himself.

  “It was me,” Michael said. “We were playing a game, and I used it. We were just messing around.”

  “Bulldangles,” Warren said. “You boys are coming with me. Any resistance”—next to him, a broad-shouldered, mean-looking farmer pulled out a revolver—“and I can shoot you for obstructing arrest.”

  Michael looked at Peter and Ian. They nodded and went along, Eli cursing and muttering as he was led forward in handcuffs.

  “A crying kid,” Eli said. “Nice one, Mike.”

  “Sorry,” Michael said.<
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  Later, John Meacham drove down in his truck to meet them in front of the town hall.

  “Ian, you and your friends really screwed up,” he said, glaring at his son as he searched for the right key on his key ring to open the front door. When he put his hand on the doorknob, he realized it was unlocked. “What the hell?” he said as he pushed the door open.

  Louis Blake was waiting for them inside.

  “Louis, you better explain to me right now how you got a key to this building,” Meacham said as his men pushed Eli and the other boys inside, pistols out and ready.

  “You caught me,” Blake said, and put his hands up. “I’m invoking amendment fourteen—”

  “Bull shit you are,” Meacham said.

  “It’s my right.”

  Blake glanced over at Michael, Peter, Eli, and Ian, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Under amendment fourteen, I can take full responsibility for what just happened. Release the boys now. Take me instead.”

  The strain on Meacham’s face was almost comical. His skin had gone hot pink, and a dozen lines formed around his eyes as he frowned at Blake.

  “One of these days, Louis…”

  “Let them go.”

  The penalty for using telepathy without a permit was sixty days in jail. Blake’s trial would be in three days. Until then, he would be under house arrest.

  He didn’t seem to mind.

  Chapter 20

  “But they can’t do this,” Michael said, pacing back and forth in the living room.

  Peter, Eli, Ian, and Arielle all sat on the couches, brooding. Ian seemed to be in a darker mood than the others. The boys hadn’t changed out of their clothes and still smelled like sweat and pavement from their game in the Hollows.

  “I mean, what right does he have?” Michael continued.

  “It’s the law,” Peter said. “We’ve got those here. You didn’t know?”

  “Sure I did. Harris Kole had his laws, too,” Michael said, stopping mid-pace to give Peter his most disgusted look. “Anyone caught expressing dissatisfaction with the regime ended up in a labor camp, their families branded as dissenters. All you had to do was say, ‘This sucks,’ and they would make you disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. And people accepted it. Why? Because it was the law.”

  Peter looked down at his hands and kept quiet.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Eli said, hunched over his knees, rubbing the sore spots on his wrists. The handcuffs had left welts.

  “What about the trial?” Michael said. “There’s gotta be someone who can defend him.”

  “He confessed, Michael,” Arielle said. “He’ll spend sixty days in jail. It’s happened to him before. As long as they give him his cigarettes, he won’t even make a fuss.”

  Michael’s mind was in overdrive. He kept thinking about something Dominic had said in the town hall that day after the bandit attack.

  “What about those women?” He had stopped pacing and was addressing the group now, feeling slightly ridiculous as a result. But they were listening.

  “What women?” Ian said. “What are you talking about?”

  “The ones that were kidnapped five years ago.”

  “Fran Baker, Rocio Martinez, and Sally Woodhouse,” Arielle said.

  Michael nodded. “Dominic thinks they might still be alive in a slaver settlement southeast of here.”

  Ian stood from his seat, glaring at Michael. “No one knows what happened to them.”

  “Yes, we do,” Arielle said, also standing. “They got sent to Praetoria. It’s where all slave women end up in these parts, especially the pretty ones.”

  “Because of the whorehouses,” Eli said. Arielle winced at the term.

  “We don’t know they’re alive,” Peter said.

  “But we can find out,” Michael said. He looked at Arielle. “That’s your talent, right? You can sense a person’s emotional signature. Dominic can do it, too. It’s how he managed to find me in New Sancta. But you’re an empath. You’re better at it than he is.”

  Peter rose off the couch, slowly, eyeing Michael like he wanted to strangle him.

  “Don’t even think about taking her out of here,” Peter said.

  The others were silent, watching him. Peter was never this serious. Michael chose his next words carefully.

  “We’re well-trained. We could get close enough to at least see if they’re in there.”

  “And why would we do that?” Peter said.

  “Because if those women are alive and in Praetoria, then I know how we could bring telepathic training back to Gulch.”

  “You lost me,” Peter said.

  Arielle watched Michael, realization dawning on her face. “You’re crazy,” she said.

  “If there’s one thing I learned about living in the People’s Republic,” Michael said, “it’s that people care about their own safety more than anything else. You can take away their rights, threaten them, beat them in public—but as long as they’re more afraid of the enemy, they’ll follow you without question.”

  Peter and the rest were listening intently now. Even Ian was listening, despite his deepening frown. Michael let the words come out of him, each idea fully formed. He’d never been able to speak his mind like this back home. Language like this destroyed families where he was from.

  “What’s the scariest thing out here in the Eastlands?” he asked the group.

  “Slavers,” Arielle said.

  “Right. And there’s only one thing that can keep this town safe from them. We just have to prove it.”

  “And what thing is that?” Peter said, squinting at Michael like he dared him to say what he was thinking.

  Michael smiled, despite his growing unease with the idea. It would mean risking everything he cared for, including his life.

  “Us,” he said.

  Chapter 21

  They spent the next day planning.

  The scouting trip had to happen before Blake’s trial, and it couldn’t be in daylight. The fact that Arielle was going with them added a sense of urgency. There were times when Michael wondered if he should just call it off, let Blake sit in jail, and hope they could continue their training some other way.

  When he told Arielle this, she set him straight.

  “You started this, Michael, and you’re going to finish it. I’ll go by myself if I have to, and then you’ll be forced to come anyway, since I know you wouldn’t let me risk my life alone.”

  She had a point.

  The night they were set to leave, Michael unveiled his creation for the first time.

  Inside Rudy’s garage, he pulled back the dirty sheet he’d used to cover it. Everyone’s mouth opened in awe, except Michael’s. He was smiling.

  “A dual-sport S13 Roadweaver,” Peter said, studying the motorcycle. “V-twin engine?”

  Michael shook his head. “In-line three cylinder. Liquid-cooled. 12-valve.”

  Peter whistled. “I’ll be damned. Thing must weigh over four hundred pounds.”

  “Four hundred and fifty,” Michael said. “Give or take. I don’t really have a scale.”

  Ian approached the bike and touched its leather seat in silence, almost like he was touching a holy relic. Eli ran his big hands over its freshly-painted and waxed frame.

  “Shiny,” he said, dazzled.

  Spray-painted black all over, it gleamed under the overhead lights as if it were brand new.

  Ian stepped back. “You build it yourself, or Rudy help you?”

  “I did most of it,” Michael said with a shrug. “Rudy helped me out with the wiring and the brakes.”

  Arielle came up to stand beside Michael. “Where did you get the parts?”

  “Scavenging, mostly. But Rudy’s been collecting parts off caravans for years. I guess he dreamed of building one someday, but never got around to it. I promised him sixty hours of unpaid overtime in exchange.”

  Arielle crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. “
So who’s taking me?”

  Peter and Eli put up their hands, Peter with a wide grin on his face. Ian shook his head.

  “Whichever bike you feel is most comfortable,” Michael told her.

  She gave him a shy smile. “Just be careful, okay?”

  They drove under the cover of darkness, using telepathy to sense anyone nearby, guns loaded and ready to fire, placed in holsters attached to their motorcycles. The roaring of the engines was a good thing; anyone crazy enough to take four motorcycles out here in the dark had to be packing serious heat. People probably thought they were raiders.

  The journey felt shorter than it was, mostly because the desolate landscape was unlike anything Michael had ever seen. Their headlights washed over abandoned gas stations, collapsed highways, entire towns with not a single soul inside, tiny camps in the middle of vast fields that were probably bandits taking shelter for the night. It was terrifying to see it all come to this.

  Their destination was a city called Praetoria, two hours southeast of Gulch. The place hadn’t really been a city in a long time. It was in ruins, and all they could see of it in the distance were its pale bones and a broken highway. Lights burned in the city’s center, where the men and women who called themselves Praetorians lived, probably in squalor.

  “Roman still running the place?” Eli said as they walked their bikes into a patch of wiry bushes behind a tattered billboard.

  “That’s what they say,” Ian said.

  “Who’s Roman?” Arielle said.

  Michael half-listened to their conversation. He recalled the way Arielle’s arms had felt around his waist during the ride. At one point, after passing a toppled baby carriage that was little more than a rusted frame, she had tightened her hold on him.

  “He’s a slaver,” Peter said. “One of the worst within a four-hundred-mile radius. He named this place Praetoria and started his own society. If you ask me, it’s only a matter of time before he gets enough manpower and resources to start scouring the mountains for additional stock.”

  “That’s why no one asks you,” Ian said.