The Super Power Saga (Book 2): Rise of the Supervillains

by Knuth, Jaron Lee

  The twinkling lights belonged to the hundreds of torches that lined the outer walls of the temple. The walls themselves formed from the mountain itself, using the natural stone to shape it. It stood hundreds of feet in the air, jutting out from the main slope as if it rejected the mountain's direction and chose its own path. Two wooden doors were shut over the tunnel entrance and the only other openings were long slits in the stone that created windows next to each torch. The symbol of a hand with three eyes etched into the palm was carved into the stone above the doorway.

  Wesley's legs wobbled with every step he took toward the temple. He wasn't sure if it was his nervousness, or the fact that his body was finally letting him know how tired and hungry it had grown. By the time he reached the doorway, he had no choice but to give up and topple onto the ground. He rolled onto his back and peered up through the darkness to see an old rope attached to a rusty bell next to the door. With his last energy, he reached up and tugged on the rope. The sound of the bell swung back and forth, ringing loud in the quiet of the night.

  Wesley let his head lean against the stone wall and waited, but no one came. He summoned the energy to reach up and pull the rope, echoing the sound of the bell down the mountainside once again, but he remained alone. His eyes fluttered, wanting to close, but he forced himself to pull the rope one last time.

  This time, as the bell let out its last ring, he heard the sound of metal scraping against wood on the other side of the doorway. A series of locks unlatched and Wesley pushed himself up, rising to his knees as the door pushed open.

  In the flickering light of the torches, he saw the dark face of a young woman look down on him. Her pupils were thick and black, as if they consumed the light. Her hair hung straight, sharpening her pointed facial features. Her cheeks were gaunt. Her body looked thin to the point of fragility, like he could snap her arm in two.

  “What is this?” she said, every word sounding like the slash of a sword. “Who are you?”

  Wesley tried to stand, but only managed to get onto one foot before falling back to his knees. “My... my name is Wesley Lockhart. I'm... I'm looking for the House of Psi.”

  The woman's eyes grew larger, then turned into a squinted glare. She leaned down close, this time her whispered words slashing like a dagger in the night.

  “Where did you hear that name?”

  Wesley looked into her eyes so that she could see his honesty. “The internet. I read... that you help people like me. People with... mind powers.”

  He picked up a pebble near her foot and held it in his hand, then focused his mind, wrapping his thoughts around the pebble like a fist. With great effort, he lifted the tiny stone with his thoughts, swirling it around as if it were caught in a small, slow tornado. After only a few seconds, his mind relented, and the pebble fell to the ground. When he looked up into the woman's face, she was grinning.

  “Is that it? Is that all you can do?”

  Wesley nodded with shame. “I was... I was hoping you could help me to learn how to control it... how to do more with it.”

  The woman laughed out loud, her cackle bouncing against the mountain, making it sound as if ten of her were laughing at him. “This is no school, boy. Perhaps you should tell the Empire about your little ability. I hear they have an academy in the American Republic for people like you.”

  “No, please,” Wesley said, holding up his hand, outstretched toward her. “I think... I think you might be my only hope. I don't know where else to go.”

  The woman stood up straight. “I don't care what you think, and I care even less about what you've heard. This is a citizen farm and nothing else. Now begone.”

  Wesley had never heard the term “citizen farm,” but he had little time to consider it before the woman began to close the door. His hand clasped onto the wooden frame, trying to wedge himself between it and the stone wall.

  “Please. You can't turn me away.”

  The woman flashed him a smile and said, “I can't? That's strange, because that's exactly what I'm doing.”

  She nodded her head and he felt an unseen force toss him into the air. His body landed hard in a snowbank, thirty feet from the doorway. By the time he managed to wipe the snow from his face and look back to where he once stood, the door was slamming shut and he heard the locks and latches fall back into place. Soon enough, he was left alone in the night.

  He managed to crawl from the snow bank, and then made his way back to the door, albeit on his hands and knees. There he collapsed, face first, into the rocky landing in front of the entrance. He didn't sleep so much as pass out, and throughout the night, when the air would chill to a point where his body would shake him awake, warning him of the danger, he would reach up and ring the bell again.

  But no one came.

  Hours later, his entire body was numb. He could no longer sense where his fingers were wiggling in the snow, or where his legs were laying on the stone. It was as if he were entombed in his own flesh, unable to move or speak. He watched his breath escape his lips, each puff of frozen air letting loose slower than the last, until he was sure no more would come. He would die there, unable to see the difference between the snowflakes falling from above and the stars floating in the sky. His eyes closed and the darkness of death wrapped its cold embrace around him.

  And then the sound of latches and locks brought him back. His eyes jolted open and he sucked in a deep breath of freezing air as the wooden door slid open. The same woman stepped out and looked down at him with her stabbing stare. She rolled her eyes when she saw his condition, then focused on him with a more intent look.

  He barely felt his body lift from the cold ground, but as he floated through the doorway, he felt the warmth of the temple envelop him. Flames danced around in a large hearth sitting inside the doorway. His body came to rest in front of it, and the heat felt painful against his skin. He turned his face away from it and saw the woman slip out of her shoes. Her bare feet padded against the stone floor where she retrieved a cup of water from a barrel. She returned to him and held the cup up to his lips, allowing him to sip the liquid. As the feeling returned to his body, he was able to lift his hand and hold the cup himself, at which point the woman stood up and retrieved a long ladle. She scooped out a bowl of broth from a kettle hanging above the flame and offered the bowl to Wesley, who swallowed it down in three large gulps.

  “Stubborn, aren't you? You were going to die. You know that, right?”

  He could barely move his lips, but he managed to mumble, “I told you... I have nowhere else.”

  She sat in a chair next to the hearth, retrieved a long iron rod, and stoked the fire, rolling a log over so the flames would grow.

  “So it is desperation that brings you here?”

  Wesley shook his head. “Not desperation. Determination.”

  She flashed a glance of sudden interest out of the corner of her eyes, then returned to caring for the fire. “And what is it you are determined to do?”

  Wesley didn't pause to consider the question because he didn't need to. He had been considering the question all his life.

  “I'm determined to find out what I was put on this earth to do, why I was given this power. I'm determined to find my purpose.”

  “And you think you can find that here, in this place. Why?”

  “Because you have the same power, and you've chosen to devote yourself to this place, to the practices that are taught here. I guess... I guess I hope that you know something I don't. And now that I'm here-”

  “Just because I let you in that door, does not mean you're welcome here.” The light of the fire reflected in the black orbs of her pupils. “You must still meet the God-King Kgosi.”

  Wesley swallowed hard. “Who?”

  Her eyes flashed at him with a sudden surge of passion. “The God-King Kgosi. The Mental Absolute. The Thought Perfection. The Prime Mind. Only he can deem you worthy to live within our walls.”

  Wesley set down his cup and pushed himself into
a sitting position, filled with an energy that was fueled by nothing but hope. “So it's true? This is a place for psionics? A refuge... A place where we can-”

  The woman held up her hand to stop his questioning. “There is no we. Not yet.”

  Wesley closed his eyes, refusing to accept her answer. “You called him a God-King. I thought terms like that weren't allowed in the Empire, much less the Fatherlands. Is this a religion? Are you-”

  “No more questions!” The woman stood up and stomped toward a door that led deeper into the temple. “You will learn what the God-King teaches you, nothing more. Remain here until morning. I will return for you then.”

  As she opened the door and stepped through, Wesley called out after her, “Wait! What do I call you? What's your name?”

  The woman hesitated for a moment, then looked at him with her black eyes and hissed, “I am Zola.”

  As the door slammed shut behind her, Wesley let his body lay back down on the floor, the heat from the fire washing over him. He stared up at the ceiling, its stone surface carved from the mountain, yet smoother than any tool could have produced. There was a simplicity to everything, from the clothing that Zola wore, to the clay cup he sipped his water from. He could appreciate the absence of frivolity, the retreat from the needless want for lavishness. If that was part of their practice, he would welcome it. It was that constant desire for more that had sent the Empire to war. It was selfishness that sent his friend to jail. It was greed that sent his friend to the grave.

  Wesley closed his eyes, anxious for tomorrow to arrive. He did not know what lay ahead, but for the first time in his life, he felt like he was safe. He felt like he belonged.

  8

  MAKSIM

  The throne room doors were wide open as Maksim floated down the hallway toward them. The guards standing on either side of the door took a knee as he approached, but he took no notice. It was a strange sight, seeing the throne room laid open, but he was finding himself having to become accustomed to many changes around the Grand Citadel. With a new Imperator, came new traditions. New rules. New wars.

  Inside the throne room was yet another strange sight. A state television crew surrounded the throne with multiple cameras pointed at Imperator Padamir. His face was thick with make-up, his armor newly waxed, and his hair perfectly coiffed. He was smiling his awkward smile, his head tilted with a feigned concern as he spoke with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

  “These accusations from Neo-Nippon are false. Plain and simple. I'm not a murderer. I'm a kind man. Ask anyone. Dominus Takahiro Oshiro was a close friend to my father. My daughter, god rest her soul, was bearing his grandchild. I would never raise a hand against someone so close to my family, unless of course it was warranted. But again, these are lies. Trust me. No one wants peace more than me.”

  He clasped his hands together, wrapping his bejeweled fingers around each other, and leaned forward in the throne, placing his face closer to the cameras.

  “But the son of Takahiro Oshiro, this madman they call the Steel Typhoon, Katsu Oshiro, he doesn't want peace. He doesn't want to protect you or your families. He only wants death. Destruction. In fact, how do we know he didn't murder his own father? I'm not saying he did, but it wouldn't surprise me.”

  Padamir smirked and leaned back in the throne, grinning into the camera with self-satisfaction. “Trust me, that's not going to happen. Even now, as I speak, my Guardians are laying waste to their pitiful armies. Those toys they send into the Fatherlands? Neo-Nip trash. They have done horrific things, it's true. Terrible, horrible, horrific things. But there's no need to fear the outcome of this uprising. We will end this and bring safety and security back to the Empire. Trust me... ”

  He was rambling, going far off script, if there even was one. Maksim saw the nervous fear in his mother's eyes as she stood off to the side of the cameras. She was trying to hide it, but after all these years, Maksim could see the ticks and faint gestures. She wanted to yell for them to stop recording. She wanted to put an end to the embarrassment. But she couldn't. Not with journalists in the room. They might be under a severe gag order by the Imperator, with very little information being released that wasn't run through their imperial filters, but she wouldn't risk showing weakness. Padamir was the Imperator, and they would all bow before him, as the world expected them to.

  Maksim stood near the doorway, not wanting to interrupt, but when his mother glanced over and saw him, she lifted off the ground and flew across the room in a rush.

  “Finally,” she said in a whisper.

  “I came as soon as I was requested,” Maksim assured her. “I did not think it was an emergency.”

  “Shh!” She nervously glanced over her shoulder at the clueless cameramen. “We don't use words like that around... company.”

  “What is going on, mother? What is this about?”

  “Come with me,” she said, tugging on his arm and leading him out of the throne room.

  They both flew together, down the long hall to a more private room, one meant for dignitary meetings and diplomatic glasses of wine. It was comfortable, like a large study, with a large fireplace and walls lined with ancient tomes. A long table made of a dark red wood stretched through the middle of the room, surrounded by leather chairs. The surprising sight was that of his niece, Zana, Guardian of the East, standing next to the fireplace, looking impatient. When she saw them enter the room, she slammed her armored fist against the stone fireplace, cracking the edge and causing a piece to fall to the floor.

  “Grandmother, I don't know what this is about, but you can't just pull me from the battlefield so we can share a cup of tea. I'm trying to fight a war!”

  “No!” Magda shouted, then slammed the door of the room shut behind her. “You're not fighting a war. You're losing a war.”

  Zana was stunned by the comment, looking blank-faced at her grandmother for a moment before stiffening into anger. “How dare you? My men are laying down their lives to stop that damn robotic army from marching across the Empire, and you have the gall to tell me-”

  “The truth,” Magda said, taking her place at the head of the table and placing her hands, palms down, as she took a deep breath, although most wouldn't have noticed by her measured posture. “I'm sorry, dear, but that's what it is. Mile by mile. District by district. You are losing this war. We must change tactics.”

  Zana set her fists down on the opposite end of the table, leaning forward and pressing them into the wood. “Perhaps if you allowed my uncle Maksim to fight alongside us-”

  Magda actually let out a chuckle, but it was full of disgust. “Don't blame your uncle for this. He's doing his part to assure our legacy. And need I remind you? That's something you've yet to do.”

  Zana looked at Maksim for some kind of help, but he had none to offer. He hated these situations. He always felt lost in the bickering and debating of his family. He always felt like words twisted what felt to be straightforward subjects, into confusing puzzles.

  Zana rolled her eyes and let out a desperate sigh. “What are we even talking about? The war, or my lack of children?”

  “That's your problem, Zana. You think the two are mutually exclusive. You're so focused on fighting what's in front of you, you're likely to be flanked.”

  Zana shook her head. “Please don't use battle strategies as an analogy for my future pregnancy.”

  “You misunderstand-”

  “Do I?” Zana snapped. “Let me see if I can cut through your maze of words, grandmother. I think you lost your daughter. I think you lost the one female in this family who was a direct descendant, and pregnant. I think you used to be fine with me fighting alongside my father and brother and uncle. But now? Now, I'm just the next womb. You want me off the battlefield and in a wedding gown. Is that it?”

  Magda pursed her lips into a hardened state that would not allow emotion to release. The veins in her hands, still placed palm down on the table, strained and pulsated. Her body was like a statue, r
igid and unflinching, yet underneath there was a volcano ready to burst. Her nostrils flared as she tried to control her breathing. Finally, she blinked once and recaptured her calm.

  “You are right, dear granddaughter. I have lost my daughter. And she, like you, was not happy with her station in life. We did not choose to be women, did we? We did not choose our roles in this patriarchy. We did not choose to be the only ones in the family able to give birth to the next generation. I can understand that frustration. I can understand that feeling of powerlessness. But you act as if this life you have been given is a curse. That I cannot understand. This life is the opposite of powerless. You will carry the future inside of you. You will carry the next Dominus, the next Domina, the next Guardian... you may even carry the next Imperator. You will raise them. In your arms. With your love and your strength.”

  “Whether I want to or not.”

  Magda snapped. She slapped her hands onto the table and closed her eyes before they flashed open with a burning fury.

  “Why do you fight me on this!” she yelled across the table, causing Zana to back away. “Why do you rebel? Because you can? Is that it? Do you argue for no other reason than to pass the time? I've seen you with your younger brother. You have a maternal instinct. You want to care for the helpless. Why do you struggle against the inevitable? Why do you make this process so painful... for yourself and everyone else? We have coddled your childish need to wear that armor and pretend to be a warrior. But it's time to grow up, Zana. It's time to make an impact on this world with something other than your fist.”

  Zana glanced at Maksim, her eyes begging him for help, but he had nothing to offer. He thought Zana was a great warrior. Her strategies for battle had kept the Neo-Nipponese army held back at many key locations. He did not see their advancement as her fault. But none of these things were his place to say. These were not decisions that were his to make. It did not matter how much he wanted to help her, his duty was to remain silent, and await orders.