The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage

by Selznick, Matthew Wayne

  Arby spoke up. “Ain’t nobody does.”

  Ray nudged his son’s shoulder. “Nobody does. Damn right. And yet.”

  “What?” Marc said.

  “Hell. A year ago, where were they? Before Donner? Where’d they all come from?”

  Marc thought about it. “Don’t they say they were always around? That the government knew…?”

  “Who says that? The Sovereigns?” Ray snorted. “I’m not prepared to take them at their word, are you?”

  Marc shook his head.

  “No one knows who they are, what they are, for the love of Pete…or where they came from. And here we are as a country, in bed with them.”

  “All right, fine.” Marc said. “It’s shitty. Sure.”

  “And they’ve set up their base of operations in my back yard, which, if you’ll give pardon, pisses me off, Marc.”

  “Sure.”

  “And,” Ray said. “They’ve got your son.”

  “Yes they do.”

  Ray nodded slowly. “You’re someone I’ve wanted to meet for some time, Marc. I was thinking of writing you, but I figured, hell, this guy probably gets bombarded by all kinds of crap. He won’t pay any attention to me or mine.”

  Marc smiled. “You were right.”

  Ray raised his stein casually. “Thought so. So when I heard you were here…I had to meet you and introduce myself. Because I think we can help each other, Marc.”

  Marc scowled, less irritated by Ray and Arby and more simply frustrated. “I don’t see how, Ray. Sorry.”

  Ray looked at Marc. He studied his beer. He looked over at the old men at the bar.

  “I know.” He looked back at Marc. “Look. Let me extend this to you. Call it a thank-you for being enough of a man to do what you did today, which, even though I get that you don’t see it like this right now, I take as no less than your taking a stand for normal human beings.”

  He smiled a little. Marc thought maybe Ray had heard his own voice and thought it sounded a little ranty.

  “Let us put you up tonight, out at the ranch. Sleep in a proper bed. We’ve got a couple of sweet little guest rooms, all homey, set up just like my wife left ‘em, only we’ve, you know, kept them clean and all.

  “Have a proper breakfast with us. We can talk some more. I’ll show you around. And if you want, I’ll drive you back down to the airport myself, when the time comes.”

  Marc looked at Ray’s open face.

  “What the hell,” he said, finishing his beer. “Figure I can’t say no to the help.”

  Ray beamed. “I consider it a privilege, Marc. A real treat.” He nudged Arby.

  “Go settle up Mister Teslowski’s bill, kiddo.”

  Automatically, Marc started to protest. Ray cut him off.

  “I won’t hear it. From here on out, we’re taking care of you.”

  Arby slid off the booth and ambled over to where the waitress hovered near the bar. Marc and Ray pulled themselves out and shook hands.

  Byron Teslowski – Three

  The first coherent thought in Byron’s head when he was jarred out of a very sound sleep by a grating, repetitive, achingly loud claxon was “fire drill.”

  He pulled on his jeans and put on shoes, skipping socks to save time in case this was the real thing. How would his adaptive powers handle extreme heat or, worse, actual fire?

  Blearily, he decided that was something he wasn’t going to suggest to Doc Mazmanian, at least not where Croy might hear. It was stressful enough learning how to be bulletproof.

  He had been sleeping in a T-shirt. He threw his old varsity jacket over that. It was two-thirty in the morning; it would be cold outside.

  Byron’s small apartment—as an individual, he was assigned a studio—was on the third floor. After checking the door with the palm of his hand and not feeling any heat, he opened it and went into the corridor. A few residents were doing the same.

  Bethlehem Franklin, a nice older lady who could sometimes tell the future, smiled at him as he joined the queue down the stairs.

  “Fire drill?”

  She nodded. “Must be.”

  He grinned at her. “Are you…sure?”

  She tapped him on the arm with a small, veiny hand. “Be polite. I didn’t have one of my spells, so no, I’m not sure. But what are the odds?”

  “Guess so.”

  They descended to the ground floor and went out onto the commons. The grounds of the Institute looked strange at this late hour, like the world wasn’t accustomed to having so many people around at once.

  Residents, most dressed in sleep clothes or haphazard combinations of jackets and sweatpants, milled in small groups and waited for word. It was just like high school, Byron thought, except that most of the people hanging out were adults and a few of them smoked cigarettes.

  Byron tried to remember the last time he’d been in an actual fire drill. Probably 1984. He didn’t think Abbeque Valley High had done one after the Christmas break.

  Standing a few feet away from an old lady who had seen the death of her daughter miles away and seconds before it happened, and a few more feet from a woman who could go unnoticed in a crowd unless she wanted you to notice her, and so many other Sovereigns and the regular humans who worked alongside them, Byron felt heavy. High school seemed like forever ago.

  The loudspeakers set on poles around the Institute grounds crackled.

  “Evening, everyone.” Byron couldn’t place the voice, especially through the crackle of the speaker. “Sorry for waking you, but safety first. Everything’s fine now. You can go back to your homes.”

  Byron thought it was weird the Institute called their little apartments “homes.” He didn’t feel like he was home.

  That didn’t mean he wanted to go home, though. He just didn’t know how long it would be before he stopped feeling like he was getting away with something.

  He sighed. His breath flowed like white smoke.

  The other weird thing: they didn’t call this a drill. Somewhere in the living center, something caught on fire.

  “Huh,” he said to himself.

  Ms. Franklin, who was walking back to the building, turned and looked at Byron over her shoulder. “You coming, kiddo?”

  Byron was wide awake. It wasn’t too horribly cold outside—or at least it didn’t seem that way to him. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “Nah. I’m, like, too up now. I think I’ll take a walk.”

  She nodded. “Good night, Byron.”

  "’Night.”

  He was pretty sure she was the oldest person there, except for maybe Dr. Donner’s uncle Walt. Byron liked that she was around. She was kind of like a grandmother to him—to the whole Institute, he guessed.

  Byron wandered along the footpath. He thought of his own grandmother. Gram Ursie wasn’t much like Ms. Franklin. Not black, for one thing. Or as nice.

  You didn’t get to choose your relatives.

  Or your father.

  Byron cut across a patch of lawn and over a low dividing wall separating the meadow from the grounds of the Institute. Away from the buildings, the night was cool and damp, and the meadow quiet and still. Frost reflected the light of the waxing moon.

  It was…pretty, Byron decided. Much nicer than the last time he’d been out here, getting shot in the name of progress, or whatever.

  He walked slowly. The ground crunched under his shoes. The grass made the cuffs of his jeans dark with moisture. Except for a low hum from the Institute behind him, there was almost no sound.

  Byron couldn’t get away from thinking about it.

  His father was in Missoula. Tonight. Right now, probably sleeping in some little hotel room. Maybe drunk.

  He considered that and chuckled to himself. After having his ass handed to him by the Sovereign? Definitely drunk.

  The idea of it didn’t make him as happy as he thought it should. He was more irritated than anything.

  Everything had been fine. The lawyers were keeping his dad off Byron’s back,
running in circles, as much as Byron understood what they told him, while Byron got to have a…well, an interesting time among the Sovereign.

  He still didn’t think of himself as really being one of them. Sure, he had the adaptive power, and he was classified as a straight-up Standard on the ability class rankings, all official.

  But shit, he was just some dude, right? Powers or not, he was just a high-school jock who might get lucky and be a college jock and maybe even go pro. He didn’t feel too much like he was part of anything bigger than that.

  He turned and looked back at the buildings of the Institute. They were sharp and bright against the black night of the mountains around them.

  He was part of something. No way to ignore that. He was about to become the third field member of the new primary Sovereign Conduct Enforcement Team, the group Spencer Croy referred to as “alpha.”

  Someday soon, Byron would be somewhere out in the world, keeping folks safe from Sovereign crazies…or, if need be, keeping Sovereigns safe from regular-people crazies.

  It was super-important. The majors.

  He hoped his father would just go home. Not wreck everything out.

  Byron turned and walked a little farther into the meadow. He stopped and squinted at a ripple in the air ahead.

  It was steam, coming up off the ground. Weird.

  Caution was drilled into their heads, even out here, where someone would have to have a death wish to cause any trouble for the Sovereigns.

  “Somebody there?”

  A thin shape, all narrow, with long arms and legs, rose up from the ground.

  “Hey, soldier boy.”

  It was Haze. She held her arms in front of her, linked her fingers, and stretched. Wisps of steam curled from her shoulders and from her hair, which was even more fucked up than when he’d first met her.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  She shrugged and looked around. “Just hanging out.” She bobbed her head in greeting. “You?”

  He walked over to her. She wore a gray hooded sweatshirt that seemed too big for her, and men’s boxer shorts. On her feet were pink fuzzy bunny slippers.

  Her slippers looked dry. In fact, her hair was dry, too, even though Byron could feel the moist night air beading on his own head.

  “There was a fire drill,” he said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  She smelled like sage.

  “Oh, yeah. I guess that’s what that alarm was, right?”

  She also smelled like smoke.

  He frowned. “You know anything about that, by chance?”

  She raised her eyebrows and stepped back. “You getting all SCET on me, Byron? Come out here to check up on the firebug?”

  He flinched. “What? No—I was just taking a walk.” Why did she make him feel so defensive? “I didn’t know you were out here hiding out.”

  “Who’s hiding? I’m right here, right?” Her eyes twinkled.

  Byron crossed his arms on his chest. “Oh, yeah, totally. Right here. In the freakin’ meadow in the middle of the night. Nothing weird about that.”

  “Not as far as you’d know,” she said. “I might come out here every night. You don’t, though.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I do,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  She laughed. “No, I don’t. I’m fucking with you, Byron.”

  He uncrossed his arms and flung them out at his sides. “Whatever! Fuck!”

  She toned it down to a smile. “Chill, soldier boy.” She indicated the Institute behind him with a tilt of her head. “Everything okay back there?”

  Byron relaxed. “They say so, yeah.”

  She looked at him. “Okay. Good.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t want to be a dick, but… “So…what happened?”

  Haze put on big innocent eyes. “With what?”

  He laughed, not quite in spite of himself. “Tonight. The fire.”

  She looked at her bunny slippers. “Not much of a fire, really. Just a little smoldering.”

  “In your room?”

  “Yeah.” She kicked at invisible rocks. “Had a… dream. Woke up and my blanket was a little bit on fire.”

  “A little bit on fire?” he laughed.

  “Yeah.” She shook her head. “You know the worst thing about a room fire in that place? Don’t have a room fire, by the way.”

  “I totally won’t,” Byron said. “What’s the worst thing?”

  “It’s not the fire.” She snorted. “Fires, I can handle. Watch me, sometime. No. It’s the fucking sprinklers.”

  Byron imagined it.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Yeah. I managed to get this thing on me, and my slippers, and get out of there only, y’know, a hundred and ten percent drenched. Came out here to dry off in peace.”

  Byron’s voice was casual. “Sure. Dry off.”

  She looked at him.

  “They’re gonna know it was you,” he said.

  “No shit, Sherlock. Far as I know, I’m the only firebug in residence.” She looked up and to her left, thinking. “Maybe the only one, period, if the Stiff is right.”

  “Well, why bother hiding out?” Byron shook his head. “Wait…who’s the Stiff?”

  “Your big boss, obviously. Donner.”

  Byron laughed. “Oh, shit. That…that is fucking hilarious, dude.”

  She smiled. “I’d say don’t tell him I called him that, but we both know he probably already knows.”

  That was a creepy thought. “You think so?”

  “I just figure that’s the case. Saves me from being freaked out about it later.” She shrugged. “Anyway. I’m not hiding out.” She looked away from him, at nothing.

  Byron knew he was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he thought he read this one right. Whatever the real reason for the fire, assuming it wasn’t some bad dream, she wasn’t happy about it happening.

  “So,” he said after a bit. “Can I…help out? With the fire stuff? If you need it…?”

  She blinked at him. Held his gaze for one fraction of a second long enough for Byron to feel a little funny, right below his ribcage.

  “You have a blow dryer?”

  “Huh?”

  “A blow dryer.” She enunciated with exaggeration. “Do-you-have-one. Or any extra towels. Clean ones. Dry ones?”

  Byron remembered. Her room got the ceiling sprinklers treatment.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I do. Blow dryer and towels. But…couldn’t you just do what you did out here? Make everything dry?”

  She walked back toward the Institute. “It’s tricky. Sometimes I have a little trouble staying on the toasty side, and not on the toasted side.” He stepped to catch up with her, and she looked up at him. “So you’ll help me fix up my room, soldier boy?”

  Byron was shocked to discover a serious case of pregame jitters washing through him at the thought of being in Haze’s room, alone, with her.

  She smiled, just a little teasing. Did she have his number?

  Byron pulled it together. He put a little extra-casual swagger in his stride.

  “No sweat,” he said, “but fuckin’ stop calling me that, all right?”

  Her laughter bounced off the concrete and glass of the Institute and all over the night.

  Marc Teslowski – Seven

  Marc lay in bed for some time after the smell of coffee and bacon and the low noises of a household coming to life beyond the closed door of the guest room woke him. The bed was so much more comfortable than the old queen he shared with Jeri.

  A light knock on the door preceded a man’s voice that was not Ray Greene’s. “Breakfast is nearly ready, Mister Teslowski.”

  Marc cleared his throat. “Thanks.” He sighed. This sure as shit beat sleeping in the hotel room, but he wasn’t so sure he was up to spending the morning with a bunch of strangers. Ray was friendly enough, but something about the whole thing felt just a little…off.

  He slipped out from under a thick quil
t and stood up next to the bed. The thick carpet felt fancy and expensive on his bare feet.

  Marc scratched his balls, farted, blinked, and looked around, which was something he’d been a little too toasted to do last night. It was all he could do to strip down and fall into that fucking amazing bed.

  Probably “quaint” was the word for the room. Like one of those home-decorating magazines at the doctor’s office. There were doilies on the nightstand, and the lampshade had ruffles. Embroidery—a big-eyed cat, some Bible verse, that kind of thing—hung in frames on the walls. The dresser across from the foot of the bed was a monster of distressed wood, rustic and cozy.

  Marc figured this was how it was at one of those bed-and-breakfast places Jeri used to get on him about going to. Nice, if you were into that. Marc wasn’t.

  That bed, though…that would almost be worth shelling out for a place like this for a weekend, even though he really couldn’t stand the idea of being stuck with Jeri that long. If the kid was there, maybe.

  Marc felt a sharp pinch at the base of his neck as his shoulders tensed. The kid was not there.

  The comforts of the bed were fading fast. Grimacing, Marc went into the room’s small bathroom. He took a piss, rinsed his mouth out with a handful of water from the tap, used his damp hands to tame his bed-head hair, and looked at himself in the mirror above the sink.

  Damn thing had little cherubs carved in the upper corners of the frame.

  Marc’s eyes were bloodshot, and his bags were dark and puffy. His tongue was coated and swollen. Whatever. He just woke up, and he’d tied one on the night before. Plus, he was a guest, right? No one would give a shit how he looked.

  He found his clothes piled on a chair that looked stolen from the Walton family. He dressed. He would shower and put on fresh clothes after breakfast.

  Marc left the room and followed sounds of activity down the hall and into the kitchen. Five people moved around each other, filling their plates.

  Ray Greene hovered near the stove. He wore a white apron over a red, checkered, flannel shirt. He waved at Marc with a spatula.

  “Marc! Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

  “Great, thanks.”

  Ray chuckled. “Everybody loves that bed.” The thin guy standing next to him nodded when Ray glanced at him. Ray said to Marc, “I’ll let everybody introduce themselves once we’re all seated. G’won—grab yourself a plate and get some grub.”