Night Legions
Page 9
“He’s so full of shit,” Gretchen mumbled.
The screens showed the ships landing in Chicago’s Battlefield Park. The cargo bays opened, and a small army of synthetics marched out shoulder to shoulder. Conthan estimated at least a hundred of the machines exited the craft. The magnitude of the force didn’t appear grand enough for the attention it received on the screens. The camera angle shifted up, moving to the sky above the park to show another dozen transportation conveys.
A boom sounded from the middle of the crowd. Onlookers started screaming, pushing away from the epicenter of terror. Conthan struggled to see what made the sound a second time. New Yorkers toppled to the ground at the ferocity of the burst, struggling to their knees and crawling away. A sea of bodies parted long enough to reveal a single man standing in the middle of the clearing.
“Griffin,” the man yelled, his voice tearing through the air like thunder. “Your crimes against humanity will not go unanswered.”
“Holy shit,” Conthan said. “He’s going to try and kill the president.”
* * * * *
Ivan inhaled deeply. As the cool recycled air of the limo filled his lungs, he found himself invigorated by the thousand thoughts licking at his mind. As the Warden, he’d let his influence seep into the researchers, scientists and guards of the Facility. The growing bond with his staff easily allowed him to pull thoughts from their minds in turn, and with little effort he controlled them like puppets.
When Conthan reached into the Warden’s chest, the kid had robbed him of his strongest ally. Thanks to the Conthan and his telepathic mentor, he barely had time to register the kid pulling the trigger. Ivan gave a slight chuckle, amused with the idea of his own death. He had hoped to prolong his life, suspended in a cryotube while his puppet, the Warden, continued studying Children. Ivan’s body waited for science to restore his ailing body. It had never occurred to him that he, a withered and dying man, had already been bestowed with more than human gifts. Not until they saved his life. Before he killed the young boy who put a bullet in his brain, he’d be sure to thank him.
“What do I call you now?”
Ivan raised his eyebrow. “What?”
“Pouwva. Power, I can taste it wafting off you. You cannot deceive an empath.”
“My name…” Ivan smiled at the woman, his lips spreading from ear to ear. “Jacob is indisposed indefinitely. My name is Ivan Volkov.”
The woman knelt, crawling on her knees toward him. In his life, he had only ever met a single empath, and he believed their abilities were uncanny indeed. With only a gentle nudge, he could tense her muscles, freeze her in place, and despite knowing this possibility, she reached out to touch his face with tips of her fingers. Cinnamon—she smelled of the warm spice, her flesh as intoxicating as her mind.
The brown of her eyes held a wild fire. For a moment, he pondered if her crazy demeanor was just an act. With a pull of her hand, she closed the distance, her ruby red lips smashing into his. Her tongue expertly pushed into his mouth. The lust washing over him for a moment made him forget he was a telepath, a Child, or even the president. For a moment, he was only a man. Dikeledi leaned into him, her torso rubbing against his groin.
Then she pulled back, hysterically laughing until she turned slightly coy. The hunger on her face, the slight curl of her lip cloaked her wild spirit. Barriers slammed into place in his mind, cleansing himself of her influence. Despite the renewed clarity of his thinking, he found his youthful body still craved the woman.
“That is power,” she whispered.
“Dikeledi.” He rested a hand on her cheek. “You are an impressive specimen. But…” his hand moved to her neck, squeezing it tightly. “If you ever attempt to invade my mind again, I will do far worse to your mind than what I can do to your body.”
Even with the pressure against her throat, she laughed. “Pouwva,” she repeated.
The limo stopped. The world would be watching his every movement, hanging on his every word. From the basement of a research facility, to manipulating a man with unlimited influence, to being the President of the United States. Already, his insatiable need for power desired more.
Before he exited, his hand touched the empath’s face. Dikeledi’s abilities rolled through the crowd with a at his demand. The nay-sayers of New York applauded while his supporters pledged their unyielding loyalty. Where before he could manipulate dozens, Jacob’s abilities compounded his own and a thousand minds fell under his influence.
Exiting the limo to the roaring approval of his constituents, Ivan turned and waved. The Secret Service agents created a barrier between him and the closest humans. Ivan ignored the men in black suits, but paused at the sight of the synthetics. He recalled the machines from his early days at the research center. He started to see a circular pattern: the military, Genesis Division, the president and the Facility. When he had a moment, he’d dwell more on this convergence and pull from Jacob’s memory any insight to be had. The machines, however, the tributes to modern technology, had improved drastically. This army had far more potential than anything the Facility could have produced.
The screens showed troops exiting carriers. Chicago served as a hotbed of Child activity, a stopping point before they invaded Canada. The northern country had never threatened America and even when civil war exploded, they remained determined to hold a neutral position. Canada might be Genesis Division’s only technological rival, despite their refusal to share it with the world. Ivan found it troublesome that their weakest neighbor had an edge, and with a telepath posed to take over, they could prove a formidable adversary.
Now, under the guise of the greater good, Chicago would fall. Intelligence had warned him about the likelihood the General would attempt to seize the city. Closing in on Detroit, the military approached the largest manufacturer of synthetics. Ivan understood the potential disaster if the military managed to close down their plant. Even with plans underway to open new plants in New York, Georgia, and Maryland, they’d suffer an monumental setback until they were operational. No, taking Chicago by force before the General could stake his flag in the city was the only way he’d advance this war.
Meanwhile, to the north, Ivan feared that the Canadian mentalist played a dangerous game, even in a country tolerant of those with abilities. Jacob wanted to meet the potential Prime Minister face to face. Did the man have abilities beyond his? Would he prove as delicious a challenge as Vanessa? The possibility of continuing to augment his own gifts aroused him.
“Griffin.”
Sifting through a thousand thoughts took several moments. Dividing the masses by those who supported and those who didn’t, he sought the owner of the voice. As he narrowed in on the thoughts breaking through the buzz of the crowd, he found a barrier.
“Curse Nostradamus,” Ivan hissed.
“Your crimes against humanity cannot go unanswered.”
The man’s voice boomed louder than any of the speakers. Each word echoed like a clap of thunder. First confused, and now terrified, New Yorkers backed away, leaving the speaker—the Child—in an empty circle. Even at this distance, the rage rolling off him touched Ivan’s mind. His balled fists, his pained expression—though Ivan was unable to enter the man’s mind, the waves of malice radiating outward carried a sweet taste.
Ivan stepped around the podium and worked his way to the pavement, staring down the cleared path to the man. Secret Service yelled for him to step back, but he refused to cower to a single Child. Synthetics moved into position, their weapons at the ready. He found it hard to believe an individual challenged the most powerful man in the country.
“You’re not alone, are you?”
Screams sounded from one side of the crowd as a synthetic fell to the ground. A stream of liquid shot from another man’s mouth, pelting a mechanical guard’s faceplate. The corrosive liquid rendered the machine nearly headless.
Gunfire followed. Secret Service agents fell to the ground, clutching wounds from an unseen source. T
he screens along the walls flickered. His show of military force vanished, replaced by footage of the White House. He recognized the Children on the lawn, the group trying to hold the former president ransom. Cecilia’s head exploded, raining blood on the nearby Children. Words flashed across the scene: “Do Not Trust the Government.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fire. Ivan found the snipers, two of them located in windows on either side of Times Square. Unlike their Child cohorts, these humans died immediately as he turned their brains into useless organs. Yet he found it uncanny that the humans had remained invisible to his first scan of the crowd. He’d leave his scientists to explain this upsetting news.
Give me your weapon.
A Secret Service agent unholstered a pistol and presented it butt first to the president. The steel had a familiar feeling in his hand, as if in a past life he had practiced with the weapon before. Instinct took over and he flipped off the safety while walking toward the voice-amplifying Child. Screaming citizens scattered as he closed the distance between him and his would-be assassin.
Kill the Child to my right.
Secret Service agents started sifting through the crowd, shoving bystanders aside. They held up their arms to protect their faces as the man continued spewing, a liquid projecting twenty feet in all directions. Ivan ignored their searing pain as the substance burned through their flesh where their protections failed, rendering the agents useless.
Open fire.
The agents ignored the bubbling skin along their faces and necks and drew their weapons. New Yorker’s thoughts vanished, snuffed, as agents fired indiscriminately in the man’s direction, striking bystanders. A dozen New Yorkers fell to the ground, screaming, trying to claw themselves from harm’s way. Ivan smiled as a bullet finally pierced the Child’s forehead. He couldn’t read his dying thoughts, but he reveled in the satisfaction that another abomination had been eradicated.
Pushing aside their overwhelming fear and need to protect themselves, Ivan forced himself onto a handful of New Yorkers. His puppets rushed the remaining Child. Buckling over, the man shouted, sending men and women to the ground. Ivan stumbled, falling to a knee as his organs shook from the vibrations of the voice.
He wanted the man. The scientist in Ivan wanted to dissect the anomaly, open his body and poke and prod until he found the unique factors that awarded him so much power. Ivan shook in delight at the image of his hands covered in blood. The thought of wading through the man’s innards twisted a knot in his stomach.
The Child’s primal scream went from a low, earth-shattering growl to a high-pitched squeal. Working up the scale, it reached a point where the vibrations seemed to stop. Synthetics, with their weapons drawn, froze. Ivan assumed the Child knew how to dispatch the robots. He would need to consult with his security team to uncover why the robots didn’t instantly launch volleys of missiles into the crowd to neuter the threat. He’d question Dikeledi later to see what she knew of these resistance fighters.
A dizzying sensation had him trying to maintain his footing. The ground turned to liquid and from his crouched position he buckled onto all fours. The screams of the crowd turned sickly and dozens of people lost their lunches, hurling along the street. Ivan tried to hold back the bile rising in his throat. The taste of acid and then poached eggs filled his mouth. His lunch painted the pavement.
Ivan fought to collect his thoughts. Eyes clenched shut, he tried to push through the vertigo wracking his body. He spit the last of the vomit from his mouth.
“Stop him,” he shouted.
His voice vanished into the crowd, swallowed by the sick locals fighting to get their bearings. “Stop,” he growled, “him.” The spoken words paled compared to the force of his words in the minds of the New Yorkers near the Child. Covered in streaks of their own puke, they tackled the man.
Ivan wiped the spit from his mouth and got one foot under him, then another. A headache erupted just behind his eyes from the strain. He hadn’t felt the stab of a migraine since his powers first manifested. Now, he wanted to make a display of the sonic screamer who attempted to kill him.
To his side, the head of a Secret Service agent splattered, a spray of blood and bone filling the air. Ivan growled at the determination of these terrorists. He stepped a dozen feet to the left, mingling with the edge of the crowd. Keeping his head low, he watched as agent after agent was struck and killed.
Protect me.
A barrier of humans linked arms, hiding him from the sniper’s vantage point. Ivan resisted the urge to laugh. These Children with their self-righteous morals wouldn’t slaughter innocents. Their weakness gave him an advantage, one he intended to exploit for his own gains.
“We got the sniper,” an agent yelled.
The last Child wrestled with two women trying to knock him from his feet. He shoved one off and grabbed the other by the neck. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. He opened his mouth and a booming voice forced many of the surrounding humans to cower while covering their ears. Those infected by Ivan’s manipulations continued to grapple with him, dragging him to his knees.
The Child was forced to submit by a trio of New Yorkers, who used their body weight to hold him in place. Ivan pushed through his human shield, gun raised. He eased the trigger back.
Bang.
The bullet entered through the Child’s eye, tearing away a chunk of the socket and the bridge of his nose. Ivan pulled the trigger again. The man’s body folded in half as the bullet pierced his sternum.
We’re coming for you. The dying Child’s thoughts were loud enough that Ivan could hear them above the white noise of the crowd.
You won’t be the first. Ivan couldn’t tell if the man heard his thoughts. He collapsed on the ground, the three tourists’ eyes going wide as they reclaimed their faculties. Satisfied that the disturbance was over, Ivan lowered the weapon.
Cheer for me, New York.
They did.
* * * * *
“Can you stop it?” Conthan braced himself against the wall. The sickening sensation worked its way through the space between his ears. Dizzied, he fought to convince his body the floor underneath his feet didn’t move like Jell-O.
Gretchen squeezed his hand, the pain of her slender fingers digging into his flesh providing a momentary respite. Conthan watched as the world around them darkened as Gretchen’s abilities wrapped about them. Seconds passed, and he realized his stomach didn’t feel like emptying.
“What did you do?”
“I think I bent the sound around us?” she said with a tone of disbelief.
“You can do that?” he asked.
“Of course.” Gretchen wiped a thin layer of sweat off her forehead, drying her hand along her torn jeans. “I’m awesome,” she said with a forced grin.
“We need to stop them.” Conthan straightened his back, ready to drag his friend into the fray.
“No,” she said, yanking him back. “You want to get us killed?”
“If they kill the Warden, we’re screwed,” Conthan argued. He realized he wanted to protect the villain, to stop Children from getting revenge. The two in the crowd didn’t have the training necessary for this. Whoever they were, they were fighting a battle they couldn’t win.
“I can’t walk through a crowd without people blinking in and out of sight. They’ll know it’s us.”
“I can…”
“Do what? Teleport Jacob to safety? We are not getting involved.” She grabbed him by the face and turned to meet him eye to eye. “Dwayne will kill both of us.”
The scene unfolding held a horrific feel to it even without the shrilling soundtrack to accompany the panic of New Yorkers. The terrified faces of parents cradling their children and businesspeople shielding themselves with suitcases were everywhere.
Conthan imagined a single portal opening in the man’s chest. Without almost no strain, he could strike the Warden’s puppet dead. The bubbling well of anger wanted the opportunity to destroy the man from the inside.
Conthan flinched as the first bullet struck the man in the face. The second tore through his abdomen. Phantom pains covered Conthan’s face as he touched his cheek. The man’s lips moved, but from his cocoon with Gretchen, Conthan could only imagine his dying words.
“They were soldiers,” Gretchen whispered, trying to make the scene easier to digest.
“We’re soldiers,” Conthan reminded her.
The reality of those words soaked in. Many times, Conthan wanted to slip away in the dark of night and kill the Warden. Nightmares woke him from the dead of sleep, images of the man’s heart in his hand. He wanted revenge. Killing the Warden would be justified, a necessity for the greater good. It fueled him every day since.
“We’re smarter,” Gretchen said. “We will do this. We will survive.”
“Perhaps,” he mumbled, then said more clearly, “I think I figured out what we need to do.” Murdering the Warden held the foremost thought in his mind, but he knew there was no way he could do it alone. Even with the Nighthawks, the man had an army and the Warden could possess another body, they’d never be free of his influence.
“What?”
Conthan pointed to the billboards. “The soldiers weren’t alone. There are more of them.”
“Who are they?”
“Future allies.” A black void opened in the air, suspended several inches from the ground. Gretchen didn’t ask questions, just stepping through. Conthan followed. As the icy blackness caressed his skin, his brain went into overdrive. If there were more, more Children, more rebels fighting against the reign of the president, they needed to find them. If they were going to stop a man with an army, Conthan knew they’d need an army of their own.