Ascendant: The Complete Edition

by Richard Denoncourt

The man’s voice came out unnaturally gruff, like he was trying to disguise it. The other man, also holding a pistol, came forward with what appeared to be a black bag in his free hand. Michael let out a hiss of breath as the man whipped the bag over his head, blinding him. They led him down the stairs to the main floor of the house.

  Blake, Dominic, he tried calling out with his telepathic voice. But he hadn’t learned that yet. They hadn’t taught him anything of value since he’d gotten here. They hadn’t prepared him for this at all.

  The men opened another door and led him down more stairs. The air was even colder down here, dry enough to make his skin itch, carrying with it the smell of mildew and soil. They were taking him to the basement, probably so they could shoot him without raising an alarm.

  “Please,” Michael said, whispering to show he could keep quiet. “I’ll leave Gulch. I’ll leave right now and you’ll never see me again, I swear.”

  “Shut up.”

  The cold tip of the pistol pressed up against his spine.

  He obeyed. His shortened breaths came out hot and moist inside the hood. The fabric scratched his nose and forehead. His toes burned from the cold.

  This was it; he was going to die.

  “Take off the hood.”

  “What?”

  “Take it off!”

  Michael recoiled from the force of the man’s voice. It had to have been Warren; Elkin’s voice was too high-pitched and nasally to be that strong.

  He slipped off the hood and looked back at the two men. One was taller than the other and both were dressed in black.

  “Why are you doing this?” Michael said, arms raised and trembling.

  “Turn around,” the taller man said. Michael was sure he recognized that voice, and yet it didn’t sound like Warren. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

  He turned, and what he saw made his eyes narrow in confusion. Peter, Eli, and Ian, all of them naked except for boxer shorts, were sitting up against the concrete wall across the room, wearing glum, hardened expressions. A pair of gas lanterns cast a seedy yellow light over their faces.

  “Guys,” Michael said. “What is this?”

  Peter closed his eyes and faced away. Eli and Ian looked down at the patches of floor between their grimy feet. At least if Michael died tonight, he wouldn’t be alone.

  “Sit by the wall. Next to that skinny piece of shit with the shaved head.”

  Michael went and sat next to Ian. Now that he and Ian were in this together, it was easier to feel close to him, like they had suddenly become brothers.

  The men stood before them, black tactical suits clean and well preserved. The shorter man stepped forward and kicked the side of Michael’s knee, forcing him to topple against Ian.

  “Don’t look at me, kid.”

  Ian pushed him away. “Get the hell offa me.”

  Michael looked up at the shorter man and scowled. It was easy to imagine Boyd and Welcher behind those masks, back from the dead to finish what they had started back at his parents’ restaurant.

  Anger surged inside of him.

  “I said don’t look at me,” the man said, and kicked him again.

  Michael flinched but didn’t look away. The shorter man hunkered down so he could look directly into Michael’s eyes.

  “Look what I found, Mom. A real rebel.”

  Boyd. It was exactly the sort of thing Boyd would say.

  Michael narrowed his eyes at the man and caught sight of the tiny string in his mind. It was little more than a ghostly vapor, but there it was. He tried to latch onto it, picturing his mind reaching out like a hand trying to grab a mosquito.

  The man smacked him across the face.

  Michael breathed furiously. Once more he tried to visualize the string. The man smacked him, and again the string was lost.

  “What’s the matter, Mike? Am I distracting you?”

  Michael leaped up suddenly and pushed the man back.

  “Fight them,” he shouted back at the other guys. “Come on!”

  The man easily regained control of the situation. His partner didn’t even have to help. The taller one crossed his arms over his chest and stood watching as the shorter one flipped Michael onto his back and brought his elbow down into his belly. Cold concrete scraped Michael’s shoulder blades and back.

  The shorter man straightened and kicked Michael in the side, forcing him to scramble back against the wall. Michael stared up at the man in hatred, still not angry enough for his ability to come out on its own. Another episode could kill him or turn him into a vegetable, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He wanted these men dead.

  “Relax,” the taller man said. “You’ll hurt yourself thinking that hard.”

  He pulled off his mask and shook out his hair. It was Dominic.

  The shorter man, seeing Dominic’s exposed face, took off his own mask. Michael was surprised to see Reggie smiling down at him, his hair a mess of brown waves.

  “Figures,” Peter said in defeat.

  Michael let out a long, slow breath. The tightness remained in his shoulders.

  “We really had you going, huh?” Reggie said.

  “What was that for?” Ian said, pushing himself up into a standing position. He looked small and weak in his undershorts.

  “Get back down,” Dominic said. “We’re not finished with you yet.”

  The basement door opened at the top of the stairs. From this angle, Michael couldn’t see who it was, but from the slow, methodical sound of the man’s footsteps against the wooden stair planks, he was able to figure it out.

  Louis Blake was dressed in a black uniform much like Dominic’s and Reggie’s. Over it he wore a long, thin overcoat that made him look like an FSD officer. Michael inspected Blake’s face and saw only a cold, gray slate with no trace of human emotion.

  “Good morning, boys,” Blake said. “It’s three o’clock and the sun won’t rise for another two hours. You’ve all requested training and now you’re going to have it.” He paced before them. “You will have no days off and no excuse if you don’t show up. Miss a day of training, miss all three meals for that day.” He stopped pacing and studied them. “Understood?”

  Something roiled inside Michael’s gut. He kept still and listened.

  “Yes? No?” Blake said, this time more sternly.

  “Yes,” Michael said as the others murmured “Yeah” and “Uh huh.”

  “I used to be a major in the army. That’ll be ‘yes, sir.’ Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boys said at once.

  “You’ve all approached me about this before, but it’s different now that Michael’s here. Telepathic training was always meant to be done in pairs, that way you can partner up, and no one has to be left out. But I can’t guarantee success for all of you. Combat telepathy isn’t for the weak of will.”

  Eli looked at the others, his face covered in nervous sweat. He was smiling like a tired drunk. “Combat telepathy? Sign me up.”

  Dominic hunkered down, elbows propped on his knees, and gave Eli an icy look.

  “This is no game, fatboy,” he said in a cruel whisper. “You’ll be killing people in cold blood. You’ll be drawing blades across peoples’ necks and stabbing them in the back. You know what that’s like?”

  The smile disappeared from Eli’s face. He looked down at his bare feet, curled his toes, and kept quiet.

  Blake stood in the center of the room, his face orange in the light of the gas lantern. He seemed to be on the verge of laughter.

  “We begin now. Everyone on your feet. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  They dressed in clothing Reggie pulled out of a black bag. Then Reggie and Blake took off, leaving a grinning Dominic to take over.

  He yelled at them constantly as they jogged up a three-mile path to an abandoned observatory. Eli explained it had once been used for star gazing and mapping. The building was small and gray beneath a domed roof, perched on a cliff overlooking a cluster of distant mountains. A
bove it, the vast sky was covered with a powdered dusting of stars.

  They opened a rusty door in the back and gazed into pure darkness.

  “The hell are we supposed to do here?” Eli said. “This place is a crypt.”

  The boys recoiled as a blinding light turned on inside. Louis Blake stood in the center of the empty room, arms crossed over his chest, smelling faintly of gasoline. He had probably ridden a four-wheeler up another path in order to get up here as fast as he did.

  “You’re too slow,” he said. “You’ll eat cut oats for breakfast as punishment.”

  Michael sighed. Cut oats tasted like pencil shavings soaked in water.

  “Can you deal with that?” Dominic said, standing before the group of boys.

  Michael shrugged. “I guess.”

  Dominic flashed out of sight.

  They all stood looking at the spot in which he’d been standing a moment earlier, and before Michael could even form a thought regarding the man’s quickness, someone came up behind him, put an arm around his neck, and kicked his knees out from under him. As he sank toward the ground, the arm around his neck tightened its grip, choking him.

  “That’s ‘yes, sir,’ to you, trainee!”

  Michael’s voice sputtered out of him. “Yesh—yesshir!”

  The arm around his neck fell away, and Michael collapsed onto his side, choking and gasping. Dominic reappeared where he’d been standing before, looking as though nothing had happened.

  “How did you do that?” Michael said, pushing himself up.

  Louis Blake stepped forward, speaking as Dominic frowned and shook his head. “He slowed down your perception of time. Everyone’s in this room, including mine. Of course, you could have blocked it, but that takes time and effort to master.”

  Dominic looked each boy in the eye. One moment his hands were empty. The next, he had a large, curved hunting knife in his right hand and was holding it to Peter’s throat.

  “I better not hear any of you boys talking openly about anything that goes on in this building,” Dominic said. “You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter said, barely breathing. The others followed.

  Dominic stepped back, and in a flash, the knife was gone.

  “Someday, with enough training, you’ll all be able to do what he just did,” Blake said.

  Dominic scoffed. “You’ll wish you could do what I just did.”

  Michael raised a hand, hesitantly, as if there was the possibility Dominic would slice it off. Blake nodded at him.

  “What if someone follows us up here one morning? Like one of Meacham’s men?”

  Blake pursed his lips before speaking. “I can sense the presence of every person in this town. I’ll know if someone tries to sneak up on us.”

  He cleared his throat and began to pace before the boys, gloved hands joined behind his back. The chain-smoking old man from before had disappeared; only Major Blake existed now. The man reeked of military pride.

  “Why are we here?” He looked down at the dusty floor as he walked. “What are we training for, exactly? Is it defense against raiders, bandits, and cannibals—all very real threats in the Eastlands and even here in the mountains—or is it to support the New Dallas Republic war effort against Harris Kole?”

  He looked at the boys as if expecting an answer. They swallowed nervously and waited for him to finish.

  “You might have selfish reasons for being here, maybe to impress a girl”—he looked at Peter—“or get revenge on an enemy you’ve never met.” This time he looked at Michael. “Or maybe you just want to have fun.” Eli grinned when Blake looked at him. “If that’s the case, you should all quit now. Combat telepathy is about unity. You’ll be sharing your senses and your thoughts to solve problems as a team—ultimately, as one single mind.

  “You should have only one reason for being here,” he continued, giving them each a solid, unwavering look. “And that is to shape your telepathy into an impenetrable shield to protect yourselves against enemies once I’m gone.”

  Dominic’s face twitched at the words once I’m gone. Michael sensed a jolt of emotion go through him. When Dominic looked down at the floor, Michael became certain something of significance had been said.

  “What do you mean, once you’re gone?” Michael said.

  Blake pursed his lips in thought as he glanced at each of them.

  “I’m an old man. I won’t be around forever and neither will this town, so you must be prepared.”

  Blake’s hand flew up to his mouth. The boys looked down in shame as the old man endured a series of rattling, wet coughs.

  When he recovered, their training began in full swing.

  Chapter 16

  They started off with rigorous physical exercises meant to strengthen their core muscles and enhance bodily speed, strength, and agility. That meant sit-ups, calisthenics, climbing trees, and running up and down the mountainside with Dominic shouting insults at them the entire time.

  The first few days, the boys vomited, tripped, and collapsed more times than they could count. The cramps were terrible. Michael was in hell. He’d never exercised more than running up and down the stairs in the restaurant on really busy days, carrying boxes of sausage patties and extra large cans of tomato paste. And to do it at 3:00 a.m. each day, when all he wanted was to crawl back into the warmth of his bed and sleep for hours…

  “What about telepathy?” he asked Dominic one day, bent over, panting from one of their taxing runs. “I thought this was supposed to be mental training.”

  Dominic walked over and flung him onto his back. “Your body is an extension of your mind, idiot. Neglect it, and you’ll be useless in the field. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Another lap, all of you, for Michael’s ignorance.”

  That evening, Michael rode an old bicycle toward Silo Street. The bike was a rusted, wire-thin piece of junk he’d found and fixed in Rudy’s garage, probably a girl’s bike though it was too dirty and rusted to tell for sure. It didn’t seem to matter; compared to what Peter and the others had, he might as well be riding a girl’s bike.

  He was still downtown when a motorcycle engine revved up behind him and grew louder by the second.

  Michael looked back to see Ian blazing toward him, his face tipped forward into the wind, eyes narrowed down to slits.

  “Oh, shit.”

  He tried turning down a side road. Behind him, tires squealed as Ian took the turn at a dangerous speed. The road was narrow and empty, and the buildings around him were dark with disuse. This wasn’t the Hollows, but there were still parts of downtown where the buildings were too unstable to restore.

  He pedaled the bicycle like his life depended on it, but Ian’s motorcycle was obviously faster. It took seconds for Ian to pull up beside him.

  The engine drowned Michael’s voice as he tried to ask Ian what the hell he was doing. Ian extended his left leg and veered into Michael’s lane, kicking the front wheel of the bicycle.

  Michael struggled to keep steady. Ian kicked again, this time coming so close that Michael could smell the gas fumes. Their shoulders almost touched.

  Another kick sent him sprawling. As he tumbled over the uneven pavement, head slamming against the gutter, he saw Ian’s motorcycle roll over the bicycle, warping the wheel and snapping the chain off completely.

  “Stay down,” Ian yelled, and killed the engine.

  He walked over to Michael, who was still on the ground, and kicked him in the stomach. Michael felt his last meal surge into his throat. The last thing he wanted was to puke in front of Ian.

  He gulped it back down. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you have to say.”

  Ian was standing over him now, leather jacket trembling in the wind, open to reveal a pistol tucked into the front of his black jeans. His belt buckle was a grinning cow skull made of iron.

  Michael clutched his stomach and took a few shudd
ering breaths.

  “This is about Charlotte, isn’t it?”

  Ian looked ready to kick him again. Michael curled up.

  “I didn’t know she was with you, I swear.”

  Ian pointed at him. “You stay away from her.”

  “Ian, listen to me,” Michael said, trying to sit up. He glanced at his mangled bicycle and tried to swallow his anger. That bike had taken him a whole afternoon to fix. It didn’t matter, though; what he needed now was a motorcycle. He was going to get one, come hell or high water.

  “What could you possibly say?” Ian said. “That she seduced you? That you didn’t want it?” He’d shouted that last part, hands balled into fists. “I don’t care! No one has the right to try and explain anything to me.”

  “Nothing happened that night.”

  “That’s not the point. If Eli hadn’t stopped you—”

  “I’m weak, I’ll admit it,” Michael said, holding up his hands like shields. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend. I’m an idiot.”

  Ian frowned, though the words appeared to calm him down.

  “We’re brothers now,” Michael continued. “We weren’t before, but we are now. It’s part of our training. That’s—that’s how we’re going to get through all this, right?”

  Ian made a pssht sound and waved dismissively. He looked up the street at nothing.

  Michael got to his feet slowly. “I’ll stay away from Charlotte, because you told me to. I had no idea you were with her when it happened. But I will ask you one favor.”

  Ian gave him his full attention, more surprised now than angry. “What?”

  “Come with me to the garage so we can fix your brakes.”

  “Huh?” He was squinting at Michael now with his mouth slightly open.

  “Your bike. The brakes are too tight. It’s putting a strain on your engine and the center stand every time you turn the wheel. You’ve probably felt it.”

  Ian glanced at his motorcycle, which was leaning on its kickstand. It looked good. He obviously took better care of his than Peter and Eli did theirs.

  “Let’s go to the garage. I’ll fix it up.”

  “Can you? I don’t know much about brakes.”