The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage

by Selznick, Matthew Wayne

  Marc watched as Ray shoveled a slab of ham, some home-fried potatoes, and scrambled eggs streaked with grease onto his plate. Ray instructed him to take the spot to the right of the head of the long table in the adjacent dining room, and Marc did so.

  The skinny guy from the kitchen was on Marc’s left. They shook hands. “Abe,” he said. “It’s a privilege, Mister Teslowski.”

  “It’s just Marc.”

  Abe laughed at that, his Adam’s apple bobbing when his chin tipped back.

  “Well, imagine that.”

  Marc didn’t understand. Fortunately, Ray took his place at the head of the table then, and everyone’s attention shifted to him.

  “Marc, we’re gonna have a little prayer,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.” He chuckled and looked around at the others. "’Course, we’d do it anyway, but I’m just being polite.”

  Marc shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  “Figured you wouldn’t.” Ray’s voice was strong with approval.

  When he saw everyone else bow their heads and close their eyes, Marc did the same.

  “Heavenly Father,” Ray intoned, “we thank you for bringing us together in this house of Patsy and mine’s, where we gather to celebrate you and the purity of your Creation. We thank you for bringing Marc into our midst, and we pray for your wisdom to guide us on our path in these days of trial. Bless this food you have graced us with, Lord, bless us all, and God bless the human race. Amen.”

  Marc’s mumbled “Amen” was less strident than what he heard echo around the table, but nobody seemed to notice.

  Marc thought he should say something nice to Ray. “Thanks for your, uh, hospitality.”

  Ray’s head dipped slightly. “It’s our pleasure, Marc. Think nothing of it.”

  A heavyset man eating near the far end of the table, maybe close to Ray’s age but no older, took a roll from under a towel over a basket and buttered it. “Mister Teslowki,” he said, “that was some awesome work you did up there at the devil’s nest. You got reason to be proud, sir.”

  All the kowtowing made Marc uncomfortable. He could feel himself blushing. “I don’t know.” He scowled. “Didn’t make any difference.”

  Another man, younger, with lean, muscled arms and a dyed black mullet sprouting from his head, made haste to chew the food in his mouth before he said, “No, sir, Mister Teslowski, no, sir. Made a difference to us, and a lot of other folks, too.” He looked down at his food, momentarily bashful. “Sir.”

  Marc laughed nervously. “Listen, you guys can call me Marc. I kinda wish you would.”

  Ray laughed. “Mister Teslowski’s your father, right, Marc?”

  “Uh, yeah. Something like that.”

  Ray looked around. “You heard the man. No more puttin’ on airs for Marc. Make him feel to home.”

  The thin man next to him spoke up again. “Hey Marc. You’re goin’ back up there, right? You’re not done up there?”

  Marc frowned again, chewing slowly.

  Ray spoke up.

  “You bet we are.” He looked at Marc. “If you’ll allow me, Marc—I hope you’ll let me go back into the devil’s nest with you. They know me up there,” some laughter around the table, “and I bet things might turn out a little different next time.”

  Marc felt a jab of suspicion, that something strange was going on with Ray and his friends. “What do you mean?”

  “They know me. They know my work.” He passed his gaze around the table. “Our work, for humanity. God’s work.” He jabbed a forkful of egg into his mouth and talked around it. “Look here—when we’re done with breakfast, and I’m not rushing you; you eat all you want—I hope you’ll let me take you on a little tour. Show you around. Explain our mission here.

  “I think,” Ray swallowed and smiled slowly. “I think you’ll find you have a lot of friends in the world, Marc. And some pretty damn good friends in Montana.”

  “My flight…”

  “Hell with that. You let me take care of it.”

  Marc said automatically, “Oh, I can’t let you—"

  “Marc. Marc.” Ray looked at him. “I’m not kidding you. I have more money that I’m ever gonna be able to spend, even with these freeloaders leeching off me.” Laughter around the table and a twinkle in Ray’s eye. “There ain’t no shame in it, accepting some help now and then. And you’d be helping me.”

  “I don’t see how, Ray.”

  “You give me the afternoon, so I can show you. All right?”

  Marc could feel hopeful eyes on him from all around the table. This place wasn’t right, but it wasn’t any more wrong than the rest of the world.

  He picked up his coffee mug and raised it to Ray.

  “All right, then.”

  Byron Teslowski – Four

  Byron’s appointment with Doc Mazmanian was scheduled for nine o’clock Wednesday morning. Mazmanian didn’t look up from the papers on his desk when Byron came into the small but warm office at nine-eighteen.

  “Watch stop, Byron?”

  Byron’s whole morning had been a rush to chase the clock. He hadn’t stumbled back to his own apartment and into bed until four-thirty last night. His Sovereign ability apparently adapted his ears to totally ignore the alarm clock when it went off at seven. Ha, ha.

  “Fire alarm.” It wasn’t a lie. The fire alarm led to meeting Haze in the meadow, and hanging out in her apartment and trying to wring out and dry her clothes, which had kept Byron up and made him late.

  Mazmanian looked up. “Hm.” He smiled. “How’s Haze?”

  Byron’s heart jumped. Busted. “What…?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you were a perfect gentleman.”

  Thing was, he had been. It bugged him that Doc Mazmanian might not think so. “We just hung out,” he said quickly. “Her room got messed up.”

  Mazmanian dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. “I’m just messing around.” He stood up and held out his hand.

  Byron didn’t get why they were doing it, but he shook Doc Mazmanian’s hand.

  “Congratulations,” Mazmanian said. “You’re officially bulletproof.”

  Byron couldn’t help his smile. “That’s…that’s a trip.”

  “Well. Don’t let it go to your head.” Mazmanian looked at him. “In fact, if it comes to that—and to be honest with you, I hope it doesn’t, and to be more honest with you, it probably will—just…keep your head down. You could still get a pretty serious head injury from the impact. And I can’t guarantee your eyes are as tough as your skin.”

  It didn’t sound all that real, but Byron took it seriously. “Got it.” He had an idea. “Maybe I should wear a helmet?”

  “I’m sure you will.” Mazmanian squeezed the end of his nose and studied Byron. “You sure this is what you want to do?”

  Byron nodded. “Yes sir. I want to be part of the team.”

  “But you know it’s not required, right? This place—you can just be here, you know.”

  Byron squinted. “Sure, but…that doesn’t seem, like, right, I guess? You told me Sovereigns in my ability class were pretty rare, right?”

  “There are a hundred and fifty Standards in the world if we’re lucky…and we’ll probably never meet most of them,” Mazmanian said.

  “Yeah. So if I’m lucky enough to be that, it’d be…kinda lame, I guess…to bench myself.” He nodded firmly. “I’m totally in.”

  Mazmanian came around the desk and slapped Byron on the shoulder. “Okay, ‘dude.’" That brought Byron’s smile back. “Get on over to the barracks, then. Spencer’s expecting you.”

  “Will do. Thanks, doc.”

  Mazmanian went back to his desk chair and waved Byron off. “Keep your head down!”

  Byron left the research building and took advantage of one of the Institute golf carts to zip over to the barracks, nestled way off in the corner of the grounds farthest from the Visitors Center and, just maybe, prying eyes.

  He’d heard there were plans in t
he works for something fancier, but for now the building everyone called “the barracks” was a corrugated-steel half-cylinder pre-fab structure on a broad concrete slab. Byron parked the golf cart in a painted slot and walked over to the wide, open doors that made him think of an airplane hangar. Spencer Croy waited just inside.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Byron said as he approached.

  Croy, as usual, skipped stuff that was not essential. “Follow me.”

  He led Byron through the twenty-foot-high doors and into the interior. Byron forced himself to at least appear relaxed and confident. Game face. Game face.

  He almost lost it when he saw the giant.

  Byron was peripherally aware that there were other people there, but he couldn’t take his focus off the fifteen-foot-tall, leanly muscled guy, maybe about twenty-five, dressed in black sweat pants and a white tank top and sitting on the edge of a huge bed that was dressed with sharp military corners. The giant’s voice wasn’t as loud as Byron expected.

  “Colonel! Take a look. I’m getting pretty good at regulation corners, eh?” The giant smiled at Byron. “I don’t have to do it, of course, but hey, I like a challenge.” He waggled his fingers. “These babies aren’t so good with the precision stuff. Big surprise. No origami for me. Not anymore!”

  He looked at his own hand for a beat, then used it to present an exaggerated wave to Byron. “I’m Ed Kelso. You’re Byron?”

  Byron’s voice, when it came out of his throat, sounded undeniably small in the wake of the giant’s speech. “Byron Teslowski.”

  “Howdy.” Kelso looked to his left. “Say hi, Jon.”

  A thin, small man with a neat blond flattop came forward and extended his hand for Byron. “I’m Jon Schulmann. It’s good to meet you.” He looked to be around the same age as Ed Kelso.

  Byron shook his hand. “I’m Byron.” He tilted his head slightly. “Hey…do you have an accent?”

  Schulmann let out a short laugh. “My dad’s fault. He’s from Austria. I’m born and raised U. S of A., though. New Jersey.”

  Byron grinned and nodded. “My grandparents are from Poland. I kinda thought I heard something.”

  “The Old World…and the Garden State. Can’t seem to shake it.”

  Kelso boomed, “Give it a couple of days, Byron, but make sure you ask Jon to say,” he switched to a horrible Sylvester Stallone impersonation, "’Yo, Adrian,’" and then an awful exaggerated German accent, "’I know nuh-ting!’"

  Schulmann looked up at Kelso and shook his head. “You’re an idiot, Beau Bridges. Rocky’s from Philly. And I’m not German. I’m Austrian.”

  Byron looked at Spencer Croy. “I’m lost. Beau Bridges?”

  Croy looked as though he wished everyone would get on with it. “Mister Schulmann references a movie called Village of the Giants.”

  “Oh.”

  Schulmann looked like he was trying hard to stifle a laugh. Byron looked away before he caught the bug.

  This was crazy. These guys were the core of the Sovereign Conduct Enforcement Team Alpha? It was like an episode of M*A*S*H or something.

  “Phht.” Kelso blew air through his lips. “You’d never catch me in a toga made out of curtains. Not since Doctor Donner got me my very own tailor, at least.”

  Someone cleared their throat behind Byron. He turned to see a guy in his thirties, with tight dark curls on his head and dressed in a sharp black suit, stride into the “hangar.”

  “Byron,” Spencer Croy said, “this is Special Liaison Derek Fontino, from the Department of Defense.”

  Fontino had sharp features and equally cutting, swift movements. He shook Byron’s hand firmly and quickly. “How are you, Byron?”

  Fontino kept hard eye contact after they broke their handshake, and that, along with the question, put Byron off a little bit.

  “Good, thank you.” He figured it out. This guy reminded him of a younger version of the creepy doctor, Lester Brenhurst, who had set everything off last year and nearly gotten Byron killed.

  “We’ll have to talk later,” Fontino said to him. “Your affiliation with the SCET will have some repercussions, all things considered.”

  The guy made Byron feel like he was in trouble for breathing. Maybe his gut reaction wasn’t uncalled for, after all.

  “Repercussions?”

  Fontino frowned slightly at him, but his eyes stayed bright and on-target. “Of course. Later, as I said.” He turned to Croy. “Colonel Croy, you have paperwork on Teslowski for me, yes?”

  Byron had spent a lot of time around Spencer Croy in the last year. He knew how to read the tiny changes on the colonel’s face that represented all the emotion he typically revealed, and right now, the slight deepening of his faint crow’s-feet told Byron that Spencer Croy didn’t like the guy, either. Everyone knew Croy didn’t like being addressed by his former military rank.

  “You know that’s an unnecessary question.”

  Fontino looked quickly at Kelso, Schulmann, and Byron: a kind of strafing farewell. “Of course. My apologies.” He strode out of the barracks.

  Schulmann snorted. “That guy…”

  Kelso shook his head. “Asshole to the max.”

  “Who is he, again?” Fontino had come and gone so quickly, Byron almost thought maybe the guys on the SCET were hazing him.

  Spencer Croy said, “Mister Fontino is our liaison with the DOD. His presence here is part of EO 12512.”

  Byron looked to Schulmann for help.

  “The Sovereign Compromise, to most folks.”

  “Oh…okay.” Byron wasn’t thrilled with that. “He acts like he’s in charge.”

  “He is not,” Croy said. He turned for the barracks doorway. “Join me outside.”

  Schulmann walked out past Byron. He wondered what the thin man’s abilities were. No one had told him what to expect from his teammates, and Byron had been so caught up with the never-ending tests and exercises of the last nine months or so that, while he’d been curious, he never asked.

  With an aching creak of bed springs, Ed Kelso stood up. Byron couldn’t help staring.

  Kelso wasn’t simply a regular person maxi-sized. His body was built to support a two-legged creature of his scale.

  Byron saw that Kelso’s bare feet were about twice as wide, relatively, as his own. The edges, and, Byron assumed, the soles, were covered in hard, rough skin: calluses on top of calluses.

  Kelso’s legs were enormous. His thighs were easily as wide as Byron’s torso, and Byron was a healthy, strong kid. The giant’s barrel chest moved like a bellows below massive, wide shoulders. Byron had the impression that Kelso’s arms were a little longer than normal. He’d already seen that his hands were unusually broad, with long, thick fingers.

  Kelso’s head and face, other than being proportionate for his height, were perfectly normal. If all you had to go on was a mug shot, you’d never know he was almost three times the height of a tall man.

  When Kelso bent his corded neck to look at him, Byron’s pulse quickened, and a chill ran down his back. His instincts told him to get ready to run from this ridiculously large thing. Byron swallowed and hoped he didn’t look as scared as his nervous system demanded.

  Kelso smiled slightly. “I am a sight to behold, ain’t I?”

  “Look, sorry…it’s totally uncool of me…”

  “Don’t sweat it, Byron, seriously. Even among Sovereigns, I know I’m…” He flexed his arms and kissed both biceps, then held his left hand out and, with great critical attention, inspected his fingernails. "…exceptional. But not, y’know, officially Exceptional.” He grinned broadly, which was saying something.

  Byron laughed, suddenly entirely at ease. The dude was hilarious.

  “C’mon,” Kelso said. “Croy’s probably counting the seconds.”

  Byron trotted to keep up with Kelso’s stride as they went out into the late-morning sunlight. Croy and Schulmann were seated at a fiberglass picnic table pretty much exactly like the ones they had in the lunch room back
at Romita Elementary, which tripped Byron out.

  Byron sat down next to Schulmann. Kelso lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the asphalt. When his ass hit the ground, the picnic table bounced.

  Spencer Croy said, “Mister Teslowski has expressed an interest in the SCET. His abilities have been tested and, in some areas, honed, and I have decided he should begin training with the two of you effective Monday the twenty-first.”

  “Welcome up,” Kelso said.

  Schulmann nodded. “Byron, what exactly is the nature of your Sovereign ability?”

  “I, uh…adapt. Like, physically. Really fast.”

  Croy said, “The official designation for his ability is ‘rapid reactive metamorphic adaptation.’ Doctor Mazmanian and his team rank Mister Teslowski’s ability class as Standard.”

  Kelso grunted, “Huh!”

  Schulmann looked fascinated. “What…what does that mean, exactly?”

  “Well…” Byron had never liked drawing attention to his talents. Last year around this time, he didn’t even know he was all that different, just really, really good at sports.

  All the sports.

  He grinned sheepishly and tried again. “Well…after Mister Croy shot me enough times, I’m, like, bulletproof and stuff.”

  “Get out,” Kelso said.

  Encouraged, Byron added, “And…y’know, I heal really fast. And I’m pretty strong, pretty fast. I was CIF All-Star my sophomore year.” He laughed a little. “I didn’t know it was ‘cause of all, y’know, this stuff.”

  “Remarkable.” Schulmann looked at Croy. “Do you think he’d adapt to my emissions?”

  Byron was convinced they were messing with him that time, but Croy shook his head, once, firmly.

  “That will not be part of the exercises.”

  Schulmann looked at his hands, folded on the table. Byron thought he seemed bummed out all of a sudden.

  “That’s probably a good idea, all things considered,” Schulmann mumbled.

  Byron said, “I don’t get it. What—sorry, I never found out—what’s your ability?”