The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage

by Selznick, Matthew Wayne

  Probably for the best.

  I exhaled. “We’ll be all right. Right?”

  “Sure.” I had the feeling Denver’s upbeat tone was strictly for Andrew’s benefit. He knew better. If I could smell traces of anxiety on our sweat, we must have reeked to my father.

  Sandy opened her door. “Come on, men. History beckons, etcetera, etcetera.”

  I got out of the car. The morning air was crisp and cold, refreshing after the last two slow hours in the car. It was hard to savor, though. I felt a little exposed just standing next to the car and found myself scanning the woodsy hillside and the faces of the people trudging past.

  “Help me out, Nate?” Sandy called from the back end of the car.

  “Right.” I helped her get the wheelchair out of the trunk and Denver into it, not that he needed a whole lot of help. Only Andrew remained in the car.

  “Time to go,” I said through his window.

  He looked at me, then stared straight ahead. I thought we were going to have a problem, but he tapped on the window, so I took that as a signal to open his door for him. In his on-again, off-again state, he’d probably forgotten how to do it himself.

  Andrew got out of the car and maintained a low crouch. His nostrils twitched busily. “Sovereigns…”

  “What? How do you know? Where?” I looked around.

  “There. There…there…all around.” He pointed at various people, mixed in with the throngs making their way up the road. “Smell ‘em. You can’t?”

  I couldn’t. Or could I? Maybe it was just a matter of knowing how to filter it out. I’d ask him about it later, when we were safely at the Institute. Might be a handy trick.

  Each of the people my dad pointed out looked like tired, road-dirty, haggard travelers. Just like us, in other words.

  “Wild.”

  In fact, I thought we probably stood out. Guy in a wheelchair. Me with my double-take features. I wondered how long it would be before I was recognized. It gave me the willies, like the feeling someone’s standing behind you.

  “Let’s get going, you guys.”

  “I’ll lead the way,” Denver said. I quickly saw the sense in that. People instinctively cleared a path for a guy in a wheelchair. The rest of us followed close behind, with Andrew right after Denver and Sandy bringing up the rear.

  We made it about ten minutes before a ripple of excited noise from down the road made us stop and look behind us.

  “Duck.” My dad’s warning was so calm, it almost didn’t register with me.

  A shirtless, flying man buzzed us. The buffeting air from his powerful, flapping wings smelled like body odor. He climbed about fifty feet, laughing, and leveled off for the rest of his flight to the Institute.

  My tongue dried out, which cued me in that I’d been staring after him with my mouth hanging open. I closed it.

  The last time I had seen that guy, a Sovereign whose name I would later learn was Gary Chancellor, it had been on grainy news-copter video footage on TV, one year ago tonight.

  It felt like a lifetime. That night, I’d been dragged to my grandmother’s empty summer cabin in Kirby Lake by my paranoid mother, who had been freaked out by Donner and what his declaration might mean to the world and to her “special little guy.” Lina and I had just met. I had no idea Byron Teslowski was anything more than a schoolyard bully.

  Now I was maybe just hours away from meeting Donner himself. Byron was there, right now, at the Institute, far as I knew.

  And Lina and I were probably totally over.

  When we finally got to the Institute, I almost wanted to meet Chancellor more than anybody. Seeing the flying man was like bookends on either side of the last year.

  We watched him do loops in the air. I heard distant cheers.

  “I wonder if we can catch up to that guy…?”

  Andrew frowned and wrinkled his nose. “Stinks.”

  Sandy said, “Even I could smell his backdraft. I wonder if his wings have sweat glands? Like big radiators?”

  “Already taking notes, eh?” Denver said with affection.

  “Of course!”

  As someone with a hyperactive metabolism to fuel my augmented abilities, I had an idea of what she was talking about. “You mean he burns hot…because it takes so much energy to fly?”

  She winked at me. “Bright boy.”

  We walked on, using the literal aerobatics of Chancellor as a marker. We could hear the white noise of a crowd somewhere ahead. We were really close.

  I think I was the first one to see the thrown rock hit Chancellor and the flying man’s head snap back. His back arched, his wings faltered, and he fluttered dangerously close to the ground before he got it together and shakily gained altitude. I lost sight of him somewhere beyond peak of the hill ahead.

  The attack had a bad effect on the crowd. Shouts swelled into screams of shock and fear…and very quickly, rage. Things were going to get nasty.

  I looked at Andrew, Sandy, and Denver. “We have to… Come on!”

  Andrew narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth. I saw a moment of regret and frustration cross Sandy’s face before she put a hand on Denver’s shoulder.

  “You two go. Find out what happened.”

  I slapped my dad’s shoulder. “Come on! Let’s go!”

  I got to the top of the hill and stopped. About fifty yards away were the gates of the Donner Institute for Sovereign Studies Visitors Center.

  About fifty feet away, a line of cops were having a very difficult time keeping two angry mobs from tearing each other apart. There was no sign of the flying man.

  Someone screamed, “Look!”

  I didn’t know they were talking about me until the first rock bounced off the pavement at my feet. It left a chalky streak on the asphalt.

  While I stared at it, the second rock hit me right below my left clavicle.

  From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Thirty

  The mob on the right must have seen someone in the mob on the left throw the stone. They must have seen me get hit. Just like the anti-Sovereign gang on the left had already figured out, folks in the pro-Sovereign gang on the right started recognizing me.

  I heard my name screamed from many different mouths on both sides, and then it got crazy.

  Ever hear of a slam pit? It’s when people in the audience at a punk-rock show start jostling and shoving each other. It’s not really American Bandstand-style dancing. More like human pinball. It probably looks violent and crazy to an outsider, but there’s a logic and a flow and a friendly etiquette to the whole thing. No one wants to hurt or be hurt.

  This was the biggest, most crowded slam pit I’d ever been in, except there was nothing friendly about it. The two sides rushed each other, tentatively at first and then with blind abandon. I found myself in the middle of it, standing back to back with my dad.

  I didn’t feel particularly endangered. I knew if I watched out for myself, stayed alert, and worked toward the edges, I’d get out of the human storm with nothing worse than a few bruises.

  My crazy, half-feral dad with the razor sharp fingernails and the metahuman strength and speed was another matter. I wasn’t scared for him. I was very worried for the people around us. These poor fools, friendly or otherwise, were in the deadliest situation of their lives, and they didn’t even know it.

  “Andrew,” I screamed. “Dad! Hold it together! No killing! No killing!”

  The roar from my dad’s throat sent a shiver through me. Some of the people pressing against us recoiled automatically. I could smell their fear slicing through the tang of adrenaline.

  “No slashing,” I yelled. “Push them away—head for the gate!”

  I did just that, shoving hard against the shoulders of the person closest to me. I’m not as strong as my dad, but I’m stronger than most everyone else I might meet. The effect was human bowling pins. I used the sudden space to get us closer to the gate of the Visitors Center.

  My dad didn’t say anything, exactly, unless you co
unt his grunts and growls and weird guttural barks as a response. But I didn’t hear screams of agony around us or smell any fresh arterial blood, either. So long as the level of chaos didn’t get any worse, I started to think we’d get through this without a Charters killing anyone.

  The odds collapsed when I saw a tube trailing smoke bounce off the skull of a woman who had her tiny fist headed for my face.

  She dropped like someone cut her strings. Smoke billowed. My eyes filled with tears, and the inside of my nose felt like it was melting.

  I grabbed my dad’s shirt. “Jump,” I coughed.

  We leapt over the heads of the crowd. I got a split-second glimpse of the Visitors Center gate and a van with people leaping out, and what looked like a huge statue of a man just beyond it, before I landed.

  Some people saw me and cleared away. I still ended up plowing awkwardly into one poor guy.

  My dad jumped again immediately. The guy I landed on must have been on my side; he touched my arm and gave me a quick thumbs-up before pushing past me to jump back in the fray.

  Just like in the slam pit, I thought. Except for the tear gas.

  I jumped again and landed stumbling into chain-link. The gate was just ahead.

  A skinny, scowling red-haired girl stepped out of the van, followed by none other than Byron Teslowski. He held in one hand what looked like one of those helmets bicyclists sometimes wore. He slid the door closed behind him.

  As soon as it latched, the van pulled back into the Visitors Center parking lot and the gate closed. Byron looked at the riot in front of him and strapped the helmet to his head.

  It was surreal to see him there. I realized in a flash that we’d been surrounded by violence the last time we’d been together, too.

  “Byron!”

  He turned toward me. I saw the shock of recognition on his face, then he pointed toward the crowd with one hand and held up the index finger of the other as if to say, “Hang on, I just have to take care of this little mob-riot thing, and I’ll be right with you.”

  I had about a heartbeat to be amused by the craziness of it all before the statue moved.

  It wasn’t a statue. It was a fifteen-foot-tall giant in what looked like slabs of gray body armor.

  Behind me, I heard my father’s alarmed hiss. I was glad I knew where he was, that he wasn’t still in the crowd.

  Between the tear gas, which we’d managed to get upwind of, and the shocking, impossible presence of the giant, the mob was literally too choked up or freaked out to do much more rioting.

  The cadre of state troopers got interested in maintaining order again and moved in with batons and lots of those plastic zip-tie handcuff things. I hung by the fence with my dad and tried to look harmless while I kept an eye out for Denver and Sandy.

  I almost didn’t recognize Spencer Croy in fatigues since every time I’d met him he’d been in a business suit. He seemed to be in charge of Byron’s group, which apparently consisted of the giant, the red-haired punky-looking chick, and what I would have sworn was a life-size, real-life version of that robot space-knight toy but was in fact, I would learn, Byron’s teammate Jon Schulmann in the special suit that protected him from his own Sovereign abilities.

  Croy seemed to be directing his team to specific individuals who were then ushered through the gates of the Visitors Center by Byron or one of his pals. Everyone else was being arrested.

  I finally saw Denver and Sandy. A couple of cops were hassling them.

  I turned to Andrew. “Can you wait right here? I need to get Denver and Sandy.”

  My dad seemed preoccupied with watching Spencer Croy. He grunted. I took that to mean he wouldn’t wander off.

  I walked toward Denver and Sandy. “Hey, officers? They’re…um…I, they’re with me. They’re not protestors.”

  One of the cops pointed his baton at me.

  “Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head, now.”

  “No, I’m not…”

  Byron intervened. “Hey, you guys…these people, they’re under Sovereign protection. Oh!” He pointed at my dad. “And that one by the gate, too. Thanks.”

  The police lost interest in us immediately. I shook Byron’s hand.

  “You…you seem…different, man.”

  He laughed and took off his bicycle helmet. “Dude, you have no idea.” He looked me over and raised an eyebrow when he got to my dye job. “What’s with the leopard spots?”

  “It’s just a thing. I don’t know if you ever met Denver Colorado…and this is his friend Sandy.”

  Denver said, “Interesting to finally meet you, Byron.”

  “You too, sir.”

  Sandy shook his hand. “Are you part of the Sovereign Conduct Enforcement Team I’ve heard about, Byron?”

  Byron looked a little bashful. “Yes ma’am. It’s…I guess it’s my first day.”

  Sandy smiled. “Well, I guess it could have been worse, right? I’d love to interview everyone on your team.”

  Byron looked cautious. “Oh, well…uh, I don’t, like, handle any of that. I don’t even know who you’d talk to. Maybe Mister Kass or this other guy, Fontino. But we’ll totally figure that out for you.”

  I nudged his arm. “Hey, you remember my dad?”

  “So that is your dad, by the fence!” He shook his head. “I figured he was with you ‘cause I saw you guys standing together, but, dude…talk about changed.”

  “Shave and a haircut. Come on; you should meet him, too, officially.”

  He shook his head and laughed as we walked over to the fence. “Dude, can you even believe we’re here, now?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what it’s taken to get here.”

  Byron looked at me. “I wanna hear about—"

  “Help us!”

  We stopped and turned around to see a burly guy with a flattop stumbling down the hill, one meaty arm supporting a tall scarecrow of a man wrapped in a blanket and beat to shit.

  Byron gaped.

  “Dad…?”

  Byron Teslowski – Seven

  Spencer Croy responded first. “Haze. The van. First-aid kit.”

  She looked confused. “How will I know—"

  Ed Kelso boomed, “White box, red cross! Jeez!”

  Byron saw a flash of embarrassment quickly masked by irritation on Haze’s face before she bolted for the van.

  Marc Teslowski eased his burden to the ground before sitting heavily next to him.

  “Dude,” Nate Charters breathed. “That’s your dad.”

  “I…” Byron took a step forward and stopped. “What’s he—"

  “Go find out! I’m gonna check on Andrew.”

  Byron had spent the last year rebuilding his life, making one that didn’t include his dad breathing down his neck every second of every day, pushing him…but now, the guy was here. Even crazier, it looked like he’d rescued someone.

  If this was a movie, Byron thought, I’d run over there. Hug him and stuff.

  But this was the guy who practically sold him out to Lester Brenhurst last year.

  Byron chose to walk.

  He and Haze got to Marc and the beat-up guy pretty much the same time. Byron’s dad looked up at him, a tired grin on his filthy face.

  “You’ve filled out,” he said.

  The last thing Byron expected was for his dad to be happy to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  Spencer Croy took the medical kit from Haze. “Mister Teslowski, are you injured?”

  “No.”

  “Please give us a little room, then, please.”

  “Ah…right.” Marc started to stand up. The guy he’d brought with him grabbed his arm.

  “See you around, Marc Teslowski.”

  Marc nodded. “You’ll be all right, Eddie.” He got to his feet and stepped away from Croy and two Visitors Center employees who had come to help.

  “Dad,” Byron said again, “What are you doing here?”

  It took Marc a couple seconds to look away from
the guy he’d called Eddie and turn to Byron. His face had welts and cuts all over, and his eyes were exhausted.

  “Came to see you,” he said.

  “Did you…walk? Who’s that guy? Is…is Mom here?”

  “Your mother’s back home. That’s Eddie.” He laughed. “I only walked the last few miles.”

  Byron didn’t know how to feel or what to think. “What happened to him?”

  “He got mixed up with a bad crowd,” Marc said. “Good thing I did, too.” He sighed, tired, and looked at the arrested protestors.

  They were seated cross-legged on the side of the road, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, as the state troopers processed them. Marc squinted, then scowled. “Son of a bitch!”

  Byron’s dad power-walked to the line and yanked one of the protestors, an older man with silver hair, to his feet. Marc followed quickly.

  Marc yelled in the man’s face. “Greene! You son of a bitch. You piece of shit…” He raised his fist.

  Two state troopers rushed over, hands on their holstered service weapons. “Sir! Stop!”

  Byron found himself standing between the cops and his dad. It was a scary place to be, bulletproof or not. “Hold on, hold on. Dad, put him down. Come on!”

  “This is the piece of shit who set this whole thing up,” Marc said. He pushed Greene to the ground as much as let him go. “This is Ray Greene. He killed a girl. He had Eddie beat up. Probably woulda done worse, too.”

  Greene looked up at Marc. “Well. You’re a disappointment, aren’t you, Marc?” He smiled. “Mostly. Still glad I got to buy you that beer.” His smile widened.

  Marc Teslowski spat in his face. Byron wanted to know when aliens had replaced his father.

  One of the cops pulled his weapon. “Step away, sir. You won’t get another warning.”

  “Dad.”

  Marc backed away a couple of paces. “Scum.”

  Spencer Croy walked up like he owned the place. Byron figured that was close enough to true.

  “Officers, I am Spencer Croy of the Donner Institute for Sovereign Studies and a recognized, authorized representative of William Donner. I’m invoking my Sovereign right to immediate extradition of Ray Greene under EO 12512.”