Ascension: Children of The Spear: Book one

by Rhett Gervais

  His attacks had only taken the barest of heartbeats, lost moments between frames in time. The Colonel’s hysterical laughter brought his attention back to the stage. “Kill for money, you mean like I’ve been doing in these shithole countries for the last four years?”

  “You’ve been protecting the homeland,” said Michael, raising his chin.

  Colonel Wilcott’s face suddenly twisted to an angry shade of red, and in a fury he brought down his hand on the podium beside him, shattering the cherry-colored wood into a thousand splinters. “I’ve been protecting corporate interests, pipelines and oil fields, not the damn homeland.”

  Bobby sprinted off once again, his heart racing, as he could sense one of the soldiers on this side of the arena taking aim at Michael with a weapon he recognized from his training. Even from a distance he could make out the long-barreled rifle that sat comfortably on its folding bipod, its spiked feet digging into the concrete, its rail system and muzzle brake clearly identifying the weapon as a Barrett M107 sniper rifle. While most small arms lacked the power to penetrate their skin, they had been warned that the .50 caliber weapon was deadly, even to them. Not slowing for an instant, he arrived moments before a shot, leaping the last few feet and striking the sniper with a knee lift, knocking him away from the rifle with enough force to send him sprawling along the floor, eyes rolled back into his head.

  “I’ve seen your file, Colonel. You’re better than this, hurting innocents…” he heard Michael say as he finished off the sniper. Michael was standing in midair on the shield he had created, not far from the main stage.

  “If you’re at this long enough, you find out that no one is innocent,” said Colonel Wilcott, shaking his head. “We’ve been deployed constantly in the last few years, not seeing our families, no time off, we have to furlough in place...you know what that means...it means you sit around wherever your goddamn assignment is pulling your pud! Then one day I get a call from my wife, she says she’s been trying to reach me for months now and the army’s been giving her the runaround, she tells me there’s an eviction notice on the door and we got twenty-four hours to move!”

  “Colonel, I sym—” started Michael, palms out, trying to calm the situation.

  “They fucking stopped paying us our combat pay while we were deployed!” screamed Wilcott, pulling a device out of his tac vest that looked like a trigger of some kind. “Not enough for the mortgage, credit cards weren’t being paid, all while we were all stuck in some shithole in Pakistan protecting a pipeline!”

  “I’m sure it was a mistake, sir,” stammered Michael, his eyes widening as the colonel flipped the cap open on the trigger in his hand, revealing a flashing red light on its tip.

  Focusing his attention on what was happening on the stage, Bobby was caught off-guard, having only a heartbeat to react, instinctively rolling to his left and coming around to face his attacker just as a blade whizzed by his ear, cleanly slicing through the concrete wall he had been leaning against like cardboard. Somehow he had missed the marine who stood facing him, serrated blades as long as his forearms held deftly in each of his meaty hands, each in a reverse grip. The bearded soldier was twice as wide as he was, watching him through dark hooded eyes that never blinked. He came on quickly, slashing left then right, knives flashing silver in the dark, before spinning on his heel, attacking low with one hand and high with the other. Desperate to avoid the blades, Bobby danced backward, blocking an incoming strike with his forearm, surprised as the weapon sliced deep, shredding his sleeve and spilling blood on the matching leather.

  Seeing his reaction, the marine stepped back, giving Bobby a tight-lipped smile, mocking him with his bloody knife. “Monomolecular steel, you like?”

  Reeling back, he clutched his forearm, wincing in pain. “You’ll pay for that. Ten times over, I promise you,” he said, facing the man with his good side, his baton held in front of him as though fighting with a rapier. With a flick of his wrist he uncoiled the whip, pressing forward and spinning the weapon in figure eights in front of him.

  The soldier fell in to a combat stance with one foot forward, the other back, one knife held in front and the other hidden behind him. Waiting.

  Switching to an offensive posture, Bobby flicked his wrist in rapid succession, sending the mono-whip out in tight short attacks, to only catch air as the marine easily dodged each strike, responding in kind with a series of spinning counterstrikes and parries that forced him back on his heels.

  It continued on like this for a few moments, short probing strikes by each of them followed by rapid retreats, neither gaining ground. Bobby stepped back on his heel, bracing to leap over his opponent and strike from above when the marine, seeing an opening, charged forward, the lumbering bear of a man quicker than he should have been, losing a weapon to knock the filament wide for an instant, suddenly ducking past Bobby’s guard. The marine used his trailing blade to strike with deadly precision, slicing the tendon between Bobby’s forearm and bicep, causing him to drop the mono-whip from his now-useless hand, then quickly shouldering him back and returning to his defensive crouch with a smile.

  Bobby could feel warm blood flowing down his near-useless arms, doubt surging. He was stronger than this man, faster; this should have been over before it even began. He could feel his face flush a deep red with anger. Down below, he could still make out traces of debate between Michael and Wilcott.

  “By the time most of us came home, we’d lost everything. The government said it would be fixed—that was eighteen months ago, and we’re still waiting,” he heard Wilcott say, his eyes never leaving the soldier in front of him.

  Wanting this to be over quickly, Bobby changed tactics, striking out with a series of bone-shattering sidekicks going from low to high, only to have the man in front of him once again anticipate each strike, casually dodging each blow before ducking under the last kick and brutally slicing into Bobby’s hamstring. His breath fled his lungs and he folded to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  He barely had time to blink before the marine was on top of him, expertly slashing at the tendons in his shoulders like a master butcher, leaving him bloody and broken, barely able to move.

  The bear of a man straddling him leaned forward, dragging the flat of his blade along Bobby’s jaw. “You had me worried for a second there. You may be strong and fast, but you’re about as wet behind the ears as a grunt who just finished boot camp.”

  “Just finish it,” said Bobby, glaring at the bloodied blade, rage spewing from his unblinking eyes.

  “No, no, I don’t think so, boy. You just killed seven of my brothers, men I bled for, men I loved. I’m gonna take my time...besides, your boss and mine are in the middle of a talk, and I’m sure you don’t wanna miss it.” The marine dropped forward, shoving his forearm onto Bobby’s windpipe and pressing with all his weight.

  His toughened skin made it difficult for the marine to choke him, but the man was brutally strong. Already he was becoming lightheaded, the conversation between Michael and the colonel sounding distant as consciousness fled.

  “Then we hear about this fucker here, Pastor Warren of the Blackwood Church, one of the richest men in America and he doesn’t pay a cent in taxes. Men like him fuck the system and are rewarded for it. Me and my men, they thank us for our service then make us take it in the ass.”

  Bobby could see spots in the corner of his vision now, his head spinning from lack of oxygen. Above him, the marine grinned, face flushed red from the strain, the veins on the side of his neck bulging.

  Bobby could hear the hesitation in Michael’s voice, feel his heart beating quickly as he tried to calm the colonel. “You have to trust the system. Men like Warren earned every penny.”

  “Don’t fucking patronize me, son,” said the Colonel, his voice raw. “That fucker lied and cheated his way to success—we’ve all heard the stories. So don’t bullshit me on how honest Blackwood is. He deserves a bullet.”

  “They’ll never forgive th
is,” pleaded Michael. “They won’t just blame you. Every soldier in the country will pay for what you do here today.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I was a good soldier my whole life, and this is what it got me. This system is so broken there’s nothing to do but tear it all down, make something new, so I think I’d rather see these bastards pay. I’m done following the rules.”

  In the distance, Bobby heard an echoing shot. Everything sounded far away now, the voices in the church a distant murmur, the marine sweating over him little more than a shadow. He closed his eyes, wanting to rest for a moment, forever rest. He began to drift to nothingness, sight, sound, little more than echoes in the distance, even the arm pressing against his throat, threatening to take his life. In his last moment he stopped holding back, opening himself to every living soul in the church, feeling every ounce of gut-wrenching fear, heart-pounding anxiety, and anger, anger most of all. From the soldiers to the parishioners, engulfed in a firestorm of rage. He reached out, not sure how, and drank in all the pain and suffering. Like a man dying of thirst having his first taste of cool water, he sucked in every shred of hate and fear, and he was stronger suddenly, able to tear down the entire stadium, hold the weight of the world on his shoulders like Atlas. The feeling lasted only a heartbeat; once it passed he clawed and scraped his way out of the pit he had fallen into, back to the light, back to life.

  He came awake with a start, his breathing loud in his ears as he sucked in a lungful of cool air, his heart racing so fast it threatened to explode from his chest. He looked down at himself in confusion, flexing his arms and legs without pain, dried blood on his uniform the only sign that he had been hurt. He turned his head, trying to get his bearings, and found the sunken husk of a corpse that was the soldier who tried to kill him, looking like an ancient mummy, its vacant stare and yellow-toothed grin sending him scrambling away.

  Hearing muttering in the distance, Bobby rose gracefully to his feet, never feeling more alive. Looking out over the arena, he was greeted with a sea of blackened bodies, looking years dead like the marine at his feet, faces forever locked in grimaces of pain and suffering, every civilian, every soldier, a chill running through his body as he counted the dead, wondering…

  Shaking off his stupor, Bobby saw Pastor Warren center stage, gazing out over his dead flock, his face contorted, a stream of profanity dripping from his lips. Not far away he could see Michael on his back, unmoving, looking like he was simply unconscious. Beside Michael was what Bobby assumed to be the body of Colonel Wilcott, blood still pooling beneath his still form.

  He was about to call out to the pastor when a sickly green glow erupted from the man’s palm. Even from the distance, Bobby could see he held some sort of jagged crystal no larger than the length of his thumb. He watched curiously as the pastor raised it above his head, inspecting it with a tight-lipped smile, the crystal’s strange glow making him appear pale and waxen. Appearing satisfied, he walked toward Michael, kneeling at his side. Bobby had a sense of dread when he pulled back the high collar on Michael’s uniform, gently placing the crystal on his neck. Just then, a pulse went through the arena, so bright Bobby had to turn away, the afterimage burning into his retina. When he looked back, he blanched, not understanding what he was seeing. Like a field of green, he could see crystals glowing on every emaciated corpse, even through clothing, flashing like some strange chorus.

  Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the light winked out...and Michael sat up, his dark eyes blinking in confusion, before locking eyes with the pastor, a look of understanding passing between the two. Not wanting to be seen, Bobby kneeled against the concrete wall, burying his head in his hands, not sure if he could believe his own eyes. That’s when he felt it—or didn’t feel it. Outside, he could sense the milling crowds, all the people, their worries, the joy of a mother who had lost her young son in the crowd now having found him, but in the church he was alone. He couldn’t sense Pastor Warren, and what was worse, he couldn’t sense Michael.

  Chapter 1: Cherry Hill

  July 2075

  Arthur opened his door to find a stranger in crimson glaring at him.

  He had never seen anyone like him in Cherry Hill, tall and gaunt, with thin white-blond hair and pockmarked skin that looked like it was made of paper.

  What struck him most was the man’s uniform. A high-collared red coat flaring just past his waist, neatly secured by a thick black belt, a single golden cross emblazoned over the heart, and inky-black pants, tight at the thigh, trailing into black leather boots that ended just below the knee.

  Arthur shivered despite the hot, stale July air wafting into the apartment. The pale-eyed man’s glare made his heart pound so hard he thought it would erupt from his small chest, his every instinct screaming for him to run. He was about to when the sound of shattering glass brought reality crashing back. He turned to see his father, hands empty, his familiar whiskey bottle broken and bleeding amber liquid into the cracks between the floor tiles, the Canadian Club label clinging haphazardly to the remains. His father’s lip began to tremble, heavy brow narrowing as he mumbled to himself, trying to blink away the fog of drink. Arthur caught his father’s eye for a moment, hoping that he would save the day, drive the strange man away, only to be disappointed as he shuffled around with his eyes downcast, fumbling with his red-and-black flannel shirt to cover his overlarge gut. His father’s paunchy body and liquor-addled brain were long past heroics, his pudgy face with dark circles under the eyes screaming of defeat, not bravery. Arthur frowned, bowing his head as his father shuffled around unsure.

  Arthur felt himself suddenly pushed aside lightly by hands that were too soft, the man in crimson gliding in silently and closing the door, performing the strange trick of looking everywhere at once while keeping his blue-eyed gaze firmly on him.

  With the man in red looming, their basement apartment felt claustrophobic. The small space had originally been the furnace room, and the odor of rancid heating oil was a constant reminder of what served as home. The furnishings were little more than things they had found on the street: garbage even the homeless didn’t want. An old sofa, the color of dirt, hugged the far wall; there his mother lay still, her arm tied off, a needle stained with traces of blood haphazardly thrown onto the slab of plastic and old paint cans that served as their table. She lay alone and forgotten, her eyes dull and empty, an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips. Her skin, once caramel like his own, was now ashen and gray. Her tank top was stained with sweat, and her jeans hung loosely from her shapeless hips. Arthur didn’t like her very much. She had always been cold and distant, even to his father, caring more about filling her veins than anything else. He had learned a long time ago to avoid her if he could.

  The highlight of the room was the holo-projector floating at the front, a single orb of silver connected to four copper pillars standing from floor to ceiling and coated in tiny lenses that allowed projection of perfect holographic images. When they had electricity, and there wasn’t some boring story about the war on, they could watch the latest films from the holo-net or even turn their tiny apartment into exotic locations, filled with sun and sand. Arthur took great pride in it; he had repaired it himself after scavenging it from the local holo-plex a few days after it had shut down last year. His father had told him it was a waste of time, trying to fix something broken beyond repair, but Arthur had managed to improvise parts—make it better, in fact. He was good at turning junk into treasure, something he had inherited from his grandfather. His father had been so proud he had enrolled him into the education lottery, and if he was lucky he would have the chance to attend school a few counties over.

  “I’m Major Bishop O’Connell, United States Special Forces, Divinity Corps,” said the man in crimson, his raspy voice snapping Arthur from his musings. “You, Arthur Iscariot, as of 18:05 today, being a minor, are now a ward of the United States Government...and will be leaving with me.”

  Arthur felt his body go numb at the major’s words.
Stumbling in confusion, he bumped into his father behind him, a sense of relief washing over him knowing he was close. “We don’t owe you anything, O’Connell. You can’t just take him,” his father said with a slur, standing in the broken remnants of the bottle. Arthur could tell more of the drink had gone into his father than to the floor. “Besides, he’s just a kid. You have to be eighteen to get drafted.”

  The man in crimson shook his head, his thin lips turning to a frown. “We are at war. Two weeks ago, President Warren signed the Sullivan/Cortez Act, granting the office of the selective service system power to draft any able-bodied American in the system. You enrolled Arthur in the education lottery, did you not? That means he more than qualifies. Besides, his birth records indicate that he is...gifted, and that makes him an ideal candidate to protect our nation.”

  Arthur felt his father stiffen behind him. He looked up to see him rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying to make sense of it all. He stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing as he looked the major up and down. Suddenly pushing Arthur aside, he puffed out his chest and balled his fists. “This ain’t happening; we’ve done enough for our country; we’re not doing any more—”

  There was a sharp buzzing as the lights dimmed unexpectedly, followed by an ear-shattering snap before a rush of air forced Arthur to step back. An instant later his father flew across the room, bouncing off the old oil tank with a hollow thud and landing heavily on the concrete floor, his body a twisted mess, face contorted in pain as blood and mucus streamed from his ears and nose. Arthur looked back to see the major bishop’s eyes wide, his lip curled in indignation. “Keep your filthy hands away from me, John. You and your whore of a wife will be well-compensated for the boy. The government pays well for children like him; you of all people should know.”