Ascension: Children of The Spear: Book one

by Rhett Gervais

  “Sorry, I just heard about the recruits. I knew a lot of those kids. Has this ever happened before?” Arthur asked, keying in his order into the menu at the table.

  “My father told me that back when the program first started they lost most of them. Ninety percent of the kids died or developed complications, unless you were like us, of course,” Uriel said with a shrug, inhaling his eggs. “Last I heard, the war wasn’t going well. They’re getting desperate to increase our numbers. You look really pretty today, Gwen.”

  Arthur winced as she grabbed his hand in excitement under the table. She was much stronger than him, stronger than anyone the program had ever developed. It felt like she was grinding his fingers to dust. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, giving him a thousand-watt smile. Arthur groaned inwardly. He could feel her whole body tremble with joy as Uriel smiled back at her.

  “What are you guys up to today, besides maybe destroying the gym?”

  Beside him, Gwen flicked her hair back, giggling like a little girl. “Maybe we can work out together. You can teach me to control myself.”

  Arthur looked away, rolling his eyes. “Has anything happened; do you feel any changes?”

  Uriel shook his head, a look of disappointment running across his handsome face. “That’s a big no, buddy. I feel stronger, a little tougher, and yesterday I jumped off the roof for fun with no problems, but nothing to write home about. But I noticed—”

  “I’m so sorry, Reverend Carmichael said I should to sit with you and not the other recruits,” said a reedy voice beside them.

  They all looked up to see a young, dark-skinned boy, little more than skin and bone, standing nervously over them, dressed in a light blue hospital gown. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, dark circles under his eyes, the tray in his hand shaking.

  “My god, look at you,” said Uriel, taking the boy’s tray. “Did they just release you from the med bay? Here, grab a spot next to me. I’m Uriel, and this is Arty and Gwen.”

  “Amon,” he said with a nod, sighing in relief as he sat. “Thank you. They had me in that room for so long, the liquid ripping me—I didn’t think I was going to make it, still hurts all over, like someone tried to turn me inside out. I was so scared,” said Amon, putting forward a trembling hand.

  “Arthur, just Arthur, please,” he said politely, reaching for Amon’s outstretched hand. “Only Uriel calls me Arty, for some reason. I can’t make him stop.”

  “Hey, ladies first,” said Gwen, slapping Arthur’s hand away and returning Amon’s handshake. “Don’t be like them, Amon. These boys have no manners, have no clue how to treat a lady.”

  Taking Gwen’s hand, Amon held on for far too long, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semitrailer, eyes wide, jaw slack. Arthur could see Gwen enjoyed the attention, giving the sweaty boy a coy smile. Watching the exchange, he ground his teeth, forcing his face into a mask of calm. Why did she torture him like this, giving him gifts, holding his hand, only to get upset if he showed her the slightest affection or kindness, yet flirting with every other guy she met?

  “You sure have enough on your plate. For a little guy, you can really pack it in.” said Uriel with a grin.

  Arthur hadn’t noticed his food had arrived. Looking down, he saw the plate was overflowing. His mouth watered as he breathed in the heady aroma of fried eggs, crispy bacon, and grilled sausage.

  “Sorry, I love breakfast, I love bacon! I can’t help myself,” Arthur said with a guilty look, talking around the eggs he’d stuffed into his mouth. “We used to eat only one meal a day back home in Cherry Hill, and it was dinner most of the time, if you could call it that. Where you from, Amon? I met a lot of the new kids, but I don’t seem to know you.”

  “Indiana,” said Amon, picking at his beans and sausage. “My family owns a horse farm smack dab in between Cincinnati and Indianapolis. We mostly raised horse meat, but back in the old days it was a real ranch, people would come to ride the horses, and we even had a few of them race in the Triple Crown. Where you guys from?”

  “The most bankrupt city in the union—Detroit—yeaaah,” said Gwen, doing a tiny cheer with her knife and fork. “If you ever have the chance to visit, save yourself a trip, and shoot yourself in the head first. It would be about the same.”

  “I’m from here, beautiful Fort Carson,” said Uriel. “Horse meat, really. You guys sell horse meat? You ok, buddy? You really don’t look so good.”

  Arthur could see Amon was trembling, a hollow rattle coming from his throat with each breath.

  “Yeah, I’m feeling ok, just a little shaky,” he said, sweat pouring down his temples. “The reverend said it would pass. As for the horses, I cried the first time he had to put one down. Our horses were like family to us, but as the war dragged on and the store shelves were empty for months at a time, it was horse meat or starve. I never got used to it, but after a while, we made our peace with it, started selling to our neighbors, made a bit of a business of it until the war tax took everything.”

  Arthur smiled to himself. The more Amon spoke about horse meat, the greener Uriel became. Not so perfect after all, he thought. “I know how you feel. There were months at a time where the only thing we would eat were rats,” said Arthur. “The news outlets kept saying that there would be food drops at designated areas, and thousands of people would stand out in the freezing cold for food that never came. It was like they forgot about us, or just didn’t care.”

  “We used to eat dogs and cats in Detroit,” said Gwen mischievously, noticing the nausea on Uriel’s face.

  “Well, I got that beat,” said Amon, playing along, a weak smile plastered onto his face. “We had a family start selling cricket butter back in Indiana. Tasted great, right until you started spitting out the occasional leg that didn’t get ground down properly!”

  “Oh, that’s just—please stop, I can’t take anymore,” said Uriel, pushing his breakfast away in disgust and burying his face in his palms. The entire table broke out in laughter as Uriel fought to hold down his breakfast. It felt good to laugh, helped them forget why they were there...helped them forget what could happen to them.

  “Hey, what’s that?” asked Gwen, suddenly serious, her finger wagging at Amon and Uriel. Coming to his senses, Arthur focused on the two. He could see small sparks passing back and forth between them, like tiny fireflies on a dark night. Uriel held up his hand, eyes wide in amazement. The sparks circled above his palm like a small tornado made of light before dashing off to be absorbed by Amon. Each time a spark touched him it was like magic, the sheen of sweat on his skin evaporating, his hands becoming more steady. He sighed deeply, the hollow rattle in his throat vanishing as if it had never been. He stood, looking taller, stronger, a smile of pure joy spreading across his face.

  “Whatever the two of you are doing,” said Arthur, pushing back from the table and standing, “I’m going to ask you to stop. Until we know what this is, we have to catalog it. We can’t risk an event happening here. Uriel, move away from him now!”

  With a sudden surge, the sparks became more pronounced, hundreds of them twisting and twirling around Uriel like tiny comets, spinning faster and faster before darting off, absorbed by Amon, who glowed brighter with each passing second. Just as Arthur was about to move to separate the two, the room began to shake, a slight vibration at first before rapidly growing to deep tremors that shifted the entire building, violently sending everyone except Amon and Uriel to the ground, dishware shattering on the floor. Screams of panic and commotion erupted from the frightened groups of children as they struggled to pick themselves up, looking around in wide-eyed confusion.

  “I—I can’t stop it!” said Uriel, struggling to pull away. “I don’t even know that I’m the one doing it.”

  “No, please...don’t,” said Amon, his voice a loud whisper. Without warning, he struck like a viper, grabbing Uriel by the forearm, forcing the taller teen to his knees in a grip like a vice. The trickle of light from U
riel grew from a tiny stream to a raging torrent, jets of energy cascading in all directions at once. Arthur went down to one knee, raising a hand defensively against the deafening crash of cutlery as shards of ceramic, plates, knives, spoons tore around the room in a tempest of chaos, a tornado of jagged objects powerful enough to pierce skin, mortal and ascended alike.

  The space around Amon grew darker, a muted shadow that absorbed energy like a greedy, black hole, a washed-out negative to Uriel, who shone like the noonday sun. “Gwen, separate them, get them as far away from one another as possible,” commanded Arthur in desperation, shouting to be heard above the maelstrom. Gwen gave Arthur the briefest of nods before vaulting over the table in a single smooth motion, her shoulder connecting solidly with Uriel’s chest. Arthur had seen Gwen wreck the gym yesterday; and they had joked that she could probably throw a tank across a parking lot with the barest of efforts. She had surpassed every test conceived to determine the strength of people like them, yet she bounced off Uriel like a small child running headlong into a California redwood, sending her unceremoniously to the floor. Arthur looked on in horrid fascination as the room darkened, time slowing to mere moments between heartbeats, Amon becoming a near-invisible shadow, Uriel howling in pain beside him.

  “Motherfucker!” screamed Gwen with a fierce growl, scissor kicking her way to her feet and pushing her way between the two of them, waves of shadow and light rolling over her. With a wild roar, she released a powerful roundhouse, the impact of her fist sending a massive shockwave throughout the room, knocking Uriel clear across the room and Arthur from his feet once again.

  Separated from Uriel, the shadow that was Amon began to contract, drawing everything in the room into itself as it grew smaller, the hand that had been holding Uriel stretching out, looking infinitely far away and close at the same time. His scream was unlike anything any of them had ever heard, chilling and raw. Arthur panicked as he could feel himself being drawn in, his nails leaving deep claw marks in the concrete floor, fighting to keep his place. Arthur scanned the room for Gwen, trying to observe what had happened to her, only to see the major bishop arrive, his face a mask of stone, standing only an arm’s length from the shadow, his crimson-red robes billowed by the invisible force drawing them all in. The old man reached into his uniform breast pocket, producing a small tube of red liquid. Quickly removing the cap, he swallowed its contents. Arthur could see him double over, his face twisted in pain, a dark fog the color of a bruise suddenly snaking around his whip-like frame. A heartbeat later he looked taller, his skin more pink than paper white. He raised a skeletal hand toward Amon, the bruise-colored glow from only moments ago spreading from him to the boy, caressing, smothering. The shadow that was Amon vanished behind a veil of red and black. The major bishop stood stock-still, his eyes closed, fluttering, a strange smile on his face as waves of shadow washed back and forth between him and Amon, his breath quickening with each pulse, until finally the shadow vanished as if it had never existed, leaving a dark husk on the floor, an emaciated corpse with ashen-gray skin and sunken eyes that looked years dead.

  The major bishop used his foot to roll him over. “So wasteful,” he said, shaking his head, squatting down next to Amon. “Arthur, you will clean up this mess and reassure the remaining children. I will go see to disciplining Reverend Carmichael.”

  Before Arthur could act, Gwen arrived holding Uriel in a fireman’s carry, his face misshapen, drenched in blood. Her face was a mess of tears, snot running down her chin as she gently put him on the cafeteria table.

  “Ahh, excellent. Gwen; come with me, please,” said the major bishop, ignoring her wracking sobs.

  “He needs to get to the med bay. I’ve never hit someone so hard,” she stammered, wiping her face.

  Raising an eyebrow, the major bishop took a moment to examine Uriel’s battered body, producing a smart device from his crimson robes to check his vitals. “He will live, although it’s a shame about that face. He was pretty. I’m afraid you don’t know your own strength, my dear,” he said with a sigh. “Arthur, see that he gets to the med bay.”

  “Take care of Amon; assure the children; make sure Uriel gets to the med bay. Which is it?” snapped Arthur, his frustration boiling to the surface.

  “All of it,” growled the major bishop. “You are very capable, and it’s time you took on additional responsibilities. Saving you fools will cost me gravely. Time I cannot afford has been lost. I will need you to do more, much more...understood?” he said bluntly.

  “Yes, sir,” said Arthur through gritted teeth, unable to bury his resentment. His unshakable calm dispelled. He could not believe the gall of the man.

  The major bishop shoved the smart device into a pocket, moving to stand nose to nose with him, his anger sparking like a frayed wire. “I am tired of this behavior, boy, so don’t make me do something we’ll both regret,” he said in a harsh whisper. His bony hand was digging painfully into Arthur’s shoulder. “After you have done these things, you will come to my rooms. I have need of you.”

  “Again! No!” said Arthur, shaking off his grip.

  “Again, yes! And again...as many times as I wish,” said the major bishop, eyes wide, menace seething from every pore.

  Arthur stared back for an instant, his nostrils flaring, before blinking back tears and looking away. “I want to go home,” he said suddenly, feeling small and broken, shoulders falling. “I can’t—I want my father.”

  The major bishop shook his head, frowning. “They did not love you, child; they gave you away, sold you like livestock at market. I’m all you have now. Forget them and rise above it all, boy; you can. I see it in you.”

  Squeezing Arthur’s shoulders, he gave him a brief nod before turning away, his voice commanding, “Now, Gwen, my dear, it’s time to take care of that idiot, Reverend Carmichael. I’ve had enough of his foolish behavior.”

  Arthur stood alone in the crowd of frightened kids, eyes downcast, desperately wanting to hide his face, not daring to look any of them in the eye. “What are you all looking at!” he shouted, raising a clenched fist at the children surrounding him, feeding his pain with anger. “I want the mess cleaned up now! I see anyone dragging their feet, and you’ll join your friends in the morgue!”

  They all stood stock-still, terrified. “Now!” he screeched, putting his fist through another table, shattering it to bits. Arthur’s glare scattered them, sending the children scurrying around like rats to obey his order. He couldn’t take anymore, and he wanted nothing more than to be back in Cherry Hill. He would give anything to have that life back. As painful as it was, it hurt less than this. Watching the major bishop walk away, he squeezed his eyes shut, promising himself that today would be the last time, one way or the other.

  Chapter 12: Deep in Hell’s Kitchen

  Project Divinity Interview — Subject: Rowen Macdonald (Cont’d)

  “That wasn’t in the official war record,” said the fat captain, his chair squealing like a rutting pig as he leaned forward, steepling his meaty paws on the desk. “The predator attack—Uncle Sam didn’t want the general public to know that they had killed damn near five thousand Americans tryin’ to end this little escapade quickly. Damn near lost every active predator drone not deployed in the Middle East that day, our own missiles doin’ more damage to people and infrastructure than the goddamned enemy did.”

  “Yes, sir, I was quite surprised to find that out myself,” whispered Rowen, doing her best to keep any emotion out of her voice, to bury deep the pain of that horrible day. “We were underground for most of it, but as I said, we saw the initial push, and the enemy response. It was all a horrible mess. When we were able to finally make our way back to the surface a few days later, the whole area was devastated, and not much was left standing.”

  “Well, I can tell you the only good thing to come from that attempt was that the president shit canned General Stewart. That boy was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. Who the hell authorizes unleashin
g that kind of firepower on innocent civilians,” he said, shaking his head. Opening her file, he began to parse through it with a disgusted look on his face, clearly disappointed. “This ‘Lieutenant Gibbs,’ I’m meetin’ with him after I’m done with you. You know, that boy has no goddamn shame. If I had my way, his ass would be in front of a firing squad, not here gettin’ his ass kissed by me and everyone else involved in this project.”

  “He saved a lot of lives, sir, mine included. If you can’t see that, well…” The captain stopped her with a glare. Swallowing her words, she held her tongue as they stared silently at one another. She did her best to keep her face blank as she glared back. Who was he to judge them, what they did to survive. He wasn’t there. He was just a lazy bureaucrat who sat behind a desk, so how could he know what it was like to be in the trenches. Gathering her courage, she spoke up. “Have you ever been in the field, sir? It’s different when you’re out there, when you’re standing face-to-face with the enemy. Well...we all did what we had to do to survive.”

  “You listen to me, Sergeant. I ain’t stupid, so you wipe that dirty look off your ugly face before I do it for you. Do not presume your service to this nation is greater than mine—you have no idea the sacrifices I’ve made for this country. You give me attitude like that again, I got no problem tanning your hide,” he growled in frustration. Clearly she had hit a nerve. Men like him, who sent others to do the dying while they sat comfortably behind their desks, getting fat. They always were insulted when you pointed out to them that they had never been shot at, had never defended a fellow soldier, or shed blood for those you served with.