The Ascension: A Super Human Clash Page 2

  She’d always meant to ask him about that, but somehow she never thought of it at the right time. That made her wonder whether he was able to control her mind too. If he was, there was no way to tell.

  Roz left the bathroom and walked through the apartment to the south-facing drawing room, where the light was much better.

  Doesn’t look too bad, she thought as she examined the new skin. She carefully flexed her wrist—the graft covered the back of her hand from her knuckles halfway to her elbow, and aside from the slight color difference and the scars around the edges, it looked just like real skin. She poked the skin just below the wrist. Doesn’t feel real, though.

  On the coffee table behind her, the cordless phone beeped.

  Roz picked it up. “Yeah?” She slid open the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The apartment was on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, overlooking Columbus Avenue. From this high up Roz couldn’t actually see the street without leaning way over the wall and peering straight down, but to the left she did have a good view across Central Park.

  “Roz, don’t answer the phone like that,” Max’s voice said. “It could have been a business call.”

  Roz raised her eyes. “OK, whatever. What’s up?”

  “Still stuck in this meeting. Looks like we’ll be here for the rest of the day. You OK to pick up Josh from school?”

  “You can’t send a car for him like usual?”

  “It’s his last day before the break, Roz. I promised him I’d be there—all of his friends have been begging him to meet me.”

  “Right, because you’re a big-time superhero.”

  “Exactly,” Max replied, ignoring her sarcasm. “Won’t be the same if it’s just you there, but you can show off a bit. Use your telekinesis to levitate Josh or something like that. That’ll keep them happy. And promise them that we’ll arrange a party sometime over the next couple of weeks. They can meet me then.”

  “OK. You could ask Quantum to show up too. The kids would love that.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Max said, in that too-casual voice he used when he really meant “I don’t think so.” That didn’t surprise her: Max didn’t like to share the spotlight. He continued: “Listen, that’s not the only reason I called…. Do you remember Lance McKendrick?”

  “What sort of question is that? Of course I remember him—he saved my life more than once!”

  “Right. Well, if you hear from him, let me know. He’s disappeared.”

  “From where? What happened to him after his family were killed?”

  “We had him holed up in a former prison called Hawksley. It’s been decommissioned, currently undergoing major structural renovations. We had Lance secured in one of the cell blocks that’s not scheduled for work for another three months. None of the workers on the site had even the slightest clue that he was there.”

  “You were keeping him in a prison?”

  “We had to make sure he couldn’t be found. We’re setting him up with a new identity, a whole new past. But last night he went on the run. We still don’t know how he got out without anyone seeing him. It’s possible he’ll try to contact you or one of the others. If he does, you tell me immediately.”

  “Of course. Let me know when you find him.” Roz said good-bye and disconnected the call. She put the phone on top of the wall beside her, then closed her eyes and basked for a moment in the warm sunlight. Poor Lance. He talks too much and he’s a bit of an idiot, but he’s not a bad guy. No one deserves to have their whole family taken away from them like that.

  There was a light, warm breeze coming from the west, but aside from that it was an almost perfect summer day. The constant rumble of the Manhattan traffic swamped all other sounds, but Roz always liked to imagine that she could hear children playing in the park.

  She loved the park, but hadn’t visited it in more than a year. Have to get out there soon, she thought. Just me and Josh. We’ll bring a Frisbee and a picnic basket and just spend the afternoon having fun.

  But she knew that Max wouldn’t approve. The Daltons were too well known to go out in public without a team of bodyguards. Max had even installed some of his people in Josh’s school to make sure he was protected at all times.

  As she looked east over the park, she saw that the sky was darkening—thick clouds were rolling in, fast and low and heavy. Rats. And it started out such a nice day. But something about the darkening sky felt wrong, out of place.

  It took her a moment to realize what it was: The breeze was coming from the west, but the clouds were approaching from the east.

  In the cluttered and dusty workshop tucked into the corner of the old barn beside his father’s farmhouse, James Klaus sat back and looked with some pride at his creation.

  He’d risen just before dawn, when he heard his dad and Faith—his father’s second wife—getting up, but they’d told him there was no work for him today. “First day here,” his dad had said. “Take it easy. Do what you want. Explore or something.”

  James had wavered between going back to bed and heading out to the workshop, but it was a short-lived battle. He’d spent the morning working with scraps of metal and discarded strips of leather and tough plastic, and now, on the bench before him, was a pair of heavily modified builder’s gloves.

  He pulled them on and formed his hands into fists. The gloves were heavy and tight, but felt good. All right! I’ll have to show Dad later—tell him they’re for skateboarding or something.

  James was sixteen years old, tall and thin, with deep brown skin and close-cropped hair, and he was happy because he wouldn’t have to go back home for another six weeks. Forty-two days without Rufus getting on my case about every little thing.

  Over the past eight years, James had become an expert at avoiding his stepfather. He’d learned when it was safe to speak and what not to say, learned to never bring friends home or to touch any of Rufus’s things without permission.

  After his parents divorced, James’s mother had received full custody. James still didn’t understand how that had happened. His father, Darrien, was a gentle, good-natured, hardworking man who never hurt anyone. Darrien Klaus had adored his wife, given her everything, but somehow that hadn’t been enough for her. After a string of affairs she left Darrien for Rufus, who couldn’t be more opposite.

  As far as James was concerned, the only good thing to come out of their relationship was his half sister, Shiho. She was seven years old, small for her age, and as close to a tomboy as their mother and Rufus would allow.

  For the past two weeks James had begged his mother to allow Shiho to come with him to the farm for summer break, but his mother had refused: “I spent far too many years in that cesspit! You go if you want, but I’m not letting my only daughter anywhere near the place.”

  James tidied away his dad’s tools, left the barn, and made his way around to the front of the house.

  A voice from inside called, “That you, James?”

  “Yep. Getting dark again. Looks like there’s more rain on the way.” James pulled off his boots and left them on the porch, then stepped into the kitchen.

  Faith was sitting at the desk in the corner, typing on the old Macintosh computer. She looked up as James filled a glass of water at the sink. “Hey. Your dad’s out in the north forty. Should be back soon—we can eat then.”

  James drained the glass in one go and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Cool. What are we having?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, what have we got?”

  Faith smiled. “Oh, if only the fridge had some sort of doorlike mechanism that allowed people to open it up and have a look. You could…James, what on earth are you wearing?”

  He spread his hands to show her his gloves. “Made them myself. Y’know, for skateboarding. To protect my hands. What do you think?”

  A frown line creased Faith’s forehead. “Hmm…You’d have more protection with a helmet and kneepads. And speaking of your board,” she added, point
ing to where it rested inside the door, “put that thing away. I nearly tripped over it twice.”

  James picked up the board and was about to reply when something caught his attention. He looked out the window at the darkening sky and concentrated, focused his hearing. Until a few moments ago he’d been able to hear his father humming to himself as he steered the rattling and rusty tractor across the fields toward the house. Now there was nothing. Not even his father’s heartbeat.

  He darted out of the house and skidded to a stop. He could hear his dad’s life signs again, but now they were coming from half a mile south of where they had been, and he was on foot.

  This is not possible, James thought. Then he glanced up. The sky was blue and cloudless. A perfect summer day.

  In Midway, Abigail de Luyando looked on eagerly as Solomon Cord—Paragon—popped the trunk of his car. He’d parked in the alleyway behind Abby’s apartment block, and now that they were sure no one could see them, Cord said it was safe to show Abby what he’d brought for her.

  He lifted the large, cloth-covered object out of the trunk and began to unwrap it.

  “So this is my new armor?”

  “Armor’s not ready yet, but this is way cooler!”

  To Abby it looked like a jumble of odd-shaped chrome bars and steel cables. The main part was hinged in two places, each section almost two feet in length, folded back on itself like the stems on a giant pair of spectacles. A thick cable was loosely strung between the opposite ends. Cord passed the device to her. “Not too heavy?”

  “No. But what is it?”

  “You’ll see.” He pointed to the middle section. “Keep that part vertical, and hold the grip here, in your left hand. That’s it. Arm straight out by your side. OK…Now, see that switch next to your thumb? Well, hit that.”

  Abby flipped the switch, and the whole device seemed to jump in her hand. It happened faster than she could see: The upper and lower sections had snapped into place, and the cable between the opposite ends was now taut.

  “This is a custom-built recurve bow,” Cord said. “A compound bow would be smaller, but this is a simpler mechanism. Less to go wrong. It’s got a draw strength of about four hundred pounds, so it should be well within your range. Since your enhanced strength seems to be more effective with metals than anything else—I wish I knew why that was—that’s what the whole bow is made from. The limbs and the riser are Alloy 1090. That’s a really strong high-carbon steel, practically unbreakable—well, you could probably break it, but I don’t think many other people could—and the cable is woven strands of osmium, one of the toughest metals there is.”

  Abby gave the cable an experimental tug. “Wow…And you’re just giving me this?”

  “I figured you need a long-distance weapon. Your sword is fine, but you haven’t had enough practice with it yet. With the bow you’ll be able to stop an opponent long before he can reach you.” Cord reached into the car trunk and—with some effort—lifted out a large quiver packed with arrows. “The arrows are carbon steel shafts and fletching, fitted with osmium tips. All this osmium cost Dalton about thirty thousand dollars, so keep track of your arrows.”

  “I’ve never shot a bow before. How do I…?”

  Cord passed her an arrow. “This end is called the nock. It fits onto the cable just here, between the two markers. The pointy end of the arrow rests here, on the bit cleverly called the arrow rest. I’ve modified it so that once the arrow is in place, it’ll stay put—just in case you need to use the bow while running or jumping or whatever. So…you hold the cable with your index finger above the arrow, the middle and ring fingers below. Keep the pinkie out of the way. And you just pull back.” Cord quickly looked around. “OK, it’s safe. Give it a go.”

  “What will I aim at?”

  Cord pointed to the far end of the alley. “That crate is about a hundred yards away. See if you can hit it from here. Aim for the very center. If you don’t hit it the first time, we can adjust the sights.”

  He instructed Abby on how to aim the bow, then stepped back. “Take your time…. Fix the sight where you want to hit the crate, draw back the string…Right back…Tuck your right hand under your chin. The string should be just touching the tip of your nose. OK. How’s that feel?”

  Abby grunted. “It’s not easy, but I can do it.”

  “That’s good. It means the draw is about right for you. Now, don’t just open your hand when you let go—pull back a little at the same time.”

  There was a loud whip as Abby released the cable, followed immediately by an even louder thunk from the far end of the alley. The wooden crate didn’t even move. “I missed.”

  “OK, let’s find the arrow and see how much you missed by.” He passed Abby the quiver and she hoisted it onto her shoulder. “You’ve got forty-three arrows there. You could maybe use ordinary arrows, but they mightn’t survive being launched from the bow.”

  They walked side by side along the alleyway. “Thanks for this, Mr. Cord. I can’t believe that you spent all this money on me.”

  “First, it’s not Mr. Cord. It’s Solomon, or Sol. But never call me that when I’m wearing the armor, OK? Second, it’s not my money, it’s Max’s. I just designed and built it. You’re going to have to practice, Abby. A lot. An arrow from an ordinary bow could easily kill someone. An arrow from this bow could kill an elephant.”

  “How do I fold it back up again?”

  “Give it here and I’ll show you,” Cord said. He took the bow from Abby’s hands and pointed out the levers set into the riser, one above the grip, one below. “You pull these out and the cable will go slack enough for the limbs to collapse. I had to build a machine to do it—I don’t have the strength to do it myself.”

  They reached the end of the alley. “I can’t see the arrow,” Abby said. “It’s too dark.”

  Cord looked up. “Could be a storm coming.”

  “Hold on a second….” Abby crouched down in front of the crate. There was a nickel-sized hole in the front. “Hey, maybe I did hit it.” She moved around to the back of the crate. There was a matching hole—its edges splintered a little—on the other side. “Yeah, I think I did! That means the arrow went right through, so it should be…” She peered along the arrow’s path. “Wow!”

  “Wow is right,” Cord said.

  The arrow was embedded in the brick wall at the end of the alley—only the last eight inches of the shaft were protruding.

  Cord took hold of the arrow’s shaft and pulled—it didn’t move. “I think you’d better do it.”

  Abby slid the arrow out of the wall and examined the tip. “The pointy bit is still pointy.” She grinned. “I like my new toy!”

  “Glad to hear it,” Cord said. They began to walk back toward his car. “Don’t shoot it at people unless you absolutely have no choice, because in your hands this is more dangerous than a gun.”

  “Can you get more of this cable? Because I was thinking that I could use it like you use your grappling-hook gun. Like, I could be on the top of a building and shoot the cable across to the next building, and then climb across.”

  “I’ll definitely look into that. But with your strength you could probably just jump from one building to another.”

  “Or…,” Abby said, grinning, “you could build me a jetpack like yours.”

  But Cord didn’t respond. He was staring along the alley. “Where’s my car?”

  “You didn’t leave the keys in the ignition, did you? Around here we call that ‘public transport.’”

  “No one can start my car but me. I built the transmission myself.”

  Abby looked down at the alley floor…. “Wasn’t there a pile of garbage bags just here?” She turned around. “And the crate is gone. Something weird is going on….”

  Lance McKendrick felt something cold and hard and metallic press against the back of his neck.

  There was a sharp click—the sound of a gun being cocked—and a woman’s voice said, “You have three seconds to give
me a reason not to shoot you, kid.”

  CHAPTER 2

  LANCE SLOWLY RAISED his hands. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Sure it’s not,” the woman said. “You’re telling me you didn’t see the tape outside? The bright yellow tape with the words ‘Police Line—Do Not Cross’ all over it? Or maybe you can’t read, is that it?”

  “I can read. And I saw the tape. But I’m not trespassing.”

  “I saw you picking the lock. Quite expertly, I should add.”

  “I lost my key. This is my house.”

  A pause. “Name?”

  “Lance McKendrick.”

  “Age? Date of birth?”

  “I’m fourteen. My birthday’s September the second.”

  “What year?”

  “Duh! Every year.”

  Lance felt the pressure of the gun’s muzzle ease, then the woman said, “From what Max Dalton told me, only you could make such a lame joke with a gun at the back of your head. You can lower your arms, Lance.”

  He relaxed and turned to look at her. She was in her mid-twenties, he guessed. Tall, with lightly tanned skin, blue eyes, and brown hair. She was wearing a long black duster over a skintight blue-and-silver costume.

  “Who are you?” Lance asked.

  “A friend of Max. He sent me to look for you when you disappeared from Hawksley last night.”

  “You’re another superhuman, obviously.”

  “Yes. I suppose you could think of me as Max’s secret weapon. I have certain skills that make me ideally suited to be your bodyguard—though you’re clearly not without skills yourself. You got out of the cell block, stole a car belonging to one of the builders, and drove it—very badly—halfway across the state before they even noticed you were gone. How exactly did you get out of Hawksley?”