The Ascension: A Super Human Clash (2 page)

THREE WEEKS later…

In the bathroom of her apartment in Manhattan, Roz Dalton winced as she slowly unwrapped the bandage covering her left hand. Dr. Holzhauer had told her that everything was fine: The artificial skin was beginning to knit well with her real skin. “You're lucky you're fifteen,” Holzhauer had said. “That's about the perfect age for this. Any younger and you'd outgrow the skin, much older and it'd take longer to heal. It should settle down in a year, two at the most, but soon all you'll have is a few faint scars.”

Roz piled the strip of bandage on the edge of the sink and then held her hand up to the light. The new skin had been closely matched in color to her own skin, but Doctor Holzhauer had warned her that it would always be that color: It would never tan.

Roz's older brother, Max, had paid for the operation. He hadn't told her how much it cost, but he'd made it pretty clear that it hadn't been cheap. “Holzhauer's a genius,” Max had said. “If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was one of
us
.”

As with almost everything else he did, Max had an agenda: “Artificial skin is going to be a huge market in the next few years. The right investments now will pay off a hundred times over.”

Like he needs the money
, Roz thought. She wasn't sure whether Max was a billionaire yet, but she knew he had to be close. His superhuman ability to read—and sometimes control—other people's minds made him an incredibly astute businessman. Max always got what he wanted in a negotiation, and sometimes Roz wondered whether he was controlling the other people. Or, worse, reading their darkest secrets from their memories and blackmailing them.

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, pointing 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.”