The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage (34 page)

My dad didn’t say anything, exactly, unless you count 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.”

Byron thought that was probably the most he’d ever heard Mister Croy say at any one time. It had the ring of something official; maybe he
had
to say it like that.

The cops looked confused. “What the hell does that mean?”

“This man murdered a Sovereign,” Croy said. “He will face Sovereign justice.”

The trooper who had been ready to draw on Byron’s dad looked uncertain. “We’re not on Sovereign territory, here, Mister Croy. I’m not so sure about this.”

Three security guards from the Visitors Center stood behind Croy. Jon Schulmann, his gleaming protective suit creaking like chrome-painted latex, stood nearby. Ed Kelso lumbered over as well, his footfalls sending vibrations up Byron’s calves and his shadow blocking the morning sun.

“Call it in,” Croy suggested.

Haze came up and bumped Byron on the shoulder. “This your old man?”

“Uh…yeah.”

She smirked and looked Marc up and down, lingering on his gut. “You like the beer, huh?”

“What?”

Haze tapped Byron’s flat stomach with the back of her hand and said to him, “Keep up on your sit-ups, soldier boy. Otherwise, there’s your future.”

“Jesus, Haze…”

Byron expected his dad to spew a load of venom on her. Marc just shook his head and turned back to glare at Ray Greene.

Haze had a cold twinkle in her eyes and a playful smile on her lips. She opened her mouth to contribute more to the exchange.

If Haze said anything, Byron didn’t hear it. He was distracted by the crack of a rifle and the sight of Nate Charters bounding across the road and up the hillside, screaming all the way.

From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Thirty One

I started to jog back to where my dad stood near the Visitors Center gate, but after the mob scene and all that driving, going any faster than a walk felt like an awful lot of work. I wasn’t sure what the rest of the day held in store, but I hoped a whole lot of breakfast was somewhere on the agenda.

Andrew seemed like he was on full alert, sniffing the air, glancing around. I waved to get his attention as I closed the rest of the space between us.

“Did you see that? That’s Byron’s dad. Byron’s dad is here!”

I was maybe six feet away from him. He looked at me.

My father said, “Hey,” as if he’d just seen something unusual or interesting or a little confusing or surprising.

He fell back against the fence. A red mist filled the air where he’d stood. The front of his shirt turned dark and wet.

I heard a pop.

I heard screaming.

I was screaming.

I knew my father was dead.

From The Journal Of Nate Charters – Thirty Two

Another pop. I moved. Another pop. My sensorium did the work, found the source.

Later, they cleaned gravel and dirt out of the bloody palms of my hands. That’s how I know I dropped to all fours and bounded, leaping and running, to close the distance to the person who shot my father.

I saw Byron hauling ass along with me. He’d sure gotten fast. I lost sight of him when he jerked abruptly and slowed down, an eye-blink before I heard two more pops.

The killer started to move his fat ass up the hillside. He tried to keep to cover behind fir trees. Between his weight, hanging on to the rifle, and the beating I’d given him just a few hours before, he was much too slow.

Of course it was Lou Uldare.

I landed on his back. He exhaled and went flat. I grabbed the hand holding the rifle and ripped the gun from his grip.

I threw the gun wildly, just to get the thing away from him. Two of his fingers went with it. He screamed.

I wanted to rip into his bloody hand. With my teeth. Instead, I flipped him over and, having learned my lesson, drove my knee into his groin.

I wrapped my hands around his hot, bloated, meaty throat and squeezed.

No more holding back.

No more feeling bad about what I was, or what I could do, or what it meant.

“Is this what you wanted?”

I think that’s what I said to him. Screamed, probably.

I know that’s what I was thinking.

I wasn’t talking to him, so much. I wasn’t asking him anything.

I think I was asking god.

You know I was born with a tail and fur all over my body? They removed the tail, and I shed the fur before I’d filled up my first dozen diapers. Still, there it was: fucked from moment the doctor spanked my ass.