Stronger: A Super Human Clash (36 page)

Harmony said, “Whatever you think about this place, Gethin Rao, you
do
deserve to be here. You sided with Ragnarök when you knew that he was evil.”

She was right.

The mechanism in the walls whirs into action, and the strong metal loops that bind my chains to the floor slowly open, allowing me to move.

I stand and stretch as much as my chains will allow.

Ahead of me, the crack in the doors widens and my guards tighten their grips on their guns.

The last words Harmony said to me were “The age of the
superhuman is over. Many of you are dead; all of you have lost your powers. You were an aberration, a temporary flaw. You should never have existed.”

Whether that is true, I may never know.

All I know now is that I cannot escape this place, and that my rampage destroyed the last chance I had to redeem myself. While I was working in the mine alongside the other prisoners, I did whatever I could to help them. It wasn’t much, but in small ways I made their lives better.

But not now, not anymore.

Outside, I hear the workers from the night shift heading back into the dome, their chains clinking, their bare feet scuffing the dust-covered concrete. I desperately want to help them again, to fight for a few concessions from the guards.

I’ve lost that chance forever.

I’m thirty-nine years old, and I’ve been a monster for twenty-seven of those years.

The doors open wider and I see them, my fellow prisoners. They don’t look at me anymore.

Once, they looked to me for salvation. They saw the punishment I’d withstood under Hazlegrove’s rule, and it gave them hope: If I was able to endure that, then they could endure their own suffering.

Not anymore. We work until we die.

All hope is gone.

Last night, during a temporary lull in the noise from the mine, I heard wolves howling in the mountains. The sound took me back, instantly, to the Antarctic blizzard, to the friendly huskies leading my Argentinean rescuers.

But that was a long time ago, when I was young and strong and still superhuman. Before I allied myself with Casey Duval and stepped onto the path that led me to this place.

I once told Abby that if I could go back in time to the day I freed Casey from Max Dalton’s cell, I would do it again. And even now, after everything that’s happened to me, I would still make the same choice. Regardless of his later deeds, back then Casey was innocent. And the innocent should never be imprisoned.

My belief that I made the right decision is a small consolation, but it’s the only thing I have left. The only thing that’s mine.

I am certain that I will never see Max again, but I like to think that sometimes he lies awake at night, haunted by the memories of his actions. And maybe, every now and then, he remembers me and feels a twinge of guilt.

Wordlessly, the guards gesture with their guns, indicating that I should emerge from my cell.

They back out ahead of me, always alert, fingers on triggers. Looking only at me.

They don’t see that some of the other prisoners have turned toward the electrified perimeter fence.

They don’t see the sparks from the fence as something tears its way through.

But they hear the panic of the prisoners, and finally they turn.

A boy, not more than thirteen years old, is racing toward us. Moving fast, faster than I’ve seen anyone move in more than ten years.

His hands are glowing, twin balls of energy forming within them.

He leaps over the line of prisoners, and the guards swing their weapons in his direction.

The boy blasts the guards with his lightning.

I cannot remember the last time I laughed, but I’m laughing now.

Harmony was wrong. The age of the superhuman is far from over.

Lance slammed the door behind him, ran through the musty office and out to the front. He jumped onto his bike, slung the backpack onto the handlebars, and began pedaling like crazy. He couldn’t help grinning.
I did it! I got away!

He zoomed around the corner and onto the main road, shifted up a gear, and increased his speed. It was tough going with the heavy jetpack on his back, but he wasn’t going to stop for anything.

Then he heard the roar of an engine coming up fast behind.

He risked a glance back: A large white panel truck was bearing down on him. Two black-suited men were in the cab, the passenger gesturing wildly while the driver sat with a grim, determined look on his face.

Lance took a sudden right into another narrow side road, almost coming off the bike. The driver had to hit the brakes to make the turn.

The road was closed off at the end, with only a narrow pedestrian passage leading through the gap between two buildings.
They’ll never be able to follow me through!
He mentally pictured his route home.
If I cut through the church grounds I can
… He stopped himself.
No, can’t go home. Not with all this stuff. I have to hide it somewhere.

As he was considering the best place to stash his stolen goods where they wouldn’t be found, he cycled out of the business park and onto the street. The rush-hour traffic was long gone, but the street was still busy.

He slowed a little as he approached the crossroads, weaved in and out of the waiting cars, then turned right, heading toward the mall. There was a dense clump of bushes at one end of the eastern parking lot—he’d often hidden stuff there before, and it had never been discovered.

At the next junction he jumped the red light and almost collided with a white truck that was turning the corner. He pulled hard on the brakes, put his foot down to steady himself, and glared at the driver. His face fell.
Oh no.
…

The two black-suited men looked as surprised as Lance did. The passenger shouted, “That’s
him
! An’ he’s the same kid from the accident! He musta got Marcus’s briefcase!”

Lance jumped back onto the bike, darted around the truck and down the road, knowing that they’d have to make a U-turn to follow him.

He heard a loud
bang
and something shattered a mailbox as he passed. “They’ve got guns? Oh, this just gets better and better!”

Another
bang
, and Lance felt like something had thumped
him in the back.
They hit the jetpack! OK, that’s it. I quit.
He slowed a little, steered the bike onto the pavement.
I’ll say I’m sorry and hand it all back and when their hands are full I’ll run like mad.
A hundred yards ahead was the pedestrian entrance to a housing estate.
Perfect. Stop there and
—

There was a third gunshot. Lance changed his mind about stopping. He hunched forward, keeping his head low, and pushed as hard on the pedals as he could. There were two more shots, and before he even heard the second Lance found himself racing forward, as though he had just crested a steep hill.

But the road was almost flat, and still his speed was increasing. It felt like someone was pushing him from behind. Then a familiar whine reached his ears, and he knew what had happened: The last gunshot had somehow activated the jetpack.

He zoomed out onto the road, his knuckles white on the juddering handlebars.
I’m gonna die!

He knew that he couldn’t slow down or jump off the bike. With the jetpack still thrusting him forward he’d have no way of stopping. He couldn’t even lift his head more than a couple of inches.

Lance rocketed across an intersection, overtook a guy on a motorbike, narrowly missed a deep pothole. He could steer the bike, but it wasn’t easy—at this speed, the slightest nudge on the handlebars sent him weaving all over the road.
The fuel in this thing has to run out sometime. Need a good long stretch of road
…

Ahead, the road branched to the right: the on-ramp for the freeway. He knew that bicycles weren’t allowed on the freeway,
but figured that in this case the traffic cops might make an exception. Besides, he didn’t have any other option.

There was a line of cars at the end of the ramp waiting to pull out into the busy traffic. Lance zoomed past the surprised drivers and cut in ahead of a white Toyota.

The speed limit on the freeway was sixty-five miles per hour. Lance knew from being in the car with his dad that most drivers regarded sixty-five as the minimum speed, not the maximum. He didn’t know how fast he was going now, but he was overtaking everything else on the freeway. The bike shuddered and rattled over the asphalt and he prayed to the god of cycling that he didn’t blow a tire.

He tried to remember exactly what the newspaper article on Paragon’s jetpack had said about its range. He had a horrible feeling that there had been something about Paragon being able to make it all the way from New York to Chicago without the need to refuel.
And he’s a lot bigger than me too. Plus he’s got all that armor. This thing might not run out before I reach the end of the freeway!

Lance’s back and shoulders were aching from the strain, and he desperately wanted to sit back. He knew that if he did, the jetpack would launch him into the air, bike and all.

Paragon had spent years developing his jetpack. He knew how to control it, how to land safely.

Lance didn’t even know how to undo the clasps.

Six novels, one collection of short stories … that’s over half a million words so far! And none of this would have been possible without the support of some very talented and hardworking people.

First and foremost, my adorable wife, Leonia, who is far more giving and generous than I deserve. It’s no lie to say that she is in many ways the heart of the Quantum Prophecy
series: Leonia reads every book the day after I’ve finished the first draft (which, of course, also means that she gets to read all the bits that later get taken out!), and it’s her reactions to that first draft that shape the final book.

My fellow writers Harry Harrison, Michael Scott, and John Higgins, who have always been there with their liberal feedback and wise advice.

My friends—too numerous to list, but they know who
they are—who’ve been behind the books one hundred percent. In this instance, particular thanks must go to Danielle Lavigne, Vicky Stonebridge, Richmond Clements, Dave Evans, and Paul Tomlinson—all of whom are far more talented than I am, but don’t tell them I said that.

My loving family—my parents, sisters, nieces, nephews, and in-laws—even though
certain people who shall remain unnamed
still haven’t got around to reading the books.

The all-too-often thankless people who work behind the scenes to guide and guard the books on their journey from the author’s imagination to the readers’ bookshelves: my remarkably tolerant editors Matt Morgan, who started the ball rolling, and Kiffin Steurer, who ably and deftly carried the ball to where it is now. The publishers, copy editors, designers (special thanks to the artistic genius Shawn Martinbrough for the covers to the prequels!), sales and marketing people, bookstore staff, librarians, teachers, and reviewers. Without all of these fine people, books just wouldn’t happen!

Then there’s you, the readers, whose e-mails and letters have helped keep me going during the difficult times … because I’m not writing this series for myself—I mean,
I
already know what happens—I’m writing it for you. This is
your
adventure: I’m just the pilot. I hope that the journey we’re taking together has been fun so far!