Rising Son (Legends Live Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  POSTSCRIPT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Mitchell Archer

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1518617539

  LCCN: 2015917553

  For all my friends, especially Hoffa, Jeremy and Matt.

  For Brandon, who grew up with pictures of Tom on his bedroom walls.

  And for Mike, who (more than anyone) made sure I did it. Thanks for the push!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Independence opened his eyes and the dream slipped away. The hero sprawled in the dirt, facedown at the bottom of a shallow crater. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was, how he’d come to be there.

  Something had happened. Something had attacked. He remembered flying above the river, stretching his limbs in the morning sun. He’d rolled over in the air to glance at Manhattan. Then, like a housefly, he’d been swatted from the sky.

  Raising his head, Independence saw his hands in the dirt. The long blue gloves had been burned and torn; blood stained his knuckles. He looked at it, astonished and a little afraid. He hadn’t bled since childhood; he’d forgotten the feeling, forgotten the sting. He’d forgotten what it was like to be vulnerable.

  People often called Independence the most powerful man on Earth. But right then, he felt nearly powerless. Weak and dizzy, his bones throbbed, his body ached. Nothing had ever hit him like that. Nothing had ever hurt like this. A bittersweet thought crossed the hero’s mind; for the first time in his life, he felt like a man.

  So he chose to stand like a man and rose to his feet on the shattered earth. Burns and tears covered his red-and-white costume. A rough slash crossed his chest—cutting right through the star-within-a-circle emblem. Charred tatters were all that remained of his famous blue cape.

  The morning sun glinted on his metallic golden eyes; he’d come down in the middle of Central Park. He looked south, across Sheep Meadow, toward the memorial at the southern end of the field. Aegis, the first hero—once known throughout the galaxy as the Golden Light—had died on that very spot.

  And Independence understood what had happened, why he’d come down in that field. Only one being would have flung him there. Only one being could have.

  Bloodlust had returned to Earth.

  From above, a voice spoke without words, in response to the hero’s thoughts. It boomed in his mind and the minds of the millions below—and the billions, around the globe, who knew nothing of the events in New York City. The voice rolled over the world, roaring without language. A terrible power spoke; all humanity heard and trembled.

  You have no power, and

  you are not a man.

  You, a hollow abomination;

  you, an empty imitation;

  You, I name Nothing;

  for you, nothingness I bring.

  Independence grimaced and touched the deep connection he shared with Bloodlust—it was impossible to ignore, the call of like to like. Aegis and his murderer had been of the same species, if creatures of living energy can be called a species.

  Back in 1947, when Aegis appeared during the Roswell incident, he’d created a human body. He’d gathered atoms, written a code of DNA, formed eukaryotic cells and grew living flesh.

  And Independence had been made from that genetic code, those cells, that flesh. He’d been created by the ancient Home and raised by the American government, the clone of Aegis. His nature and substance was identical to the Golden Light.

  Bloodlust shared that nature; it was made of the same substance. They were kin, they were equals, and Independence knew it. He could fight back.

  His eyes began to glow with an intense, golden light. He flared and brightened until he shined like the sun itself.

  The memorial statue seemed to look over his shoulder, almost as if Aegis stood there, challenging Bloodlust—but the Golden Light had been dead for thirty-eight years. This was Independence’s day.

  He rose into the air, spinning around to face Bloodlust. It hovered above the city, waiting.

  It had taken the form of a crude upper body, only vaguely humanoid and perhaps eight feet tall, surrounded by a roiling sphere of plasma and radiation. The legless figure appeared pitch black and dense, like it was carved from coal. Its torso was a blunt wedge; the oversize arms had broad, inhuman hands and long, curved talons. The face resembled a hollow mask with jagged features and a fanged maw; the eyes contained only flame and scorn.

  The people of New York watched from below. Their city been attacked before—by fanatical terrorists, alien invaders and Posthuman villains—and they would not cower. Though many stared at the sky, only a few cried out in fear. Others watched Independence rise over Central Park and cheered. Those who had lived through 1961 knew better. They looked on with respectful silence as the hero took flight.

  The world had always wondered if Bloodlust would come for Independence, as it had come for Aegis. For his part, Independence had always known the answer. He spent his life waiting for this moment, secretly waiting for it, never admitting his fear.

  But now the moment had arrived, and Independence realized that he did not fear the possibility of death. He would fight to stay alive, but he would not run. Better people than him had met worse fates. Death would make him more human than he’d ever been; it was nothing to fear.

  Instead, Independence feared for Earth and her children. He feared for this world of precious life. But more than anything, he feared for the woman he loved, whom he could no longer protect.

  Bloodlust responded to these thoughts, bellowing in the minds of the people of Earth. The creature did not believe in guile or subtlety; it wanted everyone to understand its intentions.

  I will not crumble this world’s foundation,

  nor end it all in flame.

  But punishment for your creation

  will be a pleasing game.

  Until time’s passage brings ext
inction,

  these apes will fear my name.

  With that, Bloodlust lowered its face, and death followed its line of sight. Flashes of combustion flickered on the streets as hundreds of people died by pressure and heat. The victims lived long enough to feel their flesh disintegrate; their shrieking deaths echoed in the doomsday silence of Manhattan’s streets.

  Independence immediately hurtled across the sky; Bloodlust shot forward and met him in the air. The force of the collision shattered windows across the city and threw the combatants apart. They immediately looped around and raced toward each other again. The hero struck with a powerful, two-handed ram, sending the monster over the horizon.

  But Bloodlust rocketed back and launched Independence to the edge of space with a blast of raw force. The hero returned within seconds and rammed the monster at hypersonic speed. The burning plasma engulfed Independence, as he pierced Bloodlust’s raging aura. They arced, dipped and whirled high, locked together like a contact binary star—bound by physics, hostility and fate.

  At the heart of the inferno, Independence grappled with Bloodlust. He held the fiend’s left arm in his right hand; its right claw wrapped around the hero’s left forearm. They wheeled through the air, neither one able to overcome the other.

  Independence felt a surge of hope; their powers were evenly matched. Spiraling around their common center, they soared into the sky.

  Then Bloodlust leaned in, locked eyes with the hero and roared. An afterburner blast of plasma rolled over Independence’s face. He winced as the energy flowed over his eyes.

  That brief flinch was all Bloodlust needed.

  Independence’s left arm snapped with a rifle’s crack. The ulna and radius burst through flesh midway down his forearm.

  Independence screamed as Bloodlust twisted the hideously fractured arm. It pulled with monstrous strength, wrenching and tugging until the forearm ripped free. Blood spewed into the superheated air, igniting like a flamethrower’s stream until the wound cauterized.

  Bloodlust dropped the blackened remains of Independence’s hand and reached for the hero’s throat. Two searing fingers wrapped around Independence’s neck and darkness crawled across his field of vision.

  They fell together, tracing a line of fire between the skyscrapers. They crashed again in Central Park; the skyline swayed as if the blow staggered the city.

  The meteoric descent uprooted half of the park’s trees—limbs, brush and leaves were consumed by the unnatural heat—and left a hundred-foot crater at the end of Sheep Meadow. Radioactive flame tainted the earth and sent deadly ash on the wind; a small mushroom cloud blossomed over Manhattan.

  Independence couldn’t see any of that. He didn’t see the blackened crater, or the ruins of the Aegis memorial. He did not see Bloodlust. His unfocused eyes aimed up, toward thick smoke and patches of brilliant sky, but his mind perceived other things.

  He saw soft light over a green field; he saw a gentle day in a place of peace. He saw his friends—so many friends. And in the middle of the field stood his beloved; she carried the future in her arms.

  His spine had been shattered, his skull split open, and he had a dozen other mortal wounds. Nearly every bone in his body had been splintered by the impact; nearly every organ was smashed, ruptured and failing. He lay in a twisted tangle of limbs, blood and dirt, and the shimmering aura began to flicker and dim.

  His mind retreated from reality; he no longer felt pain, fear, or much of anything, really. He did not notice as Bloodlust doubled in size and picked up the broken statue of Aegis. He did not see the fiend raise the sculpture overhead, a club in its monstrous fist.

  Independence held her in his arms. He felt the warmth of her skin against his lips. He realized that he was dying but wasn’t troubled by the thought. He felt only slightly regretful. At least he got to see her one last time, even if only in a dream. He looked at the future and made one last wish.

  The statue came down. Then it came down again. And again.

  Tom’s eyes snapped open in the early morning darkness. He wasn’t sure whether he’d screamed or not, but it felt like he had. Throwing back the sheets, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. The clock said six-twenty; almost time to get out of bed anyway.

  “What the fuck,” muttered the boy. He was sixteen and had never experienced a dream like that. So real, so terrifying. He closed his eyes and tried to push it away. But he still saw Bloodlust, surrounded by flame, holding the statue high.

  “Tom? Are you okay?” came his mother’s voice. Her knuckles rapped on his bedroom door before it opened. Light rushed in from the hall.

  “Yeah, I guess I kind of had a nightmare.”

  “Really? You haven’t had one of those in a while.” Her voice was soft and comforting. Tom thought she’d always been the best mom on Earth; he was lucky to have her and knew it. Lots of kids have pretty shitty parents. Tom only had his mother but couldn’t ask for more. She walked closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “What was it about?”

  Tom shook his head. He didn’t want to tell her, but she was too persistent for that. So he just shrugged and tried to sound casual. “Independence and Bloodlust. Weird, huh?”

  “Independence ... and Bloodlust?” She shuddered.

  Tom cringed. He felt like a heel. His father, Adam Washington, had been killed the same day as Independence, along with over two million people worldwide. Bloodlust had lived up to its word, punishing humanity for cloning Aegis. Adam had simply been another victim of the attack.

  But that had been half-a-year before Tom’s birth; the boy had grown up without a father, in a world with no heroes.

  “Did he look at you?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  Tom turned toward his mother. “Independence?”

  “Bloodlust. Did he notice you? Did he say anything to you?”

  “No. It was like watching a movie. I wasn’t really there. Why?”

  She shook her head and gave a dismissive wave. “Just trying to figure out why you’d dream about them. Go take a shower, and I’ll cook breakfast.”

  “Okay. Thanks Mom.”

  “I love you, Tom.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She left his room and went down stairs. Tom looked out the window; their home was on the edge of Westburg, Virginia, surrounded by dense forest that stretched all the way to Kentucky. The mountains were black under the predawn sky, but it wasn’t too early to wake up. Tom had a nice long school day to look forward to, followed by another two years minimum of life in hillbilly country. Despite growing up in rural Appalachia, Tom wanted to live in a city. He wanted to see the world. He’d like to go to New York, maybe visit the new memorial for Aegis and Independence. His mother had never taken him to New York and claimed to prefer country life.

  She retired after Adam’s death to raise their son in a small town, probably because she’d grown up in Chicago. Her name was Megan Fuson, and she’d been some kind of scientist before Tom’s birth. He googled her once but didn’t learn very much, and she always avoided answering questions. Laboratory work, she’d always say, nothing very exciting. She didn’t talk about the past too much. Considering what happened to his father, Tom didn’t blame her.

  Dreaming about Bloodlust had been bad enough.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nikki and her big brother David walked underground, into the Dust Bin, the only bar they had ever visited. They were both under twenty-one, but the owner was like family, and they’d been more times than either one could remember. And the bar wasn’t exactly a legally authorized establishment.

  It had been carved into solid rock decades ago, a small part of the Paragon Patrol’s secret headquarters. The legendary California Girl had claimed ownership, sealed off the rest of the subterranean complex, and turned a few rooms into the Bin. It was the Posthuman watering hole, a haven for hero and villain alike.

  It was a shrine to the old age of heroes, the Seventies through the Nineties, and every wall was covered in memorab
ilia. Photographs hung everywhere, along with newspaper clippings and souvenirs. Weapons, gizmos and costume pieces decorated the room. Mister Moment’s onyx staff had been given a prominent place. A probot from the Carnivore Invasion hovered in a corner.

  Posthumans didn’t really have that many places to hang out, and the Dust Bin was always open. It had to be. Uncle Sam had been after the Posties for over fourteen years, since Daytona Beach’s destruction and the assassination of the President by a superhuman madman in 2002. That was back at the beginning of the War on Terror, less than a year after 9/11 and two years after the death of Independence. The American people just couldn’t handle any more tragedies.

  A new intragovernmental agency—similar to the then-newborn Department of Homeland Security—was formed. Instead of hunting terrorists or other enemies of the state, the Department of Public Safety was charged with handling the Posthuman problem.

  All public displays of superhuman abilities were declared illegal throughout the United States. Posties were hazardous to the public. They were required by law to submit to indefinite confinement, while Doctor Angus and the scientists of the American Biological Research Agency sought a method of counteracting the Aegis virus. Even Postie employees of the government, like Milk, were not exempt. Anyone found hiding a Postie was guilty of aiding and abetting a fugitive.

  Of course, that’s exactly why the Dust Bin existed. It had been made to aid and abet. California Girl, Milk and the rest of the bigwigs used the bar as home base for the underground railroad. Runaways and refugees could show up at any time. It was as a place to relax in a hostile world. Nearly every Postie was welcome, though only a few knew the way.

  Most people could only get to the bar by calling Rodrigo Mendez, the legendary outlaw hero from Mexico City known as Portero. He’d open a door for anyone who asked; California Girl paid him very well for the service.

  But Nikki and David didn’t need one of Portero’s doors. They’d always known how to get to the Dust Bin.

  The well-polished bar stood on the right side of the room; a row of booths lined the left wall. Tables filled most of the space, except for the dance floor in back. But there were only thirteen people in sight. The room was practically empty.