Gather the Kindred

If only he had the power to psych out this stubborn pursuer, mess with his brain. Although there was no question that his psychic powers were becoming more acute, he simply was not that good. Indeed, his special ability did not even come into play in rooting out the tail. It was simply the man’s awesome presence that had given him away. A brute by any account, he stood out like a wrestler at the ballet. Up close, the image was even more jarring. The few times he had been near enough that he could see into those pale, almost white eyes, he felt he had come into contact with pure evil. . .

Using his powers as a medium, Watori brought the combined consciousness of the old people of a forgotten Harare to bear upon the interloper. Within minutes, the N’anga could sense the blurring of Kreisel’s mind by the massive onslaught. He could plainly see the confusion in the big man’s eyes, now glazed over, no longer aglow. . .

“They have beaten us to the punch, gentlemen. I have witnessed it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears. They have perfected the mind sciences our government has been working on secretly for a quarter of a century: clairvoyance, telepathy, telekinesis, mind reading, mind control.” He spat out the unspeakable words like piercing darts, targeting each man around the table. Strictly speaking, he had no firm knowledge of anything beyond advanced telepathy. But that was beside the point. He did not require detailed intelligence. His gut told him all he needed to know. . .

In order to insulate himself from the noise and smells of the city that were eddying between the towers of the Upper East Side, he shut the library’s only window and pulled the shade all the way down to the sill. Alone with his thoughts, concentrating with all his might, he tried to reach out to at least one of the senders of the agonizing distress signals. He kept drawing blanks until suddenly it came to him ---not in a psychic message but in the clarity of simple logic. There was only one possible answer: They were all dead, no longer capable of sending or receiving. Like Alcott, they had been screaming out with their dying breath. . .

“An organization that works in the shadows, then,” Matthew observed, clearly disturbed by the idea of having to deal with a dark presence. Not only was its shadowy existence cause for concern, but because it was sanctioned at the highest level in the name of national security, the bogeyman that kept Americans compliant, it would operate under no constraints, making it all the more dangerous. . .

“You won’t get away with this,” Doc objected, having at last found his voice. He was a goner, he was sure, but he could at least stall for time. Transfixed, he watched the giant snake-like figure slide onto the shabby couch, then fold one leg over the other, painstakingly, as though it was important to get the maneuver just right. Suddenly, he uncoiled his massive hands, revealing in one the shiny little pistol, looking more like a toy than the real thing, in the other the roll of wire, appearing quite harmless, as though it was intended for picture hanging. . .

Scrambling deeper into the forest, Cassie still in tow, eyes scanning the undergrowth for potential cover, Matthew felt a blast so thunderous that it shook him to the core. Looking back once more, he saw the entire camp erupt in a growing tower of fire, explosion after explosion, a burst of pyrotechnics the likes of which seemed apocalyptic. Everything in the camp was feed for the inferno: heating oil drums, fuel depot, Quonset huts, what remained of the head frame. Debris rocketed skyward, then plunged to the ground in reckless abandon. The personnel carriers and heavy equipment also became engulfed in flames. Finally, the Cat train was taken one sled at a time until it was consumed. . .

Tailfeathers’ seemingly vacant expression did not change as he quietly arranged the thoughts in his head. The carefully chosen words came out slowly. “The troubles you have come upon are but bumps along the path that has been set for you. If you endure, you will be among the chosen to see the prophesy of the Purification come to pass. It tells of a time when Mother Earth must renew herself by cleansing away all the impurities that man has heaped upon her. For a long time now, human beings have not done their part to protect the one who gave them life. . .

Of course, he could end it right now with telekinesis. It would require only a fraction of the energy that had been marshaled against the gun ship. But that was not an option: Making an intellectual choice to kill—unlike acting out of primal rage—was not in his kind’s nature, and could only be done in self-defense in the face of imminent danger and deadly force. It was not so much about morality or even decency, but more in the way of non-interference—nature’s way. Never before had Matthew Tremaine been so aware of who he was. .