IA: Union: IA, #3

By John Darryl Winston

The hardest battle isn’t fought with fists, but with the heart…

Naz has found refuge at International Academy, but he cannot find the peace or answers he seeks. All he knows calls to him from the streets of the Exclave where friends and mentors resurface. How can they help him when he’s lost everything?

But when Naz meets D, his entire world changes. Her uncanny ability to get right into his head helps him see things in a new perspective. And he begins to rebuild his life—until D goes missing.

It’s going to take more than Naz’s supernatural abilities this time. Can he rescue D in time, or will he lose everything he loves again?

IA: Union is the third book in a YA supernatural thriller trilogy. This coming-of-age story is a hero’s journey set in the mean streets of America. A book about, and for, those living the real story each and every day on our streets, in our cities, and in the hallways of our schools.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BHC Press/H2O
• Release date: Nov 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386521181

Book preview

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IA: Union offers a satisfying conclusion to the trilogy, one where Naz hones his gifts and applies them to complete his mission. I can’t recommend this book, and the whole series, enough. They are favorites of mine and my kids.

~ Allison Maruska, author of The Fourth Descendant

Much like his protagonist, Naz, John Winston, once again, casts his magical spell on readers, continuing to take us to where many writers dare not go.

~ Jeff Talarigo, author of In the Cemetery of the Orange Trees

…an intense and absorbing story that explores the uncharted potential of the human brain. Most highly recommended.

~ Jack Magnus, Readers’ Favorite

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IA: UNION

Copyright © 2017 John Darryl Winston

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by H2O

an imprint of BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number:

2017952239

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-946848-92-5

Softcover ISBN:   978-1-946848-93-2

Visit the author at:

www.bhcpress.com

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IA: INITIATE

IA: B.O.S.S.

19706

My all, my everything, Dominique Wilson

My fab editor, Allison Maruska

My persistent publishers, Vern and Joni

And all of my bombastic beta readers

and killer Kickstarter supporters

Every writer who could not find the

courage to manifest your words, please

find the strength and power in mine.

I am your kindred spirit.

UNION

a number of persons joined

or associated together for

some common purpose

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In The Past …

Cory holds the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulls a notebook from his lab coat. I understand what you’re attempting to achieve, Avander, but your solution is just too dangerous and completely unnecessary. The human mind alone is the greatest source of power in the universe.

He pulls the phone away from his ear with his free hand, hits the mute button, and says, System Alpha.

There is a faint humming sound, and before Cory can bring the phone back to his ear, a holographic control panel materializes before him; only he can interact with it. He inputs some information, swipes the screen, and it disappears. He returns the phone to his ear and continues. "I told you before; the mind is the source of electricity, the source of all things. That’s why we were never able to harness or understand it. It comes from within. To input more from an outside source would ultimately overload an already perfect system. It makes absolutely no sense and worse, it’s irresponsible. It’s unlimited, the power of the mind. You have to start with that as your first premise."

Cory listens to Avander on the other end of the phone as he pulls a small pencil from his notebook, taps it on the counter repeatedly and then writes something. I’ve gone as far as I can with those subjects … and Wintersal. He examines the dull lead of the pencil. No, I appreciate the grant and the technology. I made that clear when I met with the delegates at the summit last June.

Cory turns away from the counter to face the center of the kitchen.

Igod? He’s right in front of me, almost two, getting bigger every day. Cam’s fine, too. Cory puts the pencil back in the notebook. Will do. He ends the call.

Cory sets his notebook on the counter behind him. He is determined to keep a positive attitude. He has no reason to believe his hypothesis to be true, but he does. He has to. If Cory is to convince his almost two-year-old son, Naz, that it is possible to move things with his mind and read the thoughts of others, he first has to believe the concept is possible himself. But he goes back and forth. Does he truly believe, or has he convinced himself that he believes? Or is there a difference?

Naz sits at the kitchen table in his high chair, LEGO blocks scattered on his tray and the table before him. He is working on something that resembles another riding lawnmower. It has become an obsession with him partly or entirely due to his unfounded fear of them. If the landscapers are cutting the grass, Naz won’t set foot outside. He would rather sit on the sofa in the living room, pull the curtains back, and be amazed. He’ll watch until the landscapers finish as he doesn’t want to miss anything. Then, he returns to the table of LEGOs and constructs a version of what he saw. That is his pastime, and his favorite word for all of his designs is Da Dowells. At least that’s what Cory interpreted Naz as saying before he could string real words together.

Cory nods—he’s ready. Naz has passed all of the old tests too many times. He can go anywhere in the house in complete darkness under normal and even extreme circumstances, even though it scares Camille to death every time Cory administers the test. He can recognize expressions of emotions, both negative and positive, and anticipate the next response when given a reasonable number of responses from which to choose. He can even discern truth with uncanny accuracy when given physical access to the subject in question.

Over the last year, Cory used the latest in hologram technology and audio illusions, with a little help from Wintersal Neurological Institute, to turn the Andersen estate into a future world of which one can only dream. The sum total is not a world based on the latest computer or nanotechnology but human capital, the power of the mind. Only it isn’t real; it’s virtual, and no one will take him seriously if he cannot prove his theories correct. He’s used some of these high-tech toys over the years as a simple illusionist, and it was fun to wow the crowd, to disappear and reappear, to make people dream about the full potential of the mind. But he’s tired of dreaming.

He picks up his notebook and rechecks his calculations. It is day seven hundred nineteen, seven hundred nineteen days since Naz was born, and since that time Cory has talked to Naz less and less in a traditional sense. He has required Camille do the same, something she detests. They instead think out their words and let the technology embedded in the house transmit them, so they appear to come from everywhere and nowhere.

The hologram generators are online, flawless, and completely integrated with the audio solutions, and they all play their part well in creating a reality that humans don’t believe possible. But Cory thinks Naz does, and it’s time to prove it to the world.

One more practice run. Cory sits at the table adjacent to Naz and looks at his son with admiration and sadness. Has he, as Camille has often said in their heated debates, stolen Naz’s life away, the LEGOs and science fiction movies notwithstanding?

Cory glances at his wristwatch, the command control center for his elaborate array of illusions—let’s go. He taps the screen on his watch and hears his voice say, Good morning, Son.

Holographic LEGOs join the LEGOs already on the table. Naz looks up at Cory but does not respond. Cory taps the screen again, and a little boy with strawberry-blond hair and freckles walks into the kitchen and sits at the table across from Naz. He is slightly older than Naz. Cory continues tapping the screen.

Cory turns his attention to the boy. Good morning, Adam. Cory’s voice sounds from the system.

Good morning, Dr. Andersen. Adam looks at Cory with a smile but does not appear to speak, although a child’s words can be heard. Adam turns to Naz and smiles. Good morning, Igod. Would you like to play? Still, no words appear to come from Adam, only pleasant expressions.

Naz laughs and bounces up and down in his chair.

Would you like a red block, Dr. Andersen? Adam’s voice sounds from the system.

Yes, thank you, Adam. Cory’s words fill the room.

A red block rises from the table and hovers around Cory.

Would you like a green block, Igod? Adam’s voice projects again.

Naz watches Adam then nods. A green block rises from the table and hovers around Naz.

Son …

Naz looks at Cory, and Cory knows this is the moment of truth. He has never come this far before, never asked the question, too afraid of failure.

Why don’t you give Adam, shall we say … a yellow block, Son.

Naz stares at the table, apparently in thought. A second later a yellow block rises from the table, hovers over to Adam then begins to circle Adam’s head and bounce up and down. Cory brings his hand to his chest. His heart is pounding. It’s a part of the system. It has to be. No, it isn’t. I have to believe.

System Omega, says Cory.

Adam and the holographic LEGOs, including the red and green ones that hovered in the air before, disappear, but one yellow LEGO remains in the air, floating over where the hologram of Adam sat seconds ago.

Camille!

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Present Day …

His teeth chattered as it was cold, but not just the temperature, a feeling inside as well, much too cold to be home. Blip … blip … blip Naz heard in time with his heart and something else: vibrations, no , a muffled voice that grew louder and then another. The voices were familiar. But how did I get here … again? Hospital beds freaked him out. But not just the beds, the rooms— come to think of it, the whole hospital. Nothing good ever happened in a hospital, at least that’s what he told himself.

He had barely opened one eye to a slit, so it still appeared to be closed from the outside but open enough to see Harvis and Soul sitting across from him facing each other, talking. They still didn’t know he was awake—yessss! He could be what Momma called, a fly on the wall. It might not be right, eavesdropping, but like Momma said, It’s not always about right or wrong. Sometimes, it’s about having a good reason, and he needed to know what had happened. That was a good enough reason.

I hope he wakes up soon. Soul looked at the figure in the bed from across the room. Do you think we can win without him?

We didn’t last year, before he came, replied Harvis.

But we’re better this year, bigger and stronger, more experienced … and I haven’t got kicked out of one game. Plus, Coach says no one man is worth more than the team.

I hear ya, but I’d still feel a whole lot better going out on that floor with him tonight.

No doubt. Soul reached across and shook Harvis’ hand.

What were they talking about? He was lying in a hospital bed, supposedly unconscious and all they were worried about was a stupid basketball game. Well, in all fairness, it was the championship game, something they had worked for all season, to go undefeated and win the championship. That was Coach’s goal. That was their goal. The Railsplitters could make it all happen tonight. But that still didn’t seem like a good enough reason. What could they be thinking? How long have I been unconscious?

It’s been almost two days; nobody sleeps for two days, Soul said.

The doctor said he passed out from exhaustion, and he could be out for at least that long.

He remembered fire and pain, excruciating pain, not just his own but others’, too.

I thought he was almost electrocuted, said Soul.

That’s what I said, isn’t it?

That’s not what Harvis said. Did I pass out from exhaustion or was I almost electrocuted? He imagined shaking his head to clear it. Then, he remembered. He had tried to open a screen door that was booby-trapped, rigged with some type of device meant to electrocute anyone who would touch it—no, meant to electrocute me, but why?

And that’s about all he remembered, all he wanted to remember. But just the same the memories came, and he shuddered as they clicked in and out of place like choices in a Sims game: two realities, one he would choose and one he would refuse, the latter likely to win, he feared.

He took a deep breath of silence when he thought they weren’t paying attention. Harvis and Soul quickly turned to him, and he held on to that silence until they looked away. Only then did he release the air in his lungs, taking notice of the hospital scent of disinfectant and—God only knows what else. Satisfied he had not joined their conscious world yet, they continued.

It’s a good thing he tried to open that door before Meri did. There’s no way she would’ve survived that shock, not with her heart condition, said Harvis.

Well, then I guess he saved her life then, huh? Soul nodded.

Guess so.

He breathed a sigh of relief then imagined lifting his chest high with pride because he’d done his job. Nothing else mattered more in the whole world to him than Meridian Liberty Andersen and protecting her. He almost laughed out loud with happiness knowing he had saved her life, but he managed to hold it in. Meridian Liberty Andersen, that’s what she called herself now, but to him, she was and always would be his little sister: plain old Meri.

Of course, one day when she played tennis at Wimbledon and became a big-time lawyer she would need a big expensive name like Meridian Liberty Andersen—I am my sister’s keeper. His mother wouldn’t have it any other way. She always used to say, When I’m not here you are your sister’s keeper and then get at him for trying to quote the Bible. Wait … Momma used to say? A Bible sat on the table next to his bed—the nurse must’ve left it there by accident.

Right now, I wish he’d just wake up. The Railsplitters have unfinished business, said Soul. What do you think’ll happen to Ham?

Naz cringed as the mention of the name alone sent shivers up and down his spine, the hair to rise on the back of his neck. He almost gave himself up again. He balled his fists tightly, flexing every muscle in his body as he began to remember. Hector Antonio Martinez was the first friend he had made when he came to live in Section 31 last year, and from that point on, he had called him Ham.

Like Naz said, he threw his lot in with the wrong group. Harvis shrugged.

They all had nicknames, and Naz was his. He used to hate his real name but not anymore, not since he decided God had taken everything from him. Igod still sounded funny to him, and everyone except Soul called him Naz, so he stayed with it: Naz, for the Nazarite, Samson, the strongest man in the Bible. He thought of the Bible next to him as he tried to calm down from hearing those three letters linked together, H.A.M.

"Come on, Wordsmith, do you really think Ham meant to hurt Tin Man? Why do you think he’d do somethin’ like that? I hear those two used to be thick as thieves … before school started. There has to be more to it; it just doesn’t make sense."

"It doesn’t have to make sense. Remember, it’s Ham we’re talkin’ about here, and I’m sure there is more to it," said Harvis.

True story … so what do we do now?

"All we can do … wait."

Well, he always did want longer hair. Look at it now. I guess it’s true what they say happens when you stick your finger in a light socket. Soul laughed.

Naz relaxed and almost laughed again as he realized the two of them had jokes, which was odd considering how long he had been unconscious. It just didn’t seem right they made jokes about him, no less. He thought about what his hair must’ve looked like and held back a laugh again.

Harvis smiled slightly and shook his head. Don’t feel like you have to talk … Animal.

Come on, Wordsmith; you know how I feel about that nickname; it’s just Soul from now on.

Soul talked a lot, and Harvis didn’t talk much, unless he was reciting poetry, saying a prayer, or rapping. Then he wouldn’t shut up either.

Naz’s throat felt like sandpaper. He could barely swallow. Although, with the taste in his mouth he doubted he would even want to try. But he was so thirsty he decided it was time. He opened his other eye, barely. Still undetected, he turned to one side and saw his hand wrapped in gauze. The handle on the screen door must’ve burned it. Only there was no pain, which made no sense at all. The doctors must’ve given me something for the pain. Naz hated drugs, any drugs but especially the ones they sold on the streets. He had seen what they could do to a man—take the life right out of ’im.

He was covered from chest to toe in bright white sheets that seemed to shimmer. They gave off an aura like he was an angel. There are no such things as angels, he reminded himself. A tube came out of the middle of his other arm and another from his nose. Déjà vu, he thought. Only something was different this time, something he didn’t want to think about.

Tin Man! Soul said, excitedly. Then, putting the clamps on his enthusiasm, continued calmly, You’re awake.

How do you feel, Naz? Harvis asked.

It’s good to have friends that care about you. It’s good to have family. Sometimes they’re one and the same.

Naz attempted to join in their joking session. With my hands, Wordsmith. He failed miserably.

Soul agreed. "Oh, Tin Man … that’s terrible. You should leave the jokes to me."

Naz never could seem to hit the mark when he tried to be funny. It just didn’t come naturally, as so many other things did for him.

At least you haven’t found your sense of humor, Harvis added.

Even Harvis, the Wordsmith, the Iceman himself, hit the target once in a while when it came to making a joke, but not Naz, although he never stopped trying.

Yeah, I’ll leave that to Animal. Naz smirked at Harvis.

Soul shot back, I keep tellin’ you guys—

I know! It’s not Animal; it’s Soul, interrupted Naz.

Harvis stood and approached Naz with a cup of water although Naz didn’t recall where Harvis had gotten it—did I tell him I was thirsty? Naz strategically avoided tangling the cup in the tube coming out of his arm then eagerly downed the water before anyone said another word.

Well, are you ready for tonight? Soul shrugged off Naz’s earlier comment.

Tonight? Naz almost choked on the last drops of water.

Yeah, tonight, Harvis chimed in. Winner take all. It’s ride or die for the Railsplitters. All of our efforts this season come down to this last game.

Were they serious? Did they really expect Naz to be able to play basketball tonight? Naz looked down at himself in confusion, the tubes coming from his nose and arm, his bandaged hand. He understood such an attitude from Soul, the reformed hothead, but not Harvis. Like Spock, he was a rock, solid and logical. Naz decided to dig deeper.

Where’s Coach? asked Naz.

Before Harvis or Soul could answer, as if Naz’s two words had summoned some great genie, Coach Fears opened the door and stuck his head inside. When Naz saw Fears’ face, he realized this was no déjà vu but a dream, and he smiled, anticipating what came next.

Don’t bother knocking, Coach; come on in, said Soul.

Gentlemen. Fears nodded to Naz and then Harvis. And you, too, Bender, he added, looking at Soul after the fact.

Aw, Coach. Soul shook his head.

Fears’ massive physical presence in the small room made the cramped space appear even smaller, as his head almost touched the ceiling.

Andersen. Fears turned back to Naz. How do you feel?

Naz looked at Harvis and Soul, resisting another stab at humor. Fine, Coach.

Good, ’cause we need you tonight. The size of the room didn’t seem to bother Fears as he paced back and forth next to Naz’s bed in an entrancing march. We’ll have our hands full. Going into the championship game undefeated actually puts us at a disadvantage. Our opponents will have studied every mistake they’ve made this season in their losses and not make those mistakes again. We won’t have that luxury.

The game meant everything to Fears. He saw it as a reflection of life itself. Naz barely understood Fears’ words through his pacing, but he knew Fears was dead serious and wanted him there tonight, dressed out, and ready to leave everything on the hardwood.

We only learn from our mistakes and failures. But we’ve been perfect this year, so we’ll need another advantage. Fears raised an eyebrow.

Well, I’m ready, Coach! Naz smiled and played along, fully aware of the advantage Fears referred to, that Naz could do things courtesy of his father, unbelievable things, supernatural things that no one else could do—or can I?

I knew I could count on you.

Thank you, Naz said, and knowing his dream would end at any moment, he asked, Where’s Meri?

Coach turned to the door. Harvis and Soul had gone. As if on cue, Meri strolled in with the swagger of a tomboy, her sandy red hair in two puffy pigtails bouncing up and down, her caramel skin glowing. Naz could hardly contain himself. He didn’t even try.

Meri! said Naz.

Coach stepped aside as if he’d just finished his only lines in one of their school plays.

How do you feel, she asked calmly.

Not sure how to answer, this time, Naz gave the question right back to her. "How do you feel?"

She answered without hesitation. I feel proud …

This time, Naz contained his feelings of excitement in anticipation of the next words she would say.

But at the same time disappointed, she continued.

Afraid to ask why, Naz changed the subject before she could finish. Hey, Firecracker, did Momma come?

Meri gazed above Naz’s bed. A spider climbed down its web. When the creepy crawler was low enough, she grabbed the web and pulled the hanging spider down. It dangled for a moment a foot below her hand then she moved it over the floor. They both watched as the spider crawled back up the web until it was about an inch from her hand when she flicked it, web and all, to the floor and watched it crawl away. Naz scratched his head.

Momma? She’s here, Meri murmured.

Is she coming in to see me?

No, I don’t think so.

Naz knew his mother was there but didn’t summon her into his dream. You know, I’ve never met a girl who wasn’t scared of spiders.

You taught me to never be afraid of anything.

I was wrong; you should be afraid of some things.

I feel proud because you’re my brother … but I’m disappointed because you’re weak when you should be strong, and you feel sorry for yourself.

Naz looked at the floor. I … I failed you.

That’s what I mean … all the self-pity. It makes me sick. You’ve been given a gift that others have paid for with their lives … and you squander it.

What should I do? I don’t have your strength. I never did.

Then find it! Find a reason to live … a reason to go on. Have you been practicing?

Put off by her verbal assault and surprised by her query, Naz responded with silence.

Have … you … been … practicing!? she blasted again.

Naz answered the best way he knew how, with a half-truth. It’s too late for practice. I’ve been asleep for almost two days, and the game’s tonight.

You know what I mean.

I have but not in the right way.

"Then you need to start … today … and practice every day after that, or you’ll fail me again."

Meri’s words were true, but Naz changed the subject again. What about Daddy?

What about Daddy!? Meri tutted, tilting her head to the side and taking her earlobe between her fingers.

Fears was gone. Music playing in the distance grew steadily louder, and Naz felt in his conscious awareness he was running out of time.

You wanna play? Meri asked lightly as if she were a different person from the one that just scolded Naz. She disappeared under the bed and came back with a chess set and the biggest smile Naz had ever seen.

No … we don’t have much time.

Why? Do you have to go?

We both do, he said desperately, slowly losing hold of the dream. What about Daddy? Is he here, too?

No … he’s with—

Meri’s voice faded away, and her image disappeared to nothing as Naz reached out for her.

Meri! Naz said as he woke up, opened his eyes, and reached out into the darkness of his bedroom. He pulled his hand back into a frustrated fist then let gravity return him to his pillow. He shook his head, the pace of his heart slowing in his ear—I need to get it through my thick skull; Meri’s gone now, gone for good, gone forever. The only part of her that still exists is the part I make up in my mind. In my lucid dreams.

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Naz stopped the music on his phone. Practice huh? He sat up, cleared his head, and wiped his eyes. Dr. Gwen’s guestroom had been Naz’s bedroom for more than six months now, and although she had encouraged him to modify the room in any way he liked, it remained unchanged.