Finding Sage: The Rogue Series, #1

By Logan Judy

Mind reading. Super strength. Shape shifting. The age of the supers is here, but who said anything about heroes? The rules of the new world order are simple: the super-powered rogues are genetically predisposed to violence and terror, says the Prime Minister. So you have two choices: use terror for the right cause as a black ops agent, or be hunted by the black ops agents.

Silas Knight is a telepath who only cares about survival. Eli is a centuries-old hermit on a crusade to save super-powered children, one he is sure will end in death. And Alice is a fugitive with a power so dark she wonders if the propaganda is right about her. But one works from the shadows to unite them, to bring forth a new world where rogues can not only survive, but live.

If they don't rip each other apart first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Logan Judy
• Release date: Mar 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9798201344047

Book preview

Finding Sage

Logan Judy

Finding Sage

Copyright © 2014, 2018 by Logan Judy. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Editing by Tony Held, heldediting.com

Cover Design by Cheryl Ramirez, selfpubbookcovers.com/CherylCCR

Book Layout & Design ©2018 - BookDesignTemplates.com

Author Photography by Anna Snabl, annasnablphotography.com

For sneak peeks, behind-the-scenes, occasional short stories, and other exclusives, sign up for Logan Judy’s newsletter at www.loganjudy.com/newsletter.

If you enjoy this book, please leave a review after reading.

Finding Sage / Logan Judy. – 2nd ed.

For Deanna Judy, whose 52 short years were spent making those around her believe in their dreams.

Contents

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EXCERPT FROM A GRAY CRUSADE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO BY LOGAN JUDY

1.

C

lick. Clack.  Click.  Clack.  Click.  Clack.

Carter cringed with every step as he heard the metallic clashing of the chains binding his wrists and ankles.  United Nations soldiers surrounded him: one at each side, two behind, and two in front.  They carried their firearms close to their chests, ready for action at any moment. 

Carter scanned his surroundings, looking for an exit: blank white walls, glass security panels, and grey tile ceiling.  Blue uniformed soldiers guarded every door, and he saw the door to his doom approaching.  He could see no windows looking into the room, only a solid white wall and the grey door, guarded by two soldiers.

Click.  Clack.  Click.  Clack.

The soldiers stopped at the door.  They exchanged a few words, told the guards at the door why they were there, showed their I.D.s, then entered the room.  It was far less menacing inside than Carter had imagined.  There were no flickering bare light bulbs, blood stains, or pungent aromas of decaying bodies that he had conjured in his mind’s eye.  The room, like everything he had ever seen in this building,

was remarkably and shockingly bare.  So bare, in fact, that it was creepy.  Was this routine for them?  Was it normal?  Was there nothing extraordinary, nothing even immoral about what they were going to do? 

They walked him to the wall on his left, and a touchscreen panel popped up.  One of the soldiers pressed a few buttons.

Carter’s wrists and legs were pinned against the wall. 

Sure is a sticky situation, eh? quipped one of the soldiers to his buddies.  Soldiers often made comments like that, but always to their friends.  Common soldiers were forbidden from talking to prisoners, especially rogues.

Ten gunmen filed in from a door on the opposite wall and lined up with their guns pointed upwards.  Behind them approached an agent, instantly recognizable in his black and blue suit.  He held his military stance with his hands behind his back and recited the appropriate words.

William Carter Jackson.  You have been found in violation of Sovereign Order 21, which dictates that no biologically outstanding person, defined as those exhibiting phenomena deemed supernatural or otherwise extraordinary, shall be allowed to live, under the equal opportunity statutes of the first United Nations Sovereign Order.  Your crime has been deemed punishable by death, and will therefore be carried out in a swift and humane manner, by firing squad, authorized by this Agent Sebastian Jefferson.  Do you have any last words?

Carter lifted his head and established eye contact with the agent.

Yeah, I do.

He waited for the soldiers to shift, to listen to what last words he had.  None of them budged, but that didn’t change what he had to say.

What’s so wrong with having good hearing?

Ready arms, said the agent. 

The boy refused to break eye contact.  He looked the agent in the eye, determined in a last act of ideological rebellion that they would not ignore him.

Fire.

Ten rifles fired at once.  Blood spattered the wall behind the boy and spread into pools on the floor.  The force of the bullets’ impact broke the wall’s magnetism, leaving the boy lying upon the floor.

One of the soldiers who had escorted the boy knelt down and took a look at him.

Affirmative, he said.  We’re clear for the clean-up crew.

2.

I

nside a small bar in the city of Moscow, a mysterious man with a hood over his head sat in the corner booth.  He carefully watched the traffic as it passed by the dirty window, aware with both his eyes and his mind of any peculiarities.  You had to be careful when the United Nations had you on their blacklist. There was no way to truly escape a global government that saw all and knew all.  A government that wanted the world’s best for itself.  A government that was determined to rid the world of the extraordinary.  But if you were smart, you could hide. 

The city of Moscow served as a sort of refuge for all kinds of criminals.  There were more people who were hostile to the rule of the United Nations in this city than perhaps the rest of the world combined.  Of course, the sad truth was very few (if any) of these people were willing to do anything about it, but their lack of support for the U.N. still played its part.  This was where the mysterious man had lived for the past five years.  He was twenty years old, but that was not apparent to the casual observer.  If you were to look underneath his hood, you would see a face that was worn from years of

running.  He had been able to hide in the criminal underbelly of Moscow, but that did not come without its costs.  The man had light scars across his face and dark bags under his eyes.  Most of all, he possessed a hard, stubborn cynicism. 

He waited patiently for his contact.  He was a black market dealer, searching out the hard-to-find objects.  Some dangerous, some far from it, but all illegal.  The United Nations had blacklisted nearly everything you could imagine: most music, most movies, all weapons, and anything accessible on the internet that was deemed dangerous or anti-government. Things had been this way for several years. 

The mysterious man had found ways to get this merchandise and sell it to whoever was willing to buy.  His customer contacted him anonymously, telling him to meet in the back corner of this particular bar.  Silas suspected it might be a trap, but if it was, he would see the soldiers coming long before they made a move for him. 

Or so he hoped.  Being supernatural meant many things, one of which was being unpredictable, even to yourself.

He started to feel edgy as the clock moved to ten past nine and his anonymous friend was nowhere to be seen.  The clock hanging from the white plaster wall across from him made no noise, but he could hear it all the same. 

Tick.  Tock.  Tick.  Tock.  Tick.  Tock. 

He became less sure of himself as each second passed.  More anxious.  More fidgety.  Sure it was a trap.  Sure he would see it coming if it were.  Sure he could trust the man.  Sure he couldn’t. 

You’d think five years doing the same gig would give you a little confidence.  It didn’t.

He reached out with his mind, gathering all the information he could from everyone in the establishment.  He had to be careful to avoid the outside world.  If he reached out past the bar’s front door, he would be overwhelmed by a

flood of peoples’ thoughts, emotions, and memories.  It was like jumping straight from the kiddie pool to the middle of the Atlantic.  Even in this room, the emotions, memories, sensations, and thoughts he sensed were enough to drive a man mad.  He was on the brink of madness quite often, which accounted for his short temper and constant paranoia. 

The information flooded into his mind and he clenched his fists to keep control.  A man was afraid because he’d hidden his son from the recruiters.  A woman was afraid because she had bought a CD from a dealer.  A young man was afraid because he loved a woman above his social class.  All of them were afraid,  as always, every last one of them.  Bars were good business these days.  Dozens of miserable men and women were in the bar right now, all relying on alcohol to numb their pain, to forget their fears for one God-forsaken night, but it never worked.  Their pain was always waiting for them when they awoke from their drunken stupor. 

The dealer knew.  He’d tried it.  A half a glass of beer and he was beyond drunk.  It nearly got him captured.  Now he knew better.  Everyone in his business knew better, which was why he knew he was looking for a sober man.

Five men had unimpaired minds.  None of them had the aura of soldiers: cold, ruthless, and trained to follow orders almost robotically.  Full of hate and fear tactics.  He could smell a soldier or an agent from a mile away.  Not because they were obvious, but because they were all the same.  Creepily similar, actually, as if they had all rolled off the same assembly line.  It was comforting, then, to find a complete absence of them.  It didn’t quell his paranoia, however, as his mysterious customer was still missing.  His palms grew sweaty and his heart rate quickly rose.  He was just about to leave when a stranger slid into the booth, sitting across from him.  He was a man in his early thirties with short brown

hair and dark eyes.  He avoided eye contact, keeping his eyes focused on the table.

What do you have for me? asked the customer.

He still didn’t make any eye contact.  His tone of voice was shaky. He was ashamed, conflicted.  Obviously a novice, possibly engaging in his first black market deal altogether.

I have rules, the dealer replied.

The buyer said nothing.

Rule number one: never give away your inventory, he expounded.

Then how are we going to do business?

You tell me what you seek and I will give a response.

The dealer almost cringed at the formality of his own statement.  It was obviously feigned, but the man didn’t seem to care.

Ammunition.

What kind?

AK-47.

The dealer laughed incredulously, though quietly to avoid unwanted attention.

You’re kidding me, right?  I’m a dealer. I don’t kill soldiers.

Alright, fine, then how about MP40?

I can do that, he replied.  I’ll have it for you tomorrow.

How much? the buyer asked.

One hundred a shell, the dealer replied.

You serious? the buyer said.

You know as well as I do that weapons are hard to get a hold of.  Most consumers are carrying swords and crossbows now.  If you want gun ammunition, it’s going to cost.

How many shells do you have?

I can give you two hundred and fifty.

It’s a deal.

You’ll find the first fifty in the smuggling compartment of your car.  Consider it a down payment.

The man’s expression turned from frustration to anger.

Don’t be upset.  I knew what you were looking for.  I always know, the dealer said.

The man was speechless.  He opened his mouth to speak, but the dealer cut him off.

The instructions for our meeting tomorrow are there as well.  Now before you say or do something you regret, I suggest you very calmly stand up and walk out of here for your own good.

The buyer gritted his teeth, stood up, and walked out the door without another word.

The dealer looked at the table and tightly clasped his hands together.  Showing off made him nervous.  What if he’d had the wrong car?  What if this man really had been an agent?  What if he’d been waiting in his car for some other purpose?  He cringed as he thought of the possible consequences of flaunting his talents.  It could easily get him arrested (and killed, of course).  He was careful, always searching the minds of his clients thoroughly before making any rash moves, but still he always wondered in the back of his mind which deal would be his last.  How long could he keep this up? 

This mysterious dealer was a rogue in the year 2094.  A rogue was a very dangerous thing to be in this day and age, when you were automatically disqualified as a human being by decree.  His very existence was outlawed, and so he had no choice but to run and hide.  Run and hide until the soldiers caught up with him and he met his untimely, but inevitable, end.  Such was the life of rogues. Such was the life of Silas Knight, rogue number 4-215-617-30.

3.

A

drenaline.  This was what it was all about.  The pure energy sparked by fear for your life dictating your every step, your every move.  Your heart pounding, the muscles in your legs contracting like you never thought they could, was what life was about.  This was what it meant to be alive.  This whole sensation, the entire experience, was invigorating . . . until the moment was ruined by the voice of the paranoid computer geek behind you.

They’re right behind us, Alice!

She growled as she came crashing back to reality, still steering her maroon-red 1978 Honda Goldwing motorcycle between cars on the freeway, the wailing sirens of five U.N. cruisers echoing behind her and her accomplice, Rodger, who preferred being called Rodge. 

I know, Einstein, but you yelling that in my ear isn’t helping anything!

She kicked her modified bike into another gear and they stretched their distance from the soldiers.  She ripped back on the throttle, letting the air force its way through her silky black hair.  She could feel Rodge’s grip tightening around her

waist.  Rodge’s grip was unwavering, but his voice betrayed his fear.  He was looking behind them constantly, threatening Alice’s control of the bike.

Will you just chill out? Alice snapped.  "You’re starting to make

me nervous!"

Chill out?!  I could be dead in the next ten minutes!

Oh, stop being a pregnant woman on cocaine, you are fine!

There has got to be some part of your frontal lobe missing.

I have no idea what you just said, but hang on tight.

The freeway was busy, seeing as it was the middle of the afternoon, creating a perfect opportunity for either death or freedom.  Either way, Alice was determined the U.N. wouldn’t take her alive.

She made a sharp 180-degree turn, drifting across the grassy median onto the other side.  The turn was so smooth that the soldiers barely saw her, and definitely couldn’t keep up with her.  She immediately took the next exit ramp and sped down the nearest right turn.  She found a parking garage in less than two miles and parked in the perfect hiding place for her bike: underneath a tarp.  Of course the tarp was stolen, but the owners of the brand new SUV Alice had swiped the tarp from wouldn’t be missing it anytime soon, not with all the nice toys they had inside that vehicle.

There, we’re safe.  You happy?

Rodge ignored her.

Where are we?

Nowhere near New York, I know that for sure, Alice replied.  Her iridescent blue irises were glowing with satisfaction.  That city was like a virus, a poison that had infected her.  She had been away, running from that city like it was a horrifying monster.  Yet destiny, it would seem, was bringing her back.  That, or her mother had a horrid sense of humor.

And why, might I ask, did you bring us so far off of our path?

Alice stared at Rodge like he was an idiot.  She did this quite often.

Because it would be like leaving a huge blinking sign in front of New York that said ‘We are coming here’.

So what do we do next? Rodge asked as he tossed his long brown hair out of his face.

You’re supposed to be the brains of this operation. you tell me.

I am?

Why else did I recruit you out of that scum-pit in San Francisco?

Because you needed a hacker to help you get money to pay off your gambling debt, Rodge reminded her.

Eh, details.  I kept you around, didn’t I?

I guess, he admitted.

By this point they had walked to the roof of the parking garage.

What are we doing up here? asked Rodge.

I wanted to make sure the soldiers didn’t somehow see us come here, Alice replied.

Okay.  Now what?

Well, we need to find a place to stay the night, first of all.  Then we ride.  And after we ride, we get our revenge.

Your revenge, Rodge corrected her.

Details.

4.

"C

lose your eyes, Silas." 

Dad—

Do it.  This is for your own good, son.

The boy closed his eyes.

What do you hear?

He concentrated.  He heard all sorts of unrelated gibberish.  No words were connected, only sounds, syllables, and emphasis.  Nothing made sense.

What do you hear? his father repeated, his tone softer.

Chaos.  I can’t understand any of it.

Don’t try and hear it all.  Just focus on one thing, one voice.

He tried harder.  His eyebrows joined at the middle, wrinkles forming in his forehead as he concentrated. 

Something came to him.

I can’t believe she left again.  Again!  Why do I keep pouring all of my time and money into her?

I can hear something.  Some man is upset about a girl leaving him.  An ex-girlfriend, I think.

Are you sure?

He listened again.

I just hope she doesn’t get herself into too much trouble this time.  That whole ordeal with the witches last summer . . . Where did I fail her?  And how am I supposed to fix it now?

A daughter.  She ran away from home and her father is worried about her.

Silas’s father smiled.  He had a balding head and dark, scrutinizing eyes.  Many kids had no respect for their parents, but Silas highly admired his father.

Rules are essential, Silas.  You have a very special gift, which means that rules are even more essential in your case.  One of those rules is that you can never, ever, make assumptions.  It is tempting, but you can never succumb to that.  Things are never what they seem.

Yes, Dad.

Silas slowly woke and looked at the clock.  The time was 4:03 a.m. 

He rolled over and went back to sleep.

5.

A

lice and rodge sat in a coffee shop, eating their breakfasts, neither speaking a word.  Customers and employees alike passed them without noticing anything out of the ordinary.  Despite the fact that every news station was describing them as armed and dangerous, people didn’t seem to care that the people the news anchorwoman on the wall television was rambling about were the same people sitting in the shop with them.  No matter.  These days the chances of getting turned in if anyone did notice were slim.  Nobody wanted to be associated with targets.

Are you ever going to tell me why we’re going to New York? Rodge asked.

Alice sighed.  He had been at her for days, trying to get her to tell him what her plan was.  She would have told him from the start, but she was afraid.  She was afraid of losing a connection with the only person she could trust.  It wasn’t like they were close friends, but she knew she could trust him.  If he ditched her when he found out what she was planning, well, she might as well turn around and go home.  And she refused to go home.

Do you find something peculiar about our predicament? she asked.

You mean the fact that I had never done anything illegal before I met you and now I’m a wanted fugitive?  That predicament?

She scowled at him.

First of all, I don’t think you are technically considered a fugitive when they’ve never caught you, and second—

I beg to disagree.

She glared.

It’s 'I beg to DIFFER', Rodge.  Not beg to disagree, beg to DIFFER.  For Pete’s sake, Rodge, for being so smart you sure are awfully dumb sometimes.

You’re stalling.

He had caught her red-handed on that one.

The predicament I’m talking about it is how the government keeps hunting us.  We are the ones with the gifts, so why don’t we fight back?

They tried that already.  We lost the war, remember? Rodge replied.

That was before the government got complete control, Alice said.

That’s a matter of opinion, Rodge countered.  Most would agree that the appearance was the only thing that changed.  They got power, so they stopped caring about what mask they were wearing.

Whatever.  The point is, I want to do something about it, Alice continued stubbornly.

I’m confused.  You want to do something about what?

She pulled out a newspaper. Rodge started reading.

Beatles museum to open in Boston next week—

No you dimwit, right here!

His eyes shifted.  He read.  He looked back up, staring at Alice with incredulity.  She surely couldn’t be serious.

Are you for real? he asked incredulously.

Look at what he says!  This guy releases a new article every week and every week he talks about the impending war between the government and who he calls the ‘gifted’.

So you’re saying you want to start a war?

Not exactly.  I want to find a safe place for people like me.  I figure if we find this guy, he can help us find others like me and we can find out how to get out of the government’s reach.

The United Nations is everywhere, Alice.  It’s not like losing a loan shark.  Rodge’s voice was hushed now.  Newspapers have been illegal for years.  This is black market material. It’s not like you can just look him up.

All things must come to an end.

And you want to trust this stranger?  Some guy named Sage?

A name is no reason not to trust someone.

By this point Rodge was getting agitated.

Okay fine, but why do you need me?

I still don’t know who this guy is or how to find him, Alice said.  Sage is obviously an alias, so I can’t use that.  I’ve been reading this stuff for months and he uses the same writing style in every piece of propaganda he writes.  I mean, I like this guy, but he sure doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘variety’.  We might be able to use that to find him.

And what am I supposed to do about it?  I’m not a rogue, remember?  I don’t have a network I can tap into.

You’re a hacker, she pointed out.

What does that have to do with anything?

It’s been decades since we’ve had freedom of speech.  There’s no way this is some shadow writer.  I wonder if he’s using hacking skills to get his message out too.  If that’s the case, you can help.

Rodge sighed. Okay, fine.

"You’re