For I Could Lift My Finger and Black Out the Sun (16 page)

PART THREE

NOON

1

Two days after I saw him on the news, Branco offered a single reporter the chance to interview him, within the governor’s mansion that he held hostage.

That’s right. Branco had somehow walked into the governor’s mansion and taken over the place. It made no sense. This person, this random stranger I’d met on the boardwalk the day I turned 14, was suddenly all over the news. I knew he was like me, and that was scary enough. But what was he doing with his powers? Certainly not keeping them secret anymore. The reports said he had killed four guards getting into the mansion, and when the police came after him… well, stories were unclear. Perhaps he dodged bullets. (On that point, the reporters were more right than they knew.) The talking heads on the news shows guessed he might be using some sort of mind-altering chemicals, because the officers killed themselves with their own guns. (Here, I knew the reports were very, very wrong.) But one thing was clear: Branco said if anyone tried to confront him again, the governor would die.

It was Branco, the charming, friendly guy who had given me an extra ticket to ride The Hurlstorm. But this person was so different. His charm and laid-back style had curdled into full-on arrogance. And apparently he was going by the name
Sol
. Sounded pretty pompous, if you asked me.

Like most of the people in the neighborhood, we were glued to the TV. When the interview with Branco aired on the third night of the siege, Mom and I watched it, transfixed.

The picture showed him calm, confident, relaxed. Below his face, next to the Action News logo, was the text
CRISIS AT THE CAPITOL.

“What is it that you want, exactly?” the reporter asked, her tinny voice echoing from off-screen.

Branco — I had a hard time taking the name Sol seriously, but okay,
Sol
— sat across from her, the picture of confidence and serenity.

“What do I want?” he repeated, looking casually around the room, his tanned skin offset by an open-collared white shirt, sleeves crisply rolled up. The camera pulled back to include the reporter. Sol paused, then turned his head to stare directly at her, his icy blue irises constricting ink-black pupils down to a concentrated dot. He shrugged, and continued in his sonorous baritone, clearly enunciated English tinted with his Portuguese accent.

“Everything. Nothing. To be seen. Heard. Revered. Loved. Feared. To have power, to exercise that power. What do I want? It is such a strange thought for me now, as I have changed.” He let that sink in. “It is not necessarily what I want, you see. It is what I shall have, what I shall do. But your question, if I may paraphrase it, is asking what my motivation is, am I correct? What leads me to do the things that I do?” The interviewer nodded. Was he using his mind to alter her thoughts? In the split-second cut to her face, I could have sworn she displayed not only professional journalistic interest, but something more. Fear? Probably. Attraction? Maybe. Was it that Sol was now so commanding, so confident, so powerful, that she found him attractive despite her situation? Or was he influencing her with his mind?

“I have attained, to put it simply, a clear level of
superiority
. I am no longer like you.” He nodded toward her, then toward someone off-screen, maybe the cameraman. “Or him. I suppose you could say I have evolved, but even that is a crude way to describe it, since this is not the work of time and many generations. I was born like you. I am now no longer so limited. From what you have seen so far, you clearly understand I possess an unnatural — or shall we say, a
supernatural
— level of both physical and mental ability. My skin is not susceptible to your bullets. My thoughts amplify, project, become your thoughts, to the degree that there is no resistance. And my mind can do many other things as well.” The camera shot switched to one showing both the interviewer and Sol, sitting on opposite couches in a classically-appointed office within the governor’s mansion. The governor himself sat at his large wooden desk, dutifully addressing paperwork, oblivious to the pair sitting just next to him, or the cameras, or lights, or crew. Sol gestured toward him. “Your governor is perfectly happy to continue to allow both my presence and yours. In his mind, there is not even cause for alarm. He looks at me as someone he simply
expects
to see here now. With a thought, all of his fight-or-flight instincts have left him, just as it leaves all others who might come to oppose me.”

The interviewer looked down at her notes, adjusted her light-blue suit jacket. She stole an uncomfortable glance toward the governor, licked her lips, nervous for her next words. “What about the National Guard, gathering outside these walls? They seem very ready to fight you.”

Sol tilted his head down and gave a dismissive little chuckle. I knew that sound. That laugh. He leaned forward, uncrossed his legs, put both of his designer loafers on the rug. He steepled his fingers in front of his face and stared at the interviewer, studying. The camera caught his intense gaze, locked on the woman across from him.

“
Experience teaches us that it is much easier to prevent an enemy from posting themselves than it is to dislodge them after they have obtained possession
,” Sol recited. “I believe that your General George Washington said that. Well, here I am, in possession. I will not — cannot — be
dislodged
.” He said the words as if they tasted foul in his mouth, then turned to address the camera directly. “Hear me, all of you who might oppose me. I am more than you, more than all of you combined. At this very moment, your governor lives because I allow him to do so. This woman,” he nodded toward the interviewer, “and her crew, live because I allow them to as well. Outside these walls, the great military of this powerful state awaits me. Hesitantly. Fearful. Knowing I have
possession
. Of this place, your leader. How can you attack me and not destroy the very thing you wish to preserve?” Even through the flat interface of the TV, Sol was intense. Sharply, scarily focused.

Then he settled back into the couch, the picture of ease. He re-crossed his legs, closed his eyes briefly. “What can you, the military, in fact the world entire, do to me? For, with a single thought, I can kill. With a gesture, I can topple buildings. I possess more power than you could possibly understand. And my powers continue to grow.” He slowly raised a hand, one finger pointed up casually in a slight curve. “In fact, I could simply lift my finger and black out the sun.”

From somewhere outside, a tremendous explosion rocked the building, a low solid boom followed by incoherent shouts. Car alarms blared. A crystal globe on the governor’s desk toppled and cracked. Sol closed his eyes as the television program went into a frenzy, splitting the screen to juxtapose the relaxed scene inside the governor’s office with the world of mayhem outside. The anchorman’s voice called for a field reporter to explain what was happening. In response, a dark-haired man leaned into the camera view outside the building. Behind him, large billows of black smoke arose from the husk of a crippled tank, its long gun barrel snapped and hanging off the turret.

The reporter did his best to respond. “It appears the tank behind me, I believe one belonging to the National Guard, suddenly exploded from the inside. We don’t have word on casualties at this time. We’re checking —”

“They are all dead,” Sol interrupted, suddenly regaining the attention of his audience, the world. “I would be happy to provide a further demonstration of my diverse capabilities, but I think we all realize it is unnecessary. May I suggest that the commanding officers outside these walls consider backing their forces up by, let us say, at least one kilometer? You have one hour to comply. Otherwise,” Sol smirked into the camera, lolling back in his seat and casually gesturing into the air once more, “I may decide to wave my hand again.” He chuckled briefly, then looked toward the cameraman off-screen. “I believe we are done here.”

The view immediately went dark.

2

Sol.

Branco.

Meeting him was no coincidence. He had power. Like me, Bobby, even Walter Ivory.

No, he had
more
. Way more. Sitting calmly, he made that tank explode, barely moving his hand. How the hell did he do that?

I was in my room after the news broadcast, sitting at my desk, thinking. Mom was probably still in front of the TV, or maybe distracting herself looking after Holly. I was certain my encounter with Sol at Playa Beach was no coincidence. I think he’d been looking for me. Or, perhaps more accurately, he’d been looking for people
like him
.

Which only meant…

He might do it again.

I shuddered.

I wasn’t big on geography, but my class had done a report on our state a couple of years before. I still remembered some of it, at least the basic layout of the state. At the top, near the shore on the right side — sorry,
east
— was Playa Beach. Close to the bottom, on the left/west, was my hometown. The capitol sat roughly between the two.

Was Sol coming for me?

My hands shook. I mean, come on. I wasn’t even 15. Fighting Bobby, my supposed
friend
, was one thing. Fighting Sol? Impossible.

I was freaking out.

My mind wandered. If we were the same, me, Sol, Bobby, Walter, then we should — with the right practice — be able to do the same things. Could I blow up a tank?

A yellow No. 2 pencil, slightly gnawed, sat on my desk.

I was all too familiar with the ability to influence someone else's mind with my mind. But blowing things up? That was a joke. I didn’t think I could even move the pencil sitting right in front of me.

So I tried.

Move
, I thought. I concentrated. For dramatic flair, I held out one hand, fingers splayed, toward the pencil. Why? I have no idea. It didn’t improve my ability, nor did it seem particularly necessary. But that’s what people did in the movies.

I lowered my hand, dejected. Nothing happened.

But I
did
have powers. Maybe using them wasn’t my problem. Maybe my problem was
not understanding them.

I thought about my dad, the day he died. I still thought I was to blame. I knew it as pure and simple as I knew my own face in the mirror. I played out the scene in my head every day, dozens of times. What could I have done differently?

If I could move objects, like Sol had, could I have stopped Dad’s car, saved him from the crash? Maybe. But I couldn’t even move a pencil. No, there had to be something else I could have done.

The answer was obvious.

When I walked past the bullies, what was stopping me from pushing their minds? Just making it so they didn’t even see me? Easy. And I could have done it. Sure, there were three of them, that might have made it a little tricky, but I was pretty sure I could have handled it.

And Dad would be alive.

I got up, went to the bathroom, and looked at myself in the mirror. Skinny kid, small for 14 years old. Black mop of hair. Normal looking in most ways… but my eyes. My eyes told another story, one that wasn’t
normal
at all. They held a story. This story.

Staring into the reflection, I made myself a promise.

I have no idea why I have these abilities, but I do. And so, I’m going to use them.

To protect my mom, my sister, my family and friends. Heck, even Bobby. Maybe I'd read too many comic books. It seemed ridiculous to consider myself a superhero, but I definitely had powers other people would call
super
.

Seeing Sol, I knew what I didn’t want: to use my powers to hurt people, for my own gain, for reasons I could only call
evil
.

If I was going to use the powers I had, I was going to use them for good.

It was a noble thought, even if it failed miserably.