The gus ascendancy, p.1
The Gus Ascendancy, page 1
THE GUS ASCENDANCY
The Invasion of Lake Peculiar Book 3
JACK RAVENHILL
Copyright © 2022 by Sterling & Stone
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
The Invasion of Lake Peculiar continues…
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Chapter One
“Does it hurt?” Sam asked, unable to take his eyes off of the blue gem embedded in Gus's forehead. Damn. Miss one Breakfast Summit and he turns into a goddamn unicorn. That one probably wasn't a Sam thought. The swearing was usually a good sign. Ever since Ronan's memories and mindset had been imprinted on top of his a few months ago, things had gotten a little tricky. It wasn't a voice in his head, exactly. It probably would have been easier if it were. It was more like accidentally thinking someone else’s thoughts.
He gave up thinking about it and tried to figure out what he thought about the gem.
Meanwhile, Gus was hacking apart a short stack of pancakes, his traditional prelude to steak and eggs. “No. I mean, yes. In the classic sense, I guess. But there’s so much more to life than pain and pleasure, you know?”
“Totally,” Sam said, not understanding even slightly. At least he could be sure that one was him.
“What does it … you know, do?”
Gus shrugged, his mouth crammed with pancakes and way too much syrup, and mumbled something incomprehensible through his mouthful.
“What?”
He raised a finger, swallowed a little over-dramatically, then tried again. “It means I'm an acolyte. At least, that's what I call it. They do too, I guess. But it was my idea. And they don't talk much. So that doesn’t really count.”
“Yeah, but what does that … thing do?”
“It means I can usher new members into the hive. Just like the titans can. You know.”
He mimed giving someone a kiss on the forehead and then a godfather pat on the cheek. Did Gus know the godfather did that when someone was about to die?
With a familiar sinking feeling, Sam realized he hadn't known that. He hadn’t really watched those movies. But Ronan was a fan.
And now Sam knew them backward and forward.
“Oh. Cool?”
Gus nodded absently and began sawing at his platter of cheap steak.
“You don't seem too excited about it. I would've thought this was … big. Like a promotion or whatever. Superpowers. Unicorn gem. Hitting the big leagues. You know, for a sellout alien underling.” That slipped out before he could stop it, which happened sometimes. Sam rushed to cover the gaffe. “I mean, someone who's working with the aliens.”
But Gus didn't seem to notice the slip. Or maybe just didn't care. Life was about so much more than pleasure and pain.
“What do you mean I'm not excited? I'm totally excited. I'm over the freaking moon. Literally. Or visionarily, if that's the word I want. They routinely send me on delightful excursions of the mind. I've been to their home planet. I've been everywhere. And this is just the next step on a magnificent journey.”
Gus's voice was dull. It was like he was repeating the party line. Maybe even trying to convince himself. Certainly not as excited as he should have been about real live alien superpowers. Sam wondered just how much a few months of constant psionic influence started changing a person.
Not that he was exactly lacking data on that front. His mind immediately started examining itself, a reflex he had developed courtesy of Ronan's mind overlaid on his. It was hard to demarcate the thoughts that were pure Sam and the thoughts that were mostly Ronan and the parts of his instincts and personality that were a new blend. You couldn't spend months with a forty-five-year-old's life experience in your head without it starting to shape you, too.
“Good. So, you're happy about it?”
Gus looked up, meeting Sam's gaze for the first time. There was an angry glare in his eyes, and a bit of steak sauce on his mouth. “I told you. I'm over the freaking moon.”
“Cool. Cool.”
Clearly something was wrong. That might be a way to get him talking, get some intel.
Definitely a Ronan thought.
“So what else is going on?” Sam probed. “Everything bright and happy at the Sapphire Cathedral? Hive ticking along like a well-oiled beehive? Drones droning contentedly along and all that?”
“Better than ever.” Gus crammed in another mouthful of pancakes and then washed it down with a swig of black coffee. One of the waitresses — Greta — refilled his mug with a smile. She'd always seemed to have a soft spot for him.
“I just don't get it,” he exploded without warning. “I mean, you try and try, and you do a great job, and they ascend you to acolyte, and then all of the sudden they’re popping them up left and right like little gem-head mushrooms.”
Sam felt the urge to calm him down with some sympathy, although he didn't exactly understand the complaint. The Ronan in him wanted to push for clarification. With a nudge from Sam, or maybe a nudge from Ronan's instincts, the urges canceled out, and Sam stayed silent. Sometimes the best way to get someone talking was to just let them talk.
“I mean, I brought in like twenty people just this week. And we're talking full, locked and loaded devotees, you know? Not just cultivating the connection, all namby-pamby, slowly building up a rapport and all that whatever nonsense. Like, they finally get someone who can show them how it's done and what? They make five more of them? Ten more? Where does it stop? It's like a relative demotion.”
“So, you been pulling more people into the hive. With your unicorn powers.”
“It's not unicorn powers!” Gus took refuge in another excessive chunk of steak and started jabbing the pointy ends of his toast around in his fried eggs. Greta always cut his toast into extra-narrow triangles, the way he liked. Like little spears. “It's important. It's an honor. I mean, it would've been if suddenly every random nobody from the Sons of Knute wasn’t getting one, too. It's like, ‘Here’s your Medal of Honor. Thanks for your heroic service. Also, now we’re selling medals at the — I don't know, Seven-Eleven. What have you. They're twelve bucks and they come with a free slushy. Great job on the heroism, Gus. Thanks for all your dedicated service, Gus. Will be watching your career with great freaking interest, Gus. Next!’”
Sam's eyebrows rose.
“I can't believe they would do that to you.” The Ronan-y instincts in him had suppressed the urge to ask for more clarification. More important to get raw data now, while Gus was in a talkative mood. Meanwhile, Sam was scrambling to put together the pieces. Well, probably Ronan. Or both of them. Whatever.
With an effort, he pushed past the urge to parse out which parts of his thinking were pure him and which parts were being tainted by Ronan — or enhanced, depending on how you looked at it — and tried to sort out what exactly Gus meant.
It sounded like he'd been given this gem that let him psionically connect people to the hive, then he’d pulled in so many people so quickly, the aliens expanded and started to give the gems to other people, too. Now, suddenly, Gus was just another run-of-the-mill sparkly unicorn. Acolyte.
“I know. Right?” Gus sounded gratified that somebody understood the indignity of it all. “I mean, you go above and beyond like that, they should give you a special status.”
“Yeah, like maybe another gem or something.”
Gus fixed him with a hard stare, trying to figure out whether Sam was mocking him.
Sam realized he honestly wasn't sure. It was exactly what Ronan would have said as a dry jab at Gus's expense, and exactly the kind of dumb suggestion Sam would have thrown in when his urge to comfort and calm down the situation ran on ahead of common sense and coherence.
“So, what are you gonna do about it?"
Gus peered petulantly into his coffee mug. “How should I know? Maybe there's, like, another level of acolyte or something I could be.”
Ronan's experiences convincing people to join an unpopular movement kicked in, and Sam saw it — a golden opportunity. “No. I've got it. I've got exactly the thing. Join
Gus looked thoughtful, then dubious. Sam redoubled his efforts.
“I'm telling you. With what you know, we could probably get you into a leadership position.” That was maybe a little dishonest, a little more Ronan than Sam. It didn't seem likely the Resistance would be too keen on having the most diehard supporter of the titans suddenly in a leadership role. Ronan's instincts within Sam told him that didn't matter, that pulling this off would be a huge coup and a little dishonesty was worth it. Sam rejected the thought and comforted himself instead with the argument that there was, technically, a chance it could happen. “You could be the next big thing. Plus, you'll definitely be the only person in the Resistance with a gem in your forehead. Hive can't say that, right? Come on. It'll be like old times. Off on another whirlwind adventure and all that.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Gus said at length. “I mean, it definitely feels like it might be time for a move.”
“Yeah! Time to make a move. A big move. I'm telling you, those guys don't appreciate you. And after all you've done for them? Forget them.”
Sam’s Ronan-warped sense of humor found that hilarious, but it was exactly the way to put it to get Gus on board. If there was any chance of that.
“You raise an interesting point,” Gus said thoughtfully. “I have certainly enjoyed my time with them, but I suppose everyone turns up an unfortunate strain of ungratefulness if you stick with them long enough. Aliens no exception, apparently. It's a shame, really. No moral fiber anymore. They don't make ’em like they used to.”
“Aliens?”
Gus waved this off. Immaterial. “I'm just saying, you've gotta naysay the haters and hate the naysayers, you know? Sometimes the time comes when the time is … I mean, there comes a time when the time is right to … anyway. You get it. Being an awesome alien acolyte isn't all it's cracked up to be, apparently.”
“You're not just going to go back and—”
Ronan's instincts got better of him. He'd been about to say something about going back and communing with them, getting his equilibrium back. But that was the last idea he wanted to plant right now. There was a good chance that would send Gus straight back into their arms, and that would give them a chance to scour away all the objections Gus was feeling, get him back in line as a good little cultist.
Sam realized how close his codependent urges had come to blowing this whole opportunity. It was strange having another person's perspective in your own head. Suddenly, your blind spots became uncomfortably obvious.
“Would it be that crazy?" Gus asked. He flagged Greta down. She bustled over, somehow responding quickly without hurrying in the slightest, then looked down on Gus, beaming, all motherly curls and bright red lipstick. She probably gave incredible hugs. “What can I get you, hon?”
“Can we re-up the pancakes? No. Make it waffles. I've got some thinking to do. And bacon. And maybe a refill on the syrup.”
I think I just threw up a little in my mouth, echoed a memory of Ronan's. A quote from a show Sam had never seen and now remembered three seasons of.
Greta gave Gus a couple affectionate pats on the shoulder. “Just what a growing boy needs.”
He grinned up at her and then, as she walked away, turned back to business. “This is a big idea. It could be good. Yes.” Absentmindedly, he strummed a few power metal chords on an air guitar, making the noises with his mouth. Not too loudly for a restaurant. Just a thoughtful little riff, to aid the mental processes. “Yes. I'm liking this, Sam. I tell you. When I'm right, I'm right. This could be a great thing.”
“You're doing it? You want to join us? That's great. I'll talk with the others. See what we can do.”
Sam couldn't believe it. Ronan pointed out that an awful lot of his attempts to convince somebody started out with the expectation of failure. Sam sighed and turned to his own scrambled eggs and bacon. All of this insight into his own weaknesses was incredibly useful and exhausting.
Gus got through another mouthful before letting out a chuckle. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No, no, young Sam. Nothing like that. I'm just saying, I've come a long way. Might be time to strike out on my own. Show the world what a Gus can do.”
“Oh.”
Of course. He should have known it was too good to be true. Gus would never switch sides like that. Abandon his team, sure. In a heartbeat, apparently. But not join Sam's.
“The world has been too long without its Gus. These powers I have acquired, Sam. They have great potential. Limitless potential. Do you know how much good can be done by a man with a vision and a certain set of skills?”
And a sparkly blue gem in his forehead.
“What kind of good are we talking?”
“The people of Lake Peculiar are sheep, Sam. Sheep need a shepherd. Ergo … ”
He grinned as if the ergo was rhetorical.
“Ergo what?”
“Ergo me, obviously! Head in the game, Sam.”
Greta wafted by with a plate of waffles and a tiny plate of bacon. She exchanged them for the plate of syrup Gus's pancakes had left behind.
“No one understands me like you, Greta,” Gus sighed as she sailed on with a small chuckle. “I will be their shepherd, Sam. I will lead them to adventure and a far horizon. Self-actualization. Fulfillment. Golden Cadillacs. The whole bit.”
“I don't think there are many golden Cadillacs available at the moment. They're all going to the viceroys, I bet.”
Gus's eyes widened. Sam immediately saw his error.
“No, Gus. Don't even think about it.”
The grin began slowly widening on Gus's face. He chomped an optimistic forkful of waffles.
“Gus. That's not a thing. The viceroys are already chosen. There's only nine of them. They're, like, super high-level. They've got their own cities.”
He just nodded, grinning and chewing.
“I'm telling you, Gus. It doesn't work that way. We've been listening in on Ronan's equipment. We heard reports from all over the place. They abducted, like, thousands of people. Maybe hundreds of thousands. Tens. Whatever. Lots. And they all came back. Wave after wave. They didn't cut it, Gus. They're all back. Only nine of them were different.”
Gus swallowed with a heroic gulp and took another swig of black coffee.
Sam flinched a little at the thought of drinking coffee that hot that fast.
There's more to life than pain and pleasure.
Gus clapped his empty mug back down on the table.
“Make that ten.”
“You can't, Gus. That's what I'm saying. You can't just make a tenth viceroy. That's not how it works. There are only nine of them.”
Gus grinned.
“Make that ten. I like the sound of that. The tenth viceroy.”
“Gus … ”
But Gus was already looking through the walls toward adventure and the far horizon.
“It's a brand new day, Sam. Years from now, maybe decades, maybe generations, they will look back and ask when it all changed.”
“Nobody asks that.”
“And our great-great-grandchildren, Sam. You know what they'll tell our great-great-great-grandchildren?”
“Now?” Sam guessed, his heart sinking.
“Well, no. To them it will be a really long time ago. Stay with me here, Sam.”
“This is a terrible idea, Gus. What would it even mean for you to be a viceroy?”
“Just what you said. My own city. Golden Cadillacs, probably. Or whatever. I assume past a certain point I would cease to concern myself with crude material luxuries. I mean, I'll still take them, obviously. But that will hardly be the point.”
“There will not be a point. Because you will not be a viceroy. Because that is not how it works.”
“Hush, Sam. None of your Resistance mind tricks on me. I know your type.”
