The gus ascendancy, p.5
The Gus Ascendancy, page 5
“I don't know. Just … I think it could still work out for you. Maybe even if it does make them mad. You know? I mean, have you ever even seen them mad? How bad would it be?”
“Ask Moscow. You want to know how bad it could be? I've seen stars exploding in space, Sam. I've seen … well. You wouldn't understand. There were, like, these big slug things. And they were getting torn apart by reptars. Just decimated. You know?”
“They’re not reptars. They're titans.”
“Immaterial. The point still holds.”
The Ronan-y Machiavellianism in Sam spotted a strategy. “What point still holds?”
Gus scrambled for a minute and apparently came up empty. “Look, it doesn't matter what point. I'm just saying, it holds. Okay? Why do you always have to make this stuff so awkward?”
“No, no. I'm not making it awkward, Gus. You’re just getting weak in the head. You're getting boring and normal like the rest of them. Getting all your Gusness wiped out. Pretty soon, you're just gonna be another cultist grinning your little grin and swaying back and forth like any other little plebe in the crowd.”
“No, I’m not!”
Sam felt his usual reflex to make everything okay for Gus. And the reflex Ronan would have had in that moment — to double down, go in for the kill.
He went with Ronan.
It was like being armed with a superpower. He could see three steps ahead. He was strengthened by the memories of a thousand successes, the habits of years of winning in this kind of situation. Well, what Ronan considered a win, at least.
His natural instinct was to hesitate. It was exactly the sort of thing he’d spent his life nervous about. Exactly the kind of chaos Gus kept dragging him into and he kept trying to keep out of.
But now, at last, he could see past the reflexive old people-pleasing fears. Knew giving in to Gus would hurt Gus. Understood a little pain now could fix everything for long time. Strike a serious blow against the hive.
“Look, Gus. You want to stand out, right? Accomplish something big? Do something important here?”
“I like to think I've had some small influence in that regard already,” preened Gus.
“You haven't.” The sharpness with which it came out surprised even Sam. Again, he felt hesitation, his natural peacemaking urge kicking into overdrive. And again, through the lens of Ronan's experience and habits, he saw beyond it. “I hate to tell you, Gus, but you're getting played. You've got nothing going for you here.”
“I'm an acolyte. The acolyte. I've already pulled in more people than the rest of them combined. And I was the first one to get a gem. I'm owning this.”
“You're getting owned, Gus. Do you even hear yourself? You not the acolyte. Just one more acolyte. In fact, you're the oldest one. A has-been. Last generation, at best. You're the first one they suckered into getting bound to the hive. You're the one who's been slaving hardest for them. And for what? You post these kinds of numbers, and they just move on by and make more of you? Younger, better replacements?”
“They're not better! Or younger … are they? I don't actually know how old they are.”
“Immaterial, Gus. Listen to me. You've got these powers now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you want to use them. But not for some bald white bosses who don't even talk to you. These guys were willing to demote you over nothing.”
“Relative demotion,” protested Gus. “I'm still an acolyte.”
“Yeah, for now. How long is that gonna last?”
“I don't know. Until I get another promotion. Or I become —”
“It lasts exactly as long as they want it to. Not a minute more. They could crack that gem out of your skull whenever they want. Without even giving you a bonus for your trouble. Not even a plaque.”
“I don't want a plaque,” muttered Gus.
"You think you're really doing anybody any good, building up this little tiny hive mind in this little tiny town? You don't want to set your sights higher? Something worthy of your powers, your vision?"
“I already did set my vision higher to the … worthy of … whatever you said. I'm gonna be the tenth viceroy. I told you.”
“Exactly!” Sam pounced. He felt like a chess master closing the trap. “You're going to be the tenth viceroy? You should do it on your terms. You should do it the right way. Not for these guys. Do it for Gus. You know? Fight the power. Stick it to the man.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Gus was warming to the idea.
Sam felt the addictive flush of conversational victory. He never convinced people of things. Especially not Gus. Especially things that mattered. He pushed a little further, ran with his Ronan instincts.
“You matter, Gus. You matter too much to sit around holding hands with these guys, poking around at their beck and call, doing every little thing they make you do. You should be recruiting people to your own organization, not theirs. You should be the one putting unicorn gems on people's foreheads.”
“Yeah!”
“Besides, you think these three are the Astrals you want to be sucking up to? You think they're the ones who pick viceroys?”
“I'm not sucking up to anybody.”
“You won't be anymore, I can tell you that. You're gonna start your own thing. You want to be the tenth viceroy? They're going to tell you the viceroys are already picked. What are you going to tell them?”
Gus struck a heroic pose. “I'm going to tell them sometimes a viceroy comes along who picks himself.”
“Yes! A viceroy beholden to no man but himself.”
“A viceroy who calls his own shots.”
“Exactly. You're going to revolutionize Astral-human relations. You're going to be the bridge that brings world peace to Lake Peculiar.”
“Yes!”
“You're going to ascend as a new kind of viceroy. A kinder, gentler viceroy.”
“A being of pure energy.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“And my followers will throng around me. Way more followers than these podunk little titans have. They will flock to — to the Gus Ascendancy!”
“Hear, hear! There's just one thing,” Sam said, turning conversation on a dime, yanking the dream away just as Gus was taking hold of it.
Gus's brow furrowed.
“What?”
“How are you going to do it?”
“How?”
It clearly hadn't occurred to Gus to think that far ahead.
But Ronan was a skillful tactician, and now Sam had all his expertise.
"You need a bold gesture, something that will really get their attention. And do a little tactical damage. Take them by surprise. Show them you mean business. Show them you're their equal. If not superior.
“Yeah! Superior. I like that.”
“And we'll do it together. Sam and Gus on another whirlwind adventure.”
“The two musketeers!”
“Right. Wingmen. Forget the Resistance. Forget the hive. This is just you and me.”
Again, a little corner of Sam's mind felt that it had crossed a line, but he understood now. It was a tactical move. He was winning Gus's loyalty back, leading him to a big decisive break from the hive. It might save Gus. It might cripple the hive. It would certainly set the titans' progress and their influence back by weeks, if not months. If all it took was a little bit of manipulation on one day — and not even lies, really, since it would just be the two of them for the moment — it was well worth it. Obviously, radically worth it.
“And they're not going to like it at first,” Sam said. "But that's okay. They'll come around. Right? Once they see you mean business, they'll get it. They'll realize you're a force to be reckoned with. They'll have to take you on as an ally. You see? Treat you as an equal. Not just decide what scraps of their gift to pass on or when you get to be an acolyte. They'll have to work on your terms as much as you work on theirs. Maybe even more. Because once you do this, the other Astrals will see, too. They'll see that there was a man who rose above the whole plan for a whole town. We'll see viceroy material. A self-made viceroy. A self-made man. Someone who made himself stand out from the pack. Someone they can respect. Someone they can work with. Are you getting this?”
“Yes! Of course! So, what do I do?”
Gus was so desperate for the answer it was almost laughable. But it was also deadly serious. Sam knew now, with Ronan's perspective, exactly what buttons to push. In retrospect, it was obvious. He wondered how he’d gone so many years repeating the same cycles.
But then, he could see his own buttons too, now, and how Gus had been pushing them.
Gus needed to stand out. To be one of a kind. Sam needed everything to be okay, everybody to like him.
So, Gus would raise a ruckus and Sam would smooth it over. Gus would light a signal fire, and Sam would sweep up the ashes. Over and over, for all those years.
But now, with the benefit of Ronan's experience, Sam could see through it all. And it turned out it was easy to reverse years and years of the same cycle. You just had to be willing to do what you'd never done for years and years.
You just had to stop being the Sam in the relationship.
“I'll tell you how.”
Except he didn't, not for another long moment. He let the tension rise. Gus was agog, hungry, desperate. He couldn't take his eyes off of Sam.
It was an incredible feeling. Powerful. Almost addictive.
Was this how Gus had felt all along, for all those years? Was this what Sam has been missing out on, with all his nervous worrying and all his scrambling to clean things up after the fact and all his bowing and scraping to Gus's random whims?
Well, that was all about to end.
Sam stretched out the silence, keeping Gus on pins and needles, cementing the desire, the dependence. He saw it now, through all of Ronan's years of experience shaping compelling narratives for his listeners. And in that moment of long silence, he wondered why he had ever tried to keep the Ronan-self separate from the Sam-self. What if he was just one self now? What if he'd just been granted the gift of a lifetime, literally? A whole second lifetime. A whole new perspective. Years of experience and expertise. All the memories and victories and failures and lessons of a life spent pushing hard after the truth, after influence, after the chance to do some real good in the world.
Was he willing to throw that away just to hold on to the thin, nervous shell of the man he used to be? Was Sam without Ronan — the old Sam, the weak Sam — even worth fighting for?
And even on this, Ronan's insight came to bear more than Sam's.
Sam — old Sam — would have dithered and hesitated. He wouldn't have been willing to reject the Ronan-identity outright, but he also wouldn't be comfortable embracing it. He would have granted, of course, it was helpful, at least in some situations, although he wouldn't have wanted to say which ones. He would have spent weeks nervously holding the bizarre gift at arm's length while trying to figure out what to do with it.
In fact, that's exactly what he'd done. And ironically, it was embracing the gift that showed him what to do with it.
Ronan saw it all, from overhead. It was obvious, when you looked at it with Ronan's eyes.
Every person was a mix of lessons and experiences and influences and decisions. It was the decisions that were Sam. The rest just fed those decisions. Rejecting Ronan's experience was rejecting the chance to make his own decisions stronger, to be more Sam than ever.
“Sam?” Gus was still hanging, more transparently desperate than ever. "What do I do?”
“You ready?”
Gus nodded, breathless.
“You sure you're ready? You'll do it quickly? Decisively? Boldness and manly courage?”
“Yes!”
“Then here's what you got to do, Gus. You need a piece of that altar.”
Gus's eyes popped open. He took a sharp intake of breath.
Then, as it is settled in, Sam watched the retroactive justifications form. It was almost laughably obvious now that he knew what he was looking for. Now that he'd accepted Ronan's insights instead of holding them at arm’s length.
Gus was terrified. It was a huge step, maybe an impossible one. Certainly one that would raise the ire of the titans. It would irrevocably cut him off from the hive. And yet, he was desperate to prove himself. He wanted to stand out. He was already hungry for the Gus Ascendancy.
And so, he would do it.
He just needed to tell himself why.
All of this went by in a flash. But now, letting Ronan's insights integrate with his mind and reshape his view of the situation, Sam could correctly watch it unfolding step by step.
Gus had to have reasons, and they had feel like good ones — totally different than being good ones — so the real reasons of fear and pride and self-aggrandizement wouldn't do it all.
So, as the idea sank in, Gus found it made perfect sense. Of course it did. It was a strong move. A decisive move.
It would show them who was boss. It would show them they didn't have old Gus to kick around anymore.
And then he'd have a piece of the altar for the Ascendancy. It would be a potent symbol and probably a powerful artifact.
Sam could practically see Gus picturing himself raising a broken blue crystal before an admiring crowd.
It made so much sense from one perspective, this idea of breaking the altar. Gus never would have thought of it on his own, but even now he was probably half-convinced it had been his idea to start with, that it was the only way viceroys were made. Self-made viceroys, anyway.
“Yes!" Gus nodded, pumped his fists. "Let's do it.”
And Sam felt again the rush of satisfaction of understanding, of leadership. Shaping reality instead of being shaped by it. Letting go of the Sam that had been holding him back.
He gave Gus a bracing slap on the back.
"Brave new world, buddy."
Chapter Five
“I think I’ve got her.”
Journey couldn’t see Oliver’s face, but his voice was tight with concentration. And she could sense the flow of energy as he worked to sever Lenora Olson from the Hive. For the first time ever, John Mark and Thor were working together to form the connection for him.
The atmosphere at the intern house was hushed, tense. They knew what happened when this went wrong. They were still hurting from the loss of Ronan. Some seemed to be in denial about it. Over the last few weeks, they’d been swapping increasingly convoluted theories on whether his spirit was still alive inside Sam somehow. After all, if they could accept Jesus into their hearts, was it out of the question that Sam could accept Ronan into his? Who knew what alien technology could do?
Journey had stopped listening when the debate turned to the question of whether the titans were in league with demons. The interns were always ready to help and eager to please, but sometimes they spoke a completely different language.
Now, though, nobody was debating. A half dozen interns huddled at the communal table, watching from a distance. Lenora lay on the couch in the sitting area, with a young woman, Marissa, lightly holding her down by the shoulders. They’d learned the hard way that some of the semi-voluntary severs got rough.
John Mark and Thor sat on either side of a small table wedged in beside the couch, holding hands with each other. Oliver held John Mark's hand on one side and Lenora’s on the other. Thor’s fingertips rested on Lenora's shoulder. Timothy was nearby, running an audio recorder for later reference.
“Good,” murmured Thor, communicating as minimally as possible. “Hold. A little longer.”
Journey wasn’t sure whether seeing or feeling was the better word for how she sensed the psionic forces flowing. It was like imagining magnetic fields in motion. Except that was too impersonal. The energy flowed around Thor and John Mark and Oliver and Lenora like a river sliding past rocks, but instead of rocks, it was whole constellations of desire, memory, fear, fantasy — all the subtle flickers that together made up a human.
“Gentle now,” warned Thor.
She tensed reflexively, even though she wasn’t the one guiding the sever. The technique they’d uncovered through careful trial and error called for three people — a conduit, a caller, and a watcher. Watcher was the easiest role to fill. Marissa was the watcher for this one. Besides providing physical restraint if the subject started struggling, her main job was to cut the connection if things started to go wrong.
Until now, Thor had always served as the conduit. Now, for the first time, John Mark was doing it alongside him. The conduit provided the psionic connection that made the whole process possible. The blue altar seemed to be what the titans used when they pulled new cultists into the hive. The Resistance, lacking an alien-tech altar, had to use a gifted human. Journey thought of it as laying an escape path for the victim.
The caller — Oliver — was there to guide the victim along the path laid out by the conduit. The caller needed to be able to project a mental vision compelling enough to entice the subject away from whatever tantalizing bait the titans were offering. It varied from person to person. For Ronan, it had been the promise of critical information, always just a little further on, like a mirage in the desert. For Gus, it seemed to be some combination of personal glory and interstellar adventure. And for Lenora, it seemed, it was family.
Journey caught glimmers whenever they severed someone. Little scraps of insight, mental images almost too quick to parse. Nothing she could hold onto, but it left a residue of knowledge she shouldn’t have had, like a bad taste in her mind.
Lenora was just protecting her kids. An especially devious two-edged enticement by the aliens. If the kids joined the hive before her, she’d have to go along to watch out for them. Since they hadn’t, she’d gone first to check for danger.
And fallen into it feet first.
“Steady,” murmured Thor. “Gentle. Not too hard.” Then, sharper, “Steady!”
