Recruits Series, Book 1 Read online

  © 2017 by T. Davis Bunn

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-0591-6

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  “Recruits is a truly awesome work that holds the potential for appeal across genres and age groups. Enormously engaging and thought provoking. The concept itself is remarkable, and the writing is absolutely beautiful.”

  —Kim Neimi, former executive vice president, NBC Universal

  “Recruits is mind-bending storytelling, part The Matrix and part I Am Number Four. The story holds to a remarkable combination of the immediate and the beyond. This forms an adventurer’s feast of the most addictive sort.”

  —Tosca Lee, New York Times bestselling coauthor of Forbidden

  “Wow! Recruits is a remarkable feat, combining adroit storytelling with a delicious mixture of the now and the fantastic. Locke’s writing shows a wonderfully fluid grace. The story brings to mind the poignant beauty of Arthur C. Clarke’s best novels, as well as such modern works as Avatar.”

  —Phyllis Tickle, former senior editor, Publishers Weekly

  This Book Is Dedicated To:

  Jennifer Leep,

  Dave Lewis,

  Jessica English,

  and the incredible team at

  Revell

  What a joy

  To work with trusted and gifted friends

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  Sneak Peek of the Next Book

  About the Author

  Books by Thomas Locke

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  Ten years ago this month, they started drawing the train station, one positioned on another world.

  They had the same image burning in their brains, in their hearts. The station was a tube pinched at both ends, like a twisted candy wrapper. They argued over how big it was. A couple of miles long at least. And the trains, they were all glass. Not like trains with windows. Glass trains. And the tubes they traveled in, glass as well. But that wasn’t the best part.

  The trains came and went all over the tube. Top, sides, bottom. Gravity modulation, that was definitely Dillon’s term. Sean assumed his brother got the concept from some sci-fi novel, but Dillon insisted it came to him in a dream. Whatever. They drew the station on sheets from sketch pads and pasted them all over their two rooms. Walls and ceilings. Forget posters of rock groups and models. Even as they entered their teens, there was nothing they wanted more than to build on the dream. Leave the same-old behind. And fly to a world they were somehow sure was more than just a figment of two imaginations. So they kept drawing, adding cities of lyrical majesty that rose beyond the station. They were connected to this place like the ticket was in the mail. Ten years had changed nothing.

  The idea came to them when they were seven. Nowadays Dillon claimed it was his concept. But Sean knew his twin was just blowing smoke. Dillon had a highly convenient memory. He remembered things the way he wished they were. Sean decided it wasn’t worth arguing over. Dillon tended to go ballistic whenever his remake of history was challenged. But Sean knew the idea was his. Totally.

  Still, he let Dillon claim he was the one who came up with the concept. The one that powered them through the worst times. Kept them moving forward. That was the most important thing. They had it in their bones.

  Only that spring, the concept and all the bitter yearnings attached to it actually did change into something more.

  They were coming from the school bus, walking the line of cookie-cutter homes in suburban Raleigh. They lived in a development called Plantation Heights, six miles northeast of the old town, the cool town. All the good stuff was farther west. The Research Triangle Park. Duke University. UNC Chapel Hill. NC State. Five different party centrals. That particular Friday afternoon was great, weather-wise. Not too hot, nice breeze, Carolina blue sky. Two weekends before the end of the school year was also good for a high, even if they were both still looking for a job. Just two more of the local horde, searching for grunt work that paid minimum wage at best. But their eighteenth birthdays were only four months and six days off. That summer they would take their SATs and begin the process of trying to find a university that would accept them both. Because they definitely wanted to stay together. No matter how weird the world might find it, the topic had been cemented in a conversation that lasted, like, eleven seconds.

  The biggest focus for their summer was to find something that paid enough to buy a car. Their rarely used drivers’ licenses burned holes in their back pockets. Their desire to acquire wheels and escape beautiful suburbia fueled an almost daily hunt through the want ads.

  Dillon looked up from his phone and announced, “Dodge is coming out with a new Charger SRX. Five hundred and seventy-one ponies.”

  Sean tossed his brother his backpack. “I’m not hauling your weight for you to go trolling for redneck clunkers.”

  Dillon stowed his phone and slung his pack. “You and your foreign junk.”

  “Seven-series BMW, V12, blow your Charger into last week.”

  “For the cost of a seven-series we could get two Chargers and take our ladies to New York for a month.”

  “The kind of ladies who would set foot in a Charger would rather go to Arkansas, buy some new teeth.”

  They turned the corner and saw a U-Haul partly blocking their drive. Two hefty guys were shifting furniture from the truck into the house next door. Moving trucks were a fairly common sight in Plantation Heights. The development held over three hundred houses. Or rather, one home cloned three hundred times. Which was how Sean came up with his name for the residences and the people who lived here. Clomes.
r />   They stopped, mildly curious over who was moving in next door.

  Dillon said, “For a moment there I thought maybe Big Phil had decided to relocate us.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “We’re going to walk in and he’ll tell us we’re turning urban. We’ll move into a downtown loft. Burn the polyester and go Armani.”

  Sean had a quip ready. He always did. Two o’clock in the morning, he’d be woken up by some comment his brother had dreamed up, literally. The response was always there, just waiting. Only this time his retort died unspoken, because their new neighbor came out his front door.

  Adult clomes basically came in two shapes. The fitness freaks had skinny moms and overpumped dads. They talked about their bikes or their yoga or their weekend trips to hike around Maui in an hour. The other clomes wore their sofas like lounge suits. The farthest they moved was to the fridge or the backyard grill. They talked about . . . Actually, Sean didn’t really care what they talked about.

  Their new neighbor definitely did not fit in Clome Heights.

  For one thing, he only had one hand.

  The left sleeve of his shirt was clipped up, hiding the stump that ended just below his elbow. He limped as he walked. He was lean and dark complexioned, like he’d been blasted by some foreign sun for so long his skin was permanently stained. This man could have taken the biggest guy in Plantation Heights and turned him into a clome sandwich. One-handed.

  When the guy turned around, they probably saw the scar at the same moment, because Dillon dragged in the breath Sean had trouble finding. The scar emerged from the top of his shirt, ran around the left side of his neck, clipped off the bottom third of his ear, and vanished into his hairline. Military-style crew cut. Of course. The jagged wound was punctuated with scar tissue the size and shape of small flowers.

  Their neighbor spoke to the two movers in a language that didn’t actually sound like he was talking. More like he sang the words. And they responded the same way. How three big guys could sing and sound tough at the same time, Sean had no idea. But they did.

  Then they saluted. Like Roman soldiers in the old movies. Fist to chest. Another little chant. Then the movers got in the U-Haul and drove away.

  The guy then turned and stared at them. Which was when Sean realized there was something mildly weird about two teenage kids standing in the street, gawking at this guy like they were looking through a cage at the zoo. For once, Sean’s nimble mind came up with nada. He just stood there. The intensity of that man’s look froze Sean’s brain.

  Their neighbor said, “So. You must be the twins. Kirrel, correct?” He waved his good hand at the front door. “Want to come inside for a cup of tea?”

  Dillon managed, “Uh, we’ve got homework.”

  The guy seemed to find that mildly humorous. “That is the best excuse you can manage?”

  Sean probably would have stood there all night if his brother had not snagged his arm and pulled him away. “Have a nice day,” he said.

  Dillon waited until they were inside to say, “‘Have a nice day’? Really?”

  “Go start your homework, why don’t you.” Sean moved to the front window. But the guy was gone. The street was empty. Silent. Just another day in Clomeville. Except for the man who had just moved in next door.

  2

  They spent an hour debating what they should do. Finally Dillon pointed out, “You know we’re going over there.”

  Sean stayed where he was, kneeling on the lumpish sofa by the front window. Watching.

  “It’s just a matter of time. You know it, I know it. Today, tomorrow, two midnights from now after we haven’t slept. We’re going.”

  Sean’s forehead streaked the glass as he nodded. “I’m just getting used to the idea.”

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Sean’s breath frosted the glass. “We discover the guy is a serial nutcase and we wind up buried in his cellar.”

  “Okay, sure. But considering the alternative of another summer unemployed and trapped in Clomeville, that’s not so bad, right?”

  Sean swiveled around. “You’ve got a point.”

  They were midway up the neighbor’s front drive when Sean said, “Text somebody. Tell them to call us in twenty minutes. If we don’t answer, tell them to call 911 and say they’ve got to come to this house.”

  “Good thinking.” Both of them got busy on their phones. When Dillon was done, he gave Sean a queasy look. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “Too late.” And it was.

  The guy was already standing there by his open front door. Watching them with those bottomless eyes.

  Sean was almost through the living room when he realized what he was seeing.

  The house smelled of fresh paint and disinfectant. And disuse. It had stood vacant for a couple of months, long enough for the air to grow stale. He and Dillon had played with the idea of sneaking inside and building their teen version of a man cave. But realtors tended to be very careful about setting the alarms.

  Sean had never been inside this particular place. The former residents had been old and quiet and private. The development had enough residents of this type to make them a third class of citizen, really. The only sign they even existed was the car that went up the drive—the garage door already sliding open, the car rolling forward, the door sliding down, show over. At night, lights streamed around curtains. Lawn care was handled like the garbage. Sean didn’t know the neighbors had moved out until the For Sale sign appeared.

  At least this guy didn’t have curtains. Maybe a passing jogger would hear their screams, glance inside, and call for backup.

  The floors were nice, real wood laid down with round pegs. The planks were polished and as bare as the walls. No photographs anywhere. A couple of boxes, not much. But that wasn’t what halted Sean in mid-stride.

  Dillon was already in the kitchen when he turned and said, “What is it?”

  “Everything is new.”

  Dillon came back to stand beside him. “So?”

  “No. I mean, new. All this stuff, it’s still wearing the sale tags.”

  The guy stepped up beside them. He stood maybe an inch or so taller than Sean. Both of the twins had gone through a serious growth surge when they hit thirteen, racing each other toward the six-foot mark. Which would have been great if they liked basketball. Which they didn’t. They both were into soccer, and the spurt just killed their game. The center of gravity they’d both relied on was completely thrown off. So they wound up not making the team when they shifted to high school. And the hole in their schedules and identities remained unfilled.

  The guy said, “What’s your name?”

  Sean turned and realized the guy meant him. “Sean.”

  “Are you always the observant one?”

  Dillon said, “Not always.”

  The guy smiled at him. At least, Sean thought it was a smile. A flicker of tight lips. A small dimple to each cheek, there and gone. “And your name?”

  “Dillon.”

  “I’m Carver.”

  Dillon couldn’t help it. “Carver, really?”

  “Yes. Sean, you just won the right to go first.” The guy turned and limped into the kitchen.

  Dillon remained standing beside Sean. Talking in the low murmur they had used since childhood. “Carver. Great. All the furniture in his old home was probably too blood-spattered to ship.”

  Sean didn’t respond, since he had been thinking the exact same thing.

  Carver said from the kitchen, “Let’s get started, gentlemen.”

  As spooked as he seemed, Dillon still managed a quip as he entered the kitchen. “What, no tea?”

  “Later.” Carver indicated the chairs around the kitchen table. Also new. “Be seated, gentlemen.”

  The kitchen was showroom bare. Not even a towel by the sink. The cabinets looked as though they had never been opened. The chairs scraped overloud as they sat down.

  Carver inspected t
hem both, then said, “I suppose you’re wondering what this is about.”

  Sean licked his lips. Eyed the rear door. The empty back garden. Freedom. His brother didn’t speak.

  “I am here,” Carver said, “because you contacted us.”

  Okay. That was new.

  Sean asked, “Us?”

  He waved his stump. “Set that aside for a moment. This will be hard enough for you to fathom without trying to explain who sent me.”

  Dillon opened his mouth but did not speak. Sean liked that—how this guy had managed to shut his brother up.

  “Normally we do not connect with anyone as old as you two. Less than half your current age is the norm. At seven or eight years, as you count them, the individual is still open to possibilities. By your age, generally the perspective on life is firmly established. When adults tap into the force, they seek to manipulate it, fashion it into something they can apply to their concept of reality. But in your case there are two extenuating circumstances.”

  Carver dragged back a chair of his own. “First, you are twins. You share the same conceptual structure. To be contacted by both twins is extremely rare. The last time this occurred, we were gifted with two of our most potent adepts.”

  Dillon was watching his brother now. The stare open and unblinking. Sean totally agreed. He told Carver, “You said two things.”

  “I did, yes. The second is, this world has only once before produced a recruit. But that individual changed the course of history. So we have decided to give you this opportunity. See if you are still trainable.”

  Sean said slowly, “I’m hearing the words. I’m not understanding a thing.”

  “Anything further will just open up more questions. That is another reason why we identify all candidates when they are much younger. They do not need to have everything explained. They are too excited about simply being given the chance.”

  Dillon was still sitting there playing the mummy. So Sean asked, “Chance at what?”

  “To grasp for what they have already sensed is possible. That you were made for something better. That you can rise beyond. That you can accomplish something greater than the life your current existence proposes. You have sensed it ever since you drew the first component of the station beyond your reach. You already know there are new realms to explore.”