Illegal King
Illegal King
Book 2 of the Dystopian King Series
Mason Dakota
Contents
Dedication
A Free Gift
Recap from Nobility
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
About the Author
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously. The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
Copyright © 2019 Mason Dakota Powell and Dakota Publishing
All rights reserved.
Created with Vellum
Dedication
To “Twinkles” for being the coolest sister any brother could hope for.
A Free Gift
This work is Book 2 of The Dystopian King series. If you got this book without reading the first book and are worried about that, don’t worry. I’ve got a gift just for you. Here’s a link where you can download my first book in this series, Nobility, for FREE!
That’s right you have the chance to get two books for the price of one! That’s to show my appreciation for you reading my work.
You can even share that link with your friends for free. I hope you enjoy both books and will consider leaving an honest review on Amazon when you finish reading.
Enjoy!
Recap from Nobility
In the event that it might have been some time since you read the last book of this series, Nobility, allow me to give you a recap of some important details needed for this book.
It has been centuries since the last World War, known in history as the Abandoned War, where world powers were toppled and replaced, and a new breed of humans, the offspring of the genetic super soldiers of the war, have risen in number. Now the human race is split between two sub-races of human, the Outcasts who are just like humans before the war, and Nobles who are their genetic superiors in looks, immunity to disease, and strength. Because of this genetic strength a Noble empire has risen to conquer most of North and South America, and have but in place oppressive laws against Outcasts to segregate them.
Griffon Nightlock is an Outcast who survived on the streets of Chicago on the border of the Empire and a year ago was named the new successor of the masked vigilante known as Shaman. The original Shaman was his mentor and long-time friend, Gabriel, who trained Griffon and has helped to care for him in his time of need. Now Griffon spends his days as the Outcast Emissary for the city and by night as the vigilante fighting gangs and protecting his city, trying to live up to Gabriel’s legacy as Shaman.
In the last book, a terrorist group known as Nebula, led by a man named Ziavir Yiros, who Griffon believed killed his parents when he was a child, comes to Chicago and by their actions unleashes chaos upon the city, turning civilians against each other in brutality on the streets in fear of death promised by Nebula. It is discovered that Griffon’s boss, Josephus Kraine, the Mayor of Chicago, hired Nebula in attempt to set himself up as a hero and gain a stronger political position to remove the Emperor, his uncle, Adam Rythe, from the emperor’s throne. Nebula betrays Kraine, who is exposed for his scheming and flees the city.
Griffon’s best friend is an Illegal, named Chamberlain Blair, the offspring of a Noble and an Outcast, and was injured, taking a bullet for Griffon, and is now in a wheelchair with no promise of recovery.
Nebula’s threat of nuclear destruction was a fraud and the device was actually an EMP that Griffon failed to stop and when the bomb went off it fried forever every electrical dependent device across the city, throwing Chicago back to the Dark Ages. However, Griffon’s efforts saved many lives, as he rallied the mob to his side, providing the opportunity for the mob queen, Alexandra Carline, to step in as the new acting Mayor of Chicago.
Ziavir managed to flee the city, but not before letting Griffon know that Gabriel is the real director of Nebula and that Gabriel has betrayed Griffon and his friends the entire time to destroy the city.
Gabriel disappears before Griffon can confront him, but leaves behind a letter confessing to the betrayal and claiming that everything was done to draw a single man out of hiding, a man Griffon thought was dead, his father.
One
The first blast shook the Palace walls.
The second blast blew a hole the size of a truck through the outer wall and threw Ziavir Yiros off his feet. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees as a barrage of red electricity erupted from the wall’s opening. Ziavir dove forward behind a pillar in time to avoid a bolt of electricity scorch the ground where he was. The courtyard became a light show and electricity buzzed like a swarm of giant bees. Crimson electricity flashed across the courtyard, and everything that was hit in the chaotic cataclysm shat
tered, cracked, and exploded as if struck by lightning.
Enemy soldiers in red battle armor poured through the opening created by their blaster weapons. They pumped blaster bolts into the courtyard, aiming at nothing in particular. They came to kill and destroy and would bring down every wall to do it. Soldiers wearing the armor of the Royal Guard, the same armor Ziavir wore, poured out of the Palace with their own blaster weapons in an attempt to hold the opposition. But the palace guard, as highly trained as they were, were outnumbered four to one by Ziavir’s count.
A shot hit Ziavir’s cover. Stone creaked and rubble fell. Ziavir drew his own blaster pistol and darted across the courtyard. Cobblestones exploded all around him as blaster bolts pelted the ground by his feet. Shards of stone bounced off his armor and fragments coated him in a fine layer of dust. He tried to fire as he ran, aiming blindly as he squeezed the trigger. His blaster pistol buzzed, charging the air around the barrel, as thin hot streaks shot from the end and created bowling ball-sized holes in anything they struck. He squeezed the trigger until the weapon clicked empty in need of a recharge and cool down.
He pumped his arms as fast as he could as he ran, diving over cover, rolling past a demolished courtyard fountain, leaping over fallen comrades. He took the Palace steps three at a time, firing a few more shots when his weapon buzzed to let him know it was ready again. This time he saw his shot tear the arm off a man. Ziavir stumbled once and then twice as a shot hit by his feet and threw him to the ground. He half crawled, half ran, the last few steps and through the Palace front doors.
“Lord Procurator, Emperor Bretton is requesting your immediate presence!” shouted a nearby Palace guard.
Ziavir threw himself around the front door, grateful the outer wall of the Palace would at least be covered by a forcefield to prevent the enemy soldiers from tearing a new entrance into the Palace. If they were going to get through, it would have to be through this doorway. “Did you inform him I am a bit busy protecting his hide right now?” barked Ziavir. He usually didn’t speak so harshly about Emperor Bretton, but in the middle of defending off a coup Ziavir was sure any insubordination would be forgiven.
Ziavir popped around the doorway and fired three more shots into the mass of armored soldiers pouring into the courtyard. He swiveled back around the door just as a barrage of shots hit the wall’s forcefield. The air around them hummed as a blue curtain of electricity flashed and absorbed the bolts.
“His Majesty insists. He claims the future of the Empire depends upon it.”
Ziavir wanted to scoff. Everything at the moment connected to the future of the Empire. They were fighting off an army led by the First General, Adam Rythe, who was attempting a coup against the Emperor. What could possibly be more pressing than defending the Palace? Was it so important that Ziavir should leave behind his men and go stand before the Emperor?
Another shot hit the forcefield and another blue flash dispersed the blaster bolts’ energy. Ziavir slapped the shoulder of the soldier next to him and shouted over the roar of the battle, “The forcefield will stop their shots, but it won’t prevent them from marching through this door. We’ve got to hold this door! If they get inside, all is lost!”
The soldier nodded, but there was a look in his eyes that told Ziavir the man believed they were doomed. But, the Palace guards were some of the best trained soldiers in the Noble Empire. Training kicked in, and the soldier spun around the doorway and fired his blaster rifle at the oncoming enemy. Ziavir wanted to stay with his men and fight. At the very least he wanted to say something to encourage them.
But, he had orders, and if the most powerful man in the world wanted his attention at a time like this, with a claim that the future was dependent upon his obedience, he had to obey.
Two
Thirty years later…
Smack!
I struck the punching bag again and again, past the point where my knuckles bled. The bag swung with each blow, no less than it did an hour ago, but not as far as I wanted. I needed to be stronger—faster. My enemies relied upon their superior genetic strength and speed that exceeded my limits. They healed faster, moved more swiftly, and benched more weight than I could. They possessed every advantage I desired. Knowledge of that fact made me even weaker.
That weakness failed Chicago.
I’d been reflecting on that for six months since the betrayal—the six months of no working power in Chicago, six months of darkness, six months of starving innocents—both Nobles and Outcasts—six months of wide spread looting, murder, and submission to organized crime lords.
My failure, my weakness, contributed to the creation of a world of suffering and a people willing to tear themselves apart to survive.
I struck the bag again with a swift round house kick. This time the bag swayed back farther than before. It didn’t satisfy me.
Ziavir Yiros, that manipulative terrorist, that devil in flesh, who worked for an organization called Nebula, who claimed they performed global good by acts of terrorism and violence, had defeated me and destroyed my city. And the people blamed me—they blamed Shaman. Countless lives were lost because of Ziavir…because of Gabriel, my mentor and betrayer…because of my weakness.
If I had just been quicker, just been stronger, or just been smarter, then maybe things would have gone differently.
Maybe then Chicago would not be the way it was, killing itself in the streets to survive. The title of Shaman wouldn’t carry the blame for everything. And Chicago’s most dangerous and unforgiving mob queen wouldn’t be Mayor. All if I had just been better.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
I landed a quick three punch combo on the bag before I skipped around it, always staying on the balls of my feet. A duck that’s not moving is a dead one, is what Gabriel always said. The thought infuriated me, hearing myself quoting that traitor, and I lashed out, throwing flurries of punches and screaming my frustration until my voice was raspy and my lungs burned.
“You’ll injure yourself if you keep this up,” said Chamberlain from the doorway.
Seeing Chamberlain in his wheelchair only soured my mood more.
He was in that chair because of me. He took a bullet for me. It seemed that being an Illegal, a genetic abomination in the eyes of the world, the offspring of a Noble and an Outcast, was not enough punishment in the eyes of God. He had to go and throw in something extra like being crippled to spice things up. It was wrong and unfair.
And he’s worried about me being injured when he’s in that chair because of me?
“I’ll be fine,” I muttered as I walked over to where my sports bottle lay. I unclipped the top and squeezed the fresh nectar of life down my gullet. I sighed with relief and clipped the bottle closed again as I moved back toward the punching bag. I lifted my hands and resumed my workout.
“At your rate, when you’re dead. It’s been six months. Have you even slept in that time? I’ve seen only late days at the office followed by all-nighters on the street from you.”
“Someone’s got to clean up this mess.”
“And why does it have to be you?”
I didn’t answer and pretended to not hear him as I started another round of combos on the bag.
“We only see you when you need to be stitched up. We miss you, Griffon. We all worry about you.”
Again I ignored him. There was a pain stirring in my chest.
“Are you punishing yourself?”
I smacked the bag hard. It swung back further than before as my anger started to boil.
“What happened isn’t your fault, Griffon.”
“It happened because I’m weak! I was supposed to save Chicago. It was my responsibility and I failed!” I finally shouted.
“You’re ashamed that you’re human?”
“When others get killed because of it? Yeah, call it shame.”
“Who told you it was wrong to be human, to make mistakes, to not be perfect?”
“Oh don’t give me that, Chamberlain!” Chamberlain
raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t speak. He sat back to let me continue, and I submitted. “It’s not enough that you were born perfect—strong and handsome. But you live this perfect innocent life. Nothing you do is ever wrong. I’m the one who always fails! How could you possibly ever relate to how I am feeling?”
“So that’s what this has been all about? You torture yourself because I’m in this chair?”
I repeatedly slammed my fists into the punching bag and cried out with frustration. “If I had half of what you did—half of your strength or skill—then maybe I could have stopped what happened. Ziavir wouldn’t have gotten away and then…” I trailed off as I struck the bag more.