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  “With gratitude, Dr. Giro.” She increased the space between them, eyes on his paunchy face, and pivoted, marching away in steady rhythm.

  Neight Caster

  C20 Basement

  Neight Caster rolled over, unsure how long he’d been unconscious. In his six centuries alive, he’d fallen from the majesty of being Uragon’s finest warrior and respected king to the current, humbling position as Earth’s prisoner.

  Like all beings from the planet Uragon, he was blessed with Z-energy manipulation. Neight used the energy via spell casting to bend reality to his will and manifest desires from thin air. The Z-spells demanded reasonable, focused outcomes, otherwise chaotic explosions and his own self-destruction would ensue. In theory, his freedom could be conjured, and he’d chosen to spend his twenty-five plus Earth years in captivity observing the complex organisms known throughout the universe as humans. To pass time. To bide time.

  The engineer, Russell Ashur, had devised a method to restrict the alien’s magic potential by using his superior technology against him. Approved and implemented by the Andromeda Project circa 2040, power suppressors emitted electromagnetic waves, quelling the brain’s ability to call upon supernatural powers. So, no, the transparent, hollow cube of reinforced titanium holding him was not entirely his choice.

  Dr. Rabia Giro, an expressionless enemy, ceased his slow, repetitive knocking and dusted frost from his crisp collar. “Time to wake up, Neight Caster.”

  Neight pressed his clawed hand against the alloy to rise from the seated position.

  “I heard you using Z-energy,” Rabia said.

  True. In a state of duress, he drew on the source and used Z-energy to project his astral form. Searching across oceans, mountains, and deserts for Allister Adams’s radiating soul to pass on a message. The power suppressors activated, cutting the energy off before he’d gathered enough to finish a sentence. Desperate and relieved, Allister had begged for any sort of clue, and in Neight’s miscalculation, he was unable to deliver it. He must find another opportunity.

  “Dr. Giro, want to have a look at this?” an engineer piped up.

  Neight slumped back to the floor and growled, “Tend to your fruitless efforts.”

  Rabia shrugged his husky shoulders and returned to the intricate basement layout.

  And what a layout. An unfamiliar machine prototype nestled amongst fiberglass walkways. Scientists dwarfed and dazzled by computer monitors, double-checking calculations. Miniature lifts carrying engineers to pumped up, life-threatening heights. Constant and (for the moment) unsupervised movement, egos and decision-making.

  Rabia’s hatred for him was entrenched in the prison’s design. Invasive walls sat close to Neight’s shoulders, denying his arms their full wingspan, as if there wasn’t ample space to spread out in the basement. Right angles stared at him from the low ceiling’s upper corners, nearly parallel to his six-foot-nine peripheral vision. And though sitting front row to C20’s operation, with light and sound stimulation bombarding him, the isolation felt total.

  A woman wearing multiple oversized sweaters powered through the entrance. She glanced at the capsule, lured by Neight’s gaze, but didn’t slow down.

  “Good, you’re here,” she said, rushing up to Rabia. She blew a jet-black strand from her face and peeled the sweater sleeve back to tap her Cynque. “We have a solid theory why the experiment went south.”

  “Wait for Russell.”

  Shivering, she closed the topmost wool sweater. “Is Mr. Ashur awake yet?” she asked. “It’s 9:00 p.m.”

  The doctor touched her shoulder, locking them in a staring contest.

  She straightened her posture and said, “Understood. When Mr. Ashur recovers, we can review.” The strand fell into her face again. Unconcerned, she left it hanging and joined her fraught coworkers.

  Rabia strolled, laced fingers on his belly, and touched his nose to the prison.

  “They cannot see me,” Neight said.

  “Would be unproductive,” he replied. Warm breath’s condensation on cold material took hold and became mist, spreading and enveloping the exterior.

  “What is C20’s purpose?”

  “Like your Andromeda Project, C20 is me pooling this world’s resources to find way back home. But less selfish. My plan helps humanity. C20 investors knew sacrifices were coming, even their own in some cases.” Somber mist trailed behind the doctor as he explored the capsule’s perimeter. “More progressive nations know is time to evolve. I promise to prepare them.”

  “There appears to be more to it than that.”

  “Yes. A good king is always observant,” Rabia said smiling, and clicked his heels together. His palm teased a round green button on a dashboard attached to the prison. “I call this prison Atomic Separator. Centrifuge mechanism made special for you. You get one answer to question. Answer wrong, I press button now. Answer right, I press button later. Ready?”

  Neight’s claws expanded and contracted. He gave Rabia his full attention, chest high and proud. “As I will ever be.”

  The mystical mist reminiscent of Rabia caught up. It didn’t settle back on his skin. It lingered like cigarette smoke at a dive bar. “Artifacts of Evale, harness power of great eight civilizations.” His mouth turned up into a double-sided smirk. “One belonged to your people, Uragon’s Z bands of unlimited energy. You know where they are?”

  I never told the Andromeda Project about any other artifacts, he thought and answered in a booming voice, “Those bands are lost somewhere in the universe with the other six artifacts.”

  “Not all artifacts protected same way. No, this one, if I remember right... ” He shook his forefinger. “This one your people kept veerry close.”

  “I have heard the story has many versions. According to our ancient transcripts, they were scattered to prevent activation.” Neight kept his wide, grey jaw from moving and moonlit eyes from widening. Broadened shoulders, an honest face, and his towering stature reinforced his contrived confusion.

  “You claim not to know missing artifact locations, yet, you knew two were on this planet before you arrived, is right? Or we pretend is not true?”

  “I came to Earth to get farther from Andromeda’s Sanctuary... to protect Z-energy and Zosma from tyrants, such as you.”

  Rabia’s eyes flashed grey. Neight’s vision lapsed.

  “I suspect you were looking for Transporter gems,” Rabia accused.

  He avoided direct eye contact with Rabia in order to keep his concentration and lifted a glowing hand to block further attempts. “You are as entitled to your theories as you are your treachery,” he said, cringing. “You will not find anything in my head useful to you.”

  “You know more than you say. I have search Zosma’s psyche for clues, unlocking door after door.” Rabia burst into blackness and his voice echoed through the 100-foot ceiling bunker as the cloud thinned and evaporated. “I seek answers. Faster I find, better for you, her, us. Don’t you want to be free, Neight Caster?”

  Dr. Rabia Giro

  C20 Lair

  Cynque verification, voice activations, and ocular or face recognition were flawed procedures for accessing the sacred control room. Rabia Giro relied on atomic deconstruction to enter and leave, ensuring no one would infect the nucleus of his communication like he’d infected so many others. Fifteen-foot-thick walls encased the dome, swimming under a concealed ice shelf inside the base.

  Fog spilled from holes in the wall, crept along the floor, piling on itself, and carved Rabia’s body from the dense cloud. The Korean director, the Chinese director, and the Russian director waited for him. Discretion regarding their identities had become moot and instead of blacked out visuals and distorted vocals, hardened expressions and privileged lives played on six-foot screens.

  From left to right: Chung Tae-Won, a plump Chinese software genius known best for perfecting Cynque technology, buying up Samsung, Apple, and Google, and taking the entire consumer electronics and AI market share. Jane Wenyin, a
thin Korean businesswoman, who grew her family’s manufacturing by supplying materials and machines to produce energy weapons used by C20, the Andromeda Project, and major military powers. Last, Aleksander Karjavine, a handsome ex-party boy, who’d mastered global finance by devising the new digital-based techno-currency. Together, they controlled the intangibles by which the world measured its interconnectivity. Communication. War. Finance. For them, C20’s mission served as the next natural step in their individual legacies: innovation in energy. A field confused by solar and wind power, derailed by hydrogen-generated (electric) power and stifled by oil moguls and utility monopolies.

  “We have six generators in development,” Rabia said, opening the meeting.

  “I won’t go to market with an untested product,” Jane warned, speaking near perfect English.

  “Testing is good, making progress.”

  Chung snorted. “Have you figured out how to make sure energy remains stable?”

  “No, Mr. Ashur and his team are working on energy movement between generator and containment center.” Rabia checked his nails. “When finished, we update current models.”

  Jane popped the cork on a champagne bottle. “Has Zosma been cooperative?” she asked.

  “Very good, very helpful.”

  “Good. Because disasters are brewing right now. A blizzard over Moscow, a monsoon in the South Pacific.” She poured the Ace of Spades, set the bottle next to an empty identical companion and gripped her champagne flute. “And, this is a rumor: scientists are saying Mt. Vesuvius is about ready to blow. They’re predicting a catastrophic event that will turn Naples into the twenty-first-century Pompeii. We don’t have long, Dr. Giro.”

  She spoke of the catastrophes like they wouldn’t affect her, sitting on a chair fashioned to resemble a throne, legs crossed under a diamond-studded gown. Rabia grinned as his fingertips formed a steeple... the things people did to attain immortality’s sweet taste. “We working fast as we can.”

  “You sure you can pull this off?” Chung’s fat chin fell into a frown. “Starting to sound a lot like General Delemar.”

  “Patience, patience,” he urged his three supporters. “Summit is where we make our debut.”

  “You heard Wenyin, creep, we’re past patience, this is twenty-five-year fiasco thanks to U.S. My country is starving, freezing, we need resources.” Aleksander reviewed the blueprints, which included the energy-to-distribution ratio, and the machinery work flow. “We have one shot deal, it better work.”

  “Yes.” Jane picked up the glass and took a sip. “Our buyers won’t be so eager now that they know how volatile the energy is.”

  “Thanks to Bazzo Sparks slandering C20’s name to potential investors. I want him dead,” Aleksander said. “Every time he opens his mouth, he costs me money.”

  Rabia bowed, both arms out. “Done.”

  “Our demonstration has to prove effective and safe for key leaders and target partners,” Jane continued. “We’re proposing a singular solution for the world’s energy consumption problem. Going to be a hard pill to swallow for those who have significant stake in fossil fuels, electricity, and nuclear power. We will reconvene tomorrow.”

  Windows into the directors’ lavish lifestyles blanked to opaque slabs. The room dimmed.

  “Meeting adjourned.”

  Captain Jared Brandt

  C20 Basement

  Jared tapped a metal grate in every effort not to engage in conversation. Standing guard like a good soldier, he thought about why he felt gratitude for the refreshing shower’s coconut scent, about the therapeutic nature of a good, clean shave, about how else to ignore the alien’s words floating at him from the capsule.

  “Your power has come a long way since I first analyzed it,” Neight said, hovering Indian-style in the cylindrical prison’s center.

  Back in 2037, Jared had squealed at the alien’s physical appearance. Piss scared right out of him, he jumped into Patrick’s arms, whose strength gave from laughing so hard. Patrick had encouraged him to trust Neight as an ally and an equal, citing the 90 percent similarities in their genetics. A difficult mentality to embrace for a man who’d been trained that the enemy’s incompatible ideals, either religious or cultural, were as incompatible as their looks, skin color, or nationality.

  “What does it mean when you can disrupt any process you put your mind to?” The alien’s three toes morphed into sharp claws, and they clicked as they hit the floor. “Jamming a weapon. Stopping an engine. Blocking energy. I hope I am making sense.”

  Perfect sense, Jared thought.

  “Do you miss Patrick Adams?” Neight asked. “I miss him. So kind. Generous. Loyal.”

  He surveyed the room and sidestepped farther from the capsule. “Yeah, well, he’s dead,” he whispered harsh-like, swinging a hand in the air, the other glued to his ribs. “And it’s your own damn fault. I got no sympathy. God, do you even know what you did?”

  “I know what I did, and I am not sorry for sacrificing my life, so you, Allister, and countless others could be here to see your destinies through. Florence Belladonna’s family aircraft flew within five hundred miles of Cumberland during the landing. She would have died. What if Florence had died?”

  Jared knew. His head lowered. Tides of converging sadness and misguided resentment formed a whirlpool in his mind.

  “Yes.” The alien nodded. “Now you see, I see everything. Not just what is visible.”

  Jared retreated to the communal workspace to distract himself and found a fresh basket of irritations. He picked at his thermal, giving the lanky medium height engineer beside him dirty looks and said, “Can you stop grindin’ yer teeth, Ashur? It’s annoyin’ as shit.”

  “Sorry, nervous habit,” he mumbled. Russell Ashur, bandaged from wrist to shoulder on his left arm, wore a sling.

  Shit, what happened to him?

  Kitten heels clicked against cold concrete. “Dr. Giro’s requesting another test. We aren’t ready,” an attractive young Asian woman said to Russell, breathless. Red warmth consumed her pale cheeks.

  “I get it, Myra. We can’t limit the energy transfer,” Russell said.

  Myra, beautiful name, Jared thought. How’d a nice lady like her get recruited—

  “Mr. Ashur, please listen,” she insisted, “the two machines aren’t calibrated to work together, talk to each other about how, when, and why to use the energy. To create a functioning system, we need to make adjustments to the containment center.”

  “I know, I know.” Exasperated, Russell’s uninjured hand towered above his head and fell to his side with a dramatic slapping noise. “I know. I wanted to circumvent the issue. Please explain how you’d go about changing a machine’s function, built on physics principles we don’t understand.”

  “Need some help?” Jared offered, clearing his throat and nuzzling Myra by accident. “Oh, ‘scuse me. I—”

  “—have an idea,” Russell interrupted and sprinted to the nearest computer. “Bring up the calculations for locating the Z-energy system.”

  Jared stepped back to watch Myra’s thin, tapping fingers fulfill the request.

  “There they are,” she said, and rocked her hip to one side, a sweater sleeve over her mouth.

  “Hope this works.” Russell’s chin moved up and down in rapid succession, keyboard to screen, while, one-handed, he pounded new formulas into the computer’s database. His index finger pushed his glasses up.

  “What you work—”

  “Make sure it finishes uploading!” Russell screeched to Myra, hurrying away, then yelled, “I’ll be back!”

  Myra pointed with a chewed off nail. “We’re working on this,” she said.

  The first U-generator prototype sparkled like a shiny new fighter jet. Six generators were scheduled to get their titanium barriers installed, and thirteen generators in development had their base framework. Jared wasn’t known for brains and tried to follow the machine’s properties and purpose as the explanations flowed from her glossy li
ps. He asked her personal questions, watching the flickers of light catch her freckles instead of listening to her responses. He’d picked up enough to send flutters throughout his chest cavity. As modest as she was mind-blowing, Myra Eberle was extracted from Stanford’s doctorate program at twenty-two to be C20’s lead physicist.

  Swooping air sent a chill across Jared’s shoulder blades. He covered his mouth on instinct, afraid to inhale the mist.

  “Are we ready?” Dr. Giro inquired. “We better be ready.” He sat posture perfect, one booted foot on a stool and the other fastened to the floor.

  Myra shrank. “I’ll prepare the team,” she said and rushed off.

  Jared turned to watch her go and choked on his spit mid-swallow. “Zosma...?”

  “Dr. Giro, the final materials have been received and assembled,” the alien woman said, “I am eager to learn the next phase.”

  He gaped at her, glanced at Dr. Giro, who hummed, oblivious, reviewing Russell’s work on multiple computer screens, and gaped at her again.

  “I don’t believe you have met.” The doctor turned, gesturing an introduction. “This is Captain Jared Brandt. He helped pioneer C20 operation in infancy.”

  His jaw had unhinged expecting him to produce words, and hung there waiting for a coherent acknowledgement or greeting. It had been twelve years since Jared saw her alive, post-landing at a top secret holding facility and never in her current radiance. Her hair, a field of magenta desert roses, surrounded her face. The princess wore a tempered smile and hovered just above the ground. As she did, he glimpsed her royal beauty under the flying cape: violet skin, incomparable bone structure, and muscle density concealed by golden armor.

  “Whew, hey,” he said. “Hey, Zosma.”

  She floated in his personal space, touched his thin, chapped lips, and sloped shoulders. “As seen through each other’s perspective, Captain Jared Brandt,” Zosma greeted. She drifted back, her arm bent at the elbow, vertical in the air.