Zosma Read online

  The other senator joined in. “Our way of life is crumbling and what the hell do you care? You can just hop on the next space ship out of here and leave us to die.”

  Her outburst provoked the crowd’s ensuing uproar. Neight’s lips straightened. The podium squealed as he tore it from the foundation. Their angerless screams prevailed over its clanging along the floor.

  “I wonder,” the alien said, grinding his claws, “has Dr. Giro explained to you what Z-energy will do if, say, there are not proper protective measures in place?” His hand opened, and Z-energy burst into sapphire blue flames in his palm.

  Desperate murmurs mingled with frightened prayers, they scrambled over and around each other to attain maximum distance. “Has he made it clear human biology is not equipped to sustain prolonged exposure to its pure form?” Raising his arm above his head, letting the blaze grow and soak the room in its burning shadow, Neight continued, “Or informed you it causes cellular deconstruction at an atomic level?” Human clusters huddled in corners. “I thought not,” he said as the fire poofed to smoke.

  Allister connected these details to what Celine had said in her sanctuary. The train towards humanity’s preservation had chugged along a track whose destination was the Transporter gems. Him derailing that dream had sent the train toward what many believed was a dead end.

  Nicolas was wrong. A second Cumberland incident wasn’t the reason the directors didn’t accept Rabia’s proposal. It was fear of Neight. The same Neight who had always been gracious, patient, and wise. Allister wanted to blame a lapse in judgement, for that, that arrogance, that abuse, that violence. It had to be asked, what kind and loving king let his entire planet die to protect living energy anyway?

  Human logic told him Neight had made a cruel and unfair mistake. Yet Allister’s instinct drove him to provide the same protection to the living energy, who had a face, and a personality, and a name. Zosma.

  “I-I read a research document from the Z-protocols folder at the base. There’s a clean energy initiative the world nations are scrambling to figure out.”

  “I’m aware of the initiative. I just wasn’t aware of this initiative. Wesley must know.” Florence crinkled her brow and tapped the responsive walls.

  Allister wandered wall to table to wall. “They were a decoy... the gems... if he’d escaped in 2040 like he’d planned, we’d never know about the Z-energy.”

  “Or would we?” she asked quietly, engulfed in blueprints, dated 1973. Diagrams isolated Arecibo observatory’s massive upgrades in communication capabilities. Communication, which allowed Earth to receive Neight’s transmission four decades later. Written in the bottom corner: Commissioned by Rabia Giro. “Can’t be right.”

  Heart pulsing in his ears, Allister swiped to find the project’s before and after photographs: Dr. Giro scowling amongst smiling astronomers, Dr. Giro shaking President Nixon’s hand. Black and white souls trapped in grainy film. He wasn’t the same plump man, though obesity often came with age. Noticeable black dots bled across his torso, as if the pictures had been developed in an unsupervised dark room.

  Allister looked north. “Dr. Giro wasn’t alive in 1973, so how...”

  Florence had kept swiping and landed herself in the 1900s, losing twenty years after each leftward hand motion. Scanned typewriter messages, telegrams, ink and pen handwriting on paper, on scrolls. They weren’t the Andromeda project’s files or C20’s files. These were personal records, and the content carousel ended on a withered book titled The Book of Ancestry.

  Their mouths hung open in disbelief, and she sank onto the table. “I need to get in touch with Wesley to—”

  “Incoming message, Captain Jared Brandt,” his Cynque announced. “I can read it aloud for you, Mr. Adams?”

  Among the insanity he’d witnessed, the name hit him like a tidal wave. “N-no.”

  “There is a location request in the message, but your location services are turned off. I can re-engage your location services to give you an estimated arrival time and book transportation to Cumberland Falls, Kentucky.”

  “No. No, no, no.”

  “Cumberland Falls? Captain Brandt?” Florence asked, “Allister, what did he say? What’s he want?”

  He backed into the doorway and managed to stay on two feet, puffing, straining as the Transporter gems’ white glow outshined her luxury fixtures. A tightening energy cocoon outlined his physical shape. Telling himself to breathe and go with it, he prepared for what came after the tingling sensation—conflicting gravitational force and transported molecules.

  Cumberland Falls, Kentucky

  Allister rallied several nausea-reducing breaths as the gems returned to their signature dulled green. The Transporter gem’s “transportation” ability was baked so deep in myth, who on Earth could fathom, let alone survive its reality? In action, every bone was pulverized, every living tissue shredded, skin, clothes, organs, taken apart by temporal energy like broken things needing repair and stripped to basic atomic, even subatomic forms. As if being crushed milliseconds later in infinite fusion and compressed through a singularity weren’t jarring enough, he lost memory and coherence with the brain’s discombobulation.

  On the upside, he stayed awake post-transport.

  The front door’s red paint chipped down to the wood. The roofed awning’s missing shingles. The lumpy brick driveway leading to two-story glory. A striking setting for a suppressed childhood memory, the home he grew up in.

  World frozen in the seconds between what had happened and what was to happen next, the scenery reminded him where he’d transported and why. He buckled. Air thrust against his face as he landed in the street, scraping his knees on its jagged stones. He stared at two fistfuls of pebbles grinding in his palms, waiting for the world to move again, for his heart to find its beat. Glassy eyes summoned the courage to rise, and, once again, face preserved devastation.

  Cumberland Falls’ flaming end murdered half a dozen apple trees in the front yard and the garden his mother had tended to in her spare time. Not to mention the abrupt end to treasured family moments, he and his father fixing up the old Mustang, even when it wasn’t broken. His mother’s home-made cornbread.

  On the heels of catastrophe his physical superpowers came into full bloom: speed, strength, and accelerated healing. His body’s cellular tissue regeneration in particular added complications to his already hard to manage intellectual superhuman powers.

  Allister’s childhood serenaded him, and the coniferous taiga’s sweet aroma brought back the extreme Russian summer in 2041. Dolores carried two recycled grocery bags, packed to the brim with cured meats and farm-grown fruit. His favorite things to eat. She led them the long way home, through Zaryadye park, ignoring the slipping bags to maintain a firm grasp on Allister. He insisted he could carry one, that he was big enough to help. She refused and instructed him to keep up.

  Their brisk stride halted at Saint Basil’s Cathedral steps. He didn’t realize what it meant that they were surrounded by gawking tourists in perfect poses, unusual couples pushing empty strollers, and random men sporting bad socks and trendy hats. Allister remembered his mother whispering to a stranger about Nicolas Delemar and the Andromeda Project, stretching his collar to keep him next to her. She repositioned the bags, so they sat on her hip, and snapped, “Sit still,” then asked her confidant, “How close are they?”

  A covert meeting veiled as casual conversation in a hectic square.

  “They are here,” the person replied.

  Dolores snatched Allister by the hand, dashed across the cobblestone and into an empty street. Nine-year-old Allister stole a second glance at the man, nearly twice his mother’s height, and gasped. The stranger flickered like an old television. It had been a hologram.

  Curiosity left him at an oncoming truck’s mercy. Its brakes screeched. Allister flew, hit the ground on his side, and rolled over himself until he lost velocity and came to rest on his back. The driver cursed his mother’s carelessness while Allister wa
iled, high-pitched and raw, blood seeping from bruised flesh and a shattered humerus. Feigned emotional reactions swept Red Square, bystanders left their fake conversations to offer their services. One even yelled they were a doctor.

  Dolores huddled next to him, casting her matronly shadow, cradling his arm. Moscow’s police unit swarmed the scene and, by coincidence, foiled the spies. Not a minute later, she’d hoisted him up and fled the accident. He begged her to slow down, her tears and her pace. She waited for the crowd’s insistent recommendations for medical attention to melt behind them, then she obliged, lugging him into an alley.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” he said. Holding his wrist, he pinched his eyes shut and let the blood trickle away from the reconnected skin. “See! Nothing to worry about.”

  In April 2052, that moment and its relevance to his future became clear. The Andromeda Project had captured the accident on tape. Captain Brandt played it for him at the second interview’s conclusion. Was it the part where Dolores interrogated the odd seven-foot man? Or when the truck rammed his stringy boyish frame? No, it was their hideaway shrouded in perceived safety, in the alley, where his body’s autoimmune system stitched him up like a rag doll. Brandt’s voice repeated in his head. “Ya can’t fly under the radar anymore, son.”

  “Like hell I can’t,” he said aloud. Cold enveloped him. He shuddered, imagining Cumberland’s lost souls clawing at his vibrant, warm flesh. His presence was a perversion to their peace, the last surviving reminder of their unfair demise. Well, one of the last.

  Footsteps. Sandalwood and citrus-scented aftershave. Rubber-soled boots crunched gravel as they approached him from the rear.

  “I know, son, whole thing’s pretty messed up,” the voice said in a Southern drawl too close to his father’s for comfort. Captain Jared Brandt strolled into the garden and gazed at its barren acres. The house seemed to mean as much to Brandt as it did to him.

  “Ya let Delemar live.” The captain smacked his lips. “Yer father would be proud.”

  A rising temper blasted whatever cold Allister had felt to steam. “You have five seconds to tell me what you know about the U-generators.”

  “You don’ even know what happened or what’s happenin’.” Brandt bounced on his toes and hugged himself. “We can work together ya know, Patty Cakes watchin’ us save the world.”

  Pure anger roared from Allister’s throat. His mouth opened so wide he could only see Captain Brandt’s sturdy build bouncing in his tunneled vision. “How dare you” and “murderer” and “bastard,” he screamed in no particular order as his fists pummeled the captain’s disruptive energy field. Blow after blow, boom after boom, the punches’ kinetic force dispersed through the strengthening field. Built-up energy backfired and Allister’s body smashed the damaged asphalt. He blinked at the starless evening sky.

  Hands planted, his abs contracted, and his legs kicked into the air, bringing him to his feet. He wiped his cut-up knuckles on his shirt and put fingertips to palm for round two. His uppercut began the skirmish. Brandt dodged. Allister took a left hook to the mouth, a right hook to the chin.

  Brandt pressed a button under his palm. Tiny metal panels clinked, encasing the captain’s arm to the elbow, while wires snaked out, writhing parallel to his veins, and connected to circular twin gun barrels. “I don’ wanna hurt ya, son,” he said.

  Allister dragged his tongue along the inside of his lip. “Too late.”

  And in the sinister stillness of the sprawling abyss, the captain shouted across the cul-de-sac, “I think Zosma’s in trouble.”

  Wind and gravel overtook them in a profound whoosh. Her name had given godspeed to his movement, but hearing the word trouble, stopped his attack. Heels pressed together, legs straight, facial expression furious, Allister bent down and asked, “What did you say?”

  Chapter Four

  On the Brink

  Allister Adams

  Cumberland Falls, Kentucky

  Allister prepared for tormented, vengeful Neptune blues, but Captain Brandt’s eyes were pools of shame and remorse. Their genuine worry thawed his grimace. “You have five more seconds,” he muttered.

  “I know you and Lieutenant were close,” Brandt said, powering down the gun, “and when I saw Zosma, I figured she’d have her memories, on account of they spent so much time together.”

  Two fingers slid across Allister’s chin. “You saw her?”

  “Did more than see her, I talked to her. Dr. Giro introduced us like we were strangers.” He pressed the button on his wrist and the device retracted. “She looked right at me. Ain’t say a word. I’m willing to bet there’s some wires crossed up there. He rebooted her or somethin’.”

  “I read about the Z-energy... and the generators.”

  “Intel ain’t easy to come by these days.” The captain explained how he’d left the computer at C20 intact and how certain he’d been the government wouldn’t destroy it because they were in his words, too damn nosey. “I made sure those files were there when you came huntin’, And I knew ya’d come huntin’ even though they told ya not to.” He shrugged. “You’re stubborn, just like yer daddy.”

  Unable to stomach the captain’s tone, Allister hocked, spat the resulting loogie over his shoulder, and headed to the driveway. “Stop doing that,” he said.

  “Doin’ what?”

  He touched the porch railing and answered with grit, “Pretending you knew him.”

  “Patty Cakes and I, man, Friday night football games durin’ season, the diner for milkshakes and wings. He always had his eye on yer momma, sweet Dee—”

  His reminiscing touch escalated to a tensed grip. The wooden railing snapped.

  “Allister, I—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize!”

  “I swear I didn’t kill her.”

  “You brought her there! Put her in that cave! You-you, buckled the straps, and you set the bomb’s timer. You might as well have.”

  Brandt recoiled. “I’ll never,” he started, running his hand along his cheek, “I’ll never be able to forgive myself for what I did.”

  “Good. I’ll never forgive you either.” His fury burned the captain’s regret into an ash pile to be taken by the wind. He didn’t care. He refused to care.

  “Stakes are high. Those machines don’t just harness Z-energy, Zosma’s gonna have to power ‘em.”

  Simple as the mention of her name, Zosma’s whereabouts and wellbeing took priority. She was in present danger. With her, Allister could right the wrongs. He could make up for past mistakes. Saving Zosma was almost like saving his mother. At least he’d know he was capable of saving others, and by default, capable of the virtue he ached for.

  The idea of losing someone else he loved sent shooting pain through his head. So much was to blame for what happened to Dolores, and so much of the blame fell to him. He released his grip on the past, ignored the pain in his head, and thumbed for compromise on the emotional bookshelf. Arms unfolded, he about-faced.

  “Brandt?”

  The captain held his stomach. Raised veins, engorged and blackened with corruption, crept over his neck and head. “Get outta here. Dr. Giro... tricked... me,” he wheezed, crumbling and falling unconscious.

  In peculiar awareness, Allister checked the starless sky and stumbled back without speed or guile. Despite the southern night’s thorough darkness, his favorite constellations were missing... Perseus, Taurus, Cassiopeia. Haze twisted as it poured out of Brandt’s mouth and hit the ground. Absence explained.

  “Good evening, Mr. Adams. Captain Brandt has, as you say, left the building.”

  Mist at his waistline and suspended in the lower atmosphere had collected and molded.

  “I knew first day at Andromeda Project, you were answer I’d been looking for.” Dr. Rabia Giro—yellowed nails, greyed teeth, splotchy skin—glided his direction and into arm’s reach.

  No matter how hard he gritted his teeth, thought violent thoughts, fanned his hatred for Rabia and bolstered his concern
for Zosma, motor functions didn’t show up. He couldn’t speak, let alone raise a fist to punch, a leg to run. Gasoline’s pungent smell soared up his nostrils. He gagged, or rather, his brain sent an urgent request to engage the reflex, though his throat could not obey. Cloudy grey pupils drilled an iron glare through him and slimy tentacles born from the doctor’s mist wriggled across his cheeks and tugged at his mouth’s corners.

  “Neight’s little hybrid,” Dr. Giro sneered, cupping his jaw. “Broken.”

  Florence Belladonna

  Cumberland Falls, Kentucky

  The Belladonna Corp Gulfstream jet’s engines roared, speeding up to its Mach 1 maximum.

  Florence balanced on the passenger seat’s edge. “Giovanni, keep us in the air for as long as you can. I’ll make this quick.”

  “Happy to assist, Dr. Belladonna. Turning on holding pattern navigation sequence,” Giovanni informed her. “Distance to Cumberland Falls, fifteen minutes.”

  She scooted back and activated her telepathy, imploring Allister to concentrate on her voice. The plane’s lights and interior faded in a pink energy ripple.

  Her mind catapulted into the ever-expanding collective of consciousness known as the astral plane. Any savvy telepath, any worthy telepath, accessed the realm as she’d done, with a squint and forefingers fastened to their temple or forehead. The Astral Plane lived between myth and theory, in a home built of grandiose claims and abstract descriptions. Wholly a mystery to those not plagued by or, (depending on your perspective), privileged to psionic energy manipulation.

  The Astral Plane’s eternal highway stretched around and through the universe, and on its pulsing energy tarmac, thoughts going faster than the suggested speed limit of light, zipped to destinations in the waiting minds of the cosmos.

  And this is where Florence came, sensing a disturbance that transcended the physical realm. To wage war against a perverse disruption to the purity of free thought, a fog settling onto lanes, causing traffic, accidents, havoc.