Zosma Read online

  Humans craved Z-energy’s purity and, per Rabia’s explanation, needed it to survive. Did they deserve to survive? she pondered. Plasma canons melted human flesh in a single blast and bombs carried more joules than her incinerating pulses. Z-energy wasn’t a gateway to survival. If humans were doomed to destroy themselves, her power would be a catalyst to speeding it up, not slowing it down.

  She removed the glimmering tribute to royal heritage on her head and placed it on the crystalline vanity. The reflective oval attached to it reminded her of the “soul speakers” on Uragon, although on her planet they told her things, showed her things. This showed herself. (Self-reflection taught plenty, find anyone who’d tell you different.)

  Singed strands in her violet mane, her chin’s sharp angles, and the plum of her silken cheeks, delicate beauty oppressed by a hooded cloak. She found perversion in her body’s perfection. The upper arm’s creamy skin marred by slashes from shrapnel. Impressive, she thought. Her skin prickled.

  “Allister,” she whispered.

  Fanged teeth bit her finger as the prickling worsened to burning, and magical Z-energy flames manifested on her skin. The distance between her and her reflection grew. As if the floor had caved, her body zoomed downward into a chasm. She’d expected a painful landing, but woke up in a warm, comforting place.

  Joy galloped through her heart at the fresh rain smell, at Uragon’s geraniums and irises in bloom. Springing into flight, she rushed to the tower’s edge to look at countryside reminiscent of her home planet’s elegance.

  To the north, rainbow archways, luminous roads, shooting stars, and obscure planetary bodies represented her cosmic knowledge. And the little red door protected the sacred space from Rabia’s influence.

  “Welcome,” a tender voice said. It was in her skin, on her clothes, in the sky, in the grass. “I brought you here to show you.”

  Leesa’s buoyant words triggered the memory that started it all. Zosma was locked in the castle’s tallest tower after declarations of war reached Neight’s ears.

  Monster. Ender of worlds. Harbinger of apocalypse. The living bomb. An infinite number of names with the same meaning. She remembered the rioters, claiming she would bring about Uragon’s ruin. Funny, how when things are put into the universe, they happen. More than a century shrouded in exploitation, violence, and hatred, and, for approximately forty of those years, Zosma had no access to sensory input or output. For all those deaths, and a 2.5-million-light-year expedition, she’d fled far enough to get trapped in her own mind.

  “Don’t let him separate us,” Leesa whispered, “If he does, he’ll get in and he’ll find them.”

  “What does Rabia Giro want?”

  “Directions. He’s looking for the power you have.”

  The flames sank to her lavender skin, void of sensation. She blinked at her reflection, emotionally unchanged, allowing the dream to be what it was. Shivering followed, not at the cold, it meant nothing to her. Gliding the four-hundred-square-foot living area, she said, “I know you are here, observing me.”

  Like a genie summoned, pumping steam chopped through her quiet breathing and shot down in a single burst. It spiraled, outlining Rabia Giro on a bed that had never been slept in. “I am here, Princess Zosma,” he said.

  “Bri—” She detained the name in her throat, a name she wasn’t supposed to remember. “The prisoner is in the basement as you requested. I was not able to kill the superhuman you refer to as Bazzo Sparks. I met interference from flying war machines and...” her voice trailed off.

  “And?” He rose, like a priest to give a homily, and his forehead wrinkled as he leaned away from the overhead light.

  “You dislike light.”

  “I think light dislikes me.”

  Rabia’s true motives rested on the horizon but would not rise above the mountains and become the mid-morning sun. The hood fell and gathered at her neck as she reached upwards. Long, flat hanging luminaires flickered in response to her attention. “Why is my energy being tested?”

  Although shorter than her by inches, his extremities drifted, projecting a shadowy aura. His looming presence stretched to over eight feet. The light fizzled. “You aren’t to ask questions, we discuss this. You are here to answer.” Rabia turned, standing in direct opposition, and asked, “Why you let Bazzo escape?”

  She drew the cloak’s extravagance to conceal her face. “I was overpowered. I apologize.”

  “What is done is done,” Rabia scolded. “You will accompany myself and C20 team to Summit demonstration. Is your chance to show world’s leaders you are key to saving Earth.”

  Chapter Five

  Allies & Enemies

  Wesley Devries

  The White House, Chicago, Illinois

  President Wesley Devries brooded in the Oval Office. His unflinching eyes were glued to the wall panels feeding him heart-wrenching accounts of imminent doom. Fifteen feet of snow had been dumped on Moscow, a record high. Their news reported thousands without food, water, or power, and hundreds dead. The South Pacific’s monsoon had eroded and washed away cement risers along with the villages they were constructed to safeguard. A 7.4 earthquake had struck Naples. The city was unprepared. The body count was astronomical. Hours after, geologists recorded an increase in ground temperature and released images of an ash cloud forming above Mt. Vesuvius’s gaping crater.

  He muted the surveillance, rested his elbows on his desk and let his head sink into his hands. The duty to protect billions, domestic and abroad, had pulled the last few days’ decisions in multiple directions. Pressure from major security agencies, investigative bureaus, and the other government branches—reminded him his personal feelings weren’t acceptable.

  They’d crossed uncharted territory, dealing with concepts and creatures no one could predict or make logical sense of. No precedents existed. No political prowess could’ve prepared him. Intuition lugged him from behind the desk.

  The entrance to the Oval Office slid sideways. His executive assistant popped her head in. “Mr. President, are you ready to see—”

  Florence burst in the room followed by the absolute last person he wanted to see, Bazzo Sparks.

  “Wesley Phillip DeVries!” Florence shouted, arms bent at the elbow and swinging with every stride. Her hair bounced behind her.

  He gave up trying to swallow and hid his hands in his pockets. The woman he loved pumped toward him, distraught, inconsolable, gorgeous. Give credit to preparation for the casual response, though he didn’t have words to back up his body language. She searched for his attention. He knew better, such a connection would demand he speak the truth or deny an accusation. Reveling in silence, he counted the contusions on her body and scabs on her face.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Florence said, her tone raised and exacting. “I- I can’t believe you’d go behind my back and...” Her posture deflated, as if the realization landed on her shoulders. “I keep giving you the benefit of the doubt. I keep making excuses for you.”

  He succumbed to her request for eye contact. “You’re hurt, and I’m not sure where this is coming from. I think you should sit.”

  “You met my father on his deathbed and you kept it from me.”

  “Shit.”

  “That’s your answer? You have some nerve.”

  Wesley told Florence as much of the story as he felt comfortable revealing. He’d known of Giovanni Belladonna as a business mogul and her father. Up until his death the IRS, CIA, and FBI had been after him for fraud, money laundering, offshore accounting, even terrorism.

  “I met your father because I had to sideline the investigations. What he knew about C20 and Dr. Giro was more important.”

  A tricky game that got Wesley impeached. He remembered the twenty-hour interrogation. “You’re proposing we halt all pending warrants, subpoenas? Are you protecting America’s for-profit business sector or Giovanni Belladonna?” the Speaker of the House had asked.

  “The world,” he muttered aloud, prese
nt day. Such a presidential answer. No wonder the charges were dropped. He looked up and into Florence’s eyes. “Florence, please rest, have some water.”

  “I don’t need rest. I need answers.” She crossed the room.

  “What’re you going to do now? Belladonna Corp is yours and the charges—”

  “Oh, we’ll get the estate sorted, DeVries,” Bazzo interjected and chuckled. “I been clearin’ the books for a couple months, and we paid off outstanding taxes according to the agreement.”

  Florence tucked a stray curl into her ponytail’s smooth sides and asked, “Which was?”

  Wesley’s hands moved around the trouser pockets. His head went skyward.

  “Which. Was,” she repeated.

  He gritted his teeth and glared at Bazzo.

  “Tell her, mate.”

  “Sure,” he conceded, hovered next to the entrance. “Preferably, in private.”

  He swiped his Cynque. The door opened. Bazzo threw up the peace sign and walked out. It slid closed and clicked to lock.

  “You might want to sit down,” Wesley offered.

  “You might want to start talking,” Florence retorted.

  Lips curled in, he paced, brushed the desk’s edge at each passing, then stopped and faced her, in a trance.

  “Florence, don’t do this.” He resisted her psychic intrusion, burying thoughts, repelling her mental advances. “Once you do, there’s no going back.”

  Deep pink burned around her pupil’s edge and consumed her corneas, eyelids, and lashes. They stood forehead to forehead, nose to nose, heart to heart. Her glimmering hand rose, and pressed against his cheek as she whispered, “I thought we practiced upfront honesty. I know now you tell me what you want me to know.”

  The probe intensified, combed his mind, compelled the truth from his sealed lips.

  “A few months ago, your father and I met up in Italy to discuss going against Rabia and C20, and he proposed a deal.”

  “A deal with you?”

  Giovanni gave Wesley an ultimatum. Either take Florence out of the Andromeda Project and associated missions, and keep her out, or continue to use her for the government’s pursuit of the gems and C20’s downfall. If he chose the latter, the tax debt and any charges against Belladonna Corp had to be wiped. It was the sole trade Giovanni would accept for putting his daughter in constant peril.

  Florence fumbled for the bookshelf, and it proved sturdier than her wobbling frame. She sighed, stroked her shaking wrist across her forehead, and released him from the telepathic hold.

  “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Your father didn’t want you to absorb his mistakes, neither did I.”

  “Wesley, I don’t believe you.” Florence sniffled. “After the accident, I spent night after night telling myself I made a mistake. You were willing to give me a fairytale on a platter. What kind of person refuses such an offer?” The salted drops of water ran along her eyelids. Wiping one tear would extend an invitation for others to join. Her voice softened. “Tell me the truth. It had nothing to do with me, did it? You wanted to make sure you had your superhuman sidekick.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. This has nothing to do with how I feel about you, or what I wanted for us. I mean for Christ’s sake, you volunteered for those missions yourself!”

  “Beside the point! When I volunteer, it’s on my terms.” She grabbed her chest, short of breath. “And the Andromeda Project was a bloody favor I owed you that you cashed in on at my expense. If you loved me, you’d have vowed not to involve me.”

  “I needed you. America needed—”

  “Exactly, America does need something doesn’t it? What do you know about the Z-energy?”

  Evasive maneuvers had brought the situation under his control, and he rushed to catch her as she blacked out.

  “I’ll always love you.” Wesley planted a kiss on her forehead. “But this is bigger than us.” Twisting his wrist up, he said into his Cynque, “Turn down the dampeners, Detective Steele.”

  Allister Adams

  The White House, Chicago, Illinois

  “I can’t hear anything,” Allister said. He was stretched over four lounge chairs lining the wall beside the oval office. He swung his legs around, jumped up, and pressed his ear to the door.

  Two lamps on either side of Bazzo flashed as he adjusted their voltage. “Paranoid much?” he mocked and joined him. “Dr. B and DeVries are old colleagues.” Electricity zapped the door’s keypad, powered down its lock mechanism. It opened. “I doubt he’d—”

  Florence was out cold, head propped on the couch’s arm.

  “DeVries, what have ya done this time?”

  “Shhh,” Allister whispered. Lights on. Nine panel televisions inactive. No Secret Service. Tuned in to in-progress banter, he circled the room and landed on the United States seal in its center. President DeVries and a woman conversed.

  “Mr. President,” the muffled voice said, “the World Energy Summit is our best chance to convince fellow nations that what C20’s doing needs an ethical hand. If we leave it to military governments like Russia, China, and Korea to control the world’s energy, they’ll control... the world.”

  “They’ll get rid of us,” Wesley said.

  “The second they have the chance.” The woman spoke poli-talk without missing a beat. “We need to take the operation, finish what they started. And Allister needs to be the frontrunner.”

  “Do we know what happens to Zosma in this scenario?” the president asked her.

  “Do we care?”

  Hydraulics at work reverse-spiraled the United States seal open. Allister looked down and wrenched away, chest heaving, as a pant-suited elderly woman and Wesley ascended on a platform.

  “You’re a liar!” he snarled.

  The woman screamed and flattened herself on the bookshelf to let him charge by.

  “Slow it down, partner,” Hunter said, easing from behind the bookshelf. He had not one, but two large plasma weapons aimed at Allister’s head. “That’s right. Now back it up.”

  He obeyed, stepped back on the leading foot, and continued reverse-trekking an acceptable distance from the Commander in Chief and ended parallel to Bazzo. Wesley stood bewildered.

  Two overhead lights went out. “What’s the play here, mate?” Bazzo asked. “Shoot to kill, a scuffle?”

  “Nice suit, mate.” The detective stroked the trigger with his finger. “I’m sure you don’t want blood on it, so quit the tricks.”

  Another light fixture died. “Doesn’t answer my question.”

  Hunter aimed down. “Speaking of questions, which leg do you want Allister to lose first?”

  “I’ll keep my legs, thank you,” Allister said, elbowing Bazzo.

  “Fair enough, no more tricks.”

  Electricity sparked in Bazzo’s palm. Hunter went to fire, butBazzo snapped and blew up the gun, rocketing him backward.

  Allister tackled the stumbling detective in a bear hug, and they smashed into the wall. Its concrete reinforcement kept them in the room, so he crushed Hunter’s cheek against it. That was for the plasma blast to the ribs. He lifted him by the neck and plowed his skull in there again. That was for the punch to the face.

  “Let’s go, Allister, leave ‘im!” Bazzo shouted.

  “Fat chance. Daddy got a big payout to make sure this goes as planned.” The detective expanded his arms, throwing Allister off and socked in the stomach.

  Oomph. Allister careened backward, and split the president’s glass desk in half. It crashed into a million jagged pieces.

  Rotating his wrist around, Hunter said in a high-pitched voice, “Aww, did you think you were going to save Zosma and frolic into the sunset?”

  The woman had hightailed it. The president tiptoed next to Bazzo, who held Florence in his arms. Allister’s lips sealed into a thin horizontal line.

  “You’re working for somebody else,” he said.

  The wrist rotation stopped as Hunter’s smile faded. “Yeah, I’m worki
ng for the real power players, not figureheads. Have to make sure you stay put.” He used his foot to flip his gun from the ground to his hand and pointed at Wesley and Bazzo. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  Hunter’s mouth dropped and so did the gun. His skull spurted red psychic energy. Allister checked over his shoulder and nodded at Florence. Some unresolved moment or traumatizing detail Detective Steele had locked away, was redisclosed by telepathy at its deadliest. The six-foot-four powerhouse screamed for the “crying and yelling to stop”, covered his ears and curled in a ball.

  Florence Belladonna

  Belladonna Mansion, New SoHo, New York

  Returning to consciousness, Florence groaned and shifted positions to sit up on the heirloom couch. The warm body next to her fidgeted and an anxiety-stricken inhale shot tea tree, eucalyptus, and peppermint up her nose. Oil ingredients in an organic body wash. Good guess but, no, it was Wesley, mouth buried in his hands. Her awakening and sudden movement catapulted him to his feet, and he fired off frenetic questions asking how she felt, what she needed, could she hear him, could she stand.

  Her palm flattened on textured suede. She rustled a handful of hair.

  “Ugh,” she said, expanding her eyelids. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a train.”

  Bazzo tilted his head. “Psychic hangover for sure. You did a number on Steele.”

  “Florence,” Wesley said.

  Their last discussion and his warm deceitful smile made her stomach churn. She slapped him in the face, and it felt so good, she did it again.

  “I deserve that.”

  “You’re a traitor and a liar,” she said, and shoved him. “You deserve worse.”

  “You two weren’t supposed to leave this house, remember?” He placed a hand on the cheek she’d attacked and looked at her. “Reports came in about Morocco, Cincinnati, Cumberland... and Ft. Miami was a goddamn disaster. National Security and Foreign Affairs were all over it.” His imitation featured a booming authoritative voice, “Use force, round everyone up, even Zosma.” He double tapped the Cynque.