Zosma Read online

Unfolding his arms, Allister entered the room. “Even Zosma? You think your shitty artillery is enough to bring her down? She didn’t even blink.”

  “I can admit Detective Steele wasn’t the best candidate. He’s a violent showoff, and we weren’t prepared for a full-scale assault.”

  “Are you listening to me?” He strutted up to the president. “She’s under Dr. Giro’s control, which means if you want to stop C20, you go through her.”

  “We’ll do whatever we need to do to take down their operation and get this situation under our control,” Wesley said.

  “I’m not hearing anything about saving her.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not a priority, it never was.”

  “So, first you... you trapped Zosma’s mind in a human body and kept her locked in a machine. Now you want her to be an energy source. Why does she have to be for destruction or for power or for advancement or for anything but herself?”

  “I mean, we don’t have any other options, Mr. Adams. We’re depending on the U-generators to work.”

  “There’s no other way?” He rolled his eyes, shook his head. “There has to be.”

  A ten-thousand-piece puzzle on the dining room table, and Wesley hid the missing pieces.

  “He’s right,” Florence said, irritated. “Do we trust Dr. Giro? No. And somehow, you and a handful of moguls trusted him to come up with a solution that’s in humanity’s best interest? And there’s no backup plan. C’mon, Wes.”

  “Florence, you and I both know that’s a gross oversimplification.”

  It was split. Many financiers had listened to Bazzo and were fearful. They believed the Z-energy was dangerous and wanted alternative solutions to preserving the human condition. Others, eager to solve their problems, believed Z-energy was God’s way of shifting power from Western nations.

  “I’ll handle this.” Bazzo snapped his fingers. “Gio, wake up.”

  “Welcome home, Bazzo,” Giovanni said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “How ya going? Initiate I-mode.”

  “Splendid! Thank you for asking. I’ve initiated I-mode.”

  Metal sheets cranked down over the windows, cancelling the day’s warmth and light. They sealed in the floor and the “sun” room became the interrogation room. Harshness settled in her bones. She closed her eyes. Now they had to do it the hard way.

  “Do me a solid and pull the president’s emails for the past 365 days, key words Andromeda Project, C20, Allister Adams, Zosma Caster.”

  “Right away,” it said, and set to work. They flicked onto the screen one after the other. “I’ve retrieved the information requested. What would you like me to do next?”

  Bazzo faced the compilation, arms crossed. “Highlight and extract all sentences with those subjects in them. Statements, no questions. Assemble into one document, please.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’ve made your point,” the president said.

  “Good. I’ll stop him, when you start.” Bazzo smiled at her. “See, no telepathy needed.”

  No wonder her father liked him. She strode to the illuminated wall and read an email snippet.

  “Hacking is a federal crime, you know,” Wesley replied and took a deep breath. “We’re wasting time. The World Energy Summit’s in two days. If Allister doesn’t help us... you know, never mind. You need to see for yourself. Show them the video, Sparks.”

  “Your crappy propaganda? Piss off. The film is shit.”

  “Show us,” Allister said, sulking in the corner.

  “Ya heard ‘im, Gio.”

  The computer ticked, clicked, hummed, and pulled up a clip titled “Catastrophe 20” from the president’s inbox.

  “You want to know why you’re so important, Mr. Adams?” Wesley thrusted his hand at it. “It’s all in here.”

  Old faithful obliterated their beloved Midwest farmland, and eight consecutive year-long winters cursed the nation. Canada and Russia’s northernmost cities froze overnight. Fires spread in countries straddling the equator. Super hurricanes dumped water on already battered coastal regions.

  Bazzo sucked his teeth.

  “Using depressing footage to promote personal interest?” Florence asked. “This isn’t an election campaign, Wes.”

  Wesley stared at his polished black shoes. “I didn’t say it was. Moscow’s buried in snow, the Philippines are under water.”

  Allister pointed his direction and said, “Explains why you’d be parading me around as some big American hero at the World Energy Summit.”

  “You signed on the dotted line.” Wesley leapt from his seat. “Those gems are U.S. government property, and so are you.”

  “I’m no one’s property,” Allister growled, their noses centimeters from touching.

  “You help us, or you leave Zosma to her fate in Dr. Giro’s hands. It’s as simple as that.”

  “God, my mother was right about you and this phony operation.”

  Bazzo side-eyed her like, are you going to handle this or not? Reading an expression could be as effective as reading a mind, and she’d sat on the sidelines long enough.

  “There’s more. I know there’s more.” Florence confronted the text from his compromised government inbox. The topmost sentence gave her the shovel she needed. Psi energy channeled through her palm, digging into the type of deception only Wesley could’ve gotten away with. Secrets tumbled down her psyche like an avalanche. Whatever she thought she believed was destroyed by rock-hard truth. “You knew where Zosma landed after the explosion,” she paused, “and you let them develop the generators on purpose.”

  “Siberia.” Wesley let out a heavy sigh. “She landed in Siberia. C20’s team picked her up before we got to her.”

  “It’s your fault Dr. Giro took her,” Allister said, “It’s your fault she’s possessed by him.”

  She waited for his impulsive violence to have to execute telepathic suppression. He radiated a vengeful peace.

  “You got what you wanted. C20 did your homework for you.” Allister marched past the door and yelled back, “Good luck getting it!”

  “Stop him!” Wesley grabbed her. “He’s a billion-dollar liability.”

  “Me?” Allister asked, turning, his forefinger against his own chest. “I went to Cumberland Falls, have you seen it? It’s a cemetery. Your handiwork.” Blue energy circled his left knuckles, and he opened his fist to let it dive into his palm. “And screw your energy summit. Electric Wonder here can play your savior.” He stormed out.

  “I’m gonna not take offense to that,” Bazzo said.

  Florence dragged her human leg alongside her psiborg one to her great-grandmother’s couch. The wall’s cranking began, and she watched afternoon light dump shadows onto the marble floors.

  “I need to process this.” Her words crowded the runway, unwilling to take flight. She cast her eyes upward. Wesley’s silhouette was tormented by a photon mob, giving a halo illusion he hardly deserved.

  Faint. What she felt and feared would come after the hot flashes. Her mentor. Her lover. She’d trusted him. Giovanni’s accusation was sound: Wesley had confused his exploitation as being in love with her, and Florence had confused it with trust in her. Boil away the fluff: lavish vacations, poetic words, and gaudy diamond rings, what he loved about her was what she could do for him. It was impure. It was revolting.

  Wesley’s internal battle tempted telepathic intrusion. His desire to take her clammy hands in his and provide reassurance meant he’d make a heart-fueled effort to smooth her anger with a phrase like, “I was protecting you.” A bullshit excuse when he’d thrown her in the arms of danger by omission.

  Bazzo’s brow scrunched, looking at the president’s face, then her face, then back to his face. “Something going on with you two?”

  “Florence,” Wesley said, “I didn’t tell you about Zosma because—”

  “Save it.” She sat upright and tightened her ponytail from opposite ends. “Bazzo, we leave for the
summit tonight.”

  Allister Adams

  Old Manhattan, New York, New York

  An impatient sun raced to its next destination around the globe and brought the first evening flush. Old Manhattan partiers roamed trash-ridden avenues, whooping and hollering, breaking glass and offering cheers to a better tomorrow. Allister swiveled, evading a gay, intoxicated couple, then descended concrete stairs to a musty duplex and kicked the door open.

  A single mother’s desperate need for income afforded him the temporary dwelling. He’d paid in techno-currency, and no questions were asked. He sulked by the kitchen’s core features: Maplewood cabinets, an old-school linoleum sink, a griddle, and a dorm-sized refrigerator. Like a surly wife, a hard mattress outfitted in thin sheets waited for him to reach the bedroom.

  Lying flat, Allister stared at a corroded ceiling; cracks and warped plaster foretold its collapse—a similar situation to his own mental stability.

  Blue energy scurried through veins in his left arm, the equivalent of countless stinging needles trying to break free from beneath his skin. Stinging pain easy to ignore in an adrenaline-fueled battle but not alone in a basement on a metal bed frame. He wondered why it always conducted through his left arm, never his right and shuddered, spreading his fingers to release his apprehension.

  Z-energy sold as a commodity had two paths: either a program where limited and controlled access established high premiums based on demand, or a program that provided public access, subsidized by government taxation, where conscious consumption was law. Was the goal humans living together and basking in its infinite power? Whose preservation was at stake: an individual, a nation, or a civilization? Unless personal agendas surrendered to a greater good, owning the energy and its distribution rights dialed down to who could do it first. Regardless, the U-generators’ asking price begged hefty investment capital and adoption would be based on a region’s wealth.

  Zosma wasn’t a utility or a resource to be owned. She was a living creature. Whether C20 or the U.S. Government won, she lost—her freedom and her future. A familiar story, the princess’s life or an entire world’s fate.

  Repetitive knocking flushed his thoughts down the drain. He sat up. “Who the f—” Boots striking uneven concrete cut him off. He scolded himself for the loud noise and tiptoed to the bedroom door frame. The knocking persisted.

  He wanted to ask who was there, because there wasn’t a soul he’d told he was here. An enemy would already be inside shooting holes in him, but an ally... an ally might take this more cautious route.

  “Allister, they told me you’re here. Open the door or I’ll open it myself.”

  Celine again.

  “Coming, I’m coming!” he exclaimed, sprinting to the door. He flung it open. “Who is they?”

  “Not the wind, nor the trees keep secrets from me,” she said. Mud and clay solidified into her legs. “I’ve some news.”

  He rushed her inside when her body was whole and asked harshly, “Did anyone see you? What are you doing here? You can’t just show up.” His restless eyes landed on her.

  She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, lips pursed, nose shoved in the air. “America’s filthy,” she said. The hand clutching a lily-white shawl opened to let blood flow. Her finger sailed across the window sill. “I’m attending the World Energy Summit.”

  “Good for you. I’m not.”

  Celine drifted away like a forgotten song lyric. Dancing dust tumbled from the apartment’s corners, spinning above her writhing hand. It coated her skin and hardened her exterior.

  “I lie awake at night, hearing Earth whisper in fear of its own destruction. The roots, the leaves, the animals, they tell me there is an unnatural thing here.”

  Allister opened the fridge and stuck his head in. A lone pickle jar rested on the door. He unscrewed the lid to inhale its contents. “You mean Zosma?” he asked, sliding one out.

  “No.”

  Crunching and chewing, he cocked his head. “Z-energy?”

  “I’m uncertain. Whatever it is, it can’t stay or—”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything.” He slammed the jar on the counter and wiped pickle juice on his pants. “Did the president put you up to this? You know what? I don’t care, I’m not going to the summit. It’s what he wants.”

  “Allister!”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”

  “Then be quiet and listen.” She forced him to face her. “The World Energy Summit is hosted in Vancouver.” Her voice lowered. Her beating heart bombarded his ears. “King Nephthys has been promised a miraculous demonstration by an unknown entity. Technology set to change the world. I know one organization who’d issue such a promise.”

  He did too.

  Disheartenment tore him from her grasp and took him to the door-less bathroom. The mirror had an infection of speckles and blotches. His lips turned up as he found clearness in its corners and examined the increasing number of light violet hairs in his beard. Longer, curly versions had invaded his scalp. Their sudden mutation presented no correlation he could trace (i.e. abusing his powers), as Z-energy came and went as it pleased.

  She didn’t give him the privacy he needed, and their eyes aligned parallel and met in the mirror. “Can you use them yet?” Celine asked.

  No glint or gleam, the Transporter gems denied the bathroom’s bad light and held to their pale mint color. He shook his head. “It’s hard to go anywhere when you don’t have direction.”

  Celine’s midnight locks swung to and fro as she glided to the door. “Listen to them rather than telling them what to do. I’ll get us to Vancouver.” Her tone turned to solid rock. “Dr. Giro will be there.”

  Allister paced in a circle, fists clenched in the air. He ended up at square one, facing his obscured reflection, palms fastened to the sink bowl. He turned its knob. The faucet sprouted cold unfiltered water. He buried his head in soaked hands, rinsing revenge’s noxious craving from his pores and came up for air. All his superhuman strength couldn’t break the chains that constricted his options. He squeezed the porcelain so tight it snapped under his weight and shattered on the dingy floor. “I know,” Allister admitted, “and if I want to save Zosma, I have to kill him.”

  Rabia Giro

  C20 Basement

  Dedicated engineers and scientists, bundled in scarves, hats, and quilted coats, hunched close to their computers. Rabia waited in the lowest light possible. His gaze jumped from snaking veins in his hand to the steel wall and back. The yellow skin splotches that afflicted his wrist and hairy forearms trudged to his elbow. It wouldn’t stop there. His thumb, disfigured by a yellowed and cracked nail, thumped in slow rhythmic increments.

  The steel wall rippled like a lake disrupted by a skipped rock, became double doors, and cranked apart to let Zosma fly through. She landed and marched to him. “You requested my presence, Dr. Giro?”

  “There are people who think your power is dangerous,” he started. “They want to see you destroyed.” The computer behind him exposed three digital images. “So, we destroy them first.” Target #1: Bazzo Sparks. Target #2: Florence Belladonna. Target #3: Wesley DeVries.

  “They are mobilizing faster than you predicted,” she said.

  “Faster than we predicted.”

  “If I am to be included in the collective we, that is incorrect, as I had no expectations.”

  “We, as organization, Zosma Caster. The one you are part of. Are you clear on—” His hand shot out and coaxed a figure from the shadows. “Mr. Ashur, come join us.”

  Russell Ashur, cowering and layered in warm clothing, crept into the faint light.

  “How long you been there, spying?”

  “You want her to kill the president?” Russell asked.

  Black mist emanated above and around Rabia. He rose and bellowed, “I ask how long?” The room shook. What little light shined, fluttered in fear. For seconds, the basement lived in darkness.

  Russell plunged to his knees. “A few minut
es, please,” he choked, “I’m sorry.” His glasses fell and cracked on the stone floor.

  “Yes. Kill. Wesley DeVries is distraction. I know what America wants: control.” Rabia cut his sparked, reddened eyes at the intrusive minion. “We do what’s necessary to preserve entire human race. No politics.” The attack vanished as if it never was. “Go, Mr. Ashur. My patience wears.”

  “The-the-the simulation’s tested positive,” the engineer said and reached for the frames. Splintered lenses broke as he tried to remove the smudges with his shirt.

  Zosma floated beyond Rabia and commanded Russell’s glasses and their fragments to rise. Blue energy traced each edge and corner and fused the pieces together. She lowered them onto his astonished face. “The cold, it does not bother you?” she asked the doctor.

  “Our enemies threaten success and salvation. Do not fail this time,” he sneered. “You are dismissed Zosma.”

  “Of course, Dr. Giro.” With a slowness that begged sarcasm, she bowed and left the area.

  “I simulated the absorption cycle Neight used on Zosma’s ship to get her here. What is used, it powers what’s needed, the rest goes to the generator,” Russell stammered.

  “You are saying you found solution to stabilize energy system?”

  The engineer didn’t blink or look up, and nodded his answer with his lips smashed together and eyes on the dirt under his nails.

  Well done, Rabia thought, then glowered at him. “I promise great strides to directors and world leaders. Make certain we deliver.”

  Russell clambered to C20’s U-generator testing area. He was a man who craved recognition. Insecure, overzealous, and rejected by the scientific community for his wild ideas and lack of published research; the perfect specimen to infect, and influence. Steering Russell’s movements had served Rabia’s mission and, in some ways, fulfilled the engineer’s own purpose. If nothing else, tenacity proved he’d be a worthy asset in the doctor’s new world.

  Only Rabia heard the clapping echo through the basement. He swiveled at the sound and ambled to the basement’s deepest crevice.

  Neight continued tapping his palms together. “I am impressed.”