Zosma Read online

  “What the—” Hunter let go.

  Tears gushed down Dorian’s emaciated cheeks. Five twists unhinged the muzzle covering his Peruvian skin, and it dangled at his jawline.

  “Xander, be nice,” Hunter said. Metal crept over his stretched neck. His chest, having turned metal also, contracted at the pain of skin being ripped off the bone. At the pain of his transformative superpower in action. “Not so fast!” Hunter’s massive metal hands clamped Dorian’s throat shut before it produced a peep. The kid sputtered, blunt nails digging at Hunter’s grip. Pulsing concussive energy dwindled as Dorian went unconscious.

  “Allister’s gonna be real tore up when he hears about this.”

  The bomb had thirty seconds on the clock. He dropped the dead weight, dashed out the door, and thumped down the stairs, exiting at the exact time as a calamitous boom. Fire and smoke spewed from the fifth floor. Witnesses protested neither his presence nor his actions.

  “Incoming call, President Wesley DeVries. Would you like to answer?” Cynque asked.

  “Ignore.” Hunter adjusted his artillery and asked the Cynque, “Who’s next on the list?”

  “Former Andromeda Project recruit: Bridget Taylor Sparks. Location: Fort Miami. Incoming call, President Wesley—”

  “Ugh! Answer.”

  Chicago, Illinois

  Hunter’s foster parents referred to him as a living birth defect. He spent years of his childhood locked in an unfurnished room. He learned meditation to manage his superhuman powers, and on his sixteenth birthday, he finagled an escape route by absorbing his cotton blanket’s physical properties and tossing himself out the window. Neighbors frightened by the three-story fall and his skin’s threaded texture called the police. Men and women in white suits wrote a five-hundred-thousand-dollar check, and his parents sold him up the river.

  The laboratory’s experimentation on his ability’s limits caused him to permanently absorb and assume the properties of the three strongest metals: chromium, tungsten, and titanium. Later, he discovered transformation was detrimental to his health, straining his heart to the brink of cardiac arrest. Advised not to attempt becoming metal from head-to-toe and to choose bringing forth the armor with care, he resumed meditation to battle three main triggers for its unsolicited activation: stress, anger, and fear. He recalled the metals, in parts and pieces throughout his body, a limb here, a torso there. His weight training regimen made his strength superior. Adding his metal exterior made his strength herculean.

  UV rays beat through Chicago’s mid-morning haze and humidity held moisture hostage on Hunter’s skin as he trekked across the White House courtyard.

  “Don’t touch my car. I won’t be long,” he said to the security guard at the entrance. Irked he had to wear a shirt in the first place, a button-down no less, he left his electric sports car, hazards on, parked in the cul-de-sac. He breezed through a metal detector and chuckled, holding his arms out while they searched him. “I think I know the rules by now. I left my besties in the trunk.”

  “Clear.” The investigating soldier ushered him in and scanned his Cynque.

  “Hunter Steele. Detective. Approved,” the computer said.

  He saluted the help and descended a steep marble staircase.

  The White House had a new building’s scent: fresh laid floors, painted walls. Just under two-years-old, it was constructed in 2050 after a successful North Korean terrorist bombing in Washington, D.C. An aboveground museum paid respects to the original, while an underground compound was used for conducting government affairs. A receptionist directed Hunter to bland hallways and squiggly, energy-saving bulbs, a.k.a. the classified section. He stopped for a second frisking and a body scan. “Two-factor authentication, I like it.”

  Escorted to an elevator hidden inside a wall, Hunter scanned his Cynque and pressed a camouflaged button the same black marble as the interior. It didn’t light up.

  “Welcome, Mr. Steele,” the press secretary said when the doors opened. “We appreciate you coming on such short notice.”

  Gotta pay the bills, he thought. They strolled in tense silence to a sliding door leading to the Oval Office. The press secretary scanned her Cynque and gestured for him to enter.

  Wesley DeVries, the nation’s current president, swiveled in the chair, arms crossed. His chin nudged Hunter to a brown leather love-seat. “Please, sit,” he said.

  True to its name, Hunter found the Oval Office more impressive than he’d envisioned. From architectural preservation to the U.S. Seal’s placement. Their forefathers would be proud.

  “What’s up, Prez! Nice digs,” he said, then asked, “Who’s this?”

  The press secretary sat opposite him, legs crossed, clutching her forearm near the Cynque. “I’m Press Secretary—”

  “I’m kidding, Weasel, I remember.”

  President DeVries snickered.

  “It’s W-h-y-zelle,” she corrected and shot the president a glare. Clara Whyzelle had wrinkles showing her age and sagging jowls to match. The fair-skinned woman patted her conventional up-do and adjusted her pinstripe jacket.

  “How do you keep getting them to appoint you, aren’t you the reason we’re in this mess?”

  “Detective, enough.” The president cleared his throat and smoothed the spotless desk. “Before we move on, can I offer you a shot of immunojuice or a probiotic water?”

  “If you don’t got scotch, I’m good.” He crossed his legs. “I was on my way to sunny Florida, worst state in U.S. history. Wanted to get some sun, ask some questions. What’s so urgent?”

  “Your behavior,” Clara said.

  Hunter pointed at the withered politician sitting across from him. “Prez, between you, me, and the wall, you’ve got major media problems.” He turned and rested his feet on the bald eagle’s giant wing. “Plus, your instructions were pretty clear,” he said, then mocked the president’s voice. “Do whatever it takes.’”

  “I know what I said. We can’t operate by those rules anymore.” Wesley wrung his hands “I don’t have that kind of power.”

  “Mr. President, do you have any power at all?” he asked in a faux professional tone.

  “Detective Steele,” the press secretary interrupted, “What you did in Cincinnati was unacceptable.”

  “You think you can do better? Be my guest.”

  Nine square panels sprang to life, playing the apartment complex explosion. Volume muted, captions ran the screen’s width. A recorded clip from a bystander’s low-definition V1 Cynque camera revealed a man in a red trench watching flames climb to the clouds.

  Casualties, casualties, casualties. People worried too much about death. His tactics were unorthodox, but people didn’t hire him because he was gentle. They hired him because he got the job done. Gritting his teeth, Hunter uncrossed his legs. “Whatever, they were all meth heads anyway.”

  “What about Marrakech?” Wesley replied, tilting his head. “King Nephthys is threatening retaliation. He wants to pull out of the summit and take Africa with him. We can’t afford to lose anymore allies. Do you understand what we’re facing?”

  “A bratty, arrogant kid. You keep playing nice guy, Allister’s gonna undo everything this administration banked on your re-election.” He rose from the leather cushions and pointed at President DeVries. “Don’t act like I didn’t warn you about this blowing up in your face. You look like a fool, Prez, and blaming it on whoever’s closest is not a good move.” The press secretary alternated her leg positioning and rearranged her pant legs. The president chose to focus on the door instead of Hunter’s words. No one cared about the muscle or the muscle’s time or the muscle’s opinion. “Forget it,” Hunter mumbled, “as long as I’m paid, I’ll abide by your stupid politics.”

  The president’s finger tapped the glass desk. “Clara, I need a minute.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.” She dipped her squirming chin and hurried out.

  “This is a matter of life and death,” Wesley began.

  Ploppin
g down, Hunter blew air through his lips. He’d heard the speech a thousand times and made a habit of tuning it out after he’d listened to its entirety in U.N. meetings and campaign briefings. America walked around, chest puffed out, claimed it would steer the human experience in a positive direction. Lofty goals from an outside perspective, considering the U.S.-led Andromeda Project failed to accomplish any major missions, and the country hadn’t recovered financially or economically from recent natural disasters. Skepticism from other nations’ leaders aside, he mouthed alongside the president.

  “C20 is a terrorist organization. They need to be terminated, and we need Allister to do it,” Wesley finished.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Hunter clapped. “You nail it every time. Starting to think you believe that garbage.”

  Whoosh. The door opened. In a flurry, wind glided across Hunter’s nape, as heels, one loud thump, one soft click, one loud thump, one soft click, walked behind him. “Somebody needs another lesson in manners.”

  Hunter recognized the woman’s voice. He worshipped her like a queen and loathed her like an ex-wife. “Another veteran working on this?” Scrunching his fingers like a hungry baby, he cooed, “Dr. Belladonna, I missed you.”

  Florence sported a bushy ponytail, her hip cocked, her hand positioned above the curve of her thigh. “Give it a rest, Steele.”

  “There are quieter ways to investigate,” President DeVries said, “and I expect a professional of your talent and experience to know that.”

  “Alright, alright. So you want the twit brought home unharmed.” He shot to his feet and rubbed his brow. “What now?”

  Frozen mid-step, his legs and arms tingled, urging him to move. He told himself to break free, but an unseen force repressed the commands. Florence, infected with a smoky red glow, touched the sword’s handle on her hip and circled him.

  “Now, you answer to me.”

  Released. A baby’s crying rang in his ears, shuffling his thoughts. “Ha-have you been ca-caught up to speed?” A wide smirk disguised him stumbling over his feet and words. “If not, I’d b-be happy to debrief you.”

  Wesley’s head jerked sideways. “You’re dismissed, Detective Steele. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Cool.” He flipped them off while walking backward and tripped over his heels as he continued out the open door. “If you need me, I’ll be at the beach.”

  Florence Belladonna

  White House, Chicago, Illinois

  Chicago had bloomed during the economic collapse. Major industries, technology, finance, entertainment, media, and apparel, salvaged their companies and migrated to the less volatile climate and terrain. Growing to the most populated metropolis in America, the new nation’s capital was built on sustainability and global warming propaganda and boasted the strictest environmental laws in the country.

  “Becoming a workaholic again?” Florence asked, seated on the president’s bed. Her toned human leg was crossed over her bionic one. Two fingers pinched the sheets. The black silk set hadn’t changed since she’d chosen it a year ago. She smoothed the crease her tampering created. “I told you, you need balance.”

  Three floors deeper, inside Wesley’s private living quarters, her heart beat as if it had grown fingers, intent on scratching its way out of her chest.

  “Cynque, open top drawer, access code: DRFLB.” A loud hiss released, absorbed by the room’s artless walls, and his shoulders relaxed above an acrylic dresser powered by artificial intelligence. Telepathy let her see what he saw. His mind open, unfocused stare fixed on forgotten moments. Their photo at his inauguration: Florence hugging him in a floor-length jade gown. The fierce temper of her matching eyes. Six years. Hard to believe.

  Her breathing slowed, and regret’s syrupy taste soured in her mouth. “You should’ve let me go,” she said and swallowed, reliving the memory inside his mind telepathically. “Would’ve been safer for us both.”

  Wesley hiked up his trousers to scoot onto the bed. “I wasn’t concerned about safe. I was concerned about you.”

  “I know Wes, and I—”

  “Let me finish.” Their fingers intertwined. “When I thought I’d lost you, my biggest regret was not telling you I loved you before you got on the plane.”

  His cologne’s woody scent bestowed nostalgia. Florence caressed his five o’clock shadow, lifted his chin. Her lips parted, drawn to his by magnetic attraction and suppressed desire. Logic threw itself between them, and at the last possible second, she turned. Her metal appendage, a fusion of alien technology, energy-enhancing psi crystals, and synthetic skin, looked back at her, blending in, but not well enough, similar to their relationship with mainstream society. Florence had decided not to be a president’s wife long ago. Telepathic prowess dissolved his emotions, and hers.

  “How are you... after the accident?” he asked and wiped his eyelid.

  Florence stiffened, pulled her hands to her chest, and slid off the bed. “Better.” Three-inch-heeled Christian Louboutins had them forehead to forehead.

  “I know you’re disappointed I had to do it this way.”

  “Contact me by sending some low budget bounty hunter to my private estate? Yeah, was a bloody shame. You could’ve called.”

  “I’ve called the properties I knew about.”

  Twirling her ponytail, she muttered, “Lake Como’s new.” Florence threw it behind her and asked, “Did you ever think I might need to process the fact that my associates believe me dead?”

  “One. I gave you a month. Two. You’ve pretended to die before. And three, I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t urgent.”

  “The world leaders are pissed. They say we dropped the ball, and to be frank, we did. Besides letting a lunatic run the Andromeda Project into the ground, Dr. Giro’s betrayal? How’d that slip by?”

  Wesley shrugged. “We got anxious. He did too.”

  “He? Wait, wait, pause. I thought China, Russia, and Korea orchestrated this and Dr. Giro was the minion.”

  “No. Not even close.” The president let the floor keep his attention and kept his shoulders flexed. “Dr. Giro’s plans to bring the program down were in motion for months, maybe years. When he resigned he said, ‘The Andromeda Project no longer suits my needs.’ He recruited those nations, not the other way around.”

  Her mouth fell open. “What? You and the other directors knew Dr. Giro was a traitor, and you didn’t stop him?”

  “It doesn’t matter what we didn’t do then. We need to act now.”

  Spurts of perspiration drove her to the bathroom. A washcloth hit the sink bowl. The faucet’s sensor, triggered by her hand, plunged cold water over it. She wrung the cloth and pressed it to her face.

  Brazil, the United States, the UK, Russia, China, and Korea, had formed and funded a partnership destined to end in greed and first-to-market opportunities, The Andromeda Project. President Wesley DeVries had served on the board, accompanied by six others—collectively known as “the directors.”

  Though the directors accused DeVries of “nepotism,” a heavy background in strategic management and execution, and the United States’ anxiety brought Florence to the Andromeda Project. Hired on disguised as a psychiatrist, she spent two years tracking their primary mission’s status (locating the Transporter gems)—and dug up staggering back story in the process. Twists like murder, turns like deception, and a laundry list of reasons why they’d continued to fail. Incompetence and sabotage were potent when mixed.

  Florence’s last memories from the final battle at the Andromeda Project splashed in; clearing everyone’s mind of her existence, gaining a telepathic window into Rabia’s psyche, leaving Allister to fend for himself.

  “By the way, CIA says Adams disabled the Cynque’s tracking. Don’t know how you’re going to find him!” he yelled through the bathroom door.

  “I’m a telepath for God’s sake!”

  Florence emerged minutes later fresh, straight-faced. He straddled the archway, waiting for her return.

  “Either
you have no intel on where C20 is and what they’re doing, or, you have some intel and you’re just not sharing it,” she said.

  “I swear, I have no intel on where C20 is.”

  She sighed, leaned to him and whispered, “Entre nous.” Her lone pinky finger lifted. He lifted his too, and they interlocked in secrecy. “Allister’s found.”

  “And they wonder why I keep hiring you.”

  “Let’s say I decide to trust you and bring him back. What happens next?”

  “America saves humanity.”

  Allister Adams

  Old Manhattan, New York, New York

  Drugged, drunk, homeless, and frisky, forceful escorts coexisted in Central Park. An off-limits zone, as were many neighborhoods to its north, such as Harlem, Washington Heights... the Bronx. Extreme temperatures had condemned more properties than were worth saving, and they referred to the areas which had suffered mass exodus as Old Manhattan.

  Lower Manhattan, a place called New SoHo, became a microcosm of New York’s elite. The metro systems implemented a Cynque verification filter. Employment in New SoHo meant second-class citizenship and entry and exit at programmed times according to an algorithmic scheduling system. Dwelling in New SoHo meant unfathomable wealth and coming and going as one pleased.

  “We kill Earth! Earth kills us! We kill Earth! Earth kills us!” sign-wielding teens repeated in unison, protesting capitalism and the continuous exploitation of dirty fuels and wasteful energy. They crowded Allister, then marched into Old Manhattan’s busy crosswalk, not caring to make it to the other side before the light changed. Unleaded gas was ten dollars a gallon. They had a point.

  He strolled to the street corner and balanced his soles on the curb as cars whipped by. He’d traded in his cultural shirt for a navy tee and a black longline hoodie.

  A college-aged man and woman slogged to a stop in his peripheral, their curved spines burdened by unknown tasks. He peeled back the hood’s fabric to see the closest student’s Cynque screen. Quantum physics review notes, dictated. The twenty-something-year-old woman cursed, rewound the transmission, and listened again. The man dipped his head to catch her frantic eyes, rubbed her back and said, “Courtney, we studied all night. We’ll do fine.”