Zosma

by Jason Michael Primrose

  Rabia smirked. “I need you to be, as they say, blank slate.”

  Silhouettes of the Andromeda Project’s former team members skulked about her subconscious, evading absorption into his cloudy mist. Nicolas Delemar, the man who’d raised her as his human daughter, was the first to go, destroying her connection to a parental figure, the position Rabia wanted for himself. “I promise humanity’s continued survival, why you resist?”

  “If the death of this world means you fail,” Zosma said, “then I am obligated to allow it for the good of the universe.” Four percent Z-energy access. Her lips pressed together. Her back arched. Telekinesis kicked in and the cot rattled. When it was over, her torso flattened. She whispered, “I am alone now. Leesa is gone.”

  “Yes, give up, Zosma,” Rabia soothed. “These creatures can’t accept you for glorious being you are. I will make them understand. Together we show them what you can do.” Dormant for decades, Zosma had an infant’s impressionable mind. Seeds of influence germinated in her mental terrain sprouted a dense forest, tangling her thoughts in darkness and doubt. Pressing on her arms, he penetrated her intentions with inky grey eyes, hunting for Allister Patrick Adams’s lingering astral presence. He must be the last domino to fall. Her purity was what Rabia needed.

  “I will not let you take him.” Zosma’s chin shook, and her forearms flexed beneath his oversized palms. “You are more than evil, but you are less than me,” she said in a steady low pitch.

  “What you think you know of me?” he asked, face-to-face, wearing a grandfather’s smile. His mist permeated throughout her mind, delivering new thoughts, desires, beliefs.

  “Nothing. I see... nothing,” her voice cracked. “I know now why I feel this way.”

  The game at its peak, he outlined her noble cheekbone without touching it. Her irises cleared and adopted the same color as his.

  “Zosma?”

  “Yes, Dr. Giro. What shall be my first task?”

  He clasped his hands to his chest. Her energy access levels stabilized at 10 percent, the standard level for keeping her subdued and effective. A level assigned and regulated via the containment center. “Time to make introduc—” Rabia’s smile faded. He cupped an elbow in one hand and stroked his chin. Out of all that was lost—the childhood she’d lived as Leesa Delemar, the familial relationship to Nicolas Delemar, the obligation to and the activities from the Andromeda Project—one thing didn’t change: her longing for Allister Adams.

  Captain Jared Brandt

  C20 Prison

  Captain Jared Brandt’s beard had grown to his cheekbones’ highest point. Gone from a clean-cut, polished official to dirty hands, picked-at fingernails, and clusters of hair trying to survive an ever-expanding bald spot. The smell of decaying fish seeped from his pores. He bent his head to his armpit, taking a whiff. His face shriveled. Breathing fresh air or eating a decent meal were activities too far from recent to be remembered.

  “This’s how veterans end up,” Jared said. His southern drawl was one you’d find in Southeast Kentucky. Military tours and worldwide travel for twenty or so odd years hadn’t softened it the slightest.

  His elbows rested on an ice tablecloth draping a table bolted to the floor. Midsection, wrists, and ankles, shackled. He should’ve frozen to death. The ice touching his shirt sleeve was an inch thick and thickening, but the knot in his throat had been there for days, the pounding migraine, weeks.

  “When I get where I’m goin’ on the far side of the sky,” he hummed the lyrics he forgot, then sang louder, “I’m gonna land beside a lion, run my fingers through his mane, or I might find out what it’s like to ride a drop of rain!” Beneath dried blood, his palms held warmth. He wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon.

  Mist puffed under what Jared had convinced himself was an airtight door. A shape, sculpted in black smoke, materialized as the stout geneticist.

  “You don’t get off so easy.” Dr. Giro knocked on the door. A guard opened a peephole. “Get me prisoner’s dinner.” The door cranked open. Dr. Giro retrieved a covered tray. The door cranked closed. “Eat before gets cold,” he suggested, removing the lid to reveal a fatty ribeye, garlic-mashed potatoes, glazed brussel sprouts, and a biscuit.

  The meal reminded Jared of Sundays after evening Bible study. “No broth today,” he murmured, shaking his head. Wrist shackles grated the ice as he leaned away. “This a trick?”

  “You stopped yelling like madman, so I decide to reward you. Remind you what freedom feels like,” Dr. Giro replied.

  Jared slumped lower in the chair. His stomach spilled over the camouflage pants he’d been captured in. “Shit. Since I joined the military, I’ve never been free.”

  Dr. Giro cut the steak in slow strokes. Tantalizing juices from its rare interior dripped onto the plate. The fork punctured the tender beef, scooped a teasing of mashed potatoes, and the doctor held it to his mouth. Unable to control themselves, Jared’s teeth ripped the helping off. The doctor continued feeding him like a toddler until the meal finished.

  “Drink,” Dr. Giro insisted.

  Water hurried to catch up to the party in his stomach. An unraveled mind nourished, the why and the how became clear again. He nodded. “So, you’re the savior,” he said in air quotes, “break out genius of the twenty-first century, Dr. Rabia Giro. And here I am,” he boasted, “Captain Jared Brandt. The pioneer in humanity’s advancement! C20’s leader! We’d make a pair, that’s fer certain. But I suppose ya got what ya needed from me, cheers to success.” Jared lifted an imaginary beer mug and shoved it forward. “Why didn’t ya just kill me?” He looked at the empty plate, then at the man who’d spoon-fed him. “You want somethin’.”

  “Not about what I want,” Dr. Giro said. “You see how rewarding can be when you cooperate.”

  Jared took in the stone slabs, low ceiling, and frost-enveloped walls. “Where are we? No wait, lemme guess. The North Pole?” The chains jangled as his fist beat the layer of ice on the table. “I knew it! The North fuckin’ Pole.”

  “You are member of C20, Captain Brandt. Are you ready to resume our work?”

  “See, that ain’t freedom.” He rolled his eyes. “Go on ahead and kill me. I ain’t helpin’ you.” He scrunched the Henley’s sleeve away from his wrist and touched the skin. Regular body temperature.

  Sometimes superhumanity was more curse than blessing. A transparent force field, typically invisible to the naked eye, had intensified during Jared’s time in captivity and turned as opaque as Rabia’s motives.

  “If killing you were easy, would be done,” Dr. Giro said, herding ice beneath his round fingertip. “This was test. You pass.”

  “Still playin’ yer fuggin’ games!” He swept the tray and its contents from between them. The tin plate, the silverware, its rectangular top, clattered to the floor.

  “You will join. Or you will suffer,” Dr. Giro said and picked up the empty glass.

  Jared’s sunken, insubordinate eyes peered closer to read Dr. Giro’s body language. Relaxed hands, even stance. Passive. “You want Allister.” His laugh bounced off the prison walls, amplified by its hollowness. “Well, I suggest ya do the cooperate thing. I got nothin’ to lose.”

  “I expect your arrogance.”

  “Good, cuz if ya want me to do somethin’ for ya, I gotta be alive for. Better ask nice.” He shrugged and sat up straight. “Cause you. Can’t. Make. Me.”

  Rabia faced the door and pulled his shoulders up to his ears.

  “Had a feelin’ gettin’ hold of the Z-energy was a small part of yer plan but the Transporter gems must be pretty important too. Outta curiosity, how long were ya looking for ‘em?” He paused after his question, watching the doctor with as much pleasure as was possible for his condition. His need to understand surpassed the need to survive.

  “Longer than you can comprehend.” Rabia whipped around. “Transporter gems are means to later end.”

  Mentioning Z-energy and the Transporter gems brought the Andromeda Project’s memori
es. The Andromeda Project’s memories brought memories of the closest thing he’d had to a brother. Drumming up his past mistakes reminded him that being a pawn cost him freedom.

  Patty Cakes was the nickname he’d given Patrick Adams, his childhood friend. He blamed their falling out on PTSD, after his second tour in Afghanistan, when it was jealousy: Patrick’s beautiful marriage, Patrick’s brilliant kid, when Jared had the same shit and didn’t appreciate it. Their last words to each other, the night Zosma landed on Earth, were rock-hard surface anger, and if they’d dug a little and broke soil, forgiveness would’ve sprung like a well. Hearing how they took Patrick out... messed up, sick... he wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

  A goddamn bullet to the skull, he thought. What kinda monster would kill a man in front of his kid? Have I killed a man in front of his kids? At least once. War was a helluva drug, a hallucinogen with a terrible decade or longer come down. He rubbed his chest and took a deep breath.

  He couldn’t believe it all happened in a six-hour time span, the events fuzzy, not in order. Zosma’s ship spiraling to its end, so bright in the country sky the stars weren’t visible. The dazzling blue energy expanding from the crash, which sent Cumberland and his family up in flames. Bewildered, he spent a couple hours looking for Allister and Dolores, then hightailed it. The military troops left knowing everybody was dead or dying.

  Fixated on the glass twirling in Dr. Giro’s hand, Brandt went from staring at it to through it. “Where were you during Cumberland?”

  “Had to wait for opportunity.” The door opened at Dr. Giro’s command, and he stepped into the hall’s darkness. “Remember why you join C20, because of death and destruction caused by Andromeda Project.”

  Revenge and its hypnotic spiral had convinced Jared that infiltrating the Andromeda Project, ransacking their facilities, and bringing down the organization, would be proper retribution. Payback for his losses. A successful mission executed two months ago. Somehow, he’d lost as much as he’d intended to take from his enemies. Being a pawn had cost him, well, it had cost, him.

  “I offer you place in our mission to discover key to human salvation or, you feed your guilt and defy me, until you starve and die.”

  Small victory. Small smile. “Hear that?” Jared rattled the chains holding him to the table. “It’s freedom, Dr. Giro. I got nothing to lose.”

  Florence Belladonna

  Belladonna Castle, Province of Como, Italy

  Florence could’ve squandered her irrefutable privilege with world travel and expensive objects. She pursued a covert political career as a giant screw you to her entrepreneurial family, finding passion in making change and not amassing wealth. A self-made woman with a family-funded Ivy League education. Some would call it an oxymoron.

  Her well-managed reality in the public eye suffered two back-to-back blows: her father’s death announcement and an airplane attack intended to end her life.

  A month to the day, she thought. She’d spent weeks in seclusion, caring for her family’s castle on Lake Como, whilst getting as close to normal life as a “dead” socialite could expect to achieve.

  Cynque local news had released a developing story on her.

  “I’m listening Giovanni,” she said in a British-American accent. Opening a door, preparing a meal, or reading the morning news were accessible and managed via artificial intelligence imbued in the castle’s functions.

  “Florence Belladonna,” the computer, Giovanni, read, “eldest of two siblings, sole heir to the Belladonna fortune, dies at age thirty-seven in airplane bombing.”

  Cynque watch destroyed, the particulars buried with a fake body. She touched her forehead and pushed her lips to the side. A big favor she’d have to repay, and she was annoyed as to how, since joining the Andromeda Project had been a favor, and now she was in hiding because of her affiliation.

  “I doubt anyone’s gonna believe that garbage,” a gritty, rugged voice joked from the foyer.

  “How can I help you, Detective Steele?” she asked. Egg whites scrambled hard and gluten-free toast sat untouched next to her. She was emotionally committed to the round cedar breakfast table, bending over it and stirring her espresso. Tap, tap, went the miniature teaspoon. She turned. “Well?”

  Hunter grinned as if he had some triumph to celebrate. “Was in the neighborhood, thought I’d say hi.”

  She scoffed. “I sensed you sniffing around out there like a novice. Giovanni, return security measures to maximum.” Manicured fingernails clicked the stained wood. “Not sure I want to know how you found me,” she said, “but since I know you like to brag, by all means.” Florence waited, one arm up on the back of the chair, appreciating an array of citrus and magnolia trees and the region’s famous camellias.

  “Ready to come out of retirement?” Hunter teased, snatching a sword off the wall and prancing her direction. “No choice to be honest, your country needs you.”

  “Which country? I have dual citizenship and zero patience.”

  “The one that paid me to save your life. Twice.” He held the sword in the light. “This yours?”

  Four calculated steps later, a firm grasp on the sheathed weapon, she answered, “Yes. One of many.”

  He let her take it. Florence put it in its decorative place and sauntered to the table.

  “I know you have a soft spot in your 24k gold heart for Allister Adams. Has he contacted you?”

  Allister. Saliva built up beneath her tongue. Her heels’ clicking slowed to a stop. Hunter’s stomps didn’t. His breath stroked her neck, egging her fingers toward her favorite sword, the dragon-handled weapon she kept on her hip. He snarled. She spun around. Restrictive, yet void of pressure, his metallic hand caught her wrist.

  “I never understood bounty hunters. Hard to be loyal when you serve the highest bidder,” she said, leaving her fuchsia-painted lips the least bit parted.

  “Isn’t it though?” His lustful eyes traveled from her mile-high cheekbones to the pointed toe on her lace boots. “I prefer the term detective. Can’t believe you wear those things to breakfast. I hope you wear them to bed too.” He positioned his hand around her waist. “I risked my life to fly halfway across the world and pull your limp body outta the Atlantic.” Hunter yanked her closer. “The least you could do is answer a simple question.”

  “I doubt he knows I’m alive.” She resisted the impulse to body slam him and faked a smile, going so far as to touch the stubble on his hard-edged chin. Little tactics helped open his mind to her telepathy. “Thank you, by the way. Although your bank account must be even more thankful than I.”

  “Your ex, I mean, President DeVries owes me some techno-currency. Tell him to pay up, will ya?”

  “We haven’t spoken since... ” Her words took a detour and wound up back in her private thoughts. Her chin dropped.

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, Prez wants you to come back to the states and help sort this C20 mess, get Allister on our team.” Hunter pressed against her and licked his lower lip. “I figure if I offer you a night of fun you’d agree to his terms. I promise, I’ll be gentle.”

  “I won’t.” Florence kneed him in the groin. While keeling over, his face hung in perfect position for a flying back kick, and her stiletto’s sole connected with his temple. He staggered.

  “We’ll have a night of fun when my leg grows back,” she sneered, distancing herself.

  He growled. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  Telepathic power surged through her forehead. “To answer your question: I’m not ready to go back to work.” She released the globules of crimson energy on him.

  Hunter’s head, doused in psychic power, rolled back, his knees buckled, and his body hit the floor.

  “Shame, you won’t remember this lesson in respect. Let’s see what you’ve been up to.”

  Allister Adams

  Moroccan Desert

  Allister... Allister... Allister, a woman’s voice called in his head. Allister!

  “Go away,” he moaned,
dallying in a dream state. “Go away... ”

  The woman’s haunting call turned harsh, a prickly version of the last syllable in his name.

  “Sir. Sir, ‘ey, sir!”

  He woke to a lady in a ragged dress and torn shawl, hovering beside the two-seater row.

  “Move!” She shook with impatience, burlap bags stuffed in her wiry arms with vegetables, bread, and clothing spilling forth.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled and thrust himself against the window.

  She sat down in the aisle seat, turned up her nose, and spat, “‘Bout time.”

  The railcar sped to its next stop along electric tracks at 375 mph. Commuters dolled up in suits, their upright posture and hands folded neat in their laps, were traders, bankers or politicians. By contrast, he wore tattered remnants of a shirt and gauze stained the dull maroon of dried blood. Eco-conscious laws and native Moroccans’ adaptation to heat required the train’s air conditioning unit to pump on low, amplifying the smell of charred flesh and oxidation. Noses were shielded. Eyes darted his direction. Throats cleared, and whispers started.

  A six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound mixed-American man (plainly African-American as far as any onlookers were concerned) was a hard thing to hide in a country like Morocco. Allister slouched and his knees pushed against the person’s seat in front of him.

  The past poked him in the side as if he weren’t in enough pain. Snot drizzled onto his upper lip despite the air’s dryness. He wiped his face using an entire arm, careful not to undo the opaque fabric around his hands. That would be grand, unveiling the Transporter gems to a train full of strangers. Inhaling deeply through his nostrils, he sucked in stray emotions to make sense of the last three days.

  Captain Brandt wasn’t the one pulling the strings. No, Dr. Giro had created C20’s files, and Dr. Giro could destroy them. Those access codes had been embedded in the computer’s security module; it would’ve taken weeks for a hacker to find them. About eight weeks if he took a stab at it. He sucked his teeth. The U.S. soldiers knew what was going on because as soon as the general called in an attack, they moved center. He imagined the CIA had their top computer scientists breaking down C20’s security system to extract the files while the region was being “protected.” The Ops team hadn’t gotten far, as the entire encryption had been intact when he penetrated it, and even then, some code threw him for a loop. If they were the last ones in there, the president might’ve captured Captain Brandt. Captain Brandt would know where C20 had moved.