Zosma

by Jason Michael Primrose

  “I lost everything I loved trying to be your hero. I’m not doing it again.” He let President DeVries’s feet touch the floor and lowered himself into the seat.

  I thought you’d say that, said a distinct voice inside Allister’s head. It was the same one from the train.

  His skin washed out, mouth wide open in distrust and, although gazing at her reflection in the two-way mirror, he didn’t notice her at all. Unable to speak, he found himself having to remember to breathe, stunned as her name bounced inside his skull. “I-I don’t believe it,” he muttered and spun around.

  From her skin’s vibrancy and the infamous red lip color she often chose, Dr. Florence Belladonna and her ageless silhouette were intact. “I’m alive, Allister. I’ve been alive.”

  “I’ve been alone this whole time, and.” The sentence cracked and broke in the middle. His heart contracted. “You’re not... you’re not real.”

  “I am, and it’s time to take this hunt underground.” Florence walked to him and bowed. Taking his cheek, she pulled his head into her embrace and whispered, “I’m here to help you, not them. I came back for you, understand?”

  In a trance, he nodded, and relaxed against her.

  Captain Jared Brandt

  C20 Prison

  Captain Jared Brandt wore a thin, transparent energy field as a jumpsuit. Keen to Dr. Giro’s scrutinizing stare, he slouched in the chair and tapped his knuckles to the rhythm of melting water’s monotone dripping.

  Tufts of white hair clung to Dr. Giro’s otherwise barren scalp like the last few trees in the Amazon rainforest. His once cinnamon brown skin had become tawny in sunlight’s absence.

  “You work hard, sacrifice so much. But, here at C20, we don’t accept failure,” Dr. Giro said. “I need your first mission complete.”

  “Answer’s no,” Jared responded.

  “You bring me Allister, or I’ll make you do it.”

  Drumming up other distractions by plucking the icy surface, or whistling his favorite songs, still led him back to the geneticist’s coal black irises. The longer they fixated on him, the opaquer the disruptive energy field became.

  “Good luck gettin’ through this field,” he said, leaned forward, then whispered, “Don’t forget, I been a POW.”

  Dr. Giro blinked, his concentration disrupted. “I remember your past, Captain, and realize physical torture would be waste of precious resources.” The doctor lifted a Cynque tablet (nicknamed CynqueT) from his lap and gave it to the captain to hold. “I thought we chat over movie. Watch,” he said, pressing play.

  A cinematic story faded from black into a major natural disaster montage from the 2030s, 2040s, and early 2050s. The Middle East spiked to infernal temperatures in 2047, leading to mass evacuations. And afterwards, the “Middle Beast” storm in 2051 eradicated anyone or anything toughing out the heat. Category 6 hurricane “quintuplets” drowned Florida and the Caribbean in 2045. The final, arguably most disturbing, footage featured the Pacific Southwest’s devastating 9.5 earthquake in 2032, which halted domestic technological development, and pushed progress back twenty years. Screaming children soaked in blood. Families clinging to wreckage for dear life.

  Jared twisted his mouth, feigning an unchanged mood. “This ain’t war. Shit happens. At least they’re dying from somethin’ we can’t control.”

  A time lapse began. Jared’s mouth opened as wide as it could stretch. Year by year, a simulation showed Earth’s immune system at its strongest, determined to cleanse the unstoppable parasite, humanity. Oceans forced humans to move farther from the surface. Seismic activity tore the crust apart. Weather anomalies plunged civilization into a pre-technology age. In the last prediction, Old Faithful erupted with a kaboom, spraying ash and lava over the entire United States and reigniting a volcanic chain reaction through the ring of fire. The screen faded to black.

  “That ain’t possible, not in our lifetime,” he stammered with nervous laughter.

  “Hard to believe you have ten years left. Such delicate species, such delicate infrastructure.”

  The captain’s wobbling hands held the tablet like a child he was afraid to drop. “There’s no fixin’ it? If it did happen, I mean? Just boom, ten years an’ bye-bye people?”

  Dr. Giro tugged upwards, prying the tablet from his grasp. “Why you think Neight Caster want to leave your planet so fast? He foresaw this.”

  Humanity had two choices. “Extinction or evolution,” he mumbled. “How’s Allister fit in?”

  “If Mr. Adams is not allied with C20, future you saw is certain.”

  “So, what if he is?” he asked, losing his composure to another agitated laugh. “Ya got another future layin’ around here somewhere? I’d love to see it.”

  “I need him.”

  “Listen here. I been on the wrong side, an’ I’m done. Patrick made me Allister’s godfather to protect him, an’ I went an’ sold him to the Andromeda Project, an’ tried to sell him to you.” The disruption field flashed to transparency. “The kid’s brilliant, strong like his daddy. If he’s gonna stop this from happenin’, he don’t need you an’ this to get it done.” His arms opened to reference the underground base.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Mist separated from Dr. Giro’s body and slithered toward Jared’s unprotected nose. The disruption field didn’t return to protect him.

  “Syria, 2036. ISIS had taken the whole country. Our unit was locked in a tunnel under the main city for a week. No lights, a buncha dead, tortured civilians rottin’ next to us. Air raid took out the caves, the tunnels. There was soldiers down there, no one knew. An’ I survived thanks to my trusty gift. What I’m saying is, it ain’t checkmate yet. I been through worse.”

  The geneticist folded his hands. “We shall see.”

  Particles siphoned in Jared’s ears and up his nostrils then barreled down his throat. He convulsed, gagging and groping for the blunt edge of the table he was chained to.

  “Welcome back, Captain,” was the last thing he heard as Dr. Giro’s influence infected his thoughts.

  Dr. Rabia Giro

  C20 Basement

  An engineering facility had been constructed in the C20 compound’s lower level. Like the living dead, the organization’s hired scientists and soldiers filed in from all sides each morning to complete their day-to-days. At its close, the workers filed out to subpar meals in communal kitchens, and restless sleeps in single-occupancy cabin quarters.

  Rabia’s enthusiasm hid behind a tightened grimace. He sported a polyester lab coat, as if the room wasn’t fluctuating around 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Beneath the coat he wore his staple ensemble: a patterned orange chest plate and wool pants tapered at the ankle. As he walked, he asked, “Mr. Ashur, what’s status?”

  Russell Ashur, his lead engineer. Faithful. Brilliant. Starving for recognition. “Almost there, Doctor.” He hurried to a computer screen. “Confirming access levels and the energy’s location.”

  Better funding than the Andromeda Project, gave them better technology. State-of-the-art CPUs, two to three monitors each, surrounded engineers and physicists working in frigid silence. Behind clear, titanium, floor-to-ceiling energy absorption barriers sat Russell Ashur’s greatest achievement: the U-generator prototype. The containment center and the U-generator (named after its adaptation of Uragonian tech) were fraternal twins. Whereas the containment center held the Z-energy safe from the world, the U-generator would use the Z-energy as a power source for the world.

  Rabia, Russell, and their team accepted the challenge to study and recreate the substance or combination of substances strong enough to withstand the Z-energy’s radiation, an exercise essential for the generator’s success.

  Though fueled and empowered by scientific principles, Z-energy was magic. If it could be dreamt, it could be done, and if it could be understood, it could be mastered. Neight Caster boasted the Containment Center’s simplicity and promised it didn’t call for an additional enchantment or incantation to contain the energy, “It is maste
ring the relationship between metals, matter, and energies,” Neight had said when questioned. “A skill you do not possess.”

  The statement, seasoned with the savory taste of a challenge, fed Rabia’s rabid stubbornness. He knew the magnitude of their struggle, and refused to acknowledge that he’d underestimated the energy’s complexity.

  “Z-energy system found,” the computer announced.

  Russell, skin dipped in a lush pecan and a touch below middle-aged, rubbed his neck and stretched to look at the generator again. Condensation puffed in front of his face, while he watched hypothetical outcomes populate in real time. “That’s not right,” he said and removed his fur hood and gloves. “Sheesh, you’re not cold?”

  “Would be warm if you got generator working. I have meeting with C20 board in forty-eight hours. Test now.”

  “I’m not confident in the system’s stability,” he replied, reviewing the energy levels. He smoothed his wavy, unkempt hair. “It’s wanting to transfer more than the generator can handle.”

  “Move.” Rabia edged Russell over to reread the algorithm’s predictions and frowned.

  “See.”

  “Protective measures in place, yes?”

  “Ish.”

  “Test it.”

  Russell cocked his head to the side and pushed his glasses onto his face. “Start the transfer.” Another engineer initiated the process. “Here we go,” he muttered, lowering himself into the nearest seat with a fist over his mouth.

  “Transferring Z-energy,” the computer said.

  Blue energy snaked through the U-generator’s power rods. As a collective, the dozens of hollow tubes salvaged from Neight’s spaceship wrapped the core like Saturn’s rings and kept the energy contained during distribution. The spherical core, filling with Z-energy, creaked in steady rotation on its axis. A deafening buzz consumed the room as its speed increased, and consecutive beeps and dings signified empowered energy cells. For added security around the core, they’d built a durable but thick titanium alloy semicircle and a neutralizing ion field equal parts cation and anion. Held in place by foot-wide poles, the generator took up 700 square feet, supported a disruptive bulky design, and cost a billion dollars to construct.

  “Five percent access achieved,” the computer told them.

  A rotting smile stretched over Rabia’s face. Unparalleled luminosity engulfed the room. Goggles shielded every eye but his. He tilted his head back and squeezed Russell’s shoulder. “Full of promise. Now, use weapon.”

  Russell stood upright, pupils shrouded in white mist, and nodded. The protective barrier had an entrance where he scanned his Cynque. It opened with profound obedience. He waded through the unnatural tension between expectation and reality, unfazed by the machine’s ominous presence. He picked up the gun and looked to the audience for reaction. Marionettes on strings, in an uproar, they performed, offering encouraging claps and piercing whistles.

  The energy, coaxed from the whirring generator, powered the weapon with blue life. Aiming at the energy-canceling barriers, Russell fired. Dr. Giro mouthed victory when the wall absorbed the blast.

  Russell flipped the gun, then faced the generator, as if seeing the monster for the first time. It delivered more energy, replacing what had been used. He tossed the object away. He waved his arms. He mouthed, turn it off.

  Rabia’s smile flattened. Russell was not mouthing those words, he was yelling them. Yet, a barrier designed to cancel energy, cancelled all energy, even sound.

  “Ten percent access achieved,” the computer said.

  The room’s celebration quieted to murmurs. “Is he okay?” a newer physicist asked, lifting her goggles. The pulsating weapon, burdened by the energy’s access, exploded. Shrapnel banged against the protective wall, then deflected back into the center, clanging on the metal floor.

  “Hmmm,” Rabia said, bowing to the computer’s screen. “Generator’s pulling in 5 percent increments. Is not set to stop at 5 percent.”

  The physicist gasped. “The generator isn’t programmed to stop? If there’s nowhere to send the additional 5 percent, Mr. Ashur’s created an unstable energy system.”

  “Turn it off?” an assistant asked them.

  Rabia waited, the energy’s glow reflecting in his unbothered eyes. A pulse fanned from the core. The barrier splintered while absorbing the blasts entirety, suffering hairline fractures on its surface. Remaining energy retracted. The U-Generator powered down. A graveyard hush settled over the lab.

  “I severed the connection,” the physicist said. “A second one might have... ”

  “Check on Mr. Ashur,” Rabia ordered.

  Engineers’ heads emerged from under their forearms. Action returned to the room. Multiple scientists shrieked as Russell hoisted himself up, then collapsed.

  “Everyone out!” He pointed a finger at the physicist and said, “Except you, Ms. Eberle.” He left the computer and knelt to check Russell’s wrist for a heartbeat.

  Blood formed blotchy stains on the engineer’s puffy coat near cuts from the weapon’s metal. Huddled, too shocked to inhale, Russell asked, “You-you knew this would happen, didn’t you?”

  Rabia’s thumb located the injury on Russell’s triceps and applied pressure. Russell howled. Wet thin liquid seeped up to his hairy knuckle as he drilled deeper, summoning more anguished cries. He wiped the gore on his coat and resumed standing. “You are here to make sure this works, not to question my commands.”

  “Medics are on the way,” Ms. Eberle said and shrank back.

  “Good. Repair barrier for next demonstration.”

  Five ski-suited men in masks entered. Rabia, rooted to the floor like a great oak tree in a storm, let the commotion swirl around him in a long-faced hush. They collected Russell’s body onto a stretcher and wheeled him to the infirmary for treatment.

  Zosma Caster

  C20 Infirmary

  Zosma had heard Rabia refer to the room, located on C20 HQ’s middle floor, as the base’s infirmary. Machines measured human vitals. Massive heaters guaranteed bearable temperatures. Accessible through a tunnel connected to the lab, he asked her to meet him there expressing utmost urgency.

  She floated, her razor sharp facial features, and needle-straight hair visible to anyone in decent proximity. The hooded cloak draping her skintight Uragonian battle armor scuffed the dingy floor as she landed for a closer look.

  Paper sheets and a naked, unconscious human body covered a long, padded table. She neared the limp figure, which she identified as a man via his anatomy. Under false light, he glistened with the sheen of a broken fever, clearly on the verge of his last shallow breath. Such delicate creatures. She recognized him, though certain she shouldn’t have, as the engineer from the Andromeda Project. His name eluded recollection.

  A clear bag labeled “adrenaline” pumped liquid into the engineer’s veins. His cheek twitched.

  “Hmm, should be awake now,” Rabia said.

  She brought the cloak’s hood up, freeing her from light’s truth, and shook her head while shrouded in the privacy of the garment’s shadow. Shackles rested against the table’s side. She wanted to believe it was a dream. She’d never been bound by them and, yes, of course she’d chosen to be there helping Rabia preserve the Earth. C20 was her home on this strange planet.

  Air escaped faster than she could take it in. Uragonian tears released hydrogen ions when combined with elements in Earth’s atmosphere, causing them to become acidic. One oncoming drop would reveal her awareness.

  “Zosma?” Rabia asked, at a whisper’s distance.

  “Yes.” She faced him, head down. “Do you require my assistance?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He returned to his duties and she, distracted by medical machines, robotic assistants, the genetic scanner, drew closer to the latter. Caressing it brought back... Russell. Russell Ashur was the patient’s name. He’d built the Andromeda Project’s gadgets.

  “What did you say happened to the human again?”
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  A woman and man entered the room. “We came as soon as we... ” the woman cut herself off as they ran into each other sidestepping Zosma, “could.”

  “Keep him from going into coma,” Rabia instructed and nodded Zosma’s direction. “Activate G.A.M.”

  She initiated the Genetic Analysis Mechanism, which from her assessment was just a glorified body scanner. The machine isolated Russell’s epidermal, nerve and muscle cells and showed them a microscopic view of its work on the screen.

  “Analysis complete,” the machine announced. “Cellular biology diagnosis: Radiation damage. Human tissue is not equipped to handle direct exposure to pure Z-energy.” On the zoomed in screen, skin and muscle cells disintegrated one after the other.

  “Exposed to pure Z-energy, how?” she asked, approaching the master computer.

  “We are building important device for directors,” Rabia replied. “No more questions.”

  Zosma flinched at the word “device” and took a sharp breath. “The energy is degenerative. It will continue to break down his cells until he is no more than dust. I can stop it, if it is your wish.”

  “What is worst case?”

  “The human perishes.”

  “Proceed.”

  She let the cloak fall behind her elbows. Her fingers drew circles, and curled into fists.

  Z-energy poured from Russell’s orifices, smelling of a scorched forest. His body convulsed as the magic of her people was sucked out of him. The energy wrapped around itself in the air and traveled to her waiting palms.

  The absorption’s force blew the cape and Zosma back. Knocked over chairs banged into machinery. The shrieking human helpers thudded against the wall. Rabia stood, hands clasped, uninjured, and unmoved.

  Reconnecting to the energy swept a brief, vivid memory over her: discovering the containment center at the Andromeda Project. Looking at the infinite Z-energy inside it shaped like her. Realizing her psyche was bound behind a magic wall inside Leesa’s mind.

  What am I doing? Zosma thought.

  “That will be all,” Rabia said. His forefinger took her chin. A grey swarm dispelled the memories, reeling in her concern and putting her at peace. “Return to your duties,” a deep voice, deeper than Rabia’s echoed in the condensed mist, then repeated in Rabia’s accent, “Return to your duties.”