“What you babbling about, Caster?” he asked. A chunk of skin fell off his chin and squished on the metal. Annoying, yet painless.
“Ironic you chose to conclude your research on this continent. Fitting. I can do nothing but appreciate your flare for sentiment.”
“I spend my life studying human genome, how it works, limitations, adaptations, compatibility.” Rabia’s chin reached for the half-mile-high ceiling. He kicked his legs up, and paraded around the prison. “My results would fascinate you.”
“I do not doubt this. They are an intriguing species. Though, I believe you mean you spent his life studying the human genome.” Neight pointed at his plump body.
Done playing the mighty steed in the merry-go-round, he stopped in front of Neight and twirled a finger around the capsule’s scramble button. “If centrifuge rips you apart, how long to put yourself together?”
“At my current power levels, long enough for you to fail.” His head bowed in faux respect. “About two Earth weeks.”
“Good to note.” Rabia walked away with pep in his step. Louder, he continued, “Is stunning, you built machine to house your planet’s ‘core’ reactions, reactions a body can’t endure.”
“Mastering Z-energy is a lifelong journey, and you are incorrect to infer a physical body cannot be capable. It demands time, training, and mental strength. As for the containment center, it was created to delay the inevitable, which is all you need to know.”
Rabia assumed the “inevitable” meant its detection and misuse.
Illuminated grids, graphs, diagrams, and equations linked the containment center as the location for the energy source. Z-energy manifested inside the off-white fishbowl, swirling like Jupiter’s giant red spot, only blue. Stored three floors above them, the invention replicated the properties of Uragon’s core and contained the energy’s constant chemical reactions by repelling them into itself.
“Since we are on the subject, I have update for you regarding our progress.” He vaporized and melted into the walls, taunted Neight with god-like omnipresence. “The hypothesis was incorrect. Containment center is holding cell. Zosma, your darling Zosma, is true Z-energy source.”
Florence Belladonna
North Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
Florence, Bazzo, Wesley, and Dorian arrived in British Columbia’s new capital by town car. Among rows upon rows of verdant hills, Douglas firs, and Sitka spruces, nature’s hooting, cawing, and chirping carried on endless conversations. Fishing boats and small yachts rocked steadily, bumping against North Vancouver’s docks. Its inner harbor was alive with seafarers, who complained and swigged beer outdoors. Her telepathy on overload picked up their rebellious thoughts. Blaring sirens and the city’s sundown curfew would eliminate them.
“Thanks for pulling this off Baz,” Florence said.
“Glad my dual-citizenship was finally worth a damn.” Bazzo pushed up the butterfly door, got out of the driver’s seat and stretched. “Can’t say it was tough this time around. This bloody summit is open doors for any nation who’s stayed afloat and has some Techno-cash to blow.”
“You make it sound so frivolous. Many of them are attending
out of genuine concern,” Wesley countered.
“For themselves,” Bazzo said.
Florence pointed at Wesley and Dorian. “As non-citizens, you two are allowed twenty-four hours here. Let’s make them count.”
“Remind me how you got them to agree to host this summit in the first place?” Bazzo asked the president.
“They owed us a favor,” Wesley snapped.
Florence rolled her eyes and said to Bazzo, “Yes, because I caught the assassin responsible for the Canadian Prime Minister’s death.”
An assassination that caused the Great White North to flip from a peaceful democracy to a militaristic dictatorship. Strict visa laws had kept Canada’s borders gridlocked. No fugitives, no immigrants, no foreign businesses, no exceptions.
And enter Mother Nature, since being the world’s most changed social and political infrastructure wasn’t enough. Each summer, the Pacific stole an increasing amount of Alaska’s permafrost. An entire state literally melting off the map promised to put Vancouver Island, Burnaby, Delta, and Richmond’s main areas underwater in five years. Hence moving the economic epicenter further north.
Florence stood, dwarfed by another estate belonging to her. A sprawling log cabin, hand hewn from timber, and built on a fire-forged stone foundation.
“Thanks for coming.” She twisted her body to Dorian Xander, whose shoulders had shrunk from the forest’s noise. “Keep in mind what I told you, listen to the silence.” She handed him one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of Techno-currency packed in a single chip. “As promised.”
Focused on his untied bootlaces, Dorian gave a short nod, and closed his hand around it.
“I thought it’d be cooler,” she mumbled, and bunched her sleeves up.
“West Coast weather,” Bazzo replied. He greeted the two house staff, who came to collect his travel bag. “Get Dr. B’s first, mate,” he said and pointed at a Gucci weekender.
“Welcome back, Mr. Sparks,” a woman said. “Hear you’re in trouble again.”
“No one’s been ‘round here, right, Margy?” he asked.
The plain young woman paused mid-scuttle and stared down the steps at him intently. “No, sir.”
“Good, let’s keep it that way.”
Wesley slung his hand luggage over his shoulder and grumbled aloud, “Didn’t know this existed.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” Bazzo retorted. He picked up his bag and gestured to Florence. “After you.”
Margy took the initiative to settle the guests’ belongings in their assigned rooms. Meanwhile, Bazzo led them through an open entryway, past leather couches dressed in exotic Afghans, and stopped under a ceiling of intertwining logs next to a barren fireplace.
“Hello, Bazzo, Dr. Belladonna, welcome home,” Giovanni said.
A comical juxtaposition embedded artificial intelligence in the vintage property. Despite her distaste for technology, having a globally connected system provided irrefutable convenience.
“Gio, control room access, please,” Bazzo said.
“Voice recognition confirmed. My pleasure.”
The fireplace compressed and disappeared into the wall, revealing the computer’s mainframe. More operations base than relaxing fjord view getaway. Enthralled by satellite surveillance and inundated with blue light, Florence tripped and barked, “Don’t touch me,” as Wesley went to catch her.
She avoided his pleading stare. It required confidence in her courage to look in his intense grey irises and not be swept off her feet by the river of betrayal and lies running between them. Arms crossed, jaw sliding across the hinges, she threw her hair in a messy bun and mustered an even tone, “Giovanni, I need you to run a biographical on Dr. Rabia Giro.”
“Would you like to run it on the Cynque global database?”
“No. Go stealth. Hack into Google’s private search engine. They’ll have archived data from before the cleanse.”
“Whoa, Google. That’s a throwback,” Bazzo said. He found an office chair in the corner to park himself in. “C’mon Gio. Hurry it up. You’re still plugged in, right?”
“Confirmed. I have access and I’ve found five matches. Would you like to choose one?”
Five men were pictured in glitchy squares. No mouth went uncovered, and an astonished gasp escaped anytime a member of the small audience read the next biography. Generations of born and bred scientists, Rabia Giro the third, fourth, fifth, and so on. However, their unique lifespans, birthplaces, and physical attributes didn’t align in her head.
“Copernicus... Galileo... Isaac Newton... Darwin... Einstein... he assisted them all,” she said.
“Dios mío!” the Cynque in Dorian’s pocket shouted, missing his typical melancholy context.
“Mmm, it looks like a lineage to me,” Wesley said.
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“Except they don’t look to be related,” Bazzo offered.
“You sound as crazy as General Delemar,” the president scoffed. “Sorry, but I’ve been through this exercise. When we developed the power suppression system, Dr. Giro and Captain Brandt were the two resident superhumans.”
“Let me guess, you guys made ‘em guinea pigs?”
“They volunteered. At any rate, the system worked by linking, for example, transmutation to a gene sequence. Russell tested the prototype using Giro’s DNA and found out he was human.”
“First of all, there is no way Dr. Giro’s human. Second, I think now’s a good time to discuss the folder from General Delemar’s Cynque,” she said. “Open folder Hexforth.” Dating back to the 1900s; photographs, signed research documents, blueprints, and handwritten letters piled evidence onto an unsettling mystery. “I’ve had the images in it cross-referenced. Our friend Dr. Giro’s been studying the Z-energy long before the world’s problems started.”
Fifteen minutes later they filed into the living room. Wesley loitered near her, shifting his weight, clearing his throat. “Florence.” He stepped toward her. “Please. Say something—”
“I can show you to your rooms,” a woman proposed.
Florence turned her back to Wesley and faced the head of property affairs, who had arrived with helpers to escort them to their lodging. “Wonderful, thank you, Margy.”
Bazzo waited for them to leave then said, “It’s not totally his fault. He’s the president. Politics takes hold. Protecting what’s left of the free world... blah blah blah.”
“Yeah, he’s the president. He’s a lot of other things too.” She toyed with an imaginary ring on her finger, adding, “We were engaged, for about a month.” Florence’s mouth twitched. She wanted to smile at the potential for happiness and a family.
“Um, come again?”
“You asked if there was anything going on.”
A blank look took over his face.
“With Wesley and me.” She tapped her boot on the wooden floor, inhaled, and strolled toward the kitchen. “Forget it. Espresso?”
“I’m good.”
The old-fashioned hum of grinding coffee beans dropped a double shot into a porcelain cup rumored to have originated in the sixteenth century. Her father had used the handcrafted three-cup set for his daily morning, mid-afternoon, and evening brew.
Lord Giovanni Belladonna, dead at eighty.
“You’re growing up so fast,” her father had said to her at thirteen. If anyone were to ask what happened to the girl who used to enjoy ballet lessons and recitals at the Broadway Dance Center. To the girl who liked pretty dresses. To Lord Giovanni’s little lady. She’d say the truth happened and demolished the facade of her fairytale upbringing. At sixteen, she found out the man who’d given her everything was worth nothing. Yes, Giovanni had more money than God, but he was bankrupt in morals. She took up fencing instead.
Florence peered at the dark, steaming liquid. In two months she’d adopted her father’s same habit: one double shot, three times a day. Drinking it paid homage to him, though she hadn’t shed a tear for his death. She took a sip. Strong and bitter, like him.
“He hired me at twenty years old. Granted, I’m a genius,” Bazzo said and winked. “Still, he took a chance, showed me how the business worked behind the scenes.”
“I haven’t spoken to him in twenty years.” Her lips pressed together, then parted as she finished. “But, I’m glad. I’m glad he had you.”
According to Bazzo, her father didn’t believe in love. He’d admired his eldest daughter for being headstrong and determined, favored her because of their shared psychic potential. Even if she’d tricked herself into thinking she didn’t need validation, it felt damn good to hear.
“Reminds me, I need to show you the library,” he said.
Florence’s mouth fell open. Adjacent to the entranceway was a reading room wrapped in a mesmerizing library. Thousands of books, real bound and printed paper books, lined its spotless shelves. As she stepped past the room’s manual sliding doors, she stepped thirty plus years into the past. A time before digital had taken over. Cleaned in preparation for their arrival, she inhaled fresh pine and musky oils. Her heart fluttered at round oak tables, leather armchairs, a diamond one-hundred-and-twenty-eight-light chandelier.
“This is a dream. I can’t believe my father owned anything this... magnificent.”
“Your dad owned some kick-ass literature,” Bazzo said. “Now, you do.” He wandered ahead and searched the library’s inventory at eye level, then got on his toes to check the higher shelves. “Ah, there it is.” With both hands, he yanked a bulky, withered book sandwiched among two others of greater size. “His fave. Raved about this one, said it held the universe’s secrets.”
Florence deserted her idol gazing to join him at the largest oak table, which was built to a height that encouraged reading on one’s feet. “The Book of Ancestry,” she mumbled and traced the woven binding. “I’ve seen the name.”
He curtsied. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Inside the book, she saw her name etched in Giovanni’s distinct calligraphy on a folded note. She flattened it on the table, and then she read:
Florence,
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve come home. I’ll never be able to explain why I did the things I did, but I can imagine you’ve seen how corrupt a world can be. I learned how to navigate it a long time ago. The future here is grim. On these pages, you’ll find our past, which you must understand to forge our continued existence. The language in this manuscript has been lost to mankind as it was not theirs to begin with. Use your telepathy to read it. My eighteenth birthday gift, the sword of Psion, is tethered to you. Do not underestimate its strength or yours.
Regards,
Lord G. Belladonna
Florence laid a hand on the paper as if it were the shiny lapel of her father’s favorite tuxedo. She exhaled contempt, inhaled understanding, exhaled apathy, and then halted, not ready to inhale forgiveness.
She unhinged the serrated sword from her hip, curled her fingers around the handle, and liberated it from the sheath. The silver gleam dancing in diamond’s light matched her psiborg leg. Upon further inspection, she found infused in its blade were the same tiny purple crystals infused in her artificial limb. Psychic energy rose off of her shoulders without her conscious command, startling her. The sword slipped and clattered on the table. She slammed the book shut, which stopped a chorus of whispers from singing in her ears.
World Energy Summit, Deep Cove, Vancouver
“Your father told me you can’t protect a woman stronger than you,” Wesley said, as he tied his bowtie. “Now I know what he meant.”
Florence crossed her legs in the limousine’s backseat. Her arms, soaked in black evening gloves, draped her thigh, while Deep Cove and its homogenous forest borrowed her attention. Better that than lending it to his words.
“Fifteen years and I’ve loved you more each one,” he said.
Her pupils shifted to her eye’s corners. Her neck turned above a bare shoulder sturdy as a wall his confessions could not break.
Short, wavy hair moved beneath Wesley’s hands, as he held her gaze with the same determination as the words spilled from his soul. “Do you understand how empty I feel? I didn’t know how to cope with - with losing you. And if I’m being real, I don’t want to. I’ve done everything I can to keep you close. To keep an eye on you. You’re all I have.”
“Wesley, stop it.”
“Florence, Florence. Don’t drag this out, I made a mistake. I’ve made mistakes.” He folded his lips in, reached across the seat, and offered a light touch on her gown’s frill. “If we can enjoy one evening together, it’ll be worth all the ones we’ve missed. What’re you so afraid of?”
Florence flashed back to what she’d believed were her last moments on Earth. The plane shredded to bits by the time it plunged into the Atlantic. Ocean rushed through her lungs
and bundled her in death’s blanket. Her certainty that she’d die there, unloved and forgotten. In a single memory, a thirty-minute make-up application became a Matisse of cosmetics and tears.
Wesley wiped them, captured her makeup-smeared face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. She softened to his embrace and turned her body to indulge. He caressed her psiborg leg.
“Don’t.” She pushed his hand off but squeezed it for support.
He took her chin, touched her leg again, and said, “This is part of you. Accept it. I have.”
She smoothed her hand over Wesley’s hairline and said, “I’ll try,” then deserted the love scene.
Reapplying blush, eyeshadow, and eyeliner was a ruse to reconstruct a telepathic barrier to contain her emotions. Being a stranger to affection and best friends with solitude pushed Wesley, the closest thing to family she’d get in her lifetime, to the outskirts of her mental walls.
Wesley rolled down the window. A gentle wind rescued his scrunched forehead from sweat’s gloss. His handsome, youthful face brooded above a patterned, fuchsia bowtie. It matched her striking ensemble, though, it wasn’t the occasion’s principal accessory. The sword slept at their feet.
“How do you plan on getting that inside?”
“You know how,” she said, as she stroked her lashes with the mascara’s wand. Florence screwed the cap on and dabbed her lower lid.
Burdened by god knows what, his heel bounced while the left thumb tapped the right thumb’s knuckle. She snuck a selfish peek at her ex-fiancé’s thoughts and found him conflicted by his love for her and his fear of losing her. Being afraid to lose people was a dangerous way to live life. Especially people like her, who were already lost.
Lightning forked in silence to an unsuspecting ground, and thunderous booms gave delayed warning. Rain’s sour smell hinted at an on-time arrival, but remained fashionably late, waiting for conflict. The World Energy Summit’s remote venue was a restored mansion inspired by the British Columbian parliament building. An exquisite granite, marble, and andesite sculpture set against the indigo backdrop of a summer evening. Soldiers patrolled the perimeter of a forty-foot spiked gate.
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