Confusion at his word choice commenced among the attendees. Allister? Allister can you hear me? she asked, jaw clenched so tight she felt her teeth would shatter from pressure.
“Many know her as political activist, renowned psychiatrist, and daughter of infamous Lord Giovanni Belladonna.” He gave a short, sarcastic clap. “However, what I know, which you do not know is that Dr. Belladonna is superhuman.” His shifting eyes stopped on her.
A moment she’d spent six years avoiding, from calling off the engagement to quitting politics to playing dead.
“E’ vero, Doctor?”
Led by Jane’s head turn and porcelain veneer grin, her peers examined her like a zoo animal.
Florence protested. “I’m not sure what you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean.” Dr. Giro entered the audience like a prosecutor engaging a jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, not only is she superhuman, Giovanni, rest his soul, was also one.” Parallel to her in the aisle, he continued his character assassination. “Their power rests in telepathy, and for those who do not know, that is ability to read thoughts, control thoughts.”
A crack of thunder trumped her heartbeat’s loudness. Her temperature touched the vaulted ceiling. Forget the last six years, she’d spent her life avoiding this moment. The elite’s inescapable stares dissected her sweaty face as she clutched her chest in utter silence.
“President DeVries has been lying to you all.” Dr. Giro descended the stairs. “Dr. Belladonna is not psychiatrist, she is weapon. He used her telepathy to shut down Korea missile efforts. Hired her undercover to retrieve Transporter gems for U.S. government. And now, he’s employed her and Bazzo Sparks to dissuade this world’s leaders from paving path to your future. Why do these things? Are you not one people as he so eloquently preached?”
“She should be allowed to explain herself,” an Indian diplomat said.
“I don’t want to hear it, lock her up,” a financier from the UK argued.
“An absolute disgrace to our society,” said a third. It was the Norwegian Queen, of course.
“50 years successful in business,” Aleksander sneered, “Because I always knew better than to trust Giovanni.”
She sensed Allister’s concentration lapse again.
“United States wants to seize my hard work by force, say I am terrorist. No, I am scientist. And they twisted this poor child into thinking he is their hero when he is their pawn.”
The guilt in her was a steel ball, heavy enough to keep her weighed down, not quiet.
“It’s... not... true... ” Florence said. “It’s not true. I had nothing to do with this energy war. My father paid for your psychotic science experiment and after he found out what you were doing, he pulled the plug.”
“And you expect us to believe Giovanni Belladonna acquired moral compass!” Dr. Giro exclaimed. “He spent his life deceiving humans in business, in politics. Belladonna family status is false!”
Discussions drowned the dying storm, but all she heard was repeated tapping. Surprised to hear anything with people speaking over each other at their highest decibels, she glanced at a jittery uniformed soldier next to her. They were not conversations. They were thoughts. Hundreds of spastic mental voices scraped the telepathic barrier.
“Quiet!” Florence demanded.
She balanced on wobbling legs, knowing timidity and tears wouldn’t win the battle. Pink energy spread across her cheeks, encompassed her head and body, then deepened to scarlet red fire burning around her. Necks craned to get a better look. She glowed as much due to psionic energy as to perspiration.
Her chin lifted as she spoke, “My father’s actions... aren’t mine. His crimes... aren’t mine, and I have generations of wealth unrelated to his crooked dealings, thank you very much.” She knew her words were moot. Individual thought had become a jumbled disaster. Dr. Giro’s influence enveloped the room.
She met her rekindled lover’s terrified eyes. His cheeks and upper body sagged as he executed the smallest, vigorous head shake. She saw Wesley’s lips say, “don’t do it,” and heard him begging her through their mental connection not to open the vault. Hunter switched roles to bodyguard and carried an odd smirk as he moved to protect the president. Allister’s neck rolled around as he muttered incoherence.
“Let’s talk about you, Dr. Giro. The sixth, is it? Or was it seventh? I can’t keep track, there’s so many of you.”
“Quiet.” He glared at her. “Or I’ll do more than put you to sleep. Apprehend her.”
“Hey, they take orders from me,” Hunter said.
“Not anymore.”
Realizing Dr. Giro’s attack strategy, she’d used up her telepathy keeping Allister, Hunter, and Wesley’s minds intrusion-free. Energy fled like a flock of birds. She buckled.
Two dripping wet soldiers wrestled back her arms and, in the struggle, she ripped her gown at the waistline. “Let me go!” she protested. “Your identity is fake, Dr. Giro. We found your secret.”
Wesley came from behind Hunter, who put his arm out and said, “Suggest you stay put, Prez, or it’s a wrap for you.”
“Tell them who you really are!”
The soldier choked her, ensuring submission, while the second inserted a needle into her neck and pressed the plunger. Liquid invaded her bloodstream. Her vision blurred. Both legs folded under her and the injection seized her consciousness in an iron grip.
Chapter Six
An Imperfect Sacrifice
Allister Adams
World Energy Summit, Deep Cove, Vancouver
Allister’s shoulders contracted. Dizzy and weak in the limbs from seeing Florence overpowered, he brought his elbows to his lap and rubbed his clammy hands together.
Was now the time to leap up and pummel Dr. Giro to his death? Or would the doctor’s influence over the soldiers incite a shootout at the slightest movement, incinerating bodies left, and right? Or was his anger misguided altogether when the real enemy was the U.S. government?
Freedom to act, or react, had become a curse. It bound him to the chair with fear of uncontrollable outcomes. The heroic moment (or what idea of heroic had been ingrained in his skull) was conceived from an energy war camouflaged in altruism. This conglomeration of allies and enemies had come to decide which future to stand for, when Dr. Giro had already decided for them.
Swept by a dense, sickening odor, Allister sat up straight, held his breath and knees for beloved life. Dr. Giro’s Eastern European olive skin had changed to a decaying grey. Wispy white hair had grown past his shoulders but didn’t fill in at a receding hairline.
“Hmmm. Your transformation begins so soon,” the doctor muttered and coaxed a curly purple strand from Allister’s scalp. “Now, I present you Uragon Princess, Zosma Caster.”
Zosma graced the stage, floating in all her limitless beauty. She bowed to the speechless, entranced ensemble. Allister felt his mouth stretch and cheeks creep up. Her innate charm emboldened a smile’s humble beginnings.
The guests didn’t share his reverence. Shrieks from some beget screams from others, and the most intelligible reactions were limited to, “Oh my gosh,” and “What is that thing?”
Allister tugged at his shirt collar as he studied Zosma’s body for language. Her eye twitched. Her fingers balled into a fist. The muscles in her neck tightened. She’d achieved negligible assimilation to Earth’s culture and customs, and judging by her response, was incapable of discerning inconsiderate awe from contempt.
“Do not be alarmed,” Dr. Giro said, arms clasped behind him. “This delightful creature is saving planet by letting us use her energy. Show them what you do, Zosma.”
Hovering, palms to the ceiling, Zosma raised her arms, and energy ignited her body in a radiant blue aura. Globes of firefly light split into twos, then divided again, and again, multiplying as if experiencing mitosis, until they resembled crushed sapphires. Her creations drifted amongst the guests and captured the room in childlike magic. A daring, curious few extended thei
r hands.
“I have to admit I’m skeptical,” the Moroccan king said. “A good majority of us received a thorough report proving this energy emits harmful radiation.”
“Not in small doses and not when contained. This is where U-generators come in. My engineer, Mr. Ashur has found way to extract and store and distribute what you see.”
Dr. Giro spoke with such verve, Allister had to shake the sincerity in his voice. He turned around to watch the augmented reality presentation projected onto a giant screen. The revenue model C20 had built guaranteed a 1000 percent return on investment through moderate taxation and annual premiums.
“Is inexpensive to use, because it is infinite. It cannot burn off, or burn out, or dry up. More important, and this is essential, it is not harmful to environment, and power cell storage does not diminish over time.”
The Z-energy’s magic reversed. Speckles fused into balls, and these balls merged into larger spheres. They spun, transformed to streaks, and her timid alien hands absorbed them. She was nervous. The longing for belonging gripped minds of the strongest and weakest alike. He couldn’t recall where he’d heard the piece of wisdom.
A dignified applause followed the conclusion of her power display.
“How does it work?” the Nigerian king screeched. “I was promised technology that would preserve my country and sustain my people, not a light show, blue prints, and graphs!”
“It is simple,” Dr. Giro answered. “Generators draw from source.”
Zosma cried out. Her back arched, and she fell, banished like Lucifer from the heavens, and slammed to the merciless floor. Her crystalized crown tumbled. She contracted into fetal position as energy siphoned from her body,
“What’d you do to her!” Allister shouted.
“From our base ten thousand miles south, the invention we call U-generator has taken 5 percent of available energy. They will be conductors, powering homes, cities, cars, and soon, spacecraft.”
Her eyes bounced between a fiery blue and misty black. “What will happen to me?” Zosma asked.
“A sacrifice must be made. You will join your people in Realm of Others, and billions live because of your selflessness.”
Captain Brandt snatched Wesley and dragged him across the stage. Hunter clanked his fists. The captain’s plasma cannon aimed at the detective’s chest. “I wouldn’t try me if I was you,” he warned and pressed the weapon to Wesley’s head.
The chord in Allister’s nerves was struck. Two red paint pantones were mixed together; anger and fury, and slapped on his face. Charging at Dr. Giro, he spat through gritted teeth, “I knew you were a maniac!”
“And I knew you would come for retribution,” Dr. Giro said, and stepped toward him. “You can choose. Kill me now and save Zosma. But President DeVries will die.”
What a barbarous trap laid beneath the leaves of Allister’s persistence and sticks of his intention. There in the middle of the stage he halted, ensnared. The auditorium should’ve been swamped in chaos and horrified screams. Instead, they were like silent spectators at an opening weekend film.
Dr. Giro waved his sausage-sized finger up and down. “Has it ever crossed your advanced mind that even if you kill me, you cannot save her.” He nodded at the audience. “They will use what I have built to preserve themselves.”
The Transporter gems emitted buzzing energy waves and time slowed to a standstill. He saw Zosma’s body crumpled beside the cracked crown. In the other direction, Wesley had squeezed himself into the smallest occupiable space. Hunter didn’t seem intent on helping. Florence had recovered from drug-induced slumber and propped herself on her elbow. Strangely, the syringe in the masked agent’s hand was 90 percent full.
Allister made his final turn to Dr. Rabia Giro’s inhuman stare. A dastardly grin stretched across gaunt features and the black mist moved too, defying the gem’s effects. His own hesitation yanked the rug from under him and the world unpaused. While the scene sped up, Allister let his knees give way and sat on his heels. His head bowed, his fingers intertwined, and he rested his knuckles against his forehead.
There were too many decisions to be made to make one.
Dr. Giro retraced his steps to tower beside Zosma’s debilitated frame. “Everyone wants to have power. But as you see, it is not about what you have, it is about what you do with it.” His mist filled her body to the brim, and when Zosma got up, a thunderstorm raged in her eyes. “Kill them.”
Florence Belladonna
Florence unsheathed the sword, flicked her wrist, and touched its edge to the soldier’s neck beside her. “Don’t you dare.”
“Watch where you’re pointin’ that thing,” he said and removed the mask.
Sighing, she lowered it. “Bazzo, thank goodness.”
The other soldier yanked off his mask and shook out shoulder-length hair: Dorian.
“Get the officials as far away as you can,” she instructed, tearing the dress’s Cinderella skirt to reveal black tights. “I’ll deal with her.”
Zosma flew to the stairs’ edge. Blue energy flocked to her converging hands. Florence’s heart skipped a beat at another bellow of thunder, at shrill screams, at Bazzo yelling, “Run! No, don’t look! Stop recording!” The last stragglers jolted out of Dr. Giro’s influence and scurried to the exits.
Blush-colored light burst from her psiborg leg. Sword handle and blade upright, inches from her sternum, she took a deep breath and staggered her feet. The power swirled and expanded beyond the weapon’s edge, building a psionic wall at the exact moment Zosma released the ergokinetic discharge. Florence braced herself, though no training prepared her for a collision likened to a meteoric mass in motion. Following a forewarning crackle from each, the Z-energy and the force field collided with a deafening boom.
Florence slid back. The psychic barrier cracked. She gulped. The psychic barrier held. Zosma, I don’t know you, but I know you’re in there, she projected.
Panting, palm perpendicular on the blade’s flat side, she pushed the sword forward, intent on repairing the damage. Resewing torn psionic threads, it dawned on her that if the alien woman put an ounce more power behind the subsequent blast, her efforts were irrelevant.
Restored life was evident in the field’s vibrancy and a Z-energy burst stronger than the first deadened her yell.
Megatons of deflected energy blew a hovering Zosma from her position. Some absorbed energy permeated her psionic field, disintegrating it. Whatever energy remained sent Florence smashing upwards through wooden stairs.
Florence winced and shook her head, lying in a bed of sticks created by her collision. No time to exhale, nor count how often she’d fought a cosmic-powered adversary, she gasped. Zosma landed on top of her, pinning her down. Florence’s muscles ached for an intermission, yet her determined fingers groped for the sword as she dodged the alien’s death delivering blows.
Seconds later, she struck gold. Psionic power fizzled at her palm’s center, blowing Zosma back two feet at most. She snatched the dragon handle, rolled onto her knee, and swiped across Zosma’s guts. Too slow. Zosma dodged with a full rotation and loomed, menacing fingers curled, cutting air circulation to Florence’s lungs. Legs stiffening, she rose.
“This world’s strongest psychic,” Zosma said, “A being who knows too much and does nothing with it.”
Florence may have been an appetizer on Dr. Giro’s hit list, but the killing machine wasn’t moving onto the main course until finishing every morsel. An impenetrable mind’s effortless execution.
“Oi, Dr. B!” Bazzo, the idiot of a savior half her age, charged to the rescue in their peripheral. “Put her down!” she heard him yell before the sizzling of electricity.
Unafraid, Zosma confronted Bazzo without releasing her chokehold on Florence. The electric storm already en route zapped her chest. Her body shot backward and demolished the stage.
“Bazzo,” Florence said, using him to remain standing. “We have to take down Dr. Giro or—” She shoved him away.
An instant later they plowed through plaster and wood. At least it wasn’t concrete. Breathless, Florence regrouped on all fours.
“Nobody messes with fam.” Bazzo’s banter echoed down the hallway and moved slower than his blinding glow. Zosma retracted a sturdy leg to kick her. Too slow. Electricity unified into a singular bolt, hurtled forward, and struck Zosma from whence they’d come. Impressive control and tactical knowledge Florence was too worn to appreciate.
Zosma’s stamina and agility resisted the natural rate of fatigue. By that logic, in Florence’s mind, she had seconds to recover and opted to take them laying down. To her surprise, Zosma didn’t come barreling back to battle.
Running to her, Bazzo asked, “Are you good?” His eyes, white with determination, faded to their leafy green.
“I’ll manage.” Her tongue recoiled at a laceration seeping blood inside her mouth. She spit wads of it onto the marble floors and fought her injuries and mounting weariness for the will to get up. “Where’s Wesley?” she asked, coughing.
“No clue. Stay put. I’m going back for Dorian.” Bazzo threw his arms at his side and electricity raced down his shoulders to his fingertips.
In her youth, she’d boasted excellent rebound skills too. Now, retirement harassed her muscles, shook her bones.
“Florence! Florence, are you hurt? Put me down.”
Hunter had Wesley tucked under his arm, so, not the dreamy knight in shining armor visual she’d envisioned. Though her wide, shaky smile said otherwise. The detective set him down and he tripped over stray metal beams and wooden wall chunks to get to her.
“Dorian attacked Captain Brandt and I, I ran.” Wesley crouched, caressed her shoulders, staring to where savage combat transpired. “I don’t under... I don’t understand what happened.”
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