Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone

by Andrews, Christopher

  Blessedly, he reached the PCA regional headquarters before he could ponder those moments further. He was supposed to have the afternoon off, but he’d gotten bored, so ... here he was to brighten everyone’s day!

  After signing into the building — “signing” these days entailing a retina scan, a voice-print verification, and some weird sci-fi doodad from Davison Electronics that read frontal brainwaves, to try and catch shapeshifters (he hadn’t paid too much attention during the briefing about that one) — Mark made his way upstairs to the office he shared with Michael. He popped his head inside with a simultaneous knock and quipped with a mischievous smile, “Company computers ain’t for porn, young’n.”

  His wit, sadly, was wasted on an empty room. He glanced at the wall clock to confirm the time; Michael would normally still be here. Weird. If he’d gone off rogue-hunting, he would’ve called ...

  As he was turning to leave, something caught his eye. By his own admission, Mark wasn’t normally the most observant fellow in the world, but a lone, unopened envelope addressed to his partner in an otherwise empty wastepaper basket was hard to miss. Cocking a curious eyebrow, he bent to retrieve the envelope, but he already had a gut feeling about what he would find.

  He checked the return address. His gut was right.

  Shit ... Christine again.

  Christine White was that damn waitress who Michael hooked up with a year ago. Turned out she was a mole or whatever for that asshole Richard McLane. Michael personally arrested her ass, and Christine got locked away like the rest of those terrorists. Good riddance ... except that she had written to Michael at least a dozen times, addressing her letters to the PCA headquarters since he had moved apartments.

  As far as Mark knew, his partner had only opened one of them, the first one — when Mark expressed his “morbid curiosity” about what she had to say, Michael had tossed the letter onto Mark’s desk without a word. The girl wrote about how she had made a mistake, she was paying for her crime, she really cared for him, blah, blah, blah. Mark had openly scoffed at the notion, badmouthing the backstabbing bitch in top “bros-before-hoes” form.

  But as the months passed and Michael withdrew, stewing about the whole ordeal almost nonstop, or so it seemed ... now Mark wasn’t so sure that had been the right approach anymore.

  I guess maybe it’s time for a Plan B.

  Mark stepped out of the office and looked around for any available agent, but who he found instead was way more pleasing to the eye.

  “Hey, Density!” he called.

  The dark and beautiful woman turned at the sound of his voice. Density was another paranormal agent who could alter the solidity of matter upon contact, increasing wood until it was tougher than diamond or decreasing steel until it could be crushed like aluminum.

  “Hello, Shockwave,” she replied with an attractive smile. She was holding a cartonful of office supplies that she was hefting pretty easily for such a petite woman.

  “Have you seen my partner around this afternoon? He ain’t in our office.”

  She thought for a moment. “You know, I think he might be in the gym — he was carrying his bag when I saw him. It wasn’t that long ago, he’s probably still there.”

  “Thanks.” Mark moved in that direction, walking backward as he asked, “The Captain got you chasin’ any rogues today?”

  Captain Brunn was the late Captain Jarrah’s replacement as regional commander; Mark was indifferent to him for the most part, as he was neither a nice guy nor an asshole, just a typical penpusher who got drafted over from the CIA.

  “Not today,” Density said with a smile. “Captain Brunn’s been over in the testing vault with Powerhouse.”

  The way her voice went all dreamy when she mentioned the PCA’s new golden boy turned Mark’s stomach; the rumor mill suggested that Density had a crush on him — as if enough people around here didn’t already have their heads up Lincoln Roberts’ butt. Still ... Mark bit his tongue against any smartass remarks, and settled for a friendly nod and a wave before turning back around and going about his business.

  See? He really had picked up some of Michael’s good habits.

  PCA

  True to Density’s word, Mark found his partner in the PCA gym, but Michael had already finished with the weights, treadmill, and Taekwondo practice. Instead, Mark found him sitting on a bench by the locker rooms, working a pair of heavy-duty handgrips — he didn’t just squeeze them, but also curled his wrists inward toward his body with each compression. Judging by the tension on Michael’s face, Mark guessed the handgrips were built for maximum resistance.

  Deciding to put a spin on his lost porn joke from before, Mark commented as he approached his partner, “Huh. You sure you should be doin’ that in here? Looks like an exercise for better masturbation.”

  Sounding neither offended nor amused, Michael replied, “It’s part of my never-ending physical therapy for my burn scars. If I don’t keep it up, the tissue hardens.”

  Mark glanced down at Michael’s hands again — he had gotten so used to the scars that covered them past the wrists, he didn’t really see them anymore. Michael had gotten them trying to save a friend; he’d failed, but the experience changed his life and drove him to join the first graduating class of the PCA Academy.

  While Mark was glad that Michael had grown more comfortable talking about the scars than he used to be (at least with his partner), Michael’s dismissive retort was another example of his growing stoicism. Michael Takayasu had never been what Mark could call “jolly,” but these days he could be downright cold.

  Snatching up a pair of 25-pound dumbbells from a nearby rack, Mark joined his partner, squatting upon the other end of the bench. Working alternate arm curls, he struggled to think of a casual way to bring up the letter he’d found in the trash; he didn’t have what anyone could call a “subtle” personality. Finally, he decided to just spit it out.

  “I saw that Christine wrote you. Again.”

  Michael just shrugged. If he was at all surprised or irritated by Mark’s statement, he didn’t show it.

  Mark hesitated, wondering if he should maybe drop it, but look what little good that approach had done so far. “Have, uh ... have you ever considered, you know, maybe ... just maybe, I mean ... payin’ her a visit?”

  Michael tossed his handgrips aside, pulled the sweat-towel from around his neck to wipe his face, then started rooting through his gym bag — all without saying a word.

  Mark continued with his curls, waiting.

  Michael located his Gatorade and took a long swig, not stopping until he’d finished off the entire bottle. Mark was about two seconds from apologizing for bringing it up when Michael finally said, “Why the fu—?” He stopped, cleared his throat, and rephrased his question. “Why would I do that, Mark?”

  Mark offered a theatrical shrug. “I don’t know. If we switched places, I’ll admit, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to see her. But ... I get the feelin’ that you could maybe use some closure on the whole thing, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “I don’t need ‘closure’, Mark. The matter’s been ‘closed’ for a year. I screwed up, royally. I let myself fall for a doe-eyed-girl act that, in hindsight, was painfully obvious. As far as I know, it was my information about the synod that led to McLane’s setting off his C4 that day.”

  Mark dropped the dumbbells to the floor. “Hey, man, we’ve talked about this before. All of McLane’s accomplices stated that the bombing had been in the works for months. Your ‘information’ was — at worst! — a confirmation of what McLane already knew.”

  Michael shrugged again, sullen once more.

  Mark stood to face his partner. “Look, Mike, I ain’t sayin’ you should ever trust the lying bitch ever again — personally, I hope she gets shanked in the shower or somethin’, you know what I’m sayin’? I’m just worried that you been stewin’ bout this too hard for too long. If you go see her, or maybe call her, or even just answer one of her letters ... well, the
n, maybe you can tell her, in detail, how she can rot in hell, ya know? Really let her have it! Blow off some steam. I just ...”

  He faltered for a moment, squirming without wanting to look like he was squirming. All this heart-on-your-sleeve, “bromance” stuff was pretty uncomfortable for the badass known to the world as Shockwave. His eyes drifted to the floor as he continued.

  “I just hate seein’ you so ... so bitter. Bitter like I used to be. Before, you know, before we became partners. Or whatever.”

  A ghost of a smile danced across Michael’s lips — Mark suspected it was because Michael could see his discomfort on the soft stuff, but even so, he never got the sense that his partner was laughing at him. With Michael, he never did.

  “Mark ... I appreciate the concern. Sincerely. But that being said ...” He pointed at Mark’s cheek, at the prominent scar a taloned rogue had given him, before Mark had killed him with an exhaled shockwave. “That big fracas left its mark on both of us. You have your scars from that day, and I have mine. You’ve chosen not to have yours fixed ... and so have I. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” Mark said, grudgingly. “Got it.” If Michael wanted to be miserable over this, what more could he say or do?

  The whole thing was brought to an abrupt halt when an alarm sounded from the phone in Michael’s gym bag, followed two seconds later by a matching alarm from the phone in Mark’s pocket.

  Their eyes met, and each watched the other shift into all-business mode. Both of them knew what that alarm meant: Class One Rogue.

  POWERHOUSE

  A fat, metal block lowered from the dark ceiling of the PCA’s testing vault. Lincoln Roberts, also known as Powerhouse — a self-given codename he’d carried from one side of the law to the other — took a small step back so that it pressed evenly upon his proffered palms. A hiss and whine indicated the hydraulic system kicking in, and the block pressed downward with greater force. He drew a preparatory breath and steadied his arms, which were held straight out in front of him, palms up, as if he were waiting for a ceremonial sword to be laid across them. His task was to prevent the block from moving his hands.

  “Yeah! Go, Linc!”

  Lincoln looked to his left, to the area behind the safety line painted on the floor, where his younger brother and sister sat watching his latest test. Tommy had called out, while Sarah settled for smiling with pride.

  Lincoln winked at them and smiled, but he couldn’t help but remind them, “Stay behind the line, guys. Okay?”

  This repetitious reminder elicited a very put-upon rolling of the eyes from Tommy and a reassuring nod from Sarah. They had known their older half-brother was paranormal since he led then-Ensign Takayasu and Shockwave and a handful of other PCA field agents to their rescue from the ranch where they were being held hostage. All of this was as normal to them now as watching him play sports would have been if the Paranormal Effect hadn’t changed his life forever.

  Forever and ever ...

  Don’t go there, Linc. Not right now. Focus on your test.

  Lincoln focused ...

  PCA

  Up in the control room, Lieutenant Hart peered down through the observation window and shook his head in dismay and disbelief at Tommy and Sarah’s presence. He scoffed, mostly to himself, “Letting children hang around the testing vault like it’s an elementary school gym ...”

  Unfortunately for Hart, Captain Brunn overheard the comment. “Zip it, Lieutenant, right now.”

  Hart came to attention, just as he’d done back in the Army, before he was drafted sideways into the PCA. He had only been Brunn’s personal assistant for a few weeks, and he dreaded making any bad impressions. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  But Captain Brunn wasn’t finished. The man was a dead ringer for actor Rutger Hauer, circa 1992, and he focused those intense blue eyes on his Lieutenant. “The goddamn paparazzi’s gathered outside the testing vault again, and Powerhouse doesn’t want those kids exiting without him, even with their own escorts. And what Powerhouse wants, Powerhouse gets. Do I make myself clear?”

  Hart could only repeat, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Dismissing his mouthy assistant for the time being, Brunn stepped closer to the observation window for his own look. “Ensign Fixler, where are we now?”

  The Ensign at the control board marveled as he relayed the readings that were scrolling across his monitor. “The new hydraulic system is approaching the red, sir, and Powerhouse is still preventing the block from reaching the floor. If we don’t stop soon, he might break this system like he did the first.”

  Brunn shared the Ensign’s wonder. “A system specifically designed to test super-strong paranormals, and he shrugs it off.” He turned back to his assistant. “Lieutenant, this is why Powerhouse gets whatever he wants.” He said over his shoulder, “Ensign Fixler, what were Powerhouse’s very first test results? How much weight did he press last year?”

  Fixler clicked his mouse a few times. “He was marked at around seventy-five tons, standing press, sir. At the time, he set the PCA record.”

  “And now?”

  Fixler checked. “He’s up to eighty tons and increasing, sir.”

  “And that,” Brunn directed back at Hart, “is with his arms outstretched for poor leverage.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fixler added. “And I don’t advise asking him to raise his arms, sir. Recommend shutting down soon before overheat.”

  “Noted. Level off at eighty-two tons and hold.” Then Brunn resumed his harangue to Hart (who now regretted ever opening his big mouth). “Lieutenant, on top of being the strongest paranormal ever recorded, Lincoln Roberts is still getting stronger — something paranormals rarely do; once they get their power, that’s usually it. Do you appreciate, Mister Hart, how lucky we all are that Powerhouse is now working for the PCA instead of against it? Do you?” Brunn turned away, stepping back over to the observation window.

  “Yes, sir,” Hart said in a soft voice, seeking to acknowledge the Captain’s question without provoking further ass-chewing.

  Brunn gave a slight nod, but his focus was on the paranormal below them. What Brunn had not included in his lecture was the PCA’s fear of what might happen if Powerhouse ever went rogue again. He had started out as a member of McLane’s mob before flipping sides during the chaos last year; who was to say that he wouldn’t ever flip back? “Keep him happy” was the word from Washington, and Brunn sought to do just that.

  Of course, this train of thought led to another potential problem, which prompted Brunn to address Hart, Fixler, and two other technicians at the other end of the console. “And, gentlemen, consider yourselves ordered never to mention to Powerhouse, or anyone else, what an asset it is that he’s still getting stronger. The last thing we need is for him to get a swelled head and turn into a serious pain in the ass like Shockwave.” He looked around the room. “Understood?”

  Upon seeing everyone’s nods of understanding (and a knowing smirk from Ensign Fixler, who had been on duty during Shockwave’s tests more than once), Brunn said, “All right, ease off the pressure and give us a system shutdown.” He returned to the console and spoke in the intercom microphone. “All right, Lincoln, that’s all for today. You can change and knock off early. Take the kids out to eat on your company card.”

  He saw Powerhouse relax as the block raised from his hands. The big man shook his arms out, then tossed a wave of thanks up toward the control room.

  Keep him happy ...

  PCA

  Lincoln stretched his arms back and forth a few times, as if fending off sore muscles. But it was all for show — he imagined Brunn was watching him right now, and so he kept up the act for a minute before heading over to his brother and sister.

  In spite of the conversation that just took place behind his back, Lincoln was not a stupid man. They’d been testing him with his arms straight out like this since he broke the other machine a few months ago, so that change could be explained. But since then ...

  Why would they make
his “tests” less strenuous over time? Why make this one easier than the test two weeks ago, which was easier than the test a month before that? The answer was, they wouldn’t. So the only explanation was that they weren’t making them easier, but that he was getting stronger. He didn’t know why they weren’t saying anything about it, but since they weren’t, he wasn’t saying anything about it, either. Best not to rock the boat, right?

  Truth be told, he didn’t mind all the tests; at least, not the ones for strength. He was less crazy about the invulnerability tests — those were the ones he never, ever let Tommy and Sarah watch, just in case. Since he kept breaking records (or so an Ensign informed him about six months ago, before they all fell silent on the subject), the PCA techs could only make educated guesses about his limits before exploring them. If they were to guess wrong, if they were to unintentionally shoot past his durability, to something that his allegedly invulnerable skin wasn’t tough enough to handle ...

  Shoving that chilling thought into the back of his mind, Lincoln walked past the safety line, at which point the kids jumped on him — Sarah threw her arms around his waist while Tommy climbed up his back like a little monkey.

  Chuckling at their ever-reliable enthusiasm, Lincoln asked, “So ... who wants California Pizza Kitchen tonight?”

  That really sent them hopping, which lightened his heart further.

  “Okay, now,” he said as he dug through his backpack to produce a pair of oversized baseball caps, “remember, when we walk outside past all those photographers and reporters, keep your faces down and your hats low. Don’t answer any questions, don’t say anything at all ...”

  “Jeez, Linc,” Tommy moaned into his ear; he now had one leg up over Lincoln’s shoulder, “we’ve done this a billion times. We know how to handle those paparazzi douchebags.”