“Let’s go!” Florence yelled, strapping herself in.
Leesa placed her hands above the maneuvering controls. Their take off wasn’t anything out of the ordinary until thrusters activated underneath. She didn’t account for the extra power and gave them an early boost from behind. The plane tilted sideways igniting sparks between the left wing and the exit tunnel. Main cabin shuddered from impact but Leesa pulled them away from the wall smoothly with only minor damage. The hangar doors ahead of them were almost closed.
“We’re too late,” Private Coates yelled. “Turn the engines off.”
Leesa’s eyes narrowed and the panels stopped descending. Deafening screeches echoed from gears grinding against her power, determined to complete its mission to cut them off. They scraped the top and bottom of the ship while exiting the landing tunnel, then blasted off into the distance.
RABIA GIRO
Washington, DC, April 2026
Forced to remain seated, Nicolas ground his teeth, the normally green uniform was a shade darker from profuse sweating. He’d lost control, years of hard work crumbled. “Two ships left Hangars 9 and 11; their destinations are set to these identical coordinates.” A soldier pointed to flight details flashing across the glass screen behind him. “Please tell us how to proceed.”
Opaque mist, a sinful shade of black, spewed from a crack in the floor. A face formed out of it, then body, hands and lastly feet. Rabia materialized in front of them like a genie from a lamp. “You, go,” he shooed, the soldier hurried out.
“Why didn’t you go…after…him?” Nicolas trembled. The office walls felt coffin-like, trapping him six feet under. Only motion kept him sane, kept him alive, but he wasn’t going in any direction, not even backwards.
“I am not fighter, General. I am strategist.”
“Your voice…you…” The general’s nostrils flared but he rocked in the chair with his right arm holding his left shoulder.
Rabia chuckled. “How you say…practice makes perfect?” he burst into swirling mist particles like a swarm of tiny bats and appeared behind the soaking wet leather chair. “Private Adams angry is not good. Everybody knows this but you. Directors wanted Dolores saved, even though you didn’t.”
“If you did your job right…it shouldn’t matter how angry a subordinate is. I don’t like being scared,” Nicolas said.
But a futile insult from a powerless leader meant nothing to the doctor. “Everything you do is for fear. How can you say you don’t like being scared?” Rabia caressed the back of his chair. “I have same job as you, make sure…directors are happy.”
“Did you bring it?” A violent cough interrupted the question.
“I did not,” Rabia replied, observing how much the general aged in a few short weeks.
“I told you I needed more.” Nicolas’s sneer turned into a wince, he clutched his chest.
If Dr. Giro cared, he would’ve mixed the look on his face with more concern and less satisfaction. It was difficult not to smile, silently gloating over his first victory. General Delemar had been in everyone’s way and it cost them money, success. Time to move over.
“Considering your health, insubordination and absence of both Lieutenant Delemar and Dr. Belladonna,” Rabia stepped toward the intercom system. “Private Adams’ escape? You seem unfit to lead program. Point of being leader is take responsibility of success and failure, no one else can take punishment for all of this but you.”
Nicolas yelled out in pain, toppling to the floor. Acknowledging he’d been dethroned by the doctor sent his heart attack from mild to severe.
“Please arrange for medical care to General Delemar’s office immediately, he is suffering from heart attack.” Rabia ran his fingers along the three syringes he brought, tucked in his lab coat. He’d get them to the infirmary in time, he still needed Nicolas alive.
“Dr. Rabia Giro recognized.” The secret entrance to the directors’ assembly room opened to the unique signature of his Cynque watch. Muffled sounds of EMT’s rescuing the collapsed, drooling leader, reached the enclosed side of the chamber wall.
“I suppose you’re all wondering where General Delemar is.”
They’d been waiting for too long.
Rabia spoke in dramatic hand gestures. “He’s suffered severe heart attack after escape of our prisoner.”
“Go on,” the Brazilian director said.
“I hate to be one to update you on project operations or…lack of, but I must be bearer of bad news.” Rabia reminded them of the untested genetic serum he came up with many years ago to incorporate the Zosma energy use into the human genome. He knew the results would be unpredictable and warned the general it wasn’t best for his health. Nicolas insisted because he was weak and he wanted to be strong. Stronger than Leesa, than Allister. Nicolas’s condition affected his grip on facility operations. “General Delemar has never obeyed your orders and look what trouble it’s caused. Twenty-five years and no gems, no advancement of humanity.”
And the general would be dependent on it for the rest of his life, if he lived. They needed a new leader. The directors grumbled to themselves and debated over who was to blame for things falling through the cracks.
“You may deliver program reports until he is treated and the other two program leaders return,” the US director said when they finished. Rabia kept his eyes and mouth firm and trusting, not a hint of triumph.
They whispered amongst themselves, but quickly returned focus.
The Russian director spoke, “What you suggest we do about situation in the interim? Psychic was not supposed—”
“I needed to stay and work diligently on cure for our leader’s increasingly inconvenient health issues,” Rabia reassured them. “Dr. Belladonna will do fine job.”
“In a situation where time is of the essence, returning to discuss the next course of action could’ve proved detrimental to the loyalty and safety of Private Adams. Please relay this to General Delemar when he awakens and upon their safe return, thank Lieutenant Delemar and Dr. Belladonna for their swift action to rectify the situation. You may go,” the UK director dismissed him.
Rabia bowed. As the grey outlines on the screens faded to emptiness, a serpent shape of harmless molecular particles replaced his plump body of human flesh, slithering into the ground below.
RUSSELL ASHUR
Washington, DC, April 2026
“I can’t believe you report to Dr. Giro now, he’s so weird.” Bridget leaned over the counter in Russell’s lounge area wearing a crop red jacket with chain detail and accent shoulder pads. The long side of hair fell in her face as she swiped the pages of his science journal. “This place is a nut show.”
She’d always wanted to be a biologist but got sidetracked somewhere along the way. Bridget was a late bloomer and along with the rest of her body, her powers caught her by surprise. Overnight she went from a scrawny, awkward Australian girl to a voluptuous, beautiful one. Living the fast life in Sydney, moving from hostel to hostel and living off bar tips. The more objectification she received, the more normal it was. Men weren’t things to love but rather things to use for her own gain, and it was okay because they used her for the same, cue manipulative personality.
In 2019 she moved to New York. The increased and uncontrolled manifestation of her powers were amplified by rampant drug and alcohol abuse. Trouble found her the winter of 2024, when a group of men in finance hired her to accompany them for a night out to Delusion ─ New York’s latest hotspot. They ended up back at the strip club where she worked. It was their fault; when they got physically aggressive her electric currents did too. When Florence questioned her, she responded with, “they got what they deserved.” That was before the prescription medication.
Bridget moved her hair behind her ear and glimpsed Russell hunched over his computer. She sighed, avoiding the strange feeling in the air, gently placing her hands on his back. He jumped.
“I’m sorry.” Russell took her hands briefly, then dropped them.
“Crazy night.”
It didn’t make sense why she cared about him so much. He obviously liked her for the same reason all those other men did. It was different though, there was an extra element she wasn’t used to. Respect. Bridget picked his glasses up off the table, a current darted across her palm. “This is too much. I have to go.”
“Whoa, babe, what’s with you today?” he asked, getting up.
She avoided his reach and headed to the door.
“Is this what you always do? Walk away from your problems?” Russell saw her body tense from behind.
“What do you mean?” Bridget asked. Another current jumped from one fist and touched the second.
“I care about you.” He saw the tribal tattoo on her neck and touched it tenderly. No spark. “As a friend, lover, whatever we are. Stop fighting it.”
She had to fight it. People like her weren’t meant to be happy. “I can take care of myself,” Bridget replied, hoping he had a rebuttal for it.
“I’ve told you before, you don’t have to be afraid to open up to me,” he whispered, pulling her closer to him. Russell guided her over to what he’d been working on. It wasn’t quite as simple as he thought before but the game was almost over. “You have to fix what you see.”
Confused, she laughed and placed her hands against his chest. “I think you’ve lost it.”
But Bridget had helped him identify C20’s primary locations by the extreme distortions of light waves inside and outside the visible spectrum.
He played the simulation on the screen. “You can reverse the way their base interacts with the electromagnetic spectrum, all you have to do, is change the direction of the waves.” This was for the win. Russell caressed her hair, then planted a kiss on her forehead. He wanted to show the directors what she was capable of.
As a woman who believed in female independence, but not prince charming, her stomach swam with butterflies. For the first time Bridget trusted Russell. She trusted someone. She let her guard down, rubbing his cheek lovingly. He leaned into it and they kissed like wild teenagers in the backseat of a car. The hairs on Russell’s neck rose from a static charge.
Lights flickered on and off; hardly noticing, Russell tossed her jacket away. Kissing her neck while she yanked his button-down shirt open and dug her nails into his back. Bridget embraced the pleasure of emotional connectivity. A surging through the bulbs sent glass and electric bolts all over the room, disabling the power in the entire wing. She absorbed the residual outburst into herself to save him from the attack and fell to her knees panting.
Russell quickly buttoned his shirt as soldiers kicked in his door.
“Sir, is everything okay here?” They looked around, assessing the damage. “Did she attack you?”
“How did you do that?” he stammered.
Bridget withdrew from him, expecting nothing but protection. Funny how fast a woman like her became a princess. “Does it matter?” she asked, playing the damsel. Partially testing to see how he’d react.
The awkward silence ended with his sigh, Russell placed his hands in his pockets. “No,” he said without looking at her, and then addressed the soldiers, “She didn’t attack me. I’ll have the engineers work on restoring the power.” Their sexual entanglement didn’t seem obvious but being in the same room during rogue hours would raise questions. Worrying more about her safety than his job security, he shook his head, she really did a number on him. Russell’s mind shopped for appropriate explanations, he went with the electromagnetic experiment.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Bridget muttered, her body and hair alive with currents. “How do I…get rid of it?”
“Sir?” the soldier said.
Russell held up his hand. “I gave my instructions. Have someone repair the windows and get rid of this glass. I’ll handle the recruit myself.”
They left the room, careful not to touch each other.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Gems of Evale
ALLISTER ADAMS
C20 Airspace, April 2026
“Approaching Coordinates destination location 30.5085° N, 47.7804° E, formerly known as Al Basrah, Iraq. Prepare for landing.” Allister’s hands hovered above the control panel, the diamond-shaped craft glided through the air with unnatural ease. Traveling at 1000 mph he’d covered most of Africa, past the Red Sea, as he headed into the area known as the Middle East.
The massive sand storm was known as the “Middle Beast;” it covered most of the former city and invaded airspace with miles of Cumulonimbus clouds. Lightning struck between the anvil shapes. Wind speed above the dead city was 50 percent stronger than on the surface and Allister battled forty-five mile per hour winds as the space ship exited the stratosphere. It handled turbulence well but he didn’t, his hands clasped the side of the pilot’s chair. The ship spiraled left and down thousands of feet.
Dolores’s face chased away nausea and Allister resumed command the ship; he flew straight again when the computer blared, “Warning approaching terrain. Warning approaching terr—” the abrupt crash compromised the cockpit’s integrity. The mind-operated controls went offline.
“Whoa…no…nononono.” He tapped the dashboard. “Dude, Neight’s going to be so mad.” Sand in every direction, but behind him. The ship was wedged in a mountainous dune.
Its computer rebooted, “Initiating auto repair sequence.”
Allister peered through the rear of the cockpit at the raging sand typhoon. A piece of hair fell into his eye, what he’d done sank in. If he saved his mother, would they be able to live anywhere safely? He was certain Nicolas and the directors wouldn’t let him go so easily. If it wasn’t them, it’d be someone else, C20 or whoever woke up and decided they wanted to use him, his gifts. She’d be a target for the rest of her life and he’d be doing what everyone wanted to keep her safe. For a moment he slipped out of humanity, thinking about the ridiculousness of it all, the never-ending cycle. It may not be possible to save her and save Earth.
The aircraft jettisoned him through the top like an airbag that deploys after a car accident. Allister landed hard on his back but found comfort out of direct contact with the beast’s wrath.
The excruciatingly hot summer air, the sand tearing at his exposed skin, and the limited visibility failed to slow his pace as he trekked toward C20 with an arm over his face. An outline of the 500-foot tall tower materialized a couple miles ahead, its thick steel base rose into an oval flat area, giving it a mushroom look. Close enough to see the watchtower’s single window facing him, he dropped down to blend in. The mechanical contraption continued to rotate, facing west, and took the window with it. Allister’s original thought was to destroy it, but he became more interested in surprising Brandt under the cover of night. Outrage multiplied with every step. Dolores was being held in captivity and no one would stop him from finding her.
CAPTAIN JAY BRANDT
Former Middle East, April 2026
A knock at the door and the ring of Brandt’s desk phone occurred simultaneously. He jumped from the sounds, having been in silence for so long, and naturally opted for the phone. A swipe answered the call. “Hello.”
The Savior’s monotone voice gave directions on what to do when the Andromeda Project retaliated. Any opposition to C20 that couldn’t be killed should be captured, and any opposition to C20 that could be killed, should be killed. “Make it Allister’s fault,” the Savior said about ending Dolores’s life without creating an enemy of him. She was a distraction, taking Brandt’s focus from C20’s success. The Savior hung up. Redialing to plead for her life proved futile.
One of his agents entered without permission. “I don’t mean to interrupt, sir, but we have an emergency situation.”
Stomach in knots, Brandt stared at the blank screen below him. “I’m all ears.”
“Our surface mapping technology picked up a crashed plane three miles south of the base.”
“What kinda plane?” His nails were chewed to the cuticle.
“It�
�s not the plane we’re worried about.” The agent looked down.
“Then what the hell are you worried about?” Brandt got up. “Increase security around the entrances, get our weapons online, and find out who’s poking around outside. I hate surprises.” His voice lowered into a menacing threat as he pushed past the soldier and ran down the hall.
Captain Brandt reached an area of ten by twenty capsules inside the hollow foundation of the watchtower. He opened one, illuminating a pile of protective suits. Things gone wrong tumbled in no particular order out of his mouth in incomplete sentences, while jittery hands struggled to get the suit over his legs. Both feet slipped into the aluminized ensemble. If Allister was indeed the occupant of the fallen craft, Brandt openly prayed for him to succeed in rescuing Dolores.
Brandt stepped out of the chamber, but the sides and back of his opaque protective helmet prevented him from seeing anything not directly in front of him. Two feet planted some distance away. The acrylic visor over his eyes and nose fogged with worried breaths and he inhaled the much-needed oxygen from the attached tank at a more rapid pace. Hurled away from his standing position, the closed door dented and Brandt gasped for air while trying to get the helmet off before another attack. A get-up made for functionality and while strong, durable and resistant to heat, wind, and sand, it had no weapons.
Allister snatched it off for him. “Where is she?”
“If you want her to live, turn yourself in.”
“I’m not joining your circus,” the young recruit said. One downward tug destroyed the protective suit and Brandt stood in regular uniform, far from able to brave the great outdoors.
“C20 is the future…it’s everything the Andromeda Project wants to be but with leadership and strategy,” the Captain sputtered, dangling from Allister’s hand at the entrance to the deadly surface.
“Your leadership and your strategy? No Thanks.” Allister opened the door. Sand blasted inward.
The Andromeda Project (The Cluster Chronicles Book 1) Page 21