Striker

by Charmaine Ross

  What the hell was happening? He slid the vines off his chest, crouched close to the ground and edged towards the end of the hallway.

  “Hexonian. Stay back!”

  The command was followed by a sharp tug at his ankle. He ignored it – and then he wished he had stayed back. The doorway opened up to a balcony, from which he could see right into the circular room below.

  Vivien strode between rows of what looked like hospital cots, speaking and pointing to a group of Reptiles, who quickly moved to do her bidding. That wasn’t the most horrifying though.

  Strapped to the cots that fanned out from a central throne-like chair were at least fifty human women, silver bands on their wrists, ankles, legs, arms, torso, necks and foreheads. They may have been strapped, but they were motionless. The only way Striker knew they might be alive was that the Reptiles were connecting catheters into the arteries in the crooks of their elbows and necks.

  He looked into the face of the closest female. She was so pale, her skin was nearly translucent. Her lips were blue, cheeks sunken, blonde hair lank. Her clothing was stained and dirty. She looked sick. Very sick. The others didn’t look much better. Her eyes were closed. At least she was unconscious and out of conscious misery. A small mercy, if it could be called that.

  “You there! Attach that one. Now!”

  Vivien’s movements were jerky, as though she hadn’t fully mastered her body. What the hells was wrong with her? He needed to get closer to her.

  “Too dangerous,” the Callistean whispered into his mind.

  He slipped on his stomach across the balcony.

  “Hexonian. Back!”

  As he drew closer to the edge, Vivien spun around, her face upturned, her eyes – her red eyes – piercing him. Her face was contorted, bones pronounced, lips thin. But those eyes – those eyes were nothing he’d seen before. Those eyes weren’t hers. Those eyes burned.

  She lifted her arm. Pointed straight at him. As one, the Reptiles tending to the humans turned to see him. Her voice sounded with absolute clarity, echoing clearly throughout the chamber.

  “Get him.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Striker bolted to his feet and sprinted down the hallway when the entire contingent of Reptiles ran towards him. His heartbeat pummeled in his chest, and adrenaline punched through his system. He darted back down the hallway, crashing along the walls, when darkness enveloped him.

  A rope tightened around his wrist. He jerked to a stop, wrenching his arm and falling to his knees. He grappled with the rope when a green-tinged vision exploded behind his eyes. Luckily, he was already on his knees when his stomach lurched with vertigo.

  A darkened doorway appeared in his mind, and the rope tugged him towards it. “Hide in here!” Callistean voices simultaneously surged into his mind.

  Heavy, clunking footfalls echoed through the hallway. He drove his shoulder into the door. It budged open a little. He threw his entire body weight on it. It creaked open and he scraped through. Once he was inside, he shoved the door closed again. Footfalls echoed on the other side of the door, but to his intense relief, they continued down the corridor, echoing away.

  “Hexonian. Can you hear us?”

  “Yes! Yes, I’m listening.” His mind came down from its hyper-alert state. “Vivien. Tell me what’s happened to her.”

  Just looking at her, without having seen her eyes, he knew something was wrong.

  “We told you. She is...changed. Infused with energy from another.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Tell me straight, and quit your riddles!” he shouted in his mind, which was reeling in shock. The building was infused with Reptiles. Too many to fight by himself. He needed the crew of the Starlight to miraculously appear, but that was just wishful thinking.

  “Her energy is still there. Just...altered. And covered. Beneath layers,” the Callistean eventually said.

  Striker was suddenly more tired than he’d ever felt in his entire life. “I don’t understand. I...just want to reach her.” The second realization within as many seconds was that he missed her. Even though he didn’t know her as well – he wanted to know her more. It was as though in their short time together, she’d gotten under his skin. And what’s more, he didn’t know when it had started to happen, but he cared for her.

  That last night – had it only been last night? - was the best in his life. With her – he wanted more. There was a connection between the two of them. One he wanted to explore. For the first time, he understood the meaning of the word future. For such a monumental realisation, it came quite quickly. Or maybe he just hadn't known it for what it was and his emotional intelligence had caught up with all the signs.

  The thing was, although he hadn’t been totally in control of his actions when they’d made love, he hoped she would forgive him. He wanted more best nights. And days. He wanted more than what his life had handed him in the past. He just didn’t want his past or present anymore.

  He wanted a future. And not just any future. His future. With Vivien.

  It was strange the way things that often changed lives were the fastest decisions. When you knew – you just knew - and nothing was going to change that knowledge.

  He didn’t want to think of the ifs. Didn’t want to think how bleak everything was at the moment. But he knew it was something to strive for. The best way to reach for that was not to stand in the dark like a jackdonk and get themselves out of this situation.

  “Where are we?”

  He carefully opened his mind to the green vision being implanted, careful to keep his mouth closed and stomach tightened against any unconscious lurching. The vision came on him slowly this time, allowing him to adjust to it. He silently thanked the Callisteans for their consideration and felt rather than heard their appreciative response.

  The room he was in was clearly technologically advanced. Sleek desks ran around the wall. Blank screens adorned the walls, ones he would have thought would light up a room if powered. Various handheld devices were neatly lined up along the bench, as though ready to be used at a moment's notice.

  The only out of place things were the vines and leaves that traced every surface, burrowing behind technology, circling screens, lapping against devices, as though the touch of a leaf could imitate skin and bones and the hands that had once picked them up.

  He scanned the room. It seemed familiar until it snapped. “A communication room.”

  “It is,” was the reply.

  “Can I send a message to my ship? To my crew?” He didn’t know why he’d asked. The comms units would need to be powered, and he saw no power source.

  There was a chuckle from inside his head. “That is because we shut it down to make it hard for those who invaded our cities. It is still very much there. We but need to turn it on.”

  “Are you serious?” He couldn’t help the outburst. Did that mean all this time, he could have sent a message out?

  “The power source needs to be confined to this room. The invaders must not know of its occurrence,” the Callisteans said.

  Striker strode to the bench, where several comms units were lined up. He picked up one and dusted if off. The metal was damp and cool to the touch, just the way he imagined cold, dead metal would feel.

  “This one?”

  In answer, a supple, light green vine wound up his leg, over his shoulder, down his arm and bound his hand to the device. A tingling, like he floated in an effervescent fluid, thrummed through his skin and into the core of his body. His energy was being drained.

  “What’s happening?” He was almost lightheaded.

  “You are our power source. It is the only way to contain the energy so as not to alert the Reptiles. It won’t take long. Hold on, Hexonian.”

  The screen blinked to life. Data spread across the screen, figures and numbers flashing too fast for him to decipher. Without warning, the screen blinked off and the metal became cold again.

  “It is done.”

  He took a deep
breath. Then another. “You mean a signal went out?”

  “Several.”

  Striker wiped a weak hand over his brow. “You could have told me what you were doing.”

  “At the expense of taking too much natural charge from your body, we calculated it was more expedient simply to proceed.”

  Striker stood from the bench, feeling some strength return to his limbs, thankful – to a point – that they had been as fast as they could. He was shaky now. He didn’t want to think what he’d be like if they’d taken any longer.

  “I guess we just have to wait,” he murmured, feeling strange that he actually heard his own voice. He was becoming used to speaking in his head.

  There was a resounding boom, and the room shook from its very foundations, feeling like an earthquake. A fine stream of dust filtered down from the ceiling. A chilling groan sounded throughout the skeleton of the building.

  “What was that?”

  Surely, it was too soon for Reed to bring the starship so close.

  There was a pause, as though the Callisteans weren’t sure, “A wormhole is being birthed into existence into our planet’s atmosphere.”

  Despite the lack of vocal inflections, the words themselves were chilling enough because that was, “Impossible.”

  “The female is at the centre. The energy needs to be stopped from the source.”

  Another boom echoed loud enough to cause Striker to wince. The building shook again, rattling and trembling. More particles descended from ceiling to floor. Whatever it was, if it could cause a Callistean built building to shake from its foundation, there was something decidedly not good happening. It took him a moment to work out what they meant by the word ‘source’.

  “Vivien isn’t doing this. She wouldn’t – ever – do anything like this. It's whatever the frek has been done to her. Don’t touch a hair on her head!”

  Striker drove for the door and wrenched it open. Fatigue or not, he wasn’t going to let Vivien come to any harm. She was innocent. She didn’t deserve to die. Not for the sake of whatever it was that had been done to her.

  A steel-like cord around his ankle had him face-planting the cold concrete floor before he was pulled back into the room. The door swung closed, locking him inside.

  He clawed at the vine wound around his ankle. It moved further up his leg, curling around his thigh in a chokehold. Another vine stole around one wrist. Two. His other ankle and held him spread-eagled and immobile on the floor. It seemed they were quite good at immobilizing him.

  “Let me go to her!” he bellowed, not caring if he was heard or not.

  “Desist. We will give you one chance, but only one.”

  “Why would you even do that?” he snarled.

  The pause was long enough to grate on his nerves. “Because if you succeed, she will indeed be a prize to us.”

  Enough with the riddles! “Then let me up so I can freking save her.”

  “There is no need. She is entrapped within her mind,” the Callisteans spoke.

  Striker drew a deep breath and rested his head back to the floor. “How do I get her untrapped?!”

  “Follow the connection you made when you physically joined.”

  He shook his head. “How can I do that when you won’t let me touch her?”

  “It will be more expedient to take you there.”

  Suddenly, his perspective rocked and he barrelled down a twisting tunnel made of black, green and white lights. Just as suddenly, he stopped, poised at a closed door. He wavered, as though floating on air. “Her mind can be entered through this door.”

  It was then he realized that while his body was spread-eagled on a cold, unforgiving floor, his consciousness was elsewhere.

  “How?”

  “Blood to blood. Mind to mind. We are connected.”

  He was starting to get an inkling as to just how much they were connected. Questions crowded his mind, but it wasn’t the time or place to have a question and answer session. There would be plenty of time later. Hopefully.

  He extended a hand and wrapped it around the old-fashioned, ornate handle, pleased to see that at least he still had a corporeal body. He stopped just before entering. “Why don’t you go through?”

  If they were connected, the Callisteans could go though as easily as he might be able to.

  “She has an emotional connection to you. Without a connection such as yours, her mind would reject us as musings or simply a figment of her imagination. She knows you and will recognize you, but hurry, there is not much time. If you cannot bring her back, then we will have no choice but to cease her energy.”

  They would stop Vivien to save the planet. Gods, the greater good sucked. Taking a steeling breath and not wanting to waste time they didn’t have, he twisted the handle, opened the door and strode inside Vivien’s mind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gentle sounds surrounded him. A soft feminine voice full of wonder resonated a sense of belonging and welcoming. Lips pressed to a forehead, firm, supporting hands beneath him. A warm breast to lips. The instinct to suckle, bringing with it an unconditional love and security.

  A male voice made a jarring sound. The milk – and comfort – faltered. Discomfort and distress – all new – caused her to draw in a breath. A sound made on the exhale. Gentle patting on her body made her settle, seek the milk, the touch, the contact, the connection. Greedy now, milk flowed and calm settled.

  It took Striker a moment to realize the sensations weren’t his own. A longer moment to understand the new baby in the woman’s arms was Vivien. That what he felt and sensed was somehow everything she felt and sensed.

  The woman, who had obviously just finished birthing, was flushed, exhausted and beautiful. And so similar to Vivien, it was haunting. A man loomed. Army. Decorated. Clinical. Detached. He stood aside while the medical staff attended to the mother, his gaze distracted, his mouth an almost sneer.

  A voice called from behind the closed door. He offered a curt word to the woman and strode from the room, missing the tender hurt on the woman’s face. The infant detached from her breast and started to cry.

  The scene grew watery, the room becoming indistinct blurs of colour and emotion, imploding while he stood in the centre of it. He lunged for the door the man had disappeared through to see images strobing around him. A kaleidoscope of colour, sensation, emotion, happiness, confusion, love surrounded. The woman was prominent and was the centre from which everything projected. A child's laughter, bright, happy carefree. Swinging on a giant swing. A sun shining from a blue sky. Loving hands and arms and kisses. Roses and love. A warmth that settled right inside his chest and blossomed every day.

  Then confusion. Hushed voices. The absence of those warm, loving hands. That’s all he wanted. Looked for it every day, but they never came. A sleek black coffin piled with flowers. Crying. Black everywhere he looked. Clothing. Faces. A big hole in the dirt. Cold. Rain. Desolation.

  Silence.

  There were no more loving hands. No kisses. No singing. No voice. No comfort.

  The kaleidoscope gave way to the image of a huge man sitting at a desk. Everything was so big. Her head didn’t even come to the top of the desk where the man sat. A chubby hand that looked so small touched his thigh. She wanted to ask where the loving arms had gone to. That voice that sung to her and filled her with joy was gone. Was it going to come back? She wanted to know all these things, but the man stared at her with cold grey eyes. Her hand slipped from his leg, and she clung to her teddy. Teddy was going to be there for her now. He couldn’t sing, but his fuzzy little arms could hug her back. If she tried hard enough, she could smell that unconditional love that clung to him. The man barked a jarring sound. She flinched and stuck her nose in the fibres, drew in a deep breath. Roses and love. Striker’s heart cracked.

  The colours dripped like raindrops down a window, forming into scene after scene. A young girl waiting at the school gates to be picked up. A cold bedroom. A silent house. Constant yelling in
a stream of orders. Hundreds of footfalls stomping in endless drills that reminded him of his early army days in the fleet. The girl listening started to join in now that she was older.

  The stern man aged. More decorations lined his chest. His face grew more lined. Harsher. The cold grey eyes were no longer distant and distracted. Now they condemned and found fault. She strove harder. Studied until the sun touched the morning sky. Aced grades. Kept a brutal routine of gymnastics, swimming, hiking, jogging. Kept her room clean. Washed. Scrubbed. Ironed. Cooked. There were no friends. Only trials and tribulations. All so the stern man with the grey eyes might offer a smile.

  The man had a name. Captain. Then Major. Now General. Always stern. Accusing. Judging.

  “You can do better, Private.”

  “You call yourself fit for the army? You’re dirt.”

  “You’re an embarrassment to the men who serve with you.”

  “You’d make your mother want to disown you.”

  A volley of broken bones. Lacerations. Stitches. Internal injuries. Clinical hospital stays came at him like an old-fashioned vid-feed interjection with that stern male voice. The words indistinct, but the meaning the same – failure, failure, failure, followed by the same desperate response to do better. To make him proud. Striker didn’t know who this male was, but he knew one thing. There was no honour in treating a soldier like a failure. Chip away at self-esteem enough, especially like that, and that’s when mistakes did happen.

  He only had a second to think about that when a line of men flashed past. Sex. Sex that tore the hole inside her wider with each thrusting cock and unfulfilled night. Men she’d offer roses and love, to have them returned shredded into little bloody pieces. Something in her changed after a while.

  There was just sex with no heart. Sex served a brittle moment of comfort. She no longer searched for one more moment of illusive roses and love because she knew it wasn’t there. She raged. The only release was the battles. The anger kept her going. She was awarded a team. Not from the man with the cold grey eyes, but from others who had noticed her prowess on the battlefield.