Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone

by Andrews, Christopher

  “His ‘mentor’ ...?”

  “Alan?” Ardette called from around the building.

  Alan and Steve spoke over each other, calling for her to stay where she was — which, of course, brought her running.

  Steve groaned while Alan hurriedly assured her, “It’s all right, Ardette, it’s fine, everything’s fine ... I hope.”

  Ardette kept her own stun gun tucked away, but she stepped around Alan and demanded, “So who’s this?” Then she looked over at Steve. “Vortex! Your—!”

  “I know! I know I’m not wearing my mask. I had no idea my evening would go this way, okay? Look ...”

  Steve glanced around. While the perimeter of Davison Electronics was policed regularly, interior patrols had died down over the past year, but someone could still show up at any moment. And he didn’t like feeling so swept along by all of this; he needed to try to take the reigns before things went further.

  Addressing the stranger, Steve gestured to Alan and Ardette and said, “These are my friends; they help me act as Vortex. Is that what you want? You want friends to help you become a superhero? Am I right? Is that the ‘help’ you want from me?”

  The stranger did not answer right away. His head shifted as he looked over each of them in turn. Steve wished he could see the guy’s eyes.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “You’ve already seen my face, right? You’ve seen my friends here. Why don’t we try to even things out a little? How about you take off your ...” he gestured around his own eyes, then pointed at the stranger’s, “... your mask-thing there.”

  The stranger appeared to consider this, then did that wobble bit with his head (Definitely a nod, Steve thought) and reached up to his face. As Steve had deduced, the black spheres over his eyes pealed away like a fabric, with a thinner line stretching back through his flat-but-thick hair.

  The removal of the mask revealed a pair of the most striking eyes Steve had ever seen. They were mostly Caucasian in shape, with a small touch of Asian to the outsides, and the irises were a remarkable shade of silver.

  And as the stranger lowered his arms and stood before them, another thought crossed his mind: Jesus, he’s just a kid. I wouldn’t bet on his being even eighteen years old yet.

  Oh, yeah? a part of him retorted. And you’re not exactly old and wise, so don’t get cocky.

  “Thank you,” Steve said aloud. “But you haven’t answered my question: Am I right that you want to be a superhero? I mean, you’ve got the mask and the awesome uniform, and you flew in here and, uh, you wield your hand like a weapon. So you’ve gone paranormal. That’s cool. But is that why you followed me here after the fight? You want my help becoming a superhero?”

  A long silence followed, then he finally said, “Yes, I have ... gone paranormal. Yes, I value your aid in becoming … a super hero.”

  Steve smiled. “Okay, then. I think we can work with that.”

  “Steve,” followed Alan’s urgent whisper.

  “Look, Alan, this is half the reason I’m Vortex. Would you prefer the guy take off and look for help elsewhere? Maybe from the other side of the tracks?” He added in a lower voice, “After he’s already seen my face? And where I live?”

  Alan grumbled under his breath, meaning they’d be arguing about this later, but Steve saw that Ardette got it — she wasn’t happy about it, but she got it.

  Turning back to the stranger, Steve said, “As I’m sure you’ve figured out, my name is Steve. This is Alan, and this is Ardette.” He paused, waiting for the natural reply, but when it didn’t come, he asked, “So ... what’s your name?”

  The stranger blinked a few times, for the first time seemingly aware that his silence had been a faux pas. “They call me Callin.”

  “Colin?”

  The guy wobbled his head differently this time, his chin jutting forward more than with his almost-nod. His lips and word were in sync for the first time as he enunciated, “Callin.”

  Steve tried again, imitating the guy’s quasi-Russian accent, which seemed to satisfy him.

  “Okay, Callin,” Steve said, “how about we all step inside?” Alan did one of his half-grunts, so Steve clarified, “Just for a short while tonight, so we can get to know you a little—”

  But Callin interrupted him. “No. No, I have in mind, not tonight. I … there are several things in order to think, it is more than I thought.” He raised his hands in a recognizable gesture of consolation. “But I am very glad, that you are to ready help me becoming a super hero. I thank you.” He hesitated briefly, then, “May I return tomorrow?”

  The abrupt shift surprised Steve. Damn it, just when he thought he was getting a handle on the situation! He looked to the others; Alan appeared predictably upset, but Ardette offered Steve an affirmative thumbs-up.

  “Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you come back here tomorrow night? Same as tonight, right after sunset. And why don’t you land ...” He pointed beyond the training center, further out of view. “... over there?”

  “Yes. I will make this. In addition, thanks. I will see you tomorrow.” Callin looked around to include Alan and Ardette. “All, thank you.”

  Callin offered them one of his funny nods, then pulled his eye-mask back into place. A florid wave of gleaming, silver energy spread around him, and his feet lifted from the ground. Even having lived in a world of paranormals could not dampen Steve’s wonder and awe as Callin rose toward the night sky.

  Before he got too far away, though, Steve called out, “Wait!”

  Callin stopped about ten feet off the ground, looking back down.

  Steve, feeling a touch self-conscious of his impulse now, asked, “Your name is Callin, but have you thought of your codename?” When Callin appeared confused by this, he said, “You know, your superhero name. I go by ‘Vortex,’ some of those guys you saw with me earlier go by ‘Shockwave’ and ‘Powerhouse.’ What should I call you when we’re working?”

  Callin considered this for a moment, then answered, “When we work, you can call to me the Shining Star.”

  “ ‘The Shining Star’,” Steve repeated, looking up at his glowing new friend. “Perfect.” Then he waved.

  Callin mimicked the wave, then accelerated upward — fast. In a heartbeat, it was as though he were never there, with only an iridescent trial of light to prove otherwise, and even that faded out a second later.

  After a moment, Steve cleared his throat theatrically and said, “Well ... that’s not exactly how I envisioned this sort of thing happening.”

  Alan grunted, not sounding very happy. But Ardette commented wryly, “ ‘The Shining Star,’ hmm? It fits. But I think he should drop the ‘the.’ It sounds a little pretentious.”

  Steve smiled, still looking skyward. “We’ll work on it.”

  THE SHINING STAR

  “Well ... that’s not exactly how I envisioned your handling this.”

  “I didn’t plan it this way, Larr. It just ... unfolded before me, took on a life of its own. I felt powerless to stop it.”

  “So they believe you are one of them, then, but a convert.”

  “Yes. And that I want to become a ‘super-hero.’ I was so caught off-guard, it seemed easiest just to ... agree.”

  “...”

  “You are a convert. That much is true.”

  “Actually, their word for convert translates closer to ‘paranormal.’ ”

  “ ‘Paranormal’? I suppose that makes sense, too.”

  “I agree. But we’ve got to build up a reliable phrenic impression soon and get me off this translator. He said things like ‘uniform-suit’ and ‘moniker-name,’ he referred to my goggles as a ‘mask-disguise’ ... his words were translating, but I had trouble understanding his meaning.”

  “Working on it. What happens now?”

  “Now I keep my word and return tomorrow as agreed.”

  “Not the best way to start a new relationship, with a lie. Especially if we do stay here.”

  “I know, Larr. Believe me,
I’m not without my reservations. I’ll take things one step at a time.”

  TAKAYASU AND SHOCKWAVE

  Paperwork. Michael Takayasu hated paperwork. But then, who didn’t?

  Michael and Mark were in their office at the PCA headquarters the next morning. They were filling out reports (well, Michael was filling them out; Mark just pitched in here and there while browsing the Internet at his own desk) regarding the fight at the apartment complex. The PCA was covered for a generous extent of property damage — a certain amount of collateral destruction was virtually expected by the nature of their job. But they did have to write a very thorough description of every little detail, to ensure that any potential lawsuits were sufficiently shut down in the earliest stages. Congress was still running to catch up with the brave new world (and “running” in Congress was always a relative turn), and the area where the PCA most benefitted from the vagueness of the laws on the books was the greyness of the phrase “all necessary measures.”

  Reliant, of course, on the proper and thorough filling out and filing of paperwork afterward.

  “Mark, how many shockwaves did you throw at Cooper’s shield?”

  “Uhhhh ... are you counting the one from the pool?”

  “No, I covered that already. I mean directly at him.”

  “Then I think it was six. Yeah, six.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “ ‘m pretty sure.”

  Through the entire exchange, Mark never looked away from his monitor. Michael couldn’t see the screen from his desk, but as he returned to typing, he commented, “You’d better not be watching YouTube videos of yourself in action while I’m slaving away over here.”

  Mark mumbled, “I’m not ...” as he hunched his shoulders and gave only the quickest glance up.

  Michael hid a smirk, then finished his paragraph and took a moment to stretch. When his computer binged to announce new email in his Inbox, he was happy for the excuse to take a break, and clicked over to the other window.

  He had two emails, and the first made him roll his eyes. It was a statement of protest from the Church of the Seven Stars, a dubious religion that had slowly cropped up around the country since the Night of the White Flash. What was really holding them back from mainstream legitimacy was that they could not agree even amongst themselves what their core beliefs were.

  Two dominant factions laid claim to the defining tenet: Faction One claimed that the Paranormal Effect was a blessing from God-with-a-capital-G, and mostly tried to bring themselves in line with traditional Christianity (the paranormals being a modern-day Biblical “miracle”); Faction Two claimed that the Seven Stars , and did not require blind faith as “evidence” of their existence). Other factions crept up from time to time, but those were the two biggies, and without research, Michael had no way of telling which one was emailing the PCA this time. themselves were gods-with-a-lowercase-g, and proclaimed themselves to be the one true religion (after all, the paranormals were a tangible fact

  The main point that kept Michael (and most rational people) from considering the Church of the Seven Stars anything more than a nutjob cult was their collective tendency to blindly defend the rogues. It didn’t seem to matter to them that these were dangerous people, paranormals who chose to use their “blessing” for selfish gain at best or to slaughter innocents at worst. And sure enough, this particular email was protesting the PCA’s “unjust” treatment of Perry Cooper, describing their “malicious persecution” as nothing more than bigotry. They did not seem to care how many people Cooper had injured or killed; they were defending him in typical, knee-jerk fashion.

  And since Shockwave and Powerhouse were the highest-profile paranormal agents of the PCA, such emails were forwarded to Lieutenant Takayasu and/or Ensign Pendler. This was one area where Pendler actually carried his own weight, but this latest email had been forwarded to Takayasu alone.

  Swallowing a weary groan, Michael re-marked it as Unread for later and moved on to the second email ...

  When he saw that it had a blocked sender, he guessed who it was probably from, and he was correct:

  Heads up. We may have a new recruit for the cause, possibly by way of Russia. I’ll let you know more when I do. —V

  Michael’s desk phone rang, warbling twice to let him know that it was an outside call. Deleting Vortex’s email from both his Inbox and Trash folder, he answered, “Paranormal Control Agency, Lieutenant Takayasu speaking.”

  An uncertain woman replied, “Yes, uh, this is ... is this Michael Tak— Taka-yasu?” stumbling over his last name less that most people did.

  He confirmed with clear enunciation, “Yes, ma’am, this is Michael Takayasu.” He heard Mark snicker under his breath and threw a pen at him. “What can I do for you?”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Hi, um ... my name is Amanda Hopkins ...”

  When the silence drew on, he prompted again, “What can I do for you, Mizz Hopkins?”

  “I ... I’m Christine’s sister. Christine White’s sister, I mean.”

  Dumbfounded, Michael grew very still. He felt the rumbles of anger and upset, but mostly he was overwhelmed by confusion and bewilderment.

  What ... the ... hell?

  He didn’t (couldn’t) speak, merely waited for Amanda to continue, but something about the quality of his silence got Mark’s attention. His partner didn’t say anything, didn’t try to question him with gestures or mouthed words, but his focus shifted from his web-surfing to this end of the phone call, making Michael feel that much more uncomfortable.

  Eventually, Amanda spoke up. “I ... I apologize for calling you at work, Mister Takayasu, but I, uh ... I didn’t know any other way to get a hold of you.”

  Once again, Michael repeated, this time with ice dripping from his voice, “What can I do for you?” Rigid as a statue, he stared straight ahead at the opposite wall; Mark feigned returning his full attention to his computer, but Michael wasn’t fooled.

  Amanda stumbled and stuttered for a moment, caught herself, then finally spat it out. “Mister Takayasu, tomorrow is Christine’s birthday, and she’s being allowed multiple visitors for the first time since her incarceration. My husband and I and our daughter are planning to go see her ... and, uh ... and I was wondering if it would be at all possible ... if you would consider joining us.”

  Michael kept his mouth shut for several seconds, trying to maintain his self-control. When he finally responded, his voice was still arctic. “Pardon me for being rude, Mizz Hopkins, but why the hell would I want to do that?”

  He heard Amanda gasp, and half-expected — to be honest, half-hoped — that she would hang up on him, but he wasn’t so lucky. “I ...! How can—? Look ... Christine still talks about you, all right? That’s the situation here, Mister Takayasu, okay? That’s why I’m calling. She talks about you and about how sorry she is that things happened the way they did, and I ... I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, you might talk to her a little. She’s having a hard enough time in prison as it is. It would help if she could have someone— I mean, something to look forward to.” She sighed heavily enough that it fluttered over her phone’s microphone. “At least it would give her an opportunity to apologize for her actions. To your face, I mean.” She paused, then asked, “Look, Michael, am I making any headway here or am I just wasting my breath?”

  But he settled for a dismissive grunt, nothing more.How dare you?! Michael wanted to demand, to scream at her.

  “Well,” Amanda said, her tone piqued for the first time, “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Mister Takayasu.” She paused, and Michael waited for the line to finally close. Then she threw at him, “We’ll be there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, in case you change your mind about seeing her on her goddamn birthday. Would you like to know which prison she’s rotting in?”

  “I already have that information, Mizz Hopkins,” Michael growled. “I’m the one who put her ass there.”

  In the end, it was Michael who hung up the phone, and
he did so with a bang. Then he picked up the receiver again and slammed it back into the cradle even harder. Then, for good measure, he shoved the whole phone off his desk.

  Mark quipped, “Hey! Easy, young’n!” with a forced chuckle, but he was clearly dumbfounded by Michael’s sudden outburst.

  All thoughts of boring reports and wacko churches and recruits from Russia had fled Michael’s mind; he was consumed by such a rage it made him dizzy. He lurched up from his desk and punted the phone against the far wall, charging after it to stomp his heel on it — he refrained at the last moment, but the wild energy had to go somewhere, so it translated into a kick that left a noticeable dent in the wall.

  “Mike ...” Shockwave whispered, stunned, never having seen anything remotely like this behavior from his partner.

  “Shit,” Michael spat, then he punched the same wall and yelled, “Shit!” Another punch. “Goddamn it!”

  Mark stood up slowly, cautiously, not sure what to do, how to react. Michael was inordinately out of breath, bent forward with his palms against the wall, facing mostly away from him. Then voices drifted in through the open office door, and Mark realized that this conduct was about to have witnesses — the first tarnish on Michael’s reputation, so far as he knew, since joining the PCA.

  Mark thought fast. Just as the other PCA staffers poked their heads around both sides of the door, their expressions half-concerned, half-gossipy, he grabbed his own desk phone and knocked it to the floor.

  “Stupid, dumbass reporter!” he roared. “Can’t get anythin’ right! It’s ‘Shockwave’ — ‘Shockwave’! How hard can that be?! Dumbass!”

  He pounded his fist on his computer keyboard, screamed “Son of a bitch!” at his monitor, then picked up his wireless mouse and threw it across the room.

  Mark rounded toward the door, and “discovered” that his coworkers were watching him. He bellowed, “The hell are you assholes lookin’ at?! Huh?!!”

  The crowd immediately backed off, hands held up in supplication, and Mark slammed the door in their faces. He shouted another curse or two, just to make it look good for the loiterers ...