Domination

by Jon S. Lewis

  “What about Dr. Cornelius?”

  “He’ll still be part of the team, but in more of an advisory role.”

  “Does my grandpa know about this?”

  “We had lunch yesterday,” Dr. Roth said as he pulled a penlight from his pocket. “He’s quite the storyteller. May I?” He pried Colt’s eyelid apart without waiting for a response and shined the light at his retina. “When did you first notice that your eyes had turned color?”

  “I don’t know . . . a few weeks ago, I guess.”

  “Fascinating. And you haven’t noticed any other physical manifestations? Scales? Protrusions? The start of a tail?”

  “No.”

  “What about your emotional state? Do you have extreme mood shifts?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about fits of crying? Hopelessness? Anger?”

  “Sometimes,” Colt said. “The anger part anyway—like today when I thought a friend was in trouble. Something snapped, and the next thing I know I’m covered in blood, my knuckles are raw, and the Thule is lying there not moving.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “I don’t know,” Colt said. “Scared, I guess. I mean, what if something happens and I turn on someone I care about?”

  “That’s certainly a fair question, though I wonder if it has more to do with the stress you’re under. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have the weight of the entire world on your shoulders. It can’t be easy.”

  Colt averted his eyes. He knew Dr. Roth was talking about Project Betrayal and how because Colt had blood from a Thule coursing through his veins, people actually thought he was part of an ancient prophecy that would destroy the Thule and save humanity. Just thinking about it sounded laughable . . . and yet maybe it was true. Maybe this was the plan God had for him all along.

  “I want you to be honest with me,” Colt said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Do you think I’m turning into one of them?”

  “The Thule?” Dr. Roth asked as he started chewing the inside of his cheek. “If it’s honesty you’re after, then I’d have to say that I have my doubts. After all, you’ve been carrying their DNA for the better part of ten years, and the only physical manifestation has been your eye color, right?”

  “Yeah,” Colt said, which was the truth. What he didn’t say was that he had heard the Thule speak inside his mind.

  “Still, you’re the first of your kind, which means we won’t know until it happens—if it happens. All we can do for now is watch and wait.”

  “I was thinking that maybe they should lock me up just in case.”

  “That might be a bit extreme—at least for now. But I appreciate the thought. It shows your character.” Dr. Roth walked over to a bank of drawers and pulled out a needle and syringe. “Would you mind if I took a blood sample?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You always have a choice.”

  Colt closed his eyes and held out his arm, and Dr. Roth tied a piece of medical tubing just above his elbow. Colt had never been a fan of needles, and if Dr. Roth was going to stick him, then he didn’t want to watch.

  “There we are,” the doctor said. “Now this may pinch.”

  Colt felt something hit his arm, but there wasn’t any pain. When he opened his eyes, Dr. Roth was standing there looking at a needle that was bent at odd angles.

  “That was unexpected,” the doctor said.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.” Dr. Roth placed the needle into a disposal container. “Let’s try that again.” He slammed the second needle into Colt’s arm like he was trying to drive a nail through a board, and once again it crumpled.

  : :

  CHAPTER 7 : :

  As Colt left the lab, he wondered if Dr. Roth had already filed his report and how long it would take before a team of Black Ops agents threw a bag over his head and stuffed him in the back of a van where they would whisk him away to a secret facility and experiment on him until they found a way to re-create his new armored skin.

  He thought about what kind of gas they would use to knock him out, since they couldn’t exactly hit him with a dart; how long it would last; and whether or not he would be strong enough to break the bindings that would no doubt be wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

  As he rounded a corner, he saw an armed DAA agent in winter camouflage, complete with a ski mask and goggles, and he stopped. The guard looked at him, and Colt felt like a piglet looking at the jaws of a wolf. He glanced over his shoulder to see if there was a second guard sneaking up behind him with the hood, but he couldn’t see anyone. His eyes went to the bushes and then the trees, knowing there had to be an agent with a smoke grenade or something that would knock him out.

  It was freezing outside, and his nose started to run. He swiped at it with the back of his sleeve, and that’s when he saw Miranda Patel and a group of her friends walking toward him, the chatter of their voices out of place in a gloomy world shrouded by the threat of annihilation at the hands of alien invaders. In the back of his mind he could hear Danielle telling him not to stare at her, which was much easier said than done, but right now his focus was on trying to get away.

  Colt took advantage of the distraction. There was no way anyone would try to abduct him with so many witnesses around, so he walked toward the girls, trusting that would give him enough time to make it to the commissary, where he hoped to find Danielle.

  The DAA agent was watching each step that he took, but as he approached the girls, his thoughts shifted from fear to a self-conscious awkwardness. These girls were not just beautiful, they were breathtaking. And Miranda stood out above them all.

  Colt was suddenly aware that a string of clear snot was running down his lip, and his tongue shot out to lick it away. Embarrassed, he stopped and sniffed, but he had to wipe it with his sleeve again. Miranda must not have noticed because she smiled, and before he could stop himself he raised his hand and wiggled his fingers. I’m such an idiot.

  “Hi.” Her voice was rich and sweet, almost musical.

  “Hey,” he replied, his voice cracking.

  “I don’t think we’ve officially met, but I’m Miranda.” She extended her hand, and Colt just stared at it. Danielle and her friend Stacy had both cut their nails short like most of the other girls at the academy, but Miranda’s fingernails were perfectly manicured.

  Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and took her hand, painfully aware that his palms were sweating. Her smile widened, and as his skin touched hers, his heart started to flutter like a speed bag in a boxing gym. “Um, Colt. I mean . . . I’m Colt. Colt McAlister.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said as the other girls laughed. “I saw you earlier today, over by the infirmary. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” Colt said. “Fine. I’m fine. Couldn’t be better. It was just a normal checkup. You know, where they check your reflexes and your heart rate and stuff. No big deal.” Colt bit his lower lip in an attempt to keep from babbling any more nonsense, but at least she didn’t know about his secret identity as a mutant human with alien DNA coursing through his veins.

  “That’s good,” Miranda said. “I mean, that you’re fine.”

  “You look fine too,” Colt said, and the moment the words left his lips his eyes shot wide. “I meant that you look healthy, not that you’re fine. Not that you aren’t attractive, because you are, but . . .” Colt stood there, unable to shut his mouth. He felt like he was in a car and not only were the brake lines cut but he was heading for a cliff. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  Miranda broke into a wide smile. “You’re not bad yourself,” she said in a way that made Colt’s fingers and toes feel like they were tingling.

  “So . . . ah . . . are you going to class or something?” He knew his face was more than likely the brightest shade of red imaginable.

  “Actually, we’re going to the shooting range,” Miranda said. “I just finished my certification on
the SK-14, and today I’m going to be on the Satterfield S80.”

  “The Widowmaker?”

  “You don’t think I can handle it?” She raised a single eyebrow and placed her hands on her hips as though inviting Colt to judge her based on her physique. His face grew an even darker shade of red. He knew that he shouldn’t look, but the allure was overwhelming.

  Miranda’s curves were on full display in the tight uniform. He knew that she was watching him, but he couldn’t stop looking until Danielle’s voice invaded his thoughts. You realize that she’s somebody’s daughter, not a piece of meat. Right?

  “No. I’m sure you can,” Colt said, fumbling to gain control of his thoughts and his hormones.

  “Bailey and Lauren are going for their S70 certification, and Olivia is testing on the NT-7,” Miranda said. “You know, the pulse rifle.”

  “Impressive.”

  “When she gets it, our whole squad will be certified,” Miranda said. “Anyway, I was hoping that I’d get a chance to talk to you.” She hesitated and looked at her friends before she turned back to Colt. “We heard about the book.”

  “Oh,” he said, confused about which book but not wanting to sound ignorant.

  “I can’t believe they’re going to make it into a movie.”

  “Yeah, me either.”

  “You have no idea what we’re talking about, do you?” Miranda asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “That’s so cute.”

  Colt blushed.

  “They’re making your biography into a movie,” she said.

  “Wait, what?”

  “Someone wrote an unauthorized biography about you, and a studio bought the movie rights. They hired a screenwriter and everything.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m late and I . . . um . . . have to get going.” Colt figured it was just a rumor. Why would anyone want to make a movie about him? Especially with the world falling apart. Making a movie—any movie—seemed so meaningless.

  “What are you doing for lunch?” Miranda asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe we could sit together.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Colt cut across the lawn, frost crunching beneath his boots as he tried to make sense of what just happened. Miranda hadn’t said a word to him since they arrived, and suddenly she wanted to sit with him at lunch? Maybe she was a shape-shifting assassin sent to take him out. Or maybe he was losing his mind.

  He passed the bronze statue of the Phantom Flyer, who also happened to be his grandfather, Murdoch McAlister. Colt was about to head into the commissary when he saw a group of cadets from Blizzard, Lightning, Anvil, and a few other squads, so he dashed across the lawn to see what was going on.

  Fighting was part of the curriculum at the CHAOS Military Academy, but brawling outside of class was strictly forbidden. Still, curiosity trumped his hunger, and he headed over to see who was stupid enough to risk cleaning the public restrooms with a toothbrush. He stopped when he saw the first combatant.

  “Jonas?”

  Jonas Hickman was short, plump, incredibly shy, and quite possibly the most intelligent person—faculty included—on the entire campus. He graduated from the Georgia Institute of Technology with a degree in computer science when he was only twelve and got his master’s in robotics from Carnegie Mellon University the day before his fourteenth birthday. He had been brought to CHAOS not to learn how to fight on the front lines but as part of the team working on advanced weapons systems, and even though he had been assigned to Phantom Squad, he wasn’t much of a fighter. But when Colt saw who was standing across from him, it all made sense.

  “Let me see your ring, Hiccup,” Pierce Bowen said with his familiar sneer.

  Jonas cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up off the end of his nose. “It’s Hickman.”

  “Whatever. Just let me see it.” Pierce grabbed him by the wrist and ripped the ring from Jonas’s finger. “I mean, we’re on the same squad, right? We’re supposed to share stuff.”

  “Please,” Jonas said. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  “It’s what?” Pierce said.

  “An heirloom.”

  “Since when is a stupid Phantom Flyer ring an heirloom?”

  “Give it to me!” Jonas lunged for the ring, but Pierce swept the other boy’s leg out from under him and he fell.

  “Leave him alone.” Stacy Watson pushed through the crowd and planted herself directly in front of Pierce.

  Like Pierce and Jonas, she was a member of Phantom Squad. Her ginger hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she had skin the color of flour with a smattering of freckles that dusted her nose. She was also the first girl Colt had met who actually knew as much about the Phantom Flyer as he did, and between that and her emerald eyes, he was intrigued.

  “Or what?” Pierce said, crossing his arms.

  Stacy shook her head. “You’re supposed to have his back. Never mind the fact that he’s working on the prototype for a weapon that could take out a Thule carrier. So, yeah, I can see why beating him up makes so much sense.”

  Pierce narrowed his eyes and took a step toward her, his fists clenched.

  “Hitting her is only going to make things worse.” Colt walked over and helped Jonas to his feet. His skin was rough like a lizard’s or a shark’s, which was strange considering that Jonas didn’t exactly use his hands for physical labor.

  “Stay out of it,” Pierce said. “Besides, we were only messing around.”

  “Give him the ring,” Stacy said.

  “I tell you what,” Pierce said. “I’ll give it to you for a kiss.”

  “Not a chance.” Stacy snatched the ring away and handed it to Jonas.

  “We used to do a lot more than kiss,” Pierce said.

  Stacy spun on her heels, eyes narrow and face red with anger. “Don’t.”

  “What’s wrong, you don’t want your new boyfriend to hear about how you like to—”

  She slapped him across the face, and there was a moment when the only sound was the flag above the commissary snapping in the wind.

  Pierce smiled, and his tongue went to the corner of his mouth in search of blood. “McAlister can have you,” he said, as though she was his to give away. “But you know he’s one of them, right? They shot him up with Thule blood to try and turn him into some kind of super soldier.”

  Colt’s heart started to race. How did Pierce know? Danielle wouldn’t have told him, and Dr. Roth was supposed to be bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.

  Pierce’s father.

  Senator Bowen was head of the Senate’s Committee on National Intelligence, which meant he had access to military records—including secret experimental programs. Those same reports would explain how Colt had gained over fifteen pounds of muscle mass in the last three weeks. That he was stronger. Faster. That his reflexes were uncanny and his skin as resistant as Kevlar.

  “Come on,” Pierce said, taunting him. “Show us how you can shape-shift.”

  : :

  CHAPTER 8 : :

  What seems to be the problem?”