“She was looking at this. I think that’s where they’re going.”
“Are you sure it was her? Was she in glowing armor and all?”
“Well, no, but I’ve seen her around school. I know it was Max Bright, the Guardian.”
“Maximum Brightness!” someone corrected with a laugh.
The Guardian! The words cut through Erehsa like a particle beam. This was the upstart who’d taken the ultimate power of the universe away from her people. She tried to care about that, but the lid was down on her box, and the sub-program didn’t seem to care either.
It said: We should know more about one who is a vital resource to this planet. She alone can compel this world to hand us over without argument.
The lid on her box cracked just a little bit. A hazy red light glimmered along one edge. So she could be a threat, if she chooses to be.
I haven’t had a recent update from Mitron but he is a servant to Ashere; I believe he would consider a new Guardian to be in need of violent disassembly just for existing.
But it is Princess Ashere who is a threat to me. If she knows I have been brought on-line, she will seek my destruction. Mitron will be forced to choose between us. I cannot see myself helping her.
Your fate is dictated by my programming. I am Mitron, in his absence.
The girls around the pole hurried off. They seemed to be seeking the place where the Guardian would be. Without thinking about her actions, Erehsa followed. If the new Guardian and I are both targets of Ashere, can we not become…?
The sub-program questioned, Friends? Allies?
She didn’t know what exactly she wanted—what she might need.
The sub-program said, Don’t inflate expectations. Both the Guardian and Ashere might well enjoy battling multiple enemies. It is likely neither will want to spare you.
Her lid lifted a tiny bit more. More Red Anxiety leaked out of her box. The colored light was joined by the Cream Blue of Sadness. The colors blended into Purple Despair, making her core feel ever heavier in her chest. You mean I have nothing outside of Mitron, and I can count on no friends, no mercy, or compassion.
That is a very logical assessment. I see you have been studying the emotional spectrum.
For all the good it will ever do me. She put one foot in front of the other, pushing herself on. And on. And on. Her steps echoed on the barren walkway. It was all she had.
TWENTY-NINE
Max stared at the doorman through her sunglasses. “What do you mean I can’t get in?”
“You don’t even have a fake ID.”
“I’m not here to drink, just see the band.” She pointed at Jeff. “It’s his brother’s band. They invited us down.” Sorta kinda.
The man stared at them. “Okay, put out your hands.”
They did. He stamped the backs, leaving pink bats on their skin. “What’s that for,” Jeff asked.
“So the bartender won’t accidentally pour you a drink you shouldn’t have. He’ll see those stamps and give you sodas instead. And there’s a five dollar cover charge—a piece.”
“But you know we’re not drinking?” Max said.
“Exactly.” The doorman smiled. “We’re losing money on you. Gotta make it up somehow.”
Jeff reached back for his wallet. “I got this.”
“No,” Max said. “Let me.” She pulled a roll of bills from her front pants pocket. “A lot of the people I healed insisted on mailing me money along with Thank-You-For-Saving-My-Life cards. Who knew Hallmark made those?”
Jeff’s eyes widened. “Max, how much are you carrying around?”
She shrugged. “Enough. I just hope I’ve got something small. Ah, here’s a ten.” She handed over the bill.
The doorman stuck it in a lockbox and waved them in.
Jeff stalled out inside. “So dark in here.”
Max grabbed his hand and led him to a table. “You just have to tap the link between us. You can see through my eyes.”
“Hey, you’re right. This is so…”
“Freaky?”
“Cool.”
She smiled. “Hey, I see the instruments on that little stage. When does your brother go on?”
“They’ve been on. They’re probably on break now. They should be back soon.”
“Back, now, Little Bro!” Arms wrapped around Jeff from behind. A man with dirty blond hair hugged then released him. Max noted a strong resemblance in the faces. Greg came around the table and sat down. “After all the times I tried to get you to come down, and here you are, once I stopped asking.”
“Are you still with Cherry?”
“She’s the voice the band needs, and she says I’m what she needs also, so yeah.”
“So the band is more important than your happiness?”
“I’m happy,” Greg said.
Jeff shrugged. His voice lacked inflection. “If you say so.”
Greg’s gaze swept over Max. “Hey, Little Bro, you’re doing good for yourself. Who’s the babe?”
She held out a hand. “Call me Max.”
They shook hands. Greg stared at her, squinting through the gloom. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“She came to my birthday party last year,” Jeff said.
“No, that’s not it.” Greg continued to stare.
Excited whispers drew Max’s attention to an adjoining table where a pack of teens were also staring. One of them, a redhead with long hair, left the table and came up to Max with napkins and a pen.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I don’t want to bother you, but we were hoping you’d give us autographs.”
Max’s smile wilted a little. “Okay, but you all need to chill. I’m here on the down-low and I don’t need the attention if you know what I mean.”
The redhead lowered her voice. “Gotcha. It’s just way cool to actually see the Guardian up close.”
Greg slapped the table with a palm. “That’s it! That’s who you are.”
Max sighed. “Okay, let’s get the drama over with so I can go back to enjoying myself here.” She took off her sunglasses. Her once brown eyes with gold flecks were hidden by a golden glow that brightened her face, creating a shadow on her chest. Max took the napkins and pen, scribbled her name repeatedly, and handed the autographs back to her admirer.
The teen said, “Thanks,” and hurried away with her prizes, almost knocking down an older woman moving between tables. “Oh, sorry.” The redhead returned to her friends. The newcomer moved on to take a nearby table. Her paleness made her white skin almost glow in her darkness. Her hair appeared to be midnight blue. She wore a tight dress that might have been spray painted on, and her perfect hourglass figure did it justice.
Something about her paleness, her fluid movements, caught Max’s attention. Her gaze slid into wavelengths she normally didn’t use, not liking to see through walls on a regular basis. Her stare revealed imploded spaces inside the woman, and the energy frequency of a mechamorph power core.
Jeff. Look through my eyes.
She felt their shared channel widen. From the shock resonating along it, Max knew he’d done as she asked, and that he was aware of the alien.
Oblivious to the tension around Max and his brother, Greg gushed. “You were all over the news. You saved the whole freakin’ planet last month when Queen Ashere’s ship turned into a black hole that tried to eat us all for breakfast. Man, you kicked her ass!”
“Yeah, I know. I was there.”
“Max doesn’t like to talk about it,” Jeff said. “She lost someone special in that battle. Kind of.”
I’m not lost, Twila said. I know exactly where I am.
Greg said, “Sorry man. Hey, I gotta get up there. The band’s coming back for the next set.”
“Sure,” Jeff said. “We’ll be here, cheering you on.”
Greg stood and paused. “Hey, Jeff, thanks for coming down. It helps to follow a dream when you’ve got back up.”
Jeff grinned and made a shooing motion. “You’d b
etter leave before I cry in front of my girlfriend.”
Max felt a dazzle of warmth spearing outward from her chest. It was the first tie he’d ever called her that. She smiled at Jeff. “Stay here. “I’m going to get us some drinks.” Her feet barely touched the ground as she waded toward the bar through a growing crowd.
Erehsa watched the Guardian rise and move toward the bar. The teenage girl wasn’t at all what the mechamorph had expected. She’d been shown images of Ashere on her throne, holding court aboard her private yacht. The princess had looked impressive, regal, powerful, and especially scary. Her decisions had been self-serving and heartless. And the recording of the killed servitors...
The colors seeping out of Erehsa’s box turned muddy and darkened to black.
Mitron had wanted her to know the danger of drawing the wrong attention.
They said the battle happened last month, but I have memories of just coming awake. Something is wrong. She turned her focus to the sub-program inside her, the program that had her life in its hands. The Program that was Mitron in his absence. She asked that program a question: Why are there separate time lines?
I have to follow orders too. After getting you to Earth, I put your mind asleep and hid you away for the missing time. This fulfilled the first directive I had on how to deal with an emergency evacuation. Mitron was supposed to come within thirty day-night cycles to reclaim you. When he failed to show himself in the allotted time, I followed my second directive which was to set you up where you’d be safe—even if he could never come for you at all. In the current situation, we must assume Mitron is severely damage or destroyed.
“No!” the word was a harsh whisper on her lips.
The lid on her box slammed open. A vortex of purple and blue chased away the blackness. There were mote of sick-green, flurrying about. Her systems were sliding into instability and collapse; what the humans call madness.
Her hands gripped the table-edge, cracking it. Crumbling it. She stood and forced the lid down against her inner storm, damping the outflow.
The band played crunching power chords and thudding drums mixed with an electric keyboard wail. The woman in the middle held a mic close to her black-painted lips, and stared out from under purple eyelids. She sang: “It’s my pity party, I can die if I want to, die if I want, die if I want to…”
I want to, if Mitron is gone from the universe. If my love is gone, I must follow. I must know!
She forced herself to release the table and straighten. She walked to the one called Jeff and sat down beside him. His body tensed as if he expected trouble. She didn’t care. Shouldn’t trouble be shared with someone?
“What do you want?” he asked.
This is not a good idea, the sub-program told her. Your core is become unstable. If it goes, you’re gone forever.
Shut. Up.
She reached out, but didn’t touch the human. “I need to know what happened to Mitron? He was supposed to come for me.”
“Are you all right?” Jeff asked.
“No. I’m n-not.” Her hand dropped to the middle of the table. Her head went down, her eyes closing. “Help me!”
“How?” His voice spiked with concern.
Humans can care, if they wanted to. “Tell me about Mitron.”
“Well, he killed his little sister, and then he and Ashere did this forbidden fusion thing, they further hooked up with a monster worse than either of them, and almost killed a world and its sun before we were able stop it all. The monster controlling them died, but Max was able to save their cores. The mechamorph home world may wind up shelving those cores—forever—or one day they might get new bodies.”
Erehsa sensed Max’s return; the human radiated a unique energy signature. She lifted her head and opened her eyes. Max set down two glasses with ice and some dark bubbling liquid inside.
Max said, “Uh, Jeff, what’s going on here.”
There was little hope left for her dreams; no true hope she’d ever see Mitron again. His sins were too grave. As grave as hers; the sin of living. Her eyes hazed the air in front of her face with a sour-green light. Her hands trembled. She clutched them together for an illusion of calm. She stood and regally inclined her toward Jeff.
“Thank you for your k-kindness. I have to go and destroy myself now. Ex-cuse…me.” She started to turn, faltered mid-step, and had to lean on the table not to fall. “Execute. Execute. Execute. Execute...me…”
The box chip inside her melted. The box visualized in her mind exploded in a spray of gray light. She felt herself collapsing onto the table, and heard glasses falling over. Cold drink and ice cubes caressed her hand like the touch of Death as her thought thinned toward extinction.
Mitron. I love—
Jeff yelled, “Max, do something!”
Black Cherry sang from the stage, “Don’t need no banjo music. Death is my deliverance. Life has left me sick. Come feed upon my corpse.”
Max stared down at the mechamorph. There was a peaceful smile on her lips. Her eyes were an ugly green, dimming like unnatural embers.
Max forced wide the channel to Twila, and reached out to touch the mechamorph’s head, pressing into coils of midnight blue.
Max! What are you doing?
Trying to save one of your people. Use me as a channel to get to her. I think you can fix her from the inside. It’s either that or just let her die—and maybe explode or something, taking out this whole place.”
That would be bad, Jeff agreed.
Max’s necklace faded into view. Its golden glow surrounded her. Max’s free hand closed around the stone. Light bled out between her fingers, slashing the surrounding gloom.
Max sensed the movement of Twila’s awareness from the pocket dimension. There was a moment when Twila hung over the other mechamorph like a ghostly shroud. Twila’s translucent image sank into the stricken woman.
She spoke with Twila’s voice. “I’m trying to hold her together, but she doesn’t want to live. Her emotional matrix is scrap. The core itself … never seen one like this before. It’s a damn re-writable! What the hell…? Hey, get back here! Where do you think you’re going?”
There was silence as the green-ember eyes flickered, died, and were rebooted with a golden light.
The woman pushed off the table and stood facing Max. “I’m sorry. I tried, Max. She just didn’t want to live. I felt her love for my brother, and something that was like a ghost of Mitron; together, they—imploded. The core was about to crash. I…I…stabilized it. It was empty, vacant, so I…”
“What?” Jeff asked. “Moved in?”
Max cut the power blazing around them, and realized that the band had stopped playing at some point. She willed her necklace to fade away.
Twila said, “Somehow, she knew me as Mitron’s sister. She said, if I ever saw him again, to tell him I was given this body by someone who loved him, by someone who wanted to give him one last gift.”
They stood there, stunned by a sacrifice they hadn’t looked for or expected. Twila reshaped the mechamorph body and features to duplicate those she’d had before being destroyed. She lost height and became younger. Her eyes turned into violet crystal pools. Her hair shortened, restyling itself, turning midnight purple.
Max was first to shake off the dour mood, letting a grin stretch her lips. She put her fists on her hips and caught Twila’s gaze. “Hey, what are you still doing here? Don’t you think Tommy might want to see you?”
Twila’s eyes widened. She smiled with no hint of her old shyness. Light exploded out of her body, lifting her to hang in the air. Then, in a flash, she streaked away, passing ghostlike through the ceiling.
Max and Jeff were left with a soggy table in need of cleaning.
On the stage, Dark Cherry threw down her mic. “Show’s over. No way am I going to try to compete with all that!” She stalked off.
Greg came down off stage to join his brother. “What the hell? You just came to steal my show?”
Jeff grinned. “No,
I’m in a different kind of band. I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell the family.” Golden fire wrapped him up. He rose into the air and hovered. “I’m one of Max’s Light Born now.” His stare went to Max. “I think we should get out of here.”
Max sighed. “Oh, well, I almost had a normal date.” She walked over to Greg and kissed him on the cheek. “Catch you later, Big Bro.”
And then they were gone, a dream of gold moving on, a promise, forever unfolding.
COMING SOON:
CHRONOS
(Book One in the new LOST KING Series)
By
MORGAN BLAYDE
EXCERPT:
ONE
And so they came, looking for the
Lost One to make him a slave…
I sat on my old bed, back home again after the disaster of my divorce. The desk light made an island of light around the desk, leaving the rest of the room in gloom. In those shadows, a suicide note lay on piled boxes full of my things. Light poured in from the open window and the streetlight outside.
I took a deep, relaxing breath. I smiled, letting the breath go. The HK P 200—heavy and cold in my hand—reassured me all would end, soon.
The silence, a living thing, was my only companion at the moment. I heard my slow, even heartbeat. So tired of thinking and seeing what others can’t. Tired of stupid people calling me crazy. Tired of freaking my family out, Stick me with a fork. I’m done.
I’d been that way for quite a while, but now I was admitting it. A lead slug would release me from my freakish eyes and hellish life. I hoped this would work. Hanging failed. Drowning failed. Enough coke to drop a rhino had failed. Time was running out. Any moment, my parents and younger sister Lucy would come home from dinner on the town and I’d have to wait for another chance.
I grabbed the frame off the nightstand, the only picture I’d kept of my ex-wife, the only picture in my room. It showed her with blond hair down her back. No image was no longer accurate. The last time I’d seen her, her hair had been cut pixie short, an attempt at reinvention.
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