Zero Hour Shifting Power

by David Berko

  Entrance into the base was still forbidden. Mysterious toxic chemicals burned in vats like the smoking gun they were to what went on in the labs of an underground lie; meanwhile, UFO sightings increased all over the word. Firebrands pointed the finger at the operation in Nevada, claiming it had its origins from outer space. The only people who knew what really went on had to live isolated lives sworn to secrecy. One of those individuals was on a plane and headed for Dreamland (Area 51).

  …

  The pilot of the corporate private airliner used by Scorpion banked and leveled off to where he was parallel with the surface of the lake below. He had been specially trained for this, making it look easy. A landing strip rose from underneath the water’s trembling surface. Streams coalesced back into the lake off the improv tarmac; water split down the center, running off both sides, almost giving the whole visual from above the appearance of a vertebrae. It was a spectacular scene to behold.

  At the end of the runway the plane disappeared below the water’s surface on an elevator that took it below ground a good number of stories. The ride ended rather abruptly however as the power plant to the whole contraption shorted and sparked profusely. At the bottom of the shaft a worker operating the controls got disgruntled and slammed a fist against an emergency stop button. The plane immediately halted any further progress and hung suspended on the lift eight stories from the platform it was en route to.

  The man readjusted his yellow hard hat and spat on the ground, swearing. He muttered, “Welcome to Dreamland,” as he gazed up at the plane.

  The occupants aboard no doubt were annoyed but Tommy (Director-general of Scorpion West Division (North America)) was livid. He got on the phone and chewed out the first person he could reach, saying “…heads will roll….Don’t ask questions, just get me a stinkin' helo!”

  --

  Anchorage, Alaska: 15:44 AKST

  At the Alaska State Hospital the president’s motorcade waited for him at receiving. Treated only for minor bruises and abrasions, Alexander was thankful to be an outpatient after such a traumatic attack. Damion, however, wasn’t as lucky. He was on another floor in the patient tower receiving a CT scan and an MRI to get a full scope of the damage. Meanwhile in the waiting room many SS (secret service) agents and one very unkempt Charles awaited the news on the billionaire’s well-being.

  The decor of the room was very modern with triangular piano black fiberglass panels forming the structural supports. Opaque frosted glass was everywhere: in the light fixtures, partitions…wall hangings. The monochromatic theme consisted of variegated blacks with white leather furniture and chrome accents in the chair feet and arms. For all its modern furnishings, the taste in art on the walls gave a nod to the natural world. Big grizzly bears bared their fangs in portraits. Another picture captured salmon jumping upstream in their migratory dash for saltwater.

  A nurse came out after a half hour interval. Looking up from her tablet, she brushed her brunette bangs out of her field of vision. She appeared a little startled to see a phalanx of strongmen and one fellow dressed in a blue business suit with a silver tie all standing in attention, eyes fixated on her.

  “The scans came back revealing only negligible contusions—nothing to fear. He is stable and may check out this afternoon. He must,” she stressed the word, “receive good care and will need to remain at home under close watch. No exceptions.”

  Charles quickly dismissed her counsel with, “No exceptions? Hah, lady, have you any idea who your patient is? You can’t quarantine a man like Damion.” He continued to laugh until his sides hurt. Few laughed as hard or even at all, but that didn’t dissuade him from enjoying the nurse’s naivety.

  The young nurse did her best at ignoring the blabbering man. She was only there as a messenger. Her job was finished: ICU errands held more interest to her than a debate with an uncouth, rude man. She let him know this truth by turning her back and leaving him alone with his own ego damaged.

  He frowned and pointed a finger in the direction of where she used to stand; his jaw...unhinged. No words came out. These were the setbacks that sent him on an excursion to the land of the chaffed. It hurt. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t feel compelled to change who he was.

  Ten minutes later Damion was out of the hospital gown and back in civilian clothes and on the street. He stretched his legs and looked up at the yawning canopy over the cul- de-sac entrance to the place he just came out of. The head still hurt and the longer he stood there waiting for the valet to pull up in his ride, the worse it got. Apparently the president had already booked it and was already on the road to catch a flight.

  A little jingle sound caught the attention of a few outpatients who were also waiting outside for their rides. They looked at Damion and snickered, whispering and pointing.

  He pretended not to notice, but instead answered the call with a cheery “this is Damion…”

  “Heard you bumped your head, babe. How are you feeling now?”

  “I’ve been better,” he said, wincing a little bit. “Are you worried about me, Kara?”

  “Worried sick,” she said, chewing a pink nail. “Mmm, we can’t have that. I’ll pick a lil somethin’ somethin’ up for you dear. Maybe that will make things all better.”

  Kara giggled. “I’d like that. Don’t hurry though. I would hate to have you back in the hospital because you drove like your pants were on fire.”

  Damion was surprised by the remark and laughed out loud. “That’s exactly what I would do, too. Naw, I’ll let Charles take the wheel and I’ll occupy the backseat.”

  “Muah.” (Kara made a kissing noise.) “Later Damion.”

  “Love ya.”

  By the time he pocketed his phone, only then had he noticed a little gallery of twenty-somethings that had gathered around him to listen. Normally he would absolutely adore the extra attention. This time however he got a little territorial instead and asked for space.

  Damion spun on his heels and flipped on a pair of visors. He looked back at the adoring females and blew a kiss, eliciting a couple of squeals from the more boisterous ones in the bunch. They knew who he was, too. Damion Westover was a household name the world over. To him, a little fuss from the fans was all in a day’s work.

  The celebrity worked extra hard to keep a body-builder physique up along with a killer tan and a dazzling smile. On many occasions he would use his personal charm to get his way. But every now and then he would run into an obstinate, respectable citizen who didn’t bow the knee to Damion Almighty. It was upsetting to him, but not earth shattering. Rarely did he rub shoulders with anyone who didn’t get along with him well.

  --

  Chapter 8

  Dreamland, Nevada

  The air was much different from what he was accustomed to…but in what way, he didn’t know. Alas, he was in a room full of terminals—one of his favorite places in the universe. However, this wasn’t no basement at ma or pa’s where he was free to come and go whenever he wished. Just where was he, then?

  He wanted to talk, but he was more than parched and the sack still remained over his head. It was as if someone read his mind: off came the sack and a water bottle was offered to him. He took it and gratefully chugged it down. Feeling he had quenched his thirst, Desmond broke the ice.

  “Where am I?”

  The only other person in the room was a man with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Desmond didn't feel at all uncomfortable, only confused.

  The stranger identified himself as Howard and said, “Where doesn’t matter. We’ll get to the why, though. I’m sure you’d like to know that, wouldn’t you?”

  Desmond nodded.

  “Sit down. Take a chair, any chair. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Desmond did as he was told, choosing to remain silent to hear his options.

  “The way I see it,” Howard said at length, “is you’re screwed if you don’t cooperate.”

  The first bit didn’t come as a surprise at all, but the next part di
d.

  “But, do well my boy and you may rise to the top just as I did.”

  Desmond was more curious now about who this guy was than what bad thing may come to him should he choose to not cooperate and want out.

  Howard looked intelligently at Desmond and said, “They say you’re a genius. Can you prove it?”

  The IT guru laughed and folded his arms across his chest. An open challenge. “I don’t have anything to prove, but if you want to put me to the test, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “Good answer Mr. Alakart.”

  “Howard, what—how did you ever get involved in,” Desmond gesticulated, “all of this?”

  “Ah, you see, that is an answer I even don’t know how to answer, but perhaps I’ll try anyways.” The old man settled into his chair and got a faraway look in his dark eyes. “I was alive when Kennedy was shot…”

  Desmond didn’t try hiding his shock at the guy's age. “No! You can’t be—80…can you?”

  “85, actually.”

  Desmond relaxed a bit. The stranger who sat across from him had a vibe that was neither evil nor nice. In fact, he didn’t know quite what to call it. Back on the pursuit again, the question was posed, “Who are you?”

  “Your young mind is getting ahead of itself. We must go back in order to go forward. Understood?”

  Again, Desmond nodded.

  “When I was seven my mom was in the kitchen with the TV on when she called me into the room. Normally I would have done my own thing and continued playing with my blocks. However, her voice,” he paused with emotion (his throat hurt with pain as he relived the memory) “was weak and strangled.” He readjusted his glasses and scratched behind an ear. “When I saw what she was looking at I realized, even as a little kid, why she was so troubled.”

  “That must have been a terrible moment for you,” Desmond said the obvious.

  “M-hm. But you know what? That day was a watershed moment for me.”

  The sliding door to the room suddenly opened and in entered a man with a tray of two coffees.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” the old man reminded the lackey.

  “Donuts.”

  “Not another word,” Howard chided, making a shooing motion with his hands.

  Desmond’s stomach anticipated the promise of sugary donuts and for the first time since his abduction, the anxiety had left him. “Did you get any chocolate ones?”

  Howard smiled and boldly came forth with an answer to please: “Double chocolate, my friend.”

  Desmond was ready to hear more. “Do continue though with your narrative.”

  “Indeed. So where was I?”

  “You were in the kitchen, the news on the TV…watershed moment?”

  Howard chuckled. “Spoken like a true Nobel Prize winner.”

  Desmond blushed. It was hard to maintain modesty with Howard’s praise.

  “So yes,” he resumed, “my life changed. I viewed the presidency as something we didn’t need in a free world.”

  The coffee almost went up his nose. Desmond coughed a few times then regained composure. “I don’t understand.”

  “As I saw my mom in tears with the news coverage continuing to drone on about motives, shooter suspects, etc. I became a man that day. All sentimentality and patriotism left me and in its place I became one in mind with the person that did the heinous deed.”

  “There you go, you said it yourself. It was a heinous deed. Being a programmer, I see duplicity in your logic at its core.”

  “Maybe to you, sure. But there’s more.” “How could there be?!”

  “Relax Desmond. Either you let me finish or we put the kibosh on your tomorrow and let the world wonder at what happened to the great Desmond Alakart.” That seemed to have great effect on his listener, so the man continued. “Taking an ideology into your own hands as an extremist and imposing your own will through violence on a body politic is hardly admirable. This is where we (Scorpion) come in.”

  Desmond was still processing all this so he was a little slow on the draw. “So you’ve substituted a quick regime change with a slow one that took decades, leading up to a civil war? A war of attrition against capitalism?”

  “Don’t say that word.” Howard made an ugly face. “We have worked so hard to free the world from the conservatism…don’t seek to resuscitate a dead thing.”

  “But it isn’t dead.”

  “We know. That’s why we need you.” Howard reached out with his pointing finger until it touched Desmond in his center of gravity near his heart.

  His pulse quickened at the touch. The lights in the room seemed to burn brighter; the surrealism of the moment…realized. He stammered and stuttered. “I don’t think I…”

  “Stop—” Howard reached out with a bony finger to hush Desmond’s own lips. “I think it is time.”

  That must have been code because the door was open and the two men were soon joined by a whole cadre of individuals.

  “Who are all these people?” Desmond looked around himself as it was increasingly obvious the new faces in the room stared back at his with an unsettling unfriendliness in their features.

  Howard stood up and almost appeared to intimidate the programmer who cowered back in his chair. “Mr. Desmond, if you will join us, we have some things to see.”

  Desmond didn’t face much of a choice. He had to comply or face ruination most certainly.

  --

  Chapter 9

  Beverly Hills, California (two years ago—2039)

  Just one look at Damion Westover’s dossier would give anybody a migraine. Tonight he was up to bat at the local technical institute for a fundraiser speech. The professors at the college required all senior undergrad students to attend—no exceptions. After all, their tuition was paying for the spread. Motivational speakers didn’t come cheap, but this was Damion. He charged more than anyone.

  …

  “Ladies and gentlemen," the MC began with his intro, "it is my privilege to recognize today one of the most renown names in the history of mankind. In the pursuit of an energy source thought to be out of reach, he claims to have harnessed the tremendous power of our solar system’s sun in a, well—you’ll have to sit up straight and listen to this man fill in the blanks. Without further ado, Mr. Damion, take the stage, sir.”

  The auditorium was filled to the rafters at maximum capacity of 5,000. The place shook with thunderous applause, whistles, hoots and hollers. The atmosphere felt more like that of a concert. Fog machines set the stage in a haze with green lasers reflecting off the mist. Tiled mosaic screens set up in clusters around the platform flashed in all the colors of the rainbow. That was only the beginning…

  Suddenly a timer set to ten began the countdown on the big screen. A black and white dial rotated around a number that appeared to be alive with electricity. 3…1….

  The roof parted over the stage at the last millisecond and a rush of wind tore through the room. The students with the closest seats to the spectacle had to cover their ears and hold on to their seats as if they would be swept away by a hurricane. The buzz in the room couldn’t be contained. The student body would never be the same after what they witnessed.

  The dean of the aeronautics department almost collapsed back into his chair from shock. Descending from a spangled black spring sky, Damion gravitated towards the center of the stage like it was a bull’s-eye. He skillfully used little valves that acted as thrusters to steer his suit towards the center before he powered down.

  When his gloved hand reached for his helmet to take it off, the crowd went crazy. A swarthy face emerged from the mask: his sharp green eyes shone brilliantly. A trifold video screen showed different angles of what was going on in much detail, down to the drops of sweat under Damion’s chin.

  Amazingly he was already talking and ready to roll with the presentation. “Wow. That felt every bit as awesome as it probably looked,” he exclaimed, still panting from the exertion.

  Two girls in the back
screamed, “WE LOVE YOU!”

  Damion laughed and nodded. “I can feel the love, even under this two thousand pound exoskeleton. Thank you. Thank you.”

  The applause eventually died down and at last it was time for Damion to give the good people of California some good news to rest their hopes in. “That is what the military calls shock and awe,” he said with much bluster.

  There was a good roar of laughter and more applause.

  “Good students of UCLA...I, I have summited Mount Everest in man’s race for an alternative energy to fossil fuels," his voice trumpeted in triumph from the many speakers. "For years, since the 70’s, we have spent billions on fruitless research and have endured false start after false start from technologies that couldn’t deliver on their promises.”

  There were a couple of boos, however most of the air had been sucked out of the room as everyone waited with baited breath, just itching to go ecstatic all over again.

  “In the twentieth century, we had this thing called fission reactors. Big nuclear power plants. Son Onofre down the coast from our beloved LA, for example, used fission technology. In case you skipped physics or you aren’t the nuclear-faring type,” he flirted with a smile, “you can learn a thing or two from what you’re about to see. Roll film.”

  All eyes watched the educational video that explained how the splitting of a nucleus of an atom into nuclei created tremendous energy. In the middle of the demonstration a little video overlay of Damion talking with animated atoms splitting behind his ears brought light-hearted laughter to the profs in attendance.

  Damion had done the show a thousand times, but he enjoyed watching the sea of faces and their reactions to what was said. However, the next part is where he often lost some people.