by Jay Shaw
The automatic door slid closed behind her, sealing in the air-conditioned comfort of the base’s control room.
“Hey, Wings.” Andy greeted from behind the counter. Headset around his neck as he swigged coffee from a lime green Chopper Pilot’s Get It Up Faster mug.
“Hi Andy.”
Julia released her hair from its clip. It fell in waves over her shoulders and down the back of her flight suit like a waterfall of bourbon silk. She left her signed shift report on the counter then headed to the locker room to change. Twenty minutes later she was showered, dressed in blue bootleg jeans and her black leather jacket with silver angel wings embroidered on the back.
The freeway was crowded, but the traffic kept moving. Shoot to Thrill blasted from the stereo and she sang along at the top of her lungs. Fresh air from the open window blew her hair back as she shifted her red Holden V8 into fifth, and put some distance between her and the last of the five-o-clock stragglers.
She pulled into her drive with the aroma of hot steak chop suey, sweet and sour pork, and chicken fried rice, wafting through the car. Her little three bedroom cottage looked welcoming as the headlights shone on its white siding. It had a deck that looked out onto a private reserve with a pond, and it was only five minutes’ walk from the beach. Glad to be home, Julia carried her dinner and backpack inside, locking the door behind her.
Then, with a mixed plate and a glass of Pinot Gris, she snuggled up on the sofa – blanket over her knees – and switched on the DVR to watch the first episode of Phoenix Rising, season four.
Chapter 2
Julia woke up and rolled over to check the time on the alarm clock. Five-thirty. Groaning, she tugged the blankets back up to her chin and snuggled her face into her puffy pillow. Why, didn’t humans come with a switch that automatically told them to sleep in when they were on vacation?
It felt late the second time she rose to the surface of consciousness and pushed herself up out of bed. Her body was on autopilot as she brushed her hair into a ponytail, tugged on sweats and a tee, and laced her sneakers. A quick run along the beach would help clear the fog from her brain.
She ran across the wooden bridge onto the grass reserve, then down the plank and chain path to the clean white sand. The roar of the ocean called her to its edge with a siren’s song, and she ran with easy strides along the hard-packed wet sand from one end of the beach to the other. It felt right to leave off exertion and wander back. She shucked her shoes and socks, tied the laces together and swung them as she walked; digging her toes in the soft grains and stooping occasionally to collect a shell here or a piece of driftwood there. The salt breeze kicked up by the crash and roll of the waves clung to her sweaty skin, whipping the end of her ponytail into her face no matter which way she turned. Eric and Emily Michaels from up the hill waved from where they watched over their twin Norwich terriers barking at the surf. She waved back, headed toward the path and home. Trip and Hazzard’s exploits were far less entertaining than their owners thought they were and she had no desire to get caught in the cycle of coos and baby talk the yuppie couple bestowed on their furry children.
After a scorching shower Julia sat in her studio, dressed in an oriental print silk robe with her hair wrapped in a towel atop her head, rubbing lotion into her hands and up her forearms as she studied the six by eight blank canvas mounted on the wall. It had been there for three weeks while she tried to envision the final masterpiece. When she could see it, she would paint it. Despite the few elusive ideas drifting through her subconscious, today wasn’t the day.
She threw the towel in the hamper on her way to the kitchen, scrubbing her scalp with her fingernails to shake out the snarls of bourbon chaos. While a plate of leftover takeout turned in the microwave, she downed two glasses of water and thought about how she would spend what was left of the afternoon. The microwave beeped at the end of its three minutes and she carried the steaming plate and her book out to the deck. There was no wind as she sat with her feet on the opposite chair and her favorite book on her lap. She’d read it countless times; third in a series about a spunky heroine who travelled back in time and into the arms of her lover.
Over time some of its pages had come loose from the binding and the spine had started to flake from overuse. The book fell open at page three-hundred and twelve – one of many favored scenes. Julia loved the way the author made her characters come to life in the details; made their feelings tangible. The absolute knowing they had of belonging together, without losing the things that made them who they were as individuals, was a concept close to her own heart.
She sighed, forking her way through her meal as she joined the characters in the moment of their reunion after twenty years separation.
Forty-three pages later, she closed the book. The light was fading and mosquitoes were whining around her head.
“Oh for a love like that.”
Julia tucked her book under her arm and carried her fork and empty plate inside. She had thought Dillon was the one. They shared the same career; her in rescue, him in tourism flying scenic tours for those who could afford him. Dillon had dumped her via text for a pedigree pet with a diamond-encrusted Cartier collar and leash. A pampered princess who wanted to piss off Daddy Moneybags, by having the help fuck her on the beige leather seats of his town car - every afternoon at three. It was true love. Obviously. So she’d thrown herself into her work. There was nothing confusing or misleading about flying her chopper and people needed her. Love got put on the backburner and that where it had stayed; despite the slow-burning flicker of hope that refused to go out.
~*~
The time glowed red in the otherwise pitch black room. She lay amid rumpled bedding, the echo of a scream lingering in her ears and her heart racing. A fine sweat shimmered on her skin and the hairs on her arms stood on end. Her dark-haired lover with whiskey-colored eyes nothing more than a fading image in the back of her mind.
“Wow!” She panted, flopping back against her pillow. “Good dream.”
Watching Phoenix Rising before bed wasn’t conducive to a restful sleep, it seemed. Julia groaned, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Now if only there was a man like Mark Holden out there for her.
~*~
Julia felt revived as strode along the beach, accompanied by the ceaseless thunder of crashing waves. She relished the taste of salt spray on her lips and the scent of a wild fresh wind as it caressed her skin, and whipped her hair from her face. The rugged end of the beach with its boulder-strewn sand, caves, and overhanging forestry, was her favorite place for solitude. Tourists, families, and dog-walkers preferred the flat wide expanses of the southern end. But today, the entire beach was hers.
Seated on her chosen rock she shrugged out of her backpack and folded her long legs under her. It was fantastic to be still, to have no demands on her time. Calm had settled over her, easing away the restlessness of the previous night and she closed her eyes to fully appreciate it.
A blinding white flash jolted her eyes open as it lit the entire area. Electric-blue lightning arced across the dome of the sky, crackling and hissing as it contacted with moisture in the salty air. Its silhouette burned dark on her retinas, overlapping with itself time and again as she tried to blink it away. The hairs on her arms danced, charged with a static that sent an army of goosebumps marching across her skin.
What the hell had happened?
No time seemed to have passed, and yet she sensed something had definitely changed. A shudder ran down her spine, releasing the breath she’d unconsciously held.
A sound like someone having the wind knocked out of them made her jump. Julia turned and saw a man lying motionless on the sand a few meters from where she sat. He hadn’t been there before the flash, she was certain of it. Whatever had just happened, only the two of them were aware of it.
He groaned in pain, but didn’t move. Whoever he was, he was hurt and she was the only person around to help.
She knelt in the sand at his side. He was a
soldier. That much was obvious from the weapons he wore on his waist and thigh. His tall muscular frame clad in a military vest, black tee and BDUs, and combat boots.
“Hello.”
“Are you okay?”
There was no response.
Julia rolled him towards her and onto his back, and gasped in shock. She knew him. He looked as if he’d been in a hell of a battle, but she definitely knew him.
He was still alive. His chest rose and fell, and a pulse jumped a steady rhythm in his neck. Blood seeped from a laceration over his right eye and trailed down his temple. Sand had clogged the flesh wound in his bicep into a gritty mess. Both could be easily treated, but something niggled at the nape of her neck; a warning slick and icy. They shouldn’t be out in the open. She glanced around, catching sight of an opening to a coastal cave.
Julia got to her feet and gripped the loop on the back of the man’s vest, dug in her heels and hauled back. Struggling against the deadweight of an unconscious six-foot-plus man wasn’t her idea of fun; panting, with her forearms and thighs burning, she dragged him into the cave. Everything stilled. The sound of the ocean and the wind were muted by the thud of her heartbeat and heavy breathing in her ears.
She rubbed her back before sinking to her knees and unclipping the T60 from his vest. If she remembered correctly, the bandages were still packed in the front velcro pockets. Julia breathed deep in relief when she found them on the first try; pressed one firmly to the head wound and tied off the ends around his head.
Worried about any injuries she might have missed, she unzipped the vest and gently pressed along the man’s ribcage with the palms of her hands. He moaned, and feebly tried to roll and protect his right side.
“It’s okay, you’re safe.” She whispered, her voice shaky as she pressed him back down. “I can help.”
He must have heard because he relaxed, body seeming to sink into the sand as she finished her triage. Finding no further sources of blood, or broken bones, she cleaned the sand from his arm using the water from his canteen, and covered the angry gouge with a bandage. There was nothing she could do about his ribs until he was awake enough to help her move him.
The temperature had dropped in the shadowy interior of the cave, making Julia shiver, so she collected enough of the scattered driftwood to make a decent fire; lit it from the matches in the vest, and soon the cave walls were bathed in a flickering blue-gold light.
With the immediate necessities taken care of, Julia gave herself permission to quietly freak out at the impossible reality staring her in the face. Well, maybe not staring, since his eyes were closed, sweep of dark lashes resting on tanned cheeks. But had he been awake, Julia felt sure his eyes would’ve had the glow of single malt whiskey to them.
She was sitting in a cave at her local beach, having just patched up the tall, dark and gorgeous man she’d dreamed about since Phoenix Rising had first aired on television screens around the world three years ago. This kind of thing just didn’t happen outside the realm of fantasy and imagination. And yet…
With tentative fingers she lifted the chain from around his neck. Two clear, laser-etched dog tags, still warm from his body, fell into her palm.
If Julia believed what her eyes were showing her, and let’s face it, she had to, since she’d just been tending him. Then the irresistibly charming military commander of the fictional Phoenix City, Colonel Mark Holden, had quite literally fallen into her life.
Chapter 3
Shariik hated collective mind melds. The resultant headache lasted for days afterwards. The gloom of the Nahfenite tunnel eased the tugging at the corners of his eyes that throbbed with each alternating beat of his two hearts. Arcadia’s harsh climate had been his singular reason for volunteering as Acquisitioner to the Chancellor. Anything that got him out of the deceptively beautiful hell had Shariik’s complete and utter approval.
He’d been approaching the subterranean receiving chamber of the Chancellor for a good twenty eschlons, but Shariik knew he was getting closer when the glowing outlines of Darvac sentries began appearing along the walls every few paces. Shariik understood the necessity of working with Darvac but it didn’t stop their transparent skin, their phosphorescent organs, or the sound their rattling breath from turning his insides to ice.
At last, the tunnel widened into a cavernous chamber. Its circular walls supported by a regiment of pillars, each adorned in swathes of emerald cloth that served as privacy screens for the conversational alcoves between. The sole source of illumination was a central beam of yellow light, harnessed using reflectors from the surface high above the domed ceiling, to pool on a round crest carved into the stone floor.
The chamber was cool and crowded with the leaders of Arcadia, their dignitaries, and their allies. Business of the realm conducted amid the pouring of rich wine and sexual pleasure provided in equal measure by pale-skinned body slaves; clad only in collar and cuffs, with their master’s crest branded into the flesh of one buttock.
Shariik’s gaze skittered away from the evidence of his occupation. His job was to acquire and deliver fresh meat. It was of no interest to him what happened to his catch beyond payment. A skinny pale-limbed bedmate who, given the opportunity, would kill him in his sleep, did not stir his loins. But as long as there was income to be made, Shariik would continue to scour the galaxy and supply his Chancellor’s insatiable demand.
His mind was ambushed by the chamber’s occupants the moment he crossed the threshold; forcing their way past the mental barrier of his personal shield, like a legion of predators descending on fresh prey. Shariik’s thoughts were thrown into the telepathic melee and jumbled together; each fighting with the next for the chance to be heard above the rest.
‘Silence!’
Myken’s voice roared within Shariik’s head. Its echo sounding off the inside of his skull like it did for many others, if the shaking of heads in the shadows was any measure.
With a swish of the leather cloak he wore, held in place across his muscled ochre shoulders by a bronze Tortaline medallion, Myken strode out of the gloom and onto the stone crest. His bald head gleamed in the beam of yellow light; his face thrown into harsh shadow and sharp lines, gaze boring into Shariik’s own.
Peace reigned in Shariik’s mind and his gait faltered with relief, before continuing forward and dropping to one knee at the edge of the crest; careful to allow no light to touch him.
‘Shariik of the Omut, rise and report.’
Myken waved his ringed hand over Shariik’s head before turning his back to stride around his chambers; fists on hips and elbows out in a projection of strength and pompous supremacy.
Shariik rose and stood to attention, then began the report he had finished polishing during the journey here.
‘There is much talk of the Earthers who led the resistance against our esteemed allies the Darvac and thwarted their noble attempts to unite the worlds of Dragonus under their Federation.’
‘Did you gain intelligence as to how an insignificant number managed to defeat such a great race?’ Myken interrupted with a respectful nod to the group of Darvac royalty glowing in the darkness to his left.
‘Yes, Honored One. They have the trust of and an alliance with the Zefeirian queen, and thereby her legion of warriors.’ Shariik thought into the expectant silence.
Myken waited. It was obvious he had expected more than what he was gleaning from Shariik’s mind.
‘Some possess a gene in their physical design which allows them to use the technology left behind by the Zydonians, when they deserted Dragonus maravons past.’
‘We are aware of this.’ Shariik shuddered beneath the warning in Myken’s words. ‘What of your mission? You were dismissed from this court on the understanding you would capture and return one of these…Earthers for experimentation. By your attendance here I assume you were successful. The supremacy of our race depends upon it.’
Shariik’s aural rings puckered in fear. He couldn’t give Myken the answer he was
expecting. Obscurity in the wastelands of Omutu would be his future if he had no offering to lay at the feet of his superior.
‘My squad heard of a most ideal candidate, Honored One. We tracked him, undetected, to the forest world in the fourth system.’
‘Where you captured him for the glory of Arcadia.’ Myken threw his arms up in premature triumph to the thumping of his courtiers’ fists.
‘I must oppose your declaration, Honored One.’
Myken’s arms fell to his sides, full lips pulled back in a sneer as he strode back to Shariik.
‘Explain yourself.’
‘They discovered an abandoned Zydonian outpost, Honored One. With the warriors our noble allies provided, we attacked. We had the advantage but their weapons, Honored One, slayed our number without respite. We could not advance. Their technician initiated a portal and your target was struck by laser fire and thrown into the vortex.’
The chamber was silent. Tension stretched to breaking point. All present had heard Shariik’s report; knew his final words before his exile or execution. Shariik dared not look up from the leather straps over his bulbous cloven toes. Myken’s hold on his mind was intense, heavy with ominous disapproval and a thin veil of embarrassment; an underling shame before such distinguished witnesses.
‘The others?’
‘Escaped, Honored One, before we could muster reinforcements. They were of no use to us. None but their leader possesses the gene we require.’
‘Our target’s coordinates?’
‘I cannot tell you, Honored One.’ Shariik cowered, curving his massive bulk inward against the physical blow he expected. ‘I am not a technician. But we retrieved the device in the hopes a location could be derived from it.’
‘It seems you are capable of intelligent thought, after all.’ Myken growled within the trembling cells of Shariik’s consciousness as he paced from one side of the chamber to the other, cloak billowing in his wake. ‘Once a destination is acquired, I shall send a detachment to capture our elusive prize. As for you, Shariik of the Omut…’
