by Todd Downing
So focused was John on closing with his prey that he failed to see one of the Captain’s men come around and slash at him—with a sword of all things! The man was good. His blade spun and circled in a display of skill and control that John both admired and feared.
Gleaming silver slivers of death cut the air all around John as he faded and juked, giving the swordsman his most difficult target. The first blow deflected off his right shoulder but the follow-up cut a sandy red gash into his back from hip to shoulder blade.
The pugilist barely felt the wound. Blood oozed from the slash but did little to slow down the boxer’s retaliation. He wheeled on his attacker, and with one punch caved in the man’s chest like a stone through a wicker basket. Breastbone and ribs curved inward, and John could almost feel the man’s spine as he pulled back his fist. He looked at his green paw for a second—slaked with crimson—as the swordsman slumped lifeless to the ground. The fighter’s blood was up now and he turned on Tallridge with a fury he had never known.
Tallridge saw what had happened to his man. His teeth clenched as he finally got his pistol set and brought it back in line with his quarry.
Bugger this. Captain William Tallridge was not about to be killed by a monster, a beast, a mistake such as Mabry. He was too dangerous to be transported—it was clear he needed to be put down. The pistol had a disintegration setting and he wasn’t afraid to use it.
He fired again. This time the gun whined, its crystal glowing a reddish-black before it released a beam of energy focused at the hulking man coming toward him. The blackened energy bolt hit John in upper-left chest. Alien power punched a gaping hole into his body, and the impact spun the giant man around and down to his knees. Pain, darkness, and a growing emptiness filled John’s mind as his heart struggled to keep him alive. Trauma and shock overwhelmed him as he looked at the open, blackened wound.
He had been shot before, but nothing in his entire life compared to this. His left arm hung useless at his side, the destructive power of the weapon’s disintegration ray cascading damage to his sundered shoulder and nearly severed limb. Blood flowed like a crimson river from the wound, coating his entire left side as his life poured out of him. His breathing slowed. A deep rattled sigh escaped from his lungs as his head slumped and came to rest on his bleeding and blackened chest.
Tallridge walked around to face his prize, triumphant. One more trophy for his wall. He had hunted many monsters in the bush of Africa, even America, but this brute was among the most dangerous, most primordial beasts he had ever bagged. He would not mount the man’s head on the wall, of course, but he would always remember this day. Yes, he would have to answer for his failure to bring John in alive, but at least they would have a body to probe and cut and study. He used the blackened barrel of his raygun to tip John’s head up so he could look into his eyes as he breathed his final breath.
What he saw would be something Captain William Tallridge would never forget.
Green fire burned behind the monster’s eyes. Death had not taken him. His breath came back heavy and sharp. Tallridge could see the wound had already begun to soften and turn from blackened, dead flesh to brown, sandstone skin. The brute’s smile came back wickedly as his huge, powder-green right hand reached up, engulfing both the pistol and Tallridge’s hand.
Bones and plastic and crystal popped and cracked and fractured. John stood, twisting and squeezing, as he regained his full seven-foot height.
The smaller man’s face had gone white with surprise, then anger, then unendurable pain as his bones snapped like dry twigs. Tallridge’s eyes went wide, then rolled back into his skull. John continued to turn his hand over until the Captain’s elbow simply parted ways with the rest of his arm. Blood erupted from the stump as John took a step back and dropped the offending limb to the ground. It slid from the Captain’s black sleeve and landed on the dirty street with a soft, wet sound, like a leftover T-bone being scraped from a plate to land on the ground below for the family pet to devour.
Now, it was Tallridge’s turn to slump to his knees. He clutched his sundered stump against his chest as blood pumped out invisibly into his black uniform. The captain howled in unknown agony. He looked at his empty sleeve as shock overcame him. Darkness crept in, the edges of his vision turning to black, as he looked up at the inhuman thing that stood half-dead before him. Tallridge wasn’t afraid to die, and raised his head, ready for the killing blow that was surely to come.
It never came.
In the moments the Silver Star officer had spent contemplating his own mortality, John Mabry had simply walked away.
# # #
The tramp freighter Kali labored even in a following sea. John found an idol of Shiva on every deck and wondered if this was what kept this creaking, wallowing tub on top of the water. The old diesel had been belching black smoke into the cloudless sky for nearly a week as they’d traversed the Red Sea and made a hard hook around the Arabian peninsula, and he could feel the crew’s eagerness to make the last sprint for Bombay and home. Most of them spoke English, yet few had the courage to talk to the strange American with green hands. Only Captain Rajiv was unimpressed by his size or his oddly-stained mitts. He did seem to appreciate a man over seven feet tall, who could load a pallet into his hold faster than five of his own men. They were shipping machine parts back to India, and John was more efficient than any block and tackle rig.
John had decided going back to England, even the USA, would not be safe. He had no idea what had happened to Lord Murray. Murder? Worthington’s message hadn’t mentioned anything about that, and John had never bothered to pick up a newspaper while in Cairo. He had no intention of spending any amount of time in a foreign prison. Then there was Tallridge. He didn’t recognize the uniform, but the emblem on his cap meant something and might be a clue to what the man wanted with him. Not to mention what the strange ritual had changed him into. No, he had to find a new path, a path that no one would expect him to walk. He had so many questions and he needed time to figure things out, hence his job as a laborer on a tramp freighter heading for India.
After eight days at sea, he was surprised when the Captain invited him to dine in his cabin.
The food was simple but much better than the fare he had suffered in the crew galley. Rice and curry had worn out its welcome days ago, and John had reduced his menu to flatbread and water. Captain Rajiv was, surprisingly, a great host, ending the meal with a fine cigar and a glass of even finer brandy. They talked for a while about the sea, the ship, and finally, John felt himself open up. He left most of the details vague, but, when he mentioned Tallridge and the star emblem on his cap, Rajiv stopped and looked at John with renewed concern.
“That is the insignia of the Silver Star. It is an organization that you are lucky to be free of. I can see now why they would be interested in a man such as you.” He paused for a moment, then walked back over to his small desk, scribbling something on a small card.
“When we put into Bombay, may I suggest you go see a friend of mine? I think he will be able to help you. Your life has become complicated, John Mabry, and perhaps this will set you on a path to the answers you seek.”
John took the card as he let Rajiv’s words sink in. His life had certainly “become complicated”. From an ex-heavyweight contender to a bodyguard for a duke to a fugitive from the law and who knows what else. He read—in a fine flourish of ink—the name of a Mr. Ravi Sachdeva of the Indian National Congress, and one word that would forever change John Mabry’s life:
AEGIS
Long Live the Tsar
by Dave Clelland
Popov House, July 17, 1917
“What? What?”
Gunshots filled the room as Alexei Tsarevich Romanov looked around in panic. His father crumpled to the floor as his mother slumped in her chair. Two of his sisters scrambled into a corner screaming while the other two fell to the floor, their lifeless eyes staring up at him. Two thuds hit his chest and stomach, but the jewels sewn into his unde
rleggings and undershirt kept the bullets at bay.
“Stop shooting, you fools!” One of the soldiers barked. “Bayonets.”
The two girls screamed again as the soldiers advanced. Alexei watched in horror, still glued to his chair. His father had been the one to carry him in, so even if his shock-filled brain had registered to run, his legs were in no state to do so. The blades could not penetrate the girls’ clothing, the jewels embedded into their undergarments protecting them.
Where had Leonid gone? His playmate had been sleeping with him until they were rudely awakened by the soldiers and separated. The family had been gathered and marched into the small room, being told they were moved because of an approaching army. When they’d arrived, two chairs were provided for him and his mother to sit.
Then, instead of instructions for their next move, Yurovsky read an execution order and the guards opened fire. Alexei shook in terror, helpless to fight or flee. Yurovsky stepped forward, towering over him, and pulled out his revolver. Four shots sounded behind him, and the screams of his sisters ceased.
“Feign death, Alexei.” The soldier muttered, raising the gun to his head.
The terrified boy nodded, and Yurovsky pulled the trigger twice. He held his breath as he slumped forward like his mother had done next to him. He sat with his eyes closed as he heard the soldiers filing from the room.
“Retrieve a cart. We must dispose of the bodies as quickly as possible.” Yurovsky shouted.
“Da,” one of the soldiers slurred. He passed by Alexei, and the boy stifled a gag on the rancid smell of garlic and stale vodka.
Once the soldiers had left the room, Yurvosky pulled him up. “There is no time. I must strip you from your clothes.” Another horror, being pulled from his clothing, including the jeweled undergarments, and sitting naked in the cold room.
Two raps followed by a single knock sounded from the door, and Yurovsky hurried to open it. “Bring him in.”
“Leonid,” Alexei gasped as another soldier carried in the boy. His friend was dead, two bullets to the head. The room was full of the corpses of his entire family, but seeing his young friend murdered made the anger swell in him.
“Silence,” hissed Yurovsky. “Your friend died for you. Don’t make it in vain.”
The soldier hauled the body to the floor in front of Alexei and dressed it in his clothes. Once finished, the man stood and stared at Alexei.
“The Great War is over for Russia, but while you live, the Bolsheviks cannot succeed in their revolution.” Yurovsky nodded at Alexei as he addressed the soldier. “Wrap the Tsar in your cloak and get him to the safe house. Quickly Sergei, there is no time. Those drunken idiots will be back any second.”
A heavy cloak enveloped Alexei, and the soldier Sergei hefted him onto his shoulder. “Don’t move or speak, Tsar Alexei. Let them think I’m carrying one of the corpses.”
Alexei’s mind whirred as he tried to take in all that had happened to him and those he loved. How could an injured thirteen-year-old, who was a threat to Lenin and his revolution, possibly be useful to his family’s executioner?
Sergei carried Alexei for a long way covered in the cloak. He did his best not to shiver in the cold dead of night. He couldn’t see where they were going, and his terror grew with each minute.
Finally, the soldier came to a halt, and Alexei heard knocking on wood. Hinges creaked, and a woman’s gruff voice burst into the night. “About time, Sergei. Do you have him?”
Sergei’s hand patted Alexei’s back. “Da.”
“Then get inside, you fool.”
The strong man moved again, and Alexei was enveloped in warmth. Sergei hefted him from the sturdy shoulder and let the cloak fall away from his face. Finally able to see again, Alexei took in his surroundings and saviors.
Sergei was dressed in a Bolshevik uniform. His long beard reminded Alexei of Rasputin, the now dead mystic his mother had insisted he see. Unlike Rasputin, Sergei’s eyes were remarkably clear, blue, and his face had a kind look about it.
The other person hovering behind the soldier was a plump, peasant woman with a round face, cheeks and nose red from too much vodka, and beady eyes that surveyed him with a piercing stare.
“Now what?” she squawked.
“We wait for Yuri.”
Alexei finally found his voice. “Why have you brought me here?”
“Yurovsky will explain.”
Three hours later, Alexei still sat in the chair Sergei had set him on and clutched the cloak around his naked body. His legs ached from the cold and the injury he’d sustained a few days before. Sergei and the woman Alexei had discovered was called Mina, played cards at a wooden table.
When the door opened, a blast of chill along with the early morning sunshine poured over Alexei and he shivered. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.” Yurovsky turned to Sergei. “Those pigs. They tried to molest the tsarina as she lay on the cart naked and dead.” He spit on the floor. “The truck got stuck twice, so instead of the mine shaft, we buried the bodies under some planks.”
Sergei shook his head. “This has been a disaster, Yuri. The townspeople heard the gunshots, and the soldiers were drunk.”
Yurovsky eyed Alexei, making the young man pull the cloak tighter around him. “A good thing in some respects, though. We’d never gotten the prince out if they’d had all their wits about them.”
Tired of being talked about instead of to, Alexei jutted his chin forward. “What do you want from me?”
Closing the door behind him, Yurovsky knelt before Alexei. “Do you wish to live forever, my Tsar?”
# # #
Mount Rainier Forest, 12 August 1927
Brandeleine Reed ran through a glade of trees on the slopes of Mount Rainier. The document case she clutched in her hand weighted her down, but she knew she couldn’t just leave it for her pursuers to reclaim.
Splashing through a frigid, gurgling brook, her now soaked shoes sloshed and squelched as the chill numbed her feet. Dogs barked behind her. Maybe the stream would mask her scent. She stopped for precious moments at the side of a cliff, surveying the scene around her. To the right, a wall of rock covered the path, likely a recent and inconvenient slide. To the left, the hillside covered with ferns and salal sloped down and narrowed to a thin trail along a craggy rock face.
With a deep breath, she summoned her courage, resisting the onslaught of nerves, and sprinted for the trail. Knowing she’d need to inch her way along the ledge, speed was of the essence. Just as she reached the narrow path, a dog broke through the clearing and sniffed the air. With a sharp turn, the German shepherd growled at her, sounded a bark, and charged.
Brandeleine set the case on the ledge and pulled out her service pistol. With a loud, echoing shot, she dispatched the charging hound. If her pursuers didn’t know where she was before, they sure as hell did now.
Pebbles clattered around her, and she looked up. The rock face seemed unstable. Scanning the wall above her, she spied an outcropping she figured would come crashing down with a well-aimed shot. Two figures emerged from the forest and settled their eyes on the dead dog.
With a start, Brandeleine recognized the man. Joshua Monaghan, her partner and confidant during her mission on the outskirts of Seattle. Together, they’d managed to steal the plans for the Silver Star’s latest weapon, but she was sure he’d been killed trying to steal the prototype. Ava Fofanoff knelt over the dog. She headed the Silver Star cell and had a reputation for double dealing to gain her ends. The cold hatred in her eyes when her gaze locked on Brandeleine sent a cold shiver through her body.
Still holding the gun, Brandeleine grasped the handle of the case and edged along the path. She fired a shot in the couple’s direction, and more pebbles showered down on her. Joshua and Ava crouched for a moment, then Ava handed Joshua a gun. Brandeleine knew the weapon immediately. It was the very prototype they were sent to steal.
With a wave and a smile that would have been friendly had he not been pointing a gu
n at her, Joshua ran down the hillside toward the narrow ledge with Ava following close behind. Brandeleine increased her speed, hoping to get around a curve in the path and put a rock wall between her and her treacherous former partner.
Joshua arrived at the edge of the cliff and pointed the weapon at her. Energy crackled around Brandeleine as she fought to keep her balance.
“Youth or age, Brandeleine?” Joshua shouted. “It’s your choice.”
Though her body was on fire with pain, she fought to raise her gun. “Neither,” she managed to scream out.
Ava barked a vicious laugh. “You heard her. She wants neither. Maximum setting.”
Joshua faltered. “She’ll burn.”
“Do it!” Ava screamed. “She killed Doctor Riktov.”
Seizing her chance, Brandeleine brought her arm up with great effort and squeezed off a shot. The bullet hit the outcropping, and the entire ledge gave way. Joshua and Ava looked up, but couldn’t get out of the way as tons of rock crashed down on them.
The energy faded around Brandeleine as the duo were buried under a large chunk of the rock wall. She pressed her back against the rock, grateful to be alive. Holstering her gun, she bought a hand to wipe over her forehead, but froze upon seeing it. The skin, once sporting the age marks she remembered from her grandmother’s hands, was stretched smooth over slender and shapely fingers. Careful to maintain her balance on the ledge, she ran her fingers over her cheeks and forehead. Strands of bright orange hair fell around her face, and she gently pulled them into view to examine. No gray.
Pulling herself together, she shoved aside her shock and moved back along the ledge toward the rock slide. Climbing over the rubble but careful not to dislodge any of the stones, she managed to return to the hillside. Sinking to her knees, she breathed deeply.
