by Reg Franklin
“I-I can make this right, I know I can please let me make it right oh god please don’t sir it hurts so much!” He heard the sounds of his skull breaking.
“Does it? When my own skull was fractured when I was a child, I do not remember any pain. But then again, I am not the one doing anything to you right now. Am I, my love?” Parsyns eyes rolled and saw Calixta standing in the doorway of her room, eyes blazing as fiercely as her husband’s, mouth locked in a snarl.
He could only scream as she began breaking every bone in his body, bottom to top, even the three small bones of his inner ear.
It took minutes before she was done. He fell to the floor, mewling in pain. The Emperor stood over him. “Does it still hurt?”
The broken man was unable to form words.
“Then I release you from your pain.” With that, Stragdoc drove his foot through what remained of Parsyns’ skull, splattering his brain over the floor. Kicking the remains to the side, he walked over and held Calixta. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “He was weak. Pathetic.”
“What did you see? I know you had a vision.”
“It’s a blur mostly. Her. I saw her. A series of numbers. Fire. Explosions. Pain.” Calixta shook her head and regretted instantly, her headache magnifying.
“Come, my love. I think it’s time to truly show the humans what I can do when I’m faced with more than simple guards.” Stragdoc led her outside, near where the shuttle waited.
---
Most of the Psi-Omegan shuttles had evacuated while the Alliance forces had arrived en masse, troops disembarking from transports. The forces were quick to spot the self-appointed Emperor, an arm around the young woman next to him.
“FREEZE! Drop any weapons you are carrying, on your knees and hands behind your heads, NOW!” Guns trained upon the two of them.
Strangely obedient, Stragdoc unholstered his sidearm, casting it at the feet of the unit commander who had given the orders.
“Knees! Now!”
Stragdoc merely smiled. “I kneel to no man.” A full dozen men had him and Calixta surrounded. “Shall we discuss terms of your surrender?”
Several of the soldiers glanced nervously at each other.
“Hands behind your heads!! NOW!” The unit commander was obviously nervous.
Stragdoc raised one hand. “Now, you’ll notice there is nothing up my sleeve…”
Then, things went to hell.
The pistol on the ground began firing wildly, spinning in place, triggered via telekinetic command. Taken by surprise, soldiers fell, grasping their destroyed lower extremities, howling in pain.
Next to Stragdoc, Calixta was using her own mental abilities to snap the necks of the fallen men and women. The now grinning lunatic waggled a finger at the gun, causing it to fly neatly back into his hand.
“There!” Calixta shouted, pointing at an approaching pair of transports. Stragdoc holstered his weapon, took a breath, and mentally flung the grounded transport at the two incoming.
The explosion was most satisfactory.
Not to be outdone, Calixta grasped one of the fallen soldiers and threw it at an approaching fighter, landing it neatly into an air intake. She smirked at her husband as the fighter crashed.
Laughing uproariously, Stragdoc kissed her passionately, mentally signaling Dalth to retrieve them. Another transport was incoming, Stragdoc merely grasped it in his terrifying mind and dashed it to the ground.
“Let's not push our luck.” He laughed, leading his bride to Dalth’s approaching ship.
Once aboard, Calixta felt amazing. Twice now, her love had come to her rescue. But this time she had helped him in her own small way. Alone, he was a primal force of nature; together they were unstoppable.
25.
Following the Site A debacle, Alliance troops were cautious to approach the smoldering ruins. Smoldering, for before his final departure from the surface Stragdoc had ordered his remaining ships to level the facility. In the end, little information was gleaned from the destroyed facility beyond the corpse of John Parsyns, burned to a crisp now on top of his many, many fractures.
There were few survivors of Stragdoc and Morsalis’ combined rampage. Chief among them was the pilot of the jet Calixta had brought down; he had been able to eject before the plane could crash, although he had sustained a compound leg fracture.
Ironically, his name was Christopher St. George: the son of the man Paul Stragdoc had brutally murdered in London. He had enlisted in the Alliance military once he had reached the requisite age, moving quickly through the ranks in his desire to avenge his father’s murder.
Elsewhere, Jennifer Safyo wept and cursed herself. She had not anticipated the fast action of the Alliance military; her desire had merely been to panic Stragdoc and his sycophants. Instead, good men and women had died because of her actions.
Again.
After all, would the deaths at the Embassy have occurred if she hadn't blown up that shuttle and tried to alert the world to the threat in their midst? Or the soldiers in Toronto? Had she not broken into the vault, they would be alive.
Crichton had called her a dream. No, she was a nightmare. She was cursed to have death follow her actions. Her own road to hell, paved in her good intentions. Perhaps this was her punishment for letting him live all those years ago. Sure, she had left him for dead; she could not have known he would survive the explosion…
Crichton’s words came back to haunt her. Okay. Jennifer took a deep breath. She had been acting on impulse this whole time. It was time to plan her moves, ensuring that no more collateral damage occurred. And she had an idea of at least a partial atonement for the debacle in Antarctica.
---
The Chancel positively thrummed with activity as Stragdoc and Calixta returned. As they and Dalth disembarked from their shuttle, the Site A workers began cheering wildly. As far as they were concerned, Paul Stragdoc had descended from the heavens to save all of them.
“W-where is Parsyns?” One technician called out.
“Dead.” The voice was Calixta’s. “He died defending my husband and myself from the humans.”
Stragdoc fought hard to suppress a grin. The lie had been her idea, suggested to him mentally en route back to the vessel. In life, John Parsyns had been a weak little milksop of a man, his sole brave act being his Faster-than-Light journey.
In death, he could be a legend. Statues built in his honor, songs sung of his bravery. Parsyns death, holding off Alliance forces while the beloved Emperor and Empress escaped was the best kind of propaganda: the kind that made martyrs.
Stragdoc held up his hand to address the horrified crowd. It was time to play his own part. “John Parsyns died a hero twice over. He will be remembered as a true noble Alphite son who not only made the first step into the larger universe for all of us, but also saved both myself and, more importantly, my beloved wife. His last words may have come from a place of pain as our enemies slaughtered him, but his shout of ‘long live the Empire’ will echo in my heart until I draw my last breath.”
Tears welled in the eyes of all the escapees. Before the shuttle had docked back inside the Chancel, Stragdoc had radioed for beverages to be readied for his return. He now gestured for a glass and raised it above his head. “To John Parsyns, hero of the Empire!” He toasted, swallowing the drink in one gulp.
The escapees toasted his memory, and went to set their new quarters. Stragdoc and Calixta made their way back to their own quarters, communing mentally.
-Well, that went quite well.
-Yes, my dear. A stroke of genius on your part, really.
-Only because of my teacher.
Calixta smiled mischievously up at him. Outside their quarters, they found Karman waiting for them. He had supervised the initial evacuation, only leaving the Empress when told that Stragdoc himself was ensuring her safe extraction.
“Sir, I apologize for not catching the attempt on your wife. I offer my life in forfeit…”
&
nbsp; Stragdoc waved the rest away. “You couldn't have known that woman would be there. You're forgiven.”
Calixta actually hugged the man. “Your concern is touching, Commander. Thank you.”
Karman nodded stoically. “Thank you both. My new orders?”
Stragdoc smiled. “Relax. This is the final calm before the storm, Victor. Whether the humans realize it or not, they have officially declared war. It's time to answer their challenge.”
26.
Christopher St. George was dreaming of a hatefully grinning insect boring into his leg when he awoke. He was still hospitalized, the doctors debating if they should pin his leg together or just allow it to heal naturally. In Chris’ opinion, they should just splint him and cram him back into his fighter cockpit, but he knew that he was slightly biased in his desires.
He had been awoken by the sound of his door closing and locking. Opening his eyes, he saw a redheaded woman in a lab coat. Or...was she? Red-haired, but it might have been dyed, for the color seemed to be fading.
“Lieutenant. I trust you’re recuperating well?” She strode across the room, seating herself next to his bed.
“Well enough.” He reached for a pitcher, drew himself a glass of water. “And you would be…?”
“You may call me Ms. Ashpool.” Her voice was somewhat prim, restrained. Her accent placed her as either American or Canadian. “I have a proposition for you. I represent certain...interests who admire your bravery and resolve against the Psi-Omegan threat.”
Christopher snorted. “Bravery? My first real fight against any of them landed me here. And I still don't understand exactly what happened.”
“What happened, Lieutenant, was that using the same telekinetic abilities that Paul Stragdoc used to murder your father, Calixta Morsalis jammed your engine with a corpse, sending you into a tailspin. You're lucky to be alive right now.”
Christopher thought back to what happened. It was all a bit fuzzy, but he did recall something hurtling at him from the ground. He sipped his water. “Can they all do things like that, then?”
The Ashpool woman nodded somberly.
“Bloody hell.” He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he had inherited from his father. “If they can all do things like that, we’re right beaten. Throwing things with their minds, healing from death, no way we can beat that.”
Ashpool smiled strangely. “But you would still try, wouldn't you?”
Christopher met her gaze evenly. “Damned right I would.”
“Because of your father?”
He shook his head. “Believe me ma’am, I want that creep Stragdoc dead for what he did to my dad, but there's more to it. Even if my dad died when I was young, I would still fight against Stragdoc because of what he represents. I know many of the people up there are probably good folks; they are just misled by lies, misinformation, whatever you want to call it. The point is, there is a madman sitting above our heads who does not care about who he has to step on to get what he wants. And he convinced a whole bunch of folks that that's okay. And it's not.”
Ashpool nodded in agreement. “Damned right it isn't.” She took a deep breath. “Lieutenant, the offer I’m going to make you, you can't take it lightly. We...I did a lot of research to be sure that you were the right person for this.”
“The right person for what, ma’am?”
Ashpool removed a medical phial from her pocket, showing him a pale red substance. “This. An experimental copy of whatever Stragdoc does to people. Regeneration that will give you an edge in battle. Possibly an extended lifespan. As far as the mental powers, I honestly don't know.”
Christopher swallowed. “Um. Side effects?”
“Side effects? You will see those you love grow old and die. Friends will die from wounds and ailments that you will find a minor nuisance. And you won't be able to do anything about it...except see that the ones responsible are brought to justice.”
“That's...a lot to take in.” He looked her in the eye. “What would you do?”
Ashpool smiled sadly. “Not how it works. You have to decide yourself, not let someone else decide for you.”
Christopher nodded understanding. “Because that’s what he does, isn't it? Convince people it's in their own best interest to do it?” He closed his eyes. “Do it.”
A moment later it was done.
“I don't feel any different.”
“You won't. But it will take a few days for the change to take full effect. Your leg should heal in less than forty-eight hours or so.”
“So does this make me...an Alphite? Because if my leg miraculously heals, you can bet they're going to check my blood.”
Ashpool shook her head. “No. Think of this as a kind of ‘proto-Alphite’ stage. You won't heal nearly as fast as one of them, and you’ll still age...just slowly.”
Christopher nodded. “There were rumours of a woman working against the Psi-Omegans on her own. Your name isn't Ashpool, is it?”
She stood and walked to the door. “Goodbye, Lieutenant.” She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Good luck, and don't squander this gift. Earn it.”
He smiled at her. “I intend to.”
Then she was gone. Christopher suddenly grabbed at his leg, hissing in pain as the bones began knitting together.
For what neither he nor “Ashpool” could have known was that compared to massive neural regeneration or the purging of cancerous cells...broken bones were extremely simple for the Paradigm treatment to fix.
Too bad it did nothing for the pain. Or the maddening itch.
---
Jennifer made her way to the front desk of the hospital, having ditched her doctor disguise. “Excuse me, could you please get this to Christopher St. George? Tell him it’s from an admirer?” She batted her eyes coquettishly at the orderly she had cornered.
He took the proffered data drive. “Uh, sure?” St. George had been getting gifts sent since his arrival, his story having attracted a great deal of attention from the ladies.
“Thanks so much!” She kissed the young man on the cheek, and then strode out, almost instantly dropping the fan girl facade once her back was to the orderly. Ok, St. George. Up to you now. Go slay yourself a dragon.
27.
In London, the military leaders of the Global Alliance were deeply in conference.
“Still no word on what they were doing in Antarctica?” The Russian delegate asked, drumming his fingers.
From the British, “‘Fraid not. Bloody bastards were quite thorough in blowing the facility to atoms after they left. Maybe if that damn lunatic hadn't been present, our first response team could have gotten something.”
“As it stands, it seems fair to assume that they started building that station they're so proud of there.” The Japanese representative, Admiral Hasegawa, contributed.
“They were up to more than that.” Christopher St. George, now promoted to Captain, marched in. The committee stood in shock at both his temerity and the fact that he was walking. Three days ago, doctors had said they were not sure he would regain full function of his injured leg, but here he was, walking without any assistance.
“Forgive my abrupt intrusion, Sirs, but time is running out.” He tossed a data drive onto the conference table. “That drive was delivered to me in the hospital by an agent working against Psi-Omegan interests. It contains plans for the engines they use to get from there to here, and more.”
“Captain, h-how do you come to walking so soon after your injury?” American representative David Shannon asked.
Christopher smiled inwardly. The lie was so simple. “I’m sorry but that information has been classified at the highest levels. All I can do is assure you that I am not an Alphite, and after this conference I am more than willing to submit myself for examination to prove it.”
“Hang on now,” British representative Mitchell Cameron now spoke. “Why haven't we heard of this agent before now?”
“But you have. This is the same agent who
sabotaged the shuttle years ago, which led to our discovery of Stragdoc's history. She was also present in Toronto when the Psi-Omegans raided the former corporate headquarters.”
Murmurs around the table. “And, uh, how certain are you of this woman’s trustworthiness? For all we know, she could be a double-agent…” Shannon began, only to be cut off by St. George.
“The intel she's providing is good, gentlemen and ladies. Allow me to continue.” He turned to Admiral Hasegawa. “Sir, just prior to the broadcast we received alerting us to the Psi-Omegan presence, your government’s satellites picked up a pair of energy spikes near the South Pole, correct?”
