World Domination

by Steve Beaulieu

  “No sir.”

  “We forbade you from marrying. This was one of the reasons why. But you did anyway.”

  Rick’s eyes flashed. James raised an eyebrow and the berserker’s expression disappeared, replaced by the blank stare. Inside, James wanted to console the man, to say a kind word. But he did not have the luxury of pity. They were at war. “You made your bed. Now lie in it.”

  Rick said nothing for a few heartbeats. Finally, he stood and saluted. “Is there anything else, Commander?”

  James watched him, searching. Finding nothing, he looked back towards his computer screen. “No. You are dismissed, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  4

  Rick remained seated as the door behind him opened. A moment later, Bexal appeared and sat beside him. Neither looked at each other or spoke.

  Across from them, a middle-aged woman adjusted her glasses and pulled open a file folder. She reached for a tape recorder, turned it on, and set it on the edge of the desk.

  “My name is Ruth Chedway and I am a social worker for the state. We are here today to address charges of unfit parenting. The person in question is Bexal Hardin. The accuser is,” she paused and cleared her throat, eyes flicking up to glance at the pair before returning to her file, “Rick Hardin, her husband.”

  Rick snorted.

  “Mr. Hardin’s complaint states that Bexal exerts no discipline over their boy—”

  “Her boy,” Rick interrupted. “The brat isn’t mine.”

  “But he lives with you, is that not correct?”

  “Mr. Hardin sleeps in the house when he is not deployed and unable to find any other place to pass out,” Bexal said. “But that’s amounted to twenty-six days in the past three years since Brock was born.” She reached into her purse and withdrew a small notebook which she dropped onto the table. “I’ve kept track.”

  “I see.” Ruth adjusted her glasses and made a note. “Mr. Hardin states that Bexal does not control or discipline her son, instead letting him run wild and free. He asserts that this lack of control has caused damage to both property and persons on repeated occasions.” Ruth frowned and looked up. “Is this really what you’re claiming, Mr. Hardin?”

  “It is. The little bastard breaks everything. Throws food and drink. Screams and yells when he is told no. He’s an ignorant puke with no manners. A menace to everyone he encounters. And she does nothing to correct the behaviour.”

  Ruth considered his words for a moment and then reached over to shut the tape recorder off. “I’m aware of the tension between the two of you. Your story has unfortunately been in the press off and on since it began.” She squinted, trying to appear demure. “But if Brock was really as out of control as you claim, wouldn’t there be some mention of it? Others to corroborate your allegations?”

  Rick laughed.

  “I know he’s a small toddler, but you’re describing him as violent and wild.” She pulled one page from the file. “You say here that he threw things through mall windows and that the broken glass caused two women to be cut so badly they needed to go to the hospital for stitches.”

  “That’s right.”

  “There would be a police report for an incident like that, sir.”

  Rick sighed and shook his head. “The police came and refused to write a report. The women declined to press charges, and the mall said that everything was fine.”

  “Then it must not have been as bad as you describe.”

  “You see the surveillance video of that incident?”

  “No.”

  Rick reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone. He tapped the surface and turned the phone towards the social worker.

  The video showed the scene as Rick had described it. Broken glass and alarmed cries as people were injured. The small boy on a rampage, screaming like an animal and throwing, biting, kicking. When the video was finished, Rick turned the phone off and put it back in his pocket.

  Ruth looked at the couple with a deep frown on her face. “That’s.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how to describe what I just saw.” She looked at Bexal. “How in heaven’s name could you allow your child to misbehave like that.”

  Bexal frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Ruth’s mouth opened and then closed. She looked at Rick. The man gave her a tight-lipped smile and raised one eyebrow.

  “You’re saying that’s how he acts all the time?”

  Rick nodded and Bexal frowned. “He’s a perfect little angel.”

  Ruth stared at Bexal. “Like at the mall on the video Mr. Hardin just showed me?”

  “Exactly.”

  Ruth took a breath and sighed. Then she reached for a second folder, flipping through the information. “I see no mention of drug or alcohol use from either of you.”

  Rick chuckled. “You’re wondering how she doesn’t see what you did.”

  “I’m very confused.”

  “Or the police,” Rick continued. “Or the people who were injured. They all swear the boy did nothing, even though it’s right there on video.”

  “How can that be?”

  Rick shook his head. “The kid inherited some power from his dad.”

  “Hero?” Ruth stopped herself from saying more, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “I’m sorry.”

  Rick shrugged. “Don’t be. It’s no secret.”

  “What power?”

  “Charm. Or guile. Something like that. Once you are in the same room with him, you love the boy. After that, in your mind, there’s nothing he can do that’s bad.”

  “I’ve not heard that before.”

  “And you probably never will.”

  “Why?”

  “You gonna meet him before you make your final ruling?”

  Ruth nodded. “It is required by law.”

  Rick spread his hands. “Then you will fall under his spell and tell me I’m mistaken.”

  “There’s no way. I saw the video.”

  Rick laughed. “Oh well. I had to try. Bring him in and let’s get this over with.”

  ***

  Ruth watched the family go. She reached for the tape recorder and hit the record button. “After a full interview with all parties, it is my conclusion that Mr. Hardin’s charges are unwarranted. Both mother and child are happy and well adjusted. Young Brock is a perfectly behaved child. I wish every youngster was so good.” She rubbed at her shin, wondering how the red welt had gotten there. “The state considers this matter resolved, and rejects the false claim of Mr. Hardin. Mrs. Hardin is to retain full custody of her child.”

  5

  Hero flew high above the battlefield, enjoying the feel of wind rushing across his skin as he took mental note of the enemy troop placements. After the third circuit, he returned to the ally base, hovering for a moment before slowly descending to the ground. While hundreds of enemy troops occupied twenty different points, the seventy allies were gathered at one.

  Hero’s feet touched the ground. With nods and waves, he acknowledged the soldiers close to him who watched with respect and admiration. The third Berserker battalion, elite shock troops created by Hero and best soldiers in the world. Drafted from the best of air, land and sea forces, they were gifted with weapons and armour crafted by the alien technology designed by long dead engineers and scientists from the lone alien’s far off home world. The thin fabric-like material of their body armour would repel all forms of projectile and blade, the bladed weapons they wielded retained a razor sharp edge capable of cutting through six-inch thick military grade steel as if it were butter.

  He made his way to the command centre, His eyes settling on the one individual in the battalion who would not meet his gaze, had refused to join in the basic camaraderie of the group for years.

  Since the birth of a boy, four years ago.

  Hero came to a stop in front of Rick Hardin, waited for acknowledgment, and sighed when none was given. “Are your troops ready, Lieutenant Colonel?”

  Rick blinked slowly, his stare fixed on s
ome far off point. “Berserkers are always ready.” He turned to face the battalion and shouted. “Ready to stand.”

  “Never to fall!” The men shouted loudly as one, their voices deep.

  Hero smiled. The war cry always reminded him of a clap of thunder and never failed to send shivers of pride down his spine. “The enemy is split into twenty positions, the smallest comprised of sixty men, the largest one hundred ninety. Most are mid-sized and numbering around one hundred.”

  Rick nodded. “Ordinance?”

  “Standard guns. Some anti-aircraft for me, but they will be useless. Using your shields while you close is a good idea.”

  “It always is,” Rick muttered as he stepped away and turned to face the lined troops of his battalion, arms crossed and expression stern.

  He spoke five names and the men stepped forward from the first line. “We face twenty groups. Our force will split into five squads of ten men in each. I will lead the remainder. We will roam, providing assistance where Hero deems necessary. Are there any questions?”

  No one spoke. Rick nodded.

  “Form up and take communion. Then deploy.” He made a fist and pounded it against his chest. “We strike them down.”

  “We strike them down!” The battalion cried as one and then broke into smaller groups with practiced efficiency. The first platoon trotted towards Hero and formed a line, heads bowed, hands together and raised to eye level.

  Hero raised his hand and bit into the flesh, making a small would and pushing the skin to allow blood to well up. Then he held his hand over the first soldier’s. A single drop of blood fell through the air and landed with a faint splat onto the Berserker’s palm. The warrior smiled as he stepped back and raised his hands, licking Hero’s blood with a swipe of his tongue.

  Hero moved to each in turn and administered what was known to the Berserkers as, ‘Hero’s communion’. When the first group had been served, the next came forward.

  Rick approached last. He approached and then stopped. After waiting for a beat, he shook his head and stepped forward and held one hand out. The blood barely touched his skin before he snatched his hand back and licked the blood with a look of disgust, turning on his heel and marching towards the edge of camp.

  Hero smiled and shook his hand to let the cut close, then he jogged to catch up with Rick. The rest of the Berserkers were running—more of a shuffle that could be sustained over long distance—towards the battlefield, splitting into groups and breaking off in different directions. Hero caught up to Rick and looked at him.

  The Lieutenant Colonel ignored him.

  “There’s a high spot in the middle of the field.” Hero watched Rick as they trotted. “By the time we reach it the rest will be close to their own targets.”

  Rick said nothing.

  “It’s high enough to recon the battle. No need for me to fly you.” Hero opened his mouth to say more, but he felt the presence of Rick’s mind touch his. He closed his mouth without speaking and considered initiating a conversation. Too late. He felt the others—the platoon commanders—join them. Hero felt a twinge of sadness but pushed it away to prevent the others from noticing.

  • • •

  As they reached the high ground, Hero could telepathically feel the intense rage now coursing through the minds of his Berserkers, at the same time gaining strength, endurance, focus, and power. Hero’s blood coursed through their veins, linking minds and turning them into diluted, yet very effective, versions of himself.

  One drop of his blood was all that a human body could handle. The effects would peak soon and then slowly fade over the course of the next five hours.

  If any were still fighting two hours from now, their hearts would burst and they would die, still raging and unaware of their body’s failure.

  Ready? Rick’s thought pulsed to the leaders. There was a pause and Hero knew the leaders were asking their own troops.

  Initiate. The reply of five voices speaking as one was intense, almost overwhelming. Hero knelt, preparing to launch his body into the air. The action would provide the final surge of his power that would slam the Berserkers into peak fighting frenzy as the battle began.

  Wait.

  He paused and turned to look at Rick.

  Take me up.

  Hero shook his head. No need.

  Rick scowled. Fly me to the largest group. Drop and leave.

  Hero sighed. This was how it had gone since the birth. Rick wanted to die. Or he wanted to kill. Hero couldn’t be sure which fact was truer. He frowned. Too many this time.

  Rick’s stare went flat. You cannot counter my orders in battle. Do as I say.

  Hero snatched Rick roughly under the arms and soared into the air, speeding towards the largest group. Wind whistled past his ears as he streaked to his target. Rick screamed with primal rage, the chilling sound echoing across the battlefield as his flight fully triggered the blood of every Berserker at the same instant.

  The emotions and rage of all connected by his blood fed back into Hero, threatening to overwhelm him as he reached the target and released Rick. Gasping, he came to a stop, hovering thirty feet above the ground as he watched lieutenant colonel engage the enemy.

  Rick plummeted towards the earth, twin blades pulled from their sheaths on his back and appearing as if by magic. Eyes wide and screaming like a jet engine about to explode, he began to swing them. A spray of blood erupted around him as blades flashed. Hero watched for a few seconds, then turned and began to roam the field from above, ready to help any groups should they need it.

  They rarely did.

  The enemy outmanned and overpowered his force with weapons and ordinance, but they would fail, dying horribly at the hands of his Berserkers.

  Hero almost felt sorry for them.

  6

  Day two of what many are referring to as the city’s trial of the decade will begin in less than an hour. In a scene straight out of a gangster movie, the defendant is accused of murdering Colin Newlin, boss of the most powerful crime family in the country. Brock Hardin is accused of walking into a busy restaurant, pulling out a gun, and shooting Mr. Newlin point blank in the head.

  You may remember the name, Hardin. Brock is the stepson of this nation’s most decorated war hero, Lieutenant Colonel Rick Hardin, leader of the Berserkers during the war eleven years ago. Brock, aged eighteen, will make his first appearance in the courtroom later today, just before the defence rests and the judge sends the jury out to deliberate. Everyone is certain that a guilty verdict will be reached quickly since the entire crime was captured on video.

  Gena Redman - XPW News correspondent

  Rick entered the courtroom, ignoring the whispers and looks of recognition as he moved to the back row of gallery seats. A lady on the edge of the long bench looked up as he approached, smiled, and moved over.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “Have they played the video yet?”

  “They are getting to that now,” the woman said.

  Rick nodded and looked towards the large video screen as the scene of a busy restaurant appeared. The courtroom was full, but no one made a sound.

  Thirty seconds into the playback, a young man appeared on screen and sauntered towards a table in the corner before stopping. There were bodyguards in front of the table. They scowled but did not reach for their weapons as they said something that no one could hear. After a moment the bodyguards smiled and took a step back. Brock came closer, stopped at the edge of the round table and reached into his coat. He withdrew a gun and said something to the bodyguards. They laughed and nodded.

  Then he targeted the man sitting behind the table—Colin Newlin—and pulled the trigger, firing three shots.

  Rick grunted but said nothing as he watched his step son in the video. On the screen, the young man laughed and then tucked the gun away. He turned to face one of the bodyguards, his lips moving, a smile on his face. The bodyguard laughed and then Brock turned and left the restaurant, walking calmly out through the front d
oor.

  The television screen went dark and a lawyer stood from his chair. “As you can see, your honour, the video is extremely clear. The shooter is Brock Hardin, the victim Mr. Newlin.”

  The judge was frowning. “Why didn’t they try to stop him?”

  “The bodyguards?” The lawyer adjusted the frames of his glasses. “We don’t know, sir.”

  “Were they in on the hit?”

  “The state’s attorney has determined that they were not.”

  The judge’s scowl deepened. He turned to address the other lawyer. “Well, Mr. Saldane, it looks as if your client is guilty with no leg to stand on.”

  The man stood. “Yes, your honour.”

  “And yet Brock Hardin is maintaining that he is not guilty?”

  “That’s right.”

  Rick shook his head and turned to examine the jury. He laughed softly and the woman beside him leaned close. “What’s so funny.”

  “The jury looks convinced.”

  The woman blinked. “That the boy is guilty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be? The video was clear. No one who sees it would say he’s anything but guilty.”

  “Yet they’re gonna set him free.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “What makes you say that?” She paused. “You think they will go easy on him because of who his father is?”

  Rick snorted. “No, they won’t go easy on him over that.”

  “Then what makes you think he will go free?”

  “Experience.”

  The lady opened her mouth but Rick held up one hand. With the other, he took out his cell phone, started recording, and pointed it at her. “How bout you, miss? Do you think the boy is guilty?”

  She blinked and then nodded. “Of course he is. We just watched the video. He shot that man in cold blood. There’s no way to deny the video tape. He’s guilty as sin.”

  He turned his phone off, stuck it back into his pocket, and faced forward. “Okay.”

  • • •

  The judge turned to address the bailiff. “Law dictates that the defendant is entitled to face his jury before deliberations begin. Bring him in, please.”