There’s a certain attitude that’s very prevalent in the world and it can be summed up by a common saying: “It will never happen to me!”
If we are honest, it’s a point of view echoed by us all, far more often than we care to admit.
The past year had proved beyond doubt that gifted individuals were indeed present among humanity. By their actions and their willingness not only to come forward and identify themselves, but also register, most gave testimony to the fact that their hearts were in the right place.
Sadly, that couldn’t be said of everyone, as exemplified by the misfits involved in the missile crisis two years before. Only a handful of the persons responsible for that atrocity were psychic, but they no doubt expressed those exact same sentiments as they sat together, furtively planning the outworking of their diabolical act:
“Hey, don’t sweat it, our powers make us invincible.”
“What can the authorities do to stop us?”
“People like us never get caught.”
How wrong they were.
The naivety of such an obtuse attitude no doubt came back to plague them on the morning of November 4th, as their sentences were at last handed out:
Life imprisonment in each and every single case!
Not only that, those felons endowed with any form of extra sensory perceptions suffered the additional indignity of having their psi-wells capped by a forensic examiner of the Inquisitor branch. Thereafter, they would be forced to live the rest of their natural lives knowing their wondrous talents would remain locked so far away within the deepest recesses of their psyches that it would be as if they had never existed.
No sympathy was forthcoming from the Guardians, who were adamant a stern example be set in this regard. Society needed to witness the drastic consequences awaiting anyone foolish enough to think they would be granted any form of leniency because of their abilities. And witness it they did, in a united accord that went on to act as a strong deterrent to those who might be contemplating such crimes in future. . .
Or perhaps it might have been better to say, a strong deterrent to those capable of exercising any degree of common sense, for there was a minority who refused to listen, and Abraham Volker was one of them!
Born and raised in Limpopo, South Africa, some forty years before, he was to all intent and purposes an astute and successful businessman. Publicly, he headed his family’s small but financially solvent fruit producing firm, an enterprise that had been spared the devastation caused throughout the rest of the African continent by the multiple meteorite strikes earlier in the New Year. His business took him about the various provinces on a regular basis. Outwardly, not a problem at all.
Secretly though, such freedom of movement was bad news for just about everyone else, and especially females, as it allowed him plenty of opportunity to indulge in a particularly revolting vice.
As a youngster, Abraham had discovered he could mask his presence from others. He wasn’t invisible, per se, but until he called attention to himself, people were blind to the fact he was there. That had proved useful to Abraham when younger in obtaining all sorts of trinkets, toys, and keepsakes from locker rooms, shops, and friends’ houses when the mood took him. He also had an elemental ability—electrical in nature—which, while not as strong, was nevertheless able to jumpstart vehicles and short out lights. Quite by accident, he found out he could also stun people by interrupting the signals travelling between their brain and muscles, thereby rendering them helpless.
Abraham never got caught. As he grew older he grew bolder, often taking what he wanted by lying in wait for an intended victim and shocking them as they went past. Once incapacitated, he could prevent them from moving properly or crying out by maintaining regular bodily contact as he went through their pockets. Having finished, he would stun his victims again to vouchsafe a clean getaway, before blending into the background as if he’d never existed.
Yes, the “It will never happen to me,” syndrome summed up Abraham Volker’s self-centered attitude completely.
As callous as Abraham’s behavior was, it got worse. His mid-teens brought his raging hormones into play, as well as a hankering to control others, especially girls. Those particular appetites led him down an altogether different path, and now, some twenty-seven years later, Abraham Volker was South Africa’s unofficial longest running serial rapist and a fiend in a class all of his own.
Possessed of an extremely cold, calculating and methodical personality, Abraham was always careful in choosing his victims, following a predetermined set of criteria to so. Having made his selection, he was quick to establish the foundations of his alibi, foundations he would lay in a most ingenious—if unusual—way.
To begin, he would make certain he was readily noticed about the environs of whatever hotel he happened to be staying at by feigning either an illness, or straightforward drunken-bumitis. Then, as the time for him to strike drew near, he would ensure his behavior caused sufficient concern to warrant being escorted to his suite and put to bed.
No sooner was he left alone, than Abraham would change into a tracksuit and use his skills to depart, unseen by staff, customers or CCTV. Having made his sick fantasy a vile reality, he would return, shower, change back into his old clothes and leave his room, apologizing loudly to management—and anyone else nearby who he might have upset—for his earlier uncharacteristic behavior. He wasn’t well; he was on medication; he didn’t realize how strong the after-effects were; the pills didn’t mix with whiskey; and now he was awake he’d like to make amends; blah—blah—blah. . .
In hindsight, an appallingly lackluster excuse. And yet, this simple but effective ruse had worked for him on countless occasions.
Usually, Abraham’s victims were left so traumatized that they never reported the attacks to police. Because of this, not only were the authorities in South Africa unaware of his existence, but they didn’t have a clue that a serial rapist of Abraham’s prolific nature or abilities was operating around the provinces.
Even worse, because he was so careful in portraying a benevolent, if somewhat bumbling public image, Abraham was the last person friends, neighbors or acquaintances would ever expect of being a monster.
A pity, for in truth his lusts were all he cared about and when the urges came upon him, he paid scant regard to anything else until he’d satisfied them. Not those whose lives he’d ruined; not their families; and certainly not the fate of those who had so recently been sentenced to life imprisonment—or in the case of those blessed with abilities—psychically castrated. He was Abraham Volker. Untouchable. Unaccountable. Uncatchable.
Abraham was currently staying at the Okiep Plaza Hotel. Situated about six miles from Springbok, he’d arrived early the previous day (Friday) to prepare for his meeting with local fruit and maize farmers the following Monday. Driving along route seven, he’d noticed a young woman out on an early morning jog. Heading along highway fourteen, from Springbok toward the Goegap National Reserve—an area that was beautifully rugged and open—she wore a spandex top and bottoms that left nothing to the imagination. Her firm yet curvy body triggered an itch within him as soon as he laid eyes on her, something he was finding more and more difficult to scratch these days.
Noting the time at just before six o’clock, Abraham hoped she was a fitness fanatic who liked to keep a schedule. Her figure certainly suggested she lived by a healthy routine. Infatuated beyond measure by what he saw, Abraham made the instant decision to come back this way at dawn the next day on a stolen bike. If she was here and if it was deserted enough, he’d take her.
Abraham had gone to bed early that evening, ordering extra alcohol several times during the night to make certain staff remembered his face. Finally, at 3:30 a.m. —while staggering around pretending to be the worse for wear—he summoned the night porter to his room and gave him explicit instructions to wake him at 7:30 sharp, stating, “I hash . . . I have to geh . . . hic . . . get up for a businesh meeting firsht thing. Do . . . don’t lesh me be late.”
Having a door slammed in his face didn’t impress the concierge one bit. There and then, the guy determined that if this troublesome man dared step near a vehicle in the morning, he’d call the police.
None of this bothered Abraham one bit. With everything in place, he immediately set several mini bottles of single malt aside—one for drinking on his return, the others for pouring over his clothes—before tipping the rest down the toilet. Setting his scroll phone alarm, he then laid back and went to sleep, dreaming of the sweet release to come.
By 5:45, Abraham was waiting, shielded and full of testosterone-laced anticipation, in the already pleasant warmth of Voortrekker Street, Springbok, hoping and praying with all his twisted heart that the object of his desire would be along soon.
He didn’t have to wait long. She came running from the direction of the sports fields in a bright pink spandex outfit, clearly visible as the Sun crested the distant hills and rose higher into the sky. From the route she was taking, it was obvious she would be heading for the reserve again.
Abraham took a closer look as she breezed past, listening to music on an iBud and oblivious to his presence. He estimated her to be in her late teens or early twenties. Though he preferred them to be a little older, he’d make an exception for a body like that! Five feet seven inches tall; long wavy brunette hair tied back in a ponytail; fantastically firm breasts; the peachiest ass he’d seen in a long time. Yes, he was going to take his time with this little bitch and enjoy every inch of her.
He started crawling along in her wake on the bike he’d stolen earlier that morning, keeping a close eye on her backside as it winked from side to side with each rhythmic step. The sweat glistened on her limbs as she ran, causing her skin to glow with a burnished sheen. Already highly aroused, he contented himself by summarizing the catalogue of abuse he intended to inflict on her, paying scant heed to the thought of being caught. The area was deserted and in a little while, they’d be over the main highway and heading out toward the reserve where the chances of being disturbed were virtually nonexistent.
Five minutes later and they were far enough from civilization for Abraham to feel confident about scouting ahead. He knew once he had her inside his chameleon bubble they’d remain undisturbed until it was time for him to get back and continue his charade of a severe hangover, so he chose a spot half a mile distant, where the road disappeared from view as it wove between a dense cluster of rocks and trees.
Riding off the asphalt, he dropped the bike behind a clump of bushes, divested himself of his tracksuit, and spread the towel he would be using to protect himself from abrasions out on the ground. Not once did any similar expression of empathy for his victim’s comfort enter his mind. His thoughts were in overdrive now and totally focused on how good it would feel to vent himself on his helpless prey. I’ll probably shock her a bit as the fun unfolds. I like it when they wriggle.
Minutes turned to hours, but at last, there she was. Abraham could see she was perspiring heavily from her exertions. He especially liked the way the spandex had soaked right through so that it clung to her form like a nonexistent second skin. The sight of her almost had him climaxing. Glancing about to confirm they were all alone, he moved away from the verge, raised his shields to maximum and prepared his distraction.
When she was only several yards from him, he hefted a large pebble toward the far side of the road and gathered the energy he needed to knock her senseless.
The stone landed with a thunk! She checked her stride a little and glanced left, a frown creasing her face. Seizing the moment, Abraham stepped in from behind and enfolded her in his arms. Crushing her breasts, he reveled in their firmness while his free hand snatched at her taut belly, pulling her closer toward him.
For the briefest moment he allowed her to make eye contact, then smiling, delivered the charge to easily paralyze a two hundred pound man for a good five minutes.
She grunted, stumbled and began to fall. Matching her momentum, Abraham grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her away from the safety of the highway and in behind the rocks. Excitement mounting, his gaze seared along the curves of her feminine physique. She was perfect, but the moisture pouring from his palms kept causing him to lose his grip.
Eventually, after a lot of huffing and puffing and cursing, he managed to drag her to his lair where he gave her a second, stronger hit and let her fall to the ground in a heap. Spinning on his heel, he took the time to ensure they were alone and unobserved then bent toward her, intending to strip her naked before stunning her again to maximize compliance.
His head snapped back as a flash of light filled his whole world in blinding brilliance. That wasn’t as startling, however, as the pain that followed an instant later. Somehow, Abraham found himself face down in the dirt, gagging and spitting up blood from his broken nose through loosened teeth. Too shocked to do anything but lie there for a moment, he craned his neck and tried desperately to blink away the tears blurring his vision . . . only to wish he hadn’t. How . . . how can she still be awake, let alone on her feet?
Somehow, the young woman was conscious and shaking her head from side to side in an effort to rid herself of the effects of a secondary charge sufficient to render a horse comatose for ten minutes. Her gaze snapped back into focus. Amazingly, instead of trying to run away or call for help, she balled her fists and stomped toward him, a look of fury congealing on her face with every step.
What the fuck? I’m getting outta here! Employing his shield, Abraham shuffled onto his hands and knees. He was about to get up and flee, when he was knocked backward by an invisible blow to the side of his jaw. Wheeling high through the air, he felt several of his ribs crack on landing. Fresh torture coursed through him in waves, making it almost impossible to take a ragged breath. How did she manage to do that?
Such discomfort soon became a petty, distant memory, for Abraham felt something seize him by the genitalia in a vicelike grip. Whimpering like a child, he was hauled unceremoniously through the air by his balls and slammed down hard on the rock back in front of his would-be victim. Misery impaled him anew.
Abraham rolled and managed to glance in her direction. He only had time to register the fact that her eyes were glowing vivid neon red, and then a devastating scream filled his mind: TRY AND RAPE ME, WOULD YOU? YOU SICK FUCKER!
His spine turned to ice as her anger was replaced by a look of pure hatred. With the utmost deliberation, the young woman raised her right hand in front of her. Then she snarled, and made a vicious downward clenching motion.
The terrible telekinetic force applied to Abraham’s testicles in that moment burst them instantly, rendering him impotent for life. Before his bloodcurdling scream could find its voice, he’d passed out and was oblivious to the final kick—applied with gusto—that shattered his sternum.
*
Her rage subsiding, the young woman, called Heather, was left in the unenviable position of having to summon the help of some very special friends to deal with the scum in front of her. After rendering a degree of healing aid to his breastbone—and only his breastbone—Heather then submitted both herself and her attacker into their custody to await judgment.
*
Excerpt from the South African Enquirer national newspaper – November 8th 2036
FOLLOWING THE ARREST OF SOUTH AFRICAN BUSINESSMAN ABRAHAM VOLKER, ON THE SIXTH OF NOVEMBER BY GUARDIAN INQUISITORS, ASTOUNDING DETAILS HAVE COME TO LIGHT REGARDING THIS RESPECTED ENTREPRENEUR’S ACTIVITIES, STRETCHING BACK MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS.
GUARDIAN FORENSIC MIND-INTERROGATORS, SUPPORTED BY VERIFICATION AS SUPPLIED BY THE RECENTLY RELEASED WAVE READER, HAVE ESTABLISHED THE FOLLOWING FACTS:
VOLKER IS NOT ONLY GIFTED WITH BOTH ELEMENTAL AND CHAMELEONLIKE ABILITIES, BUT HAS USED THOSE TALENTS FOR HIS OWN SEXUAL GRATIFICATION ON NUMEROUS OCCASIONS.
EVIDENCE UNEARTHED TO DATE—TOGETHER WITH THE ADMISSION PROVIDED BY HIS OWN MIND—HAS PROVEN HIS INVOLVEMENT IN THE RAPE OF OVER A THOUSAND WOMEN THROUGHOUT ALL NINE PROVINCES OF SOUTH AFRICA OVER TWO DECADES. IN EACH ATTACK, HE EMPLOYED THE ASTOUNDING POWER OF HIS MIND TO SUBDUE HIS VICTIMS.
THAT HE WOULD HAVE CONTINUED TO MOLEST FEMALES IS BEYOND QUESTION WAS IT NOT FOR A FLUKE OF CHANCE. HIS FINAL TARGET PROVED TO BE NONE OTHER THAN A YOUNG LOCAL WOMAN, DUE TO COMPLETE HER GUARDIAN TRAINING AT THE BEGINNING OF NEXT YEAR.
HEATHER DUARTE, A TWENTY-THREE-YEAR-OLD NATIVE OF SPRINGBOK, NORTHERN CAPE, HAS BEEN STUDYING WITH THE WORLD’S BENEFACTORS NOW FOR ALMOST FIVE YEARS. WE HAVE BEEN INFORMED BY A SPOKESPERSON FOR THE LORD CONCILIATOR’S OFFICE, THAT SHE IS PARTICULARLY POTENT IN TELEKINESIS AND HEALING, AND IS ALSO A PROFICIENT TELEPATH. THESE SKILLS MADE HER ENTIRELY THE WRONG TYPE OF PREY TO PICK ON, AS HER HEALING APTITUDE CONTAINS A POWERFUL SELF-REGENERATIVE ASPECT. THAT FORTITUDE ALLOWED MS. DUARTE TO RECOVER EXCEPTIONALLY QUICKLY FROM THE ELECTRICAL CHARGES DELIVERED BY VOLKER, DURING HIS PREPARATIONS TO FULFILL HIS SICK CRAVINGS.
IT IS FELT THE TERRIBLE INJURIES SUFFERED BY VOLKER AS MS. DUARTE RECOVERED FROM BEING STUNNED ARE ENTIRELY JUSTIFIED. SHE WAS CLEARLY DEFENDING HERSELF FROM A COLD, CALCULATING, SERIAL RAPIST, WHOSE OBVIOUS INTENTION WAS TO ABUSE HER, REGARDLESS OF THE CONSEQUENCES. THAT SHE REACTED INSTINCTIVELY IS PLAIN FOR ALL TO SEE. IT IS OUR SINCERE HOPE THAT THE GUARDIANS TAKE A MORE LENIENT FORM OF DISCIPLINARY ACTION AGAINST HER, AS WE, OUR READERS, AND INDEED THE WORLD’S MEDIA, OFFER HER OUR FULL SUPPORT.
IN CONCLUSION: THOUGH THE ORDEAL MUST HAVE BEEN HORRIFYING, WE SHOULD ALL BE RELIEVED THAT MS. DUARTE WAS THERE THAT DAY. HER PRESENCE BROUGHT A FITTING END TO A REIGN OF TERROR THAT HAS AFFLICTED THE LIVES OF TOO MANY WOMEN AND THEIR LOVED ONES. BECAUSE OF HER, NO ONE ELSE WILL EVER BE HARMED BY THIS PARTICULAR ANIMAL AGAIN. BRAVO TO THAT!
The article ended with an older photograph of Ms. Duarte, posing at a family barbeque with her parents. A telephone number and e-mail address was included for those who might wish to contact the newspaper, either to provide information regarding Volker himself, or any other offences his might have committed, and of course, to register support for Ms. Duarte’s actions.
*
In the weeks following the Volker expose, other headlines went on to reveal just how adept the Guardian Inquisitors were at bringing supposedly untouchable criminals to justice.
In particular, the Inquisitors made sure to put Marty May’s unique skills and expertise to good use during their investigation into the Channel Tunnel bombing. Marty’s insight proved invaluable in helping to pinpoint the exact location of each explosion, along with a comprehensive assay of the compounds, volatiles and accelerants used.
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By concentrating their efforts on those areas—both above and below the surface—the Guardians were able to recover micro fragments of the mines for further analysis by way of holographic VR reconstruction. That assisted in swiftly identifying the exact type of devices used and their country of origin within forty-eight hours of the event.
As that part of the inquiry progressed apace, passenger schedules for the previous six months were being closely scrutinized by a battery of psychic and mundane means. On the basis of what was discovered, a complex AI cross-check verification cipher was initiated. The program not only compared those schedules against multiple CCTV references, but delved into a wide range of associated variables; name, address and payment details; mainline and mobile telephone accounts; employment databases; financial standing and credit histories; criminal records and know associate indexes, to name a few.
A mere six days after its inception, the proxy who initiated the microwave bursts was positively identified as one Margaret Tanner, a freelance reporter from London. Tanner’s details were circulated via Interpol and by way of all Guardian Observation Stations, who included her physical identification matrix within their scanners. Result!
Despite a concerted attempt to evade the long arm of the law by moving from Britain to the remote town of Kulgera in the Northern Territory of Australia to stay with distant relatives, the end of October saw Tanner safely in custody.
Her arrest sparked a precautionary response from Lei Yeung. Eager to make certain no fall out ever drifted the Council’s way, he dispatched his trusted problem solver, Angelika Papadakos and her team, to cut any loose ends that might draw the wrong kind of attention.
A wise precaution.
One week later and all of the French and Japanese accessories to the crime had been identified and were being hunted. Fortunately for Yeung, by that time, all sixteen members of the White Tiger clan involved were deceased, their deaths being explained as a tragic series of accidents. Accidents or no, the demise of so many operatives involved in the attack sent a clear message to the ruling father, Boss Hearn. Still believing the failed plan was entirely of his own devising, Hearn took the only honorable course he felt was open to him for bringing such shame on his family: Suicide.
No one claimed responsibility for the ruthlessly efficient cleansing of such a public problem. That resulted in other syndicates falsely believing that secret Guardian assassins must have done the deed, a special cadre of killers who were keen to demonstrate their determination not to be crossed. Though false, such a view had a huge impact on Yakuza operations thereafter and such a venture was never sanctioned again.
Unbeknown to the four French mercenaries involved, they were only spared because they had no knowledge whatsoever of who was really behind the fiasco. Their only link related to the identity of the now departed White Tigers who had worked with them in procuring the mines, and later, several others involved in their deployment. The fact the world would want someone to blame was seen as an additional bonus to leaving them alive. Sure enough, when arrested early in November by a combined team of French Sous-Directorate, Anti-Terrorist officers and Inquisitor Enforcers, an unforgiving media made sure the ensuing hatred was both focused in the right place and extreme.
Nonetheless, Yeung wasn’t satisfied. As an extra safeguard he saw to it that two of his top “untalented” scientists from the team spearheading the development of new mitigator technology—Brent Leech and Kay Cobourg—stepped forward to offer their services in augmenting safety standards within the Channel Tunnel itself.
Having no previous connections to the shadier dealings of the company they worked for, Brent and Kay devoted themselves to the task with clean consciences, and ended up working closely with Marty Mays to devise a mechanical equivalent of Marty’s energy mirroring ability. The joint undertaking received a huge boost when they spliced the results of their findings into the mock-ups already undergoing testing back at Yeung Technologies. With Marty’s expertise, they were able to produce an enhanced, new-and-improved prototype that showed the potential of being able to deal with multiple crises at once.
Conservative estimates put the implementation of a fully operational model only ten to twelve months away, by which time Marty was confident that the mitigator’s capability to react to hazards would have been fine-tuned enough to include defensive protocols against energy based and kinetic weapons.
If such guesstimates were accurate, the end of terrorism against vulnerable targets was in sight. Desperate to be seen as a world friendly benefactor in this regard, Yeung insisted that the first phase mitigators would be provided—at cost—by his subsidiary companies. He also promised that any profits would be devoted to further research, so that improved versions of this exciting new tech could be made available more swiftly.
Yeung stressed in several subsequent interviews that the phrase “It will never happen to me” was a misconception that was far too common nowadays. A valuable lesson had been learned from the Tunnel Disaster at a relatively low cost and mankind needed to wise up and ensure such things could never be repeated. He concluded by pledging to devote his considerable resources to making the world a safer place.
Additionally, because recent events had shown how quickly progress could be made when all members of society—psychic and normal—worked together, Yeung went out on a limb by publicly declaring that from now on, his corporation would lead the way in openly recruiting as much gifted talent as possible.
His comments were met with universal praise, and soon, Yeung’s name was on the lips of many around the world who—unaware of his past—began to look upon him as a leading light in the amalgamation of all groups of society for a better future.
The Guardians themselves were more reserved in their judgment. While cautious, they were pleased to note how Yeung and those shadowed entities within his Council appeared to have taken their final warning to heart. As such, they quietly welcomed his active involvement and waited to see what benefits might accrue.
*
It’s assumed your whole life passes before you in the moments before your death. Simon Cooper now knew that was a pile of crap!
His team’s trip out to the blast site had been uneventful. If he could describe it in a few words, he would have said, “serene and relaxing,” as travelling through the endless white and glaring sunshine for mile after mile could cause the unwary to drop off to sleep quite easily. For Simon and his fellow psychics, that wasn’t a problem. Their gifts enabled them to remain much more alert than the other members of their merry band, who they found had to be constantly woken up, sometimes even when they were driving.
Following orders, they had set up a selection of mobile and embedded monitoring drones around the rim of the crater and programmed them with a preselected set of variable operating parameters. While it was true initial readings would render data rather quickly, the nature of the study required Simon to leave most of the apparatus in situ over the next twelve months so that the wider effects of localized exotic radiation could be more accurately assessed.
Initially everything had been fine. It was only after they left the tranquil environs of the blast site two days previously that things started going wrong.
To begin with, radio contact became intermittent and unreliable. Then other electrical equipment began fritting out for no reason. This baffled Simon a great deal, as such effects were something he’d anticipate manifesting in and around ground zero and not as they left the area.
Simon had been updating HQ regarding their location the previous day, when the comms unit cut out entirely. While he didn’t have the blasé it will never happen to me syndrome infecting others, he nevertheless felt it would be okay to press ahead. His teammates were all highly experienced extreme weather survival veterans, and they had sufficient fuel and rations for a month—the return trip only being a seven day journey from the Kunlun facility. To cap it all off, the combined psychoenergetic talent at his disposal would afford them a much greater chance of success, as they could navigate and maintain contact telepathically even in the most inclement of weather.
His plucky outlook paid off, and earlier that afternoon they had arrived at Kunlun full of optimism, only to find it was the apparent Bermuda Triangle of the Antarctic Circle.
Just completed, the Chinese research base was supposed to be operational all year round and fully manned by nearly thirty scientists. However, no one would know by looking at it now. The place was deserted. That someone had been living and working here was obvious, as previous signs of life were everywhere: half eaten meals; washing machines with clothes still waiting to be emptied inside; unmade beds; books left open. But everything else was dead. Lights and computers weren’t working, battery and back-up generators simply wouldn’t start and might as well not have existed. Simon couldn’t shake the feeling someone had plucked the occupants from the security of their home and taken them somewhere else.
The team had been trying all afternoon to raise a signal with no luck. Even their telepathic hails were unusually muted, as if something were dampening their ability to communicate with the outside world.
Now well into the early evening, they had just divided into pairs to conduct another, more thorough search, when Simon, the most telepathically sensitive among them, detected a near subliminal whisper blended in amongst the moans of the wind: Help us! Please help us!
Huh? Stopping sock still and shushing everyone to be quiet, Simon listened again. Out of habit, he sent forth an astral hail: Who’s that? Where are you?
At the same time he sent a query Harry and Esther’s way: Heads-up guys. Did you hear that?
Harry wasn’t a particularly gifted farsensor and Esther did not have Simon’s range. Her empathic ability, however, was off-the-charts strong. Gaze affixed toward the southeast, she verbally and mentally declared, “Simon, someone’s out there! I can’t hear them properly yet, but I can sense their need and it . . .?”
Help us! Please!
“Jesus! That was as loud as a bell.” she gasped.
The petition was much stronger this time, making Simon’s spine tingle.
“What’s going on?” Theresa Topple, one of their teammates from New Zealand muttered, clearly worried.
Waving off into the wilderness, Simon replied, “We’re beginning to hear calls for help from somewhere out there.”
Everyone turned to peer into the endless crystal swathe, graying now as the Sun continued to dip toward the horizon.
“I didn’t realize they had telepaths among them,” Michael Meekin, a native of Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory of Canada, declared.
“But it should make finding them easier though, won’t it?” Theresa shot back.
Simon paused to look at his friends, one by one, before nodding to confirm their suspicions. “Yes, Theresa. Hopefully it will.”
Trudging across to their customized ATV, Simon determined that if they were going to investigate, it would be best to get going before temperatures dropped too far. “Into the Nodwell, guys. There’s not a lot of room inside, but at least we’ll be able to ferry anyone we find back to Kunlun to spend the night in relative comfort. We’ll set up a triage point and sort out what to do next, once we have a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with.”
Facing off into the blizzard, he projected: We’re coming. Stay strong.
A faint reply wafted back. Hurry! We can’t hang on much longer!
Despite the plea, something didn’t sit right in Simon’s stomach. As a precaution, he turned to the final member of the team, Günter Adler, from Munich. “Günter, I know you feel pretty safe in our company, but we don’t know what to expect. Break out the weapons, would you?”
Alarmed by his statement, the others gawped back at him. “You’re not expecting trouble, are you?” Günter grumbled.
“Better safe than sorry. People have been going missing out here for months and we’re not going to become part of that club.”
Acquiescing, Günter nodded, accepted the keys and went to the secure locker at the back of the cabin. Out of the firearms inside, he selected a Smith and Wesson revolver, an HK P47 machine pistol and finally, a pump action shotgun. Keeping the P47 for himself, Günter offered the rest to the others.
Theresa took the revolver. “It’s been a while. But if you think there might be problems at least I know I can hit what I aim at.”
The only other person accepting a weapon was Harry. Although strong in compulsion and combat healing techniques, he was also a keen skeet shooting enthusiast. Always the pragmatist, he explained he would feel better knowing a little additional backup was to hand—just in case.
Thus armed and raring to go, they set off on a southeasterly course, with both Simon and Esther staying alert for further clues.
Over the next hour they received three more hails, each progressively stronger than the one before, until at last, they reached a frosty open expanse.
That’s when the engine died.
Simon gazed up at the diffuse rose and crimson streamers fringing a rapidly darkening sky. The Sun wasn’t the only thing to sink as it disappeared below the horizon. On cue, the wind picked up considerably, blowing the snow into a frenzy. Well . . . shit to that!
He turned off the main spotlamps to conserve the battery, broke out the flashlights, and was about to issue instructions for repairs when he heard them.
Why are you stopping?
Come on, quickly now.
Were just over here!
Squinting into the static wash outside, Esther pointed and hissed, “I’m getting a really strong hit now! They’re two hundred yards that way.”
“But I can’t see them,” Simon complained. “Christ, that meteorite must have really screwed up the harmonics of this place to prevent us from being able to scan them at such a close range. I’ve got nothing.”
“Me neither,” Esther admitted. “I just know they’re there.”
Simon thought for a moment. “Harry, you’re the healer on this mission, so you get first dibs. Esther, back him up. Use your empathic sensitivity to zero in on whoever it is that’s trapped out there and then warm them up as much as you can with your elemental skills. Günter, go with them. If anything doesn’t feel right, don’t take any chances, get the hell out of there and we’ll regroup before deciding what to do. As I mentioned, we’re not going to end up on any missing posters. While you’re doing that, I’ll stay here with Theresa and Mike and see what we can do with this damned piece of crap they call a Nodwell. Fortunately, TK doesn’t get frostbite from frozen metal.”
Their immediate action plan agreed upon, the rescue group were swiftly on their way, fading into the thickening squall like diamond-encrusted teddy bears. In mere seconds, the only evidence of their existence came from the gentle strumming on the taut lifeline attached to one of the vehicle’s safety rails and the brisk affirmation from Esther herself, reassuring him that all was well.
Simon got to work on the engine with the others. Fifteen minutes of cussing, swearing and tinkering with his TK later and he was rewarded by the sound of the motor coughing to life. Punching the air to celebrate, he yelled, “At last, something’s going right.”
That’s when he noticed the lifeline had gone limp.
He reached for the familiar auras of his friends. Nothing!
Then he sent out a farsensing query. Still nothing!
Yanking the cab door open, he demanded, “Hey, guys, did you see when the rope went slack?”
Both Theresa and Michael looked dismayed and shook their heads. Clambering inside, Simon continued, “We’d better go see what’s happening then. Theresa, make sure you’re ready with that gun, I’m beginning to suspect there are too many mishaps occurring all at once for our run of bad luck to be a coincidence.”
Five minutes later and they were staring at a gaping hole in the ground measuring more than four yards in diameter. In the illumination provided by the main spotlights, Simon could just make out the equipment his colleagues had been carrying—guns and all—now almost blanketed in snow lying to one side.
Simon didn’t believe for one second that people like Esther, Harry or Günter would have blindly stumbled into such an opening. He was heading toward the weapons locker to retrieve another shotgun, when an irresistibly powerful psyche pulsed through the ether: You in the strange land craft. Get out, now!
Unable to resist, they exited the vehicle and stood as motionless as ice sculptures in the freezing wind.
Jump into the hole. Simon, use your telekinesis to lower everyone to the ground.
They did exactly as instructed, stepping into the abyss without the slightest hesitation. Bracing himself, Simon took control of the descent, conscious all the while of how his chances of escape diminished the deeper they went.
In no time at all they’d reached the bottom, where the howl of the wind from above was conspicuously absent. Simon discerned they’d landed of some kind of metallic shell, for light spilled out from a circular hatch next to them.
The entity commanded: Come inside.
Like automatons, they followed each other down into the structure, which appeared to be some kind of control room containing a wide variety of sophisticated equipment, machines that were obviously generators of some sort and what looked like three cryogenic pods.
As Simon waited, a degree of independence returned. Though his feet remained rooted to the spot, he was able to look around and think more clearly. A loud clunk drew his attention back to the cryotubes in time to see several restraining bars disengage from their moorings. Before they could retract all the way, the lids adorning each case slid to one side in a cloud of venting gas. A trio of imposing persons was revealed; one woman and two men. Adorned in simple robes, they appeared to be sleeping on some kind of sparkling fabric.
At that moment, Simon became aware of his absent teammates, standing as if frozen in the shadows against a far wall. Like him they struggled against invisible bonds.
A shiver reverberated around the chamber. In response, Günter, Michael, and Theresa detached themselves from their compatriots and started walking toward the pods. Stopping beside them they dropped silently to their knees, bent over the prone figures inside and kissed them on the mouths. Puzzled, Simon watched as the hypnotically repugnant act continued for about thirty seconds. Then without warning, all three of his colleagues stiffened and exploded in a cloud of dust.
Holy shit! Too late Simon realized what had become of all the other missing scientists and began screaming with all his might for the Guardians to come and save him from his predicament. From the look of them, Harry and Esther were following suit.
The same menacing presence became outraged: SILENCE, MORTALS! Although inescapable, you face a different fate than these lesser insects. You may now approach us to bring this process to completion.
Helpless to resist, they staggered forward, Esther toward the woman, Harry and Simon likewise toward the men.
Simon balked as the terrifying giants within each tube opened their eyes and vaulted to their feet in one fluid motion. Towering above the diminutive humans, their auras radiated with immense power.
The titan looming over Simon burrowed deep inside his mind and commenced rummaging through his memories and experiences; lapping and slurping at them greedily as if they were sustenance. When Simon tried to prevent the unwanted intrusion, he received an overwhelming throb of agony as a reward.
Gasps of pain and whimpers of fear from his friends told him they were enduring the exact same treatment.
The feeding continued for an eternity, before changing in both nature and tempo. As it did so, the creature before Simon clamped a huge hand over Simon’s face, while grasping his shoulder with the other one. Twisting his head to one side, Simon’s attacker began sucking at his neck. What the fuck is this?
With each ragged draw of the demon’s breath, Simon felt a part of himself fade, flowing in spurts from his body as his tincture was gradually siphoned into the devil beside him. From his new position, Simon was able to peek out through talonlike fingers and watch as Esther was likewise emptied, each inhalation causing her to convulse and arch her back toward the psychic vampire greedily draining her life and energy.
In less than a minute, Simon was so weak that he was able to stand only because of the iron grip on his skull. He sagged. The world spun violently, appearing now as an inverted, crisscrossed overlay from somebody else’s perspective. How . . . how can I be staring down at myself from up there? Who . . . where . . .?
Everything went dim as reality fled along a darkened corridor toward an unseen future. He-it began to fall, only to find himself-the other lowered gently onto the same mattress the terrifying colossus had occupied only a heartbeat ago.
Through fluttering eyelids, Simon witnessed the spectacle of his own hand pressing against a chest that wasn’t his. The all-pervading persona spoke for a final time. “Simon Cooper, though my words will bring you little comfort, take heed. Your sacrifice is not in vain. You will take my place here, in stasis, while your comrades provide a similar service for my kin. This is the only reason you were spared. As we assume your identities in the world above, know that what little remains of your souls will remain safe from the carnage to come.”
And with that, everything went black.
*
Standing, Simon glared in triumph toward his cohorts Ares and Hestia and said, “Have you drained their essences?”
Both replied in unison, “Yes, Psi-edon.”
“I am Psi-edon no longer! Join with me in harmony, dear friends, as we forge a brand-new bond between us.”
Heads bowed, they communed in intimate bliss for over fifteen minutes, savoring their freedom and relishing the vibrant experiences their newly restored senses brought them. Only once they had sated their ardor completely did they break the link.
“From this day onward, I am Simon Cooper, possessing all his hopes and dreams, traits and ambitions. His abilities joined to my own will prove most useful as we begin our dominion of the world above.”
Placing a hand to her heart, Hestia said, “I’m Esther Perry, elemental daughter to Earnest and Violet, a Bio-Chemist of impressive rank.” Looking Ares in the eye, she couldn’t stop herself from grinning. “I’m still a scientist! Ha, these fools will do more than just serve if her recollections are accurate.”
As she spoke, Esther kept staring at Ares new form, extending a clear subliminal invitation.
Ares smiled back. “I hold similar credentials, though mine relate to another discipline. Harry Johnson is my name. For a healer, this individual possesses an imposing aggressive capacity, especially for mind alteration. Psi . . . Simon, we have been most fortunate.”
Simon beamed broadly. “Did I not say our endurance would be rewarded? The long wait is over. We move forward at last.”
They looked down on their former bodies, animated now by the tiniest spark of life provided by their unwilling captives who had been genetically altered to exude the necessary bio and mental signatures.
Esther checked the monitors. “If anyone comes snooping, these readings will show we are still captive to oblivion’s cruel embrace . . . and unrepentant.”
“Excellent,” Simon gushed. “In such a condition they will remain undisturbed and we shall be long gone. All that remains is for us to ensure this hovel is cleansed, so there are no traces of our visitors from these past months.”
They were about to start when he had an idea: Brother, sister. I forget myself.
They looked toward him expectantly.
“We have waited patiently for thousands of years, so scant minutes spent on research now will cause us no harm. As we sanitize this facility, make sure to conduct the most thorough interrogation of the memories these fleshly cerebrums possess. We may uncover useful intelligence that will assist in our duplicity.”
They did and thirty minutes later, Simon was beside himself with ecstasy, for there were particulars within Cooper’s mind he had overlooked in the haste of his initial excitement.
Whatever this Council was, Simon fully intended to find out and he eagerly anticipated Esther and Harry’s findings once they had regained their composure.
Yes, these bodies will serve our needs perfectly. And now I know exactly what to do to expedite our swift departure from this hell continent, our long-awaited revenge can take another leap forward toward fruition . . . Mind you, I am keen to discover more about this place humans call Tokyo!