Chapter 18
2 Years and 4 Months Post Apocalypse
Family Reunion
Ian stood on the stage while over a hundred people chanted “War Criminal! War Criminal!”
A widow had just accused Ian of murder. Ian sensed anger in her ten-year-old son. Sensed the boy reaching for the pistol holstered behind his back.
Ian didn't think the bullets in the boy's pistol could penetrate his armor, but they might endanger the surrounding people, not to mention the boy himself. So Ian put the boy to sleep.
To everyone nearby, it looked like the boy had passed out. Someone grabbed the boy, pulling him away from the close-packed crowd so he could get some air.
The boy wasn't the only one who wanted to shoot him, but the others realized starting a firefight in the middle of a large crowd wasn't in their best interests.
Mr. Payne stood behind the crowd. He was a large man wearing a psychic-suppression helmet that gleamed in the sun, making him look like a fat, shiny mushroom. He pulled out a Galactic Market megaphone. “Mrs. Wilcox. A leader needs to do more than protect her cronies. We demand you put this murderer on trial!”
Mrs. Wilcox held out her hands and waited for the crowd to calm down. She raised her microphone to her mouth. “Ian Anderson, while we are grateful for your service to this Fortress and the city, you have been accused of killing eight men and three women—eleven people who were not threatening you or attempting to inhibit your activities in any way. These people had families who are seeking justice. We ask you to turn over your pistol, obey our laws, and agree not to leave the Fortress until this matter is investigated and resolved. Do you agree?”
There were loud boos from the audience. “Lock him up!”
“Ian Anderson confessed on camera to killing thirty-six people when he was fourteen!” Mr. Payne shouted into his megaphone. “What more evidence do you need?”
“He killed those people in self-defense while taking part in a rescue operation,” Mrs. Wilcox responded. “He was found innocent of wrongdoing by an independent counsel over two years ago.”
Her response got more boos and some cheers.
Ian took advantage of the temporary silence to hold out a hand for Mrs. Wilcox's microphone. When she handed it to him, the microphone let out an annoying high-pitched screech until Ian tapped it to make it stop. Galactic Market technology often behaved strangely around him for no apparent reason. “Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox. I agree. I would also like to say that though I did what I've been accused of, I had excellent reasons.”
Ian handed a cell-phone to Mrs. Wilcox along with his gun. “This cell-phone belonged to one of the Desert Scorpion mediators. In it, you will find text messages between him and the Desert Scorpion leadership he worked for. The Desert Scorpion leader, her husband,” he pointed at the woman who'd spoken earlier, “wanted him to break into a certain enclave and rape that enclave's leader to send a message. The mediator responded by asking if he and his fellows could rape a few of the enclave's younger girls, too. The Desert Scorpion leader said 'Go right ahead,' and then the two texted about beer and cooking recipes.”
To Ian's intense embarrassment, he noticed his pulse racing and his hand holding the microphone shaking. This was not a subject he enjoyed talking about. He took a deep breath and used his second hand to steady the first one. “I encountered the owner of this cell-phone and his four companions when they were in the process of attacking the enclave in question. After dealing with the five men, I paid the Desert Scorpion leadership a visit. I told them this sort of behavior is not okay and asked them to stop. They said no and tried to kill me. So I dealt with them too.”
“You're lying!” the woman who'd accused Ian earlier shouted. “Monster!”
“If what you said is true, you should have tortured them!” someone shouted.
The protesters started arguing among themselves.
Mrs. Wilcox took back the microphone and waited for the crowd to calm down. “We will investigate your claims, Ian, as well as those of your accusers. If you're telling the truth, you have nothing to be concerned about. In the meantime, welcome back.”
The loud cheering almost drowned out the boos.
***
Ian didn't get away until late that night. As soon as the protesters started to disperse, Ian was dragged off to a large banquet thrown in his honor. He listened to too many speeches, shook too many hands, smiled at everyone while eating a lot of excellent food and pretending to listen to Mrs. Wilcox and her annoying friend, someone called Princess Phoebe, a girl a little older than himself.
“I'm really looking forward to working with you,” Princess Phoebe said, moving close to him so her leg touched his while she put her hands over his. The move would have been erotic if it hadn't felt so contrived and manipulative.
Ian's uncle got drunker, louder and more obnoxious. Dad sat across from Ian at the table, saying very little. Gabe sulked at a nearby table and left quickly.
Many of the former demonstrators ate at more distant tables. Some still hated him; others weren't sure. Many were wondering if he'd told the truth earlier.
Woodrow Payne ate with the former demonstrators. The large overweight man wore a psychic-suppression helmet and shot angry looks in Ian's direction. The man disliked Ian for a number of reasons. He knew Ian was friends with Mrs. Wilcox and the last thing Mr. Payne needed was a damn psychic running around telling everyone what a fraud he was.
Ian might have felt some respect for the man going up against Mrs. Wilcox, if Mr. Payne had any intention of keeping his many campaign promises. The only life Mr. Payne wanted to improve was his own and perhaps those of a few of his friends and allies.
Psychic-suppression helmets had become popular with everyone who could afford them. The shiny bulky helmets were constantly reflecting the sun into Ian's eyes and reminding him of the tinfoil hats that were popular two years ago.
Ian had a simple policy with regard to psychic-suppression helmets. If someone was willing to spend 10,000 credits in the Galactic Market to prevent their mind from being read, Ian was happy to go along and pretend he couldn't, provided they weren't planning to kill or rape anyone. Maybe the helmets worked on lower-level psychics? He wasn't sure.
Having so many people close to him put Ian on edge and interfered with his gift. He kept expecting a Kitykity to jump out of the crowd or from behind one of the many buildings that had popped up around the Fortress.
It didn't help that Mrs. Wilcox had assigned a security team to him. They stayed in the background, but he could feel them watching.
Crazy Steve ran off with four women, each less than half his age. With a chuckle, Ian wondered what the five of them would be getting up to, when the four female agents weren't pumping his friend for information on Ian.
Nobody believed Ian when he said he didn't have any secrets. He'd requested the psychic gifts from BG, and he put every stat point he'd gained into those gifts. It was that simple.
***
Ian slipped away from the party as soon as he reasonably could. Hiding in Gabe's workroom, he relaxed in the easy chair while Gabe worked nearby. It seemed Gabe had become nocturnal.
Gabe's workroom was filled with boxes containing things Ian couldn't identify. Ian used his foot to push a box full of squirming tentacles away from him. They were making him nervous.
“It would seem the gifts BG gave us both in the beginning are worth more than I thought,” Ian said. “BG told Mrs. Wilcox that a normal human child would need over a million stat points in psychic development to approach my psychic abilities. For an adult, approaching my abilities is simply not possible, since their minds are already fully developed. I've put just over 500 stat points into my gift. This makes me wonder about BG's other gifts. Yours, for example.”
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“In the past month three women named their babies Ian,” Gabe said, his mind obviously elsewhere. “And if Woodrow Payne gets elected mayor, we'll either be kicked out of the Fortress or we'll have to pay a lot of rent. Really unfair, considering the trouble we went through to steal the Fortress in the first place.”
Ian tried not to laugh. “Life's not fair, Gabe, and women can name their kids whatever they want.”
“I don't know of any woman who named their kid Gabe since the apocalypse,” Gabe grumbled, pacing the workroom with restless energy, his wizard robes flowing around him. He even had a wizard hat now, a pointed hat with the word WIZARD on it.
A girl, maybe 12 years old, entered Gabe's workroom. She wore loose-fitting clothes and moved gracefully. “I put away your equipment, Master Zaldron. Do you want me to do anything else? Oh, hi Ian. Welcome back.”
“Sabrina!” Ian said, standing up, “Sabrina Crabtree, you look well.” And she did. The little girl Ian had helped save days after the apocalypse began had grown into a pretty Asian girl, thanks to the sword-wielding Asian princess she'd told BG she wished to emulate at the very beginning.
“I'm surprised you recognized me,” Sabrina said. “I wish I could travel, but my parents won't let me leave the Fortress.”
“Sabrina is my assistant/apprentice. Sabrina, thank you for staying late, but I need you to leave now. Me and my brother have personal business to discuss.”
“Bye, Ian, nice to see you again.” Sabrina ran over and hugged him, then she left the workroom.
“Well, Gabe,” Ian said after Sabrina left. “I've sent you a lot of credits, and killed a lot of monsters, to provide you with wizard supplies for you-know-what, and it's obvious you don't have shit.”
Gabe looked away. “Operation Rise-from-the-Ashes has hit a rough patch. I'm doing everything I can.”
“You're telling me that with all the monsters I've killed, you haven't received any useful monster loot?”
“I've received a lot of very useful monster loot, Ian, but nothing useful for you-know-what. Believe me, I'm trying everything I can think of. I want you-know-what as much as you do.”
Gabe stopped pacing and turned to face Ian, arms crossed in front of him. “I saw you talking to Princess Phoebe and Mrs. Wilcox. I overheard them offering you the position of Fortress prince where you could work, with, on-top-of, or underneath, her highness, while managing her princess guard.”
Oh good grief, Ian sighed and put his head in his hands. “You're jealous of that? You really have a thing for her.”
“Along with most of the Fortress's male population,” Gabe said. “The story is Princess Phoebe asked BG to make her beautiful, and BG delivered. She gets credits and stat points when people kill monsters in her name. I've tried to convince her of her need for a personal wizard, but with no success. I would cut my right arm off to become Fortress prince, a position Mrs. Wilcox just handed you.”
Idiot, Ian thought. No wonder Gabe had made so little progress on their project. We're the same age. When had Gabe become such a child?
“How many stat points have you been putting towards your wizard gift?” Ian asked.
“The stat points I've gotten have mostly gone into psychic development at the request of Mrs. Wilcox and the Fortress counsel. I put a few into the alchemy side of my wizardry gift to improve my bomb making. Why?”
“I'm going to help you, Gabe. I'm not doing it for you, I'm doing it for our project. If you want Princess Phoebe to notice you, you need to go out on patrol and kill some high-level alien monsters in her name. You will then put any stat points you make into your wizard gift. That should make you suck less as a wizard.”
Gabe backed away, shaking his head. “I'm alien-killing support, Ian. I build bombs. I don't go on patrols, and I don't kill high-level aliens.”
“You do now,” Ian said. “Dad won't be happy, but you're 16. He can deal.”
“And you'd just give up Princess Phoebe?”
“I think I'll manage,” Ian said. “Oh, and here's a list of things I need: bombs, medical supplies, alien traps, to help me kill more and bigger monsters.” He put a piece of paper on Gabe's desk. “Think of this as the price of getting rid of me.”
“Then I'll pay it with pleasure,” Gabe said. “Please leave, I've got work to do.”
Ian left the workshop. The fall wind blew through the night. Halloween would be coming up in a few weeks, but, for some reason, nobody celebrated that holiday anymore. “I know you were listening, Sabrina. The project we were discussing is secret. Don't mention it to anyone.“
He felt her nod from the shadows near the lab's entrance. “Got it. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. Go home. Your parents and grandmother are worried about you,” Ian said.
“Oh, I should tell you, Mr. Payne's people paid me a visit,” Sabrina said. “They said things would go better for me and my family if I spied on the Andersons for them. I told them I don't know anything. I just sweep floors and stuff.”
She emerged from the shadows and ran off with a grace Ian envied. It was all he could do to run without tripping over his own feet.
***
His old room, in fact the entire mansion and Fortress, seemed smaller since his return. His room had been cleaned, but aside from that, it was exactly how he'd left it.
Both Mrs. Wilcox and Princess Phoebe wanted to join him for the night. Ian had been forced to insist on privacy, telling them his gift was overwhelmed by so many people and he needed alone time. Not quite a lie.
Ian had thought having sex with those two women might be fun, but not worth the consequences, or what they wanted from him in exchange.
The rest of Ian's family was elsewhere, still partying or working. From what he could tell, Gabe slept in his workroom, and Dad and Uncle Ben had found other places to stay. Between Stacy's death and Ian's leaving, family dinners had become a thing of the past.
The family cat, Fluffy, let out a crabby meow and ran off when he approached. How old was Fluffy? Ian wondered. The cat had been around since Ian was a little kid.
Stacy's room was empty, of course. Ian knew Gabe had boxed her things and hidden them away. When they brought her back, she'd want them again.
Ian pulled up his stat sheet.
Ian's Stat Sheet
Name Ian Anderson
Sex Male
Age 16
Physical Attributes: 3.3
With 10 being an Olympic athlete and 1 being an invalid in a wheelchair, you are 3.3.
Mental Attributes: 7.8
With 10 being super genius and 1 being severely retarded, you are 7.8
Status among Peers: Low
If your peers hadn't been eaten, they would still consider you a nerd and a spasticle.
Spasticle is human slang for an uncoordinated clumsy person.
Some irrational and misguided humans consider you dangerous because you killed people, and assisted in killing hundreds of mildly dangerous aliens. I assure them any normal human could do the same or better.
Claims to Fame:
If Coach Benson hadn't been eaten, he would still consider you the worst player to ever try out in the fifty years he coached his Little League baseball team.
Special Abilities:
Psychic: Intermediate level 10 specializing in aliens.
Any other Intermediate level 10 psychic specializing in aliens would be doing far better than you. You might not know this, but there is an Advanced level after Intermediate. If only you'd apply yourself a little.
Oh, and a certain young princess (princess by election, not by birth) thinks you're awesome because you killed a lot of monsters and are richer than god. I assured her any normal human could kill a bunch of monsters and make over one and a half million credits by the time they're 16.
Ian sighed. I spent most of those credits or gave them away, it's not like I carry them around with me.
He lay down in his bed for the first time in almost two years and was out like a light.
Aliens crept up on him, surrounding him. He heard a low growl—angry, hungry aliens looked down at him. Thump, thump—they came closer closer. His pulse raced. He'd have one chance: paralyze, then mind kill: paralyze, then mind kill! Now!
The next thing Ian knew, he was sitting up in bed, shaking uncontrollably. His first nightmare in several months.
Over the past two years, Crazy Steve had learned to wake Ian quickly when he was having one of his nightmares. It was safer for everyone.
He'd thought he'd gotten over them. The background noise and too many people living in such a small area must have set one off. He reached out with his gift to check for damage.
Way to go Ian. Wake up everyone in the Fortress. At least I didn't kill anyone.
Activating his alien light, he saw Fluffy curled up nearby. With a shiver, he realized that though he saw the cat, he could no longer sense Fluffy's mind.
“Sorry, Fluffy,” Ian said, sitting next to the now-dead cat. “You were getting old. Guess the shock from my nightmare was too much for you.” Gabe's failure, Fluffy dying, it was all too much. He buried his head in his hands and started to cry. Suddenly he felt very angry.
“Fuck that, Fluffy. You're not dying on my watch.” Ian went into his inventory and pulled out the strongest healing booster shot he had—a syringe long as his forearm filled with a glowing green fluid.
Supposedly, if he or Crazy Steve were decapitated someplace and surrounded by aliens, this shot would allow them to get up and run away before anything else happened to them. If BG's description could be believed, the shot would work up to ten minutes after life functions had ceased. He stuck the needle in Fluffy's hindquarters and pushed the plunger down. A large bulge in the cat's fur appeared, then vanished as the cat's tissues slowly absorbed the green fluid. At first nothing happened. Ian sat there and waited...
Five minutes later, “WRAAAR!” Fluffy's claws tore into his arm, going deeper and doing more damage than Ian would have thought possible from a house cat.
“I just saved your life, you little shithead!” Ian said, trying to staunch the blood flowing down his arm with an old paper towel. “Next time I'll let you die!”
Fluffy ran out of Ian's room. When Ian followed, he found the cat had climbed to the top of the west window's curtains. Fluffy spent the rest of the night glaring in Ian's direction, alternating yowling with hissing at him.
At least this helped keep Ian awake. With his nightmares, he wasn't safe to sleep inside the Fortress.
At five that morning, Ian felt Mrs. Wilcox climbing the stairs to his residence. She wanted to speak to him, in private.