Behind Distant Stars Read online

  “I won’t!”

  I thought about nine families who had nothing left to them but mourning and regret. What would any of them give, I wondered, for a chance to turn back time and grant their child just one more smile?

  “I’ll see if I can get out of the office early, tomorrow. We can drive to some of the local shelters.”

  “Really…?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and the wonder and excitement in her eyes made me want to cry.

  “Really.”

  She jumped into my arms and, for just a moment, I felt whole.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “-repeat, eleven people have been confirmed dead and at least twenty-three injured, eight of whom are listed as being in critical condition. Boston Memorial hospital has declined to give more detailed information about the casualties until families have been notified. We bring you now to our reporter on site at the Museum of Fine Arts.”

  Skullface had successfully elevated himself from source of irritation to target of seething rage.

  “Thank you, Jill.” The reporter stood in the courtyard before what had once been the Huntington Avenue entrance to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. One of the columns over the entrance had been shattered and another badly cratered. Debris littered the usually pristine plaza, police tape warded civilians away from dangerous areas, and investigators and construction workers could be seen swarming across the grounds. “As you can see, the police have released much of the area to building inspectors. No official estimates as to how expensive repairs will be have been made public, but some experts have suggested that tens of millions of dollars will be needed. And that, of course, doesn’t take into account the priceless works of art or the incalculable loss felt by those whose loved ones were taken by this unexpected and horrifically violent attack.”

  Decades ago, Bobby had been to that museum on a school field trip. That had been before the remodel, but he’d still come home to tell me about the visit with breathless awe. My baby brother had passed through the entrance that was now scarred with twisted rebar, shattered granite and marble, and chalk human-shaped outlines. The cameraman had kept at a respectful distance, but still I’d seen one outline that looked terribly small. Only a few feet away was an overturned stroller with a missing wheel.

  “Have investigators determined what Skullface was looking for?”

  “I’m afraid not, Jill.” The young reporter’s grave tone dipped even further. “There was enough damage done to the Art of the Americas exhibit that it may be weeks before a full inventory can be performed.”

  Skullface would have had a quicker path to his target had he come through the Fenway entrance. Even easier would have been blasting a hole in the museum’s eastern wall and striding directly to the desired prize. He’d chosen his means of entry and exit solely for dramatic purposes. Skullface had wanted a body-count. He’d wanted to send a message.

  “Has there been any word on Veridian’s condition?”

  “Again, I’m afraid not. An EMT confirmed that the hero was treated for a broken arm on site and airlifted to a confidential location.”

  “Thank you, Brian. We’re now viewing a bystander’s recorded footage of the Boston Guardians confronting Skullface’s forces, and the moments leading up to Veridian’s injury.”

  Skullface obviously hadn’t desired a fight against Doctor Fid; he’d waited until it was confirmed that I was out of the country before he’d attacked the museum. Whisper had been wise to turn off the news notifications that would normally have been transmitted directly to my neural link; a distraction during the rescue could have proved disastrous.

  On screen, shaky footage revealed four of Skullface’s minions were carrying a heavy-looking crate using poles to form a litter. Five more spread out and took cover as the Guardians arrived, immediately opening fire with energy-rifles that surely must have been Dr. Chaise’s invention. Skullface himself was unhurried and seemed more intent upon casting eldritch blasts at huddled bystanders than he was in seeing to his own defense.

  Titan shouted an order and then Regrowth and the Red Ghost broke off to evacuate civilians; Aeon, Veridian, and Titan converged on Skullface in a frontal assault. The battle was chaotic. Skullface and his minions kept on the move, denying the three Guardians on offense the ability to surround their target. Dr. Chaise’s weapons packed an obvious punch; Titan was repeatedly blown backwards and his two less-physically-powerful teammates were left to fend for themselves. Aeon’s energy shields flickered into and out of existence, leaving her unable to remain on the offensive while cocooned within the milk-white protective spheres. Veridian darted overhead, flying in tight loops and twists to avoid enemy fire and occasionally respond with his own emerald force-blasts.

  The four mercenaries carrying the crate finished loading their cargo into a nondescript white van and sped away.

  For all the tumult, the heroes appeared to be making progress. With civilians evacuated from immediate danger, Red Ghost and Regrowth rejoined the attack by focusing on eliminating the criminal riflemen.

  And then an armored transport dropped from the sky, bristling with energy weapons and laying waste to the front of the building. The attack must have been coordinated because all of Skullface’s men had been ready to dive for cover. The vehicle looked to be of Professor Paradigm’s design, but highly modified by Dr. Chaise and painted to match Skullface’s black and dull mustard-yellow motif. In an instant, the battle’s tenor shifted: Veridian was shot from the sky, and the trees Regrowth had been controlling to corral the henchmen were incinerated.

  Losing the frayed control over his temper, Titan charged forward in a frontal assault upon Skullface. The villain was ready for him, and Titan was repelled by a purple-black blast of mystical energy that threw the Guardian’s leader up into the pillars that stood over the Boston Museum of Fine Arts entrance. A massive chunk of stone was thrown clear, striking Veridian just as the green-clad hero was beginning to climb to his feet.

  A stray blast from the flying transport’s weapons was thrown towards the amateur cameraman and the footage ended.

  “This is Jill Janson from WBZ news, thanking the Boston Guardians for their heroic efforts. Without their intervention, who knows how many lives would have been lost? We at WBZ wish Veridian a speedy recovery and look forward to seeing him flying over our streets again soon.”

  Skullface had been close enough to Boston that he’d been able to stage this attack less than an hour after I arrived in Santiago, Chile. He’d been waiting for me to leave town and yet none of my sensors and monitoring programs had been able to identify even a hint of his presence! I’d spent too much time playing hero and too little focusing upon my own realm’s defense. That would need to change.

  In the meantime, my hidden factories were tasked with rebuilding my supply of construction drones. I suspected that more would be needed before I could engineer my final confrontation with Skullface.

  ◊◊◊

  The black lab puppy had an odd twist to her run as she bounded after a giggling android. It was awkward and adorable, as though the little dog’s hind legs were trying to outrun her front. Her tail wagged furiously and her head was held high, attentive and joyous. Someday, I was sure, she would grow into those over-sized paws; for now, she bounced from stride to stride, occasionally tumbling and scrambling back to all fours without pause.

  Whisper changed direction, still carrying the puppy’s favorite chew toy as bait for the game. She zigged and zagged, eyes focused more on the pup behind her than her own path. And then she was down, rolling in the grass and almost immediately set upon by her pursuer. The black lab ignored the toy and instead darted to enthusiastically clean Whisper’s synthetic ears. She squeaked and tried to cuddle the black bundle of fur and energy against her chest, but the puppy was having none of it; she squirmed free and continued her assault, licking eagerly at the side of Whisper’s head.

  The pair had been inseparable for the first five days and—true to her word—Whisper had
taken to her responsibilities with remarkable zeal. Together, she and I had penned in a section of the den and set down puppy pads for her new pet to be paper trained; Whisper kept the area clean and had stayed just outside the penned area while the pup slept.

  Android and canine had both found their feet and were running once more, this time in a wide circle. I knew that Whisper had access to power fed via quantum-tunnel from a Westler-Gray reactor; from whence the puppy got its energy, I had no idea.

  “Stay close to the house,” I called. My original intent had been to come outside to sit and brood while Whisper played, but I’d since discovered that it was impossible to languish in dark speculation while an elfin childlike android attempted to teach a puppy how to play tag. I smiled and waved to my little sister as she ran.

  We’d visited four shelters before Whisper had made her choice; she’d wanted every puppy we saw but insisted that we keep looking anyway. When we’d found this puppy, the last of its litter, it had been love at first sight. Whisper had stumbled hesitantly to the chain-link cage, eyes wide. And the little black lab had looked up at her, sniffed at her offered fingers and then its tail began its hopeful, happy rhythm.

  “I’m naming her Nyx.” Whisper had told the cooing attendant at the animal shelter. “Because her fur is black, and Nyx was the Greek Goddess of the night.” But across the neural link, her mental touch was filled with memories of a man who’d teased her and called her a shell-script, but also read to her and kept her company when I was in a medically induced coma. Who joked and played and treated her like a little girl instead of a science experiment, and who had been Doctor Fid’s first true friend and one of her first friends as well.

  Eric Guthrie, AKA Starnyx…taken from us both by violence. We’d seized our revenge, Whisper and I, but Starnyx’s absence had still hurt. But now his namesake capered about our lawn and I knew my friend would have loved this.

  To hell with Skullface’s plotting; I had other priorities.

  I clambered to my feet and joined the chase.

  ◊◊◊

  THE EFFECTS OF TEMPORAL LEUCOTOMY ON SUPERNORMAL ABILITIES

  Surgical Attempts to Alter Akashic Identity

  THE ANCIENT

  Acknowledged Master of Mystic and Physical arts, Rhode Island

  Prior studies have demonstrated that the majority of extrahuman talents are connected to the affected individual at a level that cannot be explained by purely biological phenomenon. Abilities were shown to remain functional, though often weakened, after gross morphological changes have been inflicted upon a statistically relevant percentage of test subjects. Mystical analysis demonstrated that the experimental subjects maintained unique ethereal records throughout the procedure with full dissolution occurring only moments before termination.

  In sixty-four percent of test subjects, there existed a measurable correspondence between the persistence of supernormal capabilities and the moment of akashic detachment. Means of termination were altered throughout the study, and a deeper analysis of the data revealed that the greatest variances were found when brain-death occurred in stages prior to the halting of other autonomic processes (table 1). With these anomalies in mind, further study was put towards the complex links between neural functionality, akashic identity and supernormal abilities.

  Measured psychosurgical operations were performed upon the anatomically intact brains of powered test subjects, and the extirpation of sections of the frontal, parietal and occipital lobe showed limited but predictable effect upon retention of akashic identity. Leucotomy upon the temporal lobe, however, produced unexpectedly significant results, and complete temporal lobectomies induced immediate alterations to the subjects’ connection to the akashic field, even when biological functions were maintained for significant periods after procedures were completed.

  In layman’s terms, sufficient damage to the temporal lobe re-shaped the body/soul gestalt so fundamentally that external connections were disrupted.

  Given that this new evidence supported the theory that the loss of supernormal abilities corresponded with akashic detachment, further investigation was planned to determine if surgical methods could alter akashic identity without otherwise impairing cognitive capability. A focused study on transtemporal incisions followed, with desired regions marked on a grid (fig 1). Test subjects were secured in the standard fashion…

  ◊◊◊

  It had been decades, and no one had been able to crack the riddle of the Ancient’s treasure. Most doubted that any hidden hoard existed at all; it was merely wishful thinking, they scoffed. The villain was gone and good riddance! What can be gained, they asked, by chasing after dusty horrors and lost riches? If you need to increase your fortune you should rob a bank, said the villains. The Ancient’s legacy should remain buried, said everyone else.

  I’d spent several evenings poring over the Ancient’s published academic papers, reading them over and over to develop a feel for his thought process and style. I was bent towards this task, now. If there existed a hidden collection of the Ancient’s writing and research, I wanted it. My reasons were threefold: First, to make complete my eventual victory over Skullface (and likely force him to step forward and confront me directly). Second, to understand and make use of the knowledge embedded within. Finally, to burn whatever were the most horrid discoveries that the brilliant, foul madman had unearthed.

  Information might be neither good nor evil, but it could certainly be dangerous. For the greater good, some knowledge would best be excised from human understanding. Even in the published papers, spread throughout dozens of openly available periodicals, there had been hints of principles too perilous to be entrusted to the public.

  Although the furor of those early treasure hunting expeditions had long since faded, some would still notice if a new player began acquiring relevant works. Through false identities, I was able to purchase a handful of items via online auctions. To do more would raise red flags.

  And so began a massive and expensive effort to examine said items in place with their owners none the wiser. For the most part, this effort could be performed utilizing silent and camouflaged microdrones; occasionally, however, a more personal touch was needed. For that purpose, Doctor Fid’s Mk 37 Stealth armor had been designed.

  **Whisper, I hate to be a bother,** I sent my thoughts via my neural tap’s quantum-tunneled network link, **but I think that I am going to need your help with some research.**

  **Okay,** she chirped. **How can I help?**

  **I’ve worked my way to the basement, but the layout doesn’t match the filed floorplan. Could you check public records for unusual building material purchases in the region, between eleven and thirteen years ago?**

  The Trask estate that I was currently infiltrating had been reconstructed in that time frame; in addition to the new pool and hideous roman columns, it appeared that the drug-lord property owner had also added an underground refuge in which to wait out attacks from his competitors. I’d already checked the safe in the main estate and been disappointed, so I presumed that the painting I was here to examine was stored in the sanctuary below.

  If the bunker had been constructed using modern technology, I would not have needed to come here on my own. My drones—properly controlled—could easily have defeated whatever defensive software Edward Trask’s private security could have brought to bear, but this was all heavy vault doors, combination locks, and massive five-spoke safe handles. From what my scans could determine through the thick walls, even the currently-locked-closed hidden air vents were controlled by manual cranks.

  And so I’d come here myself, practically invisible to the naked eye and to electronic scanning alike. The Trasks were hosting a fundraising party for local politicians, so the majority of security was focused upon the dining hall and the veranda where the guests had congregated. I’d simply floated in, a metal encased ghost, and worked my way towards the lower level.

  **Four thousand tons of concrete went missing from Tr
ask Construction twelve and a half years ago,** Whisper noted. **A lot of rebar, too. Their insurance paid out and everything.**

  Assuming that the sixteen-inch-thick walls butting against the main property were maintained throughout the structure, I calculated that the shelter’s overall size could not be more than six thousand square feet, which matched the readings that I’d taken earlier. I’d been worried that there might be more; given the depth and density of the construction, I’d been concerned that my sweep hadn’t been able to reveal the hidden chamber in its entirety. The Mk 37 was impressively stealthy, but manual searches still ate valuable time. I wanted to be long gone before the security guards performed their rounds.

  **Thank you,** I sent.

  **Mm!**

  I slaved my hands to my armor’s programming as they worked to solve the vault combination lock.

  The main portion of the estate had been decorated with the peculiar aesthetic of a creature who wished to display his wealth…but refused to trust in the judgment of a professional architect or interior designer. Individual items were all of superb quality: checkerboard marble floors in the halls, thick velvet drapes on the windows, beautifully restored hardwood furniture, and oil paintings with gilded and hand-carved frames. Taken together, however, they seemed a vulgar mishmash of styles and extravagances. The entrance to the underground sanctuary had been hidden behind a particularly gaudy tapestry.

  Microdrones were monitoring the party at the other side of the estate; the guests did not seem disturbed by the decor. The fine catered food and an open bar had more than offset any poor impressions that the donors might have had of their host.

  It was very likely that most of those gathered had no idea how the Trask family had earned its fortune. Two, in particular, would have been horrified: a husband-and-husband pair of actors, both intensely passionate activists for measures that combat the proliferation of illegal narcotics. That Edward Trask invited them here said much about his brutal sense of humor. It was tempting to inform the pair of their host’s profession. It was tempting to burn this entire estate to the ground and salt the earth.