Chapter One Setting the Board
The dreams of man are bold.
Bold, wild, and far-sweeping, despite the finite abilities and comprehension of the human condition. He dreams of wonder and magic, fortunes and empires- things not often imparted by the course of fate. Instead, man is burdened to labor and to sweat, to toil in the dirt from whence he came, and to reap the fruits of a cold existence. Man, despite all his schemes, is coldly mundane- save for a few.
Called demigods and heroes, kings and warriors, only a select handful of men have achieved immortality through epics and songs, having an impact so great that they would become indistinguishable from legend. As the brilliant dawn of early morning broke over the desolate and arid Amargosa Range, the Dragon Striker, having earned his extraordinary distinction by the edge of his sword and the strength of his armor, regarded his enemy with blinding prejudice.
Standing on the sky, the Striker hovered for a moment, basking in the heat of the rising sun. Crimson rock, dried clay, and hot sand spread out beneath him like an ocean of parched death. A closing, dark shadow against the steel-blue horizon heralded the attack of the black-armored Hercuron.
Moving with incredible swiftness, the two warriors cut the sky like bolts of white-hot lightning, clashing their archaic weapons with furious intent. The resulting boom of thunder echoed across the expanse of the desert and into the pitched ranges of the nearby mountains.
Executing a flawless parry that utterly shattered the blade of the Hercuron warrior, the Striker followed up with a solid kick that cracked the black helmet of the hunter. A lesser man could not have resisted the blow with the resiliency that the Hercuron managed. But then again, the Hercuron was no man, by any stretch of the imagination. Forged from the very heat of battle, the trophy hunter was just one of a clan of such warriors that easily numbered in the tens of thousands. And if the Dragon Striker had anything to say about it, those numbers were well on the decline.
Without warning, a storm of mystical energy burst into existence around the Striker, his physical form consumed by the maelstrom. Then, like the strike of a viper, the storm of energy surged forward like a thunderbolt and slammed into the chest of the Hercuron.
Sternum and ribs cracked from the sheer impact, splintering bone and armor, the energy burning the soft tissues of its heart. Shards of unidentifiable alloy rained over the rocks and sand, immediately followed by charred Caucasoid remains and debris too far removed from anything distinguishable. Standing over the stinking, smoking cinder of the Hercuron, the Striker sheathed his gleaming sword, inducing a wave of energy that robbed him of his Striker armor.
Where the Dragon Striker had stood a heartbeat before, a tall, male human now regarded the black shell of armor and flesh before him. His shoulder-length jet black hair ended in a knot, falling down his neck in a taut ponytail. Asian features and a light complexion completed his visage, his face pitted with long, streaking scars.
“That’s the third this month,†he noted to himself, regarding the corpse of his Hercuron attacker. While the would-be harbingers of destruction only knew him as the Dragon Striker, he had a name -
Austin Yong. Furthermore, he had a purpose, a legacy, entrusted to him by his father, who had been the champion of the Dragon Striker powers a generation before.
A sparkle of ruby flame burst into brilliance near the center of the Hercuron, growing and consuming the body until there was no evidence of the terrorist - save for the exhaustion that plagued Austin’s body. There would be more, he knew. Deep in his bones, beneath the layers of fleeting courage and failing resolve, he feared the storm had just begun.
****
James Cook High School, Port James, California . . .
‘
A Nation Divided.
‘It was the greatest war in American history. Three million fought- an astounding six hundred thousand died. This great, yet terrible war was the only one fought on American soil by Americans. In the mid 1800s, the United States would be torn apart by this turn of events. Since the beginning of the colonies more than two hundred years earlier, two regions of the country had developed in very different ways. They were not the same for many reasons, but rising tensions began separating the fabric of our sovereignty. By 1860, after failed years of compromise on many issues, the outbreak of war was something that could not be prevented. The time of serenity and unity would be utterly shattered by the Civil War of the American people.’
Matt Morrison yawned, rubbing his eyes and brushing blonde locks out of his face, as the words on the page blurred out of strain, if not boredom. Slightly athletic by genetic chance, not activity, his nearly six-foot frame sat squeezed into the undersized desk. Like most Americans, Matt knew what happened to his forefathers- the basics anyway. Through a haze of utter indifference, he did his best to focus on the lesson - and failed miserably. After all, it was Friday, nearing three-thirty in the afternoon, and in a matter of minutes, the James Cook High student body would be freed of their prison of higher learning and loosed upon the unsuspecting Port James nightlife.
Reading from his oversized educator-edition textbook, Kent Anderson stifled a yawn as he continued with his usual, monotonous drone that dried up any emotion out of the already lifeless words before him. He was, admittedly, not the most interesting teacher, having taught the same subjects to two generations of Port James students during his tenure at Port James High- and, short of a miracle, he knew the reading of such a chapter was more a time-killing tactic than any academic process.
“This conflict was one of many wars fought to end the persecution of innocents. This American ‘Civil War’ spilled the blood of our ancestors for nearly four long years, until the surrender of General Lee at Appomattox in 1865. This war against prejudice would be reflected nearly a hundred years later.
“By 1939, the great societies of the world were plunged into what would come to be known as the ‘Second World War’, as recently elected Chancellor of Germany, Adolf Hitler, perpetrated one of the greatest tragedies in modern history, a Nazi mass murder of the Jewish people known as the Holocaust. However, the Jews were not the only the victims of Nazism; it is estimated that as many as fifteen million civilians were murdered by this racist regime, including millions from other ethnicities.â€
Scattered yawns erupted across the classroom, which were soon drowned out by the anticipated scream of the bell. As if by precognition, half of the students were already stuffing books and papers into their already overflowing backpacks. Gathering his notebook and binders, Matt ignored the various insults spewed his way as an ensemble of jocks passed his seat, giving voice to their weekend ambitions.
“Party at Hibriten’s!†a voice declared from amongst the bunch of carved-from-stone and, as Matt ironically noted, dumb-as-rock football players that cheered the announcement. Nick Hibriten, whose ridiculously square jaw seemed to defy the laws of physics, smiled on as the crowd continued to celebrate the gathering at his house in the high-class Angel Hills community. The jubilation continued as Hibriten led his posse of letterman-jacket wearing Neanderthals through the classroom door.
Interrupted but not deterred, Mr. Anderson raised his voice above the bustling sounds of the quickly evacuating room. “All right students, we will begin our discussion on the wars of the modern era on Monday. Have a safe weekend and be sure to have your chapter questions completed to be turned in when we return!â€
Oblivious to the jock-herd, Steven Daniels, awkwardly-lanky, dark-skinned, and president of the Port James Technology Student Association chapter, nearly shrieked in terror before being silenced against a wall of blue-lockers face-first. He stared a hole through the celebratory parade of Hibriten-followers as he pushed his glasses back up the ridge of his nose. Slowly regaining his composure, he watched as Matt came around the corner of the hallway from Mr. Anderson’s class. There was no need for pleasantries, as the two teens had been thick-as-thieves for as long as anyone could remember.
“Yeah, you better keep walking!†Steven shouted mockingly over Matt’s shoulder, confident that his nasally threat had been unable to reach the ever-growing celebration that spilled into the school parking lot.
“
Freak,†a feminine voice exasperated behind the duo. Matt instantly recognized the voice belonging to Karen Archer. Tall, blonde, and beautiful, she clutched her book-bag tight against her body as Matt sighed and gorged his already overflowing locker with his World History books.
“So, you on for Nick’s party tonight?†she asked.
“Yeah, a bunch of chest-beating apes and their beer-keg mating rituals seems like the perfect way to spend my Friday night,†Matt returned as he closed his locker.
“Actually,
mademoiselle, ‘The Matt’ and I are putting the final touches on our NERO concept for our report on nanotechnology for Dr. Langer,†Steven interjected. Karen grinned mockingly with disgust.
“Nero?†she asked.
“
Nanoid Experimental Robotic Organism- NERO,†Steven explained defensively.
Having considered Karen’s proposition, Matt finally conceded. “Maybe.â€
“What?†Steven blurted. He glanced over at Matt, who stared past him in a daze of reflection at Karen’s offer. “Come on Matt, you can’t be serious!†He waved a playful hand in front of Matt’s face. Matt continued to look right past him at the corridor of the south wing.
“Yo,†he said, snapping his fingers. “Mattie boy, wake up.â€
Smiling softly, Karen echoed his concern. “What’s wrong?â€
“Nothing - I just . . .†No matter how hard he tried the words just weren’t there. “I can’t explain it.â€
“Try me,†Karen demanded.
“Do you ever feel like you were meant to be something? Besides all of this?†he made a sweeping motion towards the classrooms and stragglers of the rush hour student traffic. “I’m not talking college or a career. I’m talking about fate- not just what that fate is- but why?â€
Steven tried to maintain his composure. “Okay, Earth to Matt. Come in Matt.â€
“I’m serious, SD!†Matt defended, shoving Steven lightheartedly. Karen and Steven then moved to catch up with Matt, who had abandoned them in the empty hallway.
“Okay- fate,†Karen replied, “- or destiny? You’re talking about a calling, not the eventual outcome of your life. What’s sparked this quest for your divination?†Matt considered the question for a moment.
“There’s got to be more than the everyday, nine-to-five, get married and settled down routine that everyone buys into. We’re born, we die, and in between, we’re just slaves to the grind- and for what? Call me crazy, but I don’t want to be a pawn,†Matt rationalized, mostly to himself. “Look, all I’m saying, is it wrong to crave a life of substance, a life of significance? Why else do we dream of things that seem to be beyond our reach if we’re not meant to achieve an existence greater than that of a normal life?â€
“Define ‘normal’,†Steven teased. By the look on Karen’s face, it was painfully obvious to Matt that not everyone had the same concern for their future. Without any closure to the subject, Matt pulled away and dashed down the steps of the school’s side entrance.
“Nevermind,†he yielded.
“Matt!†Karen called. She stopped dead in her tracks, knowing that whatever was bothering Matt was something that no amount of conversation could quell. In fact, she worried that her prodding may have made things worse.
****
The hot water exorcised the pain and fatigue that punished the human body of Austin Yong as he leaned against his forearms. The cascading water fell over his bruised body which was freshly scrubbed of dirt and sweat from the morning’s battle with the Hercuron. He recounted the events of the fight in his mind as the steam enveloped his sore body.
It was almost like a … sixth sense. Somehow, he knew the Hercuron had been
hunting him. For nearly ten years, they had come for him. He never understood why- just that they were bent on claiming him like some sort of prize hunt. While there certainly had been more than a few close calls, it was almost like the hunters were adolescent- not entirely sure of themselves and their capabilities. Either way, showing mercy meant showing weakness- and if the Hercurons were good at one thing, it was capitalizing on that weakness.
Stepping out of the shower, he draped a towel over his middle as steam rose from his body. His thoughts concerning his less-than-perfect physical condition were barely louder than the sonorous CNN broadcast reporter who shared the screen of the dilapidated television set with Colonel David Warren.
“With me tonight is Colonel David Warren, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to discuss the growing speculation of highly-dangerous and experimental weapon testing in the Amargosa Mountain Range outside of San Angeles, California and the supposed sightings of an armored vigilante operating in the Levy Peninsula area of California,†the reporter was saying. “Thank you for your time, Colonel . . .†Colonel Warren sat opposite of the reporter, his broad form more than filling the space of the small chair. His strong, squared features encircled stronger eyes that regarded the speculative reporter with strong disdain.
Austin pulled a plain white teeshirt over his bruised shoulders. A little over two thousand miles away, the Colonel politely thanked the reporter.
“Thank you, Tom.â€
“Right, let’s get right down to it, Colonel - what do you have to say concerning the supposed use of experimental and potentially toxic weapons of a nuclear nature in the Armargosa Range?â€
“I don’t believe there is sufficient evidence to support such an outrageous claim,†Colonel Warren returned coolly. Without missing a beat, the middle-aged reporter continued his line of questioning.
“I understand that these same reports have also mentioned eyewitness accounts of,†the reporter began, as he shuffled a stack of papers in his hands. “And I quote: ‘
A heavily armored red soldier with a samurai sword who seemed to appear from thin air and do battle with a black-suited warrior.’ These sightings also seem to coincide with numerous reports of these mysterious flying humanoids.â€
The gruff Colonel rolled his eyes, which only fueled the reporter’s drive.
“I believe we have amateur video documentation of a supposed ‘UFH’ or Unidentified Flying Humanoid. Colonel, let’s take a look.†With that, the screen was suddenly filled with a shaky, low quality image of a black, bipedal figure that seemed to levitate above the horizon. “Of course, there’s nothing exceptional concerning this particular video, as recorded sightings of such UFH’s have been steady documented for the last few decades. Colonel, your thoughts?â€
Sighing, Colonel Warren shifted in his seat. “Tom, you know, I’ve seen a lot of stuff in my life, but these reports and ‘amateur evidence’ of a so-called armored warrior bring to mind poorly-adapted Japanese hero shows and creative film-school students rather than an advanced supersoldier program or whatever the talking heads want to call it. To those who believe in this, no proof is necessary. They believe with or without hard evidence. â€
“To which I say, Colonel, that, to the skeptics, no proof is possible- anything can be justified or rationalized to those who need to doubt the existence of such . . . entities.â€
Sitting down in the hard and uncomfortable chair opposite the antique television set, Austin slid his bare feet into his slippers and popped the tab on a cold can of his favorite draft.
“Okay Colonel, let’s focus on the latest reports that put this vigilante in the city of Port James.â€
“Again, Tom, I believe these continued reports to be nothing more than a group of over-imaginative citizens, starved for attention, abusing our emergency services in the Port James area.â€
“I see. You know, I can understand your stance on this seemingly ludicrous issue, but what can you say about the confirmed evidence of marks of molecular disintegration and the presence of fragments of an unidentified metallic alloy in the vicinity of these reported sightings in the Peninsula?â€
“Let me set the record straight on these infrequent and isolated incidents. We have taken the damage of commercial and personal properties seriously and dispatched our own teams of specialists to the areas. However, there is nothing to indicate that these incidents of criminal damage were somehow linked to the reports of this armored vigilante supposedly operating in the Levy Peninsula.â€
Good cover, Austin commented. As he poured the alcoholic beverage down his throat, a singular dot of red light hazily penetrated the darkness of his small kitchen. The low-divergence beam was soon joined by nearly a dozen others, each born from super-sophisticated rifle-mounted targeting scopes. From the corner of his eye, Austin caught the crimson gleam of the lasers and with all his might, threw himself behind the nearest wall. Sheetrock and wood suddenly exploded into a hell-storm of disintegrating debris as the assault rifles chewed through the walls of the small apartment.
“Forward team, secure the area!†a stern voice commanded as the sound of tactical boots landing on the debris-filled floor of the kitchen filled Austin’s ears.
“STS,†Austin told himself. While the nomenclature ‘
Security Technology Services’ seemed to imply a nondescript dot-com company run by some pimple-faced, overbearing Ivy Leaguer barely out of his twenties, the reality was that STS was a privately contracted security force, having replaced the infamous Blackwater Worldwide corporation as the world leader in private tactical forces following the US occupation of Iraq in the early twenty-first century.
With barely a thought, the Strike Saber materialized in Austin’s grasp. Witnessing the burst of accompanying energy, the lead STS soldier stepped back and thumbed his comm.
“Target is armed, I repeat target is . . .†Before he could finish, Austin silenced him with a sweeping leg strike before leaping toward the front door of the flat.
“Fire!†one of the soldiers commanded. As Austin neared the entrance way, a burst of energy exploded from the hilt of his Strike Saber, shifting the Dragon Striker armor on his body. Bullets ricocheted off the armor as it seared itself to his skin and clothing.
Austin cried with determination as he smashed through the wall. The momentum of his lunge carried him over the metal staircase that led to his apartment. With the ease of an acrobat, he caught the railing with his right hand. Moonlight revealed the location of his Kawasaki
Izumi sports bike parked in the narrow grasp of the conjoining alleyway that separated the decaying brownstone from a crumbling warehouse.
Straining with the flimsy terrace, he pushed off of the staircase and pivoted beneath the waves of gunfire that would have slammed into him only seconds before. Landing with a splash into a puddle of collected rainwater, he manipulated the hilt of his Saber, returning his armor and sword to their complex quantum storage systems. He had practiced the routine on a number of random occasions and performed the brilliant exit with scant effort. Pulling a black jacket from a compartment he had installed on a nearby dumpster, he sheathed his arms and torso in its protective leather and Kevlar grasp.
“Sight him up!†one of the lead voices shouted as laser sights rained down over the rippling puddle behind him. The scream of the bike’s high-performance engine echoed through the alleyway as the STS squadron came rappelling down the outer staircase.
“STS One to Mobile Command, target is off grid. Requesting multiple vector scans for all possible routes,†Lieutenant Jon Stevenson ordered. He cursed to himself- the siege on the apartment complex had been the culmination of months of stakeouts and intelligence gathering- and in seconds, the elusive Dragon Striker had slipped through their fingers once again- but this was the closest his squad had gotten to the civilian operator of the Striker powers and he would be damned if he was about to give up the hunt now.
“
Twenty-two that, STS One. We’ve got black and whites en route to location. Get out of there, Jon, we’ll get him next time,†the voice replied, robbed of its humanity by the warbling static that heralded the transmission.
Stevenson grimaced, killing the light on his rifle, giving the signal to fallback. Instantly, the STS tactical squadron evanesced, leaving no indication of their presence as the pulsating lights and resonating sirens of the police cruisers filled the dark lane.
****
Angel Hills . . .
The upper-crust society of Port James called the sprawling community of Angel Hills home when the stuffy high-rises and swollen commercial structures of the city disgorged their slaves at the end of a long and tiring work week. Here, far removed from the congested highways and the canyons of glass and steel, it could almost be believed that their thankless corporate lives were as faint as the breeze that blew through the well-manicured rows of arboreta that flanked the streets.
While Joe Hibriten’s nomenclature may have suggested otherwise, the word ‘average’ was certainly never considered when describing the CEO of Hibriten Motorsports, least of all his three-story dwelling centered at the apex of the main loop that connected the branches of the gated community.
The ample-sized driveway of the Hibriten estate boasted a bevy of high-end vehicles, none of which belonged to the Hibriten Motorsports armada. Instead, they were possessed by the ‘in-crowd’ of the James Cook High School upperclassmen whose trust funds and estates were moderate in comparison to the Hibriten Empire. Watching the door, Karen Archer stood, grasping a soda can and watching the usual, customary people involved in the usual, customary rituals of young-adulthood.
A pair of headlights that swept through the living room window drew her attention to a late-model black Chevrolet truck that joined the crowded curb. Within, Matt Morrison and his counterculture co-pilot, Steven Daniels, regarded the impressive architecture of the Hibriten estate.
Before they could approach the door, Karen came bolting out of the house, grabbing Matt up and stealing him away from his intellectual counterpart. She was barely covered in a black dress that both stunned and frightened the new arrivals.
“I don’t
even care that you brought Astro-Boy along,†Karen blurted, nearly dragging Matt up the steps to the house. “Things are finally looking up for you . . . in fact, I have a couple of potential prospects for the Fall Ball that I’d like to introduce you to . . .†Full of disgust, Steven began to slink back to the truck.
“No you don’t,†Matt barked, grabbing the black male by his shirt collar. The loud, booming bass of vulgar hip-hop greeted the two as they followed Karen through the foyer. A loud, exasperated groan from the kitchen indicated that Hibriten’s posse had become painfully aware of the duo’s arrival.
“
We don’t serve their kind here!†cried Daniel Ashworth, the starting receiver for the Port James Tigers, quoting the cantina bartender from Star Wars. The group burst into drunken laughter.
“
These aren’t the geeks we’re looking for,†Donovan Johnson, the Port James center, called out. Steven, painfully aware of the context of the comments, swallowed and stepped forward.
“
You just watch yourself. We’re wanted men. I have the death sentence on twelve systems,†Steven added. With a chorus of tired sighs, the two athletes faded into the sea of gyrating teenagers.
Matt begrudgingly followed Karen past the living room occupants and into the much smaller den, where a mostly female crowd was seated around, trading gossip and fashion tips.
“Rachel,†Karen introduced, referring to the raven-haired teenager who sat directly across room, wearing a sky-blue dress. “I’d like to introduce my good friend, Matt.†Matt swallowed hard. As if talking to a woman as gorgeous as Rachel Pratt wasn’t hard enough, the unorthodox way the two were introduced shoved him over the edge into full-blown embarrassment.
“You don’t have to blush, cutie,†Rachel said, rising from her seat. “We’re all adults here.â€
“I wish that were so,†Matt mumbled to himself. He had seen her type before - recently separated from a serious relationship, stepping out of her comfort zone in an effort to reassure her self-confidence at any cost. Whatever the reason, he would have no part in it.
“Karen, can I talk to you for a second?†He asked, gently shoving the tall woman back through the doorway.
“
What’s your problem, Matt?†she demanded.
“I’ve told you before, Karen, these people may be your crowd, but this isn’t my scene. Believe me,
she’s gorgeous, but I’m not about all of this.â€
“
Not your scene? Puh-lease, Matt, your brother would have jumped on that opportunity in two seconds flat.â€
“
I’m not my brother,†he forced through a grimace. “We may have the same father, but I can assure you, the similarities end there. You used to appreciate that, remember?†With that, Matt stormed out of the room, grabbed Steven, and headed for the door.
“Leaving so soon?†a voice called out behind him.
Nick Hibriten.
“What’s it to
you, Nick?†Matt called back.
“I just don’t remember inviting
you to
my party.†Turning, Matt looked the six-foot-five quarterback up and down.
“We were just leaving,†Steven added.
“Shut your face,†Donovan replied, stepping out from behind Nick.
“You know, you’re a
Morrison. You’re supposed to be one of us, like your brother. You’re supposed to be a part of the legacy - instead, you choose to run with freaks like Daniels. When are you gonna face up to it, Matt?â€
“Face up to what?†Matt threw back, taking a step forward. Nick shoved Donovan out of the way.
“That whether you like it or not, you were born into this crowd . . . and you can’t leave the party without paying the band.†Matt clenched a fist and took a deep breath.
“Nick, stop,†Karen pleaded, hanging off Hibriten’s muscular form. Nick stared down at her and back at Matt.
“Come on Matt, let’s roll man!†Steven insisted, pulling on Matt’s arm.
Nick leaned down to eye-level with Matt and loosed a final threat. “Consider it a loan then, Matt. But I promise you . . . when you least expect, I
will collect.†The back door to the kitchen flung open before Matt could respond, as the rest of the offensive line entered, each holding fifths of grain alcohol.
“
Smirnoff Air, ready for liftoff!" Brannon Scott, the Port James starting offensive guard cried out. Nick snapped into a wide smile as he rushed to meet the new arrivals. Matt stared back at Karen for a long second before following Steven through the front entrance.
“Matt!†Karen called out. Watching as Matt started up his truck, she sighed and begrudgingly rejoined the party.
“Why do you keep doing this to yourself, Matt?†Steven asked as the black pickup pulled out of manicured driveway.
“What?â€
“
This - do you really expect a new attitude from Nick and the cromags? It’s just like Heath, man, you can’t seriously think they’ll ever change. You don’t, do you?â€
“Anyone can change, SD. Sometimes, change . . . happens in an instant.â€
****
Norfolk, Virginia . . .
The massive headquarters of Sensor14 Industries sat in the shadow of other centers of industry, including the Wells Fargo Center and Dominion Tower. While S14 was known as a manufacture of military-grade communication devices and electronics, the truth was much more menacing.
Colonel Steven Macluran sighed as he passed through the main gate, his black SUV transmitting clearance codes to the port gate control room. He held a monitor plate in his hands, its transparent screen flanked by black plastic control handles. A sixteen terabyte memory card dangled from his neck, resting against the clearance ID at the end of a black lanyard, bearing the stylized initials
C-A-S, or
Code Alpha Systems on one side, with the mysterious
Maiestas Ordo emblem on the other. A man dressed in a plain black suit met the Colonel at his door. Armed with a Stormhawk model revolver, the man escorted Macluran across the sally port and into the receiving area.
“Colonel,†Another black-suited man addressed, saluting Macluran.
Gruffly, Macluran addressed him as he returned the gesture. “Sturm.
Standing barely over five feet tall, Head Administrator Carter Sturm was a thin, young man, barely in his thirties. In fact, he was the youngest person to ever be promoted to Head Administrator over S14. Colonel Macluran’s personal security escort chuckled amongst themselves over this fact as he drew on what little courage he could muster to address the Colonel and the data contained in the teradrive.
“More from Howe’s ‘
Gospel of Yoda’?†he asked as the Colonel released the data pad into Sturm’s possession. With the push of a button, the clear plate came to life with display screens feeding information directly from the teradrive.
“Excellent work,†he added, losing himself to the content of the monitor.
“Stevenson’s ops team in Port James has logged a new direct encounter - that’s the third this year alone. I feel like we’re starting to pick up on his trail,†Colonel Macluran noted. With a pass of his hand across the monitor’s keypad, the screen went blank once more.
“. . . I’m listening.â€
“An investigation into the apartment where contact was made has led us to a name- John Austin.â€
“
John Austin? That’s the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard.â€
“Well,
Carter, if you’d made it to last month’s debriefing, you’d know that he’s used the alias before, in a purchase of that little Mickey Mouse bicycle of his. He’s getting sloppy- it’s just a matter of time now before we can hook him and book him.â€
“Look, it’s an interesting story, Colonel, really it is, but it’s your job to ‘bag him and tag him’ - it’s my job to see what all of this has to do with hokey artifacts and this ancient astronaut theory of Dr. Howe’s.â€
“You just keep feeding Warren his lines for the press. I’m heading to Port James to oversee operations there. Maybe
you can get us something from Howe’s reports, something we can use in the field.†Colonel Macluran stated, before turning to his entourage. “Let’s kick rocks, men. The stench of inferiority is making me want to gag.â€
Regan Creek, California . . .
The Riverwalk snaked along the bank of Regan Creek, separating the lush suburbs of Angel Hills from the industrial parks that ran along the 101 freeway. Here, the rumble of Austin Yong’s
Izumi sportsbike shattered the still of the peaceful Riverwalk, its bass echoing off the iron rails and rain-slicked concrete. Austin never really knew why he was always drawn to the wooden benches and manicured foliage that skirted the edges of the walk, but he figured that the STS goons would never show their masked faces in such a densely populated area- and so far, he had been right.
The assorted pubs near the north end of the walk bustled with their usual patrons and musical acts, the south end anchored by the always bustling Port James Times building. The evidence of a light summer rain glistened off the stone pathway as he parked the bike near the waterfront. His stomach growled- a quick survey of the contents of his jacket revealed the depleted funds of his emergency cash- a couple of crumpled dollars and a driver’s license, bearing his likeness and the name John Austin.
“Pretty sure that name’s run its course,†he said, destroying the ID. One of his only trusted contacts, a local computer tech by the name of William ‘the Cranium’, had helped him conceive and produce several identities to use while he evaded the ever growing shadow of the STS. It had been nearly twenty years since he had been legally known as Austin Yong . . . but once he received the mantle of the Striker, everything about his past life had to be burned- the unfortunate ‘victim’ of a traffic accident, Austin Yong had been buried.
With no real family to speak of, he hadn’t heard the name in just as many years- due mostly to the fact that his entire upbringing had been nothing more than a series of exercises and events, meticulously ordered by forces he never had the privilege of knowing, in order to prepare him for the passing of the Striker powers from the last generation to the current. The specific separation from family from that point on was part of the lifestyle of a Striker- a strictly-imposed, almost monk-like isolation, meant to bring about self-reliance and strength that could only be achieved through such practices. Austin himself knew very little about the true philosophy he had inherited, as his supposed parents had been captured by a previous incarnation of STS only hours after he was given the blade of the Striker.
The moment seemed laser-etched into his memory. The woman he knew as his mother for eighteen years admitted the startling revelation as his ‘father’ produced the alien weapon from thin air, bestowing its heavy weight upon him. He was warned that the initial transition would be quite jarring, as the powers would have to adjust and bind themselves to his specific physiology. He had no memory of the first transformation, only the physiological and psychological trauma as a result of the evocation of the energy fields and fleeting memories of darkness and fading echoes of some sort of ‘war’ and a Japanese term, ‘
kagemusha’, which meant, ‘shadow warrior.’ Although the term had been spoken by his father, who had been raised in San Angeles after his family emigrated from Japan a decade before his birth, the explicit context of the exact word had always eluded him.
Each transformation thereafter had become less and less painful, until the act of donning the Striker armor had become as natural as walking between rooms. Over time, more aspects of the powers revealed themselves to him . . . but as of late, he could almost swear that the powers were fading ever-so-slightly, as if their very source had been somehow lessened.
Breathing the night air deep into his lungs, he exhaled and stared out across the water, at what few stars could penetrate the glare of the pubs and smog from the city as they glimmered across the surface. Austin knew the sword and its powers were from the great ‘out-there’ - the evidence was inescapable. It was in the ache of his bones and the bruises that mottled his chest and sides. Equally, he could not escape the ever-growing fear that forces and intellects responsible for waging the war his mother had spoken of were moving into place like the pieces of a chessboard - and found himself consumed with the question of whether he was a pawn in this grand war-to-come or whether he would ultimately be in control of his destiny.