Zero Hour Shifting Power Read online

  …

  "Would you hand me that...power socket, Charles?"

  But Charles wasn't even in the room. Damion rose slowly from his knees off the concrete floor and crossed a wide open space over to where he had an array of monitors and other toys of the rich. With a fury of strokes on a keyboard he paged Charles to get down and give him a hand. Then he felt a lump in his pocket and realized a text from his phone would have sufficed. It wasn't overkill to him though. He could have gotten the tool he needed by now a dozen times over, but he needed Charles to be there and do his job. That's what this was about.

  Damion returned to his work presently all the while humming the tune to another ACDC song with a killer electric guitar solo in it. Right as Charles entered the room he caught his boss walking the floor and hopping from one foot to the other, strumming the good ol' air guitar.

  "You needed me, sir?"

  "So nice of you to show up ready to help...." Damion said with a sarcastic sneer.

  "Well, you called."

  "Listen, why don't ya hang around and be useful, eh?" The billionaire grabbed the tool he had originally tasked his own butler to get for him from its place in a tub. "They don't make these like this anymore."

  "Sir?"

  "Shut up," Damion snapped. "You know what? I'll tell you what you could do for me. You know the correspondence lady from channel two that was knocking on my front door the other evening?"

  "I wasn't aware..."

  "Okay, the gal from the bar. Never mind. Get her. I want her to watch me work. Set up a date for the two of us. You pick a day. You know my schedule."

  "Um, sir, I'm not sure if I'm qualified to make date-night decisions for you." Charles swallowed hard and looked down at the floor for the first time.

  "What? You want a raise or something? I'm not giving you enough money to grab the girls that I want: is that it?"

  "No."

  "Well then--do as I say. And Charles?" "Yes sir..."

  "Don't look like an idiot and embarrass my good name." "You needn't worry, sir."

  Damion flung his grease towel at the unsuspecting butler who took a step back to compensate for the throw in order to make the grab.

  "Good," Damion said, approving his right hand man's quick reflexes. "Play a round of golf this afternoon why dontcha. It's on me. Take the Lambo, too. No scratches please."

  Charles couldn't believe what he was hearing. Another thing he wasn't prepared for was a set of flying keys that thumped off his chest and clattered on the ground.

  "Nice."

  "S-sorry."

  "Don't be. We've got other things to go over, but right now, could you give me a little privacy...a little space?"

  Charles still acted like he had his foot in his mouth. He feebly nodded and made a dash for the door, grateful to be free of the awkward, unexpected encounter with his boss.

  Damion made some noise like he wanted another favor from his butler, but when Charles turned to see the billionaire's face he was confronted not with a question, but a smile and a light chuckle, followed by "just kidding."

  …

  Well, Charles wasn't in a joking mood. He wanted to be anywhere but the basement. In fact, there was a place he had in mind: poolside. That was where he knew he could expect a few attractive beauties to be sunning themselves in the splendor of Damion's estate.

  You see, often Damion would throw extravagant parties. Party-goers had a way of hanging around, yanking the billionaire's chain for favors, which he more than happily obliged them more often than not.

  In Charles’s opinion the estate had taken on more of a resort look and feel, complete with the girls by the pool. What could be better though, right? Well, maybe it wasn't such an excellent fantasy after all.

  --

  Beverly Hills, California

  Earlier in the day Charles had been watering the lawn no more than thirty yards away from the swimming pool, when one of the girls caught his eye and before he knew what he was doing, his clothes were completely soaked through. Luckily for him, this was well before his most recent errand for his boss which gave him the time to go and change into something dry--removing any evidence of his embarrassing blunder.

  Charles wasn't normally such a clumsy or socially awkward person, but more often than he would like to admit, he would enter into a mood swing. Escaping it would prove to be a chore though. He had tried liquor, yoga, girlfriends...pretty much anything imaginable on the generic coping methods list. Everything besides religion. Just last week though he had a strange conversation with someone over the phone that he never fully recovered from.

  …

  A week before...

  The clickety-clack sound from a busy keyboard belonging to Charles was the only noise heard other than the hall clock ticking away in an office in the East Wing of Westover Estate. Charles's secretary was unusually quiet even.

  A dull ring of the phone didn't even rouse the man. Not even slightly. To him, it didn't make a difference...it was just another business call. Or was it?

  "It's for you sir," Renae said over her shoulder to her superior who didn't even blink.

  Charles yanked up a receiver in his meaty hand and answered. "This is Charles speaking, who is this?"

  "Good afternoon Mr. Charles. And how might you be doing today?"

  "Um, I'm fine," the butler said scowling and holding back the phone to look at it as if he was touching something foul. "You still haven't told me who is calling though," he politely reminded the caller.

  "My name isn't important, but our conversation we're about to have--is," the calm voice said on the other end.

  Renae looked at her boss and smirked. She did well to cover it up with some papers she had littered all around her in the office.

  Charles's tie flopped every which way as the man began to become animated, talking with his hands. "Look, you don't have an appointment, you won't get even as much as a 'good day' from me, let alone a conversation," he said the last word with a forcefulness that normally would have caused any telemarketer to hang up abruptly.

  This man wasn't fazed, however. Instead, he maneuvered to regain control by asking a direct question: "Are you a good person, I didn't quite catch your name-- Mr....?"

  "I won't be treated with such disrespect, young man. Now look here--"

  "Are you or are you not?

  There was a pause and then a hesitant yes from Charles, who added, "This better not be some stupid missionary call to save the lost, because I'm not going there, mister. Been to church plenty of times in my life. I even said a prayer at an altar call."

  "Did you now? How has your walk with the Lord been since that commitment?"

  "Say what?"

  "You said you're a good person, correct? "Yeah, that's right."

  "Well, how have you done on obeying the Lord and walking in His footsteps?"

  The line went dead. Charles disconnected the stranger. On top of that, he let his fist leave a greasy imprint after it pounded his mahogany desk; as if it were the desk's fault for Charles's strenuous phone call.

  Renae almost let out a te-he before she caught a glimpse of a rather angry man who looked an awful lot like her boss. Amazing what a little phone call revealed from a man who normally looked as docile as a Labrador by the fireplace. She shook her head in wonder and got back to work.

  "You catch any of that?" Charles called out to his secretary after a brief interlude of time.

  "Only the parts that mattered, sir," she said with forced sincerity.

  Charles frowned and folded his arms. "I don't think you take me seriously, Renae. Do we need to have a little talk? Hmm?"

  She quickly dismissed the itching giggle that was trying to force its way up her throat and replaced it was an honest answer. "I wasn't trying to cause any trouble. I have another call to make here."

  "Yeah, uh-huh, you go do that," he waived her off. Fantasies of his poolside chores and the views they provided slipped back into the dismal man's head. He massaged his temp
les and let out a groan. Another long day.

  --

  Chapter 2

  In the post-civil war States of America, no longer united, there seemed to be a nuclear winter sort of feel as the dust settled. The media was divided as much as the people were. No one knew what they wanted. A government that had built itself and prided itself on not becoming like a modern day Rome had passed from the memory of great nations and into another tragic collapse of a once-great nation state. The sun had truly set on America.

  Contributing Factors...

  The stock markets had been shaky in the past, but they weren't prepared for a civil war. The scene on Wall Street was chillingly apocalyptic. It almost had a communist flair to it, too, if it hadn't involved tattered American flags.

  New York City was like a scene taken out of DC's comic, Batman, where in the third installment all the prisons were opened up and the streets erupted in violence. Prisoners weren't loosed from any prisons, but the American people sure were.

  The U.S. had long-since been in a period of next-to- negative growth and the job force continued to shrink. More and more people gave up on jobs and turned to theft and other third-rate crimes. The extinction of a middle class introduced something no one ever thought would be exported to the shores of America. But why should anyone have been surprised?

  Socialistic-leaning professors who aligned themselves politically only a hairbreadth away from what was condemned in Soviet Russia, taught at universities all across the land for decades. And they went unchecked. Presidents graduated from said colleges with socialism flowing through their veins. America responded naively to the changing climate, and by the time people woke up one day with a newspaper in one hand and the outcry of tyranny on their lips, it was all over.

  The government practically owned people with all the entitlement programs that were slipped in over time. The welfare society didn't see it coming. They loved their bennies, but at what cost? Loss of freedom and civil liberty.

  When the people realized that the courts of the land no longer recognized the Constitution as authoritative but only the president's executive power--checks and balances seemed like they were out of reach. America was in bed with tyrannical power in control: things would never be the same.

  …

  After the plunge and downfall of the U.S., political interest groups began to form. But instead of supporting candidates for a two-party system, they lobbied for whoever was out there to make a difference in their region of the tattered union. Once a 50 state union now dissolved into six sovereign territories, each ruled by a corrupt socialistic government, because that's all anyone knew how to govern like anymore. The capitalism that made America great had so fallen out of favor and was close to being blotted out from the memory of world history, too.

  Those responsible for the fall of America wanted the erasure of Christian capitalism to be an indelible affair...gone from the history books and no longer mentioned in whispers. Of course this kind of control of political ideology was doomed from the start. Even though socialism ran its course and destroyed America, what was to prevent future generations and groups of determined, like-minded people from banding together to make a change? Who would answer the call and save a world thrown into chaos by the powerful elitists running the show? Only time would tell....

  --

  Labia TestCorp Proving Grounds

  The bright Californian sun rose over the treetops and cast large shadows on the road that led to a nondescript, giant warehouse-looking building. From all appearances it looked like a distribution center of some sort. But that couldn’t have been anything further from the truth. What was inside was special for a number of reasons.

  …

  A limited edition, 30th anniversary 2040 Lamborghini Aventador in red rolled down the streets at a lazy clip, obviously in no hurry. The man behind the wheel, none other than billionaire Damion Westover, drove slow despite his level of excitement on the inside. He chose the inconspicuous way of showing emotion which no one seemed to notice unless they were looking for it.

  Damion’s doors opened up towards the heavens; next, his long legs arched over the running board and onto the pavement. He looked around as if the paparazzi were everywhere with bulbs going off like flashes of lightening. But none of that awaited him. What did, though, was a small entourage of men in sport coats and aviators. They had semi-automatic rifles at the hip and lots of other do- dads the common person wouldn’t even venture a guess as to what their purpose was for.

  "Afternoon, gents. So nice of you to escort me to, well, my building," Damion said rather nonchalantly.

  None of the security guys seemed to pay any attention to Damion’s pompous attitude. Instead, the man in charge of the trio simply spoke, "If you would turn your attention to the sidewalk and step right this way, sir."

  "Indeed," Damion huffed with irritation.

  One of the men pulled out a small radio from his pocket and pressed a button. The sidewalk ten feet in front of the group instantly lowered like a drawbridge. The length that the facility went to keep unwanted visitors out clearly impressed even Damion.

  Once inside the security detail peeled off and left Damion to be alone with a new face in the room. Standing a couple yards away was the inventor slash project lead who was working with the billionaire on the weapon of tomorrow. A nuclear deterrent. A punch to the face of the oppressive regimes that ruled the world at the moment.

  "How's she coming along, Christophe?" Damion asked.

  "Very, very well. Better than expected. I presume you are here for the trial, no?" the older man known as Christophe demurred with his soft, but noticeable French accent.

  Damion's lips wrinkled into a smile. He nodded his head and waited to see what his chief engineer would do next.

  "Good, good. We had a..." he paused to choose his words wisely, "unexpected glitch in the software when we ran it through its diagnostics, but I assure you," he continued, "it is nothing to worry about."

  Damion grunted but showed no other signs of visible displeasure.

  "You will walk with me through security Mr. Westover? Yes?"

  "If it must be, then so be it."

  Damion passed through a couple dark hallways with closed doors. Outmoded fluorescent lights glowed from the ceiling and lighted their way as they went. Presently he saw down a corridor what appeared to be a security stop with a guard waiting.

  The screening took no more than a minute. Damion passed one of the last checkpoints and before he knew it, he was the closest he had ever been to seeing a dream come true.

  The engineer said something under his breath as he took his lanyard out with its attached ID card to check in at a reader placed to the left of electronic doors. It instantly recognized his credentials when he slid the card. But before they could gain entrance one more security test needed to be passed. A little arm came out of the wall with what appeared to be a lens on it.

  Christophe smiled and dropped to a knee. He stared intently at it like he had many times before, waiting expectantly for what followed. A little beam, green in color, scanned his retina and a voice that neither man knew where it came from loudly identified the person the eyeball belonged to as "Doctor Christophe Gerard."

  Damion raised his eyebrows and remarked, "#$*%! They even got the accent right, too. I'll be darned."

  Christophe inserted a nearly invisible frown behind his handlebar mustache. "Pardon your French, monsieur."

  Damion didn't see where he erred. Other people he knew had far more foul language than he did. Why was this learned man criticizing him for his tongue? Just another facet of the famous Gerard that made him pause to wonder. But he didn't stay in la-la land for too long. In a blink of an eye he was back to his normal, expectant self. You could even go as far as to say his normal snappy self.

  The double door entrance revealed, well, nothing...yet. Then he saw it. The room they had entered was more like a bunker. Through a slit of glass Damion looked out onto a platform that h
ad his ultimate weapon. Plasma screens hung from a dozen different places from the ceiling: each one giving a different view of the spectacle.

  Damion felt for a moment like he wasn't at a weapons demonstration, but more Houston at NASA command, just before the countdown to launch. He could feel it in his bones. It gave him goose bumps.

  Dr. Gerard moved to a microphone and spoke to the test pilot manning the contraption. Diagnostics passed without any more glitches. Now the machine was whining as its nuclear reactor sent tremendous power to the turbines at the base of what looked like a wedge. Two nozzles at the bottom flared up and sent bright sparks flying. Smoke built up as was common in rocket launches.

  "Patriot, you have launch in 4, 3, 2...1."

  From behind the glass and the insulation the great roar only came through as a suppressed, muffled sound. Damion had no doubt what he was witnessing put the extra in ordinary. He gasped. The vehicle gained lift and hovered ten feet off the ground. Then stabilizers came out of the sides of the wedge to make the phenomenon come together. It continued to blaze in its stationary position, defying gravity.

  Dr. Gerard looked like he had to catch his breath, too. Great beads of sweat had formed on his forehead as it was a tense moment indeed. Once again he shouted directives to the test pilot to test all the drag flaps and simply take the machine for a spin. He cautioned against rash maneuvers of course. Gerard stressed the importance of safety and minimal exertion on the craft in the pre-flight meeting and here he was doing it again, reminding the pilot that a lot was at stake.