Rogue Goddesses

PROLOGUE

Lawrencedale Journal, Sunday edition

April 7, 2018

Op-Ed Section, editorial

Goddesses among us

It’s been five years since the bombshell news broke around the world. Women possessing earthshaking powers walk among us in every nation, and on all continents — not just the three goddesses, as some call them, identified in Lawrencedale back in 2012.

Reports put their numbers worldwide at approximately 11,000.

These women are masters of a profound, even frightening telekinetic power that makes each one invulnerable, gives them flight and puts them in absolute control of the physical world and all who live in it.

The Lawrencedale Journal and Lawrencedale TV News 5 are proud to have been the first media to report this story — the story of the century, as some have justifiably called it. And your newspaper is proud of the awards, print, online and broadcast, the reporting garnered.

But your newspaper was skeptical then, and is skeptical now. We’re not skeptical of the facts. Those are established beyond dispute, and have been since 2012.

Your newspaper is skeptical because it’s an old saw that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

It’s undeniable that the world is a better place than it was five years ago. The irresistible influence of the Helpful Ladies Society, as these women ingenuously call themselves, has made itself felt in every sphere. It has calmed the Islamic extremism that just a short time ago threatened to ignite the entire Earth.

These women have put a huge dent into the illegal drug and arms trades worldwide. Human trafficking is close to being 100 percent eradicated. Nations are settling their disputes without resort to military force because they know that The Helpful Ladies will not permit violence, and that they have the means to back up their dictates.

They do it gently. They destroy the armaments, but protect the people from violence — all the people, including the soldiers. They hand criminals over to justice, unharmed.

With the threat of violence diminished, peaceful profitable pursuits have blossomed in many places once the sole property of warlords, drug lords and other predators now defanged by these amazing women.

And when natural disaster strikes, like the recent Los Angeles earthquakes, no one does more to help.

On the other hand, right here in Lawrencedale, one of these women under the influence of some malign force, single-handedly dismantled the entire Lawrencedale Police Department in 2012.

What’s to stop any one of these 11,000 helpful ladies from doing something similar? They’re accountable only to each other. Reportedly, they’re all linked telepathically, so if one gets out of line, others can instantly fly to the rescue.

But a telepathic link seems like an awfully esoteric safeguard for such a sword of Damocles hanging over our heads.

People are imperfect. They snap all the time. None of us have forgotten the shootings from the last decade when angry people with weapons often visited their ire on the innocent.

The weapons these women possess are far more terrifying and destructive than mere guns.

And now a new generation is on its way, with girls already as old as 6. Their powers are reportedly handed down from mother to daughter, though their abilities, your newspaper is told, don’t manifest until late teens or early 20s.

Supposedly, that gives mothers the time and opportunity to train their daughters in the responsible use of their powers. Is that the only safeguard against the possibility of an immature but unstoppable young woman using her terrible powers on a helpless populace to avenge some imagined slight?

Your newspaper can only hope that the Department of Defense or some other agency is developing the means to neutralize these women if necessary.

That it won’t be necessary, that the so-called Helpful Ladies Society continues its good work in the gentle betterment of humanity without incident, is among the dearest wishes of your newspaper.

One hundred and seventy years of reporting on human nature, however, makes your newspaper skeptical of this possibility. RG

PART ONE

2030 A.D.

Chapter 1

Black Rose

In her brown and khaki uniform, Lawrencedale Police Lieutenant Melissa Forster knelt on the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, far out in rural Richards County, Kansas.

Psychometric impressions rushed into the finger tips she grazed along the concrete. She saw the illegal dog-fighting and weapons dealing that had occurred there the night before. She reflexively touched a hand to her wiry brownish-black hair which she kept subdued in a tight bun.

And then she saw the riot.

The Lawrencedale Police Department desk sergeant had gotten the call from the county sheriff’s department about gunshots — lots of them — just after midnight. A resident, night-fishing a nearby pond, had heard the gunfire and called the sheriff, but if it was automatic weapons, the county didn’t want to go in without the backup the LPD could provide.

The LPD had the training, tactics and weapons that could make the difference. They also had bulletproof goddess, lieutenant and deputy chief Melissa Forster who easily made any encounter with lawbreakers, no matter how violent, a foregone conclusion.

When Forster teleported in within seconds of notification, she found a scene as strange as any in her 20-year career.

More than a dozen men lay on the floor, some suffering bullet wounds in various degrees, their own plasti-printed weapons stretched and bent into the bonds that hog-tied them.

In another chamber of the dusty old warehouse, the pit bulls had been neatly crated. Humane societies arrived from three counties to take the dogs. The men went to the county lock-up.

At Chief Wilkins’ direction, Forster and two of her best detectives, Williamson and Radnor, stayed behind to go over the crime scene.

Forster psychically saw the dealing. She saw the dogs being prepped to fight. Then, suddenly, inexplicably, the men appeared to turn their guns on each other, firing wildly.

No, not on each other. They shot at something that moved like smoke in their midst. But what was it? Try as she might, Forster couldn’t get a grip on it.

El Tee?

Forster glanced up to see Williamson, neat blonde hair, glasses, regular features, like a college professor, dressed impeccably as always in sport coat and tie. Dark-haired and bearded Radnor, on the other hand, favored jeans and sweatshirts. Williamson pointed to Radnor, who aimed an infrared personnel detection device at a closet door.

Radnor hand-signaled to Forster and Williamson. One male, armed, behind the closet door.

Forster motioned her men back, out of the line of fire, and approached the door.

Come on out, she called, her even gray eyes focused on the door. It’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you.

No answer.

She gave the knob a gentle telekinetic turn and pull, but it was locked from the inside. The corners of her mouth turned down in annoyance.

Okay, if you won’t open the door, I’ll have to, she said.

She gestured, and the door tore open, shattering the jamb. The gunman behind it unleashed a torrent of automatic rifle fire point-blank into Forster’s chest and stomach.

The bullets spanged harmlessly off the invulnerable woman, though they left lead-gray impact stains on her gunfire-resistant metal-fabric shirt.

Another wave of her hand and the weapon cartwheeled out of the shooter’s grasp and into ceiling where the smoking barrel embedded itself. The shooter dashed from the closet. Williamson extended a dress shoe-clad foot and sent the man sprawling.

In an instant, Radnor and Williamson had him on his feet, and had put the strip on him — an AI-embedded length of 10-ton-rated plasti-steel that automatically wrapped around wrists, but that could be undone by the touch of an authorized officer.

They turned him to face Forster. She saw a heavyset man with three days growth of beard, unkempt greasy black hair, dark eyes wide with fear, dressed in black fabricated leather, also known as fab leather.

You want to tell me what that was all about? she asked him.

Is she gone? he rasped, his voice deep and rough.

Is who gone?

"Her! Her!

Who are you talking about?

The man glared about him, then stared at Forster.

She called herself ‘The Black Rose,’ he said. RG

Chapter 2

Rogue Goddess

Here’s what happened, Tom, near as I can figure. This comes from our interrogations, the physical evidence and my own psychometry, Forster told Capt. Tom Wilkins, the LPD’s chief. The pair had been on the force together for decades, since before Forster had gotten her powers. They spoke in the chief’s glass-walled office. Wilkins sat at his cluttered desk, while Forster paced. Her pacing bothered some, but Wilkins didn’t mind. He knew the nervous mannerism helped his number-two think.

Wilkins’s brown eyes and honest features never lost their focus on Forster, even when he sipped the awful station coffee. At 48, he kept his thinning brown hair cut to regulation, and his moustache never looked like it needed a trim.

Around midnight last night, a plasti-print arms merchant set up shop in the warehouse of the abandoned fertilizer plant out near Clayton, Forster explained. "They sell off-grid weapons, and they let any other homemade manufacturer come in and sell theirs, for a cut.

Dog fighting’s part of how they attract extra business.

I know, Wilkins said, exasperated. Those old factories ought to be razed. How many of these damn operations have we busted up in the last five years?

This one makes 14. It’s lucrative.

Trish and Tammy are getting tired of hearing me complain about it.

Well, we got this bunch, Chief, and that’s something.

Wilkins nodded. Yep. Sorry. Go ahead.

Just as they’re getting started with the dogfighting, a young woman shows up. No one knows how she got in. I don’t know how she got in.

Teleported? Like Trish or you?

Maybe. Probably. I just don’t know.

Have we been able to ID her?

No. But she called herself ‘The Black Rose.’ The perps all said she was like a superhero from the comics, dressed in a dark gray body suit with a black rose on her chest.

So we got a description?

Forster sighed. No. We have a dozen or more individual descriptions, every one different. Some say she was short, stocky and blond, others slim and red-haired. Some have her in a mask, some without. The costume is the only thing consistent.

Wilkins nodded. Then what?

She tells them to put the guns down, leave the dogs and go home. Or else she’s going to capture them and turn them over to us.

They didn’t think she might be one of the Helpful Ladies?

No. And they were right. I’ve been on the LadyNet, and no one has heard of anyone like her or anyone who can do what she can do. Or did.

Which was?

It appears, Forster said slowly, she can dematerialize, yet still affect material objects.

I don’t think Trish can do that, Wilkins said. Can you do that?

Forster shook her head. That’s not all, though. She appears to have exceptional strength.

How exceptional?

Bends-steel-with-bare-hands exceptional?

I guess that qualifies, Wilkins said. So when the perps refused to do what she ordered, she kicked their asses for them?

Yes, Forster grinned. Gift-wrapped them for us, too. They laughed at her at first. Tried to manhandle her, but couldn’t touch her. She could touch them, though. They tried to shoot her, but only managed to wound each other.

Bullets went right through her?

Yes.

Like she wasn’t even there?

That’s one way to look at it, Chief.

He nodded and considered. Rogue Goddess?

I hope not, Tom. Deep down, that’s every Helpful Lady’s worst fear.

Next move?

Pursue the Black Rose lead on every level.

Okay, Wilkins replied. Thanks for the personal brief. I know you’re on top of it.

Thanks, Tom. We’ll figure it out. We always do. She smiled at Wilkins and walked out.

He leaned back in the big black chair.

Damn, that sounds familiar, he thought. Where have I heard that before? The Black Rose. Please God let it not be where I think it is. RG

Chapter 3

Vodka interlude

Melnikova savored the vodka shot. It slid down hot, smooth and, she thought, oh-so-Russian. The brief bright glow, as it hit inside her, made the red-leather and mahogany bar of the Guatemalan Oro Verde Hotel and Conference Center seem friendly and home-like.

She was the only customer.

Melnikova poured another measure into the small but heavy shot glass.

If there had been other customers in the bar, they would have seen an 18-year-old Guatemalan prostitute, slim, olive-skinned, pretty, with almond-shaped brown eyes, elfin chin and full head of raven hair, clad in a short, spaghetti-strapped black dress and no shoes.

Melnikova knocked the shot back with the experienced hand of the 48-year-old Russian expatriate she was inside that body.

Thoughts of the terrible recent events crowded into her mind, demanding attention and, processing, but she pushed them away.

Just this one moment, she thought, I will give to my old friend vodka. Then I will think about what has happened, and how to get my revenge.

Melnikova tossed back a third shot. She shut her eyes, and relaxed in the red-leather booth. She sighed, hugely. Then the brown eyes snapped open. Melnikova plunked the shot glass on the table and let the memories flood in. RG

Chapter 4

Memories

Melnikova remembered:

— The first taste of those awesome unlimited telekinetic abilities as her astral body possessed Megan Harris, and used Megan’s terrible power to torment Megan’s husband John — leaving Megan a broken woman.

— Leaving Megan’s body and coming away with a trace of Megan’s powers, and a trace of her love for her husband, John — an unexpected side-effect.

— The second taste of power as she possessed the waitress Patricia Reilly, Lawrencedale’s other goddess. Melnikova used Reilly’s sweet strength to break the bomb master Skinner out of prison at the behest of a clandestine organization and their equally secret client.

Melnikova smiled and shivered with pleasure. She recalled how criminals and prison guards alike had been helpless against her in the body of invulnerable, telekinetic Trish.

She remembered:

— Planting the bomb meant to wipe Lawrencedale off the map and poison the United States with a fallout of Anthrax X, at the direction of The Agency.

— Singlehandedly overwhelming the Lawrencedale police force at the station, and breaking the back of Trish’s lover, Lieutenant Tom Wilkins. She felt again the bullets pinging harmlessly off Trish’s invulnerable body and striking down the police officers. Oh, it was good.

— The other goddesses arriving — especially the big African one — saving the helpless policemen and forcing Melnikova to abandon the waitress’s body, only moments before the detonation.

The terror, as she realized her co-conspirator Maunov had poisoned her own 48-year-old body as it waited for her spirit’s return in the safehouse in Moscow.

— The simultaneous heartbreak and bloody satisfaction of strangling Maunov with the dead hands of the corpse he’d poisoned. Why had he done it, on the very cusp of their victory? Melnikova had possessed the waitress long enough to gain the powers for herself. Once back in her own body, she would have shared the power with Maunov — and then how the world would pay for its poor treatment of them.

At least, she recalled, that was the plan. Would she ever know why Maunov tried to murder her instead?

She remembered rushing through the astral darkness then, on wings of anger, powered by thoughts of retribution against the authors of her defeat and pain, the women who had driven her out, Trish and Megan and all those they held dear. No more than a vengeance-driven point of consciousness, she hurtled through the inky astral wastes, across distances so vast and bereft of reference points, it was as if she moved not at all in the dark void, though she traveled at the speed of thought.

She felt rather than heard the shrieking velocity, and it seemed to her to be some savage, gargantuan tyrant beast roaring in harmony with the howling rage within her, growing with every passing second.

Melnikova glimpsed vast islands of dim light whip past. She sensed they were far away, galactic-sized realms, entire glowing universes, yet no more than ephemeral flashes as she shot through the infinite black on her way to what she increasingly knew to be her rendezvous with destiny and vengeance.

Then she hovered above the colonel in the hotel room as he choked the life out of the 18-year-old girl. Melnikova reached out with her mind and knew the girl was Maria, who had been forced into prostitution, just as Melnikova had been, decades before.

Like attracts like, she recalled Maunov saying, back in the day when he was her friend and mentor. It’s a signal law of the greater world.

In the instant Maria’s spirit departed her dying body, Melnikova entered it, and the colonel discovered to his everlasting regret the slim throat beneath his heavy hands now belonged to a cold, all-powerful goddess of rage and fury. RG

Chapter 5

Nani-Phone

What was that woman doing?

Melnikova’s thoughts of the past faded as she looked at the waitress leaning against the bar. The woman stared at her left hand. She wiggled her fingers and thumb.

She swiped and jabbed at her left palm with her right hand’s index finger.

Even stranger, Melnikova noted — an odd, misty golden glow surrounded the waitress’s left hand.

You! Melnikova called. Come here. She marveled at the fact that a trace of her Moscow accent lingered, even though she possessed the body and voice of an 18-year-old Guatemalan girl and spoke fluent Spanish.

I am very Russian still, she thought smugly.

The witress looked up. She was tall, with dark skin and black hair in a long thick braid. She wore black pants, a long-sleeved white shirt and a black bow tie. Melnikova beckoned her over.

Can I get you something to eat? the waitress asked, noticing the level of vodka in the bottle down by a third.

Melnikova ignored the question. What’s with your hand? she asked. What is that glow I saw around it?

This? The waitress held up her hand. It’s just my Nani-Phone. She turned her hand to show Melnikova a rose in red, green and black tattooed on her palm.

Phone?

Nani-Phone, the waitress said. Do you not have one?

I’ve never even heard of it. What is it?

They’ve been out for years. Look, the waitress said. She turned her left hand palm up. The glow reappeared. See?

No, I don’t see, Melnikova said. Where is the phone? What is that glow?

All you — or anyone — can see is the glow. The display is synced to the user’s retina, the waitress said, proud of her knowledge. You really have not heard of the Nani-Phone?

I said I hadn’t.

"The first ones came out about 10 years ago. It’s computerized nano-chips sprayed into the palm. They can make any design or color you like. You just open and close your hand to turn it on or off.

When you turn it on, there’s a virtual display only you can see. For privacy. You can access entertainment, social media — anything. She shrugged and smiled. And you can call people. If you want an upgrade, they just spray over what you’ve already got. Movement and body heat keep it charged. Mine’s gen-7.

Ten years ago? Melnikova said. I don’t remember that at all. What’s today’s date?

It’s the twenty-fifth. April. Why?

No, Melnikova said slowly. I mean the year. What year is this?

The year? The waitress stared at Melnikova. It’s 2030, of course. RG

Chapter Six

Welcome to 2030

No, I don’t want anything to eat, Melnikova said. She reached under her silky black dress and pulled out the wad of currency she’d taken from the colonel. This is for the bottle. Leave me. I must think.

The waitress’s eyes widened as she took the thick folded notes.

But this is — she began.

Go, Melnikova said. Do not make me say again. She softened. I waitressed once myself. Many years ago. Now.

But you are just a little girl, the waitress blurted. You shouldn’t even be drinking. You should —

Go!

The waitress raised her tattooed hand, and the one clutching the cash, bowed and backed away.

Melnikova pondered. She gulped another shot.

It seemed no more than an hour since the battle in the police station in Lawrencedale and arriving here, she thought. But it was 18 years. Eighteen years I flew through that black place thinking thoughts of bloody revenge. Impossible! But that phone — I’ve never seen anything like it. And why would the waitress lie to me?

From her seat in the booth, Melnikova scanned her surroundings for evidence of 2030. But the hotel establishment looked ordinary. Richly appointed, but ordinary.

She saw booths along mahogany walls decorated with photos of bullfights and matadors, and swords, capes and other artifacts of the ring. She saw tables and chairs. All empty.

Melnikova rose and walked to the bar, where the waitress replaced the near-empty liquor bottles. Melnikova sat on a stool.

Would you like to see how it works? the waitress asked.

Not waiting for a reply, she touched her tattooed palm to the black glass bar top.

Melnikova started as the bar top burst into high-definition color and sound along its entire length, showing a soccer match.

The waitress closed her tattooed hand, and the image contracted to a rectangle directly in front of her. The image of scurrying soccer players appeared upside down to Melnikova, but only for a moment.

The waitress rotated her hand and the image rotated for Melnikova.

Eighteen years, she thought. John Harris is an old man now. And I am a teen-ager. Why do I no longer feel the love for him? Perhaps it is my new body?

Melnikova gasped as the waitress raised her hand and the soccer match sprouted from the bar top in holographic 3D.

Let’s see if there’s anyone in the hotel online for sharing, the waitress said. She flattened the soccer match into the glass, and raised her hand again. Holographic images of two men in business suits, about a foot high, rose from the bar.

One of the men looked up, middle-aged and portly, but not unattractive as far as Melnikova could tell from the hologram.

Twenty thirty, Melnikova muttered.

Yes, hello! the image said.

It’s me, Rita, the waitress said. Just checking to see if anyone’s online in case we ever get a customer.

Rita lowered her hand and the other unresponsive hologram sank back into the bar.

Who’s that with you? the remaining hologram asked, looking at Melnikova.

My little sister, Rita said, with a wink at Melnikova. She’s too young for you, Mr. Hernandez.

I’ll be online all night, Mr. Hernandez’s hologram said, and blinked out.

On line for what? Melnikova asked.

Companionship. Rita smiled.

What — Melnikova began, but stopped when Rita stood up straight. Melnikova turned to see four big men entering the bar, each wearing nearly skin-tight leather-like pants and jackets, each in its own shade of gray.

They look like bruisers, Melnikova thought, like the KGB men from the old days, except in the fashion of 2030. She noted their black boots, almost knee-high.

Some things never change.

Two of the men took up positions on either side of the door. The other two sat at the bar on either side of Melnikova.

Can I get you something? Rita asked.

Some privacy, growled the man on Melnikova’s left. He stared at Rita, blue eyes cold in a pock-marked face with a grim slash of a mouth under a crooked nose.

Excuse me, Rita said, and left through the door behind the bar.

The man turned to Melnikova.

We have just come from the room of Colonel Lopez, he said. He is in bad shape. Someone has broken nearly every bone in his body. You were with him. Tell me what you know. Was it Fleurio’s men? Did they pay you to open the door?

"Your bastard colonel tried to kill