The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 2, Part 1

Posted 06-07-19 

Revised 07-07-19 

By Christopher Leeson
 
Chapter 2, Part 1

December 19, 1871, Continued

While the Mexican helper at the Feed and Grain store loaded Irene's purchases onto the buckboard, the woman herself stood nearby, talking to Patricia O'Hanlan. Myra had been told that the latter represented the new form and the new face of Patrick O'Hanlan. This was a hard idea to choke down, but, over all, she liked the idea of someone else besides herself suffering. Myra remembered Pat O'Hanlan as a plain, fortyish man, hard to pick out from a crowd. But this girl “Trisha,” even wearing pants and a shirt, was something to see. A shape like hers should have been painted for a theater poster. She wondered whether Trisha, being decidedly of the pretty persuasion, was having much trouble with men trying to keep company with her.

“Well, hello, Myra,” a male voice made address from behind. She recognized that timbre and turned to face her accoster.

“George!” she exclaimed. “Have you trailing my aunt and me like some sort of Injun scout?”

“Not a bit!” the farm boy responded, his grin broad and confident. “I came into town to pick up a few hardware items for Ma and Pa.”

“Well, if you're going to the hardware shop, this isn't it.”

“No, but I thought I'd look over the new merchandise here at the feed store. It appears to be of high quality.”

She tossed her head. “If that's a sneaky way of saying that you like the way I look, I've got a good mind to knock you into the street!”

“Temper, temper. Haven't you learned yet that women shouldn't be hitting men?”

“And why not?”

“Because if women started to hit men, men would have to start hitting them back. A man could really hurt a light-bodied little gal with a hard punch, if he was inclined to give her one.”

“So, now you're threatening me?” the maiden challenged.

“No, I'm just letting you know why smart mothers teach their daughters not to go around punching men.”

“Well, you shouldn't go popping off about how a girl looks, not if you don't want to get hit.”

The youth's smile seemed undiminished. “That's a strange way of looking at things. Most girls like to be told they're pretty.”

“I ain't like most girls!”

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 9

By Aladdin

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Revised and posted May 22, 2019 

THE BOY IN THE GRAY COCOON

And this he always kept in mind
And formed a crooked knife
And ran about with bloody hands
To seek his mother's life.
William Blake

With dusk coming upon us like a dark frown, I made the helicopter connection and was soon skimming over the bay. The destination, my pilot informed me, was Alcatraz Island.

That notorious name struck me like a glacial blast.  During the Thirties, I'd been occupying the body of a career criminal. Things had gotten messy and the police intervened into a skirmish that we knights were having with Boneyard's men.  I'd already been  stunned by a head blow in the course of the fight and was apprehended in a place that a legitimate parolee should have been avoiding.  Judged guilty of having broken parole, I'd been dispatched to the new federal prison, and there remained until rescued by Archimage in his own good time. 

It had been a bad experience.  The guards upon “the Rock” were permitted to use brutality as a matter of course.  It was perfectly acceptable to shoot to kill every real or suspected escaping inmate.  Even the location for the prison had been diabolically chosen, a barren island squatting inside a climactic anomaly where the arctic winds blew continually.  A favorite “practical joke” was for the guards to turn on the cell-block air conditioners on the coldest nights of the year.  It was a challenge for even the most hardened thug to endure the soul-destroying miseries of the Rock.

In 1963, the then-president shout down the prison as a blot upon the Republic. Was it only a coincidence that he was assassinated later that year?  For years following its closure, the island was kept as a tourist attraction.  Then, suddenly, it was declared off-limits again.  The media barely put out the story, except convey the official line that Alcatraz was being reconditioned as an anti-terrorist training center.  I'd learned the truth in good time.  The installation had been designated as an Aladdin black site for the internment of ultras, some of them illegally kidnapped, as in the days of the French Bastille.

According to the information I'd gleaned, the Eden Blake of this world must have visited Alcatraz on Saturday the 16th, shortly after her son had been incarcerated.  I had no way of knowing what she'd learned while there, and so would have to bluff my way along. If necessary, I'd cover my cluelessness by making it seem that I was distracted and distraught due to the awful things that had occurred in the Blake home Friday night.   

As we hovered over the complex, my pilot took to the radio and called in.  A voice from below “welcomed” us to what it called “Alactraz Ultra Confinement Center.”  Upon setting down, the first face I recognized on the tarmac was Dr. Sarn's.  Tall, classically handsome, blonde, hard-bodied, Sarn was really stacked.  Though pushing forty, the doctor didn't look it.  Agency rumors held that that she had a colorful past.  Sarn supposedly started out at eighteen as an Aladdin version of the classic “honey-trap,” an international femme fatale spy.  She was built for the role, admittedly, though it was hard to imagine Sarn ever counterfeiting enough warmth to entice enemy agents into vulnerable, controlled situations.

Though head of my division, she'd let her subordinates supervise the lowly job that I'd been performing. That changed when I was preparing for my covert mission to Britain.  From my frequent contacts with her then, I had learned that Sarn was ice-cold and all business.  She didn't offer, nor tolerate, any unnecessary chit-chat.  While “knowing” her, I still hardly knew anything about her.

Having met me outside the 'copter, the doctor extended no greeting but curtly told me to follow her.  While doing so, I did my utmost to memorize every twist and turn along the way, just in case. It was not outside the realm of possibility that I'd soon need to mastermind a prison break from Alcatraz Island.

We paused before a sealed portal that looked about as formidable as a bank vault.   Gaining entry required Sarn to provide both a thumb-print and an eye scan. Once we were inside, we proceeded along a long row of cells, where I saw prisoners being held, captive ultras, probably.  Then I recognized a face that amazingly resembled my own. 

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 1, Part 2

Posted 05-07-19 

Revised 06-09-19 

By Christopher Leeson
 
Chapter 1, Part 2

December 19, 1871, Continued 

The aunt and niece found Molly waiting for them at the bench outside the Wells Fargo Bank. Reunited, they walked to Kirby Pinter's book shop. The owner was a young man in this thirties with a round face and brown, thinning hair.  His sideburns were robust, as was the mustache that flowed across his cheeks to merge with them.

“Myra loves to read,” Irene told Mr. Pinter. “I think you'll be seeing her around the shop from time to time.”

Kirby smiled. “Let me guess,” he said to Myra, “you especially like romances and love stories.”

The auburn frowned. “Tomfoolery for empty heads. I want to read about foreign places. Adventure stories are all right, too, if they have enough sword-fighting.”

The shopkeeper's smile grew even broader. “Such an adventurous and imaginative young lady! I know of a book that's full of brave deeds and feats of arms. Are you familiar with Le Mort d'Arthur?”

Myra's brows knitted. “Is that Dutch?”

“It's a French title, but the book is English.” Kirby bustled to his step ladder and drew down from a high shelf a fancily embossed volume with gilded edges. He climbed down and handed it to his young visitor.

“Nice pictures,” she said, flipping though the pages. “I read a few stories about knights in some of our school books.”

“Yes, these legends are very old and they have shaped the character of many a boy and girl for the better.”

Myra knitted her brows. “What does it cost?”

“Just a dollar!” the shopkeeper responded brightly.

“Well, I don't have any money at all,” she replied.

“We'd better save this one for a special occasion,” suggested Mrs. Fanning. “Do you have any new dime novels, Mr. Pinter?”

“For your own reading?” Kirby asked wryly.

“Oh, my goodness, no! It's the young people who can't seem to get enough of those sorts of stories.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “They truly are popular, especially with school-age boys. But I scarcely would have guessed that so much blood and thunder would appeal to a young lady.”

“As you've found out,” Irene advised, “Myra has an adventurous imagination.”

“Do you have anything about Jesse James?” the girl interjected.

“About outlaws?” exclaimed Irene. Then her perturbed expression transformed to whimsy. “Surely, the exploits of such black-hearted villains would keep an innocent girl awake at night. Mr. Pinter, do you have any magazines dealing with explorers or lawmen?”

“Oh, yes,” Kirby affirmed cheerfully. “Both topics are very popular.” He picked out a couple of magazines from his available stock and offered them to Myra.

While Kirby attended to her companions, Molly had been exploring the shelves. “Here's just what ye need t'turn a tomboy into a beacon of society,” she spoke up, holding out a book for Irene to see.

The latter accepted it and read the title: The Laws of Health in Relation to the Human Form by D.G. Brinton, M.D. Paging through it, she saw that the first chapter discussed left-handedness. Further along, there were chapters dealing with bad habits, the care of the ears, the nose and, in fact, almost every part of the body.

“It does look interesting, Molly, but it contains so much personal detail that a young lady might not be ready for it.”

“Suit yerself,” the Irish woman said, shrugging. “But I'd say that today's young ladies are a wee bit different from what they used t'be. And tomorrow, I'm thinking, they'll be more different still.”

“I think that this one would make a good read,” Myra broken in, displaying a dime novel to her guardian.

“Very well,” consented Irene. Then she returned her attention to the tract in her hands. She was getting second thoughts. It might be better to allow Myra to read something written by a medical man, and in that way learn things about a woman's body that should not be broached by anyone other than a decidedly mature woman or a doctor.

Kirby Pinter wrapped the magazine and book separately, binding them with lengths of string. Once Molly and companions were back outside, she ushered them along the boardwalk to the news office. She did  not think they would mind getting a good story about a young lady who had been abducted by outlaws. It they published the story it would inform everyone of Myra's arrival at the same time.

The saloon-keeper only paused long enough to scan the advertisements posted on the shop's exterior bulletin board.
 
Then, looking through the glass, she took note that the printer, Roscoe Unger, seemed to be very busy at his press. Not wanting to bother the man in the midst of what might be important work, she rethought the idea of disturbing him. She mentioned her misgivings to Irene, who agreed.

“Well, then,” the widow considered, “we might as well get on with our other errands. I want take the fresh can of milk to Carmen Whitney, and pick up her empty.”

“Who's this Carmen?” Myra asked.

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 8

By Aladdin 

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Revised and posted Apr. 21, 2019 

Chapter 8

ALL ABOUT EVE
 
"Thy fear has made me tremble,
Thy terrors have surrounded me.
All love is lost. Terror succeeds,
And [there is] hatred instead of love." 
 
William Blake

Evie was glancing down at her knees, biting her lower lip.  I squeezed the little girl's hand and asked, "What did he do, Button? Can you talk about it?"

Taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Yeah, I can talk, Mommy. Gus grabbed Mr. Paws and tore his head off.  He shouldn'ta done that. I didn't say anything bad, and Mr. Paws didn't say anything either. We both felt sorry that Daddy wasn't gonna keep his promise. When Gus did that awful thing, I started to cry.  You got so mad that you slapped him an' told him to stay in his room until he 'pologized to me and Mr. Paws. He told us to go away, that he hated everybody.

"I was feeling just awful 'cuz Mr. Paws was dead. I couldn't stop crying. I asked if you could fix him an' you said maybe you could. That's when Lauren called."

"What did Lauren say, Honey?" 

"I didn't hear, but you said she could come right over. Then you and me talked some more about Gus. You felt bad about slapping him an' said you were gonna tell him how sorry you were.

"After that, you heated up some soup for Gus an' put it on a tray with some other things. I asked if I could take it in to him. You said okay and Mr. Paws an' me carried it into him.  I figgered that when Gus saw how hurt he was he might say he was sorry. But when me and Mr. Paws went in to see Gus we just couldn't believe it! There was fire and smoke all over, an' Gus was glowing green! He was floating up in the air, like those bad wizard guys do in the cartoons. I was scared an' asked him how he could do that. He said he could do anything. That's when he saw how sick Mr. Paws was and used his magic to fix him, just like – magic."

“Did I heat the soup in the kettle or in the microwave?” I asked.

The question took Evie by surprise and she blinked.  “In the microwave, Mommy.”

“Was it thundering outside?” I pressed.

Bemused, Evie shook her head, “No.”

From this, I reasoned that would take only a couple minutes to have opened a can of soup and heated it in the microwave. That meant that between the time that Mantra and Evie had left Gus's room and the time that Evie returned to it, only minutes could have passed. In that very short space of time, the energy from space must have struck.  The newspapers had said that it happened at about 7:12 P.M.  Evie had heard no atmospheric noise, so it had apparently struck with silence. But how was it that Mantra, who was sensitive to magical manifestations, had been taken unawares? All I could think was that if the energy had been a form of magic, it must have been a very strange form of magic.

The Belle of Eerie, Arizona - Chapter 1, Part 1

Posted 04-07-19

Revised 05-07-19 

Revised 06-09-19  

By Christopher Leeson
 
Chapter 1, Part 1

December 19, 1871, Continued

Chapter 1

Tuesday, December 19, 1871

A prairie chicken, bursting from the roadside weeds, startled the carriage horse. “Easy now, Hazel,” Mrs. Fanning shouted to the beast, tugging at the reins to settle it down.

Myra Olcott, next to her aunt, bounced once on the hard seat and then forgot about the mishap; she was too angry to care. All she could think about was how her life had crashed into flames like a burning building.

Abigail Myra Olcott hadn't wanted to make this trip but Aunt Irene was insistent: “Everyone knows that a young lady has arrived from 'the East.' They'll all be curious to meet you and we shouldn't keep you out of sight for too long. They might start wondering whether you have a contagious disease, or something worse.”

Those words struck Myra like a blow.

Irene Fanning realized her mistake. The girl's parents had died of cholera five years past, and she was still angry with the entire world because of that.

“What I'm saying,” Mrs. Fanning explained, “is that you can't afford to have curious people watching you too carefully. You have secrets to keep. Or have you stopped caring?”

“I've already met everybody in town,” the girl said, “and what I've stopped caring about is the whole pack of them.”

“But they've only met you as Myron Caldwell, who's supposed to be dead. You have to introduce yourself as a totally new person.”

Myra scowled. She distinctly disliked the “totally new person” that she had become.

“I asked Molly O'Toole to join us today,” continued Irene. “The storekeepers all know Mrs. O'Toole. If she seems to like you, it should carry weight with them. Make a good impression and they'll spread the word that you're a fine young lady.”

With clenched fists, Myra declared, “I'm sorry I ever came back from Stagecoach Gap alive.”

“You've said that before. But tell me, <i>my girl,</i> would you truly rather be dead and buried, with your soul very possibly in Hell, or would you prefer to be alive – even as you are?

The maid gritted her teeth. The term “my girl” was a magical code-word that compelled her to follow her aunt's orders. She hadn't really believed in magic, but since the week before it had come out of the brush like a rattler and stung her. It compelled her to tell the truth, for one thing, and truth-telling was something that could only get a person into trouble.

“I don't believe in Hell,” the maiden replied grudgingly , “but I sure wouldn't want to go there if it's real.”

Irene turned her head and spoke seriously. “Most of the people who fall into the flames don't believe in the bad place either, I imagine. People who don't believe in Hell can't honestly believe in Heaven. And only people who believe in God are allowed to live with Him.”

“The demons must believe in God,” Myra retorted. “They don't live with him.”

“Yes, but they don't love him or obey him willingly. That's the difference.”

“I'd rather be a ghost and live by myself.”

“Whatever you want, I rather believe that it's not you who will be judging such matters.”

“It's the parsons that fill people's heads with ideas like yours,” the ginger-haired maid returned. “What does a bag of straw like Reverend Yingling know?”

The two of them had argued along these lines before. This time, the woman just sighed and kept driving.

By now, the buckboard had passed the town welcome sign and Riley Canyon Road was widening into the main street of the town. Eerie, Arizona was small compared to many Eastern towns, but here, south of the Superstition Mountains, it was the largest settlement to be found, except for Phoenix, sixty miles to the west. As they passed the false-fronted buildings on either side, people turned to look. Few could have missed the very attractive young lady seated next to the Widow Fanning.

Irene waved to those who waved at her first, but her forced smile was masking tension. How would Myra behave in public? Only a few people in the world knew the girl's real identity. Not even George Severin, the neighbor boy who helped them on the farm, had been told the truth.

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 7

By Aladdin 

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Revised and posted Mar. 21, 2019
Additional revision, Apr. 21, 2019

Chapter 7

THE KILLING MACHINE

When a sinister person means to be your enemy,
They always start by trying to become your friend.

William Blake

“It sure seemed like you were dead,” the teenager insisted.

“If you say so,” I said. “What happened next?”

“Gus wanted my blood. What he could do was incredible; he turned your house into a holodeck full of monsters and warriors.”

As Lauren continued her report, it became clear that these magical constructs had been imagined to kill a schoolgirl, not a powerful ultra, and Lauren quickly “zapped” them out of existence. The victory had given the girl confidence, but was taken aback when a ghostly image appeared. Lauren had found herself looking at a phantom of Eden Blake. This insubstantial Eden began speaking in a small voice, as if from far away. She outed herself as the secret identity of Mantra and appealed to the sixteen-year-old to save her. 

“To do that, you need more magic than you have,” the specter said. “Find it before it's too late.” Before the babysitter could ask how on earth she was supposed to pull off such a feat, Gus injected himself into the arena, his face a distorted mask of hate and fury. The boy launched a rage-driven attack that the girl barely managed to fend off, until one of her power-bolts blasted into shards the plastic joystick that he had been using like a magic wand. Startled, the boy vanished.

Now that the fight was ended, the vista around her faded and Lauren found herself back inside the Blake household. Mantra's “dead body” and Evie were gone, and so was Gus. Not knowing what else to do, Lauren dashed outside to see if she could spot them. But she'd no sooner gotten out the door when a police squad started to bawl at her, demanding that she drop her sword. In the teen's startlement, she hesitated a moment and the panicky police started shooting. Somehow, without any conscious thought, the girl ghosted, becoming like a living hologram which allowed bullets to pass through her harmlessly. That was a defensive measure that I had used many times myself.

When the rioting officers rushed her, a surge of power flashed out from her body and tossed them away like leaves on the wind. Fortunately, weren't smashed to death against the trees and walls; instead it looked like they were floating. They kicked and beat their arms against the air, but they were helpless. “That's how Mantra flies” the newly-empowered ultra thought. Immediately wanted to get into the fun herself and so sprang up into the air. Yet she found herself little better off than the police squad. Fortunately, being a Mantra groupie, she'd read the fan articles and interviews. Mantra's power came from levitation and she created direct flight by creating and controlling brisk wind. “Wind! Come!” she yelled mentally. In a blink, Lauren found herself sailing through the moonlight like a paper airplane. Flight was exhilarating, but also disconcerting. As soon as the girl started thinking about how to land, she dropped precipitously into a park, her forward momentum throwing her into a bumpy roll across the grass.

With even more bruises than before, the young ultra limped to boulder and sat down to get her breath. She needed magic, she knew, but where did one find magic on such short notice? As Lauren concentrated, a tingle spread over her skin and a tart odor drifted to her nostrils. On top of that, she saw that the turf was faintly blinking, as if she were sitting under a string of Christmas lights. A glance upward beheld sky in chaos. The full moon was beaming brightly and the sky was somehow glowing violet. More amazingly, dazzling green zig-zags were hanging under the stars, resembling forked lightning. Whatever it was, it certainly was not a normal phenomenon. The more she stared, the stronger grew the tingle and the smell! Instinct told her that the forked lightning was magical in nature and she might make use of it somehow if she could find where it was striking the ground.

The Wounded World, a story of Mantra, Chapter 6

By Aladdin 

Edited by Christopher Leeson

The Wounded World

Originally written 2006

Revised and posted Feb. 21, 2019 

Chapter 6

WHAT ARE LITTLE GIRLS MADE OF?



"Every house a den, every man bound;
The shadows are filled with specters,
And the windows wove over with curses of iron..." 
 
William Blake

As soon as we got back to Penny's digs, I spread out on the couch to rest. Such a day!

Pinnacle crossed into the kitchen, and when she reappeared, she was balancing coffee cups on a tray. The scientist offered me one, saying, "From all you've said, you're carrying quite a load of trouble. What do you need to fix first?"

I sat up and tasted the beverage before answering. "If I'm ever going to get back to my real home, I'll need to recover my Mantra powers."

She set the tray aside and occupied the chair across from me. "Okay. Do you have any fresh ideas about how they were lost?"

I shrugged. "I wasn't the one who lost them. What Evie said makes me think that Mantra still had her powers even after Gus got his. She was probably taken by surprise by his attack. Maybe Evie is right. Maybe Mantra got hurt fighting with her brother."

"What kind of an attack did Gus make?"

"Search me. Evie used the word 'zapped.' The boy probably released some sort of magical blast. I know how that works. On my first night in Eden Blake's body, I incinerated a street creep who came at me. I wasn't trying to draw up magic; it came up automatically in self-defense.”

“You're tied emotionally to your abilities?”

“I guess so. They're at their strongest when I'm furious.” I took a mouthful of coffee and set down my cup. “Where do ultra powers arise from anyway?”

"There's been a theory, rising in popularity, that ultra powers come from the so-called 'junk DNA' that everyone possesses. It makes up about ninety-seven percent of the whole.”

I cocked my eye. "It comes out of the DNA? Then how does that jive with what I learned on the moon? There was an artificial brain on the moon that had been sending out energy bursts for thousands of years. It created ultras from ordinary human beings. Remember that sky blast that hit that San Francisco trolley? Most of the fifty-nine people inside the vehicle got ultra powers. That was the AI brain – the Entity – that did that."

Pinnacle nodded. "That case has been intensely studied. One of the people on the trolley who didn't seem to get powers was my old boss – my old slave master -- J.D. Hunt. He happened to be on that that streetcar at the faithful moment.”

“A trillionaire riding a public trolley?”

“That's J.D. He likes to go slumming incognito, finding out what real people think – so he can make up new ways to trick them and screw them over. I never saw him use an ultra power, but sometimes, when he was near, I could sense an odd energy field. I couldn't make any sense of it, but when it powered up it made my hair stand on end.”

"Does everyone have the potential to become an ultra? If so, what, exactly, is an ultra?"

“A lot of people who've studied the matter think that an ultra is a person who is able to draw from genetically-granted capabilities beyond what's normal for most people. There are some people who seem to be born with powers. From what you've told me, Eden Blake might have been that kind of ultra. But if that streetcar phenomenon was able empowered a random sample of people, it's clear that the ultra potential can be artificially stimulated. Possibly, most of the people on Earth has some sort of ultra capability. I'm wondering if the ancient gods weren't actually...."

"Ultras?"

She gave me a sort of “not quite” look. "Hercules might have been a sort of B.C. Hardcase, but I think a god-like being is something extra. Our genetic configuration provides us with many different traits. Possibly, the 'higher DNA' that can produce ultras could also provide us with many different abilities all at the same time. The more abilities one displays, the more godlike he seems.”

"I've met a few gods in my day. In ancient times, the Godwheel was crawling with them.”

“That super-sized artificial solar system in deep space?”

I nodded. “The toughest one I ran into was Loki. He could do almost anything, and loved doing it! I'm still not sure why that nut-case let Primeval and me get away with our lives.”

She shook her head. “From the way you live your life, I don't know how you manage to stay alive from day to day.”

“It's not the way I want to live. I died hundreds of times in Archimage's cause, but the next time it happens I'm afraid that it's going to be for keeps.” Suddenly I got a flash. "Wait a minute! How can DNA be responsible for an ultra like Electro-Cute? She's an artificial life form, but still the Entity's energy burst was able to empower her.

"That dicey question has come up in most of the scientific studies. We don't know exactly how Electro-Cute was put together. Possibly UltraTech used human DNA in her construction. Let's consider her case an unanswered question."

"Okay, but if there's a jump-start, can't there be an 'anti-jump-start'? Could something have switched off the power-genes inside this body?"

"I'll know more if you allow me to examine you intimately.”

“I'm game, but just don't get too intimate about it.”

The scientist smiled. “If I looked like Rosie O'Donnell, I could understand such reluctance, but....” she made a casual gesture to call my attention to her figure. Then, abruptly, she changed the subject. “How do you fix a malfunctioning computer?”

I blinked. “If you don't know, don't ask me. Remember, I'm from the days before stirrups were invented.”

“I mean, if there's a bad chip, a computer tech doesn't look for the one pinpoint that needs fixing. Instead, he pulls out the board that fails the testing and slots in a factory-certified replacement. Lauren is a witch who's extremely similar to Mantra, isn't she?"

"She seems to be."

"Good. Studying her might let us map a paradigm for how a healthy witch should check out. Wherever we find that you're different from her, that could be the source of your problem. I hope she hero-worships you enough to put up with what could turn into a series of long tests."

I shrugged. "I think she might. She's quite a fan."

"That would be a break. But what about 'Strike -- ah, Warstrike, as you call him? In the car, you said you helped him when his precognitive abilities started to fail."

“I tried transferring a little healing energy into him. It worked like a charm. Afterwards he seemed to be bake in form.”

She eyed me narrowly. “Could his problem have been psychosomatic?”

“I don't know. Maybe. He sure cured easily.”

“Is it possible that Mantra could be suffering from psychosomatic symptoms herself?”

“The other one? How can I know that. I think I've got my own head on pretty straight."

Pinnacle stroked her chin with a thumb. "So you think. But the mind is more powerful than muscle. Thoughts behave like computer programs inside the body. A bad mental attitude can make a person sick. The trauma of what happened on Friday might have thrown some mental switch inside Mantra's head."

"And I have to take the consequences of that hit? Hell! Where does that leave us?"
"Now that the conflicted mind of your double have been removed, your powers might reset on their own. It may take some time. After all, you haven't been in that body for very long.”

"Are you saying that Mantra lost her powers because she thought they did more harm than good?”

"I didn't say that. The hysterically blind don't set out wanting to be sightless. But the subconscious mind may interpret our deep-seated desperation in strange ways."

"So, you're recommending that we wait to see what happens? What next? 'Take two aspirins and call you in the morning?'”

Penny's brows drew together. "If your problem fixes itself, we're home free. But there has been work on how to switch on ultra powers, based on the DNA theory. For instance, the Theta Virus seems to induce ultra powers into people. What if it is not a natural disease, but the infecting microbes are really artificial nanites? ”

“Could be. The records I hacked suggested that the disease may have come from outer space. But the Theta Virus is dangerous. What Aladdin was trying to do in its own ham-handed way killed every person they'd treated.”

“If its tender-loving care, never go to a government black ops outfit. Fortunately, I have a much simplier idea.”

I looked up. “Simple is good.”