A Question of Will Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  The Four Oaths

  Infiltration

  Appeasement

  Discovery

  Assassin

  Abduction

  Rescue

  Debrief

  Cleanup

  Trust

  Survivor

  Trapped

  Elites

  Greed

  Purge

  Duel

  Energy

  Machines

  Reprogramming

  Initiation

  Sacrifice

  Headquarters

  Turncoat

  Reunion

  Question

  Departure

  Retrace

  Embezzled

  Found

  Waiting

  Steps

  Author's Note

  A Question of Will

  The Aliomenti Saga — Book 1

  by Alex Albrinck

  Copyright (c) 2012 by Alex Albrinck. All rights reserved.

  Cover by Karri Klawiter: http://artbykarri.com

  Stock art by Melissa Offutt: http://melyssah6-stock.deviantart.com/

  Other Books by Alex Albrinck

  The Aliomenti Saga

  Book 1: A Question of Will

  Book 2: Preserving Hope

  Book 3: Ascent of the Aliomenti

  Book 4: Coming in 2013!

  For new release notification, plus access to the free prequel and short stories, sign up at:

  http://smarturl.it/c49mzo

  Prologue

  Will Stark ran toward his home as fast as he could, despondent at the likelihood that his wife and son would already be dead when he got there. And it would all be his fault. He ran, not for enjoyment or accomplishment, but in a desperate attempt, no matter how futile, to prevent his wife and son from being brutally murdered.

  He had turned thirty-five years old today, an age at which running just over a mile should be simple. He’d focused on his business and his family, though, and his fitness levels had suffered as a result. The lack of exercise and the resulting bit of flab around his midsection weren’t the only physical symptoms that might make one think him older. Wire-rimmed glasses that enhanced his green eyes perched dangerously on the bridge of his nose, the sweat of exertion and terror threatening to jar them from his face and leave him blind in his pursuit of his target. Noticeable patches of gray mixed in with his normally pitch-black hair. The stressful events of this day were unlikely to keep his hair from growing whiter.

  The sharp pains wracking his body weren’t entirely due to physical neglect. He’d needed to break into his own highly-secure gated community, climbing over a building and dropping to the ground. He’d twisted his ankle upon hitting the ground, but he’d pressed on. There would be time to deal with that type of pain later. He had to get to his house. The lives of Hope and Josh hung in the balance.

  You’re already too late, a voice whispered in his head. The killer had too much of a head start. Visions of their lifeless faces floated before his eyes, causing him to slow momentarily. No, he thought. I will not quit on them. Ever. He pushed on, ignoring the stitch growing in his side, and the screaming ankle that wanted rest and ice, not the pounding of an all-out sprint. He tried to distract himself by finding humor in the fact that he was running at full speed in suit, tie, and overcoat; his shoes were highly polished gems meant for business, not racing. It wasn’t ideal.

  None of this was ideal.

  Desperate times made people do crazy things, to be sure. There had been numerous attempts to abduct him off busy public streets in broad daylight. His car had been shot at on many occasions. People in the press seemed to forget that he was human, and that he had no more interest in losing his freedom or his life than anyone else. The press enjoyed highlighting his “extravagant expenditures” like the cars with armor-plating and bulletproof glass, the fortress-style walls surrounding his community, the security system in his neighborhood that seemed more extensive than many military bases. They opined that such vast sums of money could have been better spent on other things, implying that the desire of the young multi-billionaire to protect his family from harm was driven by pure selfishness.

  He wondered what such people would write about the next day, if his fears became realized.

  He knew what he’d write. That he’d failed. He had vowed to keep his family safe, no matter the expense. He’d consulted every security expert he could find, hired the best construction crew, paid for double- and triple-redundancies in every person and system charged with the security of those he loved most. It hadn’t been enough. A killer had gotten inside his sanctuary and was traveling an unguarded driveway to his house. Will’s wife and son were at risk due to his failure.

  He ran faster than he’d ever run before, his feet in misery from the brick-like shoes covering them, as he slammed them repeatedly to the ground. His ankle finally gave out, and he was forced to cover ground in a limping hop that tried desperately to resemble a sprint.

  You should have let them meet you at the restaurant. They would not be home to be attacked. The inner voice gnawed away at his determination, seeking to replace it with guilt and self-loathing, and it was succeeding. He refocused, and refused to listen. There could be only one way to mitigate those feelings, and that required getting to his house. Quickly.

  He rounded the final bend, his home visible in the fading sunlight. It was a large structure, to be sure, though probably smaller than most might suspect from one so wealthy. The brick and stone exterior of the home continued his theme of security, giving the sense of a castle inside the giant walls surrounding it. He looked inside, through the expansive bay window and into the living room. On most days, he’d see his son Josh standing there, waiting for him, silent as always. On others, he’d see Hope, a chair pulled up by the window while she waited for him, reading.

  Today, he saw something that made his stomach spasm.

  A man stood in his house, his back to Will. He was dressed in black, his head clean-shaven, the skin marked by dozens of long scars. Will experienced a powerful sensation of hopelessness and dread, as if the mere presence of this man was sufficient to eliminate the will to live of anyone who came near him. On closer examination, he noticed something even more terrifying: the short sword held in the man’s right hand, the steel glinting from the lights in the house, and the blood dripping from the blade.

  At the sight of the blood, Will passed through the denial stage of grief and went straight to anger. His pain was forgotten as a surge of adrenaline erased his pains, and his whole body cooperated in moving him towards the house. He would kill that man, the man who had ended the lives of his wife and son.

  A bright light burst from the window, blinding him, slowing him down as he twisted away. He blinked his eyes rapidly, forcing them to refocus.

  He heard and felt the explosion a few seconds later. The glass exploded from the front windows and lacerated his skin, the damage lessened by the thick overcoat he wore against the late winter chill, and the force of the blast knocked him to the ground, hurling him back several yards and knocking his glasses from his face. He felt the heat before he could turn around, felt his skin burning. He realized that his coat had caught fire, and he pulled it off, hissing in pain as shards of glass were pulled from his skin in the process, and he let the coat fall to the ground. His hands felt the frozen earth, seeking his glasses, needing to restore his sight. He found them, put them on, and turned, still on his knees.

  He could not see his house, even with his glasses on. The walls of flame leaped out of the windows and doorways, somehow hot enough to ignite even the brick and stone of the exterior.

  He low
ered his head to the ground, weeping. Then he screamed out the names of his dead wife and child in a tone of pure, agonizing mourning.

  The Four Oaths of the Aliomenti

  As a member of the Aliomenti, and in recognition of the special knowledge, technology, and power inherent in my position, I do hereby swear to abide by and uphold the following Oaths:

  OATH NUMBER ONE: I vow to never knowingly share with any non-Aliomenti human the unique knowledge, technology, and power of the Aliomenti, directly or indirectly, nor shall I permit any non-Aliomenti human to acquire any of the same of his own accord. I understand and agree that the penalty for violation of Oath Number One is ten years imprisonment, stripped of all rights, privileges, and power for the duration.

  OATH NUMBER TWO: I vow to never knowingly share with any non-Aliomenti human the existence of the Aliomenti, either directly or indirectly, nor shall I permit any non-Aliomenti human to acquire knowledge of the same of his own accord. I understand and agree that the penalty for violation of Oath Number Two is twenty years imprisonment, stripped of all rights, privileges, and power for the duration.

  OATH NUMBER THREE: I vow to never enter into a committed relationship of any type, most notably marriage, with any non-Aliomenti human, and likewise vow to avoid such relationships within the Aliomenti community, lest termination of such relationship lead to distrust and disunity among our kind. I understand and agree that the penalty for violation of Oath Number Three is fifty years imprisonment, stripped of all rights, privileges, and power for the duration.

  OATH NUMBER FOUR: Concerning the nature of the relationship and the potential for abnormally advanced abilities, I vow never to be the biological parent to any child, regardless of the Aliomenti status of the second parent, regardless of the nature of the conception of the child. I understand and agree that the penalty for violation of Oath Number Four is death.

  I hereby state my understanding that any humans involved in the breaking of the Four Oaths shall suffer death at the hand of an Aliomenti assassin.

  I affirm my Oaths and vows, and do so of sound mind and body, without compulsion, of my own free will, as evidenced by my signature below in the presence of my Leader.

  I

  Infiltration

  Two hours earlier.

  “I’ll never get tired of this view, Mark.” Deron McLean spoke to his colleague through the radio connecting the two guard stations for the exclusive De Gray Estates community. “When you’ve got a few billion dollars, you can build things like this.”

  Mark Arnold laughed. “No kidding. Wonder how those conversations went?”

  “Well, probably something like: ‘Hi, I’m Will Stark. I’m buying your city, and with it I am getting a tax and regulation-free zone, and then I am going to build a giant dome over it that glows at night, and it will have so many job opportunities in it during this awful economy that I can afford to pay people to move here to work, and businesses to move here and set up shop. Oh, yeah. Then I’m going to build an old-fashioned castle wall and moat around 2,500 acres outside that dome, and hire two dudes named Deron and Mark to keep the nasty stuff away from me.’”

  Mark laughed again, with feeling. “Hey, if I had his money, I’d do the same thing. Well, I’d never think of doing that, but then again, I’m not Will Stark.”

  “Nobody is, my friend. Nobody is. Half the time, I’m not even sure that he is Will Stark.”

  “Seems too good to be true, doesn’t he?”

  “Indeed he does.”

  The banter stopped, and the two men resumed the standard routine of their guard duties.

  Three men appeared on the sidewalk outside the De Gray Estates. Had anyone been watching, they would have sworn that the three men had materialized out of the twilight descending on the town.

  They marched with purpose outside the massive walls which surrounded the neighborhood, footsteps partially muffled by the sounds of the water flowing in the moat. Small puffs of smoke emerged from their mouths, the condensation forming in the crisp winter air. The only light came from the two buildings framing the massive concrete gate used to control access into the community. The walls could not be scaled; the gate could not be breached. The wealthy residents of the exclusive community slept secure and comfortable at night, knowing that no one got in without their permission.

  Mark worked in what his security team referred to as the Guard Station, a ground-level building which enforced the various security processes allowing residents and non-residents to enter inside the enormous walls. Without Mark, the massive gate would remain above ground, and prevent vehicles from entering the premises. Without Mark, those looking to enter the community on foot, through a smaller double-door system known as a man-trap, would be thwarted in their efforts, even if they were a known resident of the community. Mark’s team maintained a list of non-residents expected to request access during a given time period, and tracked the comings and goings of residents. Mark knew that, at this time, only two residents were outside the premises — Myra VanderPoole and Will Stark. There were no expected visits from non-residents on the schedule this day.

  He thus watched the three men with great interest.

  Each man wore black, the expensive-looking shirts sporting a golden emblem with a circle and an upside-down letter V. One man wore a top hat and wire-rimmed glasses, a second wore what appeared to be a dark cape with a hood — was that a cloak? The third man wore no accessories, but his handsome face was marred by a thick scar running horizontally across his right cheek, just under his eye.

  The purposeful look, devoid of any humor, gave Mark a very bad feeling.

  The men passed the Guard Station, and then turned left, heading up the driveway, passed the window with a sign reading “Guests Check In Here First,” and proceeded to the outer door of the man-trap.

  Mark tapped a button on his control panel. “Deron, are you seeing our uninvited guests?”

  After a brief pause, Deron replied. “Got them. Is that guy wearing a top hat?”

  “Yeah, and his friend’s got a cloak. They went straight to the door without stopping here first to check in.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about these guys.”

  “Yeah. Same here.”

  “I’ll call our friends in the Dome.”

  “Thanks.”

  That was their procedure for dealing with unapproved guests. Mark, at ground level, would attempt to speak with anyone seeking unauthorized entry. Deron, his partner on this shift, worked in the Guard Tower, and he’d notify the police, stationed inside the massive Dome covering the nearby corporate city of Pleasanton, Ohio, of the potential trespassers. Located on the opposite side of the driveway and concrete gate from the Guard Station, the Tower enabled a guard, located forty feet off the ground, to survey the surrounding territory and perform visual scans of the neighborhood. In the nearly impossible event that someone would breach the walls, the roles would be reversed. Deron would track the perpetrators, and Mark would notify the police.

  They’d never had to execute that procedure. No one had ever bothered to try scaling these walls. Several people would try to break in by ramming the gate each year, which generally resulted in a totaled vehicle and, if the foolish driver was lucky, nothing more than whiplash for injuries.

  These men clearly desired entry, and his gut told him it wasn’t a case of a resident forgetting to phone in the access authorization. The guidelines required him to proceed as if such a mistake had occurred until evidence proved otherwise. He left the speaker on, maintaining contact with Deron, and moved to the window the men had passed. Pressing a button, he activated a speaker on the exterior of the building. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Access to this community is available only to those authorized by current residents, and at present we have no standing authorizations for today. Please step away from the door, and contact the resident you wish to visit to initiate your access requests.”

  The men ignored him. Not one of them even turned to acknowledge hearing hi
s statement.

  Mark sighed. The arrogant guests of one of the wealthy residents of this fortress, no doubt too deluded with self-importance to worry about such trivial matters. He knew the type. These men would expect him to eventually give in and allow them entry. Mark recalled an approved dinner guest of Myra VanderPoole several years prior. The man, who was severely obese, had entered the first door of the man-trap, and could not close the door behind him. That left the circuit open, and the system was, in such a circumstance, coded to assume a second person was attempting entry at the same time. The man had demanded that they open the doors, and threatened to sue if Mark did not come to manually open the inner door. Mark refused. Myra VanderPoole had come to the front gate herself and they had agreed to open the concrete gate so that the man could walk in. The man had complained loudly about the horrific treatment he’d received at Mark’s hands. Myra had apparently set her guest straight on that matter, for he’d apologized for his behavior with great fervor later upon his exit from the community.

  Mark began to repeat his statement to the men, but paused. He’d heard something odd from the open communication link with Deron. It had almost sounded like a gasp, an inhalation of breath so sudden that it sounded like a noise of terror. He walked back to the control panel in order to listen more closely. “Deron? Everything all right up there?”

  There was no reply. Mark was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful sensation of pure evil, an effect so strong that he nearly lost his footing. “Deron—?”

  A thunderous crash sounded from outside, resembling the noise of shattering glass. Mark whirled back toward the driveway, and saw what looked like small pieces of ice fall briefly from the sky. He’d just had time to register this oddity when a second, far louder crash sounded above and behind him. Mark whirled toward the center of the Station and looked up, just as a hole exploded in the ceiling and a large mass fell through. The mass landed in a heap on the floor.