Do You Believe in Legend?

By Ani H. Manjikian

Heros: A wordplay on horse. Also has ties to Paleo-Balkan mythology - Thracian heros (or horsemen) - Heros Equitans.

"Legend isn't about people. It's about pursuing a dream or higher ideal. About believing in something impossible and transforming the belief into reality through faith and hard work. The future is a legend written and unwritten."

Jo Mason believes that creativity, spontaneity, and faith exist as definable words, but not actionable items. Negative consequences always follow the rare positive outcomes. It seems her destiny is surviving a chaotic world she can't control. Hearing her own voice where she shouldn’t have leaves her wondering about her place in time.

Jeff has always been a part of her life, offering encouragements, wise words when she needed them, and many other things she can never completely thank him for. She knows he replaced her cousin who died saving his life. When she questions why he didn't get to stay with his family, Jeff replies that without fixing the timeline everything she knows would be different.

When Jeff’s twin brother Randy falls into her lap, both literally and figuratively, Jo hopes he can give her a better answer. There is only one slight problem... He doesn’t remember anything about himself or his life and what he does, doesn’t help.

Together, the three of them learn that life isn’t about who or what you know, but who and what you care for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ani H. Manjikian
• Release date: Feb 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370444014

Ani H. Manjikian

Born and raised in Southern California, the diagnosis of hydrocephalus at birth should have killed Ani, or worse, left her blank to the world. Her strength of spirit, parents’ love, and a miracle all combined to overcome that prognosis within nine months. From this almost impossible beginning, she has developed into all-around person with the technical knowledge and analytical mind of a programmer, creative and detailed orientation of a writer/editor, and aesthetic instincts of a designer/photographer. Her writing career started when a friend in Cyprus made her promise to stop throwing away her writings because she thought they weren’t good enough. After returning to the States, she set out to finish a single horse story and get it published. However, the book, like the writer, needed time to mature. While perfecting her craft, Ani graduated from San Francisco State with a BA in Industrial Arts and worked several jobs from retail sales to human resources project management. Her innate ability to learn new computer programs with minimal instruction and need to be creative led to her current long-term stint as a web designer and developer. The book spawned several siblings until there was enough for a series. Not knowing what to call it, she turned to another friend who suggested a word play on the books main themes of horses, space, family, and heroes. Spirit of the Lone Horse, the first book in the Stars of Heros series, was published in March 2015 by Unsolicited Press.

Book preview

ONE

Past Regrets

January 10, 2015

Captain, how do you know you are yourself and not your shadow?

Because I— Formal, keep it formal, Jo. We’re not alone.

Our audience watches every interaction from a table behind the current inquisitor with pointed stares and stiff faces. We are in a large conference room at my base’s inter-city headquarters. It’s a Saturday so there is only a skeleton crew and few stragglers in the building. Drawn shades and a security guard standing by the hallway door are in place to discourage any gawkers. Functional dark blue with silver metallic highlights, the room has enough space for the stacks of folding chairs leaning against the walls. Overhead lights offer modest illumination.

The board won’t understand the abstract perceptions of thought without emotion or a world of permanent gray. They didn’t survive a hell that transforms human into beast and beast into robot. If I do anything else during my testimony, I have to provide some insight into that horrible world without frightening them.

Maybe I should. After all, the upper echelon allowed the existence of such creatures to corrupt an otherwise peaceful and noble organization. Without reminding them of the dangers, they could easily slip back into acceptance.

Because, sir, you’d be dead or, at least severely injured, if I wasn’t.

Are you threatening me, Captain?

No, sir, merely stating facts based on serving time as a Command Security Guard. If you read the briefing on CSGs—

I did.

Then you are aware that they consider two feet around them their defensive zone, sir. They classify anyone entering this area with confrontational intent as a target. I guesstimate the space between my inquisitor and me. You, sir, encroach on mine by three or four inches.

The thin officer shuffles back until he retreats a good two feet. His narrow eyes squint through his square glasses. A splattering of gray in his otherwise dark sideburns suggests he’s handled provocative witnesses before with mixed results.

Is this better?

Yes, sir, but I’d prefer if this… Several sarcastic snipes almost slip out. Board ends its questioning, sir. You have enough information for a vote.

We don’t believe that, Captain. How else can you prove your shadow is dormant?

Have I called you a body or referred to myself in the plural at any time during my testimony, sir?

No. How’s that significant?

This guy read the briefing? Yeah, right. Most of the information concerning a CSG’s second-person thought process is on page one.

CSGs judge everything around them by threat level, strategic value, and mission relevance without emotion, possession, or sentimentality.

Their training removes their humanity, then?

Yes, sir.

How did your doctor return yours?

Through hypnosis I relieved the experiences of my shadow, not as the hunter, but as every one of its victims. The inevitable pain built the defenses and control mechanisms I use against it.

Isn’t it you? So why not refer to it as she or her?

That acknowledges its existence, sir, and we don’t want to do that.

What about Jane Honeywell? How is she related to you?

She is the cover identity I used during the undercover op that created my shadow. As per regulations, she became its human persona of record for whenever its handlers or assigned bodies needed to call it something other than its alphanumeric designation.

Do you view her as a separate entity from your shadow?

Glasses’ insistence on pursuing minor technicalities and nuances reminds me of my brother Michael, another lawyer.

If only he were here to out logic this jerk, I sigh. My inquisitor is treading into dangerous and confusing territory that is even harder to explain than the existence of my shadow. One misstep and this goes south with disastrous consequences for everyone in the room.

It’s easier for me to consider them one and the same, sir.

Do you carry any one else in your head, Captain?

Lunch threatens to dislodge itself from the digestive process. I swallow it back down. All their victims and the other personas I’ve played during my undercover ops, sir.

What you describe is borderline, if not full-blown, dissociative identity disorder.

Now he’s a head doc, too? He’s right, though.

Molly, the real head doc who continues to monitor my situation, believes in the whole human approach. She came up with the immersive emotional treatment that reintegrated me. Based on her reports, she didn’t expect it to work as well as it did.

Regardless, sir, I’m here and the reason other fulls now have a chance at a normal life.

When I was in the program, there were two types of CSGs, fulls and pretenders. Pretenders were those who had limited experience to the program during security specialty school, so they could work with any CSG they might command. Full CSG training removed any self-awareness and independent thinking a volunteer had and replaced them with a blind, unquestioning focus on mission and duty. Once the transformation took place, a full’s average lifespan was five to six years. Most were line of duty causalities, but some perished by the hand of another CSG for underperforming or going rogue. My shadow specialized in those types of assassinations.

How do you explain your three relapses in the last year, then?

Planned, accidental provocation, and by choice. Any change in my status results in this little dance. Physical injury causes a majority of the shifts. Those a case advocate can clear. The multiple recurrences of my shadow within weeks of each other dictated mustering a full board.

Exactly our point, Captain, Glasses sneers. We can’t trust you if calling up that thing is as simple as deciding to do so.

Respectfully, I disagree, sir. The third time was a soul-killing mistake that I can’t, and won’t, make ever again.

Hmpf.

Glasses joins his companions, filling the vacant seat at the end.

We shall shatter them into pieces. Then they shall finally see us.

A chill cuts through my white full dress uniform. The sterile voice belongs to a beast poked, prodded, and cajoled by the variations on the same five or six questions. Its full-blown return requires an extraordinary circumstance that isn’t supposed to happen for years to come, if at all.

I focus on the clock above the board’s head. The exchange with Glasses only lasted a brain-draining five minutes.

Every one of the board members must play a damn good game of poker on their off-duty time. Their expressions reveal nothing. Self-evaluation of the proceedings has produced various reads on the outcome. None of them ends with me surviving this mess. Even if the board issues a favorable ruling, the upper echelon has the final word. They’ve screwed others out of their jobs for far less.

Captain, please rise, orders the ranking member, a commodore by his boards.

Settling into a rigid, face forward position, I reminded myself to breathe and project confidence I don’t feel. The family name demands this dignity, and so much more. Whatever happens in the next few heartbeats, my family, friends, and acquaintances will hear about this meeting from the resulting orders, not anything I say or do.

The door behind me scrapes across the carpet with a soft whoosh. Exchanging puzzled glances, the poker faces crack along unexpected faults.

Admiral, we’re in a closed session, the commodore’s tone barely dips into the lower, respectful range.

Aye, I’m awaur of ‘at. We want ta’ testify on ta’ captain’s behalf.

Jason? My stepfather’s rank explains the board’s response.

He initiated the op that created my shadow, but warrants no blame for its existence. We mutually decided on the extent of my involvement in it. His existing team couldn’t infiltrate the CSG without triggering an alarm. Minimal exposure to the program offered me an irresistible promise of balance and emotional control to combat the grief of several mistakes and tragedies.

We planned for all the contingencies our imaginations presented. One intense session included examining the possibility of a rogue defection from every angle. Forearmed with this knowledge, undertaking the mission was a simple choice based on the belief I’d come back from it as myself.

That didn’t happen.

The team’s longest serving member was already native even before my insertion. He played the role of my confidant until the lead handler, who didn’t trust his motivations, pitted us against one another. We both failed the test. Faced with death, my betrayer offered up the team and me.

After that… I draw in a long deep breath, diverting my eyes from Jason and returning my gaze to my accusers.

Captain Mason has waived her right of defense by outside parties, sir. Unless she reinstates it, your statements can’t be part of the official record, nor influence the members of this board. Please state your position on this, Captain.

For almost a year, a mindless beast hunted its prey camouflaged in my body. Its first victims were the traitor and his team. If it hadn’t hesitated on a kill mission, I would have died a lost soul. Jason, as the CO of the base where the incident happened, received a detailed report of it. Reviewing his records, he discovered the automatic punishment for failure was a merciless dissection of my psyche followed by a tortious pack hunt that ended with my body ripped asunder.

He traded his intel on the unit for my life.

Now he’s willing to risk his career to save me once again. I can’t let him do that.

Admiral Scott—

Before our client states her intentions, we request a moment with her, a strong, legal voice demands.

Regulations permit such a consultation until the end of session, a softer tone adds.

Michael and John, too? My brothers created a liability for themselves by being here.

You may have fifteen minutes. A grimace breaks through the ranking commodore’s otherwise neutral facade.

Meeting his contemptuous gaze with an emotionless stare, a snarl crosses my lips. Thought you had me, didn’t you? Not today.

He shies away. We’ll adjourn to the other room. Come get us if you finish before the stated deadline.

The board envelops themselves in a stoic silence, filing out in a single line. Even before the door clicks behind them, I pivot, expecting Jason, my two brothers, and maybe a handful of others. Instead, the count surpasses twenty-five almost immediately. Some, who traveled through multiple time zones, show no fatigue. A few, with only miles in their journey, wear the weariness of their trip.

Crap! All three units of the team? Jason is a moron for putting them in danger like this.

One notable face is absent, but given his ties to the future that’s understandable. Molly and her associate Paul never leave the vicinity of their halfway house in Houston where they heal lost souls. Captains Michael and Michelle Holmes from San Bernardino, friends from childhood, usually require technology or another person as a buffer. Even then, our conversations remain formal, business-oriented matters. My current and former ExOs stand in front of the group, each wearing a hard-edged expression that implies trouble for anyone who questions my sanity.

Jim, my lifelong counterbalance and one of those honored three, anchors the gathering. His lips, pressed in a flat line, emphasize an annoyance that will take a few hours to dissipate. We share the commonplace appearance of broad shoulders, brown hair, hazel eyes, and a strapping build. He sports a few extra inches and pounds. More intense, by choice and nature, I cherish every emotion that sweeps over me. They were the only way of not losing my perspective to my shadow’s mindless objectivity when I lived in its sterile world. Now they are an arsenal of weapons against it.

We’ve held the same rank at the same time for most of our careers. A cap prevents me from going any higher. If I survive this, my career ends as a captain when mandatory retirement comes up in two decades. Jim, a commodore, has the potential of making at least admiral before he turns in his boards.

You promised no more secrets, Jo.

When the situation allowed for full disclosure, this one was border line. Who told you about this meeting?

Two concerned doctors hinted at it last week. Jim nods at redheaded Molly and our tall, black-haired, blue-eyed brother Bill. Jason filled in the details.

Torn between hugging them and ripping them a new one for violating doctor-patient confidentiality, I settle on I appreciate everyone’s concern, but none of you can help.

Why not?

Any testimony becomes part of public record. It will expose the team to Command Security, who are very protective of their personnel’s identities.

The CS division has changed its mandate, Jim objects. There are no current active members trained by, or operating under, their old methodology.

Doesn’t matter as long as even a single black armor remains alive, the danger still exists. The old CSG members wore black armor that completely encased them unless they were on a mission.

Even unmasked by the new rules, CSGs still excel in the arts of deception and killing, just with more humanity and accountability. They exploit their enemy’s greatest weakness to maim and eventually kill them. Most of the team, they will physically attack. John and a few others are in danger of psychological warfare.

Extremely intelligent, John can operate any piece of technology without a manual. He’s also the most sensitive of my brothers and uses logic as a grounder for his emotions. Contractions and extremes lock him up. Normal people exploit that weakness by accident; any CSG will have a field day with it.

Your fear is unfounded, Jo, states Michael, the medium-muscular man standing near Jim. John, his small, thin companion with light-brown hair and brownish-green eyes, nods. Sealed transcripts record these proceedings. Only the Commanding Admiral and Chief of Operations have access.

The odds of countering his argument are as bad as becoming a lottery millionaire, if not worse. Michael and John absorb the intimate details of rules, regulations, and procedures the rest of us only peruse so we can claim knowledge of them. In this case, they forgot one important detail, regs require all command level personnel to have a security escort. The only reason they aren’t in this room is that the board dismissed them.

What about the eyes that saw you enter this building?

All of today’s assigned personnel are regulars, Captain, states Commander Justin Scott, the base’s flaxen-haired Chief of Security and my stepbrother. His long less carry the power of his upper body, giving him the appearance of a tall jockey. Soft and gentle most of the time, his face expressed his emotions better than the strength of his brogue. Both are flat and neutral. I conveniently sent the whole command unit on an all-day training exercise out in the Mojave.

I can still withhold my permission.

Do you really want to take on the whole team, Jo? Jim challenges, his certainty and defiance forming an impenetrable barrier We won’t let you face this alone, no matter what you say or do.

Behind him, chairs unfold with a clang, emphasizing his point. A young Lieutenant with similar features is the first to settle into his seat.

No. I surrender, but on one condition. We don’t involve Jimmy.

Still an Academy cadet, my nephew earned his promotion by saving my life. I signed off on my shadow’s one planned mission with the intention of someone seasoned in undercover ops being its handler. Circumstance gave Jimmy the role. The pairing wasn’t ideal, but he and it could have co-existed if the makeup hiding its true face had stayed intact. When a small piece melted, exposing its jaw, my shadow freaked. Jimmy did little better. His violent response to its presence distracted it long enough for me to reassert myself.

He saw an’ felt yer struggle, lass, Molly chimes in. That’s what tore ‘im up so bad and it be th’ same reason he volunteered before th’ rest of us.

Her discernment involving matters of the heart and the head is irreproachable. Molly not only saved me, she protected and treated Jimmy during and after a kidnapping that snatched him away from my family for a year.

Are you certain he can handle it?

Aye, I wouldna ‘av allowed ‘im ta cum otherwise.

Her words—actually the tone in which she speaks—cement my decision. Unlike Jason, whose brogue thickens with his emotions, her Irish lilt disappears.

The door to the other room slides open. Walking in with a stiff, jilted gait, the board assumes their seats in silence. Jim, Jason, Michael, Bill, John, and Molly step behind me. Empowered by their presence and that of the others, I morph into a front-facing statue with an upraised chin and hard jawline.

What is your decision, Captain? the ranking member asks.

Admiral Scott and his group may testify on my behalf, sir.

Very well. Even if they sway our decision in your favor, your time is limited, madam. The tiniest mistake and you can consider your career over. Is that understood?

Yes, sir. Keeping my tone soft and respectful, I smother the flames of anger and frustration burning my insides.

TWO

Twin Hope

February 22, 2549 OED

For five years, they explored their world as distorted reflections of each other. Love of family protected them, offering the freedom of growing up without worry. Then his mirror image disappeared into the night of a different century, shattering their connection and destroying his innocence.

Decades passed. He acted as expected and rose up the ranks to gain his rank and commission of a starship captain, but nothing filled the hole in his heart or patched his divided soul. One day, during a chance encounter, as special moments often are, he met someone who understood his pain. Joined first by their shared grief and passion for exploring the unknown, then by marriage, they healed each other, creating a small family with two children. Their joy lasted until she died in a surprise attack that almost destroyed his ship. Alone once more, he decided fate meant for him to remain a distant stranger even among his family and friends.

Muscles hardened and shaped by a customized diet and exercise plan twitched with a slight nervous tick. Taking a deep breath and releasing the predictable melancholy, the able-bodied, dark-haired man touched the nightstand. The top drawer opened with a soft hiss, divulging a chaotic jumble of knickknacks. Among them a folded piece of paper and two old-fashioned photographs of his brother and a golden bay stallion. The pictures offered an interesting contrast. His brother aged between the two, but the horse did not.

Captain Randolph J. Peterson laid his palm on the worn, soft parchment. The mementos were his only connection to Richard. He received them soon after his wife’s death. They contained an implied promise amid speculation.

Randy:

Despite not living in his proper time, your brother thrived in his adopted century. Revealing when or where is not an option because of a well-founded fear you’ll go after him. You can’t. Doing so will rip the timeline to shreds.

For now, your joint destiny involves chasing each other across time. You’ll meet for brief moments, only to lose track of each other repeatedly. Each separation will be harder than the last. There is no guarantee of a final reunion.

I included the two pictures to offer some reassurance he is thriving in his new home century. The horse in both made the transition easier for him.

We intended to return Richard to you and your family. Each time we tried, we came back to a world changed beyond recognition. Crisscrossing the timeline, we helped others even as we destroyed ourselves. We saved you from yourself and an enemy who stole something precious from you.

No mysterious entity ever rescued him or his ship, but one saved his career even before he had one. Rebelling against the expectations of outdoing his father, he didn’t care about grades, teachers, his fellow cadets, or graduating the UESEA Academy. A confident, disciplined, team saved him from the shame of expulsion. Their valuable lessons include techniques for working with others and thriving on the demands of his name without losing himself to his ego. One team member spent more time with him than the rest, creating a bond that reignited memories of his connection with Richard.

The intercom whistled.

Yes?

We’ve reached the origin point of the Questrist’s last transmission, sir. Scanners still can’t find her, but they are acquiring several other targets.

Hostile or friendly?

Based on their configuration, hostile, sir.

Sound battle stations.

Yes, sir.

He palmed the letter, slipping it in his uniform.

* * *

Randy swallowed the dryness filling his mouth. The dim red lighting of the alert shrunk the Behemoth’s Command Central to the size of the conduits that contained the ship’s wiring. From his upraised platform, he surveyed fifteen interconnected stations, looking for any outward signs of tension or distress. Each of his crew met his eyes with a steady gaze that spoke of confidence built around years of experience.

A large viewscreen with two smaller ones on either side dominated the front wall. Middle displayed a real-time feed of two dozen ships surrounding his sister’s vessel. Left rotated through a status report on the Questrist. Right provided running commentary on her attackers.

He sat straighter in his chair, his eyes darting back and forth. No, please not them. The stub nose, squat shape design belonged to the Aoeles. A race of pug-nosed pirates, they combined the worst imaginable traits of a mule and a vulture with the blood-thirsting lust of uncivilized barbarians. His first contact with them ended in an ambush that killed thirty-five crewmembers, including his wife. Only the resourcefulness of his chief engineer saved his ship.

Things must be different this time.

He and his sister couldn’t die on the same mission without destroying their father. His children also needed him. If the letter was correct, his destiny included at least one reunion with Richard. None had happened yet unless he counted the mysterious team and its one overly attentive member who seemed so familiar.

"Navigation, keep us from being detected until we begin our run. Tactical, let’s draw their attention away from the Questrist."

Yes, sir, the two officers chorused.

A frown crossed the tactical officer’s face.

Something wrong, Lieutenant?

The scanners have registered a ship shadowing us, sir. Pointing at her screen, she added, They are running with their transponder off, so I can’t confirm whether it’s one of ours or theirs.

Unless they become an imminent threat, consider them a secondary target.

Yes, sir.

Navigation, take us in.

Aye, sir.

A subtle change in the deck’s vibration shifted his attention back to the front screen. Randy gripped the side of his chair, fighting the uneasy nausea that always swept over him between his last command and next decision.

Energy pulses lashed out from beneath the Behemoth, spraying their enemies. Explosions peppered the front screen.

We’ve taken out six ships and damaged at least four more, sir, the tactical officer reported.

The right screen flashed with targeting scanners locking onto his ship.

Evasive maneuvers.

The Behemoth wove its way through destructive beams of light and a spray of missiles that burned a hot orange. Hits on their electromagnetic armor rocked the ship.

EMA holding at seventy-five percent, sir, the tactical officer stated. Weapons recharging.

Clean up this mess and retreat as soon as you can, sir, his communications officer spoke in a calm voice tinged with urgency. Elevated comm traffic suggests a sizable fleet is approaching our location.

.Damn the unknown variables, Randy swore under his breath. Another dozen ships of the same class were well within their weapons’ capabilities and capacities. Anything more or bigger and… He pushed the thought aside, concentrating on his visible enemies.

Eight ships stood between him and the Questrist. Randy scanned the left screen and considered his next move. Destroying the center four would create a narrow escape route for Andrea’s ship, but she didn’t have reserves to cover their retreat.

No matter, he sighed, at least she’ll have a chance to get help, and possibly return to Earth.

Tactical—

A salvo of light and orange flame ripped half their enemies apart.

"Take out the rest!"

Responding with another burst of its weapons, the Behemoth destroyed three more ships. The last one jumped into hyperspace, leaving a momentary rainbow of color behind.

Shall we go after them, sir?

No. What’s the updated position of our phantom?

"They’ve disappeared for good, sir. Were they a top-secret