🚀 go-pugleaf

   He grabbed her by the neck and lifted her easily off the
ground, disregarding all of her vocal protestations.  He tightened
his grip, choking her, but still she struggled to free herself
against his far-superior strength.  Roughly, he carried her over
to a large wooden block and laid her down on top of it like a
sacrificial offering.  The wooden surface was scratched and
pitted, stained deeply with old blood.  Again she struggled, but
he was easily able to keep her body pinned, using a single hand
across her midsection.  She watched as his other hand reached
around to the side of the wooden block and found a freshly-
sharpened ax.  He said nothing, but when he raised the ax over her
head, pointed down at her exposed neck, his intent was clear.
   He looked down into her eyes, studying them for their
expression and finding only confusion.  Clearly she did not
understand what was happening or what she had done to deserve it.
His mouth was dry.  She was struggling less vigorously now, giving
in to fate or exhaustion.  He thought about bringing the ax down
sharply, imagined it cutting through the flesh and bone of her
neck.  He saw the blood-splatters in his mind, but the ax did not
move.  He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.  Sensing a slight
loosening of his grip, she made one final attempt to get away, but
he was easily able to prevent her from moving off the block.  He
bit his lip and tried to concentrate on nothing other than the
task at hand.  The ax began to shake in his hand.
   A single bead of sweat trickled down his nose and fell onto her
head.  She cried out loudly and somehow managed to pull out of his
grip.  Time froze for a long instant.  The ax dropped from his
hand, clattered against the edge of the wooden block, and landed
on the ground next to his feet.  She flapped her wings vigorously
and jumped down from the block.  And then, it was over.
   "You see?  I just can't do it!" he exclaimed, as he reached
down to pick up the ax.  "And if I can't kill a stupid chicken,
how am I supposed to murder a human being?"
   "I don't know, Dad," Phil told him.  "Maybe the Giver should
have given the Charm to Frank Purdue instead..."  Phil took his
father by the arm and led him back into the house.  Out in the
yard, the chickens wandered around as if nothing had happened.


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               PARIAH #16: "Mary Shelley's Ozymandias"
         Copyright 1994, Greg Fishbone, all rights reserved.

  Permission is hereby granted to disseminate or reproduce this
  work via electronic means only, for entertainment purposes only,
  and only if all attributions and headers remain in place and the
  text of the work (including attributions and headers) is not
  altered in any way.  Any reproduction of this work for profit of
  any form is strictly forbidden without the express written
  permission of Greg Fishbone.  Hard copy reproduction is limited
  to single copies printed for the use of the user only, and
  cannot be mass produced or disseminated in any way.  All other
  rights not specifically referred to in this notice are reserved
  to Greg Fishbone.  "Pariah", "Wilcox Township", and all
  character names used in this story are trademarks belonging to
  Greg Fishbone, who reserves all rights to their use.  Feedback
  to fishbone@astro.ocis.temple.edu is always appreciated, even
  the critical nit-picky stuff, though I prefer unqualified
  praise.


   Becky-Sue opened her eyes and found herself standing in a glass
tank, neck-deep in a warm, colorless liquid, suspended by a pair
of solid manacles that stretched from her wrists into the darkness
far above her.  When she tried to pull against the shackles on her
feet, she was immediately hit with a painful electrical jolt.
   "Impedance calculated," announced an emotionless female voice.
"Adjusting voltage to compensate."
   "She's awake.  Turn up the lights," ordered a more
authoritative voice.  A row of harsh floodlights came on,
revealing a cavernous room filled with activity.  The area
directly in front of her tank was empty, but further back were
banks of complex machinery and dozens of busy technicians.  All of
them wore bulky spacesuits made of metallic fabric, complete with
helmets and mirrored faceplates.  Becky-Sue tried to pull at her
restraints, but was jolted with electricity again before she could
move an inch.
   "No sudden movements, Ms. Tyler," said the authoritative man.
He stepped forward in slow, deliberate steps until he stood
directly in front of her tank.  In the mirrored faceplate of his
spacesuit, she saw a reflection of herself, stripped naked and
covered with electrodes and wires.  She tried to lash out and kick
through the glass, but the electric jolt once again stopped her
almost before she could complete the thought.  "I said not to make
any sudden movements.  The system detects variances in
neuromuscular voltage.  In other words, it reacts directly to the
messages that your brain uses to tell your body to move."
   "You can't do this!" she told him.  "I'll end up killing you
all!  I won't mean to do it, but..."
   "Ah yes, the involuntary pyrokinetic reaction that killed your
parents.  We've already taken that into account, but I appreciate
your concern."
   "Who are you people?"
   The man unfastened the latches on the neck of his spacesuit and
removed his helmet.  He looked to be in his forties, with handsome
features and penetrating blue eyes.  His hair was jet-black with a
single lock of white in the front.  "My name is Winter, and these
people all work for me.  Some of them work for the government as
well, but I don't hold that against them.  In fact, I believe you
met two of them earlier today."  Two figures stood behind Winter,
presumably Special Agents Milner and Grabowski of the FBI, though
it was impossible to tell for sure because neither was bold enough
to remove her protective helmet.
   Winter took off his gloves and put his bare hands against the
glass that separated them, looking at Becky-Sue in a way that made
her very uncomfortable.  "I've been searching a long time for you,
Gifted one."
   "What are you talking about?"
   "Tell me, Rebecca--  May I call you Rebecca?"
   "My name is Becky-Sue."
   "Very well.  Tell me, Becky-Sue, are you familiar with the
story of King Ozymandias?"
   "You mean that poem we had to read for English class?  What
does that have to do with your kidnapping me and sticking me in
this fishbowl?"
   Winter smiled and began to recite the poem from memory.

      "I met a traveller from an antique land
       Who said, 'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
       Stand in the dessert.  Near them, on the sand
       Half-sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
       And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
       Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
       Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
       The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
       And on the pedestal these words appear:
       My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings!
       Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!
       Nothing beside remains, round the decay
       Of that colossal wreck.  Boundless and bare,
       The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

   "The antique land was a city called Ankha, destroyed and
forgotten thousands of years ago.  Ozymandias was its king, the
first of the Gifted, and the traveller mentioned was a descendant
of that royal line, blessed or cursed with the same kind of power
that you yourself possess."
   "You're crazy!" shouted Becky-Sue.  "How do you get all that
garbage from a stupid poem?"
   "The poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley was only the first piece of
the puzzle.  Did you know that Shelley first published
'Ozymandias' in the *Examiner* in January of 1818, under the pen-
name, Glirastes?  And that Glirastes is an anagram for Gil Steras,
a noted cult leader whose followers claimed that he possessed
supernatural powers?"
   "So?"
   "So it seems that Mr. Steras was a house-guest of Percy Shelley
and his wife for about a week in late 1817.  It also seems that
although he was in perfect health, Steras believed his death to be
imminent, and he wanted somebody to tell his story to.  In late
February, 1818, Steras was mysteriously murdered by person or
persons unknown, most likely one of the Charmed.  Less than a
month later, Shelley and his family moved from England to Italy,
perhaps in fear of their lives because they knew too much."
   "Too much about what?  And what does any of this have to do
with me?"
   "Wait for it," he told her.  "Just two weeks after Mr. Shelley
published his sonnet, a close friend of the Shelley's, Horace
Smith, published a remarkably similar sonnet, also entitled
'Ozymandias':

      "In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
       Stands a gigantic leg which far off throws
       The only shadow that the dessert knows:
       'I am great Ozymandias,' saith the stone,
       'The King of Kings!  This mighty city shows
       The wonders of my hand!'  The city's gone,
       Nought but the leg remaining to disclose
       The site of this forgotten Babylon.

      "We wonder, and some hunter may express
       Wonder like ours, when through the wilderness
       Where London stood, holding the wolf in chase,
       He meets some fragment huge and stops to guess
       What powerful but unrecorded race
       Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

   "And so I thought to myself," Winter continued, "if Shelley
wrote about Ozymandias, and Shelley's friend also wrote about
Ozymandias, what about Shelley's wife?"
   "Or Shelley's dog," Becky-Sue added, sarcastically.  "Or the
guy who did Shelley's laundry--"
   "Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley was a talentled author in her own
right; perhaps you've heard of her.  She wrote a little novel
called *Frankenstein*..."
   "Oh, *that* Mary Shelley!"
   "Yes, and she also wrote this--"  Winter made a gesture, and
one of his assistants stepped forward with an ancient binder
containing a collection of frail yellowed paper.  "Mary Shelley's
*Ozymandias*," Winter announced.  "It contains the entire story as
told by Gil Steras the Gifted, preserving his paranoia, his
genius, and his arcane wisdom.  Mary Shelley never published it,
for fear of retribution by the Giver or one of his Charmed agents.
Very few people ever knew of its existence.  It took me a great
deal of time, effort, and money to track down this manuscript, but
now it shall all be worthwhile!"
   "Um, maybe I'm just a little thick, but I still don't
understand why I should care about the babblings of some crazy
cult leader from the nineteenth century!"
   "This manuscript is your legacy!" said Winter, shaking the
pages at her.  "Steras used his mystical knowledge to unlock the
secrets of the Gift, secrets that you can use to increase your
powers beyond your wildest imaginings!"
   Becky-Sue was horrified.  "I don't want to increase my powers;
I just want them to go away!  I want to be normal again!"
   "You know that's not going to happen.  The Gift is your
birthright, to use any way you want, and I am giving you the
option of using it to its full potential, to rule the world by my
side!"
   "What?  I don't want to rule *anything*!  And even if I did,
why would I need you?"
   "The Charmed," said Winter, simply.  "Even now I believe that
they are hunting you down to punish you for the deaths of your
parents.  Against them, even the power and knowledge of Gil Steras
were useless, but I offer you the services of my organization, an
effective army of personal bodyguards.  And in exchange for this
protection and the secrets contained in Mary Shelley's manuscript,
you will use your powers to further my ambitions."  He turned and
began to walk toward the back of the room.  "I'll let you think
about it."
   "Wait!" she shouted.  "What if I refuse to go along with you?"
   "That would be unfortunate for both of us," he told her.  "More
unfortunate for you than me, however."
   "Go to Hell!" she shouted, pulling against the manacles and
absorbing the pain of electrocution.  "I'll never help you!
Never!"  She continued to struggle against wave after wave of
electrical shock.  The pain was intense, but somehow she managed
to break the metal that bound her hands.
   The electricity was constant now, too much for her to bear.
She lost control of her body and slipped under the surface of the
liquid solution, barely able to maintain consciousness.  Something
was happening out in the room, but she was too dazed to understand
more than bits and pieces.  Phil and his father.  Machine-guns.
Fire.
   The electric shocks ended, and she blissfully closed her eyes.
There was a shattering of glass, a rushing of liquid, and she felt
herself moving.  She found herself lying on the floor in front of
the tank, covered with the viscous liquid and shards of glass,
looking up into a familiar worried face.  "Phil?" she asked.
   "Everything's going to be all right, Becky," he told her, as he
started pulling off the electrodes and the wires that stretched
like a spider's web back through the shattered glass tank.
   "Am I dreaming?"
   "No."
   "How did you find me here?"
   "A friend."
   "Who?"  Phil shrugged his shoulders in reply, saying nothing
more.
   Becky-Sue sat up and looked around at the chaos of the room.
Phil's father was nearby, crouched behind the smoking remnant of a
computer console, providing a covering fire with a nasty-looking
machine-gun.  Some of the technicians had machine-guns as well,
but most were more lightly armed if at all.  The equipment was
sparking and flaring up all over the room, and the fire was
quickly spreading toward a table that held a binder filled with
old papers.  "The manuscript!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet.
   "The what?" asked Phil, catching Becky-Sue as she was hit by a
wave of vertigo.  He was trying to help her regain her sense of
balance, but she was resisting, trying to break out of his grasp.
   "No...  Got to be strong now...  Got to save it--  But where's
Winter?"
   A pistol shot rang out, and Mr. Richardson screamed in pain,
dropped his weapon, and grabbed his upper right leg, which was
bleeding freely from a fresh gunshot wound.  Mr. Richardson looked
up helplessly at Winter, who was standing over him, smiling
evilly, and aiming to take a second, more fatal shot.
   "No!  Dad!" shouted Phil.  Becky-Sue pulled away from her
boyfriend and instantly felt her strength return.  In a flash, she
crossed the distance between herself and the two figures,
interposing herself between gunman and target.  She deflected the
bullet like a human shield, and then two others in quick
succession.  She felt invincible, like a character out of a comic
book, as she reached out and crushed Winter's gun as if it were
made of cheap plastic.
   Winter had an expression of horror frozen onto his face, but he
was not looking at Becky-Sue.  Rather, he was looking at something
more distant, over her shoulder.  Becky-Sue turned to follow his
gaze, and saw Mary Shelley's manuscript burning like a miniature
bonfire.  "This isn't over," she heard Winter say.  When she
looked back, he had somehow vanished into the smoke.
   "We've got to get him to a hospital before he bleeds to death,"
said Phil, examining his father's wound.
   Becky-Sue nodded in agreement.  She put one arm under Mr.
Richardson's neck and the other under his knees, and was amazed to
discover that she was unable to lift him.  "You turn off my
powers, just like Phil...  Are you--"  She struggled to remember
the term that Winter had used.  "--Charmed?"
   "Here," said Phil, handing her a spacesuit he had scavenged
from one of Winter's dead henchmen.  Becky-Sue suddenly became
conscious of the fact that she was not wearing anything, and
blushed deeply as she grabbed the suit away from him.
   "I guess I really can kill after all," Mr. Richardson said to
Phil, looking around at the silver-suited bodies collected around
the room.  "Phil, it must end tonight.  Tonight, one way or the
other.  Do you understand?"
   "Yes, dad."
   "And if I can't do it..."
   "I know."
   "Okay, I'm ready," said Becky-Sue from inside her spacesuit.
She reached down for Mr. Richardson again, and this time, without
skin-on-skin contact, she was able to lift him without any effort.
   "I'll go and tell your uncle what's happened," Phil offered.
   "Right," Becky-Sue nodded.  "I'll meet you there after I take
your father to the hospital, and then you can try to explain it
all to me as well."  She ran for the door, and before Phil could
say anything else, she was gone.
   Phil picked up a discarded handgun and walked back out through
the complex, stepping over bodies as he went.  At the entrance, he
found Judge Parker talking to a small group of Winter's guards.
"You will forget that you ever saw me here," he told them.
   "We will forget that we ever saw you here," they chorused.
   "Jedi mind trick?" Phil asked.
   "I hate doing it, but I can't let Winter know that I was
involved in helping you and your father free the girl, or that I
was the one who told you she was here in the first place.  Winter
has even more connections and influence than I do!  He got away,
didn't he?"  Phil nodded.  "Well, at least the girl is safe."
   "For the moment," said Phil, tucking the gun into his jacket
pocket.  "Can you give me a ride to Becky-Sue's house, Judge?"
   The Judge scowled.  "As long as I don't have to come in."
   "Thanks.  I really appreciate everything you've done for us
today."
   "That's all right, Phil.  Just don't expect it to become a
habit."
   "Don't worry, Judge -- either way, it ends tonight," he patted
the gun in his pocket with a significance that Judge Parker did
not understand.

--
Greg Fishbone                               fishbone@astro.ocis.temple.edu

    "Language lessons -- inspired words from a man who knows how to ski."
                                                       --*Better Off Dead*