THUNDERSTRUCK

The poor side of town / decades earlier / when Martin was still a little boy

Lightning flashed, thunder shook the room, and a sickly boy sat up in bed. Martin cried out in the dark. He hated waking up in the dark almost as much as he hated the storms that constantly ravaged the outside of the dome covering the city. Sitting in pitch blackness with the covers drawn over his soaked brows like a protective cocoon, he shook uncontrollably. The persistent tremors were often a result of fear, but mostly they were a side effect of blistering delirium. Martin was a sickly child, plagued since birth by a weak heart, underdeveloped lungs and a myriad of health problems.

Lightning struck the outside of the deflector a thousand times a day, but it had never penetrated the shield. Never. Not once. However, being a young boy plagued with an overactive imagination, he believed a lightning bolt of such epic power would level his house and burn the city to the ground.

Breanna rushed through the bedroom door carrying a bowl of steaming broth at arm's length. The light flooding in behind her did little to guide her frantic steps towards the single bed nestled in the corner of the tiny room. Amid darkness, she stubbed her barefoot on one of the hastily discarded toys in the middle of the floor. She almost dropped the hot bowl at her feet and juggled the bowl to a rest on the nightstand. It slopped over the edge like a steaming yellow wave cascading onto the breakers and she winced in pain, pale skin turning an angry shade of pink.

"Dammit," she muttered to herself, sitting on the bed next to her little brother.

Martin, a scrawny kid of 8, and Breanne, a precocious 10-year-old, found themselves alone often.

Breanna turned her back on him so he wouldn't see her wipe the steaming liquid off her hand with the hem of her careworn blue dress. They came from a poor family, lived on the poor side of town and what they lacked in basic amenities their mother attempted to make up for by providing Martin with an endless array of cast off toys barely fit for the garbage. He loved and cherished them all. Breanna did not.

"Bedside lamp on," Martin said from beneath the covers and the light came on revealing a figure hiding beneath a blanket. He was afraid of the dark and had fallen asleep before turning on the night light. It was a common occurrence for him to wake up in the dark.

Breanna looked around the simple room, shook her head at the minefield of toys littering the tramped down carpet. "Activate cleaning bot in bedroom 2."

A small trapdoor in the far corner opened and a rectangular robot warbled out into the middle of the room. The room filled with the sound of chattering gears and squeaky belts. It was old and needed repair, but it worked well enough. It spun in a circle, surveying the myriad of toys, and made an exasperated wine before extending its rickety crane arm to disarm the impromptu minefield.

Breanna pulled the covers off Martin's face and said, "It's alright, it's just a passing storm."

"Mom said you're not supposed to swear." Martin teased with a halfhearted grin and shot her a raspberry. He always teased Breanna. Partly because it a way to get her attention; and partly because she overreacted every time. Not that he didn't love her, he did. After their mother, she was the only family he had. Martin was a sickly boy who dreamed of playing with other children.

Breanna stuck her tongue out in response. "Well, Mom isn't here, is she?" she said, authoritatively. "So, that means I'm in charge. And I say, when Mom's not home, I can swear."

Martin tried to sit up, got wrapped up in the heavy quilt and knocked a 3 foot tall rocket off the edge of the bed. Breanna caught it just before it hit the landing pad with an explosive crash and placed it next to the nightstand as if readying it for the next launch. The tall white rocket with wide red ring ¾ and long red fins with a Company Ranger insignia was Martin's favorite toy. It was the only one not in disrepair.

Breanna watched a single bead of sweat trickle down his blotchy red face, touched his burning cheeks and felt the damp covers beneath her other hand and knew Martin was getting sicker. "You need to eat something. I found some chicken soup and crackers in the cupboard over the stove. If you can keep them down?"

Martin pushed her hand away from his face. He hated chicken soup - not that the neon yellow liquid was actually chicken soup - it was saline water with artificial color and flavor. Martin knew there were no chickens in the Helios system. "You're not the boss of me," he snapped, flipping the blankets off his wiry legs. "Besides, I'm not hungry." The cool night air hit his soaking wet pajamas, and a spasm left him shaking uncontrollably. Breanna tried to flip the covers back over him, but Martin had already forced his legs off the edge of the tiny bed. As he reached an upright position, his tiny frame gave out beneath him and Breanna barely caught him around the waist before he toppled over completely.

"What are you doing?" She shrieked, fighting to hold him up by the waistband of his pajama bottoms. "Get back in bed before you hurt yourself."

"Get off," he groaned, using much of his remaining strength to shove her away. "If I wanted a wedgie, I would've asked for one." He almost fell again, but grabbed the corner of the bedside table to steady himself before losing all control. "I have to go pee." He pointed at the bed with an angry sneer and added, "Unless you feel like cleaning that mess."

"What's your problem?" Breanna replied in a hurt tone. "I'm just trying to help, you little booger."

Martin hated the way Breanna always mothered him; It made him feel like a baby; it made him feel helpless. "You don't have to take care of me. I can do some things by myself."

Breanna looked as though Martin had slapped her. She threw her arms in the air and snapped, "Fine."

Martin almost fell again, but righted himself by seizing her shoulder this time.

She shook her head and scowled, the way she always did when he was a booger. "I don't see anybody else taking care of you. Do you?"

"If all I am is an unwanted chore, then leave. Everybody else has!" he shouted, coughing up a large green gob of thick phlegm that flew out of his chapped lips and stuck on his chin.

Breanna wiped the mucus off with her shirt sleeve, barely managing not to be sick herself. "You know she's a lousy..."

"Shut it," Martin cut in, hastily defending his absentee mother. "Mom does the best she can." He routinely came to their mother's defense; not because he believed Breanna was wrong, but because he knew she was right. "It's not her fault. She pays the bills, keeps a roof over our heads and feeds us. Isn't that enough?"

"I don't think it is." She replied, shaking her head. Breanna loved her mother, but resented her long absences. "Now, go pee and then get back in bed before I have to carry you."

Martin tottered towards the bathroom door like a drunk, leaving a bar at closing time. He stopped at the closed doorway, gripping the knob to keep from falling over and turned it ever so slowly. The latch clicked open and Breanna watched the comedy routine, thinking it was lucky the door swung inward or Martin would have never gotten it open.

He stopped at the threshold, turned back to her, "Do you think mom is going to get in trouble? She's missed a lot of time."

Breanna heard the question but pretended to straighten the covers. When she didn't hear the door shut, she looked over her shoulder. "It'll be fine. Mr. Paloteri is OK." But she didn't believe it, he worried her. Secretaries earned little money, and they were barely making it. If fired, they would be out on the street.

A pang of sudden guilt weighed Breann down when she looked at Martin's rocket and wished she could just get in and fly away, telling no one.

Martin emerged from the bathroom more shaky than ever. He dodged the cleaning-bot clearing the minefield. He barely made it back to bed before collapsing. Grimacing as his back hit the bed, he said, "Gross, these sheets are soaking wet and cold."

Breanna helped him to a nearby chair, brought him fresh pajamas, and turned her back to replace the bedding while he changed. She had taken to avoiding having to look at Martin's emaciated form. Martin was so small Breanna was actually frightened to look at his washboard ribs. After he settled, she placed his rocket back on the bed beside him and asked, "Why do you like this thing anyhow?"

"The Rangers are heroes. I'm want to be a hero too."

Martin fixated on everything Rangers. So much so, Breanna steered him away every time Martin brought them up. Not because they didn't want him to join their ranks, but because Martin was a frail child prone to illness and accident. He had a congenital heart condition that made him smaller than other kids his age. The condition also left him plagued with debilitating respiratory problems that often kept him inside for weeks at a time. His medical bills had driven them to near poverty. Life for Martin had become 2 choices. Do we buy medicine or do we buy food? The medicine always won out.

When Martin was born, doctors told their mother he would succumb to his illness before his 10th birthday. Breanna realized the doctors were right. He was getting worse by the day and not having food wasn't helping.

With a smile on her face, she patted Martin's head, and he batted her hand away. "If you want to be a Ranger someday, you must eat your soup... even if you don't like it."

"Soup!" Martin replied, picking up the bowl of broth that had cooled in his absence. He perched it on his lap and added, "Soup has stuff in it. This is salty piss water."

'Gross,' Breanna thought, wanting to say something about his language, but holding her tongue to get him to eat. She smiled down as he slurped the spoon. "I have to go get your medicine. I'll be back soon." She tucked the cover beneath his sides and added, "When you're finished, try to get some sleep."

He grinned up at her and teased, "OK, Mom."

Breanna's right eyebrow lifted slightly as she fought to suppress a weak smile. She only pretended to let Martin's jabs bother her. In usual form, she stopped at the door, looked back over her shoulder, stuck out her tongue and said, "Little booger."

Martin smiled back triumphantly as Breanna closed the door between them.

He finished his liquid meal, sipped on the cup of water Breanna had placed on the bedside stand while he was in the bathroom, and then picked up his favorite rocket. He struggled to lift it into the air as if it launched, but wearying limbs lost power and the rocket crashed back down onto the bed. Martin's strength failed. The mission was over. He lay back, pulled the soft dry blanket around his face. Leaving the light on because small boy reasons and things that go bump, he drifted off. The sound of soft snoring filled the room immediately.

Breanna returned a few minutes later, kissed his sweaty forehead and whispered, "I'll be back as soon as I can, little Ranger." She plugged in a small rechargeable night light beside his bed. "Light off," she said, watching the cleaning bot limp back into its hole in the wall. The bot made her feel sad and lonely.

The night air was sticky, it had been raining earlier that evening and the streets were wet. An unusual congestion filled the sidewalks. The sounds of an event over in the financial district floated on the air. The unanticipated crowds slowed her progress more than she liked.

For the first 10 blocks, Breanna had worried Martin's illness was becoming serious. But after making it only a 1/3 of the way to her destination in an hour, terror gripped her stomach. She might not make it to the pharmacy, and Martin's illness could worsen.

Breanna looked up, wishing she could see the stars, but knew they wouldn't be there. She had never actually seen stars in anything other than pictures. They must look beautiful, she thought. She dreamed of being surrounded by them as she and Martin rocketed away.

The night sky had an eerie blank look, as if something was missing. Not even the gaudy neon lights reflected off the surface of the shield. It absorbed all energy; even those light rays. She was used to the empty sky overhead. But the crowds of gawking off-worlders stopping every so often to stare up in disbelief prevented her from making progress. To them, it was new. The constant clusters of awed gawkers caused her to have to either wait until they broke up or risk going out into the busy street. To reach the pharmacy quicker, Breanna walked on the edge of the street, barely dodging the occasional electric vehicle passing by at dizzying speeds. More than a few times, she jumped into the crowded sidewalk to keep from being struck. Once, she felt the wind of a car bumper as it barely missed her.

As the hour grew late and the time needed to reach, the pharmacy came close to an end, a blinding white light exploded behind her and a 300 foot jet black shadow raced outward from her feet to the horizon. A split second later, a gust of searing hot wind slammed her to the ground with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs.

"Martin!" she cried out, laying face down on a sidewalk covered with fallen bodies looking like a toppled forest..

Breanna rolled onto her backside, hands covering her ears as the explosion reflected off the barrier. The dome high overhead seemed to glow and vibrate. That's not supposed to happen, she thought, peering up in shock. Tears streamed down her dirty cheeks as blood trickled from her scuffed knees to the tops of her feet. Some horrified pedestrians nearby pulled themselves to their feet and ran off screaming while others rose in shock, staring at the eruption of flames in the distance.

The quarantine zone was on fire, and even though the flames were 25 blocks away, Breanna could feel the heat reflecting off the shield thousands of feet above the city. That was equally bad. The shield capacitors overloaded. Energy deflected back down onto the city. "Can the lightning storm get through?" she asked herself.

There was no time to think, Breanna saw an entire sector of the city go dark and then another. She stood up, mouth agape, staring at the oncoming darkness, gripped by one thought; Martin was home alone. She knew their home was safe, but the power outages meant Martin only had a battery operated night light for company. She prayed he hadn't woken. Her first thought was to run home. But if the power outage reached Boylston Street before she did, she couldn't purchase Martin's medicine.

Breanna reeled around, darted through the mesmerized crowd standing in the streets like storefront mannequins, and barely made it a hundred feet before the now utterly dumbfounded crowd made progress all but impossible. A mass of gawking spectators flooded the street to witness the flame's first hand, and none of them seemed interested in letting a little girl pass.

The darkness raced past her, stopping a few blocks ahead. She was lucky. The power outage stopped two blocks short of reaching Boylston Street. But she didn't feel a sense of relief until a sign for Boylston Street came into view. It was 7:58 PM, and Martin's would-be savior was still standing at the bottom of a long hill. Realizing the lights in the pharmacy window were still on, she ran up the hill wearing a giant grin of elation. There may still be time, she thought. The open sign in the front window still glowed red. I can make it.

Racing up the hill, weaving between random strangers, dodging others running at her, she shoved through a herd of mouth gaping onlookers who didn't see her or care to stand aside. An old wino preaching an end of days sermon stood on a box in the near distance. His voice boomed over the din as if he were yelling to her. For a moment, their eyes locked and Breanna stopped to hear him speak. The crowd melted away, their eyes looked on one another and in the briefest time, the pharmacy's outside lights flicked off, the open sign faded away and darkness filled the storefront window. Breanna ran to the door, tugged wildly at the handle, kicked at the thick glass refusing her entry and screamed for someone to let her in. But no one came; the pharmacy had closed, Martin's last chance for medicine had come and gone.

The old man came to her, handing her a handkerchief to wipe the blood from her knees. "It's alright, little one. The master always provides."

"Yeah, mister." she snapped, pointing at the darkness beyond the glass. "Can the master get me medicine?"

"No." the old man admitted, staring down at her with a look of reverence. "But if you run around back, you may catch the pharmacist before he leaves."

Breanna's mind filled with the thought of returning home with Martin's medicine. She barged past the old man almost knocking him off his feet, rounded the corner into a tall narrow alley that stunk of garbage and sewer. The dimly lit alley had one way in and one way out. A more cautious person would have thought twice before entering. But she was intent on getting what she came for.

She raced through the alley scaring stray cats off dumpsters and rounded the back corner just in time to watch a hover car lift off in a cloud of spreading white vapor and stinging grit. She screamed for the pharmacist to wait; to come back and help while there was still a chance. But the car slipped into the blank sky and sped away.

The old man stood in the empty alley, peering around the corner, watching in silence. When Breanna was alone, he placed a dirty hand over his heart, raised the other hand high into the air and prayed, "Just as you foretold, master. She has come."

Before Breanna could react, the old man was behind her, grabbing her and dragging her kicking helplessly into the alley far from prying eyes. An ear-piercing scream erupted from the mouth of the alley. But no one heard. And here, at the end of the Galaxy, on a cruel world where everything weighs out in wealth and lineage, who would come to the aid of an innocent child in need?