Quantum Dark: The Classic Sci-fi Adventure (The Star Rim Empire Adventures Book 1)

by R. A. Nargi

  Quantum Dark

  The Classic Sci-fi Adventure

  R.A. Nargi

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Free Prequel Story

  The Well of Forever

  Dear Reader

  Also by R.A. Nargi

  This book is for Jack L. Chalker, Roger Zelazny, Philip José Farmer, Edgar Rice Burroughs, C.L. Moore, and Leigh Brackett—for reasons known only to each of them.

  The mid-24th century is a golden age of discovery.

  Dead civilizations are strewn throughout our own and neighboring galaxies—providing a treasure trove of unfamiliar technology which borders on magic. Specialized salvage companies compete to plunder alien worlds, and celebrated xeno-archaeologists capture the imagination of society with their exploits.

  No one is more famous than Sean Beck, a daring explorer whose exploits are known in every corner of the Empire.

  1

  “We suffer more in imagination than in reality.”

  Seneca

  Maybe I had fallen asleep for a few seconds. Hard to believe with all the drugs in me, but you never know. It was a weird feeling. Almost like I was out of my body—in blackness. Disconnected from everything.

  I sensed a pinpoint of light. Far away. As I stared at it, the light grew larger—like I was being pulled into it.

  Then all of a sudden I was back. In my bed. Sandwiched in between a slumbering blonde and a brunette. We were all naked, curled together. A pile of warm flesh. I inhaled sweet female perfume, mixed with smoky mincham incense.

  The blonde I knew, of course. Lirala. My on-again, off-again girlfriend. Fiancée, if you wanted to be accurate.

  The other woman had pitch black hair and dusky skin. Her body was unfashionably adorned. Gold dangles, hoops, bracelets, anklets, necklaces, rings. Every inch of her glittered. Her lips were full and sensual, her cheekbones high, and her nose straight and sharp. Beautiful, but again, not the style. Most women—like Lirala—opted for a more rounded, less severe face. The miruku look, it was called. This girl—whoever she was—was definitely not from New Torino.

  I concentrated on her and forced myself to remember. The facts started to seep back into my brain.

  She was 22 years old. From Amravadi. That explained the provincial look.

  Her name was Preity Kapoor.

  Then it all came back to me.

  Pretty.

  That was how Lirala laughingly introduced her to me earlier in the evening. Pretty Kapoor.

  “No,” the girl had said shyly. “Preity. My name is Preity.”

  We had all met after the Stones concert. Backstage. A private party with Mick and the boys—who actually sounded pretty good for a band that was nearly 500 years old. Of course they were simulacrums, but they could still rock. Especially Keith.

  Lir had sauntered in with this girl. Her newest plaything, I figured. But it didn’t really bother me. Lirala was always happy to share. And share she did.

  Mystery solved, I eased myself out of the big circular bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping women. Lir was a banshee if you woke her prematurely from sleep. Especially a ghir-induced slumber. I didn’t want to have to deal with that.

  I was a little wobbly as I stood up. As I recalled, it had been a pretty sick evening and I was sure my toxies would be off the charts. But I didn’t really care. Yesterday had been my birthday, after all. Thirty-two years of progress. A milestone that had to be honored with the requisite amount of enthusiasm. And by enthusiasm I meant copious amounts of drink, drugs, and debauchery.

  Mission accomplished.

  In the big bathroom, in a sink carved from very expensive twiluusian halo stone, I puked. Four times in all. A surprising volume of food, drink, and chemical substances. But it worked. My head began to clear.

  I always appreciated the symbolism of a good spewing.

  Out with the old, in with the new. A purging of bad habits and poor decisions. A chance to begin again, as they say.

  The bio sensors did their thing. Fans whirred. Scanners scanned. And while I was still catching my breath, Mr. Jeris made his appearance.

  I called him “Mr. Jeris” but he was a late-model BoDyn medical bot with zero anthro features. He was basically a mobile computer, a big hunk of plastic and servos. Property of Beck Salvage. And one of my uncle’s watchful eyes.

  Mr. Jeris announced that I should hold still, but he didn’t have to tell me. I knew the drill.

  As I slumped against the bathroom wall, Mr. Jeris pressed one of his sensors into the crook of my elbow and another one against my neck.

  Then he began to administer a witch’s potion of restoratives, designed to basically nullify all the hard work I’d put in destroying my mind and body over the previous twelve hours of partying. It seemed like such a waste.

  But, again, part of the deal with my uncle. I was as much property of Beck Salvage as Mr. Jeris was.

  “Hey,” a lightly-accented voice said from the doorway. It was the voice of the girl in my bed. Pretty.

  “Mind if I get some of that too?”

  She looked a little worse for wear too, with dark circles under her eyes. But she was still beautiful—in a strange, exotic way.

  “No problem.”

  I instructed Mr. Jeris to treat Pretty and, after she consented to a waiver, he did so.

  Soon we were both feeling much more normal. And after topping things off with some B-stim and a blast of hydria, we felt better than normal. It was Pretty’s first experience with the gas that was a staple in the medstation of every young aristocrat in New Torino. At least those who could afford it.

  Grinning, she looked me up and down. “I could get used to this.”

  I shrugged. “Partying can be hard work.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You want some moxa?”

  “I should go. I basically crashed your party.”

  “Nonsense. Any friend of Lirala’s is a friend of mine. And I mean that quite literally.”

  Pretty looked down, a blush coloring her cheeks. “This is all pretty new to me. I hope it was okay.”

  I smiled at her. “From what I can remember, more than okay. Help yourself to a robe and meet me in the dining room. I’ve got real moxa and sachan tea if you want it.”

  “Should I wake Lirala?”

  “Not a good idea. Let’s just say that Lir values her beauty sleep.” Privately, I pictured an enraged Lirala, kicking, punching, and ripping the jewelry from her friend’s flesh. No, you didn’t want to wake Lir up.

  Fifteen minutes later, as I was leaning over the balcony, inhaling the aroma of rich Ardovan moxa, Pretty walked over wearing a borrowed robe. Her dark hair was wet from a quick shower.

  “Wow, that’s some view,” she said.

  I nodded and handed her a moxa.

  It was some view. Probably the best view—or one of the best in the city. My domus was on the far western edge of N
ew Torino, on a hill that jutted a little farther west than everything else, so mostly what I saw down below was the pristine Arden river, fifty kilometers wide and 40,000 kilometers long, that ran around the equator of Anglad. Technically, the Arden was a sea, but river sounded more romantic. And when you are terraforming a planet, you can make up whatever names you want.

  “How fast are we going?” Pretty asked.

  It was a question just about everyone wondered about when they first encountered the floating city.

  “Not too fast,” I said. “Five or six kilometers an hour.” And then, before she could ask the expected follow-up question, I said, “It takes almost a full year to make a full circle around the globe.”

  “Must be nice to always have a change of scenery.” She nodded to the range of mountains to the southwest.

  “To be honest, it all kind of blends together, besides the bridge cities, of course. There are a bunch of forests, jungles, and mountain ranges, and one kind-of-small desert. You don’t see much at this elevation.”

  “Still, it beats living underground.”

  I had heard that the winds were bad on Amravadi, but I also knew that millions of people still lived there, mostly in subterranean cities. Which wouldn’t be an option for me—no matter how good the screens were.

  “What brings you to New Torino?” I asked.

  She took a sip of her moxa. “Oh, my family wanted me to see the galaxy. I’m spending a year with my aunt here. Then it’s off to Rygond and Kulah-to. Grand Tour.”

  “Then back to Amravadi?”

  Pretty shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll come back here. Work at my aunt’s stables.”

  “Ah, that’s how you know Lirala.”

  The Windsing family have been raising champion horses for centuries, and much of their stock came from original Earth bloodlines. The only thing Lir loved more than her drugs were her horses.

  “Yeah. She wants to take me under her wing.”

  “May the gods help you.” I smiled at her.

  “I should actually get going soon. I need to get back to my aunt’s and do some stuff. Then Lirala and I are supposed to go shopping later on. She said my look is all wrong.”

  “Don’t listen to her. You look beautiful.”

  She blushed again.

  We didn’t say anything for a good long while. Just finished up our moxa and stared off at the river, which was covered by a rolling mist that was just starting to burn off. Flocks of black hafon noisily winged their way over the surface of the water, snatching fish that glistened in the morning light like Pretty’s jewelry.

  “Does your dad live here too?” Pretty asked. “I mean, in New Torino?”

  I had wondered how long it would take her to mention my father. Pretty much everyone does, sooner or later. When you’re the son of one of the most famous men in the galaxy, you really can’t get away from it. Still, I felt a tinge of disappointment. I was hoping that Pretty would be different.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  I said the words without emotion. Just stating a fact. But Pretty must have been very sensitive. Her expression immediately clouded and she began to apologize. Profusely.

  “No big deal,” I said. “My father’s actually a pretty private person and we’re not that close, to be honest.”

  “I’m so sorry. I can be a real dimbag.” She got up to leave, her face red.

  “Hey, Pretty—”

  She spun on her heel at the doorway. “It’s Preity, actually.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I thought that was your nickname.”

  “Only according to Lirala. I hope it doesn’t stick.”

  “Anyway, I was going to say that you should hang out today. A bunch of us are going hover-skimming later.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. It’s much more fun than horseback riding.”

  “Yeah, we don’t really do that at my aunt’s. The horses are more for show.”

  “Well, it’s more fun than shopping. Seriously, think about it. We’re connected on overlay, right?”

  “Yeah, Lirala did all that all last night. Is that okay?”

  “Of course it’s okay.”

  Yeah, Lirala liked to share. As long as it was on her terms.

  Pretty—Preity looked down. “Well, bye. This was really fun. Tell Lirala to call me when she wakes up.”

  “I hope I see you later.”

  After she left, I got myself another cup of moxa and returned to the balcony. The day had started so well, but as usual, my father’s presence cast a shadow over everything.

  It was hard for most people to comprehend. My father was not just a celebrity. Sean Beck was a legend. An explorer and adventurer who braved unimaginable dangers and unearthed all sorts of ancient treasures from long long-dead civilizations. And he did it with the flair and panache of the best showman who ever lived.

  Billions of people across systems far and wide knew his name and followed his exploits. And as a result, he became extremely wealthy, as did the family business, the fake-modestly-named Beck Salvage.

  It was one of the greatest success stories of the past fifty years.

  The only problem was that Sean Beck wasn’t the man people thought he was.

  He was me.

  2

  When I returned to my bedroom, Lirala was awake. She stretched, catlike, and regarded me with her large, bright eyes—looking altogether too good for this early in the day. Especially after everything she had indulged in last night.

  “So, did you like your birthday present?”

  “What birthday present?”

  “The Pretty one.”

  “As I recall, she was actually more your birthday present than mine.”

  Lirala pouted. “I can’t help it if you’re so parochial.”

  “Neither can I.”

  The fact was, like most everyone from my class and generation, I was a custom baby, mapped out, steered, and bioengineered to be exactly what my parents wanted. Well, what my father wanted. That extended beyond what I looked like—which was pretty much a physical replica of old Sean. It extended to my emotional and sexual disposition, decidedly too hetero and monogamous in Lir’s opinion. More than once, I had wondered what she saw in me.

  Other than my dad, of course.

  “I’m going to Morat Ridge,” I announced. “With Kane and Hoedi.”

  “Have fun.”

  “I thought you and Preity could join us.”

  “Sucking dust all day long? No thanks. I’m going to get her into Taniujo. Girl needs some fixing. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Suit yourself. Maybe we’ll meet up afterwards.”

  “Of course, darling.” Lirala glided towards the bathroom. “Cavershams at eight. I’ll unveil my new creation. It’ll be brilliant.”

  I never made it to Cavershams. In fact, I never even made it to hover-skimming. Within the hour, I was on a shuttle heading for Beck Salvage. Not my choice, though. Never my choice.

  I had been summoned by my uncle. He had a job for me.

  The headquarters of Beck Salvage was on Ducian Bridge, one of the bridge cities that spanned the Arden. Because Ducian was currently half a world away from New Torino, it took two hours to get there, even via the company’s supersonic shuttle. I tried to sleep, but I was still pretty wired from the moxa and B-stim still in my system, so I just stared out of the window.

  I had no idea what the job was. Wallace never provided specifics until I was on the premises. Because of the threat of industrial espionage, he claimed. But I had a hard time believing that the junk we retrieved had value to anyone other than the fanatics who hired us.

  My employment contract with Beck Salvage stipulated that, in addition to the handful of meetings and training sessions I needed to attend every year, I was also on-call for high-level client meetings, either face-to-face or face-to-sim. These meetings usually lasted less than an hour; it was the prep work that took longer. Even though I am a quick study and a trained actor,
I usually needed to spend a day or two in the knowledge tank getting briefed before Wallace felt confident that I wouldn’t blow the gig. Hopefully this new job was more grin and grip than anything else. A surprisingly large percentage of clients just wanted to bask in my celebrity. Or my dad’s, to be more accurate.

  It was late in the afternoon by the time the lift doors opened and I was ushered through the security tunnel and finally granted access to the reception area of Beck Salvage. The decor was the same ersatz old Kessig Republic look that had adorned the offices since before I was born. Big blocky furniture and trophy cases made of lacquered exotic woods dominated the room. Severe-looking artwork of geometric shapes and strong blues, blacks, and metallics decorated the walls. Even Thalatea, the corporate hostess who presided over the reception area, dressed in sharp angular suits and wore her hair styled in sleek marcelled waves.

  “Good to see you sir,” she nodded. “How’s the shoulder?”

  My shoulder injury was completely fictional, but it was part of this quarter’s Sean Beck narrative, so I played along.

  “Almost completely back to normal. Thank you, Thalatea.”

  “Mr. Beck is expecting you in the Bay Room.”

  I nodded to her and walked down a dark glass corridor dotted with amber lights, past rooms of analysts and researchers that seemed less populated than I remembered. For security reasons, Wallace required the entire research department to work on premises. I wondered why the place looked so empty.

  At the end of the corridor I was met by Hendrik Lim, Wallace’s second-in-command, a slight, weaselly man prone to inappropriate jokes.