The Horicon Experience (Galactic Axia Adventure)

by Jim Laughter

  The Horicon Experience

  Book 2 of the

  Galactic Axia Adventure Series

  * * *

  Jim Laughter

  Denton, Texas

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Axia Books

  An imprint of AWOC.COM Publishing

  P.O. Box 2819

  Denton, TX 76202

  © 2014 by Jim Laughter

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. All characters and concepts of Galactic Axia are the property of the author and may not be used in any other work by any other author without written permission by AWOC.COM Publishing and Jim Laughter.

  ISBN: 978-1-62016-099-2 Ebook

  “And Jabez called on the God of Israel saying ‘Oh, that you would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that your hand would be with me, and that you would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain!’ So God granted him what he requested.”

  1 Chronicles 4:10 NKJV

  Chapter One

  Many millennia before the present age

  The cool morning light of Rolai, the secondary star of their solar system, cast eerie shadows across the veranda of Councilor Mesiman’s chamber while he consulted with his Primary Advisor.

  Keeping one eye on this personage before him, the Councilor turned his other eye stalk toward that place between the peaks where Acetam would soon rise. He would normally look forward to the warmer of their two stars, especially on this strangely chill morning. But the recent evidence of his own eyes, along with the report related to him by the Primary Advisor, dispelled any romantic notions he had carried from when he had first crawled from the nesting bowl.

  “What are the latest reports from the probes?” Councilor Mesiman asked while he continued to watch both his adviser/friend and the rising sun.

  “Probes of Acetam’s corona verify the initial projections,” Primary Advisor Efera replied sadly.

  “And the orbital sensors?”

  “A cascading instability is in effect.”

  “What of the plans to counter it?” Mesiman asked hopefully. The briefing several cycles earlier informed him of a number of attempts to reverse the unexpected problems with one of the binary stars around which their planet revolved.

  “Unfortunately, their efforts have had a deleterious effect,” Efera told the Councilor.

  “Deleterious?” Mesiman asked, now turning both eye stalks to focus on his advisor. “There was no mention of the possibility of deleterious effects!”

  “No one foresaw them,” Efera admitted.

  Before Councilor Mesiman could further question, Acetam began to crest between the double peaks of Mosma, the most majestic mountain on the planet Horicon. Even to the unaided eye, it was obvious the star was in trouble. Instead of its normal yellow−orange brightness, there were variations of shade as the turmoil of Acetam’s atomic fires roiled just beneath the star’s surface. The light it shed upon their fair planet was harsh rather than the nurturing light it had shed for eight billion Horicon years.

  “Councilor?” Efera pleaded as he headed inside where the shielding blocked the harmful effects of Acetam’s rays. Sighing to himself, Mesiman heeded his adviser and friend’s request and moved indoors. Not that it would matter. Their top scientists had projected the eventual outcome of Acetam’s instability. The result would be fatal for all that inhabited the planet. Extinction was inevitable.

  With the Councilor safely inside, Efera activated the shuttering system normally used to deflect Acetam’s daytime heat. For now, it offered some protection. But soon it would not be enough to stop the lethal rays from the star’s death throes.

  Moving across the interior flooring of soft mosses, Mesiman found himself grieving for the soothing growth. All too soon, it would shrivel and die like all other life on their little orb in space. The pair proceeded through the heavy doors and down into the depths, their way lit by phosphorescent plants growing on the ceiling of the wide hallways.

  Arriving at a secluded inner meeting room, Councilor Mesiman took his place at the bottom of the discussion pit. He looked up hopefully at those surrounding him. Efera was on the next level above him along with his other senior advisors. Each level upward signified a position of lesser prestige and responsibility, topped by a ring of minor officials.

  As Supreme Councilor, Mesiman rested in the center at the bottom, indicating that his was the place of supreme service upon which his species depended. Many score of cycles had elapsed since Mesiman had been on the upper ring. A lifetime of service to his species and planet had taken him level by level down to this honored place. And now the burden of the future of his planet rested on him.

  It was with grave sadness that Mesiman realized he was likely the last to occupy the center pad. At the sound of a gong, all eye stalks turned toward the Councilor as the emergency meeting came to order.

  A minor official on the topmost ring announced the time and date of this event. For a creature so young, his voice carried in it the culminated history of their long-lived civilization, singing their generations, time upon time back for countless eons. And now, mused Mesiman, when we need it the most, there is almost no time left.

  In light of the gravity of the situation, minor formalities were set aside. Past matters of importance were now but minor trivia, so review was superfluous. The room grew silent while all the advisors from least to the greatest waited for Councilor Mesiman to speak.

  In a voice that would be more vibration than words to a human, Mesiman addressed those he had called together.

  “By the nest that brought us forth, I have summoned you that matters may be clear to all who follow the Enlightened Way,” Mesiman rumbled. “Our responsibility has been vested in us by those who have passed into morning that we may not fail even the least of the weakest grub in its birthing nest.”

  A murmur of assent rose from the tiered ranks.

  “May it be recorded that we have not shirked our duty to our kind. May our neighbors in the cosmos find us worthy of remembrance when we too embrace the everlasting morning. May the Seed of Truth be preserved for the future. This is our legacy.”

  Many of the advisers above him rose to all eight feet instead of their usual six and hummed in affirmation, filling the chamber with a buzz of assent.

  Mesiman waited patiently for this gathering to again quiet. Oh that I might be able to grant them long life! Mesiman thought while he viewed those who looked to him for guidance and strength. In the core of his very being, he knew there was little hope. It was with this desire of hope that he called them together, in spite of the calamity that had befallen them all.

  When finally they all settled did he continue to address them. Expectation was electric, especially among the youth seated far above.

  “I will now address the different specialists in regard to their fields of expertise,” Mesiman intoned. “I admonish that all be brought forth that even in the least we might find a pathway by which to guide our race.”

  Another buzz of a hundred voices filled the room.

  “History and Archives,” Mesiman called out.

  “History and Archives report,” a shaky voice answered from t
wo rows up. Mesiman looked up to an elder not much younger than himself, but who was unfamiliar to the Councilor. That there had been many changes in the hierarchy as a result of the upheavals was unfortunate. But Mesiman had no doubt this individual could speak with authority for his field in the place of his now missing and presumed dead predecessor.

  “How speak you?” Mesiman asked.

  “As directed, we have performed an exhaustive search of all records, both private and public for any reference to such calamity,” the elder replied. “Many references have been found from past probes of such events and even shared information from the Jibbah. In no case, however, was there found any successful way to avert the deterioration we are now seeing in Acetam.”

  “Geology,” Mesiman called out.

  “Geology has completed the study as directed,” a young one from Geology answered. “The tectonic shifts have resumed in all areas. Radiation from Acetam has penetrated to the third level. Factoring for projected peaks, we feel that below level eleven radiation would be safe for continued existence. However, it is unknown what the effect on the planet’s core will be when Acetam’s disturbance reaches its peak. Core samples show that temperatures are slowly rising, further destabilizing the tectonic plates above.”

  “Atmospheric,” Mesiman called.

  An Old One under whom Mesiman had once studied rose to speak. His legs were weak and it took six of them to hold him steady.

  “As expected, the flares from Acetam are disrupting the fields that protect our fair planet.” His voice trembled when he spoke.

  “Within fifty cycles, the last of the fields will be gone and the surface will be open to direct radiation from Acetam. By that time, however, few will notice. Breathable atmosphere will no longer exist as vegetation withers under Acetam’s glare. Artificial means to produce enough breathable atmosphere for our population is impossible.”

  “How much time remains for tolerable conditions?”

  “Based on the projections of Cosmology, thirty-five cycles at best,” the elder answered. “By evacuating the habitations at altitude, we might gain another two or three cycles at best.”

  “Infrastructure,” Mesiman called.

  “As expected, we are already experiencing serious disruptions in surface installations,” another rumbled. “Both power and communications are functioning at about seventy percent, depending on the size and types of flares from Acetam. Systems comprised of shielded carriers, as well as those under the surface, have fared better but are experiencing damage due to tectonic tremors.”

  As if to illustrate, a small tremor shook the underground room. The artificial lights shuttered briefly, though the phosphorescent plants kept the room reasonably lit.

  “Most of the regional networking units have experienced failure, even though they are all vaulted below level seven. If the radiation doesn’t destroy them, the tremors eventually will.”

  “Cosmology,” called out Mesiman. Up to now, the reports had been expectantly grim. Here was the one department that might offer a sliver of hope.

  “Cosmology reporting,” a Young One who could not have been more than two or three hundred cycles old answered from level four above. “We have recorded erratic fluctuations in the flares from Acetam. Although we had originally projected the increased frequency and duration of the events, recently they have not always held true.”

  “Any chance it may stop?” a question fell from one of the upper tiers.

  “There is always that possibility. But for our survival, it is a moot point. Past observation of other stars has shown a few such cases out of thousands. In every case, even if the planet survived, life on it had not. Even the Jibbah have not observed an exception.”

  “Exploratory!” Mesiman demanded.

  “Exploratory remains hopeful,” was the unusual reply.

  “Explain yourself,” Mesiman rumbled.

  “We have been in consultation with the Jibbah, among others,” he answered. “As you are aware, our physiology creates special challenges even to such an inventive species as the Jibbah. However, they are trying to come up with some means by which we might save a few. Unfortunately, no definitive results have been forthcoming.”

  “Couldn’t they just transport us to another planet?” someone asked out of turn.

  “In theory, it is possible. But measurements by the Jibbah show that even if we were to survive such a move, it is likely we would all be sterilized in the process.”

  “Can nothing then be done?” Mesiman asked.

  “The Jibbah are ever hopeful and are applying their considerable expertise to the problem. As of this moment, however, they admit to being frustrated at the contradictory requirements for us to travel in space.”

  The meeting room fell silent as all pondered this final report. Councilor Mesiman felt all eyes on him as he tried to come to a decision in the face of almost certain destruction for his race.

  “All departments,” he finally said, “are to continue all efforts to adapt to changes as they occur. Exploratory and History remain after dismissal.”

  With that, a junior member of the council struck a gong and all but the representatives of the Exploratory and History departments left the meeting arena. When the others were gone, these few shifted down to the lowest level with the Councilor.

  “Time is clearly against us,” Mesiman said. “Exploratory, continue your efforts, especially with the Jibbah. However, do not neglect other cosmic neighbors for solutions to stabilize Acetam. If we can’t stop our sun from dying, maybe we can move our world to a safer place.”

  “But that’s impossible!” the head of Exploratory exclaimed.

  “No more impossible than moving our entire race to safety,” Mesiman retorted. “What I’m saying is to even look at the unconventional for a possible option. It may take a combination from more than one source to come up with an acceptable answer.”

  “History,” Mesiman said, addressing the others. “I want you to make a complete compilation of all our records, accomplishments, and observations. Send it to out to our cosmic neighbors but most especially the Jibbah. Maybe they can find an answer among it that we can’t see.”

  “But that would . . .” the History Councilor stammered.

  “Yes, I know it means dredging up our not so wonderful past,” Mesiman remarked. “But it is necessary. We can’t change the past, but maybe, we can save our future.”

  Chapter Two

  Present time

  The crack of the heavy hunting rifle echoed in the rocky hollow; the slug kicking up dirt several feet left of the target.

  “What’s wrong, Stan?” asked Delmar Eagleman with a grin as he took Stan’s rifle and cycled another round into the chamber. “A bit more kick than you expected?”

  “I knew it would have some recoil action, but nowhere near that much!” Stan Shane exclaimed, rubbing his upper arm near his right shoulder.

  “I told you to keep the stock pulled firmly into your shoulder,” Robert Hassel said. He finished loading his own rifle and prepared to shoot.

  “I know. But I didn’t think a single slug could pack so much wallop.”

  “You’re just used to the non-recoil blaster and long weapon the service uses,” his friend Delmar commented with a laugh.

  “Take it easy on him, son,” Robert said. “They haven’t had percussion weapons on Stan’s planet for several centuries.”

  The conversation stopped while Robert raised his rifle and aimed downrange. In only seconds, there appeared a tight pattern of seven hits slightly below center of the target. Robert cycled the last spent brass out of the lever action and turned to grin at the two young men.

  “You’re still dropping just a touch, Dad,” commented Delmar. Robert looked at him with a puzzled expression and then remembered to remove his ear protectors.

  “What’d ya say?” Delmar and Stan both laughed. Robert, pretending to ignore the boys, headed down range to retrieve his target. Delmar took the hint and gathered th
e rest of their gear while Stan collected the spent cartridges for later reloading. When Robert returned, they all hiked back to the farmhouse a half mile away.

  Agnes Hassel, Delmar’s adoptive mother, had just set the coffee mugs on the table when the three men came stomping in. Stan was still rubbing his arm but all three wore smiles of satisfaction. In the two weeks since the boys arrived on Erdinata for their after-basic leave, Agnes had grown fond of Delmar’s friend. When Robert suggested the shoot, Agnes tried to discourage it because both young men were still recovering from combat injuries. But she knew she’d lost when she saw that proud, fatherly, determined look her husband so often wore.

  After shedding their coats, Robert told the boys to bring the guns into the utility room for cleaning. “Oh! Let it wait until after lunch!” Agnes argued. From the look on the boy’s faces, they agreed.

  “All right,” said Robert, lifting up his hands in mock surrender. “I know when I’m outnumbered.”

  The men stashed the rifles in the utility room and took turns washing up at the slop sink. By the time Delmar and Stan finished, Robert had retrieved three mugs of hot coffee.

  “Sit while I bring things,” she said while she stirred something on the stove. Robert grinned at the young men who took their seats. In short order, Agnes had the food on the table and took her place on Robert’s left. All bowed their heads while Robert asked the blessing of the Unseen One.

  Within minutes, the boys were facing bowls filled with stew. Robert ladled it out instead of passing the heavy pot. To Delmar’s delight, cornbread with butter and honey rounded out the repast. It had been almost a year since he’d tasted anything but the synthesizer’s version of Agnes’ cooking.

  Stan rubbed his full belly when he finished his second helping of stew. After going shooting and the hike back in the cold, he could not seem to get enough. Then Agnes got up and brought one of her famous apple pies to the table. Robert and Delmar both grinned. Stan let out a low groan.