The Andromeda Project (The Cluster Chronicles Book 1)

by Jason Michael Primrose

  “I’ll let you walk out of here alive as a favor to your lovely wife slash mother of your son,” Brandt retorted and loaded the rifle. “But you only have a limited time offer.”

  Without being sure how serious his former friend was, Patrick opened the Mustang’s door and got inside, “We’re all gonna die cause you want to play hero. You don’t have the facts. You don’t even look for them, that’s why you’re always following and not leading.” The Mustang navigated away from the line of Hummers and squealed off, jolting Allister awake. “Hold on, buddy,” Patrick said, taking his son under one arm. He peeled into a U-turn and the 120 horse-powered engine screamed as the vehicle sped toward the blockade.

  Brandt moved out of the car’s path and raised the rifle to fire but hesitated when he had a clear shot. “God dammit,” he said. The car slipped between two Hummers and was too far away by the time the other soldiers scrambled their weapons together to fire a shot.

  “Man, this is so fucked,” Patrick said, checking the rearview mirror. Allister might’ve been safer at home. His son shivered under his protective arm.

  “Was that Uncle Brandt?” Allister asked sleepily.

  Rain was in the forecast for sometime that evening and clouds gathered as confirmation. Patrick pulled into the plant parking lot and turned off the car. The phone in the cup holder vibrated. It was Nicolas again. Patrick didn’t know if it was worse to answer or worse not to answer. The confrontation with Brandt shook him up. It went to voicemail. Texts popped up on the screen one after the other.

  “Where are you, Patrick?”

  “You better not be helping that fucking alien.”

  “You better not be betraying your country.”

  “Answer me.”

  Patrick kissed Allister on top of his head. “We’re gonna play the invisible game. Don’t move and don’t say a word.”

  Although it can be difficult to tell who the enemy is, Patrick had a sixth sense about knowing when people were good or not. He walked across the grass field with his hands in his pockets wondering if it were his fault Brandt went to the bad side. At some point mentoring his younger friend became frustrating, perhaps if he’d been more patient after the second DUI. But between Brandt’s irresponsibility of getting trashed when his wife had a baby on the way and the constantly asking for money Patrick didn’t have, their friendship downgraded to cordial neighbors in a matter of a couple of years. Now Brandt had something to prove.

  The night sky hung over the open center of the dome-shaped facility. Neight was already examining his original ship. “You missed a few things but did well considering your…inferior intellect,” Neight said, attempting what humanity considered “joking.”

  “How many times do I got ta tell you that’s not a compliment?” Patrick rolled his eyes, still not accustomed to Neight’s awkward delivery of the English language. Patrick’s feet pattered down the flight of stairs like a puppy entering a basement.

  “I deem it such. Take it or leave it, as your people say,” Neight replied, fussing with the controls on the dimly lit ground floor. Patrick got the joke and the right side of his mouth turned up.

  “Did you run into any trouble on your way here?” the towering alien said without an ounce of humor.

  Patrick frowned, “A little.” He stared at the wall in front of him; the collage of news stories, online editorial coverage, and magazine articles about the myriad of alien sightings purported to have occurred in Cumberland stared back. Sprinkled in were other stories tied to current world affairs, national debt, a new world currency in development, nuclear tensions between North Korea, Russia, and the United States. One headline read Cumberland Falls: Home of the Aliens. He tore the sheet from the wall and read the first few lines, A place where nothing happens, except that one thing. Patrick pushed it away, he had memorized the entire transcript; it dictated rumors of the government’s secret projects and partnerships, accompanied by a picture of them when they broke ground on the new plant. Neight stood next to him in the photo.

  “Your work on the mathematics of these configurations is remarkable.” He placed a clawed hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “How is Allister?”

  “Smart fuckin kid, man,” Patrick said, shivering against the chilled embrace. “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know how you did it.” He shivered again. It was more anxiety than the temperature of Neight’s hand. Patrick wasn’t confident in Allister’s safety inside the car. Dolores was right, sometimes he didn’t think things through.

  “You saved my life. But this is what I have been waiting for. My calculations were off, give or take a few Earth days—“ Neight returned to the giant device to double check the construction.

  There was a platform in the center of the plant ahead of the repaired spacecraft that brought him to Earth. Four round columns positioned in a square at the perimeter of it were wide at the bottom and got smaller as they ascended. The columns were tall, topped with small round balls and curved inward with metal rings from the base to the middle. A sharply pointed obelisk built of ancient Earth materials jutted up from the center, standing taller than the columns. It resembled a really dangerous playground. Neight counted the rings then nodded in approval before stepping over to the controls. “Have you tested this?”

  “Yeah, but we were having a shit ton of trouble summoning enough power to make it work. Kept blacking out the town. We haven’t been able to turn the thing on for more than a few seconds,” Patrick admitted.

  “The nuclear reactor is plenty of power.”

  “Pretty sure that Ashur kid fucked up my paperwork again and delayed the delivery from our source. So the, uhm, parts came last week.” Patrick pointed at the half complete reactor.

  “We need to recalibrate the machine and complete this now.” Neight was too close to success to be angry but frustration crossed his mind. He raised his hands in the air and the remaining parts of the miniature reactor swirled. It built itself, adding an external water pump, a condenser, and a generator next to the operating core of the giant machine. The alien stepped between two columns onto the platform.

  Patrick ran over to the computer system to pull up blueprints of the device. He started through eight configurations in order to recalibrate the machine. As he moved through them, the machine buzzed, lighting the plant like a Christmas tree. The base of the device whirled the pointed columns around the platform obstructing Neight from view.

  Noise made it impossible to hear. Patrick started the sixth configuration when bolts of energy drew out of the columns hopping back and forth across them and to the center of the obelisk in front of where Neight stood. A spark shot out from the main computer.

  Patrick leapt back nervously stumbling over a pile of scrap metal. The configurations matched the energy input with the energy output and there were eight types of energy at play. Thermal, electromagnetic, nuclear, ion, gravitational, and three he didn’t understand, including the mysterious magic energy Neight possessed.

  Neight looked back impatiently, needing to wait until the exact moment Patrick was finished the eighth one to start using his power. Once the recalibration was done, the device would turn on the tractor beam coded to the craft’s energy signature. Patrick recovered from the fall and returned to the controls, “easier said than done,” he mumbled to himself, starting on the seventh configuration.

  Brandt was tasked with assembling a group of soldiers to barricade the street leading to the plant. They sat in the fabric seats with their vehicle doors wide open, polishing their weapons, waiting for a hint of action. The few miles of distance masked the noise of volatile energy intensifying but not the visual. Brandt stood on top of the hood squinting at the not-too-far-off building, “the hell is happening down there?”

  “Captain Delemar wants you to report to the Cumberland Cafe in the center of town,” one of the soldiers said to him. “He said answer your phone before he puts a hole in your head.”

  Brandt climbed down and cursed while scrambling into the Hum
mer, “don’t say a word about what happened or I put a hole in yours.” He checked his phone mid-drive, six missed calls.

  “Captain,” he said when Nicolas answered.

  “Brandt, where are you?”

  “On my way now, sir,” Brandt said, reaching the entrance to the highway. He wondered why they were there in the first place. Fuck, is Dolores working? He thought pressing on the gas.

  CAPTAIN JAY BRANDT

  Over the Atlantic Ocean, April 2026

  The six-seater private jet flew quietly on its way to an unknown destination. Between Brandt’s thumb and forefinger twirled a glass of Veuve champagne. He breathed in as if inhaling Atlantic Ocean air, the main cabin’s serenity was a fresh change from the chaos of recent days. Dodging calls and summons from Lieutenant Leesa Delemar regarding Allister’s recruitment. An email came in from Brandt’s former assistant at the Andromeda Project, the investigation had escalated, General Delemar was looking for him. His vacation responder auto-replied, Brandt wasn’t taking emails. Ever again.

  He lifted the glass to his lips. The Cynque watch vibrated for a third time. “He-hello,” he answered.

  “Hello Captain Brandt, this is Savior speaking. How are you enjoying your amenities?”

  “Delicious,” Brandt swallowed the sip of champagne swishing around his mouth.

  “I don’t want to have to tell you again to answer on second vibration. It is important because I start to worry after second one. Do you understand?”

  The minion nodded like it was audible, then blurted out, “yes, yes I understand.”

  “Good. Now, why hasn’t General Delemar been taken out?”

  “He almost was but I don’t know what happened. I had to get outta there, things were getting...complicated.” Another sip. The bubbles tickled his brain.

  “They’re looking for you,” the Savior said insensitively, “it’s only a matter of time before they find out what you did. What you think they do if they found you?”

  Brandt had suffered enough, hopefully a swift death. “What should I do?”

  “Make sure Private Adams finishes job.”

  Their call ended.

  It took Brandt a few years to get comfortable with being a covert operative. He’d done enough terrible things in the past he wished he could take back, adding another didn’t seem like the way to get into Heaven. Lying and betrayal followed him like shadows. But remorse was what kept a hard to place fondness for the Andromeda Project, even though it cost him his family and his home.

  The directors, Nicolas and Ashur, they walked around like their decisions didn’t cause the death of an entire town of innocent people. Not to mention the death of his best friend, it was a shame they weren’t friends when Patrick died. A decision he’d regret the rest of his life. But nobody cared about the consequences and hatred festered for Nicolas in the back of Brandt’s mind.

  The Savior, a faceless name, reached out after the Cumberland incident. Five years after the incident actually, five years to the day. Brandt was mourning, susceptible. “You’re smarter and a better leader than Nicolas,” the stranger coaxed, “Join C20 and lead the human race to elevation.” As a bonus Brandt would watch Nicolas’s life crumble as the rival operation fell.

  Brandt ran into Dolores after she settled down with Allister in Washington, DC in 2021. She was paranoid at first, but they went to coffee and had a never-ending first date. It was nice for her to finally have a friend to talk to and vice versa. They connected on their lost spouses and friends, on Cumberland’s good old days, Neight, the Andromeda Project, even the demise of his friendship with Patrick. All things they weren’t able to discuss in an honest way with anyone else, the relationship blossomed naturally.

  Dolores’ trust and love quelled any need for revenge and he was close to abandoning his offer to join C20. Brandt proposed, but she was afraid to be a family because Allister wouldn’t understand. Rejection led him back into the Savior’s arms.

  The captain polished off the bit of alcohol left and combed through downloaded data. It consisted of the Andromeda Project’s personnel files, their hidden agendas and their upcoming materials on order. He hadn’t been able to figure out what they were trying to build before he left, Nicolas and Russell kept him in the dark about those things. There were many disadvantages to being a minion. But the qualifying advantage: being the one no one expects to cripple the operation. Russell wouldn’t be discovering the C20 locations around the world thanks to well-timed sabotage.

  Brandt didn’t feel like he was following, he felt like he was being taught to lead the direction of an organization with a less selfish vision. He opened a few private emails between Russell and a metal supplier in the Mediterranean. The saleswoman was afraid to ship due to recent losses. Their insurance covered the goods, but the lives ... those got really expensive. Brandt smiled, thinking about their funding being wasted on damage control. “Gotcha,” he said as the flight attendant filled up his empty flute.

  THE ANDROMEDA PROJECT MAIN HQ

  Washington, DC, April 2026

  “They don’t trust me?” Allister asked, plopping onto the bed.

  Florence found his concern more annoying than suspicious. She crossed the room and jotted down a few notes on her paper journal. “We have to be absolutely sure.” There was no place for her to sit. Correction, no place comfortable. Allister relaxed onto the bed and Florence nestled into a hard wooden seat by the entrance. At 12:30 in the morning, comfort was irrelevant.

  The appalled look on her face accompanied the nausea churning in her stomach. Bias against the massive dust build-up, the ever-present smell of unflushed toilets and poor air circulation, came from a privileged upbringing.

  “It’s not too bad…” Allister said.

  Florence adjusted her expression, “This will only take a few minutes, then we can both be off to bed.” She expected him to be sleeping, although it wouldn’t have stopped her from proceeding. Allister was wide-awake like a rebellious child on Christmas Eve. But there was nothing to look forward to the next day. He closed his eyes.

  Florence edged her chin to the air. Lilac toned energy appeared to evaporate from her upper torso and eyes, while blood filled veins crept over the otherwise soft terrain of her face and neck. The strain was incredible.

  Florence’s astral form appeared close to the blue-shielded fortress at the edge of Allister’s consciousness. She watched Allister nod while pointing back at her. Neight turned over his broad armored shoulder and extended a hand. Florence took it as an invitation but it was the activation of Allister’s “mental immune system.” There wasn’t time to fight off a boy’s imagination and a clear wave echoed from her two clenched fists, sending a telepathic stun throughout his brain. Young Allister crumbled into Neight’s arms.

  The fortress and the blue field both intact. If Allister wasn’t in control of it, what was the point?

  “The sky,” Neight mouthed as he lay down the limp child. She waited for sound to reach her. The alien’s face twisted and he repeated himself, then pointed above them. “Ten.”

  Allister knew things, there was no question, but the how was where Florence struggled to piece it all together. Limited knowledge of C20 coupled with superior understanding of the gems. Expansive knowledge of the Universe’s history and concepts, but only an adequate understanding of the inner workings of the Andromeda Project. Calling him a spy was a gross exaggeration. Florence landed in front of Neight.

  “When he seeks, he will find,” Neight’s voice surrounded her like a home theatre. Absorbing knowledge from Nicolas should’ve been a more rewarding effort, if it were on purpose. The general knew all there was to know about the Andromeda Project and its goals. Allister stirred from his impromptu sleep but didn’t fully wake.

  There was still the bit about the impenetrable fortress. Unafraid, Florence studied the intricacy of the magnesium alloy battle helmet with giant downward facing horns Neight wore. She got closer, his grey face partially obscured from view by
the helmet’s face plate, as if he were leading the charge in an epic battle. Dull spiked armor covered his forearms, chest, and legs. Neight didn’t stop her hand from touching his angled chin.

  Florence doubled back, clutching her midsection. Her astral form was being torn apart like scrap paper by an invasion of blue energy. “What’s…happening…” she screamed, watching pieces of her leg and arm spread every which way.

  Allister woke from the nightmare and sat up straight. Florence’s glowing blue body moved on the ground like a fish out of water. “Dr. Belladonna!” he called out, afraid to touch her. In a few seconds it stopped. Allister paced the room after placing her on the bed, debating whether to alert the soldier outside his door. Florence woke up like she’d been buried alive, frantically groping her body to confirm it undamaged and functioning.

  “Whoa whoa, everything’s okay,” Allister said sympathetically.

  Florence’s fried brain cells begged to differ. It made it difficult to recall everything she’d learned, but her hands pressed against the bed to stand up.

  “You scared me,” Allister said, stepping to help her. “What happened to you?”

  “Stay back,” Florence sneered, securing herself on the wall. “Our session is over.”

  He shrank back. “I’m sorry…”

  Once Florence touched the manifestation of Neight, the protection spell on Allister’s brain activated. But not before revealing a bit about itself. The horrifying things Allister was capable of had been woven into the spell and a vision imprinted in her mostly numb mind. The enchantment was cast to protect humanity. Heroes were heroes, until they were villains. Her adept skill at unlocking mental blocks was irrelevant. It would be some time until Allister was prepared to learn the secrets of his father’s death hidden within the fortress. Florence looked at him again, she knew it wasn’t his fault.

  “Get some rest,” Florence said as the soldier on duty escorted her from the room.