by Matt Verish
ICARUS
Interstellar Cargo: Book One
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the authors.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2016 by Matt Verish (Night Apple, LLC)
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Written by Matt Verish
Edited by Stefanie Verish and Cari Dubiel
Cover design by Tom Edwards Concepts
eBook layout by Matt Verish
Author photo by Stefanie Verish
First published: 04/01/2016
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ALSO AVAILABLE
INTRODUCTION
WHEN IN BIG TROUBLE...
ICARUS
PART ONE | TEST FLIGHT
1 | ICV-71
2 | LAUNCH
3 | INSPECTION
4 | RADICALS
5 | CAPACITOR
6 | BLACKOUT
7 | DC-ALPHA-6
8 | SINGULARITY
9 | EQUALS
PART TWO | TWIST OF CAIN
10 | SCOUT
11 | RIGGED
12 | COLOSSUS
13 | RESEARCH
14 | OFFLINE
15 | REBIRTH
16 | BAREFOOT
17 | CORNERED
18 | LOCKDOWN
PART THREE | UNCHARTED
19 | CRATER
20 | DARKSTAR
21 | PIRATES
22 | SMASHER
23 | DOGFIGHT
24 | VIRUS
25 | ROGUE
26 | ICARUS
CONCLUSION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO AVAILABLE
Interstellar Cargo Series
Icarus
Daedalus
Lazarus
INTRODUCTION
Icarus was born in the middle of a tornado. Not a literal tornado, of course, but it certainly felt like my wife and I had been assaulted by one. I named it: 2015. The year I was thoroughly tested. I’m not looking for any sympathy—and I sure as hell know that plenty of other people are facing struggles far more devastating than what we encountered—but for the sake of this foreword, I felt it necessary to give a little back story to my novel’s creation.
When it rains, it pours. Never have truer words been written. Or were they spoken? Who cares? I only know it’s a proverb. Calamity visited the Verish household early in 2015 and set up camp for close to six months. After a quiet beginning to the year, February rolled around and got stuck in our shower drain. A simple snaking of the pipes to clean it out, right? Nope. $900 later, a hole in the basement wall, and a stench only a sewer can appreciate, the problem was solved...for the most part. Grumble, grumble...
No big deal! That’s what homeownership is all about. Upkeep. So, two months later, and feeling the need to flex its destructive muscle, Calamity threw us an uppercut. On the first of April—yes, April Fool’s Day—I received a phone call from my wife as I was driving home. In a panic, she explained to me that our entire basement ceiling had collapsed from a major leak in the main floor bathroom. Several inches of water had collected already, and the level was still rising. Needless to say, I thought she was pulling a prank on me.
She wasn’t.
Involving the insurance company is a nightmare. Involving an incompetent insurance company is a recipe for gray hair. During our quest to replace the ceiling tiles, carpeting, laminate flooring, and just straight-up dry our house, things got even more interesting. Murphy’s Law.
I don’t remember the order, just the list of appliances that died on us over a two month period. Bathroom sink, toilet, drier, microwave, oven... All of these bit the dust on us as our house was in utter disrepair from the flood. I’m not kidding. Our little world was literally collapsing all around us, and we never had a chance to recover from one incident to the next. Eventually it all got fixed, replaced, or settled. It took until summer, but who’s counting the months? Or the dollars, for that matter?
You’re probably wondering what this all has to do with me writing a science fiction novel. Trust me, there’s a point. Before I get to that point, let me tell you about the major decision we made in the midst of our turmoil. House is falling apart, money is tighter than a rubber band wrapped around your finger too many times, and we decide to get a second dog. Why not? Who needs to refill their coffers? Take a month to enjoy not encountering any new problems? Pshaw! We need an eight week old Sheltie with zero training. That’s how we roll.
So, after six months of absolute hell, and a wonderful—and insane—new addition to the puppy family, our world finally began to settle into some semblance of hectic normalcy. My wife and I even resumed co-writing our epic fantasy series together. We were so relieved to have survived such a trying time in our marriage, and I’m confident it made us stronger as a couple. It definitely taught me to be a lot handier around the house.
This life test was what finally helped me to tackle a solo writing project. As proud of the writing/creating I do with my wife, I always wanted to strike out on my own. I never had the drive, but I’ve always had the ambition. I had yet to actually complete a novel all by myself. Writing Icarus in the wake of tragedy seemed right. I set a goal to write the entire story in five months by completing 500 words a day. Every day.
I did it.
I guess in some twisted way, I’m glad our house was nearly swallowed whole by the earth. I would’ve rather found my center without the trial-by-fire, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’m thrilled to have accomplished my goal in the face of adversity. As I write this foreword, I’m pleased to announce that I’m already writing book two of the Interstellar Cargo series. No, my car didn’t self-destruct, nor did a shark chew off my leg. I just sat down and started writing Daedalus.
In your face, Calamity!
-Matt Verish
March, 4th 2016
WHEN IN BIG TROUBLE...
“Just remember what old Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, the poison arrows fall from the sky, and the pillars of Heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big old storm right in the eye and says ‘Give me your best shot. I can take it.’ ”
-Jack Burton
ICARUS
PART ONE
TEST FLIGHT
ICARUS LOG 001:
“So, we’re on a collision course with the sun. I never thought I’d say that out loud... Our ship has mysteriously lost all power, and it’s only a matter of time before we use up all of our oxygen. I’d like to say we’re all hoping to be rescued, but the truth is, those actually looking for us want us dead. It’s a hell of a situation.”
1
ICV-71
Thirteen years of kissing corporate ass, and it’s finally paying off.
Cole Musgrave stepped onto the lift and ascended toward the ICV platform. Today would be one for the history books. At least in the eyes of the company men and women for whom Cole worked, it was an historic event. SolEx had chosen him over everyone else to lead their experimental Interstellar Cargo Vessel on its maiden voyage into the stars. Thirteen back-breaking years as a driven, overworked company boot-licker might have permanently stained his nose an unflattering brown, but his “dedication” had also paved the way to his coveted position as a test pilot. It was the closest to interstellar travel he would ever get. Even if it meant doing it on a delivery schedule.
The soft hum of the lift did little to calm C
ole’s nerves, and he could feel his palms sweating inside his pristine faux leather gloves. The familiar block lettering of his company, SolEx, on the backs of his gloves stared up at him, and he clenched his fists, creasing the unblemished exterior. He knew all too well he would be tossing these in the trash before the week’s end.
He glanced over at the suit standing next to him—his big-wig traveling compatriot for the journey. The perfectly pressed slacks, jacket and tie—complete with the company colors and logo—made Cole grin.
Arthur T. Forester, he mused, recalling an image he had once seen online. That’s not a company approved uniform, Art. Guess you won’t be helping me heft any 200 pound crates today. Not with those pencil-pusher muscles. With a thought, an entire biography appeared before his eyes and Cole scanned the data—dictated by the company, of course—on his high-profile companion. Damn, he’s way younger than me! he thought as he glossed over the man’s—the kid’s—impressive education. Barely out of college and he’s climbing the corporate ladder quicker than a politician. He must have some massive college debt to pay off.
“I’d very much appreciate it if you would stop that incessant creaking.”
The profile dropped from Cole’s vision, and he forced his hands to stop clenching. He blinked and smiled politely at his superior. “Sorry. Old habit. Just anxious to get underway.”
Forester gave no reply. It was obvious to Cole that he, too, was enjoying the spoils of NuFi and its endless wonders and pitfalls. He’s probably conspiring onto whose head he needs to step in order to reach his next lofty position. Cole purposely popped a single knuckle and pretended not to notice Forester’s glare. Oh, this launch is going to be great.
The lift mercifully reached its destination and glided to a halt before a massive bay door. It was immaculate white and sterile, as was most everything inside the S3. Hospitals could only dream of being so clean.
A quick hiss of unseen hydraulics, and the bay doors parted to reveal a long tunnel to Hangar Zero. Forester slid through the opening and was across the threshold before the doors were completely separated. Cole lazily followed suit, releasing pressure in several more joints at a safe distance. This was new territory for him, and the absence of thrumming accelerator cores and clamoring of infinite packages loading were absent here. It was strangely quiet and altogether unnerving for a place where ships were born.
Cole’s first footsteps across the polished floor clicked as though he were wearing tap shoes. He could only imagine how much money was wasted on buffing them into mirrors in a room dedicated to experimental spacecraft. Explosions, charring, and chemical leakage were common here. He shook his head and caught up to his zealous “co-pilot” at the end of the tunnel and expected to see the afterlife. Instead he was greeted with a much more impressive site. The tunnel opened out into a domed research facility large enough to easily contain an entire Dreadnought class warship. He supposed it would have to, though the S3’s sheer size never ceased to amaze him.
Cole kept his head on a swivel as he admired this top secret location. People in company lab coats and jumpsuits milled about on multiple levels, gesticulating like stilted mimes as they undoubtedly discussed schematics through shared NuFi. It was difficult to say if anyone was actually doing anything, or just putting on a show to impress their equally distracted superiors. No one paid him any heed as he continued his stroll toward the prototype ICV. He would’ve snapped a photo of the area to show his buddies down on the lower hangars, but his Ocunet and NuFi access were denied. He had not seen any notification of such a privacy invasion. Getting crafty, SolEx. Next you’ll be capable of digital inception. That was a terrifying thought.
At the center of the confusion was a solitary object, gleaming beneath the onslaught of lights which showcased it for all involved with the project. This particular “object” was none other than the ICV-71, the sole reason for his promotion. Sleek and equally polished as the floors upon which she rested, the ICV-71 was an impressive work of art and technology. Though the ship was dwarfed by the sheer enormity of the hangar, there was no denying his new craft’s scale. The vessel was a vast improvement over SolEx’s other bulky transports; she was streamlined in all the right places, and inconspicuous because of the dual engines placement to hide the massive cargo hold. It was no mistake that this ship was built to look more like a fighter than a freighter. Interstellar delivery was a dangerous career.
Send out the former Military guy with a penchant for recklessness, Cole thought as he closed in on his prize. Not that it matters, he considered, recalling from his research that he would essentially be a glorified backup pilot as this new model ICV was purportedly almost completely automated. We’ll see about that, he thought, fully aware that he was about to board a prototype which was most certainly plagued with glitches. There was a reason they sought out a veteran Starforce pilot to oversee the ship safely on its initial journey.
His brow furrowed as he came within fifty yards of the vessel. Blank canvas! Sure enough, there was a distinct lack of corporate decals applied to her hull, and Cole was instantly suspicious. What sort of test flight was this where company property was without its illustrious logo?
“Impressive, isn’t it? Forester asked, his gaze upon the ship.
Cole nodded as he stepped up beside the suit. “Yep. Never thought I’d see anything without the company brand obviously displayed and larger than life.” He smirked. “Maybe it’s on the chassis...” He feigned bending down to glimpse beneath before glancing up to regard Forester’s raised eyebrow.
“Not an accident.”
Cole stood up straight, intrigued by Forester’s comment. “Purposely left off?”
“Purposely hidden,” came the cryptic response. Forester turned away before Cole could press him for any more information.
“The ICV-71!” came the booming voice of a man from behind. Cole spun to take in the view of a group of suits and lab coats marching their way toward him and Forester. He caught a glimpse of a cute engineer near the front of the pack. “Our newest F-Class cargo vessel!”
“Is that...?”
“Our Chief Executive Officer?” Forester finished as though one of the most revered company owners in all the System was not heading in their direction.
“The Frederich Caliber,” Cole said, and realized that quite possibly the entire C-Suite and several prospective clients were in-tow behind the surprisingly short, balding man. “Fifteen trillion net worth.”
Forester chuckled exactly how Cole expected a corporate stiff would chuckle. “According to last year’s fiscal numbers.”
“Sorry I didn’t make it my business to discover the exact depth of one man’s black hole-sized pockets.” Cole rolled his eyes and considered just what he would do if good old Fred accidentally deposited a mere one billion dollars into his savings account. He wondered if NASA would reconsider him for Uncharted.
Then the company black tie affair was upon him, and Cole’s anxiety returned. He unconsciously began creaking his gloves, and Forester promptly cast him the stink-eye. Cole ignored him and wondered into what he had gotten himself. Am I chartering a first-class soiree to the dark side of the Moon? He truly hoped so.
“...with a state-of-the-art Dark Matter Processor, and fusion reactor engines concealing the cargo hold...” Caliber continued with his deconstruction of the ICV-71 specs to his entourage. Cole paid him little heed. He had already boned up on the ship’s impressive capabilities. What drew his full attention was the young engineer, her attention solely on, well, nothing.
She’s surfing the digital star ocean! Cole realized with surprise. He was dying to know what she was researching in the midst of such an important occasion. One of her jet black locks came loose from where her hair was tied haphazardly into a bun. She fussed with the renegade strands before discovering him gawking. Her deep green eyes narrowed before she returned to her NuFi vacation.
“...is our seasoned captain, Cole Musgrave, our brave test pilot.”
&
nbsp; Cole wrenched his attention away from the engineer and discovered he had a very affluent audience staring expectantly at him. The sun felt much closer than it normally did at that moment. His gloves creaked behind his back in the awkward silence, and he nodded, for it was all he could manage.
A quick wink and a smile from Caliber, and the sales pitch resumed. Cole relaxed and met Forester’s gaze of approval at keeping quiet and composed. He crossed his eyes and double-creaked his gloves in response. Forester’s smile dropped, and Cole turned back to the commercial, victorious.
The dog and pony show continued for several more minutes, and Cole thought he recognized a silver lapel pin on a middle-aged woman wearing a sleek, black business dress and gravity-defying stilettos. Triangular in shape, its design was similar to that of recycling arrows, only they were orbiting around a non-descript planet. Terracom, Cole thought with some trepidation. “Harvesting New Worlds,” he murmured, then swallowed hard.
Forester cast him a knowing glance but did not reprimand him for making a sound. He, too, seemed to exude the slightest bit of anxiety at the sight of the terraforming juggernaut’s presence.
After the group finished their brief inspection of the ship’s interior, Caliber broke away from the pack and stepped up beside Cole and Forester to offer some parting remarks and seal the deal. Cole wrinkled his nose at the CEO’s acrid cologne, though was pleased to see he was taller than him. Even more pleasing was the sight of the cute engineer making her way toward the trio.
Interesting.
Sensing Cole’s penetrating gaze, she gave him a wide berth and stood next to an indifferent Forester. He clenched his gloved hands in response.
“Dr. Lin Dartmouth is the Senior Engineer over this project,” Caliber began, “and she will be joining captain Musgrave and Operations Director Forester on the ICV’s maiden voyage. Her expertise in cryorganics, nanobiotechnology, and artificial intelligence is unparalleled.” He turned to smile at Lin, whose flawless face remained impassive. “She will be implementing the C.A.I.N. software which will usher a new era of automated delivery.”
