The Archeon Codex: Guardians of the Galactic Sentinel Book 2

by Phillip Nolte

  There were still a fair number of people living in the Sol system, some of them even on the planet itself; but for those remaining, it was a hardscrabble existence. These days the system had a well-earned reputation as one of roughest places in known space. Anarchy prevailed, with bands of pirates and small, short-lived fiefdoms scattered throughout the ravaged system. Conditions down on Earth were even more chaotic as small bands of humans fought among themselves over scarce resources.

  Cyrus Keeling, owner and operator of Keeling's Shuttle Services, was guiding one of his battered but still serviceable shuttles down through atmosphere to the surface of planet Earth. He would be landing in a relatively secure area of North America originally called "Florida," specifically an island at the end of the "Florida Keys," a chain of islands arcing off to the west from the southern tip of the mainland. His private island, still called "Key West," was the southernmost and most westerly of the chain. Keeling selected the island for three reasons: one, it was surrounded by the ocean and was connected to the next adjacent island by a bridge easily closed off; two, it was small enough that it was, in general, relatively easy to defend; and three, the island was fairly close to the equator, making it somewhat less costly to make orbit with his shuttles.

  Keeling's shuttle was a standard design used for spacecraft required to operate in atmosphere and in vacuum with equal facility. Because she was required to operate part of the time in atmosphere, the sleek, aerodynamic little craft was equipped with a pair of short, stubby wings and an equally abbreviated tailfin, all of which could be gradually extended to provide ever increasing purchase against the air during the descent as the ship slowed and the atmosphere grew denser.

  He had reached the point in his descent where the ship had slowed enough that its control surfaces were fully extended and, instead of guiding a missile, he was actually flying the craft. He was over the open ocean in the Gulf of Mexico and could just make out the dark green bulk of the mainland on the horizon in front of him. He checked to make sure his speed, altitude and bearing were within the proper parameters.

  Seeing his speed was still a little too high, he pulled the shuttle's nose up, using gravity and wind resistance to scrub off some excess velocity, before gradually bringing the ship back down to her original heading. He relaxed as another check of the instruments showed everything was as it should be, though he was still going fast enough to make landfall within the next ten minutes. When he was two minutes out, he deployed the landing gear and made ready to set the ship down.

  While down on the surface, Keeling would stay anywhere from a few hours to several days. He would drop off a load of goods and top off the reaction fluid required to fuel engines powerful enough to break the ship free of the planet's formidable gravity. The amount of the vital fluid required to get him down to Earth and back into orbit was considerable, and fuel storage on the small ship was limited. This constraint also limited the amount of goods he could bring down or carry back in any one trip.

  Goods routinely brought down by his shuttles were items that came from either asteroid colonies or one of the free-standing colony platforms in the Sol system, like those of the Vikings or the Jovian Hegemony. A very few of the items, like medicines and some types of recreational drugs, came sporadically from outside the Sol system. On a planet all but reverted to the Stone Age, such goods were in demand and worth a great deal to the natives prosperous enough to afford them.

  The shuttle would then pick up a load of freight, most of it valuable foodstuffs difficult or impossible to produce in space. Less frequently, there were quantities of precious metals, gold, silver or platinum and the like, salvaged or pilfered from somewhere by natives bold enough or foolish enough to venture into some of the more inhospitable areas of Earth's ruined cities.

  On each of the shuttle runs, a few passengers, most of them working for him, were picked up and dropped off. As employees of Keeling's security forces, their main job was to guard the shuttle's landing enclave, but they did provide other services as needed, like handling cargo. Each rotation of guards would serve for a week at a time and then be switched out for fresh personnel. Guard duty was pretty boring, mostly, but occasionally one or another of the nearby native tribes would talk themselves into attacking the compound in the hopes of winning the hoard of riches there. So far, all these attacks had been repulsed without difficulty by Keeling's well-armed forces. The fact the compound was surrounded by water and there was only a single bridge between his island and the next also made the enclave reasonably easy to defend.

  Keeling's men were professionals, most of them former military -- Vikings or Jovians or the occasional highly adventurous individual who had become disillusioned with life in the Central Planets. All of them were proficient with their weapons. They were also well-equipped and well-paid. Security could never be too good, especially groundside on planet Earth.

  Keeling set the shuttle down expertly on the landing strip and checked the ship's systems while taxiing over to the loading ramp. He then switched the shuttle's systems over to standby and headed aft to the cargo hold where he deployed the loading ramp and walked down to the cracked concrete loading dock. From there he could monitor and assist with the unloading and loading of cargo.

  He'd been there for about ten minutes, during which he and his crewmen unloaded several crates, before Harley Jamison pulled up next to the ship with the refueling rig. Jamison was an Earth native and former leader of the tribe occupying the island before Keeling convinced them to become his allies. A born leader and hard worker, Jamison had earned a position placing him in charge of all Keeling's operations in what was still referred to as "North America."

  It was a good arraignment for both of them.

  For his part, Keeling had access to goods not available anywhere on Earth. He provided his tribal partners with medicines produced by the Vikings or the Hegemony as well as weapons and tools that could no longer be made on the planet. He also provided a means to leave the planet for a few individuals, those who could come up with enough goods or metals to meet the steep fee.

  In return, Jamison and his former tribe members were connected to other local tribes who had the means to produce or procure goods profitable for everyone involved. The state of Florida had long been known as a major production area for tree fruits like oranges, lemons, coconuts, peaches and avocadoes as well as other valuable crops like pineapple. Jamison's people, through their connections, provided access to these crops, all of which were difficult or impossible to produce in space.

  Keeling also had a small fleet of atmospheric craft and several more heavily-guarded enclaves dotted here and there on the planet. These served as collection points for goods not readily available in Florida. Even though civilization on Earth had largely broken down, there were isolated pockets in the former United States, Europe, Asia and South America where products like decent wine and distilled spirits were still produced. He even had a contact who provided him with roasted coffee of acceptable quality. He always had room for precious metals, though any quantity presented to him had to be carefully inspected for radioactive contamination. All of these goods were highly prized by the wealthier space nations, like the Vikings and the Jovian Hegemony.

  Jamison was a big, burly black man who kept his head shaved and his muscles toned.

  "Hey, Cyrus," said his foreman.

  "Good to see you, Jamison," replied Cyrus shaking the big man's hand. "Been quiet down here?"

  "Yeah," replied Jamison, keeping one eye on two assistants who were in the process of connecting the refueling rig. "Almost too quiet."

  "And that's a bad thing?"

  "It means someone is probably planning something. That's never good."

  "Better make sure the guys know something bad might be in the works."

  "We're on it, Boss." Jamison hesitated for a moment, as though he were reluctant to continue, before saying, "You said you want to be informed when something might be going down, no matter what it was
?"

  "That's right," replied Cyrus. "You got something?"

  "I don't know if I should even waste your time. This latest thing sounds too fantastic to be true."

  "Try me," said Cyrus.

  "Well, word is circulating that Earth has been invaded by aliens from space, some kind of super bug or some such, and these aliens have teamed up with some of the local tribes."

  "Is this a bad attempt at a joke, Harley?"

  "I'm just reporting what's been coming through the grapevine, Boss. Normally I wouldn't give it much thought, but while it can't possibly be true, we almost have to take it seriously. This kind of rumor can rile up the natives, make them brave and bold and foolish. In that state they might be dumb enough to try anything. We need to beef up security down here for a while."

  "Best to err on the side of caution, I guess."

  "There've also been some strange things happening in the My-a-mee ruins lately, things I don't particularly care for."

  "Like what?"

  "Some of the local tribes have gotten their hands on a few better weapons from somewhere, and they're using them to smack down their traditional rivals. There's also talk of someone organizing a few of the stronger tribes into a larger group. So far, we've been able to keep them at bay, because they're scattered, and they still seem to fight among themselves as much as anything. But, if they somehow get organized..."

  "We could be in real trouble down here," said Cyrus, finishing the thought for him. "I agree, we need to step up our security. I could probably charm some of the guys who were supposed to ship out today into staying for another stint if I offer them a bonus."

  "I'd appreciate that, Boss," said Jamison. His assistants disconnected the ship from the fueling rig and stowed the hose. "We're done here, you can take off again as soon as we get you loaded up."

  "Thanks, Jamison. I might actually stay a few days, see if I can get a feel for what's going on down here. Meantime, I'll go see about talking some of the guys into staying for a bit longer. That would put you at double strength until my next run. I can bring down another squad next week, beef things up even more."

  "Thanks, Boss."

  "Don't mention it. Better safe than sorry, I always say."

  Chapter 9. Mutinous Thoughts.

  Brig area on board SPS Lenin, October 5, 2676.

  "At ease, Corporal," said Lieutenant Pytor Grasmik, acting captain of SPS Lenin.

  "My orders are that no one is to see the prisoner, sir."

  "I am currently in command of this ship," replied Grasmik. "I have need of information only the former captain can provide. Do you wish to place the ship and crew in danger?"

  The marine corporal, who was off-balance to start with because of the shakeup in the ship's command structure and, if the truth were known, still loyal to the imprisoned captain, acquiesced to the request.

  "You may speak with him for five minutes, sir."

  "Thank you, Corporal."

  The marine placed his palm on the security reader outside the door to the chamber containing Lenin's two-stall brig. The door slid open and Grasmik went inside, unable to suppress a sharp moment of unease as the doors slid securely closed behind him. In the occupied cell of two available, Captain Kozloff looked up from his personal tablet, surprise on his face.

  "Pytor? What are you doing here?"

  "I have come to consult with you concerning matters of importance to the operation of this ship. I was... promoted without the proper protocols being followed."

  "I will provide you with any information I can, Lieutenant, you need but to ask."

  Grasmik checked his wrist chronometer and waited. After a few seconds, his tone and his manner became conspiratorial.

  "We have perhaps two minutes, Captain, I have instructed the chief engineer that you and I require a private meeting. He has shut down the monitors in this area for two minutes."

  "Quickly then, what can I do for you?"

  "I am afraid our political officer has gone off the deep end, sir."

  "You've noticed this too, eh?" Kozloff's look became concerned. "I felt the ship fire weapons while I was being escorted down here. Did you destroy that ship?"

  "We did not, sir. I was able to take advantage of the confusion on the bridge to stall the attack until the target was nearly out of range. That and the strange ship showed almost unbelievable acceleration capability. We were only able to cause minor damage before it was totally out of range."

  "I am greatly relieved, Lieutenant," said Kozloff, "and I commend you for your brave and intelligent actions. You know you could be jailed or even executed if Pavlovich finds out."

  "If I managed to avoid a serious incident that could lead to war, I have no regrets."

  Grasmik paused for a couple of seconds before continuing, "I have spoken to the bridge officers. All are of the opinion that you should be restored to command. We are certain the political officer ordered us to perform actions contrary to the best interests of the Soviet people. All of us fear for the future."

  "What about Sergeant Zlotnik?"

  "Zlotnik is a good soldier and, I am convinced he'll do what is right. I myself am certain proper protocols were not followed and am willing to bet the sergeant is having similar thoughts. Our sensor operator is a friend to Corporal Pasternak. We will begin our attempt to gauge where the sergeant really stands through her."

  "You must practice the utmost care, Lieutenant."

  "We shall, Captain." Grasmik checked his chronometer another time. "I must go, sir, but we will keep you informed as well as we can."

  "I thank you, Pytor."

  "Just trying to do the right thing, sir."

  The doors to the brig opened, and Grasmik made his exit.

  Back in his brig chamber, Kozloff smiled for the first time in several days. Perhaps something could be salvaged from this star-crossed mission after all.

  Chapter 10. Belgrade Bound.

  Amalgamated Regional Guardian Scoutship in transit to New Belgrade system, October 5, 2676.

  Galactic Sentinel Guardian Sergei Popov woke up in the dark and didn't know where he was for a long moment. Wherever it was, the bed was certainly comfortable. As he became more fully awake, it all came flooding back. He was in his quarters onboard Symantia L'Proxa's Sentinel Scout ship currently in transit through Soviet space to the New Belgrade system. Once there, he and Galactic Representative Won Lin-tsu, who was also on the ship, would initiate investigations into the Soviet-Custodian situation. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched elaborately before getting to his feet. The day beckoned, but before he went out to face it, he took a few minutes to go through his normal morning wake-up routine. While he was getting dressed his mind turned, once again, to the pending mission and all the things that could go wrong.

  The latest information Soviet leadership possessed concerning Sergei's whereabouts was more than a month old. All they knew was that his ship, SPS Murmansk, had phased out of the Central Planets system to parts unknown in pursuit of the private yacht Capri. Neither ship had returned. Murmansk, obliterated in a nuclear explosion, would never be coming back.

  For the umpteenth time, Sergei felt the sharp pang of loss at the thought of all the excellent people and personal friends who perished with the Murmansk. While it did absolutely nothing to ease the pain, he had since come to realize his former crew and ship had been some of the first casualties in a war that was just beginning. There was nothing he could have done to change what happened, but he vowed once more to do his utmost to ensure those many deaths had not been in vain.

  By sheer luck, Sergei and Soviet archeological symbologist, Dr. Olga Dostoyevski had gone down to Deimos and were inside the moon when Murmansk self-destructed, or they would have been killed as well. He shuddered as he thought about the host of other things that could easily have gone differently, and horribly wrong, during the incident.

  Murmansk's political officer, Dimitri Krupski, who accompanied Sergei and Dostoyevski down to D
eimos, had been terminated with extreme prejudice by Gertrude Tvedt while the vile little traitor was in the act of high-jacking the Sentinel Key with the intention of turning it over to his Custodian "partners." After the loss of Murmansk and the despicable behavior of her political officer, Olga and Sergei had been forced to reexamine their loyalties and elected to throw in their lot with the Deimos Expedition. With the expertise and the connections they brought to the table, they had been eagerly welcomed.

  On this latest mission, because of his conveniently incognito status, Sergei was free to pursue his Sentinel Guardian duties without interference. Chances were very good his government would be releasing him from his military obligations anyway, once the Amalgamated invitation for Citizenship was made public. His Guardian duties were far more important to the Soviet government and Mankind in general than his old rank in the Soviet Navy could ever be. That, however, was a bridge to be crossed at a later date. Right now there was the very real problem of Custodian infiltration into the political arm of the Soviet military and, almost certainly, other branches of the Soviet government.

  He considered the new partner he'd barely just met and how the two of them were tasked with determining the extent of the infiltration, as well as identifying personnel to help combat it. It looked as though Won was more than qualified for the task, but if they were to work together as a team, they would need to know each other a lot better.

  As the scoutship traveled through another star system on the journey to New Belgrade space, Sergei was reminded of his first command, which had been stationed at New Belgrade. He'd been appointed captain of an armed patrol ship tasked with detaining and inspecting freighters and other craft for contraband. Forbidden items and luxury goods were always welcome on Soviet worlds, and the flow of such commodities, despite the stiff penalties for smuggling, was both constant and considerable.