Parallel Extinction (Extinction Encounters Book 1)

by T. R. Stevens

  The plan, like similar ones being carried out in this corner of the galaxy, was grand in scale and it was based on the survey of a single terrologist, with his science pod. The hard-luck stories of these corporate envoys were never quite the same and rarely were shared. Though, the resulting personalities, molded by those difficulties, were what the Tear-N-Form Corporation needed for successful recruits.

  Comani was a loner, as were most terrologists; the demands of the job attracted the type. He was lean and wiry—compact—like the internal space of his SciPod. He’d been hardened, tempered by life.

  His assigned task here had involved more tedium than actual workload. There were no careful considerations of a delicate native environment to worry about—that environment would be obliterated with purpose. The robotic deployment of the nano-component always went without incident: orbiting barges sprinkling the target planet with their payloads, like salt on a hard-boiled egg. The invisible devastators worked in silence without need for supervision.

  At this point in that process, Comani was simply in charge of all data-collection instruments. Feeling restless, he had shot down to the surface of the moon that orbited the target. He remained tied by a fila-carbon tether to his obedient Pod as it moved in a sync-orbit several kilometers overhead. Its data loggers dutifully streamed the event to Comani’s employers.

  While it was against protocol to be EVA during a deployment, he’d indulged his somber nature with a walk on this deserted rocky satellite, unthreatened by the deadly process underway on its host planet. Nothing of that process could be seen as he’d strained his suit’s joints to stare upwards, where the globe’s looming ubiquity filled the sky. The system-star’s soft glow reflected back from the planet, past his faceplate, glinting off the sheen of his unwashed olive skin. The light caught in his oily, tightly curled black hair. Gleaming snippets of light surrounded his face like a swarm of tiny crescent moons.

  Behind his visor, his eyes were as cold as the celestial body he walked upon.

  The forty-three-year-old man’s spare, earth-normal weight of seventy-three kilograms was greatly amplified by the moon’s mass. At two-and-a-half times his weight, Dr. Comani’s muscles would have just barely achieved unassisted movement. But with the doctor’s GravAssist suit, it could have just as easily been a pleasant stroll.

  Comani did not seek pleasantries. These kinds of experiences spoke to the twenty years of soul-searing aloneness that weighed heavily upon his psyche. Turning the suit’s gravitational offset to a minimum, his world was right as he had struggled across the barren surface, pulled down in a defeated hunch, every move a great effort.

  After completing all necessary update reports, he’d activated the programming of the robotic barges for their return trip. Then the scientist had left the system in his special, military-modified ship with only the muted Artificial Intelligence for company. He was off in search of his next project, to regions whose distance from his alienated home world would have been measured in centuries, were he flying a standard-engine craft.

  With him, he had taken a souvenir.

  CHAPTER 5

  EVENT: DAY 6, 1900 Hours, UT

  Garrison had borrowed some equipment from USUCC, stuff that only the military was supposed to have.

  He’d been monitoring military police tightline-broadcasts and public zephyrnet news feeds since returning planetside after his unfortunate weekend with Taylor. The military occupied the primary policing role on and off Earth but USUCC’s quasi-police organization took their own brand of justice into local space. The United Space Unrest Control Corps appreciated any experience that recruits might bring with them, born of piracy or not.

  Military patrol ships had a faster-than-light advantage over those of USUCC, but those FTL vessels were limited in number by the shortage of a top-secret component. The government wanted the military to focus on other priorities, so it tolerated USUCC’s activities and their tactics in the solar system. Pirates were a never-ending problem in the gaps between scattered system outposts.

  In the four days following his bet with TJ, there had been no news bulletins regarding the incident. Garrison found no hint of anything exceptional in the tightline chatter. Applying decryptor spiders also failed to yield more information.

  The overall silence said cover-up. He was not surprised; it was the military.

  That soldier who gave Taylor the intel that she’d shared in the bar must have some pretty loose lips.

  Anticipating the loss of their bet, he had squeezed her for the BUMP soldier’s name, feigning jealousy, demanding the man’s identity. Taylor’s odd discomfort served his purpose.

  At least, he wanted to know more than TJ when she gloated over winning the bet. He was heading to meet the soldier to see if he could get any more information out of the man. Garrison’s status as a USUCC officer carried little or no weight with the military, so he brought a substantial bribe—a very expensive bottle of Omalon Tears, hoping it would be inducement enough. Garrison was partial to the potent elixir but held no stock in the story that the stuff came from alien tears. If this soldier did, it might get Garrison past the man’s prejudices.

  When USUCC was formed, it was viewed with contempt by anyone tied to BUMP and was seen as an undermining influence in the new world order. The Earth-Based Multi-Military Patrol was created a century-and-a-half earlier in the wake of the Obliteration. Its difficult mandate was to combine the US Military Service branches. After this, the organization expanded to a planetary service, merging the militaries of other countries that survived in the aftermath of the global tragedy. This second step met less resistance—the struggling governments welcomed the opportunity to be closer knit after having come through the grand-scale disaster. Fewer strong governments on the planet made this unification task achievable.

  Garrison arrived at the apartment, Barracks 8-KQ 5227 BJXX. So easy to remember. His sarcasm stemmed from his personal history with The Service.

  It was nearly twenty-hundred hours. TJ had said she’d be researching her next stunt about now, perfect timing to see Sgt. Bellamy Amio. He muttered, “Okay Bellboy, let’s see what you have to offer.”

  The door opened to his knock. “Taylor!” he exclaimed, at once irritated and stimulated by her appearance. “What are you doing here? I thought you were briefing on your next stunt?”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  She ignored his question. “Whatcha got there?” She leaned around him as he hid the bottle of liquor behind his back.

  “Nothing for you.” He took a step back. “What stunt?”

  “I’m going out to that rendezvous site. And by the way, you owe me dinner.” She was triumphant.

  “You?” A step ahead of him again, she dug under his skin. “Try making sense for once, Taylor.”

  “All right, all right. Settle down. First, meet Lamb.”

  Her pet name for the sergeant confused Garrison. Until then, his gaze hadn’t gotten past TJ. Now he scanned the confines of the small military apartment: compact, sparse, and neat. Taylor stepped aside, opening his view. Bellamy Amio sat at the end of the convert-a-bed. Lamb? Was that what she called this mean-son-of-a-bitch looking, no-neck hulk?

  He had a dirty blonde crew cut over a ruddy complexion, like he’d spent too much time in the sun. The look on his face said that Garrison’s concern about USUCC prejudice would be well founded. The man stared; he did not rise to greet Garrison. The spotless white t-shirt he wore stretched tight over his distended muscle mass.

  “Uh, hey, how’s it going?” Giving the man a nod, he looked at Taylor, the look on her face. She’d called his bluff and he was only now realizing it.

  While Garrison pondered this, their host remained cool, staring. The silence stretched and became disquieting, so he continued. “TJ tells me you guys have been havin’ some fun.” That didn’t come out right
. He tried a smile but it felt like a stupid grin. Taylor’s eyes said, “Show some intelligence.”

  Redirect.

  “She doesn’t flinch much, so I was interested when she was affected by your story.” He saw relief in her face, and continued. “So, fill me in on these patrol anomalies. Maybe there’s something I’ve seen during my service that could help.” Nice and polite. Enough said. Your turn, Bellboy.

  Amio sat quiet for another tortured minute, his expression unreadable beyond the mean-look.

  Even TJ, quiet as a mouse, was fidgeting. Garrison was considering an excuse that would get him out the door when the sergeant spoke in a growl. “I don’t much care for the likes of your so-called Unrest Control Corps,” he said, omitting the acronym. “You may be okay. Taylor says so. I’m lucky I didn’t get into trouble for what she shared with you. I had ta’ smooth that out. Not that it was okay for me to tell her; I know why I fucked up, but I still fucked up. I shoulda’ at least made it clear it was classified. My mistake. What’s done is done though.” He looked at Taylor; Garrison saw him soften. Then Amio’s armor reformed as he turned back. “Besides, you just might be a good go-between to the pirate element that BUMP can’t get near. If it’s needed.”

  Garrison’s forehead wrinkled unconsciously as he became suspicious. He wasn’t interested in being a go-between. It sounded as if he was about to be asked to be a snitch or double agent. He held down his defenses, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  From the center of the tiny apartment, everything was close at hand. The sergeant reached behind, across the narrow path between the bed and the kitchenette bar, grabbed a stool from under its edge and held it out in a ham-fist for Garrison to take. Garrison traded the bottle of precious liqueur across, wondering if it was a wasted gesture, then sat against the wall on the stool. Taylor closed the door on a chill breeze and an orange moonrise in the darkening evening sky. He watched her plop down amidst the well-rumpled covers on the unconverted convert-a-bed, the only untidy thing in the small space. Recovered from any uneasiness, she looked too comfortable.

  Amio examined the bottle with interest, then, as if some hurdle had been cleared, adopted an attitude of resolve. “Okay, I can tell you this,” he began, recounting his tale, “The Seeker, Pirate Patrol One, had been on the tail of these criminals when a SciPod mayday came in. Seeker had been following the pirate scow undetected, waiting for the bastards to slow or go to ground so we could overtake them. Captain Youngman spotted their course change with that short signal. It was his chance, good as a baited trap.

  “The pirate was about an hour ahead of Patrol One but they were each nearly the same distance from the source of the distress call. When Youngman got there though, ‘bout a half-hour after the pirate, all was quiet. The scow was there, adrift. Likely been affected by the same thing that caused the SciPod to call for help. The pirates had the pod grappled to their ship already, in the process of boarding it, but both ships showed negative for vitals and energy signatures.

  “Center was monitoring Patrol One’s intra-ship communications—before the comm links went. Boarding Team Alpha was getting ready to peel back the scow’s unresponsive outer hatch using the Laser-Pierce Access. Youngman was following protocol. The assault team was in the boarding queue, ready for the unexpected. It was all lookin’ dead. Feelin’ ugly. They figured to be up for quarantine and decon at least, when they got done.

  “The lasercisors had barely begun the cut when the lead member gasped; or it sounded that way.” Amio lowered his voice, uneasy, “Then—and here’s what’s so fuckin’ strange—there was this cry, like a baby squealin’, just a real short noise. And it kept happening over and over, ‘cept it was coming from a different suit-mike every time.”

  As Sgt. Amio continued the tale, his expression shifted from impassive to passionate, his words coming faster. “Ship Control was demandin’ a response, and slammed a red-alert. Security was at the Breaching Station within seconds, giving the protocol step-by-step updates. Then the same exact thing: there was the short squeal, then nothin’, then the next soldier, and the next. Someone in the security party shouted, ‘They’re going down.’ The order to pull back was given, but it was too late. And it was only just two minutes that’d gone by. Captain Youngman was screamin’ for backup. Center responded with the contagion protocol order. There was no back up, anyway. All we could do was listen.” His intensifying emotions peaked, then drained away.

  After a breath, taking it down a notch, he went on. “Captain was demanding a report ‘bout these little cryin’ noises from every team member that went to investigate. His best crewmen were being defeated by a mystery invader.”

  Taylor interrupted. “Why didn’t they just seal the bulkhead hatches when Center suggested contagion?”

  “Yeah, that would’a been nice.” He was quiet for a moment, nursing some private anger. “See, they were on their way back from an earlier piracy incident, heading to spacedock—ship’d taken some damage, needed some repairs. That’s when they picked up the trace of the pirate again, the same one that had damaged Youngman’s ship and escaped. Bartell, you can imagine what Youngman was feelin’. He wanted to get these scum.

  “Anyway, his ship had been having these internal control problems but he couldn’t pass up that good of an opportunity. The issues weren’t the kinda things that would get in the way of the chase anyhow; things like vid-stream sending failure. The rear shield control was the worst of it, but some of the bulkhead seals were on the fritz too; they had to be closed at each location with local controls. Just press the damn button. Two crewmen did report sealin’ em off. We’re not sure if whatever it was got through first, or maybe the doors couldn’t stop it.

  “So, this went on a few more minutes. The path of destruction moved in toward the engine center and then we lost comm.”

  He stopped talking, a hollow, faraway look on his face, then explained, “When that freq’ went silent, let me tell ya, Center’s comm room went dead silent too. It felt like somethin’ was crawlin’ up my spine. Know what I mean? Eerie like.” The man’s red complexion had paled some.

  “That was six days ago. After a couple a’ days, I started makin’ up stories in my head ‘bout what could’a happened. Logical stuff. Like it was all gonna’ be fine when we got out there. I didn’t wanna’ think about it at all but I guess I just really needed to shake off that thing on my spine.

  “Even if I knew deep down that somethin’ strange happened out there, ain’t nothin’ could’a prepared me for the data stream from Rapscallion, Pirate Patrol Three.

  “Now, both of you are sworn to secrecy under BUMP protocols, which can mean the death penalty, some cases, if you fuck up. No one has said this one of those times, but if I were you I’d make that assumption. I am authorized to let you in on this—on my final discretion.” His effort to sound official told Garrison that this authority was new to him.

  “I shoulda’ sworn you to secrecy before, Bartell. Jest has already signed the oath and she said I can trust you. But I ain’t sayin’ no more until you do it in writing.” He pointed to some docs on the bar.

  In writing? Garrison extracted a lot from this simple request. Amio had known he was coming tonight but Garrison had not told that to anyone. Was this more of Taylor’s manipulations? He played along. “Well, Sergeant, I’ve got some questions first. You’re E-BUMP right? Tell me, how did you happen to be privy to all this non-Earth activity?”

  “I’m in Comm Officer training. I got lucky.” Amio’s sarcasm was heavy. “The rest is classified.”

  Garrison wasn’t finished with his questions. “Since when does BUMP have any trouble catching up to a pirate? I never had that trouble when…” he paused and looked at TJ, then started a new thought, “How do you explain pirates out where pirates can’t go? You can say that much, right? Are you telling me that there is some brilliant bandit out there who’s developed FTL technology?” Garr
ison had his own theories. He’d heard a tale about a pirate out in the interstellar territories. He had written it off as a pirate’s fantasy.

  The sergeant had changed his tune and was tight-lipped. “Classified.”

  “Oh, come on. BUMP can’t be keeping secrets about threats to other ships.”

  “At this point, it’s on a need-to-know basis. ‘Sides, ain’t no one out there to be threatened, ‘cept BUMP ships, BUMP outposts, and the SciPods. And that ain’t your concern no more now, is it?”

  Garrison sensed Taylors’s puzzlement at Amio’s last barb. He wanted to edge away from certain topics.

  Amio baited tersely, “Sign on the line if you’re so interested, Bartell.”

  Irked, but extremely curious, Garrison figured it wouldn’t hurt to swear to keep the secret, “Alright, fine, where do I sign?”

  Amio reached back and took a sheet of perma-z vellum off the kitchenette counter and handed it across with a stylus. It looked basic enough, standard form. He was ready to sign, when it occurred to him that this couldn’t simply be about hearing some secret and walking away. Amio had said that he was authorized to tell his story. Just how high did this go?

  His hand hovered above the sheet, eyes narrowed. They were expecting something from him in return. And it was unlikely that it would stop at some damn liaison to the pirate-kind.

  The perma-z sheet came back into focus. He scrutinized it and realized that the fat, rough-edged black bar at the bottom was no line; it was some very fine, compressed print. He tapped it with the stylus and it expanded, filling the entire page with new text.

  Shit… What the hell is this? What percentage of my soul am I signing away?

  CHAPTER 6

  EVENT: DAY 6, 2000 UT

  “What’s it gonna cost me?”

  Ignoring the page full of suspicious text, Garrison directed his mistrust at Sgt. Amio. “I can swear to keep a secret, but I’m betting the rest of this story isn’t coming free.” He waved the unfixed perma-z vellum, nearly black with dense, fine print, then slapped it down on the bed in front of him. His vehemence was weakened by the distinct lack of sound effect.