Cassandra's War: A Sci-Fi Corporate Technothriller (The SynCorp Saga Book 2)

by Pourteau, Chris

  They were century ships, time capsules for humanity. Once the airlocks were sealed, the entire structure was designed to be completely self-sustaining for one hundred years. Air, water, food, and all the other essentials of life had to be generated from within the structure itself. Together, the selected passengers in each Haven—the Pioneers—would form an insulated society: a new civilization for a new Earth, if that eventuality came to pass.

  Graves’s domain spanned levels 1 through 36: living quarters, provisions, and logistics for three thousand souls, a Haven’s capacity. His mission ended at the security airlock on deck 36. Though he knew there were levels below, he had no idea how many. For all he knew, there were another thirty-six levels and another Colonel Graves provisioning them as a backup. In spite of himself, he grinned at the idea of an alter ego doing the exact same job as him in a parallel universe below his own. That guy was probably just as tired as he was.

  The most intriguing part of his mission was the line in his orders that read “proceed without regard to financial constraints.” In his twenty-seven years in the US Army, in postings all over the globe, he had never before been given that kind of latitude. But Graves was nothing if not a soldier who knew how to follow orders, so he did exactly as his mission specified.

  Perhaps he’d taken his orders too literally and he was being called to Washington for an ass-chewing of epic proportions. Maybe it’s what he deserved. While the world had fixed its crosshairs of blame on President Teller and Anthony Taulke, they’d somehow forgotten about Colonel William Graves, the guy who had pushed the button, the officer in charge who executed the president’s launch order.

  Night after night, he relived that scenario in his dreams: the garbled phone call, the last-minute loss of communications. He’d done what the president ordered, Graves told himself. Twenty-seven years of unswerving military service had brought him to that moment.

  He was only following orders.

  But that was the problem: he never actually got the order. He’d heard the president’s speech and knew the intent, but when push came to shove, he never actually heard the Commander in Chief say the words.

  And he launched anyway. Now, people all over the world were dying because of his actions. He could have held the launch, reestablished communications with Washington, confirmed the orders. Given the chance, would Teller have changed his mind?

  The aircar reached the transcontinental air-bahn, and the powerful craft trembled as it accelerated to top speed.

  Graves tried to reset his mental state. The past was unchangeable. The only thing to do was to move forward and execute the next set of orders to the best of his ability.

  He put his data glasses back on and pulled up the top secret briefing. The device automatically read his biometrics and opened the file for the report titled “Global Military Assessment.” He skimmed the executive summary:

  The US Intelligence Community is united in its view that military forces of the major powers—namely the People’s Republic of China, the Russian Confederation, and the African National Coalition—are under intense internal pressure to take aggressive, unilateral action against the United States for its role in the disastrous bio-seeding experiment called the Lazarus Protocol. US bases outside the continental US are on full lockdown. Nonessential personnel are being evacuated.

  The source of the internal strife within these potential aggressor states is unknown. There are unconfirmed reports that the New Earth Order, colloquially called the Neos, are behind this agitation. There are also rumors of a Neo communications channel undetectable to known methods of surveillance. While we stress that these claims are speculative, field commanders are advised to minimize access to highly sensitive operational information by followers of the New Earth Order.

  Graves stopped reading and leaned back against the headrest.

  “Jansen, how many Neos do we have on staff?”

  She peered at him over the rim of her own data glasses. “On your immediate staff, sir, there’s only one. Second Lieutenant Hokum. Just transferred in last week.”

  “Let’s put Hokum on temporary duty somewhere outside the main Haven operation. And go through the rest of the military personnel, move any Neos out of the Haven.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her eyes held a questioning look, but she said nothing. She knew he’d tell her when he was ready.

  • • •

  Their aircar landed gently outside the staff entrance to the Pentagon. Since Lazarus had launched, protestors marched regularly on the seats of power in Washington, from the White House to the Capitol to the Pentagon itself. In response, a broad security perimeter had been cleared around the military headquarters. After the briefing he had just read, Graves expected that perimeter to widen and harden with armed outposts.

  While he understood the military necessity of the precautions, the situation gave Graves pause. Somewhere in a long-ago West Point history class, he recalled a quote about the right to protest in a free society.

  Graves dismissed the feeling. He was outfitting a modern-day Noah’s ark with the ability to save an infinitesimal segment of his country’s population. Maybe he should save his self-righteousness for another time.

  Their biometrics cleared before they reached the building and two MPs held open the doors for him and Jansen. They joined the throng of foot traffic in the halls of the famous military building, making their way quickly to the innermost ring and the bank of elevators that would take them to the secure underground levels. When they reached the meeting room, Jansen opened the door and Graves marched in.

  The briefing room was empty save for a man lounging in an office chair.

  He stood when Graves entered and extended his hand in greeting. “Colonel, good to see you again.” With bared teeth, the man reminded Graves of a shark before it took the big bite. His guard went up instantly.

  The man who’d first briefed them on Operation Haven some months earlier seemed determined to shake Graves’s hand. He and Jansen had nicknamed the unnamed man Mr. Slick after his clothing. The man’s suit, just like at that initial meeting, shifted colors subtly when he moved, from navy blue to smoky onyx to charcoal gray. Had he even changed clothes since then?

  “You look disappointed to see me, Colonel. ”

  “I don’t know you well enough to be disappointed,” Graves replied. Mr. Slick finally dropped his hand. “I take it from your presence here this isn’t a budget meeting?”

  The man’s laugh was friendly but forced. “You don’t miss a thing, Colonel. I thought it was time for another chat.” He gestured at the open chairs.

  Graves sat. His back did not touch the chair. “What is it you want exactly?”

  “Things have progressed, Colonel. It’s time you knew the rest of the Haven story.”

  “Like what’s beyond deck thirty-six, you mean?”

  Slick’s face became thoughtful. “Maybe I should ask what you think is beyond thirty-six.”

  Jansen answered instead. “It’s a power plant.”

  The man in the multicolored suit clapped twice. “Very good, Captain. But a power plant for what?” When neither officer offered a guess, he pointed at the ceiling.

  Graves’s stomach tightened with anger. This guy, obviously a covert ops agent, was playing some stupid game while people were dying out there. He slapped his hand on the table. “I don’t have time for this cloak-and-dagger crap. Tell me your name and get to the point of why we’re here.”

  What might have been genuine emotion flitted across Slick’s features. “Your passion is a credit, Colonel Graves. It’s that fire and dogged determination that’ll be needed if—”

  “Name. Now.”

  “You can call me Smith.”

  The small victory let just enough air out of Graves’s fury for him to regain control of his emotions. The name was bullshit, but it was a name at least.

  “Fine, Mr. … Smith. How about you cut the crap and tell us what’s so important we couldn’t do this over secure co
mms?”

  “We’re not sure there’s any such thing as ‘secure comms’ anymore, Colonel.”

  Graves took that in. Coupled with the report he’d just read, it was a chilling thought.

  Smith cleared his throat. “The Haven Project began over thirty years ago. It was started under the National Science Foundation as a way to study environments in isolation, sort of like the old bio-dome experiments, but on steroids. The sites were carefully selected away from major population centers, areas where we could closely monitor access and build the domes without attracting attention. Once the initial domes were erected, they became part of the natural environment—another big government project—and people just stopped seeing them.”

  “But they were more than just another big government project,” Graves guessed.

  Smith nodded. “Much more. Over the course of decades, we excavated the land under the domes to create a self-sustaining underground silo structure.”

  Jansen leaned forward. “How many levels are there really?”

  “Forty-two.”

  Graves chewed his lip. Six levels would comprise nearly two hundred feet, maybe more. That was one massive power plant.

  “That’s not all,” Smith said with a humorous flare in his voice.

  “Do tell.” Graves let his sarcasm show.

  “There’s a new type of drive, called a GEMDrive. The full name: GravElectro-Magnetic Drive. The eggheads say that means you fly a ship in space while providing compensating gravity inside the vessel. Basically, it means you can accelerate without getting squashed like a bug.”

  Graves shot a glance at Jansen, who had discipline enough to keep her teeth together. Graves held up a hand. “Back up. You said drive and ship and space . Are you telling me Havens are able to fly? Like spaceships?”

  Smith’s expression lightened. “Exactly like spaceships, Colonel. But wait, there’s more.” He called up an image on his tablet and pushed the device across the table.

  Graves and Jansen looked at the tablet together. It cycled through pictures of an Earthlike planet hanging in the blackness of space.

  “It’s an exoplanet, four light-years away, give or take, in the Proxima Centauri system. Nine years ago, we sent a probe drone, and we found a planet there that’s everything we could have hoped for. Breathable air, clean water, temperate climate, and uninhabited. The gravity’s a little heavier than Earth’s, but we’ll adapt. It’s just sitting there waiting for us to colonize it.”

  Graves stared at the images of the planet. “What’s its name?”

  A new planet, unpolluted, untouched by human hands. A global Mulligan for the human race. Do it right this time.

  “The scientists call it Proxima b ,” Smith said. His tone was soft.

  “What are we calling it?” Jansen asked. Her eyes were glued to the images cycling across the tablet.

  Smith smiled. “Haven.”

  Chapter 4

  Luca Vasquez • Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Luca Vasquez stabbed at the pinkish-yellow goo in the skillet. How did Americans even call this food? She shaped the protein-enhanced egg substitute into a pile and flipped it in the frying pan.

  Back home in Veracruz, breakfast was an actual meal, not a squirt of paste in a pan. A fresh tortilla, maybe an actual egg from an actual chicken, some beans, and an orange if they were in season.

  An orange. How long had it been since she’d tasted a real piece of fruit? When she was growing up, her family had a citrus grove in the backyard. Every morning she’d pick one for her breakfast. But that was before the city of her birth had been wiped off the map by a freak storm…

  The pink stuff in the pan was starting to char. She snapped off the tiny burner and divided the protein paste across two plates.

  “Donna!” she called. “Your breakfast is getting cold. ”

  The apartment was small enough that she didn’t have to yell too loudly for her sister: a living room–kitchen–dining room adjoining a tiny bedroom that they shared. Not much, but it was safe. For now.

  Luca placed the plates on the fold-down table and called again. “Donna! Now.”

  “¡Ya voy! ”

  “English, D! We have to practice!”

  “Sí , I know, I know,” Donna said from the other room. “I’m coming.”

  Donna had adopted the whine of an entitled teen since she’d started school in Minneapolis. The YourVoice forums Luca researched said that everyone dealt with grief and stress in their own way. With their parents gone, Luca’s best path forward was to be a supportive and nurturing female role model for her sister. Easier said than done.

  Donna appeared in the doorway wearing a bright blue jumper and red scarf. Getting dressed was a good start, but her long, dark hair was a mess.

  “Sit down and eat. I’ll brush your hair.”

  The girl slumped in her chair. “What’s this?”

  “It’s called P-Eggs. The p is for protein, I think. It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Luca said, trying to sound positive. And it’s cheap . “Looks like pink coral. Papa used to take me to the aquarium when I was your age.” Their shared father had been past middle-aged when Luca was growing up. He’d remarried and fathered Donna late in life. Whatever possessed a man that old to have another child?

  “I think it looks gross.”

  Luca pulled the brush through a resistant nest of knots. “ Well, I’m sorry, little sister, but that’s what we have to eat this morning. Eat or starve, your choice.”

  The girl grumbled again and picked up her fork.

  “Single braid?” Luca asked.

  Donna grunted assent through her mouthful of P-Eggs.

  Luca expertly separated the strands into three plaits, then began to braid them together. When she uncovered the back of her sister’s neck, her fingers lingered on the tattoo there. A round image—half a woman’s face and half the image of Earth.

  “Does it hurt?” Luca asked. “Ever?” Who would do that to a little girl? And why?

  Donna shrugged. “All the orphans got them after the hurricane, Luca. No es la gran cosa. ”

  “English.”

  “It’s no big deal!”

  Luca hated the tattoo. If only she had made it home from school sooner, Donna never would have ended up in that orphanage. It took her months to find her sister after the hurricane. Now it was just the two of them against the world.

  “Lots of kids here have them too,” Donna said.

  That reminder did little to calm Luca’s unease. “I know. Now, finish up and get ready for school.” She kissed the top of her sister’s head.

  Luca sat down and scooped a mouthful of the P-Eggs. They tasted worse than they looked, but at least they were cheap.

  • • •

  Luca settled onto the hard plastic bench seats of the tube transport for the three-minute ride to the University of Minnesota. Most of the traffic on the transport this early in the morning was support staff or grad students with campus jobs like hers.

  She nodded politely to the haughty black woman with the bright red headdress and was rewarded with a broad smile. Luca recognized her from Foyle Hall, where the lab was located. Glancing down at her own plain brown sweater and dark pants, Luca thought maybe she’d buy a new sweater with her next paycheck. Something red or yellow to contrast with her dark hair.

  Foyle Hall was a short walk from the tube station. Luca took her time, savoring the morning sunshine on her face. Dr. Markov’s laboratory was in the basement, with no windows, so she always tried to soak in as much natural light and warmth as possible before descending into the EM-shielded dungeon.

  Markov had explained that the electromagnetic shield was needed to ensure a pristine signal environment for his work. For Luca, it meant she was out of contact with the WorldNet. Not a big loss—all she had was a cheap pair of data glasses—but not having an instant connection to the outside world had taken some getting used to.

  When she first heard about Luca’s job, Donna proclaimed she would
quit before giving up her WorldNet.

  Oh, to be young and have such life choices.

  She should level with Donna about their situation. She had a student visa and a campus job that barely paid for their shoebox apartment, food supplemented by the campus food bank, and a pair of data plans. If one of them got sick, there was always the campus free clinic, but they were balancing on the razor’s edge of poverty .

  Her compassionate side wanted Donna to have as carefree a childhood as Luca could give her. Why burden a twelve-year-old with grown-up concerns she couldn’t do anything about?

  On impulse, Luca pulsed Donna good wishes for the day as she descended the stairs of Foyle, then scanned her badge and entered the dungeon. When the door closed behind her, the signal on her glasses went dead.

  She always fed the animals first: two white rats named Frick and Frack, a calico cat named Luis, and Leroy the beagle. None of those names were assigned by the lab, of course. For experimental purposes, the animals had numbers only.

  When she’d first learned Dr. Markov used animals for testing, Luca almost quit, thin finances be damned. She was relieved when she found out the testing did not involve macabre experiments that might cause pain in the test subjects. To the contrary, all the animals looked and acted normal and healthy, except for the silver discs embedded in the backs of their necks.

  Jules met her in the entryway. “Where have you been?” Her whisper was harsh. “Markov’s got some woman here for a funding milestone meeting and he’s freaking out.”

  “I get here at the same time every morning,” Luca shot back, annoyed at the judgment in Jules’s voice. “Dr. Markov knows that.” Jules, with her tall, lean frame and spiky blonde hair, was just another one of Markov’s unpaid graduate “helpers.” Luca had seen a few like Jules cycle through the lab—and the doctor’s bed, she suspected.

  Jules hissed at her, her silver piercings catching the light. Jules was heavily into body art, including a Neo tattoo on the nape of her neck. Although lots of students on campus were Neos and there was a Temple of Cassandra a few blocks away on University Avenue, as far as Luca remembered, this was the first time she’d seen a Neo as Makarov’s lab assistant.