The Calypsis Project Boxed Set (Books 1-2 - The Echo-Alpha Duology)

by Brittany M. Willows

  “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Alana finally broke the silence that had fallen after their watch began. Her words were mumbled, almost slurred. She may not have been tired when she volunteered for the shift, but it sounded as though her energy was beginning to wane.

  Kenon hoped sleep would come to him as well. Alas, after everything that had happened over the last few days, it seemed beyond his reach. However, he had managed to find a strange kind of peace in the disorder. Although a hundred thoughts screamed for his attention at once, not one lingered long enough to infect his brain with pointless worries and despair, so they became little more than white noise.

  As he turned away from the shivering pines, his focus came to rest on Alana, who was standing opposite him. There was a faraway look in her expression—a look he was guilty of wearing often, as Jhiral had pointed out in the past.

  Alana cocked her brow at him. “What?”

  “Are you okay?” he asked. She was constantly checking in to see how he was doing, always there when he needed someone to talk to . . . It hadn’t occurred to him to return the favor until now.

  “I’d be lying if I said I was.” She leaned against the ice-encrusted stone of the entryway, arms hanging limply at her sides. “I know what loss feels like. I’ve been through it more times than I can count on one hand, which is far too many if you ask me. But this is . . . different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I don’t know, it kind of feels like a dream. Like a really strange, horrible dream . . .” Alana reached into the her suit and pulled out her stepfather’s tags. Tears welled in her eyes as she ran her thumb over his name. “Why would I get him back just to lose him again a few days later?”

  Kenon swallowed hard. Like her optimism, Alana’s sorrow was contagious. He wanted to comfort her, to ease her suffering, but he had no idea how. Was that even the right thing to do, or were humans better left to wallow in their pain? In the end, he simply said, “You meant the world to him.”

  A weak smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She clutched the tags to her chest, the silver chain dangling between her fingers. “He made me promise not to shut anyone out again. Haven’t exactly stayed true to that, though. Have I?”

  “You have not outright broken your promise, either.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “No one can expect you to recover in mere days. In time, your wounds will heal, and this will all become part of the past. You just have to be patient.”

  Alana slipped the tags back into her suit, then changed the subject. “How are you holding up?”

  A shrug was all Kenon could offer. In some ways, he felt better than he had in years. He had found his purpose. He knew where he was going, what he was supposed to do when he got there. And yet, an emptiness lingered inside him—a pit carved by guilt and grief.

  At least there was comfort in knowing the burden his existence had placed on the galaxy would soon be lifted.

  “So, genius, how are we supposed to destroy Calypsis anyway?” Alana asked after a brief pause, to which the young warrior averted his gaze. “You made it pretty clear that that was the goal. Do you wanna maybe explain the plan?” She leaned to the side, trying to catch his eye.

  He didn’t respond.

  Her shoulders slumped. “We’re not getting out of here, are we?”

  That was one question Kenon had hoped to avoid. Though, it was rather foolish to think he could make it to the end without someone posing it. Now that Alana was jumping to conclusions, he couldn’t simply leave it unanswered. “You are,” he said, then cast a glance towards where the rest of the team slept. “And so are they.”

  “What about you?”

  “I must stay behind.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  Naturally, Kenon started searching for an escape—a way out of this conversation. Ultimately, he had to respond. Regardless of whether it would cause further distress, Alana deserved to hear the truth. He owed her that much. “Our journey together ends when we reach the activation chamber,” he said. “From there, I shall overload Calypsis’ systems. The planet will tear itself apart from the inside, rendering the weapon harmless. You and the others should be far away by then, but I am afraid I must remain inside to see the process through.”

  Alana’s voice dropped to low. “Kenon, you’ll die.”

  “I know.”

  “You can’t seriously be okay with this. There’s got to be another way. There has to be an ending where we all come out alive!”

  “Alana, I do not have a choice.”

  “Yes, you do!” Even she appeared taken aback by unexpected harshness of her tone. She took a moment to compose herself, then continued at a lower volume. “We write our own stories. You have a choice. If we work together, I’m sure we can find a way out of this. Just promise me you’ll try everything else before hitting the self-destruct button on a superweapon.”

  Kenon offered a resigned nod. If a false promise would put her at ease, so be it. As much as he wanted to believe there was an alternative, Doramire had assured him that there were no other options. “You should get some rest,” he said. “I can carry out the rest of the watch myself.”

  Alana hesitated for a minute, then uttered a dejected “okay” and went to join her teammates by the dwindling fire. She settled down next to Parker on the hard metal floor and soon drifted off to sleep.

  She had good intentions. Kenon realized that. Unfortunately, they did not have time to waste by running a fool’s errand. If they strayed from the path even for a moment, it could put the entire mission in jeopardy. Kenon could not allow that to happen.

  He would have to take matters into his own hands.

  Chapter

  —TWENTY-NINE—

  2236 Hours, September 14, 2442 (Earth Calendar) / Charab’dul Metamorphosis Research Division, planet Chelwood Gate

  “Easy, Des. There’s no need to rush.” Chambers took her fiancé by the arm as he swung his legs off the bed.

  He was still weak. That much was obvious from his posture and the subtle bob of his head. But having been bedridden since the day he arrived, he was itching to get up and move.

  Desmond slid off the edge of the mattress and planted his feet on the cool floor, knees quaking when he shifted his weight to stand. The tremors were nowhere near as severe as they had been, though, and other symptoms were beginning to ease off as well.

  His sight had cleared, his appetite was returning, his memory had improved—and all in a week’s time. The road to recovery was paved. All he had to do now was keep moving forward.

  Leaning on her for support, Desmond took a step away from the bed. Then another, and another.

  “This is a really good start,” she said. “We’ll do this twice a day for the next week or so. Once you’ve regained some muscle mass, I’ll book you an appointment with Stanton Physiotherapy.”

  He seemed doubtful. “You think they’ll accept me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I look infected.”

  “People might be a bit nervous at first, sure. But we have proof that you’re no longer a carrier of the plague, and they can’t reject your application without good reason. If they try, they’ll be hearing from me.”

  Desmond smirked. “You haven’t changed, have you?”

  “I got old. That’s about it.”

  “Good. I’m glad at least one thing stayed the same.” A shadow passing by the examination room window drew Desmond’s attention. The blinds were closed, allowing only a sliver of daylight in through the bottom. He watched for a minute as more shapes moved past, then asked, “Can we go outside?”

  “To the foyer?”

  “No, outside the building.”

  “It’s not Calypsis. And we’re in the middle of the city.”

  “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be . . . better.”

  “Alright.”

  Hooking her arm around his, Dr. Chambers guided him out into the lab
oratory’s narrow halls. The receptionists looked up from their computers when they shuffled into the foyer. One wheeled her chair back anxiously. The other two were beaming.

  As they neared the front entrance, Desmond’s pace quickened. The tinted glass doors parted upon their approach, allowing cool evening air to flow into the lab, and the carpeted floor gave way to a paved footpath.

  Desmond paused at the threshold to take in the scene—to absorb the sights, scents, and sounds of a world brimming with life. A world he once thought unreachable. Breaking away from Chambers, he stumbled off the path and dropped clumsily to the freshly-mown lawn. He ran his fingers over the damp grass. The corners of his mouth turned upward, spread into a wide grin, and he chuckled in cheerful disbelief.

  That smile, that sweet laugh . . . Chambers had grown so used to her fiancé’s absence that she hadn’t realized quite how much she missed those qualities until now. Such trivial things, yet they warmed her in ways nothing else could. In the darkest days of Earth, they had been her solace.

  The glass doors slid open again. Dr. Larson strolled out to join Chambers in the darkening courtyard and leaned against one of the pillars supporting the building’s entrance. “That’s a miracle if I ever saw one,” he said, regarding Desmond with wonder.

  “He’s a fighter,” she agreed.

  “Have the final scans come in yet?”

  “They came in this morning, actually.”

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “The plague did a number on his body,” she said. “We’re looking at a couple years of physiotherapy, organ reconstruction, and blood transfusions—along with a whole slew of other treatments. Luckily, not all are urgent or absolutely necessary.”

  Larson whistled. “Long way to go.”

  “It’ll be worth it in the end. He’s still got a good thirty years ahead of him. Maybe fifty if he responds well to the recovery program.”

  “Three to five decades? That’s not bad.”

  Chambers hummed. “Not bad at all.”

  A stream of automated shuttles whooshed past on the nearby skyrail, briefly interrupting the cricket song. The city’s working class would be heading home right about now. Soon, the buskers would emerge to fill the streets with music and dancing—a stark contrast to the vicious battle playing out many light years away.

  Larson scuffed his shoes on the pavement. “As much as I hate to disrupt this scene, I didn’t come out to watch the love birds,” he said. “Orion has an update for us.”

  “It’s fine. There’s always tomorrow,” Dr. Chambers said, then added to herself: We hope. If Echo Team failed, there was no telling what the future held.

  She crossed the lawn to collect her fiancé, promising another outing first thing in the morning. As they hobbled inside, Caitlin Donoghue shuffled over in her six-inch pumps to escort Desmond back to his room while Chambers followed Larson into his office.

  Orion was already there, hovering above the desk.

  “You wanted to talk?” she asked.

  He gave a solemn nod. “I was unable to gather further information from Serenity. I lost contact with her shortly after she appeared to you in the lift and haven’t been able to reestablish a connection since.”

  “So she’s gone?”

  “Not gone, no. Traces of her code linger in my data core. However, it appears she has retreated into a sort of . . . stasis mode. A coma, if you will.”

  “Why would she leave?” Larson pondered.

  Orion shrugged. There was a frailty about his image. His feathers were ruffled, shoulders sagging as if worn by a life of hardship. It was odd to see him this way. “Serenity did what she came here to do,” he said. “Her mission was complete. She had no reason to stay.”

  “That’s it, then?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Chambers folded her arms. She and Larson had been bouncing theories off each other for days, speculating on Serenity’s history. Now they had to resign themselves to the fact that they may never know the truth of her origins.

  Unless we want to go digging around on Dyre, she thought. Unfortunately, the chances of the Drahkori allowing an excavation team to march in and tear up what they considered to be sacred ground were highly unlikely, which only added to her frustration.

  If she was right—if Serenity was indeed a human creation, as her avatar suggested—it could open countless doors for mankind. It would mean that, not only had ancient humanity created artificial life vastly superior to the current era, they had achieved space flight! And if they had accomplished that much, who knew what else they were capable of?

  A soulful melody melted into the office, drawing Dr. Chambers from her daydream. The rich, almost sorrowful tune of a cello—Bach, if she wasn’t mistaken. It started off low and gradually increased in volume until she was sure it could be heard throughout the entire building.

  “Where’s that coming from?” she wondered aloud.

  Orion drew his wings higher. “Upstairs. Agent O’Connor arrived late last night and asked to borrow one of the empty offices on the second floor.”

  A jolt of irritation shot through Chambers. “You let that bastard in after what he nearly did to you?”

  “It’s what he chose not to do that piqued my curiosity. Serenity’s message roused something within him. Doubt. Uncertainty. So when he came back, I did not hesitate to open the door.”

  “Why come here?”

  “He was looking for the truth, and Sector Zero knows I have access to parts of the database that they do not. I think he thought if I caught him snooping around, I would share my knowledge. And I did. I showed him Director Bishop’s files.”

  Dr. Larson blinked. “You did what?”

  The unmistakable crack of a gunshot rented the air.

  While Larson ducked under his desk, Chambers moved to the doorway and instinctively reached for her weapon. Her hand brushed over a bare belt and pants—no holster to be found.

  Shit, she thought. Of course it wasn’t on her. She hadn’t carried the thing in years.

  Poking her head out, she scanned the foyer for activity. The receptionists were huddled beneath their counter. Other lab technicians had taken cover behind a row of chairs near the entryway. Everyone was holding their collective breath in anticipation of the next shot.

  But it never came, and no shooter presented himself.

  Larson peered over his desk. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing,” Chambers said. “I can still hear that music, though . . .” At that, another thought occurred to her. “Orion, was Agent O’Connor armed when he entered the building last night?”

  “He was. Most agents are, no matter where they go. Why?”

  “Because music is a damn fine way to drown out screams.” Without another word, Dr. Chambers stormed off towards the stairwell with Larson on her heels. If that black-badge son of a bitch was using their offices for interrogations, she was about to tear him a new one.

  When she opened the door to the second floor, the cello’s cry assaulted her eardrums—so loud she could hardly hear her own footsteps. She and Larson marched down the hall until they located the room it was emanating from, and to nobody’s surprise, it was locked.

  Chambers hammered upon the door. “Leonard, open up!”

  “Here.” Larson nudged her aside. He swiped his keycard through the slot by the handle to override the system. Its light flicked to green. The pair of them burst into the office as the music rose to a crescendo . . .

  And they froze.

  Agent O’Connor sat slumped before the desk, arms dangling over the sides of his chair, fingers curled around a Nightingale pistol. The wall to his right was spattered with gore. Blood pooled over the floor beside him, trickling in viscous streams from a gaping hole in his skull.

  Orion emerged from the holo-strip. “Oh, no . . .”

  Dr. Chambers made her way over to the man’s body, stepping lightly as though not to disturb him. She pulled the gun from his clammy hand and p
laced it on the desk, pausing to look upon his lifeless face.

  Here was the spook, the man she despised, the hurricane that tore through her life and tethered her to a despicable organization built on lies and secrecy. When she thought he had died years ago, she almost felt relieved. He had gotten what he deserved for playing with fire.

  This time, however, as she stared into the eyes of the monster who had taken everything from her, that sense of relief was nowhere to be found. Though he treated ethics like clay he could mold to his every whim, he wasn’t a cruel man. He wasn’t heartless. That became clearer than ever when he barged in to terminate Orion and left without laying a finger on the AI’s core.

  And now he was dead, brains blown out by his own pistol. By his own hand, it would seem. But why would he do such a thing?

  “Orion, what happened?” Chambers asked.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t see,” he admitted. “Until the surveillance cameras are installed here, I can only monitor activity on the computer systems.”

  “Are there cameras in the hall?”

  “No one else entered the room while I was away, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Nor has anyone accessed this floor since yesterday. So I can assure you, there was no foul play here.”

  “What’s this?” Larson murmured. He picked up a small envelope that O’Connor had left on the desk, tucked under the edge of a whiskey glass full of cigarette butts. He turned it over to look at the writing scrawled across the back, then held it out to his colleague. “It’s addressed to you.”

  Chambers took the envelope and shifted it about in her hands. From what she could feel, there was no paper letter inside—just a couple of flat objects about the size of her thumbnail. Pocketing it for later, she motioned to the blood on the floor. “I suppose we should call someone to clean this up.”

  “Don’t worry about that right now,” Larson said. “The police should be here in a few minutes. They’ll want to investigate first.”