First Contact: Book One in The Deepening Series (A Space Rock Opera Romance Adventure)

by Kelly Brewer

  A second laser-studded ice-crystal kit rose majestically behind him. When the giant was sated by applause he turned, sat down, and resumed pounding. The gleaming toms rung vibrant bell tones now. Clear spires, jutting from each drum, lit as he hit, pulsing red, green, blue, purple, and white laser starlight, mesmeriz-zzzing. The “sound of the rainbow” bounced off the innards of the arena. The audience stood cheering, transfixed.

  The next clip revealed Kyle peering out from behind the gigantic screen stage left, trying to spot any Happy-stil-borns. The gestation of the drug inside users conceived death. The final convulsions were violent and unnatural, easy to spot. Robotic security lined up in neat rows beneath him and spied as well, ready to C-section any emerging DOAs.

  Finally, Moore’s biblical Jonah impersonation could do no wrong. As he did a few curls, he watched himself being swallowed by the crowd, spit back upon the waves by the beast, then glide above them. It was an elegant dance born of spontaneity. A moonwalking, trance/drifting, backwards ice skater, Moore glided the good 150 feet back, above and beyond crowd expectations. Moore grinned when everybody showered praise and encouragement.

  Moore was magic when he was straight. Curs-ed mean when his doped-up split-mind divided him into two different people and separated him from the people who loved him.

  Backstage the cameras kept rolling. After Moore came down in a triumphant landing, he boyishly pushed Kyle’s hair-tangled, smiling face from in front of the Sleepless Entertainment Channel droid swarm. With sincere, shining eyes, and an infectious grin filling the frame, he said, “Just remember… love your mama… and yourself… don’t do drugs.”

  Everyone in the conference room laughed incredulously at his hypocrisy. He laughed too.

  Off-camera, Kyle shouted something at him. Moore turned that southern-boy jawline to the camera. Girls thought about babies. Guys thought about how he was a regular guy they could have a beer with.

  “At this point,” said Tamer proudly, “you guys are simply printing money.”

  Ox was beaming at the entire replay. Five hundred pounds banged down on the work-out bench, meaty hands slammed down on the conference room table. He walked to the fridge and returned with two beers in each hand.

  “Spectacular! That’s the fanciest hoedown I ever seen y’all hoe!”

  He handed Moore one.

  “And Mr. MacDaddy just keeps ’em on the edge of their seats!” He tossed Mac one.

  “And Kyle, I’ll drink yours! Great job my friends, great job!”

  They said in unison, “I’ll drink to that!” and threw ’em back with gusto.

  Ox pulled the tabs on both beers and dumped them in his cavernous mouth. The little cans were emptied then crushed in a spray of foam.

  All on video. All in fun. Money in the bank.

  Kyle beamed, taking his eyes off work for a moment. Finishing his final leg reps, he swept his eyes around to gaze upon sweet Mercy through the undarkened, clear silicone walls that separated the different rooms on that level. She was waiting for the conclusion of the band meeting, absent-mindedly talking with the girlfriends in the hall outside.

  She saw him looking and flirted. It was excruciating when she moved slow for him like that. He breathed a deep sigh. How could a bum from Texas almost overnight have so much after having so little? Look at this woman. Look at my friends and coworkers. Look at my life! Crew was so on last night. Sound, lights, camera, action, and reaction. He was very proud of his team.

  In spite of the harrowing setbacks, it was near perfect.

  He really did owe Moore one.

  Angel arrived in orbit then, piloting his little econo-gyro. He buzzed comms as they celebrated, upbeat Tejano music playing in the background.

  “Hola, mi amigos! I have lunch. Everyone is invited. Bring your friends! And drink some virgin margaritas. I brought fresh tacos and dip for everyone. And Kyle, I brought your favorite puss… kitty!”

  All the guys laughed anyway.

  Kyle had not called him. Angel just knew somehow that he was needed. The man was uncanny. And Whiskey here too!

  “Come on over to the Angel-mobile. It’s not quite as swanky as your gringo la casa but I assure you, it feels more like home! And no spies here!” he guffawed.

  Workouts and review finished, everyone smiled and gathered into transport air locks. Angel was a great chef. A fiesta was a welcome distraction.

  CHAPTER 29

  Co-Exist

  Medi, the spy Dock had expertly placed on Hadjii’s team, informed his boss of the Co-exist confession from Chic’s neuro-extract.

  A day later the headlines became, “Co-Exist Plot to Destroy Marsbase Fails” and “Cosmics Save the Deepening.”

  Dock’s media machine went into high gear and ran with it. All of it became part of the official record of their struggle.

  Reporters hounded Hermana Head, founder of Co-exist Interplanetary, when she stepped lightly from the glittering towers of Co-exist Central, located on lo-gravity Moonbase. Reiterating the church’s peaceful, unifying intentions, she had no comment on whether Chica B. Boom, the dead terrorist, was an active member in good standing.

  “How could a self-proclaimed organization of peace commit such acts of violence?” the news.bot said, turning to the camera.“A quantity of the popular new drug Happy-stil was also found in the terrorist’s possession. The substance is undergoing analysis at Centre Lab, under the direction of Doctor Alil Hadjii’s team.”

  It must be a big deal if Centre was involved.

  Most good people were relieved.

  A few bad ones were not.

  CHAPTER 30

  MACHINATIONS

  Jupiter Show, T-minus 36 hours

  Jupiter was the band’s next conquest.

  Dock called Tamer and stated, “I do not want to see your progress interrupted. If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

  “Understood. I’m on it, boss,” Tamer replied.

  “The final four shows must be epic. Tales must be told of the glory,” Dock instructed.

  He held broadcast rights to the whole, epic mess.

  Turning back to a mountain of digital “paperwork” being compiled by Ro-mans using nearly every computer on the level, he smiled. They would need a much larger safety presence to satisfy new requirements from Insurance Underwriters. Upping the liability coverage had gotten them worried. More financial exposure required more security around venues, though he was already spending a fortune on a private drone and human army.

  The entrepreneur was ready for it. An influx of public safety enforcers could meet the demand… and taxpayers would pay for it! One of the underpinnings of the Best Laid Plan was knowing in advance how to get something for nothing.

  The interstellar mining and media magnate had been appointed ambassador-at-large by the World Council a year ago. He’d paid a fortune for the appointment to help maintain the falsehood that he meant no harm to anyone. Now, he was also a dutiful public employee, a trusted servant to his fellow man.

  The ambassador had authority to instigate government inquiries into broken safety protocols that allowed bombs and drugs onto Marsbase. An inquiry must be instigated immediately. The public and the Deepening must be protected!

  Normally, he maneuvered to keep the public safety office off his jobs because they slowed his workforce, but now it was time to include them. He fired up his favorite public employee, Bitros C. Gully, who was already in Mars orbit.

  Bitros C. Gully was the Public Safety Enforcement Division’s Chief Safety Inspector. He could quote chapter and verse of his beloved safety code, and he enjoyed writing up careless violators for various vexing violations. “Safety is security” was the mantra he squawked out his obnoxious beak. Grudgingly, workers had to admit accidents were down when he was around, partially due to employees spending more time filling out paperwork than doing actual
work.

  Predictably, Gully the Gull-ible would begin at the wrong end of this situation and start with Kyle, who had ended the Mars situation rightly. Once Bit began his investigation, envy of Kyle and the others would creep into his work. Dock could see that future plainly. People loved the band because they were natural. Gully was despised because he was unnatural.

  Having him handle those rowdy rednecks would be like pouring gas on a fire. Kyle would be a big feather in Bit’s cap. Somebody’s eyebrows were going to get singed! Dock could watch it all go down and not have to pay a single dime. Yay, more cheap fun!

  Pacing the gyro floor, he glanced at Gina, his brand-new robo-liaison, the last special order to arrive from the Skin-gineer’s factory floor. About time; he’d only paid a billion credits for it. Triny, the previous robo-secretary, had been quietly decommissioned.

  “Gina… baby… here’s your first assignment. It’s time to begin the official government inquiry into the Martian shooting incident. Make sure my man Bistros Gully from Safety is alerted. I want him for this job. He is the best man for it. It’s time to take him off the chain and let nature take its course.”

  With a curt nod, she began compiling the appropriate interagency paperwork. Let the obfuscation begin!

  If the “investigation” went haywire, blame for a questionable order could easily get tossed around for years until everyone got tired of it and went home. If he handled it by proxy through an army of self-serving bureaucrats, he could deflect on other agencies if an overreaction overheated. Or, he could step up and take credit if things worked out. Government work was his favorite. No accountability.

  Dock watched Gina.bot work. She had the makings of an excellent android assistant. Theoretically, her Adaptive Algorithmic Assimilation Suite (AAAS) would blend into his Best Laid Plan more cleanly and intuitively than the other Ro-mans. She learned faster and asked fewer questions already, and supposedly required less downtime and maintenance. This model would work better than the current crop of Ro-mans, he suspected. Plus, she was gorgeous. Soon, he would get a closer look at all her qualifications.

  Dock spoke at the other Ro-mans, not masking his amusement, “Bitros will establish an irritating presence among the crew, watching, ticketing crew violations of safety protocols, berating offenders who take shortcuts. This is going to be a train wreck!”

  He paced in a toga around the command center of his ship. Ro-man ears followed him around the room, eyes fixed on his spying screens and lying schemes.

  “The little man’s irritating nature will be despised by all on board. Those strong, independent young men will see to his expulsion. They might even kill him when he comes for their guns! Ox is gonna freak on this guy! Hahaha! Then I can order… I’m sorry… the Under Secretary can order in a stronger enforcement unit. More governmental meddlers en route will increase the impression of security I need to satisfy insurance. All at taxpayer expense.”

  He scratched himself.

  “Has my Best Laid Plan failed? I think not.”

  None protested above the clatter of keyboards.

  He watched them, feeling for inconsistencies.

  Where was their chosen one now?

  Could any of them be recording him? Could they, would they, use his honesty and openness against him? So far, no unauthorized outgoing communications had been detected from his space-based sanctuary now orbiting Jupiter.

  The decision was made, then and there, he would destroy this entire batch of Ro-mans after the tour, once his plan was complete. Acid wash and bleach them, then burn any evidence they might contain about his machinations.

  “Didn’t someone play a fiddle while Rome burned?” he asked no one.

  He would jam to the “Devil Went Down on Gorgeous” (that old song from the year 2222 that featured the fiddle) while he dismembered them. Then write off the three-billion-credit equipment loss on his tax return.

  He was thinking of more Gina.bots.

  The DockInHaus legal team had come to a consensus this morning. Destroying an android fifty-one percent artificial, forty nine percent human, meant it was not murder. Ro-mans were 75% manufactured. Legal felt they could successfully defend in insurance court “liquidation for fear of predation.” Damn, another popping payday.

  A preemptive strike, just like Kyle had done, would not be considered murder then. He smiled.

  Ahhhhh… blood and bot.oil would flow.

  CHAPTER 31

  MEXICAN MAGIC

  “It’s called mass transference.”

  Angel attempted a basic explanation of instant space travel the next day, sipping a tequila, double-checking his econo-gyro’s computer’s dark/light switch calculations before leaving Mars orbit. Jupiter jump was twenty-four hours before the next show.

  “Imagine an asteroid orbiting Jupiter. Imagine a shipping container orbiting Earth. Both equal in mass and momentum. The polarity of dark matter and light is inverted 180 degrees between them. The quantum magnetic channel is now a bridge. Drive the container into one end of the bridge and the masses exchange places instantly. It’s magic. When I do it, I call it Mexican Magic.” He gazed at his fingernails. “Basic stuff. Techie 101.”

  Kyle cleaned his gun. “Uh-huh.”

  Mentally, he was reviewing the past couple days. Public police had just left Angel’s craft after questioning the entire crew.

  “Facts, multiple eyewitnesses, and a zoom lens don’t lie,” Public Homicide Detective Mooney stated dryly after reviewing the excellent footage of the Mars shot for a third time.

  “Of course I need a copy of this for my files—”

  Before he finished, Tamer handed him a flash drive with the clip Mynas had compiled of the entire event, including the detective’s conversation with Kyle, the actual victim, in Tamer’s opinion.

  Mooney jotted notes in an old-fashioned notepad.

  “Don’t see paper much anymore,” Tamer observed, as he closed his eyes and continued editing footage in his head. This is movie grade stuff, he inwardly reflected.

  Detective Grisholm, Mooney’s partner, scurried about Marsbase securing all physical evidence. He’d forwarded Chic’s body to the only person that might extract any postmortem data, Doctor Hadjii. There had been another small fire like on Moonbase, and he carefully took samples of the residue. The rifle was photographed and licenses were confirmed.

  Mooney collected statements. Flipping through his notepad, he read aloud for the band.

  “A large white male rapidly approached the vehicle with a suitcase bomb and was neutralized before he could detonate the device. The body of one Chica B. Boom indicated severe head trauma as cause of death.”

  “Hawhahh! Ya think?!” Moore blurted from the stoop of his evening-morning stupor.

  Mooney ignored him. “The device detonated a Terror Dome suicide drone. A quantity of drugs and money have also been taken as evidence.” Flip.

  “The subject is wanted in several time and orbital zones. Terrorist can be added to escaped convict, rapist, and murderer. My guess? Genomic scrambling due to too many jumps at a young age. All those off-world playoffs effectively blew his young brain out.” Flip.

  “Literature found on the body indicated the perp may have some ties to the Co-exist movement. He attended meetings in the Lost Angeles.us area before his death.”

  He flipped the notepad into his coat pocket.

  “You guys have been very cooperative. Clearly, no one involved has anything to hide. I will recommend to Mars security you guys are free to go.”

  Mercy squeezed Kyle’s shoulder, reassured, putting a sweet arm around him.

  The detective stood and stretched. “Some friends of mine back on Mother Earth can close their file on this guy. That’s one less freak flying around. Looks like a clear case of self-defense. With one shot you saved Marsbase and everyone on it. Open and shut. Good work, lieutenant.” H
e reached out and they shook hands.

  He smiled at Kyle who exhaled slowly, relieved.

  “Glad I could help. Mark tried to stop the fool by blasting over the intercom. What a weird couple of days! This is not how we envisioned this tour going at all.” He exchanged a worried glance with his blond friend.

  Detective Grisholm entered and began arranging evidence on a table nearby.

  “What are you going to do with this stuff?” Tamer asked, mentally recording the collected evidence spread across the conference room table. “I see about a hundred grand in cash there, maybe a kilo of this rat poison. And what about the bomb? Can you tell us anything about it?”

  Grisholm said, “It was blown remotely. Air traffic recorded a pulse right before the suicide drone exploded that could have come from anywhere. They followed its flight and recorded the detonation. Traffic will send me a copy of any information it collected. It will be a part of public record within ten days. You can see it then. The drugs will also be analyzed then destroyed by a police medi-droid.”

  He paused, sipping cold coffee. Mooney jumped in.

  “The money is a different matter. Twenty percent will be sent back to the terrestrial public police fund. My office keeps the rest. We don’t have big budgets out here on the edge of civilization, so they let us absorb seized assets, as long as we carefully document how they are used. It’s a way of using criminal assets against the criminals.”

  Kyle noticed his well-polished but worn tactical boots.

  “We use cash to buy equipment, for training for officers, and to pay informants. It will go to good use… instead of up someone’s nose or in their arm.”

  Detective Grisholm completed his analysis of the fire residue. “Yep, benzene was used as an accelerant, same as the fire on Moonbase.”