The Andromeda Project (The Cluster Chronicles Book 1)

by Jason Michael Primrose

  Contents

  DEDICATIONS

  Chapter One - The Recruits

  Chapter Two - Initiation

  Chapter Three - Tensions Rising

  Chapter Four - C20

  Chapter Five - Neight's Return

  Chapter Six - Hybrid's Escape

  Chapter Seven - The Gems of Evale

  Chapter Eight - The Infinity Cluster

  Chapter Nine - Zosma

  Chapter Ten - Rise of Humanity

  Chapter Eleven - Epilogue

  I’d like to thank two amazing women who taught me never to give up, the first one being my mother and best friend, Edna. The second, my grandmother, Barbara. This series is for you.

  I dedicate this first novel to those who have believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  (C) Copyright 2016 by Jason Michael Primrose

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Recruits

  ALLISTER ADAMS

  Washington, DC, April 2026

  “Sorry sir,” Allister mumbled after running into a hulking soldier on patrol while entering the tram. Of decent size himself, he hoped an apology would avoid confrontation. The city’s hired help had been on edge lately. The unknown number flashed across the screen of a titanium alloy communication device, it had appeared every morning at the same time for the past four days. The call went to voicemail as the tram dropped him off a few blocks from his minimum-wage job.

  Allister reached the top of the escalator with his hands in the front pockets of his sleeveless, zip-up hoodie. Uncomfortable stares from strangers who shared his morning route annoyed him that day, even though they weren’t out of the ordinary. He always thought it was because they secretly knew he was different but his mother told him it was because he was handsome. Mothers tend to say those types of things.

  Methane and Petroleum, predominant smells of a city focused on military force and manufacturing. Allister navigated the crowd impatiently, hoping to get out of toxic open air as soon as possible. Plus he was late, if only he hadn’t missed the first tram. Desolate grey skies of an April morning reminded him what fall used to look like, minus the heat. Subtle shifts in seasons due to climate change left eight months of summer and four months of something like limbo between fall and winter.

  An obnoxious chime sound prompted him to check the device affixed to his wrist. What could be said in a five second long voicemail? Not a thing, it sounded like trying to find a radio station while driving through the mountains.

  The Cynque watch was a genius invention that took cellular technology to the next level. Although government issued, it felt like US citizens chose to have it because “Cynque made life easier”. An animated billboard above the tram station reiterated a half-assed marketing tag line for the watch, while highlighting its recreational features.

  If it weren’t for thousands of military workers scrambling for caffeinated beverages to start their day or keep their day going, the coffee shop where Allister worked wouldn’t exist. Responsibility for appeasing the needs of dozens of the most uptight, unpleasant people, first thing every morning, felt like purposefully banging his head against the wall for five hours.

  Most days Allister arrived to a line of workers waiting. Lucky they were only particular about how their beverages were served and not when. It helped that many of them had known him since his junior year of high school as the owner's first hire. The shop’s popularity grew over the years because Allister remembered exactly how everyone liked his or her beverages.

  He arrived at 7:15 am. There was no line. Anxiety, mixed with spring heat and poor wardrobe choice, had formed patches of sweat on the short-sleeved white Oxford. He probably didn’t need the hoodie, sleeves or not. The shop owner, Mr. Skinner, stood behind the counter like a father waiting for his daughter to show up after missing curfew. Allister bypassed a few stragglers sitting at elevated booth tables with eyes on the floor.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” Mr. Skinner asked.

  “My alarm didn’t go off.” Lie. “Then I missed the train this morning.” Truth. “Then I got stopped by one of the patrols.” Lie. He shrugged, “I’ve been having trouble at home…I don’t know.”

  “You know what, you're fired,” Mr. Skinner said. He removed a few metal mugs and packets of raw brown sugar from the counter. “You don’t appreciate this opportunity.”

  Allister felt a strange sense of relief, but it transformed into panic before becoming enjoyable. Those excuses normally worked.

  “Please don't fire me, my mom is going to be so pissed,” Allister’s fists hovered in front of his chest for emphasis.

  “No more chances,” Mr. Skinner said moving away. “I warned you last week.”

  “I promise I won't ever be late again. You don't understand, I need this job.” The back of his hand covered an accidental yawn. A foreclosure notice alongside letters from lawyers in yesterday's mail caused a restless and brief sleep.

  “You should've acted like it.” Mr. Skinner held a handful of mini straws. “I’m sorry.”

  A replacement minion had already filled his shoes and nodded sympathetically while brewing a fresh cup of coffee. “No, that’s decaf.” Allister overheard his former boss say as he exited the shop. At least he wouldn’t be outperformed.

  Allister sat alone on the railing outside, watching soldiers audit passersby about information on their Cynque watches. Their inquisition was less than gentle and anyone without an occupation was typically apprehended. Loitering in the area had become a huge crime after the bombings. Two street patrols approached him and the unknown number called again.

  “You should answer your phone. Might be somebody important callin,” a third uniformed man shouted, he walked in front of the approaching patrols. “He's with me.” They acknowledged the Captain’s authority and retreated. He wore a chic jacket and trousers fitted to his formidable frame, both the color of cabernet. Buttoned to the neck, golden medals accented its rich color but Allister identified the man’s military ranking from the hat on his neatly shaved head.

  “Is this what you wanna do with your life?” the Captain asked, with an accent you’d only find on a farm in Kentucky. There was a distinct intelligence to it.

  Another annoying chime distracted Allister from studying the stranger in more depth. Direct deposit of his last paycheck. The national minimum wage hit $25 that January and it still wasn't enough. “Are you talking to me?” Allister asked.

  The Captain pulled out a an archaic brochure. Archaic compared to the glass tablet tucked under his arm. “No, I'm talking to the other unemployed kid about to get arrested.” The Andromeda Project was printed in big bold letters across the top. “My superiors have an interest in you.”

  Allister opened it and skimmed the text. “This isn't for me.”

  “You don't know what's for you,” the Captain muttered. “I've got an opportunity that's gonna change your life.” He rocked back on shin-high, lace-up boots with his wrinkled forehead and smirk carefully hidden under the hat. “Tell ya what, the test is at 1 this afternoon. If you pass, it'll get you off the hook for a couple of weeks with these losers.” The stranger’s head cocked to armed soldiers in the street. “No obligation to go through the process.”

  Allister’s curiosity in the captain’s facial features resembled a cat trying to look under a closed door. “How did you find me
?” He asked, as if he didn’t know the answer. Allister reviewed the other missed calls, all of the numbers weren’t the same. “Are these all you?”

  “Take the test then we'll talk.” The man flipped the brochure and pointed to the address on the back. It was two stops away. “And Allister, don't be late.”

  DOLORES ADAMS

  Cumberland Falls, Kentucky, September 1995

  “I'm not a pervert,” Patrick blurted out. It was 2 am. Dolores and Patrick stood surrounded by towering trees at the edge of Cumberland Falls, Kentucky. Population last recorded at a little under five thousand, rural by definition. Patrick was a senior at the time and a scholar in his studies. He was on his way out of Cumberland. Any parent would've been happy to know a young man with his future had interest in their daughter, except for Dolores's father. Dolores was his baby girl, shy at the time and vulnerable to affection.

  Patrick’s eyes were as deep as the secluded woods outside of their shared neighborhood. She diverted her attention to the ground then giggled softly, breathing in autumn air. He led her to a fallen log to sit down and she leaned against his shoulder, listening to the river run by them in the dark.

  “I'm glad you came,” Patrick said. “I wanted to share my special thinking spot with ya.”

  “I pretty much flushed my reputation down the drain comin here. Everyone always assumes the worst.” Dolores’s Virginia accent showed familiarity with the North Carolina border but it was nothing close to Patrick’s.

  “Ya don't need to worry about that, anybody who says a bad thing ‘bout you is jealous.” He rubbed her hand. His fingernails were dirty from tending to his parents’ garden all afternoon. She didn’t mind.

  “This is beautiful,” she said. A waxing gibbous moon cast a blessing on their budding love with ghostly light.

  “You're beautiful, Dolores.” They turned to each other but remained a safe distance apart.

  “And what do you come here to think about?” Dolores asked, playing with the thick braid she learned how to do to impress him. The unfinished end showed the natural wave of her hair. She tossed it over her shoulder.

  “The future, I don't know. My parents want me to take over our family's company but I don't like construction. I wanna be an engineer.” Patrick stared off into the distance and began talking as if in a trance. “Shit, sometimes I come here to think about what to say to you.”

  She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek; they both blushed and squeezed each other's hands. He smelled like fertilizer and sweat, a combination she never thought would get her heart racing.

  A loud boom echoed overhead. Dolores cried out as she ducked but Patrick did the opposite. Like something out of a disaster movie, a spacecraft zoomed over the mountains. Smoke rising from the wing and a piercing noise like a firework whistled as it fell. His mouth was open long enough to realize he was screaming.

  Dolores glimpsed it, screamed then returned to her submissive position. The diamond shaped ship circled like a hawk and they stepped away from the river fearing its goal was locating them, but being damaged, its trajectory was hardly planned.

  Lights surrounding the base flickered on and off. Bird-like legs malfunctioned as they extended for a proper landing. The craft continued its wary path, spinning around on itself and landed almost gently a short distance away.

  Patrick moved closer, hesitating at the shallow crater's edge. An armored creature fell out of the open hatch holding its side, strange purple liquid oozed from where its ribs would be, if it were human.

  Patrick turned to her. “Stay here and if anything happens go get help.”

  Dolores took his face to kiss him then nodded. He’d read about the possibility of the engine’s technical design in space engineering books. “This is unreal.” Patrick said, he held up his hand behind him as if keeping her advance at bay. She hadn’t moved. “This…this ain’t scientifically possible yet but. Do you know how long we been tryin’ to make this type a stuff?”

  Dolores huffed, “I’m scared and you don’t even care.”

  Patrick didn’t listen. It was hard to tell whether the damage was the result of a weapon or from entering the atmosphere. As he looked closer, sparks flew out. Patrick jumped sideways to avoid being struck and tripped. She overreacted with a hand over her mouth still unsure what compelled her to stay.

  “I’m fine.” He soothed, catching himself before falling. Face-to-face with the inside of the cockpit, his mouth hung open at its inner contents, no buttons and no steering mechanism. Engraved lines ran the length of the interior accompanied by dimmed symbols outlined in orange light.

  Patrick walked around the front, out of sight. The creature looked up without physical evidence of pain. Its carbon-based body supported a humanoid shape but on the ground looked to be almost 6’10. Purplish skin peaked from beneath aggressive, grey battle armor. Patrick leaned down and the alien grabbed his arm; he covered his mouth with the other hand to hide a fearful yelp.

  Three appendages at the end of the alien’s muscular arms were almost human fingers but had threateningly sharp points. Patrick's breathing increased as he groped frantically to get free from the clawed hand. But he realized it hadn’t pierced his skin. The creature needed support.

  “My name……Neight…Cast…Caster.” Purple liquid trickled from his small mouth. “I… From…galaxy…close.”

  The alien was exhausted, traumatized. His muscle density was the kind you see in science books on anatomy, and his lightbulb yellow eyes had an obsidian dot in the middle. There was something handsome about his broad nose and long face.

  “How do I understand what you’re saying?” Patrick asked.

  “You are…using a…dialect of…my language…” Neight answered sitting up. Wavy, violet hair moved with him, partially obstructing his face. “Minor…adjustments…in structure…but…overall…”

  “What are you?” Patrick eyed the forearm battle plates with spiked extensions. It had survived a serious fight.

  “Uragonian…King,” Neight stopped to touch his wound, “…my…injuries…I…must…be certain…no enemies…followed me through…warp jump.”

  Its vulnerability was calming, like tending to a wounded lion. Patrick took a break from trying to escape and scanned the sky. Nothing moved among the stars. “Your enemies?” he whispered. He'd been following a conspiracy podcast that leaked the news of communication with extraterrestrial life within the last ten years. “Where'd you come from?”

  The words ignited something in Neight. “Have I reached…Sector 4 of the…cluster? What…is your…name? Do you have…abilities?” he asked more coherently.

  “I don't have any abilities.” Patrick shook his head the grip was unforgiving. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he whispered, “let me go!”

  “Patrick!” Dolores called out in fear.

  “I'm fine, babe,” he said back, in a trembling voice.

  Neight winced before retching another round of purple blood from his mouth. Patrick crunched his face to make sure the alien was done. “Your race…of human…not acquainted with…Infinity Cluster. I've heard stories of Earth…only…other planet…Sector 4 with…biological life,” Neight was talking to himself. “But so primitive.”

  He moaned and leaned back defeated but didn't let go. Patrick's knees buckled as he fell, tears flooding his face. ”Are you gonna kill me?”

  Neight's long claws softened into fingers and extended around Patrick's forearm as he summoned a piece of the ship to himself. The metal was absorbed then Neight slammed his hand into Patrick's chest. The teenage boy howled uncontrollably, his body surrounded in a rainbow of light. “Please…it's too much.” Patrick jerked and shook as visible veins covered his face, skin normally tanned from hours of work on the farm turned pale. He collapsed.

  “PATRICK!” Dolores shrieked appearing at the edge of the ship’s wing. Neight blocked her access to Patrick’s body and without thinking she threw a temper tantrum against his leathery purple abdomen. “You
monster! What’d you do!”

  Shocked by her words and emotionally-enhanced strength, Neight breathed a heavy sigh, staring into the vastness of space he emerged from. “Yes…it begins to make sense again.” She was as insignificant to Neight as a singular star in the sky. He stepped aside.

  Dolores eyed him like a frightened child as she passed, aware of his incredible size and, after a moment of study, his foreign physiology. “Are you alive, please be alive,” she said, cradling Patrick’s head in her arms. Her eyes reflected a crushed dream, as if Neight had taken away her future. She looked down at her unresponsive companion, muttering promises of their life together if something changed in his condition.

  “I did not intend to harm,” Neight said, returning his attention to them. “Transfer of elements spell requires a small sacrifice…biological substance. Like ethrocytes…red cells.” An attempt at an explanation. He flexed his fists feeling strength return, unconcerned with Patrick's condition. Neight checked the armor for dents and holes then removed his large cape and tossed it back into the cockpit. He approached them.

  “Get back!” Dolores threw a handful of harmless dirt. She rocked back and forth, kissing Patrick’s hair periodically. “Patrick, wake up…”

  ”A sacrifice made to slow the fall, revive this creature for the good of us all,” Neight mumbled with his hands in the air; a wave of clear energy surrounded Patrick then exploded, sending a rush of wind outward.

  Dolores touched Patrick’s color-drained face with more love than she thought possible for their short time together. He blinked his eyes. The brightness of her smile was the first thing to come into focus. They kissed like newlyweds.

  “I must locate those I have communicated with on this planet.” Neight looked at them clutching each other.

  “Wait,” Patrick gasped, “is someone after you?” Dolores helped him stand.

  “I believe I have eliminated the threat.” Neight stroked his chin. “But if not, my enemies will be after something I have…will have.” He acclimated to the cooler climate and heavier gravity of Earth. The atmosphere held a similar gas composition. “You two must stay together,” he said cryptically, picking up his battle helmet, “when the time comes, you will help me…farewell for now…Patrick Adams.” Neight's head bowed as he muttered, “disappear from the sight of the human race. Cloak my sacred technology and protect my escape.” He repeated it four times.