The Andromeda Project (The Cluster Chronicles Book 1)

by Jason Michael Primrose

  It was farther from her point of origin and an astral form of Allister’s father waited outside. Much older architecture resembled housing models built at least a decade earlier and in less densely populated areas. Patrick’s figure stopped her from entering. He told her the contents of the house were gone, someone had moved everything. She was allowed to pass once he finished. The barren house, worn down from neglect, held only a large picture of Patrick Adams hanging over a mantle. No information save for the faint memory of his existence. She left and stumbled over a small hedge in the front yard, it wasn't there when she entered.

  Allister's brain resisted the effects of her power causing a forest to sprout. Her carefully planned exit needed reworking. More forest surrounded her in every direction and peaking over the treetops was a third structure. Wind blew her hair and trench coat behind her as she trudged through, swiping away long branches that blocked her advance and wrapped around her. Florence reached the base of the stairs and gasped when a massive fortress came into view.

  An eight-year-old version of Allister occupied the stairway’s entrance, but he wasn't alone. “You can't come in,” he said, apologetically. His tiny hand was buried inside the clawed fist of the monstrous figure next to him.

  Florence bent down without taking her eyes off the glowing wall of light surrounding the protected fortress. “I won't move or change anything. I promise. But I need to see what's inside.”

  “You cannot enter.” The figure stepped in front of the child, forcing Florence to straighten up.

  It was Neight Caster, the alien she'd heard so much about. There were no records of him in the shared database after 2014. “You're dead,” Florence commented, then held out her hand. “But I can sense you.” Neight was the reason the Andromeda Project began.

  Everything protected within the fortress was sacred; Neight promised she wouldn't come out alive. Florence was amazed and intimidated. “Did he do all of this? Or did you do it to protect yourself? What does he know?” There was no answer. Fighting to get past the hostile alien’s astral projection would take more energy than she had. She'd never failed a simple probe before.

  Allister looked up at Neight with soft, pleading eyes but received no recognition and turned to Florence. “I’m sorry I can't help you,” he said.

  Florence outstretched her hands and flattened the forest with the last of her psionic energy. She returned to her point of origin and vanished.

  In the dimly lit room Florence gasped for air, made the mistake of standing too early, and fell. Allister's eyes fluttered open to her resting against the chair as the psychic energy shimmered into nothing.

  “I'm sorry, Doctor, I don't know what happened.”

  “Not repression,” Florence mumbled, ignoring his apology. “Something else.”

  Soldier escorts arrived and she dismissed him to his next step in the process. There was more work to be done but none that would prevent him from entering the program. Florence wanted to unlock Allister's fortress if for nothing else than her own pride.

  She got her start as the right hand in all operational capacities for one of New York’s top senators. Her leadership catapulted the success of his government work and his external businesses until he was appointed Secretary of State. The former senator brought her on to serve as one of the deputy chiefs of staff. Tensions rose between world powers and he created a private company to collect intel on both domestic and international initiatives, in weapon development, economics, and trade. Florence served as chief intelligence officer for the agency and worked closely on infiltration projects.

  Scarcely matched beauty, stemming from her half Italian and half African-American heritage, coupled with the weight her family name carried in the business world, gave her supreme fluidity. She was routine but whimsical in her hunting, like a panther. She met with behind-the-scenes influencers and leaders of the world, discovering their motives and their stages in development. It was astonishing how many of them were traitors. No one knew about her telepathic ability except for the senator-turned-secretary. After a few less-than-ideal situations, she took up training in martial arts and weapon mastery. In the event her innocent green eyes, shapely figure, and blinding smile didn't save her, she’d fight her way out.

  In early 2019, she got wind of a potential attack from a meeting with the North Korean ambassador. A mandatory order from the secretary to have the capital evacuated saved millions of lives. Controversy surrounded the mental immobilization of the entire North Korean base just before a missile hit Washington, DC. The secretary moved on to another project soon after and she went under the radar with some help.

  The Andromeda Project came at an inconvenient time but politics was all about favors, doing them and asking for them. It was her turn to do. It had been two years since she joined to help them find the gems more quickly. She claimed the title CPO or Chief Psychic Officer. So much for a “quick favor.” It didn't take long to discover that the technology being used by their enemies scrambled telepathic signals, making it difficult for her to discover information by jumping from mind to mind. Her priorities shifted to making sure recruits were mentally capable, all staff members were loyal, and that moving forward, briefing and missions were carried out according to compliant project operating standards as set forth by the United States Government.

  Florence’s office was as beautifully crafted as the fashion suits she used to wear. There was a messy order about things. She kept filing cabinets and wrote down most of her notes by hand then transferred things to glass tablets. Archaic methods of communication and combat were ingrained in her DNA; she’d resisted the Cynque watches for as long as possible.

  The sheathed sword caught her eye, a story was etched in detail on the leather exterior of its holster; planetary shapes and the unidentifiable creature gave her pause no matter how often she looked at it. The sword’s 24k solid gold handle was reminiscent of her family’s crest, a dragon of some kind. It followed her like a curse, reminding her of the thing she hated the most, her father.

  Her Cynque watch received a message: “Infiltration mission to C20 brewing.” She closed the door to her office and checked the room. Another notification came up: “Take the lead. Lieutenant is still grounded.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Florence said. It typed the words out but she deleted before it sent. “Will work on it,“ she sent instead.

  “Tonight still good?” She read as she gathered her tablet.

  “On the way.” She erased the conversation after the reply was received.

  Florence headed up the ramp to the elevator she used to exit, which lead to office buildings that served as decoys around the facility. She ran the outside of her wrist along the scanner, “Not permitted off premises.” She checked it then tried again. “Not permitted off premises.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” Florence interrupted the conversation of four soldiers on duty. “Can you help me?”

  The others dispersed and the biggest of them checked notes in the system, “Your offsite privileges have been revoked.”

  Her eyes widened, “They can't…they can't do that.” She went to walk past him and out the door to the elevator; he stopped her swiftly with his large forearm across her chest.

  “Insubordination results in termination.”

  Florence scoffed, attempting to read or control his mind into letting her through but it didn't work. There had to be a misunderstanding. She placed both hands on her slim waist. “I need to speak with General Delemar immediately.”

  “He requested not to be disturbed this evening,” the soldier replied.

  “Little coward.” Florence turned around to activate her watch and remembered she deleted the conversation. She calculated it would take less than a minute to disarm the four of them. Multiply forty-five seconds from her conclusion by one billion and that’s how long she needed to regain her integrity. Fourteen years was longer than her first bankruptcy; Florence decided not to risk it. “This is a violation of a signe
d contract. These bottom feeders have no idea the world I come from.”

  “I’ll escort you to your living quarters for the evening,” he said, motioning for a couple of other soldiers to assist him.

  She wiggled away after they grabbed her arms on either side. “I know how to walk.”

  “Then do so.” One of them gestured for her to follow them and she obeyed, the other two fell in line behind her. In all her years of employment she'd never faced such hostility, especially from subordinates. She already mapped out in her head the ways she'd rip Nicolas a new one. There was a clever saying back in her days in Washington, “It only took a phone call, text message, or email, to ruin a life.”

  ANDROMEDA SATELLITE HQ

  Cumberland Falls, Kentucky, April 20, 2014

  Nicolas started as a young archaeologist on a team at NASA exploring recent discoveries of ancient relics and artifacts. One of the relics was a calendar etched into a sheet of metal, written in a language similar to Latin though illegible. According to loose translation, it was called the Infinity Calendar.

  Nicolas weaseled his way into NASA's initiative of searching for new planets and life elsewhere. Part of his time he spent studying information on the relics and the other part of his time was spent staying up all hours of the night listening to their receivers, which regularly combed the cosmos for transmissions.

  It was 3am on a Monday when the first message was received. The distance of its origin was 2.7 million light years away. The miracle of it coming through at all, trumped the messages themselves. Nicolas communicated with the creature while taking steps to discover where it was and more about its planet. The alien sought refuge in a part of the Infinity Cluster no one knew about and chose Sector 4, AKA the Milky Way. Nicolas kept it all to himself; wanting to be the only one with the knowledge of their potential visitor. He told it to come to Earth and their government would help however they could.

  Nicolas finally brought the information forward after six months. Due to inconsistency in their communication over the three and a half years following his announcement, he suffered a lack of credibility and a rapidly declining career because people thought he was crazy. He’d never been good at standing up for himself or proving his value, and suffered a pay cut when they felt he wasn’t “bringing anything to the table.” His fiancé threatened to leave him unless he abandoned his futureless job. Goodbye NASA, hello Army.

  A year after Nicolas’ departure, a distress call from outer space reached an astronomer. Neight requested permission to land and the Earthling he'd been speaking with by the name of Nicolas Delemar; his needs for resources were urgent. The president transferred responsibility for receiving their guest to the Department of Defense, which seemed to make the most sense at the time, any hostility from Neight would be considered a breach of the nation’s defenses. NASA stepped in and stated any dealings with extraterrestrials fell under their expertise. They considered the Department of Defense a bunch of trigger-happy lunatics and internally, NASA was trained to practice more finesse when dealing with such circumstances. In the end they shared responsibility.

  In 1995, Neight Caster landed in the remote city of Cumberland Falls, Kentucky and reported to Washington as planned. He insisted on working with the person he had corresponded with all those years before. In the year 2000, Nicolas was fished out of his overseas deployment, having achieved a position of captain in the army. He would lead whatever was to come out of the encounter because the alien trusted him.

  Bright pink faded into vivid orange across the sky outside of the remotely located cabin. Neight felt about Earth’s sunsets the way an art enthusiast would feel about a work by Van Gogh. As if each evening someone took the time to arrange the colors, clouds and positioning of the yellow star. Neight’s Galaxy phone had no notifications. An instant later, a classified number flashed across the screen. He answered before it vibrated against the table.

  “When are you coming back?” Nicolas asked.

  “When it is time,” Neight answered.

  “The directors are restless,” Nicolas replied.

  The modest cabin was sparsely furnished with a wooden chair and a desk. There was no need for a bed because Neight never slept there. A vintage television occasionally entertained him with reality shows and vampire dramas but there was no time that trip. Neight stood near the small four-pane window looking out over acres of emptiness around him. Stars peaked out from behind the brilliance of natural light; he longed to return and rebuild the place he called home.

  “Exercise patience. I must be here when it arrives,” Neight turned around feeling trapped and walked to the desk.

  “Well when the fuck is it coming?” Nicolas pressed. There was a lot more resting on the success of their mission, his career for one. “We're behind schedule.”

  “Within the day.” Neight came to Cumberland Falls to collect his thoughts, away from the humans. The ship he'd sent away before his enemy’s arrival was on its way to Earth.

  “Your agenda is a waste of our money. After this is done, we focus on finding the gems. It's our trade-off for your freedom and letting you bring that thing here,” Nicolas’ voice pitched with impatience.

  Neight's preparation for the arrival of the second ship was meticulous, because he warned them it was the gateway to an infinite source of pure energy that could decimate the population, if it wasn’t contained. Twisted intrigue in raw power led all associated parties to let “the weapon” land on Earth. The alien assured them it wasn't a weapon. The Andromeda Project financed Neight's needs for materials, staffing, and large energy sources to build the machine to contain what was coming. But Neight was required to help humanity advance as a race in return, and lately it hadn't been a priority.

  “I don't trust you anymore,” Nicolas screamed. “You've done nothing to help us like you said you would. I look like a fucking fool over here.” Neight's silence irritated him. “Say something!”

  Neight was reasoning with an impatient child. He’d never been considered a kind father. But stern, yes. “I have offered my assistance as a courtesy. The more I am persecuted by your government or threatened by your attempts at punishment, the less likely I will be to oblige.”

  “You've got twelve hours. Then get your ass back here because you're violating delicate policies and my life is on the line,” Nicolas said.

  “Your policies, Lieutenant Delemar, are none of my concern. I have one priority and it is what will be arriving in the next few Earth hours. If you have completed your rambling about the insignificant laws applied within the one centillionth of the known universe that is this landmass, I would like to continue my work so said mass is not obliterated from existence,” Neight fought to stay diplomatic rather than condescending.

  “You realize if you overstay your welcome in Cumberland there will be consequences,” Nicolas asked him.

  Neight crushed the device in his hands, ending the transmission. Metal dust drifted from his fingers onto the wooden floor. His anger mounted, tempting him to level the entire cabin, but he saved his strength. Anger was a wasteful emotion.

  ALLISTER ADAMS

  Washington, DC, April 2026

  Allister returned with security escorts to the same uncomfortable quarters located on the second floor of the rectangular compound. Five identical sleeveless uniforms were neatly folded on his bed. Expecting it to be a top and bottom, he was surprised when he unfolded the one-piece garment. He undressed, stepped into the legs, then slipped his arms through. The engraved Andromeda Project logo was above his chest and the blend of technical fabric, metal threading and cotton, made it durable but protective. “Those gems belong to the US government,” he said, in his best superhero voice.

  A sound almost as obnoxious as an emergency siren awakened the recruits for breakfast. Two hours of sleep felt like a full night’s rest to him, as he headed to the common area fully dressed minutes after waking. Thanks to the information he'd gained from Nicolas' mind, the entire facility layout wa
s mapped as if he built the place. Allister entered the poor excuse for a cafeteria they set up for the soldiers.

  The mandatory recruit uniform contoured to his shape and was distinctly different from other soldiers' uniforms. It fit strangely in obvious places, causing stares and snickers as he reached for a tray.

  Allister had never been to prison, but he imagined it would look like the dining area there, complete with picnic style seating and concrete flooring. Three soldiers stepped in line behind him, and he overheard one whisper the word freak to his comrades. Allister took a deep breath, reliving his school days all over again. The line moved forward.

  Once he passed all of the assessment tests they promised him a new Cynque watch, but there was no telling how long it would take. He wouldn’t have felt so guilty if he’d cleaned his room before he left.

  Allister exited the buffet line after being given a few subpar food items, and sat down at the end of a mostly vacant table. A girl and guy wearing similarly outrageous garments to his own occupied the far end. He recognized them from Nicolas's absorbed knowledge.

  “I’m sure he's one of us, mate,” Bridget said, in a thick Australian accent before turning to Allister. “You one of the special recruits?” she yelled across the table with emphasis on special using air quotes. Her cleavage was visible through the cropped tank from where he sat. It was no wonder she used to be a stripper. She speared a piece of asparagus and dangled it in front of her mouth. “Have you been accepted yet?”

  “No.” Allister eyed the medium-height man sitting down the table from him with a black version of Allister's uniform. His name was Dorian. “I hope I can pass.”

  “You know what happens if you don’t?” a soldier eavesdropping by the trash cans asked cruelly.