The Andromeda Project (The Cluster Chronicles Book 1)

by Jason Michael Primrose

  Cumberland Falls, Kentucky, April 19, 2014

  Dolores entered the Cumberland Cafe with her bright orange apron tied tightly around her waist and her hair in a regulation bun. It was built in the 1960s, inspired by the Wild West. Mismatched wooden floorboards ran beneath saloon style booths. They added Christmas-green leather cushions to make the dining experience more comfortable, though it missed the mark on being aesthetically pleasing. Safely behind a new computerized register she got a feeling for the intensity level of the nine-hour shift. A standard light and ceiling fan fixture cast a heavenly glow above her.

  The restaurant didn’t normally fill up until after 10:00, but it was 9:30 and things were busy. Early rush, she thought, shrugging her shoulders. Dolores surveyed the small list of prepared orders in the heated kitchen window and the large figure moving around rhythmically behind them. “Where does this go?” Dolores asked, grabbing a hairnet from the cabinet by the cooler to put on. “Charles?” she slapped her hand on the edge of the window, his headphones were in again. Only the round belly and chest of the tall chef were visible. “Hello?” Dolores drew her hand across her front, presenting the dilemma before her. The day’s incidents had taken all of her patience.

  Charles popped his head down and licked his somewhat dirty fingers. “Oh, yer here. Ah,” he moved the plates around and checked the printed order tickets. “This one’s for da table in da corner. Then I got a single order here, I don know where Cassie is but da man’s been waiting a while,” he said, turning away to check a sauté pan behind him. “Shit.” Charles snatched the pan off the gas stove and moved the vegetable medley around. He exhaled slowly turning off the eye, the bottom didn’t burn. “You can come back for dis one,” he muttered, licking his fingers again. Dolores made a face as Charles rearranged the cuisine to achieve proper food presentation.

  She delivered two plates to a pair of pretty teenage girls and one nerdy-looking boy. They were frequent diners. The older teenage girl looked disappointed. “We asked for ranch and ketchup for our fries…god. This is so annoying.”

  “And we’re sharing…so we need the extra plate you obviously forgot,” the younger, prettier one said with her worst attitude possible.

  “I know for a fact your mother raised you with better manners, and if you don’t show it. I’ll call her first thing in the morning.”

  The boy with them added “please” after an awkward silence.

  She wasn’t in the mood to play cafe mother and huffed away. “It’s only nine hours,” she whispered on the way to the condiment station. Dolores caught the lone gentleman’s eye in the farthest booth from the door. Her priorities changed remembering Charles’ words and she carried the customer’s lukewarm order over.

  “I was wondering what I had to do to get a hot meal around here,” Nicolas grumbled.

  “I’m sorry you waited so long.” Dolores set his plate down then stepped away. “Can I get you a beer? On the house.”

  He saw navy, mid-thigh length shorts beneath her apron. “A beer would be nice.” Nicolas took his first bite and made the face a child makes when chewing vegetables they hate.

  “How does a Bud sound?” she asked, shifting in discomfort with her hands in front of her.

  “Sounds better than what I’m eating,” Nicolas squinted at the name tag pinned to her fitted, white button up. “Dolores Adams?”

  Dolores avoided a disgusted face, then answered, “Right away, sir, can I see your ID, please?” Nicolas slammed his military ID on the table. She dragged it toward her; it read Nicolas Delemar, birthdate 10-14-1974. Without taking too much time, Dolores scanned the rest of his information. Stationed in Fort Lauderdale and a captain in the army. His specialty wasn’t listed. She pushed the credentials next to his plate without asking any questions.

  “Thanks,” Nicolas’ reach revealed a weapon hidden beneath his jacket. Dolores turned away, hoping with everything inside her, he didn’t realize what she saw.

  “I trust you can keep secrets, Dolores?” He watched her walk away in light brown leather cowboy boots.

  Cassie, a thin, well-bosomed girl, entered from the back area with her long blonde hair in a knotted bun and lipstick smeared on her plump face.

  “I don’t even care where you’ve been,” Dolores said, walking over to the cooler to grab a chilled bottle.

  George, the newly divorced manager of the place, followed right behind Cassie wiping his face with a wet nap. George’s thick mustache gave him the appearance of a 1940’s cowboy or a 1970’s porn star. He rubbed his shaved head shamefully, “Didn’t know you were werkin tonight D.”

  Dolores opened the bottle. “I swapped with Tracy, we need the money. Didn’t I ask you two not to go screwing around during busy hours?”

  “Relax D, damn, busy hours after 10, don’t be uptight tonight. Between Mista Clean’s sexual needs and roly poly’s attitude back there.” Cassie fixed her apron, which faced backwards from the rough sexual encounter in the storage closet.

  “You know better,” Dolores said to the man who claimed to be her boss, “And busy hours are when it’s busy, like now. Grab the Johansson siblings some ranch and a plate.”

  Dolores examined Nicolas before delivering his beer. He was of Latino origin with stubble on his mustache and chin, perfectly arranged curly dark brown hair and a permanent scowl. No one could deny he was as handsome as he was rude. “Will anyone be joining you?” she asked, reaching for the menu next to him.

  Nicolas stared at her with a wrinkled brow and placed his hands on it as if protecting something of personal value. “I’m waiting for one more.”

  “Very well. I’ll check on you…in a few minutes,” Dolores backed away, nervous about turning her back to him. At a safe distance she pivoted and bee lined for the cash register. The restaurant’s booths, normally filled with teenagers, were filled with armed military men like Nicolas, dressed in black from head to toe. Dolores’ heartbeat sped up after the third head count. They sat in twos, threes, fours and most of them didn’t have food or drinks on their tables.

  “I need the side o’ ranch fer the eight time, dickhead,” Cassie exclaimed, returning to the kitchen window. “I swear them girls never tip.”

  Dolores disregarded the complaint, then leaned in to whisper, “I don’t blame you sneaking off, you must’ve been bored out of your mind.”

  “They sat for an hour and didn’t get nothing but water!” Cassie said back. Charles moseyed around the kitchen whistling.

  Dolores called into the kitchen. “Charles, give her the ranch please.”

  He perked up and smiled as if he didn’t hear Cassie the first few times, “Comin right up D.” The ramekin slid into the window and stopped just before falling over the edge.

  “Such a fuckin ass,” Cassie grabbed it and flicked Charles off when his back was turned.

  “How long they been here?” Dolores asked. It would be a good idea to do a cash drop for the day and she set to work counting down the register.

  “Since 7:30. They was jus tricklin in every twenty minutes or so, I ain’t know what to make of it. Wasting my tables. That one’s been here the longest,” Cassie said. “Sayin he wanna hold off on account of he was waiting for someone. Guess he got tired o’ waitin.”

  Nicolas paused with the fork in midair to watch them talk. He took note of Cassie’s slightly erratic gestures and put the helping of food in his mouth. Dolores ended their conversation to seat a couple from town. She apologized for the busyness and the occupation of their favorite booth by her armed customer. Nicolas raised the bottle and yelled across the room, “I want another one.”

  RUSSELL ASHUR

  Washington, DC, April 2026

  “You know this can’t go anywhere.” Russell walked over to Bridget with a glass of water and sat down with exaggerated exhalation on the brown leather couch’s edge.

  Bridget’s body was draped over it. “Who said I wanted it to go anywhere?” She denied the water with a hand gesture like a tray of hors
d’oeuvres.

  There were so many computers in the mini lab, each with its own function constantly monitored by Russell. He spent so much time working there, he’d created a lounge area with a mini bar. When the glass wall turned into a giant movie screen it didn’t feel as much like an extension of the control room. It looked like the office of a guy who’d never get laid.

  Russell got up and walked back to one of the computers. The words Found Beast Gem 2 taunted him.

  “What’s up with this map?” Bridget followed and stopped in front of the world map next to him with her arm up.

  Russell squinted through his frames, checking out the bottom of her boy cut underwear. He wiped the prescription glasses on his shirt again, then returned them to his face. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “The waves...they’re all...wrong...” The map projection reacted to her faint electric charge and the screen shut off.

  He grabbed her hand. “What did you do?”

  The screen came back on immediately; Bridget ripped herself away and stormed off to grab her lightning red pants. “You think I’m some kind of freak!” she yelled and kicked the glass of water like a soccer ball. It shattered against the stainless steel stove. Bridget reached the door fuming curse words under her breath but didn’t walk out.

  “I think you’re overreacting,” Russell soothed, “I’m being cautious because…I never know what’s going to happen…”

  Bridget’s expression changed as quickly as a television channel, from violence to something more sensual. “Isn’t that part of the fun?” she moaned dragging a fingertip up his smooth chin. Russell cringed in anticipation and opened one eye as she rubbed her finger and thumb together. Being involved with Bridget was like jumping out of a plane, invigorating until you tried to open a faulty parachute. “She’s going to kill me,” Russell thought. Bridget punched him in the stomach and he fell back onto the concrete floor. Click of her heels followed by the click of the lock mechanism on the door. A punch he could handle, electrocution not so much.

  Russell returned to the map to make sure it was still okay. He debated the idea of taking off-hand suggestions from a possible psychopath. It sounded like a genuine question, maybe Bridget saw something he hadn’t seen. Worth asking her next time. Next time. Russell placed his hands at the back of his neck and paced the foyer of his workspace. “What am I doing?” Sleeping with a woman that beautiful seemed impossible for him for so many years. Handsome as he was, being charming didn’t come naturally but, thankfully, being good in bed did. After their first go at it, Bridget acted so surprised it was offensive.

  It’d only been going on for a couple of weeks, but he couldn’t help himself when she was around. Their chemistry was really good. But neither his performance, nor their sexual fun, erased the reality that a simple gesture like the one she performed could’ve fried Russell’s brain. He was always the most thankful for the dampeners after an encounter with her. There was a saying about sex with crazy women he couldn’t recall.

  Russell checked his Cynque watch. The Andromeda Project was expecting a delivery of sensitive materials at a discreet drop point in the next ten minutes. Using the interactive glass wall opposite the map, Russell opened their satellite view of the area over the rendezvous location, Poughkeepsie, New York, and everything was kosher. Their “civilians” were in place. The cargo hadn’t arrived but it wasn’t late, yet. He moved his hands to get a closer look and the visuals responded by zooming in.

  There were alerts regarding a few encrypted messages that came through within the last two hours to an unknown inbox Russell needed to tend to. He switched computers to pull up the cyber security grid for the entire base. Another alert occurred; he navigated to an outbound transmission from the private server. Origin unknown. He sat down to the keyboard and typed away feverishly, “Come on.” It was intercepted before completion. Russell threw his hands up victoriously but only for a split second.

  The virus spread like a black widow’s venom throughout the hardware system, hopping from device to device. It was too fast to stop and the room darkened one screen at a time. Russell managed to unplug the last computer from the wall before it was attacked but it wasn’t a guarantee he’d saved it. “Did you see that?” He held the Cynque watch to his mouth waiting for an answer from the control room.

  “No, sir. We didn’t see anything. What’s the issue?”

  Annoyed by the silence of failure and the monotone voice of a middle-aged, celibate, female engineer. “Stop yelling,” Russell said, pressing the on button of the first technological victim repeatedly, nothing happened. “Fried my shit!” He rushed out of his office.

  “Sir, I think I found what you’re talking about, an outbound transmission on the private server,” the voice yelled again.

  “No!” Russell said, turning a brisk walk into a full run. “Don’t intercept it…I’ll be right-“

  All the screens were blank when he entered the control room, scientists and engineers alike stared back at him like misbehaved children, the same person who he’d spoken with on the phone explained the situation. “We built the system to auto intercept suspicious activity. Nothing we could do.” The same silence hovered over the control room and Russell covered his ears to block out what she thought was an inside voice.

  “For the last time. Stop. Yelling.” Russell’s face fell, defeated.

  ALLISTER ADAMS

  Washington, DC, April 2026

  Allister counted the digits on the restricted number flashing across his company issued watch. There were too many for it to be an american number so he ran through the list of country codes and didn’t find a match there either. Based on their precautionary measures it was impossible for that number to be publicly accessible and any calls from within the team would’ve shown as such.

  A wiry metal frame supported a queen mattress in the room’s center. Allister was sprawled on his back atop low thread count cream cotton sheets and a shit brown comforter. The semi transparent glass door offered a sense of openness even though the surrounding walls were completely opaque. A small night stand and dresser sold the dorm room lifestyle, he was impressed. Six hours until the briefing. While staring at the face of his Cynque watch the number flashed again, accompanied by a sound that time. “Hello?” Allister said, “This is private Adams.”

  “Allister!” the woman’s voice echoed through the hollow living quarters.

  “Mom!” He sat up in a burst of emotional relief, tears filled Allister’s eyes like a shallow pan under a running faucet. “I miss you so much! How did you get this number? I can’t believe you found me…I’m sorry I didn’t clean my room. I’m sorry for everything. I should’ve tried harder and now I—“

  “We’re going to get you out of there,” Dolores said making sure her worried shaking wasn’t apparent, “goodness I’m glad you’re alright. I have so much to tell you…”

  “I can’t leave…I—I signed a contract.”

  A brief silence followed his confession. “What have you done?” Dolores shrieked. Allister heard how upset she felt over his decision and lack of thought. “What have you done?” she repeated more calmly but still without consistency in tone. It was something foreign to their mother-son dynamic. Dolores had shrugged when he decided not to go to college and took away his computer when she found out he’d stopped attending his classes in high school. But they never spoke about the incidents, it reminded her too much of conversations with Patrick for her to invest herself emotionally. Dolores was afraid to spiral into a depression over failure as a wife, which lead to her failure as a mother. But negligence brought it all to the surface leaving Dolores right back where she left off with her dead husband, powerless.

  “What was I going to do? I had no job, no plan. The Andromeda Project promised me a salary and an advance that would go straight to you and…and…they gave me an opportunity.” Allister imagined looking at his mother with eyes that meant well but often made mistakes. “I…I saw the foreclosure noti
ces for the house. I wanted to help.”

  “Foreclosure notices…what in the world,” Dolores said. “The house is paid-“ The rest of her sentence vanished. The faint sound of a deep voice reached Allister’s ears. It stopped seconds later and it had been too far away to decipher anything.

  His mother’s breathing returned. “Okay, don’t do anything, stay quiet, and out of people’s way,” Dolores whispered, “especially General Delemar… Nicolas. I’ve got to make some calls. I love you.”

  The call ended. Allister couldn’t decide if he was more angry or confused. Replaying the conversation might help determine what the person in the background said. Allister remembered a playback option on conversations through the Cynque Watch because they recorded and uploaded to a private server. He paced his room combing through the settings for the conversation’s playable history but turned up empty handed.”I don’t understand,” Allister mumbled and scrunched his hands in his hair.

  “Lights out.” A soldier knocked on the door as the overhead lights went off in Allister’s room. “Early day tomorrow for you guys.”

  NICOLAS DELEMAR

  Washington, DC, April 2026

  Nicolas’s strategy of pressing through every setback without properly assessing the consequences had landed him in more than a few bad situations. But he knew if he stopped going in any direction, right or not, there’d be no starting up again. It resulted in half-assed decisions, snap judgments and sharp shifts in the activities of the Andromeda Project. Every mistake affected so many other people and drained their resources. Nicolas digested the latest crisis in the freezing office, arms crossed tight over his thin chest, and sleepless eyes aimed at the door. Twenty one years, he thought, letting his mind drift into the past.

  In 2005, they secured a first round of funding for the project to source materials for Neight’s ship’s repair and the construction of the plant. Nicolas’s wife had been dead for five years by then.

  Neight used the term “amusing” to describe the technology on the antiquated radio telescope they’d communicated through. Without question, the Andromeda Project’s mission required Neight’s guided hand, humanity hadn’t discovered some of the principles needed to rebuild his ship, even though Earth had raw materials.