The Andromeda Project (The Cluster Chronicles Book 1)

by Jason Michael Primrose

  It made the directors insecure about humanity’s safety against the unknown. They asked Neight more about the Infinity Cluster, the Uragonian people, and other civilizations in the Andromeda galaxy. He told them about incredibly powerful creatures living within the Milky Way and beyond it. Some stronger than him, some weaker, but still stronger than the best human specimen. Fear set in. Humanity wasn’t prepared. In good faith the alien promised to give them invaluable knowledge to help their race advance beyond their galaxy and defend themselves.

  Nicolas’s eyes glossed over as he started on one hand, counting the number of years since they began their search for the gems of Evale. He went to return to whatever seemed more important at the time, but reviewing their complicated past took strange priority.

  When trust is pretty much on its way out the door because you’ve been screwed over so many times, it’s hard to know if someone doesn’t want to do something or can’t do something. Neight told the directors about the gems in 2007, even expressed the benefit of finding them, but refused to focus attention on it. The more intrusive, aggressive, and manipulative they behaved, the more information Neight withheld. It was like the alien wanted them to be vulnerable, the program directors argued in meetings. Despite Nicolas’s plea in favor of the Uragonian’s pure-ish intentions. The directors confined Neight to the base of operations in Fort Lauderdale. He stopped cooperating. Funding ceased. For three years the Andromeda Project moved in no direction, all contracts, salaries were put on hold.

  The project’s abrupt halt forced Nicolas to confront life as a father. He expected Leesa to die any day, it made it easier for him to detach. She had a full-time caretaker and was in and out of intensive care. By the time he got around to visiting her, Nicolas had convinced himself she didn’t know what was going on. No feeling to date superseded the joy of seeing movement in her eyes when he entered the hospital room. Positive interaction with her father improved her spirits for the time being but machines still performed basic organ functions.

  Every day his love for Leesa grew. Nicolas read her children’s books while holding her limp hand and told her stories of his adventures as an archaeologist. Her body didn’t move and talking was out of the question but her eyes, they said it all. Their budding relationship ended when one of the doctor’s pulled Nicolas aside to say she wouldn’t live out the week. The news rocked whatever foundation of his psyche was left, like a 9.5 on the richter scale in an underdeveloped country. Life crumbled around him. People he thought were friends and colleagues turned their backs.

  Nicolas was tasked with checking in on Neight in the midst of the trauma. He tried to ignore the Uragonian’s prodding to focus on making sure the dampeners were operating properly, then Neight offered to help. No one else had ever offered to help him do anything. “All creatures have motives,” Neight had said to him as they snuck out to go to see his daughter. “And I am no different. If I am able to help you. You will have to help me in return.”

  Neight examined Leesa, noted her high brain activity and, because of the disease, somewhat unique genetic structure. He proposed a way to save her, if Nicolas lobbied on Neight’s behalf for the spaceship’s completion. Unaware of the other deal on the table, the directors agreed to let Neight leave the planet as long as the gems were delivered. Then the Zosma energy arrived. Nicolas jolted out of the flashback.

  An explosion. Video footage played behind him of the unsuccessful delivery of computer chips, metal framing, and other technology for Russell to use to engineer masking technology. Screams, gunfire, another explosion. How does this keep happening? Nicolas thought.

  “Cursed to fail,” Neight had said out loud while looking at him when they first met. Had to keep moving.

  They took precautionary measures toward the mission’s success, all emails were sent to and from secure channels, no names were mentioned and the drop-off was revealed an hour ahead of time. In theory, armed soldiers guaranteed the shipment’s safe return to base. The drop was successful but once the soldiers loaded the jet and went to take off, the bomb beneath the engine detonated. C20 didn’t take hostages and any fleeing parties were brutally killed.

  “Fucking...” Nicolas slammed the tablet on the desk. A salted drop from his forehead splashed on the newly cracked screen. Another heat flash. A green sleeve crossed his brow, discoloring it with sweat. Either the air wasn’t on or he was having another episode Rabia warned about.

  Both hands rested below him; “meeting requested,” popped up in bright blue letters on his wrist. Nicolas’s eye twitched as he dragged the watch across the wall behind him.

  “General Nicolas Delemar accepted,” the computer said.

  He staggered into the room of angry superiors to prop himself against the podium. Nicolas raised an arm to his hip, hiding the need for support.

  “Why are we paying Russell Ashur when things like this happen?” the UK director asked. “Patrick Adams would’ve figured this out already.”

  The security breach was to blame, it occurred ten minutes before the hand off. No one involved stood a chance. Russell rebuilt the grid from scratch using a backup computer unaffected by the virus. Any messages sent, phone calls received, data downloaded during the blackout, weren’t accounted for.

  “Someone has to be feeding C20 inside intel. I’d like to have,” Nicolas’ voice dried up like an overused water hole. He swallowed some of his own spit and continued, “Dr. Belladonna do an investigative probe of Private Adams.”

  “I didn’t recommend Dr. Belladonna join this organization because she looks pretty behind a desk. She has the combat training to ensure a successful delivery next time,” the US director said.

  “She’s too weak,” the Chinese director said.

  “What if the lieutenant accompanied her?” Nicolas asked moving both hands to the outer edges of the metal stand, he nearly slipped and hit his chin.

  “Lieutenant Delemar is unstable,” the Chinese director countered.

  “We reviewed report of Private Adams’ training session in more detail. It appears you altered Lieutenant Delemar’s power levels to account for his strength?” The Russian director asked.

  Nicolas swallowed. “I was unsure of his motivation, sir, I only wanted to make sure she was successful in subduing him.” His emotion-based actions were a violation of protocol and prolonged her absence from the field. The directors murmured to themselves and each other as they read through the compilation of Allister’s file. Nicolas left out the part about his genetic anomalies on purpose. The commands trickled down like flakes of fish food, giving him scattered purpose. Another lap in the fish bowl.

  “Send Dr. Belladonna and Private Adams on the next delivery,” the US Director said.

  “But do investigative analysis first,” the Russian director overruled, then reminded them of Patrick’s questionable loyalty throughout his service. Everyone agreed.

  FLORENCE BELLADONNA

  Washington, DC, April 2026

  “You’re the only person who can help me with this,” Leesa’s voice came out of the darkness.

  Florence was twelve years older than Leesa in age and experience; however, by some miracle of nepotism, fell below her in the hierarchy of the Andromeda Project. They were the type of women who could’ve been friends under different circumstances, but Florence’s emotional investment in the project was minimal and Leesa’s motivations weren’t clear. It reduced them to tiptoeing around each other like college girls in rival sororities.

  “I was on my way out,” Florence said, leaning against the wall. “What is so urgent? Can you turn on a light or something?”

  Leesa waived her hand and the lights flickered on. She wasn’t wearing her cape and the office seemed unruly for the lieutenant’s obsessive demeanor. “Is Allister a C20 spy?” Leesa’s eyes were different, body language was different. The struggle between her suppressed emotions and seemingly machine-controlled actions had risen to the surface.

  “This couldn’t wait until tomorrow
morning?” Florence asked, careful not to roll her eyes. Before the sentence was over they were nose to nose. Leesa’s subsonic speed was a seldom used but startling trick. “I assume you’re referring to Private Adams?” Florence moved around Leesa with poise and motive, pouncing always worked better from the side or back and the element of surprise had always been a good friend. “I probed through the last twelve years easily but the memories from his childhood are protected by a barrier I don’t understand yet.” Florence left out the part about Neight, it didn’t seem to fit anywhere comfortably.

  “Are you saying Private Adams is psychic?” Leesa asked, troubled.

  Florence scoffed, “No, that’s not what I said.”

  “Do you agree he’s a problem?” Leesa’s questions were honest but annoying.

  Florence had an MD and PhD from the University of Oxford and performed her undergraduate work at Harvard. Her residency was conducted at Johns Hopkins and UCLA and she wasn’t the type to let an insipid, self-important, military staff member talk down to her. He’s your problem, Florence thought.

  Leesa wanted to know and access all of Allister’s knowledge and memories otherwise she felt unprepared to make a decision for or against him. Florence agreed he was too good to be true. Well-adjusted, handsome, intelligent, and powerful, she half smirked, the Andromeda Project didn’t know what to do with themselves. Kind of like when Florence walked in the door. Irony wasn’t funny to Leesa.

  Florence had bigger objectives to worry about. Even if pertinent facts against Allister materialized and blame was placed on her, there wasn’t much the other program leaders or directors could do in terms of formal punishment. The perks of being an “American hero.”

  “It will require more work but I’ll make sure to have it all figured out as soon as I can.” Florence checked her watch, she had to make her next meeting.

  “Tonight.” Leesa held up the glass tablet with approval documents signed by all of the directors to have an investigative probe conducted and reported on the following morning. She shoved it into the psychiatrist’s hands. “Nicolas dropped that off this evening expressing extreme urgency.” Before Florence protested, a painful vision in Leesa’s mind blocked out all thoughts and she fell forward like someone yanked her by a leash.

  Leesa stood as a young girl inside of a room filled with mirrors, she was horribly disfigured and unable to move but the mirror reflected an image of a beautiful woman standing tall. The blinding light above her expanded shattering the mirrors, only the expansive darkness of space remained.

  Without realizing it, the two women clutched each other for support. Florence’s mouth opened and words spilled out, “I saw that...what the—what was that?”

  “It’s the third time this has happened,” Leesa flipped a loose bang and pushed her colleague away. “When Allister had his first meeting with me, I attempted to shake his hand—“

  Florence cocked her head to the side with her arms crossed. “Since when do you shake recruit’s hands?”

  “I saw a man die, like I watched him burst into little pieces in front of me. In my mind.” The wall was Leesa’s support for the time being, she tightened the long ponytail.

  Florence’s arm was carefully hidden as messages came through the Cynque watch rapid fire. Curiosity about the man the lieutenant saw in her vision wasn’t a valid enough reason to delay exiting. “It sounds like you’re suffering residual effects from untrained telepathic abilities,” Florence said, inching to the door.

  Leesa’s stiff grimace didn’t hide fright in her eyes. “I trust you more than myself right now.” She backed away and leaned over the desk with her palms pressed flat. “So I am asking you to do this for me.”

  Well, when you put it that way, Florence thought, and entered the wing leading to the living quarters, two soldiers on duty did a double take when they passed her. It felt good at her age to get some attention from youngsters. She whipped around faster than a mother who caught her child talking back. “You can’t say that to me!” She yelled down the hall with her hip tilted to the side.

  The offending soldier shrugged, “Uh…I didn’t say anything?”

  He was right, she’d picked up their extremely perverse thoughts by accident. “Carry on,” Florence dismissed. The dampeners in the living quarters were set on maximum for security purposes but somehow psionic energy surged through her. The minds of the base opened like a million doors in a bright room: dreams, thoughts, conversations. Florence had never been so aware even with full access to her powers. Overwhelmed, she sank against the dirty wall.

  “Are you alive?” the message said in red letters on her Cynque watch. “If so, I’m going to kill you for this. You don’t want any of your secrets leaked do you? I still know a lot of reporters looking for a story.”

  “Don’t you threaten me,” Florence said in a harsh whisper. The message sent. “Shit.” That one sent as well. She was supposed to meet with an external contact to exchange intel unsafe to send through traceable channels. Florence had been hung up “babysitting” on multiple occasions. Since she owed them a favor it was in her best interest to keep them happy. They weren’t happy. The person accused her of not being in control.

  “I’m not in control,” she seethed. It sent through. Their meeting had to wait; Florence received an executive order from the directors. Plus it might help for her to know more about Allister before they spoke. The stranger agreed, the goal was to get her approved to lead the C20 infiltration mission and gain Allister’s trust. The difficulty in being voted team leader lay in her lack of brute force, but making Allister her ally seemed off course considering their rank discrepancy.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the message flashed. Shove the titles off the table and Allister would win in a firefight. Florence and Allister packaged together was better than Leesa by herself on a good day.

  The intention to keep conversations vague failed by a few key words. Florence waited for another command to come through but maybe the conversation was over. She forgot to erase the messages as she reached the security guard standing watch. “Hi, Private Adams please,” Florence said.

  The bulky woman sized her up and waddled back to the door of Allister’s living quarters, “You can scan in, he’s been quiet tonight.”

  PATRICK ADAMS

  Cumberland Falls, Kentucky, April 19, 2014

  “Road’s closed,” the soldier said to Patrick. A barricade of military Hummers blocked the only road that lead to the plant where Neight awaited his arrival.

  “I have to report to work on the other side of town, I’m already running late,” Patrick lied. “Who’s in charge here? This is fucking ridiculous.”

  Another soldier approached the Mustang’s window. “Sir, I need you to turn around and go the other way. No one’s getting down there tonight.”

  The Andromeda Project logo stared Patrick in the face. He glanced at Allister asleep in the front seat and whispered, “I know what the logo stands for. I work for the same people, now let me through before this whole town gets fried.”

  “Step out of the vehicle,” the soldier commanded.

  As Patrick opened the car door and prepared to get out, the other soldier tossed him onto the partially paved road. He lingered, slightly dizzy, then retaliated by using one of his old wrestling tricks to bring the soldier down. A rifle’s click stopped their skirmish.

  “Should’ve known it was you causing trouble,” Jay Brandt muttered, dropping the gun to his side. A few directional head nods from him dispersed the squad to the outsides of their vehicles. “Are you here helpin the alien?” Brandt’s farm-raised vocals were low enough only Patrick heard him.

  “I’m trying to save our lives,” Patrick said.

  Jay Brandt had always been a bit of a hothead. They were inseparable until young adulthood. Whether it was on the football field, at a post game party, in the classroom or at a bar, more often than not, Brandt walked away with a bloody nose, swollen lip, a black eye and a dislocated bone. He never
kept his mouth shut and he didn’t have to, the other guy always looked worse. It was clear he spent a few more hours in the gym than Patrick had over the last few years. Brandt touched the slightly longer top of his ash blonde haircut with the vanity of a fashion model. “I have orders. No one goes down that road,” Brandt pointed, “or bang bang.”

  Their friendship strained after Brandt’s first military tour; he came back scared. They talked about how he didn’t want to go back out, he wanted to stay with his family and raise his son. But when they came knocking for tour two, Brandt was gone by the next morning without telling anyone. His wife was inconsolable, his son acted out against the other children, and Patrick had lost a friend.

  “I got orders too but I know how to fulfill my duties without abandonin’ my family,” Patrick taunted.

  Brandt grabbed Patrick by the shirt with the gunless hand. “You shut the fuck up, I worked hard as shit out there so you could tinker with toys in that little plant of yours. You damn civilians don’t get it. Nothing’s the same anymore, we gotta fight for everything.”

  They stared at each other like rabid dogs, nearly growling and foaming at the mouth. Despite their wives’ long-standing friendship and efforts to keep them cordial, they rarely got along anymore. Patrick eyed the gun.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Brandt shoved him back. “See, your problem is, you think I won’t shoot ya.”

  “Tell that to your Godson,” Patrick shifted his body to reveal the boy in the car.

  “The old days are gone patty-cakes, this ain’t the football field,” he juggled bullets between his fingers.

  “Brandt, you know me well enough to know, I’m gonna do what I need to. Now are you gonna let me?”