Table of Contents
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Charmaine Pauls
Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by MOZAIKA LLC. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Krinar Chronicles remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of MOZAIKA LLC, or their affiliates or licensors.
For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds
The Krinar Experiment
A Krinar Kindle World Story
Charmaine Pauls
Charmaine Pauls
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Charmaine Pauls
1
“Code red!”
Drako overrode the autopilot and seized the throttle as the pod continued to lose altitude. No matter how hard he pushed up, the nose of the craft continued to dive down.
“Crute,” he muttered under his breath. “Control, fix it. Now!”
A static noise crackled over the communication system, followed by the voice of Commander Ruwan in Krina. “Your pod doesn’t respond. It seems to be a problem with the Earth’s atmospheric qualities.”
Red lights lit up the control panel, every one of them blaring at him.
“I’m going down.”
Ruwan’s command was calm and controlled. “Abandon the pod.”
“I’ve lost my invisibility.” He didn’t have to elaborate. If he crashed on Earth, Earthlings would discover the pod. The reconnaissance mission was top secret. The Krinar’s existence wasn’t meant to be known. At least, not yet. “I can try to land and fix the problem.”
“Abandon the pod,” Ruwan repeated, this time with a stronger tone.
Drako applied more pressure to the throttle, managing to slow down his descent a fraction. The skyline of Johannesburg, South Africa’s so called City of Gold, became visible. The pod started shaking, clattering his bones in his chair.
“Drako,” Ruwan said, “eject yourself from the craft, or I’ll do it for you.”
Drako gnashed his teeth. He couldn’t disobey a direct command.
“Abandoning ship,” he conceded. “On three.”
“We’re following your coordinates. A rescue mission is on the way.”
“One, two…” Drako dragged in a breath. Damn. He hated jettisoning. “Three!”
He slammed his palm down on the touch button that would enclose him in a capsule and deposit him on the planet he was supposed to spy on. The homing signal on the capsule would give Krina his coordinates.
Nothing.
Zut!
“It’s not working!” he exclaimed unnecessarily. The technical team in Krina had a visual via their comms system.
The controls went haywire. The smoky pollution drifting atop the skyscrapers and mine dumps was dangerously close. There was only one option left.
“Emergency landing!”
“Do not––”
Ruwan’s voice cut at the same time as the communication panel went dead. Damnation. This was bad. He was stuck in a faulty pod, no longer concealed from sight to the inhabitants of a planet who were ignorant about the Krinar’s existence, going down into one of the most dangerous cities of this world, and all electronic functions were dead. So was his palm device. The last coordinates the pod had sent to the control tower in Krina had been several space miles back. He was effectively visible to the Earth people and invisible to his own.
He thanked the stars for his interest in antiques. If not for that passion, he’d never have learned how to manipulate flying crafts manually. He needed every bit of that knowledge to steer the lightweight, sleek pod through the mass of manmade constructions without crashing into one of the gloomy towers.
His heart pummeling in his ribcage, he scanned the environment. The only feasible emergency landing spot where he wouldn’t endanger the lives of any of the Earth species was an arena. His brain did a quick, automatic reference check, filtering through the intelligence he’d studied. Humans referred to it as a sports stadium. He swerved east and tilted thirty degrees, even if his approach was too fast for a landing. This was his only shot. If he missed the field, he’d crash into one of the buildings beyond.
Clutching the throttle between both hands, he pushed down and stepped on the pedals to release the emergency landing wings. If too soon, they’d be ripped off by the force of his speed. Once the wings were safely extended, he applied the flap breaks. Earth dwellings stacked high upon each other––apartment buildings––whizzed past him, blurring in his sight. Three more seconds. The oblong shape of the arena grew in size. Aiming for the green vegetation in the middle, he braced himself.
The pod collided with the planet with a force Drako couldn’t physically foresee despite his intellectual knowledge of Earth’s gravity. The impact threw his body forward. He protected his face with his arms as he slammed into the controls. His body rattled from the shock. The only thing that prevented him from being crushed was the safety harness. The intelligent material that constituted the pod didn’t adapt or give. In this strange airspace with its grave atmospheric qualities, the usually moldable substance remained a hard surface with sharp metal fixtures and combustible gas. However, he was still breathing. Miraculously, so.
Pain lanced at Drako from all sides. The sensation was foreign to him. He stared at his body in surprise. The skin flayed on his shoulder, revealing tendons and bone underneath. Blood trickled from his side. A long gash burned on his shin. The control panel had broken in two, the ridges that pushed up sporting bits of skin. That explained the injuries. Carefully, he rotated his neck and shook his limbs. Except for a few bruised ribs, his other bones seemed to be intact. Extremely fortunate. At the moment, his greatest health risk was the blood loss. Making quick work of it, he unclipped the harness and freed himself. The first aid kit with the nano-healer was stored with the nutrients behind the pilot’s seat.
He didn’t manage to turn before a small explosion on the side of the fuel pocket rocked the pod, ripping a hole in the panel and flinging his body through it. The heat was excruciating, but his fire-resistant pilot jumper suit absorbed most of it and enabled him to put out the flames by rolling on the prickly, green soil before the fabric had completely disintegrated.
Lying naked on the grass, he hardly registered the pain any longer as one, encompassing thought consumed his mind. Put out the fire. If the pod exploded, not only would he have no means of returning home, but the nano-healer would also be gone. He’d be as good as dead. Fighting dizziness––another novel experience––he dragged his upper body forward by his arms. His legs refused to obey his brain’s comm
and to get up and walk. The nanocytes in his body that should’ve aided in his quick healing had to have been damaged in the crash. In another few meters, the blackness became a bigger threat than the flames. If he lost consciousness, all was doomed. He tried to drag himself around to the other side where he could grab hold of the fire extinguisher when he caught a blur of movement in his peripheral vision. Jerking his face in that direction, he assessed the visual input. A bunch of humans were storming toward him.
Zut. He didn’t need this intervention. A new burst of adrenaline allowed his mind to overrule his nervous system. Pushing to his feet, he took a wide stance in front of his craft. The threat of his body language was clear. Even if he’d mastered Earth language in all of its dialects, he didn’t need words to get this message across. The humans slowed, and then paused. For five stifling heartbeats they measured each other, and then the bravest of the pack broke free. The human charged like a rabid dog, tattered clothes flapping around him. Expecting a full-blown attack, Drako was surprised when the human jerked off his patched jacket in the run and started pounding the flames. The rest of the pack followed suit. Arms flailing and clothes waving, they effectively put out the fire.
Maybe there was a way out of this without causing global pandemonium. Maybe he could say he was testing a new secret plane and pay off the witnesses to keep their mouths shut. Judging by the state of their garments, they looked like they could do with the bribe. First, he needed to get that first-aid kit. He took a step toward the smoldering pod, but wobbled on his feet. He had to be losing blood faster than he’d thought, or maybe it was a concussion.
The circle of humans opened when he neared unsteadily, their eyes trained on him warily.
“Thank you,” he said, practicing the smile that was the non-verbal sign for a friendly greeting.
As he held out a hand, as per the Earth custom, his body finally failed him, giving over to the darkest threat of all––unconsciousness––but not before he’d spotted the helicopter with the South African Secret Service emblem lifting above the buildings and noise.
2
The waiting area of the Johannesburg General Hospital was swamped. So were the corridors and every other passage. Patients spilled out from everywhere, overflowing a health system that already had its back breaking under a too great a demand and too little resources.
Nurse Ilse Gouws finished bandaging a stab wound and stretched her back. Wiping a hand over her brow, she stared through the open window at the summer day. The sky was purple with a pending thunderstorm. The welcome smell of rain would soften the sharp odor of disinfectant.
“I hate storms,” Caitlin Visage said next to her.
Ilse smiled at the matron. “At least it will cool down the air.”
She waved in the next patient, a woman with tuberculosis who’d come for her monthly treatment. The lady shuffled inside and lowered herself with some difficulty into the only chair.
“We’re out of Rifampin,” Caitlin said, glancing over Ilse’s shoulder at the clipboard.
“How can we be out of Rifampin? I signed off the batch we received on Monday myself.”
“It was stolen.”
“Again?” Ilse propped her hands on her hips, feeling the helplessness to her bones. “What are we doing to catch the culprits?”
“The police said they couldn’t do anything. They don’t have time to investigate our stolen medicine while there are more severe cases to solve.”
“I can’t believe it. We must be able to do something?”
“Like what? I’ve changed the locks God only knows how many times.”
“Clearly, it’s an inside job. We could paint the next batches with invisible ink and scan the hands of every staff member who works on this floor.”
“That’s discriminatory. By law, we’re not allowed to plant traps for our employees. Wouldn’t hold up in court.” Caitlin gave a half-mast smile. “I’ve already mentioned that idea to the last constable who took my statement.”
Ilse blew out a drawn-out breath. Complaining wasn’t going to help the patient staring at her with expectant eyes. She searched the form on her clipboard for the woman’s name. Mosa Nzama.
Pursing her lips, she crouched down in front of the woman with the wrinkled dress and skin. “How long have you been waiting, Mosa?”
“Four hours, Miss.”
Her heart ached with compassion. “We’re out of stock, right now. Why don’t you give me your address, and when the new stock comes in, I’ll deliver it personally.”
“Ilse.” Caitlin’s hand fell soft on her shoulder. “We don’t know if a new batch will come in.”
Ilse ignored the matron. “How about that?” She gave Mosa’s hand a reassuring pat, a poor consolation for the medicine she deserved.
“That’s very kind of you,” Mosa said. “Would you really do that?”
“How long did it take you to get here?”
“Hours. There was a long wait at the taxi rank, and I walked some of the way.”
“Here.” Ilse took a notepad from the desk and handed it to her with a pen. “Write down your address and your number, and I’ll call you before I come over.”
Mosa averted her eyes. “I don’t have a number.”
“Never mind. Just your address will do.”
As Mosa started scribbling, Caitlin gave Ilse a reprimanding look, but the matron only verbally objected again when the patient was gone.
“You can’t do that for everyone,” Caitlin argued. “Plus, you don’t know where she lives.” She stared after the woman’s disappearing form. “It may not be safe for you to go there.”
“At least I’ll make a difference to one life,” she said, dismissing the subject by immersing herself in preparing the examination bed for the next patient.
“Your shift’s been over a long time,” Caitlin said. “Go home and sleep. You’re no good to me dead on your feet.”
Ilse glanced at the clock. It was almost five in the afternoon. True, she’d been on duty since four that morning, and she felt the hours in every fiber of her being. “In a minute. I’ll finish cleaning up in here, and then I’ll go.”
“Matron Visage?” a voice said from the door.
The women turned in unison.
A bulky man stood in the frame. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but a pistol holster showed from under his jacket. He held a badge to the matron. “Agent Pillay. I need a nurse to come with me. We have a prisoner with substantial injuries who needs treatment.”
Strands of hair flew from Caitlin’s bun as she shook her head. “You’ll have to speak to a doctor.”
The man put the badge away and hooked a thumb into his belt. “I already did. They’re understaffed.”
“So are we.”
“Ms. Visage, I’m here on government order. Don’t make me use force.”
“It’s Matron to you,” she said with a lift of her nose. “Where is this patient?”
“In safe holding,” he answered.
“Where would that happen to be?”
“Downtown.”
She pointed a finger at the line of waiting patients. “See for yourself what we’re dealing with. I don’t have time to send a nurse downtown to tend to your prisoner. Bring him here if he needs treatment.”
His cheekbones darkened. “Matron, you don’t want to push me on this.”
“I’ll go,” Ilse said quickly. “My shift has ended, anyway.”
Caitlin turned sharp eyes on her. “You’ve worked twelve hours straight. I need you fresh back here in eight. What you need is a shower, a meal, and to sleep, not to gallivant downtown on a Mother Teresa mission.”
The agent looked Ilse up and down. “What kind of experience do you have?”
“I work here. What do you think?” Ilse challenged.
He nodded once. “You’ll do. Follow me.”
As he turned and she scurried to follow, Caitlin caught her arm. “You’re wearing yourself out.”
“Don’t w
orry. It’s just going down to the prison and applying a Band-aid or two. I’ll be home, showered, and sleeping before you know it. Happy?”
Caitlin exhaled on a puff.
“Good.” Ilse winked. “See you tomorrow.”
The agent was waiting for her in the corridor, tapping his foot. “I don’t have all day, Nurse…”
“Gouws. Let me grab my bag and a medical kit, and I’ll be right with you.”
“You don’t need a medical kit. We’ve got everything covered.”
“Oh.” She’d been on prison call-out twice, and in both instances she’d taken all the medical supplies. She didn’t have time to ponder the issue, because Agent Pillay was already making his way down the hallway in long strides.
Thirsty. His body needed rehydration. Drako forced open his eyes. They burned. The air on this planet, at least where he was now, was filthy. A recollection of the crash rammed into his conscience. His whole body jerked. The pain was still there, only worse, but there was something else, too. He tried to move his arms and legs. His suspicion was confirmed. He was tied up. He turned his head an inch. If not for the situation, he would’ve laughed at the ropes that secured his wrists and ankles to four bedposts. For now, he didn’t break them. He scanned his surroundings, preferring to analyze the danger first.
He was lying on what humans would refer to as a mattress, which was suspended on a bed. According to the smell, it was unclean. Lumpy. A very uncomfortable invention. It was soaked red with his blood. The walls of the chamber were white, but stained. The floor was no better, the tiles chipped and in need of degerming. He was alone by appearance, only. The red light in the corner of the ceiling suggested company.
True to his expectations, it didn’t take the Earthlings long after he’d opened his eyes to make their appearance. A metal door opened, and three men stepped inside. They all wore the same uniform. The logo on their shirts stated SASS. South African Secret Service. His worst nightmare come true.
The Krinar Experiment Page 1