Tiera's Earth
Book One of Andromeda 9
By Ethan T. Marston
Copyright © 2017 by Ethan T. Marston
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover art by Hartley Rasmussen
For Allie, Hartley, Cara, and God.
Your excitement for my books makes me feel the best sort of awkward.
Chapter 1
“Can I help you?”
Tiera jumped at the gruff voice, then saw the bodyguard it belonged to. Standing in her way was a large Polynesian man—the kind that local universities drafted into their football programs without a second thought. There’s more security? How much does the senator need?
“Sorry! I was just—I couldn’t find the bathroom. Do you know where the nearest bathroom is?” Tiera tried not to wince at how awful her excuse sounded. She hadn’t thought to practice before leaving the banquet upstairs.
The muscled guard looked Tiera up and down for one menacing moment, probably deciding whether or not she was going to be any trouble, then stepped to the side. Where he was once blocking her view, Tiera now saw a sign for both a men’s and a women’s restroom.
“Oh! Thank you! Fa’afetai!” Tiera threw in the Samoan translation as she passed him, hoping she pronounced it correctly. He seemed surprised.
“Are you . . . ?”
“No, I just had a roommate from Samoa when I was up at USU,” Tiera clarified. She understood his confusion though—she had the right skin tone to be an islander, but everything else about her screamed of the American South. “Anyway,” she said awkwardly, gesturing toward the bathroom door.
He grunted in response.
Upon entering the bathroom, Tiera dropped her heavy pleather purse on the marbled sinks, then checked for feet under the stalls—she planned on staying in there for as long as it took to convince the guard she was telling the truth, but she didn’t want to pretend she was pooping for whomever might be in the bathroom if she didn’t have to.
“Nobody in here but me,” Tiera said to herself, straightening up and looking in the mirror. Her dark brown eyes stared back at her, tired, but trying. She ran a hand along the part in her gold-tipped fro. This was the hardest assignment the Times had given her yet. She had tried to follow Senator Goldsmith downstairs when she saw him leave The Garden Restaurant, but the Joseph Smith Memorial Building was a big place. All she needed was a statement about the new (and controversial) religious freedom bill, but Goldsmith and his secretary would never return any of her calls. It was probably because she was a writer for the Salt Lake—
“Well this is bigger than her! It’s bigger than me—it’s bigger than any of us! Arrange a meeting—tell her she’s the only one still holding out! We need her signature, Danny.”
Tiera looked around for the source of the voice—his voice—until she found a small vent near the ceiling. He’s in the bathroom! That’s why I couldn’t find him. He’s just next door! Tiera fumbled through her purse till she found her phone, then opened a note-taking app and started typing furiously.
“But this will go down in history! Utah would be the first state to pass any sort of bill like this, and—” Whoever the senator was talking to must have interrupted him.
Is he talking in the bathroom for privacy or because, well . . . ?
Tiera heard a distant flush, which confirmed her suspicions. It also let her know how loud Senator Goldsmith must have been talking for her to be able to hear him so clearly. Now if she could just find out which senator was holding out on the bill, she’d be set. There weren’t many female senators, so she could guess, but she'd rather be sure.
A few loud popping noises and the sound of shattering glass interrupted Tiera’s snooping, however. A car alarm wailed, so Tiera guessed the noises came from the street, which was only a few floors down. She ran over to the opaque bathroom window, unlatched it, and carefully poked her head out—she didn’t think those noises were gun shots, but she wasn’t stupid.
“Senator Goldsmith!” she heard the Polynesian bodyguard shout, his voice clear even outside. There was glass on her window sill, which connected to a ridge that ran along the entire side of the building—and the window that neighbored her own was completely broken. That’s the men’s bathroom. Near her hand, Tiera also saw a small screw, its head painted blue.
Tiera looked at the sidewalk below, and it seemed . . . warped. There was a circular area where the light was wrong somehow, as if someone were mixing two blobs of paint that just wouldn’t combine. Tiera would have stared at it longer, but two figures next to the light blob caught her attention.
They were wearing identical white outfits—like jumpsuits—complete with visored helmets, and they were holding out some sort of technical equipment. It was hard to make out the shape of their equipment other than the bright displays on each of them. They weren’t pointing their equipment in a way that made it seem dangerous, however, so Tiera didn’t think they broke the window on purpose. At least, she assumed they were the culprits. There was nobody else on this side of the street, so these jumpsuit people must have had something to do with it. I might as well ask—I’m a journalist, aren’t I?
“HEY!” Tiera shouted down. “What are you guys doing? Did you see what broke this window?”
The two figures jumped at the sound of her voice. One of them lifted his visor, revealing an angular, masculine face topped with light brown hair, buzzed short. As he tried to get a better look at her, his companion pointed a bright light at Tiera’s window.
“Ah!” Tiera threw a hand up to shield her eyes. Instead of responding to her questions, the people below looked at each other, then ran headlong into the light blob—where they, and the blob itself, vanished. Where the circle once . . . well, blobbed, Tiera could now only see the sidewalk, a mangled blue USPS collection box, and a parked car—missing a rounded chunk off its bumper.
What the . . . ?
“Hey!” The voice of Senator Goldsmith’s bodyguard made Tiera jump for the second time tonight. His head was peeking out of the broken window of the men’s bathroom, just as Tiera’s head was peeking out of the women’s. He looked at the mess on the sidewalk below, then back up at Tiera. “Did you see who did this? What happened?” His voice was so demanding it was almost a bark.
“I—there were a couple of guys, but I think it was an accident. They just vanished!” Tiera wasn’t sure what else to say. I guess I should consider this practice, Tiera told herself as the sound of police sirens mixed with the car alarm. She was sure she’d have to rehearse her story for the police too.
The thought set Tiera’s heart pounding against her ribcage. I don’t want to be here.
Tiera pulled her head back inside then darted toward the bathroom door, grabbing her purse on the way. She heard Goldsmith’s bodyguard shout, but she kept going—skipping the elevator and heading for the stairs. As she ran, a quiet part of her said that she wouldn’t be in any trouble if she stuck around, but her nerves wouldn’t listen. They couldn’t listen.
And this is why I should have stuck with my safe, cushy job at the Tribune, Tiera thought to herself, hitting the first floor and forcing herself to walk calmly toward the door. This is why I never used to put my neck out. She tried to breathe through her panic attack. She gave the redheaded doorman a tight smile as she passed, then headed northwest—toward the heart of Temple S
quare. The night air was still hot and dry, a hint of sunset remaining in the sky.
I need to sit down. I need to calm down.
Tiera made a beeline for the North Visitor’s Center, where there were plenty of places to sit. She knew of a room where people were generally quiet—where she could focus and reel her emotions back in.
On her way there, Tiera passed several people dressed so well they could have been guests at the charity banquet she had just left. Tiera knew better though; that’s just the way Mormons dressed when they went to the castle-like structure they called a “temple.” Tiera had never been inside—you had to be a special kind of Mormon for that—but she had seen pictures. She thought it a shame you had to belong to their church to visit such a beautiful place.
That’s just religion, I guess, Tiera thought dismissively, darting into the side entrance of the North Visitor’s Center. She was careful not to make eye contact with any of the people here—last time she did that she ended up sitting through a half-hour lecture about the Mormon faith. Any normal person would have just walked away, but Tiera’s anxiety kept her there, as it couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting the nice Puerto Rican sister missionary who wanted so badly to convert her.
Maybe they’ll see my dress and think I’m already Mormon. Tiera looked down at her shimmering gold dress—and at its neckline—as she made her way through the air-conditioned building. Or maybe not. If all else failed, she figured she could give another fake phone number to the missionaries, though she still felt bad about the first time she did that.
Still trying to focus on her breathing, Tiera made for the spiraling ramp that took her to the top floor. As she climbed, lights and painted stars peeked through a mural of rolling clouds, giving way to a beautiful portrait of the Earth and Moon, as seen from space. Tiera looked up at the domed ceiling, letting its beauty calm and distract her. She had always loved stargazing, though she couldn’t really do that now that she lived in Salt Lake again. Too much light pollution.
That thought led her to think about the odd light of the circular blob she saw, however, causing her to tense up with anxiety again.
As she rounded the corner and reached the top of the slope, she finally saw Thorvaldsen’s Christus—an enormous, pristinely white statue of the Christ. Or at least a copy of the statue, since the original was still in Denmark.
More importantly, Tiera saw empty benches—something she appreciated just as much as the artwork in this room.
Tiera sat on the cushioned seat of a bench, then pulled out her phone for her anxiety app, which guided her through a breathing exercise. After that, she started typing out her thoughts in the app’s anxiety journal.
“Excuse me?”
Her head already down and her hands together, Tiera locked her phone and closed her eyes as quick as she heard the voice. Will they bother me if they think I’m praying?
“Oh!” The voice—which sounded like it belonged to a young woman—dropped to a whisper. “We’re closing in five minutes!” she half whispered, half yelled. After a few seconds, Tiera cracked her eyes open as inconspicuously as she could, and saw two sister missionaries practically tiptoeing as they walked silently toward the ramp downstairs. Tiera smiled, happy for the distraction.
Once they were out of sight, Tiera stood up, made sure she had her UTA pass for the trolley home, then snuck out of the building. She really didn’t want to risk another missionary experience.
Chapter 2
Tiera sat at her desk and stared out the window closest to her cubicle. She wasn’t sure why she did that, since her only view was of the theater across the street, but she figured it was still more interesting than the article displayed on her computer screen.
It was in this same situation that Tiera’s boss approached her just four weeks ago, inviting her into his beige office to sit on one of his beige chairs and listen to his beige opinion of her career. I shouldn’t have listened.
Sighing, Tiera tore her eyes from the bright movie posters across the street and glued them instead to her computer. The thin line that marked her place in the document blinked over and over, like it was mocking her. Like it was daring her to write about what she really experienced last night. But the Times wouldn’t accept that—she wasn’t writing a science fiction novel. Besides, she told her Times editor that she’d have the article done by tomorrow, and novels can take years.
Tiera had only become a correspondent for the Times because her boss noticed that her work with the Tribune was “too good,” or something stupid like that. Or that it had been too good for too long. She was “stagnant,” he said.
Was it such a bad thing that I was comfortable? Not everyone has to climb ladders to be happy.
After a few easy assignments on environmental regulations, Tiera was asked to contact Senator Goldsmith and write an article about the religious freedom bill he was heading up in the Utah State Senate. Since she could only go off of what she overheard in the bathroom last night, Tiera felt more like a gossip columnist than a journalist.
Tiera took her cursor and highlighted everything she had written so far, then rested her finger gently on the delete key. Should I or shouldn’t I? she deliberated, careful not to put too much pressure on the key.
Her boss ended up making that decision for her.
“Tiera? Do you have a minute?”
Tiera jolted at the sound of her name, pushing delete in the process. I guess that’s settled then, she thought, turning her chair to face her boss, John Stapley.
“How’s the article going?” he asked.
“It’s great, I—” Tiera stopped herself, then looked down at her lap. “Actually, I need a stronger source if I want this to look credible. Senator Goldsmith’s secretary hasn’t called you back, has he?” she asked, looking back up at her boss. “I couldn’t begin to tell you how many messages I’ve left on that answering machine.”
“I’m afraid not,” John replied, looking concerned. “I thought you were going to interview him at the banquet?”
“That was my plan—not his. I did end up overhearing some information on the bill from a phone conversation he had with a ‘Danny,’” Tiera used air quotes, “who I assume is Senator Daniel Lowe, but I can’t exactly use that without looking like a gossip now can I?”
“Probably not.” John put his hands on the top of his head and looked at the ceiling, his expression thoughtful. “What did you overhear?”
“Goldsmith was arguing with Lowe about the importance of a female senator’s vote—a senator that could tip the chances of the bill going through. I don’t know which female senator though—there are half a dozen.” Which is sad. It’s the 21st century, isn’t it?
“Only Julia Frank and Barbara Gonzalez lean moderate though, so it’s probably one of them,” John said matter-of-factly. Tiera had forgotten that John used to write for the politics column before he became an editor.
“That still leaves me with the problem of looking like a gossip,” Tiera interjected flatly. “Maybe if I knew for sure which senator they were talking about I could approach Lowe about it, but clearly I don’t. So I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Tiera squinted at her boss, incredulous. “Have you been listening to me?” Realizing she needed to soften her sass, Tiera added, “Sir?”
John smiled. “You have a fifty-fifty chance, don’t you? I know gambling is illegal here in Utah, but this is a risk you can afford to take.”
Tiera considered him for a moment. Beige John Stapley: more of a risk-taker than Tiera Jasperson. Now that’s just sad.
“I’m assuming you have a phone number for Daniel Lowe’s office?” Tiera asked, already knowing the answer.
“You betchya.” John turned and half-jogged out of Tiera’s cubicle. “I’ll email you his contact info right now!” he shouted from the hall.
“I guess that settles it,” Tiera said quietly. She then gathered her things and left the building—she had no time to lose if she still expected to
finish this article by tomorrow.
By the time Tiera reached the trolley station—or TRAX station, as it was called here in Salt Lake—John had sent her an email with Senator Lowe’s office phone number and street address. Her original plan was to go to his office, but she realized now what a bad idea that was. He has no reason to give me any information. I’ll need to be crafty about this.
Tiera formulated her plan as she took the blue line south, but after staring out the window for several minutes, her thoughts were interrupted by a mangy-looking man who wanted to know if she believed in World War III.
“Sure!” Tiera said, smiling at the man before looking back at the email she was sending John. If this homeless guy was that passionate about World War III, Tiera figured the least she could do was humor him.
“Oh! Uh . . . okay.” The man scratched his bushy gray beard, then sat down across the aisle from Tiera. “Well, it’s comin’,” he grumbled. His surprised expression told Tiera that he had never made it this far with any of the trolley’s passengers before, and she had to look out the window again to hide her smile.
East of the southbound trolley Tiera had a fairly unobscured view of the Wasatch mountain range, but the sprawling mass of city kept her attention much better than the towering mountains. From what she had seen, there was almost no empty space between Ogden and Provo—a distance of over 80 miles. Both residential and business areas took up as much space as they could in that stretch, since people highly preferred these temperate valleys to Utah’s southern deserts.
By the time Tiera switched to the red line in Murray, John had sent her another email with Senators Frank and Gonzalez’s contact information. Tiera tried to calm her nerves as her new trolley made its way to West Jordan—she figured that, as long as she was out, she could train for a bit at her favorite karate studio there before she made her way back north. She recently paid for knife defense training, and she wanted to spar with Sensei Fremont, who she knew was working this evening.
Tiera's Earth (Andromeda 9 Book 1) Page 1