Table of Contents
Too Close to the Sun
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Dark Side of the Sun
Chapter 1
Other Books by Robin T. Popp
Too Close to the Sun
By Robin T. Popp
Copyright 2013 Robin T. Popp
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. The only exception is short excerpts or the cover image in reviews.
Please be a leading force in respecting the right of authors and artists to protect their work. This is a work of fiction. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
West Coast Beach
Las Vegas, Nevada
Earth, 2503 AD
“You’re not afraid.”
Nicoli Alexandres Romanof did not bother to respond. Though he could sense his friend’s unease, there was nothing he could do to lessen it.
There were others on the beach, enjoying the night-fishing, the stars, the moonlight, each other. A couple sat watching as the incoming surf chased their children up the shore. Their peals of laughter floated to Nicoli on a salty breeze and mingled with the soft crash of waves. For a moment he paused to watch them, envying their happiness. His own childhood left him with bitter memories.
The thought that he was about to leave these children the same legacy caused guilt to shoot through him. He wished he could warn them - warn everyone on the beach - to leave, find safety; but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. If the beach were empty, then they wouldn’t come, and it was imperative that they show up. Even knowing that others on the beach would die horribly tonight did not alter his resolve. What he was doing was more important than the loss of these innocent lives. As a soldier, he knew the good of many often comes at the sacrifice of a few. There was no solace to be found in those thoughts tonight and so he forced his attention back to his task.
“This will do,” he said softly, selecting a more remote stretch of beach.
The older man merely nodded before reaching into his inner jacket pocket to remove a slim silver disc, no larger than the palm of his hand. Next he took off the chain he wore around his neck, at the end of which hung a clear crystal tube, about four fingers width in length. He stared at them, doubt clearly etched in the lines of his frown and the worry in his eyes.
“It’ll work,” Nicoli reassured him, nodding to the disc.
“This is not your best idea, Alex.”
Nicoli smiled at the use of his middle name. Only Yanur Snellen persisted in calling him Alex because, in Yanur’s words, “Colonel Romanof was too military and Nicoli sounded too formal.” Nicoli tolerated it, not because Yanur was the most brilliant scientist he’d ever met, but because Yanur was his friend. In a universe full of people, he only had one of those.
“If the Harvesters show up tonight,” Yanur continued, “and this plan of yours works, it could be days, even weeks, before your life essence is returned to your body.” He paused before quietly adding, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to put it back.”
“I’m doing this.”
“This whole plan is crazy. What if I run into problems tracking your body? What if I never find it?”
“Let Richardson worry about tracking my body. That’s why I hired him.”
“Okay, let’s say we find your body, but can’t put you back? Are you prepared to live the rest of your life in this?” He held up the tube.
Nicoli sighed. “If you can’t put me back, then purchase my body, have it programmed for sex and give it to your Aunt Myrice as a present. Don’t think I haven’t seen the way she looks at me when we visit. Just don't tell me what she does because I don't think I could live with that image floating around in my brain."
"You won't have a brain," Yanur pointed out dryly.
Seeing the concern in his old friend's eyes, Nicoli grew serious. “You are the most brilliant man I know. I have complete faith that if you find my body, you'll be able to restore me to it.”
“What if I'm not as good as you think? You might actually succeed in killing yourself this time.”
“I’m not afraid to die,” Nicoli assured him.
“Yes, that’s what worries me.”
Nicoli looked out across the horizon, his patience wearing thin. He was much more realistic about this mission than he'd let on to Yanur and wasn't without his own reservations about its success. But, there was a time for talking and a time for action - and the time for talking was over.
“Yanur, the Harvesters must be stopped. Their systematic annihilation of our people cannot be allowed to continue.”
“I agree. But who made it your responsibility to save the universe?”
“I did.”
“Why? Why you in particular?”
“Because I have the military experience. Because I have no family to leave behind.” He turned to face Yanur and his tone left no room for further argument. “Because I figured out how to stop them. Now let’s get on with this. The night is getting old.”
Nicoli lay down on the beach, raising his arms to place his hands, fingers interlocked, beneath his head. He crossed his legs at the ankles and for all appearances seemed to be resting peacefully. Further down the beach, other “moon-sleepers” lay in similar poses, ignorant of their imminent danger.
Resignedly, Yanur knelt beside him and placed the silver disc on Nicoli’s forehead. He stood the tube on the disc, then ran his finger along the side to activate a hidden switch, but hesitated at the last moment.
“Are you sure there is no other way?” he asked, voice gruff with emotion.
The answer was in Nicoli’s grim expression. “Remember, once the transfer is complete, leave. It won’t be safe. Come back at the first light of dawn. If my body's been taken, go to the ship. Richardson will be waiting for you. If my body is still here, we’ll try again tomorrow.”
“But--”
“Don’t argue with me. Just do as I say.” Nicoli suffered a moment’s hesitation as children’s laughter floated to him once more. He cursed himself mentally for being weak, knowing that despite a lifetime of practice, he had failed to rid himself of all emotion. How many great plans failed because emotions got in the way? At thirty-eight, he was getting soft. “One more thing,” he said softly. “When you leave, take that family with you.”
Yanur nodded and then, with their gazes locked, he pressed the switch.
Nicoli’s eyes went blank
Yanur watched as a wispy, amber light seeped out of the body of his closest friend. It grew brighter as it cocooned Alex’s pro
ne body. Then the top of the tube opened with a quiet hiss and the light was swiftly sucked into the tube.
When all the light was contained inside, the lid lowered, making a slight clicking noise when the tube was properly sealed. He placed two fingers against Alex’s neck and only removed them when he felt the strong, steady beating of a pulse.
The process had worked! Alex was still alive, or at least his body was. Even the worry of what lay before them was not enough to squelch a moment’s elation for an experiment gone right.
He picked up the brightly glowing tube and secured it to the chain before hanging it around his neck. He returned the silver disc to his pocket and lifted his gaze to the night sky for a quick check. All was quiet – for now.
He had half a mind to drag Alex’s body to safety and restore it tomorrow morning, telling the younger man that the Harvesters had failed to show up. Knowing Alex, though, he’d insist they try again tomorrow night, and each night thereafter until the Harvesters took his body. Eventually he’d realize Yanur was sabotaging his plans and decide to exclude Yanur from his future efforts. Yanur couldn’t afford to let that happen.
They were operating on a premise, with no contingency planning. The opportunities for failure were more than an average man could contemplate. Yanur knew this because, possessing a greater intellect than most, he’d pondered them all with the inevitable conclusion being – they were going to die.
He sighed and after struggling to his feet, crossed the beach to the young family.
“I will give you a thousand credits to leave the beach this instant with your children,” he told the parents. It was a hefty bribe and Alex would feel the pinch in his budget, if he survived the mission. If not, then what did it matter?
With the father watching him warily, Yanur pulled his communicator and a credit chip from his pocket. He tapped the necessary commands on the screen then swiped the credit, effectively transferring the money. Then he held the chip out to the man.
“Leave now. No questions asked.”
The young man nodded.
Yanur stood by and watched as they gathered their children and belongings and left. Once they were gone, he returned to his friend’s side and, ignoring the earlier order to leave, settled down to wait.
Less than an hour later, an isolated portion of the night sky began to shimmer and, like a hologram taking on definition and substance, an alien spaceship emerged. Caught dozing, Yanur scrambled to his feet, fearfully looking upward. Clutching the tube hanging from his necklace in a death grip, he gave Alex’s body a final look and a silent prayer, then turned and ran from the beach.
* * * * *
Skeeter’s was the last remaining icon of an era gone by. Situated at the remote end of the Las Vegas Coastal Airfield, the Old World pub offered sanctuary to world-weary travelers down on their luck. The ale might be watered down, but it was cheap. The meals weren’t gourmet, but they were hot and the portions filling. The rooms upstairs were small and lacked the amenities considered standard fare at even the low-end hotels, but they came free of pests (of all species) and could be rented by the hour, day or month with no ID and no questions.
The gaming that went on twenty-four / seven in the dank side rooms was just this side of legal. The activities that took place in the back rooms were so far outside the law that most patrons felt it was safer to pretend nothing was going on. All in all, Skeeter’s was a place best avoided by self-respecting, law-abiding citizens and the last place one would look to find a young woman of good breeding from an affluent family. Which was precisely why Angel Torrence called it home.
Sitting now in the cockpit of her Falcon XLT, she studied the pub’s lights shining from across the tarmac. It had been a safe place to hide these past two years. Given the circumstances, she’d almost been happy here, but two years was about a year and a half too long. It was time to move on.
She was in a better position to leave now, she thought, running a hand lovingly along the console of what was soon to be her ship. The money she'd earned from this last job gave her enough to make the final payment. Then, with the means to go anywhere, maybe, just maybe, she could finally be free.
Free. She’d been on the run since she was fifteen. Running from those who wished to control her, use her for their own purposes. Running from those who refused to let her go. In the early days, her survival had been more thanks to luck than anything else, but she'd been born with the ability to think on her feet and experience had made her tough. Now she worked as an independent galactic courier - uncertified, because that required registration and a background check, but her lack of certification didn’t matter to the clientele she attracted. Transporting illegal goods wasn’t always easy, but it was lucrative.
She'd just finished a run and Dugan would be waiting to hear how things went on Felinea. More important, he’d want his money.
Angel verified that the stasis field holding the ship firmly anchored to the ground was operational before leaving the pilot's seat. She headed down the short passageway to the small onboard cabin to retrieve her things, pausing when she caught sight of her reflection in the small wall mirror.
After eight years, the dark-haired woman staring back at her should have looked familiar. Angel absently ran her fingers through her too-short hair, remembering how long - and blonde - it had been eight years ago. It had nearly reached her waist - and acted like a shining beacon of light bringing her too easily to the attention of those looking for her.
That first week on her own, she'd cut it herself and, using a cup of concentrated coffee swiped from an outdoor cafe, she'd dyed the uneven strands dark brown. The residue from the beverage had left her hair stiff and sticking out from her head. What she hadn't realized at the time was that her new style, combined with her light violet eyes and dark clothes gave her a tough, edgy appearance that went a long way toward making sure no one bothered her.
Shaking herself of the memories, she opened the closet door and, grabbing a cap, pulled it low to partially hide her face. She checked the charge on her gun before securing it the shoulder holster, knowing it would be well concealed beneath the heavy leather of the flight jacket.
When she reached for the satchel containing Dugan’s money and hefted it over her shoulder, pain lanced through her side. Sneaking a look beneath the jacket, she saw that her wound had opened and blood had seeped through the homemade bandage onto her shirt. The stain was small, so she figured the bleeding would stop soon and she wouldn’t need stitches after all.
With the satchel in hand, she exited the ship.
The sun was just beginning its ascent across the eastern sky, painting the airfield in a vibrant display of pink, orange and yellow. Despite the early hour, there was a steady drone of activity on the airfield. At least a hundred ships hovered a meter or two over designated landing pads, stasis fields holding them in place while maintenance crews ran through pre- or post- flight checks. The field itself was in decent shape considering it was routinely subjected to terrorist attacks. The last attack had been only a couple of weeks ago and Angel hoped she'd be long gone before the next one came.
At the head of the tarmac stood the Control Tower, from which all launches and landings were coordinated. Even this far away, she smelled the familiar pungent odor of Tyrillium fumes and inhaled deeply, watching as pilots and other personnel rushed back and forth, taking care of business. She would miss all this.
She gave her ship a cursory once over. Everything appeared in order. As much out of habit as curiosity, she took note of her neighbors. Most of the ships she knew by sight. On the left hovered TJ’s derelict cruiser, the kind typically used for common trade. On the right, however, was a sleek little number she’d not seen before. A real beaut. A smaller craft designed for high speeds and long distances. She wondered if it handled as good as it looked and ignored a twinge of longing to find out. Drawn by peculiar openings on either side of the nose, she stepped closer. Smartly embedded in the outer paneling were PCPs: pulse ca
nnon portals. Definitely not a standard aircraft. It might have been government issue, but why keep it here? The United System of Planets’ Security Forces had its own airfield not far from here.
Bold blue letters across the side spelled out the ship’s name, Icarus. The name sounded familiar. She searched her memory of ancient Earth folklore and remembered a character from Greek mythology who had fashioned wings out of wax and feathers to fly. Unfortunately, he had foolishly flown too close to the sun, causing the wax to melt and him to plummet to his death.
Was this really an appropriate name for a starship? The ship’s owner certainly had an odd sense of humor, which negated the government theory - for obvious reasons. As everyone knew, the government was not capable of humor.
Turning from the ship, Angel scanned the tarmac once again before starting across. The sense of foreboding that had started last evening before she left for Felinea was getting worse. If what happened there was any indication of what was to come, the sooner she left, the better.
Inside Skeeter’s, things were quiet. Only the die-hard patrons were still up and about at this hour. A few heads turned briefly at her entrance. Across the room, Martin stood behind the bar, cloth in hand, wiping down the counter. Ol’ Joe was passed out in his usual spot, head down, a thin stream of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth to pool on the countertop below. Over by the stairs, Pixie was finishing “business” negotiations with a potential client. Angel had to admire the older woman’s stamina. This was probably her tenth customer tonight. Other patrons sat around gaming tables, wagering and drinking ale. It was the same scene as a hundred times before, right down to the outsider sitting in the corner.
Too Close to the Sun (The Sun 1) Page 1