Space Fleet Sagas Foundation Trilogy: Books One, Two, and Three in the Space Fleet Sagas

by Don Foxe

  “A system we quit using when everyone began to access travel using self-guided and driverless vehicles,” Sam said. “Every roadway, street, and alley in the nation has at least a couple of sensors. Satellites map and direct travel. Major cities became connected by Hyperloops. People stopped caring about road numbers. Interstate Highways often reverted to local names or received new names through popular usage. The only numbers remaining were for the larger highways and expressway exits.”

  “We never numbered roads or rivers on Fell,” Stacey said. “Everyone knew where they were and where they were going.”

  Pam Patterson smiled at the simple pronouncement of the alien. Fellen, probably the most advanced species of technology developers in the galaxy, enjoyed quaint, simple lifestyles. The planet remained largely undeveloped, unpolluted, and non-political. That she never found the opportunity to visit Fell, or other worlds outside of the Sol star system, an unspoken regret of retirement arriving sooner than intended.

  Stacey waved her fingers and the map altered, displaying ancient highway number codes in place of names.

  “I-59 connects to I-10, the Gulf Expressway,” she said. “The last line of the note read fifty-nine, ten, and six-zero-seven.”

  “The obvious fifty-nine and ten link to Tab’s note is there. What about six-oh-seven?” Pam asked.

  “It required access to archived state roads and highways data to find it, but if you follow I-10 East, after you leave the Wilderness zone, you come to Shuttle Parkway,” the blue tech savvy girl said, switching the redline to the Gulf Parkway, and intersecting it with a bright blue line. “Mississippi records designated this as State Highway 607.”

  “Damn,” Pam said, sitting back against the wood-slats of the dining chair. “That simple. All these years with that note, all the experts in the world, and it was never a cypher. Tab simply used old highway numbers to remind him where he was going.”

  “I went back to the first line and began determining his travel plans.” Stacey expanded the holo-display map to show the older rendition of the state of Mississippi. As she continued to talk, areas on the map would light and a second holo-map, a close-up of the lighted areas, appeared in the air to the right of Mississippi. Above both maps, three lines of numbers and words materialized.

  20 22 4 59 65 198

  31 Montague Research

  59 10 607

  “I-20 to exit twenty-two in Meridian, Mississippi to Fourth Avenue, which is downtown near the historic section of the city. Notice the slightly wider separation between the three sets of numbers on the first line?” asked rhetorically. “The second set converts to I-59, when taken south reaches exit sixty-five to Hattiesburg. The exit leads to State Road 198, named Hardy Street. Thirty-First Avenue North takes you into the University of Southern Mississippi where it connects to Montague Boulevard. A block west on Montague, you turn right onto Research Drive.”

  “Montague Research,” Pam said. “We searched every database for references to anything connecting the words Montague and Research. The closest match we found was the Montague Mineral Research Corporation located over one-hundred years ago in Switzerland. I wasted a lot of sleepless nights trying to make sense of a mineral researcher and spelunker located in the Alps and a swamp in Louisiana. Separated by thousands of miles, and decades. They were just street names on a college campus.”

  “Research Drive dead-ends into a parking lot,” Stacey said. The Southern Mississippi University campus footprint replaced the right display. “Buildings for Biological Sciences, Polymer Science Research, Bio-Chemical labs, and dedicated power stations are located around the parking area. All of the buildings and facilities purchased six years ago by a private commercial research firm that provides university students access for studies and lab work.”

  “A lot of colleges and universities were forced to sell or lease assets after the pandemic,” Sam said. “Not enough students and not enough interest in higher education or college sports after watching half the world’s population perish.”

  “Six years ago?” Pam asked.

  “Before Col. Barnwell’s death,” Stacey answered the deeper question.

  “The facilities are owned by a multi-regional research group called Camarilla. The original purchase and continued funding comes from a bank in London, England. Ninety-percent of the bank’s shareholders and clients are from Arabic regions of the Middle East and North Africa,” she added.

  “You did a lot of research,” Sam commented.

  Stacey shrugged off the comment-compliment. The computer-data retrieval systems did the work. She only needed to frame the parameters for the search to assure the information returned had value.

  “The administrator for the project is Dr. Herman Reinhardt,” she dropped the bomb.

  “Dr. Reinhardt who contracts to Space Fleet?” Pam asked, once again seated on the edge of the chair.

  “Bio-engineering, neural expert, psychiatrist, and head of the UEC Space Fleet artificial intelligence systems’ avatar development project,” Stacey answered. “He was a grad-assistant during the Space Rangers Project. He created Genna and Adele, the avatars for PT-109 and PT-99.”

  “After stopping in Meridian, Tab visited Dr. Reinhardt in Hattiesburg. Why?” Sam asked.

  “No way to know without speaking to Reinhardt,” his wife replied. “We don’t even know if he knew Reinhardt’s association to the university, or that he saw him at all.”

  “The last line I already explained,” Stacey interrupted. “He left Hattiesburg using I-59 to I-10 in Slidell, then east to 607, the Shuttle Parkway, which takes him to an abandoned propulsion research and testing center originally used by an agency called NASA.”

  “National Aeronautics and Space Administration,” Sam translated the letters. “The United State’s first government-sponsored agency tasked with developing space flight.”

  “The center closed before the Pandemic,” Stacey reported. “It remained unused until it was purchased for private research seven years ago.”

  “Same group?” Sam asked, his expertise in global financial affairs becoming more enticed by the minute.

  “Same bank funded the purchase,” Stacey answered. “It is remote, surrounded by open land to prevent propulsion test failures from harming civilians. High security fences and monitors, at a minimum. It is a short trip to Hattiesburg. The site’s western border is the Pearl River Wilderness Zone.” She dropped the other bomb.

  “Tab?”

  “Honey Island Cypress Swamp is a straight line west from the old testing center,” Stacey confirmed.

  “But we don’t know if he went to Hattiesburg or the testing facilities for sure,” Sam said.

  “We may never know,” Stacey replied. “If I can hack their systems, there may be records showing he did, and when, and what may have happened.”

  “Which is why you need my computer,” Pam said. “If you are scanned while attempting to hack the Mississippi sites, we are all in trouble, and potentially in danger.”

  “Yep,” the Fellen replied. “Do you want to stay and watch?”

  Sam answered for his wife.

  “Pam stays with you,” he said. “I’m going to my office at the UEC and look into that London bank. Always follow the finance.”

  He kissed his wife, squeezed Stacey’s shoulder, and left the two women to their scheme. He had a trail of his own to follow.

  “How do we start?” Pam asked.

  The young woman with blue skin, orange eyes, and small fangs suggested a human starter.

  “Caffeine,” she said. “If you could make us tea?”

  “Will do,” the former Admiral of Space Fleet replied. Reduced to making tea for a teenage hacker caused a smile, not a loss of self-respect. “Something hot and strong, with enough that we can refill on demand.”

  “Thanks, Pam,” Stacey said. She turned back to the system built by Trent Industry’s best cyber people. They borrowed heavily from technology found on Mars, and from concepts create on
Fell, and shared with Space Fleet. She would be comfortable with the operational and functional capacities within minutes. Less time than it would take her hostess to brew tea.

  Twelve-minutes later, Patterson returned with two ceramic mugs, steam wafting over the rims.

  “Caffeine is served,” she said, placing one mug on the desktop. “When do we start?”

  “Already started,” Stacey answered. “The security firewalls and traps for the operating system at the Hattiesburg location are robust. Someone with a high degree of skill designed the system and the protections.”

  “Will they detect you?”

  “I’m only snooping around the edges,” the young woman replied. Her skin turning a darker shade of blue indicated the stress as higher than she admitted. “They operate on a college campus and allow students access to unrestricted areas. They expect snooping, minor attempts at hacking, and simple intrusions by mistake. That’s why I decided to try Hattiesburg instead of the propulsion center. They would be more alert to attempts to enter their systems.”

  “You’re good at this,” Pam said. “I have a feeling, better than your brother, ASparquila.”

  “I am, but since he’s a male and my brother, I don’t let on. His ego could not handle his little sister becoming a better hacker.”

  “But you didn’t come to Earth to join Space Fleet as a systems officer. You want to train as a fighter pilot.”

  “Yep.” The word fast becoming her favorite human response. It meant much more than ‘yes.’ As Billy once explained, ‘It includes an implied damn straight.’

  “I hate to call that a waste of talent, but it certainly would be,” the former Admiral said.

  “I can do both,” the Fellen assured her.

  Patterson did not say it aloud, but did think: ‘I bet you can. I bet you will.'

  “I’m in,” Stacey announced. “There is a staff break room on the fourth floor of the bio-chemical research building. The refrigerator includes a remote-access camera to allow the supply staff to monitor the interior. They must restock certain items when inventory drops below a certain level.”

  “You hacked a highly secured operating system because a lazy person in food and beverage restocks cola based on a video count instead of actually looking inside the refrigerator?”

  “Yep.”

  The holo-display winked to life providing a three-dimensional recreation, in smaller scale, of bottled water, soda, and containers of unknown food. As Stacey wandered through the operating system on the restricted floors, closed-circuit video feeds became corridors and rooms on top of Patterson’s desk.

  The bio-chem building consisted of five floors. The bottom two non-restricted; available for students and staff for lectures, lab work, conferences, and restrooms.The third floor housed administrative offices and the computer operating systems studio. The two spent several minutes at each monitored site. They discussed and agreed on an area’s apparent function, looked for clues left lying about, and moved on.

  Stacey spent extra time examining and memorizing, the computer codes and controls. The hardware was not exceptional, but the software equalled anything on Fell. Certainly advanced for humans. One operator handled everything. At first she suspected an artificial intelligence maintained everything, but decided the programmer built systematic commands into the operating codes. Commands easily overridden, as she did now. AI’s might be used for self-diagnostics, as well as downline maintenance and repairs, but humans ran the show.

  The fourth floor housed research labs. Biological research studios, chemical labs, and containment areas for dangerous results. Perhaps because it was late in the day, only two people used the fourth floor. Both worked in a studio with more electronic equipment than burners and beakers.

  “Biology,” Stacey said.

  “No way to tell what they are trying to accomplish,” Pam said.

  “I can attempt to access data files after we complete the video circuit,” Stacey replied. “If I try too multiple incursions simultaneously the traps would detect the increased activity.”

  The obvious thing about the fifth floor involved higher security. An additional metal gate crossed the frame of the elevator door. Reaching the third and fourth floors required access codes, but neither included an armed guard stationed at a desk. She read a magazine.

  “Long time without any incidents,” the former intelligence officer surmised. “The guard isn’t afraid of a reprimand for reading while on duty. She’s aware her station is monitored, but it doesn’t stop her from relaxing at her post.”

  “The computers are the watchdogs,” Stacey said. “They will warn her of anything considered outside of normal activities. She’s the guard dog.”

  “The computer barks and she bites,” Pam said. “Pretty good analogy for an extraterrestrial.”

  “I’m considering a dog for a companion,” Stacey admitted. “I’ve been researching breeds, behavior, and usage.”

  “You might want to research peeing, pooping, and chewing first,” the older woman quipped.

  Other than the semi-somnolent guard, the corridor appeared empty. The first room Stacey video-entered was an operating theater. A complete medical set-up with ultra-modern equipment. A door to the right led to a staff washroom area and lockers. No one present. The studio appeared sterile, well-maintained, and ready to go. It also gave off a vibe of no recent use.

  The next area appeared as if three rooms were converted into a ward. Hospital-style beds, monitors, and medical support equipment set similar to a military field unit. Beds sat aligned, each with a privacy curtain available, but every one pushed against the wall and tied off. Currently, no occupants meant no need for privacy.

  “Twelve,” Stacey said. “Twelve beds.”

  The final room to come on line looked surprisingly similar to Chaspi’s dorm space. Bunk bed, desk and chair, and door to a bathroom. Unlike Chaspi’s room, no windows allowed daylight or star shine to enter. The ceiling, oddly, seemed made of metal. Steel grates covered lights and vents.

  “Books on the desk’s shelves, and more on the wall unit,” Pam said. “Histories, biographies, fiction. An eclectic collection.”

  “Nothing electronic,” Stacey said. “No pads, monitors, units, audio, or video components. There is a speaker embedded in one wall. Covered by a metal grate.”

  “Bed looks recently slept in. There are clothes on the floor,” Pam said. “Maybe in the bathroom? Is there a feed from inside?”

  Before Stacey could switch to the final camera, the door opened. A man wearing a two-piece grey sweatsuit and bare feet entered. His head down, shoulders slumped, and gait of short, unsteady steps indicated someone older. Defeated. Disinterested.

  The face, though drawn and weary-eyed, was one of a young man.

  “Tab,” Pam whispered.

  She jumped out of the chair when her personal communicator vibrated on her wrist. The slight nuisance transformed into an electric shock coming at the same moment she recognized Barnwell.

  “Patterson,” she answered, eyes remaining latched to the image of a ghost.

  “This is Paris, Pam. You need to stop what you’re doing and come down to my office.”

  Pam slashed her throat at Stacey, who had no idea what the action meant. Pam pointed at the holo-display and mouthed ‘Off.’ A simple wave of her hand and Stacey disconnected the system from the site in Mississippi. A second wave shut the computer off.

  “Paris, I’m extremely busy. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “I’m bringing Sam in for questioning,” the Security Director said. “He was detected using UEC equipment to look at private financial records without authorization. I don’t want to get into details over a public access channel. You best come down in order for us to work this out.”

  “On the way,” Pam replied, closing the channel.

  “An intruder beam is sweeping the house,” Stacey told her, holding the detection devise up. “The computer shut down and external sources were disco
nnected before the beam arrived. Less than thirty-seconds.”

  Cassel’s call might have been coincidental. Maybe he called to warn her. Maybe she was seeing more ghosts than Titus Barnwell, Jr.

  “Stacey, do you realize what we just discovered?” she asked the transfer from another planet.

  “Col. Barnwell is alive. Held prisoner at the research center on the campus of Southern Mississippi University,” the alien replied. “Most likely the subject of interrogations and experimentations. Dr. Reinhardt must be aware of his presence. You and Sam are under surveillance by the UEC’s office of security. The people funding Dr. Reinhardt’s projects at the university also finance whatever is happening at the old propulsion testing center. They have influence, and probably protection within the UEC, and possibly Space Fleet.”

  “I could not have summarized all of this any better,” Patterson admitted. “I have to go downtown. I want to find out what Sam did, and why Paris had him detained. Can you go to Chaspi’s until I contact you?”

  “Of course. Pam, you need to be careful.”

  “I will be, Stacey,” the older woman assured her house guest. “I need to know you are safe. Call me on the Fellen trans-com when you get to the dorm.”

  Stacey nodded.

  CHAPTER 16

  TORONTO

  “She and her husband are dangerous,” Guy Arcand said.

  “I’ll admit they’re turning over a few rocks,” Cassel replied. “I don’t know exactly how dangerous they may be yet.”

  “The Camarilla is too close to achieving control over the UEC to allow even small rocks get disturbed,” the French-Canadian representative answered. “The Patterson’s need to be held in check. Sam Patterson announced their suspicions by stomping around in the London bank’s client files. Admiral Patterson’s obsession with the Barnwell suicide already made everyone nervous. Reinhardt’s Iranian computer genius, Attaran, sent me a message that someone in the Toronto area attempted to probe the research center at the university. I’m betting Patterson is number one on the list of probables. Unless you’ve been playing on the computer without telling me.”