The Pathfinder Trilogy

by Todd Stockert

  Upon landing, the soldiers immediately began unloading the probe’s wreckage. Like a ghost sliding out of the shadows, the dark-haired woman appeared beside them. “Take it to Durgon 001,” she ordered before looking directly back to Hobak with some authority. “Make sure that he knows I want a complete analysis ready by tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll certainly do that,” the Hobak clone said, bowing deeply before moving off to follow the soldiers.

  The next day Valiana 001 entered the main underground chamber, where months ago they had held their brief meeting with Drik Gyilto. Surprisingly he was present, waiting for her a bit impatiently with Durgon 001 and Hobak 001. “Why is he here?” she asked acidly, gesturing casually in Gyilto’s direction. “If we add a new member to the Triumvirate, we will have to rename it.”

  “My people are disappearing just as fast as those in other nations,” the Ghuitan King snapped back at her. “You promised me a kingdom to rule over.” His anger had grown strong enough to overcome his fear of her, an annoying trait that Valiana made a mental note to put a stop to… soon.

  “Why are so many survivors disappearing?” Hobak asked her intently. “What did you discover?”

  “Either the moon colony project team completed its new type of PTP project, or some sort of alien influence is involved,” she replied brusquely, studying the color on her fingernails. “Several days ago, I was searching one of the mountainous areas where survivors were rumored to meet. It was nighttime and we were hovering above a large group of them in a shuttle. We spotted a small oval filled with bright white light that appeared near ground level, it must have been some sort of energy portal. One after another, the crowd down below lined up and walked toward it. All of them disappeared inside of it.” She studied Hobak’s gaze with hate-filled glittering eyes. “Somehow I doubt that they were killing themselves with some sort of suicide weapon. It had to be a new form of Point-to-Point transport.”

  “That is ridiculous. Where would they go?”

  “If I knew the answer to that question, Hobak, then naturally so would you.”

  He nodded, obviously not pleased by what she had told him. Turning his attention to Durgon, he briefly studied the remains of the small Canary probe sitting on the table in front of them. “And you, what were you able to determine?” he asked. “Was this supposed to be a weapon of some sort?”

  “Unlikely,” the third member of their Triumvirate replied. “The Americans have all kinds of differing versions of these ‘Canary’ probes as they like to call them. Most are very sophisticated pieces of electrical equipment designed to monitor stellar phenomenon, but there are smaller versions of them also in use by the military as missile decoys or simply as a means to disrupt enemy communications.”

  “And this one?” asked Valiana impatiently. “What was it supposed to do?” She had been desperately waiting to hear something about the mysterious, crashed device ever since receiving the order to retrieve it.

  “This probe has markings on it that indicates it is indeed from a vessel called Pathfinder.” He shrugged. “That’s the new ship that the moon Colonists built with what they call a CAS system. This Pathfinder would be the same vessel that escaped from us about six months ago after nearly destroying one of our warships.”

  Hobak reached forward and picked up the papers that Durgon had set on the desk. He glanced over the images of the distant, spiral-armed galaxy clusters printed on them and shook his head with delight. “They’re letting us know that they got safely out of the galaxy,” he concluded with an evil grin. “They’re convinced that they are protected from us, even though they’re lost in the middle of nowhere and will struggle mightily on a daily basis simply to survive.”

  “They’re more than convinced,” Durgon continued, turning over one of the pictures. On the back of it was a text message that he slowly read out loud to the two people seated across from him:

  “These pictures were taken from a position that we call Bravo Point as proof that we have escaped from your military threat. You cannot track us and you will never find us. But we know where YOU are, and we are taking back the surviving members of our people. Earth is your planet now, and you will have to rebuild it with your own hands. Creating rather than simply destroying may teach you something about the value of life. But bear in mind that we have plans to return to our home someday.

  We hope you enjoy waking up each new day to a bombed out horizon.

  Also, by genetically enhancing yourselves, you should know that your Brotherhood and its Triumvirate have also accepted the consequences and the responsibilities that go with such gifts. So treat our planet and the people who choose to remain behind better than you have to date, or we promise that things will go badly for you in the end.”

  “Do they really think that we’re going to take a message such as this one, delivered using a long distance probe seriously?” Hobak asked, laughing with enthusiasm. “They can’t penetrate our defenses, so they hide somewhere distant in the universe and expect us to respond to idle threats? I’ve seen the Americans make some poor decisions in their day, but this one borders on ridiculous.” In truth the crude text of the message unnerved him, but Hobak feigned a mocking laugh in order to hide the sudden chill that permeated his entire body.

  “You wouldn’t laugh so easily if you had seen that energy portal,” snapped Valiana in response. Her emotions were also on edge due to the unknowns they had been witness to. “It isn’t just a few groups of survivors that are missing. All of them… even the ones we recruited in other nations to work in our labor camps… they’re all disappearing. Millions of people are vanishing without a trace. Where have they gone?”

  “If this Pathfinder did indeed make it out of our galaxy, then that is no small feat. They might have the ability to transport smaller objects, like people, too.” Durgon watched Hobak’s reaction as the full meaning of his statement weighed heavily on his colleague. “If they successfully locate a habitable planet to set down on, they could cause us great difficulties.” He pointed at the cracked metal frame of the Canary probe. “This could just as easily have contained an armed nuclear device.”

  Valiana pointed at the small glass vial lying next to Durgon’s paperwork. “Have you been able to determine whose blood that is?” she asked curiously, watching him nod affirmatively in response.

  “It’s mine,” he said. “The DNA matches precisely. My guess is that they discovered my clone and his true identity, and this is their way of proving it to us.”

  “One of Durgon’s clones was on board the Pathfinder,” Valiana continued. “He was using a false identity, known to them as Patrick Warren. The fact that they have captured him also means nothing, since he was sent there to gather information. He doesn’t know anything that can possibly hurt us.”

  “I sure hope he doesn’t,” Durgon noted cautiously, pointing at the back of the photo containing the text message. “Because there are fourteen signatures at the bottom of this note: their Captain, each member of their newly elected governing Council, and a Patrick Warren. So not only have they discovered him, but he is obviously cooperating with them as well.”

  “Irrelevant,” Hobak decided casually as he and Valiana stood up.

  “Have all of the probe’s remains, along with its contents, put in long-term storage,” instructed Hobak. “Finish up with what you need to and then file everything away somewhere – I really don’t care where.” Durgon nodded and watched them leave the room before checking his schedule and returning to his daily routine. Inside he was fuming.

  You wouldn’t be so eager to consider all of this irrelevant if you knew how many Brotherhood members had vanished along with the survivors, he thought silently to himself. Then he moved swiftly to follow the instructions assigned to him.

  After completing another day’s work with his usual precision, Durgon returned to the small room in the lowest level of the underground complex that served as his quarters. He poured himself a glass of water and took a dri
nk while reviewing the events of the day in his mind. He was very familiar with humans and had personally interacted with many of the survivors each and every day – so the fact that the Pathfinder’s crew had taken the time to program and send the probe left him extremely curious. He was quite relaxed, and therefore nearly jumped out of his seat when he saw the man standing in front of him.

  “You have done well,” the stranger told him. He was dressed in civilian clothes and had straight black hair, high cheekbones and an evil smile that rivaled Hobak’s. “Have you committed any acts of brutality lately… ordered any deaths just because you can, perhaps?”

  “Who are you?” Durgon said, studying the newcomer curiously as he set his glass of water down. “How did you possibly get into this complex… especially its lowest level? You should be dead.”

  “Have you already forgotten the message from the Pathfinder’s crew?” the stranger asked, grinning with delight in response as he casually leaned against a wall. “Specifically, do you remember the part about genetic enhancements and the responsibilities that go with them?” He pointed at Durgon’s hands. Glancing down, the Triumvirate leader was astonished to see a series of red and purplish blotches covering the skin on the surface of both hands in at least a dozen areas. “One of the first things that you need to learn about people is that when you go around making enemies, it’s quite possible that they may get really angry at you and come up with ways to exploit your vulnerabilities. You know, perhaps an attack using a biological agent of some sort.” The mysterious stranger smiled slyly. “If I were you, I’d start reviewing quarantine procedures because your cloned enhancements make you an extremely valuable test subject…”

  “Oh no…” Durgon groaned, taking a closer look at the spots that had not been present only hours earlier.

  “Oh yes!” the stranger countered confidently. “You think humanity is going to just sit back and LET you win? They’ve been fighting wars for thousands of years… your petty cloning lines are virtual babies by comparison. Does your Triumvirate think that they have the lock on playing dirty? They’d better watch out, because probes like the one that landed yesterday could be dropping out of the sky a lot more often. Who knows – maybe they’ll even contain more than just a virus we found next time!”

  Durgon moved quickly to call for assistance, but he was blocked by the man as he spun toward the door. The malevolent smile of the other pierced him to his very soul.

  “Who are you?” Durgon demanded to know, studying the hatred blazing from the man’s crimson-tinted eyes.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” grinned the stranger wickedly. “I am the person whom your people choose to serve. My name is Lucifer.” He chuckled, deep and throaty, placing a hand on Durgon’s head and forcing him to his knees. “You may also know me as ‘the Devil’ or as the one who was cast out. I prefer Mephistopheles, actually. It has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Durgon resisted, trying to rise but his strength temporarily failed him, and he felt his forehead growing hot. “I am extremely pleased with the murderous agenda your Triumvirate has embraced. It has made you extremely strong and powerful.”

  From his position kneeling on the floor, Durgon opened his mouth and screamed…

  THE PATHFINDER PROJECT

  Epilogue: The Beginning

  Captain Dennis Kaufield was sitting on a rolling, grassy hill staring at the setting orange sun when Adam Roh found him. “What’s new Adam?” he asked curiously, his arm wrapped protectively around Joseph. “Is the universe managing to get along without us for once?”

  Adam chuckled lightly in response. “You could say that,” he replied. “We’ve rescued more than a billion refugees from Earth, and more are arriving every hour. Noah wasn’t kidding; these people are geared up to handle refugee problems. Their Point-to-Point is absolutely astonishing to behold. What we’ve done with ships and small fighters, they do with people. And they’re doing it at thousands of points all over Earth’s surface simultaneously.”

  On the horizon, white puffy cumulous clouds were turning pink and orange as they caught the day’s last few remaining rays of sunlight. Listening to the scientist’s report, Kaufield smiled. “What do you think Joseph?” he asked his twelve year old with a warm grin. “Can you learn to like it here?”

  “Sure,” the young boy replied. “It beats going back to live with the Brotherhood.”

  “I concur,” his father nodded.

  “It’s doubtful they would let us watch a sunset without permission,” added Adam with a harsh chuckle. “Maybe after sixteen hours of forced labor, once we collapsed from complete exhaustion.”

  “After all the centuries our country spent helping the world, we finally lucked out and found someone else who is as generous and compassionate as we are… and right when we needed them most.” He glanced upward briefly, long enough to study Adam’s eyes. “Are you a believer yet… in Intelligent Design?”

  “I’m getting there,” the elder Roh told him. He picked up a small stone from the grass and dropped it, watching gravity take hold and tug it immediately back to ground level. “You see? There’s certainly magic to be found here too, just like back on Earth.”

  Together the three of them breathed in the flower-scented fresh evening air and continued to watch the sun set.

  Project Wasteland

  Pathfinder Series: Book Two

  A Novel By:

  Todd M. Stockert

  Text Copyright © 9/2013 by Todd M. Stockert

  All Rights Reserved

  Book Two – Project Wasteland

  CAS Technology Diagram (Large)

  The Pathfinder

  The Proteus Galaxy

  PROJECT WASTELAND

  Pathfinder Series: Book Two

  Prologue: Battle Scars

  Somewhere in the fourth spiral arm of the PGC-2014206 galactic cluster…

  (Ten years after the Pathfinder Project)

  Consciousness returned slowly to the soldier, preceded by bouts of dizziness and repetitive, exploding bursts of pain from the deep bruises in his right shoulder and knee. He wasn’t totally yet ready to wake up; his reality had rapidly become a surreal portrait of darkness and evil like nothing that he had ever imagined. And yet, each time he tried to deny awareness and refused to return to the warmth and comfort and complete nothingness provided by the simple act of sleeping in order to rest his weary body, there were those annoying, blinding flashes of corridor lighting, triggered by an unreliable ship’s power source. And if the rank stench of death failed to arouse him, the snapping, intermittently failing lighting would eventually snap him back to full awareness. He was lying on his left side, right shoulder throbbing uncontrollably, and curled into a fetal position on cold, filthy metallic deck plating that stretched off beyond the flickering overhead lanterns into an intimidating darkness where virtually anyone – or anything – could be lurking.

  There were other prisoners arranged in various positions on the metal deck surrounding him, several of whom appeared at first glance to be dead. Rusty brown, partially-dried blood crusted the ridges of the metal deck amidst the groans and sobbing of the mortally wounded. All of them wore the dark black, yellow-striped uniforms common to the crew of his former ship and also to the larger Clan Crasel. But then, this was the group the soldier had been assigned to infiltrate first… the Crasel. Their territory was small and withering quickly away with each passing day, repeatedly blasted and punished over the centuries by the other dozen or so clans surrounding it. Countless centuries ago, back when some semblance of a plausible tactical strategy was still necessary, their leaders failed to come up with anything reliable. Painted into a small, lonely section of the fourth spiral arm ever since, the few stars left to them continued to die off, one by one. Sometimes, during the darker times in this hideous war, as many as a dozen stars at a time had died in a single year, snuffed out by the deadliest weapon ever created by humanoid life.

  And not all of the clans possessed it.


  Initially it was rumored that everyone had owned ‘the weapon’, back when there were only a few worlds at war with one another. That time had long since passed into history over forty-six millennia ago, back before the survivors of the initial encounters had splintered into hundreds of disparate clans, each filled with panicked refugees and each hoarding what resources they could capture. Women and children were swiftly hidden away on cold, lifeless worlds or in battered, unarmed ships that could no longer fight. Those who were most vulnerable were carefully and meticulously protected, even as every other able bodied male was drafted into service, trained and then moved to the front lines so that they could fight the others.

  The rules were simple: if you were not Clan, you were unworthy of survival… that was the message burned permanently into every young male’s brain. Occasionally, every few centuries or so, there had been leaders strong enough to try and end the fighting. Some of them made overtures, sparing other Clan ships or by transmitting simple messages to their enemy counterparts requesting a peaceful meeting. Eventually, those leaders were always targeted and killed, sometimes by their own enraged, unwilling followers. If you didn’t kill the enemy, you were the enemy, even in the eyes of your fellow Clan members.

  Now there were less than two dozen combat capable clans along with a few dozen more, whose memberships had eroded steadily away over time simply through lack of food, water and proper shelter. Humanity in the Wasteland was hanging on the very brink of annihilation.

  The soldier knew all of this because it was information easily accessible from the sophisticated electronic implant attached to his brain. In addition to a powerful, long range transceiver, the implant also contained a comprehensive historical database that allowed him to instantly speak and understand any of the Clan languages and dialects. Despite the huge advantage this offered him, he still considered himself just a small spark in an ocean of alien fire. These were their stars, after all. This was where they had lived and died for thousands of years now, where their non-stop fighting would eventually drive them to extinction if something wasn’t done to stop them.