A PERMUTED PRESS book
Published at Smashwords
ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-398-4
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-397-7
Carrier copyright © 2014
by Timothy Johnson
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Jack Kaiser
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Table of contents
Chapter 1: The Carrier
Chapter 2: Black Madness
Chapter 3: A Long Walk
Chapter 4: Hour Of The Wolf
Chapter 5: The Destroyer Of Worlds
Chapter 6: Bullets And Second Chances
Chapter 7: The Pandora Protocol
Chapter 8: Turning Wheels And Necessary Evils
Chapter 9: The Hunt, The Kill, And The Execution
Chapter 10: Edward's Worth
Chapter 11: The Dead Collect Debts
Chapter 12: Across The Threshold
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my sincere gratitude to some people who played a part in helping me tell this story and get it out into the world. First, to my parents, Paul and Theresa, for their guidance and sacrifices that got me through those harrowing formative years and whose influence shapes me still. To Nicki and Sam, whose courage, strength, and love are enduring inspirations. To my wife, Heather, for her support even on those lonely nights when she surely wondered why she had committed herself to such a recluse. To Bruce Watson, teacher and friend, who instilled in me a deeper appreciation for the art form of storytelling and who read a very early draft of this novel and held nothing back. To my other advance readers who saw the things I couldn't. To Craig DiLouie who offered the advice and guidance to plant this story's seed in the ground. To Felicia Sullivan, who revealed my weaknesses to me with her edits. And to the good people at Permuted Press, especially Michael Wilson and Anthony Ziccardi, who were willing to take a risk.
For Heather, always.
Chapter 1: The Carrier
One
The carrier Atlas tore across the cosmos, leaving a black wake of stardust.
It lurched forward with its rigid, hulking hull, like a giant, tumorous tentacle, and the thrusters beamed like a cluster of sapphires, gleaming with the stars in the endless expanse.
Beneath the skin of the carrier mining ship, the engineering decks housed the key to the stars, the Atlas' light drive, which had begun to rumble and play its disquieting song, spinning up to bend space like a rubber band. At full thrust, it had taken the Atlas weeks to reach the edge of New Earth's solar system, taxiing to minimum safe distance before it could engage the drive and take the long stride faster than light toward its destination, the outer reaches of the known galaxy, deep space.
The Atlas' crew called it "the black," as if it were an amorphous being that could get inside and drive them mad, and the pulse of the light drive didn't help. It rose and fell in a mechanical hum like a wave of sound that bored through their ears and into their minds. Its song resonated throughout every deck, crawling up the maglev tram system, which ran the length of the Atlas like a spine. The hum bellowed in the Atlas' cargo bays, huge warehouse compartments in the carrier's rib-cage-like belly.
The mechanical whine of the light drive reached even as far as the residence decks at the fore where the Atlas' chief security officer, Stellan Lund, woke from a terrible dream as he did every sleep cycle, knowing he had died.
With indiscernible cries still ringing in his ears, he sat up in bed, feeling his heart pound. It clicked behind his ears, and his head swelled so much it might burst. But there was no pain, only the deep, outward pull of his arteries opening wide, like his whole body breathed.
The air processing system whispered through the vents that everything was all right, that it didn't matter where his mind had taken him. He was back aboard the Atlas. He had returned home.
The dream was recurring, and that was all he knew about it because, even as he turned and pressed his bare feet against the cold metal deck and the sensation shot up his legs like electricity, the dream faded. But there was always a sense of familiarity, that it had happened before, that he'd previously visited those darkened corners of his mind. He could almost see it, like his own reflection beyond the fog of a mirror. He couldn't hold onto it, though; it faded until there was nothing.
From Stellan's personal data link that clung to his wrist, a cascade of blue holographic panels leaped into the air, and he found he had some time before his wake cycle began, enough to get more sleep if he could coax his mind into returning there.
He rubbed his eyes, doubtful that they would stay closed for long, and when they opened, they fixed onto his sidearm, a rail-fired HC30 heavy pistol, which hung in its holster from the handle of his closet, always within easy reaching distance. He traced the cool steel of the barrel with his fingertips. As familiar to him as his own hand, Stellan's pistol had been at his side for as long as he cared to remember. When he touched the grooves on the grip where his fingers would fall, it felt like reassurance from an old friend, and the final pit of fear left his stomach.
He removed the weapon from its holster and felt the significant weight, not too heavy or too light, but just right. His hands had memorized the rubber grip and the steel cylinder, the resistance it gave when he moved with it.
Stellan's sidearm had always been there for him when he needed it most, when he had let his guard down, and when he felt shame for exercising the most basic human instincts: the will to survive.
That was another time, and he was another person then. He no longer talked or even thought about his old self. Nowadays, he and his sidearm spoke rarely, only in the firing range to keep each other sharp, and they never mentioned their history. Instead, they looked forward.
And then flames danced before his eyes. Stellan tried to resist the heat out of disbelief. He raised his hand to shield his face and turned away.
A city blazed. The skyline comprised crumbling towers, and the first hints of dawn rolled over the horizon.
A bullet whizzed past his ear, and he sprinted to cover behind a burned out husk of a car. The back seat still smoldered, and noxious fumes from the vinyl and cushioning assaulted the back of his throat. He stifled a cough as he darted behind rubble from a crumbling building. Glass crunched under foot.
As he was trained, Stellan watched the high ground, optimal locations for snipers, tracing the rooftops with his deadly eye, the barrel of his MK7 Kruger assault rifle. He looked at the places he would be if he wanted to pick off a few Unity Corps soldiers, the New Earth Council's law enforcement unit. The shadows of open and broken windows drew his attention. He skipped the ones with flames behind them.
A hand pressed his shoulder.
Stellan realized his eyes were closed, and when he opened them, the city vanished. The moan of the light drive and the whisper of the air processors returned. Gentle fingers wrapped over his shoulder, and he reached for them instinctively.
Daelen's hand was cold, even though her touch was warm. The dream and the city melted away like burning cobwebs in a dark cave.
"You all right, love?" Even with his wife's voice a whisper, its soft inflections and drawn out vowel sounds reminded Stellan she'd grown up near London. Of all the things he loved about her, he loved the way she sounded the most, like her lips were gentle with her words.
"Fine."
"Another dream?" she asked, her voice rising with worry.
"Yes."
She fell back, the sheets splashing around her. A concerned sigh escaped her mouth, almost as if she'd been holding it back. As the medical officer aboard the Atlas, her mind drummed up the worst biological reasons for his dreams. She had no experience in psychology and didn't have much faith in willing someone to get better. She believed in treatment, and she worried her husband suffered from a tumor or perhaps a virus that attacked the brain.
She sat up and rolled behind him, wrapping her arms over his shoulders, her hands finding his. She pulled them close to his chest and squeezed.
"Go back to sleep," Stellan said. "Our wake cycles don't begin for another few hours."
"Not without you." Whatever was bothering him, she wanted to hold onto him and become his anchor. She couldn't heal his body this way, but perhaps she could comfort his soul.
"I don't know if I can," he said.
"Just lay with me then."
Stellan longed to go back to her, to bury his nose in her hair and breathe deep, and he had the similar thought that if he just held onto the sound of her voice and the smell of her hair, the way it spilled over her shoulders like ink, maybe it would keep those dark thoughts at bay. After all, he was exhausted. Sleep would be worth the risk.
So he turned and kissed her softly. They rolled together, and he was gentle as he raised the sheets, wiggled his arm under her neck, and crossed his other arm over her abdomen. He kissed her shoulder and heard her lips part into a smile in the dark.
Soon, they both returned to sleep, and Stellan's dreams were worse than they'd been in years.
Two
Stellan woke with screams once again rattling his head. The voices morphed into the Atlas' emergency alert and then to the wake alarm on his link, like a child tugging at the fabric of his pants. Even as he woke and his mind grasped at reality, the voices lingered.
He sought Daelen with his hand and found only the warmth where she had been, her scent lingering in the sheets. He lay for a moment, his nightmares fading, wondering where she could have gone. He checked his link again to see if he had overslept, and found he had not. She must have left early.
He stood and carried a yawn to the bathroom, feeling happy to be awake even though exhaustion tried to anchor him to the bed. A persistent droning in his mind yearned for sleep, but he had enough of the restlessness for a while. His dreams would have to wait for him to return, and he knew they would.
A blue light swelled around the doorframe and mirror in the bathroom. In the reflection, his own eyes appeared so ghostly blue that he thought for a moment they looked lifeless. He'd seen that vacant stare before, when all the color seemed to drain from the irises. And even though his eyes twitched with his gaze, he thought it was an accurate depiction of how he felt. Windows to the soul and all that.
Stellan slid the shower door aside and entered. He opened its valves, and a steady stream of warmth spread across his chest. He leaned forward on the wall and let the water run over his head and down his back, across several long, jagged scars, some wounds that just would not heal and had become so deeply part of his being that they manifested themselves on his body.
As he washed, he touched the long, sweeping edge just under his rib cage where burning shrapnel had once threatened his life. He recalled the pain, how remarkably little there had been. Simply, a piece of metal had nearly cut him in two, and he remembered the warmth of the blood flowing down his belly and into his lap as he propped himself against a tree, still firing, still fighting.
His fingers found another, a thick bloom of scar tissue like a flower on his shoulder, where a bullet fired from one of the most unexpected places had passed through and left him awestruck at more than he could possibly bear.
Again, that was another time, but he asked himself, if that were true, why did he continue to recall it? Why did his mind relentlessly pound him with memories he no longer cared to revisit? If he'd moved on, why did those thoughts remain so close to him, lying in wait just under the surface of the shallows until the waves came?
He returned to the bedroom, the blue glow reflecting off the sheen of water still on his naked skin. After Stellan finished drying himself, he slid open his closet door, revealing several black officer uniforms hanging in line. He put on a pair of pants and then dropped to the floor for his morning pushups, his chest heaving and his arms pumping like pistons.
When he finished, he grabbed a white t-shirt from the closet and pulled it over his head. With a chirp, the Atlas announced someone's desire to enter.
"Come in," Stellan called.
The door opened, and the bright light from the outer hall hurt his eyes. A large figure stood rigid with his head almost reaching the top of the doorframe. Stellan finished rolling his shirt over his chest and tucked it into his pants.
Stellan's pupils adjusted to the glare, and he saw a black uniform like his. It was one of his men. Judging by the silhouette's sheer size, it was Doug Fowler.
Stellan believed in symbols, and while Doug had no formal training in anything that would be applicable to security, he'd hired the big man for his inherent ability to intimidate others with his physical size. Since coming aboard, Doug hadn't had to use force, which was a testament to Stellan's theory. Whether people didn't want any trouble or Doug frightened them into shape, it worked.
"You're early," Stellan said.
"I was hoping we could talk."
"On the way," Stellan said. "Give me a sec."
"You ever think of maybe turning some lights on in here?"
Stellan reached into the closet, chose the officer coat his hand first touched, and threw it over his shoulders. A trail of bulbous silver buttons on his coat slashed up to his heart and then diagonally to his throat. The stiff collar stood straight up at the nape of his neck, bristling the tips of his short blond hair. A blue stripe lined the sides of his pants down to his black leather boots.
He stopped for a moment to look in the mirror. Symbols, he thought. He hated the uniforms, but he couldn't deny the authority they represented. Though, something was missing, and it wasn't the Council patch he'd torn from the coat's shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah. I'd fuck you," Doug said. "You're beautiful. Let's go."
Stellan looked sternly at Doug and reached for the last piece of his uniform: his sidearm. He wrapped the holster around his waist and instantly recognized its weight, by which he could even count the thirteen rounds in the magazine. It sparkled in the bathroom light, which sensed no occupancy and faded.
Stellan left his cabin. The light from the hall cleaved the room in two as he offered himself to the ship and its crew, and they gladly swallowed him whole.
Three
The hallway outside Stellan's cabin resonated with vibrant life. The clamor of the marching crew and the bright lights replaced the drone of the silence and darkness of his cabin. He found it disorienting.
He glanced down the main thoroughfare of the residence deck, which was arterial in design with perpendicular branches like veins. The walls bowed outward to make the space feel wider, but the volume of people threatened to push them further. Advertisements for products sold in the ship's stores and films that showed on the lounge and recreation deck lined the walls, along with safety messages and reminders: Remember, safety isn't just a goal. It's a state of mind.
The time for the Atlas' shift change had come. The heads of Stellan's fellow shipmates bobbed and swayed, some going to work, others returning to their cabins. It was hard to tell who was coming and who was going because everyone looked exhausted, and in twelve hours, it would happen again. The Atlas had two shifts, maintaining New Earth's twenty-four hour clock.
Stellan finished buttoning up his coat and checked his pockets one last time to be sure he had everything. From bow to stern, the Atlas was several kilometers long, and shift change was very much a commute. If he forgot something in his cabin, it wouldn't be easy to return.
His hand landed on the butt of his weapon, and it pulsed with warmth. The
grooves meant to help him maintain a steady grip pricked his fingers lovingly, begging him to remember how it felt.
"So, I know you said in the meeting yesterday that if anyone asks we should just tell them we haven't gotten our destination yet," Doug said.
The two officers began walking toward the back of the ship, blending in with the crowd.
The Atlas' people bottlenecked in entryways and narrow passageways. Some stopped to chat with acquaintances and friends, and Stellan and Doug politely asked them to break it up and move along. The corridors met their capacity, and the crowds slowed to compensate. Stellan thought, if the Atlas had the ability to stretch to better handle the heightened flow of the volume of its crew, it would have. But the Atlas was not alive. It was a machine, and machines offered no such flexibility.
"People are asking, and it's just eating you up that you don't know," Stellan said. "And you were hoping, since the Captain and I go back, maybe he let me in on the secret and I could be a bit more forthcoming with details away from the others."
Doug nodded, looking uncertain. "Something like that."
"To be honest, Doug, I wish I could tell you. I really don't know where we're going. The Captain's kept me in the dark about it, too."
"Don't it bother you?"
"No," Stellan said. "He does what he does for reasons he doesn't have to explain to us. His crew is his priority, and he wouldn't do anything that would endanger us. Everyone should know that. If they ask, tell them that."
"That your military training talking?"
"Chain of command is one thing, but this isn't the military," Stellan said. "It's trust. Trust your Captain."
They continued in silence, passing through the residential deck security checkpoint, nodding at another officer stationed behind a desk, following the animated holographic signs that hung from the ceiling, displaying the destinations ahead, their temperature, gravity, and pressure. All Stellan and Doug needed to know was that the font color was green. They knew the layout of the ship by heart, and green meant the environment integrity hadn't been compromised. Yellow, orange, or red would have gotten their attention.
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