The Sphere Imperium: Book Two of the Intentional Contact Trilogy

by B. D. Stewart

  The screams of dying men didn’t fade until he ducked behind a giant elm. Panting hard, Ritch leaned against its trunk. This is not happening, he told himself. Those fire beasts―whatever they are―don’t really exist. Nonetheless, the simulated input pouring into his mind made them as realistic as anything Ritch had experienced before. Made him truly afraid, which should not happen. Obviously the SR processors were scrambled. Creatures from another program were overlaid onto his, somehow. Whatever had happened, the neural interface must have short-circuited so he couldn’t exit the simulation. Supposedly such a glitch couldn’t occur, too many safeguards and such, yet here he was―trapped in a nightmare with no way out.

  A Highlander Ritch recognized as Hubert the Bold ran by, fleeing for his life. Ritch was about to call out to him when a fire beast sped past in pursuit. It caught Hubert about thirty paces away, enveloping the Highlander in its flame-orange body.

  Ritch charged it without thinking, gripping his claymore tight with both hands and raising it high overhead. Once in range he swung down with all his might. His claymore carved through the fire beast as if it was made of air, the lack of resistance catching Ritch by surprise and nearly causing him to stumble into it. He backpedaled away from the creature, terrified by the fact his weapon had done no more damage to it than a knife slicing through water.

  Hubert screamed as microwaves began cooking his body.

  Even though Ritch knew this was all a simulated reality―albeit a twisted one―he had to do something. Holding his claymore like a spear, he took careful aim and threw it forward. It pierced Hubert’s left eye, stopping his pain in mid-scream. No one―real or not―deserved to die like that.

  Ritch heard soft hissing noises and smelled burning flesh as the creature consumed its prey. He backed away, retreating quietly, hoping it wouldn’t come after him next. One could feel pain in an SR, and Ritch did not want to feel that.

  Off in the distance to his left, he saw one of the Duke’s soldiers running through the trees. A fire beast pursued him. Ritch ran in the opposite direction. He weaved his way back and forth through the elms, wondering if the only way this nightmare sim would end was after he had been consumed by one of those monsters. Given the scrambled processing, he feared this might actually be the case.

  There was an odd clicking sound in the trees ahead. From behind an elm emerged a creature he had never seen before. A giant ant, that was Ritch’s first impression. It was about a meter long and as tall as his waist, with a shiny exoskeleton that glistened with dark-green hues. He counted six legs and a pair of forward-reaching arms. Its hands, Ritch noticed, had two fingers opposite two stubby thumbs. Once he saw the creature’s eyes, Ritch stopped and stared. The boy just stood there, breathing hard while gazing into its three eyes: the large, round, center one was a gorgeous sapphire blue, bracketed by two smaller eyes glittering like diamonds. Beautiful eyes that never blinked.

  He sensed right away it was friendly. Something about the creature drew him in from the start―a gentle, curious demeanor that bespoke peaceful intent.

  Ritch noticed it staring back in return, all three eyes fixated on his every move. Its short jaw mandibles slowly opened and then closed. The quivering he saw in the two bent antennae atop its head gave Ritch the distinct impression it was as curious about him as he was about it.

  He slowly walked over and knelt in front of the creature so they were both at eye level, smiling to show that he meant it no harm. Eager to make a friendly gesture, he extended his right arm, offering to shake hands.

  The creature seemed to understand, chittering softly as it extended an arm toward his. Their hands touched, flesh against chitin. The instant they made contact, greenish sparks arced between their fingers.

  Ritch felt the connection and knew, somehow, that the two of them were linked. This wasn’t another simulated character, the antlike creature, but a real individual from someplace else. Ritch could feel it was just as confused―and frightened―by what was happening here as he. As to how the two of them were interfacing in the SR, he had no idea.

  “Stynx,” the creature said, pointing at itself.

  Ritch understood. Introductions. He pointed at his own chest. “Ritch.”

  The creature’s three-eyed gaze shifted, looking past Ritch to something in the distance.

  “Suij'Crai'C,” it chittered with an urgent tone.

  Ritch glanced over his shoulder to see what Stynx was focused on, thereby catching sight of a fire beast moving their way, its flame body a meter off the ground.

  Ritch felt something grab his wrist. Turning back, he saw his new friend tugging him, urging him to follow. Stynx led him to an elm, let go of his wrist, and began climbing. With six legs, he ascended the tree amazingly well. Stynx was soon perched on a branch high up, making a remarkably human follow me gesture indicating Ritch should climb as well.

  He did so without hesitation, trusting his new friend and leaping up, grabbing onto a branch with both hands. He swung his legs up to wrap them around the branch as well.

  As Ritch dangled there, struggling to pull himself higher, a lightning bolt streaked into the tree trunk beneath him. The crackling boom and explosion of bark almost caused him to lose his grip, but he managed to hang on as wood shards thumped off his back. His body tingled with static electricity.

  Stynx saw him struggling, dropped to a lower branch, reached down with both hands, and grabbed Ritch’s left forearm. Pulling up with a mighty heavy, Stynx hoisted the boy onto the branch alongside him. Working quickly, Stynx pushed Ritch against the tree trunk, stood upright on his rear leg pair, and then smothered the boy’s body with his own.

  Ritch closed his eyes and kept as still as possible, sensing that Stynx was trying to hide him from the fire beast. Stretched out, both were about the same height, and very little of Ritch showed through.

  The tactic worked, as the camouflage keratins in Stynx’s exoskeleton prevented the Suij'Crai'C from detecting them. It darted up to their tree, circled it once, and continued on. A short time later a scream in the distance told them it had found prey elsewhere.

  Suddenly, the world of medieval England faded to black. It was soon replaced by Ritch’s bedroom.

  Ritch pulled off the SR helmet and rolled out of the recliner, glad it was over. Dropping down to his hands and knees, he fought back a sudden urge to vomit. It passed in a few minutes. Feeling a little better, Ritch stood up. That caused his head to spin. He held the back of the recliner for support, wobbling slightly. His vision was blurry but soon cleared. So did the head-spins.

  Ritch’s bedroom was typical spacer’s quarters, with a full bathroom and basic kitchenette stocked with a sixteen-week supply of mealpaks. It also had a small recreation alcove where the SR gear was located. Thirsty, he went to the kitchenette to get a lime fizz. He was halfway there when the bedroom door slid open.

  “Ritch!” Tarn came in, rushed over and gave him a big bear hug.

  Datch stood in the doorway, stun pistol drawn.

  After a long fatherly hug, Tarn held his son out at arm’s length, searching for signs of abuse. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

  “I’m fine.” Ritch gave a forced grin, embarrassed as he always was by his dad’s public displays of affection.

  Tarn responded with a concerned look, knowing instinctively as only a father could that something was wrong. “You sure?”

  The boy nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor to avoid eye contact. How could he possibly explain those demonic fire beasts or the antlike creature who had befriended him?

  “Yeah, just an upset tummy,” he lied. “Too many cheesy chips.”

  Tarn frowned. “What did I tell you about overloading on snacks. Anyways, our guests here,” Tarn gestured with his head toward Datch, “gave me just ten minutes to visit with you. The one in charge of their little group didn’t feel inclined to do even that at first, but my sweet personality wore her down.”

  That made Ritch chuckle. He knew how unrelen
ting Dad could be when it came to getting his way. “How’s Shepard?”

  “Our AI has been infected with intruder corruptors, so out of action.” Tarn put a brawny arm across his son’s shoulders and walked him to the kitchenette. Reaching into a cabinet, he pulled out two cans and set them on the countertop. He pressed the insta-chill tab on both. Seconds later, the lime fizzes were a perfect 5.5° C and ready to drink. “Here, this’ll settle your stomach.”

  As his son took a gulp, Tarn shared the big news. “It seems the guard sats caught an alien ship out there.”

  Ritch sprayed foamy liquid all over the countertop, shocked by the information. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you like that.” Tarn grabbed a towel off the counter and tossed it to Ritch. “Yep, it’s true. The guard sats snared a never-before-seen alien spaceship when it crossed the perimeter.” Tarn pulled a photo from his shirt pocket and held it out to his son. “Here, I brought you a hi-res image of the thing.”

  After Ritch had wiped the fizz spittle from his chin, he took the photo and gave it a long look. He thought the alien ship looked like a giant black egg, and he wondered if some hideous monster would hatch out of it. Suddenly, icy chills rippled down the back of his neck as Ritch realized the antlike creature he had just met in the SR, or those fire beasts, or both, might be inside that alien ship. The fact that its arrival coincided with a simulation glitch in which he encountered creatures he’d never seen before made this possibility a virtual certainty.

  Did these aliens interact with me telepathically? Ritch wondered. Could they do so now, or just in an SR?

  “Are there aliens inside it?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “Don’t know,” Tarn answered with a shrug. “Sensors can’t see what’s inside. It has some sort of cloak shielding. Anyhow, we’re not sticking around to find out. Argo goes hyper in eleven hours.”

  Ritch nodded, knowing his dad had just told him how much time they had left. They both assumed the hijackers would kill them once Argo made the jump into hyperspace. Once a ship went hyper it was impossible to track; enforcers wouldn’t be able to follow them. At that point they both became expendable, no longer useful as hostages.

  Father and son drank their lime fizzes while chatting about the alien pod. Datch gave them an extra ten minutes before clearing his throat, indicating their time was up. Before leaving, Tarn gave his son a goodbye bear hug, whispering, “Whatever happens, I’m proud of you.” He winked at Ritch, then turned and left.

  Datch followed him out, locking the bedroom door once again.

  Ritch immediately flipped over the picture of the alien ship, finding his dad’s password scrawled in black letters: Torrene&Kraig4ever.

  Ritch felt his eyes mist up. Tears began flowing down his cheeks. Torrene was his mother, Kraig his younger brother, both killed fleeing Kellom’s World during a planetary outbreak of Rigel Plague. The ship they were on had tried to run the military blockade and took a missile up its stern as a result. Everyone aboard died.

  Afterward, wallowing in grief, Tarn resorted to what he did best, drinking and fighting to help deaden the pain. A year or so later he became captain of an ore hauler, purposely isolating himself and his only surviving child from society.

  Ritch knew his dad wanted him to use the master password to escape. He would do that alright, but Dad and Shepard were coming with him. Ritch wasn’t going to leave them behind. He just couldn’t.

  Okay, eleven hours until Argo went hyper. They needed to escape before then, but with his dad under continual surveillance on the bridge Ritch knew it was up him. Not a problem; he could do this, although he could sure use some help. Shepard, he realized, was best able to provide it.

  He grinned as a clever idea came to him. He just needed to figure a few things out, and then “The Great Escape” could begin. It’d be a lot easier than plundering the Black Duke’s caravan, of that he was certain.

  Then Ritch realized he must immerse in an SR. Given his last scrambled foray into a simulated world, should he even risk doing so again? Would those demonic fire beasts be there waiting for him? If so, could he count on Stynx’s help to escape them as before?

  Whatever’s there, I don’t have a choice, the boy thought. I gotta do this. Only in Professor Tottle’s classroom could Ritch learn what he needed to make their escape work.

  With a tight-lip expression that was mostly determination with some fear mixed in, Ritch walked to the recreation alcove, sat in the recliner, then once again slid the SR helmet onto his head.

  Just before he activated the tutorial program, Ritch paused, thinking, and then a big smile spread across his freckled face. It didn’t take him but a few minutes to add in a few elements from a futuristic battle simulation he liked to play, just in case.

  Inside the Scout Pod

  Physically, Stynx lay dormant in the tiny recorder’s nook, still strapped tight atop the insulator bench, wearing the same finely woven shale-bark spacesuit, deep in a hibernation state in which the Scout subForm breathed just once every seventy-two seconds on average.

  Mentally, however, he was far, far away. Similar to the wondrous joining with his Matriarch a few months ago, Stynx’s consciousness had left his body, pulled up and away to become a ghostly apparition soaring through space.

  Behind him, many thousand kilometers distant now, floated the scout pod, still snared in an energy field by alien spheroids. Their unwelcome embrace had not trapped his consciousness, apparently, and so Stynx was able to glide past them without hindrance.

  He found it frightening at first, this odyssey―the term Matriarch of Tor Nest had used to describe the astral event in which a mind leaves its body. But like most experiences in life, familiarity diminished concerns while boosting one’s confidence. He thoroughly enjoyed it now.

  During his first odyssey, when Stynx joined with the Matriarch, she took him to a forest on the birthworld, a lush, primal forest that existed eons ago. There, in that ancient time, their joined minds had relived the memories of a foremother who lived inside the great Tor Hometree. It was a terrifying battle against a giant wormbeast, an experience he’d never forget. Yet with the Matriarch’s guidance, Stynx learned to control his fear and not let it control him. A wondrous experience he’d forever be grateful to his Matriarch for sharing.

  His second odyssey―recently occurred―also took him to a forest, but a strange, alien one. Stynx found himself amid short, dreary trees that paled in comparison to the towering pillar oaks of the birthworld. In that shabby forest were bipeds encased by soft flesh who adorned themselves with cloth and hide coverings. He witnessed them engaged in a battle, fighting amongst themselves with primitive weapons. Their weapons, he noticed, were surprisingly similar to those used by the subForms of Tor Nest in his first odyssey, from that ancient time on the birthworld. Then, most strange of all, Suij'Crai'C had swarmed into the forest, attacking the bipeds as they did all life forms. As one should expect when flame demons appeared, a slaughter ensued.

  How he came to be there in that strange forest, Stynx didn’t know. By a means or method beyond his comprehension, his consciousness had simply ascended on its own, rising from the scout pod and into space. Perhaps the Matriarch gave him the ability―he wasn’t sure. But just as she had guided him to a place and time of her own choosing, so, too, did something―or someone―pull Stynx to that alien forest.

  While there, a biped had befriended him, a youngling named Ritch. They had met while Stynx was wandering through those dreary trees, the biped approaching him with a clumsy gait he assumed would be structurally inherent in any two-legged species. Something about the biped bespoke a gentle intent; its awkward stride, perhaps, and Stynx was immediately drawn to it, his curiosity heightened. The biped walked right up to him, knelt down on its two ungainly legs, extended a slender arm, then it made a facial gesture that involved an upward curvature of the fleshy orifice beneath its protruding beak. An unsettling sight, but Sty
nx interpreted it as a friendly gesture.

  A moment later they touched, their fingers connecting, and Stynx felt the deep kindness and curiosity inside the biped. He also felt the sheer terror, the youngling’s tremendous fear of the Suij'Crai'C. An intense, primal fear of the flame demons that was as great as his own. A shared fear of the same insidious enemy that linked them as nothing else could.

  After the two of them eluded a Suij'Crai'C, Ritch had mysteriously vanished. After that, Stynx found himself hurtling back at incredible speed to the scout pod and his body within.

  Now, seemingly just minutes after his last odyssey, he was once again in space, drawn up and away by the unknown force. Ahead lay his destination, an enormous vessel of a type unfamiliar to him. It had a long, cylindrical shape. Overall the craft was a bleak gray in color, darkening to a deep silver at either end. Its hull was pitted and worn, the look of it implying more of an industrial function than a military one. A violet-hued ion stream trailed behind it like a comet tail.

  Drawn toward that ship, Stynx flew rapidly across kilometers of its gray, pitted hull, heading for what he perceived was the craft’s forward end. Into the ship he was pulled, through its hull and down a corridor beyond.

  He came to a stop in a boxlike chamber. There were no gentle curves or warm textures, only hard, straight surfaces. He found himself standing upon a soft, spongy material that covered the floor. White lights glared down on him from above. And . . . there were two bipeds inside. One he instantly recognized: Ritch! The other was taller and also more rotund, the fleshy shell covering its body weathered, ancient in appearance compared to Ritch. Instead of a mop of red, stringy fur sprouting atop its oval head such as Ritch possessed, it had a shiny dome that appeared polished and perfectly smooth.

  “You’re late,” said the taller, more elderly biped, giving Stynx what he somehow interpreted was a disapproving glare. “My name is Professor Tottle. Tardiness is not acceptable in this classroom. Now take your seat and be quick about it so we can begin today’s lesson.”