Parallel Extinction (Extinction Encounters Book 1) Read online

  The private’s misery, which had ended ten minutes earlier, had become his own agony. Gant felt like the walking dead. His constant attendance of his patient—absorbing thirty-plus hours of torment—had not allowed him any sleep; and now he found rest impossible to take. When he closed his eyes, his mind would return to the screams that had reverberated through the halls of the sound-isolated facility. He would see the fear-contorted face and body of Geoff.

  Once out of the coma, Gant’s drugs should have been tapered for a calming effect, but he was repeatedly ordered to step up the strength of the cocktail’s dosage, safety protocols overridden. Against his protests to General Hanson, the admiral’s watchdog, the AI administered the drugs. Hanson let him know that insubordination would not be tolerated.

  In short order, BUMP had declared this soldier’s life forfeit—his drug cocktail, used this way, had no hope of bringing any light to the situation. His warnings about side effects from the continued, excessive dosing fell on deaf ears.

  The atrocity he was forced to perpetrate, and made to witness, produced in him nausea and cold sweats. At first he had worn earplugs as a defense against the results of his measures, but then his conscience had forced him to bear complete witness. Every scream beat against his eardrums; he heard each bone break as the side effects of the chemicals and psychotropic drugs became aggravated. The private exhibited a clear effort to escape, not so much from the doctor’s inflictions, but from something that only the private could see. The fiber castings, with which they attempted to stabilize Geoff’s movements, could not counter the isometric muscle pressures and spasms of the struggle, and so bones continued to break.

  Gant, a moderately spiritual man, began to pray as never before—for the young soldier’s death, and for forgiveness of his own soul.

  Hanson had been an ever-present entity during the last thirty-six hours. The general had no such personal prohibition against earplugs, and had even begun to don dark glasses. Gant sensed Hanson was far from thrilled to be a participant in this, but Dr. Gant was not allowed to attend his patient without the general looking over his shoulder, monitoring the doctor’s every move. Gant did his best to restrain the tears that threatened, or hide them when they would not be denied release.

  With Hanson’s constant vigil, he had not one opportunity to give the soldier the freedom of death, often begged for, deciphered from the few words filtered out of the largely unintelligible torrent of screams. Had he the chance, Gant would have done so, regardless the risk of court-martial and the Greater Judgment of that sin. Why was this mercy prevented if the admiral considered this soldier expendable, as it seemed?

  Initially, between the screams, the doctor had spoken gently to the private, using his best bedside manner. But when it was clear what fate the military had assigned to the poor soul, he stopped trying to be reassuring, shamed by the depth of the lie. Yet, when the private begged and screamed for death in more coherent moments, the doctor resumed his weak, empty assurances.

  And all this misery for a flimsy packet of burned-in z-vellums. His life was a ruin, for what?

  Gant had been allowed, with warnings, to call his wife. It had helped in a small way to talk to her, but now his wife was a wreck of worry for his pain, which she could not take from him. He couldn’t even tell her why he hurt, not that he would have shared his shame had he been allowed.

  Now, General Hanson stood rigidly at attention next to his own slumped and defeated form. The doctor felt the man’s stare and saw that his attention was on Gant’s hands. He glanced down with a double-take. His aggravated fidgeting had caused his wedding ring to cut in behind a swollen knuckle. Blood covered his fingers and dripped to the black and white tiles of the floor. He was numb.

  Looking up to see the admiral laying the report atop others, Joseph quickly shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, hoping that the blood would not soak through the heavy white fabric too quickly.

  Grim-faced, Admiral Swan looked first at the general and then at Dr. Gant. “And you have nothing else to add to this, doctor? Perhaps some insight beyond your notes and transcription?”

  Joseph shuddered involuntarily. “No sir.”

  “Very well then. Dr. Gant, on behalf of Space-Based Multi-Military Patrol and your commanding officer, if he hasn’t already done so,” the admiral gave a meaningful look to the general, “I want to apologize to you for what you’ve been through. As you know, Private Geoff gave an oath to pledge life and limb in service of BUMP, the same as yourself. The oath has been fulfilled with honor.

  “While I am not releasing you completely from your renewed military obligation, I am putting you on leave, Earthside, with orders for regular visits to the base psychologist. Also, you’ll receive a bonus and a stipend, allowing you and your family to travel to the destination of your choice for a distracting holiday. I emphasize distracting. You may make your required psych visits by holo-visor.” The admiral stopped and waited.

  Gant could only nod. He was to be watched.

  “Dismissed,” the admiral said with finality.

  Dr. Gant went home to cry in the privacy of his wife’s arms.

  * * *

  Swan spoke to Hanson, briefly, after the doctor had gone. “General Hanson, do you have anything of consequence to report regarding Captain Bartell’s behavior?”

  “No, sir.”

  Swan wanted something more, “He has not revealed anything of his secret orders to Captain Astra?”

  “No sir. Not a word.”

  “You destroyed the Order chip?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dismissed.”

  For some reason that the admiral could not put his finger on, he did not like his new adjutant. Probably because he had the stink of EBMMP on him. Landlubber.

  Through that sentiment, Swan distanced himself from his own Earth-based service past.

  CHAPTER 23

  EVENT: DAY 9, 1510 UT

  Crewing with women was an unwritten mandate for nearly every vessel.

  Long voyages with an all-male crew could get otherwise-reasonable men bound up and irritable. At worst, this could have disastrous outcomes. The pleasure of sex in these instances was magnified. In the Spacer culture, women crewmembers knew that their expectations of men and of relationship had to be different. So, there was almost always a healthy sexual interaction to distract from the tensions of the voyage, without uncomfortable emotional consequences.

  This applied equally to the SBMMP fleet ships, where the typical crews numbered from twenty, up into the hundreds. On the other hand, for USUCC with their smaller ships and crews, the axiom, “healthy sexual interaction,” was a relative term. These missions were typically flown on salvaged pirate scows, and often included retired pirates who had surely seen their share of unhealthy sex.

  Garrison had gotten an earful of stories from former pirates during USUCC missions. Outlaws ran the gamut from vicious men who lived for blood, to self-styled buccaneers and simple muggers, both men and women. Depending on the assailant, a victim might hope to be left with their ship—if it wasn’t better than the pirate’s own—and just enough fuel to get to the nearest space-habitation.

  While in BUMP, Garrison had crewed with and without women; on their faster-than-light ships, many missions were subsequently shorter. USUCC frigate missions, though, always allowed for this pleasure, except on short station-to-station runs. The company of women was a necessity for peacekeeping in the close-quartered crews. Because of the small spaces and minimal sound insulation on the stripped down vessels, the entire crew experienced these moments. This would tend to get blood heated all around—which could lead to a sexual marathon for the one, or several, female USUCC crewmembers.

  Criminals also flew their clandestine missions with port whores or the occasional crewwoman, and typically had little in the way of manners when it came to sex. Crewing on a pirate vessel, a
woman could hope that there was at least one other to take the pressure off, or she had to be the type of woman who could handle the extra men and lengthy sessions. It was for those types of women that pirates kept an eye out.

  Still, even a whore had to have some rudimentary shipboard talents if taking up space on a smaller vessel. With a crewwoman’s talent, pay was always greater than the male crewmembers’. This was owing to the need to offer an added incentive to steal her away from a less sexually-pressured environment. The pay went up before the voyage, commensurate to her technical skills. After the voyage, she might look forward to a larger take of the booty, depending on what sexual skills or willingness she might have shown during time out. Rarely did a woman go AWOL from the ranks of SBMMP—it would be criminal desertion—but it did happen when a monetary temptation was great enough.

  Dominique Astra would never be the type to be tempted.

  All these ponderings passed through Garrison’s mind as he sat in the head of this little Light Skipper that he shared with Astra. The orders that he’d received had made a mess of his stomach, and while the little cubicle offered some of the only privacy onboard, he could get no relief out of it. The smallness of this spacecraft impacted him, unhappily, on many levels. For instance, despite the air filtration systems and the way that the toilet’s vacuum technology functioned, it seemed inevitable that whenever he used the toilet, it stank up the cabin.

  That was not normally something that bothered Garrison. But for this fucking mission, he was with Captain Astra. The achingly beautiful Astra. He hated that she could smell the foulness of his bowels when he used the toilet. And for ease of movement in the small cabin, the EVA suits were stowed once in clear space. While in space, the smart-fabric flight suits stayed nearly skintight, and left little to the imagination, so, when he wasn’t worried about his bathroom impacts, their forced closeness often resulted in him becoming aroused. It was a double-negative: her awesome body in full glory, and his hard-on in full reveal. Ugh.

  He did his best to hide his arousal, but his self-consciousness and red face seemed to be an advertisement for his condition. She tried to avoid embarrassing him by averting her eyes when she sensed his discomfort, but Garrison had seen her see many times already.

  It was a ridiculous state of affairs. With most any other attractive woman, he would have said something like, “Look, you’re hot and you know it, you’ll have to deal with my reaction or do something about it.” And that was the truth of it. That was how these things went. Anyone who flew in space dealt with it.

  And then, there was this suspicion between them. That got under his skin, clashing with his desire for her.

  But now, topping it off, were the orders. They had been horrible to contemplate, and had forbid him from revealing anything to her. So now, as he was keeping the terrible secret, he was left with his own heightened suspicions of what she did or did not know. What critical instruction, if anything, was she keeping from him?

  In short, he was a mess.

  When he added his personal turmoil to the secret orders that she’d handed him, this mission seemed to be a farce and a setup. It was too much to take as he thought back on those orders:

  Captain Bartell:

  You have been informally briefed of some of the results of contact with an unknown influence. We assert here that these stories are true and of the official record. Additionally, what we have been able to determine from our observations of a surviving crewmember, is that the effect in question does not always kill or regress its victims. It is not viral nor bacteriological in nature. It is likely that the modality of the influence requires it to take on a host before it can act in the ways that Sgt. Amio has sketched out for you.

  Further, we do not understand why, but have reason to believe that this influence is more likely to take the body of a female human as its hostage, than that of a male. The good news is that being a host does not damage that person. Once the influence has left the body of the host, that person is once again himself or herself.

  As the male on the mission, you are receiving the orders of specificity. Captain Dominique Astra is to act as the host for this unknown element. It is imperative that this anomaly is retained so that it may be studied to determine how to protect the human race from it and its effects. As you might ascertain, these are grave military concerns for what is left of the human race; we live on a planet that is easily crippled; our colony worlds are still unready for our expansion.

  We, as a species, are still an easy prey for this type of space-borne contact. The nature of this contact is unexpected, and all plans that the military holds in-ready are useless and must be set aside. Through you and Capt. Astra, we must act along the only avenue that appears open to us. The importance of this mission transcends the concerns of the individuals involved, though those individuals, including yourself and Capt. Astra, will be hailed as heroes before all of humanity. Do not misunderstand, we expect this mission to be one of high survivability, if the standards of contact, as set forth here, are followed to the letter.

  The harder part of the mission will be the confinement of the effect, once Capt. Astra hosts it, though your best advantage is outlined below. When the Medallion arrives, it is prepared to take the actions deemed necessary to fully contain this ‘Space-Effect’.

  Your responsibility to this mission, and to the human race, is to be sure that your co-captain is imbued with the essence—which is the Effect. After that, it is your job to stay alive. This is where you will be using the advantage mentioned. All data has shown that the energy drain that the effect can cause, is closely related to proximity. All observed changes occurred when the host was within one-half meter of the victim. This means that you need to maintain a distance of at least one meter. The one-meter rule has a built-in safety margin. When you encounter the anomaly you must bear this in mind and be sure of your ability to maintain the distance. Do or say whatever you must to insure that the effect first comes into contact with Capt. Astra.

  As you get to know your mission partner, you will find that Capt. Astra has an unflinching sense of duty. She will be honored to be a critical part of the salvation of the Human Race.

  These orders pertain to you, Captain Garrison Beckwith Bartell. No part may be divulged to Captain Dominique Astra, or any other person, under the penalty of court-martial and imprisonment or death.

  By Order of SBMMP Center Command.

  No name to focus his rage on.

  He was angry with himself for choosing to follow along with this mission in the first place, without somehow getting more information. But, after signing that damnable zephyr, Bartell’s only other option would have been to seek asylum through his pirate contacts.

  But he was here now.

  His temple pulsed with pent-up emotion; every now and then his anger would spike, cresting with a bleed of red, coloring the edge of his sight, his vision shuddering with repressed rage.

  As easily as they placed sensors in the zephyr vellums, they sure as hell had every kind of sensor on this ship. They were probably reporting back to Comm Central his heightened blood pressure, the smell of his shit, its chemical analysis and what it told them about how he digested his breakfast. One could not hope for any real privacy on a BUMP ship.

  His dilemma was: what was he going to do about these orders? He wanted to take that piece of nanozephyr media, roll it up and shove it down someone’s throat until they choked on it. He could only read the situation in one way—someone had it in for his co-captain.

  Garrison wrestled with other emotions, as well. Oddly, if he didn’t count his hard-on, he was winning in his attempts to remain unflustered by Astra, thanks to the anger that these orders had fired up. He kept the emotions hot to displace the sentiment that he really wanted to embrace—to be concerned, to feel sorry for her. That was dangerous ground for him and his ego.

  They both had secrets from each other
, it seemed. He still did not know how much she had been told of the “alien” or whatever it was, and the effects that it’d had on the dead crewmen, but one thing seemed certain, BUMP was playing them against each other. The orders had forbidden discussion of any facts that he already had until they were faced with the thing, if then. What a goddam crock!

  Garrison had no intention of risking the life-sentence or death penalty that Sgt. Amio and the secret orders had outlined for him. He enjoyed freedom too much. Yet he was determined that he would somehow reveal to Astra the jeopardy into which her superiors had thrust her.

  He had asked the name of her CO—General Leo Jasper—the name meant nothing to him. It had been an innocent enough question, not giving away his attempt at greater discovery of who might be holding the knife over their mission. But it was a dead end. It would be unwise to continue any conversation along those lines. His request to speak to the mission CO during his co-captain’s sleep-period had been deferred and then ignored. And Center simply told him that Gen. Jasper was not affiliated with this mission. End of story.

  Just something else to question.

  A problem Garrison was going to run into was that Astra did not appear to trust him. At least not entirely, based on her comments and the interaction in the DCA mess hall. The secret orders had made it worse. Even if he could tell her of her danger, would she believe him? And might she ascribe some hidden agenda to his sharing?

  He understood why she felt this way. He’d set a bad tone for trust early on. And for his vanity and suspicions, he was maintaining a distance that fostered her mistrust.

  Without finding an answer to his dilemma, he finished his business in the head, and as quickly as possible, came smoothly out of the cubicle (hoping for a minimal impact on the breathable atmosphere). He rapidly closed the door behind, trying not to be obvious.