Parallel Extinction (Extinction Encounters Book 1) Read online

  He did not know how Dominique managed her own business without offense. In the strangest way, it just added to her inscrutability. Ignoring the whole issue was all he could do to preserve something of his dignity. Her bodily processes would have to remain a mystery, much as his flustering attraction to her was an enigma to him.

  In an effort to distract her from her nose, he asked a loaded question. “Hey, have you ever wondered what it would be like to crew on a pirate ship?”

  He was sure Astra knew that he knew her answer, but she politely played along. “Can’t say that I have, Captain. But I’ve boarded plenty of them when BUMP Cruisers took them into custody.”

  Garrison maneuvered his frame back into the accel seat and webbed in. “Yeah? Ever fantasize what it might be like to run one of them yourself, out on your own; no one giving commands or telling you what to do and what not to do?” She turned her shaved head toward him, her eyes flashing out of a beautiful face, penetrating him as he struggled to hold her gaze unflinchingly. Whoa... he held it together.

  “As I recall clearly from those incidents, the atmospheres of those ships were always a bit funky for my taste; reeked of men’s misdeeds, if you get my meaning.”

  Garrison turned his reddening face away. He felt her gaze break tangibly, as she looked back to the sensors she monitored. He did his best to deny that that was a comment about his bathroom issues. He responded reflexively with a barb. “That would be sex you were smelling, captain. You know, hot and sweaty stuff. Tends to linger.”

  “I know what I was smelling. And I wouldn’t want to submerge myself in it.”

  Before he was even aware, things had escalated.

  “Try it, you might like it.” As he jabbed back at her out of his tightening throat, an electric thrill came with it, his stomach doing a turnabout. His skin temperature rose and blood rushed to his crotch.

  Oh goddamit! He took some deep, quiet breaths trying to cool down. Astra didn’t respond, which was good. He was afraid of what he might say next. His head was just a bit muddled. He needed a moment to think of things “non-Dominique Astra.” Banal things, fuel proportions; mass calculations. Okay, cool down.

  “You know, Captain Bartell, we’re stuck here together in this tiny space.” Her words caused his heart rate to jump up again. “We should try to be civil, at least.”

  He wanted that too. Garrison was feeling vulnerable in this out-of-balance state. What he would say next would be very honest, and he hoped that he would not regret it later. “I... I don’t know if... if I can, Dominique.” His throat spasmed in the middle of her name. That’s embarrassing. He was sure that she would take his comment wrong. How could he explain? He let out a long loud breath.

  She stayed quiet, thoughtful for a few moments, and then said with the most care in her voice that he’d heard so far, “I know, Garrison. You really have no idea what it’s like for me.”

  Ahhh… his name from her lips… not “Captain Bartell.” It was like warm honey. Come on, Bartell, suck it up! She’s talking to you. Listen to her words, not her voice.

  She continued in this new vein when he stayed silent, and shared with him what it was like to be seen the way that she was seen. He closed his eyes and sorted the words from the lips that spoke them. She would want him to do that. She was talking, trying to share with him something deep. A feeling of being honored welled up in him, and he missed what she’d said. He tried to stay focused. It was so hard. He opened his eyes and picked a point on the console to stare at. It helped for a moment. He could see her out of the corner of his eye; her full, pink lips moved delicately. Even just that much was tantalizing. He’d lost her words again. He refocused, trying to put it together. There were the words. Okay, yes, that made sense. She shared how she’d had to prove herself over and over before she’d finally won recognition. He could appreciate that. Then, from the corner of his eye again, he watched her turn her head toward him. His cheek and neck warmed, as if her eyes were infrared heaters.

  He should return her gaze. She’d gone quiet. She’d asked him a question. What did she ask? Oh crap, what was it? Nothing would come. His instant replay was malfunctioning.

  He turned his head, keeping his eyes off hers at first, but realized he was looking at her breasts, so obvious in that suit. He snapped his eyes up and met her look; he read it as both understanding and imploring of his understanding. He was able to set aside the surge of energy that came from looking into her eyes, instead, finding there the answer that he needed to give. “I think I understand… Dominique.”

  Weak. It sounded hollow to his ears. Was it enough? She turned away, but not in disgust or anger; she seemed to be relieved. He’d got it right?

  In that moment the dynamic changed for him. And he thought it had changed for her, too. At least he could believe it had. It was enough. His whole body warmed from the center outward. He tried to put his mind on the mission. He couldn’t do it. This moment was too pregnant with energies he was feeling toward Dominique. It was no use.

  He made an excuse that he needed to close his eyes, and slipped into the one-person sleep cubby. In this modicum of privacy, he found relief from the sexual tension, losing himself for a time in his flowing fantasies.

  CHAPTER 24

  EVENT: DAY 9, 1000 UT

  Admiral Swan knew his job.

  He knew what had to be done. He knew how to preserve those things that were valuable. Humanity’s welfare was utmost. This was his purpose in his position. In his life for that matter.

  He also knew how to punish those who did not please him. He’d caught two such people in a neat trap, and it had come together without foresight, not even requiring much staging to orchestrate. It was as if fate had dropped it in his lap. Preordained.

  Captain Garrison Bartell, formerly of SBMMP, a man that the admiral had thought out of reach of any form of punishment or retribution, had, through the calamity they were now facing, waltzed right into his grasp. Better yet, into a situation that seemed likely to result in the man’s death. And the admiral maneuvered for this fitting result.

  He had jumped at the opportunity to mete out punishment for an action that Bartell had pursued; one that Swan considered unforgivable.

  When the admiral was still an EBMMP four-star general, working on his credits toward his SBMMP move, he had been studying the records and actions of successful SBMMP captains. Most were either records of those who had already passed away or were retired at least. One, though—Captain Bartell—was then a present-day hero. The man had a spotless record and an impressive Capture Standing that any war-weary veteran would envy. Still young by the measure of his years, he was already beyond his duty-tour mandate and in the midst of his second successful Captaincy.

  After less than a year in this second command, with commendations affording certain privileges, nothing prevented Bartell’s departure and full separation from the Service—and he left to join USUCC. While Bartell was perfectly within his rights, to Swan this was tantamount to an act of treason; he considered USUCC to be a band of pirates. To see a SBMMP officer leave the service, specifically to join them, was an outrage.

  Then there was Ms. Astra, the Ice Queen. Finally, he would have satisfaction for the way she’d treated him.

  The admiral risked nothing. It was very neat. He would make the most out of their unfortunate deaths. His pet prize, the Quantum Butterfly, would assure their arrival first-on-scene, putting them in harm’s way. The specific effects of this temporal phenomenon would allow recovery of the remarkable, one-of-a-kind QB1.

  In a sense, Swan held the secret to this ship: Quilliam Spence. He’d had the pilot shipped off to the farthest reaches of man’s explorations, out of the way. Spence claimed that the QB1’s faster-than-light capabilities had been acquired during an interaction with an alien source. The craft’s alterations were undetectable. Careful reverse engineering had yielded nothing.

 
It was entirely different from the current FTL technology in use by SBMMP on all of the fleet’s interstellar ships, whose main component was lethal, if unleashed. This same dangerous drive technology was used in military-licensed SciPods, leased for Terrologists by both of the terraform megacorporations.

  Swan held more of the secrets of the interstellar drive-tech than anyone—anyone alive, at least— more details than even his superiors. He recognized the reported pattern of devastation wrought aboard the Seeker. It fit a certain profile with which he was intimately familiar.

  It would be a boon to capture another of these wild forces—SBMMP could then outfit another interstellar ship—these things were at the core of the FTL drive. But they’d never caught one in space. Swan wasn’t set up for that. Space seemed to be the home field for these things.

  At the very least, though, he could use it to do his dirty work—if it was still nearby when the Quantum Butterfly got there.

  The QB1 was festooned with SBMMP’s latest personnel-sensor technology. For the sake of appearances, he would squeeze every possible bit of data from the Bartell-Astra mission. Maybe Swan would even learn something new.

  His small Center Comm tech-group, with top-level clearance, was monitoring the life signs of both Bartell and Astra, as well as their every word and various mood indicators. An AI program, commissioned by Swan, then blended the audio and several vid streams. The final product was movie-like, providing full holo to his optical implants.

  Swan had been more and more delighted as he’d reviewed the recordings. Bartell was a riot of emotions. He was clearly not enjoying the mission. It appeared to the admiral that Bartell had no clue as to the level of observation. Having been away from SBMMP for some time now, he wasn’t used to having anyone look over his shoulder. Admiral Swan had stepped up the monitoring aboard all the military ships when he rose to this command, Station’s Head on Toroid Alpha.

  Still, after receiving those orders, Capt. Bartell should be expecting standard, continuous monitoring at minimum. Astra, on the other hand, would know that they’d be well monitored but she’d expect it as a normal course. She would not suspect the intrusive nature of the monitoring or the extremely critical examination that the data was receiving. To Swan, it was almost as good as having her naked again, standing before him.

  Once had not been enough.

  Now he stripped her naked of her privacy to reveal all her private bodily moments. And her unintentional sub-vocals were being interpreted to illuminate her very thoughts and the confusion that she hid so well. It was perverse, and he was reveling in it.

  No one was aware of the exact nature of the last minute orders he’d sent up to Bartell, and if ever discovered, the directions appeared virtuous on the behalf of mankind.

  The admiral had reviewed Bartell’s riotous biological reactions to those commands, and Astra’s quiet interpretation. It had gone well; Bartell’s physiological surges blended nicely with his pre-existing rampant emotions. Swan could not have hoped for a better result. Astra’s basic confusion told him she did not suspect the deadliness of those orders.

  He hadn’t been absolutely sure how Bartell would respond. He’d banked on the combination of the man’s self-centered nature, and the threats of imprisonment or death, to assure that the man kept his mouth shut. It worked. It helped that Bartell knew that the threats weren’t empty. If the captain somehow managed to survive this mission—orders followed or not—Swan would see him court-martialed on one charge or another. He’d never see the light of freedom again.

  Swan imagined that Bartell would eventually slip up but the admiral’s team would catch it. The admiral had an Asteroid Lab install a top secret sensor system recently. It used a class of sensors that skirted the edges of legality regarding self-regulating nanotechnology. Not completely debugged yet, it was still distinct from the illegal self-replicating variety, but the distinction was heading toward a gray area. Swan danced around the issue by having the science performed in one of the Asteroid Labs with enforced departure quarantines: aboard the lab, genetic markers tagged biologic-style nanonics; the markers were keys that would unlock dire consequences if sensed in the wrong place. Each airlock doubled as a blast chamber—anything that was not cleared for removal from this asteroid station was sniffed out, and the airlock would be flooded with fire. To complete the paranoia, a self-destruct AI monitored the operations on the station, ready with a station-wide gas-acid-fire resolution. It made for careful, highly paid technicians. So far the restrictions were working to keep any dangerous technology in check. Not even a death. Yet.

  It was inevitable that the military would pursue the very direction that nearly obliterated the entire Earth. Rather than fight a pointless battle to stop it, he made the best uses possible.

  This new technology aboard the Quantum Butterfly consisted of drifting nanoparticles that permeated the air of the ship’s cabin. What had made it possible for this tech to exit the Lab was the proscribed destruction protocol, labeled in its genetic markers: as the motes were breathed in, they were easily destroyed by the body. The O2 scrubbers also filtered them out of the air. A factory/release device hidden in the ship steadily replaced them.

  The particles were bound to one another by a set level of molecular attraction. The sensed density in the air around the dispenser would trigger a release as necessary. Environmental vibrations, like air currents and sound waves, powered the particles. They picked up and relayed the tiniest of whispers to an amplifier, and from there it was transmitted as digital data.

  Swan’s analysts would see the information as basic data packets, unaware of the top secret, abstruse source. Neither was his team aware of the nature of the anomaly that was the quarry of the QB1, nor that it was currently in use by the military.

  His techs would soon know much more about its ‘influence’, with front row seats for the attack on the two captains.

  An apparent horrible accident.

  Despite the reassurances that Swan had given to Bartell in the orders, he figured that the death of one, maybe both, was assured should the captains meet this force. There was a chance that the Butterfly would not get to the site before the thing disappeared, but if they did meet it, he’d know that long enough in advance to warn Captain Sparks on the Medallion. But by the time the battle cruiser got there he figured the destructive force should be gone. That was good enough for Swan.

  In an ideal scenario, the Medallion would arrive in time to pick up the pieces: the unharmed Quantum Butterfly, “baby Bartell” and the broken Astra. He’d made sure all of Gant’s chemicals and equipment were stocked in the battle cruiser’s infirmary, and he’d substituted one of his appropriately trained made-men in the role of the ship’s doctor. The drama of Private Geoff had not been simply to dispose of a witness but to test this method of elimination. With a few modifications, like a drug to paralyze the larynx, he had an excellent system. The comatose Astra would end up like the soldier that had just been processed here at the station—first insane, then dead.

  As for Bartell, if his fetus survived, the admiral had plans for it…

  CHAPTER 25

  EVENT: DAY 9, 2300 UT

  The orders continued to chew away at Garrison’s psyche.

  They had the stench of lies on them. From his conversation with Sergeant Amio, he recalled that, this anomaly had done its possession-thing on a private by the name of Sam or Jeff… something, out of the couple dozen crew aboard the Seeker, and not a woman as the orders indicated. What was their game here? Was it he, in fact, who was being set up? Maybe it actually possessed men? If so, then it again could mean that Astra was being set up. Was he being led into a false sense of security?

  Garrison was severely handicapped without critical data. He had to believe the very worst as a precaution. In that vein, he assumed that BUMP could practically read his mind if he wasn’t careful with his sub-vocals. He’d taken to sounding out a
low hum in his throat on his out-breath, while he thought his thoughts and pondered plans. As he inhaled, he adopted the inner litany of “deep breath, deep breath.”

  He was pretty sure that this would subvert any unconscious sub-vocalizations on his part, but it was tough to be perfectly shielded. His mind wandered frequently. Dominique looked at him askance when she noticed his noises, but said nothing. He didn’t care what she thought. He couldn’t afford to.

  Obviously, Center considered them expendable; the orders were pretty direct on that point. But how had BUMP decided who would play what part in their game? If they were lying and this thing had no preference to whom it might succubus itself, what did it mean that they were installing Astra in that role?

  Likely, the captain would have made enemies in BUMP as she’d risen to command. She had intimated as much. If he was being realistic, Garrison had to admit that he was something of a chauvinist when it came to a command situation. A lot of men would, no doubt, hold a grudge if passed up for a promotion that instead went to a woman,

  Or, maybe it was a lover? Just applying the word to Dominique sent electricity shooting down his breastbone, constricting his breath. Or a jilted admirer? He’d seen that she could be cold when it came to unwanted interest. But it would be someone in a position to pull strings… a Commanding Officer?

  No ranking officer had been listed on any of Garrison’s flight auths, or in the death sentence that had been handed them in the form of his ‘orders’. The listed authority was simply Center Command. Until he’d gotten those orders, this had not struck him as odd. Pondering the question, it was a safe assumption that an Admiral, or higher, would be commanding this operation.

  He could probably get Dominique talking at this point in their slightly-less-strained relationship; maybe find out if she’d had any connections with someone that might fit the description. Of course, she wouldn’t admit to anything more personal than association, but it would give Garrison something to support his suspicions.