Parallel Extinction (Extinction Encounters Book 1) Read online

  For dragging him into this, it would be some compensation to see Taylor’s buzz vanish as they put her in restraints. It was just. She took for granted his good nature and tolerance of her eccentricities. Garrison would deal with the reprimand for his participation. His position at USUCC would certainly be unthreatened. His mates would find it all very hilarious.

  He waited, floating in the null gravity, expecting security to swarm in to detain them. Instead, Taylor launched herself toward the hatch, sailing through it. There was a shared hi-five as she slipped by this mystery accomplice, and the next moment both TJ and her collaborator were motioning impatiently for Garrison to follow.

  He managed to push off the Bullet nose as it was being brought sideways into the main air lock. Up through the hatch, into the dark, the co-conspirator caught and slowed his momentum. Taylor quickly dropped the door down on its seal. It went black. Garrison felt pressure return as this secret auxiliary airlock filled with atmosphere. With the air, sound returned; instead of just his own beating heart, he could now hear the labored mono-breathers of his companions in the dark.

  Along with a puff of air, light spilled into the chamber from an opposite hatch. As he fumbled his mask off with frozen, gloved hands, darkness returned momentarily, the light blocked as Taylor’s accomplice slipped away. The person was gone before they could get out and make their own clandestine escape.

  They emerged in the mechanical shell that hugged the outside of the torus. Before they had gotten far she grabbed his elbow and swung him into a zero-G privy cube. In the tight confines, he said through chattering teeth, “T- T-Taylor, n-n-not n-n-now…”

  She giggled. “Don’t be silly, we don’t have time for that. We gotta get out of here. But we need to get these suits off, they’re a dead giveaway.” She peeled the disposable suit away from her clothing with a tearing noise. She watched him as he failed to follow her lead. Cocking her head, she asked, “Why ya shaking so hard, Captain? I think I’m gonna have to call you Hee Bee GB.” She laughed at her joke.

  Compared to Taylor, he knew he looked weak. Her wacked chemistry kept her hot, and she sizzled with her excitement of having pulled off the insane stunt.

  “D-don’t y-you d-d-dare,” he managed. Garrison was at his limit with her madness and ‘cute mocking’. He did not trust his voice just now though. He’d have this out with her later.

  None of the negative side effects seemed to adhere to Taylor. She said, “Just meet me at the bar tonight.” As an afterthought she added, “That is, if you can stop shaking, Hee Bee.” She laughed again with even more amusement, opened the privy door, and was gone.

  CHAPTER 3

  EVENT: DAY 2, 2045 Hours,

  UT (Universal Time)

  Garrison awoke with a growl.

  Sleep had assisted his recovery from Taylor’s insane stunt, along with some chemical support, but neither calmed his anger.

  He made his way from the hotel at the edge of Vegas Slice on Toroid Alpha’s spindeck, to meet Taylor in a cut-rate bar. The note he found on the nightstand said: “Drinks are on me!” But they’d be the cheap ones.

  Her nickname had been eating away at him. He hated how her stunt had made him look, but his greater concern was how he appeared to his peers, his USUCC cohorts. Garrison would make her swear not to tell anyone that name.

  On spindeck-street-level, two other drinking establishments crowded in on a murky stairway between them. This led down into a hole that reminded Garrison of a docking ring bar. One of the upper businesses had placed a portable sign to block the way, which said much about their opinion of the below-deck tavern. The approach was also partially obstructed, halfway-down, by a passed out patron. A familiar smell wafted up, intense and cloying, yet, to his senses it was more an embrace than offense.

  Loud, bass-driven music hit him like a shockwave as he opened the door of the dimly lit canteen. A short further flight of steps descended to the lowest level, where the gravity approached that of Earth: heavy, like the atmosphere. The murky blue lighting gave a darkened, desert-dweller look to his sharp, clean-shaven features. Time had aged him enough that he fit into the roguish part that he had found with USUCC.

  He waited while his eyes adjusted to the dark. They were drawn to the brightest objects at eye level: holographic mermaids, topless, with pink tails swishing lazily side to side. They examined him and other patrons as they swam through the shadowy industrial chaff that was the ceiling of the large basement bar, Doogan’s Pool.

  The path of one of the glowing, spectral water nymphs intersected a raised, waving hand. Taylor flagged him, lifting a large drink in her other hand. She stood atop a stool, wearing a skin-tight, black and white jumpsuit, celebrating… in the company of some of his crew. They sat or stood around the spiral hub of a whirlpool-inspired bar table. What are they doing here? He grew concerned. She must have arranged this too. One hollered and waved. “Hey Bartell!”

  He crafted an air of nonchalance, and descended down and through a loose crowd that milled to the music.

  Over the heads of his rowdy mates, Taylor called to him from up on her barstool. “Hey, Hee Bee,” she shouted over the din, “I’ve got a story that’ll blow your turbos.”

  As Garrison heard that name, his carefully carved façade cracked. He stopped, glaring her to silence.

  Taylor hopped from her perch and circled within the table arms. She leaned her tall, slim figure across an interceding arm of the coiled, drink-stained bar slab, and waited for him to approach.

  Garrison knew she had a certain kind of respect for him, and that she enjoyed the time and sex they shared. He knew the taunting nickname was a misguided way of showing affection.

  But he did not like it.

  He looked at his crewmen as he started toward her; they appeared too drunk to realize she’d said anything other than his initials. Reaching the opposite side of the curving bar table he raised his voice to be heard over the blaring music, “Look, TJ, I told you, don’t call me Hee Bee.” Emphasizing the name in his irritation, Garrison’s scold ended in a near-shout—but into sudden silence, the music having ended abruptly.

  For a split-second, the first half of her pet name hung in the ringing ears of those around the core of the multi-armed table. The captain’s shout naturally commanded his crew’s attention, and the nearest of his gritty USUCC crewmates turned puzzled expressions toward him. His pulse hit his eardrums for one loud beat, his face warming. Surely these yobs would not understand the nature of his comment.

  But within that frozen moment, before the next half of that second ticked away, Taylor dove on the opportunity, “GB,” she shouted, with matched volume and syncopation, quickly tying up the rhyme.

  The goddam, foul nickname. Seething, he speared her with his eyes, locking stares. She returned his gaze with a grin of mischievous glee on her lips.

  And then it came, his crew beginning to mumble to one another. Snorts and snickers as their alcohol-soaked brains made the connection. New fuel for taunts dawned upon them like a fast-spreading plague. “Look,” said one, “we’ve got the heebie-jeebies.” He and another went into mock frightened shivers, their fleshy faces jiggling grotesquely. Sniggering shifted to laughter.

  Even under the cover of low light, Garrison’s crimson shade darkened his face visibly. He looked around with a forced smile, failing to appear unbothered. His thin, momentary hope had evaporated; there would be no end to this now.

  The laughter turned to a roar as the music came back up. His degrading nickname was volleyed about. “AYE-AYE, CAPTAIN HEEBIE JEEBIE!”, “PIRATES CAN BE SCARY, CAPTAIN HEEBIE JEEBIE.” The last one brought howls from the retired pirates in the group, slapping the tables repeatedly and gasping for breath. The crew continued to expand on their unfortunate burst of creativity, voices rising, creating a commotion, sloshing drinks and ale everywhere.

  Garrison wanted to tune it out. He could not. The deme
aning title morphed into new and unpleasant forms of debasement. The comfortable nickname, Bartab, was forgotten. This was far worse than Pretty Boy. The drinks he’d have to buy to reinforce his old handle… ouch. He hadn’t gotten this much flack when he’d first signed on with USUCC.

  Worse, his men saw him brought low by a woman. That sank the knife deep.

  Taylor! Turning the flaming coals of his anger toward the source, his eyes found her face. Across the table, she rocked with laughter. No regret for his discomfiture.

  Even in his anger, her sensuality won through. Stirred by the passion of his emotion, unable to control it, raw sexual hunger flared. Every erotic moment spent with her flashed through his head in an instant; his eyes were pulled to her cleavage, as intended by the strategic cut of her flight suit.

  The hunger was brought up short as he found that her stare rested on him. Her eyes were transformed to turquoise-rimmed obsidian pools… sucking him in, a smug smirk on full, sensual lips. It was hypnotic… falling.

  The dizzying sensation caused him to tighten an already-clamping grip on the table edge. It brought him back. Dammit. How does she do that?

  Shaking it off, he broke eye contact. He wanted to get even—needed to get even. He measured his breath against the music’s double-time beat. She said she had a story. Taylor wasn’t easily impressed. He wanted to hear it, and she’d clam up if he wasn’t nice to her. With a great effort of will, he barely set aside his anger and lust.

  With an unnatural grin, he leaned in and said, just audible over the ruckus, “Taylor, I’m going to get you back for that.” And then more loudly, feigning a casual air, “So, why didn’t you tell me this great story earlier? And stop that with your eyes.” He sounded petulant to his own ears.

  She didn’t respond immediately, giggling as the laughter continued around them, clearly pleased to be the source of all the mirth.

  When she did answer, she ignored his question of timing. “Well, I was talking to a soldier in E-BUMP,” referring to EBMMP, Earth Based Multi-Military Patrol. “He was telling me about a pirate patrol, something real weird.” The patrols were part of the space branch, SBMMP. Taylor paused in thought.

  “Yeah? Go on. Don’t stop there.” Garrison held down his annoyance with difficulty.

  “Well, it’s just so strange—and I wasn’t sure whether this guy was serious or whether he was teasing. You know, like when you tell a ghost story with a straight face.”

  “What do you mean? Why would this guy lie? Is he some kinda joker? Do you even know anything about this soldier, Taylor?” Garrison yelled over the music—and the barking laughter he was trying to ignore.

  “Oh, no… I mean, yeah; he’s actually very smart. Well, when you meet him, at first, he doesn’t seem that smart, but I think it’s just an act. I got to know him better, after we… uh, I mean…” she broke off.

  Garrison struggled to hear her words, leaning close. It was erotic and frustrating, twisting him up. He saw her flush faintly. That was unlike Taylor.

  She continued, half-shouting, her eyes fixed on her hands instead of maintaining the teasing, eye-to-eye gaze. “Well... umm, see, we were in this bar and then… he…he’s a real nice guy. I think you’d like him…” She stumbled over her words, and stopped, embarrassed, a quick shift from her brashness.

  He had no patience for her strange behavior. “Aw jezuss, Taylor. Just tell me the story already.” Concerning the open nature of their sexual relationship, Garrison was, in fact, perfectly contented. Taylor wasn’t the kind of girl that could pin herself down to one guy. If you wanted to sleep with TJ then you accepted her as is, or she moved on.

  After half-a-minute she continued. “Well, he told me that Center had lost contact with this cruiser that was out on patrol. The ship had been boarding a pirate scow. A brief distress call had led them to it. They found it adrift, no beacons or life-signs. So, anyway, right after they cut into the hull for an access opening, all the patrol ship’s links to Center Comm went dead.”

  Going quiet, Taylor leaned in and looked at him expectantly, her irises dialing closed, becoming glowing blue disks around black pencil-points, as if she meant to drill into his soul.

  Garrison waited, his aggravation building. Based on her insinuation of a great story, he’d expected much more. Moments ticked by, yet she only sat staring …those eyes…

  “So,” he blurted to break the spell, “what about it?”

  She said quickly, sitting up, black pupils expanding, “No one knows. I think he knows more, but he wasn’t saying. And it’s just happened; they don’t have another patrol there yet.”

  “You’re kidding me? That’s it?” At this point, more than just irritated, he was pissed-off. It was a worthless story.

  He scanned his bar mates as they guffawed, his anger coming to a boil. “Big goddamn deal. There’s nothing mysterious about this. The way you set it up, I had an image of you and this pansy soldier wetting yourselves.” Childish as he knew that sounded, it assuaged his ego to get in a dig.

  It was Taylor’s turn to be annoyed. “Oh, real funny. Laugh, you weren’t there. I could see how disturbed this soldier was. Like I said, I’m sure there was something he wasn’t telling me. And he’s no pansy!”

  “Well then, what else did he say?”

  “I told you, not much.” She cocked her head, looking up at the flashing lights. “Oh, and, and… there was a retro-pod missing from the target craft… and,” she searched her memory, “and the jettison burns looked fresh.” She said it with finality, as if she’d proved something.

  There was nothing that she could add to make this pitiful story interesting for Garrison. He wasn’t at all happy about what had happened in the bar tonight. He saw a situation that might allow him to exact some small recompense. “Alright, Taylor,” he spit, “I’m laying odds that the timing of comm loss is just coincidental. It’s probably some fire or hard to reach short that has them shut down. I’ll even bet that they are refreq’ed before that other patrol gets there.”

  “Put money on it.” Taylor loved to gamble. She was good at it.

  He had a sure thing; Garrison wasn’t the type to get spooked by eerie stories. “When is that patrol due to arrive?”

  “In about four days.”

  Four days? There was something that she had left out. Four days at the military’s top speed would mean this pirate was out in interstellar space; and no one but the military had access to faster than light ships. The story just got a lot more interesting but he did not want to give her the satisfaction. “Okay. No problem. Let’s bet dinner at Clink’s,”—where they’d met a year ago—“and a room,” insinuating just how much she would owe him if he won the bet. “And you pay for the damn Bullet ride back up here. Inside the car!”

  She had the audacity to dig at him once again. “Oooh, Clink’s, are we feeling sentimental?”

  He ignored her for the rest of the night, being sure that every watered-down drink went on her tab, knowing that he would somehow pay for them anyway.

  CHAPTER 4

  EVENT: DAY Zero

  Past Epsilon, a massive, dead moon orbits a poisonous planet.

  This solar system had been declared to be of great value by the Tear-N-Form Corporation. Terraforming on an inner planet was to be initiated on this day—the official corporate birthday for this world. Nano- and micro-bot deployment would mark the beginning of the long planet-development process.

  Several generations from this moment, corporate would activate the system-wide, balanced cannibalization of resources through mass trade-offs. Collected asteroids would be mined in automated factories, to be installed some decades from now. The fundamental underpinnings needed for habitation would then be put into place on the newly prepared planet.

  Dr. Comani, on this latest of several visits since his discovery of the planet, had returned to oversee the dispersal of the dangerous, tig
htly controlled nanoscopic machines. For this world, it represented a new life, but if let loose in an established environment, it would spell the end of a living and vital planet—similar to the fate that had nearly befallen Earth in the Obliteration.

  These particular nanobots were bio-pathologic creations, short-lived but very effective in their explicit function: eat and die. Behind them, they left a fertile field of death. The converted corpses of incompatible alien microbes and flora would be able to support intended crops and other vegetation. No trace chemicals or alien DNA would be left to contaminate species of pre-flora that would follow. And those seeding operations would be followed by macro-flora and animal stock. Future colonists would be genetically modified to tolerate the heavier gravity and acid conditions. They would be a new form of human, one which would never be able to set foot upon its evolutionary homeworld.

  As far as the Corporation was concerned, any type of native non-intelligent life that might be found on these seed worlds represented an obstacle to humanity—and their bottom-line. After the near-global annihilation that was the Obliteration, the planetary government of Earth stood firmly in the corporate corner on this, against the weak protests of the so-called Knights of the New Earth Environmentalists.

  Only a select few representatives of the enduring human race were able, or allowed, to travel this far out, well beyond the quadrant’s last human habitation. These elite consisted solely of the military and their authorized corporate agents.

  As agents of the military, both of the colossal terraform corporations were within their legal rights to destroy microbial, non-intelligent life in order to form something that could be defined as human-habitable. Possibly, a loose interpretation of intelligent had been used in some cases, but the corporate agents were trained not to look too closely.