Thunder Prime: Fog Island

By Sharon Vander Meer

In this 26th Century action/adventure Jake Casey discovers his murdered friend’s body and is thrown into a tangle of intrigue and lies. Despite his distrustful nature he begins to collect people who both hinder and help him in his quest to find answers to secrets from his past and the hell of his present. Are they to be trusted? What are their motives? Thunder Prime: Fog Island explores the world of the future with engaging characters, fast-paced action, and a thought-provoking premise. Readers are introduced to an altered earth and galactic politics. Humans have taken gene manipulation to an extreme and found ways to enhance brain capacity. The law has become deity. Amalgamated World Organization of Rebel Insurgents (AWORI) are on the prowl. The weak die or are absorbed.
After centuries of separation diverse populations have come together, forced into a confederation of planets to quell the rising threat of the AWORI. These renegades, castoffs from societies across the galaxy, and power-driven demigods are fearless warriors with one purpose: to gain control of the known universe.
Earther transport owner Pilot Jake Casey is by nature a loner, but when he finds his second pilot brutally murdered, he becomes caught up in the intrigue and corruption rife within the Galactic Allied Confederation. Despite his grief, and at the risk of everything he has worked for, Jake embarks on a dangerous haul plagued from the beginning by questions and suspicion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharon Vander Meer
• Release date: Mar 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301344147

Sharon Vander Meer

I'm a freelance writer, entrepreneur, broadcaster and blogger. I have self-published four books, and have more than thirty years experience in journalism and marketing.Eclectic interests and a willingness to tackle new opportunities keeps me busy.I started my journalism career and education at a small town weekly in Hagerman, NM. My mentor was a man with years of experience in the newspaper business who set type on a cranky and sometimes unreliable linotype machine. I never learned the fine art of separating feelings from hard news. My foray back into the newspaper business after many years was better suited to what many would call fluff, but I called it human interest.I spent one year as society editor at the Las Vegas Daily Optic, a more than one hundred twenty-five year old newspaper that is still in business, and was later promoted to managing editor.With more optimism than good sense I started a weekly newspaper, The Hermit’s Peak Gazette. The paper was highly successful from a readership point of view, but not so successful financially.During my working life I have also served as executive director for two economic development groups and one chamber of commerce.Publication credits apart from massive amounts of writing for newspapers I have worked for include among others Sage Magazine, a monthly supplement to the Albuquerque Journal, New Mexico Magazine, chamber tourism promotional publications, writing and design of newsletters for entities such as the Las Vegas/San Miguel Chamber of Commerce, the Citizens Committee for Historic Preservation, and the Las Vegas/San Miguel Economic Development Corp.My goal is to be a successful novelist who also writes inspirational books that lift the heart and exemplify the hope we have in God. I do believe in miracles.

Book preview

Chapter One

Looking at Bawdy McClure dead made it hard to remember what had been appealing about him in life, especially this kind of dead. McClure was on his belly dressed in nothing but blood-soaked boxer shorts. His head was twisted at a rag doll angle, arms stretched out as though in his last moments of life he’d been grasping for something. Both legs and arms had been broken. Bone poked through abraded skin. Those were the most obvious injuries. He’d been a long time dying and it had been a hard, hard death.

The stink of blood and other body fluids crawled up Jake Casey’s nostrils. He clenched his hands and swallowed the hot bile bubbling into his throat. To keep from hitting something, Jake crammed his fisted hands into his worn leather jacket, and spun away from the scene before him. He strode out into the corridor allowing the door to close with a subdued snick.

He slumped against the sterile, colorless walls. His indrawn shaky breath tasted of death and made him shudder and gag. After a moment that felt like an hour, he steeled himself and with legs as wobbly as cargo flex-bands tapped in the entry code and reentered.

Vid on. Jake swallowed hard to clear the tightness in his throat.

CODE

Enforcement Central.

CODE

Enforcement Central! I don’t know the code!

CODE REQUIRED FOR CONTACT TONE OF VOICE NOTED

Jake bit back his response. He didn’t need another behavioral note on his personality profile and Advocate Jessup Wells in his face because of it. He licked his lips and dry-washed his face with trembling hands.

Code services.

UNIVERSAL CODE SERVICES OR ALTERNATE PROVIDER

This is an automated system—this is an automated system—this is an automated system. The mantra looping inside his head didn’t help much.

Any choice is acceptable.

DEFAULT PROVIDER UNIVERSAL CODE SERVICES A CHARGE OF TWO CREDITS WILL BE APPLIED

Jake stared at Bawdy lying dead and ran countless questions through his mind. The irksome drone of the com interrupted his thoughts.

VOICE CONFIRMATION OF CHARGE REQUIRED

"ACCEPTED!"

YOU ARE BEING TRANSFERRED TO UNIVERSAL CODE SERVICES TONE OF VOICE NOTED FOR REPORT

Jake’s blood pressure would have been off the grid if the Law permitted in-unit monitoring of personal behavior. Thank God that hadn’t been implemented, at least not yet.

UNIVERSAL CODE SERVICES

Enforcement Central.

IS THIS AN EMERGENCY

Jake’s temper, a character flaw he valiantly tried to control, took over. Yes, you automated dung heap, this is an emergency.

IN FUTURE CONTACT ENFORCEMENT CENTRAL DIRECTLY SPEAK THE WORDS EMERGENCY ENFORCEMENT CENTRAL YOU WILL BE INSTANTLY CONNECTED TONE OF VOICE AND DEROGATORY LANGUAGE LOGGED FOR IMMEDIATE REPORT

His jaw popped as he ground out the words through gritted teeth: Emergency Enforcement Central.

The image of a squashed-face enforcer appeared on vid. He looked on the verge of being strangled by the collar of his regulation dun-colored uniform. Simmons.

Jake Casey for Captain Anita Martinez.

Advocate identity?

None.

An intermediary enforcer Advocate will assist you.

Jake held his temper. Yelling at an automated response system was one thing, taking that tack with an enforcer was quite another.

She would want to know about this.

I respect your persistence, Simmons said with a slight sneer and no show of respect, but will need further clarification to determine if this is a matter better handled by an intermediary enforcer Advocate.

There has been a murder. It’s someone Captain Martinez knows.

I will route you to Metro Duketown Enforcement Central Office of Advocacy and the Homicide Division.

Jake cut the connection.

Ingrid on.

Activated, a sultry fem voice said.

Jake swallowed. He remembered the day Bawdy had installed the custom device. Better than having a Robbie the Robot voice talking, he’d said.

Ingrid fails to identify speaker as Brian McClure. Jake could almost hear the regret in Ingrid’s voice at having to disappoint him.

Casey, Jacob ID Bartholomew.

Searching.

Seconds that seemed interminable ticked by.

Voice recognition. How may I help?

Direct number for Anita Martinez, Captain, Metro Duketown Enforcement Central.

Searching.

It was a long shot but Anita and Bawdy were friends. Maybe he had her direct number on file. Jake began pacing a narrow path. A persistent vibration from his com unit indicated someone was trying to contact him. He checked the reader. Enforcement Central.

Code located, Ingrid intoned.

Jake blew out a relieved breath. Make contact.

Anita Martinez answered immediately. What’s up Jake, you have the desk sergeant ready to bust his buttons. The ready grin faded when she saw his strained countenance.

Bawdy’s dead. He couldn’t go further. The knot in his throat wouldn’t let him. He had to hand it to Anita. She didn’t even blink.

Where are you?

He directed his vid imager toward McClure’s body. Across the knock-a-block city the picture popped onto Martinez’s viewer. Her face went taut, lips thinned to a grim line.

You’re at Bawdy’s?

Yeah.

I’ll notify the desk before Simmons sends out the nearest enforcer Advocate. I’ll be there soonest with a homicide team. Don’t touch anything, you got that?

Jake nodded and broke the connection. Soonest meant an hour at the earliest and probably longer. Ignoring the sumo-wrestling match going on in his gut he began a careful walk through.

Despite the stink of death Jake had a hard time wrapping his mind around the idea of Bawdy McClure dead. The man was indestructible, always there to back Jake up. Everybody liked him. Fems fell all over themselves to get his attention. Men trusted him. His biggest problem had to do with his crazy beliefs. The Way, what a scam. Jake didn’t see how The Way was any different from the Code of Advocacy. More rules to live by, so damned many rules you couldn’t get much done unless you manipulated your way around them, legally of course.

Jake had no doubt Bawdy’s killer had been trying to get information, but about what? Had the killer found what he’d been looking for? Did it have anything to do with Jake? His gut tightened even more and a trickle of self-disgust made him wince. He was a jerk to think like that, but he had a business to look out for. Bawdy was the only other person who had all the codes for Thunder Transport, the cargo hauling business Jake owned. For competitors the information would be invaluable. Bawdy wouldn’t have kept the codes in his unit, a carbon copy of every other unit for singles in the city. Tiny bathroom, a not-much bigger bedroom, and kitchenette/dining/living room combined. For most this would be luxury living. Metros were glutted, every available space occupied by ugly utilitarian housing units. Rich, poor, living large, living low, it didn’t matter, metros exploded with population.

Jake hated the metro, but the property he owned in the mountain region was tainted. He never went there and avoided thinking about it as much as possible. Advocate Wells made sure the caretakers leased it from time to time, which added to Jake’s creds balance. For his part the place could burn down and he wouldn’t care. He shrugged off thoughts that would only add to the building black cloud surrounding him.

Bawdy had done little to personalize his living quarters. The walls were bare and only the most essential furnishings squatted haphazardly here and there.

The bedroom was the exception. A pair of lacy underpants hung off the rim of a lampshade. Who had left the garment? Had she been involved in Bawdy’s death? Was the wisp of silk and lace a souvenir of some previous encounter? The enforcers would figure it out, that was their job, not his. The room was a shambles and the only spot where some aspect of Bawdy’s character emerged. It was cluttered with odd mementos and filled with bits and pieces of Bawdy’s life: a glittery rock from Alpha 9, an ale bottle, a knife he’d picked up when he’d been in Galactic Allied Confederation service, a couple of novelty items perched on the bedside table. Next to them stood a model of Thunder II, a framed holo pix of Bawdy and Jake standing in front of Thunder Prime, and a worn journal. Jake’s lips curved slightly. Bawdy was the only person he knew who actually wrote stuff down using antiquated tools.

He flipped the journal open to the first page.

The Way, notes from Tellings, was written in Bawdy’s scrawl.

Jake groaned and closed the book before picking up the holo. He brushed his thumb across the image of his friend as if the action could bring Bawdy to life. After a moment he removed the holo from the frame and inserted it between the leaves of the journal, which he then slipped into a pocket. He swallowed back the knot in his throat and swiped the back of one hand across his mouth. After a moment he continued his exploration of the room.

Clothing huddled in corners and was draped over the only chair. Books teetered in untidy stacks near the bed. They were real books, the kind you could hardly find. A collector would pay a fortune in creds for them. Jake shook his head. Random robbery hadn’t been the reason for Bawdy’s death.

It was impossible to tell from the mess how much was the result of McClure’s bad housekeeping and how much was the result of a search.

Jake stopped suddenly. An ale mug of rough design sat atop a stack of books. The mug had Chase Cantina imprinted on one side and the grinning face of Chase Mendoza on the other. He strode over and picked it up. Sure enough, it couldn’t be anything else: the chip out of the rim, the rusty stain on one side. Just holding it spun him back to the first time he had encountered Bawdy McClure.

~~~******~~~

Jake had expected to see Chase Mendoza, owner of the pubclub situated in the no-man’s land between Sector SW6/A and Free Zone, but he was out. Talking to Mendoza would have distracted him from the anxiety he couldn’t shake following a visit with his issue, Bart. The visit had left him frustrated, angry… and guilt ridden. He’d been deep in mentally rationalizing why he couldn’t keep Bart with him. Living with Alexandra Jaleese, the female issue of Jake’s sire and dam made much more sense. Bart seemed happy enough, but he was growing up without Jake in his life. There was no way it could be otherwise. He couldn’t take a kinder on transport jobs and wouldn’t trust a day center or SEBS to take care of a dragaun or an Alzaiersian clawcat, much less raise his issue. Supervised Education Boarding Schools were thought to be the answer once bond offspring came of age. The SEBS took care of kinder, as long as bondunit assets paid the tab, if you could afford it.

"Another one?"

Jake looked up into the velvet brown eyes of Consuelo, one of Mendoza’s four female issue. He shook his head. One’s about all I can handle. Where’s the old man?

She flashed a dimpled smile. Papa hear you call him old he’d have your hide. She filled Jake’s mug despite his refusal and moved on.

He drank down the ale and was about to authorize the creds draw for his food when the sounds of a scuffle snagged his attention.

Consuelo was struggling to get out of the grasp of man who had her bound against him with one brawny arm while he groped her breasts roughly.

Jake was half out of his chair when an easy voice with a light burr said from behind him, Let her go. Now.

Consuelo’s unwanted admirer gave her another grope and belched. Later, honey, you know you wa’ me. She hurried away as soon as he released her, color flooding her cheeks. The man lumbered up, standing head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the room.

"Ya want summa me?" The man was drunk or drugged, but in a fight his massive size would put the odds in his favor.

"Leave her alone," Jake said

"You, the man belched, you messin’ in muh bi’ness."

Jake was kicking himself for getting involved. The Mendoza fems didn’t like it but they were well aware their jobs put them in the way of jerks like the weaving fool.

He blew out a breath and started to set his mug aside. A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

He turned to see who was holding him back. A flame of spiky red hair, cobalt blue eyes, and a GAC dress uniform set the man apart from other pubclub patrons who were mostly transport pilots. Everyone rippled back giving the developing action all the room it needed.

"No sweat, I got this one," Spiky Hair ambled toward the man with an easy stride until he was within inches of the giant.

"Who ‘er you?"

Spiky Hair said nothing.

"You messin’, the drunk belched again, in muh bi’ness."

Spiky Hair snorted, You’ll be lucky if somebody doesn’t report your behavior. I’d do it, but I’m off duty and don’t want the hassle of making a report.

The drunk’s wandering eyes landed on Jake.

"Who ‘er you?"

"Man’s got a limited vocabulary, doesn’t he?" Spiky Hair said, taking his eyes off the man for a heartbeat, just long enough. The drunk lunged and knocked Spiky Hair to the floor. Chairs, tables, and anyone in the way were felled by the ensuing two-man brawl. Jake didn’t know where to step in that wouldn’t make things worse, not that Spiky Hair seemed to need help, until the drunk got the advantage, tripping his opponent and falling on him. He wrapped his meaty hands around Spiky Hair’s throat and began to squeeze. Jake cast about for some way to intervene and realized he was still holding the mug. He brought it down with every ounce of bone and muscle he had. The drunk’s head came up as the mug came down. Surprisingly the mug didn’t shatter but the man’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed, pinning Spiky Hair with his tree trunk legs. The smaller man pushed him off and bounded to his feet swiping at blood trickling from a cut on his month.

"Good shot," he said, taking the mug from Jake.

Before Jake could respond the door to the kitchen banged open. Where’s the scum who dared touch my little one? Mendoza’s stun rod zeroed in on the drunk. Consuelo grabbed his tunic.

"No, Papa. Please, you will be hurt!"

"Only one gonna be hurt is the one disrespected you!"

"I’ve got him."

Mendoza sawSpikey Hair’s uniform. He stepped back and watched as Consuelo’s attacker was dragged outside.

~~~******~~~

Jake swiped at his nose with the back of his hand and swallowed. He set the mug back where he’d found it and continued his search, a lackadaisical effort at best. Bawdy was dead. Stirring through the detritus of his life wouldn’t bring him back.

When the compudoor announced visitors, more than an hour had passed. Jake palmed the control to open. A six-foot two-inch raven-haired fem stood at the entrance. She brought her right fist to her heart and said, It is the Law.

Jake reluctantly responded with, The Law is all. It was form and form could not be ignored.

Five enforcers lugging equipment stood behind the fem. Meditechs pulled a gurney, followed by a tired-looking fem wearing an oversized tunic that had Coroner printed over the pocket.

Several other enforcers were at work scouring the corridor for clues and keeping back nosy neighbors who would no doubt disappear like cockroaches when the investigators started asking questions.

Jake. Anita Martinez filled the word with unspoken meaning. She would never show emotion in the presence of other enforcers, but Jake knew this had to be hard for her. She and Bawdy had been good friends. Maybe more than friends. Who knew? Bawdy, and he was dead. Anita would never tell.

Jake raked shaky fingers through his short-cropped hair. Anita touched him lightly on the shoulder. I’m sorry. We’ll do everything we can.

Won’t bring him back.

Anita nodded.

We need to get started.

Jake had been blocking the door, an unconscious attempt to shield the indignity of Bawdy’s death from probing eyes. He stepped back. The crime scene team entered without acknowledging him, and began setting up equipment while trading idle chatter.

After covering her hands and boots to prevent contamination of the crime scene Martinez went to work. Jake didn’t want to be around when she found out he’d been through the unit.

She studied the room from every angle, and then circled the broken Bawdy. When she was done she motioned for the team to move in.

I’ll need a statement from you, she said to Jake.

He held out a data disk.

It’s here. I used my communicator to record it. Advocate Wells has reviewed it and given his stamp of approval. And nearly had a stroke when he found out Jake was at a murder scene.

Anita passed the disk to one of her people without taking her eyes off him. Summarize it for me.

Bawdy was expecting me. When he didn’t come to the door, I thought maybe he was in the shower, so I came in.

Door was open?

No. I have the code.

He give that information out to anybody else?

Jake shrugged.

Stupid if he did.

She wouldn’t get any argument on that.

Have you notified his Advocate?

Thought you’d want to do that.

Name?

E.K. Philips. I don’t have contact info.

Your Advocate and your second pilot’s Advocate don’t communicate?

Jake and Bawdy shared the opinion that Advocates were a necessary evil, used only when unavoidable.

Nope, all I know is her name.

A fem. That figures.

She motioned one of her team over and instructed her to find the deceased’s advocate, E.K. Philips.

It took force of will for Jake to keep from shouting, He’s not the deceased he’s Bawdy!

Continue.

That’s about it. I came in, found him like that and called it in.

Brutal way to die, Anita said as the lifeless form was wrestled into a body bag. Two men lifted the death cocoon and swung it onto the waiting gurney with a thud.

Jake grunted and shifted on his feet, glaring at the meditechs, his fury rising to the surface in a blinding rush. The flush of his skin emphasized white scar tissue on the left side of his face that ran in a curve from his forehead and along the left jaw line.

Martinez narrowed her eyes. I don’t need to remind you to stay out of this, right?

He was saved from making rash promises when one of the techs walked up.

Advocates and enforcers be damned. The death of his friend was not something he could ignore.

You will be available, Anita said, looking at him over her shoulder.

Until Friday.

A job?

Carstairs Peacekeepers.

I’d heard rumors of that, but I didn’t believe it.

Jake shouldered his pack and said nothing.

He’s trouble.

The work is legit or I wouldn’t take it on, food and medical supplies for settlers in Free Zone.

Anita snorted. And weapons.

Jake watched the gurney roll past and out the door.

Yeah, registered and approved. Now, if there’s nothing more, I’ll be going.

She nodded, turning back to her work. Keep me posted on your whereabouts.

No can do.

She turned in a flash and grabbed his arm. This is a murder investigation. As the one who found the body and reported the incident, you are required to be available to answer questions.

Jake’s head butted forward. Until Friday you know where I’ll be, after that… he waved a who-knows gesture and shrugged. Advocate Wells can handle any questions or forward them to me.

This isn’t about Thunder, or that you’re contracting with a man whose business dealings barely edge this side of legal. I do intend to nab Bawdy’s murderer. You, my friend, are part of this investigation. I want to be able to reach you, not your bloody Advocate, you!

Thunder is the only transport company in this region that hasn’t been hijacked by the scum Enforcement Central nor Galactic Allied Confederation Security can find! That’s because nobody—and I mean NOBODY—has Thunder’s codes but me and Baw... Jake stopped and blinked away the sudden sting in his eyes.

Anita relaxed her posture. Compromise. Call in daily, see if your presence is required.

Daily! It’s a two-day trip, tops!

Daily.

Be reasonable. Everyone knows com traffic is the easiest to track. I’ll have hijackers on me in a heartbeat.

You have top-of-the line com tech, be creative.

Silence stretched between them.

My way, or no way, she said finally. I will get an order restraining your movements until the investigation is over or I release you.

The scar turned bone white against his flushed skin. Anita was among many who wondered how he got it.

I’ll work something out. With that he headed for the door.

Anita stopped him in the corridor. Listen, Jake, I’m sorry, about Bawdy I mean. He was, she stopped, black-as-coal eyes sparked with memory. He was the best.

She was as tall as Jake and well-muscled, but at that moment she didn’t look at all like a tough enforcer, she looked as stricken with grief as Jake felt. His anger ebbed. Yeah, the best.

I will get his killer.

Jake shifted his pack and gave a curt nod but said nothing.

What’re you going to do?

It was a compassionate question about how he was going to deal with his friend’s death. He gave a noncommittal shrug and strode away.

~~~******~~~

Chapter Two

The quarried stone building was much as it had been in another time, rustic but sturdy. It anchored a settlement that provided shelter to anyone seeking a place outside the patrolled borders of earth. Safe Haven followed no law, pledged to no government, yet remained peaceful.

A cheery fire burned at the center of what had once been a surfaced lot. Asphalt had long since crumbled to dust, replaced by hardened dirt that turned into a slush pit of mud when spring and summer rains came or winter snows melted. Crudely constructed outbuildings stabled horses, cows, and assorted other animals. Chickens, geese and ducks clucked, honked and quacked in an open yard bordered on one side by coops and a small pond. Pigs rooted happily in a sty surrounded by sturdy fences. Sheep meandered over a dale watched by dogs and kinder. Animals imported from other worlds shared the pasture. Several dragauns with wispy feathers and spindly legs carried adventurous youths in natural saddles above their haunches. Dragaun meat was sour tasting but the creature’s honey-colored milk was protein filled and sweet. Three-toed firburcoks strutted arrogantly, spitting fiercely at anyone who came near. The beautiful birds’ hostile character assured they were unlikely to become pets. Slaughtering them for food was not bemoaned as sometimes happened with other animals.

One rambling structure served as a hothouse where fruits, berries and vegetables were grown year around.

Kinder played as kinder will unaware that life had ever been any other way or that not far from where they lived was a world beyond their imagining, one where kinder were called issue and if creds resources were available, had legal representation from birth. A world where Advocates spoke on behalf of individual rights to the point those not savvy enough to prevent it were controlled by the Law rather than protected by it. It was a fine distinction few at Safe Haven knew or cared about.

Adults toiled at tasks necessary to keep the settlement in food, shelter and clothing: gardening, weaving, construction projects, prepping meats, fish and poultry for drying, canning or smoking.

Skeletal evidence of new construction was evident here and there. In the beginning the main structure, dubbed Haven House by the village residents, had been home to a variety of transients, each taking up one, two or three rooms, depending on need or—in some cases—aggression. As the population grew it became necessary to assign living area by lot, leaving the spacious great hall as a meeting room and communal eating area. The original kitchen with its entrance to a huge basement had been gutted for more practical use as food storage while anything needing refrigeration was placed in underground cooling bins. Over time, as others arrived, new sleeping huts were built. A rough transitional encampment at the edge of the forest was home to people passing through or seeking to become Safe Haven residents.

The setting was idyllic, if you ignored the primitive living conditions. To the west of Haven House, and clearly visible from its veranda, the ocean heaved, a monster element feared by some and worshiped by others. Ancient majestic trees of vaiours kinds rose up at the back of the inn and sleeping huts, and extended along a rutted road that led to an open meadow. Heat and smoke from cook fires shimmered.

Safe Haven, paradise at the edge of what was left of old California.

From less than a quarter of a mile away an occasional sighing or rending sound reminded villagers that more chunks of land were falling into the ocean. Man’s penchant for ripping and tearing, added to nature’s power, had set in motion a constant eating away of the shoreline. An irregular fog-shrouded smudge marred the horizon. For the most part this broken shard of the mainland was ignored. Attempts to reclaim Fog Island were haunted by disasters.

In the central yard a group of men and fems appeared to be preparing for a trip. Horses stamped impatiently in leather traces hooked up to wooden wagons of rustic but solid design. A loud whistle brought everything to a halt. The horses pricked their ears at the sudden tension.

Henry Kyper, a short powerfully built man with ginger-colored hair, stepped out of Haven House and scanned the area with eyes the color of graphite. Two more tones on the whistle pierced the waiting silence. The travel party returned to work. Kyper remained where he stood.

Before long an Air Transit Vehic, a sight rarely seen at Safe Haven, came down the road. The ATV wasn’t in the air, however, in fact it barely hovered above the ground and tipped its left wing into the dirt in erratic lurches.

The ATV settled in front of Haven House. The hatch opened and a fem stepped out. She was attractive in an exotic way, small-bodied but voluptuous. She wore her long dark hair pulled into a jaunty swag high on the right side of her head. Her gaze swept the compound before resting on Kyper. She smiled brightly revealing even white teeth and a charming dent in her rounded chin.

Kyper motioned with his head and went back inside Haven House.

The woman gave one more quick look around and followed him inside.

~~~******~~~

Chapter Three

Jake had walked to Bawdy’s unit at Metro Place 32 from his own condocomplex. He didn’t feel like going there now. The city rose around him, irregular blocks of concrete, steel and glass. Visual and audio jabber assailed his ears and eyes at every step, selling any and everything in the most graphic ways.

Air Transit Vehics traveled thoroughfares above the ground as if held there by invisible tracks while hovercraft of all shapes and sizes clogged the ground grids. Poverty raged through the galaxy yet everyone had a vehic of some kind, even those who lived on the edge of starvation.

On earth ATVs were required to remain at a designated route level. Anyone caught speeding risked stiff fines and sometimes loss of air transit pilot privileges, not to mention time wasted working with an Advocate who would—if possible—minimize the penalty, a concept Jake didn’t get. The cost of paying an Advocate was always greater than the price of a penalty. The Code of Advocacy had no benefits Jake could see but it was ruling law and the Law was all, that’s what the Galactic Allied Confederation Council wanted you to believe. On earth Advocates had figured out how to make the most of the Code, to their benefit, not always to the benefit of clients.

There is no path but the True Path! Believe! Turn to the True Path where you receive amplification of The Code of Advocacy, clarity of the rules to live by. Orhma will bless you.

The licensed representative shouted her message with conviction, holding out the auto link that would let passersby put creds in the cult’s intergalactic account. Like most Jake gave her a wide berth but some thumbed the keypad and moved on. Jake figured the only one blessed by Orhma was the person who thought up the True Path deity. All those creds were accumulating to someone’s benefit but he knew the recipient was not divine. Orhma had rules for everything, including when and how you could dispose of body waste, claiming it was against natural law to recycle it as fuel via the energy converter. What did the Orhma faithful do with it if it wasn’t recycled for energy? It was a mystery of religiosity that was beyond Jake.

There were lots of options for seekers. In metros across earth and the other GAC planets groups formed and faded with the whims of the devout or the desperate. Jake wasn’t interested. In his experience you got up, met your commitments, and went to bed. After a period of years the cycle was complete and you were obliterated in an energy converter where you briefly provided fuel for some needful thing.

Bawdy’s insistence on The Way baffled Jake. McClure had been about as level headed as a person could get yet he clung with tenacity to his belief in an all-powerful entity he’d referred to as The One. Jake figured Bawdy’s ability to believe in something against all reason was part of what made him the man he was, trustworthy, always around when you needed him. In the end The One hadn’t saved him from a brutal death. Where was this entity when starving people were dying while others ate off jeweled plates?

Jake’s hand went to the pocket that held Bawdy’s journal. Words. Wasn’t the galaxy done to death with words? He started to toss it into a public energy converter but at the last second saw the edge of the holo pix. After a moment he slipped the journal back inside his jacket and set a course toward the one place he would feel closest to Bawdy, Carmody-Eames Dispatch Terminal where Thunders I and II were docked. He ignored the throngs of Earthers and off worlders clogging streets and sidewalks. He was too absorbed to notice an androgynous figure clad in shapeless clothing that moved out of the shadows and followed him. Following the follower was a shrouded figure with an awkward gait. Anyone paying attention would have noted the odd parade, but this was not a world where anyone paid attention to oddity, there was so much of it around.

~~~******~~~

Chapter Four

The Law was deity. Follow the rules and Galactic Allied Confederation would take care of you; violate them and you entered a system from which there was no escape. Those who had the creds paid Advocates to make sure that didn’t happen. On earth everyone operated on the edges of society, subject to behavioral modification or worse. The Law Was All. Forget that and you lived but didn’t have the mental faculties to regret it.

Sentinels had been gathering, guarding, and disseminating truth for eons. The Telling was crucial but doubters too often cropped up among the chosen. Even the Courageous and Loyal needed to see, touch, and feel, eroding Faith as constant drops of water erode a mountain.

Abra studied the member Sentinels of the Society of Way Keepers. They’d gotten old. Despite digital costumes that hid their public identities, she knew these once hardy individuals were losing vigor. Bringing in others who could be trusted was not a simple matter. The Society had been infiltrated more than once by pretenders who sought to destroy it from within.

During the Purge—before the Code of Advocacy became Absolute Law—to follow The Way meant rejection of everything sacred. Subtle persecution went by many names—atheism, validism, individualism—driving the faithful to meet in small numbers in private settings. Don’t draw attention. Keep The Way safe from inquisitors. That secretiveness had led to a decline in the number who believed, who could be relied upon to retain the truth and pass it on. The Telling was down to less than one hundred individuals spread across the galaxy.

The quest for personal power was sovereign. Self-interest ruled. Entire regions had lost The Telling or gotten the words confused. The Way had been all but eliminated by a combination of apathy and corruption. There is no divinity greater than self! proclaimed the faithless.

Civilization across the galaxy was in a downward spiral. Extreme poverty, war, disease, violence, and cruelty reigned. Vid programs and news services were dominated by horror stories.

Advocates for individualism forgot, or ignored, that humans wanted something to believe in greater than fragile humanity. Take away one ideological concept and something else would replace it. Cults promising a cure for what ailed the confederation of planets cropped up like Chandorian fervvelva, spreading poisonous tendrils into willing and hungry minds. Some lasted for a time then disappeared; others persisted for decades before fading away.

Many among the society reserved judgment, unwilling to criticize ritual practices of any type. It is well to have something to believe in, was a common rationale.

For Abra there was only The Way, believing anything else led to false promises that held no hope. The Way was the path to pardon and redemption and equally a means of bringing the galaxy back from the brink of annihilation.

It wasn’t a popular message. Even among the faithful there were those who believed The Way to be a comforting myth, a set of rules to live by, not much different from the Code of Advocacy.

Galactic Allied Confederation promised health, wealth and happiness, tangible results of abiding by the Law. Reality was a select population of healthy, wealthy, happy beings, self-indulgent despots clamoring for power and possessions. Getting to the pinnacle of so-called success was not a guarantee. One might be healthy, wealthy and happy one day and condemned to an assimilation camp the next. The powerful became the powerless.

The Sentinels around the table were becoming restive. Abra drew in a calming breath and spoke.

We must become more aggressive and assertive.

A man wearing a mask of intricate design, signaled his desire to speak, a courtesy he didn’t always extend. After all these years he still chaffed under her command. He had never accepted his position as second with good grace.

Aggressive? Assertive? Caden rapped the table sharply. To what purpose? No one listens. We have nothing to offer!

A collective gasp from the others made Caden pause. Seekers want more, he added in a tone that could only be called patronizing.

Abra tempered her own response. There was no point in getting into an argument with Caden.

Perhaps you are right.

Confusion and perhaps a hint of fear were evident in the burst of murmuring ignited by her apparent agreement with Caden.

I open this meeting to discussion. Please speak your thoughts. To begin I state the obvious. We have long sought evidence of our belief. We are no closer to finding it but that must not keep us from making The Way known to all.

You cannot be serious, Caden said. All we have is The Telling and too many are making their own modifications.

Because we are not making sure the Tellers are among the faithful, Abrad said. The Purge has been behind us for many decades yet we cower like frightened kinder instead of being bold.

Bold gets you killed or assimilated. Of the two I’d rather be dead, Caden said. Murmured agreement rose around him.

It is said there is written information that will support our beliefs.

Caden snorted. Every cult in the galaxy has a means of justifying itself.

The Way is not a cult, Abra said.

Momentarily silenced by his near-heretical comment, Caden merely nodded.

Abra drew in a steadying breath. Some who seek the information believe it will bring them power. Others wish to destroy it. We can allow neither to happen. We must find proof…

Humph, Caden grumbled.

And confirm that our collective memories are true. The Way is dying. It is up to us to make sure that does not happen.

We are but a few, Ebony said. We can do little in a galaxy where so much is beyond our reach! The Code of Advocacy remains the Law and…

The Law is all. Caden said contemptuously.

Caden, Abra cautioned, have a care.

He made a dismissive hand gesture but said nothing further.

Ebony is right, said Ethan. Once we were many. Now… He shrugged. Although the man was younger than Caden, Ethan was frail and far more cautious. The Purge is behind us but what assurance do we have it will not return? Tales of The Purge were still told, horrifying stories of being burned at the stake, hung from bridges, stoned to death. Many of the faithful had died during The Purge and the thought of bringing it upon themselves once again struck terror in the hearts of many.

Abra allowed the discussion to continue, even when it escalated into argument. Only she and Caden remained silent. What would happen next would not be by consensus but by command. Her command.

~~~******~~~

Chapter Five

Carmody-Eames throbbed with activity at every hour of the day and night. Drones moved cargo in and out in an endless cycle. Mechs worked on internal and external hardware and systems. Contractors zoomed around looking to hook up with transport pilots who would carry their cargos to the far reaches of the galaxy, or across metro. Advocates intently studied agreements looking for errors or loopholes.

Drones wheeled through the controlled chaos cleaning up messes almost before they were made. The terminal was spotless despite the massive amount of materials, equipment, earthers, off worlders, and cargo cycled in and out. The drones served dual purposes. They were a never tiring clean up crew and the ears and eyes for Rennie Carmody and Janis Eames, bondmates who owned and managed the terminal.

As Jake made his way through the throng he returned greetings from acquaintances, but didn’t stop to talk. Nobody thought much about it. He kept to himself. Bawdy was the person Jake loosened up with; the one he trusted, even more than Advocate Jessup Wells who was paid handsomely for his loyalty.

Word of Bawdy’s death wouldn’t be out yet. Jake didn’t want to be the one to pass it on. When the news broke it would create an avalanche of questions and job seekers. Wells would come in handy for taking care of the worst of it. He’d be delighted to do it, and collect the creds that would result.

Carmody-Eames was an architectural behemoth, an elegant testament to function and form. Twelve tiers of