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By KD Nielson

The decade of death: earthquakes, famines and devastating plagues that have swept the nations has left twenty-third century mankind weary and praying for salvation. They find it in the form of the Genetic Replicate Neural Uplinking Process, a fantastic new cloning device that will upload a person’s memories, personality and thoughts and deliver them intact when a clone is downloaded.

However, their new saviour is not as perfect as first thought, and there is more than one snake in the grass. Our hero, William Quinn, still a virgin, a marine that hasn’t been popped and been reissued, has to deal with the devastating consequences of a population over-reliant on technology – before things become hell on Earth.

Quinn navigates a minefield of political and scientific cover-ups and the entrenched belief that the sanctity of the human genome is paramount. In his search for the truth he might just discover the answer to the question that has been asked since the dawn of mankind ... what does it mean to be human?

• Language: English
• Publisher: KD Nielson
• Release date: Feb 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311566966

KD Nielson

Fantasy Writer Hi all, this is K.D. Nielson ... and welcome to my .... mind. I am a full time writer in search of a publisher, so I have to work at my day job to pay the bills. I have been writing and telling stories now for over 30 years. Since the 11,000+ earthquakes here in Christchurch, I have been free to indulge in my greatest passion, telling stories, while the city starts to get back on its feet. I have drawn on my experiences these past months (seems like years) of awful earthquakes, the years serving as a prison officer, and my time in the US Navy as part of Operation Deep Freeze, making seven deployments to Antarctica. Yes, in spite of everything, I am still sane. I have drawn on my daily experiences in these jobs and the different facets of everyday life, as material for my books. I have a wealth of intrigue, love, betrayal, war and heroic deeds just waiting for an avid reader. I have finished several books in the world I have created. They are just waiting to be discovered by that right someone, hopefully a publisher. All my books are available on Amazon through Kindle, and Createspace's print on demand. I am married to a lovely English girl, a schoolteacher, and we have three sons, one which seems to keep coming back, kind of cramps my style. My wife has donated (sometimes gang pressed might be more like it) hours of her valuable time helping me with editing and reading manuscripts, and being very patient with all my questions, some of them might be, well ... dumb. I have also been working with a like-minded friend who is a fantasy fan and a very good writer in her own right. She is also a renowned artist and in conjunction with another project connected to my books, she is working on sketches of the characters and creatures of my world. For more information on my books go to http://www.theworldsofkdnielson.com Thank you for bearing with me while I rabbit on ... I challenge you, step into my mind ....you might like it so much ... you may not want to leave. KD Nielson

Book preview

Major William Quinn waited in the shade of the Quonset hut, a prefabricated building that could quickly be assembled and just as swiftly taken away. He stood calmly surveying the scene before him. Everywhere he looked there was activity. He glanced skyward as a flight of Avenger jump craft rocketed past. They banked sharply and climbed for altitude. Quinn’s interest shifted as a drop ship hovered momentarily over the landing pad, its engines screaming while the main drives were swivelled for landing. A dozen ground crewmen waited expectantly. Even as the turbines wound down, the different doors and hatches were already swinging open. The ship’s loadmasters pushed the cargo pallet out onto the ramp for hoist trucks to pick up and disappear. The line of passengers, with all their personal gear jumped to the harshly shouted orders of the NCOs waiting outside. He saluted automatically as a marching squad of men, kitted out with their combat gear, were headed to the airfield, each man in step. The Lieutenant offering the courtesy as they passed.

Quinn looked at the face of each man, they looked determined and confident; men who were sent here to do a job and do it well. The Major critiqued everything he saw. Even though this was simply the Staging Point for the army, morale looked good. There was no sign the men in this command weren’t up for the job. For the first time the officer allowed his emotions to spill over. This was just one of the operations that didn’t go as expected, but it didn’t mean that personnel should be changed. They had been planet side now ten months and the High Command was even thinking about calling for a re-issue early. They had lost just under four thousand men. Quinn slung his combat harness over his shoulder, grimaced unexpectedly at the painful pulling in his back. He worked the shoulder for a minute easing the sudden spasms, and then being a bit more careful he bent and grabbed hold of his L34 assault rifle and started for the landing area he could see to his left. He passed a number of men heading resolutely for some important task. He moved with purpose. Even though he personally thought this assignment was ridiculous, he was determined to see it through.

He paused at the sentry post and mindful of the pain the unguarded move cost him, set down his combat harness, and took his identifying disc from around his neck for the guard. The man saluted and passed him on with a minimum of fuss. Quinn nodded and returned the salute. He stopped and looked at the aircraft waiting on the line. He took off his glare resistant goggles, blinking in the sudden bright sun and surveyed the area. There were fifteen of the sleek jump jet assault gunships. Even on the ground they looked to be a thing of beauty and extremely lethal. The ship was about thirty feet long, had rear loading ramps and assault doors, just aft of the cockpit on each side of the fuselage. Quinn knew the ship could carry fifty men and their gear, and once it touched down, the assault troops could get out in fifteen seconds. The craft was heavily armoured and he could see the turret on top of the hull, and one in the tail. The gun mounts under the dihedral wings were moveable. The fixed rockets could cut a swathe through anything. He looked sharply as a man ducked under the nose section and looked up into the nose landing gear wheel well. Quinn carried on forward.

He straightened and reached for the small of his back and his fingers probed the small metal screws there. He suddenly could see the jump jet screaming across the sky. It was three years ago when he had commanded the 23rd Infantry Battalion. He had rustled up a pilot to make a flyover to check on troop moments. They had a hard time getting good intel on the jungle world they found themselves fighting on. The jet, piloted by a junior inexperienced officer soon covered the area; however he was reluctant to go too low for fear of hitting the hidden terrain. Quinn scowled, remembering the screaming of the interceptors and the Lieutenant sobbing as he tried to shake the attackers. He swiftly climbed into the cramped turret, his tall body confined in the limited space. The four fighters weren’t expecting trouble, as there had been no defensive fire; as a result, they got overconfident and careless. The heavy guns jerked in Quinn’s hand as the rhythmic pounding echoed in his head; deadly scathing fire caught two of them in as many seconds. The survivors quickly launched air-to-air missiles, and the pilot either didn’t hear the electronic alarm buzzing, or Quinn’s frantic shouts. The exploding ship spun out of control and crashed. Quinn spent six months as a POW in the hospital. The doctors, while brilliant didn’t have the technology backing them up to heal his broken back. So when the war ended two months later, Quinn spent the next six months undergoing painful operations, and then a year of rehabilitation. The Chief Medical Officer was almost chronic in his attempts to get Quinn to take the juice. Quinn shook his head remembering the long arguments. In the end, it was Barnes that settled the problem. The Sergeant Major had simply told the officer that if Quinn was juiced he would find him. After all there were only so many places a person could hide on the ship.

Quinn jerked back to the present as one of the aircraft on the line started its engines with a hiss and a roar. The small flame shot out of each exhaust as it caught.

Captain Rogers? Quinn asked politely.

The man walked forward, he was wearing the traditional olive drab one piece flight suit, with the various patches on the shoulders and left chest area.

The man nodded, stuck out his hand. You the staffer?

Quinn nodded.

Good, I’m ready whenever you are, Major.

Let’s go see things then.

The assault ship had the name ‘Dirty Dog’ with some sad looking hound stencilled on the nose. The cargo/passenger compartment looked spartan, but the cockpit was something else again. It had been designed purely with the pilot’s comfort in mind. The two single seats were padded; plenty of headroom and each station had individual temperature controls. The flight deck had room for a crew of three, plus the two gunners and the two crewmen in the back when passengers or cargo were carried. This flight, only the two of them would be on board.

Where to Major? The boys up top said you would let me know where we’re going.

We’re going to have a look at 3rd Battalion. Apparently they have been hit pretty hard.

Yea, you could say that, 3rd hasn’t been getting much support from Brigade.

Rogers slid into his seat and after strapping himself in, started going through his cockpit pre-check.

How so? The reports from General McDavis have been positive.

The pilot turned and looked at Quinn as he settled into the co-pilot’s seat, strapping himself in. You’re shitting me…sir? the pilot said incredulously.

Quinn looked puzzled at the other man. How so?

General McDavis died almost two weeks ago. Colonel Jeffries is in command now.

Lionel Jeffries? Quinn asked in disbelief. Kind of a thin man, a nervous tic in his right eye.

Sounds like the same guy. I wouldn’t want him to be my C.O.; the boy is as thick as pig shit. Err… if the Major doesn’t mind the comment.

Quinn grinned slightly. Just don’t make that opinion too verbally known.

Anthony had served with Jeffries in the Dardnal campaign. He seemed to be a competent enough officer; then he went and got himself killed. Upon re-issue he didn’t seem to handle things so well.

He would only be DC2, he murmured.

If you say so, sir. Rogers reached for his radio and soon they had permission to take off.

Quinn gritted his teeth and mentally kicked himself; he didn’t normally discuss other officers with men lower down the ranks, and detested officers who did so in order to get juicy gossip on their peers. But in this case, things kind of slipped out. Even though he wasn’t happy about the faux pas, he had found out some useful information.

The flight was almost an hour long. They flew low enough that the units on the ground could easily pick up their IFF (Identification friend or foe) signal. They passed a wasted and devastated landscape. The front had changed so often that there were enemy, allied and their own tanks, APCs mixed in together. The dead were everywhere they looked. Most were left to decompose naturally. This would be a lush place in ten or twelve years with all the fertilizer that was lying about.

They passed a column of Atlanta Main Battle tanks. There was nothing ornamental about them. They had a chunk of metal for a hull, skirts over the tracks and another square bit of metal for the turret. The main gun was a good fifteen feet long. They passed ten of them pushing up the pitted and wasted excuse of a road. Quinn could see men sitting on the back of each tank; they would be the infantry company assigned to the squadron. The men waved as they flew over slowly, Rogers wiggled the aircraft wings in reply.

Major, look over the next hill.

The pilot swiftly brought the jump jet to a whining halt, throwing Quinn forward in his harness and then jockeying the controls, Rogers dropped the aircraft down behind the hill they had almost over flown.

Looks as if the lines have changed, Rogers said cryptically.

What do you see? Quinn asked as he quickly pulled the binoculars off the top of the instrument panel. He looked through them for a minute. Nice job, Captain.

In the next valley below, Quinn could see the remains of a heavy lift transporter, the fuselage riddled with gaping holes. Still trapped in the framework, was a super heavy tank. The tank looked to be intact, but it seemed to be abandoned.

That is something you don’t want to leave lying around. Then the movement Rogers had seen caught his eye. Enemy armor, they are coming through the trees. They are making for the Obama. They are light scout tanks.

Bulldog, Bulldog, to allied column on grid 432, can you hear me? Rogers called into this headset. He tapped his helmet as a faint reply came through.

Roger, Red One, we have enemy armor in the woods over the hill. They are trying for an abandoned Obama. Can you handle?

Sure thing, Bulldog,came the tinny echoing reply.

Rogers flipped a switch and a monitor above the windscreen came on. They could see the Atlanta’s slow and the men scrambled off. The supporting soldiers quickly took to the trees. The tanks pivoted and crept slowly across the broken ground. The two men in the jump jet could see the infantry guiding the armoured beast forward till only the turret was looking over the hill. Quinn could see twenty enemy tanks now.

Rogers, more tanks have appeared. These ones look like they mean business.

Fortunately the tank commanders hiding behind the hill had seen them as well. It was a short time later that they fired. Quinn watched the bluish energy of the heavy plasma weapons stab from each barrel and then he quickly looked up to watch the results. Ten explosions tore the hill apart. Even as the shattered metal rained down on the survivors, they were running for shelter. One drawback of the Atlanta was it took time for the main gun to recharge, a full ten seconds. And as they fired a second time, one more was obliterated. The light tanks were nowhere to be seen. Quinn just stared at the hillside. They had just watched nearly one hundred men die. The Major was a professional combat soldier, but sometimes the efficient way they went about their job could be disturbing.

Major, I'm picking up a general flash. The enemy are attacking in strength. That means the Obama wasn’t the target.

What unit is nearest? Quinn said tensely.

Bravo, Rogers replied without hesitation.

How soon can you get us there?

Already there, the pilot replied as he pushed the throttles to their stops. The turbines screaming like a banshee, before the armoured jump ship began moving.

The assault craft was angling for landing at the designated LZ. They could see red smoke marking the clearing, the wind pulling the haze in one direction.

Rogers, drop me at that small cross road there near the trees.

If you say so, Major.

The pilot slipped the ship sideways and as they flared for landing, Quinn said, Find somewhere safe to park and then come and get me when I call.

The helmeted, dark glassed flyer nodded. They both cringed as artillery shells came crashing down in the area that the jump jet would have been sitting if they hadn’t moved.

How the hell did you know? Rogers asked incredulously.

What better target to shoot at, if you see an aircraft inbound; the guns are probably already zeroed in.

Quinn climbed out of the seat as they banked and dropped. The tricycle landing gear had barely kissed the ground when the port assault door slid up and the Major jumped, rolled once and darted to the forest. The weight of the craft hadn’t even compressed the struts on the landing gear before the power came on. The jump jet swivelled one hundred and eighty degrees near ground level and then clawed its way back into the afternoon sky.

Quinn squatted in the shadows getting his bearings. He scanned the area looking intently for enemy activity. He removed his helmet and the evening breeze fluttered playfully with his short dark hair. Quinn savoured the moment; he knew he would have to get it cut when they returned. The corps frowned on its officers looking like some local hick. Quinn grinned wryly, getting his haircut kept the grey at bay, making him look younger than his thirty-five years. He looked quickly at his olive drab one-piece combat jumper and his body armor. He might need something more concealing. He quickly pulled out a small square device from the inside pouch of the chest piece, the Velcro sounding loud after the sudden quiet of the jet leaving. The small cord didn’t leave much room to see the miniature screen. He pushed a button and the combat suit and armor changed to a leafy green with some brown splotches and thin black stripes. The Major picked up his helmet, and using a small cord blended into the chinstrap, plugged it into the interlink he held. His helmet now sported the same camo pattern as the clothing. He punched the button again, shutting off the reconfiguration device, freezing the latest color scheme and then, unplugging it, returned it to the pouch. He was always amazed about the uniform’s make up. It was made from the revolutionary synthetic that blended thermalin and chameleon stealth webbing. It allowed the wearer to change the color configuration to that of the surrounding foliage; the thermalin regulated the body against the outside air temperature. Quinn liked the way it would stretch with the wearer, not restricting his natural movements in any way, like the old crotch grabbers did. Miniaturized magnetos woven into the fabric ran off the body’s natural electricity, powered the suit. When the body died, the suit shut down turning the color back to its original olive drab. The Major briefly loitered in the sun, enjoying the cool breeze. He reluctantly put his helmet on and stood. Quinn smiled sadly; he should have spent more time in the gym instead of behind the desk. It was ironic in many ways, after the operations and the painful days in the hospital, he had been sent to the Judge Advocate General’s office to work until his doctor pronounced him combat fit.

Quinn ejected the plasma cell from his combat assault rifle and checked the charge then, inserted it back into the stock. He smacked it with the butt of his hand. Unfortunately, the stupid cells tended to work loose, which was the reason that he had replaced his sidearm with the old P302 automatic pistol. The Major touched the small button on the side of the tinted goggles frame and cycled through the infrared detector, bringing up the image intensifier. The I.I. wasn’t as good as the binoculars but he couldn’t be bothered to dig them out of the pocket on the combat harness. He took off at a regulated trot heading for Bravo Company’s last position.

The unit wasn’t hard to find. The pickets quickly challenged him. The sentries were able to direct the officer to the Company’s H.Q. Quinn ducked under camouflaged netting stretched over the tables and viewing tripods. He nodded to the various men in the bunker. One man straightened and moved toward him.

Captain? Quinn asked.

The Officer nodded. Major, Captain Calgo, you the staffer?

Quinn grinned and held out his hand. Guilty as charged. What’s the status? he asked looking around. Seems quiet. We intercepted a general flash.

The officer shrugged. Don’t know about that, it is quiet here. They won’t attack until night, the Captain said bitterly.

Why night? That kind of attack is one of the hardest to coordinate and to support, Quinn asked confused.

They use their infrared equipment to spot our position. Every time the scatterguns, the mortars, or any of the other heavy weapons, even down to our L34’s fire, their friggin’ detection equipment senses the heat signatures off the plasma cells. They will start shelling our position just after dusk. We can only use the weapons for a few moments and then shift them. We have almost three times the defence positions required so we can shift to a new one with reasonable protection, Calgo said bitterly.

What about Brigade, have you told them what you just told me?

McDavis was interested in what I reported, but he was killed before it was passed up the line.

And now? Quinn persisted.

Jeffries, our C.O. What a joke; he tells me to harden up. The officer’s tone was bitter.

Captain, how did the General die? the Major asked suddenly, a disturbing thought had been niggling at him.

Friendly fire. Can you beat that? McDavis was inspecting the forward positions and he was caught in our own artillery. The friggin’ things were supposed to be laying mines for a suspected night attack. The call fell short, and the General’s APC hit one of the friggin’ mines. They were all killed instantly.

Quinn looked at the distant hills, not seeing them, deep in thought.

Who was the fire coordinator?

Calgo looked at Quinn speculatively. Jeffries. After McDavis and the X.O., Colonel Caffery were killed, the Lt. Colonel was the next senior. You don’t think that he planned this, do you?

I’m not sure. I will need to do a bit more checking. Keep this under your hat. It wouldn’t do either of us any good to cry wolf over this. Quinn looked around, moving off to the side to keep out of the way.

Captain, you don’t mind if I hang around do you?

Major, any help will be greatly appreciated. Pick a piece of dirt, clod or cracked piece of mud; it will be as good as any place to die.

Quinn grinned crookedly. You mind if I try and disappoint you?

Major, third platoon up the forward trench is an officer short, Lieutenant Hendrickson was killed last night.

Quinn nodded and gathered his gear. Good luck Captain. Otherwise, I’ll see you on the Arc.

But the officer was already on the radio, talking to some unseen person. The Major paused briefly and a nearby soldier pointed him in the direction he wanted.

* * *

Third Platoon

William moved quietly up the line. He paused now and then chatting to the soldiers in the command, he shook his head, this was no disorganized unit. The men were in good shape, with competent officers and while morale was a little low, overall it was good. Now that Quinn knew McDavis was dead he suspected that the reports that had been submitted, the very reason that he was here, were from Colonel Jeffries.

Major, how the hell are you?

Quinn looked around and saw a marine moving forward. He was huge, towering over William himself and would have to be pushing two hundred and fifty pounds. From the looks of his gaunt, unshaven face and the tired slump to his shoulders, this man hadn’t seen much respite.

Barnes, you old cattle thief. Quinn was genuinely glad to see the sergeant.

Barnes had been his top kick when he had command of the 23rd.

Barnes’ face lit up in a tremendous grin. Major, you know the lousy thing was lost. I just help to relocate it to where others would appreciate it the most.

Quinn looked at the other man as if he had gone crazy. You have to be kidding. It was starving. The steaks were stringy and tough.

Ahhh Major, even that was better than the chow the service, feeds you. He grinned, his eyes shining, full of mirth.

The two men grasped hands; the sergeant’s feelings were genuine. The clasp was warm and friendly.

Quinn noticed the three chevrons of a sergeant. What happened? The last time I saw you, you had three more stripes.

The huge marine shrugged. Captain Patterson didn’t like me threatening him. The judge at the court martial said ‘he understood’ why I said the things I did, but he still had to do something. So I got reduction in grade for one year, no brig time. The Court President said I could reapply for my stripes in a year.

Quinn stared open mouthed; it was rare for a judge to use that kind of a sentence. He must have privately approved of what Barnes did. I’m sorry about all that Richey. Why haven’t you done as he said?

Barnes spread his hands out encompassing the mess around him. I lost my pen somewhere.

I’ll see you get your stripes back. That is one perk I guess about working for Intelligence and JAG both.

And how is that turning out? Barnes said impishly.

You know the only reason I was assigned to JAG was that I had a law degree before going to the Academy. High Command said they wanted someone with combat experience to really tell them what was happening. I guess Colonel Morrison, my immediate superior was tired of me badgering him, about getting back to ‘being a real marine’.

Barnes nodded to a little dugout. Our command post. As the Major fell in beside the sergeant, the giant said, I sure am glad to see you sir. This whole pigswill of a barnyard is full of crap. If the guys in brigade know what they’re doing, I’ll eat my crusty shorts.

Quinn stared at the man in concern. Richey was never one to criticize the corps. He was born into the service; both parents were marines. Unfortunately, they died in the fighting on some other God forsaken shit hole of a place.

Once more on safe ground, he found that he was actually able to worry about Barnes. If he openly criticized the service, something was seriously wrong.

Barnes stared out over the logs and other hastily built defences, and Quinn thought he seemed to be thousands of miles away, maybe he was. Maybe he had lost someone the in the many years of fighting against the Alliance

Sorry Barnes, I was a million miles away. What was that you said?

I found me a girl, Major. Met her the last time I DCed. She’s a tech in the medical lab, one of the geneticists that work in re-issue. We’re engaged to be married.

Quinn stared at the marine. Who would marry an ugly mug like you? he chided good-naturedly

Barnes squirmed in genuine embarrassment, his tiny smile breaking through.

I asked her that myself. Renee just smiled and looked at me in an all knowing, special kind of way.

I’m glad for you Richey. You plan on getting out of the Corps before the re-issue catches up with you?

Not sure, I like the service. I was lucky the last time, I'm a DC 1. My last psych-eval has shown I’ve only lost three points. The corps has approved the marriage application. I was actually thinking of seeing if she wanted to go to the Leisure Center. Been there yet?

Quinn grimaced and screwed up his face. I kind of like the old way, meet a girl and go out, and then maybe after a few dates, well you know. I don’t really like the idea of applying for a licence to have sex then, go to the Center and after contract negotiations and the medical exam; you’re allowed to do whatever used to come naturally.

Yea Major, I know what you mean. I wasn’t old enough for too much of that kind of thing. I did get caught in the hayloft once with Becky Johnson; my dad whipped me good for that. The sad thing was I didn’t even get to touch her tits, he exclaimed mournfully.

Quinn laughed, So the beating would have been worth it if you had been able to touch them.

Barnes smiled from ear to ear. What do you think? But, like you said them times are gone. Now all that the powers-that-be are worried about, is the purity of the gene pool. After the close call of the comet strike almost wiping us out, and the Decade of Death as the press called it, the government has become paranoid about the survival of our society. The Sergeant looked around. You know what really sucks … being stuck on this rock for ten months now. We haven’t had any current thoughts or memory downloads with the neural beds and wireless upload sure as shit don’t work this far out. If we were to die tonight, on re-issue we would have lost ten months of memories.

As if on cue in some twisted play, a scream echoed from the medical tent, reaching out to caress each man. Both shivered.

A patrol brought in a pilot; he was badly shot up and wouldn’t let the medic juice him. He was adamant he wasn’t going to risk having his flight status revoked in case he had a bad re-issue.

Quinn looked at the tent when an orderly reached out and pulled the flap closed as if somehow that would magically shut off the man’s screams. Maybe losing ten months of memories wouldn’t be so bad after all.

* * *

The Attack

The artillery shells slammed into the area. The majority fell around the marines as they made themselves as small as they could in any shelter available. They would cringe and duck, as the dirt and other debris rained down over the area, clattering off their helmets. In one area to the left of where Quinn winced to every reverberating ground shaking explosion, a scream of anguish tore the night apart. Then, mercifully the second shell abruptly cut the cry off. Quinn gritted his teeth together. Captain Calgo had been right. They had easily pushed back a half-hearted enemy advance of a few infantry platoons and light tanks. The Major wasn’t even sure they had even suffered any casualties in the probing attack. However, the enemy observers had found what they were after.