Helix Bound: A Novel

By A. Mateo Cruz

Born into servitude, Jenna Riggs never knew what it was like to live a life of her choosing. When she is given the opportunity to do so, she learns a life of one's choosing is often a life paid for in blood. A soldier in the Great United Republic's space corps and trained to fight its most deadly adversaries, Riggs is now an ex-convict and wants nothing more than to put the past behind her. She finally, it seems, has the opportunity to do that; to live the life she only previously dreamed of living. There isn't much she wants, but for her, a woman created and raised to do the bidding of her government, that little bit is everything.
Unfortunately, factions in the government believing she and her kind are a threat to their plans seek to rectify the situation and Riggs is forced to choose between a life lost and a life unwanted. Working for corporations in the de facto Commerce War, Riggs discovers that whatever decisions she makes only pulls her farther into an intergalactic intrigue where she is forced to question the very nature of her being while fighting for the survival of everything she cherishes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9780595916863

A. Mateo Cruz

A. Mateo Cruz is a native of Louisville, Kentucky. He served in the U.S. Air Force where he worked as an aeronautic technician and has a fascination with technology and its affect on the human condition.

Book preview

Prologue

Suau was lush, unnaturally so, but beautiful just the same. Jean-Pierre Royal originally created it as a masterwork, a standard by which all other art was to be compared. From serene plains of swaying grass to the violent beauty of ferocious storms off the coast of a planetary landmass, Suau was essentially the immortal story of the cycle of life, or so everyone said.

No weather control devices hummed through the atmosphere to alter the course of the changing seasons; no forest fire was stamped out to avoid losing wildlife habitats. The planet, since originally terraformed, was allowed to breathe free of man’s will, to run the course of its cycle of life unfettered. Perhaps that was why a great many of the citizenry of the Great United Republic chose to have their bodies laid to rest there. It gave them not only a sense that they would live forever, but also the sense that they were becoming more than they had been at any other time in their lives.

Theodore McCain understood that line of thinking. Suau had been his primary residence for a hundred and thirteen years. Not many people could say that. The population of the planet was sparse. For the most part, the inhabitants lived without the technological benefit of the developed systems, something most of the Republic’s citizenry could not do.

The majority of the permanent residents were monks and other religious clergy of some kind. They tended to live out their last days as if religious chants would stave off the reaper when he decided to make his final swipe.

McCain thought it was a strange practice to devote so much time to religion. It was a distraction, he thought, but maybe if they thought religion was beautiful, then beautiful things were best observed when one was full of life and treasured to the end. Humans, of course, tended not to learn to appreciate the beautiful things until too late in life.

Unlike them, his mother had chosen Suau as the perfect place to live at a relatively young age. She had always said that she was a part of the planet, and now she was. He only wished that she had died in peace.

From the darkened parlor of his mother’s home, McCain looked out the large bay window and wished for answers. He recalled her saying that when her time came, she wanted to be right there. The view of Gurin Falls was breathtaking; its rustic snowcapped mountains were unspoiled. McCain took a breath, choking back emotions. The house had been quiet when she was alive, but now …

Something was wrong. There was an unfamiliar presence; no, there were two. In his grief, he had failed to notice that he was not alone. He reached out telepathically and suggested to the intruders that they leave, thinking that would be sufficient. He was mistaken. The visitors were not pliable humans.

Because he had been targeted by corporate competitors, kidnappers, and pirates, he knew better than to be caught unprepared and rarely went without some form of protection. Nonchalantly he reached to his belt and removed a prototype of the new Banshee combat blade that his company was developing for the military. Quickly he turned and threw it at the intruders.

Spinning freely, the device screeched loudly, then detonated in a shower of sparks. McCain turned away, protecting his eyes. Shrapnel was embedded in his back. He winced and dived behind the couch. Hitting the floor hard, he grunted. His arm was suddenly numb.

McCain got to his feet and dodged another burst of energy. His attackers were now close enough that he could see their eyes.

Centurions in the Great United Republic were divided, split across a number of lines. It was many of the leading Centurion citizens who were responsible. Old rivalries from the home systems and difficulties with the government bred trouble. That type of trouble was what McCain had chosen to stay away from. Yes, some had valid points that should be expressed—it was just that the manner in which many had decided to make their points left much to be desired.

I never thought I’d see the day when we actually started attacking one another, said McCain as he watched for signs of further aggression.

Your tactics have changed.

McCain wanted to attack, to drive the intruders from his mother’s home. The thought was suicide, he knew, yet there was no other way to feel at that moment. He had barely begun to mourn, and now he had to deal with these two. He was angry.

We actually wish you no harm, said one of the attackers.

It was the first time the two had initiated any communication. It caused McCain to take a step back.

We are here looking for someone, an important scientist among our people. She was said to reside here.

The events of the past couple of minutes had transpired so quickly that McCain hadn’t had the chance to analyze the complexity of what was happening. The energy discharges were not Republican or anything else he had seen before, nor were the intruders communicating via telepathy using Republican Standard. They spoke Praetor, like his mother. Few people spoke it these days, especially not in her dialect.

I am Nisk, and here at my side is Traible, continued the intruder with ruby-red eyes. He was a stern-looking individual, sort of swarthy, with a wide face that said trust me. Her name is Solora Brurna. Perhaps you know her.

McCain looked at the two Centurions in front of him and wondered about a great many things. But whether or not they were a threat was not one of them.

She said you would return. McCain spoke the words as a matter of fact. My mother was always certain of that. It’s a shame she isn’t here to meet you, said McCain. His voice showed a hint of emotion. I am sorry to have to inform you that your arrival is ill-timed. Pirates in the Helg sector attacked the transport on which she was traveling. She is dead.

Nisk and his companion Traible turned to each other in private conversation. From the slight changes in their facial expressions, McCain knew something was wrong.

Is there anything else I can help you with? asked McCain.

The two Centurions had been in the Republic long enough to know that their brethren left behind during the Great Withdrawal had fragmented, and were overall in disarray. As a result, they barely trusted each other enough to accomplish small tasks. There were the first-gens, who tried to keep the old traditions; the second-gens, who seemed to be in rebellion against their first-generation parents; and then there were the hybrids, the offspring of Centurion and human pairings. They were considered the bastard race of the Republic and were trusted by neither Centurions nor humans completely.

You are not full-blooded Centurion, are you? Nisk stated, in the form of a question.

Theodore McCain was the son of a human father and a Centurion mother. Life was difficult for them while he was growing up. Many of the Republic’s citizenry were still bitter from the war, and just the sight of a Centurion could ignite undue violence. For years that sort of thing occurred, unabated by law enforcement, until the Centurions struck back. At the time, the Republic knew very little of their new arrivals—only what they chose to divulge. They chose not to reveal the true power of their innate telepathic abilities.

Like a sudden outbreak of viral disease, mental illness struck the human populations of quadrants inhabited by Centurions. Eventually the violence subsided, and as it did, so did the incidence of mental illness. The Centurions never admitted to any wrongdoing, yet neither did they deny it. McCain had been young then, but he still carried vivid images of the violence, locked away in his memory.

If not for the uniqueness of their eyes, Centurions would hardly be distinguishable from humans. They had no whites to their eyes. That was what had attracted McCain’s father to his mother; she had the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen.

McCain had a great deal of genetic influence from his mother, as Centurion DNA tended to dominate human/Centurion pairings. Most notable were his eyes: they were deep green with indigo irises.

Some thought he should resent the genetic diffusion, saying it would hold him back. To humans, he’d say Centurions were twice as intelligent, while to Centurions he always pointed out that he had an empathic ability lost to them. He loved who he was, and he loved the closeness his uniqueness allowed him to have with his family.

My father was human, said McCain.

And your mother was Solora Brurna?

Yes.

Nisk smiled at McCain.

For the corporate president, it was not a very comforting smile. It was the smile of someone who wanted something—information, a product, a favor. Business was full of people who smiled innocently across a table while they subtly negotiated the demise of their opposition.

What did you need to discuss with my mother? The tone of the situation had changed. McCain was centered. He had his bearings, and there were questions he wanted answered.

Nisk and Traible stared at McCain intensely, wondering whether they could trust the hybrid. Besides, he was Solora’s son.

Do you know anything about the Withdrawal?

It only saved the Great United Republic from utter destruction. One doesn’t grow up here without knowing about the Withdrawal. Besides, my mother is Centurion, said McCain. He sat down and grimaced when his back touched the chair.

Yes. But did she ever tell you why? asked Traible.

*    *    *    *

The experimental fightercraft docked at the Alarian 3 observation station at the exact time its pilot detailed in his permission report. Grappling arms latched onto the craft and lifted it from the flight deck while the pilot cycled through postflight checklists. He hated shaking down prototype craft, even though he enjoyed flying.

The craft shuddered as it was locked into the relaunch rack. Dockworkers in the area watched the craft closely. It was rumored to be the ESO’s new fighter and supposedly the most lethal fighter in the Republic’s arsenal.

The cockpit opened. The pilot was seen donning a pair of dark-lensed glasses. The bright lights of the dock often bothered crews coming in from long flights.

On the catwalk that ran along the side of the fighters, a team of mechanics waited for the pilot to disembark, which he was more than happy to do.

The crew chief in charge of the team approached the pilot with a message. Apparently, the director wanted to see him.

He said right after you dock, explained the crew chief. And by the way, the flight ops controller has a thing about wearing dark glasses in the hangar.

Lieutenant Commander Janus Havot disregarded the impertinent warning about glasses and walked to Director Kawaguchi’s office. He entered quietly and waited to be acknowledged.

After several minutes, Kawaguchi set aside his work and ordered the commander to remove his glasses. It forced him to expose his solid black orbs. They glared inhumanly at the unaffected director.

Report, he said.

Sir, the mission was a success. She’s dead.

Good.

CHAPTER ONE

The last of the heavy iron doors clicked and slammed closed behind her. With that, there was a sort of finality, a sense of relief that filled every part of her being. Jenna was free at last, and she was very conscious of the fact that it was the first time she had ever really been free. An anxiety was attached to that knowledge. It made the next steps difficult, yet she continued.

Life was strange; uncertainty could make the fearless no more courageous than the average man. It ate at the spirit from the inside. What would she do? Where would she stay? How would people treat her? Her mind was an untamable squall of emotion.

Outside the prison, she stood in the rain. The rain was light and refreshing, and she couldn’t help but hope that it would wash away the years of oppression she had endured. She forced a smile to put herself at ease. She was entering a new world.

Through a small window in the prison, she had seen a runabout approaching from the east; now it was parked in front of her. They had called it to take her to the nearest port, which was about a thousand kilometers away. She knew because of the stories she’d heard convicts tell about what they would do if only they could make it out of the prison. Information about the port was likely planted by guards to taunt the inmates.

There were a number of stories she could run through her mind, but she chose to suppress them as she sat down in the vehicle. She knew were she was going, at least in general, and that was all that mattered for the moment.

Planetary system ZZY-6, or the Quelian system, consisted of three large planets named sequentially after the first inhabited planet, Quelian. Quelian 2 was where she ended up. A large, mostly lifeless planet, only five major cities graced its surface. Krelisburg was one, and like most cities of the Republic, it was an amalgamation of two worlds: one above ground and one below. Its population of thirty million consisted of the good and the less than good. Unfortunately for her, being an ex-convict, she wound up in the midst of the latter.

She managed to net a place to stay after a couple of nights on the city streets. The apartment was only a dirty, subterranean one-room studio; she had gotten it from a guy she’d helped out of a jam. It didn’t cost her anything. The previous occupants had died mysteriously. The guy managed a complex and had told her that if she got rid of the bodies, the place was hers. There were laws against the unauthorized destruction of human corpses, but it was that or sleep on the streets again. Above ground, temperatures had suddenly dropped with the onset of winter, and below ground … well, it wasn’t safe to sleep in the open, even for her.

The apartment reeked of putrefied biomass and trash. The walls and floors looked like they were covered in enough fungal growth to support the pharmaceutical production of gruthemethelyd for the entire planet. The place was a biohazard if she had ever seen one, and it needed a lot of work before she would lay her head there.

Three more sleepless nights went by before the apartment was spotless and totally disinfected. She had gotten rid of all of the furniture that was there, except for a couple of kitchen appliances that were salvageable. She had no bed, so she slept on the floor. It was hard, but she had slept on worse surfaces. Having a roof over her head and a lock on the door satisfied her. The lock computer would have to be tinkered with before she was entirely happy. As things stood for the moment, it would do.

She needed to find a job. Soup kitchens and community outreach programs were fine for a little while, until she got on her feet. To do that, she had to have a job, and clothes—something presentable enough for work.

Being budget conscious while shopping was making an already tedious process unbearable. She had chosen clothing for missions out of ESO costume stores, yet this was different. She had been through five other stores with their special lighting and dolled-up mannequins and still had not been able to decide on what she thought would be appropriate for work. The store in which she was currently shopping was much the same, on a vastly larger scale. And of course it was crowded with many obnoxious shoppers.

Asking someone for assistance might have been a good idea, but with the sneering glances she was receiving, she really didn’t feel welcome; she just wanted to get what she needed and leave. She was clean and well groomed, but her tattered overalls and run-down boots made her look like a vagrant.

From the periphery of her vision, something caught her eye. It was a skirt-suit with a unique three-dimensional design. It was dark brown and contrasted beautifully with her complexion. She removed the suit from the rack and walked over to a set of mirrors. Holding the suit in front of her, she tried to gauge what it might look like on her. With the bagginess of the overalls, she couldn’t tell how it would look, so she went to a changing booth.

After changing, she found the mirror in the booth defective. The thing was warped so badly that it was a wonder it hadn’t been replaced. She walked out and went to an open mirror. What had been sideways glances and sneers turned to gasps and stares. When she stopped and looked at her reflection, she realized what had caused the commotion. It was no wonder. Her old wound was quite a sight. The T-shirt she wore under the suit jacket was short and left her abdomen exposed. She ran her hand along the oddly symmetrical yet jagged scar, remembering the pain and Cirrus. That was hell, she thought.

She shook her head and spun around a couple of times, getting a good look at the suit from different angles. It was a keeper. People in the store continued to stare and whisper as she went to change back into her clothes. Back home, no one would have taken much of an interest after noticing and perhaps asking a few questions.

She re-emerged from the small changing booth, and a store clerk approached and asked her if she could be of assistance. Yes, she said. I’ve been here for a while, trying to pick out a few items for work. I’ve only found one. She held up the skirt-suit. To be honest, I’m not very good at this.

Well, what do you do? For work, that is.

At the moment, I’m unemployed, though I have an interview with Cyberclone’s data acquisition department. I was fortunate to have an apartment manager with connections.

That’s always a plus. But Cyberclone? You’ll probably be working in one of those cramped, stuffy offices. I can’t say I envy you there. However, I have just the look for you. My name’s Deanna, by the way.

Riggs, she replied. Then, seeing the odd look flash across Deanna’s face, she corrected herself. Sorry. It’s Jenna.

What were you in, the military?

Yeah, but that was a long time ago.

Deanna looked at Jenna strangely; the woman looked way too young to be a veteran. I’ve recently joined a corporate merchant corps. I know it’s not really the same, but I’m sure there are some similarities. Is the military where you received your scar?

Jenna smiled. You know, you’re the only person who has actually asked me anything about it. I never think about it, or else I would have put on a different shirt.

Deanna shrugged. It’s no big deal, other than the fact that it looks like someone tried to kill you. Deanna handed Jenna a blouse and a skirt. Try this.

Jenna took the clothes to a booth, continuing the conversation. It wasn’t a good experience, that’s for sure.

Jenna didn’t take long to change. When she opened the door, Deanna smiled and nodded in approval. You look great. I say a couple more like that and a few accessories, and you’ll be in business. One thing, though—your hair. The pulled-back look is great, especially on you. It really accents your features. However, in an office, you’re going to want to play down those looks of yours. Between men wanting you and jealous women, there could be a lot of tension.

Sounds like you have experience, said Jenna.

A little more than two hours later, during her break, Deanna took her new acquaintance to see a friend of hers. He ran a popular salon in a building adjacent to the shopping plaza. The salon looked like one of those large, ritzy, high-end places, but on a smaller scale. Deanna said her friend Reginald was pricier than most places but not to worry about it, because she’d make sure that Jenna was given the same rate as he gave her.

Introductions went by fast, and the next thing Jenna knew, she was in a salon chair and alone with Reginald, who was examining her hair. Memories of the scientists at Innerspace invaded her mind, making her feel uneasy. The experience was a fact of her past, a haunting one that she desperately needed to overcome.

The styling session lasted longer than she would have thought it could. Evening had overtaken the day by the time Reginald said, Voilà! He spun her around to face a wall of mirrors. The change was dramatic. Jenna’s long mane had been cut in an asymmetrical design that covered a portion of the right side of her face. Am I a genius or what? Miss Riggs, you are beautiful!

Jenna didn’t know what to think. She had seen styles like it on the vids. She had never thought that a haircut could so dramatically change her appearance. It was amazing.

On her way back home, she stopped in to see Deanna, to thank her for everything that she had done. Deanna really liked the new style, and they sat and talked for a while; it was later in the day, and there was a lull in the shopping crowd. Since she was going into the merchant corps, Deanna was curious about Jenna’s time in the service.

What had made you join the military? asked Deanna.

Jenna shrugged, It’s in my blood.

Deanna assumed that she had family in the service. It wasn’t the case, but Jenna let it stand.

Thinking back on her day, Jenna felt good. She had some nice clothes, a brand new look, someone she could see calling a friend, and a job interview in a couple of days. It was shaping up to be the life she had dreamed of. Jenna tapped a code into the lock computer on her apartment door and entered the apartment. Waiting for her there were two members of the Special Police Service.

Jenna Riggs? asked one of the officers. He was big, with the thick neck that comes from years of intense weight training. Jenna could tell that he wanted her to be afraid of him. He was posturing and causing the muscles under his suit to flex. She had met a lot of men like him in prison.

Yes, Jenna replied, setting down her bags. She had a good idea why they were in her apartment. Actually, she had been wondering when they would stop by.

As you know, you have been placed under the supervision of our office. I’m Officer Crans, and my associate is Officer Sanchez. We will be handling your case. Crans handed Jenna a small stack of papers. The sheet on top is a schedule of times you are to check in with one of us.

Jenna smiled. So you’re my babysitters—is that it?

No, we’re here to haul your murderous ass back to prison when you screw up, snapped Sanchez. He quickly calmed down. Don’t get me wrong. We’ll be fair to you. There are, though, certain things we expect out of you, Jenna. I’ve taken the time to outline those things in detail. They’re in the papers we’ve given you. Read them. Know the rules.

What else? Jenna’s tone was dry. She didn’t need the harassment.

Do you have a job yet? asked Crans.

No.

When are you getting one? You need a least a little money to pay for this rat trap. Sanchez was a jerk.

Jenna walked over to the kitchen counter and sat on it. I have an interview in a couple of days. Cyberclone—their data acquisition department.

Good. Let us know how it goes. We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Miss Riggs. Good day. The two officers left.

This sort of thing was why she needed to reprogram her lock computer. Jenna was pissed, but she had no recourse. She had to deal with it.

*    *    *    **

The swarm was closing in around her, pushing her to the center. She was being hemmed in. No! she protested. I can escape. Something jarred her. It was plasma. The blast wasn’t intense enough to destroy her. No, they didn’t want that. They wanted her corralled like an animal. The big ships started to move in; they were forming a secondary blockade. The small craft shuddered again and again. Plasma was everywhere. Her heart raced. She could feel every pulse. It hurt. Make it stop. Please make it stop!

Everything went black.

Jenna awoke in a cold sweat. It was the third day that week she had awakened sweaty, short of breath, and scared. Her body shook terribly. Today was going to be the first day of work, and she felt like a wreck. She got up slowly and folded the blankets she had used to make a pallet on the floor, then got ready for work.

Cyberclone’s data acquisition department was on the far side of the city, which meant she had about a ninety-seven-kilometer commute by maglev train. They were fast, but she still had to be up and out of the house early because of the morning rush. Jenna took one last look at herself in the mirror and then left for the terminal.

The subterranean corridors were