Radiance

By Rick Chambers

The future of the human race depends on ten specially gifted peoplebut nobody knows who they are.

In the twilight of the 21st century, humanity seeks salvation from despair. Entrepreneur Eris Lateinos promises to create a happier, more prosperous new era with a plan to ferry resource rich asteroids into Earth orbit.

Tristan West, Lateinos embittered ex-PR man, suspects that the price of the era is far too steep. His suspicions put him at odds with the most powerful man in the galaxy and plunge him into a conspiracy that will determine the destiny of two worlds.

For West, discovering the truth requires an unlikely alliance with a zealous missionary and two mysterious strangers who harbor incredible secrets of their own. But all of them share the same goalfind the ten people who possess the Radiance before their lives, and the last hope for humanity, are destroyed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450253123

Rick Chambers

Rick Chambers is an award-winning communications professional and a former journalist. He is the author of three novelettes, numerous short stories, and a writer for Chronicles, a direct-to-video/ online series. He lives in Michigan.

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Copyright © 2010 by Rick Chambers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture passages come from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-5310-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-5311-6 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-5312-3 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010912173

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 08/25/2010

To CP,

the love of my life

and herself ablaze with the Radiance

"Then the Lord said,

‘How great is the outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah,

and how grave is their sin!’

And Abraham came near and said,

‘Will you indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked ... ? Suppose ten are found there?’

[The Lord] answered, ‘For the sake of ten I will not destroy it.’"

—Genesis 18: 20, 23, 32; Holy Bible

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Author’s Postscript

Chapter One

The huge metal door flew open and struck the old woman on the head. The force of the blow lifted her off her feet, and she collapsed to the cold tile floor in a spray of blood.

No one seemed to notice.

Scores of people poured through the open door, a mad river of humanity splashing against the Customs counter. No one took the time to help the elderly attendant. Few bothered to avoid stepping on her.

Dylan figured she deserved it.

Stupid old bag! he thought. Ever heard of automated door openers? Serves you right if you’re trampled to death.

Seated at a broad marbled counter, Dylan sighed angrily and touched a button near his right knee. A kilometer away, an alarm sounded in the small, understaffed Modos Medical Center. A paramedic team would be dispatched to the spaceport—eventually.

Of course, any of the seven Customs agents who saw the accident could have helped avoid it, but rendering aid to foolish old women was not in their job descriptions. In fact, they had a very simple job—stamping passports and watching for troublemakers.

The first task was easy. The other required equal parts expertise and intuition. Just what constituted a troublemaker at a shady gambling resort like Modos? The agents could not say for sure, but they knew one when they saw one.

Wide-eyed faces peered through the Plexiglas shield towering above the Customs counter. Lips moved in rapid motion, but their words were unintelligible in the din. Suddenly, a recorded voice—a throaty, sexy female voice—echoed through the reception area.

"Welcome to Modos, your fantasy lunar playground. We hope you had a pleasant flight. We’re looking forward to making all your dreams come true. Before beginning your stay, please bear with us as we process each of you through Customs. Thank you for your cooperation.

Welcome to Modos, your fantasy lunar playground....

The crowd’s reaction to the voice, particularly among the men, was entertaining. Eyebrows lifted; lecherous grins peeled away from tobacco-stained teeth. They painted a mental picture of her—raven hair; steel-blue eyes; full, inviting lips. They didn’t know that, in reality, she had blue-gray hair, a pot belly, and three grandchildren.

The Customs agents lining the counter let the greeting run three times before they moved aside portions of the plastic barrier and took the first passports. They interviewed each tourist in a monotone, their eyes usually locked on a point just above the interviewee’s left shoulder. They needed only a glance to know whether a person was a troublemaker. Otherwise, they had no interest in one’s origins or plans.

Dylan processed at least a hundred travelers before he encountered his first rejects of the day.

They were a strange couple. The man was just over six feet tall, his hair jet black and oiled, his skin the pale color of someone who rarely saw sunshine. He walked stiffly, as if his shoes were too tight. Although thin, he seemed strong and healthy. Dylan saw the man’s hard biceps ringed by the short sleeves of his earth-tone bodysuit.

His female companion was startlingly beautiful. She was of average height, her skin creamy and flawless. Her angular face was framed by fine black hair, drawing attention to liquid-blue eyes gleaming with an intellect rarely seen in the tourists. However, she, too, walked with an almost imperceptible hobble, as if there were pebbles in her narrow boots.

They stood a meter or so away from the counter, talking quietly and frowning at the few people left in the reception area. They looked uncertain, as if they were lost. Dylan knew the look all too well, and he scowled.

He hated first-timers. Their nervousness grated on him. Although his primary mission was to turn away troublemakers, he had been known to hold up visitors for days and even send them home just because he did not like them.

Or, he thought, his scowl deepening, their nationalities.

Hey, you two! Dylan called.

They turned toward the agent, startled and confused. He crooked a finger at them. They seemed equally befuddled by his gesture until, after a moment, the woman whispered something to her companion. He nodded his understanding, and tentatively they approached the counter.

Dylan kept his scowl and added an edge to his voice. You gonna check in or gawk all day?

The man jerked his head sharply to the right, a motion that should have been painful. The stranger, however, was uninjured—only curious.

Gawk? he asked his companion.

The woman responded in a soft, musical voice. A simpleton. A clumsy, stupid fellow.

But he used the term as a verb, did he not?

She shrugged. It is not uncommon, particularly in spoken English, to use nouns as words of action. I believe ‘gawk’ is used frequently in such a manner. Essentially, this man has described his opinion of our behavior—that we have made ourselves simpletons through the act of standing and observing our surroundings.

Then, the man said uncertainly, we have been ... insulted?

I believe so, yes.

Now Dylan was scowling so hard that his face hurt.

They’re not red-blooded Americans, not with that kind of talk, he thought, and not Brits, French, or Asians either. So what are they? Their accents sounded vaguely Scandinavian, but they did not look it.

Not that nationality should really have any bearing on entry to Modos, of course. The resort held a loosely independent status, answerable to the United Nations only in certain areas of law. Modos was intended to host all people, regardless of race or country of origin. However, the Customs agents made it their personal duty to sift out the undesirables, and Dylan found nothing desirable about these two—particularly not the man’s reaction to Dylan’s insult.

He smiled. No, he positively beamed!

Dylan did not like them, not one bit.

Names! he barked.

My name is Payat, the man replied. He waved toward his companion. This is Eucleia.

First or last?

Payat looked puzzled. I believe I approached the counter first.

"I mean your names!"

Payat and Eucleia.

Dylan clenched his teeth. "Is Payat your first name or your last name?"

Well, it is the only one I have, so it could be considered either.

Fine!

Dylan would not pursue the argument. He would probably end up rejecting these two anyway.

What is your nationality?

Payat looked at Eucleia. They both shrugged.

We have none, sir, Payat said.

Liberals! Dylan rapped the counter with a meaty knuckle. "Look, you two, don’t pull that United Earth stuff on me, okay? Until the UN Council says otherwise, we still have distinct countries on our planet, I’m happy to say. That means you have to tell me which one you come from. Capiche?"

Payat looked at Eucleia again.

Italian, she explained.

Payat nodded.

Dylan, misunderstanding the exchange, typed Italian into his computer.

Okay, why don’t you two show me your passports? he asked gruffly.

The strangers’ faces went blank.

"Passports, please," Dylan repeated in dripping sarcasm.

Eucleia’s eyebrows lifted. We have no passports. We did not know they were necessary.

Then how in bloody blue blazes did you get on that shuttle flight? he demanded to know. They’re supposed to double-check that stuff before takeoff.

We did not arrive on the shuttle.

Eucleia spoke up. Payat—

Look, Dylan continued as if he had not heard her interruption, Modos is just like a country. You can’t come in without a passport—so you’re just going to have to march your little behinds on out of here.

Payat shook his head. That is not possible.

"Believe me, it’s very possible! Now you can get back on that shuttle, or I can have a couple of my friends show you that exit door over there, where there isn’t a shuttle. You decide which way is healthier."

Payat turned and touched Eucleia’s arm. It appears we are going to need passports to remain here. Unfortunately, I did not learn how to secure one.

Nor did I, she admitted. Perhaps they must be purchased.

Dylan’s ears tingled.

Did you say ‘purchase’? he asked in a low voice, leaning forward slightly.

Payat turned back and moved closer to the counter himself, matching his tone to Dylan’s. Yes. Is that possible?

Dylan threw a glance at his nearest co-worker. She was busy stamping a pile of passports from a large family. No one was paying any attention to him or his charges.

Uh, yeah, it can be done. For the right price.

And that would be what?

The agent stared at the two strangers. On appearance alone, he would have guessed they had no more than a couple of credits between them. Their clothes were the kind one might find at a charity shop, at least a decade out of date. They certainly did not look or act like the high-roller type. On the other hand, shuttle flights were not cheap, yet they managed to swing one. Besides, they surely would not bring up the notion of bribery unless they could carry through.

Two hundred credits, Dylan finally said. Each.

Each?

You need two passports, my friend.

Payat nodded. I see. You have been most kind, sir. Do you have a Credi-cal?

Looking carefully around him, Dylan reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out a palm-sized computer, thin as an old-fashioned credit card.

Payat produced a similar device, plugged them together, and tapped out a series of numbers. Then he separated the Credi-cals and returned Dylan’s to him.

Four hundred credits have been added to your personal account, Payat said.

The agent confirmed his new account balance, then turned a smiling face to the strangers.

That’s all the information I need, folks, he said pleasantly. You can exit the reception area to your right. Have a good time on Modos.

Payat and Eucleia thanked him and walked toward the door leading to Baggage Claim.

As they left, Dylan noticed that they had no carry-on luggage, a rarity among tourists, and they did not seem to be hurrying to the luggage carousel as everyone else did. He tried to ignore the sudden pangs of doubt, wondering briefly if his greed got the best of him—again. What if those two were terrorists? Or worse, what if they were some of Lateinos’s minions checking up on the efficiency—and trustworthiness—of Customs?

Oh, well. Too late now.

Excuse me.

Dylan jumped in his seat. Turning, he half-expected to see a Lateinos cyborg preparing to hammer him into a bloody pulp. However, the figure towering over him, dressed in a medic’s white jumpsuit, was no cyborg.

You buzzed the Medical Center? he asked.

Oh. Uh, yeah, Dylan replied, swallowing hard, then waved a hand across the reception area. The old lady by the shuttleway door. Took a spill and cracked her head.

The medic looked over, a mixture of boredom and annoyance coming across his face. What old lady?

Dylan turned. The heavy door was still open, but the elderly attendant was nowhere to be seen. He gasped in surprise. He was certain she hit her head, and hard. He had seen the blood running down her face. And what about the people who stomped all over her in their rush to the Customs booths?

I swear she ... Rachel!

The large woman in the next booth looked over. Yeah?

Did you see the hag get it on the head over there?

Yeah. So?

Where’d she go?

Got up and left. No big deal.

But she got whomped a good one! I saw the blood! Thought she was gonna die right there.

Rachel shrugged. You’re seeing things, Dylan. She got up and walked away. No cuts, no blood, not even a bruise.

"But I saw it!"

Hey, go ask those two bozos you spent so much time with. They are the ones who helped her up.

Dylan gnawed his tongue anxiously. Uh ... the two who?

The guy and gal in the bodysuits. They made over her head, then helped her up. She was as spry as I’d ever seen her, and no boo-boos, honest. A ghost of a smile passed over her lips. You’d better get your eyes checked, Dylan.

Rachel turned back to her work, and the medic walked away, making angry clucking noises. Dylan, his heart racing, stared at the spot where a puddle of blood should have been.

Set me up again, Hal, Tristan West mumbled into the counter.

Above him, the rotund owner of North Modos Bar studied the drunken man poured over the counter like a spilled drink. West knew what was running through his mind. Hal liked the income from heavy drinkers, but Tristan West was a friend—if a barely conscious one at the moment.

I think you’ve had enough, Tris, Hal said, placing a beefy hand on West’s shoulder. How about some of my world-famous coffee instead? Guaranteed to sober a bottle of J.D. itself.

His left cheek still resting on the bar, West peered up at Hal and snorted indignantly. You tellin’ me I can’t hold my liquor?

No one can hold as much as you’ve had tonight. Not even a robo.

"Ha! Shows what you know! Cyborgs are terrible drinkers. They got less blood to mix with the booze."

Look, Tris, I don’t need you to go wrapping your car around some support pylon. Plays heck with my insurance. Have some java, okay?

I’m not driving. Lateinos took my car as well as my job.

Hal sighed. The coffee’s good, Tris. Honest.

Whiskey. Beer chaser.

The bartender scowled.

Last one, Hal. I promise.

Finally, Hal gave that hey-I’m-not-the-guy’s-mother shrug, produced a whiskey bottle from behind the bar, filled the man’s shot glass, and a moment later placed a foaming mug of cold beer alongside it.

Last one, Tris, he said firmly, and then I want you to settle your tab.

West’s face turned scarlet, matching his eyes. For the first time in at least an hour, he sat up.

You think I’m not good for it? he demanded to know.

Hal slapped the counter angrily. It’s got nothing to do with that, Tris, and you know it! You want charity? Go to the mission!

West nearly stood up in his anger. Tristan West doesn’t take charity!

The outburst was costly. Nausea and vertigo assaulted him with a vengeance. He fell back into his chair and grabbed onto the bar, steadying himself. When the universe finally stopped spinning, he picked up the shot glass with numb fingers and knocked back the coppery liquid. A slug of beer quickly followed.

Hal moved toward the far end of the bar, shaking his head. Tristan looked away, ashamed. He knew his old friend was worried. This drinking binge was unusual. In fact, West rarely imbibed because it interfered with his people-watching. The habits of a good journalist died hard. When he and Hal first met, West ordered nothing stronger than a club soda. Instead he filled endless pages in his little notebook with scribbles and scrawls, bits of overheard dialogue from the lives of Hal’s customers.

The reporter who makes the good contacts, who learns what turns people on or off, who gets the big stories—that guy doesn’t spend his time at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, West had told him.

Of course, Tristan West was no longer a journalist. He had not been in a long time. Neither, apparently, was he Eris Lateinos’s public relations man anymore.

West’s fall from grace had its roots in Lateinos’s recent spurt of bad publicity. It had been a little thing, at least initially—an unimportant story, one of those single-paragraph articles one found in a news-briefs column. Some no-name reporter, an old friend of West’s, had sent a story over the newslinks claiming that Lateinos missed a loan payment over some asteroid-mining debacle. The entrepreneur had put up nearly everything he owned to fund the project, so any negative publicity was cause for concern.

Tristan went on the networks immediately, insisting that the story was untrue. But the damage was already done. Wall Street shuddered just enough to cost Lateinos a few billion credits—and Tristan West, one-time PR man, could now add scapegoat to his résumé.

I suppose I ought to be glad that Lateinos took my job and not some vital organ, West thought ruefully.

Tristan drained the last of the beer from his mug and set it down with an audible thunk. As he stood and wobbled toward Hal, the other customers in the quiet bar pointedly looked away.

Settlin’ my tab, Tris said, pulling a Credi-cal from his pocket.

Hal took the device and plugged it into a larger terminal at the end of the bar. His pudgy fingers danced lithely across the on-screen keyboard, and a moment later tiny green letters announced the results of the transaction:

TAB, T. WEST ... 112.36 CREDITS

AVAILABLE ... 36.97 CREDITS

DEFICIT ... 75.39 CREDITS ... DEFICIT ... 75.39 CREDITS ... DEFICIT

Give yourself a decent tip, Hal.

Without looking up, the bartender touched three more keys on his terminal. The tab vanished from his computer’s memory.

Sure thing, Tris, he said quietly, returning the Credi-cal to him. I appreciate it.

Tristan West grabbed Hal’s right arm and gave him a smile.

What are friends for? he asked, pocketing the device.

He held onto the bartender for several moments, steadying himself. At last he turned and walked to the ornate glass doors that were the entrance to the bar. They parted with a crystalline tinkle, and Tristan stepped into the night.

It was late enough that West could see the thick blanket of stars blazing in the darkness overhead. The scene was not to be duplicated on Earth, no matter how clear the night or what one’s vantage point might be. The lack of atmosphere around the Moon allowed the distant suns to shine on Modos in all their eternal glory. Even the orgy of neon throughout Modos could not dull the tiny bright fires burning overhead.

Of course, Tristan knew they were not stars at all. He was looking at a holographic projection.

When it came to life on Modos, day and night were relative concepts. The sun that burned in the blue sky at noon or the stars twinkling on this clear night were not the same as those seen in the airless world outside the resort’s two-hundred-foot-high dome. Holograms gave Modos sunshine and starlight, keeping pace with the circadian rhythms of people raised on Earth. They could even create the illusion of rain clouds, with moisture supplied by sprinklers lining the inside of the dome.

Of course, it never rained during the peak hours of activity. That would dampen the spirits of the thousands of tourists who roamed the streets each day. Their comfort was the key, as it was at any resort, and Modos was the best.

From outside its protective dome, Modos looked like nothing more than a dirt-covered bubble twenty kilometers across, erupting from the relatively smooth surface of Mare Imbrium, the Sea of Rains. This, of course, was nothing like the seas of Earth. Mare Imbrium was formed millennia ago from lunar lava that spilled across the gray surface and settled into a flat, dark plain. There was little to mar it—a few craters here, a short ridge there, and the dome of Modos, protected from solar radiation by a thick coat of lunar regolith.

The pimple on the Man in the Moon’s face, some joked. With just as much filth inside, others added silently.

Much of the lunar settlement catered to the fantasies of tourists—casinos, hotels, theaters, and a few establishments not discussed in polite company. Still, while separated from Earth by half a million kilometers, Modos was not exempt from all responsibility to the home world. Certain universal laws had to be followed. Taxes had to be paid. A token number of immigrants had to be welcomed. Thus, some people came to Modos to gamble far more than their money; they came to gamble their lives in a new world. Some won. Many more lost.

The losers huddled on the sidewalk, silent and lonely, as West shuffled past. He had all he could do to walk, let alone catch his bearings, but he appeared to be making good time, so he did not care. Besides, his mind told him, in the deadly serious tone of the hopelessly drunk, that it was impossible to become truly lost in Modos. The resort was like an island. Here, however, if one walked along enough, he hit not water but metal—cold, unfeeling metal.

There had been a time when Modos was a wondrous dream to Tristan West. It had drawn him as it had drawn millions of others for more than twenty years as Las Vegas, once an oasis in the desert but later a gaudy tourist trap, beckoned to gamblers and travelers a century before. Tristan came to Modos with the excuse of a news assignment, an in-depth feature about the multitrillionaire business wizard who created this new oasis—Eris Lateinos.

Everything about the Greek was big—big office, big money, big in the physical sense—and he took an instant liking to West. There had been lots of eating, drinking, joking, and other pleasures that Tristan would not reveal to his own mother.

There was too much friendliness, too much socializing. The normally sharp reporter should have realized that.

But so what? Greeks are friendly people, aren’t they? Wouldn’t it be rude to refuse Lateinos’s hospitality?

You’re a good journalist, Tristan, the big man said, and I know you’ll do a good job on my story. By the way, I need a media man in my organization. Would you be interested?

West did not need to be asked twice.

That was when he left the humdrum world of the newslinks for a different world, one of little work but lots of money and pleasures he had only dreamed about. Where others scrimped and saved for years to spend even a few days on Modos, Tristan West could enjoy it whenever he wanted by simply stepping out of his office. A casino was only seconds away in any direction, a bordello nearer still. Lateinos was generous with his gambling vouchers, a benefit that West used to its fullest.

Lateinos had only one job requirement—to keep his name off the newslinks unless he wanted it there. And in that one task Tristan failed miserably.

As he walked, black depression swam up from the alcohol and hit West full force. Now he had no job, no good times, and practically no money left. He was not so drunk that he did not realize what Hal did for him back at the bar. He had even sobered enough to feel the hot tears dripping down his cheeks. The despair was palpable, embracing him, chilling his soul.

Then something shoved him from behind.

The sidewalk rushed up to meet him. Tristan barely had time to raise his arms to cushion the fall. The lunacrete bit into his hands, and a burning sensation ran up his arms to his brain, bringing instant sobriety. That was the moment he realized how foolish he was to wander the seamy streets of Modos so late at night. Muggings were not just common there; they were a way of life.

Groaning in pain, Tristan rolled over and looked up. Zep and Lan towered over him.

The two cyborgs were frightening enough in holographic daylight. In the darkness they were terrifying. Both were well over two meters in height, with shaved heads, broad shoulders, and thick, hard-muscled bodies. Zep was the more hideous; only his forehead and a portion of his right cheekbone were visibly living flesh. The rest of him was a marriage of bionics and organic matter. Robotic arms ended in gleaming, jointed fingers of steel. His metal jaw was fixed in a permanent death’s-head