Terror in the Void

By Steve Whitting

The stories in this book all take place in the universe of my two previous novels, "Orchid in the Void" and "Saving Mars". The theme of all three stories is the awe and mystery – and the frequent terror – that inhabits the void. Not just outer space as we refer to it, but the unknown that manifests in that convoluted collection of cells between our ears. It is the unknown that at once beckons us and repels us. It invites us to visit haunted houses, watch the movie with scenes that we know will force us to cover our eyes, and read books that will keep us awake at night.

"Charity and the Space Monster" follows the adventures of a futuristic detective/bounty hunter as she attempts to solve a mystery involving a hostile alien life form that's threatening early Martian colonists.

"Freddie's Ghost" is set on a hollowed-out asteroid and involves a popular musician who purchases a seemingly haunted mansion and is then forced to share it with a girl with a mysterious past.

In "The Creature That Ate Sagan City", Freetrader Pete Soñador returns to Mars after 30 years to find it threatened by an experiment run amok.

Will this book keep you awake at night, if perhaps not just to finish it? I invite you to read it and discover for yourself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Whitting
• Release date: Oct 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463998564

Steve Whitting

Geologist, cyclist, home brewer, and author all describe Steve Whitting. His formative years were spent in Fayetteville, Arkansas building model rockets, stargazing with his friends, and reading science fiction. Graduating with a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Arkansas in 1978, he had aspirations of becoming the first Geologist to visit the planet Mars. When that didn't pan out, he began writing short fiction in his spare time. Over the years those story concepts grew and eventually coalesced into his first novel, "Orchid in the Void". When he isn't busy pursuing his profession as an Environmental Geologist, he can be found aboard his beloved bicycle cruising along Alligator Bayou Road near Prarieville, Louisiana, concocting ales in his home brewery, or working on his next novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 2

I know I’m dreaming. It’s the same dream I’ve had every night since they defrosted me. I had the dreams for awhile after I woke up in the hospital the first time, but they gradually faded away. The dreams started again after I rejoined the world of the living the second time.

It’s always the same dream – I’m with my fire team on night patrol. I hate night patrol. Bad things happen – especially when you’re looking for encoms – that’s slang for enemy combatants - hiding in the slums. They’ll try to ambush you any old way they can. That’s why we always send the robot in first. If there are booby traps or encoms waiting in the dark, then the robot can take the brunt and soften ‘em up before we go in. The ‘bot looks like a big stupid washtub on wheels, but it’s got low-light IR sensors and armor and a machine gun and an automatic shot gun and a grenade launcher and LOTS of ammo. They tell us it’s smart enough to tell the good guys apart from the encoms, but I’ve never felt like putting that particular claim to the test. I’ve seen what it can do up close, and it ain’t pretty.

Yeah, we sent the ‘bot in and right away I should have known something was up. The ‘bot had multiple IR signatures, only they were too small and too hot to be human. I figured they were improvised flares set to confuse the ‘bot and us since we were seeing what its sensors were seeing on our helmet HUDs. Flares usually mean trouble, and sure enough next thing I know Angel is telling me we’ve got multiple IR signatures moving in on us and they aren’t flares. I call for back-up, but I know we’re in for a hard fight. As I turn around, I hear three big booms - including one right behind me where the ‘bot is – and all hell breaks loose. The bot’s sensors are fried, but I’m more concerned about our new guests and switch from the bot’s messed-up feed to my own enhanced vision. Dumb move, the blasts triggered big fires in the street and now I can’t see anything in my HUD. I flip up my visor and try to get my night vision back. I see a little red pinprick in the gloom and duck down - some of the encom spotters have the old-style optical lasers for target painting. I put my visor back down, switch to target and toggle on my UV laser. I can see my little deep-purple dot just fine but the encom can’t and my round finds his chest, blowing a hole in his heart. Big Daddy was following my UV and fires a hellraiser, turning the street into a firework display on the ground. I hear screams and shouts mixed with automatic weapons fire as the hellraiser does its dirty work. Finally, the hellraiser burns out and for a few seconds all is quiet.

I think I figured out later that we’d been suckered by the old goat-tied-to-a-tree bit. Maybe if I’d figured it out in time I would have gotten us out of there instead of sticking around for their rockets to find us. They’re crude things – not very smart or particularly accurate – but one of ‘em got close enough to put my lights out.

I wake up in a hospital stateside. I made it, but I’m messed up pretty bad and my soldiering days are over. They tell me that they’re going to have to reconstruct me. It’s going to be fairly extensive and as compensation for the personal sacrifice I made for my country, I can pick what I want to look like. Lucky me. Then I get this idea and I think why the hell not it’s what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it? I ask, trying to sound like I’m half-joking in case they say no, but they don’t. All of a sudden, I’m really looking forward to my recovery . . .

CHAPTER 3

Why is my goddamn TV bugging me? I told it not to disturb me in the morning. I don’t have to be at work at a set time anymore – I’m self-employed even if I don’t exactly have an income to speak of at the moment. I’ve got my P.I. license and I’m a Level II Certified Fugitive Recovery Specialist. I don’t have to call anyone boss anymore.

The TV says I’ve got an incoming call. I told the stupid thing no calls before nine. It says it is 9:07:37 . . . 38 . . . 39. . . Okay, I get the picture. I should have said no calls before ten. It says this is a priority call, which means somebody paid a premium rate to reach me through my privacy filters.

Who is it? I mumble.

Mr. Magnus Hallbuck, says an overly cheerful computer synthesized voice.

Magnus Hallbuck? As in Magnus Hallbuck, the multi-trillionaire? The guy the news media like to call Mister Megabucks? This is one of my friend E’s pranks, right? The TV insists the call is authentic. Now my eyes fly open and I see strands of blond hair – my hair - in my face. I brush them out of the way and grope frantically for my phone. I realize it’s still in my purse and I’m not sure where my purse is at the moment. The TV says it can put the call through, so I tell it okay. Then I realize I’m still wearing just my panties and a skimpy tee shirt. Too late, the image of the caller is staring at me from the damn TV screen and no doubt getting an eyeful.

Ms. Charity Case? he asks. He looks kind of like the old movie actor Bruce Willis when he was in his early fifties, only he’s got a mustache. His face is visibly bruised and battered as if he’d been in a fight, but it’s unmistakably Magnus Hallbuck.

Yes. I croak. Oh my God! It really is him and he’s talking to me in my panties and I try to nonchalantly pull the covers up around me and fall out of bed in the process. My supposedly smart TV slides along the wall so that Mr. Hallbuck has an excellent view of me sprawled on the floor half-naked.

Are you alright? he asks me.

No. I murmur. I’ve just made a total fool of myself in front of Magnus Hallbuck. How can I possible be alright?

Sorry to hear that. I was hoping you could join me for lunch today. I know it’s short notice, but I wanted to thank you personally for coming to my rescue last night.

"That was you in the limo last night?" I ask as my embarrassment gives way to the realization that I may have just won the lottery.

Yes. That was a rather nasty affair, wasn’t it? Now, how about that lunch? I can send the limo around to pick you up at 11:30 if that’s okay.

Of course, I say yes. Think I’m going to turn down lunch with one of the wealthiest men this side of Mars? Never mind that the neurons in my still half-asleep brain don’t start firing until after the call ends and I start asking myself how Magnus Hallbuck figured out it was moi in the alley. Tracking me down wouldn’t have been rocket science once he knew who I was, but nobody interviewed me or even asked me my name last night.

I continue to think about it as I get dressed. I know the cops could easily figure out who purchased the stun round that took down the thug from the ID stamp on the slug, and my pistol put its own ID on it when I fired the round. It would have flattened on impact, but the IDs would still be readable – they’re meant to be. Like all street-legal guns my pistol is smart, which means it won’t shoot for anyone else but the person it’s registered to – namely me. All that together puts me at the scene. The only missing piece is how Magnus Hallbuck gets hold of the police forensic report, but then he’s Magnus Hallbuck. He’s got connections.

Naturally I’m assuming the thug I shot wound up in police hands. What if some of those suits that showed up last night were actually Feds or spooks of some kind? The scenario still works – Hallbuck just gets his info from a source higher up the food chain. It would also explain why our fair city’s finest haven’t even bothered to call me – they’re out of the loop. Regardless, he knows who I am and has probably done some checking up on me. Question is how much has he found out? They did a pretty thorough medical exam on me when I was thawed out and if he got his paws on that then he knows about my little secret.

I stop and look down at my feet – my shoes don’t match. I’m worrying so much about what Magnus Hallbuck might know about me that I’m not paying attention to what I’m doing. As Jake used to say, I need to get my head in my game. What Magnus Hallbuck really knows or doesn’t know is irrelevant right now – if he’d found out anything he didn’t like about me we wouldn’t be having lunch today, right? What is important is how I handle the opportunity. You don’t get to have lunch with Magnus Hallbuck every day. This can be a one-time event that I can tell all my friends about or the start of a highly profitable, long-term relationship.

For the next hour-and-a-half I have the TV scroll through biographies and news stories pertaining to Magnus Hallbuck while I finish getting around. E tells me I’m one of those naturally beautiful girls who doesn’t need a lot of primping. That may be true now, but it wasn’t always the case. Anyway, some of the stuff the TV digs up I already know – he’s CEO of Hallbuck Interplanetary Holdings, which includes Continental Shelf Exploration and Mining Company (COSEMCO), Cryonisys, Hallbuck Astronautics and Mars Development Corporation (MDC). Interesting tidbit I didn’t know: Cryonisys is the company that bought the other company that used to be the company that froze me way back when. As for MDC – they’re in trouble with both Congress and their stockholders for delays and cost overruns on the Mars Terraforming Project, and they’re in just as much trouble with some environmental and preservationist groups like Red Peace for allegedly attempting to destroy the planet’s Areology (that’s Martian for ecology). Sounds like a no-win situation to me.

As for Magnus Hallbuck himself – he’s often compared to Howard Hughes. He’s regarded as something of a playboy and frequently enjoys the company of beautiful women. His father, Melvin Buck Hallbuck, helped pioneer deepwater methane hydrate mining and founded COSEMCO. The younger Hallbuck took over the company when he was in his early twenties and transformed it from a struggling technology demonstration venture into a vastly profitable global enterprise that currently supplies a big chunk of the Earth’s energy. But his real interest is space travel, and just as Howard Hughes had a thing for starting a globe-spanning airline and building bigger, faster planes, Magnus Hallbuck has a passion for terraforming Mars and designing better-faster-cheaper spacecraft. Hallbuck has often been quoted as saying that more people would want to make Mars their home if they didn’t have to wear a space suit to walk their dog when they got there. Hallbuck believes the way to accomplish this is by making Mars more hospitable to human life through aggressive terraforming. That means making the planet warmer and the air breathable so that you don’t have to live underground or in a domed-over crater. It also means permanently altering the planet, something that Martian preservationists are dead set against. I’m suddenly thinking that would be a good enough reason for someone to want to kill Magnus Hallbuck.

The TV interrupts its download to inform me that it is now 11:15 and that the limo should be arriving shortly to pick me up. I put on the finishing touches of my business sexy look – I’ve decided to show off my bare legs despite the long nasty road rash. I want Magnus Hallbuck to see what I got for my trouble last night. I figure the least he might do is buy me a new motorcycle out of guilt, since what’s left of mine has undoubtedly been stripped down to the frame by now.

A knock at my door at precisely 11:30 signals the arrival of my ride. The driver looks the part of a real chauffer even down to the hat. The limo is a different one from the one I saw last night – this one is silver-gray and just as impressive. The driver chivalrously opens the door for me and I slide my behind onto real top-grain leather seats. I think the inside of the limo must be as big as my bedroom. The built-in bartender asks me if I’d care for a drink and I order plain ol’ water. I want to stay clear-headed for my meeting with Mr. Hallbuck.

We take Monorail Boulevard south toward the Gulf. It’s a clear day and I can see the dome of distant Avalon even from here. The ride is smooth and very quiet except for the brief roar of a small spacecraft streaking overhead. The chauffer comments that it’s probably Mr. Hallbuck returning from one of his test flights. I guess I’m supposed to be impressed by his remark – and I am.

After about twenty minutes we exit onto the private turnpike and take it rest of the way to the dome. The limo’s autopilot never slows once – whatever signal its transponder is broadcasting allows us to pass unchallenged through the checkpoints into the giant dome’s spacious interior. Avalon is literally a dream city under glass with filtered sunlight, pollution-free air and – most importantly – no undesirables. You don’t get in here unless you’re somebody or somebody’s invited guest.

We snake our way through picturesque brick-paved streets and passed immaculately kept green lawns to a section of town that the richest of the rich call home. We turn onto Knob Hill Lane, which climbs a low hill that is blatantly out-of-place in the coastal wetlands. Sprawling across the summit of this man-made affront to the indigenous topography is the palatial estate of Magnus Hallbuck, builder of said hill and the rest of Avalon. We stop just outside the front gate and I’m assisted out of the back seat by a sunglasses-wearing gorilla of a man in a suit. I’m politely asked to walk through a portable scanner that’s been set up just outside the gate – a most likely recent and hastily added security measure no doubt prompted by last night’s attempted carjacking – make that kidnapping. A couple of muscle men in suits and brandishing automatic rifles watch closely as I pass through the scanner. I make it to the other side without setting off any alarms or getting shot, so I figure I must be persona grata. A glorified golf cart with a decoratively fringed canopy silently whisks me up the winding drive to the mansion’s front doors, where I’m handed off to another big gorilla in a suit who in turn escorts me briskly up the steps. The guy who greets me at the entry looks like a real butler and actually speaks to me in something besides monosyllables. The hired help inside the big house contrasts sharply with the muscle-bound types in suits and sunglasses outside. I’m quietly ushered along a wide hallway and through an elegant but presently empty banquet hall onto a balcony containing a table-for-two. The butler seats me so that I have a splendid view of Avalon, asks me if I’d care for a beverage (I politely decline), and informs me that Mr. Hallbuck will be joining me momentarily.

I’m sitting there trying to enjoy the view, but my stomach is full of butterflies. I tell myself that Magnus Hallbuck puts his pants on just like everyone else even if he probably is the richest guy on the planet, but I’m not very self-convincing. Now I wish I had a drink to calm my normally steely nerves. I hear the butler approaching again and turn to ask him for a glass of wine, only it’s Magnus Hallbuck.

Ms. Case? I’m very glad you could make it on such short notice, he says to me.

Mr. Hallbuck, I’m Charity Case, I say as I stand to greet him. Then I realize I’ve just introduced myself to some already knows who I am and blush crimson at my faux pas.

Yes, it’s my pleasure Ms. Case, Magnus replies smiling broadly. I’ve heard so much about you: Level II Certified Fugitive Recovery Specialist, private investigator and the good Samaritan to whom I owe my life. Please, have a seat.

I sit back down and try to regain my composure while Magnus Hallbuck lowers himself into the opposite chair. He smiles at me and all I can do is gaze at him speechless and doe-eyed like a high-school girl who has just confronted her favorite media idol. (I’m not usually like this!) Magnus Hallbuck must sense my nervousness because he motions to the butler who summarily brings us two glasses of white