The Star-Keeper Imperative

By C.N. Samson

The life of ex-space patrolman Blake Rheinborne is forever changed when he receives shocking news: his former fiancée, who has been dead for over a decade, is actually alive.

Now going by the name Valicia, she is the only one who knows the location of an ancient alien artifact, and she needs Rheinborne's help to escape from a rogue government agent who covets the artifact and its revolutionary technology.

From an underground city, to a seedy space habitat, to a doomed world, Rheinborne and Valicia must stay one step ahead of their pursuers. If the artifact falls into the wrong hands, it will mean untold suffering throughout all of known space.

THE STAR-KEEPER IMPERATIVE is C.N. Samson's first science fiction novel, and will appeal to fans of space opera and action-adventure. Get your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.N. Samson
• Release date: Aug 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393849117

C.N. Samson

Author C.N. Samson lives somewhere in the Southwestern United States. He has always had a passion for writing, and his love of science-fiction and fantasy began in high school. He wrote short stories in the years before the invention of the internet, and he believes that fiction should be entertaining above all else. His favorite authors include Clive Cussler, James Rollins, and Matthew Reilly, and he strives to emulate their writing styles. With every word he writes, C.N. Samson endeavors to transport readers to an exciting world that is both familiar and fantastic.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

ON THE PLANET BRONTANIA in the Werzeim star system, Blake Rheinborne was thinking of Kaye when he ran into the trampler.

She would have been thirty years old today. As he always did on Kaye’s birthday, Rheinborne wondered what his life would have been like if she hadn’t died in the accident thirteen years ago.

And since his mind was occupied with that thought, he wasn’t paying attention to the hovership’s displays. Thus, he failed to notice the blip that indicated there was a massive object directly ahead in his flight path over the rainforest.

The first indication of the trampler’s presence was a sudden jolt to the rear port quarter that sent the vessel careening off course. Rheinborne snapped out of his reverie, reflexes kicking in. As the emergency control systems brought the hovership back to level flight, the computer warned of a fault in the port engine. Thirty percent loss of thrust.

Computer, status report!

A display window opened on the main screen, with the caption Forward Camera Replay. The video showed a view of treetops rushing beneath the belly of the aircraft. A huge elephantoid head rose up from the trees, swung to one side. The video juddered as the trampler’s enormous trunk lashed out and struck the heavy cargo transport.

Rheinborne tapped the flight console, ending the playback. He punched up the live aft camera view. The bottom dropped out of his stomach when he saw the gargantuan beast crashing through the trees in pursuit of the ship.

Warning, said the computer. Port engine failure.

Rheinborne didn’t need to be told that; the hovership was already slowing and descending. His fingers danced over the console, entering commands that increased power to the starboard engine. Would it be enough to outrun the trampler? Possibly, but he didn’t want to chance it. Although the ship was unarmed, it carried limited defensive countermeasures.

Computer, he said, launch deterrent shells!

Shells launched, the computer replied.

Rheinborne brought the aft camera view to the center of the main screen. The trampler was still in pursuit, toppling trees as it crashed through the rainforest with its awkward, loping gait. Its long trunk flailed out ahead of it, grasping for the ship.

There came three bursts of light in the air above the creature, then—

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Startled, the trampler ground to a ponderous halt. It shook its massive head, then turned and ran away.

Rheinborne sighed. He closed the camera view and ordered the computer to monitor the trampler’s position. A systems check showed no other damage to the hovership. He could still make it back to the research station on Clarnhead Island, but it would take a bit longer than usual.

He let out another sigh. Now he had to report the incident. With great reluctance, he activated the comm and opened a channel to the station’s airfield controller.

After listening to the report, the controller dispatched a ranger patrol to check on the trampler, then signed off. Rheinborne waited for several tense minutes, expecting one of the scientists or some other high-level person to come back on and berate him, but there was no other contact.

He leaned back in his seat and gazed over the tropical landscape that unfolded ahead of him. He had been on this gig for about nine standard months now. That was a record, so he had been told. The high turnover rate for hovership pilots was due to the fact that few people wanted to risk coming in contact with the monsters that roamed below.

No, not monsters. Megafauna was the preferred word. The tramplers here were not native to Brontania, but transplanted from their home world of Pantagren. Some institute or foundation for conservation was trying to establish a colony of them on this world, for reasons Rheinborne had forgotten. His job was to transport supplies from the mainland to the island, located a few miles off the coast. Normally, he would have avoided a run-in with a sixty-foot-tall alien elephantoid, but...

He touched a small pocket on the chest of his flight suit, feeling the circular object within. Stop it, he told himself. Let the past remain there.

Rheinborne closed his eyes. The past couldn’t be dismissed so easily.

TEN MINUTES LATER, Rheinborne brought the hovership to rest on the concrete landing pad at the south end of the island.

Engine shutdown? Check.

Cargo bay doors opened? Check.

Time to get bellowed at by the foreman? Double check.

Rheinborne exited the ship through the forward port hatch. The moist heat of the island descended upon him as he headed toward the rear of the craft to inspect the damage. A team of workers swarmed up the hovership’s ramp to unload the cargo.

Waterman, the grizzled foreman of the station’s work force, strode up and planted himself in Rheinborne’s path.

Look, sir, I’m sorry, Rheinborne said. It’s completely my fault, I know.

The older man held up a grimy hand and glanced over at the hovership. From here, the damage to the port engine was apparent: a long, deep indentation in the metal from where the trampler had struck.

Whoo, said the foreman. It really got you good there, didn’t it?

Um...yes, sir. Rheinborne had expected a blast of cursing from the man, not this subdued reaction.

Eh, it was bound to happen, I suppose, Waterman said, sticking his hands in his pockets. These birds, they fly low and slow. Easy pickings for the beasties, yeah? But they can sure take a beating. Well, most of the time.

A trio of men in orange jumpsuits approached, each carrying a large tool case. The insignia on their outfits identified them as starship repair techs. Waterman pulled Rheinborne aside, motioned for him to walk toward the warehouse building.

We’ll get her up and flying as soon as we can, the foreman said. And don’t worry, you won’t get docked for the, ah, incident.

Rheinborne blinked. Forgiveness? Something was up, certainly.

In the meantime, Waterman continued, I got a little favor to ask you, here. See, there’s this old couple from the outer islands, one of their bots isn’t working. They can’t afford to have it fixed in town, so they brought it to us. If you could, you know, have a look at it?

Now Rheinborne understood. The man was only nice when he wanted people to do something outside the scope of their employment agreement.

I suppose I could, but I’m not really a bot mechanic.

But you have worked with ‘em before, yeah?

A long time ago, sure.

Good, good. It’s an old unit, very common. I’d let someone else have a poke, but we’re short on techs at the moment, you know.

Yes, sir. Where is it?

Maintenance shed two. The old folks are having a bite in the mess, but go ahead and scope it first. See if you can’t get it to dance or something.

Did they say what the problem was?

It wasn’t working, they said.

All right, sir.

Waterman lightly punched Rheinborne on the shoulder. Good, good. Thanks. He hurried away in the direction of the warehouse.

Rheinborne stared after him and shrugged. If a simple bot job would get him out of trouble for nearly wrecking the hovership—and it was clearly his negligence—then he’d be foolish not to take it.

THE STATION’S THREE maintenance sheds were identical rectangular buildings, each of them made of prefab metal and plastic. Rheinborne went to the door of the second one, opened it and peeked inside.

Hello? he called.

He stepped inside after a moment, chuckling to himself. A broken bot wasn’t about to respond, now was it?

The robot in question was down at the far end of the shed, past the shells of half-assembled machines and piles of assorted parts. It was humaniform in shape, seven feet tall. But even as he approached it, Rheinborne noticed something odd. Though the machine was painted with the brown and green colors of an agricultural bot, the unit looked to be some kind of combat or law enforcement model.

Rheinborne came to stand in front of the defunct mechanoid, which was propped up on a rusted metal frame. It was a Ballentine SP-67 series, commonly found aboard military ships as a supplement to security personnel. The triple eye-cams, three-fingered hands, and bulky chest were unmistakable; the base design hadn’t changed much over the years. It was a recent model, though, so what was it doing on some remote island farm? Perhaps it was defective, and the couple had bought it from some unscrupulous used-bot dealer?

Well, that wasn’t his concern. Rheinborne bent down, reached around to the small of the robot’s back and found the manual access plate. He pushed down, heard a little click, felt the plate pop open. His fingers found the reset switches, toggled them back and forth in the proper sequence.

A faint hum emanated from the robot’s chest as the power unit came online. Rheinborne stepped back, saw the mechanoid’s three eyes light up. He was about to issue a diagnostic command when the robot’s arms rose and its hands clamped onto him; not hard enough to break his bones, but enough that he couldn’t shake free. Was this behavior the thing’s problem?

Attention, robot! Rheinborne shouted. Return to default state and power down. Now!

The robot’s eyes flashed red. Rheinborne went rigid as electricity pulsed through his body. He gasped, and everything went black.

CHAPTER 2

WHEN RHEINBORNE REGAINED consciousness, he found himself seated in a chair before a round table. The room was in darkness, save for a cone of light that shined down on him. He tried to stand but found his arms and legs attached to the chair by magnetic manacles. No, wait. His left arm was free.

He spent several moments trying to release his legs and other arm, but it was no use. The chair was bolted to the floor, and so was the table.

Hey! he shouted. Where am I?

No answer.

He strained to see what lay beyond the darkness. Was he still in the shed? No, unlikely.

More questions swirled through his mind, like why had the robot stunned him. It shouldn’t have been possible, but—

Forget that for now. His immediate concern was getting loose and finding out just what in the Great Lord’s name was going on.

He relaxed, took stock of his physical condition. There was a dull ache behind his eyes, his mouth was dry, but otherwise he felt all right. He frowned when he saw that he was no longer wearing his flight suit. He now had on a tight-fitting shirt and a pair of shorts, both made of a light, stretchable fabric with an embossed hexagonal pattern. It was medical sensor-wear, which meant that someone out there was monitoring his vitals.

All right, Rheinborne told himself. Remember your training. First thing to do in a situation like this: call for help. He accessed his ECM brain implant and tried to ping the GalSigNet, but received a code 106: outgoing connection blocked.

Something flashed in the lower left corner of his visual field, a shield icon overlaid with an inverted triangle. Rheinborne frowned; that icon signified that his ECM was set to secure tactical mode, which limited communications to a specific command hierarchy. But that made no sense, since he’d been out of the service for years. And in fact, that function had been removed from his ECM’s firmware upon his release from the military.

Rheinborne found this troubling, more than if he was simply being jammed. His implant had been modified while he was unconscious. What else could have been done to him?

He attempted to reset his ECM to its default state but found that he’d been locked out of all configuration functions.

Hey! Rheinborne shouted again. His voice rasped, and a thirst came over him. It was only now that he noticed a drink bulb on the table, the tip of its straw-stem already snipped.

He squinted into the gloom. Was someone in the room with him, or were they watching remotely? Either way, he sensed that his captors were waiting for him to do something.

He pointed to the bulb. Am I supposed to drink that?

The cone of light blinked green.

What if I don’t?

The light blinked red.

Anger built within Rheinborne. The bot repair job had been a trap for him, and Waterman had known it. Other people at the station had to be in on it, as well. But why him? What had he done to deserve being kidnapped like this?

He glanced at the ovoid bulb, and something tickled the back of his mind.

If I drink that, will you tell me what this is all about?

A blink of green.

Rheinborne grabbed the bulb, put his lips on the straw-stem and sucked. The liquid within had a faint chemical taste, but it relieved his thirst. He squeezed the bulb, extracted the last drops, then tossed it aside.

All right, Rheinborne said. Now what?

The room lights snapped to full brightness. Rheinborne jerked his head aside and shut his eyes, blinded for a moment. When he dared open them again, he saw that he was in the center of a featureless round room with white walls.

A man now stood at the opposite side of the table, wearing a white lab coat and holding a dataslate in his hands. He looked to be in his forties, and sported a thin beard and mustache. The front half of his scalp was clean and smooth, while the hair that hid in the back was a rusty brown.

Are you in charge here? Rheinborne asked.

No answer from the strange man, who peered down at the dataslate. At length, he lowered the slate and said, You are Blake Rheinborne, age thirty-one, born on Treilath, correct?

Why am I here? And where is this place?

The man acted as if Rheinborne hadn’t spoken.

At eighteen, you started your two years of military service, went in as a pilot. Ship-to-ship cargo transports, surface-to-orbit ambulances. It was the tail end of the Dagrophus Conflict, yes? I see you got a commendation for landing in a hot zone to extract the wounded.

Rheinborne writhed in the chair, pounded on the table. Are you going to let me out of here?

The man glanced at the dataslate, ignoring the outburst. Afterwards, you joined the Treilath PSR unit. Did a lot of good things out there. Then you left. Or was it a dismissal?

I don’t have to talk about that, Rheinborne answered sharply.

Never mind, it’s here. Anyway, you then hopped around for a bit, ended up on Brontania, and here we are.

"Wherever here is."

Yes, about that. The man tapped the slate, and a hidden door slid open. A robot lumbered inside; it was the same Ballentine unit from the shed, but fully functional. As the door closed, the mechanoid moved to stand against the curved wall.

Another tap on the slate and the chair’s manacles sprang open, freeing Rheinborne’s legs and right arm. Rheinborne stood, rubbed his wrist. His first instinct was to leap over the table and smash his fist into the face of his kidnapper, but he knew the robot wouldn’t allow it. Best thing to do, for now, was to assess the situation.

I’m guessing that was a memory marker I drank, Rheinborne said to the man in the lab coat. So you can do a wipe back to that point?

"Correct. I apologize for the little historical review, just needed a bit of a buffer. It’s not an exact science, as you probably already know. But it won’t last for very long, so here’s the story.

"Firstly, my name is Gwynne, and you are aboard the civilian starship Adventurer. The reason for this is because I require your assistance."

For what?

A mission. I’m with the DSI. Department of Security and Intelligence.

I know what that is.

And I assume you’re aware of—

X-Branch? Rheinborne interjected. Covert missions, secret ops? Yeah, I’m aware. Pretty sure we all are.

Good, said Gwynne. Now listen up. Something of immense importance came to light: a piece of ancient Chythex technology. We were assigned to find and recover this tech, and we did.

Rheinborne let out a long chuckle. Chythex, seriously? I thought all their scraps had already been discovered.

Not all of them.

Come on. It’s been, what, fifty years since the last discovery?

Well, it’s a big galaxy, isn’t it?

Rheinborne snorted. So, is it a weapon?

Not as such, answered Gwynne, but it could be quite revolutionary.

And also used as a weapon?

Gwynne shrugged. That’s not up to me.

So whatever it is, our government will, of course, share it with the rest of humanity, right?

Gwynne emitted an exasperated sigh. To continue. Something has happened, and the artifact is currently out of our reach. I need you to help recover it.

Why me?

The person who knows where it is specifically asked for you. Gwynne set the dataslate on the table. A holographic portrait image of a woman sprang up from the surface of the device.

This is Dr. Valicia Parzo, a freelance archaeologist who’s worked with us on many missions, Gwynne said. She led the team that recovered the tech.

Rheinborne studied the image. Dr. Parzo had shoulder-length dark hair, brown eyes, and an angular face. Her skin had the tanned, weathered look of someone who spent much time outdoors. Though he didn’t recognize her, she seemed familiar. The caption beneath her image gave her age as thirty standard years.

Sorry. No idea who that is.

I think you do. Gwynne tapped on the dataslate, and the image shifted. Dr. Parzo now had short blond hair, pale green eyes, and younger, more delicate features.

Rheinborne’s heart nearly stopped. The caption now read: Kaye Henstler, age 17. Status: deceased.

What—what is this? he sputtered, staggering back from the table. A sick joke?

No, Mr. Rheinborne. The girl you were going to marry did not die. She is alive, and she needs your help.

CHAPTER 3

KAYE IS ALIVE?

Rheinborne found it hard to breathe. Memories flooded back to him: the news of her accident, the frantic visit to the hospital, the sight of her in a cryosleep pod, her funeral.

How? he finally said.

I can’t give you those details as of yet, Gwynne said. All that’s relevant at this point is that Kaye Henstler and Valicia Parzo are one and the same person. She underwent permanent facial reconstruction, as you can see, as well as biometric alteration.

Rheinborne put a hand to his chest, felt around for the small pocket. Finding nothing, he remembered he wasn’t wearing his flight suit anymore.

Where is it? he demanded, fighting a rising panic.

Your things are in the medbay, Gwynne said. But I need an answer right now, before we go any further. Are you interested in undertaking this mission?

Rheinborne composed himself as the image reverted to that of Dr. Parzo. He studied the woman’s lifelike hologram and grew increasingly skeptical.

Okay, you actually had me believing it for a second there, he said at length. I mean, there’s some resemblance, but that person is not Kaye.

So you’re saying you’re not interested.

I would be, if you were telling the truth. And let me just add, trying to manipulate someone like this is completely reprehensible.

No manipulation intended, said Gwynne. As I said, she specifically asked for you, even though there were others that I could have called upon. I’m just giving you the right of first refusal. If you exercise that right, we’ll put you back as you were, and you won’t recall a moment of your time here.

I need more than just your word that it’s Kaye.

Gwynne shut off the dataslate. The woman’s image vanished.

Do you really think that I’d be wasting my time on you if it weren’t? the DSI man said, his brow creasing. But, she did say you’d require proof. She told me to ask you this question. What is buried in the Inland Preserve?

The Preserve? Rheinborne echoed, taken aback. He stifled a long-forgotten sense of guilt.

I don’t know the answer, Gwynne said. But apparently, the question alone should be enough.

Rheinborne pressed his lips together. He and Kaye had made a pact to never speak of the incident that had occurred there, and he couldn’t think of a reason why she would have told anyone the story