The Drifter

By Stephen A North

2099 A.D. With billions around the globe jobless, a spiraling crime rate, and an unquenchable demand for offworld human labor and soldiers, Earth’s rulers implement voluntary and forced transportation to other planets. Among those compelled to go offworld are criminals and the unemployed. Serve your sentence and maybe you will get the coveted “Second Chance at Life the Way It Should Be.”

Alexander Cray is just another piece of human flotsam lost among the hopeless majority of humanity’s teeming billions. The odds are against him and getting worse. He’s had at least one memory wipe and his wife and former life are both lost to him forever. When he is sent to the hell planet known as Bacchus III, he knows his chances of survival—let alone a Second Chance—just got slimmer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen A North
• Release date: Dec 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005786311

Stephen A North

Stephen A. North is a Florida native. He has a BA in English Literature from USF. He served in the Army Reserve as a military policeman from 1984 to 1990. His first "real" job was making camera bellows when he was sixteen. From there he worked in the fast food industry, a book store, then three major retailers.

Book preview

Prologue: Shards

Do I dream, or does someone dream for me? All that was me is buried deep beneath shifting layers of velvet darkness. I struggle to find the center, but there is no point of reference, just an aimless drift. With a little more focus, maybe I could break free but something always stops me. Apathy plays a part, but there is something more. I face a formidable barrier of emotional pain.

There are intervals of life, breaks in the nothingness, like the sun through clouds. I experience a fragment of some fantastic adventure or vision. I cling to these visions, cherishing any shred of proof that I still live, even if they are someone else’s dreams.

People are always asking me how did we make the Lucid Stillness Project work, and how did we make the implanted memories real? The answer? There must always be a modicum of truth, some baseline, if you will, to create imaginary memories. The key is to firm up the lie and give it some emotional teeth, or bite. If we emphasize the right emotion, and build on it, we can shape that subject's ego and predict with considerable accuracy the behavior we expect. There was always some truth in those fabricated memories. In Test Group Six, we reached the pinnacle of this unique form of creation and have been able to turn those individuals toward useful pursuits that benefited our growing galactic society.

Josef 'Cap' Leto, Director Independent Special Actions Unit, Test Group Six (retired)

"Life Lease Ministries is an investment in you and your future! Why work in the private sector with little return on your time outlay other than whatever you can scrimp and save? Take a chance on something with a useful, guaranteed return! Yes, there is risk involved, but statistically you have a better chance of survival on an off-planet colony! Volunteers get better incentives and are one hundred percent vested a full five years before conscripts and ten years before a convict! This is your life! Spend it wisely!"

This message approved by New Orient Consortium and the Rayburn BioTech Suppliers!

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Rayburn BioTech, Home Office on Rigel Two with branches in over 100 Systems.

Chapter One

The reddish stain behind the clouds is almost gone when I open the door and enter the big noisy room. There isn't really any reason for me to be in a bar. Just an impulse. Vague thought of a drink or two to unwind, and then head home. Lots of people are packed in away from the cold.

I wonder how well I blend in. Do I look like someone seeking solace after a fruitless day of job searching? Who am I kidding? There's only a few jobs suitable for someone with my background. What makes me think there is anything else for me? Or that anyone would mistake me for anyone but a soldier or a cop.

A drunk guy sits to my left at the bar. Looks like he is still watching the TV screen mounted on the wall above the bottles. One hand is wrapped around a beer mug on the bar top, but he is passed out. On the semi-ambient TV Screen, beautiful, earthlike vistas unfurl in measured doses.

Bacchus Three, Garden Planet: Paradise, opportunity, virtually a new Eden all wrapped into one for all. Sign up today and gain immediate benefits such as Debt Forgiveness, Solar Citizenship, and of course, a second chance to pursue happiness, wealth, and love. Embrace the spirit of adventure, and depending on availability you may even qualify for age regression or disease panacea therapies.

The middle-aged, grizzled man sitting beside me to my right, snorts, then mutters, A paradise for some, maybe, but a big slice of hell for everyone else.

I turn toward him, lift the drink to my lips, and drain the glass without tasting anything, That a theory, sir, or an opinion?

He's wearing an old, black, military-style trench coat with epaulets on the shoulders. All I see of his face is his profile. He doesn't turn toward me. He's bald, tan, smooth-shaven, with a long crooked nose, and a half-inch scar cuts through his left eyebrow and up into his hairline.

Not a theory. I was with the Second Battalion, Third Rifles at Hellespont.

I nod, and put the glass down. Some big battle fought there, right? The natives made a last stand there, or something.

Something like that.

So it became a paradise afterwards?

The old soldier grins, but still doesn't look my way. All depends on your perspective, as I said. For some it's nothing but a big graveyard.

I see.

Doesn't matter anyway, son. Most people are going to end up buried on this polluted rock. For them, Bacchus Three is nothing but a faraway dream. Might not be for you though.

Not me, sir. I have plans of my own. Big plans.

Thoughts of my wife, Ellie, flicker through my mind and her smile that I can't live without. She is all the inspiration for plans that a guy could ask for. Add our daughter, Kate, to that picture and I could suffer through anything.

As you say, son, the man replies, you'll find out soon enough.

What do you mean by that, old timer? I ask, knowing I'm nearly twice this guy's size and far less than half his age. He might have a gun or something beneath the black military-style trench coat he's wearing, but I doubt he can reach it.

Have another drink on me, but make it quick, he replies, getting to his feet. He puts a handful of EuroYen bills on the bar top. You might need this, too.

He did have a gun in the jacket, but now it's right next to the money. He stands up, and I watch him wend his way between the packed tables of the bar and out the door.

I'm just fuzzy enough from the booze that it takes a moment or two more for me to put together what the old guy meant, what he was really telling me: You have time enough for one more drink.

I push my way backward from the bar, off the stool, and it clatters to the floor behind me. The bartender looks my way. People are staring.

On the TV, a male newscaster gestures at a map, then live footage of soldiers in riot gear, spreading out, making their way through quiet city streets. A press gang right outside this bar!

I ignore the gun and back away, looking for a door. See doors marked male and female another that says, Employees Only. The entrance is too far. A waitress emerges from the Employee door, balancing several plates. That way or nothing. I lunge, side step her, push open the door.

How much longer do I have?

Shouts behind me. Smells like fried fish in here. I'm in a kitchen, sinks to my right, prep tables straight ahead. Two people working at the tables. Big oven and grills behind them.

To the left, red glowing letters that spell: Exit!

Run that way.

Push a loaded cart of dirty dishes out of the way.

Brush past a red-faced fat guy in chef's whites.

Close.

The door opens, almost in my face.

I'm five feet away.

A soldier stands in the doorway wearing light body armor and helmet. He holds a club. Another is behind him. They stop and regard me. The first one is tapping his club into his palm.

Hear a magnified voice say, Stand fast! All patrons of this establishment are subject to Senatorial Order Three Six Two, otherwise known as the Vagabond Act. Unless proof of full-time employment and two forms of ID are presented, all occupants are hereby conscripted into...

I'm never going to see Ellie or Kate again, unless I get out of here.

The first soldier says, Might as well try, and gestures with his free hand, waving me forward.

I have to try.

Come on, he says, I'm going to beat the shit out of you anyway.

I hear a yell, and a volley of shots behind me. That settles it. Howling in rage and desperation, I rush toward him. He swings the club with his right hand, and I try to block it with my left. Feel my forearm go numb when it hits me. Take another strike in the chest. Stumble. Begin to fall, wheezing. Can't breathe. See the surprise in the soldier's eyes as I crash into him. Slam him against the doorframe.

Slide with him toward the floor.

A club crashes down on me repeatedly. Blows to the body, torso, and arms. The soldier beneath me holds me fast, and then a solid connection with my head knocks me into oblivion.

Chapter Two

Those last moments of my former life haunt me. The transition between my old world and this new one was shocking. I woke up naked, on what looked like a barrack's floor, with thirty or forty other recruits four weeks ago. One day, I was enjoying all the basic comforts of civilization: a roof over my head, a place to sleep, and fairly regular meals. All I had to do was catch one break and find a job.

Now, after my interval of oblivion, I stand on a concrete quad between the two buildings of our battalion. The falling rain is so heavy that we can barely see. My clothes are soaked through, and I have a bad feeling, waiting to hear what the drill sergeant will say. Our platoon is close to the end of the training cycle. Each day, over the past week, things have gotten progressively more violent as we train for combat. People have died: trainers and trainees.

Listen up, slugs! a sergeant named Ward shouts.

I wonder what I'd have to do to get out of here. Die is my best guess. One thing I know at least, unlike the Penal Battalions, they let conscript or pressed troops keep their memories. I don't really know what they leave those poor bastards. Are they even human anymore?

When your name is read, it will be followed by a letter. Look for the sign with your letter and go there. Any screwing around and going to the wrong line will get you a week of extra combat training. Drill Sergeant Ward pauses a moment, then starts reading names.

Cray, Alexander, Group Charlie.

That's me. Most of my training comrades are in Group Delta. Only two other people are in Group Charlie. I break formation and go stand next to the other two Charlies. One is a blonde woman and the other a hulking black man. Their names are stenciled on the front of the tan t-shirts they are wearing. Both look familiar, but I can't place them. Probably seen them around during the last few weeks somewhere. The black man's shirt has the name 'Rice' and the woman's 'Bradbury.' My gaze must have lingered too long on her chest because she is glaring at me when I look at her face. Something about her expression strikes a chord, but I don't know her.

Welcome to the Colonial Military Service! Ward shouts. Most of you were picked up in vagrant sweeps! Be glad! If you survive, your future will be brighter! Certainly better than dying in a gutter or selling yourself for drug experimentation!

Vagrant Sweeps? Looks like military service on the colony planets for me. Turns out the news media didn't broadcast anything about the new curfew hours until the next morning. Of course, being ignorant of the law is no excuse. Too bad I didn't sign up voluntarily—Ellie and the baby would be going with me, instead of being left behind.

If I'd been given the chance, volunteers got a five to ten year contract as a bondsperson depending on their skill set. That was a lot closer to what I'd planned for Ellie and me. Never got a chance to ask her, or to volunteer.

No choice or chance was offered.

Drill Sergeant Ward's tirade goes on for quite some time while the number of people in each group grows. There are ten of us when we are finally dismissed from the formation and led to a long line of eight-wheeled armored trucks. Our new leader is a short Hispanic-looking sergeant named Owens. He marches us to the back of the third truck and tells us to climb onboard. We walk up a short ramp where there are benches along either side. Near the front, there is a doorway into the cab. And on the wall behind the cab is a short ladder to a domed gunner's position. I follow Rice and Bradbury all the way in and sit down on the right side.

As the engine cranks up, Rice leans over to me and rumbles, Thought we were never going to see you again. Cara and I have tried to talk to you a couple times.

I know I looked puzzled when I answer: "You both look familiar, but I don't know you or Cara. What are you talking about?"

Rice turns back to the blonde named Bradbury and says, He doesn't remember us.

I will say that his deep bass voice is more familiar than his or her appearance. Like me, they appear to be in their mid to late twenties. There is an echo of something in certain facial expressions—her frown for instance.

She shrugs, What difference does it make? He didn't save anyone last time, either.

My turn to frown. I don't know who you two think I am, but this conversation is getting old.

Our truck lurches into motion, and the strange moment passes. After a few minutes, Rice's head slumps and he starts to snore. Bradbury just stares straight ahead and ignores me. We drive along at a good pace for some time then we make a couple of left turns and come to a stop. I have no sense of time. None of us have any form of watch, and Owens doesn't say anything.

We idle for maybe five minutes, while there are loud metallic clangs outside, and an engine roars to life. Everyone starts to babble questions at Owens, and he tells them to shut up. Our truck lurches once then twice. Then, without warning, we start driving up an incline or ramp. We are forced to grab onto to our seats to avoid sliding backwards. A moment or two later we level out, drive forward briefly, and stop. The driver turns the engine off, and joins us in the cabin.

He's another short guy, maybe five foot five, and about one hundred and forty pounds. The name stitched onto the coveralls he's wearing reads: Corbin. With a big smile, he says, "Welcome to the Taurino and your new home!"

No one smiles. None of us are glad to be here.

* * *

For the next two months, we sleep in the cryocoffins.

A week out from our destination, they wake us. There is no separation of the sexes in the sleeping arrangements or in the locker room. For some this means nights filled with debauchery. There are six men and four women in our squad bay, and most of them are pairing up every night. Owens doesn't seem to give a damn what anyone does as long as he is left out of it. Rice, Bradbury, and I keep to ourselves also.

It isn't that I don't notice Bradbury, but I am still married. And Bradbury isn't interested in anyone that I can detect. I'm probably not going to survive this, and even if I do, will Ellie still be waiting? I haven't been allowed to have any contact with her since they abducted me for this.

Our nine-man squad is broken up into four two man teams and one squad leader.

We spend most of our time training with all the various equipment, weapons, and vehicles that we might use, and the rest of it cleaning and maintaining all those things. There is time for conversation when we are cleaning, although most of us seem tight-lipped about our pasts. After that initial strange conversation that day in the truck, neither Rice nor Bradbury has mentioned that they knew me before. Bradbury maintains a sullen, withdrawn attitude, and I've come to believe that is her natural disposition. We don't have small talk, but she obeys any order given to her by the squad leader. Rice, on the other hand, will talk about anything.

Except Bradbury.

So, you mentioned a family? Rice says one day when we are sitting in the hallway outside our squad bay. We both are cleaning our personal weapons and what are termed our primary weapons; he his machine gun, and me my carbine. All of our weapons parts are laid out before us on rubberized mats.

I never mentioned a family but decide to answer the question anyway. Yes, my wife, Ellie, and our little girl, Kate.

He nods. How old is Kate?

She's two.

Fun age. My daughter would be an old lady now if she's still alive.

He's never discussed his family. I didn't ask. How is that possible? You can't be older than thirty!

He laughs. I've been floating around in a sleep tank on a derelict ship for at least three quarters of a century, Alex, and they gave me a rejuve treatment. Out of more than a thousand sleepers, only a few hundred survived. On top of that, we were forced into this.

I'm staring at him.

I lost my life and a lot of friends, and now I'm going to fight someone else's war. I'm dealing with it a lot better than Bradbury is.

I resist asking about her and instead say, Must be some story how you ended up in the sleep tank!

He raises an eyebrow at me. If only you knew...

I have time right now.

Maybe later, Alex. Tell me, do you remember your parents and where you're from?

The question catches me off guard. Gus doesn't appear to notice. He's cleaning out the gun's barrel.

Strange questions, Gus.

Just answer, will you?

My parents died when I was young, and I grew up in an institution near Chiefland, Florida. Can't remember much of it.

That so? he asks and appears to be hinting that he doesn't believe me. That's what you remember?

I really don't remember much. I had a head injury a few years ago. It's what Ellie told me. There are times when it really bothers me. I've come to terms with it. Having my family helped. We live in the present, not the past, right?

I see. Ever been to St. Pete?

Can't say that I have. Why?

You lost a good chunk of your life, just like me, he says. He puts the now clean gun barrel aside on the mat and picks up the pistol grip. It is horrible to lose part of yourself. Never mind about St. Pete, I was just curious.

I can't imagine comparing what I lost to what you lost, Gus, I say and mean it. My family is still alive. And his? If any are alive, they are descendants. Nobody who would remember him.

Hard to quantify that, he replies, and some things are better forgotten.

I wonder if it would be better to forget everything. I seriously doubt that we'll ever get back home.

He shakes his head, and we finish cleaning the rest of the parts in silence.

* * *

We spend the last night before planetfall in our coffins, not under, or sleeping exactly. We're jacked into the briefing system, learning about Bacchus Three, outpost of humanity...

Bacchus Three: Third of six planets orbiting a warm K-class Star. This Gaian Planet had fully developed geological, hydrological, and biological systems, and the abandoned ruins of an advanced civilization before human exploration. The alien ruins appear to be mostly intact, and based off their construction, the aliens were bipedal hominids. There are now several human settlements that are owned by Terran Sub Contractor Corporations and it is a viable human colony:

1. Saundersville: a research company specializing in biotechnology and gene splicing. The town itself is bordered by a large solar energy tower on one side, alien ruins on the other, and centered around a large research facility. The alien ruins have been dubbed Stafford’s Rest after the last stand of a battalion of Interstellar Marines that were slaughtered there.

2. Warren City Correctional Facility: Interstellar Prison and Behavioral Research. Fortified underground complex linked to the nearby Beechum River City and Baranov Collective Farms. 2a. Beechum River City is a sprawling river metropolis that possesses a major spaceport and is the center of trade for Bacchus Three. 2b. Baranov Collective Farms is a major food exporter and supplier.

3. Hellespont Hydroelectric Center and Tryphon Mining Consortium: Largely ruined a decade ago this power plant/mining operation/and Hive City were all recently rebuilt. 3a Hive City supplies living quarters for the miners and power technicians.

There was so much more, but I was skimming with my conscious mind. The rest was all going into storage so to speak. Every now and then, certain parts would leap out at me, such as:

Situation:

Possible Corporate insurgents have been conducting terrorist activities and are attempting to usurp the Colonial Administration. Contact has been lost with Warren City, and it may be in the hands of the insurgency.

.

Or this under Objectives of the Mission:

1. Seize control of Saundersville and establish a base of operations. Stabilize region with patrols, and reestablish contact with Warren City.

2. Secure Warren City environs and reinforce Beechum River City Police.

3. Investigate Hellespont/Tryphon Complex and determine if salvage is possible or whether a WMD is required.

There is more but the only part that holds my interest is my duty assignment: I am being assigned to police duty with the Beechum River City Police Department.

* * *

The descent of the massive dropship Taurino is slow and uneventful: a deliberate, ponderous fall through the atmosphere of the planet, Bacchus Three. I nearly choke on my own stomach acid, anticipating all manners of death or destruction, but every step of the way goes easy. Even the landing is