Eternal Order

By T.A. Berkeley

Fresh out of the academy, police detective Lyndon Bates is eager for his first big assignment. But he couldn't imagine how big it was going to be: Investigating the murder of Crenshaw Connelly, the galaxy's biggest reality star, on the grounds of a secretive religious order on another planet. And there's a catch: Only women are allowed inside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Poly Lit Press
• Release date: Aug 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781733140751

T.A. Berkeley

T.A. Berkeley writes thrillers in several genres with polyamorous themes. Eternal Order is Berkeley's third novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A huge white moon hangs high in the night sky. It bathes the ground with a milky sheen and illuminates miniscule drops of mist in the air. In its light the leafy vines dripping from trees are a cool grayish green, and its reflection wavers on the surface of a small pond.

A young woman creeps from shadow to shadow, shying away from the generous moonlight. She wears a hoodie made of a soft, flowing material over a skin-tight catsuit, both matte black. The hood’s not up, and her dark curly hair practically floats in the air. When she isn’t in shadows, it shimmers slightly where it’s attracted flecks of moisture.

Anyone on Earth—and several other planets as well—would’ve stared wide-eyed, her name on their lips, had they seen her. But she’s not on Earth, and the only eyes gazing at her are the implacable unblinking orbs of an owl-like creature clinging to the side of a tree with its talons.

It’s clear from her body language that she does feel like she’s being watched, though it’s not the usual knowing, always-posed air of a celebrity who always expects to be spotted. She continually scans the grounds, whispering as if to herself from time to time in a low voice that would have been nearly inaudible to anyone trying to eavesdrop. Her movements are furtive, her shoulders hunched as if to make herself seem smaller.

Something rustles softly behind her, and she jumps with a sharp intake of air like a quiet scream. She swivels sharply and backs away in a defensive crouch, looking wildly in the direction of the sound. The rustle happens again and she sees some long blades of grass near a tree trunk move in a way that suggests a small four-legged creature is creeping away from her. Her exhale of relief turns into a nearly silent giggle.

She walks a little easier, as if the false alarm has released some tension. Down a short slope, she begins to pass buildings, their marble-like exteriors a swirl of green, blue, and white that can be dimly seen in the moonlight. High arches lead to murky interiors, possibly courtyards.

She walks close enough to one building to graze its smooth cool wall with the fingers of her left hand, peering up at it, blinking her eyes rapidly and tapping her right temple with her fingers.

The buildings give way to more greenery, revealing a gentle slope down to a larger pond than the first one she passed. It somehow looks both natural and artfully arranged. The white stones around it are asymmetrical and seemingly placed randomly, but they look perfect, as if there was no better way they could possibly have been positioned. More trees festooned with strings of ivy bend over the pool, leafy tendrils grazing its surface.

The young woman frowns and gets closer, looking intently at the pond, once again blinking and tapping her temple. The water shimmers with something more than moonlight, moves with something other than the breeze stirring the vines.

Another rustling sound behind her. She turns, but less urgently this time, almost smiling as she tries to spot whatever small creature is scampering through the grass.

Instead a human figure slams into her, coming at her from beyond her peripheral vision. The woman hits the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of her lungs and leaving her breathless.

She’s stunned for only a second or two before she begins struggling with surprising strength for her slight body. She pushes the attacker off and leaps to her feet, backing away, but the person, face obscured by a balaclava, dives at her again. They grapple on one of the white rocks overhanging the pool, and the woman’s feet begin to slip despite the grips on her supple black shoes.

For a moment it seems she might fall into the strange waters. She strains desperately against her assailant and finally throws them back so she can run past them, up the slight slope toward the buildings. She looks behind her and sees them gaining fast, and in her desperation breaks her silence, giving up any vestige of stealth.

Help me! she screams, piercing the quiet night and causing several winged creatures to take flight from nearby trees. Help! Before she can shout again, the figure tackles her from behind and she falls winded to the ground once again.

This time she’s pinned on her stomach under the attacker’s full weight, unable to get arms or legs under her or roll to either side, no matter how she struggles. The figure removes a small object from a pocket, turns it on with a quiet beep, and drives it into the helpless woman’s side. She screams in pain and lights come on in the two buildings closest to her; a dim, flickering light, as if from candles or gas lanterns.

The assailant looks up, sees no one coming yet, and withdraws the device, only to bring it down into the woman’s back several times in quick succession and with brutal force. Her cries soon weaken and her body goes limp.

The occupants of the buildings begin to emerge, running in all directions, searching for the source of the now silenced screams. The attacker leaps up and melts into the darkness.

A young woman, barefoot in two-piece pajamas made of a coarse material, long hair tumbling around her face and shoulders, nearly stumbles over the body of the victim. She looks down in shock, but remains silent, looking around and gesturing wildly. No one notices her gesticulations, so she turns her attention to the fallen figure. She touches the wounds, and then gingerly rolls her over.

As she does, the victim’s ashen face comes into view, faintly illuminated by the milky moonlight. The young woman in pajamas cries out and steps back. The sound finally gets the attention of others, who start toward her. She finds words. It’s—it’s Crenshaw Connelly! I think she’s dead!

There’s a sharp, collective intake of air from multiple people as they gather around, silent.

In the hush, a thin black band around the neck of the woman who had made the discovery lets out a sustained beeping sound. The woman puts her hand to her mouth, eyes wide with another layer of shock and horror.

CHAPTER TWO

Lyndon squeezed his hand around the firearm concealed in his pocket. He moved through dim rooms, walls mottled with unidentifiable stains, furniture askew. His mobile, strapped to his wrist, vibrated quietly. One more person left in the squat, it told him. Nearby.

He spotted a door about two feet tall, a storage cupboard maybe, and moved toward it soundlessly, until the warped floor creaked under his foot.

Hey, a quiet, strangled voice said from behind the tiny door. Please, help me.

Lyndon realized he’d been holding his breath in his attempt to stay quiet, and he let it out in relief. Probably just one more junkie hiding from the raid. Come out, he said, hand still on his firearm. No one’s gonna hurt you. 

The door opened a crack. Lyndon saw pale fingers clutching the edge of it. He strained to see a face but it was dark inside the space. I’m scared.

The voice sounded weak and timid, but the back of Lyndon’s neck tingled. He stepped back a foot and tightened his grip on his weapon but kept his own voice soothing. It’s gonna be okay, he said. I’m here to help. Come on out now.

The door opened fully and a scrawny man in filthy clothing crawled out, his movements tentative, his head lowered.

Good, Lyndon said. I’m going to advise you of your rights n—

The man lifted his head and Lyndon saw his eyes at last, glittering under a tangled mat of hair. He’d encountered enough fink addicts to recognize the expression and drew his firearm as the man suddenly coiled and leapt at him. He shot off a tranquilizer round and dodged as the junkie’s body fell forward, unconscious.

Bates! His partner Sewell’s voice in his ear. What’s going on?

All good, Lyndon responded, checking his mobile to make sure it didn’t detect anyone else. He hooked his arms under the man’s shoulders, grimacing at the smell, and dragged him toward the elevator. On my way out with the last one.

Another voice broke in. Good, because you gotta go. Commander wants to see you right away.

Lyndon felt a prickle of unease, even though he couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong. Still, he’d never had Commander Stoughton ask to see him before; he’d only met him once, at the reception following his graduation ceremony.

Yes sir, he said to the captain. He bit his tongue to keep from asking more. As the new kid on the force he tried hard to exude quiet professionalism. The elevator opened on the dingy lobby and he hauled the still-limp body to the sidewalk where Sewell was waiting.

Did you hear that—was it on the open channel? he asked the older man. Sewell nodded, trying to hide his concern, which just made Lyndon more nervous. You mind seeing the prisoners to lockup so I can go get cleaned up?

Sure thing, kid, Sewell said. Lyndon hated being called that, but he was used to it.

The captain spoke up in his ear again. And put on your dress blues. You’re meeting him at Connelly Tower. Lyndon’s eyes widened; he and Sewell shared a wordless look of bewilderment.

CHAPTER THREE

A small driverless car, one of many nearly identical ones on the street, whirred to a stop at the curb. Lyndon unfolded himself from his seat and stepped onto the sidewalk. He didn’t look back as a harried-looking woman took his place, the car door closed automatically with a click, and the vehicle pulled away.

Dressed in a midnight blue uniform with gold insignia on the breast and shoulders, he walked quickly and purposefully into the hundred-story building in front of him. There was a nearly undetectable nervous energy in his stride, but he was otherwise outwardly calm.

An elevator swept him to his destination on the top floor, and he stepped out into a stunning glass-walled lobby. So different from the squalid building he’d been in just a couple hours ago, it might as well have been a different planet. A man sitting behind a desk—a receptionist, Lyndon thought wonderingly, something he’d only seen in centuries-old classic movies—smiled and greeted him.

I have an appointment with Connor Connelly, he said, marveling at how matter-of-factly he was able to say it. I’m Officer Lyndon Bates. The second sentence sounded almost as strange in his ears as the first, even though he’d imagined saying it for years.

The receptionist touched the desk and looked straight ahead as if he were staring at Lyndon’s chest, scanning a screen visible only to him.

Yes, the receptionist confirmed. "He’ll send for you shortly, Mr.—sorry, Officer Bates."

Lyndon resisted the urge to say he understood, he hardly believed the title himself. Instead he smiled and thanked the man. He walked to the glass wall to look out at the city while he waited. At this height, a couple of four-person carplanes could be seen buzzing around, but the vehicles were still cost-prohibitive and licenses to operate them were challenging to obtain, so there weren’t many. All he could mainly see were the tops of lesser skyscrapers dominated by the one he was in.

The minutes passed quickly for Lyndon as he took in the view, and he was soon being ushered down a high-ceilinged hall and into another room.

It was impossible not to be impressed by the palatial chamber he found himself in, but he managed to keep his expression stoic. The imposing furniture included a line of huge, slightly recessed screens that circled the entire room at slightly above eye level, each playing a different program on mute. They gave the room an antique appearance that somehow made it even more impressive.

At the far end of the room, three steps led up to an intricate command center with screens, a keyboard, and a huge chair in the middle. Lyndon couldn’t imagine anything that couldn’t be handled with a small mobile device or implant, so the setup seemed to have a distinctly theatrical purpose.

Two men sat on a cushioned bench on the platform, drinks in hand. They both looked toward Lyndon as he entered. The young man drew himself up slightly, composing himself, and strode toward them.

Hi Lyndon, you’re right on time, one of the men said in a tone of informal camaraderie. He wore a similar uniform to Lyndon’s, differentiated by an abundance of regalia on his coat. He was in his fifties, though with his unlined face and dark hair not containing a single speck of silver, it was hard to tell unless his bearing and uniform were taken into account.

Thank you, sir, Lyndon replied more formally. He came to a stop at the foot of the stairs and snapped off a precise salute, then stood still with his hands clasped behind his back.

At ease, the man added, and Lyndon nodded his thanks and shifted position slightly, moving his hands to clasp them in front instead. This is Connor Connelly— he paused —as if you didn’t know. He chuckled and the other man in the raised area joined in briefly.

Yes sir. Lyndon allowed himself a small smile of acknowledgment and at last turned his eyes and full attention to the tall, lean man whose presence had dominated the room since the moment the young officer had entered it. How do you do, sir?

Connor Connelly stood and stepped lightly down the set of stairs until he was level with Lyndon. The man could have been in his forties, but Lyndon knew he was closer to seventy. His close-cropped curls were just as authentic-looking as if they were his natural head of hair.

The dusting of white strands here and there, more prominent at the temples, was a deliberate affectation. No one expected even moderately wealthy older people to let their hair turn gray. It was the same with the few lines that creased the sides of his mouth and corners of his eyes and lined his forehead. Someone of his stature and unimaginable wealth could have it all wiped away if he didn’t want it there.

And indeed, the caramel-colored skin of his face, smooth and unmarred, had