Wasp on the Wind: Book II of the Wasp Chronicles

By C. R. Norris

The saga continues as a future apocalyptic world begins to reveal its secrets . . . Chris, now a Trax, was what the West Sand Command called "a greeny." Her "Before Time," that time before she had been rifted, had been from a distant past, and perhaps even a different timeline. Who could say . . .? But after some three years of training and a return to the very group who had rescued her from the desert, her "Now Time" circle was complete . . . with one adjustment, she was now also "Det Arju′" She carried with her a mysterious pendant that she had been ordered to present to Lon, the Tagos of the Choe, an assignment that, as of yet, no West Sand Commander was aware. Bruce, Chris's friend, and fellow "Before Time" band geek, was rejected by the Trax. While Chris trained, his path hooked him to the side of the Taden's greatest nemesis, the Captain. Now as his lieutenant, he must help the Captain save his command by aiding him in the capture of Ponopin, a genius Tader entrepreneur, and the Brigade's greatest thorn. But as fate would have it, neither mission is as easy as it sounds, the tangle of circumstances sending Chris and Bruce on a collision course with each other. Richly imagined, beautifully characterized, and deeply engaging, Wasp on the Wind will leave you clamoring for the upcoming third book in The Wasp Chronicles series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jul 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781478786948

Book preview

Prelude

Mason Zanti made himself at home in the corner booth of the pub known as Boar Teeth. Although he was a merchant, the Brigader clientele of the bar had long accepted him as a regular. The business he managed, Outland Imports, was just around the arcing walkway. From there, on a low pedestrian day, he could just glimpse the giant tusks and pushed out snout of the pub as it beckoned all to enter into its maw.

The bar’s back booths were notable for two things. First, the menu was displayed as a rotating holographic projection onto the tabletop. This trick was the result of a bit of salvaged ancient tech that the owner had bought on the black market. Second, and perhaps more important, the booths were cloaked in thick curtains that damped the thumping music that accompanied the dancers on the front stage. The combined novelty meant that the booths were often chosen as places where deals were discussed or carried out, the occupants feeling safe in their concealed curtained privacy.

Mason was a man with a certain reputation so although he was not expecting company, he was not amazed when a stranger poked his head in between the curtains, and upon seeing the opposite bench unoccupied, slid in, and joined him.

Hello, friend, offered the Brigader who wore sergeant stripes.

Mason gave him a questioning look and did not return the greeting.

The sergeant gave him a warm smile as he leaned forward.

I hear tell . . . he began matter-of-factly, that you are a man of deals.

The assertion raised Mason’s eyebrows and his level of caution.

That is mostly true during business hours, Sergeant . . .? he gestured.

Barker, supplied the sergeant, his joviality unfazed by Mason’s cool reception.

My store is just—

Yes, interrupted Barker, Outland Imports. I am fully aware of your store and the trinkets it carries.

Mason rocked back in his seat.

Trinkets . . . he bristled.

Barker smiled, and then in a lowered voice that drew Mason forward, began, I’ve got something far beyond those Tader handicrafts you so proudly display. Seeing that he had Mason’s attention, he continued. I have magic.

Mason’s brow crinkled in dubious uncertainty.

Magic? he repeated in a disbelieving tone.

Magic, affirmed Barker reaching into his uniform coat. He produced a silk cloth from his breast pocket. Tell me, Mason Zanti, what would the CORE give for a new stash of these?

He set the cloth on the table, carefully pulling the edges back to reveal a clear crystal some six centimeters in length. The perfect formation of the hexagon structure widened Mason’s eyes, dropping his mouth slightly. He leaned forward in awe, not really sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. After all, he had never really seen one for real. He had only heard about them as the existing ones were tightly controlled by the CORE, the Council of Replication Engineers.

Is that . . .?

An ancient storage crystal . . . an ambry . . . confirmed Barker with an affirmative nod, . . . untouched by CORE hands. Acquired just recently from an outland mission, and . . . he paused, leaving the last, most juiciest bit hanging for that merest extended moment, "I’ve confirmed that it is not empty."

Ancient information . . . whispered Mason, awestruck by what he was hearing.

His mind reeled. Ancient information . . . From Before Time technology . . . Before the crash of the High Time, and the tergum of the Taden, a time when technologies were shaped to each person, doing their bidding in almost magical fashion. The Now Time of the restructured magist lived as a shadow of the Before Time. A place where great heaps of Before Time knowledge had been lost, leaving men like Mason to covet and scour for the remnants.

Although the CORE tried to cover the fact that they were unable to replicate the manufacture of much of the technology used for day-to-day activities, everyone knew that storage crystals were in short supply and carefully controlled. Not one piece of data was stored that wasn’t deemed of supreme necessity. Whole lobbying industries existed to determine whose genome was to be stored, what events, what recordings . . . The list was endless, but the storage capacity that had become more and more constrained over the centuries was not. The soldier had made a huge discovery!

And what keeps me from killing you right here and taking the crystal? asked Mason, now fully engaged in the art of the deal. There were now things he needed to determine.

Ah, smiled Barker, much like you, I am someone’s proxy . . .

The statement was equivalent to invoking Ponopin’s name, which narrowed Mason’s eyes. The insinuation that the proxy was reaching out to Ponopin put Mason back on guard. Ponopin was a man who was very much wanted by the CORE. Virtuoso entrepreneur that he was, he was also a Tader, and an enemy of the magist. He had spent countless rotations operating across the barrier between the two worlds. The numbers of his investments and aliases were unknown, but his influence seemed to pop up everywhere. Mason endeavored to protect his chief consort by not reacting, but the soldier’s next statement made it all but impossible.

And why have one ambry when you can have five hundred . . .

Five hundred!! choked Mason.

That was an unheard of expansion of capacity, and it came with the potential of reclaiming lost knowledge from the crystal’s contents. With that number, he and Ponopin could spend the rest of their lives being the sole provider of ambries to the CORE.

But, of course, this person wants to move cautiously, you understand. With a transaction of this magnitude, there is a certain amount of trust that must be built.

Yes, of course . . . nodded Mason.

And to start, I’m going to let you have this crystal so that you can verify its veracity . . .Mason looked stunned as Barker pushed the silk package forward, then slid out of the booth.

We’ll be in touch, he nodded.

And then the sergeant disappeared through the curtain.

Chapter I

Far outside Boar Teeth, and beyond the domed sitel of Baltic Mar, and indeed, across mountains, and grasslands, and rivers in the deep of the Tader zones, a very tired and sunburnt Chris crawled off her dark brown, rump-dappled horse, Tequila. The others around her busied themselves with their equipment and horses, but Chris just stood. Her new life on the trail had proved to be far rougher than anticipated. She leaned her head against Tequila’s saddle, not sure what stood out more, the ache across her body, how tired and hungry she was, or how dehydrated she was feeling at the moment.

She was what the West Sand Command called a greeny. And her Before Time, that time before she had been rifted, had been from a distant past, and perhaps even a different timeline. Who could say . . .? But after some three years of training and a return to the very group who had rescued her from the desert, her Now Time circle was complete . . . With one adjustment, she was now also Det Arjú. She carried with her a mysterious pendant that she had been ordered to present to Lon, the Tagos of the Choe, an assignment that no West Sand Commander was, as yet, aware.

What’s wrong? sneered Omri, the sarcasm in his voice ringing like bells against Chris’s headache. Greeny can’t take it?

From the outset, she and Omri had not been friendly. They had even come to blows while at Tojoba, a fact that Dox, the captain of the West Sand Command, had been very unhappy about. Since then, she had been trying to avoid further confrontation, but Omri was simply making that impossible, and now she was done with civility and his abuse.

Don’t! she snarled, pointing a finger at him as if to poke it into his chest. "Just don’t!"

The warning issued, she returned to her chores, unbuckling the cinch and then reaching atop Tequila to grab the saddle.

Don’t, don’t . . . mocked Omri ruthlessly behind her. I wouldn’t think of it, his tone turning to contempt.

The grate of his voice finally snapped Chris like a twig, her hand sliding into the shotgun sheath and whipping out the gun. With a fierce glare, she shoved the barrel up Omri’s nose.

There was surprise on Omri’s part, and then supplication as he raised his hands and slithered away in silence.

Finally, thought Chris. Why was being left alone so hard?

Lait! yelled Dox with his ringing accent. Watch on that hill, he pointed. Omri, the hill over there. I want Corti and Char out on scout. You all know the rotations. Everyone else, wood patrol. It is the ‘The Dark’ tonight, and we do not want to be short of fire!

Ah, yes, The Dark. The Dark referred to the phase of the moon when there was no moon. The Taders counted time by the phases of the moon, effectively blurring Chris’s days of counting in sevens into obscurity. What had once been marked by a weekday name, date, and month was now marked by a phase and a moon. And so tonight was The Dark of the Horse Moon.

That, in itself, however, was not the cause of the current tenseness among the commanders. That had started earlier in the day when the group had left the forest and begun to traverse the grassland.

Coubas hole . . . Coubas hole . . . Coubas hole . . . had chimed each commander, calling out the hole to the commander behind them.

Chris could see why the hole would be of great concern to the group. After all, you wouldn’t want your horse to step into a hole like that. But it begged the question that Chris just had to ask.

Rori, what are these holes?

Rori, whom she had been paired up with for the day, gave her a look of disbelief.

Coubas holes! Made by large beasts that nosh on the dark of the moon . . . Her brogue seemed to make this a perfectly sensible statement. Terrible gnashy teeth! She took her hands and simulated what Chris assumed was the opening and closing of a toothy jaw. Claws . . . she added, her hands demonstrating.

Oh, chirped Chris, not sure if the explanation had left her more or less confused. But coubas, that’s a Chandose word, isn’t it? . . . Like, a rabbit?

Oh yeah, like a rabbit, smirked Rori.

Like a rabbit . . . echoed Chris as she tried to peer into one of the bottomless holes as they passed. "A really big rabbit," she noted.

And now that the sun was nearing the horizon, the tension in the group was only tightening.

Come on, Chris, called Teak. Get your stuff squared and come help Ragle and me.

Chris set her gear by Tie, who was busy prepping more than one fire as the commanders began to drop loose wood into appointed piles.

Inside the ring, prompted Tie with the point of a stick.

More than one fire? asked Chris.

To which Tie replied, It’s the Tophet au Umbra tonight, sweetie. Strap on your boots.

Tie’s response washed over Chris, prickling the hair on her neck. It was a prickle that had been trained into her, honed and sharpened by the countless stalking and ambush games of her mentors, Logan and Regis. The Chris of that time hadn’t understood, hadn’t fully appreciated . . . But now, like the clicking of a switch, it spun into sharp focus, causing her to turn and assess the hilly tree-dotted surroundings around her with a suspicious eye.

Up until now, the run had been a quiet one. A circumstance that had allowed the commanders to mold and form her, teaching her the hundreds of details that made life more livable on the trail. Chris had reveled in the luxury of absorption, but it also meant something else. There had been nothing to test her mettle. No raids. No ambushes. Nothing to say how she would react under fire, and that, in itself, had created a sort of normalcy bias. That sort of feeling that things would just continue that way. But there in that moment, as the commanders collected wood and drew the horses in close, her bubble burst, and for the first time since the trip had begun, she felt unsafe.

The meal was quiet, devoid of the usual storytelling and laughter. It left everyone expectant as Lait and Omri reported in from the change of watch. Lait grabbed a cup of coffee and sat next to Chris with his rifle in his lap. After a few deep sips, he relaxed with a sigh.

Didn’t take the coubas too long to start moving around, he offered toward Teak along with his rifle and infranocs.

The Sand Command was equipped with four rifles outfitted with attachable scopes. As a rule, everyone carried shotguns, but there were occasions that required rifles, and Chris took note that this seemed to be one of them.

Yup! chimed in Omri as he held his rifle out toward Antares. Glad that watch is over. Good luck to you. Then he busied himself with the bird that had been left for the watch.

Cap? asked Teak toward Dox. How about doubling up?

It was an eye-widening request. The only watches that had been doubled up till now had been Chris’s. There was a pregnant pause as every commander’s eyes slid toward Dox. He gave a moment of consideration, and then he nodded.

I’ll double with Teak, offered Ticky. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway.

I take Antares, Gabriel volunteered.

Fine, nodded Dox. For the late watch, Tave doubles with Chris, and Ragle with Yest. Stay sharp, everyone!

Chris watched as the next watch left camp and moved off out of the reach of the firelight. She had several hours before the late watch, and despite her trepidation, her level of exhaustion drove her to her blanket. Sleep was not a West Sand Command priority, and Chris had already learned not to waste such opportunities.

The night was indeed pitch black when Teak shook her awake. All three fires had been built up, and Chris immediately noticed how nervous the horses were. Teak shoved his watch rifle into her hands. He was shaking, his face glowing with sweat in the firelight.

You okay? she asked.

He nodded, wiping the sweat off his brow. Bad watch. I broke early.

He reached into his side leg pocket and shoved a stick into her hand. She held it up to the light.

Is this a flare?

Homemade from an old recipe . . . Pull string is here, he instructed. I can’t guarantee it will go off, so only as a saving throw. You got me?

This raised Chris’s eyebrows, but she accepted the flare, packing it into her own leg pocket as she rose. Tave was still sleeping.

Tave, she whispered.

It was a stroke of lightning, Tave’s gun up and cocked in the blink of an eye. Chris could only gasp and throw her hands up. Tave held, then relaxed as she recognized Chris’s face.

Shit, Tave! whispered Chris, now angry. Give me a heart attack!

But Tave made no apology. She pushed past Chris and toward the fire, leaving Chris to trail in her wake. She squatted by Yest and rubbed the sleep out of her face. He offered her the rest of his coffee, and she gulped it down.

It was then that Chris realized that everyone was not only up, but readying their weapons. Then she heard it, the sound . . . A screeching oink from the depths of the dark. Everyone paused, their eyes going to the camp edges, grips tightening on weapons, the horses stirring and uneasy at the sound. It sent Chris into a heightened awareness, the tingle raising the hair on her neck. Then it hit her. This was fear! The group was afraid!

What’s going on? she asked.

Dox looked up from the fire, his eyes reflecting the blaze.

The coubas are very active. Lots of hunger tonight . . .

His voice was frighteningly calm, and that, in itself, sent a shudder running down Chris’s body.

Tave pulled on her sleeve. Time to go . . . So with a swallow and an extra grip on the rifle, she summoned her courage and followed Tave into the dark.

Large beasts that nosh on the dark of the moon, mumbled Chris as they shuffled up the hill. Rabbit things . . .

Around her in the knee-high grass, the dark shadowed hollows of the uneven ground became packs of little fur balls. The imagined predators overwhelmed their prey with a cascade of hopping and thumping. And then . . . There it was again! This time, not so distant. That sound . . . It cut through her mind and evaporated her folly into fierce focus.

Once at the top, Tave scanned the field below with the infranocs. Then she handed the nocs to Chris and pointed. The glasses illuminated the field in a bright gray mist, her eyes centering on a shape. It hopped a few meters, and then rose up on its hind quarters.

It’s huge! she breathed.

The shape was now clearly definable as a rabbit. But this was like no rabbit that Chris had ever seen. She watched it sniff the air with crooked, upright ears, its size more like that of a cow, the skin glistening, the hair gone.

Coubas, nodded Tave, her body tense and alert.

Oh my God . . . Chris whispered.

She now understood, and in a way that no words could have explained to her. It filled her with simultaneous wonder, and horror, and questions . . . How could this have happened? How could something soft and cuddly have become ferocious and frightening?

They settled down with their backs to each other, both knowing that this was going to be a very long watch. And there they sat for a very long time listening as the movement of each blade of grass and each puff of wind set them on a razor’s edge.

Chapter II

The Captain waited in Colonel Tinion’s office. He scanned the colonel’s paintings and knickknacks as he stood waiting for Higgan, General Ganz’s aide. In the past, he had often been left waiting in this office for long periods of time. As a result, he had memorized the placement of each bobble, and he knew if any had changed or been moved. This time, though, he wasn’t just on the agenda. He  was the agenda. And as such, he expected that Higgan would appear at any moment to escort him into the CORE foyer of Baltic Mar for what he anticipated would be an unpleasant meeting.

The Council of Replication Engineers did not insist on such face-to-face meetings to exchange mere pleasantries. A fact that had put him on a path of preparation when he had received the notice a moon ago. The request hadn’t given the reason he was to appear, but then, it didn’t have to. It required no genius to see that this had the Matthew Essex incident written all over it.

Yes, that had been a stupendous gaff, he supposed, thinking that he could replace his beloved dead advisor Robinson with the son of the CORE’s lead geneticist. And although he had heard that Matthew had recovered from the interrogation in good form, he knew that Matthew’s father, the Gen Master, would use the incident against him.

As captain, his power lay in the Tader zones, but here, he was at the mercy of the CORE. Here he was a second blood, the product of secondary stock—a clone of a clone. And had it not been for the theft of the primary stock by the Taders, he probably would not have existed at all, thrown over for a primary clone that did not adhere as well to the personality traits as he himself.

But what was a source of pride for him did not extend to the CORE, and certainly not to Gen Master Essex. Essex had not been a fan of his installment, arguing with vigor that the best match in centuries could not have come from secondary stock.

But it had. And it was so.

A fact that hadn’t stopped Essex from lobbying for a more suitable counterpart, seeking his removal at every turn.

Captain, called Higgan as he held the door for him to enter into the council foyer.

He straightened his uniform one last time before stepping forward. His steps gave a hollow echo on the marble floor, the foyer empty of the usual speakers.

Captain Ganz, nodded his father as he came to a stop in front of the nine-member panel. You have probably already guessed that this is a disciplinary action concerning Matthew Essex.

The Captain’s eyes slid across the panel stopping on Essex. The geneticist had the look of revenge on his face.

Matthew Essex was valuable to the CORE. He had been enhanced—an experiment, and one that was not to be tinkered with. For while his father was a small, balding man, Mat was a full ten centimeters taller and destined not to lose his hair or teeth.

The General read out the account. The interrogation . . . The drugs . . . Matthew’s reaction . . . His removal from duty and continued convalescence . . .

Why would you do this? he asked with a direct glare.

I have the right to vet my staff, answered the Captain. He was being considered for a very sensitive position, and I needed to know I could trust him.

Your advisor, and Lieutenant . . . snipped Essex, the condescending seethe in his voice poorly concealed. No doubt he would view such a position below Mat’s potential.

Yes, averred the Captain.

And this was because LJR-1582-2º was recently killed, confirmed Kala, the newest member on the council. She had replaced Arimis who had retired.

Yes, nodded the Captain.

Why wouldn’t you wait for a new LJR? asked Moba Conant, who sat next to Colonel Tinion. Moba was more bureaucrat than scientist, and it was telling that he seemingly had no knowledge of the current state of Robinsons.

Well . . . continued the Captain, I was given to think that there were not going to be any more LJRs.

All eyes on the panel slid down to Essex, who now stirred in his seat nervously.

Rai Okada now made his presence known. Sitting on the end, the Captain had actually never heard him speak before. But he had good reason now. He was the director of the LJR program.

What do you mean no more LJRs, Essex? These two are a matched set. You can’t have one without the other . . .

I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding, broke in Kala in a most sincere tone. Tell them, Essex, that there is an LJR ready to go.

Indeed, Kala, there is not, admitted Essex. And then in a most obsequious manner he continued, I regret to inform the council that the level-one LJRs were sadly terminated in the mephitis accident of six cycles ago, and we are just now getting around to certifying a new class of level-ones.

Essex! protested Rai. The certification process can take many rotations! Why wasn’t this started immediately?

Yes, breathed Essex, his eyes going back toward the Captain who was taking in the whole unanticipated exchange. I don’t have a good reason for that. My apologies, but this is why I am advocating the removal of Captain Ganz from his command. His judgment has obviously been affected by the death of his advisor.

Captain Ganz, sighed Oorjit Ada, his hand rubbing his forehead as if the last exchange had caused him a headache.

The Captain knew this man well. He was Rai’s counterpart for the RLGs. They had had a good relationship once upon a time.

Essex does raise a point. What defense do you have for keeping your command?

The question was not unexpected, but the Captain, nevertheless, metered his response.

Trose contains all the Taders that no one else can handle. I have continued to extract information from these Taders when no one else has been successful. And who else takes trips into the outland to bring back maps and artifacts?

Pritt managed well enough, snipped Essex.

Has he been back out since his adventure? asked the Captain, knowing Pritt never intended to leave Rin again if he could help it. And returning alone is not very good for the men’s morale, he added. And then there is Ponopin . . .

Who has eluded your grasp! gnashed Essex again.

And yours as well . . . rebuffed the Captain. But I think I may have a way to acquire him now. How deep into the CORE do you think he has burrowed? What supply lines are corrupt? What people hail to him? All unanswered until we have him in our grasp.

I would prefer him dead! snapped Essex. We will determine his network by the hollows his death leaves.

His hubris was unnerving, even to the other members of the council.

That seems ill advised . . . threw out Colonel Tinion, his exasperation over Essex’s behavior beginning to show itself.

Forensics of this nature is not anything the CORE excels at, Essex, rumbled General Ganz. He is worth much more alive and in the Captain’s hands.

Captain, redirected Rai Okada, I, for one, would be willing to suspend this talk of removal from command if you were to capture Ponopin.

As would I, added Kala.

Add the colonel and me to that, chimed in General Ganz.

No . . . croaked Essex.

I would agree to that, nodded Moba affirmatively.

No, no . . . squawked Essex rising from his chair. He is unstable. He must be removed . . .

He has exhibited no such instability while he has been here, defended the General. Oorjit . . .? he continued down the line of council members.

I would be in favor of that.

Realizing that he had more than a quorum, the General asked for a vote.

All in favor say aye.

Aye, voiced the group in a loud and assured tone.

All opposed . . .?

Essex, the now lone dissenter, held his nay and sank back to his seat.

Then it is decided, nodded the General taking control of the hearing. Capture Ponopin, Captain Ganz, and keep your command. I will give you one rotation to complete the task. If not completed in that time, we will reconvene and have that talk about removal. He leveled his eyes at the Captain, the message clear.

Across the sitel, in a far different zone from where the gargantuan white plastistone CORE building arched up to-ward the top of the sitel dome, stood Outland Imports. From here, only the white tips of the tilted spires could be seen as they peeked over the tops of hedges and fountains.

Outland Imports was a small shop of oddities by most local people’s appraisal. Some even wondered how it managed to stay in business selling the things it did. Things made by Taders, they would whisper in mocking condemnation as they passed. And yet, they would slow, their eyes secretly ogling the window’s contents of handmade leathers and woven tapestries, their eyes going round at the colorful and artful metalwork of displayed pendants, rings, and bracelets. And more than would admit, would enter the shop, always nervous and thinking that perhaps just a quick look, just a momentary indulgence . . .

It was in this environment that Bruce Rogers entered Outland Imports and wove his way toward the checkout area. His full Brigader uniform was glaringly out of place, and it attracted the eyes of customers as they stood with their packets of spices and carved wilaboo bone candles.

Mason struggled to get to them before they lost their nerve, fearing that they would drop their forbidden fruit in a quick trot for the door. He knew, as did Bruce from his short tenure, that once a sale had been made, the chances of the customer returning became exponential—that once that barrier had been breached and the customer had emerged from the underworld unscathed and intact, that the taste for the goods would return. And each time they returned, they would be braver, buy more, and most importantly . . . bring others.

Be with you in a moment, Lieutenant, called Mason absently as he tended to the next customer in line.

It made Bruce sag a little that Mason had seen only his uniform and not him. It had been awhile. Perhaps Mason would not even remember him. He turned and looked around the store as he waited. A few items and displays had changed places, but mostly, it was how he had remembered it. Then he reminded himself that this was not a social call. The Captain had given him a specific mission.

Now, Lieutenant, what can I do for you? asked Mason as the last customer left with items in hand. Bruce turned, and Mason’s eyes went wide. Well, rusted gold! Bruce Rogers! I’m so sorry. I didn’t even recognize you with all that fluff you’re wearing. Lieutenant . . .? he gawked. I figured you would have been Tader fodder by now.

It’s a long and unlikely story, nodded Bruce, the smile on his face showing his delight that he had not been forgotten.

Some tea? asked Mason, holding his hand out to the back area covered by a curtain.

Another time, Mason, apologized Bruce. I am actually here for business. He reached into his pocket and produced a list. With a quick-eyed sweep of the shop to make sure they were alone, he began. I am looking for these items.

Mason took the