Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D. Read online

  With little to do, the skimmer jostling along, the barren landscape became a cold and lonely reminder of the friends he had left behind. He thought back to earlier that morning. He had risen to an incoming call from his wife. She had been anxious to show him a crayon drawing that his daughter had done for him in school. It was a picture of him in his astronaut suit, standing atop a very tiny moon.

  They talked about how in two weeks he’d be returning home. His wife had flashed him, flirtingly talking about how she was going to ravage him while wearing his favorite negligee. They had said their goodbyes that morning, never suspecting it might be their last.

  After breakfast, the team headed out to the Looking Glass archaeological site in the Bay of Rainbows. Their assignment was to recover artifacts from a recently discovered chamber inside Tunnel 34—one of the Moon’s spokes of interconnecting tunnels.

  However, though it had been less than five hours since he had spoken to his wife, it now felt like a lifetime ago.

  He was now alone, and the worst part was the silence.

  ***

  “Sir, we located President Tomlinson’s wife. I just finished speaking with her,” said Brooks as Steven entered the Command Center. “She and her son will be boarding a transport in a few minutes. ETA to Sea Base—a little over three hours. Stealth protocols initiated.”

  “Very good. Does Mrs. Tomlinson know about her husband?”

  “She does, sir. She was reluctant to leave without an explanation, so I played a portion of the holo-recording for her,” said Brooks.

  “All right. Keep monitoring for transmissions from Hoagland Cen-Comm, in case they reconnect,” said Steven. “Did we get the two files?”

  “Two? No, sir. We only received one, regarding Project Terminus.”

  “You sure? Nothing else? No separate briefing file?”

  Brooks shook his head. “Sorry, sir. You also need to know that the United Nations sounded the Planetary Defense System before they went offline. The world knows that something is happening.”

  “Seal the base. Full lock-down. Shut down all noncritical power sources. We’re going dark until further notice.”

  ***

  Erich brought the skimmer to a halt at the edge of the crater that led down to Hoagland Central Communications and the United Nations Headquarters. His heart sank. Unbuckling his harness, he stepped onto the lunar surface. The scene of devastation was complete. Weakened by despair, he dropped to his knees.

  Forty-two domes, twenty-seven of which were Sovereign Territories, home and workplace to nearly eight-thousand people, lay in ruins. It was an attack that no one could have survived. All of his friends were dead. Hoagland Central Communications, the largest of the domes, was near indistinguishable from the others. The attack was thorough. Nothing was unscathed.

  Even the massive landing pad beyond the domes, with its huge support columns, was but a grotesque, twisted pile of exploded and melted debris. The dozens of transports that typically sat atop it, nothing but rubble.

  Erich scanned the horizon, looked upwards into space, and stared at Earth. The enemy fleet was gone, and the Earth looked as blue, beautiful, and alive as ever. His mind warred with his heart. He desperately wanted to believe that Earth was safe, but couldn’t find a reason to hope.

  He swallowed, his eyes watering as he thought of his wife. His mind traveled back to their last conversation, and he envisioned how pretty she would’ve been in her negligee. When he thought of never seeing his daughter again, tears fell.

  His forty hours aboard the skimmer had been for nothing.

  He was out of air. There was no miracle—no way to reach his family. He wished he had stayed back with his friends. At least then, he would not have to die alone.

  ***

  “Sorry, sir. That’s the best we can do on our end, with all the radiation,” said the comm officer to Steven.

  The message again started to repeat: “This…Erich…rling. Can an…ne hear me?”

  “Can we send a signal back without it being intercepted?” asked Steven.

  “They might be able to intercept it, but I can route the transmission through one of the Antarctic substations, disguising our signal’s point of origin. There’s enough scattered chatter going on around the planet—I believe we’ll probably just blend in as one more cry for help. The station is unmanned. So, it won’t put any potential survivors at risk. The radiation is also a bit lower at the poles—better signal.”

  “Do it,” said Steven to the comm officer.

  A moment later the man said, “Connection open, sir.”

  “This is Admiral Sherrah. Please respond.”

  “This…this is Erich Guerling, I…ought I was…” came the ragged, static filled reply.

  “Can you boost your signal or try adjusting your antenna?” asked Steven. “Your signal is very weak.”

  A few seconds passed. “Is Earth—is Earth destroyed?” asked Erich.

  It was clear that he was crying. Steven looked over at Brooks. “Mr. Guerling. This is Admiral Sherrah. Your signal is much clearer now. I am glad to see that there are survivors. We had feared the worst.”

  “Are you going to tell him?” asked Brooks.

  Steven nodded. “Part of it.” He enabled the comm. “I am sorry—but yes. The ships that attacked you two days ago have also attacked Earth.” Steven saw no need to tell him how bad it really was. The atmosphere had been seeded with a highly radioactive isotope—painfully, agonizingly killing everything on the surface of Earth within a matter of hours. His voice softened. “I’m sorry.”

  There was a long moment of silence between them.

  “It’s really—all gone?” said Erich, more to himself than Steven.

  Steven didn’t answer his question. “Erich, are you all right? Are there other survivors?”

  “I am—alone.”

  Steven took a deep breath. “Will you be able to hold out until we can get to you?”

  “I’m out of air. I only lasted this long because my team sacrificed themselves. They hoped that I could get back to my family.”

  “I’m sorry, Erich. The enemy ships are still in orbit.”

  The comm operator interjected, giving Steven an update. “Admiral, the enemy destroyer is breaking out of orbit. Its headed toward the moon. They must have picked up his end of the open transmission.”

  “What’s their ETA?”

  “Nine minutes at their current speed,” answered the comm operator.

  “Erich, the enemy has picked up your signal. They are on their way to you. You have nine minutes,” said Steven.

  “Not to worry. My air is gone. I will be joining my family, Admiral. The bastards can’t take that from me.” Erich’s breathing grew labored, his suit recycling bad air. “Goodbye, Admiral. Avenge us.”

  Steven seethed for the billions of Earth’s dead. He hadn’t slept for the better part of three days. His mind was filled with the horrifying images of what he had witnessed. His jaw tensed. “You have my word—I will.”

  Erich disconnected the transmitter and slammed it to the ground, smashing it. Taking a seat on the edge of the crater, he twisted a small dial on his chest plate, venting his air. Looking at Earth, his last thoughts were of his family. “I’m coming home, Laurie. I’m coming home.”

  Chapter 2

  Fifteen Years Later

  The RED ALERT warning burst to life, awakening Steven from a much-needed sleep. His heart hammered in his chest, his mind fighting to comprehend. It was the first time the alarm had sounded since Enlil’s attack, fifteen years earlier.

  “Gena, connect me to the Command Center.” As the computer slowly brought the light up in the room, his eyes followed his wife’s naked form and the graceful sway of her hips as she crossed the room to don a robe. As it slid about her shoulders, he felt blessed to be the owner of such beauty. Like a ghostly apparition, she exited the room, the hem of her robe sweeping along the floor. However, it was the image of the womanly figure beneath that l
ingered as she checked on their children.

  A chime signaling his waiting connection sounded. “This is Sherrah. What have you got?”

  “Sir, we’re receiving an emergency distress call on an old public bandwidth. I apologize for the alarm, but Gena was set to respond to any unusual signal as if it were a threat. We just hadn’t expected the signal to be—homegrown.”

  “Homegrown? What’s the origin?” asked Steven.

  “Denver.”

  “Denver?” An adrenaline-charged excitement surged into his veins. “Denver.” The word rang with clarity. It was the missing piece to President Tomlinson’s unfinished sentence so long ago. He was sure of it. It had been nagging at him for fifteen years. Steven ran the numbers in his mind. 11,000 kilometers—2-hour flight time. “All right,” said Steven. “Have Stratton grab Robbie and assemble a full TAC team to meet me in Dome 4, Bay 12 in 30 minutes. Add Victor Gregor to the list. I want a medic on the recon. Tell him to be prepared for full triage.”

  The smoldering ember that had awakened in him fifteen years before was now blazing hot. His heart fluttered in expectation.

  ***

  “ETA—one minute, Admiral,” announced Steven’s personal pilot, Robertson.

  Standing at the forward window, Steven turned his attention to the crystalline webs that enshrouded Earth’s continents below. Though the webs were now home to his enemy, he was always in awe of their serene beauty and the Siren-like song that their electrical currents resonated. By day, the sparkling blue-white, swirling glow was like seeing into the mind of God. By night, the webs were an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of pastel colors that captured the heart.

  Steven felt the subtle shift of his weight as the Dolphin transport slowed to a stop.

  “Groundside temperature is 97 degrees. Radiation is within acceptable limits. With your permission?” asked Robbie.

  Steven nodded.

  “Initiating resonator.” From the underside of the Dolphin a hatch door opened, and a small dish turret lowered, swiveling into position. Visually, the air around the dish warbled and grew cloudy. Frenzied water molecules heated-up in reaction to the high frequency tones emitted by the resonator. The tones were inaudible to the crew, but far below, the canopy of webbing dissolved into a shower of falling pixie dust.

  The ship’s holo-display zoomed in on the beginnings of a small hole that was growing quickly in size with each passing second. “Launch the beacon, Robbie.”

  “Aye, sir. Launching beacon.” With the press of a button on the overhead control panel, the ship’s cannon fired off a small liquid-silver ball. A small laser beam, attached to the transport’s underside, painted the ground where the tiny ball would land. With pinpoint accuracy, the nanotech shifted the ball’s shape, adjusting the beacon’s internal gyroscope so it would hit the target far below.

  “Victor, be ready. I have a feeling we’re going to need you.”

  The doc nodded.

  Steven turned to the team. “All right eggs and sperm. The storm front is less than forty minutes out. So this recon has got to be fast.” Steven’s gaze shifted to each of his team members in turn, waiting for the nod that their armor’s diagnostic system had cleared them for the drop.

  While awaiting confirmation from Robbie that the beacon had landed, Steven’s chest suddenly seized. He had no chance to react, to assimilate what was happening to him. In the blink of an eye, a soul crushing feeling of longing and loneliness gripped him, incapacitating him.

  With each passing second the surge of longing grew stronger, manifesting itself in each strained beat of his heart.

  An emotion he had never known before overtook him—fear. The fear he felt wrested control from him, and like an abstract painting, his mind lost cohesion and focus. The attack came from somewhere far beyond his understanding driving the immense strength of the man that he was inside away.

  Unable to find even the smallest bit of reality to which he could cling, his anxiety drove him into a pit of darkness—and as the darkness turned its wrath upon him, he fell victim to a full-fledged panic attack.

  In a cold sweat and unable to give voice, his legs began shaking uncontrollably beneath him. His knees buckled. Instinctively, his hand reached out for the back of Robertson’s chair to steady himself, but the off-balance fall swung him around and slammed him hard into the bulkhead.

  With wild, maniacal eyes, he searched for something, anything of familiarity. The bright flashing lights on the transport’s control panels caught his attention. Somewhere deep inside he knew they held meaning, but in his panicked state they only added to his confusion as they shouted meaningless gibberish.

  Robertson, startled by the sudden tug on his chair and the heavy clang of armor hitting the deck behind him, turned and caught a glimpse of the madness in his commander’s eyes. “Paris, check on the admiral! Something’s wrong!”

  A small alarm on Steven’s forearm LED chirped, alerting him to his irregular vitals.

  His vision blurred and his stomach churned in nauseating spins as the Dolphin transport faded away. Within seconds, he saw himself lying upon his back, encased within a coffin of glass and ice. He reached out and with a tentative, fearful touch, placed his spread fingers upon the glass. While the thought of being buried alive should have heightened his panic, somehow, it afforded him a tiny glint of understanding. It was as though the walls themselves were a cryptic message waiting to be deciphered.

  Elusive as the message was, it gave Steven a small hold to which he could grasp. It gave him strength, and with that strength, he began to regain clarity. He sensed a presence stalking him—a presence so powerful that he dared not challenge it. Instinct told him that it was a battle that could not be won. It was all around him, inescapable.

  As the presence reached out to him, he was surprised by its passiveness, its feminine gentleness. He felt it shift, as if it too were searching for an avenue of understanding.

  “Admiral, what’s wrong?” said Paris. Unclasping the right glove of her armor, she placed her hand on his arm. Vague as it was, the nuanced emotional warmth of the gesture touched him. “Can you hear me?”

  The team stood around him, nervously waiting for their commander and friend to reply.

  The heartfelt concern in her voice helped the last vestibules of the illusionary reality to evaporate. Though the deep emotional longing that had triggered his collapse was still violently stirring within him, he held fast to his newfound understanding. With a deep inhaling breath and a nod, the team helped him to his feet. Steven’s determination stiffened and he straightened his posture. His slumped shoulders regained their commanding stature. “I don’t know what happened.” The words hung in the air, the explanation beyond his grasp to articulate.

  Paris, interpreting Steven’s pause as uncertainty, pushed on. “Sir, you’re exhausted. Perhaps you should stay here, let us carry out the recon? We can…”

  Steven shook his head. “No! I’m fine!” Though the strength in his voice had returned, the distant look in his eyes revealed the absence of confidence.

  “Robbie, are we ready?”

  “Yes, sir. The beacon is on the ground and transmitting. You are good to go. We’re holding steady at six klicks.”

  “Thanks, Robbie. We’ll call you down when we’re ready for pickup. Hopefully before the worst of the storm gets here.” With a soft squeeze of Lieutenant Robertson’s shoulder, Steven let his friend know that he was all right.

  Twisting his helmet, he locked it into position. Turning to his team, they affirmed with a small nod that they were good to go. With an unsteady arm, Steven reached up and hit the button to open the door for the drop. Strong gusts of dry air swept through the cabin.

  Dressed in heavy, glistening black armor, their arsenal of weapons magnetically clamped to their backs. They looked more cyborg than human. Now, standing on the edge of the open door, they stared at Earth far below. Their adrenaline surged.

  “I heard about a cadet back at the Academy whose
anti-grav unit failed on his first drop, and they had to use a spatula to scrape him out of his suit,” said Martinez.

  “I guess that explains why you’re an asshole today. You landed in a pile of your own bullshit,” jested his best friend, Ensign Cole.

  Everyone but Steven was lighthearted, exhilarated. His only thought was to discover the reason for his racing heart. “Lead the way, Stratt.”

  Without hesitation, Stratton jumped. In quick clockwise succession, each team member stepped forward, jumping into the bright light of the mid-afternoon sun. Like an arrow, head down, the team built up speed. They loved the adrenaline rush of dropping and the sound of the wind.

  “Every time we drop, I get the best damned orgasm,” said Paris, her voice a tad shaky. “It tickles like crazy.”

  “You got your catheter set to vibrate mode again?” said Lieutenant Tomlinson, the president’s now grown son. Since the attack, Steven had kept the boy close to him, giving him the guidance and nurturing that his father would have wanted.

  “It’s the only way to fly. Oh, yeah—there—it—is! Giddy-up baby! Giddy-up!”

  The group whooped it up, having a great time tumbling and acrobatically spinning—each of them trying to competitively outdo the others’ maneuvers.

  “Hey, guys, three o’clock,” said Tomlinson as a massive flash of light caught their attentions.

  They stared in silence at the sixty-five thousand foot tall, anvil-topped thunderhead. The supercell was rolling violently over the Front Range, twelve kilometers away. As the icy-cold air of the storm clashed with the hot air of the High Plains, massive tornados erupted. They tore at the crystalline webbing, shredding it. The storm wove a tapestry of death and destruction as bolts of chain lightning scorched everything they struck.

  As they stared, a second massive blast of lightning erupted, creating a phenomenon known as black lightning. The visual effect fashioned what looked like a momentary tear in the fabric of the sky. Seconds later the vibration sensors in their armor spiked as the black lightning’s concussion wave hit them, shaking them. The dance within the thunderhead between dark and light was as beautiful as it was terrifying.