Lives of Future-Past (The Chronicles of Max Gunnarsson Book 1) (7 page)

     The lock field had been activated by a quick-thinking tech, only moments after Johnson had fled with in his Draeder, so
only
a couple dozen of the deadly attack craft had been lost. Unfortunately, nearly all flight deck techs on duty, and some 17 pilots lost their lives, and they most certainly were
not
recoverable.
     Bagatelle turned to a senior officer nearby and said, “Get a security team to the quarters of Lt. Ryder Johnson and turn that room upside-down. Find out what the Hell he was up to, and see if we can get a clue as to what his intentions are.” He was starting to piece the puzzle together with a bit more clarity now. 
     The recovery operation was long and arduous. As the Revolution had dropped out of side space at nearly zero velocity, it had to remain in place while crews worked to salvage whatever they could. Once they had gathered everything possible in their vicinity - eight Draeders and the bodies of some eight techs and three pilots - the Revolution made for Earth on full burn. The massive warship, although not very maneuverable, was faster in a straight line than any Draeder, so in reality they were only 30 minutes behind Johnson’s craft, even though they had spent a good two hours cleaning up the mess he made.
     Jennie finished with the cleanup effort and retired to her cabin, where, on her desk she saw a bottle of that expensive tequila and a note written on her static wallboard.
    
 Jennie, sorry we didn’t have a chance to get together, but we’ll meet again soon.
     Count on it.
     Ryder
 

     The note was not a kind goodbye letter – it was taunting and cruel. What kind of a sociopath was he? She thought he was a bit rough around the edges, but had great promise, and he just ended up being a murderer. She started to cry and beat her fists against the wall, nearly taking the tequila bottle and smashing it, but just stopping herself short of doing so. She would not be weak. She was going to save that bottle, and every time she saw it she would be reminded of his betrayal. She vowed to track Ryder Johnson down and bring him to justice.
    
    
No. I am going to kill him.
    
     Lt. Johnson rounded the backside of Earth’s sole satellite, and starting preparing atmospheric re-entry vectors. While no one on the Revolution was even sure that Earth still existed, Johnson knew it did, for a fact. His father had a team of scientists working on a side space probe that auto-dropped right into Earth’s orbit some months ago. This enabled them to verify Earth’s existence and to analyze the planet quite thoroughly, all the while acting as if they were waiting on the Military Complex to make a
first contact
via the hook drive. It was all an elaborately planned ruse, and getting the probe to Earth was complete luck anyway. Councilman Johnson’s science teams had gleaned enough information out of military research to put together a small SSCC drive for the device - but building a massive one, able to propel a large ship through side space was on a completely different level.
     Johnson’s smile behind his full-face helmet wasn’t one of happiness or joy – it was one of ruthless ambition and victory. It was victory at the expense of a mighty warship and maybe hundreds of dead crewmen. Almost completely amoral in the application of his father’s plans, he felt absolutely no regret for what he had done. The only regret he had was that he had not conquered Jennie Escalante. He wanted to meet up with her again one day, pour that entire bottle of tequila down her throat before having his way with her, and then throwing her off a cliff. That was his true nature.

     Max stood next to Draagh, feeling slightly disoriented, having never teleported anywhere before. In reality, he had absolutely no idea what had just happened, until Draagh started giving him a softly spoken explanation.
     “Max, just stand here for a moment, my boy. The first time is always a bit nauseating. We just performed a 3D slip. That is, we arrived at specific X, Y and Z coordinates, and have just travelled over 7,000 kilometers in a fraction of a second.”
     Draagh beckoned Max to take a seat on a chair just a meter away. They appeared to be in a room with ancient-looking computers and racks full of servers and archaic network switches. Draagh strolled over to a computer and flicked through it, bringing up what was called a website, in a quaint GUI on the computer screen. Max gathered himself and scooted his chair over closer to his strange new friend.
     “Draagh, what are we doing here, and where is here?”
     Draagh gave the young man a concerned look, and then plainly stated, “We are in what was called an IT department, in a building in Los Angeles, California, in the former United States of America. This had eventually turned into an underground operation, as the government banned the totality of electronic communications that were not explicitly approved by the censorship boards, all in the name of
fairness and equality
, of course.”
     Max noted the sarcasm in Draagh’s voice, and turned to the screen as the old sage continued.
     “This facility had archived exabytes of data from what was a free Internet, which had originally enabled mankind to learn and communicate on a scale unheard of in its history. Unfortunately, politicians were not fond of the fact that this sort of communication also exposed their crimes and weaknesses, so they banned it.”
     Max nodded slowly, watching Draagh navigate effortlessly through the archaic interface, using a small, handheld sliding device that he moved along a pad on the desk, occasionally pressing on a button on the device, which caused clicking sounds. When his new friend had finally found what he was looking for, he clicked what was called a link, and a small vid started to play. Max watched in horror as amateur vid footage showed the Vrol invasion on the ancient vid display (Azul technology had provided semi-transparent holographic vid displays for decades).  Black-colored, organic-looking ships were gliding through the air, the skin of the crafts undulating and shifting, as horrid creatures, resembling giant bats, exited from the larger vessels, as if they were smaller attackers themselves. In fact, they were the aerial attack troops, the Vrol having a flying warrior caste that did significant damage over the ground, while the organic-looking ships fought Earth fighters, themselves looking hopelessly outclassed and technologically backwards in comparison.
     Draagh gave Max a forlorn look and shook his head side to side. “This was the beginning of the invasion, Max. These are the creatures that destroyed this planet, without mercy, without hesitation or compunction. Now I already told you, yes, I already told you that the Vrol were nearly wiped out by Earth forces, but that only resulted in the amoeba infection being unleashed and virtually wiping out nearly every last man, woman and child, as well as much of the fauna - but do you know what is even more perverse than that, my son? The amoeba infection also killed the Vrol’s own troops. Yes, my boy. They massacred their own just to defeat the humans. So, once they arrive at a world there is nothing that can stop them. They simply bring death. They are death.”
     Max continued to stare at the screen, absolutely horrified at what he was watching.
     “But Draagh,” inquired Max, “why did you have to bring me here to show me this? Don’t you possess any technology like we do, such as a portable console?”
     Draagh solemnly nodded his head and responded,
 “Yes, my son. I could have simply conjured an infoscreen to show you all of this, but I felt it important for you to see from the eyes, the ears and the technology of your ancestors, so that you could understand the severity of this, and to truly believe what happened. Also, so you would realize that they must be eliminated, wherever they are encountered, wherever they exist. You see, Max, that alien race, the one that is heading toward Azul, is the Vrol.”
     Draagh shut off the computer and stared into the blackness of the paper-thin chip monitor upon which they had viewed the invasion vid. Pensive for but a moment, he looked at Max, who sat, practically in a state of shock, when he then turned away from the young man.
     Nearly unwilling to believe what he had just seen, he looked at Draagh, who had his again back to him, and said, “Draagh, this can’t be happening. I - we have to do something. Is this why you came here, why you found me?”
     Draagh slowly nodded his head up and down, still looking away. “Max, are you willing to come with me? I need to take you somewhere so that you may learn. There are abilities that you are unaware of that you possess, and the only place I can teach you to use these abilities is somewhere far away. Are you willing, my son?”
     “Of course!” cried Max. “Anything, anything at all. I can’t allow this to happen to my world, my people! This is crazy! Do we have time to do this?”
     Draagh finally regained his composure enough to slide Max a slight grin. “Oh yes, my son. Do you not remember that it will be years before that alien fleet, the Vrol, arrive at Azul? We most certainly have time, but before we go we have one more thing we must do. We must go back to your ship and wait for the military to arrive.”
     “Whaaaaat?!?” exclaimed Max. “We have to wait for the military? But, but… they want to kill me!”
     Draagh chuckled lightly as he thoughtfully stroked his beard and braided mustache. “Leave that to me, my son. Even during the short duration of your pursuer’s trip across space, things have changed. Yes, things have changed quite a lot.”
     With that, Draagh grabbed Max under his arm and lifted him up, then tamped his staff into the ground yet again, causing concussive waves to knock the workstation chairs back, tumbling end over end.
     The two were gone in a flash. (*7*)
 

      As the Revolution entered Earth orbit the airlock alarm sounded, but this one a mere warning that it was being properly initiated. Pilots ran to their Draeders and techs scrambled all over the flight deck, preparing the remaining Draeders for immediate launch. One by one, they lined up and passed through the lock field, the only thing separating them from the cold grip of death in space.
     As the attack craft blasted out of the Revolution, Admiral Bagatelle was observing the entire operation from the bridge, with Lt. Commander Vasquez and Lt. Escalante at his sides, to his right and left, respectively. Turning to his right, he instructed Vasquez to order a spread formation over the western coast of the South American continent, where Johnson’s last activity had been traced on lidar. She immediately sat down at her command console and began giving instructions, coordinating the squadrons into effective sweep and search patterns. Then, turning to his left, he gave Jennie a concerned look.
     “Lieutenant, I know you want to be part of the operation as we have more Draeders than pilots, but I need to you stay here for now. I plan on apprehending Gunnarsson myself, and when I go, I am taking you with me. Understood?”
     Jennie snapped to attention. “Sir! Yes, Sir!”
     Bagatelle couldn’t help but crack a small smile, with Lt. Escalante being so professional at all times. His pride in her really did grow on a daily basis.
     “Ok, Lieutenant - back to your duty cycle. We must stay on schedule.”
     Jennie spun around and headed to the galley, where she would grab a handful of beef and eat voraciously while going to her next duty station, reviewing electrical subsystems that fed into the hook drive. They needed to be absolutely certain that Johnson didn’t somehow sabotage the hook apparatus, effectively stranding them there, light years away from the only home they ever knew.
     Lt. Commander Vasquez turned and looked at her commanding officer, displaying a touch of concern on her face.
     “Sir, she really doesn’t know… does she?”
     Bagatelle kept staring at the massive view screen and the smaller, individual flight readout screens that encircled the primary display.
     “No. Not yet… and neither do you, Lt. Commander.”
 

     Out near the Peruvian coastline, Lt. Johnson circled over the once-beautiful city of Mira Flores while looking for any signs of there having been visitation by Gunnarsson. The side space relay in orbit around the planet had identified Gunnarsson’s ship in that area, but due to the typically heavy cloud cover on the Peruvian coastline it was unable to effectively track his current whereabouts, as clouds generally interfered with lidar. He brought his Draeder down onto a street, close to some indentions in the heavy, but ancient concrete. Getting out, he ran over and verified that the landing pads on Gunnarsson’s craft had created the indentions.
    
Frikin’ piece of crap. He could have gotten something better, but that bastard Ali is always looking to make an extra buck.
     Johnson knew Ali. In fact, he was the one who had contracted Ali to basically seek out Gunnarsson and sell him a transport craft, but it was supposed to be a much newer model, not an aging piece of garbage that smelled like cows. Johnson’s father had Gunnarsson under surveillance, so they were well aware of his activities – it was simply a matter of making Ali available. To make things worse, Ali went and blabbed to a local military annex, looking to make a quick buck, which he wasn’t supposed to do. The plan almost fell apart from that moment on. The only thing that had saved it was Gunnarsson’s own resourcefulness and ability to get his ragtag hook drive installed in a timely fashion. Even then, he barely escaped the military – the military that wasn’t even supposed to know what was going on in that workshop.
     Councilman Johnson’s original plan was much more elegant. They were going to let Gunnarsson finish his craft in secret, then shoot him in the head and take it to their own laboratory. Then, after having reverse-engineered the craft, they would retrofit the ancient Exodus barges and go to Earth with no one the wiser.
     Looking at his handheld environmental analysis module, Johnson saw what resembled a faint ion trail – exactly what a Draeder, or a transport craft, would leave in its wake. So, wanting to follow the trail before it completely dissipated, he jumped back into his Draeder and lifted off, at the same time assuming that his former companions were on their way to hunt him down. He had to find Gunnarsson, and fast. He was less concerned with being discovered by Bagatelle’s troops, as he had spent two days removing every single transmitter beacon from his ship. However, he could still be detected by lidar if above the cloud cover, so he went fast and low over the flat plains of Lima, only matching elevation as he approached the mighty Andes, which formed an impressive backdrop to the dead city.

     Draagh and Max popped in right from where they had left, their breakfast plates still sitting on the ground. The old man grabbed whatever he could put into his hands, and Max did the same, both walking with long strides to the ship, which had been left open during their absence.
     Quickly throwing everything they could into the galley, Draagh instructed Max to leave the fire burning. He was able to hide them from outside view, but the fire would leave a lingering scent that he did not desire to mask. Max didn’t quite understand the whole meaning of that, but followed instructions anyway.
     They finished cleaning up the campsite, and then sat at the bottom of The Machu Picchu’s loading ramp, watching and waiting for signs of anything. Suddenly, they heard the distinctive sound of a Draeder scream overhead. Max ran out to the edge of the canopy and saw the ship circle around, obviously scanning the area for The Machu Picchu.
     “Draagh, if they land, will they be able to locate us?” Draagh simply smiled as he pulled out his pipe, torching up some more of his beloved herb.
     “My son, we are expecting visitors, but not the pilot of that craft. Something has happened, and that pilot is not part of the reconnaissance team. His motive is much more sinister, as is his lineage.”
     Max looked at Draagh with a concerned expression and asked, “What is this stuff you keep saying about lineage and so forth? You said I was a Neanderthal or something last night.”
     Draagh chuckled under his breath and took a long draw from his slender pipe, blowing out smoke rings from his nose, which Max actually thought was pretty cool.
     “My son, we all have lineage. I have lineage, you have lineage, as does that pilot, but what makes us different is that we three have different lineages. Well, let me take that back, yours is much closer to mine than his is to yours. There are reasons for this that I cannot explain here, but most assuredly will do so once we reach our destination - or perhaps sooner.”
     “So just when do we go to this destination? Why wait here? Can’t we just pop out like we did to Los Angeles?”
     Draagh simply kept staring out through the entrance to the canopy, which was so faithfully camouflaging them from aerial view.
     “My son, we are waiting for someone. This is necessary. They need to know what it is they must do while we are gone. It is that simple. All will be revealed in good time, yes, in good time.
”

    Then Draagh laid back and apparently dozed off, lightly snoring, while Max practically freaked out and started going through all of his supplies.
     Orbiting around Earth on the Revolution, Rear Admiral Bagatelle was in his quarters changing his uniform, as he was soon to leave the massive ship. Pulling out his gear bag, he had multiple apprehension scenarios running through his head, but he started to think about the interrogation of the merchant who had sold the transport to Gunnarsson.
     When the merchant, Ali, went to that little annex and reported on Gunnarsson’s activities, he believed he was going to receive a monetary award, when all it did was end him up in an interrogation cell. Bagatelle had watched via vid console as intelligence officers asked Ali the same questions over and over again, trying to glean any extra, valuable bits of information out of the man. The one thing that remained in Bagatelle’s mind was that Gunnarsson had told Ali he was going to name his ship The Machu Picchu. Bagatelle had Ali locked down, with strict orders to not reveal that they even had him in the first place. This was considered military security, and he most certainly did not want the Security Council to know everything that he knew. His level of mistrust for Councilman Johnson knew no bounds. Of course, he had planned to apprehend Gunnarsson before the lad could leave Azul airspace, but this did not happen, resulting in The Revolution being outfitted with the hook and then traveling back to the place where humanity began. It wasn’t until after Gunnarsson had escaped that it dawned on him that the young scientist might go to the mythical Machu Picchu, his ship’s namesake. He was certainly glad that he had kept that information to himself all this time, especially now that Lt. Johnson had gone rogue, most probably on a mission for his corrupt father.
     Bagatelle called Lt. Escalante on private comm channels and ordered her to prepare to leave for the planet on his private transport, Retriever. He tried to think exactly why he was bringing her, but for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint it. He just knew it was the right thing to do.
     He exited his cabin with a gear bag in hand and made for the executive flight deck (which was not affected during the cruel sabotage committed earlier).
     When he arrived Jennie was waiting for him with her own gear bag in hand. She had changed into her khaki field uniform and black, heavy-duty boots. He walked up to her and opened his bag, pulling out a Stinger in a holster and handing it to her.
     “Here, you might need this down there.”
     She took the weapon and immediately wrapped the holster belt around her slender waist, while wearing a smokey-eyed look of confidence. They entered the craft and the doors slowly shut behind them. Then, entering the cockpit, he deferred the captain’s chair to her.
     “Jennie, take us out. Here are the coordinates. Once we leave the ship we maintain radio silence unless absolutely necessary.”
     “Yes, sir!” she responded, and expertly lifted the craft off the deck and floated it toward the airlock field.
     Once Retriever was outside the airlock, it made a straight line for the equator. South America was on the other side of the planet; The Revolution being on the dark side, and it was daytime in the western hemisphere. Jennie brought the craft into a smooth orbit going clockwise, 300 km above the planet’s surface, curving around to meet up with the predefined destination in the coordinates that Bagatelle had given her.
     As they flew along, the commander sat quietly, going over data on his portable console, which he used to communicate directly with Lt. Commander Vasquez, effectively bypassing radio channels. Fleet fighters had not yet ascertained Johnson’s location, but kept to their sweep patterns, which they hoped would eventually bear fruit. Bagatelle had initially wanted only to track down Gunnarsson, believing him to be the biggest traitor in the history of Azul, but as time passed he started second-guessing himself.
     Why would this young man do what he did? What did he have to gain? Was he working in conjunction with Councilman Johnson, or even some other nefarious organization, of which he, Bagatelle, had no knowledge? Or was he simply an idealist, eager to prove his theories and see them put into action? He pushed that all aside, when Jennie interrupted his thoughts.
     “Sir, we approach the Peruvian coastline. As ordered we are staying under 1000 meters altitude and cruising in at Mach 3.”
     Bagatelle simply nodded and went back to his portable console, completely confident in his junior officer’s skills in the captain’s chair.
     Minutes later, he looked out and saw endless square kilometers of lush rainforests down below. It really was a beautiful sight; the incredible green foliage covering everything in all directions. He felt the craft begin to slow and bank out to port, indicating that Jennie was bringing it in for a landing. She had identified a clearing to the side of the ruins of Machu Picchu where they could safely touch down.
     Extending landing gear, she set the craft on a flat plain, as close as she could to what had once been a switchback road, leading up to the excavation site from the river below, which now was almost completely hidden with vegetation. They popped out of their seats, with Jennie deferring to the commander for first exit of the craft, and both stepped out onto the lush grass and smelled the air.
    
It smells different than Azul
, she thought.
Similar yet different
.
     Bagatelle looked at her and said, “Lieutenant, be at your ready at all times. We have no idea what is out here. Worse yet, Gunnarsson could be waiting to ambush us.”
     Jennie nodded in the affirmative and set out with her commander. She wanted to show him that she was capable of doings things right, as she still felt guilty about Johnson’s devastating escape - this time she wouldn’t fail him - or her planet.
     Hundreds of meters below, hidden near the edge of the powerful Urubamba river, Max was shaking Draagh, trying desperately to wake him up.
     “Draagh! Hey Draaaaagh!” he half-yelled, half-whispered. “Someone’s here. They landed up in the ruins... Draagh!”
     The old man murmured and rubbed his eyes, then looked around as if in a slight stupor. He picked up his pipe, which had fallen on the loading ramp, and tapped out the contents, then replaced it in a pocket in his leather jacket. Max looked at him with a panicked expression, and Draagh could tell that the young man was about to go into anxiety mode.
     “Max, my boy. Calm yourself. Nothing bad will befall us. Please, just have a seat.”
     Max took some slow, deep breaths, as was his practice whenever he got worked up, and took a seat on the cold, hard metal of the loading ramp. He sat, trying to relax for a few minutes before saying, “Draagh, didn’t you say that you could hide us, that no one could see us, only smell us, or something like that? Are we invisible yet?”
     Draagh gave Max a beaming grin. “Oh, they can see us, alright. Yes they can. Yes. The question is, will they actually come here to greet us? This is quite a large area, and it appears that they are on foot, but as we left the fire going, they should be able to locate us.”
     Max nearly fell into a manic state, and was, of course, completely helpless. He couldn’t take off in his ship – he would be blown out of the sky. All he could do was wait and trust Draagh - with his life.
     It was only minutes after Draagh made that statement that two military officers were standing at the entrance of the natural canopy tunnel that housed The Machu Picchu. Max saw a fit, clean-shaven older man of dego extraction in a khaki admiral’s field uniform, with his head held up high, and a smaller, but extremely attractive and similarly dressed dega female at his side, who was also holding a Stinger, and it was pointed directly at them.
     “Draagh. I think they can see us. Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Ooooh boy. We’re so screwed”