Read The Legend of Things Past (Beyond Pluto SciFi Futuristic Aventures Book 1) Online
Authors: Phillip William Sheppard
The Legend of Things Past (Beyond Pluto SciFi Futuristic Aventures Book 1)
PHILLIP WILLIAM SHEPPARD
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, locations, events, places, organizations and business are
either the product of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
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quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
THE
LEGEND OF THINGS PAST
Copyright
© 2015 Phillip William Sheppard
All
Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-0-69242-856-6
First
Edition
Published
by Beyond Pluto Publishing
Cover Art Designed by The Cover Collection
Author photo by David Hume Kennerly
Printed in the United States of America
Beyond Pluto Publishing books may be
ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
Beyond
Pluto Publishing
930
Euclid Street, Suite 101
Santa
Monica, CA 90403
310-310-0310
This book is dedicated to my mother
Ernestine Winona Sheppard, my son Marcus Alexander Sheppard, my nephew Phillip
Alexander, and my dog Spike
Also
by Phillip William Sheppard
The
Specialist: The Costa Rica Job
INSPIRATION
Steve Arrington,
Nobody Can Be You
#####
A Very Specials Thanks To
Kiah Danielle
Editor
and Science Fiction Expert.
This book would not have been
possible without her extraordinary guidance in all aspects of this story. Thank
you so very much.
—Phillip
“The Specialist”
In Memory Of
Octavia Estelle Butler
June 22, 1947–February 24, 2006
American science fiction writer.
A multiple recipient of both the Hugo and Nebula awards, Butler was one
of the best-known women in the field. In 1995 she became the first science
fiction writer to receive the McArthur Fellowship, which is nicknamed the
“Genius Grant.”
“Any sufficiently
advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
—Arthur C. Clark
May 3, 2258
Santa Monica, CA
Donovan Knight
The city’s blue lights throbbed beneath the skycycle. They
seemed to streak and blur as Donovan zoomed through the air, pursuing the
skytrain where his target, known only as Giovanni, leapt from car to car,
throwing electric grenades that exploded in yellow fingers of light. Donovan
dodged the little balls of metal before they could erupt in his face. If he
were hit by one of them, he would die—painfully.
Everything was quiet up there, except the beating of his
heart and the wind created by his passing. The electric grenades were a
completely silent technology, which made them all the more eerie.
The machine that carried him, made with the same technology
as the skytrain, gave off a barely perceptible hum. He turned the speed gear to
make it go faster. The train was picking up momentum as it neared the city
border. Once beyond that point it would travel at three hundred miles per
hour—far too fast for Donovan to keep up.
He needed to do something—quickly. The skytrain was
beginning to outpace him. If he let this guy get away, the General would kill
him. He might not get another mission for months. Or worse—he’d get demoted. He
had worked too hard on this mission—he’d spent weeks tracking Giovanni through
the city.
The criminal had been elusive. He had almost escaped. But
Donovan wouldn’t let him. He had yet to see the target up close, but tonight,
he promised himself, he would.
The speed of Donovan’s skycycle hit the maximum and Giovanni
was still not within his reach. The man’s black leather coat flapped madly in
the torrents of air, giving the appearance that he was flying rather than
jumping. Donovan was slowly falling behind.
He gritted his teeth—he knew what he needed to do.
He put his skycycle on track mode—it would follow him, using
the signal on his watch.
Before he could think, before fear and logic could tell him
not to, Donovan leapt from the skycycle toward the train. It took only a second
but felt like minutes as he soared over the city, a thousand feet of empty
space between him and the pavement below.
The train passed underneath him and for a moment he feared
that he would land on one of the thin metal wires that held the cars together,
or miss completely and fall to his death.
He was lucky—the impact of the cold metal pulled the breath
from his lungs. Hard abs lessened the effect of the blow. He took only a moment
to recover. He jumped to his feet and ran along the top of the skytrain,
careful not to look over the edge. The weight of his large frame caused the
metal roofs to echo with loud thumps, probably startling the passengers inside—as
if the sky-chase had not already scared them out of their wits.
His target was tiring, he could tell. The wound Donovan had
inflicted on Giovanni earlier was starting to take its toll. Even up here in
the dark, Donovan could see the blood dripping down the other man’s leg. A
wound that would have left puddles on top of a groundtrain, up here sent big drops
of blood splashing his way.
Donovan began to catch up. The man didn’t seem to realize
that he was still being followed—or maybe he had become too delirious to
continue the barrage of electric grenades. Hopefully, he had run out.
Donovan was just one car behind. He could see the city limit
getting closer. The skyscrapers became less frequent and the blue lights had
all but faded behind them. The speed of the skytrain made it harder to move.
With a great pull of energy to counteract the wind, Donovan bent his knees,
tightened his muscles and pushed off.
He landed halfway onto the top of the next car. His middle
crushed into the edge of it, knocking the breath from him again. The metal was
slippery with a mixture of condensation and blood. Donovan almost lost his
grip. He pulled himself upwards with all his might and with a last effort,
rolled over onto the top.
The target was only halfway down the car. Giovanni crawled,
fighting against the wind. Donovan crawled behind him, keeping his eyes only on
the man’s shiny black boots. Focusing on that, Donovan propelled himself
forward. He reached out a hand and grabbed Giovanni by the injured leg, making
him scream in pain and turn around to lash out at Donovan with his free foot.
Donovan ducked and pulled the man closer. He climbed on top of him and landed a
solid blow to the stomach.
The man named Giovanni doubled over, temporarily unable to
breathe. He rolled onto his back, eyes wide with the shock of the blow. For the
first time, Donovan was able to look at the face of his enemy head on.
He was a rather shriveled and pale person. Young, but having
lived long enough for wrinkles to form under his eyes. A huge cut ran across
his face from the left temple to the right side of the jaw. It was a jagged
line of pink tissue, signaling just how much Giovanni had struggled when it was
cut into him. Donovan had seen other members of the x5 Liberation Contingent
with much cleaner initiation scars. They let the wounds heal naturally to prove
they were strong enough to carry out the organization’s agenda.
Seeing Giovanni’s souvenir, Donovan wondered if he had been
initiated by force. He didn’t fit the usual profile. But, then again, how could
you pick a terrorist out of a crowd? The key to x5’s strength was diversity—you
never really knew who would be the next attacker. Donovan would never forget
the time a seven-year-old terrorist had stabbed him in the chest simply for
trying to rescue her. That was x5’s goal—to corrupt. To cause so much fear in
the hearts of citizens that they lost faith in the authority of their government.
Little kids going around knifing people and trying to blow up train stations
would certainly do the trick. The terrorists wanted anarchy—then they could
stage a coup—but no one knew who their leader would be.
Donovan watched the man who looked much more like a boy to
him now, gasp for breath, stretching the scar where it ran across his lips. For
a moment, Donovan felt pity. Maybe he could argue for a lighter sentence,
considering his age. He couldn’t be more than twenty-eight-years old. Then he
remembered the last time he cut a criminal slack and changed his mind.
He would let the courts deal with it. It was his job to
catch the criminals—nothing more. He would follow the rules, follow his orders,
and everything would be fine. It wasn’t up to him to decide people’s fates.
Besides, this boy, however naïve he may be, had plotted to kill people. He
would have gone through with it had Donovan not stopped him. Surely, he didn’t
deserve mercy.
Donovan debated about knocking Giovanni out but decided
against it. The dead weight would be too much to carry up there. Instead, he
reached down and grabbed him by the shoulders of his jacket, dragging him along
the car until they reached the edge. Donovan punched him in the stomach again
for good measure, just to be sure he wouldn’t try another escape—and maybe to
vent for having had to chase him down.
Donovan hopped down on the little platform at the end of the
car. The faces inside looked alarmed. The passengers were peering out the
windows, looking up almost as if they could bend their line of sight to see on
the roof. A few of them spotted him, a large black man in plainclothes, covered
in blood, and backed away from the door. As he forced the doors open, the rest
of the people caught sight of him and moved away as well. A woman screamed.
Donovan reached back to the roof and grabbed Giovanni by his
oily hair. He dragged the boy down, ignoring his screams and flailing arms. Giovanni
landed in a heavy pile on the floor of the platform. Donovan dragged him inside
by his injured leg. His struggles had little effect on Donovan’s grip. He was
still trying to get air back into his collapsed lungs, which Donovan knew from
experience left no energy for anything else. The boy probably thought he was
dying.
Once Giovanni’s lungs could pull in air again, Donovan
immobilized him with electric handcuffs. He was only allowed to use them on criminals
that were level seven and up—Giovanni was a level nine. The passengers stared
at him. Some spoke into their palms, commanding their Liao Inserts to record
the scene or dial 911. The local cops, who knew about the Army and Space Force’s
pursuit of Giovanni, would ignore the call and forward it to the temporary
headquarters of the Army and Space Force 6
th
Special Forces Platoon,
which Donovan commanded.
The Special Forces Platoon would ignore the call, too—they
would forward it straight to him, even though they knew it would piss him off.
Why forward the calls to him if they already knew he was on Giovanni’s trail?
He had to find these men something to do besides sit at desks answering phones,
but they weren’t yet qualified for much else. The General had sent him a bunch
of rookies. They had their workout routines and recreational activities, but repetition
could become deadening. They were sending the calls his way for fun now.
It had been a makeshift Platoon—created in Santa Monica,
where Donovan lived, in answer to the threat of terrorists. The number of reports
had gone up in the area, so the Santa Monica Police had called them in. The
reports came mostly from insiders who wouldn’t give their names—a sure sign
that something huge was going on. And it was. Donovan had just caught a piece
of the puzzle, which, with some interrogation, would lead him to the next
piece.
Lazily, Donovan reached into his pocket. There was a scream
of terror and a large, collective intake of breath. Donovan rolled his eyes and
pulled his hand out, revealing a piece of gum which he popped into his mouth.
“I’m with the United States Army and Space Force,” he said
calmly. He held up his watch for them to see. At his command it displayed his
army identification, which showed that he was a One Star General. He pointed to
his captive. “This guy’s a member of the x5 terrorist group. You’re welcome.”
With that, he dropped into the nearest empty seat, ignoring
the people who got up and moved away. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, then
spoke into his watch. “Connect to satellite.” Sure enough, there were
twenty-four missed calls from the temporary headquarters. Donovan shook his
head at their idiocy. “Call General McGregor.”
General McGregor was his direct superior—the one who had
assigned him to this case. Donovan had notified him that he was in pursuit of
Giovanni twenty minutes ago, then he’d gone dark. Though the lack of
communication had its pitfalls—like no back up—if the General had constant
access to bark orders into his earpiece Donovan wouldn’t be able to
concentrate.
“Did you get him?” The General’s gruff voice came through
the tiny speaker in his ear.
“Yes, sir. We’re on the skytrain. The target is secure. Next
stop is Los Angeles Sky Station.” The watch picked up his voice even though his
hand was at his side.
“Good work, General. I’ll send a team there to take him to
the permanent headquarters. I don’t think the security at the temporary
building is enough. They may try to retrieve him and it would be too easy for
them. I’ll send you whatever information we can get out of him. Then you can
start taking down the rest of these assholes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
The line went dead. Donovan relaxed for the rest of the
train ride, comforted by the knowledge that his target would not get away. The
electric handcuffs sent a constant wave of small shocks through the man’s body,
keeping him knocked out. He would be in a lot of pain when he woke up.
Donovan stared out of the window at the blackness between
Santa Monica and Los Angeles. He remembered being so fascinated in school by
the idea that cities in Southern California once spread over miles and miles of
land. A few hundred years ago this whole area would have been filled with
light. But now cities had become like huge, tall islands, with vast swaths of
wildlife in between. Many of the animals that roamed down there had once been
extinct.
Donovan was surprised to see that the General had come to
the station personally. He rarely went into the field these days. He was getting
old. All that knowledge and experience had to stay safely tucked away at
headquarters. They couldn’t afford to lose him. Donovan, as highly skilled as
he was, was far more replaceable.
General McGregor was an imposing man. He was a full head
shorter than Donovan but still managed to make him feel like a teenager if he
ever did something wrong. He reminded Donovan a little of his dad, though they
looked nothing alike. For as long as he had been a part of the army, Donovan
had answered to this man above all others.
No one seemed to remember a time when Hesekiel McGregor was
not in charge. He was a four-star general—commander of the entire Army and
Space Force, the most powerful branch of the military.
Donovan stood at attention and gave his report while General
McGregor listened with an expression almost like a glare. He always looked like
that—like he was on the edge of anger. But this was his neutral expression.
Donovan knew him well enough to see that he was actually quite pleased.
The criminal had been loaded into a car only minutes ago,
cuffs still intact around his wrists, body sagging in the arms of two privates.
They dragged him in unceremoniously, knocking his head against the door twice.
Donovan felt a sense of accomplishment. There had been no deaths. Tons of
action, but no property destroyed.
“You did a good job,” the General said. “Go home, Knight. Get
some rest. You deserve it.”
It was a rare moment of praise. Donovan tried not to smile.
“Thank you, sir.”
