Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D. (3 page)

***

“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.

Breaking them from their reverie, Stratton brought them back to the mission. “Prepare for crunch time! Passing through the canopy in 5—4—3—2—1.”

With the last four hundred meters closing quickly, the team rotated upright—allowing Gena, their Globally Exhaustive Networking Assistant, to initiate the landing procedure. At one hundred eighty meters above the ground, Gena activated the anti-grav units, slowing them. Their suits’ inertia dampeners finished the job, absorbing the last remaining bit of impact.

“Just like giving your girl her first kiss. Soft and sweet,” said Tomlinson as he touched down.

Stratton turned, taking stock of the team. Steven landed last. “And that makes eight. Everyone safely down and accounted for, Admiral.” As per safety protocols, Gena had landed them in an octagon pattern around the baseball-sized beacon, which lay bubbling and oozing on the ground.

Reaching back for their artillery, the magnetic auto-lock released upon grasp. The team moved quickly, taking up defensive positions behind the debris and vehicles that littered the street. While the team scanned for the enemy, Steven—against protocol—stood tall and unmoving. His eyes roved from building to building, searching. In the dark depths of shadowed alleyways and broken-out storefront windows, he sensed that the presence was nearby.

“I’ve never seen a cavern like this,” said Stratton.

“None of us have,” said Steven.

“Why aren’t their webs on these buildings?” asked Paris.

No one could give her an answer.

Though ravaged by years of quakes, wind, and storms, Steven noted that the buildings still held a reflective ambiance of their former selves.

To his left, half hidden in the tall weeds that had grown unfettered over the years, sat the remnants of an antique shop. A badly rusted, blue Schwinn bicycle, the rubber from its front tire missing, teetered on the ledge of the windowsill. Its squeaky and bent wheel spun slowly in the breeze.

Looking further down the street, a Dunkin’ Donuts’ sign swayed. It reminded him of simpler times when he and his wife had shared donuts and coffee together as young cadets.

Closing his eyes, he focused himself, blocking out the distractions of his surroundings. Relying solely on the sensations he felt pulling him, his attention became acutely sharp and clear.

Tomlinson studied his scanner, zeroing in on the distress beacon’s location. “Sir, the signal is coming from the—”

“The small red brick building on the other side of the square,” said Steven, finishing Tomlinson’s sentence.

“Yeah, but how—?” Tomlinson glanced up at Steven. He saw that Steven’s back was to the building, his eyes closed. “How did you know that?”

Slowly lifting his head, Steven opened his eyes. He turned, his gaze narrowing as he stared at the distant building that was wavering like a mirage from the heat radiating off the pavement. Out of all the buildings, it was the only one undamaged.
Odd,
he observed
. Very odd
.

“In case you didn’t know, we’re being watched,” whispered Steven. Instinct forced him to speak in a soft tone.

“From where, sir?” said Moore, as he and the rest of the team shifted their weapons from street to street, from building to building—the scopes on their weapons instantly adjusting for varying distances. The city high above them was like the rest of Earth’s land surface—a maze of webbed tunnels formed by the spiders that the enemy left behind. All around them great webbed arches linked the crumbling walls of towering buildings together like bridges. The demeanor of the team stiffened, their focus now warrior sharp.