Gabriel's Journey

BOOK ONE

Chapter 1

Evan dove into the clear blue water, leaving the safety of the catamaran behind, and swam deep, adjusting his goggles as he kicked. He felt more than heard his older brother Zack hit the water behind him, then a second hollow splash as Tyler followed. Evan knew he was ahead of the other boys, that he’d find his quarry first, but he also knew in the back of his mind he was the youngest and the smallest, and still had to work the hardest.

As he passed twelve feet, he took a quick peek over his shoulder, pinching his nose and snorting to equalize the pressure. The nearly-transparent Caribbean water allowed him to see that his sixteen-year-old cousin Tyler had already caught and passed fourteen-year-old Zack, another age and size advantage Evan didn’t have.

At eleven, Evan was fortunate enough to still be able to hang out with the older boys...but today was different. He could feel it, something in the warm salty air. He knew this time he’d be the one telling stories over conch ceviche on the beach, the one who’d be the center of attention once he retrieved the first shell from the white sand bottom. He spotted the perfect candidate, partially buried and barely noticeable. Easily the largest anyone would find today. He kicked hard away from the charging Tyler, reaching out with one hand...

*****

Gabriel awoke with a start, jerking his head up from the tattered pillow, and instinctively reached out for his gun. His right hand found it in its customary place, less than two feet from his head, on the peeling laminate of the nightstand. His fingers closed around the Heckart’s worn grip, his neuretic brain implants sending the code to arm and charge the weapon. Every muscle in his body was tensed like steel cord. What the hell woke me up? he thought. Something in the air, some out of the ordinary sound, something over and above the usual Jamaican street buzz.

He sat up in bed, weapon held tightly. The reassuring tingle in his palm indicating the Heckart was armed and fully charged. He peered around, eyes adjusting to the feeble moonlight leaking in the cracked window. Hotel room just as he left it, window opened less than three inches to combat the stifling Caribbean heat, a heat unusual for December. His neuretics fired off a quick burst, confirming none of his motion alarms had been triggered. What was out of place, what caused the sharp reaction?

He debated running a somewhat-risky active scan when the sound of clinking glass wafted in from outside and his eyes darted to the window. Muffled laughter, an old man coughing, the screech of a cat, and more clinking as last night’s Red Stripe bottles were kicked over. More coughing, a muttered patois curse towards the cat, then silence.

He slid noiselessly to the window, staying out of the dust-filled moonbeams piercing the seedy hotel room. Back to the wall, weapon next to his ear, he stole a quick glance outside. His second floor room afforded a sweeping view of the street and its dilapidated buildings. Years ago Jamaica was a tourism mecca, but that had changed drastically since the Dark Days and the ensuing devastation of most low-lying land areas. This Ocho Rios street was a living example of third-world society’s collapse: strewn with garbage, overflowing dumpsters, and countless lost souls looking for the next day’s meal, drink, or narcotic.

Below him, across the street, was a gaunt Jamaican, the upper half of his body bent into a dumpster, refuse flying out behind him as he dug through the mess. At his feet were dozens of empty beer bottles, softly chiming a mournful melody as his bare feet brushed against them. A pathetic-looking cat sat in judgement on the top of the waste container, watching silently, waiting for its chance at scraps.

Gabriel scanned the full length of the street in one direction, then stepped back. Edging to the other side of the window, he repeated the security sweep, weapon at the ready. He switched his left eye to infrared, still wanting to avoid an active scan that may alert another to his presence. Nothing. Just a sad old man, a reflection on the post-Dark Days society in general, had interrupted what may have been his only true sleep in weeks.

He shook his head slowly with a grimace, and moved back to the bed. He checked his neuretics’ passive sensors, and satisfied he was alone, set the safed Heckart on the nightstand. He crawled back into bed, turning the sweat-stained pillow over, and tried desperately to get back into the childhood dream he had woken from.

*****

Unbelievable, Evan, said Tyler. Never saw anything like it. You were like a kid possessed out there. The sixteen-year-old crunched into another tortilla chip slathered with habanero salsa. Biggift freakin’ conff I ever faw. Chunks of tomato tumbled from his mouth onto his lap, then onto the white sand.

Zack chuckled in agreement. Can’t believe your skinny ass could lift it up from the bottom. His tortilla was more carefully constructed, just a few pieces of conch ceviche and a spoonful of the spicy salsa.

Tyler laughed, salsa mixed with tortilla crumbs flying from his lips. Zack, you couldn’t even get past ten feet. How do you even know he got it? Maybe it was me all along, and I’m just giving little Mr. Gabriel the credit. Next time try clearing your ears.

Evan just listened silently, chewing on conch. He held another skewer of the white meat over the edge of the bonfire the boys had built after beaching the catamaran at their secret family spot, a tiny deserted island just south of Cuba. He smiled to himself. Nice to finally be the center of attention, he thought.

He looked over at his father and uncle, sitting on beach chairs at the waterline with a bucket of iced Carib lagers between them, talking and chuckling in muffled tones. He hadn’t seen his uncle in three years; always off-planet on some secretive Special Forces mission. And his father…well, he hadn’t really been around much either, at least mentally. Ever since Evan’s mother died, his father had been distant, withdrawn. He was glad to see him smiling again.

Maybe my uncle will even let me finish his beer like he did that time when we...

Hey, Ev, finish your snack and get us some sodas! yelled Tyler, wiping his hands on his bathing suit.

Zack stood up, knocking Evan’s soda bottle over, the once-cold liquid seeping into the white sand. Oops, might as well make that three. Go on, little man, time’s a-wasting!

The two older boys ran towards the water, kicking sand up as they flew by the adults. His uncle flicked a bottle cap at the boys as they ran, laughing. Back to reality, Evan thought, his conch victory long forgotten. He launched himself from his chair towards the water...

*****

There! The sound; the mysterious, unexplained, almost inaudible sound that woke him the first time. His eyes flew open, gun already in hand and tingling, his rigid body heading for the window. Outside, nothing. No old man, no cat, no movement. Something’s wrong, and now that dream’s gone for good. He queried the motion alarms; again all reported back as clean. Padding over to the hotel room door, he heard the stairs outside in the hall creak. He froze, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. Oh-four-thirty, not a time for anyone to be stalking the halls.

The creaking came closer, definitely on his floor. His passive scan didn’t detect anyone - wait, there. Two of them, both hazed in a weak stealth field. He sent out a low-level active scan, and it burned right through the government-issue stealth. His Mindseye system superimposed images across his vision - two bodies, one short, one massive. End of the long hall, 80 feet away, walking slowly in his direction. His scan showed no weapons, not even kinetic or blunt instrument. Nothing more solid on either of them than a pair of glasses on the short one, and a large belt buckle on the larger one.

He pressed his back into the wall next to the doorframe, waiting. The creaks increased in volume, then stopped. They were right outside the door. The gun’s carbotanium was cool on his cheek as his finger brushed absently on the trigger pad. Neuretics on full alert, he waited.

Oddly enough, they knocked. A soft knuckle rap as if they didn’t want to wake anyone. He continued to wait, ready to spring. Another knock, this time slightly louder. Evan Gabriel? came a light call, almost falsetto.

Bizarre, he thought. If someone tracked him down, all the way to Jamaica, it couldn’t be a social visit. He had done his very best to erase any evidence of his whereabouts. So why were they knocking and announcing their presence?

Evan Gabriel, we know you’re in there. Already talked to the night manager, showed him your picture, came the falsetto voice. After a pause, it continued. Please, we need to speak. We’ve been traveling all night.

Now he was beyond puzzlement. Assassins or commandos don’t usually ask politely to chat with their marks before dropping them. He stepped away from the wall a few inches and pressed the barrel of his weapon to the surface of the door, leaning his head across to peer out the peephole. He regretted not having placed any AV bugs in the hall. Laziness will get you killed one of these days, he thought.

Two men stood outside his door, one barely tall enough for his head to be seen through the hole, and one large enough to probably have trouble fitting through the door. Both in business suits, jackets open, both empty handed, and both sweating profusely. The short man waved, peering up at the hole. Sir, we really need to speak, came his tiny voice. You know we’re unarmed, we picked up your scan. Honestly I’m dead tired. Please, just a moment of your time.

He slid to the other side of the door, changing hands with his pistol, wrestling with the paradox. No one should know he was here, and if someone did, he’d probably be in jail — or dead — by now. And Fat Man and Little Boy outside called him by name without blowing down the door and coming in with a full squad. Can’t live forever...

Who are you, mon? Who ‘dis Evan you be speaking of? Go ‘way, now, I needa rest, he tried in his best rasta accent.

He heard a soft snort. Mr. Gabriel, it’s been a very long day and night for us. This won’t take but a minute. We’ll both turn around and put our hands on the opposite wall. Please, just open the door so we can talk.

He brought the gun back and ran another scan. His Mindseye image showed that both men had stepped to the side of the hall and were in frisk-me position, hands on the chipped plaster wall, the big man’s nearly touching the ceiling. He sent a disable command to the motion alarms and slowly undid the locks with his left hand. His right hand still gripped the Heckart tightly. He turned the knob.

Pale yellow light from the hallway spilled into the hotel room as he edged into the doorway, fully charged and armed mag pistol trained on the two men. Slowly turn around to face me, hands on top of your heads, he said in a low voice. And I want those shit stealth fields off.

Fat Man and Little Boy did as instructed; Gabriel’s neuretics confirmed the fields dropped. Little Boy motioned with a downwards nod of his head. I have an envelope for you, it’s in my right inside pocket. His eyes never left the muzzle of the pistol, the targeting laser dot placed squarely over his heart.

Gabriel slowly moved the pistol in Fat Man’s direction, the dot jumping from man to man. You, right hand on top of your head, reach across with your left hand and take out the envelope. And please, it’s been a long night for me as well. Don’t give me a excuse to wake everyone else up with two bodies hitting the floor.

Fat Man complied, obviously understanding the danger inherent in the nearly-silent and highly-lethal 7mm Heckart, and reached over in front of Little Boy, withdrawing a small beige envelope with a red seal from the other’s jacket pocket.

Toss it over, Gabriel commanded, weapon still pointed at the men.

Fat Man gave a snap of the wrist, and the envelope dropped neatly at Gabriel’s feet.

Actual paper, huh? How quaint. What’s in it? he asked, flicking the gun towards the envelope.

Little Boy sighed. Commander Evan Gabriel, NAF Naval Special Forces, by order of the Director of Naval Intelligence of the North American Federation, you are hereby recalled to active duty.

Fat Man grunted, finally speaking. Something big’s come up. We’re here to take you back home, sir. He cracked a grin, revealing a missing front tooth. Whether you like it or not.

For the first time, Evan Gabriel’s pistol wavered. Of all the places he could have gone to hide out and escape the world, his childhood vacation retreat of Jamaica seemed to be the perfect backwater location -- the last place anyone would look for him. And now, it was all over.

Let me get my shoes.

Dozens of small, dark faces pressed against the grimy windows of Sangster International Airport’s main terminal. They stared out, mesmerized, as the tilt-turbine Combat Raven spooled up its engines, squatting on the cracked tarmac like a hungry tiger about to pounce on a gazelle. Dirt and debris scattered from the hot jet wash, peppering a nearby fuel truck with the sound of marbles being dropped onto a tin roof. The children watching murmured amongst themselves. Their eyes widened as the turbines reached a high-pitched whine. The pulsejet engines began to thrum a steady, low beat heard even in the deepest recesses of the dilapidated airport.

With a final burst of power, the Combat Raven leaped into the air on twin tongues of plasma. Ripples of heat made the tarmac shimmer as the aircraft blasted skyward. The children pointed excitedly as they watched the midnight blue bird of prey speed away over the crumbling cruise ship pier, engine nacelles rotating to horizontal. Within seconds it had shrunken to a tiny dot over the Caribbean.

Inside the aircraft, Evan Gabriel turned his face away from the viewport and scrunched down into a more comfortable position in the jumpseat. The Combat Raven was the heavily armed and shielded version of the NAF Aerospace Force Raven transport aircraft. Having to make room for the additional weaponry and sensor suites left very little in the way of personal comforts.

Normally able to seat 40 fully-suited and geared drop troopers in ten rows of four (with a convenient aisle down the middle; not so much for flight attendants to serve beverages as for a 220 pound soldier with his or her 40 pound pack to squeeze down), the Combat Raven stripped those cushioned seats out and replaced them with fold-down nylon webbing and carbotanium frame benches along each side. Down the center, ostensibly the aisle, rose a hump running the length of the interior, packed with electronic warfare equipment. At the rear was a weapons blister, a small glass bubble revealing the automated turret stashed below the craft, only a few inches protruding above the cabin floor. All the viewports save for two small ones on each side had been replaced for defensive armoring.

At the very rear, what used to be the restroom area on the transport aircraft, sat rows of consoles for countermeasures and radar/lidar stations; only one operator was present for this trip. The lone ECM tech sat facing away from the cabin with old-fashioned headphones covering his ears. He paid no attention to the additional cargo the Combat Raven had picked up, completely focused on what the sensor suite was giving him via video, audio, and neural input. Gabriel wondered idly what threats could even remotely be present in this backwater area of the Caribbean. Toronto had certainly sent a full package for his retrieval, including the two agents sitting across from him.

They had introduced themselves on the drive to the airport as Javier (Little Boy) and Hugh (Fat Man), no last names given. They were out of the NAF capitol of Toronto, listed as diplomatic attachés, obviously on the payroll of SpecFor. Javier had prattled on the entire one hour ride about himself; he had been with the government since college, his wife worked in an appliance store selling extended warranties (she had just been promoted from cashier, Javier had said with an odd pride), no kids, no plans other than waiting for his next paycheck.

Hugh had talked much more infrequently, and had seemed antsy being cooped up in the armored diplomatic groundcar, gritting his teeth at each jounce of the suspension. On board the aircraft, he now seemed relaxed, almost serene, obviously more at home in the air, and Gabriel guessed he had seen a lot of action in his time. He sat with his eyes slitted as Javier continued to ramble on in falsetto. He was too large to be a pilot, so Gabriel pegged him as former drop trooper. From his apparent young age, probably a veteran of the recent Aguaguerras Conflict in Brazil.

Gabriel had just started to drift off with the drone of the engines when Hugh spoke up, interrupting Javier’s discourse on his recent stock purchases. Commander, he rumbled. Javier tells me you are the same Gabriel from Eden.

That’s right, Gabriel answered with a weary voice. But I’m retired now, at least until you guys showed up. He rubbed his eyes, hoping the agents would get the hint to let him rest for the hour-long flight. And the last thing he wanted to talk to anyone about was Eden.

Dishonorable discharge, that’s what they say, said Javier, nudging Hugh with his elbow. But we know the true story.

Gabriel opened one eye and pinned Javier with his stare. Is that so?

Of course, the falsetto continued, an odd paradox with the low-pitched throbs of the pulsejets. You were railroaded. You and your team never had a chance, it was a suicide mission. No way out of that school, no way to save the kids, your team, even yourself. But you did three out of those four, and they pinned the remaining mess on you.

Gabriel opened his other eye and leaned forward. You don’t know shit. Leave it be, he said in a low voice. After a long few seconds of staring, he leaned back and closed his eyes and crossed his arms to indicate that the discussion was over.

He could still smell the scorched wood and melted metal, and hear the moans of his wounded men, as they placed the last charge and pulled back. His leg tingled unconsciously where the Geltex had burned through his armor. The dull thrum of the pulsejets became heavy weapons fire as he finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 2

The supersonic flight from Jamaica to Toronto was mostly uneventful, save for a detour around a drug interdiction mission over the Bahamas. Gabriel had his neuretics hack into the pilot’s conversation as the Coast Guard requested fire support on a drug runner’s submarine that was armed with surface-to-air missiles. The Combat Raven’s pilot had regretfully and politely declined, her mission being not only at the behest of the office of Naval Intelligence, but also completely off the books. Gabriel closed his hacked pipe just as she was instructing the ECM tech to wipe clean the Coast Guard’s systems of their presence and all data and voice transmissions.

At Mach 3.2, flight time was just under an hour, landing at Toronto’s Downsview Naval Aerospace Station just after eight in the morning. Upon touching down, the Combat Raven was met by a tow vehicle, which quickly hauled the aircraft into a secure hangar, its fuselage ticking as it cooled. The hangar doors slid shut and two armed sentries took up station outside.

The hatch popped with a hiss and the three men emerged onto the wheeled stairs the ground crew had rolled in. Hugh descended the stairs first, jacket open and eyes scanning. Javier followed, and waved to the figures emerging from a door at the far end of the hangar.

Gabriel paused at the top and zoomed his right eye to scan the arriving group. Two people in officer’s uniforms, one man and one woman, flanked by NAFN Marines. His neuretics automatically began searching its memory to pin down the woman, but the man he knew on sight, and his skin crawled. Vice Admiral Llewelyn MacFarland, better known to friend and enemies as Dredge.

Gabriel’s implant flashed a dot in his Mindseye periphery, signaling a match found in its search, but Gabriel shunted it aside and shifted his focus to MacFarland. Once his direct commanding officer during the Canary Islands invasion of 2168, then-Captain MacFarland had sent then-Lieutenant Gabriel and his team into a meat grinder later called Francisco’s Stand. MacFarland sat back in a safe and secure command tent while his men fought an unwinnable battle, suffering 90% casualties before the cease fire.

Three years later, MacFarland had cheerfully busted Lieutenant Commander Gabriel back down to Lieutenant Junior Grade for what he termed insubordination, but what most others called justice. This after Gabriel caught MacFarland personally working over some locals in Brazil, locals he had labeled in the official paperwork as insurgents, but were in reality poor farmers suffering through the same water crisis as the rest of South America. They were trying their best to eke out a living, but happened to be in the way of MacFarland’s off-the-books golf course for his officers; only Gabriel’s whistleblowing had saved their village.

And then there was the Eden disaster… He descended the metal steps, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes as the group approached. The only reason MacFarland had ever kept his rank was because of his father-in-law’s political connections within the NAF and various multinational corporations, who some say were the real power behind the world’s governments. And here he is, a damned Admiral of all things, in charge of Naval Intelligence, running the same old power plays.

He reached the bottom of the steps, Javier and Hugh flanking the railings, and brought up his neuretics’ search results. Lieutenant Renay Gesselli, NAF Naval Intelligence. Four year degree from Princeton in political science, doctorate from University of Barcelona in communication. Currently stationed at Alizares Naval Base in Mexico City, department listed as classified, no further information. Interesting, thought Gabriel. His neuretics didn’t hit too many roadblocks they couldn’t overcome. He made a mental note to burn through later.

Commander Gabriel, good to see you again, son! boomed MacFarland as the group reached the foot of the stairs. The Marines stopped next to the SpecFor agents and stood at parade rest. Didn’t think we could find you, eh? He held out his hand.

Gabriel glanced down at the outstretched hand, considered whether to go for the combat knife strapped to his ankle and lop it off, then thought better of it. "Dredge, he said with barely contained rancor. And this is?" he queried, turning to Gesselli and letting the hand hang in space.

MacFarland frowned and took his hand back. Commander Evan Gabriel, this is Lieutenant Renay Gesselli, my chief of staff.

Commander, a pleasure, Gesselli said in a lilting tone. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m looking forward to working with you on this. She held her hand out, which Gabriel took politely.

I’m looking forward to finding out just what the hell is going on, he replied, motioning behind him with his chin. Your men didn’t say a word the entire trip. He heard Javier clear his throat and Hugh shift on his feet.

Yes, right. Well, we don’t have a lot of time, said MacFarland gruffly. Let’s get up to my office. I have a holo briefing set up, it’ll fill you in. He spun on his heel and walked back in the direction they came in. The Marine escorts quickly fell in step behind him. Gesselli gave Gabriel a wry smile, almost a smirk, returned his hand he had neglected to release from hers, and turned to follow.

Gabriel pursed his lips in a frown, more curious than annoyed at this point. He looked over his shoulder to the two SpecFor men who were still standing at the stairs.

You’re on your own, Commander, said Javier. We’ll wait for you here. Sorry again about that, uh, discussion.

Hugh inclined his head in a troopers’ casual acknowledgement. See you soon, sir.

Gabriel shook his head and slowly followed the retreating officers.

Gabriel followed MacFarland and Gesselli into the briefing room, a sparsely-decorated circular chamber with a long holotable at the center surrounded by a dozen or so high-backed leather chairs. The dark walls were covered in a heavy fabric, obviously sound and signal dampening, with only a few portraits of past NAF presidents adorning them.

Please take a seat, Commander, said Gesselli, indicating a chair with a flexscreen tube on the table in front of it.

Gabriel caught the slight emphasis on his previous, and no longer technically valid, rank. He detected a tone of what, sarcasm? Malice? Annoyance? Something was under the surface there, he was sure of it, but he knew it would take some time to figure her out. Being drop-dead gorgeous was throwing him off his game a bit.

Gesselli sat across from him and cast a quick smirk his way as he eased into the chair. The leather was crisp, seemingly brand new, crinkling a bit as he shifted his position. He picked up the tube and rolled out the flexscreen panel, which remained blank, revealing nothing of the upcoming briefing.

MacFarland sat heavily at the head of the table and placed both hands on the gray table surface. I’m sorry at our methods of meeting, but we’ve got a situation that requires the utmost in discretion, and we’re very time sensitive at this point. And you, he pointed at Gabriel. Even with the, uh, discharge, you are still bound by NAF covert ops regulations to report.

Gabriel glared at MacFarland, eyes locking, until the admiral broke his gaze and rapped the table with his Naval Academy class ring. So let’s get moving, shall we? He nodded towards Gesselli.

Thank you sir, she replied with an answering nod. Commander, this is the 46 Scorpii system, 602 light years from our solar system in the constellation Scorpius, a main-sequence K0-2 orange-red dwarf.

Her fingers tapped at her open flexscreen, and the holotank in the center of the table came to life, a glowing pale yellow ball of light rising up out of its surface. An image of a solar system appeared with a primary similar to Sol, circled by six planets and an asteroid belt. The display showed the planetary orbits as looping lines, with the sixth, a gas giant with several large moons, having an irregular path 20 degrees out of the ecliptic plane; the others were in traditional paths. The fourth planet was highlighted and blinking, and Gesselli continued.

"This icy planet is called Poliahu. It was named after the snow goddess of Mauna Kea, discovered in 2072 by the Hawaiian astronomer Kewe Iohunukonu using the Kepler-3 orbiting sensor array. It sits 104 million miles from the star, just outside the Goldilocks zone of habitability."

Gabriel noticed his flexscreen screen had illuminated with scrolling text, charts, and images of the planet. He picked it up and began flicking through pages.

You can read full details of the planet and the system later on, Gesselli said with a sharp tone. Right now we’re going over the highlights and the reason why you’re here.

Gabriel slid the flexscreen closed and tossed the tube back onto the table with a clatter. He leaned back and clasped his hands across his lap. By all means, he said drily. Why bother putting this in front of me then?

Gesselli glared for just an instant, interrupted by MacFarland clearing his throat. Lieutenant, give the Commander a quick overview of Poliahu and move on.

Of course sir, she said. Poliahu was targeted for colonization in 2140, when automated probes found evidence of high concentrations of valuable minerals, most notably uranium and cesium, which I’m sure you’re aware are invaluable to our military. Eight years ago, the Bureau of Colonization awarded the charter to a small group comprised of scientists and miners, who were able to come up with the funding necessary for the lease. It formally registered as a Corporate World with all proper documentation and governance regulations the following year, 2169.

The holo image shifted and zoomed in on the fourth planet.

You’ll notice the planet is essentially a ball of snow and ice. It is water-ice, and the atmosphere, while averaging several dozen degrees below freezing, is very similar to our own. So humans can live and breathe without respirators, albeit in environment suits. Combined with a .94 gravity, this makes it an excellent colonization target. She paused. But no one will mistake it for Eden.

Gabriel stared at Gesselli, his eyes laser-targeting hers at the mention of Eden. He knew damned well that she would know of his past, and was now needling him for a reaction. Instead, he nodded, ordered his neuretics to tamp down his emotional response and calm his heart rate a bit, and said, Go on.

Gesselli cocked her head a bit, the smirk returning, and after a few seconds broke eye contact. Gabriel assumed he passed her test.

Interestingly enough, she went on, her attention back on the holo image, Poliahu wasn’t always ice-bound. The Planetary Research Council concluded that around a hundred and fifty years ago, a massive asteroid collided with the planet so severely that its climate was thrust into a nuclear-winter type of situation for several years, remarkably similar to the Shanghai event here. But unlike Earth’s collision, Poliahu’s impact also affected its orbit, pushing it approximately 35 million miles further out from its primary, and reducing its tilt to almost zero degrees. This caused it to freeze over, and without that axial tilt, every season is winter across the surface.

The holo image ran through a simulation of the event - the bluish-green planet orbiting just under 70 million miles out, an eleven degree tilt, then the asteroid collision, the orbit change, and the planet’s color shifting to its current mottled gray-white. The simulation stirred Gabriel’s emotions. Every human of school age or older had seen video and telemetry of the asteroid impact in Shanghai in 2160. The resulting catastrophe plunged Earth into nearly two years of darkness and cold. Gabriel suppressed a visible shudder at the memory, both of the Dark Days and of the related deaths of his father and cousin.

What about indigenous life? Gabriel asked, shifting in his seat, trying to clear his mind.

Probes found evidence of previous plant and minor animal life, but essentially nothing land-based survived the freeze, Gesselli replied.

Almost nothing, MacFarland cut in.

Gesselli glanced at MacFarland. "Yes, almost nothing. Which brings us to the issue at hand. Commander Gabriel, do you know what dew is?

Assuming you’re not talking about what shows up on the lawn first thing in the morning, yes, he replied.

Dew was a designer drug that only recently started appearing on Earth, Mars, and colony worlds. It was a clear, odorless, tasteless liquid that, once injected into a user’s tear duct using a microsyringe, overwhelmed the brain’s sensory functions, creating a feeling of incredible euphoria. It also left the user with a near-unlimited tolerance for pain, as it blocked the body’s natural nerve receptors. Users had been known to cut off their own limbs without so much as a wince.

Typical dew doses would keep the user high for three to four hours, after which the crash was so severe, people would sometimes drop into a coma-like state for up to ten hours at a time. For this reason the drug became highly addictive, as the up so far outweighed the down, use continued to inject it on an almost-continuous basis to maintain that euphoric feeling.

Dew has been causing significant problems in our military, Gesselli said. And we’re having a harder and harder time detecting it being smuggled in. Several major drug cartels are distributing it, but unlike other drugs such as heroin, cocaine, or bluestim, no one knows its origin or who initially created it, or even its current source. That is until now.

The holo image changed again, warping into a head. But not a human head, Gabriel noted with a start.

This is an animal from Poliahu, what might be the only surviving land species on the planet. Gesselli tapped at her flexscreen, and the image rotated and panned back to show the complete body.

According to the scale shown on the image, the alien stood a little over four feet tall, had two legs and two arms arranged just as a human would, as well as two eyes, two ears, a nose and a mouth, but the similarities ended there.

It was covered in a pale green fur, with alternating patterns of red and brown throughout. Each hand ended in a four fingered claw, with a nub that might have been (or would be in a few thousand years) an opposable thumb. The claw had sharp talons on the end, almost like a bird of prey. The legs were thick and muscular, but the knees bent backwards, and each foot had the same four toed layout as the hands, with no visible nub. Smaller talons graced the end of each toe.

The face reminded Gabriel of a koala bear, with its small snout, beady eyes, and tufts of longer hair sticking out just above its tiny ears. The face was tan in color, in contrast to the rest of its body. The mouth was closed, so Gabriel wasn’t sure about teeth or what it ate, but it certainly seemed fairly harmless.

MacFarland rapped his ring on the table again. "That is the source of dew," he said with a growl.

Gabriel looked at Gesselli. This teddy bear is the galaxy’s biggest drug runner?

She shook her head. No, this animal is the source of the drug itself, but it’s humans who are running it.

The holo split into two, the alien moving to one side, and an image of a prefab colony complex appeared on the other. The complex was a fairly typical multi-use facility normally seen on more recent colony worlds. It consisted of several buildings for power production, housing facilities, entertainment, research, and the like. They were inexpensive drop-in-place prefabs that all but the most highly funded groups used to start colonizing a new planet, and were easily integrated into the larger colony once it became self-sufficient.

The drug runners are the colonists. The entire group, actually. They settled as an independent corporation, not governmentally backed, and provided their own funding. Leases were signed with a portion of the minerals and ores being shipped to the NAF as per the original agreement. All of that continues, and has for several years, so no one questioned it.

She tapped her flexscreen. I just sent you copies of the lease and charter, read through them later. Gabriel’s closed flexscreen tube bleeked in receipt.

Cripes, he said. Will you just flash the info to my rets? I don’t plan on carrying one of those around.

She tapped another few keys. There. Just pay attention, she said.

Gabriel’s neuretics confirmed receipt of several data packets. He filed them away in a storage folder for later.

We have a source on the ground, she continued. Part of the colony group. He’s there ostensibly to keep an eye on skimming, making sure what we’re getting resource-wise is all in proper order. Just recently, he stumbled upon the real profits of the colony.

The holo shifted again and the alien now filled the image, lying on its stomach in what appeared to be a grainy home video. The video began, and Gabriel shifted uneasily in his seat, the leather crinkling.

The alien was alive, strapped to a table, arms and legs spread wide. It was struggling against the bonds, and a high pitched keening was heard. A man approached the alien with an instrument in his hand. He placed the instrument at the base of the alien’s skull and a bright pinpoint of light appeared. Small wisps of smoke rose from the alien’s skull, and its wail intensified. The instrument, a laser scalpel as Gabriel now realized, moved towards the top of the head, smoke rising as it went. The creature struggled even harder as it sensed its fate.

The laser scalpel shifted back down to the base of the skull, the skin and fur now parted to reveal grayish bone. The man made an adjustment to the device, placing its tip to the bone. The keening was almost unbearable at this point, and Gabriel ordered his neuretics to filter out that audio frequency.

More smoke, and the man lifted what appeared to be a piece of bone from the open wound, tossing it aside. He set the scalpel down on a side table, and picked up a pair of forceps. He pressed the forceps into the skull opening, worked them around a bit, and removed them. The alien’s struggles abruptly ceased, and the man dropped a small item into a pan from the end of the forceps. The video ended in a blur of static.

What the hell was that? Gabriel asked, looking from Gesselli to MacFarland and back.

That’s the origin of dew, Gesselli said flatly. It’s synthesized from the pineal gland, or whatever that animal’s equivalent is, and apparently it has to be done while it’s still alive.

These bastards are farming them, MacFarland said. We’ve gotten reports back of dozens of pens holding thousands of these animals, and these colonists are growing them to maturity and harvesting their brains for an illegal drug.

Well, it’s not exactly their brains, Gesselli said.

Same goddamned thing! MacFarland shot back. They’re digging in their brains, pulling stuff out, and killing them. One by one, inhumanely. This is only the eighth planet we’ve ever discovered with animal life on it, and they’re wiping them out to make a profit. He leaned forward. And it’s literally killing my soldiers.

Jesus H. Christ, Gabriel muttered, still stunned from the video. How long has this been going on?

Dew first hit the market around six years ago, so at least since then, Gesselli replied. That’s not too long after Poliahu was registered. We only just received this video and the evidence needed to send you in.

Gabriel sat silently for a minute or two and went over the horrific video he had just witnessed. Disgusting was the only word he could think of. Then it hit him and he narrowed his eyes. Wait, send me in? What the hell are you talking about? he asked.

Gesselli looked at MacFarland, and he nodded, replying to Gabriel. We need you to go in and shut down this operation. We can’t send in troops, they are a self-governed Corporate World on an independent charter. It would be like…invading Nike or Disney headquarters.

Gabriel still couldn’t wrap his brain around what he was being told. Shouldn’t this be taken to legal authorities? World Court, UN?

Gesselli answered. "We don’t have enough evidence to arrest, let alone convict. We’ve got our agent’s word and some video, and that agent isn’t even supposed to be there in the first place. A hack public defender would blow a hole through this case before we even got troops on the ground. We can’t even file charges against the leader of the colony, as no one is sure exactly who he is. The colony incorporated with a board of directors and a chairman, and the chairman is listed as anonymous, which is their right as an independent Corporate World. So all we know is the leader goes by The Chairman, which obviously makes things difficult when going before a World Court."

We need a covert, quiet, off-the-books team to go in there and shut down the operation, or more and more of my people are going to end up getting hooked on it. Then we’re going to have a serious national security issue on our hands. MacFarland pointed at Gabriel. You’re the best, and I know you’ll be discrete. The colony leaders and all others involved need to be brought to justice. MacFarland punctuated the last few words with three open-handed bangs on the table.

Gabriel was still in a daze, but it was making more sense why he was plucked from the middle of nowhere for this operation. He was expendable, and in some military eyes, didn’t even exist. No family or friends to speak of, he thought with a slight pang of regret. He would be completely off the radar, and more importantly, completely deniable. Familiar ground for him.

What’s in this for me? he asked, leaning back in the chair. I’m assuming you don’t think I’m just an animal lover.

Once the operation is completed, full reinstatement in the North American Federation Navy, salary commensurate with your previous rank, Commander, Gesselli said. You will also be absolved of all responsibility with the Eden massacre, your dishonorable discharge will be vacated, and the civil judgements against you from the families of your lost team members will be settled out of court by the Navy. And perhaps you’ll sleep a little better, eh Commander?

Eden again, it all goes back to Eden, Gabriel thought wearily. It’s been three years and two memory-removal surgeries since then, but still pieces of that mission kept creeping back into his consciousness. Nothing will take that away completely. Hell, he thought. Eden makes me what I am today. Which I guess is absolutely nothing.

You’ll also have the satisfaction of helping out your fellow soldiers by getting rid of this dew operation, MacFarland added.

Gabriel stared back at his former commanding officer, the one who had run him out of the Navy, and the one that was now trying to bring him back. The cause, the end result…seemed worthy. But there was just something out of sorts, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something he’d keep a watchful eye out for. But for now…

I guess you’ve got me. I’m in. What’s the next step?

MacFarland smiled, leaning back in his chair, and put a foot up on the table. I knew I could count on you, son. We’ve got a team assembling at Las Cruces. Hugh and Javier are waiting for you in the Raven outside. Gesselli will accompany you on the flight to New Mexico and will give you full details on the team, mission, and equipment. I’m assuming you don’t need to stop home to pick up any personal items?

Bastard, Gabriel thought. Always was, always will be. No. I’ll buy new and bill you. He rose from his chair and picked up the flexscreen tube. Yours? he said to Gesselli.

Yes, Commander, she said with that odd smirk, taking the unneeded flexscreen from him. I’ll meet you outside in five.

Gabriel made his way out, but paused briefly to glance at the portrait closest to the door. President Charline Gradillas, served 2156 to 2161. Presided over the Dark Days, the worst disaster in human history. Killed by an assassin’s bullet just two months into her second term. Not everyone’s happy during good times, Gabriel thought. And not everyone’s unhappy during bad ones. Hopefully this time, someone else is on the schedule for a bad time.

The door silently slid shut behind Gabriel, and Gesselli turned back to MacFarland. Well? she asked, laying her flexscreen back on the table. The holoimage in the center sank back into the surface.

MacFarland pulled his foot off the table and stood up, unbuttoning his collar. He’s good, no doubt about that. And he’ll be discrete. But as for his loyalties, I’m concerned he’s too much of a straight arrow for what we need. Not that that outweighs the positives.

Do you think he bought it? she asked. He’s sharp, but a bit unstable still about his past. And for Christ’s sake, sir, you pulled him out of a slum in Jamaica. Is he just looking for a way out?

I don’t know. All I know is that he’ll do the mission, and he’ll do it well. He reached into his inside jacket pocket, withdrawing a cigar. I know him well enough to be sure about that part.

I know you two have a history, she said. But I don’t know what it is. Obviously it’s a strained relationship.

MacFarland barked a laugh. "Strained doesn’t begin to describe it. I was captain of the Damocles during the Eden uprising. I’m the one who sent him groundside to root out the terrorists. He holds me personally responsible for his getting his entire team killed due to ‘command errors.’"

He was found negligent, it was his fault they failed, his fault eleven soldiers died.

He shrugged his shoulders and pulled a lighter from another pocket. Yes and no. I don’t know if the full story will ever come out, but Gabriel wouldn’t have willingly put his team in such a situation as they ended up in. And he blames me. He frowned. Doesn’t matter though. He’s the right man for this job, and there’s a nice carrot waiting at the end for him. He’ll perform.

Do you trust him? she asked.

Not at all, he said rubbing his chin aimlessly. But I’ve got a backup plan, in any case. Before you go, get me Santander’s contact information.

Gesselli stiffened. Why him of all people?

MacFarland lit the cigar. Just do it.

Chapter 3

Quentin Santander sat at the hotel lobby bar, his hand on a lowball glass of an amber liquid with a solitary cube of ice floating in it. He swirled the liquid and the cube bumped slowly against the glass edges in the low Mars gravity. The bar was beginning to fill up, miners and office workers getting off shift throughout the dome, looking to spend what little Marscrip they had. Of the many bars in seedy New Cairo, the Bremen Hotel offered the most amount of alcohol for the least amount of money, and the patrons reflected that. Not for the first time, he wondered why he took this assignment on the ass end of humanity. Oh yeah, he remembered. The money.

Another tequila, Q? came a sultry voice from beside him.

Oh yeah. The women too. He looked to his left, and there was Zeila, as always. She must have just come down from the suite, he thought. He looked into her eyes. No sign of a dew hangover, that’s a relief. She’s a complete mess after one of those trips.

Not now, he replied, looking back at his glass. I’ve gotta get to work. He picked the glass up and downed the remaining tequila in one gulp, spitting the ice cube back into the glass and setting it down forcefully on the natural stone bar. Hard enough to break normal glass, he thought. Another reason he hated Mars. Nothing locally produced was breakable. And he needed to break things from time to time. Hell, even his shrink said so.

But Q, I just got here, Zeila said with a pout.

Here, Santander said, throwing a wad of faded red Marscrip notes on the bar. Enjoy. He rose from the bar and made his way through the Friday night crowd out of the hotel, leaving Zeila to her evening.

Outside, he hailed his driver with a quick neuretics ping. He looked up at the dome overhead. Stars were visible to one side, a dust storm blocked the view to the other. Phobos was just rising in the western sky, the glint of the mining station’s solar panels just barely visible. This would be a perfect night in New York, except here there’s no rain, the temperature is the same every day of the year, and it’s too friggin’ sterile. Damn I hate this place, he thought again.

His Ford Terra limousine pulled up silently, and the rear door opened automatically. He climbed inside, acknowledging his driver with a flick of his hand. Back to the plant, Colins, where else, he said. The door closed, shutting out the street noise, and the electric stretch pulled away.

Just a few minutes down the street, the dome ended and Santander’s car was ushered into the eastbound tube. Very few vehicles out tonight, he noticed. Curfews are working well, he mused as he poured himself another tequila, this time on the company bill.

The tube’s magnetic field lifted the car a few inches from the roadway and quickly accelerated it up to standard tube speed, 160 miles per hour. Santander only noticed a slight pressure in his chest as the car’s velocity increased. Unfazed, he watched out the window through the car’s glass and tube’s plasteel sections at the darkening plain outside, reflecting sourly on another day in paradise.

Mars was originally colonized in 2056, ancient history in terms of planetary settlement. After the Luna Project, it was the next step off Mother Earth for humans. It was an exciting time for colonization, and the governments of Earth’s largest countries and multinational corporations poured billions into developing the infrastructure, housing, mining operations, scientific outposts, and so much more. It was always a struggle considering the atmosphere and temperature weren’t conducive to human living, but it was Mars! everyone said. The ultimate goal of space exploration.

So the construction continued, the development chugged along, the domes went up, the mines were dug, attempts were made at atmosphere reprocessing, algae was planted to try to warm the climate, and an entire government and economy were created from scratch. The perfect utopia, some called it. Until the discovery of wormholes thirty some-odd years later. From that day forward, Mars became a backwater, a forgotten outpost, a failed experiment.

The Mars government wavered, asking for help from Earth, but Earth was preoccupied with settling new worlds across the galaxy. Worlds with oceans, land masses, trees, warm nitrogen/oxygen atmospheres. Worlds with futures. And so the Mars society began its slow collapse into chaos. Organized crime ran rampant, but Earth turned away, preferring to let Mars govern itself, as it always wanted to do.

Which is where Santander came in.

The car exited the tube at Pavonis Station in Mars’s third largest domed city, Bradbury. The station pushed the car out of the tube back down onto its wheels, then a rotating platform deposited it onto the main ramp down into the city streets. Colins guided the car towards the entryway for Basalt Boulevard, and the car accelerated into the light traffic flow.

After just a few minutes, the car reached the far side of the dome structure, and pulled up to the front of a chemical plant. Stacks pierced the dome’s barrier, releasing clouds of steam and byproducts into the Mars atmosphere. The plant wasn’t large by Mars’s standards; it covered just under two acres, and was a typical plasteel and ceramacrete construction.

Santander stepped from the car, not bothering to say anything to Colins, and slammed the door behind him, striding up to the plant entrance. The guard outside the main door started to ask for his ID, recognized his leave-me-alone-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you look, and thought better of it. He opened the door behind him and waved Santander in.

Once inside, Santander walked through the entry lobby, past the receptionist, and up to a door marked, Authorized Personnel Only. His neuretics threw a code at the door’s system and it swung open for him. Inside, through another door, this one marked Security, he finally reached his sparse office. He threw his jacket on the desk and sat down heavily into a plush chair. He kicked his feet up on the desk, knocking the jacket onto the floor, and reached behind him to a crystal decanter of amber liquid, pouring three fingers into an unbreakable glass. Goddamned Mars, he thought. He tossed back the drink and fired the glass against the far wall, where it bounced and skittered crazily across the tile floor.

Santander was just getting to his third drink when a signal came in through his neuretics. He saw the source ID, and shunted the video to a wallscreen. The screen lit up with a terribly-scarred face.

Shit, Gurnett, don’t scare me like that, Santander snapped. I thought it was Burkes. He ordered his neuretics to blank the screen and go audio-only on his end. Can’t stand to look at that man, he thought, and not for the first time. Invaluable, to be sure, but could use a brown bag.

Mr. Santander, we’ve got a problem, I think we’re going to need your assistance, Gurnett said. We’ve got a couple of employees accusing each other of theft, and it’s basically shut down the entire line.

Santander sighed and stood up, cracking his lower back and stretching his arms over his head. He looked wistfully back at the now-empty decanter, and down at his half-empty glass. What’s the matter, boy, this over your head?

Well, yes, actually it is. They are requesting you personally, and one of them says you know about the alleged thefts.

Who is it? Santander snapped. He swirled the glass and sniffed the aroma of the last of the evening’s tequila.

Rechichi and Dural, in Post-Process, the disembodied voice came back.

The second glass bounced off the back wall. This time, Santander thought he could see a minute crack in its surface, and smiled. Maybe I do get to break things from time to time. I’ll be right down.

When he arrived, Gurnett and two other security men had two plant workers seated in chairs in a back office. One of the security men was training an odd-looking handgun at them. As Santander approached, one of the plant workers stood up and pointed. That’s him, that’s the guy who set me up for this! he yelled.

The handgun butt smashed into the worker’s stomach, and he sat back down hard, gasping for breath.

Gurnett shook his head and looked back at Santander. Never learn, do they?

No, I suppose not, he replied, avoiding Gurnett’s face. So what’s the situation? he asked the non-gasping individual.

The second worker gulped nervously, looking alternately at the other worker, who was just now catching his breath, and his questioner. You’re the security chief? You runs things here, right? he asked.

Correct, said Santander, crossing his arms.

"Dural has been pocketing vials, skimming from the top of our production. I walked in on him today. I gave him a chance to explain, but he just threw your name back at me, saying you know all about it, and then accused me of stealing production equipment!"

So you’re Rechichi? he asked. How long have you been here? What’s your position?

Four months, sir. I handle post-processing for most of the final compounds, prior to packaging. Same as Dural. Apparently unsure of where this conversation was going, beads of sweat began to appear on his upper lip.

And Dural? Santander asked Gurnett.

Two years. One of our best men, he answered.

Rechichi was now sweating profusely, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. I’m not lying!

No, I don’t think you are, Santander replied evenly. Wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose.

He held his hand out to the security officer, who passed over the handgun. Codes, he said. The security officer flashed arming codes for the weapon to Santander’s neuretics, and the handgun powered up.

Wait! screamed Rechichi, holding his hands up, palms out, in protest. You can’t do this!

Santander raised the weapon, the tingle in the grip indicating it was armed and fully charged. Of course I can. I run things here, remember? And he fired.

The handgun wasn’t silenced, so a loud piercing clangggg filled the small office. The depleted uranium pellet shot from the barrel, accelerated by magnetic fields to over six thousand miles per hour, and smashed through the plant worker’s skull. The entry wound was tiny, matching the pellet’s 3 millimeter diameter, but the resulting exit wound wasn’t nearly as neat. The back of Rechichi’s head exploded onto the wall behind him, and his body flew backwards out of the chair, onto a large plastic sheet. A small hole was visible in the back wall, now dripping with brain matter and blood.

"Damn, Thao, what the hell is this thing?" Santander asked the security man, looking in wonderment at the weapon.

The security man who had given Santander the gun smiled. Miniature railgun, sir. Made by Strittmaier out of New Berlin. Newest tech on the market. Undetectable to electronic or neuretic scans too. Cost me a month’s pay to afford it.

Santander nodded. I like it. No recoil, that’s fantastic. He turned it over in his hands a few times. A little loud though. Gurnett, look into getting some of these. And reimburse Thao for having to buy his own.

Thao beamed. Thank you sir.

Santander looked over at Dural, whose wheezing had completely stopped. Even his breathing had stopped as he stared behind him at the carnage that was his coworker.

Dural, Santander said.

Dural’s head snapped back. Yes, uh, sorry. Thanks Mr. Santander. He just walked in on me, he shouldn’t even have been on shift. Won’t happen again, I know you need those vials, and I’ll keep them coming.

I do need those vials. What I don’t need are morons working for me. He raised the pistol again, and fired twice into Dural’s chest. The body toppled over to rest near Rechichi, two holes blown clean through his chest, the chair back, and the wall. The dual clangs reverberated off the ceiling and walls.

Hot damn, I love this thing! he exclaimed, handing it back to Thao. Gurnett, you gotta get me one. First on the list, hear me?

Gurnett nodded. Absolutely. Sorry again to bother you.

Not a problem, I needed a little release, Santander answered. Nice touch with the plastic sheeting, makes cleanup a lot easier.

He strode from the room, whistling.

Chapter 4

The Combat Raven screamed across the sky, a sonic boom trailing its ion wake. Dropping below the sound barrier threshold, its swept-back wings shifted forward, pulsejet engines swiveled vertical, and landing struts extended themselves from the military transport's underside. In a blast of superheated dust and pebbles, it settled on the ceramacrete pad at Las Cruces.

Space Alley, as this region of New Mexico was nicknamed, was home to the NAF's largest Naval Aerospace Station. Over 3,000 men and women, along with 400-some odd air and space vehicles, called the 100,000 acres of dusty, sandy plains home. After the rising sea levels destroyed the Kennedy Space Center during the Dark Days, it became the primary orbital launch facility in North America. It boasted eighteen separate launch pads, 56 miles of reinforced ceramacrete landing runways, and hangars for vehicles ranging in size from the single-seat F/A-72 Lynx aerospace fighter to the 180 foot tall Caballo heavy lift rocket. It had the odd misnomer of being ‘naval’ yet completely landlocked, but the Naval Aerospace Force had