Lives of Future-Past (The Chronicles of Max Gunnarsson Book 1) (2 page)

The Hub

      In another place and time very far away, a tall, well-formed male figure moved throughout dimly lit chambers, appearing to concentrate on a defined panel of seemingly intangible light that floated effortlessly in the air in front of him. More like a semi-transparent hologram, and roughly one meter wide by half a meter in height, it enabled him to touch certain parts of the organic-looking interface and enact processes, acquiring information on demand.

     The only light in the spacious room was from some half-melted candles sitting on an ancient-looking oaken table, and the infoscreen, as it was called, which caused an eerie glow upon the figure's weathered face. He casually waved his left hand, causing a beautiful, bronze stream of glowing particles to coalesce and take the form of a face in the air.

     “Watch, my friend. This must be prevented from ever happening again,” the old man said to the glowing visage.      He wiped his hand out through the air to his front; creating a smaller view screen, more like what was once known as a television, appear out of nothingness. The flat, semi-transparent display showed nothing but the blackness of space and some stars, until what appeared to be a massive creature came into view – but it wasn’t a creature, although technically it was alive; a Vrol Brood Carrier had just arrived at its destination – Old-Earth.

     Mankind had no idea that anything was headed their way. They had constantly scanned the stars, especially looking for the refugees who had disappeared after fleeing the planet some decades before, but they saw nothing – until the Brood Carrier materialized just outside Old-Earth’s atmosphere, accompanied by thousands of other ships of various sizes and configurations.

     There was no warning, no waiting, no negotiating– death came crashing down upon Old-Earth’s collective head. Man fought back, and although his cities were laid to waste, he battled on and held off the Vrol for nearly two years. He had learned to capture the powerful and deadly Vrol Flyers and use technology to access the Brood Mind through the creatures’ simple brains, which were only intelligent via their psychic connection to each other. Even though it required a voluntary human sacrifice to make contact, as the user would die shortly after having acquired and shared critical information, mankind kept on and on until he figured out how to conquer them. The Vrol were nearly defeated for the first time since they were created by rogue offspring of The Prīmulī; created in order to cull the unworthy from the galaxy.

     Sadly, there was one thing that was not stored in the Brood Mind– the final protocol; their parting gift to an obnoxious enemy that refused to simply lie down and die. Silent and invisible, the cleansing strain flowed down upon the planet and invaded every fresh water source it touched. Saline oceans were immune, but nothing else was. It nearly decimated every land-based species of fauna – including man – dissolving everything to dust almost on contact. Even Vrol ground troops were susceptible. None in its path escaped, and of those outside its path, very few lived. Colonies built at sea and out of reach of the Vrol, who didn’t fly over large masses of salt water, didn’t even escape the strain. It settled down upon their heads and began to dissolve organic tissues on contact.

     The planet let out a collective scream; it simply died. The Vrol then pointed their Brood Carrier back out to the stars to begin anew. As the screen faded to black, the floating face turned from the screen and looked at the elder.

     “My Lord. I understand that the recording was from Earth, in the 23rd century. Query. Why do you watch it yet again?”

     The elderly man just shook his head sadly. He had seen much death in his eons of existence, and it was for that reason that he wanted to help others to prevent it from happening again. The Vrol represented an imbalance in the universe, and imbalances always need be corrected.

     “Socrates, please access view portal 1-3-2818 Azul Cargalia. I am entering precise 4D coordinates now for Kamiliak calculations.”

     The old man finished entering a long string of data into the light panel to his front, then turned lazily to the left, where the face - called Socrates, which was the given name of the sentient mage intelligence access portal, floated in mid-air, looking remarkably similar to a comedy/tragedy mask of ancient Earth’s theater, but with neither the laugh nor the frown, and more of a blank expression to its face.

     The other difference between Socrates’ face and an ancient theater mask was that it appeared to be made up of ambient, glowing particles in the air that were constantly and slightly undulating, as if a cosmic breeze flowed through them.

     The semi-transparent face slowly spun 360 degrees to port and stopped after completing a full rotation, with various trailing particles slowly catching up to the mask.

     "Lord Draagh, coordinates have been received and accepted." 

     Draagh, as the man was called, thrust out a hand, and with a long sweeping motion wiped a new 3-meter wide view screen into existence on his right, effectively covering the massive stones that made up the wall of his study. More light flooded into the room, revealing his appearance. Roughly 196 centimeters tall (just over 6’4”), with a gray beard and mustache (the mustache terminating in braids on both sides), gray hair pulled back into a ponytail that went down past his shoulders, he sported an outfit made of a scaly, black, unrecognizable leather-like hide that consisted of pants, boots and a mid-length jacket, covering a dark shirt of woven fabric. In essence, he resembled an old and very kick-ass Viking warrior. (*2*)

     In the new display that he had created he saw a young human male in a large warehouse, roughly 25 years of age and of mixed extraction, with hazel eyes, messy, dark hair and an athletic, yet slim build, performing what appeared to be mechanical work on a small, bulky craft of unknown designation, which was close to 55 meters in length and 20 meters in height. The young man was using a crane to drop some machinery onto the top of the craft, and although one without knowledge of the craft would probably not be aware of its true nature, it was in fact an exo-atmospheric transport vehicle - spaceship for short. And it didn’t appear to be in very good condition.

     Draagh watched with keen interest as the young man went about his various activities. Socrates floated in the air, calmly watching the view screen along with Draagh and showing a near-human bit of curiosity in his expression.

     “Lord Draagh, please note your staff has been updated with both the primary insertion point and those of your requested destination of 6-3-4216 EP for the specified geo-spatial coordinates. Query. Shall I verify?”

     Draagh quickly looked back at the floating face and nodded in the affirmative, as he was always one who preferred safety to haste. Socrates slowly spun 360 degrees to aft (backwards), and then stopped in place.

     “All coordinates verified. Safe travels. Query. May I ask what it is you plan on doing on SA28.18 EP? It is sparsely inhabited, and mostly by superstitious nomadic tribes. It could be quite dangerous.”      Draagh grinned softly, the cycling light levels causing his blue eyes to sparkle and reflect the randomly flashing imagery on the view screen.

     “I am going to change the future, old friend…”

     Socrates made what would be considered a wry smile, if he weren’t a floating mask looking like it could dematerialize at any moment.

     “Ever the mysterious one, my lord. As always, I am here to help. Please do remember that once you have left The Hub there shall be an access lag if you need to call on me.”

     Draagh made wide, swiping motions with his hands and arms to the left, as he caused the wall display to fast-forward through time, in a manner of speaking. Images passed by in almost comical fast motion, but still maintaining perfect clarity and resolution. He fast-forwarded over much of the work the young man was doing to his craft, like harnessing the equipment he had set on top, and welding pieces of conduit to it, until arriving to the point where the work appeared to have been completed. He then made several smaller swiping motions, going forward in a much slower fashion, until finally seeing the subject of his interest standing outside his craft, holding a small jewelry box in his hand. The young man seemed to have a sad, downcast look on his face, as he closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly, then, turning and entering the craft from the back, he shut the loading ramp and massive doors behind him.
     It was at this time that Draagh watched intently, and displaying more than a touch of concern on his face. As the craft’s engines roared to life, concussion waves from the atmospheric drive caused items on local workbenches to fly off, with tools and pipe wrenches impaling walls, as the massive metal benches themselves vibrated on their legs and slowly rattled away from the craft, with two actually flipping over completely and making loud, clanging noises. The vehicle then started to lift off as the warehouse roof parted down the middle, opening up and exposing the clear blue sky above.

     Suddenly, and without warning, dozens of armed, military-looking individuals dressed in black, full-faced helmets and black, articulated body armor burst into the warehouse, firing projectile and charge weapons at the craft while it still lazily floated upwards.

     A blaring loudspeaker, projecting enough volume to be heard within at least a five-kilometer radius, announced the true intent of the invasion.

     “
Attention Commander Gunnarsson. You are in violation of the Federal SSCC Non- Proliferation Act, and are to be taken in for questioning. Land immediately or we will be forced to disable your craft
.”

     With Socrates still floating close by, Draagh clenched his fists and was lightly rocking his head forward, as if he were trying to move the craft through mental will alone.

     “Move, dammit, go now,” he hissed under his breath, but the craft just hung in midair, seemingly shrugging off the small arms fire being laid upon its hull.

     Then, without warning, the spaceship shot up and out of the warehouse into the upper atmosphere at Mach 7, violently blowing a good percentage of the invading army back into crumpled piles of unconsciousness. Pieces of the roof, dislodged from the concussive blast, fell back to the ground and took out five more soldiers.

     The young man wasn’t out of the woods yet, so to speak. As he burst up toward the blackness of space, Five Draeder class exo-atmospheric attack fighters pursued in tight formation, quickly and effortlessly catching up to his dilapidated transport. Weapons fire erupted from the Draeders, rocking and buffeting the small transport as it screamed out of the atmosphere, still being easily trailed by the attack fighters.

     The fleeing man pulled a lever back on his dashboard, and machinery pushed out through the top of the ship, glowing and causing a rippling disruption space that somehow followed his flight pattern. The machinery of his ship reached up and into the rift as he increased his velocity in an attempt to buy himself time and avoid certain death.

     Over their communication devices, or comms, the attack fighter pilots then received their latest instructions.

     “
Shoot to kill. Destroy Gunnarsson and the craft along with him
.”

     Then, as they raced out of orbit, six individuals - the apparent fugitive and the five Draeder pilots - simultaneously pressed buttons on their control panels. Fortunately, for the man attempting escape, his touch was just a fraction of a second faster than the pursuing craft pilots, and his ship, The Machu Picchu, disappeared from sight and the local solar system.

Charge weapons flashed brilliantly into the space where the escaping ship was located only a moment before.

     “
Return to base,”
blared the comm. All of the attack craft then turned back to the planet below and screamed through the atmosphere, with the vid display turning dark.

     Draagh quickly turned from his display and moved across the room to the table where his lit candles gently flickered. Setting his old, gnarled hands down on the worn table, he made a slight gesture toward the candles with his head, as the flames extinguished, leaving the room dark, except for the two view screens which provided only enough ambient light for one to be able to see. He paused for a moment before reaching over and picking up a large, ornate staff made of a wood that looked similar to mahogany. He then left his study in a hurried fashion, snapping his fingers as he left, which caused the two view screens to blink off into nothingness. Socrates also faded from view, his ubiquitous visage slowly dissolving into a stream of beautiful, bronze-colored particles which then dissipated into the atmosphere.
 

     Seated in the captain’s chair on The Machu Picchu, the young man that the military called Gunnarsson wore an absolutely terrified look on his face, gripping the yolk as if it were his only link to existence - trying to calm himself by taking deep, slow breaths. The forward view screen displayed madly shifting colors and energy currents going in all directions, and it certainly didn’t help that his vision sharpened immensely when he was in stressful situations. He looked upon pure and utter chaos - a definite sign that he was not in normal space, but he was on course – at least his computers told him so. He had initiated the Side Space Carrier Current Hook Drive, also known as the hook, which he had helped to develop for the Military Scientific Complex, and it was taking him to the home of his ancestors – Earth.