Exodus Read online



  Part One of the Exodus Trilogy

  EXODUS

  Andreas Christensen

  EXODUS

  Second edition

  Copyright 2012 Andreas Christensen

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Graphicz X Designs, graphiczxdesigns.zenfolio.com

  Editor: Shelley Holloway, hollowayhouse.me

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Years ago, far too many to remember, the planet had been teeming with life. Its inhabitants had called it Lifebringer, and thousands of species had carved out their existence there. It was a finely tuned system, where every little being had its part to play. Lifebringer was part of a large family, a system of planets, moons, and asteroids dancing around their twin stars. Every rock had its place, and nothing had disturbed it for so long, it was taken for granted that this dance would go on eternally.

  Nothing lasts forever though. The twin stars aged and slowly converged upon each other until one day they merged in a cataclysm that ended the dance, ruined entire worlds, and scattered the planets and their moons in every direction. Lifebringer, once the third planet from the larger of the twin stars, survived the cataclysm, but an enormous force pushed it out from its home and into the vast reaches of space. It was alone, and although it didn’t know it, such planets would later become known as rogue planets, orphans in the eternity of space. Light dimmed and, over the years, disappeared completely. The surface got colder, and in time no life remained there. But the planet itself found no rest.

  Space is vast and empty, and the stars few and far between, so the planet continued on, aimlessly and without purpose. Years became decades, decades became centuries, and centuries became millennia. Lifebringer had forgotten its past, its family not even a faint memory, doomed to an existence in the dark void between stars, with nowhere to call home.

  Then one day, by pure chance, a star appeared. The rogue did not recognize the star, but its warm yellow glow called to it, and Lifebringer seemed on course toward it. Soon the planet could feel the force of the star pulling it in and was only too happy to let the star lead on; finally it had found a new home. And soon enough, it could feel, sometimes even see, its new family members; the small, frozen rocks far from their mother star; the gas giants, the ones with the magnificent rings; the moons dancing happily around their parents. So full of life, perfectly coordinated, such a wonderful family! Yes, this was where Lifebringer would settle, finally, after so long.

  Then a small red planet appeared, and the rogue immediately realized its dreams of a new home had come to an end. There would be no peace, only destruction, a second cataclysm. For the red one had moved into its path, and none of them would survive such an impact. There was nothing more to do, no way to avoid the impact. An instant of regret, then nothing.

  Chapter 1

  November 2072 ~ North Africa

  The fuel indicator was almost in the red, and Air Force pilot Tina Hammer worried that she would have to eject from her scramjet. She didn’t relish the idea, although it would be better than taking her chances landing the plane somewhere in the desert. You could do that with the old jets and have a decent shot at getting through it alive, but with a scramjet, only a fool would try. The rocket had damaged much of her navigation equipment, along with the comms, of course, but she had a decent idea of where she was. Even without instruments, if she could just reach the coast within the next two minutes, she would be able to find the airfield by sight. She scanned the horizon from left to right. Nothing yet. Damn. The wound in her thigh didn’t sting anymore, and she knew why. Blood loss. She knew that would kill her just as dead as a crash landing if she didn’t land soon.

  Then another bleep on her still-functional radar. Heat seeker. Shit. She still had some toys left, but releasing them would surely make other enemy patrols in the area aware of her position. She had obviously been picked up by at least one enemy with surface-to-air capacity, and she was all too aware that there were many other enemy factions down there who might be able to detect her presence if she were to take evasive action. Though her plane was crippled, the stealth features of the scramjet were still intact and could still have some value. Ah well, what choice did she have? Why worry about what could happen later, when you could get blown up now? She released the flares, which should lure the heat seeker away, and spun the plane in a counterclockwise spiraling maneuver. Seconds felt like minutes. She’d done this more times than she cared to remember, and though she always acted cool and rational under pressure, she knew that once she got back, the shakes would come. She never told anyone of course. Her squadron was the best of the best, and if she confessed to such a thing, she could kiss any chance of flying scramjets again good-bye. And of course, as a black female pilot, even though both racial and gender discrimination had been illegal for ages—even in the military, and even though racial discrimination wasn’t much of an issue anymore, she did feel she had to prove her worth as a pilot, over and over again. No, she always came out on top, and she would again. Whatever it takes, she thought, as the plane leveled.

  The heat seeker exploded behind her just as she caught a glimpse of the Mediterranean. She let out a breath of relief and felt the wound sting again. The plane was still stable, thank God, and as she turned left, she knew that she’d make it back once more. The airfield was less than a minute away, and although she was unable to call the tower, they would be expecting her. The landing strip would be clear, and the medics would be waiting. She gritted her teeth. As long as she didn’t pass out now, she would be able to land the plane manually. This wasn’t any ordinary job, but it was what she did for a living. And in a few days she would do it all over again.

  November 2072 ~ Washington, DC

  The phone rang just as Trevor Hayes had slumped into his favorite chair to watch the ballgame that would be coming on in just a few minutes.

  “This is Hayes,” he answered impatiently. As a Pegasus executive he was expected to be on call twenty-four hours a day, but at the moment, they weren’t involved in activities that warranted that. Of course, it could be a journalist …

  “This is the White House. Please hold for the president.” What is this? he thought. He’d spoken to the president twice, but only a few polite phrases at formal occasions. He didn’t have much time to think, as a voice he was familiar with—mostly from TV—greeted him.

  “Trevor, so nice to finally get to talk to you again.”

  “Mr. President.”

  “Oh don’t be so formal, Trevor. I’ll cut to the chase.” He paused for a second, and Trevor had time to think that President Andrews would probably be restructuring his administration now that he’d just been reelected. “I want you on board. I need a new national security advisor, and I want someone who’s not too political. I know you’re a man I can trust, and you have the experience I’m looking for.” Trevor was stunned.

  “Mr. Pres … Ah, surely you have more qualified …” The president cut him off.

  “What I don’t need is another bureaucrat. You know politics, or well enough. Don’t try to deny it. I’ve seen you coming up, you know.” Andrews chuckled, and Trevor was lost for words. “So, my position is this. I need everything you know, and what you don’t know you will learn. I have faith in you, young man. So be at the White House tomorrow at eight sharp. I’ll let the staff know.”

  The line went dead and Trevor was still too stunned to think straight. Of course he’d take the job. No one refused the president of the United States. It was overwhelming, sure. But he’d been under f
ire enough times to know that when things get overwhelming, you need to take a step back and review the situation. Distance sometimes brings clarity, and, usually, things work out. As the ballgame began, Trevor realized he wouldn’t be able to concentrate, so he turned it off.

  November 2072 ~ Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Kenneth Taylor was sitting in an old leather chair on the ninth floor of William James Hall, where the historical exhibit of the Psychology Department was located. The department had a proud history, with names such as James, Munsterberg, Skinner, and Allport, and it still stood as one of the top research institutions in the country. When he first set foot in the building as an undergraduate, he had been a confident kid, on his way to fame and fortune. But over the years, he’d come to realize that the road to fame and fortune was littered with obstacles, and some might just send you on a different course than the one you’d set out on. He’d been a different man altogether back then, but some things never changed, like his respect for the classics in the field. He could think of no one he admired as much as the pioneer himself, William James. The stream of consciousness, the theories on choice and the will, the James-Lange theory of emotions—all important and groundbreaking. His theories were part of the foundation on which psychology had grown into its own, and it had happened right here, at Harvard. The building, although old enough to house the laboratory of B.F. Skinner, was much younger than the department itself, but nevertheless history permeated the walls here.

  It was here that Kenneth used to come on occasion, all by himself, and just think. As a professor of the department, he was allowed access to the areas usually closed to both students and outsiders, and even most faculty members. He thought it was a shame, but at least he got to have a quiet moment here now and then. Some researchers would spend evenings in their offices, but here no one would bother him. On this particular night, he was reading an article on his tablet, obviously written by some ambitious journalist bent on getting the goodwill of his editors and the network owners. It was an article on the second reforms conducted by President Andrews’s administration, and it was an utter disgrace to the once so self-respecting Fourth Estate. It was pure praise, and Kenneth grumbled beneath his thick, black beard. Andrews had led the charge and revised the Constitution until it was all but unrecognizable, and then this little bootlicker went out of his way to explain to the readers why it had been not just necessary, but desirable. Of course, within these walls, in the solitude of his own company, he could grumble all he wanted. But such carelessness anywhere else might quickly put an end to his career, or worse. This wasn’t the America he once knew, but he’d seen it coming for years. And the sad thing was that most people felt good about it all. That somehow trampling the rights of ordinary people would protect them. The terrorists won after all, he thought to himself. They frightened us to the core after Seattle, and then we destroyed ourselves by removing choice.

  November 2072 ~ Los Angeles, California

  Maria Solis had never had a boyfriend. At the age of sixteen, a high school junior, this bothered her, but she didn’t know what to do about it. Her friends always seemed to be dating, having boyfriends, and breaking up with them. There was always this sense of drama in their lives, and she felt that she was missing out on something, even though she couldn’t tell exactly what it was. She wondered if there was something wrong with her.

  “What's wrong with me?” she'd once asked Elle, who'd just giggled and strayed from the subject. Sometimes she thought her friend was shallow, but then again she had her moments.

  “You're not a loner, Maria,” Elle had told her when she'd brought up the subject again. “You're just difficult to get to know.” Maria nodded, knowing that she tended to avoid the social settings that divided the students into groups and cliques.

  “I just don't feel comfortable playing games.”

  A while ago, there were rumors in school saying she was a lesbian; but no, she did like boys, and thinking about girls that way didn’t feel comfortable.

  “You're beautiful, Maria. The boys don't know what they're missing!” That was Elle for you, making a joke out of everything. Maria shook her head.

  “It's not that, it's just... I sometimes feel like time is running out,” she said. “Class of ‘74, you know. Graduation's just a year and a half away. And so far, high school hasn’t been all that I hoped for.” She sighed. Once she graduated, she would go to college, of course. And with her parents being who they were, she expected she would be sent to a prestigious Ivy League university, where there would be no room for anything except her studies. She felt ambivalent thinking about that. On the one hand, she loved studying, and could immerse herself in the books on her tablet for hours and hours. She was a straight-A student, and though most of her studies came easily, she was also a hard worker. On the other hand, she knew there was more to life, and wondered if she would regret having spent so many evenings studying while her friends were out dating or just plain having fun.

  “You have a good life, you know,” Elle said. This time she didn't giggle or joke about it. Maria nodded, suddenly ashamed. She knew she had many opportunities that were denied others. She had loving parents, would receive a good education, and when she decided she was ready to take on business responsibilities, she was even the heir to one of the world’s largest and most prosperous companies. Still, it all felt somewhat predictable, like her path had already been chosen for her. Not that her parents wouldn’t let her make her own choices, of course. But still …

  “I know, it's just that... I want to feel excited about something. I want to have some direction. I remember the stories grandpa used to tell me before he died. He would sit me on his lap and tell me about his dreams when he was young. He said he’d always dreamed of becoming an astronaut.”

  Elle seemed to be listening—and interested, so Maria continued her story. “He told me that when he first came to this country, men were preparing to go to Mars. The entire universe seemed open for exploration. It was an exciting time.” Maria had always loved hearing about the old days; they had grand dreams back then, and she wanted to feel that same excitement and a dream to pursue.

  “He said that when he saw John Scott set foot upon the red planet, he cried and believed anything was possible then.” She could still remember the dreamy look in her grandpa’s eyes. It made him look sort of sad.

  The rest was history; the space dream ended when they tried to colonize Mars. Mr. Allred, her history teacher, had called the disaster a national trauma, from which they had never really recovered. He was right, and her grandpa’s dream was dead long before he died himself. But she had never been able to forget the sparkle in his eyes. Elle wouldn't understand. No one would. These days nobody dreamed of space anymore. Remembering her grandpa, Maria sometimes wondered which was better: not seeing your dream come true, or not dreaming at all.