The Lost Colony Series: Omnibus Edition: All Four Volumes in One

  The Lost Colony book 1

  The Lost Colony Series,

  Omnibus Edition

  Copyright Andrew C. Broderick

  2017, all rights reserved

  Cover art by Christian Bentulam

  coversbychristian.com

  This book is dedicated to you and all other supporters

  of independently published fiction.

  Part 1: Missing

  CHAPTER ONE

  News from the first colony among the stars was due. John Rees shifted his weight in the bamboo chair. Over the last hour, his relaxed demeanor had given way to a fidgety nervousness. His eyes were now glued to the large midair display, showing the current output of the Earth News Network. Surprisingly, many of the other patrons of the tiki bar, which overlooked the white Hawaiian sand, were not watching. Their disinterest irritated John greatly, as this was an historic moment.

  “We are now awaiting confirmation from the ISDA, of the first automated probe’s arrival from the star Constantine,” the woman in red said. Constantine was almost the only thing John had thought about for the last five years, as he was training to be on the next flight there.

  “We get it,” John’s friend Paul Smith said in an annoyed tone, from the next chair over. His expression was not so much anxiety, as with John, but rather pure impatience. “They’ve said that about fifty times in the last hour.”

  “They’re stalling,” John said, shifting uncomfortably. “It was due back two minutes ago.” He had a swarthy face, with a wide nose and cheeks, a week’s stubble, and a mop of medium-length black hair. He looked like he knew how to handle himself.

  “That breeze feels good,” Paul said, as the air in the bar briefly reminded them of its existence. “It’s a 110 frickin’ degrees in here.”

  The picture cut to a vast mission control room, whose entire front wall consisted of an enormous screen, showing various tiled windows full of charts and readouts. Rows of individuals sat at workstations, poring over their tasks. One seat at the back rose higher than the others: that of flight director, Johanna Locke. The newscaster appeared in an inset picture, now visibly excited as a newscaster ever gets. “Okay, it appears we’re getting word…” Her eyes were focused on something far off to the side of the camera. “The probe Ulysses has indeed reappeared twenty thousand kilometers above Earth. The main picture switched to show a dart shaped craft. “We should get the first pictures and messages from the crew any minute now, as her data banks are downloaded.” John held his breath; he was a bundle of tension and nerves. The woman frowned ever so slightly. “We’re anxiously awaiting the first transmission from Epsilon. The data link may be delayed, although contact has been established with Ulysses.” The picture switched again to Mission Control. Johanna Locke stood at the back row of consoles, alternately looking at the screen in front of her and at the one that dominated the front of the cavernous room. The camera zoomed in on her, showing her lips moving, but left her words inaudible. Bearing a deep frown, she glanced up again at the vast monitor.

  The planet Epsilon, the first exoplanet chosen to host a scientific base, was twenty-two light years away. The spaceship Hercules had left Earth two weeks earlier, for the two-week much-faster-than-light flight to Epsilon. There was no way to communicate in real time over such a vast distance. Automated courier probes, such as Ulysses, carried communications and supplies across the gulf. Ulysses had been programmed to return to Earth automatically, one day after Hercules’ arrival, bearing reports from her crew.

  “IDSA technicians are now performing a complete remote systems check on the Ulysses probe,” the news anchor continued, her words now mirroring the anxiety John felt. “Everybody is hoping at this point that the reason its memory banks appear empty is a malfunction.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” John said. He set his drink down on the small table beside him and stood up, never taking his eyes off the screen. “Come on, baby. Come on,” he quietly exhorted the large hunk of electronics thousands of kilometers above. “Give up the goods.”

  Paul stood up. “I really hope…” Paul and John’s close friendship, forged in the fires of intensive study and research at MIT, meant that Paul hung on every twist and turn of the human push to colonize another star system as much as John did, even though Paul himself was not going.

  Then, the audio cut out on the TV. “Come on, dammit! I can’t lip read!” John grumbled. He turned around. “Bartender! Put the subtitles on!” he barked. The man in the loud shirt dutifully pulled out the remote control and pointed it. A stream of garbled text appeared in white on a black background. “What the heck?” John said.

  Paul turned around to the bartender, and held up two fingers. “Two vodkas, please,” he half-mouthed, when he had the man’s attention, seeing John getting more riled up with each passing second. The barkeep nodded.

  A few moments later, a new presenter appeared, somewhat older than the last one, and the sound was restored. “At this point, the systems check is complete,” she said. “The probe data banks have been searched thoroughly. It contains only the record of the starship Hercules arriving at Epsilon. It’s blank after that. With me now is our science correspondent…”

  “Good God in heaven,” John said, like a deflated balloon. He turned to Paul. “So we know they got there but then there was total silence from them!” He shook his head slowly.

  “I… don’t know what to say…” Paul looked at the bar, and then back at his friend, both of them at a loss for words.

  * * * *

  “Call Nandi Xie,” John said. His neural implant tried to make the connection to his fellow crew member.

  “Unavailable. Would you like me to keep trying?” John heard in his head.

  “Yes. Call Hans Weber.”

  “Unavailable.”

  “Dammit, call Daniel Golden.”

  “Unavailable.”

  “Call Johanna Locke. Not like she’s going to be available.” John muttered. The Flight Director for Colonization Mission 1, the official designation of Hercules’ flight, was not likely to be available for a very long time.

  “Unavailable.”

  “Call Michael Van Buren.”

  “Unavailable.”

  “Ugh.” John turned to Paul. “Looks like I’m going to Darmstadt.”

  Paul nodded. “Whatever you gotta do, go figure this thing out.”

  “Book me a spaceplane to Darmstadt, Germany,” John said. He zoned out, focusing on some spot on the surface of the glittering sea, while his implant scoured countless travel sites and space lines.

  “I’m sorry, but there are no flights available for two days. Would like to book a ticket for the next available flight?”

  “Umm… what about first class? I’ll just max out my damn credit card.”

  “In that case, there is one flight from Honolulu to Frankfurt at 11:50pm. The fare is 19,000 dollars, including a transfer from Hilo.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Incoming call from Nandi Xie.”

  “Answer,” John said.

  “Hey, you called,” the woman on the other end said warmly. “I take it you heard the news?”

  “Hey, Nandi. I did. You at the IDSA?”

  “Yeah. There’s a bunch of us milling about outside Mission Control, trying to get answers.”

  “Do you know any more than was on the news?”

  “Only that Hercules dewarped and landed successfully on Epsilon. After that, the transmissions stopped. As Chief Physician for our flight, I’m hoping to God there isn’t some kind of toxin out there that the
robotic probes didn’t detect. If there is, it would hit us too, once we’re out of the spacecraft.”

  “We could be looking at any number of scenarios. It’s an unprecedented crisis. Damn it. I need to go. I’ve got to get from Hilo to Honolulu in some primitive local puddle jumper.”

  “Primitive? You’re in Hawaii, not the third world!”

  “Yeah. Whatever,” John said impatiently. “Sorry, I’m just knocked sideways by this. I’m getting a spaceplane into Frankfurt. I have to be there with you guys.”

  “Then we’ll see you as soon as you can get here. Safe travels.”

  * * * *

  John put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “Where was I?”

  “Getting your stuff together so you can get out of here,” Paul said, as they stood in front of the large screen.

  “Right.” The two men walked out of the bar into the fierce heat, leaving behind a concerned and confused babble of people watching the news, now beginning to grasp the magnitude of what had happened. John and Paul headed across the white, oppressive heat of the beach, and made their way back to their rooms. They came to a stop outside John’s door. “Well, I’m gonna miss you buddy,” Paul said.

  “Same. Wish we could have spent the whole week together.” The men hugged, then John unlocked his room using his neural implant before entering to pack his few belongings.

  * * * *

  The vee-tol, a pilotless, silver, bean-shaped flying machine about the size of a minibus, touched down in its lot at Hilo Airport, nestled in among ranks of many identical machines. The sky was just beginning to darken, as evening drew in. No sooner had John exited down the lower section of the gull wing door, forming the steps down to the ground, than a charter company attendant bearing an urgent expression hurried over. “I’m sorry Mr. Rees, but Honolulu Airport’s on lockdown. There’s been a bomb threat. No flights are departing for Honolulu.”

  John squeezed his eyes shut, as he slung the handle to his duffel bag over his right shoulder. “Good God. They picked a terrible time.” He opened his eyes again, to look to the attendant. “Any word on when it’ll reopen?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  “I need to get to Germany.”

  “I understand, sir.” A long, uncertain wait at Hilo did not appeal to John.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The campus of the International Deep Space Alliance, or IDSA, dominated the area south of Darmstadt, Germany, about twenty kilometers from Frankfurt. The centerpiece consisted of a ring-shaped steel and glass building, six stories high, and one kilometer wide. There was a shuttle train below ground to assist people in traversing the huge structure. Within the ring, there were immaculately managed gardens. Triangular sections of lawn, like slices of pie, were cut through with paths that led to the ring’s center. There stood an obelisk, nearly 100 meters tall, at whose crown rested a fake star, powered by a zero-point reactor. The star was bright enough to be seen from space.

  Outside the ring were giant car parks and vee-tol lots. A constant stream of both ground and air vehicles shuttled people to and from the Frankfurt air and space port.

  Beyond the lots was a vast campus of mostly low rise buildings, bearing glittering, curved fronts. This network stretched out for another two kilometers in all directions, making the IDSA by far the largest space research facility ever built. One notable building, further out in the small city, was Mission Control. The latter, a circular glass structure around 100 meters wide and six stories high, consisted of four separate centers so that multiple missions could be managed at once.

  In a bland, white conference room to the rear of MCC 1, the control center for CM-1, Johanna Locke paced. Her black hair fell around the shoulders of her gray business suit. Her blue eyes bore an expression of utmost concern. “What’s the soonest we can get Andromeda out and back?” she asked, referring to one of the other courier probes at their disposal.

  The twenty assembled engineers, aged roughly twenty-five to sixty-five, conversed briefly. At length, an engineer who bore a strong resemblance to Ernest Hemingway spoke up. “About six weeks to get her ready.”

  Johanna calculated rapidly in her head.

  “So the total time to get back is seventy days; forty-two for prep, thirteen out, two to gather data, and thirteen back.” She sighed. “Too long. We can’t wait two months plus to find out what happened at Epsilon. We need to do better, Al.”

  “We can’t,” Al said. “We’re so busy getting Atlas ready to go we don’t have the resources for more.”

  “Then we just step up our game somehow. I want it done in four weeks, not six.”

  The entire room balked at her timetable.

  “No excuses. All of you have experience, or at least training, in on-orbit construction. Go up and augment the crews at NES.”

  Al exhaled slowly. The other engineers looked to him, waiting on his direction. “Okay,” he said, thinking. “That’d shorten the window to just shy of two months before we can get Andromeda back and hopefully find out what happened. Unless… Schmidt wants to bring CM-2 forward. If we’re needed there, four weeks’ll turn back into six.”

  “Do whatever it takes. Just make it happen.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Thank you American Spacelines," John said to himself, as he looked out of the window of the Hilo Hilton. The spaceline had managed to secure him the very last room available near the airport. His view out over the runways to the bands of gold red and orange that stretched out over the horizon was relaxing, or would be if John could let himself relax. The active wallpaper of the room changed slowly from purple to light blue, on sensing its occupant’s unease. But the sensory stimulation didn't work, and John paced in front of the window, from the counter with its drink machine and a minibar at one end of the room to the wall where the head of the queen-size bed was on the other.

  John sighed as he headed over to the drink dispenser and touch-screen ordered a cup of hot chocolate. He picked it up to drink and paused to retrieve a small bottle of vodka from the minibar John took the drink, examined it, and then set it down. Opening the brushed silver door of the minibar, he took out a small bottle of vodka, and poured the entire contents into the cup. The liquid was now almost overflowing. "That's more like it," John said. He sipped at it and then set the cup down. He took an object closely resembling a quarter dollar from his pocket, and set it on the counter. It turned dark, and displayed the face of a young woman. She was aged around twenty, with long eyelashes and perfect features designed to be aligned with John’s taste. Her blonde hair was stylishly twisted into thick braids that rested on top of her head before flowing down the back of her neck. Just visible were the tops of her shoulders, supporting thin orange dress straps.

  "Hi Misti," John said

  "Hi John," the tiny face said. "What's going on?"

  "Everything. I'm worried as hell about the Hercules and her crew, and this damned airport closure is just one straw too many." Misti was John's personal AI counselor and assistant. Though she could handle mundane PA-type tasks with ease, John much preferred her ability to converse and console him when necessary.

  "I understand," she said. "I can imagine how hard it must be."

  "The worst part is that we’re not going to know what happened for months—if at all."

  "They'll send another courier probe soon?"

  "Yes. I expect they're working on it now. But even then it'll still be weeks before we learn anything." Misti nodded. John’s stomach churned, as his eyes traced the stark silhouettes of aircraft hangars without really focusing on anything.

  "How many of the Hercules’ crew do you know?" Misti asked.

  "Most of them." John's eyes glazed over as he thought about who was on board.

  "Yeah," Misti sympathized. “Hopefully it’s just a problem with the transmitters.”

  “I really hope so. That’s the best case scenario.” John paused for a little while. “I don’t want to check the news again. Could you have a look
and give me a quick summary of public opinion on what’s going on?”

  “Of course.” Misti paused momentarily. “It seems like, while there’s a big outpouring of sympathy for the crew, there’s also a strong minority who think that we shouldn’t have sent humans so far away yet—or that we should have set up a robotic colony years ahead of sending people. The critics think it could be something in the environment on Epsilon that’s incapacitated the crew.”

  John shrugged. “Not impossible. Though the only thing that was found to be suspect is the e-weed.”

  “Those ferns that give off the potentially dangerous spores?”

  “Yes. The first thing CM-1 was supposed to do was test it to see how poisonous it really is. The colony site was set up 300 meters from the closest known clump of it. Seems doubtful that it’s so bad it overtook the colonists before they could get a message out. So, it would either have to be a large-scale electronic failure, or an environmental…” John couldn’t bring himself to use the word ‘catastrophe’, nor to utter the other possible death knell: a stellar flare from Constantine that would have fried all their equipment, leaving their survival and life-support systems useless and disabling Hercules, leaving them stuck on the surface of Epsilon.

  “You know, worry and speculation isn’t going to help your mental state.”

  “I know that, but I can’t help it. It’s human nature to worry.”

  “I suggest getting some sleep before ASL notifies you when you can get out of here.”

  John sighed. “Yeah.” He took another sip of the Irish hot chocolate.

  “Neither the caffeine nor the alcohol in that drink are going to help you.”

  “Misti, you’re starting to sound like my mother.” John’s mind flashed back to the day before his twelfth birthday, when he stood in a suit next to her grave, while the minister read the last rights. He pushed the thought away.