Peacekeeper Pathogen (Galactic Alliance Book 6) Read online

  Peacekeeper Pathogen

  By: Doug Farren

  Copyright © 2017

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Peacekeeper Pathogen — Galactic Alliance (Book 6)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover art design:Heather Zak

  Copy-editor:Lee Dilkie

  Proofreader:Cheryl Farren

  Proofreader:Ekkehard Flessa

  Publisher:Doug Farren

  Author Photo:John Gilbey

  Printer:CreateSpace

  Cover art Copyright © 2017 by Doug Farren

  This book is available in both electronic and print formats.

  Chapter 1

  Peacekeeper: A highly-trained, cybernetically-enhanced individual tasked with enforcing Alliance law. Peacekeepers are the solution to a problem: How do you enforce the laws of a society made up of a dozen species spread across hundreds of planets? A peacekeeper’s authority comes directly from the Alliance Grand Council. They have absolute authority in all matters relating to Alliance law on any planet anywhere in Alliance-controlled space.

  “Are you sure about this?” Phil asked. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “I’m happy to help,” Tom Wilks replied. “Besides, it’s good to give the suit a workout every so often. Keeps the joints lubricated.”

  Looking down at Tom’s feet, Phil said, “You do realize that thing is so heavy you’re sinking up to your knees in the mud. You’re going to have a real bitch getting it clean!”

  “A little mud won’t hurt it a bit,” Tom replied. “You’d be surprised what this suit can take.”

  Tom was having to walk like a band major, lifting each leg of the combat suit straight up until it was clear of the mud before he could take a step forward. He was also carrying a heavy wooden board, holding it in one arm as if it had no weight to it at all.

  “Of that, I have no doubt. You look like a walking tank. Have you ever used it in combat?”

  “I have.”

  “I’d love to hear a story or two someday unless, of course, you’re not supposed to talk about it.”

  “I would rather not.”

  “Well, there it is,” Phil said, pointing to the tractor. Its rear wheels were buried in the field almost up to the axle. The plow behind the huge, bright yellow machine was covered in slowly drying, dark brown splattered mud. “This is what I get for letting my kid work a field by himself. I told him not to do the south field. With all the rain we’ve had, I knew it would be too soft. But the damn fool never listens to me.”

  Tom looked the tractor over then slid the board under the rear hitch, positioning it as close to the tires as possible. Phil had unhooked the plow during his earlier failed attempt to free the tractor from the mud.

  “I think we can do this,” Tom told him. “Climb in.”

  Phil grabbed a handhold and pulled himself up into the cab.

  Positioning himself on the plank to distribute his weight, Tom issued a command to his suit causing a number of duralloy spikes to shoot out from the boots. Grabbing hold of the rear of the tractor, he said, “Ready!”

  The tractor rocked forward as Phil applied some power. The servos of Tom’s combat armor whined as he lifted. The tires spun, flinging bits of mud into the air and peppering the exterior of the suit. Tom pushed forward and the tires caught.

  “Priority call from Sorbith,” a voice announced. The notification had come from the Orion, Tom’s ship that was parked at the small local airport 14 kilometers away. Sorbith was Tom’s immediate supervisor in charge of all peacekeepers assigned to Earth.

  “Accept,” Tom said.

  “Why are you in combat armor?” Sorbith asked as soon as the connection was made.

  Tom pushed harder, the tractor’s hydraulics hissing in complaint as Phil applied more power. With a jerk, the tractor bounced out of the ruts and began to make some forward progress.

  “Helping my sister’s neighbor get his tractor out of the mud,” Tom said, releasing his grip. “My cybernetics don’t have near enough power—the suit does. What’s happening?”

  The tractor slowly crawled through the mud, the back tires threatening to sink. Tom picked up the board and followed in case Phil got stuck again.

  “That’s not what it’s designed for,” Sorbith replied. Tom got the distinct feeling that his superior was not in a good mood.

  “I’ll talk to you about that later,” Sorbith continued. “Right now, I need you to head to Bedford, Indiana as soon as possible. Biomaster Latura Flothir is doing some research inside Bluespring Caverns. The park authorities are sending in a team to find him. As soon as he’s out, get him to Kauffman Clinic in Denver with all possible speed.”

  “Why don’t you just call him?” Tom asked.

  “He’s too far inside the cave and not due to be out for several days,” Sorbith explained.

  The tractor was now on firmer ground and began to slow. Phil stuck his head out of the cab and looked back at Tom.

  “Standby,” Tom told Sorbith. Switching on the suit’s external speaker, he said, “Go on without me. I have to flit.”

  Phil nodded his head and a moment later the tractor began moving away.

  Switching his communications mic back on, Tom said, “I’m back. This sounds like something the local authorities should handle. Why send me?”

  “There’s a situation developing and I want you there.”

  Tom had expected a little more information than that but decided that Sorbith was in no mood to be pestered with questions.

  “Biomaster Flothir didn’t go in alone, did he?” Tom asked. “Don’t they have an emergency communications system inside the cavern?”

  “He has a guide with him. He’s working in a remote section of the cave system where the internal communication relays can’t reach. A team has been sent in to locate them. We need to get Flothir to Denver as quickly as possible. Your ship has the mission brief. Contact me as soon as you’ve read it. Sorbith out.”

  The connection went dead before Tom had a chance to reply. “Orion,” he said, “come get me.”

  “Acknowledged,” the ship’s AI replied. “Recalling the tricycle as well. ETA four minutes.”

  “Call my sister and give Lashpa a heads up on the change in plans.”

  “Tom!” Cassandra’s excited voice came through as soon as the connection was made. “Thank god you called; your tricycle just drove away all by itself.”

  “Calm down sis. It’s okay. My ship’s computer is driving it. I need to leave—duty calls.”

  “You’ll probably miss lunch then. You’ll be back for dinner, right? Paula is bringing over her lasagna.”

  “Sorry. I have to pick up someone and take him to Denver. I have a feeling I’m not going to be back for a while. Please give Paula my regrets.”

  “But you’re supposed to be on vacation! Tell them to get someone else to do it.” Tom could clearly hear the disappointment in her voice.

  “I’m a peacekeeper sis. We’re never really on vacation.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “I always do.”

  Two minutes later, the Orion slid into view overhead. The space-black ship was easy to s
pot against the clear blue sky. Hovering 50 meters in the air, an opening appeared on the underside of the disk-shaped craft. A low-power tractor beam grabbed Tom’s combat suit and gently pulled him inside. As soon as the beam released him, he took two steps forward until he felt the suit lock into its storage position. A single command caused the suit to split open allowing him to step out. The ship’s automatic systems would give it a good cleaning and recharge its power accumulators.

  Tom made his way to the control center as the ship moved to intercept the tricycle that had made its way to a clear spot on the rural roadway. The ship’s AI was retrieving the specially designed three-wheeler as Tom settled into the command chair. Unlike a normal ship, peacekeeper Seeker-class scout ships did not have a bridge. The entire ship could be run by one person seated in the command center’s single chair.

  “As soon as the tricycle is aboard, set course for Bluespring Caverns,” Tom ordered.

  “Acknowledged,” the Orion replied. “Do you want to review the mission details now?”

  “Proceed.”

  One of the many monitors surrounding the command chair shifted and a text message appeared. Tom read through it quickly then went back and read over the more important parts a bit slower. After letting out a long whistle, he said, “Get Sorbith.”

  A moment later, Sorbith’s face appeared on one of the screens directly in front of Tom. Like Tom, the top of Sorbith’s head was encased in black duralloy. But it was far more than just a helmet. A wonder of modern technology, one of the peacekeepers’ most closely guarded secrets, lay just underneath the incredibly hard surface. A web of nanoscale electronics called the biolink could literally read the thoughts of the brain it surrounded. The system wasn’t perfect and the peacekeeper had to focus his thoughts to ensure the biolink could pick up on them. But amazingly, this communication was not one-way. The biolink could also be used to send thoughts into the brain.

  As soon as Tom saw that the connection was made, he said, “I’ve never heard of a class-12 pathogen. Is that why it’s so critical to get Flothir to Denver? Is this something only a biomaster can deal with?”

  “Let me give you a quick history of how this whole thing played out,” Sorbith told him. “Three days ago, a private freighter made an emergency course alteration and ended up on Earth. One of the crew, a young man named Nathan Smally, was complaining about increasing pain that no amount of medication could ease. The doctors at the Kauffman Clinic ran every test imaginable and came up with nothing. A search of the Alliance network returned three possible causes. All but one have been eliminated. The one remaining is a class-12 pathogen with no confirmation test available. All information regarding it is restricted to specific biomasters.”

  Tom felt a slight vibration pass through the hull as the tricycle was locked down. A moment later, a second vibration announced the fact that the outer hatch was closed. Various indicators shifted as the ship accelerated and gained altitude.

  “Why don’t we just use a peacekeeper override?” Tom asked.

  “Because it’s one of the few databases even we are locked out of,” Sorbith replied. “Only biomasters having a need to know or who are on the senior biomaster advisory board have access to all data associated with class-12 pathogens. Symptoms and diagnostic tests to confirm such a disease is public but everything else is classified.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Tom admitted.

  “You don’t know much about the Omel, do you?” Sorbith asked.

  “Just what we were taught at the academy and a few personal experiences I’d rather not get into.”

  “The academy focused on cultural issues,” Sorbith said, sounding annoyed. Leaning back in his chair, he continued, “You need to spend some time getting to know the cultures you serve.”

  “I’ll make it a point to do so,” Tom replied, wondering why Sorbith was in such a foul mood.

  “Prior to becoming a spacefaring race,” Sorbith continued, “the Omel were constantly at war with each other. Their homeworld is rather limited in resources and nations preferred not to destroy or use the limited resources they were fighting for. Instead, they became masters of bio-weaponry. More than a century ago, a biomaster was the equivalent of our chief weapons designers. They almost wiped themselves out several times by creating ever more virulent pathogens. After one such disease killed off every child under the age of six as well as almost half the remaining population, popular opinion turned against the biomasters and the governments that used their services for war. It took almost three generations, but the Omel learned how to share their resources and their planet became united.”

  “And now the biomasters preserve life instead of destroying it,” Tom said.

  “Biomasters were responsible for not only designing new weapons, but also finding the cure for those invented by the enemy. Although many of them were killed in the riots, a small number managed to convince the population that their expertise was needed to restore the population. They became one of the most carefully controlled professions in the entire galaxy. Today, it takes almost 20 years of intense training to become a biomaster. They are still tightly regulated and tracked almost as closely as you and I.”

  “So a class-12 pathogen must be pretty nasty.”

  “Biomasters are entrusted with knowledge of diseases that could easily wipe out entire planets,” Sorbith said. “A class-12 pathogen is the most dangerous classification possible.”

  “And the doctors think we have a case in Denver,” Tom said, rubbing his chin. “Are we locking down the city?”

  “No. Oddly enough, the disease is not classified as contagious.”

  “What? That doesn’t make any sense. If you’re going to wipe out an entire planet, you’ve got to have a way for the germ to spread. Why is it classified as so dangerous?”

  “You’ll have to ask Flothir when you see him. I have work to do. Sorbith out.”

  Chapter 2

  Seeker-class heavy scout ship: Built specifically for peacekeepers to serve as their home and office for as long as they remain a peacekeeper. The ship is a black disk measuring 115 meters in diameter and 30 meters thick. Armament consists of a large Tholtaran-built antimatter-enhanced particle beam cannon, two free electron lasers, and a large capacity missile rack. The power required to operate the vessel is provided by three 1,100 megawatt fusion reactors and one 4,300 megawatt main reactor. The ship has three staterooms; One for the ship’s master and two significantly smaller rooms for the rare guest.

  “Contact the visitor’s center,” Tom ordered the ship.

  A moment later, a woman’s face appeared on one of the monitors. “Good afternoon, wel- - -” she interrupted her normal greeting as soon as she realized she was speaking to a peacekeeper. “You must be Peacekeeper Wilks,” she said, quickly adapting. “How can I help you?”

  “I am,” Tom replied. “Any word on biomaster Flothir?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” she replied, glancing off to her left. “But Mr. Adams might have some more information. He’s in charge of our search and rescue team.”

  The receptionist moved away from the camera and a man dressed in a coverall took her place. “I have a team in there now,” he said. “Mr. Flothir was in a section of the cavern called the Pyramid Room. It’s about a three-hour trek back to the surface. Because there’s no radio, we use an air-horn to signal anyone inside the cave that they need to evacuate. My men are dropping com-relays so they can remain in touch with the surface. So far, Mr. Flothir hasn’t been found.”

  Tom glanced at one of his displays then said, “I’ll be landing in about seven minutes. There’s a field just to the south of the visitor center. My ship will land there.”

  “I’ll let the rest of the staff know.”

  Tom ended the connection and turned his attention to the landing. Although the ship’s AI was more than capable of setting the ship down by itself, he enjoyed manually piloting the vessel. A single command put him in control. The bank of
controls and monitors in front of him vanished as the ship took control of his cybernetic eyes. It was as if the ship no longer existed and it was he who was flying through the clouds. A pulsing blue dot in front of him indicated his target. A mental command sent to the ship via his biolink magnified the image. Satisfied he could safely land, Tom returned the magnification to normal as he continued to pilot the Orion towards the designated landing area.

  The craft slipped across the country road just high enough to clear the trees. Tom spotted some power lines running across the field and adjusted his course. Hovering over the field, he looked down, verified the area was clear, extended the landing struts, and then descended to a smooth landing.

  “Nicely done,” the ship’s AI complimented him.

  “Thanks,” Tom replied as his vision returned to normal. “Deploy the cycle and drop the ramp.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  The tricycle came to a stop at the same time Tom stepped off the end of the ramp. The low-slung vehicle was about the size of a small car and specially designed for peacekeepers. The driver sat behind the single, extra-wide front tire with a cramped passenger seat in the back just wide enough to accommodate two small Terran adults. Although there were no doors, the vehicle was low enough for Tom to easily step inside and slip into the driver’s seat. In the event of inclement weather, a clear plastic dome could be deployed to cover the driver and the passengers.

  Tall grass covered what had once been a small field used to grow crops. The tops gently waved in the hot breeze. The tricycle easily drove through it leaving a path of trampled plants in its wake. It took less than a minute for him to clear the field. After a short drive up the access road, Tom stopped in front of the visitor center. Mr. Adams was waiting for him, standing in the shade of the front entrance overhang.

  “I just heard from one of my men,” he said as soon as Tom was within easy talking distance. “They’ve heard a reply hoot. No visual yet but it shouldn’t be much longer.”