Saving Grace: A Space Opera Thriller

Prologue

Jag squinted and blinked her left eye three times, to reset her visual receptor for distance, keying on topographical variations and motion detection. Her right visual receptor gave her the full spectrum radiation scan, plus wind, temperature gradients, atmospheric gas content, and spectroscopic analysis. She despised being in her spacesuit but regulations were regulations. As a black jaguar space-adapt, her fur was modified to decrease her exposure to DNA-damaging radiation and her lungs were modified to handle low oxygen settings, but this planet had less breathable atmosphere than her adaptations could tolerate. There was oxygen, but not enough for her to go suitless. Besides, it wasn’t Planetary Exploration Bureau policy. With a sniff, Jag stepped out of the shuttle airlock and sank to her knees in dust, as if she’d jumped into a snowdrift.

Dust as grey as ash was all her bioprosthetic eyes could see. The scenery was stark, desolate. The terrain was marginally variable, giving a rolling view to the horizon. She sucked on her fangs, as she scanned upwards. There were three moons revolving around this planet but only one visible at the moment as they moved into night. Circling away from the shuttle, she finally signalled her crew to follow her out of the transport.

“No life readings in this area, Lieutenant Eyami,” said Dr. Yaya D’Sousa, her xenobiologist.

“Thanks, Sou,” Jag said. The armadillo-scaled D’Sousa had not told her anything she didn’t already know. Why in space had the Planetary Exploration Bureau sent them to this shit-hole of a planet? Whatever had lived on this rock must have blasted itself to Hell centuries ago.

Jag kicked through the dust, raising clouds of the clingy grey matter, unintentionally lifting herself off the ground. Her suit-stabilizers kicked in, jetting gas to restore her balance; she gently floated back to the surface. She stole a glance around to see if anyone had noticed. Everyone was pointedly ignoring her.

Good for them. Smart crew.

Jag begrudged being sent to check out planets that were a waste of time. If there were no valuable mineral discoveries or interesting finds on this dustball, her team would make nothing on this run. No finders fee, no discovery dividends, no planetary patents, no PEB bonuses. That made for an unhappy crew and an even more disgruntled Jag. She wanted to snick her claws in and out, but couldn’t within the spacesuit’s thick, reinforced gloves.

“Ash, Lieutenant,” Grub announced over their helmet com. “This grey dust is mostly ash.” There was a hint of astonishment in the planetologist’s voice, as she let the grey powder sift slowly through her thickly gloved fingers. The dust wafted ever so slowly to the ground.

“A whole lot of something burned here,” Jag said. “How thick’s this ash?” Her spirits lifted. If there’d been a nuclear conflagration, perhaps some alien tech had survived.

She let her people do their work.

Fifty meters from the shuttle, Corporal Jasmine Grubinskaya squatted with her equipment spread out before her. A gigantic, flat circular disc spread out over an open area of dust.

“Stop all movement, please,” Grub said.

There were muttered groans from the others, because they all had to interrupt their own investigations while Grub performed her scans of the underlying terrain.

“Hold still,” Grub snapped. “This can’t be right.”

Jag’s eyebrows perked up. She started to glide towards the planetologist. Grub appeared to be recalibrating and checking all of the contacts on her scanners.

“Taking another reading. Everyone hold your positions, please,” Grub announced. Jag could see the woman’s puzzled expression through her visor.

Jag tongued the private com. “ . . . Well?” she asked Grub.

According to Jag’s vitals monitor, Grub’s heart rate and blood pressure were climbing. Was Grub feeling a touch of excitement?

“Nothing like this showed up on the orbital scans,” Grub muttered. “Nagasaki, are you getting this? Can you verify these readings?”

“Give me a sec, Grub. I’m not finished collecting all my soil samples,” Lieutenant Alessia Nagasaki said from the far side of the lander.

Jag looked over towards Nagasaki. The party had erected bright lights around the lander to help illuminate through the clouds of ash they’d stirred up. The small planetologist looked like a child next to the huge figure of N’golo Voiczek, one of the marines guarding the researchers. Out of the nine Explorers outside the lander, three were acting as guards. Inside the shuttle sat the pilot, copilot, and medic.

“What do you see, Grub?” Jag insisted.

The planetologist pointed at the display on her screen. “What does that look like to you?”

Jag eyed the trace and sucked in a breath. “How far down is that?”

“About five kilometres,” Grub answered.

Jag let out a purr. “Eureka.”

They quickly set up a rig and started drilling. Jag wanted to get samples of whatever was down there as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t take long to dig down through five kilometres of ash. Now that Grub had unearthed evidence of something in the planet’s past, the mothership’s scans from orbit confirmed similar patterns elsewhere on the planet. The patterns could be interpreted as buried cities or settlements. Something catastrophic may have hit this planet—a massive asteroid or comet strike—burying the planet beneath layers of volcanic ash or perhaps some type of global conflict had left the planet devastated. The drilled cores would hopefully give them more information.

Whatever was down there could be a wealth of new knowledge, a source of unique treasures, or a library of sophisticated technologies from an ancient civilization. The entire crew was abuzz with excitement. This was why they’d become Planetary Explorers. Their mandate was to find planets that might be terraformed for human habitation, but this planet might prove to be much more valuable than that.

The rig was drilling down towards the tallest of the regular structures detected far beneath the surface. What were they? Buildings? Orbital elevators? Launch platforms? Dust was being deposited via conveyor belts a couple of kilometres from the shuttle, however it still looked as if they were in the midst of a blizzard.

Some of the landing party were erecting the first inflatable habitat. Solar generators had been set up but Jag figured they’d not get much power from them until the dust settled. The pilot and copilot were unloading crates of supplies from the shuttle. The marines were carrying the crates to the habitat. Jag had spoken to her captain, who’d ordered the landing crew to set up camp.

“Closing in on the first underground structure, Lieutenant— approximately one hundred meters away,” Grub reported.

“Copy that,” Jag said. She began the careful glide towards the rig. Billowing clouds of ash made visibility difficult. Grub and Nagasaki were standing within a chainglass enclosure several meters from the drilling rig. They appeared to be having a disagreement on a private frequency.

“Problems?” Jag asked the two planetologists, as she entered the enclosure.

“No,” they both chimed, looking at Jag with startled eyes.
“ . . . A slight difference of opinion,” Nagasaki offered.
“Regarding?”
“This structure here.” Nagasaki pointed at something on the monitor.

“We can’t agree on what it is.”

Jag peered at the fuzzy silhouette displayed on the screen. “What do you think it is?”

“It’s too small to be used as a landing platform unless the craft were very small. I think it looks like a chamber. Maybe the top car of an orbital elevator?” Nagasaki ventured.

“An elevator to what?” Jag asked.

“Maybe this planet had a geosynchronous orbital ring at one time,” Nagasaki said.

“You think the top of the elevator would have survived something like a comet strike or global conflagration without the rest of the ring?” Jag asked.

“Makes more sense that the structure we’re drilling down to is the top of a tower,” Grub said.

“Be an impossibly tall tower,” Nagasaki said. “What would have been its purpose?”

“Communications?” Grub suggested. “Supply depot?”

“Why not use satellites?” Nagasaki said.

“When we get close to it, I’m going to go down in the miner. Do the final digging with the rover blades, myself,” Grub said. “I don’t want the rig destroying anything delicate.”

“Negative,” Jag said. “The dust could bury you in an instant, Grub. Let the drill make direct contact with the structure. If it survived a comet strike or nuclear war, it’s unlikely to be that delicate. Once we’ve analyzed samples brought up by the rig, we can consider sending down bots. We do this by the book.”

“But . . .” both Grub and Nagasaki said.

“No buts,” Jag said. “Safety first. Take every precaution and no unnecessary risks until we know what we have.”

“Yes, sir,” the two planetologists grumbled.

“Coming up on the structure now,” Grub said, surveying her instruments.

Jag stared at the screen. The camera on the rig transmitted an image that looked like whirling snow. “Can’t you make the visual any clearer?”

“I can boost intensity to the lights,” Nagasaki said, flipping some switches.

“Three meters,” Grub announced.

“Slow the drill down,” Jag said.

Within seconds, pressures indicated contact with a solid surface.

The drill appeared to be going through a barrier of some kind. Sensors indicated the surface was metallic. The drill bit temperature was rising swiftly. After several minutes, the drill punched through the thick obstruction to the other side.

“Stop the drill,” Jag ordered.

Grub complied. They all bent over the video display monitor. It looked as though the drill had entered a chamber or open space. It was black beyond the limit of the drill light.

“Analyzing the material the drill has penetrated and the gas readings within the chamber. Preparing to send down a bot. It’ll send us back more information on this enclosure,” Grub said.

“I see movement,” Nagasaki said.

“Where?” Jag demanded, suspecting Nagasaki was only seeing spots before her eyes.

“There. It looks like a purple nebula,” Nagasaki said.

“Nothing’s being picked up on the sensors, Nag. Check your oxygen levels,” Grub said.

“My oxygen levels are fine. Get the dust out of your eyes, Grub.”

“Something’s moving,” Jag said.

“A high energy wave is accelerating up the drill shaft,” Nagasaki shouted.

We’re under fire!

Jag reached out to grab the two planetologists and push them down. Within seconds, a coldness, like being thrown into deep space without a suit, gripped her bones. She lurched within her spacesuit and felt a chill so intense, it burned. Her teeth chattered loudly and she gasped for breath, as all the muscles in her body began to spasm. She stared at Grub and Nagasaki who were both arched backwards, their eyes bulging. She heard strangling sounds over her com. Jag wanted to claw her heart out of her chest. The sound from her throat was a choking wheeze. Her chest felt like it was being drilled by the rig. She worked her mouth, trying to get a word out before the darkness caved in.

“Run!” she mouthed silently.

Chapter 1. I Shall Be There For You Always

It was eerily still in the huge laboratory. Everyone was either asleep, or doing things they wouldn’t want to be doing in their workplace. Amidst the blinking panels and consoles, only the muted omnipresent hum of the medical space station’s engines and the subliminal murmur of the recycling air broke the silence. Those low frequency strains played a subliminal accompaniment to her slow, stealthy movements.

Glancing around, she checked for the twentieth time that there was no one present, though she’d already checked to make sure the entire lab was empty before entering. She’d scrutinized all of the surveillance cameras and then deactivated them.

Inhaling a shuddering breath, she withdrew a small container from her coverall pocket. Peering over her shoulder one last time, she eased herself down into the large, cocoon-like chair positioned before one of the recording consoles. With trembling fingers, she released a latch and the lid of the container slid aside. Cautiously, she withdrew the glistening, iridescent memprint cube.

In the darkness, the tiny cube threw shimmering colour over the banks of silver and black amplifiers, recorders, processors, and screens. The spherical, needle-filled helmets hanging above her head reflected and refracted back the dazzling rainbow colours. Stretching towards the control panel, she inserted the luminous cube into the reading slot of the memprint console and watched it disappear into the recesses of the machine. There it would be scanned, decrypted, and translated. She collapsed back into the recording seat and chewed her ragged fingernails, tasting blood. Shadows loomed around her like forbidding gods.

Her head spun; she realized only now that she’d been panting. She worked to slow her breaths. As if sheltering from a relentless, head- on wind, she pressed her face against her scrunched-up knees, curling tightly into a ball. Seconds ticked past. Her shoulders bunched up about her ears, as if she was physically trying to mute the warnings in her mind. The wait for the small ping that would signal the machine was ready seemed interminable.

When the notification sounded, she froze. Cast in a sinister emerald hue by the ‘START’ button, she saw her face reflected on a console screen. Her forehead sported deep, parallel slashes. Her eyes were black pits. Beneath her high cheekbones hid scooped-out hollows. Trench-like parentheses bracketed her tight-lipped mouth. She massaged her temples with bloody fingertips, trying to relieve her headache.

Almost mesmerized by the blinking console, she slowly raised her index finger towards the ‘EJECT’ button. She would discard the memprint cube as she’d promised.

Time stretched as she sat frozen, pointing at the scarlet square, teetering on indecision. Her fingertip advanced and faltered in shaking millimetre increments with each breath.

She shook her head sharply, as if to dismiss a troublesome argument. Squaring her slender shoulders, she sat up straight in the recording chair and lifted her eyes to the thousands of glittering, needle-like probes suspended above her head. The memprint helmet hung down on the end of a silver stem, poised in mid-air like an enormous globus spider, awaiting the command to inject her head with the answers she was not sure she wanted.

With an exasperated huff, she jabbed the glowing emerald START button. The automated chair sat her upright and inflated around her, immobilizing her in a tight cocoon. A mouthpiece slid into her mouth to help hold her head perfectly still. A cushioned neck brace encircled her neck and chin. Soon she was imprisoned, as thousands of delicate, sharp electrodes plunged into her scalp. She bit down hard on the bite plate to prevent her teeth from chattering. Myriad fine points prickled her entire scalp like a million acupuncture needles being inserted at once. An intravenous catheter slid into a vein in her arm. Her heart began to race.

What am I doing?

She wanted out of this chair. She wanted the helmet off. As her awareness bled away, she struggled in the tight cocoon. Pinpoints scraped across her skull.

Octavia was right! She didn’t need to know what had happened to Morris, her lover. Knowing the truth would not bring him back. Octavia was doing that.

Ice groggily fought to reach the abort button with her index finger. A soothing, sensuous voice filled her mind.

'Hold still, my dear. There’s no need to fear.'

A face of extraordinary beauty appeared before her and smiled warmly and reassuringly at her. His dark brown eyes were luminescent pools fringed with thick, long, black lashes. Shiny ebony curls dangled before a pale, sensitive forehead and framed the wide cheekbones of a handsome masculine face. His smiling mouth and soft, sensuous lips were inviting. A deep, cultured voice thrummed within her, making her think of melted chocolate. His words were like nectar.

Jeffrey Nestor is here.

* * *

Dr. Grace Lord flashed her wristcomp before the access pad and stepped back to wait. Her name was being announced to those within. Since she was expected, she did not anticipate waiting long, but she fidgeted and chewed her lip. When she’d discharged her patient, he’d seemed well enough to return home. However, a worried summons had lit up her wristcomp, requesting her help, but curiously refusing the Emergency Response Team.

Grace scoured her memory for mistakes she may have committed. She wanted to rush in, but feared that would appear unprofessional. It was important to maintain an air of calm, though she was hardly feeling that. Her bowels churned and her bladder spasmed. As the door slid aside, Grace found herself bathed in golden illumination.

Dr. Sierra Cech stood within an aurora of light and sighed at Grace. She opened her arms to engulf Grace. Soft piano music was wafting from within and Grace thought she could smell the scent of fresh cut flowers.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Grace,” Sierra whispered, beckoning Grace to enter. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re willing to come here. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I’d really like to keep this private, until we can sort this out.” Sierra’s eyes pleaded with Grace.

“Of course, Sierra.” Grace frowned. She thought she’d been summoned to check up on Sierra’s husband, Dejan Cech, who was recovering from the heart transplant she’d performed a few cycles ago. Dejan was such an important person on the medical space station, not only because he was the Chief of Anesthesia but also because he was Dr. Hiro Al-Fadi’s best friend—the only individual capable of putting the Chief of Staff in his place when such needed doing. Grace would do anything to help Dejan.

“Can you tell me what’s been happening?”

The slender woman wrung her elegant hands. As she open her mouth to speak, a voice barked from further within the living quarters.

“Sierra? Who’s here?”

Grace jerked. She’d never heard Dejan use that tone before.

“Grace is here for a visit, Dejan.” Sierra shot Grace a cautioning look.

“What for? What does she want?”

Sierra seemed to age a decade before Grace’s eyes. Grace turned in the direction of Dejan’s voice. What had come over him?

“Dejan, please come and greet our guest.”

“Did you summon Grace here?” Dejan sounded clearly annoyed. He stalked into the common room, a scowl on his usually smiling face. The tall anesthetist was dressed in a faded red robe, covering orange and green striped pyjamas. He turned unwelcoming eyes upon Grace, hands placed on hips.

“Why have you come, Grace? You haven’t brought any short, ugly, and obnoxious dwarves here, have you?” Dejan peered around Grace with suspicious eyes.

Grace’s mouth gaped. The Chief of Anesthesia had never before addressed her in such a fashion. She shook at the sight of Dejan’s transformation.

“Grace is alone, Dejan. She just wanted to drop by.”

“I don’t need a doctor, Sierra. I’m doing splendidly, considering I was shot dead. You didn’t need to bother Grace." Dejan glared at his wife.

“How are you feeling, Dejan?” Grace asked.

“I’m fine, Grace. I cannot say the same for that miniscule-brained, loud-mouthed, puffed-up, pompous, arrogant turtle turd who was in the bed beside me. May his liver be dug out with a pitchfork and devoured by scorpions. May his testicles be crushed and consumed by fire ants.”

Grace sucked in a breath. Hot blood rushed to her face.

Sierra wagged her finger at her husband. “Now, Dejan.”

“Dr. Al-Fadi isn’t with me, Dejan, nor does he know that I’m here.”

“Do not speak his name to me, Grace. He’s an affliction, an abomination, a pox.”

“I believe that pox saved your life, Dejan,” Sierra said. “When you were shot, Hiro was the one who placed you inside that cryopod.”

“Do you think I’m grateful to that weasel?”

“I am,” Sierra said.

“Have you been sleeping, Dejan?” Grace asked.

“Not well.”

“I can help you with that. It’s important for you to get proper sleep after your operation.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m an anesthetist. My job is putting people to sleep. I’ve tried everything. There is only one thing that helps.” Dejan glared at Sierra pointedly.

“And what is that?” Grace asked.

The anesthetist stared at Grace and she felt icy spider feet creep up the back of her neck. Dejan huffed loudly, spun on his heel, and stalked off.

Sierra gestured for Grace to follow Dejan. Grace nodded and strode down the dark hallway.

Dejan disappeared through a doorway on the left, at the end of the dark corridor. As Grace neared the entrance, she slowed and peeked around the doorframe. Dejan was bending down to pick something up.

Grace stepped back, as Dejan raised a long steel bar in both hands over his head. Was he planning to strike her with it, this man who’d always been an impeccable gentleman to her? She shifted her weight onto her back foot, ready to flee if needed.

Dejan glanced at her, his eyebrows raised and his chin jutting out, as if waiting for her to object. He then turned his back to her, the bar still poised high above his head.

With a deliberation that bordered on ritual, Dejan raised the metal bar further and brought it down with such brutal force that Grace gasped. She watched, mesmerized, as he repeated the action over and over until he was panting.

A savage grin painted Dejan’s face. He brought that metal bar down repeatedly with such vehemence, it left Grace quivering. The cackle escaping Dejan’s throat gave her goosebumps.

Grace turned and marched back to the living area. Sierra sat stiffly in the centre of her couch, her hands clasped between her knees, as if she feared they might escape if she let them loose. Her shoulders were curled forwards and the look on her face was a mixture of shame and desperation.

“How long?” Grace gasped.

“Since he came home. He’s not himself, Grace.”

“No, that is obvious.”

“What should I do?”

“ . . . I think we should wait this out, Sierra. Let Dejan work it out of his system. I believe it’s simply his coping mechanism for having had to share a room during his recuperation from heart surgery. I’ll adjust his medications. Perhaps one of them is affecting his mood,” Grace said. This was not really her area of expertise. It was actually Sierra’s specialty—psychology.

“I agree. Perhaps this is merely a medication side effect and Dejan will be back to his adorable self soon. I wanted to ensure this activity would not hurt his recovery,” Sierra said.

“Well . . . he is supposed to be active,” Grace said. She edged towards the door. She had to escape.

“If he doesn’t get better?”

“We’ll ask someone to see him,” Grace said, wondering who.

“All right. Thank you for coming, Grace. I know everything you say is true. I just wanted your opinion.”

“You were right to contact me, Sierra. I’ll adjust Dejan’s meds. Please let me know if his behaviour does not improve over the next three cycles.”

“Certainly.”

The cackling and whacking had ceased.

“He’ll sleep now.”

“Good.” Grace almost choked.

“Thank you again for coming, Grace. Our little secret, right?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sure Dejan will resolve this all on his own. Time is often the best healer.”