The Second Wave

  The Second Wave

  By Leska Beikircher

  Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2013 Leska Beikircher

  ISBN 9781935753865

  For more titles by Leska Beikircher at Smashwords visit https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/leskabeikircher

  * * * *

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  The Second Wave

  By Leska Beikircher

  Prologue

  Five years ago, a team of brilliant scientists created an artificial wormhole to another reality.

  Seven months later, another even more brilliant team of scientists created a way to travel through said wormhole without dying painfully in the process.

  It needed a lot of energy, and it was considered to be a big risk, but the wormhole was used to find other realities to colonize.

  They found one. Another planet Earth, uninhabited by humans. It was decided to use it as Alpha Site for a new colony.

  The colonization began with a first wave of settlers. Two hundred sixty-four people including children. Forty head of cattle, twenty horses, six cats, and three dogs. Their mission was to build a second colony for the next wave of settlers, and to start preparing the planet for a full colonization.

  On day 183 all contact with the settlement was lost.

  * * * *

  Chapter 1: 183

  The structure of government buildings, known among the staff as Wormhole HQ, was just outside of Rome, under its own atmospheric shield. Since the general public wasn’t specifically aware of the project, few people knew that the largest of the three buildings on the immaculately trimmed lawn housed an artificially created wormhole. An artificially created wormhole and Phil and Tom deLuca, seventeen year old twins, brilliant enough to be the engineering heads of the Alpha Site Operation for, as they dubbed it, Alternearth.

  Their lab was a tiny room directly above the wormhole chamber. It was cluttered to equal parts with monitors, computers, technical junk, spare parts, cables and personal belongings. Strewn about here and there to complete the picture were pizza cartons, juice boxes and the occasional sock. In one corner stood a bunk bed, which was used both as sleeping place and storage shelf.

  Tom, taller by point two inches and older by point two minutes, was under an array of outlets, plugging and de-plugging cables to find out if there wasn’t a more efficient way to connect their game console. His ebony hair stuck out in all directions—he hadn’t had time to comb it after lunch at the cafeteria two days ago. His brother’s surprised yell made him jump.

  “What? What?” he screamed over the eternal buzzing of the computer he still sat crouched under. Turning around, a bundle of cables in hand like a flower bouquet, he peeked up. Phil stood at their largest monitor, a petrified look on his face.

  “It’s gone!” was all Phil seemed capable of uttering.

  Tom’s eyes widened in horror. “The whole score? No way, man! I knew I shouldn’t have plucked the green cable! Darn!”

  “No, not the score," Phil replied, "I saved our game on Phyllis.” Phyllis was a portable computer unit the twins had requested for important, work related, external backup copies. Little did their employer know those ‘important, work related, external backup copies’ were their game scores. Phil shook his head. “I mean Tony. Tony is gone!”

  “Phil,” sighed Tom. He got up and joined his brother, to look at the monitor. “First of all, we agreed on Jack. And second: wormholes don’t just go away, they — holy pissed off Zeus! What did you do? What did I do? What did we do?”

  The accumulated stream of data, which gave them constant updates of the wormhole’s status, had been interrupted. Instead of endless rows of binary code flicking over the screen, the monitor merely showed one horrible sentence: “Wormhole Status: Offline”.

  Tom’s hectic pressing of keys dissolved Phil’s catatonic composure. Together they used four of the other computers to find out what was happening. Tom even rushed downstairs into the wormhole chamber to check on the machine they used to create Jack, but it didn’t make any difference. The wormhole could not be opened again.

  “General Fatique is so going to fry us for this,” Phil remarked when they had established that Jack or Tony was not coming back online, no matter how hard they hit the ‘reset’ button.

  “Do you think Burke’ll tag along when Fatique comes to bust our butts?” Despite the already horrendous scenario, Tom’s voice managed to sound even gloomier. Phil groaned. Fatique’s personal assistant was not their favorite person, mostly because Elizabeth Burke kept trying to cut down the engineers’ daily chocolate and caffeine input. She gave lectures on healthy eating on a regular basis, mandatory lectures.

  “She’s evil, man!” Tom whispered as they both recalled Burke’s latest attempt to remove all cereal bars from the cafeteria; it had resulted in an underground smuggling movement—the prices were through the roof these days!

  Phil gave a sigh. “She is. But hot, though.”

  To that Tom could only nod.

  * * * *

  Chapter 2: In the Shadow of the Lighthouse

  There was not much going for the ancient city of Alexandria. It was almost deserted, and unprotected from sand or magnetic storms by any sort of energy field. On top of that, Alexandria was unbearably hot in the summer, but haunted by blizzards in the winter. Those who did live here did so out of necessity rather than personal desire: criminals, outlaws, fugitives, and those who were too poor to go anywhere else.

  The man who was called Yuhanan Ibn Sahra belonged in the first category, and probably the second and third, too. He lived wherever he chose to, but his business office was in a crypt underneath the great library, as those who were in need of things knew. Those who were in need of things were allowed into the cool, candle lit chamber to leave a note in a hole in the wall, describing the nature of their need, the offer of a payment, and the equivalent of an address. If they were lucky, their offer was accepted, and the man they knew as Yuhanan would contact them. But mostly he was away on business, equipping slave markets with wares and smuggling people out of or into Egypt.

  Like tonight.

  His name was John, but he had been Yuhanan for a long time now. Standing beneath the old lighthouse in Alexandria’s harbor, he held up a small lantern to show the boat of fugitives the way. Mostly Turks, some Greeks, and he knew there were two Britons among them. All of them trying to make a new life, hoping the authorities wouldn’t find them. John assumed that at least five of the twelve fugitives were escaped convicts, probably murderer
s. He didn’t care. He didn’t ask whom he gave a second chance, as long as they paid him enough.

  When the boat came into view, illuminated by the water that reflected the stars and a waning moon, John pulled a hood over his turban to conceal his face. Then he stepped down to the small moorage to give the boatswain a hand. He let the fugitives climb out, collected his payment, then led them across a narrow rope bridge onto the mainland via two more islands. He did all that without speaking to anyone, and the fugitives, tired from their long individual journeys, and probably hungry and cold, kept silent as well.

  John was tall, and that was about all these people would ever recall about him. Not his deep voice, roughened by the air that was perpetually pregnant with sand; not his dark circled eyes, not the long sandy mess that was his hair, nor the dark tan of his sunburnt skin. When these people fell back into the hands of the police, and a lucrative deal John had with the Chief of Police in Kafr el Dauwar made sure of that, all they’d remember was a man with a beard; a description that, in Africa, was about as remarkable as a fish with gills. They didn’t even know who he really was—for all they knew, the silent man who led them into the relative safety of an outlawed zone was but a dogsbody to someone called Yuhanan, who may or may not even exist.

  He knew it was only a matter of time until his playing both sides would backfire and he’d have to travel; but John was no stranger to this game. He had perfected this to the last lie, and his belongings, the few he really possessed, were in a safe location, waiting for the day he once again needed to leave.

  The sun began its ascent when John made it back to the library again to count his payments. In one of the unknown rooms of the now deserted and mostly ruined building he had built a hide-out for himself and his horse. He sat down on a straw mattress and sifted through the items he got last night. As usual he arranged them in two piles—things to keep and things to trade. It wasn’t much this time. The least valuable item seemed to be a fake pearl bracelet, the most valuable a bag with apples. Most valuable perhaps, John decided as he bit into one, but too good to trade.

  * * * *

  The morning after the news of the wormhole's closing, the chief staff of the First Wave Program met in a conference room in the smallest of the HQ buildings. Led and assembled by General Safiy Fatique, who was in charge of the entire Alpha Site Operation on Earth. A man well into his sixties, who looked younger and made a point of dealing with most matters personally. He knew all of the staff by name, rank, and biography, and although he often came across as a hardened professional, he was in fact emphatic and always willing to do what was best for everyone involved, even if it meant walking the middle ground more often than he liked to.

  Fatique sat next to Dr Summer Paige and his personal assistant Elizabeth Burke, a position he rather enjoyed.

  “Doctors deLuca can’t figure out what has happened,” Fatique concluded his assessment, “and it may well be that it is only a temporary bird in the system—”

  “Bug,” Burke corrected him, an objection he ignored.

  “Nevertheless, we have to take this seriously. Not only is the colony now left to its own devices, but it also means that, at least for now, we can’t deliver building material to complete the second colony,” Fatique said.

  Gordon Smith, a twitchy young man who was mainly overseeing the budget, immediately raised his arm. A rather pointless endeavour, since he began talking the second his hand shot into the air. “So the second colony won’t be ready in time? What does that mean? For us? For the project?”

  “Should we stop preparing the second wave?” asked Dr. Annabella Guarini, senior psychologist and mentor of morale, a cool, intellectual woman of forty. She was interrupted by Smith, who shook his head.

  “Too cost-intensive,” he said. “Stopping now would mean losing a lot of resources, and by a lot I mean…” He frantically began typing into his personal computer.

  Before he could get in any sort of figure, though, Fatique explained, “I don’t think stopping the second wave now is a good option. After all, the wormhoop could reopen at any moment.”

  “Wormhole.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth. Wormhole.”

  “So for now we, what?, we just wait?” Simon Jones, architect of the colonies, looked angry. “We have a building filled with geniuses who should be able to deal with this! They should work on this around the clock!”

  “They are working around the clock, Simon,” Doctor Guarini chided him softly. “But they’re not ubermenschen. They’re at their wit’s end.”

  Topher Pascale, the constantly pessimistic head of the Energy Crisis Circle, tousled his hair. “This could turn into a catastrophe. I knew it was too early to start with the colonization. We know next to nothing of this world!”

  “We know it’s uninhabited,” Burke butted in, her voice sharp but low. “And we know we need an alternative energy source, if we want the human race to keep on existing.”

  She was right, as was mostly the case, even if her demeanour often lacked empathy. The shields, which protected important cities from the frequent atmospheric storms, drained the already weak available power sources. It was only a matter of time until it was necessary to shut them off, thus leaving the crowded urban areas unprotected and vulnerable.

  Alternearth was worth its risks, and everybody at the oval table hoped it was still going to be an option. Everybody hoped that all they had to do was wait.

  * * * *

  Chapter 3: That Other Place

  The horrible thing about darkness is it’s dark. Not black. Or dim. Or even not light. It is pitch dark, because as someone once rightfully explained: this way one can imagine one’s fears with less distraction.

  There are, of course, different kinds of darkness. The cosy kind that comes right before dawn and tells you it’s too early to have to get out of bed yet. The cold kind that creeps up on you on your way home and that has eyes in it. The comforting kind that mercifully hides your shadow to protect you from enemies.

  In this darkness lurked sounds. Some of them strange. Some ever changing. Some of them old, like good friends. Noises mostly and words. And whereas the noises were often discomforting, it was the words that were scary. The words came quick, always changing, thick with unspoken things, swollen with connotations, hovering in the blackness. They were loud at times. They were nothing more than breaths at others. They spoke of danger, and home, and fear, and tears, and love, and so much more. There was no escape. There was nowhere to go. Only sounds and darkness all around.

  And so the first Goddess lay down on the ground of her temple, and listened forever.

  * * * *

  Chapter 4: The Changing of the Seasons

  When the Alexandrian days became less hot, when the first icy winds blew the smell of the sea through the streets, John knew it was about time to leave. One more winter, he assumed, but he had to be gone by spring. So he made preparations, only took on quick and easy jobs, and only accepted payment he knew would also be of value outside of Egypt.

  He was on his way to meet a new client that morning. The streets were mostly deserted, the first cold day made the inhabitants stay indoors and prepare their homes for the winter. The horse’s hoofbeats were quiet on the not yet frozen dirt road.

  Many decades ago, Alexandria had been a proud city. Noble houses, beautiful temples, clean streets, and honorable people. But things had happened, too hazy now in the collective memory, something to do with an insurrection, perhaps even a war. The honorable people fled, the beautiful temples were destroyed, the noble houses were occupied by vagabonds. It was a sad shadow of a once proud place that John rode through today.

  He just turned a corner when he was approached by a man who seemed determined to make him stop and listen by stepping in front of John’s horse, forcing him to a halt.

  “As-salamu aleikum, Sharif.”

  “Wa-aleikum es-salamu, old man. Kindly let me through.”

  The man was wrapped tightly into a thick tun
ic to protect him from the wind and the cold. “Please. You are Yuhanan, yes?”

  When John looked closer, he noticed the man wasn’t old, merely hunched and possibly arthritic. One of the peasants who lived in the eastern part of town. “I might be. Why do you ask?”

  “I have written to you many times in the last month. But you never came to visit me, Sharif.”

  There had been a lot of letters in the pigeon hole of the crypt during the last weeks. Mostly, people asking him to smuggle firewood and cattle into town, so they could prepare for the winter. When they paid well, John happily complied.

  “What was your suggested payment?” he asked. He rarely remembered their names, but he never forgot an offer.

  The man looked ashamed. “I’m afraid we have nothing to give you. We are poor, very poor. But my wife is with child—she will not make it through the winter without proper food.”

  “I don’t work for free, neither does Tauret. If you want something, you’ll have to pay for it.”

  “We don’t so much want food as need it! Please, Sharif, I am desperate. What is there that I can do for you to make you get food for my wife? Anything you ask, Sharif. Anything!”

  John looked down at the small man who was so desperate to get his pregnant wife through the winter. It was a tempting offer, but only if the man could deliver. John decided to give it a try. “What is your profession, old man?”

  “I am a cobbler. Alas, I haven’t had work in many months.”

  This could be useful indeed. John nodded once. “Make me the best pair of boots you can. Sturdy. Warm in winter, cool in summer. Dry when it rains, breezy when the sun burns hot. If you can do that, I will see what kinds of food I can find for your wife.”

  It was a lot to ask of a destitute bootmaker; even the best and richest would have trouble making boots with those qualities. But the man’s face split into an almost toothless grin of relief. “Certainly, Sharif. You will not be disappointed. Blessed be the road you will travel with those boots, and may Ra always smile on Yuhanan Ibn Sahra.”