EXODUS

— by Jeff Karamales

Chapter 1
In the Beginning
 

Thomas Ronson kicked the plastic and foam cored door to the prefab building closed before falling against it and pushing as hard as he could with his legs, the lack of strength due to the exhaustion and borderline malnutrition he was suffering causing the muscles to tremble in protestas wind-blown snow tried to rip it back open. The man, despite only being thirty-one years old, found that he simply didn’t have the energy to shut the door and keep the still falling snow at bay. Grunting with the effort and straining with his whole body, tears began to seep from weary, bloodshoteyes as he struggled, sobbing softly in relief when the latch finally clicked into place. He would have used his arms were it not for the burden of ration packets he carried, the silver foil envelopes with freeze-dried foods that were easily reconstituted being far more precious than the minerals the colony had been established to locate for future mining.

Panting heavily and rolling his head to pull the impromptu scarf from his face, the synthetic fabric soggy with the moisture from his breath and ice caked over it, Ronson moved to the next room. He slipped past the Mylar survival blanket curtain into the sparse warmth of the next section while the roof groaned under the weight of the wet, thick snow and the hurricane force winds whistled as it ripped past the corners of the structure. The man deposited the freeze-dried food packets in a small plastic crate before collapsing on the pallet he’d put together of multiple sleeping bags and blankets, muffled crackling coming from more of the heat-reflective Mylar survival sheets.

“Any word from Earth?” Ronson whispered huskily, still panting as he tried to find the strength to edge towards the battery operated heater that filled the dark space with a ruddy orange glow but seemed to do very little to warm the twelve by twelve space. “Is a rescue ship coming?” the man asked before looking at the woman he spoke to. It wasn’t until Ronson really looked at Lori Elliot, the twenty five year old communications tech for the settlement, that he realized why she wasn’t answering. Her brown speckled green eyes stared at the heater without seeing it, the surface of her pupils already hazing with the formation of frost. A glance at the only other occupant of the room showed that Doug Haliburton was also gone, his sunken cheeks beneath the reddish brown beard that seemed to vibrant against the slight blue of his skin indicated the other colonist had also succumbed to the mind numbing cold.

Ronson chuffed out a coughing breath that was all he could muster as a chuckle for the dark irony of everything. Like the other seventy-three individuals of the Pep-Am mining colony, Thomas Ronson had been lured by the thought of easy money. The minerals that the group of men and women had come to investigate and harvest were, quite literally, easy pickings. The rivers and the coastal zone were rich with manganese, tungsten and trace minerals that were sorely needed back on Earth and Pepperidge Amalgamated was offering bounties for two years worth of hardship tour that had appealed to others like Ronson that could use the money to start over, to make their mark and become something. What they hadn’t anticipated was the probes that had surveyed the world not doing a thorough enough sweep, the automated scouts only documenting the summer seasons. No one had known about the devastating winters. Or they hadn’t cared enough to properly outfit the settlers.

Nor did anyone know of the indigenous life forms that plagued the miners during the third month since landing on the northern continent of Khepri. Chitters was what one of the other miners had named the small quadrupeds that looked like a combination of greyhounds that had otter-like tails with tooth filled maws that resembled the jaws of Tasmanian devils. The vile things were the size of small coyotes and hunted in packs that used highly coordinated tactics and cunning, tenacious and had found the humans that had traversed the stars in search of riches easy prey, not to mention extremely palatable. Despite having a dedicated security group led by a former Royal Marine from Wales, Great Britain, the colonists found that nothing they did really stopped the chitters. Their high pitched chirping filled the night, and when the animals grew louder and more animated in their nerve wracking calls the other colonists knew that another one of their number had been claimed by the little carnivores.

Carter, along with the rest of the Pep-Am miners thought that the sudden disappearance of the chitters had been a good sign.

Until the rains came that turned into sudden snow squalls that hammered the settlement with relentless winds and cold that the group had been ill prepared for. The prefabricated materials they used for their shelters and other structures had resisted the onslaught of weather at first, then, much like the miners themselves they had succumbed to the elements. Simple colds became prevalent, then turned into pneumonia. As sickness spread the colony’s supplies of medications was rapidly depleted. Diseases that most had thought had been vanquished on Earth reappeared and rolled through the remaining colonists like fire through a field of dry grass. People began to die off from exposure, dysentery from fouled water, a couple from fights as tempers wore thin. Then the snow and ice began to claim the ones that were left.

Within the third week of winds and ice, the transmitter antenna for the settlement was destroyed when it collapsed due to ice build-up. It wasn’t until a few days prior to this moment that Ronson and Lori had been able to rig an expedient antennae array using steel cooking trays from the mess hall and wiring cobbled together from the personal electronics some of their friends and fellow miners had no need of anymore as the previous owners were all dead. Lori had been sending out transmissions to the satellite overhead at regular intervals throughout the twenty-seven hour Khepri day, not knowing if the signal she’d been able to cobble together was actually strong enough to pierce the thick atmosphere.

Now none of that mattered as Thomas Ronson regarded the lifeless form of Lori Elliot, recalling how just a few days before they’d gazed at each other hotly as the pair thrashed together in desperate ardor in the pile of blankets and sleeping bags he now sat on, their union an act of defiance and testament that they’d make it until help arrived as much as it was a way to generate extra warmth. The memory brought an affectionate smile to Carter’s lips that vanished just as quickly. Then, with a mirthless chuckle that was short lived and all but drained the last of the man’s strength, the sound coarse and raw, Ronson prized the transceiver microphone from Lori’s stiff, frozen fingers and put it up to his mouth before switching the equipment to the setting that would both record his last words while relaying them to the satellite with tachyon signal generators that was supposed to keep the colony in constant contact with Pep-Am and the Terran Colonial Coalition.

“This is Thomas Ronson. I’m the last survivor for the Pep-Am Site Two mining colony and I don’t think I’ll be around much longer. My watch is set for the longer Khepri day cycle and shows…oh three eleven. It’s about four hours until sunrise here, but I won’t see it. Haven’t seen the sky in weeks anyway, just clouds. Round about…I guess two, maybe three months ago, weather turned sour. No sunlight, no stars since then. Just clouds and snow. Most people would go nuts, I s’pose, but a lot of us were miners anyway, used to being underground and in the dark.”

Ronson lowered the microphone and sighed, taking a couple of deep breaths before resuming, the man smart enough not to close his eyes until he was done despite the bone aching exhaustion that gripped him along with the cold.

“Maybe a little more information on this place…what the weather was like woulda been good. Maybe some more guns for all of uscoulda helped keep the chitters away. I guess the foreman sent that info back to Earth. To be honest, I don’t know which of them is worse. Chitters nabbed about a person every other day when they found out we were good to eat. When the cold set in, it was even worse. Ain’t too sure this place is really fit for people. Maybe if we had something like Arctic gear and buildings that were better insulated we’d have lasted longer. Maybe being put down a little further south woulda helped, too.

“Wish I coulda lived longer. Me and Lori both. At least long enough to get paid for the stock of metal that’s awaiting transport we collected. Almost six tons of metals. Stuff is just laying on the ground. Jenkins…I think that was the kid’s name…one of the first to get eaten by the chitters…he said Khepri was…what was the word?...tectonically active? Said that it meant things ain’t settled into the ground yet.

“The probes were right about the metals here. Hell, I’d trade every penny of my bonus right now if I could be back on Earth. Nothing I ever saw in Pennsylvania when I worked those shafts was this bad when it came to weather. Even in the mountains in January was pretty tame compared to this. And I’d trade all that money just to spend a little more time with Lori. She was a good woman, kind I always thought I’d marry. Guess that chance is gone, too, now.Pep-Am ought to be happy about this. We weren’t even an actual mining crew, just the forward survey team. If they can get a colony here permanent like, it’ll net them a ton of cash, that’s for sure. I just wonder if the money they’ll make is worth all of us. Then ‘gain, us miners have always been a disposable asset, right?”

Ronson paused to gulp more air, exhaustion hammering at him relentlessly before lifting the microphone once again.

“Don’t…don’t think I’m long for this. So tired. Just wanna sleep. The long sleep. Ain’t gonna be wakin’ up to the smell of coffee and bacon this time, though…no one…to cook it…’ceptme an’…I’ll be dead…”

Thomas Ronson began to drift off, the gloved and cloth wrapped hand with the microphone slipping down his swathed chest as his eyes fluttered shut while his eyelids fluttered closed. The man’s breathing became shallow and spaced out, each of his exhalations coming out in visible clouds and adding to the layer of frost in the ragged mustache the man sported. With the last breath he let out a sigh, the trembling in his limbs ceasing, his free hand had been placed upon Lori’s next to him.

The small heater began to fade shortly after the man huddled next to it had succumbed to the frigid temperature as the batteries drained of their last charge, plunging the room of the operations building into near complete darkness save the status LEDs on the communication equipment. The light from the unit continued to blink as an indication that the unit was transmitting Thomas Ronson’s words in a continuous loop to the satellite in orbit.

Unfortunately when the beginnings of an incoming transmission came through the console’s speakers just moments later, the sound grainy and distorted but getting stronger by the moment, no one was left to hear it. 

*** 

Andre Bolivar looked at the man on the leather upholstered seat across from him and smiled, though the expression was as plastic as his guest’s own. It was a placating gesture and one that Andre had mastered. He gestured to the sideboard in the limousine’s passenger compartment, indicating the Senator should avail himself to the expensive liqueurs that rested in a variety of bottles before he poured his own drink. “You can see our dilemma, Senator Bingham,” Andre told the other, his accent marking him as European, though without giving away his particular country of birth. “Nearly every single off-world settlement has suffered disastrous attrition rates. It seems that we humans are simply not cut out for the initial colonization and exploration that is required to learn enough for permanent settlements.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me, Mister Bolivar,” the American politician replied as he poured a glass of cognac, his rheumy eyes closing in appreciation of the heady aroma. “According to recent polls, the people of the United States are split almost exactly down the middle in their opinions of extraterrestrial colonization. I, however, am not a member of that subcommittee. I don’t know why you had your office set up an appointment to talk with me.”

“No,” Andre replied with another smile. “You aren’t. You are on the subcommittee for the Justice Department, are you not? Specifically the one that helps monitor prisons?”

“I am. And a thankless task that is, too.” Senator Bingham took a deep swallow of his drink and smacked his lips lightly as the aged liquid burned pleasantly all the way to his stomach. “What with the population increases in urban locations over the past few decades, the prisons are so overcrowded that we can’t build new facilities quick enough! Be easier to shoot all of the ones that we have on death row, not to mention the ones that should be put down.”

Andre nodded, the man’s admission the opening he’d been hoping for. “Exactly! Even the British have had to reexamine their soft views regarding the death penalty. Their crime rates are even worse than yours, and their little island nation has had stricter laws regarding the ownership of firearms and dealing with criminals that America would never tolerate, but it hasn’t helped them one whit. If anything, it has fomented civil unrest and a call for even more restrictive laws, but the problem will persist until population pressures are alleviated.”

The Senator waved his hand to interrupt the other man. “Look, Andre, I know that you are the operations chief for the Terran Colonial Coalition and you believe that sending people to God-knows-where is the answer for all the world’s problems, but what does this have to do with me? I told you I’m not on the space subcommittee. I don’t have any sway with those folk.”

Andre’s smile became a grin. “No, but you have a resource that my people may be able to utilize. Before I get into the true meat of this subject, I’d like to ask if you are familiar with the McEwen Process? The ability to rewrite a subject’s very DNA.”

“Of course I am!” The Senator snapped angrily. “Everyone knows that my wife was one of the first people to undergo the McEwen method for cancer treatment. Worked just like we were told it would. Nearly cost me my political career, though, as it hadn’t been cleared for use in the U.S. yet. I had to go to Edinburgh so Mary could get treated!”

Bolivar nodded in commiseration. “Now, what would you say if I told you that the McEwen Process could do more than just cure cancer? What would you say if I told you it could solve more than one problem? I need advanced scouts that aren’t as susceptible to weather or hostile environments and alien fauna that would otherwise turn people into rather exotic meals? Using the process my people can create precisely the kinds of scouts that I need. I can use this process to create intelligent, hardy individuals capable of living in conditions that would likely kill even the most well trained human.” Andre saw that even though the Senator looked at him dubiously, he could tell the other’s curiosity was piqued. “In fact, if I am any judge of things, and I obtained my position by being a forward thinker, I could see what I have in mind also becoming the next breakthrough in both military and law enforcement technology. Something I think you may appreciate.”

Bingham cocked his head a little and the look he gave the TCC Executive Director was full of skepticism. “I still don’t know what you’re asking me, Andre. I try to avoid the Senate-two-step when I can and like people to talk to me straight.”

“I can do as you ask,” Bolivar replied with a certain air of smugness as he lifted the electronic slate from the seat next to him. “But I think that pictures are certainly worth a thousand words in a situation like this.”

The Senator took the proffered device and began to scroll through the images. His salt-and-pepper eyebrows tried to meet the receding line of his iron grey hair before dropping into a scowl. “What? Movie monster make-up? This is your answer?”

“Far from make-up, Senator, nor is it a computer image. That was once a young woman named Petra Vogl. She was an extremist that had been convicted of several bombings of government offices in Bulgaria. Tried and sentenced to death when her last bombing attempt with the Bulgarian People’s Liberation Union wound up destroying a government daycare facility. She was sentenced to death, but instead of a quiet, and very secret execution, she was handed over to my lead researcher. She eventually died from complications, but my people learned a great deal.

“You see, my head researcher has determined that Professor Oliver McEwen’s technique can be used to combine human and animal DNA to create a sort of hybrid, something truly extraordinary. By doing this, my researchers have solved several problems when it comes to better designed explorers for extraterrestrial colonization while the level of control that they can literally engineer into the final form is astounding. But there is so much more that can be accomplished. And she was not the only one. Petra’s genetic uniqueness was combined with my lead researcher’s favorite cat. As such, Petra became more than just a human, and far more than an average house cat. She had all of the grace, physical traits and capabilities of a feline, but still maintained her human intellect!”

Senator Bingham looked at the images on the slate before his eyes swiveled in their sockets to regard his host. “This…this…thing is…was human? A woman?”

“Was being the operative term.” Andre reached out and refilled the Senator’s glass with a knowing smile. “Don’t pity her. She was a murderer and terrorist, Senator. Then she became something completely new. Something that can be far less reliant on technology and the materials that pure humans would require for extraterrestrial exploration. That, and while you are looking at this marvel, I want you to consider the applications such individuals might have, not just within the scope of planetary exploration, but also what they might be able to do in, oh, say a law enforcement or military capacity. There would be benefits to an individual that could be trained to not only carry out enforcement operations, but also function in a capacity that any trained canine element does. What would you do with a law enforcement officer that could also detect narcotics or other illicit substances by smell? That, and need I point out potential franchise rights and the wealth that would come with such a discovery? That alone may be worth the favor that I am asking for.”

“What are you asking for?” Bingham inquired, unable to take his eyes away from the pictures on the electronic slate, both fascinated and repulsed by what he saw.

“Inmates, Senator. Particularly death row inmates. My people still need research subjects, and at the moment what you see there on the screen is the only test that has gone successfully out of twenty-nine other attempts. We need live test subjects that won’t be missed, and if they do die in the process, well then, justice will still have been served, would it not?”

“If my constituents ever found out, much less the ethics subcommittee…”

Andre shook his head. “They will not, Senator. That, and, if I may point this out, by being on death row, the inmates I am asking for, technically, wouldn’t fall under human rights laws. They’ve surrendered all claims to those rights when they committed their crimes. What we have here is a product. That’s all. A product that we may do with as we see fit and has no rights.” Bolivar leaned forward. “Besides, how often does one get offered the power of God?” Andre saw the man across from him start visibly with that comment and leaned back. “That and I think that by assisting myself and the researchers that I have looking into this that a certain amount of compensation for your part could be arranged.”

Bingham lifted his eyes from the slate that he’d gone back to scrutinizing and regarded the other man shrewdly. “What kind of compensation are you talking about?”

Andre smiled, his fingers lacing together as he draped his hands over one knee. “I believe that certain monetary contributions could be made when you decide to run for office next election. Quiet contributions, I might add. President Bingham has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

The Senator smiled giving the older man a look something more along the lines of a grinning skull. “President has a certain appealing ring to it, Mister Bolivar.” He held his glass out for another top off. “I think we might be able to help each other, after all, Andre.”

— NEXT CHAPTER —

Unless otherwise noted, all material © Ted R. Blasingame. All rights reserved.