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  ALIEN SAFARI: APEX

  By Robert Appleton

  Copyright @ Robert Appleton 2021

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * * *

  New species. Old wounds. A fight for supremacy on the galaxy’s wildest planet.

  When Hesperidia’s satellite defense system suffers a catastrophic failure, the meteor shower it was supposed to repel rains down over the terrified tourists on safari. Three large surface impacts trigger a crisis intervention from the colonial authorities. It results in the removal of the current governor, and auditions for a successor are soon underway. Jan, Alien Safari’s pre-eminent ranger-scientist, finds herself in competition with a formidable new male colleague, who’ll stop at nothing to win the top job.

  Their assignment leads them to the frozen north, where the discovery of a deadly new species near one of the impact craters imperils not just the safari tours, but potentially all life on the continent as well. An expedition to capture the creature tests Jan’s survival resources to their limits, and provides a shocking reminder that mankind, for all its technological prowess, can’t hold a candle to the savage ingenuity of alien nature.

  Meanwhile, Detective Vaughn, struggling to reintegrate after his absence, must face his tragic past head on when he learns that his niece has been targeted for assassination. To keep her safe, he brings her to an island haven on Hesperidia. But the timing of his return couldn’t be worse. A perfect storm of incident, treachery and planet-shaking events endangers the very future of human existence on this miraculous alien world.

  ALIEN SAFARI: APEX

  Robert Appleton

  BOOK 3

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Borderline

  Chapter One

  A lawman who’d graduated the same year as Vaughn, at the exact same salutation ceremony, was now up for retirement. And nobody else thought that was strange. Evgeny Varykino had been one of the more dapper, virile, and yes, cocky-as-all-hell cadets in a training program that had bristled with macho swagger. But whereas Vaughn was still in his mid-thirties, showing only the rough edges of his mileage, Varykino’s was a shocking transformation. Craggy, crusty, nearly bald, and hauling a gorilla-like gut before him up the steps to the podium, the Omicron detective from the Urals in Russia was now an old man.

  And nobody else thought that was strange?

  Vaughn clapped along with the hundreds of other honorees and guests, but the surrealness of it all, the mental continental drift revealing ever-widening gulfs between his own perception and that of the world around him, made him feel like an intruder. An interloper. Professor Threlfall had had a name for the psychological effect of long-term time distortion. He’d called it “skipper’s due”, or “the skew” for short. A kind of time-lag, it was the disconnect a person felt on returning to civilization after a journey of relatively short duration for the traveler, in which a vastly longer length of time had passed for everyone else. It had dazed him at first – the skew of just under nineteen years – but at least Jan and Stopper and the endless distractions on Hesperidia had been there to greet him, to keep him occupied. But now, a few months on from his ordeal, away from her wild marvel of a planet and back among preternaturally aged colleagues and even stranger strangers, Vaughn was starting to reel from the side effects.

  The Pasqualigo Banquet Hall was as large, opulent and polished as ever. For the big colonial events, like state dinners and political inauguration receptions, the stewards tended to tech it up with liquigraph murals and holographic displays. But the Omicron Bureau had always gone in the opposite direction for its annual Salutation Dinner. It dressed down the draperies and de-decorated the dais, so that nothing was ostentatious and the only glitz was seen around the necks, wrists and fingers of the women in attendance. Vaughn had always liked that. Tasteful, respectful, a focus on the men and women who performed this difficult, dangerous, mostly thankless job across the backwaters of occupied space.

  But it was the little details that picked away at his sense of the familiar. The new fashion of sparkling glyph ink in unusual places on the skin: under the ears, around the elbow joints, even on contact lenses. Apparel fashions that had died away when he was young, or even before that and had become a what-was-that-generation-thinking joke, were now in full bloom again, the wearers displaying not even a twinkle of irony. New slang phrases he didn’t understand, like “steal a gavel” or “chasing the gator”. Transparent shoes. Gadgets that read the pheromones from those nearby. Oddly named cocktails and liqueurs on the beverage menu that might have been local curios in his time but now stood on practically every table in the joint, universally popular, the way Minty Arinto used to be. He tried a Tangy Tangerine and nearly vomited it back up. The plump young woman seated next to him shook her head at Vaughn as though he really ought to know one didn’t jump straight into such an expensive drink without having acquired a taste for its less potent cousins first, then demonstrated by downing her Tangy T in one go and flicking him a superior wink.

  He tried to settle in, to ignore the myriad incongruities, but he couldn’t shake the feeling – no, the plain fact – that he was the anachronism here. The young cadets dashing up to collect their badges and digicoil diplomas were of a generation he’d skipped entirely. Some of their youngest partners and spouses hadn’t been alive the last time he’d been here – a year ago to him, almost two decades for them. The cadets of his day were now middle-aged, retiring, or dead, like his good friend Pavel “Crash” Kraczinski. The seasoned detectives he’d learned from in the field had all taken their pensions or bought farms in the sky. Those in attendance boasted liver spots and cyber joints and generous young escorts. The old veterans of his day were now only remembered as plaques on the wall in the Bureau Hub Main Building foyer on Ophir-2.

  Whichever way he sliced it, Vaughn was chasing the gator. Or someone had stolen his gavel. Or whatever the hell the new lingo was that meant: What the fuck am I doing here?

  Jan had persuaded him to come and accept his Nisus Award for Conspicuous Bravery in person. A chance for him to reintegrate into the Omicron fraternity. A chance for him to feel valued again as a lawman. A chance for him to watch Sondergaard’s family accept that brave rookie’s posthumous Nisus medal, an honor based solely on Vaughn’s recommendation. The young Dane had done the Bureau proud out there, on the far side of Threlfall’s Star Binder. But rather than provide some sort of catharsis, seeing the Sondergaards in person only compounded his alienation. The rookie’s wife had long since remarried and had a bunch of kids (none of them his). His parents, polite, gentle folk, claimed this ceremony was finally giving them closure, but they’d already held their boy’s fune
ral two decades earlier. And if Vaughn had made it back, the unspoken question quivering the lips of all those relatives he’d met repeatedly tagged him with a guilt he hadn’t quite been able to shake: Why hadn’t anyone else made it back?

  During a brief intermission between presentations, a gaunt, greying man he half-recognized limped over to Vaughn’s table and announced, “Gilpraxia! I’ve been trying to remember the last time I saw you. It was on the Moon Bridge. You got called away after that bomber upped and vanished, and Sondergaard took over the case.”

  “Melekhin?” Vaughn hesitated before he got up and offered his hand.

  “The same. Or rather you are, and I’m halfway through my famous disappearing act.” He leaned in close to whisper, “Cancer, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, brother. I’ve had a good run. Gave my life to the Bureau and they haven’t let me down. My own boy’s in the service now; he’s had his badge for, oh, going on eight months.”

  “Who? Richard?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Little Ricky. I was going to say well-remembered, Vaughn, but then it’s only been months since you saw him at yay height,” demonstrating with his pale, wrinkly hand. “If you saw him now, you’d be astonished.”

  “I bet.” Vaughn didn’t know what else to say.

  Melekhin seemed to know how awkward this was for his old-young colleague. After a quick sidewise glance across the hall he said, “Ah, my wife’s getting impatient. Listen, we’ll catch up later, okay, Vaughn? It’s good to see you, brother. Now that I’ve seen you in the flesh, I’ll be honest, I’m the one who’s astonished. Nineteen years, and you haven’t aged a day since the Moon Bridge. That’s…chasing the gator, man. I’d never have believed it.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Melekhin. Take care.”

  Vaughn endured another half hour of disorientation before he decided enough was enough. He needed to get away, either back to Jan on Hesperidia or just…nose-deep in a case somewhere, preferably somewhere remote, far away from gavels and gators and Tangy T’s. Somewhere he could reintegrate at his own pace, in his own time, and still feel present, not intrusive.

  But damn it, he’d come all this way for his bloody accolade, a rare, prized accolade that would officially reinstate him in the public’s eye. His was to be the final award of the evening, his and Sondergaard’s. It would not be looked favorably upon if he upped and scarpered now without a damn good reason.

  So he sat and suffered in silence, clapping on cue, supping at his trusty old Arinto to try to neutralize the tang of that fruity abomination.

  A personal message flashed onto his omnipod. From a Sondra Stone. He couldn’t place the surname, but – no, it couldn’t be that Sondra. Not after all this time. Could it? He slid the visor on and nervously read the hurried text:

  Ferrix,

  You know I’d never ask you for anything but I have no choice. Lawmen have tried to help, but my Kyra is too stubborn. She blames you for everything bad that’s happened to our family, and all lawmen by association. Forget all that! Forget everything that’s come between us. She’s my baby and she’s fleeing for her life. No way would she ever testify against those cartel bastards, but people like that don’t trust loyalty. They get rid of anyone who could compromise them. And she’s next. Fourteen in her operation knew what she knows and nine are already dead!

  So I’m begging you, do this for me. Do it for the sake of our childhood, before everything went to hell. Do it for your niece, even though you’ve never met her (and probably didn’t even know she existed). I’m asking you to do whatever you can as a lawman and an older brother because I know that, deep down, you’ve never really forgiven yourself for what you did to me.

  You’re the only incorruptible lawman left. That makes you her only hope. My daughter, Kyra Stone, is a mid-level lieutenant in some sort of smuggling outfit run out of Vypeen. Apparently, a mole from a rival cartel infiltrated her outfit and exposed its practices to the authorities. Both sides are now getting rid of everyone they aren’t a hundred percent sure they can trust. Kyra’s on her way to Mars with her boss, Melchior Hemp. They’re seeking protection from another syndicate, but I don’t know which one. The man killing witnesses, who’s no doubt tracking her right now, goes by the name Sixsmith. A mercenary-for-hire, a butcher who plied his trade in the border colonies during the Purge. Five of the witnesses were killed in Omicron custody, so he’s not going to stop until he’s got to them all or somebody gets to him first. That’s everything my PI was able to find out before he called it quits. The rest is up to you, Ferrix.

  If I ever meant anything to you, do this for me. Find her before Sixsmith does, and do whatever you can to keep her safe. Mom and Dad and the others might have deserved what they got – we’ll not get into that now – but my Kyra still has a chance. She has a life of choices ahead of her. Please, please get to her first. She’s all that matters to me.

  Your sister,

  Sondra

  His inner spring was coiled and he was on his feet before he’d finished reading. Inquiring gazes tracked him all the way to the emcee’s table at the foot of the dais. He absorbed them as a shadow passing over moonbeams. Vaughn politely made his apologies and took his leave – something urgent had come up, and he wouldn’t be back to accept his award.

  No, there were more important things.

  Like making amends.

  * * *

  14:07 Core. Peak hour at the ‘Big Red’, the famous Martian Theme Park in Vastitas Borealis. Vaughn glanced up at the faded maroon ribs of the giant dome and let the awe take his breath away for a moment. That’s what this place had been designed to do when it had been built over a century ago – awe and impress – and despite the ageing rides and dilapidated behind-the-scenes regress of the park, it still did. An incredible feat of engineering and imagination. Timeless really. Vaughn remembered being brought here for the first time as a boy, giddy and entranced and completely overwhelmed. A real family vacation. His memories of it remained untarnished, pure. The smell of candy floss swept him back to that naïve reality in which every place ever created and everything inside it had been for him to discover and explore.

  He’d felt so safe. So protected.

  A scream from behind whipped him around, palm on holster. It was a girl enjoying the thrill of the Hell Dice, one of the more extreme new rides; it simulated the bounce and spin of giant twin dice rolling over uneven Martian terrain. The queues to it were enormous. The skivvy bots cleaning up the puke from the exit ramp were in constant rotation. Bragging rights were earned by those who didn’t throw up, just like the other ‘Red Pass’ attractions such as G-Force Infinity (GFI) and The Teleporter.

  14:09. The security vidfeed uplink should not have been taking this long. Kyra and her boss, Hemp, had taken a shuttle here from the posh resort of Fanta Uno over 45 minutes ago. They had to be inside the park by now. But where? Park security had wanted too many details: IDs, official ink, threat level assessment. No, the situation was too fluid for that. The last thing Kyra needed was for some over-caffeinated chucker-in-charge to stick his amateur oar in and sound the alarm, leading all the other chuckers right to her. Sixsmith would be watching for that, for anything out of the ordinary. Vaughn had left behind one of his germs instead, to jack into the system and let him bootleg any footage he wanted remotely.

  But Vaughn didn’t know exactly what the assassin looked like, or even if he was working alone. “Sixsmith” was in the Omicron ‘Most Wanted’ database as a suspect in dozens of high-profile killings and forced suicides, but there was only one confirmed photo – poor resolution, bad angle, taken during heavy rain. Just about the only distinguishable thing about him was his broad shoulders, abnormally broad, like a cage fighter’s. And he wore grey sneakers. But that might have just been the once. His only known alias, “Ruud Klijsters”, had led agents on a wild goose chase for years. The guy was a breeze-through-the-curtains phantom. One Vaughn had to unmask here, today, or else his niece might not live to see Eclipticus, the fabl
ed closing-hour holographic lightshow that sent all punters away feeling closer to the majesty of the heavens than at any other time in their waking lives. That was how the brochure phrased it, anyway.

  His omnipod inbox burred to life. About fricking time. Vaughn worked his eye-craft to sift through the camera feeds until he’d double-blinked on eleven he wanted to keep. All the entrance angles plus three in Central Crater, the shops and arcades hub everyone passed through on their way to and from the main attractions at the north, east and west of the park. Then he fed the passport images he had of Kyra and Hemp into the facial recognition software. It worked much quicker than the system he was used to – seconds, in fact, to cross-reference hours of footage.

  Not good enough, sweetheart. At 13:38 she’d paid for a Premier Red Pass and entered the park wearing sunglasses, a headscarf and what looked like a battered sand-biker jacket. Clearly going for the rebellious oasis drifter look. Facial prosthetics would have been smarter. If he could ping her in seconds, so could Sixsmith. Hell, maybe he already had.

  13:54 showed the two of them meeting with an unknown male, tall, dusky, near the Ice Canyon Café. And the last Central Crater image, at 13:59, revealed the three of them heading northeast toward Phobos, the largest of the twin hotels. But they weren’t exactly…strolling. Oh, Jesus. They were rushing. Not running, but definitely moving at a more eager clip. First Hemp, then Kyra glanced over their shoulders as they made their exit. Vaughn continued to watch the vidfeed after they’d vanished, enlarged it on a lone man perusing a map of the park while he walked, unhurriedly but steadily, in the same direction. An unusually broad frame stretched the shiny leather pads on the shoulders of his dark blue jumper. Tan cargo pants. Grey sneakers. And he was carrying a small canopy bag slung over his shoulder.