Quantum Storms - Aaron Seven Read online

  Quantum

  Storms

  Aaron Seven® Adventures by Dennis Chamberland

  Quantum Storms

  Abyss of Space

  Fiction by Dennis Chamberland

  Abyss of Elysium – Mars Wars

  Alyete – Dogs of Eros Damned

  Science Fact with Claudia Chamberland

  The Proxima Manual of Space Exploration

  Children of God Series

  Consuming Fire

  Proverbs for My Children

  The Way Back Home

  Aaron Seven

  QUANTUM

  STORMS

  Dennis

  Chamberland

  Quantum Editions

  Chattanooga - Orlando

  Quantum Editions

  Copyright © 2005 by Dennis Chamberland

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may

  not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Chamberland, Dennis, 1951-

  Quantum storms / by Dennis Chamberland.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-889422-08-4 (alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 1-889422-08-8 (alk. paper)

  I. Title.

  PS3603.H337Q36 2005

  813'.54--dc22

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover art by Christopher Chamberland

  Interior art and machine design by Brett English and Peter Chamberland

  Cave Rocket design by Dave Deitrich

  Pacifica Interior - Juhani Pallasmaa – Space in Architecture and Cinema

  The Jiang Zemin – Chinese Military Aviation – Stormpages.com

  Oklahoma map – © MapMart.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  places, and incidents are either a product of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and

  any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events, or locales is

  entirely coincidental.

  To Dale Wattenbarger

  I know you better

  Than you knew yourself.

  1

  Aaron Seven had no clue where he was. He drove along the back road of a back road in southeastern Tennessee in the darkest night of his memory. His rusty Suzuki slammed in and out of innumerable potholes on the twisting, muddy, mountain pathway through the driving rain of a violent thunderstorm. Seven sighed deeply, his curses muted through clenched teeth and tight lips as his aged car lurched and scraped down the muddy half-river-half-road bounded on either side by a wall of trees bending and folding in the wind. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the way ahead of him for milliseconds before it faded to black again as his headlights barely cut a path through the darkness. His hands ached, as did his neck and shoulders, from the death grip he had held on the wheel for hours.

  Then, without warning, the road suddenly disappeared into the darkness. Slamming on his brakes, the Suzuki skidded and slid to what appeared to be the edge of night - and the world. Seven squinted through the silver wall of rain just as a lightning bolt cut through the black sky.

  Not believing the trail had just disappeared, Seven opened his door and stepped into the deluge, walking to the front of his car. From where he was standing he could not immediately tell whether the road ended on the side of the cliff, or worse. Two flashes of lightning later, he could see that it was still intact, but dropped off sharply before him, then disappeared around a blind curve a considerable distance below. He could also clearly see two gushing run-off streams racing down both sides of the street and around the curve at the bottom.

  It was clear to Seven that a decision loomed before him. He could go ahead and give in to the screaming caution and warning alarms going off in the rational side of his brain and turn around and head back to Chattanooga , nearly two hours behind him, or he could take a chance and go on. By his map, he had less than a mile ahead of him before he reached his destination, somewhere just beyond the curve at the bottom of the hill. He looked at his watch – it was just before 11:00 PM and he was already three hours late.

  Aaron Seven hated to be late as much as anything he could imagine in his life, and thus, there was no decision to be made. More than he despised tardiness, he loathed timidity. As far as he was concerned, risk was a requirement of a fulfilled and productive life. Going back now was simply not an option.

  And so, as Seven climbed back into his aged, gray and rusty Suzuki, he wiped the rain off his face and considered the next minute and a half that lay ahead and out of sight around the curve in the road. If the route ran out into a mountain stream crossing it at the bottom of the hill, he wanted to either be able to stop in time or at least get out of the car before it was washed away. If, on the other hand, the drive were not awash, his Suzuki would require enough inertia to make it up the next hill. If it was anything like the downhill slope just before him, the car was going to need all the energy it could get at the bottom. He sighed deeply as he gunned the old and mostly impotent engine realizing that it would barely make it back up this hill on the return trip under the best of conditions on a great day with its three good cylinders and a hole in the fourth.

  “Oh well,” he mused to himself, “at least if I have enough speed when I make it to the bottom, I can hydroplane across whatever may be down there.”

  With that, he jammed the gas pedal down. The Suzuki coughed just once, then lurched over the top of the hill and into the rain, its headlights flashing up, then down toward whatever it was that lay just ahead in the darkness of the night’s torrent.

  Seven gripped the wheel as the Suzuki began to round the corner. His foot was off the accelerator now, it already had too much speed for his comfort. The worst case he could imagine was that the pathway continued to round until it reached the bottom and he could not discern what was there until he was on top if it, giving him no time to react. And it was indeed exactly that worst case that happened.

  The road bottomed out just as Seven rounded the corner, much too late for him to stop from plunging into a wide, gushing stream that was overflowing across the dirt pathway and plunging off into the night over a black precipice and down the side of the mountain. His body could feel the momentum of the old car as it hydroplaned halfway across the stream. His brain urged the ancient beast to go on, but it stalled at the far edge of the frothing cascade, its front wheels stuck on the other bank, but its back wheels floating away and caught in the rushing waterfall. His right foot jammed on the accelerator, but the car had already stalled and died. He could feel the old Suzuki make a distinct turn, backing away from the bank, and now carried firmly in the stream and inching toward the edge of the precipice.

  Seven frantically attempted to open the door into the onrushing current, each motion carried out with what seemed an agonizing slowness. Realizing it was not going to open enough to let him out, he quickly rolled the window down. With a single thrust he popped his seatbelt latch, pulled himself out and dropped into the rushing water beside the car. Too late he realized that he had exited into the torrential flow downstream of the car and it began to push him toward the edge along with it. It was then Seven calculated he had but a second and a half to live. Whatever he did, it would have to be correct this time.

  With his right hand, Seven grabbed the Suzuki’s antenna and pulled himself up onto its hood. Just as his body slid on top, the antenna snapped off in his hand and the Suzuki spun around and began its plunge off the black edge of the world, rear first. The motion of the car slipping over the side fortuitously bucked him into the water upstream. As the lightning flashed,
Seven saw his old friend disappear into the darkness as he grabbed the limb of a tree just as he, too, was being washed over the edge. Amazingly, he was able to hold on against the force of the stream. For a moment he rested, then saw he could pull himself slowly along the brush line of the road’s edge to the other side. It was then that he realized that, just possibly, he would actually live to see the next hour.

  In a few minutes, Seven reached safety, covered in mud and leaves, still clutching the broken antenna. He sat down on a large rock by the side of the road, slowly slapping the antenna in the palm of his hand, considering the events that had just passed in the Tennessee night.

  “I just hate being late,” Seven said to himself, “and I really hate losing my favorite Denver Mile CD!” He glanced one last time in the direction he last saw his vehicle full of his possessions, then stood to his feet and began walking up the hill on the other side, trying to remember the details of the map that had just washed over the cliff, along with everything else, to God-only-knows-where.

  A quarter hour later, Seven had walked up the crest of two lesser hills on the muddy road in the driving rain and arrived at a lone mailbox set in an elaborate stone monument, topped with a dimly glowing light. Behind the mailbox was a huge metal gate lodged between two enormous stone pillars. Over the top of the pillars hung an imposing sign which read: STONEBROOKE. Below the mailbox was a recessed intercom. Seven pressed the button once and waited.

  “May I help you?” a metallic, deep voice asked.

  “Now,” he thought, “this is just getting weirder by the minute! Here I am talking into a fast foods squawk box in the dead of night standing in a torrential thunderstorm after having nearly died in a catastrophic disaster."

  “Ah, yes, I’m Aaron Seven,” he said into the box, trying his best to sound truly professional, edging his mouth closer to the speaker beneath the mailbox and feeling completely ludicrous. “I had an appointment with Dr. Desmond this evening. Sorry I’m late, but, I … ah, had some car problems.”

  “Dr. Desmond is unavailable until tomorrow,” responded the metallic voice with unexpected bluntness.

  Pause.

  “Please come back tomorrow morning at nine,” the disembodied persona commanded.

  Seven thought for a moment just as a white-hot bolt of lightning crashed somewhere nearby, then he burst into spontaneous laughter. This strange night was just getting weirder. He pressed the button again, trying to sound as rational as he could.

  “No, no, I really can’t do that. Would I be able to call someone from your residence to give me a ride back to Chattanooga ? I mean, ah, my car… it’s not working now… thank-you… thank-you very much…”

  Another pause.

  This time the voice of a woman responded, “Mr. Seven. I’ll open the gate and you can drive through to the garage. Just follow the road lights….”

  “Excuse me. Excuse me,” Seven interrupted with frustration and satirical annoyance. “When I said I had car problems, I’m talking about, like, REAL car problems.”

  Long pause.

  “I’m on my way. Wait there,” the deep, male voice once again sounded.

  Seven laughed again and lifted his face up against the pouring rain. “Wait? It’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” he mused to himself.

  A few minutes later, a high-wheeled SUV drove up to the massive gate which swung slowly open. Seven walked through as the passenger side door of the vehicle opened. He looked inside to see a well-built, giant of a man who looked for all the world like a professional body builder with a black, full-faced, close cut beard, wearing a Grecian Sailor’s hat and sunglasses in the dead of night. The man said nothing and just pointed at the seat.

  Seven looked at the pristine vehicle then at himself covered with mud and soaked with rain. He paused and raised his palms.

  “Get in. Don’t worry about it,” the man said, still pointing at the seat.

  Seven jumped into the seat and closed the door against the rain. The man just sat there staring at him. Seven let an uncomfortable moment pass then extended his right hand toward him. He saw it was covered with leaf fragments and mud, so he wiped it on his soaked, filthy sweater and held it out again. This time, his extended hand was even grimier than before.

  The man gripped his hand firmly.

  “I’m Joseph Charles Blake. Most call me Commander,” he said without even a trace of a smile.

  Seven smiled and nodded. Just when he thought the night could not possibly get any weirder…

  The SUV turned around in the driveway and made its way down a long, steep and winding road over the next hill to a large, open garage door. The huge structure was big enough to hold at least six large vehicles, although there were no others around. As Blake drove inside, the door closed behind them. Standing beside the SUV as it pulled into its place was a woman holding a towel.

  Seven opened his door without an invitation and stepped out of the SUV. It was so good to be back into a dry space with bright lights. He was late, but at least he was alive. He turned to face the woman holding the towel out to him.

  “Hi,” she said with a polite smile. “I’m Serea Desant. I’m Dr. Desmond’s personal assistant. You must be Aaron Seven.”

  Seven just stared at her. She was absolutely the most stunningly beautiful woman he had ever seen. Twenty-something, her dark hair swept down across her shoulders, outlining a face for which the gods themselves would un-hesitantly go to cosmic war. Her smile was perfect, beautiful and inviting. Her lips were full enough to be ideal, her cheekbones lifted just enough to be passionate, and framed by a pair of striking and alluring green-gray eyes. The way she spoke was consummately professional – in a deep, lilting voice – perfectly balanced between friendship, practiced energy and pure desire. Her body was faultless, petite, tight and shapely. Her breasts, her waist, her shoulders just hung there in space and time - a symphony of absolute, flawless beauty. He felt like every gland in his body had just dumped enough hormones to render him a catatonic mute, or worse, he now feared he might actually try to speak.

  Yet there she was: perfect, beautiful, as though she were waiting for his voice to say anything to grace her ears while he just stood there dumbfounded, dripping and staring.

  Serea looked at him as though she knew well the struggle he endured. Compassionately, she broke through the moment with an imperceptibly slight turn of her beautiful head, a devastating, light laugh and a brilliant, flashing smile that only made things much worse.

  “Mr. Seven, perhaps you need to freshen up?” she asked in her perfect, pure voice.

  It was then that Seven realized what a sight he must have been. He was standing before the most consummately beautiful creature in the history of humanity as human wreckage, clutching his broken antenna with both hands, covered in mud and soaked to the skin. He looked at his clothing in the light and at the ridiculous antenna he held in his hands and felt more like a vagrant thrown out of some international derelicts convention. He glanced past Serea to Blake standing behind her, a full six and a half feet tall, arms folded, just staring at him through his dark glasses, completely un-amused.

  Then Seven laughed with embarrassment. “I guess I’m not exactly ready to meet new friends and forge life-long relationships, huh?” he quipped with cheeky self-amusement.

  Serea stared at him with a mysterious smile, watching him absently clutching his antenna. “Your car…. what happened?”

  “Well… actually, my car washed over the side of your mountain,” Seven responded, pointing to nowhere in particular. “And I barely escaped to tell the tale,” he added with total impotence.

  “Oh no! Are you joking?” Serea quizzed bemusedly.

  He stood staring back at her, shaking his head slowly. “No,” he finally stated. “It’s actually, really… gone.” He finally took his eyes off of Serea long enough to focus on the antenna in his hand. “This is all I have to show for my fine, former, only mode of transport.” He looked back at her again with some
angst and added, “And, I AM sorry I’m late, by the way. When I started, I had a clean, dry set of clothes on and was ready to meet with Dr. Desmond – on time! I’m actually famous for being early everywhere I go.”

  Serea’s eyes wrinkled with concern as she stepped over to where Seven stood. Her hand reached out and her fingers softly touched his chin, lifting his face gently, which kicked his pulse into high gear.

  “You’ve got quite a nasty cut here,” she said, carefully touching his left eyebrow with her finger. “When you shower, clean it up as best as you can and I’ll see to it when you’re dressed.”

  Her face hovered just inches from his. Her scent, like the rest of her, was perfectly poised at some level of impossible perfection, totally unattainable on this side of eternity. Seven imagined he could actually feel his incredible, rushing, surging testosterone levels start to melt away his cerebral cortex like so much cotton candy. It was then that he realized why it was so absolutely essential to have the Commander standing at the ready all the time. He glanced over to the imposing figure and Blake just stared back – arms still folded.

  “Ah, yeah, I mean, ok. I’ll take care of it,” Seven replied.

  “Commander,” Serea asked, “will you show Mr. Seven the way to his quarters?”

  Blake just nodded, never taking his eyes off of Seven who stood before them, still dripping with water and covered with mud.

  “Oh, and Mr. Seven,” Serea added, tossing her voice to him lightly, in a nearly humiliating tone as she flashed him a positively depraved smile. “Dr. Desmond will see you tomorrow morning at 5:00 AM. You up to it?” she asked, almost imperceptibly hinting at some level of cruel sarcasm.