The Second Sphere (The Three Spheres Trilogy Book 1)

  Copyright © 2016 Peter S Banks

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  For Dad, who might not have read this, but probably would have been proud of me anyway

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Contact the Author

  Chapter 1

  When I was a kid growing up in West Virginia, my father often spoke about how easy my childhood was compared to his. He was a man who liked his drink just as much as he liked to embellish his hardships. School wasn’t served by buses, so he trekked uphill, both ways, in driving snow, even during non-winter months, without shoes. This story supposedly explained his thick calluses and mangled toes. At dinner time, once he’d gone through half a bottle of the Turkey, he’d box my ear, often for no reason, and tell me how, when he was young, all his family had was one meal a day, which usually consisted of a thin broth thickened with the bones of animals found along the side of the road. When his slaps brought tears to my eyes, he’d laugh and tell me how his father beat him regularly during drunken tirades for such small infractions as sniffling too loudly.

  According to him, I had it pretty good.

  We lived in a modest community not too far from where my father was born and raised. He called the place he lived as a child a house, but the structure was really what I would describe as a shack: four wooden walls, one room, and a roof made of metal. By the time I was a boy, his parents were long dead, and the structure was a crumbling mass of splinters and rust.

  I’d never meant to pay homage to my father. Rather, I hoped to leave him decaying in his grave. But 485 years later, sitting in the world I’d created, a replica of the West Virginia countryside, I realized that my father would never penetrate my bliss. What I’d created was a place of tranquility rather than a cauldron of terrible memories.

  High mountaintops populated with tall sugar maples stretched as far as the eye could see. The sky was crisp blue, bright like two suns lit it up. I was in a valley, nestled between two low hills, lying on a red and white-checkered blanket with my daughter, Lila, and grandson, Sam. We sat under a tree, about twenty yards from the image of my father’s house. The air was warm and a bit moist. The smell of dirt and decay filled my nose.

  “He’s really not that bad,” Lila said between nibbles of a deviled egg.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. Lila always held an optimistic view of the world.

  “Dad, he’s just a guy with an opinion. Just because you don’t agree with him doesn’t mean that he’s not a decent person,” she said.

  “Victor Newberry isn’t a good person.” If they gave me a minute or two to rant, I could spit a few pretty choice words about that low-life. But I wasn’t going to launch into a discussion of politics. Not unless they really wanted me to.

  I reached into the brown wicker basket in front of me and pulled out a bright red apple. I looked at it for a moment before I sank my teeth into the crisp round body. Juice dribbled down my chin.

  “He was even nice after I told him that you worked intelligence for the Laslow Corporation,” she said. My daughter was tall and tan with wavy auburn hair down to her shoulders. She wore a white dress printed with small red flowers, a dress that her mother bought for her. This image came from a family trip to the Outer Banks after she graduated from high school.

  “Why would you tell Victor Newberry that I work for Laslow?” I asked.

  “You’re mad?” She looked at me with those big, brown eyes and little pieces of what was left of my heart softened.

  “I’m not mad,” I said. Was I irritated that my daughter worked for a left wing rag like The Worlds? Definitely. Victor Newberry and his liberal editor-cronies spent their days uplifting the death and destruction wrought by the Green Revolution. And now my daughter worked with them, talked to them about me, told them where I worked. So sure, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t like her life choices. Then again, she didn’t like mine.

  But I didn’t want to spend more time at the Source fighting about my daughter’s career mistakes. Because of their schedules, I had eight hours with them every two weeks. Spending that time arguing was a waste.

  “Maybe when you get home, we can get a transport to the mountains,” Sam said, ever sensitive to my moods, “get a cabin for a couple of days. Then you can feel what actual mountains are like again.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. I didn’t want to think about what I would have to do to get a couple months off of work in order to go home.

  A soft wind blew through the trees and tousled Lila’s hair. I looked to my right, past where the cabin stood, into the dense forest. Bird songs played underneath the rush of the wind. I took a deep breath and let memories fill me.

  I swung my head back to Lila and saw a smudge of black and blue over her shoulder. The smudge began to grow, and the yellow sun bled; the bright blue sky turned the color of a painful bruise. It was as though an unseen force pulled Lila and Sam away from me, down a long corridor. They talked as though nothing were different, as though they had no idea what was happening to them. I watched them go, aware of what was likely to come.

  Underneath my beautiful world at the Source was the darkness of another place. It was a place that I didn’t recognize. The blackness of night covered the sky. Pale yellow lights reflected off a clear surface separating me from the heavens. I was under a dome.

  Around me, I felt the movement of bodies. They shuffled along, the noise of their feet and conversation swam through me. Though I couldn’t understand their words, I gathered that they were excited. The inflection in their tones conveyed happiness and anticipation.

  I smelled hot dogs.

  Then I looked up. Ahead stood a tremendous structure; rounded glass and steel; a stadium. I realized where I was: New Mumbai, Three Spheres Basketball Association, Game 7 of the Finals.

  And then came the explosion.

  The air pulled away from me. Goose bumps flashed across my skin. Then, everything reversed. Air sped toward me, pushing me back. I toppled over. The light came next, a blue flash. The smell of burning flesh slashed the air. The cries of people echoed. Then there was still blackness and the powdery remnants of bodie
s.

  I felt myself drawn home, my spirit going back to the body that it regularly inhabited. I’d have plenty more time to inspect the scene, relive the moments of horror before the explosion. Lights flashed in front of my eyes as I was drawn back to my authentic life.

  I had to get to work.

  Chapter 2

  My eyes fluttered open. Above me, a night sky stretched, black and speckled with white pinpricks—the infinite universe. The room smelled musty. I pulled my hand from the Source node and scratched my face. I shivered as the bed hardened and began to tilt upright. I thought about the Green Revolution and the day ahead.

  "Good morning, Orion," a sweet voice said. "I hope you have a wonderful day." My servicer, Betty, the link-up program that kept my household in order, sounded chipper. But still, I wished I were back at the Source. Lila and Sam were 238,857 miles away. And the distance was more than just physical. My desire to visit them, although sincere, was cloaked in an overwhelming selfishness that just wouldn’t go away.

  The lights came up slowly, feigning the coming of the sun on the horizon. The black night peeled away and, along with it, the white glow of the stars. I looked at the clock next to my bed. It was 5:20 am. I’d gotten a solid four hours of rejuvenation. Next to the clock was a small black and green fluorescent drive. Before I stood, I grabbed the drive, put it next to the chip in my neck and passed one unit of Love into me. Immediately, the world began to pulse with a bright yellow sheen.

  I got out of bed. My gray sheets slid away, and I popped my feet into the worn slippers on the floor. I stood naked and shivering, remembering the pleasant evening before my time at the Source. I raised my head. Across the room, a woman sat in the chair in front of my link-up. She was still like lake water.

  Then my head began to buzz. I felt the waves of information coming. I put my hand up to my neck as the cacophony rose. A shiver jumped through me and I closed my eyes.

  A respectable looking man was hunched in a dreary office, drinking a cup of coffee enhancement with a content look on his face, engaged in whatever mundane mind-work he was paid to do. Suddenly, the cup didn’t quite make it to his mouth. The coffee spilled. His face filled with anger. His nice white shirt was stained. “Don’t worry, Control Sponsored Cleaning is near.” The image shifted. A bot steamed the stain out of this nice man’s shirt and the contented look was back on his face. Then, a bit of muzak. “Control Sponsored Cleaning, conveniently located near your home in Sector 35, Area 12, and also near your work in Sector 13, Area 9.”

  It was too early for advertisements. But hell, that was what I’d signed on for: eternal life for perpetual bombardment from retailers.

  I went to the bathroom to shit, shower, and shave. The ads didn’t stop, though.

  A man in the shower. A smile crossed his lips. ‘When the day begins, it’s as though the world starts anew. It’s another chance to make an impression. Make sure you make the right one. Delta Clean, the soap that makes the right impression.’

  I’d have to tell Betty to add it to my delivery.

  When I was done with the shower, I dried myself, put my slippers back on, and went back into the bedroom. The woman sat in the chair, in precisely the same position she was previously. She was quite beautiful, I realized as I approached her. Her face was dark, her nose just slightly sloped, and those almond-eyes; well, those brought back the memory of being at Cody’s apartment.

  A black dress lay crumpled in a pile on the floor next to the chair.

  "Get up," I said to her. She didn’t move. I tapped her shoulder and her eyes flew open. I didn’t have time to waste. I knew the bombing would be on every major network. My boss would want answers and I would need to find them. Somewhere.

  She raised her head and gazed at me calmly, but didn’t make any other movement. "Get up," I said again. I didn’t remember whether she could speak. Without saying a word, she got up, picked up the dress next to the chair, and went into the living room.

  My bedroom was a mess, swarmed with clothes that needed laundering spread across the floor and the desk with my link-up. It wasn’t that I had to do my own laundry. No, Betty got my clothes cleaned. I only had to ask her to have the laundry service come. That I hadn’t asked her was probably related to all of the Love credits on my drive.

  I thumbed through the few clean clothes in my closet and dressed quickly, slipping on a pair of grey trousers, a white shirt, and a pair of black loafers.

  In the living room, a granular film covered nearly every surface. The withered brown couch sagged in the middle. Organo-glue kept my gray coffee table together, though the crack down the center was still very much visible. Red nano-paint covered the walls, probably a couple hundred years old.

  The woman now wore the dress and sat in my favorite, comfortable chair in front of the image window, which showed the United States Capitol on a gloriously sunny day, just the way I remembered it when I lived near DC. That chair was the place I liked to sit and remember the past, what life had once been.

  I pushed that lust for the old days aside as I went to the kitchen.

  "You want anything to eat?" I was pretty sure that throwaways didn’t eat, but I thought I’d be polite.

  "No thank you," she said as she tilted her head toward me. When I was done filling myself with nutrients, I put the dishes into the dishwasher-unit and gave Betty the orders I needed filled. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 5:40. If we left now, I could get her back to Cody and get to work before 6:30. Brian would be mad, but I didn’t have a choice. Late fees on throwaways drained my paycheck.

  There was a bit of pressing business, though. The drive on the bedside table called my name. I put it to my neck, drew a credit, and the pulse of the world began to beat more quickly. I slipped it into my pocket just in case I needed a dose or two later.

  "You ready?" I asked the woman. She stood, her eyes totally devoid of will. Seeing her in that tight black dress, the delicate curves of her body tempting me, I remembered why I had picked her out in the first place.

  My front door opened and I walked out into the hallway, the throwaway following closely. The building was quiet. Her high heels clicked as she sauntered down the narrow hallway behind me. The green faux-plaster walls glowed with a certain marvelous insanity. The Love made me feel as though I was in a beautiful sea. I hoped I could make it through a whole day wrapped in that serendipitous cloak.

  When the elevator doors opened, the throwaway moved stiffly to the back, facing the wall. Some programmer had done a shit job with the social skills.

  "You can turn around," I said. I thought ‘down’ for the lobby and, when the doors closed, we dropped. When they opened again, we stepped out into the sparsely furnished white space that was the lobby of my building. The building struggled to be respectable amidst the number of people who now weren’t paying their fees. Deadbeat bastards counted on the fact that rarely did a bot collector come knocking at their door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cox,” the concierge bot said as we headed toward the door, a trace of jolly old England in his voice. He was a squat, silver model with thin tubing for arms and a small rotating head. The damned bot was irritating as an itch, but I knew that he only did the friendly shucking and jiving because he was programmed to do so.

  “Morning, Oswald,” I mumbled.

  "A good morning to you, Miss," he said to the throwaway.

  Without another word, I led her out the front door into the cool sector hallway. The durable clear plastic and silver metal curved around us in a maze. Through the windows, across from my building, behind the TSG Lunar Capitol Building and the Lunar Bank building, I could see ships dock at Central Station. They were probably cargo transports, maybe a few people on business. No one came to the moon on vacation anymore. The place had lost its cachet a few hundred years ago.

  Behind Central Station, I caught a tiny sliver of the earth, sparkling blue and green and looking like home. "I can't wait to get back there," I said under my breath.


  "I know what you’re talking about," she said. I eyed her briefly and realized that she had no idea what I was talking about, that despite being programmed to sympathize with me completely, there was just no way that she could.

  Chapter 3

  I missed Lila and Sam.

  There were many reasons for the separation from them. But, the first step occurred in 2042, when the Laslow Corporation unleashed information that they had found, isolated, and were able to capture that part of the human being that was The Being. What for so many centuries humans called a soul, something intangible and ethereal, had a biological basis that could be controlled and stored.

  The discovery of the biological basis for the human soul had little impact on anything practical until two years later when Laslow announced the development of a biological chip on which to store this “being.” What philosophers quickly realized, and the media soon caught on to, was that Laslow had discovered the key to ever-lasting life.

  The cloning ban, which was lifted some years before, brought the development of the transfer, a fully contained, marketable product that provided the opportunity to obtain what, until that time, was only a fantasy.

  Eternal life presented opportunities, our leaders said. They billed the tapping of infinity as the key to ending all wars, bringing a level of unity to humanity that, until that point, was considered an unobtainable utopia. The governments of the world would help create a place where all beings would go to tap their full potential, to discover the bliss that religious books intimated, but which few ever found. When a person can create his or her own paradise and tap into the energy of all of humanity, amazing things can happen, they said.

  The Source, as it was called, became the center of life, the place to get energized, to reach back to that intricate web of human connection, which linked every one of us. And the connection to this Source wasn’t open for debate. If one chose the path to infinite life, one needed to be connected.

  There were those who thought this effort was the work of the devil, something so evil that humanity must turn its back on it. This Source wasn’t just about providing bliss. Some said, this Source knew all--every memory, every action, and every thought.