The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  For Nikki: who has always believed.

  And you, reader, for making it possible.

  “Intelligence is the ability to adapt to change.”

  Stephen Hawking

  “Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception.”

  Carl Sagan

  “Harmlessly passing your time in the grassland away.

  Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air.”

  Pink Floyd, “Sheep”

  1.

  Ink

  September 27th, 2015

  9:30 AM

  Get Inked Tattoo Parlor

  With a little finger of her left hand, twenty-two year old Maggie Doherty slipped stray hairs behind an ear. Her pony-tailed, black hair accented bright, green eyes. They peered downward, darting in quadrants over needles that stabbed from the machine in her right hand. The oscillations of thousands of RPMs buzzed and thrummed while red ink flowed from a tubular reservoir.

  The machine danced across the client's large forearm. Intermittent, higher frequencies punctured the oscillations from each lift of her hand. She reexamined the stencil of the mighty, red dragon and the machine's buzz momentarily lessened. It increased again over sucked air from Jerry Weathers as she crossed a sore, reddened area.

  She paused to brush away more hair and tongued the silver ring in her lip, “Long sessions getting a bit much nowadays, huh?” Her voice teased with a soft, high lilt of a Bristolian accent buried beneath the “General-American” that alternated syllables.

  “I'm gettin' up there, but I ain't pussin' out on ya' yet. Don' worry 'bout that!” His hearty laughter merged with coughs that jostled his Claus-like beard. He clenched a hand to cough, and struggled to find breath.

  Maggie kept her attention on her work, peppered red across the beast's mighty belly, “I'm glad. Else I'd have to shave that beard off.”

  “Like to see ya' try!” He caught her eye, laughed again, “Aw, ya know I couldn' think'a hurtin' ya.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I'm too pretty and you'd make me your bride.”

  Jerry's laughter jostled his arm. She pulled the skin taught with her left hand. Subtle moves were required near the outlines, and with the quality thus far, she wanted no mistakes. The ornate, red dragon was slated to become her best work. So far it had surpassed all expectation.

  Adorned with menacing teeth, rigid scales, and bright-orange flames, the beast wrapped itself around the length of Jerry's arm as a centerpiece to his final, full sleeve. If Maggie's schedule held up, Jerry and the finished piece would accompany her to an upcoming, national competition. Her placement there might warrant mention in nation-wide magazines.

  Any publicity was sorely needed. Given the shop's financial state, she couldn't shrug small details. Jerry's satisfaction promised a some clientele, but could never be enough to keep the shop afloat. Nothing could compare to the interest a successful competition would garner. Maggie relished the thought of being nationally renowned, but cared most about keeping the lights on.

  That was the cost of any small mistakes now. It drove her forward with a rigid discipline. She had no choice but to take on the role of neurosurgeon, carefully poking and prodding; each small movement the difference between the shop's life and death.

  Several, exhausting hours later, the session ended. With the piece nearly finished, a lone appointment now remained to tweak anything missed or lacking. The intervening three-weeks might give to rise to overlooked, problem areas. By the end of the next session, if all weren't well, the final healing-period and mid-December convention might sink her hopes—and the shop.

  Maggie disinfected her work-space while Jerry's joviality billowed across the shop, rebounding off the back wall and reception counter he sat at. It echoed back toward the open area of salon-like spaces, divided by waist-high partitions, and lining the shop's far-wall.

  Before Jerry stood Mandy Alvarez; a perpetually tanned, primly and proper-looking girl barely out of high-school. The pair worked out the last of Jerry's payments as the door-bell rang.

  Maggie glanced left to see Mandy's elder sister Ashley. She stepped in from the cool air, ever the paradoxical opposite to her sister. The Spanish-blooded girls, at first glance, appeared to share only bronze skin and glistening, blue eyes. Ashley's ear-length brown hair and plethora of piercings foiled Mandy's tail-bone mane and untouched features. Both though, shared a quick, hotheadedness most often directed at one another.

  Even so, the similarities ran deeper. Both sisters had come to Oakton from Chicago. Ashley came to attend art school, Mandy in grief shortly afterward. Their father's death forced Mandy to finish high-school in Oakton with ailing grades. All the same, she enrolled in Oakton's prestigious College of Art.

  Maggie's own history though, cemented the trio's bond: Maggie's father had been a dock-hand in Bristol. She'd been raised there until age five when he died of a pulmonary fungal infection complicated by pneumonia. Distraught and alone, Maggie's mother returned them to her birthplace; Oakton, Ohio. Elle kept watch over Maggie and her own mother until the latter's death a few years later. Unfortunately, just before Maggie's high-school graduation, Elle also died of a heart attack.

  Supplemented by a modest inheritance built on a meager teaching salary, Maggie kept afloat through the start of college, but her grief was undeniable. By her second semester, Maggie's hopes were depleted. With Art school draining her funds, and panic setting in, she sank into depression. Her only outlet became art. Manifested on a whim was an extremely detailed drawing of the Greek warrior-goddess Athena; an image Maggie drew inspiration from.

  The design evolved, became more elaborate as her panic ebbed. With each major attack, she added more characters—warrior-women from different cultures whose stories she found comfort in, be they myth or truth. Countless, obsessed hours filled several, loose notebook pages.

  When the drawings spilled from Maggie's notebook in a campus stairwell, Ashley randomly stopped to help her retrieve them. Repeatedly smitten by their detail and skill, she pressed Maggie to visit her work and see her own art. The serendipitous meeting, even years later, still rang reminiscent of something Serling-esque.

  With her apprenticeship coming to a close at “Ink Incorporated,” Ashley needed to complete a large piece, free-of-charge. Maggie agreed without hesitation. The warrior women were inked on her left arm in a single, twelve-hour session.

  During that time, Maggie's interest of the business piqued. Her training easily transferred to the medium. By the time Ashley graduated college, Maggie's apprenticeship under her was nearly over.

  Maggie's focus shifted and her desire for school waned. She dropped out with enough money and time to plan, finished her apprenticeship, and received her certification. Then, she and Ashley invested the last of their funds into their own business.

  Two and a half years of struggling later, Get Inked's reputation was rising. Though the women's skills afforded them modest clientele, keeping the lights on meant Jerry's tattoo was all the more significant. To the three women, its quality was a blatant sign of whether the shop could sink or swim.

  The known complexities of their situation were poised silently on Ashley's lips as she entered the shop. Maggie's answer was bestowed with a singular nod. A contained sigh replied, and a heavy weight lifted from Ashley's eyes.

  “Hey Mags.”

  “Ash.”

  Maggie's reserved confidence propelled Ashley toward the front counter. A hearty smack on Jerry's back intoned over a greeting before Ashley disappeared into a back room.

  Maggie gave her chair a final, few swipes, and left her work space. Jerry's laughter infected the shop, followed her alo
ng the hallway to the small supply room. A metal counter and sink ran along its room's far-edge, an autoclave and various supply containers scattered over it or hung like cabinets through-out.

  She shuffled around for few minutes, then cast a towel in a basket and shut the door on the autoclave's soft buzz. The muffled sound followed her back to the reception area,voices once more swallowing it.

  At their source, Jerry and Mandy hunched over opposite sides of the counter while Ashley shuffled along the desk behind it. She sidestepped with her back turned, slid a sheet into a photocopier.

  Maggie joked over the scanner's screeches, “What're you bunch of degenerates up to?”

  She slid onto a stool beside Jerry. Mandy scoffed sarcastically, “Speak for yourself, Maggie. Apparently I'm the only non-degenerate here.”

  Jerry leaned at Maggie, pen in his hand pointed at Mandy, “Compared to us, this girl looks like a saint.”

  Ashley's head cocked sideways, “Operative word, Jer.” Mandy's face rumpled. She jabbed an elbow at her sister. The others snickered. Ashley handed a paper to Jerry, “You're all set Jer. The eighteenth. Nine A.M.”

  “That'll be the last one then?”

  “Yep.”

  “Convention's in December, you ready?” Maggie asked.

  “Long as I don' have to where one 'a them lil' man thongs,” he said with a rousing laugh.

  Maggie shuddered comically, “We're not putting ourselves through that, Jerry.”

  “Ya' never know, ya' might like me in a 'lil man thong,” he said as he rose.

  Maggie's smile wavered intentionally, “Let's keep that a mystery.”

  Jerry threw an arm around her, “Take care, darlin'.”

  “You too.”

  He stepped for the door and the bell rang. A moment later a motorcycle's loud pipes growled and spit, then roared off into the distance. Maggie watched steam swirl past the shop's front windows, her mind transfixed in thought.

  Mandy broke her gaze, “Is he nervous about the convention?”

  “I don't think so.”

  Ashley slid onto a stool beside her, “Honestly, I doubt Jerry knows what anxiety is.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Dude's always stoned outta' his mind.”

  Mandy rolled her eyes, “Oh c'mon, just 'cause you are doesn't mean everyone is.”

  “You'd be surprised how many really are,” Ashley quipped back.

  Mandy bit her lip with a huff, obviously irritated. Maggie worked to defuse the sibling rivalry, “I wouldn't put it past him.”

  Ashley added, “Yeah, besides, what's the big deal?”

  “Nothing,” Mandy said matter-of-factly. “I just wish I knew everything like you do.”

  Ashley's temper flared, “Spoiled brat.”

  Mandy stormed off for the break room, frothing. The door slammed. Maggie shook her head, watched Ashley sink back to her stool with a growl. Even with their usually hot tempers, Maggie doubted a lone comment was the cause of things. Given the pair still lived together, it was obvious something had festered.

  “What's this really about?”

  Ashley's nostrils flared. She chewed an inner-corner of her mouth, “She's missing school to observe. I'm not happy about it. She's using Dad's money to go to school, and ditching. She thinks being my apprentice means I suddenly forget she's my sister.”

  “She's doing fine,” Maggie replied dismissively.

  “So?” She stood to straighten her shirt, “It's the principle. She thinks she can do whatever she wants without consequence. So I told her she couldn't observe today. How else is she going to learn?”

  “Ash, she's not a kid. Let her do her own thing. I mean, I left school. I'm not a role model or anything, but if she decides it's what's best, let her do it. Don't let money get between you two—especially if it means she'll end up happier in the long run.”

  Ashley turned away for an appointment-book, glanced over it. “Yeah, I know, but—” She turned back calmer, “She's the last of my family. Who else is going to keep her from screwing up?”

  Maggie tilted her head skeptically, “She won't. Let it go.”

  Ashley returned the book to its place on the back counter, then stepped through the reception area, “I've gotta' set up. Allison should be here in fifteen minutes. Can you put her paper-work together for me?”

  “Sure,” Maggie said, groping her way around the counter.

  Ashley called back, “And make sure Mandy's ready.”

  “Got it.”

  The back room door opened. Mandy inched toward her name, “Someone call me?”

  “No. Ash, just wants you ready to observe,” Maggie said, shuffling between counters.

  “Oh, so she's letting me now?”

  Maggie sighed defeat, “I talked to her, but you two need to chill. We don't have enough disinfectant budgeted if you two decide to brawl.”

  Mandy huffed, turned away, “Thanks Maggie. I'll try to keep that in mind.”

  Maggie gathered the last of Ashley's paper-work into a pile, then sat to lay her head against the counter. Already weary, there were several, long hours still to go. Maybe she'd get a walk-in to bolster their funds, but she wasn't holding her breath. She pushed herself up, headed for the back room to retrieve her sketch-book.

  2.

  308 West St.

  September 27th

  11:35 AM

  Back Alley off of 308 W.

  Detective Russell Williams pulled to the edge of a horseshoe of squad cars surrounding an alley entrance. He placed his silver Impala in park and slid into the brisk morning. The flash of squad cars' lights diverted traffic away at a gawker's pace. Russell sidled between the bumpers of two cars, edged past paramedics along an ambulance's far side, and lifted the yellow tape around the crime scene.

  The alley was the usual side-street scene in Oakton—save the corpse beside the dumpster. Littered with trash and covered with a fine layer of muck, the place smelled of rotten eggs and roadkill. Ahead to the left, three men's blue coats read “OCF” in yellow stencils across their backs. They congregated around the body, apart from others bearing the Oakton Crime Forensics insignia. Markers were laid randomly around the scene, OCFs scouring the place for any minute clues.

  Russell ran his fingers through auburn hair. His brown eyes darted over the scene, his mind ready to piece together the awaiting puzzle. A subtle knot in his gut told him something was off, but he couldn't place what yet.

  A black haired, uniformed officer stepped up with his arms crossed, hiding his name-tag. “Hell of a mess,” he said with a crackling candor.

  His eyes bounced warily over the scene. Thin lips concealed disgust. He rubbed his clean-shaven, angled jaw, then re-crossed his arms. Russell agreed, his hands on his hips. The name Bryce rang the bell he needed; Allan Bryce, a rookie who'd never seen Oakton's darker side.

  By any veteran's assessment this was tame; a single body, left where it fell, and only dead. It could have been a lot worse. In Russell's experience, it usually was.

  Since he was a child, he'd heard Oakton's horror stories. Once an eavesdropper to his father's tales on-beat, he learned early the true purpose for the after-work straight-whiskeys. Unable to speak until after his third or fourth drink, Russell's father would then convey the savagery to Russell's mother—and unbeknownst to them, the young child as well.

  Gentle as she was, the grizzly reality was well-known to her too. As she once put it, “What isn't on your father's desk, ends up in my E-R.” A lifelong nurse in Oakton, she'd seen her fair share of gang violence, soured back-alley deals, attempted murders, and numerous near-hits.

  Emotionally, she became cold, disconnected, allowing her training to take over. Conversely, his father bottled the worst up until it manifested in trembling depression. Russell had learned to control himself for fear of either extreme.

  After a stint in the Mid-East as an EOD tech, Russell returned home to follow in his father's footsteps. In contrast to other legacy cops he knew,
he'd made a conscious decision to join the force. Most others were coerced by familial duty or lack of opportunity. Unlike them, Russell knew there was more to police-work than a badge, a gun, and an ego: for as many times as he'd seen his father drink in depression or grief, he'd also seen him tearfully thanked. Russell sought to impart that same joy however he could.

  But there was no joy in the back alley off 308 West, just a faint smell of death and the vile knot in his gut. He crossed his arms at his chest with authority, “Sit-rep.”

  “Sir?” Bryce asked, confused.

  Russell's instilled military training always took over, either through habit or for easing jumpy colleagues. It seemed to work well enough most times.

  A horn blasted in the distance and crawled through the alley, “Situation report; what do we know?”

  Bryce pulled out a notepad and began reading, “Asian male. Approximately thirty-five years old. No wallet or ID. Three gunshot wounds to the chest. A few scattered shells here and there.” The officer pointed to the ground beside a second group of OCFs. He shifted toward the body, “Large caliber. Likely a rifle. There's also a few stray rounds embedded in the brick above the blood smear. Three near the top.”

  Russell reconstructed the victim's death in his head; a faint imagery played like a video. He saw ammunition divot the bricks, the body fall back with fresh wounds, then slide to the ground beside the dumpster.

  “So the victim slides, dies immediately or is paralyzed and can't move. He bleeds out. Otherwise, we'd have found him elsewhere.”

  The question was meant to test the rookie. Russell knew the assessment was correct, but Bryce's response would show the type of man he was. Too many greenies had only been taught what to think, not how.

  Bryce answered astutely, “I'd say so, but you're the vet on this one, sir. If I had to guess, I'd say a drug-deal gone bad, but we can't know anything 'til the coroner's office runs the B-C tests.”

  Russell nodded. Bryce was respectful, but uncertain, passive. Russell let it lay, too unsatisfied by the knot in his stomach.