The Navigator
Apollo Stone Trilogy
Book 1
by
P.M. Johnson
The Navigator by P.M. Johnson
Copyright © 2016 by P.M. Johnson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except were permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or critical articles.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design © 2016 by Joel Artz.
Edited by Robert Helle.
For more information about this book and the author, please follow me on Twitter at PM Johnson@pmjohnson003 or visit www.apollostonetrilogy.com
This book is for
Gisele, Lukas, and Blake.
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
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 1
Arthur Chambers looked back at the shop just as the lights above the entrance went dark. He heard the deadbolt slide into place as he scanned the dark street as casually as possible, noting the handful of pedestrians hurrying home now that the restaurants and shops were closing down. To his right was the dark blue sedan which had followed him from his apartment. He had driven around town for the better part of an hour in an attempt to throw them off his trail, and at one point he believed he had succeeded, but there it was again, the same blue sedan. He cursed his stupidity for having thought he could elude them.
Chambers walked across the street, still wet from the rain, toward a small gray Victory automobile parked on the opposite side. He opened the door and squeezed his tall lanky frame into the driver’s seat. He inserted the key into the ignition.
“Damn it!” he whispered to himself.
Chambers turned the key, but it refused to start. He frowned and shook his head. We have fighter planes that exploit extra-dimensional gravitational differences but we still can’t build a decent car. Chambers took a deep breath and followed the usual ritual of pumping the gas twice and counting to five. Then he rotated the key once more. The Victory coughed and rattled in protest, but it finally started. He turned on the headlights, looked in his side mirror, and pulled away from the curb.
As he drove away, Chambers looked in his rear view mirror and saw a man exit a coffee shop and step into the passenger side of the dark blue sedan. The headlights turned on and the car quickly pulled into the street behind Chambers. He turned left and then right. The blue sedan did the same. His heart began to pound as his anxiety grew. A thousand questions raced through his mind. Would they retrace his footsteps? Would they question the shop owner who had promised to mail the hastily conceived note? He felt a sudden pang of terror surge through his body. He’d made a terrible mistake. He needed to retrieve it; undo what he had done.
Chambers approached a sharp bend in the road. He looked in his rear view mirror, and when he was out of sight of the blue sedan, he gunned the Victory’s engine and sped down the hill toward the five way intersection at the bottom. At the last moment, he pulled the steering wheel sharply to the right. The tires screamed their warning, but he ignored them. He clenched his teeth and kept his foot on the gas pedal, trying to turn onto the little street that ran along the river.
Then he heard a popping sound and the left front tire suddenly turned perpendicular to the car frame. The little Victory spun out of control and slammed head first into a cement block at the foot of a bridge.
Moments later a man in a dark blue overcoat ran up to the car. He pulled hard on the door, but it refused to open. He pulled again and again until it finally yielded. The man crouched down and looked at Chambers, who was pressed tightly against the steering wheel. Blood flowed freely from a head wound.
Chamber’s eyes were closed, and he breathed in small gasps as his punctured lungs quickly filled with blood. “Don’t touch it,” he rasped. “Don’t use it.” He opened his eyes and looked at the man’s face. He struggled to focus on his features, then with his last breath he whispered, “Fool.”
Chapter 2
The sun was just beginning to rise above the tree tops when Logan returned from his run. He entered the code into the apartment’s keypad and went in. He walked into the small kitchen and poured himself a tall glass of water from the faucet and gulped it down. Then he prepared a pot of coffee. As the pot filled with steaming dark liquid, a door in the small living room next to the kitchen opened.
“Hey, Cap” Logan said to the blond haired young man who entered the kitchen.
“Hey,” replied Cap, squinting at the morning light filtering through the window shades. He sat on a stool at the kitchen bar and leaned forward, resting his torso on the counter and moaning softly. Then he stretched his arms out and said, “Need coffee…brain…hurting.”
“You stayed out past your bedtime, Cap” said Logan.
“I did,” replied Cap. With eyes half open, he lifted his head and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.
“Drink this, you’ll feel bette
r,” said Logan as he handed Cap a cup of black coffee.
Cap tried a sip. “This coffee tastes like a sweaty gym sock.”
“Drink up. It’ll put steam in your stride,” said Logan as he walked toward his bedroom door.
An hour later the two men, now shaved and showered, exited the apartment building. Both wore dark blue pants, black shoes, white dress shirts, and blue waist length jackets. Each had a bag slung over his shoulder. They joined a stream of identically dressed young men and women walking toward a group of buildings two blocks away. As they crossed the street they passed a large boulder with a brass plaque on it. It read, Malcom Weller Military Academy for Science and Engineering.
Walking on bright green grass, Logan breathed in the fresh spring air. Tall trees provided a brilliant display of blossoms in the bright morning light. At the center of the park was a large bronze statue of a man standing on a stone pedestal. The statue’s eyes looked boldly toward the horizon. His overcoat was open, flowing behind him as if he faced a strong wind. His right arm was raised and his large hand pointed forward. His left arm was at his side, the hand clenched into a fist. The name “Malcom Weller” was carved into the pedestal.
They walked past the statue and entered a building on the far side of the park. As they climbed the steps to the second floor, they were joined by an attractive young woman with shoulder length dark hair and dark brown eyes.
“Hey Lena,” said Cap. “I missed you last night at The Cave.”
“You didn’t miss me. I had no intention of being there,” she replied coolly. “I have two finals today. One of which you’re also taking, Caparelli.”
“What? I have a final today?” said Cap in mock surprise.
She ignored Cap’s theatrics and turned her attention to Logan. “You ready for the fluid mechanics final?”
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Logan responded. Logan had received the highest score on the midterm, but Lena’s project had won Professor Bouchet’s greatest praise. The final exam would probably decide who would receive the highest overall grade.
After Lena disappeared in a crowd of cadets, Cap looked at Logan. “By ‘good luck’ I think she means ‘I hope you fail miserably’.”
“Probably,” agreed Logan. Lena Moreau was hyper competitive by any standard, and she excelled at everything from academics to close-quarters combat. Logan clapped Cap on the back. “Good luck with that systems design final.”
“Thanks, but I just need to pass,” said Cap as he started to walk in the same direction Lena had gone in. “Maybe I’ll sit next to Lena. She digs me, I can tell.”
Logan shook his head and smiled. “Yeah, she digs you. Have a groovy day.”
Logan entered a small lecture hall. There were about fifteen students already in the room but the class had not yet started. At the front of the room there was a large view screen behind a wooden lectern. Facing the lectern were four rows of seats, a continuous curving bench running along each row. Logan ascended several steps and walked down the second row, taking the seat next to a man with short black hair.
“Phillip,” said Logan, deepening his voice and nodding his head in feigned formality.
“Logan,” answered Phillip, also slightly nodding his head. Then he smiled and said, “Did you catch any of last night’s Re-ded match-ups?”
“Some,” answered Logan. “Looks like Samarak will win gold for sword and guard. And I don’t think anyone is going to beat Muthu’s time in the triathlon.”
“Yeah,” said Phillip. “That guy’s inhuman. A beast. Who’s your pick for the big one, the banner race?”
“I don’t know,” answered Logan as he watched a few more cadets file into the room. “Vorsek probably. He’s won twice already and looked good in the prelims.” Looking back at Phillip he asked, “More importantly, how many banner thieves will get run down this year?”
Phillip shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to say. How many was it last year? Two? Plus another four injured? There are rumors the SPD will crack down on it this year.”
Logan shook his head and said, “No way. People would take to the streets if they kept the thieves out. Watching them jump out and try to steal banners is more popular than the race itself. And as long as the bookies keep paying anyone who can steal a banner, the thieves will keep trying. I hear they get a fully loaded black buy card if they get one.”
“I doubt that,” scoffed Phillip. “They get cash, but the SPD can trace a card through its bio-encryption. They’d just invalidate it.”
“The SPD already looks the other way by letting the thieves in the race. Why would they care about a couple cards? And you never hear about a crackdown on the bookies.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Phillip. “I’ve got fifty bucks riding on Vorsek to run someone down, and another twenty-five it’ll be fatal. You?”
“Not me,” said Logan, hands raised. “I don’t have cash lying around to give away to bookies.”
“Too bad we can’t use buy cards like cash,” said Phillip with a grin. “I’d put five hundred down on Vorsek.”
Logan laughed. “Yeah, right. People would blow their allowances on booze and bookies.”
“Money well spent,” said Phillip. “Damn, I hope I win. I need the cash. I still have one year until graduation, and I can’t make it on a cadet’s green buy card.”
“Maybe you should jump the fence and grab a banner,” suggested Logan. “With a loaded black card you could get a nice apartment, eat at the best restaurants. You could buy new car. Might even get bumped to the front of the waiting list.”
“Maybe you should do it. You could buy a new PDD,” said Phillip pointing at Logan’s battered personal data device.
“Don’t need a new one,” said Logan. “I’ll be going on full active duty right after graduation. Don’t need a PDD to fire an M-35 or march in a straight line.”
Phillip grinned and shook his head. “You? Fire a weapon? March around? They won’t waste your talent on that.”
Logan smiled and looked toward the front of the room. “Who knows what plans the Guardians have for any of us?” he said in a mock philosophical tone.
Their conversation was interrupted when a tall thin black man wearing khaki pants, a dark green dress shirt, and a brown jacket entered the room. He walked to the lectern and placed a folder filled with paper on the nearby table.
“Good morning everyone,” he said.
“Good morning, Professor Garrison,” murmured a few students.
Pointing at the folder, Professor Garrison said. “As you can see I have printed out and graded your final papers. I will return them to you at the end of the class.”
He looked around the room and smiled at the students. “I am holding your papers hostage because I know some of you will be tempted to leave as soon as you know your grade. Not everyone will be happy with the results, but if you have questions about your grade we can discuss them after today’s class or during my office hours on Wednesday.”
“Okay,” said Garrison as he clapped his hands. “Your grades are determined, but our conversation is not over. For today’s topic, our final topic, I wanted to dig a little deeper into the influences on early colonial society that led to a shift in perspective. I’m not talking about the proximate causes for the revolution, namely the British crown’s oppressive mercantilist policies combined with counter-productive individualism in the colonies. I want to discuss why the people’s collective consciousness had advanced to a point where they identified more with each other than with the interests of the crown. Who has a theory? Who wants to begin?”
A woman with short brown hair sitting behind Logan raised her hand. “Professor Garrison?”
“Yes, Ms. Becker,” said Garrison with a smile. “Please get us started.”
“According to Larrent’s Roots of a Revolution, the colonists’ view of themselves as a distinct people began with the S
even Years War. It was the first time colonists had to fight for their homes in a meaningful way.”
“Great,” said Garrison. “That’s what Larrent thinks. What do the rest of you think?”
The question prompted several cadets to raise their hands and an animated discussion followed. Some cadets argued that the seed of colonial separateness was formed very early, before the Seven Years War. Some believed the feeling of a separate identity formed at least fifty years prior to the war due to the crown’s prohibitions against the colonies developing certain industries or producing manufactured goods. Then there was a heated debate about the deep divide within pre-Revolution society between those who wanted independence and those who supported the crown both during and after the war. Phillip argued the divide was fueled by the wealthy merchants who would benefit from freer trade versus merchants and landowners who benefited from the status quo. Logan argued that whatever the causes of the war the split in society was deepened once it started because most people followed their convictions. It wasn’t just about wealth, manufacturing, and trade; ideas truly mattered.
The debate continued until the bell rang, after which Professor Garrison called out each student’s name and returned their final paper as they walked by. Logan’s name was the last to be called. When he received his paper, he turned to the final page to see the grade. Ninety-seven. Maybe not the highest score, but enough to ensure he’d get an A for the course. He thanked Professor Garrison for teaching the class and walked toward the door.
“Mr. Brandt,” said Garrison.
“Yes?” he said, turning around to face the professor.
“I thought you made some interesting points in your paper. However, I noted a few threads of thought that were, how shall I put it, unsupported by leading scholars of pre-Impact society.”
“I see,” said Logan.
“Look,” continued Garrison after a pause. “I understand that there are some theories out there that can be attractive to young people, but you need to guard against undedicated modes of thinking. It probably doesn’t matter too much for ancient, medieval or even early American history, but as you approach the period immediately preceding Impact, I recommend you stick to the authorized histories.