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Dominion
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ISBN-10: 1-77115-339-3
ISBN-13: 
Genre: Science Fiction/Fiction/Adventure
eBook Length: 359 Pages
Published: October 2016

From inside the flap

It’s the year 2075. Lunar mining and processing facilities have prospered near the lunar south pole, where the Moon’s largest city, Valhalla, rests on the rim of the Shackleton Crater.

Dominion Off-Earth Resources has beaten the competition into space and is ready to establish its monopoly with the opening of the orbiting space resort Dominion. But Pettit Space Industries has a secret plan to emerge as a major contender in the commercialization of space. The upstart company is training the first space rescue squad at a secluded off-grid site in Barrow, Alaska.

The rescue squad gets nearly more than it can handle when its first mission involves the Pope, who’s traveling to the Moon to establish the Lunar See. During the rescue attempt, they discover Earth is imperiled by an asteroid large enough to cause mass extinction. Using the unique skills taught during their training, skills emphasized by the great psychoanalyst Carl Jung, these Jungi Knights must elevate their game if they are to save both the Earth and the Pope—while not getting killed in the process.

Dominion (Excerpt)


Chapter 1

"Opportunities to find deeper powers within ourselves come when life seems most challenging."

~ Joseph Conrad

The bus chortled as it slowed, the magnetic-drive treads slowing their frenzied snow-gyrating pace. "Barrow, Alaska," the driver said cheerily enough. "Only five percent of the world's land mass is as far from the equator. Average temperature in January, minus twenty-five Celsius." White billowing clouds churned briefly from the exhaust. The engine cut off. The driver stood, facing his six passengers, and said, "We're here."

I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and headed for the front, shivering reflexively.

"Last chance to back out," the driver added as the last of us stepped onto the frozen snow. His breath lingered as white mist. He looked questioningly at us and played with the door control, flapping it at us, taunting us.

We were standing in front of a Quonset hut, bundled in parkas and survival clothing, enough to keep us warm for days in the most extreme climates. And I counted Barlow, Alaska, as one of those.

"Go on-get out of here!" the tallest of us barked at the driver. I didn't know any of their names, but from what I'd gathered from the sparse chit-chat on the drive from Prudhoe Bay (no reason was given for why we hadn't continued the flight from Juneau to Barrow instead of the drop-off and subsequent bus ride in), this guy was the most gung-ho among us.

The driver smiled. "I'll be back to pick up any dropouts." He closed the door, picked up his comm device, and spoke briefly into it.

One moment, we were staring at the bus-I can do this, I will do this-and the next we were all spinning in response to a deep voice projecting out from where the Quonset hut door had slammed open.

"The sheep have arrived!" the voice boomed.

He stood in the doorframe as the door banged against him in the stiffening arctic wind. For a moment, he seemed stuck there, his massive shoulders too wide, his girth too large to fit through. Then he took a step back, spun, and said, "Follow me!"

I'd been thinking my life was getting stranger and stranger as of late, and the next thing that happened cemented that thought-trend in my mind, because we stepped into a room heated to tropical temperatures, the ground covered in sand. The room took the entire width of the Quonset hut. One other door on the opposite wall from the door we'd just entered was the room's only other exit.

"Throw down your stuff anywhere," the bulky man said, dropping his parka, revealing himself to be wearing only green shorts and a white muscle shirt. His chest was enormous (ah, the booming voice), and he thumped it when he caught me looking at him. He appeared Polynesian. His skin was dark and his black hair was tied back in a ponytail, thick and scruffy.

"My name today is Mister Chenga," the Polynesian announced. Whenever he spoke, everyone's head turned to him as though his voice subconsciously demanded our attention. "Take off your clothes to your underwear and then take a seat."

"Where do we sit?" one of the girls-the short blonde-asked with what sounded like a Russian accent. "There are no chairs."

The Polynesian's face scrunched up as though he had just tasted something awful. He began jumping up and down, repeating the question to himself with his attempt at a high-pitch voice, "Where do we sit? Where do we sit? Where do we sit?"

The girl back-stepped cautiously.

The Polynesian stopped jumping and stared at her. In an oddly calm voice, he said, "On the sand."

"Da. I did not want to get you excited," the girl said evenly.

Mister Chenga nodded slowly, squinting at her. I'm sure she felt she was being marked as a potential troublemaker. As we began undressing, he walked a few meters away from the group and faced us. "Listen up. I'm sure you don't want to make me mad, so the first thing you need to understand is that there is such a thing as a stupid question." He paused and stared at the girl.

The girl visibly gulped. She was attractive, now that I was getting to see more of her. Blonde hair, angular face, stunningly beautiful, petite body. I doubted she cleared much over a meter and a half. She looked to have a wiry strength, a tight, taut body like a gymnast's. Her underwear was black.

How in the hell did she come to volunteer for this?

"I'll get back to stupid questions later," Mister Chenga said. "In the meantime, listen closely. For today, call me Mister Chenga. If today goes well, tomorrow you may call me Cheng." He grinned and spread his arms wide.

For a moment, he looked friendly with a pleasant demeanor.

"It's more efficient," he explained. "In a rescue situation, shorter names save time." He looked at the northern wall. Along the ceiling, a number of slogans were displayed.

Mister Chenga's gaze lingered on the phrase Timing is everything before continuing. "If today doesn't go well, tomorrow you'll again call me Mister Chenga. Is that clear?"

Several of us responded.

"Yeah."

"Sure."

"Okay."

Mister Chenga's forehead knotted up, as though concern rippled his skin directly via energy seeping out from the front of his brain. "It would be quicker, more efficient, if the group answers as one. I suggest a unified response such as 'Yes, Mister Chenga,' would serve you well."

Everyone was as naked as we were going to get-in our underwear-and we were sitting in a semi-circle around the Polynesian. "Yes, Mister Chenga," we mumbled.

"Good enough for now," Mister Chenga said. He dropped to a knee, then somewhat laboriously rocked his weight back and settled into a sitting position. He shifted his butt from side to side, sweeping sand away, furrowing himself in. "It's time we introduce ourselves. I'll be checking for signs of grid‑loss syndrome."

Most people never left the grid. With medical alert and GPS implants, medical response times had been cut to under thirty seconds on average for grid dwellers. The risk of death from an accident while off-grid was too great for most. Extended stays at sea? Caribbean cruises? No problem, the grid went with you, ready to stabilize any wound, any condition, until you could be ferried to the nearest medical facility capable of restoring your health.

Some people did leave the grid, though. There were two main groups of them-adventurers who traveled to extreme Earth climates such as Barrow, Alaska, and off-earthers.

The off-earthers worked in space and on the Moon, which in recent years had a rapidly growing population due to expanding lunar excavation and processing sites. The population was growing so fast that the first lunar bank had opened last year, which prompted financial institutions into a chaotic flurry of mergers and acquisitions. (The winners were the early investors in asteroid mining, especially palladium and other precious metals and rare earths. There were two of them-Pettit Space Industries (PSI) and Dominion Off-Earth Resources (DOER). The Vatican, because of its investments in DOER was also reaping rewards.)

I'd been off-planet enough to know being off-grid wouldn't be a problem for me. The symptoms were jitters followed by profuse sweating and episodes of hysteria. Fairly easy to spot, especially now since we were all half naked.

Mister Chenga cleared his throat. "I don't care if you introduced yourselves on the bus. We'll do it again. Who wants to start?"

Nobody answered. I took the opportunity to examine the other recruits. Six of us in all. Two girls. The blonde gymnast I had already admired and another girl who was taller with black hair and a muscular body; in fact, it was so well muscled, I couldn't help but think she was a wrestler.

Actually, there's a wrestling hold I've been meaning to try ...

Shut up and pay attention, I told myself.

The tall guy looked strong and quick, like he could handle himself in a fight. His eyes seemed to perpetually gleam like he was calculating odds of schemes that were constantly percolating in his mind.

The other two guys didn't appear to be as strong as the tall, cocky guy. I figured them to be forest ranger types, people who fare well outdoors and who like to hike and climb and do all the nature crap. One of them wore glasses, wire rims no less. It was hard to imagine why anyone opted for spectacles in this age of correctable vision.

"You," Mister Chenga said, pointing at the guy wearing the spectacles. "Introduce yourself. Give me a synopsis of your life." His head swiveled as he examined his sheep. "And when I say synopsis, I mean, be brief." He returned his gaze to the man wearing glasses. "And explain why you forgo the corrective procedure for eyesight."

"Name's Maxwell Lolande, but everyone calls me Max." He took off his glasses and gently cleaned them with the bottom of his t-shirt. "Studies indicate a certain amount of blurred vision can actually increase reaction time for athletes. Something to do with mirror neurons, which react to anticipated visual stimuli, not actual vision per se. Do you see the difference?" He chuckled and pushed his glasses back onto his nose. "Never mind. Anyway, vision isn't the only means by which to collect data."

"Background?" Mister Chenga asked.

"Sensors." Max's eyes narrowed. "I may not be the quickest here, or the strongest, but I can guarantee I'll have the best sources of information."

Mister Chenga grunted. "What kind of information?"

"Whatever you want. I deployed a few sensors before we came inside. My outdoor drones are measuring every centimeter of this facility. From the outside, of course. I don't want to press my luck yet."

Mister Chenga jumped up, lunged forward, and ended up crouched in the sand by the belongings of Maxwell Lolande. He picked up Max's backpack (crimson color, a tree intricately woven with golden thread into the back flap), rummaged through it, making sounds as though it were a bag of silverware, then dropped it and stood. "I rely on my eyes," he said, returning to his spot. "And you sound French to me. Are you French?"

"No, Mister Chenga. American."