Redemption Protocol (Contact) by Mike Freeman Read Free Book Online Page A

built to a crescendo of release and then, with exquisite grace, the waltz commenced its three four rhythm. Havoc saw sylph-like ballerinas twirling around a ballroom in floaty, multi-layered dresses. He wasn’t dreaming – he actually saw them.
    Someone was taking the piss.
    Everyone could choose what they woke up to, unless, of course, their unconscious body was sent somewhere without their knowledge or consent. In which case someone chose for you. The blue Danube was the ultimate cliché but Havoc still enjoyed it. Touché.
    Also performing, though sadly not synchronized with the music, fine needles interfaced with his feeds, ports mated and connectors snaked around him. It was a snakes wedding with him as the guest of honor and the extended family crowding in for the group photo.
    At least that answered the question of where he was. Most likely, in the middle of nowhere and closing quickly with a system ravaged by conflict. One that could surely only benefit from an outward transfer of funds and an inward transfer of hired guns.
    His pod slid backward, spun horizontally and swung him upright. He expected the usual feeling of motion sickness but was pleasantly surprised. The brass section triumphantly punctuated a march and he switched the music off. The ballerinas vanished from his mind’s eye. Shame, he thought.
    The sound of his breathing came into sharp relief. He became aware of the barely audible hum that tickles the edge of consciousness in space – the subtle sounds of smooth automation and technology at work. Ships were a Matryoshka doll of pipes. Tiny pipes in small pipes in medium pipes in large pipes ultimately inside the mother pipe they called a ship. Pressurized gases and fluids circulated continuously inside many of these ever recursing pipes, keeping everything functioning and everyone alive.
    The liquid in his pod drained away, lowering smoothly past his chest. He was in space, coming out of cryofreeze. This would entail sickness and discomfort as the tissue damage that he’d accumulated while traveling flushed his system with toxins. Considering the last couple of hours that he could recall consisted of a painful death, plus a strange dream where he floated in a bubble of light while a benevolent God rammed lighting up his ass, discomfort implied a refreshing absence of torture.
    They used to spend a week nurturing crews through wake up. These days they hit you with five grams of vikaltrityne instead. It was cheaper, faster and better. Except for your liver, kidneys and heart.
    Being frozen for six months was around the upper limit for a Standard-1, though for a crew of heavy hitting Enhanced or eXceptional it might mean no more than quick nap and a mild headache. But, Havoc thought, that's life, it's never fair. In a universe of wildly varying human capability, the peasants paid while the demigods played. All things considered, he felt surprisingly good. It must have been a short trip.
    A prerecorded message pinged in his mind's eye. He opened it and experienced the rushing sensation of being drawn into a setting and oriented to a point of view.
    Acharya (his title, not his name) Laztal, an old academic from the Morvent Academy, sat by a stream looking relaxed, free of stress and generally in remarkably good shape for a man who was more than six hundred years old. His eyes crinkled as he smiled.
    “Hello, John.”
    Havoc felt himself relax. Laztal's silky voice was the aural equivalent of a relaxing shoulder massage.
    “Let me say how indebted we still feel after your help in the Dyntrator incident. Truly, I will never forget.”
    Laztal looked into the distance as if recalling past events. Havoc felt humbled, gratified and, he couldn't help it, a little bit suspicious.
    Laztal smiled.
    “When Acharya Yadesi happened across you on Gevale in your rather poorly condition, he jumped, as indeed we all would, to intercede and repay a small amount of what you have done for us.”
    Laztal gazed