Chosen Too Read online

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  Copyright ©2007 by Alan J. Garner

  First published in SynergEbooks, 2007

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  Chosen Too

  by Alan J. Garner

  Copyright 2007 by Alan J. Garner

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by SynergEbooks

  www.synergebooks.com

  Dedication

  In loving tribute to Lily ‘Nana’ Horton, a great lady of incredible fortitude.

  Prologue

  Pyramidal in shape and mountainous in size, the lazily rotating station circled in a wide orbit a black sun blotting the purpled purity of interdimensional space. Specks of bluish light zipped across the inverted triangle, illuminating its featureless grey angles in scurrying flashes.

  Inside, Brel floated crawlingly along a crowded tubular transport corridor, mumbling incoherently while consulting his ubiquitous notebook. The officious Greyling had a million and one things to do now that the boss had tacked on an extra chore. His lordship's annoying habit of piling on additional work at the last minute was incredibly taxing, but in this case welcomed for it would considerably lighten Brel's heavy workload.

  'Overused and undervalued, that's what I am,’ the guardian alien grumbled, jostled by other similarly engaged stellar shepherds dressed in variedly coloured jumpsuits competing for garishness with his own scarlet attire. ‘Steward of a million galaxies and He won't grant me time off to get over my writer's block.'

  Even after sixty million years of toil, Brel was still muddling his way through editing the first draft of the proposed holy book he had been roped into ghostwriting for the Creator. The stipulated religious blueprint for upcoming humanity, an ingeniously plotted theological guidebook, required an illusory beginning, a factual middle, finished off by an ambiguously worded ending. Talk about a literary minefield!

  Caught up in his worries, Brel rounded a corner head down and collided with a hastening colleague. ‘Good heavens, will you look where you are going!’ he complained, rubbing his domed noggin. ‘As if I haven't got enough things on my plate, now I'm required to steer around others.'

  'Forgive me, Senior Oversecretary Brel. I was instructed by Assignor Relb at the Ministry of Administrations to report to you.'

  Glancing up, Brel's jade eyes glinted approvingly at seeing the cause of his collision. ‘Ah, Undersecretary Lerb. I was on my way to find you. You saved me the trouble, if not the pain. Float into my office will you.'

  Lerb in tow, Brel turned off the bustling main thoroughfare into a shorter, quieter passageway, coasting to a halt before a metal X-shaped door. Clapping his hands, a wad of multihued key-cards linked by a silver chain materialised out of thin air.

  Fishing through the pile, Brel selected a gold card and inserted it into a slot-lock in the door's centre, the portal noiselessly splitting crosswise left and right to grant them admittance. A snap of his fingers slipped the cards back into his personalised pocket of unsynchronised time and space utilised solely for Greyling storage, and Brel glided into the workroom.

  Brel's office outwardly appeared as disorganised as its user, even though everything was arranged in systemic chaos that actually kept order. Stacks of paper, marked with diagonal alien typeface, columned the room from floor to ceiling along both sidewalls, extending from the doorway to stop at the foot of the outward sloping window wall decorated with the mural of the coldly blazing dark star inking the lavender space vista weirdly lacking pinpricks of starlight. Crammed between the stacked reams squatted Brel's cubed desk, cluttered by piled folders of paperwork pending his perusal.

  Drifting over a barely visible floor composed of criss-crossed lighting strips, Brel manoeuvred above a sumptuously upholstered triangle chair and deactivated his anti-grav belt. Settling behind his desk, he indicated for Lerb to be seated opposite him in its plush twin.

  Taking in the décor, Lerb caustically remarked as he lounged, ‘Love what you've done with the place, Senior Oversecretary. Your style of decorating redefines the concept of paperhanging walls.'

  His thin mouth curling into a smile, Brel remarked, ‘I've always liked your cheek, Lerb. That sense of humour of yours is just as black as our sun.’ His gaze drifting upwards to a ceiling spotted with hexagonal clock faces, the mutely ticking hands of each timepiece pointing to differing galactic time zones, the supervisory Greyling frowned. ‘The Boss remains old-fashioned and a stickler for tradition. So long as He taps His forested garden worlds for lumber, we'll never progress into being a paperless society. Making headway on that score is out of my hands. But a decision that is mine to make concerns promoting you.'

  Sitting alerter in his chair, Lerb gave his superior his undivided attention, his almond-eyed stare meeting Brel's appraising gaze. Garbed in the yellow-dyed jumpsuit denoting his difference in status from Brel's own redder daywear, the middling ranked bureaucrat appreciated the scarcity of promotion opportunities. Near immortals, job advancement amongst the universal caretakers came once in a Greyling lifetime.

  'I'm all earholes, Brel.'

  'That confidence is reflected in your service record. But never get cocky, kid. Arrogance leads to mistakes.’ Referring to his notebook database, Brel read aloud from Lerb's personnel file. ‘Field performance is exemplary. Your handling of that collapsed star in the Beta Quadrant was novel—lassoing a black hole and towing it to a quieter sector of space would not have occurred to me.'

  'Your praise is most generous, Senior Oversecretary.'

  'However, bookkeeping is unacceptably sloppy and needs working on. Lerb, reports are to be kept legible and handed in punctually. Efficiency is the key to running an orderly universe. What else do we have listed? Ah, yes. Extracurricular activities intrigue me. On your way up through the ranks you've moonlighted as curator of the Xenomorph Hologram Museum.'

  'Holographing aliens fascinates me. I enjoy taking laser snapshots of otherworldly wildlife. Is that a problem?'

  'That actually counts in your favour. I myself hate dealing with animals.’ Clearing a space on his junked tabletop to set down his notebook, Brel meditatively formed his hands into a steeple. ‘The Big Guy on High has mandated that I take an understudy. He's of the inclination that an assistant of mine will alleviate the pressures of my not inconsiderable fieldwork. The hours are lousy, there's no overtime pay, and the only day off you'll get is the statuary creation holiday.'

  'I've worked Big Bang Day for the last five thousand years straight.'

  'Careful, Lerb,’ Brel cautioned. ‘Overwork leads to stress.'

  'I thrive on hard work.'

  'Sucking up to me is unnecessary, kid. I've already decided to take you under my wing.'

  'My thanks to you, Senior Oversecretary.'

  'Don't thank me yet. With greater rank comes a rise in discretionary powers, and that brings inviolable ground rules to uphold. Up until this moment you've conducted field operations supervised, your handler acting as your safety net. Hereon in you'll be flying solo, with no fallback. Breaking any of the standard regulations will have severe career repercussions, not to mention invoking His wrath.'

  'Does this mean Earth will be included on my rounds?'

  'You're getting ahead of yourself, Lerb. That planet has long been the Head Honcho's pet project. True sentience has yet to be reborn there, but it's not far off a
nd as such there's to be no meddling whatsoever. Earth is presently off limits even to me.

  No Greylings at all are permitted in the sector of that galaxy unless the direst astral emergency crops up. El Supremo wants His recreation experiment to develop unhindered to the extent that He purposely keeps His omnipotence out of the area.'Getting back to the commandments. When in the field, specimen taking remains outlawed. We're in the janitorial business, not keepers of pets or plants. Visual recordings are permissible. The Big Guy enjoys looking at 3-D postcards but will not tolerate abductions or thievery. Dream implants have not come off the backburner since the asteroid incident. They are wildcards to be used sparingly and only when specifically authorised by upstairs. Needless to say, playing snooker with uninhabited worlds’ is frowned upon, as is any goofing off on company time. Which brings me to the next, most important rule of all. Time tinkering is a definite no-no and impossible anyway, what with His childproof locks in place.

  'Now that my laying down of the law is dispensed with, let me offer my congratulations, Junior Oversecretary Lerb. Your probationary period will be half a million years, upon completion of which you'll be evaluated and your ranking either ratified or revoked based on your performance. Report to the dispatcher's office when you leave here to receive your new certification, then front up to the paymaster.'

  Floating up off his chair, Brel glided around the desk and patted Lerb's head in the congratulatory manner of Greylings. Handshakes would be a peculiarly human custom. Resting his hand on Lerb's hairless scalp, he squeezed gently but meaningfully. ‘If you secretly harbour a god complex, lose it now. We enact His will, not impersonate Him. Or so I'm often reminded.'

  Retaking his seat, Brel absently glanced over a memo from the Supreme Being outlining His idea that in the far-flung future Greylings should appear to human beings as—'What the hell is an angel?’ he put to Lerb. ‘Never mind. This is upper management dribble. Kid, my advice to you is to make the most of the opportunity you're being given. Believe you me, it does come only once in a great while.'

  'I serve but the greater good and will exploit this chance to the fullest extent,’ responded Lerb, eagerly taking his leave of Brel.

  Back in the hectic main corridor, crowded into faceless anonymity by his thronging brethren, Lerb indulged himself with a smirk of satisfaction. He had pulled off his promotion without a hitch. All those years spent tirelessly grooming himself for advancement, fostering his image as a dutiful, reliable servant finally paid off. Earth lay within his grasp and that do-gooder Brel was none the wiser to the larger machinations behind the scenes. God created the universe, but the Greylings managed—and by inference, manipulated—it.

  Stopping at the nearest porthole to take in the view of the purple void invisibly adjoining normal space where his technologically sophisticated race had resided undetectable to Berranian and Tsor stellar explorers, Lerb watched the blue halos indicating travelling Greylings flitting outside the pyramid's slab-sided shell. Given time, after ingratiating himself further with Brel and winning the elder's trust enough to secure the custodianship of the Creator's precious blue planet, he too would be streaking through the cosmos on the back of a fast-as-light travel beam to the Sol System.

  Lerb's smirk broadened into a maniacal grin. Earth would then shudder under his seminal touch like clay on a potter's wheel.

  Chapter One

  The big cat roared mightily. Yowlar called again and his burly brother paced unhurriedly out of a thicket ten yards away on the right, his muzzle wrinkled in a silent grimace of threat. The boss of Sunning Rock Pride growled his approval and moved off, heading forward at a sedate walk. His sibling followed suit, matching the flat-footed leader stride for stride while strictly maintaining the distance between them.

  Sabretooths were lion-sized; eleven feet long and weighing in at around 500 lbs, but modelling a stockier build than the maned African felids an ocean away. Sporting longer necks, a sloping lower back and a curious bobtail, these heavily muscled cats native to the North American continent looked ridiculously top heavy, yet exuded a sense of latent power despite possessing an outward gracelessness. Resplendent in dark ochre coats, chocolate brown spots-cum-stripes marking the legs and belly contrasted by vivid white underparts, they padded with the unbridled confidence that stemmed from an air of impunity. Fielding seven inch long stabbing canines and wicked retractile claws, they sat at the apex of the food pyramid and were virtually untouchable.

  Leisurely making their way across Scrubland Domain, the pair purposely steered clear of the scrubby bushes dotting the brush-covered flatland. The giant cats normally relied on such scattered cover from which to ambush an unlucky shrub ox or stag-moose, but this humid afternoon on a spring day 13,000 years ago was different. Not interested in food or stealth, this was a blatant show of smilodon strength.

  'Hoaru, how old do you reckon junior is?’ Yowlar asked his brother in a measured voice, eyeing up an interloping feline thirty or so yards up ahead.

  'No more than three,’ judged the older cat, squinting at the smaller ruff of fur sprouting around the intruder's neck, compared to their own flaring collars. ‘Barely a cub out of the litter.’ Hoaru snarled eagerly and added, ‘Easy meat.'

  'They get younger every breeding season,’ muttered Yowlar. He spat. ‘Let's teach him a lesson he'll not soon forget. Don't muck about, though. It'll be getting dark shortly and I'm hungry. We want to be off hunting soon.'

  The twosome broke into a clumsy trot. Sabretooths moved with a shambling gait similar to a bear's and like those shaggy opportunists were wrestlers rather than runners.

  Nervously pacing to and fro less than twenty yards from the approaching oldsters, the younger male stopped in his tracks. Following his instinctive urge to mate, he had been drawn in by the alluring scent given off by the local pride females announcing their readiness to accept advances from any amorous males in the area. Unfortunately, for the clan-less youngster that required him to oust the resident male in order to take over the harem. He warily eyed the oncoming defenders. They were no more than fifteen yards away and closing steadily. Baring his shorter fangs in a futile gesture of contempt, the nameless trespasser turned tail and bolted, making for the timberline signposting the relative safety of the woodland lying to the immediate north. The odds were stacked against him. He stood no chance fighting two adult males in their healthy prime. No naturally perfumed female, no matter how inviting, was worth dying for today. Maybe he would give it another try next year.

  Yowlar and Hoaru loped after the retreating stranger for a few yards before abandoning the chase and coming to a halt. They preferred a short, fast pursuit to an extended run.

  Joining his panting leader, Hoaru questioned Yowlar between breaths. ‘Was he one of yours, do you think?'

  'I didn't recognise him. That's no surprise, though. I've lost track of how many cubs I have fathered.'

  A jealous growl escaped Hoaru's throat.

  'Don't be ungrateful,’ Yowlar chided his brother. ‘I give you my pick of the pride lovelies.'

  'Your leftovers, don't you mean?'

  Yowlar glanced sideways at his elder sibling and cuffed him about the ears with a meaty paw. He graciously kept his lethal claws retracted. ‘We may have loosely been littermates, Hoaru, but don't forget who's ranking Sabretooth around here. I'll tolerate no bellyaching from you or any other pride member.'

  Hoaru instantly adopted a submissive posture, grovelling on his belly in a non-threatening manner and hissing obsequiously, ‘Forgive me, brother. I am, as ever, loyal to you.'

  Yowlar detested brown-nosing, but his envious sibling needed putting back in his place every so often.

  Technically, Hoaru was his half-brother. Their father, the dominant male of a neighbouring pride, had sired a litter each—some three years apart—from female cousins. Hoaru had been born to the first, the only male cub of a five strong pack. By the time Yowlar had been sired alongside his own two sisters and entered the communal care o
f the pride, Hoaru was already at that age where he faced eviction. Competition between males, in the pride especially, was fierce and a father did not tolerate even the presence of his maturing sons. Hoaru somehow managed to have avoided being driven out until late in his fourth year, meaning Yowlar had been granted the opportunity to form a brief bond with his elder brother. That family tie was rekindled a year later. Yowlar, chased off in turn by their belligerent father, wandered alone for some time before eventually bumping into Hoaru again on the boundless wilds of the Outer Range in the far north. From that moment on the bachelor pair were inseparable, teaming up to hunt game and fight off rivals, waiting until they grew enough in size and strength and confidence to jointly challenge the ruffed head of any pride they desired.

  Ambitious and daring, Yowlar had coveted from the first the prestigious Sunning Rock Pride and the premium hunting grounds that such ownership commanded. With Hoaru's help he succeeded in killing the resident leader: a brute of a cat renowned for his ferocity, yet nonetheless outmatched by the cooperative brothers. Yowlar's slyness, complemented by Hoaru's muscle, made the siblings an unbeatable combination. Afterwards, they had systematically executed the cubs sired by the trounced clan leader, for the loser not only forfeited his life but those of his progeny as well. The vanquished were not afforded a genetic inheritance in the brutal survival game where only the strongest won the prize of fathering offspring. There had followed a bitter dispute between the badly scratched and bitten victors over who should preside over their hard won pride. Hoaru bore still the claw marks of the outcome of that vicious tussle on his scarred muzzle, where youth and wile had asserted seniority over age and strength.

  Yowlar was perfectly aware how Hoaru long resented that disagreeable loss. Rather than banish him, Yowlar had given his brother a position of eminence as the second ranked male in the pride and fed him scraps of power to retain his fidelity. Sibling allegiance ran strong amongst the Sabretooths and Yowlar appreciated needing Hoaru's continued support to preserve his dominance.