THE EDEN PARADOX: THE COMPLETE SERIES, page 1
Contents
Title Page
THE EDEN PARADOX
THE EDEN PARADOX
Dedication
PART ONE
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
PART TWO
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
PART THREE
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
EDEN'S TRIAL
PART ONE
Prologue
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
PART TWO
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
PART THREE
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Eden’s Revenge
Prologue
Eden’s Aliens & Artifacts
Abbreviated Galactic Historical Timeline
Petra’s notes
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART TWO
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
EDEN’S ENDGAME
Abbreviated Galactic Historical Timeline
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
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
PART TWO
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
PART THREE
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Eden’s Aliens, Artefacts and Ships
EDEN PARADOX
The Complete Series
THE EDEN PARADOX
EDEN’S TRIAL
EDEN’S REVENGE
EDEN’S ENDGAME
BARRY KIRWAN
All original artwork by John Harris
THE EDEN PARADOX
THE EDEN PARADOX
Copyright © 2011 Barry Kirwan. All rights reserved.
Original cover artwork by John Harris
2nd edition published 2019
1st edition published 2011
© Barry Kirwan
www.barrykirwan.com
This novel is entirely the product of the author’s imagination and intended to be fictional. All content, including people, names, and events, whether real or imagined, are used fictitiously. No part of this book or artwork may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, the only exception being brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ALL ORIGINAL ARTWORK IS BY ARTIST JOHN HARRIS
Praise for the book and the series:
“A science fiction thriller with terrific images and revelations.” SF Author Gary Gibson
“The reader is pulled into an all too real future, with memorable characters, leaving the reader craving more.” Lydia Manx, Piker Press
Top Amazon and Goodreads reviews:
“This is Orson Scott Card quality scifi.”
“Best science fiction of the year.”
“Masterful science fiction.”
“A breath-taking, truly epic series.”
“A fabulous four-book set, full of imaginative new ideas.”
“Six stars. This series is addictive.”
For Lisa
PART ONE
JOURNEY TO EDEN
Chapter 1
Assassin
People rarely search for bodies in ceilings, Gabriel O’Donnell reminded himself. He should have a couple of hours before anyone discovered his latest victim. Slipping unseen from the side door, he dissolved into the amoebic mass of dignitaries arriving for the fund-raiser at Eden Mission Control. He itched to shed his tuxedo and starched shirt, but he needed the camouflage, along with the stolen emotion-ID that had required a messy killing, to secure entry. He blended in with the wealthy entourage decked in stark designer suits and power dresses. He didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t sip from the champagne glass he occasionally raised to his lips. He let his eyes glaze over as if he, too, were rich enough to forget what was outside, an Earth maimed by War and near collapse from heat exhaustion.
Somewhere here was his target, but as yet he didn’t know who. He slowed his breathing and sharpened his senses, filtering out the bass hum of the aircon and the drone of conversation. He suppressed the cocktail of cologne and perfume the crowd wore to mask residual traces of sweat from their journey through the early evening LA heat-haze. He glanced at his wrist-com, switched to privacy mode so only he could read it -- no message yet confirming his mark’s identity. The display did tell him it was a cool nineteen degrees Celsius, compared to forty-five out in the open, and way below the 2061 climate control mandate for public buildings. Nothing new, he thought: the rich make laws for others to follow.
The idea flickered across his mind that if he dispatched ten or twenty of the moguls here tonight, instead of just one, a lot more mouths would find food. But only for a while. The latest vidcast from his mentor had confirmed what he’d already suspected -- the holocaust was mere days away. When he found the right target, maybe he could delay its onset, and save millions.
Maybe.
A fanfare of horns sliced through the banter, announcing the holorium was open: the Eden show awaited them. He swept forward with the elite mob, a spider hiding amongst flies.
As the alcohol-rouged gathering rounded a corner, he glimpsed the twin Stentons bordering the corridor: floor-to-ceiling carbon-black monoliths. State-of-the-art security gear. He focused his mind, careful not to tense his body. A few surreptitious glances verified what the memorized floor plans had told him: this was the only access point. Six heavily-armed security guards manned the station, eyeing people as they passed through. The two in the front used an age-old technique called the fence, an unblinking stare-down subduing those passing through, ruffling a few of the male celebrities in the process. The middle two checked people and bags, but this was more for show, as the Stentons did the real work. The final two guards scanned the assembly using peripheral vision, letting their right brains detect any unusual behavior patterns of the swarm. Not bad, he thought. He knew he could take down all six if necessary, but then his mission would fail.
He had to get past them.
The Stentons were top of their class, a biometric system based on psychological finger-printing, using subliminal stimuli to trigger minute fear responses. The monoliths were especially good at picking out kamikaze terrorists, whose fear response had a singular signature, and experienced assassins like Gabriel, who had none. Earl
Slowing to an amble, he let one or two suits rub past him as he weighed his options. He laughed at a nearby joke as if he were part of that particular gang. But his insides felt hollow, too much was riding on tonight’s mission. Watching the shuffling pack tighten toward the checkpoint scanners, he decided he needed an extra edge. Distraction was also an assassin’s tool.
As they herded like cloned beef toward the final security check, he surveyed the audience and picked out a busty woman in her thirties, sporting an emerald halter neck dress of gossamer-thin silk. Most of the middle-aged men pretended a little too hard not to notice her. As he mingled behind the woman and her escort in the funneling queue, he casually reached into his pocket and extracted a sliver of acid-coated razor-wire from its sheath. He coughed as he approached the twin security columns. His right hand, en route to cover his mouth, grazed the woman’s halter material with the filament, depositing a trace of acid. He let the hair-like strand drop to the floor, crushing it underfoot. Holding up his E-ID pass, he stared at one of the monoliths, as required, and held his breath.
Whoops and guffaws erupted as the busty woman's halter snapped. Gabriel turned around, feigning surprise and interest, and the guards manhandled him through the full-scan checkpoint without serious attention. Once past, he walked to the empty restroom and located the locked stall marked Out of Order.
His fingers rapped in the entry digicode, he stepped inside the stall and found what he expected, a small black rucksack containing gravitics, stiletto knife, and slim-line S&W pulse gun with night-sighter. All he required now was his target’s name, but his wristcom stayed quiet. His handler didn’t usually cut it this close.
He zipped the bag. As he headed out, he caught his reflection in the restroom mirror. Gone was any trace of the young man he’d been before the War, before becoming a killing machine, before losing her. His eyes were black and remorseless; like a shark's they stared back at him. Hers had been green and forgiving. She would have been twenty-seven today. Happy birthday, Jenny. He broke off his gaze, stole through the door, and entered the holorium.
◆◆◆
Despite the aircon maintaining the room at a fresh fifteen degrees Celsius to optimize the technology’s performance, Micah sweated.
"You won’t make it, not this time," Rudi said, leering beneath a wavy moustache. He anchored his feet against the chrome desk, tilting the recliner back further, hands linked behind matted black curls.
You could have helped. Micah’s silver gloves were a blur as he worked at the holo-bench. Its data columns and networking filaments resembled a complex city of skyscrapers: sapphire flying buttresses connecting golden spires and towers. He grimaced at the writhing red sores leaching energy from four of the amber columns, defects he had to remove for the program to run.
"Let me work, Rudi. I’m almost there."
Rudi persisted. "Why’d you agree to do this in the first place? Thought you’d get a chance to work with our resident Slovakian princess in Comms, eh?"
Micah dropped a filament and felt a stab of dread as it tumbled down inside the cylinder, ricocheting off several columns towards the central golden nexus. He caught it just in time with his left hand, without disturbing the overall structure. That was close! No time to wipe the beads of sweat building on his brow.
"Nice catch," Rudi muttered. "So is she, but out of your league. You know that, right?"
Micah ignored him, suspecting it wouldn’t make any difference.
Rudi stretched his hands forward, framing Micah between thumbs and indexes as if taking a holopic. "I mean, look at you. The basics are okay – no hunchback, all your own teeth, body parts in the usual places. But the wiry fuzz on your head, the bulging eyes – is that a thyroid thing, by the way? And as for dress sense..." Rudi’s hands returned to their habitual position, clasped behind his head. "Does your Mom still buy your clothes, or what? No style. That’s the problem, Micah. She’s class, you’re not."
Micah braved a shrug, but he knew Rudi was right: unlike Rudi, he had an abysmal record with women. He glanced at the countdown: 3:08. Any second, he’d get the call. His fingers, wrapped in second-skin holo-transducers, felt the subtle vibrations in the digitized information, like pulsating ice cubes covered in Braille. This part of his job at Eden Mission Control still gave him a buzz. He threaded the teraquad info-strands into place with a precision and purpose he rarely knew in the rest of his life.
On cue, the screen switched on. A red-faced, balding man glared at him. Micah didn’t stop. Seconds mattered.
"Sanderson. Tell me it’s ready."
"Yes, Mr Vastra, Sir. Almost ready. It’ll be on time."
"Better be." The screen blanked.
Rudi chuckled and added, "You’re in deep shit. Three minutes till lights out."
Micah dismissed the remark and flipped back into the zone, holding his breath, rapt in concentration. All sound ceased in his mind, like a frozen waterfall. As he slotted the final filament into place, the reds vanished. The resultant data harmonic sent a tingling rush through his gloves into his arms and spine, making him gasp. He snapped his right forefinger and thumb together, transmitting the program.
"Done!" The display shimmered and was gone. He peeled off the gloves, threw them onto the work bench, and slumped into his chair.
Rudi sighed. "Why didn’t you just re-use the last vid – why does each one have to be different? Why make work for yourself? These shitheads don’t care. You’ll get no credit. And meanwhile, she doesn’t even know you exist!"
Micah grinned. This one was going to be good. It would move the audience, he just knew it. "You wouldn’t understand, Rudi. It’s… art. Besides, some of the Hi-creds here today have been to the show before – they’ll be impressed when they realize it changes each time."
Rudi shook his head. "No hope whatsoever…"
Micah snatched up the remote-ball and squeezed it to select the holorium view-screen on his macro display, then pressed harder to show feeds from all eight cameras. He scanned the views, zooming in and out on the audience about to see his production. The stock-straight profile of the Eden Mission Director, Keiji Kane, was easy to pick out from the crowd, greeting indistinguishable men in dark suits with expandable waistlines. The younger women in the audience were strikingly dressed in angular flow-suits, the older ones decked out in more classic elegant outfits.
He watched Kane’s acerbic assistant, Sandy, march up to him and whisper something in his ear, her hand touching his waist as she bent forward. Kane nodded, and headed over to his front row pew. People followed his lead and took their seats for the show, a prelude to a tour of Eden Mission Control, the first step in eliciting continued financial support from the ultra-rich. Micah wasn’t keen on the fact they had to do this every month, but it was vital to keeping alive the four astronauts on their way to Eden.
He zoomed back out when someone unusual caught his eye – a tanned, slim man floating through the crowd like a dancer – all in black, no jacket, just a small back-pack. No one seemed to notice him as he headed toward the rear exit, cutting through the flood of people vying for the best places. Micah leaned forward, intrigued by his effortless movements, like a dolphin swimming through the current. He lost him, though, as he moved out of camera range. Plain-clothes security, he assumed.
Rudi was right about one thing, though. This wasn’t his real job. They were both full-time telemetry analysts, poring over sensor information slip-streaming back from Earth’s only faster-than-light ship, the Ulysses. Comms was haphazard at best, involving unpredictable and still barely-understood tachyon fields, coupled with an increasing delay as Ulysses got farther from Earth. He didn’t fully understand the theory, but he and Rudi were two of the people disentangling the data and making sense of it. Still, he had a modest talent for holo-vidding – not enough to give up his day job – but he enjoyed watching people’s reactions, and it made a break from the drudgery of endless analysis of signals traversing incomprehensible distances across the void, telling everyone that all was still well on the mission to Eden.
