By John Molik
Genre: Technothriller, Science Fiction, Action and Adventure
It's the year AD 2430. Almost four hundred years earlier,
humanity had barely survived a horrific near-extinction-level event: a solar
micronova. Survivorship colonies set up by a cabal with advanced technologies
eventually evolve into a global Perfect Society called the United Federation of
Connectedness (UFC).
Initially based on co-ops, barter and trade, and equal access
for all, a model that rose out of the ashes of the authoritarian governments of
the past, humanity, bored and striving for more, eventually steers the planet
to a balanced authoritarian model run by Victoria, a genetically engineered
Master Server, implanted with artificial intelligence.
When the Animal Rights Act is introduced, the backward-looking
religionists and many others think that Victoria has finally gone too far.
Artificial love is the glue that keeps the heavily networked society together,
but a radicalized religious cult, the MHs, who yearn for a natural connection
to their God, reject technology and the electronic beasts who govern. Protected
by the blood of their human messiah, they launch a terrorist attack to take
down the Perfect Society and replace it with their own.
A top scientist, Claressa, who is loyal to Victoria, and her
boyfriend, Pierre Lewalski, are summoned to UFC Capital City to thwart the
attack.
Will they be successful? Should they be?
About the Author
John
grew up in Rancho Palos Verdes, California, graduated from UC Davis with a
bachelor's degree in economics, and has worked in numerous corporate finance
and project management positions in the consumer electronics and IT industries.
In 1990, he took an extended backpacking trip of the South Pacific before
attending graduate school. He met his future wife in New Zealand, and they were
married in 1991. They settled in Laguna Niguel, California. In 2003, John and
his family (now with two kids in tow) relocated to Christchurch, New Zealand.
John's
passion for writing began when he was a student at UC Davis and worked as a
feature writer for the California Aggie newspaper. Having been nominated for a
Hearst Journalism Award (1986) for a feature on genetic engineering, John later
found the inspiration to write again. In 2013, he began outlining his first
thriller, The Fiduciary Delusion, which became the first novel in the Horsemen
trilogy. John loves to read techno-thrillers, science fiction, murder mysteries
and action and suspense novels. Some of his favorite authors include: Philip K.
Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, Lawrence Sanders, Isaac Asimov, Michael Faber and Clive
Cussler.
John's
interests also include science, existential philosophy, health, and both
Western and Eastern holistic medicine. John also plays guitar, piano, sings,
and writes music. In addition, a self-confessed “gym rat,” John can be
regularly found lifting weights, trudging up hills, sea kayaking, and getting
out and about enjoying the beautiful wild outdoors.
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/WriterJOHN/
https://www.facebook.com/WriterJOHN/
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Excerpt
“Careful!
If you don’t get this part right, you will blow us all to hell!”
Boniface Rotner faltered, shook his head,
and aggressively ran his hands through his shoulder-length black hair.
Cornell Elam, a bald 54-year-old technician
from the sect, leaned against the stainless steel railing which encircled the
metal alloy chamber. Peering down, he glimpsed the top of Boniface’s mat of
black hair. Cornell wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He
pleaded. “Come on! You can do this!”
Boniface Rotner gazed up through the metal
tunnel and bit his lip. “Of course I can, Mr. Elam.”
Boniface, at only 15 years old, was far
ahead of anyone in their sect in intelligence, creativity, and focus. Earlier,
it was decided by sect leaders that he was the only one that could accomplish
this critical mission. Not only was Boniface the only one who understood the
technical complexity of this 398-year-old technology, he also had very small
hands due to his age, which was a crucial job requirement for this particular
task.
Having recently resurrected the bank of
Moray generators using his keen intellect, time was of the essence.
Boniface grasped the magneto coil wand and
carefully inserted it into the capacitance resonator of the high-voltage
transformer. Mr. Elam is right. This goes wrong and this entire community
will be enveloped in a ball of super-heated plasma.
Cornell’s breathing quickened and his palms
were clammy. Fidgeting, he mindlessly looked right then left, and replied,
“Alright, then! But, you got to hurry, lad! You got to hurry!” Cornell
nervously glanced over his shoulder as if the empty ten-by-ten-foot, fully
contained and impenetrable control room was suddenly being breached by a pack
of rabid wolverines.
Sweat was pouring down the nape of
Boniface’s neck, but he paid little attention to it. Busy concentrating on the
task at hand, he knew that the magneto wand must not touch the quantum harmonic
oscillator. The Moray generators were at full bore, producing over 5,000
kilowatts of raw electrical power, and were just one step away from being
connected to the Tesla scalar interferometer which, when ignited, would produce
a thin, impenetrable shell of electromagnetic energy hovering over the sect’s
temple and surrounding area. No weapon, or even gamma radiation from an
electromagnetic pulse, would be able to touch those living under it. But, if Boniface
screwed this up and touched the oscillator, it was lights out for every living
thing in a ten-mile radius.
Suddenly, the dead quiet of the sealed
control room was interrupted by a strange, distant whirring sound.
Like a cocker spaniel sensing the scampering
of a squirrel, Cornell jerked his head in the direction of the sound. “Shit!
Those are fucking incomings!” He pounded the steel railing with both fists.
“Hurry!”
Boniface squeezed his eyes tightly to
assuage the anxiety and regain focus. Opening them slowly, he made sure his
steady hand did not waver. The magneto wand just had to pass by the hidden
oscillator and make contact with the bridging terminal.
The sound of the incoming missiles, likely
all nuclear-tipped, grew louder and louder as their perilous cargos came closer
to their target.
“For fuck’s sake, Rotner! It’s now or
never!”
Boniface didn’t like swearing, as it was
against their religion. Besides, it was Mr. Elam who had taught him acceptable
words from the past to use as substitutes. Yet, he also realized that when your
life and the lives of all your community looked like it was nearing their end,
man’s evil tongue could sometimes release vulgarities, so he forgave Mr. Elam.
Figuring he had about five seconds, he
quickened his pace. Biting his lip, he edged his hand forward through the small
gap toward the contact plate.
A thin, shrill voice, like the cry of a
dying mouse, emanated from Cornell Elam. He held his head in his hands.
Four inches to go. Boniface precisely
guided the wand upward. The sonic roar of the incoming missiles was now
vibrating the entire control room. It was now or never.
As soon as Boniface touched the plate, an
ear-shattering electronic clang and hum assaulted their ears. The hair on his
head stood on end as if he was grabbing the top of a Van de Graaff generator.
The banks of LED lights on the control panels illuminated just before the
entire room shook violently.
Cornell Elam was thrown from his perch into
the steel chamber, landing on top of the 15-year-old.
Boniface’s face was red hot. This was the
last thing he felt before his rapid descent into total darkness.
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