Their Memoriam: A Reverse Harem Romance (Utopia Inc Book 1) Page 2

  “Good morning.” The voice on the message gave me a jolt. It was mine. “You agreed to participate in the Biosphere One project. You’re in charge of overcoming all the medical aftereffects of lifepod use, while also identifying and treating any illnesses which result from life in the biosphere. The team you’ll be working with was handpicked for this assignment. In order to facilitate the project, and to not compromise the results, you will have access to only what you know, what you remember, and what is present in the biosphere. Good luck.”

  I replayed the message three times, searching for some hidden meaning. I’d sounded so clinical, detached and even the good luck wasn’t very encouraging.

  Switching screens, I opened my journal. It was blank.

  That was enough to make me want to vomit. I documented all of my work. It was important to be meticulous. It was all gone.

  Decades of work—gone.

  “Begin recording,” I told the device. Apparently, I needed to document my time, so I would.

  Then I might go throw up.

  Chapter 2

  A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it. - Jean de la Fontaine

  Day One

  At least when I agreed to whatever insane project locked me away in the facility, I’d been allowed to select the clothing. The timer on the wall ticked down to the last two hours before the other lifepods would enter into the final cycle of the rousing process. I’d managed a shower, sleep, and a small meal. I’d also done two more IV bags. Dehydration was a dangerous prospect.

  Dressed in an emerald green pair of scrubs, I brewed a single cup of coffee. The next several hours would be busy. If I interpreted the computer’s readouts correctly, each of the occupants were in a different stage of awakening.

  “Computer, review team complement.” I lifted the mug to my lips and took a sip of the brew. It was a bit watery—hard to get a correct brew from a single recyclable cup—but based on the report, we would have to live with what we could grow. I’d ration out my coffee like precious metal.

  “Biosphere One team complement.” An image flashed on the screen of a man with dark eyes and shoulder length flowing dark hair. Though he wasn’t smiling, there was something mischievous about his eyes, as though there was something he knew that no one else did. He looked to be in his thirties, a little scruffy with a hint of stubble on his cheeks and defiance in his posture. Though the photo only showed him from the chest up, and his arms were folded.

  “Andreas Kenton, PhD in Behavioral Psychology. Assignment—regular reviews of the team’s state of mind.” Not a lot of information, but a headshrinker would either be a blessing or a curse. Maybe both.

  The screen flipped to a second image. The hard line of the man’s jaw jumped out at me. Like the first image, this man didn’t shave often. Stubble decorated his cheeks. His hair was a golden brown and mussed, even though he kept it short. The color of his eyes wasn’t readily apparent; he didn’t even look at the camera. The candid image did reveal a dimple in his cheek. Would it be more noticeable when he smiled?

  “Hatch Benedict, born in the United States, pilot.”

  Pilot? We are in a biodome, so we needed a farmer more than a pilot. Stomach clenching, I lifted the coffee mug to my lips. Unless their test was actually taking place on another planet—which would make the nausea inducing loss of five years make more sense. It would take time to deploy to another world—an impossible concept.

  We’d barely managed a functional base on the moon, and that was more for military application when the pandemic began spreading around the world. Those at the moon base didn’t welcome newcomers, so they’d avoided the spread of disease.

  A dull ache began to throb in my right temple.

  The third image was also a man. Didn’t any other women make the cut? Was I going to be trapped in a sea of testosterone?

  The black man on the screen had no hair on his head, but a very neatly trimmed goatee. His smile, however, was captivating. Open, free, and welcoming. I couldn’t stop an immediate smile in response.

  “Dr. Oz Morgan, graduated from Johns Hopkins. Specializes in allergy and immunology.” A real physician—good looking and useful. My own specialties were in biophysics. I understood the body, and I could handle minor problems, but I didn’t particularly enjoy treating people in person.

  The last image sent my pulse leaping, and I leaned away from the screen. The powerful man depicted had shoulder length sun-bleached brown hair, a scruffy beard, a host of tattoos—including something written on his throat I couldn’t read—and a damn near hostile, intense stare, as though he glared at whomever was taking his picture.

  “Captain Dirk Rossi.” Captain? “Veteran, Australian Special Forces Tactical Allied Group, Anti-Terrorist Division.”

  Anti-terrorist division? What the hell kind of specialized team was this? Suddenly, I didn’t want those pods to open. A timer on the wall continued to tick down the minutes. Fortunately, the army jerk or AJ as my father called them was the last one scheduled to emerge from his pod.

  “Team complement review complete.” The computer’s voice gave me a jerk and let me look away from the captain. “Warning: Andreas Kenton emerging in one hour.”

  That meant I had four hours until I had to deal with the highly trained thug. The team assignments were not what I would call the ideal group of researchers for a biosphere.

  Unless the study wasn’t about what we did to survive the environment, but how we survived each other. After finishing my mug of coffee, I rose and checked the clock on the wall. I had fifty minutes.

  Pressing my palms together, I closed my eyes and lifted my right foot to press against my left calf. Tree pose was how I preferred to begin every yoga session. My muscles trembled, complaining about the action. I didn’t care.

  The mind could overcome the body, and I needed all the mental discipline I could muster. With every breath, the trembling gradually ceased, and my pulse regulated. Calmness swept over me. I needed the calm—it allowed me to work through the problems mentally.

  Four men I’d never met, two doctors and two grunts. The combination wasn’t lost on me. Of the four, the captain was likely the most dangerous. My inventory of the medicine cabinet in my suite included everything from steroids to sedatives. The right cocktail of sedative added to his banana bag could at least assure me he wouldn’t go into fight or flight mode as he came out of the pod’s anesthesia.

  Shifting position, I traded one leg for another. All I concentrated on was my breathing and clearing my mind. It took me back to greeting the sun in the morning on the beach with my parents. My mother taught me my first meditation.

  Listening to the sea. Then listening to the wind. Sometimes, just listening to the rain. No matter where we lived, we always greeted the day the same way. The best way to a best day was with the best mind.

  In my sterile little room, all I could listen to was the air recycler, which engaged as I shifted feet.

  “Warning: Andreas Kenton emerging in thirty minutes.”

  With a slow exhale, I stood on both feet and opened my eyes.

  Better.

  Time to get to work.

  The hatchway door slid aside with a release of compressed air. The hiss lacked a certain poetry, particularly as it reminded me that I wasn’t in familiar territory. The corridor was illuminated on all sides, like some tunnel in hell—if hell were an ice cold sterile environment.

  I hadn’t explored the fullness of the biosphere as yet. Probably, I wouldn’t have time until after the last of the men were awake. It was a pity they didn’t wake Dr. Morgan first. He was a trained physician, so he would be able to address major medical issues far better than me.

  According to the schematic on the wall, Andreas Kenton’s suite was one hatch down from mine on the right. My presence at the door didn’t open it automatically. A glass-screened keypad and monitor was to the left of the door. A glance back toward my suite showed a similar keypad. The other hatchways along th
e corridor seemed likewise arranged.

  “Computer, how do I access Andreas Kenton’s suite?”

  “Access granted.” The computer acknowledged the request and the door slid open. Well, that was likely the easiest part of today. Inside, the suite matched mine in layout and stark lack of color.

  The white was getting on my nerves. It was so painful to stare at, and everything was too bright. It was cold in the room, so the hair on my arms began to stand up and goosebumps rippled over my flesh.

  “Computer, warm the room to 24 centigrade.”

  “Acknowledged.” The sound of the air recyclers changed in tenor. The life pod was located next to a seating area. The banana bag was already in place, tubing set for being injected into the port.

  I hadn’t removed my port yet. I wanted to give it a day or two to see if I required any more hydrating before I took it out. The man inside the chamber wasn’t visible, because the frosted glass and icy conditions kept his figure hidden behind even more white.

  I assembled the pain reliever, water bottle and a snack. These were all the things I needed when I woke.

  “Warning: Andreas Kenton emerging in one minute.”

  I could almost feel the seconds ticking down, as though my heart matched each one.

  “Warning: Hatch Benedict emerging in one hour.”

  The hiss of the pod disengaging and the door opening sounded.

  Here we go.

  Andreas Kenton

  I was freezing my ass off. Worse, I wore some kind of skintight white bodysuit, and it was kind of crushing my balls. At some point, I stumbled out into the too-white room and staggered to a chair. The computer bleated out instructions, but I couldn't really process the information. I’m not entirely sure when I noticed her standing there, but there was a sweet freshness to her scent that replaced the stale air burning my nostrils.

  The glide of her fingers over my arm left me hypersensitive. Even as I turned my head to track what she was doing, I acknowledged there was a IV port in my arm and she was attaching some tubing.

  When did I end up in the hospital?

  That thought banged around inside my head, leaving bruises wherever it went.

  “Here, drink this. It will help.” Her accent was fantastic—it had elements of British and Middle Eastern, and if I wasn't wrong, hints of the South Pacific. I could barely remember my own name, but I could identify where this woman's accent came from.

  Better than thinking about how crappy I felt.

  The water she handed me was cold, but it tasted like heaven. My lips were cracked and parched.

  “Small sips. You don't wish to be ill.” She moved away from me then returned. The air disturbed by her passage swirled more of her luscious fruity scent toward my nose. Gradually, my vision sharpened. Fuck, that was a relief; I'd undergone a rather painful surgery as a child to correct my not so 20/20 vision. I'd never had a problem with it since. Perhaps I suffered a head injury, which might explain the disorientation and the soreness.

  “This is a pain reliever only. It will help with the headache. You need to keep hydrating, and when you're ready, there's a protein bar next to you.” She was an economy of motion and syllables. When she depressed the hypo into my upper arm, I barely even felt the prick of the needle.

  Somewhere, a computerized voice said, “Warning: Hatch Benedict emerging in thirty minutes.”

  Couldn't they have at least gotten a real woman to do the computer voice? Technology these days was either on the cutting edge of awesome or should have been tossed on the steaming trash keep long ago.

  “I'm going to leave you in a minute,” she said, effectively capturing my attention. Even though she was backlit by lights that should be toned down at least by fifty watts, my vision cleared enough to take in her long dark hair, deep black eyes, and burnished skin so deeply tanned it gave her the warmth of life in the sterile cold of the room.

  “Damn, you’re gorgeous.”

  “Am I now? You must be feeling better, Doctor.”

  “Not doctor. Just call me Mr. Kenton or Andreas…or Andy, really.” Crap, I needed to up my game. The fact that I could barely focus wasn't helping my cause. “Sorry, I guess telling you you're beautiful is inappropriate, but you really do take my breath away.”

  Her laughter…I couldn't describe it. It was so warm and seemed to come straight from her belly. Open and lacking in any artifice. It also lit her expression, as though she glowed from the inside out.

  What the actual fuck is wrong with me? I was a student of human nature and humans by large were cracked eggs, disturbed and a holy unhealthy species. And here I was admiring her inner light?

  Groaning, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Deep breaths were required.

  “Emerging from the lifepod is very discomforting. It's going to take you a few hours to get on your feet and feel more like yourself. Eat, keep hydrating. Switch out that bag when it’s finished. There are two more already hung and waiting. You just have to remove the one tubing and insert the next. If you have any trouble, ask the computer to call me, and I'll return.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “You’re not my only patient today. I wish I could stay longer, but I'll be back to check on you.”

  I did like the fact that she had checked on me in the first place. I less liked the fact that I was incapable of standing up to prevent her from leaving. “Hey, Doc?”

  “Yes?” Oh, good she hadn’t left yet.

  “You know my name, so what's yours?”

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Valda Bashan. Welcome to Biosphere One.” There was something of an ironic note in her last sentence, but I couldn't spend too much time deciphering it. Even as I heard the hatchway open, then close again, I couldn’t help but shudder at the name Bashan. Aloria Bashan had destroyed the planet. Her experiments got loose and spread a global pandemic, which slaughtered millions.

  Did I just wake up in hell?

  Hatch Benedict

  I woke, and the world tried to kill me. I’d been throwing up for an eternity, or at least longer than five minutes. I hadn't meant to do anything other than take the step out to put the IV in my arm, yet no sooner did I touch the port than the nausea hit me.

  The poor doctor had to hold onto me. I felt for her. She got me into the bathroom in enough time to at least make use of the facilities for the next round of puking.

  Really, not my best to meet a doc while on my knees. She came back and forth a few times, offering ice chips as well as the IV stand. Then she was washing my face and giving me a shot.

  I know she talked to me. For the life of me, I can't remember what she said. The computer’s constant babble drowning her out was getting really fucking annoying.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Benedict, I have to leave, I’m sorry.” As she spoke she knelt next to me and rubbed another damp cloth across my face. Maybe I should nominate her for sainthood. “I will be back to check on you shortly, I think you should stay right here. Are you too cold? I turned up the temperature in the suite.”

  “Not cold,” I said after brief, internal assessment. I think I was actually hotter than I was cold. Currently my stomach was cramping, but all the burbling it had been doing earlier quieted.

  “Let the IV work. You’re severely dehydrated. Your vitals aren't the best I've ever seen, but they're also not the worst. The protein bar,” she said as she placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a squeeze before I could protest. “It tastes nasty. Just accept the fact that it’s gross. No more complaining.”

  Hey, when had I complained?

  “Try to eat some. Sip the water and stay on the IV. I also put some anti-nausea medicine in the pain reliever I gave you. You should be feeling better soon.”

  I’d just come up with an appropriate response when I heard the hatchway door hiss closed behind her.

  Damn, I didn't get a good look at her. Fortunately, I did manage to turn my head before my stomach erupted one more time.

  Oz Morgan

&nbs
p; The doctor was very efficient. She'd been right there when the lifepod opened and I stumbled out, weaker than a kitten. Lifepod use should be outlawed. It might preserve life over a long-term travel, but it also depleted the body of vital nutrients and fluids, creating recovery buffer time of absolute misery.

  “Thank you for being so explicit about what was in the injections,” I said, finally managing to form words after having had enough water to wet my whistle. “I don't have any allergies, but I do like to know what I'm being given.”

  “Of course, Doctor. You should also know that there are two others in the party who emerged from their lifepods—Andreas Kenton and Hatch Benedict. Patient two, Benedict, is having severe nausea and reflux. I've given him some anti-nausea meds that will hopefully suppress the reflux action, but his numbers were low and his dehydration level significant. I'm going back over there in a moment to check on him and make sure he's changed his IV bag before I move to the final patient of the day.”

  “Soon as I’m able to stand, I will give you a hand.”

  “You’re sweet, but it's going to take you longer than an hour to be back on your feet.”

  Perhaps. I also know a few tricks about shaking off lifepod sickness. “Thank you, Doctor. I'll take it under advisement.”

  She laughed. The sound wrapped around me, dragging me out of my internal inventory of what medications I’d need to counteract nausea, dehydration, electrolyte balance, and to serve as a stimulant. The dark haired, dark eyed doctor with her emerald green scrubs wore a frank smile.

  “I may have been out of it for a bit. What's so funny?” I don't make any pretense to having the best sense of humor; most the time, my parents told me I wasn't funny. My ex-wife thought I was the worst joke teller she'd ever met. My coworkers laughed only when they had to kiss my ass. Not my problem that they didn’t understand my brilliance.

  “I felt much the same as you do at the moment, Doctor,” she said in her magnificently lyrical accent. I somehow doubted that English had been her first language.