Quantum Dark
The Classic Sci-fi Adventure
R.A. Nargi
Contents
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Free Prequel Story
The Well of Forever
Dear Reader
Also by R.A. Nargi
This book is for Jack L. Chalker, Roger Zelazny, Philip José Farmer, Edgar Rice Burroughs, C.L. Moore, and Leigh Brackett—for reasons known only to each of them.
The mid-24th century is a golden age of discovery.
Dead civilizations are strewn throughout our own and neighboring galaxies—providing a treasure trove of unfamiliar technology which borders on magic. Specialized salvage companies compete to plunder alien worlds, and celebrated xeno-archaeologists capture the imagination of society with their exploits.
No one is more famous than Sean Beck, a daring explorer whose exploits are known in every corner of the Empire.
1
“We suffer more in imagination than in reality.”
Seneca
Maybe I had fallen asleep for a few seconds. Hard to believe with all the drugs in me, but you never know. It was a weird feeling. Almost like I was out of my body—in blackness. Disconnected from everything.
I sensed a pinpoint of light. Far away. As I stared at it, the light grew larger—like I was being pulled into it.
Then all of a sudden I was back. In my bed. Sandwiched in between a slumbering blonde and a brunette. We were all naked, curled together. A pile of warm flesh. I inhaled sweet female perfume, mixed with smoky mincham incense.
The blonde I knew, of course. Lirala. My on-again, off-again girlfriend. Fiancée, if you wanted to be accurate.
The other woman had pitch black hair and dusky skin. Her body was unfashionably adorned. Gold dangles, hoops, bracelets, anklets, necklaces, rings. Every inch of her glittered. Her lips were full and sensual, her cheekbones high, and her nose straight and sharp. Beautiful, but again, not the style. Most women—like Lirala—opted for a more rounded, less severe face. The miruku look, it was called. This girl—whoever she was—was definitely not from New Torino.
I concentrated on her and forced myself to remember. The facts started to seep back into my brain.
She was 22 years old. From Amravadi. That explained the provincial look.
Her name was Preity Kapoor.
Then it all came back to me.
Pretty.
That was how Lirala laughingly introduced her to me earlier in the evening. Pretty Kapoor.
“No,” the girl had said shyly. “Preity. My name is Preity.”
We had all met after the Stones concert. Backstage. A private party with Mick and the boys—who actually sounded pretty good for a band that was nearly 500 years old. Of course they were simulacrums, but they could still rock. Especially Keith.
Lir had sauntered in with this girl. Her newest plaything, I figured. But it didn’t really bother me. Lirala was always happy to share. And share she did.
Mystery solved, I eased myself out of the big circular bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping women. Lir was a banshee if you woke her prematurely from sleep. Especially a ghir-induced slumber. I didn’t want to have to deal with that.
I was a little wobbly as I stood up. As I recalled, it had been a pretty sick evening and I was sure my toxies would be off the charts. But I didn’t really care. Yesterday had been my birthday, after all. Thirty-two years of progress. A milestone that had to be honored with the requisite amount of enthusiasm. And by enthusiasm I meant copious amounts of drink, drugs, and debauchery.
Mission accomplished.
In the big bathroom, in a sink carved from very expensive twiluusian halo stone, I puked. Four times in all. A surprising volume of food, drink, and chemical substances. But it worked. My head began to clear.
I always appreciated the symbolism of a good spewing.
Out with the old, in with the new. A purging of bad habits and poor decisions. A chance to begin again, as they say.
The bio sensors did their thing. Fans whirred. Scanners scanned. And while I was still catching my breath, Mr. Jeris made his appearance.
I called him “Mr. Jeris” but he was a late-model BoDyn medical bot with zero anthro features. He was basically a mobile computer, a big hunk of plastic and servos. Property of Beck Salvage. And one of my uncle’s watchful eyes.
Mr. Jeris announced that I should hold still, but he didn’t have to tell me. I knew the drill.
As I slumped against the bathroom wall, Mr. Jeris pressed one of his sensors into the crook of my elbow and another one against my neck.
Then he began to administer a witch’s potion of restoratives, designed to basically nullify all the hard work I’d put in destroying my mind and body over the previous twelve hours of partying. It seemed like such a waste.
But, again, part of the deal with my uncle. I was as much property of Beck Salvage as Mr. Jeris was.
“Hey,” a lightly-accented voice said from the doorway. It was the voice of the girl in my bed. Pretty.
“Mind if I get some of that too?”
She looked a little worse for wear too, with dark circles under her eyes. But she was still beautiful—in a strange, exotic way.
“No problem.”
I instructed Mr. Jeris to treat Pretty and, after she consented to a waiver, he did so.
Soon we were both feeling much more normal. And after topping things off with some B-stim and a blast of hydria, we felt better than normal. It was Pretty’s first experience with the gas that was a staple in the medstation of every young aristocrat in New Torino. At least those who could afford it.
Grinning, she looked me up and down. “I could get used to this.”
I shrugged. “Partying can be hard work.”
“I guess so.”
“You want some moxa?”
“I should go. I basically crashed your party.”
“Nonsense. Any friend of Lirala’s is a friend of mine. And I mean that quite literally.”
Pretty looked down, a blush coloring her cheeks. “This is all
