Kronos
KRONOS
Origins Edition
By Jeremy Robinson
Book V
Dear Reader,
My career as an author began in a very different way from most authors. I didn’t submit my books to agents or publishers; I self-published them under the umbrella of a small press I created, Breakneck Books. With each book release, I got feedback from readers, both good and bad, and used the critiques to improve my writing. So while most authors take their licks in private in the form of off-the-record advice from industry pros, I was flogged in the public square for all to see. My growth as an author has been a very public affair.
But it worked. Not only did my writing improve with each book, but so did my sales. And by the third book release, ANTARKTOS RISING, I had captured the attention of Scott Miller, my superb agent at Trident Media Group, and Peter Wolverton, editor supreme at Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press, who has signed me on for five novels—PULSE, INSTINCT, THRESHOLD, SECONDWORLD and ISLAND 731, the first three of which are now (4-27-2011) in print.
KRONOS was my fifth novel and takes place almost completely in my backyard—the seacoast of New Hampshire. The story was inspired by my lifelong fascination with the ocean and what might lurk beneath its surface. While writing the story, I took several trips out onto the waters of the Gulf of Maine, watching whales, smelling the salty air and letting my imagination run wild. When I first decided to write a sea creature story, it was going to be a very straightforward monster-eats-man tale, but I discovered Steve Alten around that time, devoured his books and decided I needed to do something different. So I added a twist that once again invited angry reviews from those who take offense at the slightest notion of religion not being total rubbish.
But for readers with open minds and the understanding that this is fiction, this book emerges as a favorite. So, if you’re new to KRONOS, try not to take it too seriously and prepare to suspend your disbelief. This story is not based solely in science, but instead takes the sea creature genre in a new direction. There’s still plenty of action, a hefty body count, the closest thing I’ve ever written to a sex scene, and a little magic that I like to tell myself is reminiscent of early Spielberg (E.T.) or M. Night Shyamalan (SIGNS). Of course, I could be delusional.
I hope you enjoy this fifth of the five books that comprise the origins of my career. Let the flogging continue!
-- Jeremy Robinson
To experience my growth as an author, check out the Origins books in chronological order:
• THE DIDYMUS CONTINGENCY
• RAISING THE PAST
• BENEATH
• ANTARKTOS RISING
• KRONOS
FICTION by JEREMY ROBINSON
(click to view on Amazon and buy)
The Last Hunter - Pursuit
The Last Hunter - Descent
Insomnia
Threshold
Instinct
Pulse
Kronos
Antarktos Rising
Beneath
Raising the Past
The Didymus Contingency
The Zombie's Way (humor under the pen name Ike Onsoomyu)
BONUS MATERIAL!
Don't miss the exclusive sample chapters of Robinson's ANTARKTOS RISING and THE LAST HUNTER – DESCENT (Book I of the Antarktos Saga) found at the end of this book.
Table of Contents
Quotations
Chapter1
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
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
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
About the Author
Sample of THE LAST HUNTER - DESCENT
Sample of ANTARKTOS RISING
Help Spread the Word
© 2008, 2011 Jeremy Robinson. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to:
info@jeremyrobinsononline.com
Visit Jeremy Robinson on the World Wide Web at: www.jeremyrobinsononline.com
For Spud (now Norah)
Acknowledgements
In the past I have thanked just about everyone I know, but I’m going to do this a little differently and focus on the folks who made the biggest impact on this book.
Stan Tremblay, without you I would have never made it through the year. You have picked up the slack for me and provided a brain when mine ceased to function.
Walter Elly, you are a web genius and your guidance and advice has been invaluable. Your passion for my books and spreading the word via the web is infectious and appreciated.
And finally, the gang without whom I’d be lost and empty: Hilaree, my amazing wife, Aquila my brilliant daughter, Solomon, my endlessly fun son, and little Spud, who has yet to be born or named; you are due to be born any day now and I can’t wait to meet you. I love you all.
“The ocean is as vast as it is mysterious, and man’s desire to venture to its depths to uncover its bounty rarely fades from the forefront of our imaginations. And it is through science and understanding that the finest results will be achieved, not through the dredging, overfishing and exploitation of the world’s finest resource. These mechanisms can only lead to tragedy.”
Dr. Atticus Young—Oceans in Peril
“When beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.”
(1819–1891), Moby Dick
“When he raiseth up himself, the mighty are afraid: by reason of breakings they purify themselves. The sword of him that layeth at him cannot hold: the spear, the dart, nor the habergeon. He esteemeth iron as straw, and brass as rotten wood. The arrow cannot make him flee: slingstones are turned with him into stubble. Darts are counted as stubble: he laugheth at the shaking of a spear.”
Job 41: 25–29 King James Translation—The Holy Bible
1
June 17, 1637
&nb
sp; Boston Harbor
Each slice of oar through water seemed more like a guillotine splitting flesh, vertebrae, and nerve bundles over and over—unceasing agony. This was the pain the Reverend John Wheelwright felt, or a close approximation of it, when he heard the news of his banishment from the state of Massachusetts. He’d come to the New World a year previous and was well received, quickly becoming pastor of the Eaxe Chapel at Mount Wollaston in Boston. He was happy for a time, leading his new flock, revealing a path to God in which free speech and opinions were welcome. The congregation blossomed, but along with his success came controversy.
Wheelwright’s sister-in-law, Anne Hutchinson, and the colony’s governor, Harry Vane, clashed with local conservatives on the topic of grace versus works. Those in the grace camp, along with Vane, believed it was through God’s grace and mercy that we are saved from sin and no number of good deeds can help. Those who believed that works mattered, the conservatives, felt just the opposite—good deeds earned salvation. To prove the other camp wrong was to condemn them to hell. The debate raged, and when Governor Vane lost his bid for reelection, he also lost support for his cause. Vane returned to England, leaving Hutchinson, and by familial association, Wheelwright, to handle the fallout. The conservative leadership acted swiftly and, while nonviolent, were savage in their efficiency.
Everyone associated with Vane or Hutchinson was banished from all of Massachusetts. Every friend, business associate, and, of course, the brother-in-law pastor who, without directly supporting the cause, supported the free speech that made the argument possible, were to take their leave via ocean voyage before the sun set.
This very night.
Wheelwright’s muscles burned as he put the oars of the small rowboat to the water, pushing through the placid seas toward the waiting galleon anchored in the bay. After boarding the sixty-odd exiles in Boston, the ship was to head north along the coast, picking up wares and other passengers before returning to England. He looked back to the shore and saw a few lamps burning. He had pictured himself making a permanent home there. It had become his dream, but it had been taken from him. Yet having no acquaintances in the New World outside of Massachusetts, he was forced to England. There was nothing he could do but pack up his belongings and leave with his second wife, Mary, their five children, and Mary’s mother in tow. They had become vagabonds in a single day, their future uncertain, and he, a man of God, humiliated.
In a burst of frustration, Wheelwright drove the oar down hard. It connected with the water at an odd angle and broke free from his grasp. He lurched out for the oar, nearly capsizing the boat before catching his thighs on the gunwale and falling back inside as the oar slipped into the darkness.
His temper mounted as he lay on his back and fought the temptation to curse God. He held his tongue, but he could not silence his thoughts:
Where art thou, God, in this, my darkest hour? Why hast thou forsaken me? Was it not thee who planted the seed of desire in my heart to come to Boston? I have always been faithful, obeyed every command, attended every whisper of guidance. But this, this is a cruel thing thou doest! I pray thee, speak Lord, even a whisper; thy servant heareth.
At that moment he longed for God to do more than whisper. The beliefs for which he had been exiled were not his own. He had surely been misjudged and mistreated by man, but would his God abandon him while on a divine errand?
Staring up at the dazzling display of stars in the night sky, his thoughts turned to prayer. But he had no more words for his Creator.
Bile and disbelief rose within Wheelwright’s breast. He sat up, leaned over the side of the boat and retched into the ocean losing his supper and easing his emotions. He gagged three more times and wiped his mouth.
“Lord,” Wheelwright spoke, his voice soft and wet, “hast thou no mercy to spare thy servant?”
The boat bobbed as small waves cascaded toward shore.
“Hast thou forgotten me?”
The waves grew in size. Wheelwright held on to the side, but gave the rising waters no heed.
“No more whispers, Lord. Before I turn from thee in earnest, speak thy will to me.”
The waves receded, and the sea flattened. Wheelwright sat in the boat, still clutching the side, listening…and hearing nothing.
In that moment, his mind became like stone. “Then my mind is made up. England it is and the New World be damned,” he cried in false heartiness. He’d always been in good favor with the people there. His reputation was established, and any number of churches would welcome him. Wheelwright’s stomach soured. Did he even want to preach again? If God could so easily desert a loyal follower, was God really worth following?
A light clunk sounded from the side of the boat. Wheelwright thought it might be the oar. Perhaps it was God’s response? Take the oar, return to England? He peered over the side and into the water.
No oar.
But there was something there…a reflection of something above? There were two objects, like two halves of a circle separated by several feet. A reflection of the moon? But when Wheelwright scanned the heavens, he found the full moon hung near the horizon.
Not the moon.
Nervous claws tore at Wheelwright’s innards. The hair on his arms rose. His instincts screamed of a danger that his mind could not comprehend.
Then it struck him. The half circles where not reflections from above; they were physical objects from below. He looked down into the black and saw the two orbs for what they really were. Eyes. Each the size of a man’s head, they looked straight up at him. “Good Lord!” His reason fought for control while his emotions swirled.
Not eyes, thought Wheelwright. Something else. Some object loosed from a sunken vessel. Buoys perhaps? Yes, buoys.
Then the buoys blinked.
Wheelwright rose to his feet and filled his lungs, prepared to let loose a scream he hoped would attract the galleon’s attention. But his voice never escaped his open mouth. Darkness enshrouded him and closed above him. Tepid, rank air greeted him as he realized that God, angry at his disrespect had sent the devil himself to eat him alive.
A quick jolt from beneath knocked him from the boat, and he landed on a firm, yet soft surface. The beast suddenly lifted its head and drew Wheelwright deeper into its throat. Flesh wrapped around him, and he felt himself being pushed down…down toward the creature’s gullet, where a slow and torturous death awaited.
Two days later, Wheelwright woke to a blinding light. Heaven or hell? As his senses returned, he became aware of a burning sensation beneath him and sweltering hot humid air stinging his skin. Hell, he thought. But the smell was not one would expect of hell, it was more like lilacs and ocean air.
He sat up and found himself on a beach. He was still dressed in his black doublet and breeches, though the cloth looked more like rags than proper attire. His skin was sickly pale and wrinkled, but otherwise he felt fine. He didn’t recognize the shoreline, but it was most definitely the New World. The maple trees lining the beach told him that much.
Looking down, Wheelwright saw a single word etched in the sand.
Exeter.
A flash of thoughts and memories came to him. His entire ordeal, the last two days and nights, crowded his mind. Had it really happened? Another look at his puffy white flesh confirmed it. But no one must know what he’d endured. It was safer that way. And he had a mission to complete. God had revealed that much to him. He had no concept of the ends, but his savings gave him the means.
Positive he was once again in God’s good graces, he took a deep breath and sighed, allowing the smell of salty sand, lilac and leaf laden earth to calm his frantic mind. He smiled as the scent of his new home filled him with hope. Though he longed to see God’s plans laid out before him, he felt confident that his acts, conceived of and willed by God, would have positive results for all men. God’s dramatic action over the past two days could only mean that the end result would be beyond the most vivid imaginings of Wheelwright’s feeble mind.
/> Agreement of the Settlers at Exeter,
New Hampshire, 1639
Whereas it hath pleased the Lord to move the Heart of our dread Sovereign Charles, by the Grace of God King &c., to grant Licence and Libertye to sundry of his subjects to plant themselves in the Westerlle parts of America, we his loyal Subjects, Brethren of the Church in Exeter, situate and lying upon the River Pascataqua with other Inhabitants there, considering with ourselves the holy Will of God and our own Necessity that we should not live without wholesomne Lawes and Civil Government among us, of which we are altogether destitute, do in the name of Christ and in the sight of God combine ourselves together to erect and set up among us such Government as shall be to our best discerning agreeable to the Will of God, professing ourselves Subjects to our Sovereign Lord King Charles according to the Libertyes of our English Colony of Massachusetts, and binding of ourselves solemnly by the Grace and Help of Christ and in His Name and fear to submit ourselves to such Godly and Christian Lawes as are established in the realm of England to our best Knowledge, and to all other such Lawes which shall upon good grounds be made and enacted among us according to God that we may live quietly and peaceably together in all godliness and honesty. Mo. 8. D. 4. 1639 as attests our Hands.
Signed—John Wheelwright
DESCENT
2
Rye, New Hampshire, 2008
The sea can do many things. It is the womb of all life on the planet. Weather patterns and natural disasters are at the mercy of the mighty blue’s ebb and flow. A food chain that supplies sustenance for most life-forms on the planet begins and ends in the deep. But what Atticus Young had learned in the last two years was that the ocean, for all its might and wonder, could not heal a broken man.