The Atlantis Origins

by S. A. Beck

  Assuming there were any seeds at all.

  The others were still talking, asking her questions. Vaguely, she heard Dr. Yamazaki shout out a warning, but she wasn’t paying attention anymore. She only had thoughts for channeling her energy into the dry sand, trying to bring life from nothing.

  Then she felt it—that same tingling sense of movement, like some vital force of hers passing through her hands and down through the sand and into…something.

  She opened her eyes, not realizing that she had closed them, and watched as a thin green shoot pushed out from the ground. It grew, elongating into a golden stalk. Dimly, she heard the gasps of the people around her. She focused on putting more energy into it, coaxing the plant into life.

  The world spun, and suddenly, she was overcome with a terrible thirst and a deep sense of exhaustion. She continued to channel her energy into the plant.

  Jaxon was just beginning to recognize the plant the shoot was growing into when all went dark and she fell to the ground.

  She awoke to the sensation of cool water flowing down her parched throat. Jaxon opened her eyes to find she lay in the cool interior of the cave, with Vivian bending over her. The mercenary was just taking away a metal cup.

  “You were right, honey. Half a cup was enough.”

  Jaxon sat up, feeling refreshed. Otto bent down next to her.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, relieved that her hunch had worked out. She stood up. “I’m totally fine.”

  Dr. Yamazaki scolded her. “What did I tell you about overtaxing your energy? You could have killed yourself!”

  “But I didn’t. The well saved me.”

  “You were lucky,” the scientist said, frowning.

  “No, I was right.”

  “You were more right than you know,” Dr. Yuhle said, coming up to the group. “You know what that plant was?”

  “No,” Jaxon replied.

  “Wheat.”

  “Wheat in the desert?”

  “Not only is it wheat, but it’s a very early domesticated strain. It isn’t modern wheat that got carried here by a bird or a windstorm or falling off the back of a truck—this is some of the first wheat to be domesticated in the early Neolithic.”

  “We never studied that,” Jaxon said. Actually, she wasn’t sure if they had. She zoned out in history class so much that she had missed whole eras of the past. Not that it mattered, considering how much she and the Atlantis Allegiance were rewriting the history books.

  “The Sahara has been steadily expanding over the centuries,” Yuhle said. “Six thousand years ago, this was an open plain. Perhaps not as lush as Europe, but certainly habitable.”

  Grunt stared at the scientist. “So you’re saying Jaxon brought a six-thousand-year-old plant back to life?”

  Yuhle shrugged. “Seeds can lie dormant for a long time. It takes a lot to get them growing again, and considering Jaxon wasn’t even touching the seed, it shows that her powers are far more powerful than we realized.” He turned to Jaxon. “And far more dangerous for her. Jaxon, I am perfectly willing to risk my life for this project, as are the rest of us, but not if you’re going to gamble with your own life.”

  Jaxon was about to object before deciding against it. Yuhle was right, of course. All of these people had turned their lives upside down to help her, and here she was, taking crazy chances. She tried to form an apology and failed. She’d never been good at apologizing. It didn’t come easily when other people were so often in the wrong. At last, she only nodded.

  She noticed Dr. Yamazaki laying down a row of flashlights on the cave floor to shine on the giant mural at the back of the cave. Vivian was busy filling up several canteens at the well.

  “What are you guys doing?”

  “I’m going to photograph the painting. It’s vital to our research,” the scientist said.

  “And I’m taking as much of this life juice as possible,” Vivian said. “In this part of the world, we’ll need it sooner or later.”

  Jaxon felt a bit uneasy, as if they were violating the sanctity of this place. This cave and its wonders had remained hidden for so long, far off the caravan routes and highway, in the middle of a desert where no one could disturb it, quiet and dark, and now a camera was flashing, lighting up the interior, as the two scientists talked excitedly between themselves. All these centuries her people had remained hidden, and now they were being turned into research subjects.

  Otto came up to her and put an arm around her shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Jaxon shrugged. “Nothing.”

  She couldn’t find the words to object. They should record the painting, after all, and they sure might need more of that water, but it still didn’t feel right.

  “I hope we get where we’re going soon.” She sighed.

  After a final long look at the painting, she walked out into the harsh desert sun. Otto followed. They walked silently through the ruins. The first time she and Vivian had passed through here, they were almost dead, and then they had left in haste, eager to find the others. Now she took a better look.

  There was a series of low walls made up of chiseled stones like bricks. She could pick out several buildings, all sharing walls and huddling together like modern apartments. Doorways, visible now only as breaks in the wall with a flat stone for a threshold, opened onto the buildings. Jaxon noticed that the doorways were always set close to the neighbor’s entrance. In between the clusters of buildings were open areas she guessed were little plazas. One had a low stone bench. She sat down on it next to Otto, imagining families and friends gathering here long ago.

  “Creepy place,” Otto said, looking around.

  “It’s not creepy at all,” Jaxon countered. “Look at how the houses are built right next to one another. The Atlanteans wanted to stick together, stay close. Plus, this little canyon gives shade for part of the day, so it’s a good place to build houses. Even if the Sahara wasn’t desert then like Yuhle says, I bet it was still plenty hot.”

  Otto shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I know so. I can feel it, like I could feel my way to this place. Even when I was dying of thirst, as soon as I spotted this canyon, I knew I had to go to it. I just knew it was a place I needed to be.”

  Otto didn’t reply to that.

  Jaxon looked at her feet and saw a pottery shard lying in the dust. She picked it up and brushed it off. It was about half the size of the palm of her hand and had part of an Atlantean painted on it in black. It was just a silhouette, but the shape of the body and the long hair made her guess it was a woman.

  “Good idea!” Yuhle said, coming out of the cave and noticing what she was doing. “We should gather some artifacts.”

  The scientist went into one of the houses and started looking around.

  “Leave them alone!” Jaxon shouted.

  Yuhle looked at her, startled.

  “I wasn’t going to dig in here. I’m not an archaeologist, so that would be unethical. I was just going to collect anything on the surface like you did.”

  “Just leave them alone,” she repeated.

  Yuhle adjusted his glasses, looked at her uncertainly, and went to join the others, who were just coming out of the cave.

  Jaxon pocketed the piece of pottery.

  “So you can take stuff and he can’t?” Otto whispered.

  Jaxon looked at him defiantly. “That’s right.”

  Jaxon stared at the cave, where images of her people had lain hidden for countless years. Those were the only members of her people she had ever seen, except for some photos Edward had collected that may or may not be of Atlanteans, plus that frustrating brief contact in Marrakech with a woman who didn’t speak her language, and Moustafa, the healer who also couldn’t speak English and who had talked to her through a snake charmer who did. He didn’t know much more about their people than she did, but it had been his suggestion to journey to Timbuktu.

  Seeing a whole town of Atl
anteans, even if it had disappeared thousands of years ago, buoyed her spirits and brought home the fact that she really was part of a larger group.

  The idea that she might soon meet a living community of her people sent a thrill through her but also made her deeply afraid. What would she say to them? What if they turned out to be a big disappointment? She thought back to all those foster homes, all those new schools, all those new starts, all those disappointments. Who could say this new start would turn out to be any better than the rest?

  Or maybe they wouldn’t be bad people. Maybe they’d be regular folks who didn’t have any answers to her questions, like Moustafa. That would be just as frustrating. This whole crazy trip, all this danger, could be for nothing.

  “We should get going,” Otto said.

  “I’m trying to think, Otto,” she snapped. Why did everyone always demand things from her?

  “How about you think about not pushing away everyone around you?” he grumbled, getting up and stomping off.

  The rest of the Atlantis Allegiance moved up and out of the canyon, only Vivian casting a glance back at her. Jaxon looked away.

  Once they were gone, Jaxon let out a breath and relaxed a little. This was what she had needed, a bit of solitude. In her old life, she’d gotten too much; now, she didn’t get any at all.

  She got up and went back into the cave. Switching on her flashlight, she stood in front of the painting and studied it one last time.

  Now that all the chattering had died down and the crowd had moved on, she could properly focus on it.

  The message was clear enough, and it was just as it had been told in the legends. The Atlanteans had risen to greatness, become arrogant and quarrelsome, and gotten punished for it. A great flood came and sank their island home, making them scatter across the Earth to build up the world’s great civilizations.

  But who’d punished them? The books she’d looked at told different stories. The ancient stories had said the ancient gods had done it because the Atlanteans had tried to become gods themselves. From what the scientists said, the old pagan religions were full of stories like that. Yuhle and Yamazaki, of course, thought it had been a natural disaster. Some of the newer books said it was God Himself who struck down Atlantis, flooding it like in the flood of Noah.

  Were they the same flood? She’d never really thought about religion much. God just seemed to be another distant authority figure who was there to judge but not to help.

  But perhaps this was an important lesson. Hadn’t she gotten arrogant when she discovered her powers? Hadn’t she thought she was invulnerable? And she’d sure gotten punished for it. Brett had been killed, and here she was, in the middle of nowhere, in one of the most dangerous parts of the world, having barely survived a trek across the desert.

  She’d be dead right now if it weren’t for that pool of water by her feet.

  Perhaps that had been her second chance. And her people had been given a second chance too. Not all had been killed. Some had escaped and built up new civilizations.

  Jaxon thought back at what Otto had said about pushing people away. She’d had enough therapy to know why she did it—because of feeling rejected by being given up for adoption and then the lifelong string of disappointing foster homes. People kept disappointing her until she stopped trying to be close to them. Pushing people away had become a habit, and she was doing it with some of the first real friends she’d ever had in her life. She even did it with Otto, her first boyfriend.

  Jaxon turned and left the cave, walking up the canyon and past the lone strand of ancient wheat to where the Atlantis Allegiance waited patiently for her in the Land Rovers.

  Chapter 11

  August 6, 2016, THE BACK ALLEYS OF MARRAKECH, MOROCCO

  11:45 P.M.

  * * *

  Isadore Grant stood in the shadows of the narrow Moroccan back street deep in the medina, the old quarter, of Marrakech. Except for a dim bulb shining over a blank metal door about fifty yards away, there was no illumination. The weak light revealed a few other doors, all metal, all tightly closed, and a few high, shuttered windows protected by metal grilles. No one was in sight, and she could hear no sounds from within any of the houses.

  She smiled. One good thing about the Muslim world was there was no nightlife. The ban on alcohol took care of that. That meant empty streets at this hour. Perfect for night work.

  Her target was a door just a little way down the alley. At first appearance, it wasn’t much different from the rest except that it appeared older, made of wood, and decorated in the old style, with ornate arabesques and studded with brass knobs. A big bronze knocker in the shape of the Hand of Fatima hung at the center of it. The door looked as if it entered onto some old traditional home, perhaps of some leading family of religious scholars.

  Her local contact told her different.

  “That is the place,” Amir whispered. He was a typical young Moroccan tough, decked out in jeans and a leather jacket, with a baseball cap stuck low on his head to shroud his features in shadow. Amir was on the CIA payroll and didn’t mind doing a bit of extra work for Corbin on the side—for a price, of course.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “It is run by a man named Mohammad el Aoufi. It is like a hotel, but no one has to register with the government like at other hotels.”

  “Sounds like a place our targets would end up. How do people find out about it? I don’t see a sign or anything.”

  “Word of mouth. Secret chat rooms on the Dark Net. Other ways.”

  “Who stays there?”

  Amir shrugged. “All sorts. Arabs. Europeans. Africans. People who have something to hide or do not want their movements traced. Mohammad el Aoufi does not let in the worst criminals, the human traffickers and such people, but he does not ask many questions. He has one rule—the guests do not talk to one another.”

  Isadore nodded. That was smart, and fortunate. That meant no one else knew what Jaxon and her friends were up to.

  “So how do you know they stayed here?”

  Amir looked proud. “I am the one who took the picture. I had received a message to be on the watch for such people, and when I saw them in the medina, I took a photo on my phone and followed them here. They did not see me.”

  Isadore studied him. From what General Corbin had said, this guy knew the streets like the back of his hand, having been raised in them. With the crowding of the average Moroccan street during the day, Amir could probably tail Grunt without being spotted.

  “So you only saw two enter, the big one and the young one?”

  Amir nodded. “But my men saw the others come. The southerner and the blonde woman came together. Then a young fat man, an older man, and an Asian woman. My men have been watching this place since I alerted the general.”

  Isadore suppressed a smile. His “men” were a bunch of teenage street toughs. Back in the States, none of them would be old enough to drink. Half of them weren’t old enough to drive. Still, no one knew the streets better than street kids. They were the eyes and ears of the medina, ignored by decent folk but seeing and hearing everything.

  “Have you been inside?” she asked.

  Amir shook his head. “Only Mohammad el Aoufi and his family go in there, and the guests. Some of the guests have bodyguards, so be careful.”

  “What else do you know?” Isadore asked.

  “The two I photographed bought weapons from one of the gun merchants.”

  “What did they buy?”

  “You think I knock on the door and ask?”

  Isadore shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “They buy two Land Rovers too.”

  Isadore’s eyes narrowed. Land Rovers meant an overland journey. Had they struck out into the desert? But why? What would be out there for them?

  “Did they leave?” Isadore asked. Amir hadn’t mentioned that.

  “All but one. They left five days ago, but do not worry,” Amir quickly added. “The fat one is still in there.�
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  Isadore had studied photographs of all the suspects, and none of them were overweight, unless you counted the hundred pounds of muscle on Grunt as a weight problem. It certainly had been a problem for Isadore when he had been pummeling her back in the Chinatown ambush.

  Amir’s descriptions of the people he and his “men” had watched jibed with all the known members of Jaxon’s group, assuming when Amir said “southerner,” he meant Jaxon herself. An odd turn of phrase. The kid must think Jaxon was African.

  So the fat fellow must be the hacker. Why had he stayed when everyone else had left?

  “You sure he’s still in there?”

  “He never come out after he go in. He was not in the Land Rovers, of that I am sure.”

  Isadore glowered at him. “He better still be in there for your sake. Ready?”

  Amir pulled a 9mm automatic from the pocket of his leather jacket and then hid it again. “Ready.”

  He turned and signaled down the alley. A low whistle told them that his gang lay in wait in the shadows.

  “Go do your thing,” Isadore ordered. She handed him a small metal canister with a pull tab. “And remember what I told you.”

  Amir took the canister and sauntered up to the door. Isadore stayed where she was in case there was a hidden camera that might spot her.

  Amir rapped the knocker, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet back street. Isadore reached into the deep pockets of her overcoat and pulled out an automatic pistol with a silencer in one hand and another metal canister with the other.

  There was a long pause then a muffled question in Arabic from the other side of the door. Amir replied in the same language. Isadore wished she had learned some Arabic. She hated not knowing what was being said.

  There was a back and forth for a minute, with Amir sounding increasingly insistent. Finally, a little window opened in the door, covered by a thick grille.