His laptop sat on the dining-room table, papers strewn under and around it.
He plopped on his chair, opening the laptop. He clicked on his email icon; his morning routine, though he missed one vital aspect—his tea.
Subject: Drew Avera, I’m screwed!
The tea could wait.
Drew frowned. He opened the email and leaned in close.
“Uncle Jaxx?” He whispered the name out loud.
He slid his hand across the table, searching for his phone. “Where is that damn thing?” He tugged at his hair. He forever hunted for his constant misplaced phone and always frantic about it.
He pushed some papers off the table, searching for the blasted thing. A loud clank. It fell to the floor with the papers. “Son of a…”
Picking up his phone, he looked up Kaden Jaxx in his contacts. He pressed dial. It went straight to voicemail. He thought for a moment and cracked a smile. Jaxx was screwing with him like he always did when he was a kid. Jaxx would dress up as the Wolfman or Dracula or a blood-spattered zombie and hide in the coat closet or at the top of the basement stairs, then jump out and chase him and his sister around the house, while they screamed their heads off. Good times. “That bastard.”
Yet, the email intrigued him. It didn’t have a “Wolfman” tone about it.
He read the email a second time. This wasn’t like Jaxx. He wouldn’t write an email out of the blue like this, especially as a joke.
The email hurried, Jaxx didn’t even finish writing the s in suspicious.
Drew clicked out of his email and opened the internet. He typed in Global Safety Administration on the search bar. The administration popped up under the search terms. He clicked on it and the website loaded on the screen. A logo of Earth with a star in the middle was on the upper left of the website, GSA in all bold directly next to it with United States Global Safety Administration in all caps.
The site was full of information. The About page alone had eight subdirectories. This was going to take a while, though most of it would be “politics speak” i.e. it would tell him almost nothing. PR was a load of manure.
He looked at the clock. How much time could he realistically put in to help Jaxx? “Be a grown up. Hit your deadline. Don’t get distracted.” He’d take a few minutes and skim the page. GSA was probably harmless.
He clicked on the subdirectory entitled GSA Administrator. Colonel Slade Roberson popped up, along with several paragraphs telling the reader how great Slade was and why Slade believed global safety was amongst the most important aspects of government.
That told him nothing.
He clicked through the website, not finding anything of importance, other than it was created to protect the United States and the world against global warming. The rest gibberish, as predicted.
He clicked out of the website and typed Colonel Slade Roberson in the search bar. Dozens of search terms and topics appeared. He looked for an interview. That would tell him more about Slade than anything else.
Drew double clicked the first interview he saw; Rock Magazine.
A music magazine? Drew shrugged and read through the interview. It was about politics and where Slade stood on this issue and that issue. When global warming came up, Slade was convinced it was occurring. He claimed he was working diligently with the government to prevent it, or slow it down.
Drew scrunched up his face and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t convinced global warming was as man-made as the media had pronounced it. Nonetheless, Drew continued reading, stopping at a particular question and answer. He re-read it, then read it again. What a puzzling answer to a not-so puzzling question.
Below it was Slade’s video-taped answer. He didn’t want to bother taking time to watch something for two minutes when he could read it in twenty seconds, but it might be useful to see Slade in action; people give so much away when they speak. Things you can’t see in the transcript. He glanced down at his thighs. He sat naked. He shrugged. Who cared, he had nowhere else to be. He clicked on the video.
The interviewer asked what would need to happen if the administration and other governmental administrations throughout the world couldn’t stop global warming. Slade shifted in his seat. Drew’s antennae went up. It was Slade’s tell, a slight twist of the head, his chin rising, and his eyes looking left. It was distinctive, albeit subtle.
“The United States government and the Constitution of the United States of America would need to be preserved as a first priority,” said Slade. Another glance to the left. The man was hiding something. “No government or piece of legislation is more important in the history of the world. Preserving them should be our first step.”
That was the key to Slade that Drew wanted, a peel of the onion layer. Slade planned to preserve the administration, but how and where? If, as he believed, the rivers rose and the cities sank and humanity was huddled onto smaller and smaller patches of parched, non-arable land, where was he planning to put the policy wonks and the political hacks? And once he had them all safely holed up, what was next? Now that Drew had the bit between his teeth, the hunt was on. Things were going to go his favorite way, dark and deep.
7
May 25th ~ Underfoot Black, Grenada
Why did I take those stupid glossies? I could be researching with the team right now.
Well, you know, alongside the team.
Well, no, not the team per se, alongside Shaughnessy.
Jaxx sat in a square room, white walls, high ceiling, single light bulb. Predictable in its efforts to intimidate him. It worked.
A large mirror positioned on one of the walls, no doubt there to spy on him. A lone bed across the room, mashed into the corner. The frame was about a foot too short and the mattress reeked of mold and sweat. Again, a crass attempt to cow him and force a “confession” out, but there was nothing to confess. Better yet, he’d spent all night curled on that bed and caught some much-needed shut eye. Jaxx careened between hope—that he was too valuable to lock up and throw away the key—and fear that he was exactly that, disposable.
“Good, you’re awake.” Slade’s voice echoed in the room.
Jaxx stared at himself in the mirror. “Are you on the other side of that mirror?”
“Why did you steal the glossies?”
Jaxx’s muscles went rigid. I’m an idiot, rose to mind.
“Stealing government property is a federal offense. Do you know how many years I could put you away for this?”
“They were just pic—”
“Pictures of classified information. What you were attempting to do was treason. If this gets out, our entire operation is compromised.”
Jaxx’s stomach sank. “What do you want from me?”
Silence.
“Hello?” said Jaxx. “When can I get back to work?”
The key turned in the lock, the bolts were drawn back, the door groaned on its hinges and Slade walked in. He stood, hands on his hips, anger in his eyes. “I’m not here to play games with you, Jaxx. I’m here to glean as much information from you as I can. We’ve picked you because you can help us. I can’t afford taking you off the team, but if I have to throw you in prison, I will. And for a long, long time. I’d pile on felony after felony and put you in there for enough time to drive you bat shit crazy so you wouldn’t be able to spill any classified information to the public. And even if you tried to, once you got out,” Slade leaned in close, his minty-fresh chewing gum breath right in Jaxx’s face. “If you ever got out. People would know you were bat shit crazy because you’d be cross-eyed, bald from pulling your hair out, and not able to walk straight. So, from this point forward, Captain Richard Fox will have both eyes on you to make sure you stay in line. Do you understand?”
Jaxx nodded.
“Do you understand.”
Jaxx squared his shoulders. “Yes.”
“Good.” Slade motioned to the doorway and Jaxx got up to leave. Slade put his hand up. “You’re staying here.”
Donny came in wit
h a chair and placed it next to the bed.
“Lay on your bed, Jaxx,” said Slade. “You surprised us yesterday. You should have told us you had been in the Secret Space Program, sooner. You are more valuable than we initially thought.”
Jaxx’s chest tightened. “I don’t know anything about the Secret Space Program.”
“That’s what Captain Fox reported. You didn’t recognize him, you didn’t know jackshit about the program. Nonetheless, we need to know more about what you don’t know. Lay on the bed, Jaxx.”
Donny sat in his chair, clipboard in hand and a pen across the top of his ear. He held his hand toward the bed, as if that somehow made it welcoming, rather than intimidating. “We won’t harm you, Kaden. Trust me. I want what’s best for you. Any hidden memories that surface will only serve to lighten your load and enhance your mood. Things will become easier and you’ll be more aware of the world around you.”
Jaxx fidgeted with his hands. He didn’t want to go through this again. “You planted those memories in my head.”
Slade took a few steps toward Jaxx. “Are you shitting me?” He grabbed Jaxx under the armpits and carried him over to the bed. “I can throw you in prison whenever I want. So, I would suggest complying with us would be your number one option.” He let go and Jaxx fell onto the bed, the coils squeaking and bouncing.
* * *
Jaxx looked at his hands. Once again, they were gloved and gripping a control stick.
“Starfighter 117, this is Mission Control, you’re set for takeoff. Release from the launch tube now.”
The war. The oncoming battle. He was back, on some demented launch loop. It was Groundhog Day, with a twist.
He could see a gray planet in the distance and explosions highlighting the cosmos in front of him, just as he had the day before. He didn’t want to go to war, but he had no other options. Once again, Donny Dearest had dropped him into some whackadoo simulation at the point of no return. In a spacefighter, with weapons at his command. He was strapped in and ready for a fight.
Jaxx pressed on the accelerator and blasted out of the tube, pressing the control stick forward just as he exited. He headed straight down, evading massive cannon fire from an enemy starship.
He wanted to thank the woman who gave him the advice and instantly knew her name; Captain Rivkah Ravenwood. They had exchanged pleasantries a day ago, though she hadn’t been particularly pleasant. They made small talk and she let him know, more than once, that “no one in the galaxy is as good a starfighter as me.”
He could hear her voice in his head. Bold. Distinct. Southern.
Why did she help him?
Explosions and Plasma Cannons, aka PC’s, strafed the starlit darkness before him. It was one hell of a way to get a man to concentrate on the matter at hand. Jaxx honed and focused. More than that, he dodged the mess and confusion, as if he’d been flying his entire life.
On his starboard, a ship shaped like a massive egg slid into view. Jaxx eased back on his stick, rounded to face the behemoth and squeezed the trigger, expelling plasma bursts from PC’s on his starfighter’s wings. He hammered the craft. The shell ignited, then split, just as if he’d cracked an egg on the side of his cast-iron skillet.
Humans spilled out of the egg-ship, like runny yolk. They died before they knew what hit them.
Mission Control boomed through Jaxx’s comm. “Starfighter 117, cease fire. You killed a friendly. I repeat, you killed a friendly. Only fire on weapon’s lock. That’s the enemy.”
He should have felt something—guilt or shame or heartache—for allegedly killing off his own people, but everything was too chaotic, as if he had been thrown in combat with almost no training—which he had.
A craft fired a barrage of plasma blasts, barely missing him as it flew on by.
Jaxx arced away, doing his best to get his bearings. More craft buzzed by, one collapsing in a ball of fire, the other flying through the explosion.
Jaxx pulled away, avoiding more cannon fire. Then he felt it, a direct hit to the stern. His craft spiraled.
“Shit, shit! What am I doing out here?”
His hands shook as if he sat in a cockpit of ice, his breaths fast and shallow. “I need help out here.”
“Settle yourself, Starfighter 117.”
The woman’s voice.
“Rivkah? I’ve been hit. I’m spiraling.”
“Hit the auto-stasis.” She was calm. Preternaturally calm. She sounded like she knew what she was about.
“Auto-stasis?”
“Jeez, Jaxx. Get a grip. Big green button, to your left. You’ll right yourself in less than two minutes. All we have to do...say it with me…”
Jaxx had no idea what he was supposed to say, but he did find the green button and thwacked it over and over again.
“You still there, candy-ass?” Rivkah didn’t mince her words.
“Still here.”
“Right, like I always say, all we have to do to get through this war is, butts in buckets, bullets in battle, then back to base.”
Jaxx’s fighter evened out.
“That’s all the advice I have for you, cowboy. If you make it through this alive, I’ll see you on the carrier. Out.”
“God, I hope so.”
Above his starfighter, ships the size of cities blasted each other. Cannon fire. Missiles. And shit he’d never seen. A couple dozen large military crafts, pointed noses, diamond-shaped, the majority targeting the three Star Carriers in his fleet, all of which resembled behemoth aircraft carriers. It reminded him of the navy battles of old but at a distance thousands of kilometers away from each other, yet maintaining their space, pounding one another.
A starfighter zoomed by his port side. A handful of starfighters followed. They had the same insignia as the egg-ship he’d accidentally busted open, which meant they were friendlies. They spiraled, barreling toward one of the larger craft—apparently an enemy—gaining distance at incredible speed. In minutes, and on approach, they lit the craft with plasma blasts. It reacted, but too late. Fire erupted from its belly, only to extinguish in the vacuum of space a moment later. The ship went dark. Out of commission.
The starfighters rounded in unison and headed toward a bigger craft and pounded it with more weapons fire. This craft, however, barely grazed, this time ready, and released small fighters of its own, limiting the amount of damage it sustained. Jaxx’s visor automatically zoomed in on its own accord, and he observed a small crack in the enemy ship’s side. It returned fire, purple plasma bolts propelling out its side, and downed a few of the attackers.
Jaxx studied the crack more. A slit extended down the starboard side, exposing giant cogs and wheels in the engine room. Vital components. A direct hit in that exposure would put that craft out of commission.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a large piece of debris, floating near the ship. He pushed the throttle forward, sending his craft at an incredible speed at the debris. Yet it was his body that reacted, more so than his mind operating his decision.
Jaxx flew toward the debris and closer to the enemy craft. Then, his mind, his self, his essence shifted. His consciousness expanded—up, out, all around him, like a massive force field. He was outside his craft. No, he was one with the craft.
What the hell?
He blinked his eyes several times, dodging incoming cannon fire. Yet, dodging didn’t require moving his craft with the control stick. He needed only think “left” and his ship veered left, just the number of degrees required not to be shredded by enemy fire. A flush of adrenaline tingled through him. That’s not right. Impossible. Men didn’t merge with their space craft and moved them with their thoughts. He was delusional. Perhaps his helmet, his ship, pumped him full of hallucinogens, to alter his consciousness. To what end, he couldn’t imagine.
Abruptly, he and his viewpoint shifted back to normal. No longer expanded, back in his body. It was clunky, heavy, difficult to operate. Who’d designed humans? They’d done a piss-poor job of making
them nimble.
His console lit up. Alarms blared. The enemy locked onto him. He was toast. The large craft with the slit in its side had him square in their sites.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaxx expanded again, heart pumping.
Cannon bolts shot from the craft. With a single thought, Jaxx dodged the weapons fire as if playing dodge ball. Lucky. But would his luck hold out? If he took on the huge craft on his own and aimed for the critical slit, without other starfighters as back up or drawing fire, his chance of survival was nil. He had to stay away from the ship and its turrets as best he could.
The debris was the solution, his ultimate goal, but why? How would it help him? The debris was inanimate, not controlled by anything but the forces of space. Perhaps if he targeted it, blasted it, he could deflect it into the craft’s damaged side. That would take accuracy even an ace pilot didn’t have. But he had physics on his side. He knew vectors and angles and trajectories. He knew how to land the eight-ball in the top pocket after bouncing off three cushions and the yellow ball that stood in his way. In his dreams, Jaxx had always been a pool shark. And here he was, a space shark, with a plan to nudge a piece of debris into a slit in a ship.
The Complete Atlantis Series, Books 1 - 5: Ascendant Saga Page 5