But her ship didn’t. She’d have to do it the old-fashioned way and fly as far and as fast as she could.
A ship appeared on her helmet hologram. Another SF-13 Air Wing had exited out of the starship she just escaped from, moving in her direction.
“Just one?”
She was expecting an entire squadron. One would be suicide – for the other pilot.
Another ship expelled from the starship.
Yep. They were sending more. And more.
“Put up or shut up,” she said. “It’s show time.”
16
Charlotte, North Carolina ~ Earth
Drew sat on his porch, the end of the world as he knew it on his mind. “How long are you going to stand there and not say anything?”
The screen door squeaked open. “Sorry, Sir.” It was the girl. She’d been standing there a while, too afraid to make a noise.
It was morning and Drew gazed down the road. The streets were bare, unhappy, his neighborhood nearly empty of neighbors who were most likely fleeing this portion of the United States or the entire east coast. They had an idea of what was coming.
Now that he’d sobered up, so did Drew.
He scratched his cheek, shifting his eyes to the boarded-up house across the street. “Your name is Mya?”
The girl stood behind him. “Yeah.”
“How old are you, Mya?”
“Six.”
Drew patted the ground, asking Mya to take a seat, suddenly feeling like a father-figure, someone with responsibilities. Drew sucked at responsibility. The only thing he was good at sucking was a joint. “Where is your mom?”
Mya walked over and sat next to Drew. “She isn’t awake yet, Sir.”
“Is your Dad in the military?”
Mya nodded her head.
“Do you know how I knew that?”
The girl shook her head and picked at the ground. The poor kid. She had no idea what was going on, why her life had suddenly changed and what was next, where they were headed – if they were headed anywhere.
“Because you keep calling me, sir.” He pointed to the clouds. “I don’t like to be called sir, because that’s my dad’s name, Slade Isaac Roberson, and when you take his initials, it spells S-I-R, Sir. He is the reason we have this fu...bad situation at hand. Please don’t call me Sir anymore, okay?”
“Oh...”
Mya’s mom pushed open the screen door. Her hair was disheveled, eyes swollen from crying or lack of sleep or both. “They shut off the electricity.”
Drew slumped. “Those motherfu...mean people. They couldn’t leave it on? They can’t give us people a break before we go insane and start killing each other before the coming apocalypse?” He was kidding – sort of.
“What are we going to do?” Her voice was flat, not because she didn’t care, but because for the last few days that Drew had gotten to know her, she was a straight-shooting, no bullshit kind of gal. She was to the point, not one of those annoying “I’m going to question the shit out of you until you guessed what I’m trying to get at” type of person. He liked her. “We need a car. Did any of your neighbors leave one around?”
“I already checked. Nothing.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Camila, why didn’t you tell me your husband was military?”
Camila pointed down the street. “It doesn’t matter. He knows stuff and told me to take Mya west where it’s safer. That’s where we will eventually go. You can come.”
Fuck. He almost forgot. He had to go west as well. Anderle, his internet buddy and Converse-wearing genius, who was almost as smart as him – though he blew Drew out of the water in regards to computer smarts – needed Drew in Tennessee. How the fuck was he going to get there? No car. No public transportation. And what were they going to do about food and water? He couldn’t trek across country with a woman and two kids.
Right on cue, the baby started crying. He was hungry. They were all hungry.
Drew bit his lip. This wasn’t good. He had to think of something. “Where is your husband?”
“The Coast Guard base over in Nags Head.” Camila frowned, but held off the tears. “He’s a Marine. He’s been stationed there for what’s coming.”
“Who would station him there?”
Camila shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know who took over the White House or military operations. Whoever it was ordered my husband to guard the beaches. Something is –”
Shhhhkbooom! Bratatat Ratatat Bratatat Ratatat!
An explosion and the sound of machine guns blared in the distance. Drew stood, prodding the girl to stand. “Get in the house. We’ll get supplies. I’m guessing we gotta leave.”
“Do you think it’s them?” asked Mya.
Camila shoved Mya in the house and Drew followed closely behind.
“Who’s them?” Drew asked.
Mya turned, her eyes wide and innocent, her lips trembling. “My dad said the Cheese are coming.”
Drew understood what she was saying – the Chinese. She was scared for her father, more so than she was scared for herself or her mother or her little brother. She didn’t want her dad to die. Drew had never had that feeling in his life and for a moment, he envied the kid. To have a connection, something tangible with his father was something Drew had always wanted. But his father was a dick. Potentially one of the biggest dicks alive. What lottery number did Drew draw to get so lucky? “Life is fucked up.”
Camila rummaged through the fridge. “What?”
“Nothing.” Drew pointed to the top edge of the refrigerator. “Remember the first aid kit.”
Drew ran to his room, grabbing his duffel-bag. He slipped his laptop in it, just in case, then ran back to the fridge, opening it for Camila to dump as much food in there as she could. There wasn’t much.
“We need flashlights,” she said. “Blankets.”
Drew opened a kitchen drawer. “Mya, search in here. I’m pretty sure I have a flashlight.” Drew hurried over to the door that opened up into the garage and threw it open.
He rifled through his recycle bin, picking up all the empty plastic bottles he had; Gatorade, two water bottles, and an organic orange juice container. That would have to do.
He raced back into the house and to the sink, washing the bottles out and then filling them up with water. Was it still safe? Was the water plant running? He shrugged. They were going to die of something, some day. Might as well be contaminated water. At least they wouldn’t be thirsty. He tossed them into his bag and Camila dropped a few cans of beans, something Drew didn’t remember ever buying, but everyone had beans.
“Got the flashlight, Mya?”
Mya closed the drawer. “Just one.”
“Does it work?”
She nodded her head.
“Good. Now, go into my room and pull off my blankets. That’s all I got.”
Jikoooosh!
The house rumbled and they all looked at the ceiling.
“That’s a military jet,” muttered Drew, his hands by his side, dumbfounded. They don’t usually fly over the city so low.
Jikoooosh!
Jikoooosh!
Two more.
They ran outside, staring into the sky. A jet fighter was being chased by two distinctively different looking ones. The one being chased was American, the others? Perhaps Chinese. They were black.
Bratatat Ratatat Bratatat Ratatat!
The machine guns were getting closer, only a couple of blocks away. They had to get going and now.
Drew picked up the girl. “Let’s go.”
Camila had the duffel-bag’s strap around her shoulder, the baby against her hip. She raised her fist to the east and blew a kiss. “Vuelves vivo, mi alma!” She let out a deep breath, whispering, “I love you.” She spun around, looking Drew directly in the eyes. “What’s your plan?”
“Follow me. Don’t get pissed at me if this doesn’t work.”
17
M-Quadrant, Solar System ~ Starship Atlantis
Sh
e left, rocketing out of the launch tube. Jaxx had saved her again and she wouldn’t care, or wouldn’t know. The alarms were blaring, the lights in the launch bay blinking red and yellow and Jaxx punched a guard one more time before he realized he’d spent too much time with this young man. He managed to spin away from an incoming guard and put his foot out, tripping the camo-loving, taking-orders-from-the-wrong-side soldier. The guy landed face first and tumbled to his side.
A gang of guards rushed past the launch bay doors, coming directly for Jaxx. A special agent, wearing a striated-ebb nebula titanium exo-suit, the most bad ass in the Secret Space Program – Jaxx didn’t know how he knew the specifications of the suit – took a flying leap over the mess of guards, his boots clanging across the bay as he landed. It wasn’t an agent. It was Richard “Fuckface” Fox. In another life and another time, Jaxx would have smiled. Today, he stopped himself from shitting his pants.
This wasn’t good. How had he been patched up so fast? What did it mean that he’d geared up in the exo-suit? Jaxx was no expert with his own powers, but expert or not, he had to try. He ducked another attempt by the grunt he’d tripped and kneed the poor guy in the groin, dropping him to the floor. He then brought every emotion to the surface, every inch of disappointment, anger, frustration – the times he was ridiculed for his work by people who hadn’t studied or took the time to read more than a few paragraphs of his massively researched articles, books, and talks…
The power coursed through his veins, stronger than before, stronger than ever. Then a calm and peace overtook him and his body relaxed as he stood straight, focused, eyes on the target – the man who wanted to tear him limb from limb, Captain Fox.
He bared his teeth, narrowed his eyes and pushed outwards with his hands, palms up, as if he was shooting an actual ball of energy. He watched the invisible ball smack into the titanium-wearing space marine, then catapult Fox back into the throng of oncoming soldiers, pinning them onto the ground, then bouncing off of them like a bolder plummeting down the side of a mountain. The guards Fox missed were hit by Jaxx’s power as well, rendering them useless.
Jaxx took a deep breath, blinking rapidly. It was hard to believe it worked. But it did.
Jaxx couldn’t gawk any longer, more guards were entering the bay. He turned on his heels and rushed to an open cockpit Air Wing and pounded his feet and hands up the ladder, then jumped onto the seat, quickly pressing the aircraft canopy’s close button.
He searched for a helmet. It wasn’t there. Shit. That’s the only way Shaughnessy told him how to turn on the vortex Doppler system, Adaptive Boost, and get the frequency code dialed on the comm line and send it to the portal.
To live, he needed to escape. By now, they knew it was him and they wouldn’t open up a damn thing, not even an air duct, for him. If he blasted the tubes with some Slingers or AAIM-5 Darts, and it actually punched a hole in the ship or broke open a few of the tubes, he’d be sending hundreds of people who worked in the bay to an ultimate end – death by space.
He wasn’t that type of guy.
He clicked on the comm line, wishing he had his helmet with him. He could do everything he wanted without a helmet, but reaching for dials, levers, and holographic buttons may be the instant he needed to use voice commands to get himself out of a deadly dog fight.
“Mission Control, open a launch tube.” He drove the Air Wing forward.
“Negative. You are unauthorized to launch.”
“I’m blasting the shit out of the launch tubes if you don’t open one. That would compromise everyone in this bay, including you.” He lied.
“You are not authorized. I’m ordered to shut down the entire bay. No one is coming in and no one is going out, including you.”
Jaxx clicked on the holographic AAIM-5 Dart icon, readying it for launch. “I have a Dart ready. You going to open up the tube, yet?”
“Negative.”
Dammit. I have to do it. I can’t believe I’m doing this. He aimed left, targeting the wall. It wouldn’t puncture, but it would leave a mighty explosion, but he was still far enough away that it wouldn’t damage his fighter. “Get everyone out of the bay, now!”
He wiped his forehead. He was sweating, profusely, his hand shaking. “Here goes.” He dropped his hand to the control stick and pulled the trigger.
Zoooshaaa! A bright flash erupted from his port and a small missile pushed forward by blue ion propulsion hit the wall several feet from Launch Tube One. The heat blanketed his cockpit, a reddish-orange light highlighting the bay, and he instinctively put his forearm up to guard his face.
He didn’t stop there and readied his Ion Cannons. He turned his starfighter around, facing Mission Control and the dozens of guards pushing themselves up from the blast they just experienced. He targeted an Air Wing and let loose.
Ion bolts, followed by red tracer fire, erupted against an empty Air Wing, the cockpit window tore from its fasteners, spinning to the ground, the bolts splitting through the forward integral energy tanks, buckling the craft in half, setting it ablaze.
Guards dove and ducked out of the way, mechanics and techs ran out of the bay, and Mission Control was probably wild eyed and running for the exits.
He readied another Dart. “Mission Control. I’m not shitting you. I’ll light you up.” He wouldn’t but they’d believe whatever he said.
No response. He looked around, seeing the bay doors shutting, people running out, sliding under the doors.
He rotated his ship back around, facing the closed launch tubes. He had to get this right. If he broke open a launch tube, his Air Wing would be sucked out almost immediately. He’d have to guide the thing perfectly without damaging his wings – if he could get the hole big enough.
He needed to create a large enough area for a safe vacuum ride out.
He readied another Dart. He targeted Launch Tube One and Two, each missile aimed to cause a ton of damage. That wouldn’t be enough. He readied two SSSRM-23 Slingers to launch a split second after the Darts. Slingers were heavier, caused more damage, and would open up a large enough hole to get his butt of this ship.
“Here is for wishful thinking.” He pressed the trigger, one flame, then two flames shot from each wing, slamming into the tubes, a fire cloud erupting then being sucked into the dark void as space opened up before him. He didn’t have time to think. He pushed his throttle forward while being inhaled by the pull of the cosmos. He zipped toward the opening, and then through it – a myriad of unoccupied ships following him, spinning in the darkness of space.
What the hell?
Out here, giant ships were everywhere and they weren’t the ones from Starship Atlantis’s launch bay.
He swung his Air Wing into a hard right, avoiding a frigate flying between Starship Atlantis and a holy-shit, bigger than all that’s holy, star carrier. His eyes became saucers. The Secret Space Program had entered the star quadrant. He had to get the hell out of here, along with Rivkah, and to that star portal – maybe their only chance of survival.
A pull, coming from his solar plexus, tugged at him. The pull was strong and almost caused him to lurch forth with it. It was Rivkah. He knew she was out here and she was thinking about him, he could tell – probably cursing his name for some damn thing he couldn’t remember he’d done in the past.
He shifted his trajectory, aiming toward that pull, then glanced at his radar. She was heading away from the fleet. He needed her call sign and number for radio privacy. He tapped a few buttons on the radar, bringing up her Air Wing’s signature – 102, Identification: Dizzy.
He pushed down on his control stick, moving under the star carrier, then patched 102 into his comm line. “Rivkah, this is Jaxx. Do you copy? Clear.”
The line came alive. “Watch your six.”
His heart rose at the sound of her voice, then plummeted with her response. She was all business. She was as happy to hear his voice as a bird was to see a cat.
“Rivkah, I’m going to steer you to a star portal.
We’re getting out of here, but you have to turn around and head toward Mars.”
“A what? Never heard of such a thing. And, no, not turning around. Have a good day. See you on the other side. Out.”
“Rivkah, listen to me. This is our only escape.”
No response.
“Rivkah!”
Again, nothing.
“God Dammit.” He veered in her direction. He’d get her to the portal if he had to throw a line and hook and tug her along.
He went to turn on Adaptive Boost. The problem was, he didn’t have a helmet to voice that command into the cockpit’s holographic display console. But, a button or a lever had to be somewhere.
He leaned forward, the restraining straps stretching with him, and eyed everything on the control panel, whispering the words on the panel to himself.
Adaptive Boost was either invisible or he was blind to that specific button.
Where in star-piss is it?
A long beep went off and he clutched the control stick with both hands, his heart skipping a nervous beat. His craft shuttered, debris hitting his cockpit window like a quick downpour of hail.
He pulled away, ducking under another frigate. “Rivkah, can you pull up Adaptive Boost and let me know where the star portal is? I need to know now.”
“Nope.”
His cockpit beeped, beeped, and beeped again. “What the...”
Radar showed over twenty incoming bandits – all Air Wings. And they probably weren’t there to escort him to the star portal.
He throttled to Sub-light 3.1, precisely 21,000 miles per hour and pulled back on his control stick, moving higher to get in the middle of the fleet. This way, he could play cat and mouse, he the mouse, using the large fleet ships as cover. If he hugged a ship, the bandits wouldn’t fire, unless they wanted to hit the Secret Space Program. Jaxx figured they didn’t.
“Rivkah, I can get us out of here, but you have to act fast. You’ll have a dozen bogeys on your butt if you don’t. And soon.”
Atlantis Quadrilogy - Box Set Page 35