Jaxx slipped it over his head. “Pants?”
“I’m not giving you my pants.”
“No, that’s not...can I go get some dry pants?”
Slade reached around the corner, grabbing a towel. He tossed it at Jaxx. “That’s all you get. Now, let’s get to.”
Jaxx wrapped the towel around himself, getting warmer. “Where are we going?”
“To figure out Rivkah Ravenwood through your memories.”
Jaxx smiled for the first time in days. “Is she safe?”
Slade kept walking.
“What are you doing with her? Tell me, or our deal is off. I mean it. I’d die rather than betray her.”
Slade’s lip curled. He probably thought Jaxx’s was bluffing, but he wasn’t. He knew, down in his bones, that he would never let anything bad happen to Rivkah.
“Rivkah has the same brain issue you have and we’re going to see how you two interact. We assume that your issue helps you with how you do your archaeological work, which is why you’re able to decode glyphs so quickly and accurately. We also think it helped with your piloting skills during your time in the SSP. We’re going to see more as to what it does for her and what happens when you two are in close proximity.”
Jaxx wiped his face with the towel. He was going to see Rivkah. Things were looking up.
“I need you to focus. Stolen SSP documents pointed us to your specific condition. We then conducted brain scans on you when you were out for a couple of days. We did the same for Rivkah Ravenwood – ”
“She’s experiencing these blackouts, these memory reconstructions, the stuff you’ve been having me do in the lab? All that mind-reading and telekinesis shit?”
Slade gave a curt laugh. “She’s more hands on than you, Jaxx. More of a ‘throw your punch first, ask questions later.’”
“But, we’re going to be working together?”
“Sure you are. If she doesn’t kick your ass. Or, as Fox pointed out – kill you first.” He flicked his head to the side. “Now, let’s go. We have a hypnotherapy session waiting for you.”
A young man walked into the locker room, barely 20 years old and a little over-weight, fear in his eyes. Rifle in hand, he swallowed. “Sir?”
“What is it?” asked Slade.
“I am just the messenger, Sir. Just reporting what I’ve been told.”
“Spit it out, Private.”
The young man closed his eyes and recited his report in a monotone. He’d clearly memorized it. “They had it all taken down. Calls from officials, threats of injunctions and jail time, the whole nine yards. The story went dark for a couple of hours, while all major news outlets reported the pictures of Callisto were fakes.” He took a deep breath.
Slade glared at the floor. If looks had been laser beams, he’d have cut holes clear through to Australia. “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”
“But, dark web, alternate sources, the tin-hat brigade, they leaked new pictures. Pictures of the craft, the hangar, and the supplies. It’s all over the news. Everything. They know it’s not a hoax and they’re asking questions.”
Slade turned red and glared at Jaxx; again with his laser-sharp look. Jaxx would have been vaporized, if Slade’s eyes had their way. “Scrap Operation Underfoot. We’re going with Operation Heliotrope.” He kicked a locker. “Fuck!”
“Operation Heliotrope. Got it.” The kid-soldier wanted out of there, but couldn’t leave until Slade dismissed him.
“Take Jaxx to Donny. Don’t let him out of your sight.” Slade took off running. “Fuck these fuckers. Are they really worth it?”
Jaxx turned to his new escort. “Shall we?” For once, he was looking forward to his session with Doctor Donny.
36
June 7th, 2018
Underfoot Black, Grenada
Jaxx marched into Donny’s office and lay on the bed. “Bring it on.”
“How are we today, Mr. Jaxx?” Donny was his usual, unctuous self.
“Cut the bull and put me under. There are things I want to know.”
Donny smiled. “Good, good. There are things Colonel Slade wants to know, too. In fact, I have a list of keywords which, with your permission, I am going to feed into your session.”
“Fine, whatever. Do it.”
Jaxx knew he was missing something central. It didn’t add up. Slade wouldn’t just keep him around to ride and ridicule him; he had no interest in the telekinesis and didn’t believe in the mind-reading stuff. Jaxx dug deep into his brain and thought hard. Harder than he had in many, many years. Then it hit him. They – they being GSA – didn’t have all they needed to successfully travel to, or colonize, Callisto and they needed him to find that missing piece of evidence. At least, that was one theory. He tucked it in the back of his mind, for further consideration.
“You are relaxed,” said Donny. “You are at peace. You are…”
Jaxx was already under and, as with his last session, he was watching the past, while being in the past. He was coming into his own. He was starting to remember, rather than just play-back scenes which started to fade as soon as he woke. He was thrilled to note he wasn’t in his cockpit, or Admiral Gentry’s office, or any other place he’d ever been. He was in a new place, a new memory. A memory neither Slade nor Donny needed to know anything about.
Then he realized that, in addition to this being a completely new memory, for the first time since he’d been plunked back into his buried past, he understood the context. He was in a huge briefing room prepping for a sortie into enemy territory. There was only one problem. Jaxx was an avowed pacifist. Always had been, always would be. Whatever they’d done to him, to get him into that jet fighter and take enemy planes down, they weren’t going to do again. He’d resist. He wouldn’t drink the Kool-Aid, or whatever it was they dosed him up with. He’d stand down and be court martialed. He didn’t care.
Captain Richard Fox walked on to the stage and stood behind a podium, skimming over a document he’d probably read a dozen times. He tossed it on a nearby table and grabbed both sides of the podium. “Intel reports suggest that the Taiyonians are hostile. They are good attackers, excellent defenders. Their technology is outstanding. Blah-blah-fuckthatshit-blah.”
There were hundreds of pilots—jocks, all of them—hanging on Fox’s every word.
“This shit ain’t gonna be easy. I’ve been watching the Kelhoon-Taiyonian war on my holo-vid for the last couple of weeks. The Taiyonians are fast, accurate, and deadly. There fleet is just as big as ours, their starfighters match our speed and maneuverability. They work as a team like none other. Don’t get cocky with these sons-of-bitches, because your ass will be space debris the moment you let up.” He paused, doing his best to look into as many eyes in the room as he possibly could in a span of five seconds. “We’re on a Star Cruiser, First Class, Liberty. And, that’s our job and our right – to bring liberty to the Kelhoons.”
He swiped the document back into his hands, read a couple more lines, shaking his head in dismay. “Alright. I almost forgot, so listen up. The Kelhoons are off-quadrant, replenishing. We’ll be a surprise to the Taiyonians when we come into the Kepler System in eighteen minutes. Your squad leaders will have your assignments. They’ve been thoroughly briefed. Get in your starfighters and don’t fuck up.”
He walked off the small stage and exited left. Everyone stood, including Jaxx. He already had on his jumpsuit and held his helmet at his side.
Rivkah patted him on the butt, as if Jaxx was on her basketball team. “Guess who’s joining our squad?” She wasn’t happy.
Jaxx shrugged. There was more than one hot-head rookie who could join the squad and harsh their mellow.
“If you don’t want to guess, I’ll just tell you,” continued Rivkah. “It’s Captain Richard Fox. I think he wants to experience your unique skills.”
Jaxx held back the urge to throw up. He should have seen that coming. Fucking Fox was in the mix. He saw a bench against a wall. He raced over and sat, his elbows on his
knees, leaning forward. His fingers started tingling, his mind spinning. I can’t do this. I don’t want to be a killer. I am not like Fox or any of these space jocks.
Rivkah sat next to him, her hand on his back. “Listen, Lieutenant. I get it. It’s the same for all of us.” She lifted his chin. “Look at me. From what I saw the last time you flew, you’re the best pilot here. And we are an elite crew, which means your skills rank up there with the very best.”
Jaxx wanted to push her away but didn’t. He wanted to explain, but didn’t know what to say. He’d been forced into this war. He was an archaeologist, not a space cowboy. “Who are they?”
“Who are who, Jaxx?”
“The Taiyonians. What do they look like?”
“We don’t know. The Kelhoons wouldn’t hand that information over to us.”
Jaxx turned his face away. “Why do we have to kill them? Why do we even have to fight them?”
“Like I said before, it’s what we signed up to do. I think it’s bullshit to take on an alien race, but we’re protecting Earth. That I know.”
Jaxx straightened. “Shit. Alien races. We’re protecting Earth, huh?”
Rivkah raised her eyebrows. “Look at it this way. We are exterminating a menace. The Taiyonians are like rats taking over your house. You leave them be and they’ll just grow in numbers, tearing your home apart, leaving shit balls everywhere. If you get rid of them immediately, then you’ll have peace in your house again.”
Jaxx didn’t mind rats, but rats taking over his home was a different story. Killing rats, on the other hand, wasn’t something he looked forward to.
Rivkah pulled Jaxx into a standing position. “Let’s not let Fox see you like this. He has ways of sending those he considers low-life wimps to the brig, or worse yet, on missions where you’ll surely die...just to get rid of you.”
Rivkah and Jaxx walked into the launch bay. Starfighters were parked in rows and pilots were already climbing into their cockpits.
“Who else is in our squadron?” asked Jaxx
“Just us.”
Jaxxed stopped. “You mean, me, you, and Fox?”
“Yes, Sir.” She patted a starfighter. “This is your SF-13 Air Wing. Strap in.”
The fumes, the noise, and the knowledge that he was about to meet enemy starfighters face to face sent Jaxx into overload. The past faded and he groped his way back to his present.
“There are wars,” he mumbled. “Check glyphs for wars…”
Donny looked at the clock, grimacing. It had been a few hours but he still hadn’t run through the list of trigger words Slade had given him. He didn’t like keeping his subjects under for too long, but he had to keep going. His job depended on it.
“Jaxx, understand you’re safe. You’re going deeper, conjuring up vivid memories...”
37
June 7th, 2018
Portland, Oregon
The sun’s rays splintered through the cracks in the cedar trees and branches which shadowed the spot where Drew lay. He felt for his phone. It was still there. He wiped the slobber from his cheek and shook the dirt out of his hair.
He powered his phone on, watching a car drive down the street, its turn signal blinking. That guy wasn’t looking for him.
He was tired, stiff, and a little wet from the dew.
His phone displayed 8:07 AM and his phone’s battery was at twenty-seven percent. He’d need to ration his phone use.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. The phone rang. It was Hobbs Howell. Again.
He yawned and stretched, rubbing his stomach. “Hey, Hobbs.”
“Are you happy?”
He glanced down the road and, seeing no cars, walked across the street. He needed to get some food. There had to be a bagel shop somewhere around here. “I don’t think happy is a word that can describe the feelings I’m having lately.”
“Well, we ran the story this morning on WNN morning news. The internet, all major news networks, and radio shows are having a hay day with our particular take on the story – that Drew Avera is our star undercover reporter and is still undercover as we speak. All the news heads are looking for you. And you have critics. We need you on our nightly news program to defend yourself. Please don’t speak with any other networks until you’ve spoken with us. You’re our reporter. Remember that.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Gotcha. And who’d you get to argue against my facts, my documents, my research that I almost died to get?” He turned a corner.
“Colonel Slade Roberson.”
Drew stopped in his tracks. “The head of the GSA?”
“Yes.”
He looked at his battery – twenty-five percent. “I have to get off the phone. I’ll call you later.”
“No, you need to prep. If Slade’s shitting us, you need to counter his spin, give us the facts.”
Hobbs was right. They wanted him to look good and right and Slade bad and wrong. Drew wanted the same thing. Prepping was one way to do that. But he couldn’t. No battery life. “If I keep talking, my battery will die.”
A bagel shop was across the street. “Thank, God.”
“What was that?” Hobbs asked.
“Nothing. I’ll call in on the Nightly News line. Just put a picture of me up on the split screen. You’ll hear my voice.”
“What about prep?”
“Sure, but I need food.”
“Remember, Drew, during the interview always complete your thoughts, even after being interrupted.”
“Got it, boss.” He hung up, then powered down his phone, seeing the phone was at twenty-one percent before it shut off.
He jogged across the street.
Drew opened the glass door, the cooked dough aroma instantly filling his senses. He stood in a short line.
A young woman sitting at a corner table gave him a glance, looking him up and down. He smiled. He knew what she was about. She was doing everything in her power to not throw her half-eaten bagel away, dump her coffee, and approach him like a cat in heat. He then realized he hadn’t brushed off the dirt on his clothes.
“I’ll take two bagels and a small coffee...black.”
The cashier rang him up. “$8.85, sir.”
He reached into his pocket for his wallet. His pocket was empty. He dug into his other pocket. Empty. He searched his back pockets. Same results. He dropped his head, defeated. “Not good.”
His stomach growled. He leaned on the counter, eyebrows raised. A look he hoped was vulnerable and charming. “You’re not doing a free special on bagels and coffee today, are you?”
“Cute,” she said, “but no, we’re not.”
Drew nodded, dejected.
“My boyfriend works down at the co-op on Strand and Overbrook. If you hit them up at around noon, they have samples and, as long as you’re polite and don’t pull any asshole moves like panhandling the customers, they’ll let you graze your way through the store.”
“Wow. Thanks. I owe you.”
“Hope you find your wallet.”
Drew left the store and its heavenly yeasty smell. He had a few hours to kill, but he also had to raise enough cash to get his phone in the mail.
In a squidge-proof carrier.
Before anyone tracked him down and put a bullet in his brain.
Or took him prisoner.
Or worse.
Drew knew, having spent a lot of his free time with assorted conspiracists, geeks and weirdos that there were many things worse than death. He also knew how to juggle while reciting pi, which for some reason, was a crowd pleaser.
It took him two and half hours of non-stop juggling to raise enough money for postage and packaging. He wrote his mom’s name in big, bold letters on the padded envelope and included a card – kitties in a watering can, something she’d think was darling and harmless – then sent his entire life insurance package to her in the United States Postal Service.
He checked the clock on the Post Office wall. Ten to twelve. Thank all the gods that ever were. Screw t
he government and the GSA and the space ships and the conspiracy and Slade whatshisname. Free food beckoned.
Drew never liked it when organic food co-ops weren’t busy. It usually meant that the larger, corporate stores were taking money away from hardworking hippies.
He had cruised the freebie tables arranged around the store three times and no one had said a single word. Other than the guy with the beanie, stacking oranges in the produce section, Drew was the only customer in the store. These stores always smelled of granola and sweat, and the sweat was a little too intense.
He looked around, making sure nobody was watching, then lifted his arm and sniffed his pit. The intensity was him, not the store. He glanced at the bathroom. Dear, dear hippies. They wouldn’t kick him out if he had a standing wash at one of their sinks. He needed to smell just a little better before heading back out to raise funds for his disposable phone.
Damn, but Portlandians were free with their cash. He’d juggled, offered up some quadratic equations which apparently sounded impressive if you had no idea what quadratic equations were, and juggled his way to a new, disposable phone, a whole bagel with pastrami, mustard, and all the fixings and been able to leave an overly-generous tip to the staffer who’d been kind enough to point him to the co-op, when he’d been sure he was going to die of starvation. Things were looking good.
His story was out there, his source material was safe. Slade was on the ropes. Drew hadn’t prepped but he didn’t need to. He had the facts on his side. He idled his way around Portland’s friendly streets until it was time for the show.
Normally, calling in at least forty-five minutes before WNN’s Nightly News was usual protocol. Things needed to be said, orders had to be listened to, and going over prep again and again was a must.
Ten minutes before air time, he dialed WNN’s Nightly News producer, Michelle Lowry.
“It’s about time you called. Where have you been? Colonel Slade Roberson has been on standby for almost a half an hour. He’s prepared. You’re not.”
Drew looked out over the Laurelhurst Park. A cluster of brush and trees stood between him and the sidewalk, hiding him from view. “I’m ready when he is.”
Project Atlantis (Ascendant Chronicles Book 1) Page 18