The Atlantis Girl

by S. A. Beck

  The Atlantis Girl

  Book 1 of the Atlantis Saga

  S.A. Beck

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Atlantis Girl: The Atlantis Saga

  Copyright © 2015 by S.A. Beck

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  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

  Epilogue

  All Books by S.A. Beck

  About the Author

  Excerpt from The Atlantis Allegiance

  Prologue

  JANUARY 4, 2016, UTAH DATA CENTER

  8:15 AM

  In the foothills of Utah was a group of squat white buildings isolated from the community at large. It was a place where data was mined, part of a global network run by the United States National Security Agency.

  Data mining was big business, and there was money in it, but more important, it saved lives. How better to hear of threats to national security than from the terrorists themselves? The NSA was the branch of American government busy minding other people’s business, but there was more to the department than met the eye. In a corner of one of the bland block buildings was the Department of Paranormal Threat Monitoring led by Gerard Terrace.

  He was in charge of a particular sector of data mining that had little to do with weapons and revolutionaries. Gerard was in charge of a much more secret sector—the supernatural.

  A no-nonsense man, Gerard was not the kind to believe every cockamamie story about telekinesis and people walking on water, but it wasn’t his job to believe. It was his job to report. It was someone else’s job to verify and someone else’s job to sort the frivolous from the factual, and he was glad neither of those was his job, because he was good at reporting.

  The balding middle-aged man accessed the building by security code and took the shiny chrome elevator up to his floor. He remembered what it had been like to work a normal civilian job in New York, how conversations would be buzzing through the halls in the mornings—the water cooler talk. The military wasn’t like that. Most of the other employees lived in constant suspicion and surveillance of one another. It was their job.

  Scrutinizing keywords in phone conversations, video recordings, computer chats—snooping, digging, decoding—it was what they did. Gerard heaved a sigh as he passed another closed face and barely mumbled good morning on the way to his office. He was being unkind, he knew, to think of them all as suspicious beetles scurrying to their respective holes. His subordinates were probably in a tizzy because an important visitor was coming to the facility, and no one wanted to appear out of line.

  “General Hector Meade,” Gerard mumbled to himself, keying in the code to his door and entering his orderly domain. A black oak desk dominated the spacious interior, which had only two other chairs besides his. The walls, cheerless and bland, were paneled in an expensive wood grain that gleamed under the light. The floors gleamed, too—black marble with blue veins. His office was studiously minimalist and to his tastes. Gerard couldn’t stand excess.

  He smiled in pleasure at the parallel walls of black-tinted windows overlooking the marvelous desert. His office was at the top of the building, prime company real estate. Gerard hadn’t always had the top spot. He had started much like the others on the floor. He was in charge merely because of being inordinately good at seeing through the nonsense to the necessary. Gerard was an expert intelligence analyst, and he was about to prove yet again how invaluable he was to the service of his country.

  Gerard was meeting with the general and several other higher-ups for a presentation on the data he had compiled on elite civilians worthy of closer scrutiny, possibly for military or Secret Service recruit. People like Stanton Walden of Indiana, the boy with the high IQ and ability to learn foreign languages after only brief exposure to them. Gerard had plenty of people like that on his list.

  He had spent years on the pet project that had yielded a sizable database of reported supernaturals, data verified by others, sorted, and sent back to him. His people had scoured the sea of incoming information like large nets fishing for small minnows. People like Walden weren’t easy to find. Their unbelievable abilities usually weren’t mentioned except on hoax or conspiracy websites and in passing conversations, but Gerard had found them because he had listened when others had scoffed.

  Few had been aware of his purposes for compiling the list, but now everyone would know—everyone who was anyone with the security credentials to know. Gerard rubbed his hands together in avid anticipation as he sat down in his comfortable black chair and prepared his notes.

  For all his listening ears and watchful eyes, Gerard had no idea that while he was waiting for the important meeting scheduled for later in the evening, General Meade was on his way across the country to pick up a woman with a similar agenda, Dr. Akiko Yamazaki of Arizona State University. She wasn’t military or government affiliated. She was probably closer to anti-establishment.

  She was a world-renowned anthropologic geneticist, and she specialized in ancient civilizations and their descendants. If anyone could benefit from Gerard’s list, it was the woman with the scientific know-how to trace the origins of the subjects’ special capabilities and find a genetic component for their differences from other human populations.

  Simply put, Akiko could tell General Meade and his associates what made the supernaturals super.

  While Gerard was gathering his notes, Akiko was climbing the steps of the stage in her arena-style classroom, crossing to the podium, and staring down at her small feet as she walked. She was lost in thought, trying to figure out how to get her project from planning phase to research phase with classes to teach and college students to settle down and instruct. She sighed at having her real work interrupted for the tedious tasks, but she pushed her half-glasses up the bridge of her nose and set her laptop computer on the podium to get started.

  “Good morning, class.”

  The mic’s feedback made the students clutch their ears and groan en masse. Akiko softly apologized in accented English, fiddling with the device to turn it down or off. She had almost figured out the mic controls when the double doors to the classroom burst open, admitting two broad-shouldered gentlemen with forgettable faces and similar medium brown hair. They wore identical black suits and identical opaque sunglasses, and had identical official-looking strides. Akiko backed away in surprise as they swiftly crossed the room.

  “Y-yes? May I help you?” she stammered. As one of the men stoically gripped her above the elbows and ushered her toward the door, she said, “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Dr. Yamazaki, please remain calm. We need you to come with us,” he murmured with dictatorial firmness. “Everything will be explained to you shortly.” The doctor didn’t resist. She knew what happened to people who resisted authority, and the men appeared to have an authority she lacked.

  As she was removed from the stage, Akiko heard the buzz of conversation erupt from her
alarmed students, everyone wondering what was going on. Akiko looked back, noting several people recording the scene with their cell phones. At least someone would be left to tell the tale. “This has to be some kind of a joke,” she grumbled, not amused.

  The other gentleman stepped to the podium and addressed the arena. “The dean of Life Sciences would like to extend his apologies for the interruption of your course; however, Dr. Yamazaki’s class will resume next week, as scheduled. Please remain seated until you receive email confirmation you are allowed to leave.”

  “What?” Akiko shook her head to negate the claim, but students happy to ditch class overlooked the gesture. The two men half led and half dragged her out the doors, shuffling her across the bright, sunny campus to a black sedan parked curbside. Akiko’s heart began to race. The men in black suits might be able to convince gullible undergraduates that they were school-sanctioned, but the professor knew better. The dean hadn’t contacted her. Who were those men?

  “No, no. You’re not taking me anywhere!” she protested, balking at being forced into the car. The men released her and stood with hands clasped behind their backs. A man in military uniform stepped from the sedan.

  She didn’t recognize him, but he seemed to be the man in charge. Maybe he could tell her what was going on. “Who are these people, and why have you forced me from my class? Do you even have permission to be here? Wait until the university hears about this.”

  General Hector Meade, placating her, held up his hands and smiled. “Dr. Yamazaki, allow me to apologize on behalf of my personal staff. They can be… overbearing. I’m sorry about that, ma’am.” His voice was a rich baritone, his tone conciliatory. Akiko’s angry tirade died on her lips. General Meade continued, “I’m here regarding your recent application for grant funding for a special research project, DNA of extinct civilizations, to let you know that the application will gladly be funded. I’m also here because we’d like you to work closely with us. You see, your expertise is exactly what we’re looking for to help with a project of our own.”

  Akiko frowned, wondering why the military would be interested in her work. Her current research project was a search for telltale DNA traces of a particular lost civilization. Not many in the scientific community were aware of exactly what she was after, and there was no reason for those outside the scientific community to know.

  “You could’ve sent a correspondence,” she said, suspicious of the smooth-talking general. She had worked on projects with official US departments before, and things were decidedly off protocol.

  He chuckled, a raspy sound. “I’d like you to be part of a meeting later today where a thorough list of test participants has been assembled. Everything else—details of the work you’ll be doing for us—will be outlined there. Of course, you don’t have to go. But”—he leaned toward her with a wink—“this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Your research contributions will literally change the entire world as we know it. Are you up for that? Or would you rather go back in there and watch kids fall asleep to your lectures? Your choice.”

  The professor kept her expression blank, revealing nothing of her thoughts. Test participants were precisely what she needed but only those with certain characteristics. “What sort of list?” she asked. She didn’t want to seem too interested. Then again, Akiko wondered if the grant funding hinged upon her accepting the military job offer. If that was the case, she really didn’t have a choice.

  “Take a ride with me, Doctor. You want to see this list for yourself. My description won’t do it justice. But I promise… you won’t regret this one.”

  Chapter 1

  MARCH 1, 2016, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  9:00 AM

  The teenage girl with the arctic blue eyes, still as glacial lakes, sat in the near-empty courtroom listening to the judge dryly deliver her sentence. Judge Katherine Colby glowered from her podium, the cherry wood dais a throne overlooking the two tables at opposite sides of the room. At one of them sat Jaxon and her counsel. Behind Jax was a partition separating the main floor from the empty pews. It was disheartening to be backed by no one.

  Jaxon Ares Andersen had heavy-lidded, almond-shaped eyes with an Asian tilt, and her honey-hued brown face never strayed from sullen disinterest despite the gravity of the situation. Her lustrous jet-black hair fell in ripples to the collar of the navy-blue dress her caseworker had insisted she wear, though it was a size too big, and Jaxon looked like a child playing dress-up. She was skinny and underdeveloped, and she would have appeared closer to thirteen or fourteen than her actual age were it not for her ice-blue eyes, which looked far older and worldlier as she scanned the place.

  She was familiar with the courtroom. The diminutive teen had once been terrified when squaring off with the legal system, but she no longer cared what any of the “systems” wanted to do with her. As a foster kid, she was aware systems failed girls like her on a daily basis.

  She had been nine months old when she became a ward of the state, and she had often imagined there had to be something from her past—from “before”—that teased at the fringes of her memory, but the only life Jax had ever known was one of transitions. Despite the ease with which other infants and toddlers were adopted or placed in foster homes, little Jaxon had remained unclaimed until she was four years old and, finally, someone opted to give her a try.

  By the time she was five, she was kicked out again after getting into a fight with the much older biological son of her foster mom after he punched Jax in the face. Jaxon had easily overpowered him and sprained his ankle in the process. At sixteen, she found that the bullying from her younger days seemed to get worse with each passing year. She had only gotten older, stronger, and less willing to put up with other people’s crap… and more liable to get into trouble for simply defending herself.

  Sighing in frustration, Jax sat still at the table, a complex exercise of slowing her racing thoughts and controlling her normal restlessness. There was nothing she could do about the tapping of her foot. It wouldn’t stop. She gripped the tabletop with fingers sporting chipped black nail polish, her translucent eyes skittering around the room at every distraction—the flickering bulb of a light soon to blow, an errant fly drowsily floating above the judge’s head. The quiet coughs and rustling of her public defender and social worker overshadowed the monotonous voice droning on about her charges.

  Truancy, juvenile delinquency, assault and battery—she had a serious rap sheet.

  Jaxon sighed and tried to focus on what Judge Colby was saying. “… Benevolent prosecutor recommends placement in a more structured environment, as it is evident the juvenile has not previously benefited from close supervision and structure, and so I have taken his recommendations into consideration, along with the extensive records of Mrs. Jenkins detailing extenuating circumstances surrounding the defendant’s behavior.”

  Jaxon was intrigued by the lines in the old magistrate’s face. She could count the multitude of grays in the woman’s hair. Jax knew the middle-aged blonde controlled her future, but she wanted to at least appear involved in the decision-making process. How unruly could she be? she wondered. After all, there were appearances to keep up. Everyone expected Jaxon to be on her worst behavior.

  “The juvenile’s past record and age also played a part in my deliberation, as I believe the defendant is mature enough to perfectly understand the gravity of her actions. Therefore, I cannot, in good conscience, approve of using the defendant’s previous history of abuses or any negligence on the part of her foster parents as the sole excuses for her delinquency. Ms. Andersen, in my twenty years in this job, I’ve seen minors in far worse situations than yours make better decisions and choose to straighten out their lives. I’m one of them. So I’m sorry, but you have no excuse.”

  Jaxon snorted loudly and crossed her arms over her meager chest, but the judge barely flinched at the irreverence, lifted a slender brow, and carried on.

  “For the reasons outlined above, it is the opin
ion of this court that the defendant, Jaxon Andersen, would most benefit from placement in a group home for a duration of two years until she reaches maturity.” Jaxon should have been relieved she wasn’t being carted off to juvenile detention, but she wasn’t. She was on guard, well aware that anywhere she was sent would offer the same challenges as the places before.

  There would always be someone looking to take advantage of her, rob her, and lie about her. There would still be fistfights and bruised egos. With a shake of her head and a swish of her glossy black shoulder-length hair, she muttered, “Well, let’s see what the group home has in store.”

  “Shh!” her social worker hissed.

  Jaxon squeezed the table in frustration and felt the wood take on the imprint of her fingertips beneath her impossibly strong grip. She must have imagined it. She discreetly lifted her hand, and the round whirls and ridges of her fingers were tattooed into the wood. “What the…?” Jaxon quickly and quietly slid a folder over the three fingerprints, pretending nothing had happened. The scarred wood had to have always borne the indentions. She didn’t want to get blamed for vandalism, too. Jaxon sighed in irritation.

  The judge continued, “If the defendant fails to adhere to the rulings of this court, the defendant will be required to perform community service for a duration of 242 hours in conjunction with a period of probation to last no less than two years. Court is adjourned.”

  The gavel dropped. The years of bouncing from foster home to foster home were over, but Jaxon knew there was nowhere she could go where she wouldn’t face a struggle. Fortunately, nothing lasted forever. She had been in nearly every type of home, each placement lasting no more than two or three years. A time or two, Jax had even thought she’d struck gold with a family only to be returned to the foster care system. She concluded that some people were too different to fit in with normal society, and maybe she was one of them.