by S. A. Beck
“I thought you’d say that,” said Meade.
He pressed a button on the remote hidden in his pocket. A holographic screen appeared in front of Dr. Yamazaki. On the screen was the copy of the Mother gene. She swallowed a sob. They had stolen it from her. She didn’t know how. The copy had been on her personal computer, secured by encryptions and a bevy of passwords. General Meade had dashed her last hope of getting out alive, and she was truly replaceable.
Akiko found herself laughing, soft chuckles that grew in volume to gasping croaks. She jerked against the restraints again. The drug had almost worn off completely. “You can kill me, Meade… but you won’t get away with it… My w-work is my legacy. The scientific community will rise up against you to see… to see to it that you are punished for what you think you do in the dark. You think no one will ask? No one will wonder what happened to me?”
Meade calmly clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at her with a pitying look. “Dear, when I make a problem disappear, it disappears. You have no legacy. All your prior work is being discredited as we speak. Word is being disseminated that you copied from other researchers, forged test results, and cheated on peer reviews. By the time they put you in the ground, you’ll be the laughing stock of genetics.”
She cried out, “No! You can’t do that to me!”
“It’s already been done.” He leaned forward, taking delicious pleasure in the tears that sprang to her eyes. “But I’m not going to kill you, Akiko. That would be too easy, too predictable.”
He beckoned for the doctor waiting in the shadows to step forward. The furtive little man darted to Akiko’s side and placed a syringe into the medication port of her IV. She tried to resist, but whatever he had given her acted fast.
Meade said, “I’m not going to kill you because I want you to suffer what you tried to do to me, ungrateful little meddler. I want you to feel what it’s like to be so close to something you really want only to have someone try to come along and take it away from you. See, you tried to put me in an awkward position here. Can you blame me? So now, whenever you talk, people will look at you like you’re talking gibberish. How are you feeling, Akiko?” He chuckled, a deep rumble.
She writhed on the examination bed. Akiko felt sharp tingles shooting up and down her right arm and leg until the limbs dragged against the rest of her body like deadweights. The right side of her face twisted, sinking lower than the left. Her right visual cortex lost signals. The cries that sprang from her tingling lips were incoherent.
Even as the stroke continued to ravage her brain, General Meade continued with the rest of his dark plan. He had her removed from the examination bed and carted to her laboratory. She was gingerly placed on the floor. If anyone questioned what had happened to her, it would look as if the doctor had suffered a brain aneurysm while working. When the setup was complete, Meade strutted to the elevators, his new right-hand man at his side.
“I think you’re going to like working here, Dr. Jones. And don’t worry about Dr. Yamazaki back there. Our medical insurance is top of the line.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will, Meade. I’m sure I will.”
Epilogue
MAY 30, 2016, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
8:00 PM
Yuhle walked into the ICU at Presbyterian Hospital where his boss and mentor was convalescing from the disabling stroke that had left her face and body twisted, her mind unable to function. Dr. Yamazaki was a fairly young woman, in her late thirties. Her physicians couldn’t seem to find a reason for the severity of her stroke, much less why she had had one so early in life. But in a lot of ways, the malady seemed a blessing in disguise. With Dr. Yamazaki out of commission, General Meade and the Poseidon Project didn’t seem to need Yuhle. He had broken ties with them.
Yuhle pushed his ever-slipping and sliding glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiled down at Akiko, who was awake and staring at him with her good eye. She couldn’t talk, but she could understand him. He leaned down and whispered in her ear out of habit. He would never again take privacy for granted. Ever since working on the project, Yuhle was much more aware of unwanted eyes and ears.
“I’ve assembled the team you started putting together before you had the… accident… the ones who will help us find the rest of the Atlantis descendants and rescue them from Meade,” he whispered. “They gave me a message to report back to you. They’re going after the girl. Meade won’t rest until he has her in his grasp.”
“Mehhhh,” Akiko groaned.
Yuhle nodded encouragingly. “That’s right, Doctor. He’ll have to get through us first. The Atlantis Allegiance is in place.”
In Book 2, The Atlantis Allegiance, Otto is put into prison. Jaxon escapes from the Welcome Forever Group Home before whoever is after her can catch her. Ginger calls in a favor and gets Jaxon placed in a new home in Los Angeles with the Grants, an upper class couple with a secret. Read an excerpt at the end of this book!
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All Books by S.A. Beck
The Atlantis Saga (7-book series)
Book 1: The Atlantis Girl
Book 2: The Atlantis Allegiance
Book 3: The Atlantis Gene
Book 4: The Atlantis Secret
Book 5: The Atlantis Origins
Book 6: The Atlantis Guard
Book 7: The Atlantis Ascent
* * *
The Mage’s Daughter Trilogy
Book 1: Blood Magic
Book 2: Angel Magic
Book 3: Demon Magic
About the Author
S.A. Beck lives in sunny California. When she’s not surfing, knitting or daydreaming in a hammock, she’s writing novels.
Drop her a note about what you think of her books at [email protected]
www.sabeckbooks.com
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Excerpt from The Atlantis Allegiance
MAY 28, 2016, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
3:30 PM
Jaxon lay back in her first-class seat as their plane took off from San Francisco airport, headed for Los Angeles. She took a deep breath. Another move. Another set of fake parents.
She studied Stephen and Isadore Grant out of the corner of her eye. They seemed okay. A bit cold, but at least they didn’t come on with all that false friendliness like some foster parents did on the first day. “Welcome to the family!” “You’re our daughter now!” God, how many times had she heard stuff like that? So lame. A bit of coldness made for a nice change, although it did make her wonder. People took on foster kids for two reasons: they needed the money the state gave them or they wanted to feel good about themselves. The Grants obviously didn’t need money—who paid for first-class seats for a one-hour flight?—and they didn’t seem to get all mushy about having a kid in the home.
So why had they picked her? And why was this done over Ms. Jenkins’s head?
Jaxon watched as the ground fell away, buildings and cars becoming like miniature toys. She felt a spike of fear as she wondered if the Grants were like the Spencer family who had taken her in when she was nine.
That had been when a lot of her troubles began.
The Spencers had seemed nice at first. Mrs. Spencer had been friendly and helped Jax with her dyslexia, patiently coaxing her to do her homework as the letters floated in confusing patterns before her eyes. Mr. Spencer had been friendly too, always taking her on long walks in the woods and swimming with her in the pool. If he hugged her and stroked her hair more than the other foster parents had, she didn’t think much of it, figuring that was just the way he was.
Then one night she learned the truth.
It was half an hour after bedtime, and she was almost asleep. Mrs. Spencer was out of the house, leaving her alone with Mr. Spencer. A sound in the hallway outside her open bedroom door made her open her eyes.
Mr. S
pencer’s silhouette took up much of the doorframe, lit by the dim hallway light. Jaxon figured he was just checking on her and closed her eyes again. She didn’t hear him walk away.
Just as Jaxon was drifting off to sleep, he entered the room. At first, when he sat at the edge of her bed, she thought he was checking to see if she was asleep. Then he slipped his hands under the covers and tried to pull off her pajamas.
She screamed and slapped his hand away. There was a sharp crack. Mr. Spencer howled, staggering back and holding his wrist.
Her memory was hazy after that. She remembered Mrs. Spencer coming home and Mr. Spencer claiming that Jaxon had tripped him as he was going down the stairs, causing him to break his wrist. The ambulance arrived, then CPS, and she was hustled off to a group home.
That was the first time her unnatural strength had manifested itself. At nine years old, she was too confused and scared to tell anyone what had happened. She didn’t even say anything when a caring social worker asked if Mr. Spencer had really fallen down the stairs. Her mind was still trying to register the fact that she had broken a grown man’s wrist with a simple slap.
So she got a new label. She already had “learning disabled,” “poorly socialized,” and “withdrawn.”
Now she had “violent.”
Nothing like a label to make you second-guess yourself.
Since then, she had been tempted to use her strength so many times. Luckily none were like the incident with Mr. Spencer, but she’d encountered no shortage of bullies, angry foster parents, racist remarks on the street, and cruel pranks against the new kid in class. She could have left a trail of dead people in her wake. She could have killed every one of her tormentors, and there were times when she was seriously tempted.
She wasn’t that kind of person though. That’s what she kept telling herself. Even if everyone laughed at her for being different, even if she would never fit in, she was never going to be one of the bad ones. She could be something better.
Jaxon realized she was gripping the armrest of her seat. She forced herself to let go and saw the impressions of her fingers pressed into the hard plastic. She quickly covered it up with her arm and looked over at Mr. and Mrs. Grant.
Just in time to see Mrs. Grant looking away.
Had she seen? Jaxon stared out the window at the distant land below. No, she told herself, Mrs. Grant hadn’t seen. Jaxon had been hiding in plain sight for so long, she was beginning to believe the whole world was blind. People sensed she was different, but no one could see she was special. Her new foster parents would be no different.
An hour later, they landed in LAX. The Grants ordered another limo to take them home, and they cruised in comfort all the way there.
Jaxon gasped as they pulled up to a beautiful home in a rich area of the city. The house was simply stunning. It was a huge Classical-style mansion with white walls that gleamed in the California sun. As the driver pulled up a broad driveway flanked by spreading oak trees and flowerbeds bursting with color, she saw the wraparound colonnaded porch. A wide green lawn spread luxuriantly on all sides, and the nearest house stood far away. Jaxon estimated they had five or six acres of land. Between that and the house, the property must have cost them a couple of million at least.
“Wow, what do you guys do for a living?”
“Disaster insurance,” Isadore Grant said with an enigmatic smile.
“Lot of disasters, I guess, huh?” Jaxon said, shaking her head in wonder.
“More now than ever before,” Isadore Grant replied. “Perhaps you’ll get into the family business.”
Jaxon bit her lip and said nothing. So you want me to think I’m part of the family already? Right. I’ve heard that one before. It’s not like I’m even going to be here more than a year before the system sends me somewhere else.
The limo stopped at a walkway leading up to the front door. As they got out, Jaxon saw a large greenhouse in the backyard. Excitement and pain mingled in her. She had loved her time in the greenhouse back at the group home, yet it had been the place of her worst memories too.
Poor Otto. I wish I could see him again.
Stephen Grant came up beside her. “I see you like my greenhouse. That’s where I do my experiments.”
“I thought you were an insurance salesman.”
“No, that’s Isadore. I’m a botanist, although I guess I’m in disaster insurance too. We have to save the earth from destruction. Maybe you can help. I heard you have quite the green thumb.”
Jaxon shrugged. While she cared about the environment as much as anyone else, she just didn’t see what she could do about it.
“Come on in,” Isadore said, heading up the stairs as the limo pulled away.
Jaxon followed, dragging her suitcase. Stephen came after with the rest of the luggage. Jaxon passed through the front door and gasped. A huge front hall, painted white and decorated with a variety of potted plants, greeted her eyes. A grand curving staircase led upstairs.
“Let me give you a tour,” Isadore said. “Steve, will you take the suitcases upstairs?”
Stephen nodded, took Jaxon’s suitcase, and headed up the stairs.
Isadore inclined her head. “This way.”
They passed into a large living room that had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the backyard and greenhouse. The furniture was all of Danish design, with clean, precise lines. A few minimalist paintings hung on the walls. Jaxon suppressed a smirk. A couple of years ago, one of her foster families had taken her to a modern art museum, and it had been filled with pointless stuff like this. They were modern stuff made up of single rectangles of one color, or a few lines splashed every which way across a canvas. Most were signed and looked like originals instead of prints. Jaxon wondered how much the Grants had paid for them.
The décor reminded Jaxon of Isadore—high class and impersonal. She suspected that Mrs. Grant had the real money in the family. The only flair in the room was some more potted plants, no doubt a human touch provided by Mr. Grant.
They carried on to a dining room with similar décor and a long, rustic table that looked like an antique. A weird bronze sculpture sat in the center. It was made up of big globes attached by little rods and a couple of spikes sticking out of it. Jaxon saw a title engraved on the base—“Consciousness Rising IV.”
Jaxon couldn’t keep from giggling. What a dumb name.
Beyond lay the kitchen with marble countertops and clean steel utensils hanging from a rack above them.
“Hungry?” Isadore asked without warmth and apparently without concern.
“I wouldn’t mind some fruit juice or something.”
“How about a smoothie?”
“Sure!”
Isadore went over to a huge bowl containing every kind of fruit Jaxon knew and a couple she didn’t. They looked tropical and rare, probably shipped in special to some high-priced boutique. Isadore grabbed an armful of fruit, peeled them with a few expert cuts from a knife that looked five times bigger and sharper than she needed, and put everything in a blender.
“We live a healthy, natural lifestyle here,” Isadore explained as the blender made a loud hum. “Lots of fruit and raw vegetables, and everything is organic. Our meat is all free range.”
“Um, okay.”
Isadore studied her. “You’re probably not used to that sort of diet.”
Jaxon laughed. “Institutional food isn’t exactly the best, and some of my foster parents weren’t all too good in the kitchen.”
“I am.” Isadore gave Jaxon one of her cold smiles and flicked off the blender. She poured some of the smoothie into a glass and handed it to Jaxon.
Jaxon took a sip. It was delicious.
“Like it?” Isadore asked.
Jaxon got the impression that saying she didn’t wouldn’t go down well. Luckily she could tell the truth.
“It’s great,” Jaxon said with a dutiful nod.
“Healthy too. We’ll put you on a diet that will get you in prime health.”
>
Jaxon looked down at her body self-consciously. “Am I getting fat?”
Isadore laughed. “No, you’re a lovely girl, and from what I’ve heard, you’re quite the athlete. With a carefully monitored diet, we can bring out your true prowess.”
Jaxon took another drink of the smoothie to hide her smirk at being called “lovely.” She was anything but lovely, as every girl in every school she’d ever been to had made sure she knew. Still, she shouldn’t be too hard on Isadore. The woman was just trying to be nice. She was a bit weird, but if she prepared food like this all the time, living here wouldn’t be so bad.
“We live as free from modern distractions as possible,” Isadore said. “You won’t find a TV in this house, and while we can’t avoid having computers, we use them as little as possible. Could you put your cell phone on the counter, please?”
Jaxon took out her phone and placed it on the counter, staring at Isadore curiously. Her foster mother picked up Jaxon’s phone and put it in her pocket.
“What are you doing?” Jaxon demanded.
“As I said, we avoid the distractions of the modern world. You don’t need this.”
“But it’s mine!”
Isadore fixed her with her cold blue eyes. “If you need to make a phone call, you can ask me for it. Is there anyone you need to call?”
Jaxon flushed. Isadore had a point. Who would she call? Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t her social worker anymore, Otto must have had his phone taken from him when he got locked up, and Dr. Hollis wasn’t her counselor anymore. Who did she have to call?