The Complete Atlantis Series, Books 1 - 5: Ascendant Saga

by Ellis, Brandon

  Drew crawled faster, knowing he was about to run out of room. Soon, he’d be stuck and out of options.

  A loud bang sounded across the room. At first, he thought a rifle had gone off until he saw the garage-like doors opening and dozens of military pouring from the monorail into the warehouse, guns pointed outward.

  The good news, they hadn’t seen him. The bad news, they’d see him sooner than later. He conjured up two options. One, hands up, surrendering, hoping they weren’t going to shoot to kill. Or, two, do what he was about to do.

  He studied the closest aircraft, not seeing a handle, but where a handle should have been attached a large round button. He pressed it.

  The aircraft’s door opened upward like a gullwing or a fancy sport car. He pulled himself inside and onto a seat, pressing another button. The door shut. A lock function was on the control panel next to the control wheel and he pushed on it as fast as he could, hearing the craft lock.

  Behind his seat was a bucket seat, wide enough for three or four people, but that was as deep as the cockpit went. No place to hide.

  Even though he’d never flown anything before, he had to try. If he could get his in the air and fly out through the tunnel, wherever that led, then he could survive. He studied the control panel, seeing a hover button, a flight button, and a land button. That was simple enough. They’d built the planes so any idiot could fly them, but Drew wasn’t an idiot. Drew was an A-1, no-shit, fully-functioning genius. He could fly this machine. He could escape.

  An initiate engine knob was on the control panel. The control wheel might be self explanatory, but a stun expel trigger sounded ominous.

  He looked up. The monocar's doors were open, the cars completely empty. Ramps extended from the doors and into the warehouse. Immediately, Drew knew what the monorail was—a way to transport the contents of this warehouse to another place. The puzzle pieces clicked into place. Colonel Slade wanted off the planet. He had space craft and supplies at the ready. He held Jaxx in Grenada, in a place Jaxx had called “Underfoot Black.” What were the chances the monorail was transporting everything in the warehouse to Underfoot Black? That way, Slade would have the space craft, the dune buggies, and all the supplies, delivered directly to him.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” he muttered.

  Drew pushed on the initiate engine knob and the craft turned on, purring like a kitten. Things looked a little brighter. A tap sounded on the cockpit window and Drew instinctively ducked.

  A man with a rifle peered into the cockpit. “Sir, I recommend you exit this craft immediately.”

  Drew cowered in the corner of his seat, covering his head with his forearms. He shook his head.

  “I’m not asking. I’m telling.”

  “Dude, I heard one of you say ‘shoot to kill.’”

  The man’s eyes went wide. He glanced over at another man, then nodded. He lifted his rifle and took aim.

  Drew kicked the middle of the control wheel, triggering stun expel. A loud electric sound rattled and the man drew back in a writhing twitch as if electrocuted. When the sound halted, the man went limp, flopping to the floor.

  “Oh, shit. Oh, no.” Drew looked around. All the men searching for him were on the floor, lifeless. Had he killed them?

  He quickly opened the door and ran toward the elevator. Before he could get halfway, a bullet whizzed by him, ricocheting off a buggy. He slid to the floor, huddling behind another buggy, then shimmied toward the monorail.

  More guns went off, bullets pinged off the wall, the floor, the damned ceiling. They knew where he was, until they didn’t. The closer he came to the monorail, the more the bullets whizzed well behind him. He stood and ran, his adrenalin taking him faster and faster. Bullets rained down all around him, sparking where they hit.

  Reaching a ramp that led inside one of the monocars, he glanced toward the head of the monorail. More men carrying firearms were on their way. Others were also coming at his six o’clock.

  The gunshots suddenly stopped, perhaps to protect the monorail, but the men continued the pursuit.

  Finally inside a monocar, Drew looked left and right. Military personnel now came from both directions. In minutes, they’d surround him. He looked up, and spied a ladder that led to an upper compartment.

  He pulled himself up the ladder, skipping as many rungs as possible. Reaching the top, he peered down. Men climbed after him, but the ladder was attached by a mount. Drew yelled, “Sorry.” He kicked the mount, successfully detaching the ladder. It pushed out, carrying a few men with it, then crashed to the floor. He ran toward a long complex on the monocar’s upper balcony and flung open a door. Inside, it went on for blocks, one side lined by doors, the other side a long wall.

  He heard the men fixing the ladder back into position, so he slammed the door shut, looking for a lock that wasn’t there.

  “Dammit,” he said, under his breath. “Where do I go?”

  He didn’t have a minute to look around trying to find a hiding place. He dashed into the nearest room, seeing a large vent near the window. He lifted up the grate, and jimmied inside, putting the grate back in place.

  It reminded him of the longstanding steam tunnel spelunker clubs at places like Harvard, Stanford, Oxford, and his own alma mater, Columbia, in which students would use air ducts to explore and pull off pranks, sometimes spying on the opposite sex.

  He scraped his forearm on a sharp metallic edge, then gashed his knee as he pushed his way down into the darkness. Dust lined the duct, coating his clothes and skin, and blood dripped from his wounds. He pushed himself lower, doing his best to be as quiet as possible, then froze in place when someone came into the room.

  A closet opened and someone pulled things out, then doors and cupboards opening and shutting.

  “Check under the bed,” someone blurted.

  “Nope, not there either.”

  “Are we checking all rooms, bathrooms, and storage units?”

  “Yep. We’ve got just about everything covered.”

  “Try the vent.”

  Drew squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he was deep enough in the darkness to conceal himself.

  They took the vent cover off and slid it to the side.

  “Do you see anything?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Anyone got a flashlight? We can shine it down the vent, see if the asshole is there.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Get one!”

  Someone march out of the room. He didn’t know how deep he could get or when the air duct leveled out and went horizontal. If he could find that spot, he’d be safe from any flashlight.

  Drew slowly pushed himself down, cringing in pain as another metal shard scraped against his side. If he wanted to live, scratches and a little blood didn’t matter.

  “Flashlight, sir.”

  “Excellent.”

  The air duct rounded, cornering, and started to level out as Drew continued to crawl backward. A light gleamed down, bending against the air duct corner, shining into Drew’s eyes. This section of the duct kept him hidden, he hoped.

  The flashlight turned off.

  “Wait a minute, turn that flashlight back on. I thought I saw a hand.”

  The light radiated through the duct and Drew squeezed his eyes shut again.

  It turned off.

  “Nope. Next room.”

  26

  June 5th ~ Underfoot Black, Grenada

  Slade’s office was above ground in an old, dank building next to a local bar, the Nutmeg. From the outside, Slade’s office wasn’t appealing and for good reason. It was designed to draw no attention to itself. On the inside, however, it was as good as any office in the United States; nice decor, air conditioned, and marbled floors to keep the place cool in the Grenada sun.

  His office faced Warf Road, placing him across St. George’s Inner Harbor, just northeast of Fort George, the entrance to Underfoot Black.

  Slade took a brief respite from his papers an
d watched boat taxis bobbing up and down, waiting for passengers. A couple of drivers stood by on the dock shooting the breeze, the rising sunshine sparkling on the aquamarine colored ocean like diamonds.

  His phone rang. GSA Warehouse displayed on the caller ID. He frowned. Being contacted by them at this hour was peculiar, especially at 2:11 AM their time.

  “Colonel Roberson here.”

  “We’ve had a breach. A man we have identified as Drew Avera, World News Network reporter, has infiltrated our Plano, Texas underground facility. He evaded us and is in hiding somewhere on the monorail.”

  Slade leaned his forehead on the palm of his hand, shaking his head. “Are you sure it’s Drew Avera?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He stood. “You've got to be kidding me. How in God’s name did he get down there?” Slade bit his bottom lip, nearly biting all the way through. He had underestimated Drew.

  “We don’t know. We are searching for him. Our orders are shoot to kill.”

  Slade grimaced. “Stop the search. Call it off.”

  “Excuse me, Sir?”

  Slade looked at his computer screen, a picture of Drew Avera sat at the bottom of an article Drew had written. There were many reasons why he wanted to call it off, but he had to give the most important of all.

  “Because we cannot stall anymore. We need to stay on task. We don’t have the time, or resources to waste looking for a low-life-piece-of-shit trying to expose our mission. Guard all exits when you stop at the next destination.”

  “But, Sir. I—”

  Slade slammed his fist on his desk. “Do not question my orders.”

  “Yes, Sir. Protocol orders for trespassers are shoot to kill. Is that order still on, Sir?”

  Slade unwrapped a piece of gum and shoved it in his mouth. “You’re asking if I want to change those orders?” This should be an easy no. Anyone who had compromised the mission, stolen information, and had classified information that they wanted to expose should receive a death sentence. With Drew Avera, however, it wasn’t so easy. In fact, it was the hardest decision of Slade’s life.

  27

  June 5th ~ Plano, Texas

  Drew was scrunched in the air duct. Any itch that he couldn’t get to was like a soft tickle he couldn’t slap away. The more he thought about it, the more everything itched.

  Movement inside the air duct needed to be as slow and methodical as possible. If his elbow or knee panged into the duct, it could easily give him away. So he remained as still as possible, keeping his breaths short and shallow.

  For several hours, sounds of fork lifts, jacks, and other vehicles filled the warehouse and echoed throughout monorail. The monorail shuddered every so often from what he could only imagine were machines setting down heavy items in the monocars.

  What time is it?

  He wanted to reach for his phone, but the cramped duct wouldn’t allow.

  An hour ago, the search for him, the commotion, and yelling had all but halted.

  A loud voice came over the intercom and shot through the duct. “All aboard.”

  The monorail whistled, its horns blared, and a loud hiss pierced the air. The monorail vibrated, followed by a heavy shudder.

  The monorail moved and picked up speed.

  28

  June 5th ~ Underfoot Black, Grenada

  Wires, electrodes, and needles attached to Rivkah from head to foot. She sat on a doctor’s table, computer monitors displaying graphs and charts she didn’t understand. When she had a thought, something changed on the monitors. When she moved, something else changed on the monitors.

  What did I do that was so bad?

  A part of Rivkah was angry at herself, for volunteering to be here. She was here on her own accord, however, being a test subject wasn’t part of the agreement, at least that’s not what she thought. She assumed she’d be back on tour with the Secret Space Program.

  Another piece of her wanted to kick every doctor’s ass she had met in this strange facility—Underfoot Black. The facility was technologically advanced, that much she understood. It, however, wasn’t as advanced as the Secret Space Program. Colonel Slade Roberson was a very well-known figure during her last space operation with SSP before she turned into the hideous-looking monster she was now. He was known across the Galaxy, not just within the Secret Space Program, but with other programs—extraterrestrial programs. Why was he with a new group? When did he leave SSP?

  She looked at her hands for the fiftieth time, convinced her mind played tricks on her. No longer scarred from burn trauma, they were smooth, young looking, matching her mid-thirties age. The drugs they had her on had interesting effects, especially with vision. For an instant, she’d black out. When she came to, her fingernails were back. This happened over and over. Everything would go dark. She’d awake, the scars on her face gone.

  The drugs messed with her mind.

  She closed her eyes, wanting to fall back asleep. “Why am I here?” she muttered. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  They never did tell her why they needed her, just that they needed her. Was she to fly a ship they couldn’t understand? She had the aptitude for figuring out unknown crafts. Or, was it what she had been telling herself shortly after she arrived here—she was being punished, experimented on. Ultimately, she’d die.

  Yes, that was the truth. She had failed. At what? She didn’t know.

  The man she had come to know as Donny watched her from another room, split by a single window. He clicked on the intercom and leaned into a microphone. “Can you look at the box across from you again? Tell me what you see inside.”

  Like last time, she looked at the box that sat across from her and against the wall. “I just see a metal box.”

  “Look more closely.”

  She did and her concentration became more focused. For a brief second, a static sound encapsulated her ears and a shiver ran up her body accompanied with goose bumps. She caught movement inside the box and saw a rabbit illuminate, then fade.

  “This time it’s a rabbit. Last time, a tennis ball,” she said, her eyes fluttering open and shut. “Can I go back to bed now?”

  A strong whiff of ammonia entered the room. Rivkah sat more upright. She fanned her nose to get the smell to go away. “Please stop doing that.”

  Donny clicked through the intercom. “It’s for your own good, Miss Ravenwood. It’s to wake you. We don’t want you nodding off. Now, lift the box.”

  Rivkah slid off the table and stood, walking to the box.

  “Stop,” interrupted Donny. “Sit back down on the table and lift the box.”

  “How do I...” she waved a dismissive hand. Weary, almost out of it, her speech slurred. The drugs were beyond an irritation. “You keep giving me hallucinogens.”

  Donny cleared his throat. “Listen to me, Rivkah. You’re experiencing a detox from the therapy we used to get your body fully optimized. We haven’t given you any drugs.”

  Liars.

  She flared her nostrils and eyed the metal box, intensely focusing, then pictured it lifting off the ground. Again, the static in her ears. The fuzzies up and down her body. The goose bumps. And her abdomen contracted. She blew outward at the box and it complied and hovered for several seconds, then made a tin-like sound as it landed back on the ground. She pointed to it. “You see? You have me thinking I’m lifting it with my mind. What drugs do you have me on? Can I just go home? I won’t be of any nuisance to you anymore...whatever it is I did.”

  A doctor walked into the room, then held smelling salts under her nose. She jerked back, wiping her nose, then pushed the doctor away. “Stop that.”

  He handed her a glass of water. “Drink this down.”

  The water was cool and refreshing. She drank the rest of it and handed the glass back to the doctor. Everything was clearer, her body more alive.

  “Do it again, Rivkah.”

  The voice was different. She turned. Someone else sat on the other side of the window, one with chiseled
muscles and graying hair at the temples. “Hello, Colonel.”

  “Looks like you’re feeling better, Rivkah. Can you focus one more time?”

  She wanted to flip him off. “I guess.”

  Slade pointed to the box. “Focus on the box and lift it.”

  Rivkah’s gaze fell to her feet. “Slade, why am I here?”

  “To help us, Rivkah. We need a pilot, one as good as yourself. But now we’re finding that you’re a main piece in a strange puzzle. So we need to study you. Not my first priority, but nonetheless, it has to be done.”

  “What puzzle?”

  “Hold on.”

  Slade leaned over and talked with Donny. Donny nodded and spoke back. Slade shook his head, and flung more words Donny’s way. Donny agreed. At what? Rivkah had no clue. Evil pricks.

  “Let me start with this. We looked at your DNA. You share something that we’ve only seen in one other person. We don’t know how it got there or why, yet we know the abilities it grants you.”

  Rivkah blew hair out of her face. “Spill it.”

  “Something in your DNA triggers your pineal gland. In fact, it opens your pineal gland, allowing you to do...incredible things.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  Donny took over the microphone. “Slade tells us that while you served in the SSP, you didn’t have any of these special abilities. Correct?”

  Rivkah nodded. “Get to the point.”

  “Your pineal gland is more open, more evolved, than it was when you were in the SSP—”

  “What does this have to do with trying to lift a box with my mind?”

  “Let me continue, Miss.”

  “Captain,” she said. “My name is Captain Ravenwood.”

  “Indeed. Captain. We’re learning as we go, but we’ve determined that a pineal gland as open as yours can affect the laws of gravity in different ways.” He motioned toward the metal box. “Lift it.”

  Rivkah rolled her eyes. “Alright.” She focused on the metal box and something in her heart stirred, her mind sharper. She pictured the metal box lift a few feet in the air and as she pictured it, the box rose two feet off the ground.