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

by Ellis, Brandon

  “Well, not necessary killed him, but purposely led us to slaughter.”

  Liberty narrowed her eyes. “Dakin!”

  A saber-tooth tiger stepped around a large brush, snarling and padding over to Liberty. He nudged her back with his cheek and gave a ferocious growl.

  Rivkah jerked her head, getting into her signature Muay Thai fighting position, as if that could possibly fend the giant cat off when it attacked.

  Liberty tapped the tiger’s head and he lowered into a crouch, licking her hand. She jumped on his back. “My weapon.” She put her arm out and a man emerged from the palace, a long trident in his hand. The man threw the trident at Liberty. She caught it, never taking her eyes off of Rivkah.

  She dipped her head. “Go find Bogle. I’m raring to lead a charge.” She looked over her shoulder. “Warriors, today we continue this fight!”

  On cue, warriors in the hundreds ran out of the palace.

  Liberty flicked her feet against the tiger’s sides. It leapt forward, running in the direction Rivkah had just come. The warriors ran around Rivkah, roaring and bellowing like beasts, a dozen or more whizzing on by in battle hovercrafts, ion cannons mounted on the hoods.

  “What just happened?” asked Fox, coming up to Rivkah.

  The warriors streamed past them and into the forest.

  “We have to find Bogle.”

  “What?” whined Fox.

  “Follow me. I know of a craft we can use. She needs to be with us to fulfill the prophecy when, or if, Jaxx comes back. We must keep Bogle alive.”

  3

  E-Quadrant, Earth ~ Lookout Mountain, Tennessee

  Two Chinese guards stood next to Anderle, an entourage crowding the corridor behind him.

  In the time it had taken for the entire US Government and Administration to vacate the planet, Anderle had morphed from one of the world’s leading cyber-geeks into something resembling a president…or leader…or…

  Drew wasn’t sure what, but the guy was defo in charge. In the old days when Drew was a crack journalist, hunting for the truth, Michael Anderle’s rise to power would have been the perfect expose. Economic collapse, rioting, food shortages, and global panic made Anderle’s story a blip on the radar. Drew was a day late and a dollar short. No one cared what Anderle was doing or how he’d risen to power; they cared about where their next meal was coming from.

  “Get your damn hands off of me,” growled Drew, his face flush red. He batted the Chinese guard’s hand away, unraveling his shirt where the guard’s hand had twisted it. The guard pushed him into a room, Mya right behind him.

  Mya hid behind Drew’s legs, grabbing on tightly.

  She was scared.

  So was Drew. He had been practically guided to come here, to this underground facility – if you can call your dead mother a “guide” – and he was treated like this?

  “Where’s Anderle,” Drew asked one of the guards standing in the doorway.

  The guard merely grunted.

  “Right here, buddy.” The guards parted and Anderle walked in, a king among kings. “Relax, my friend. It’s just protocol. You’re safe. These Chinese military men are a little suspicious. Once they sniff that you’re good and all, you’ll be treated like a prince.” Anderle smiled. “Meet my friend, General Lin Yu.” Anderle looked like the proverbial cat with the proverbial cream. Was he totally nuts? This was an underground fucking prison. Drew could see no windows, no side doors, no way of escape except through the meat, muscle, and machetes of the standing guard.

  General Lin Yu pushed his way through his men and stood, bow legged but no less daunting, in front of Drew. He pointed to the girl. “Ràng wǒ xiànzài yǒngyǒu tā.”

  Anderle snorted. “Now? Bad idea. So…let me think. Uh…no.”

  “What did he say?” Drew held Mya close.

  Anderle dismissed Drew’s question with a swat of his hand. “Don’t worry. He –”

  Yu jumped forward, pushing Drew aside. The guards followed their general’s example, shoving Drew onto the floor. Mya hurried backward just as Drew threw a right hook from his position on the ground, smacking a guard’s face square on the nose. A pop of bones and the man fell to the side. One of the guards elbowed Drew across the chest and another sunk a hard boot into his gut.

  Drew went into fetal position, holding his stomach, and unable to talk while piles of questions swarmed around his brain, making less and less sense as they piled on top of each other. What was Anderle up to? Why was the Chinese General acting like this? Did they want Mya for some reason or another?

  Mya!

  He had to get his shit together. He couldn’t let them take her. He felt responsible for leading her mother and brother to their deaths. He wouldn’t let that happen to Mya.

  A guard had his hands on the little girl. Drew lifted his knee, in spite of the pain, and tripped the guard. The soldier collapsed, his head whipping into a bed frame post. His cranium cracked, good and loud, and the man went down, holding his eye, rolling on the floor.

  A clack of rifles and Drew looked up, struggling to breathe, holding his side. Grunts were pointing their rifles at him and General Lin Yu loomed, arms crossed at his chest.

  “Stop that at once,” yelled Anderle, like a father to his children. He stepped over Drew, but stopped mid-stride, a foot on each side of him. Straddling his friend sent an unequivocal message: this specimen is mine. Lesser of two evils? Maybe. Drew fought the urge to vomit on Anderle’s Converse.

  “General Lin Yu. You need to be patient with the girl. She –”

  “Zhàn qǐlái bóhuí!” ordered Yu. The guards put down their rifles and marched out of the room. Yu, not taking his eyes off of Mya, reached out and grabbed a guard holding his nose, blood streaming down his lips and chin. “Bǎochí jǐngtì.”

  The guard nodded and sat on a stool butted against the wall near the entrance.

  “You want that guy to stand guard?” Anderle’s eyes were wide, perplexed. “He’s got a broken nose, man.”

  Yu turned, walking out of the room.

  Drew sat, rubbing his chest. “What the hell, Anderle?” He glanced behind him. Mya was crouched in a corner, eyes closed, shaking, crying.

  Anderle held out his arms, as if to hug her or some shit. Like that was going to happen. “Get your hands off of her,” Drew hurried over, picking her up, and sat on the bed. She sobbed in his arms, calling for her mommy.

  Drew rocked her. Mommy wasn’t here. And never would be again. He couldn’t find the words. Mommy died, mowed down by gun fire, in a holy-fuck car dealership of all places. He’d hidden the truth from Mya as they drove across the country, searching for safe haven. The world was no place for a little girl. Not with the riots and looting, the food shortages and murder. He’d brought her to Lookout Mountain in hopes his old pal Anderle would have some answers. Seemed he’d miscalculated. He gave Anderle a nasty look. “What gives?”

  Anderle used the hem of his shirt to wipe the soldier’s blood from the bed post. “You’ll be briefed in the morning.” His Converse soles squeaked on the tile floor as he made his exit.

  The guard in the corner sniffed. He had his hand over his nose, blood streaking down his forearm. He stared at Drew, through his tears. Drew knew the look. The tears weren’t from sadness or pain. His mom had always told him, “Short, sharp jab to the nose. Always makes them tear up…and if they tear up in front of their buddies, you’ve already won.”

  Drew didn’t feel much like a winner.

  Mya wiped her cheeks with her forearm. “I can help.” She must have been watching him watch the guard and mistaken his smile for concern. Drew tightened his grip around her.

  She shook her head. “Please?”

  “I don’t think so. You stay put.”

  “Trust her, Drew.”

  Drew jerked to attention. Dammit, mom. He was hearing her again, even though he hadn’t smoked a dime bag. Maybe he should have laid off that stuff sooner. The shit was messing with his brain. He didn’t need
a dead woman calling the shots. He needed a clear head and a plan.

  “Let her go, Drew. Trust her.” He knew that tone. Mom was getting ready to clip him around the ear and give him some serious grief. He eased his hold on Mya.

  Mya pushed out of his arms and cautiously walked toward the grunt.

  The soldier cocked his head to the side, eyeing her like a prisoner. “Liú xiàlái,” he demanded, his voice muffled by his hand.

  She stopped. “Please? You have an owie. My mom had an owie, too, but she’s not here so I can’t help her.”

  The guard lifted his rifle with one hand and jabbed it toward her. “Liú xiàlái!”

  Drew quickly stood. What was he thinking, listening to a voice in his head, let alone his mother who had faked her own dementia for over a decade. No way he was allowing a six-year old to walk up to a trained killer.

  “Liú xiàlái.” The grunt stood, pointing his rifle at Drew.

  Drew held up both hands in what he hoped was the universal sign for surrender. “I just want to get Mya, that’s all.”

  The grunt shook his head. “Méiyǒu.”

  Drew froze in place. Was that good or bad? Why hadn’t he learned Chinese, instead of Russian? He had no clue whether the guy was giving a final warning or giving up.

  The soldier dropped his gun. It clattered on the floor. His eyes glazed over. He sunk to the stool, his hand dropping from his crooked, broken nose, his mouth open, arms by his side as if in a trance.

  Mya had her hand on his knee. She brought her hands up and grabbed both of his cheeks and closed her eyes.

  The blood stopped dripping. The nose cracked, adjusting itself, straightening.

  Drew took a step forward. One moment life was normal – other than wondering if he was a prisoner and if the world was about to end – and the next, a holy-shit soldier’s broken nose healed right in front of his eyes? What the hell was an understatement. The understatement of the world.

  Mya put her hands together and closed her eyes again. She opened them, simultaneously opening her hands. A white handkerchief fell to the floor. She picked it up and handed it to the man. He took it, wiping the blood off of his mouth. He brought his shoulder radio device close to his lips, keeping his eyes on Mya. “Tā yǒu mólì,” he blurted into the radio.

  Drew took another step forward. “Mya, what did you just do? I mean, how –”

  Her eyes rolled back into her head and she went listless, flopping to the floor.

  * * *

  The meals came, the empty plates left. With no windows and no clocks, it was only the slight variation in food that gave Drew any clue what time of day it was. Unless they were screwing with him and giving him Kung Po Beef for breakfast.

  The guards escorted him through the compound, in spite of his vocal protest, and deposited him in what could only be described as a replica of the Oval Office. Anderle sat behind the massive, Presidential desk, his feet up. “This wasn’t my idea.” He handed Drew a stapled, crisp set of papers. “Just printed these out.”

  Drew set the papers on the table. “You have Mya under twenty-four hour guard. There’s a damn Chinese guy in there with her now, eying her like she’s a God-damn POW.” He didn’t dare mention what else he saw, the Christ-like miracle that baffled him to no end and put Mya on the floor, conked out for hours.

  Anderle hesitated, his eyes moving to the papers. He shrugged. “For her safety.”

  Drew saw the lie in Anderle’s shifty eyes, before Anderle even opened his lying mouth. Plus, it was a bullshit answer. “What are you hiding?”

  Anderle thumbed over his shoulder. “She’s not to leave that room. Not for one minute unless I, or General Lin Yu, give permission. Understand, Drew? And that’s that. Now, look at the documents, please.” He sighed, heavily. Good, meant he was exasperated. Drew wanted the asshole to be exasperated. He’d sold Drew down the river.

  Drew scratched his cheek with his middle finger. Anderle didn’t catch the gesture. Drew fought the urge to smile. He glanced down at the papers on the table. “Alright, what is this?”

  “Read it.”

  Drew read it then closed his eyes while pinching the ridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, his face pallid. “This is a script. If I don’t comply, you’ll kill Mya? I just saved her, man. She’s only six years old. She doesn’t even know her mother is dead. I told her we were looking for her father. You can’t do this to me…”

  Anderle shrugged. “I can and I did.”

  He took another glance at the script. “You want me to be your Katnis?”

  Anderle nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed. “You like to read dystopia. Hunger Games is a good book to learn from because we’re heading into a dystopian world right now, unless we can stave it off.”

  Drew caught his breath. He didn’t want to run his own dishwasher, let alone help run a country, especially if he was being used. “Shouldn’t we be focusing on defeating the invasion?” Drew motioned toward the general, who stood to attention by the door. “Jerkface over here won’t stop eyeing me like I’m going to slit his throat. Why have a Chinese general on site?” Drew dropped his voice. “They’re enemy combatants, Anderle. I know you like to play fast and loose with the rules, but this is nuts.”

  Anderle stood straight, crossing his arms. “He’s harmless.” He pulled Drew close and whispered. “He’s here to help us kill his President and overtake the Chinese army. He’s leaked their plans to us. We know where they’re going to be and when. We’re the winningest team, ever.”

  Drew had a sickening flashback to Charlotte, when he’d experienced a shitload of Chinese bullets singeing his ears and slamming into the people around him. He couldn’t shake the image of those United States Marines’ faces blown off, jets shot down, crashing into the city below. Felt like winning the same way drowning felt like swimming. “Where the hell are our allies?”

  Anderle frowned. “No clue. Radio silence from NATO and the UN and everyone else who are supposed to protect the free-world. Canada is the only one helping us, but even that’s minimal. But what do you expect? They’re Canadian. It’s not like they can ‘polite’ the enemy to death.” Anderle laughed at his own joke, then sighed. “People trust you, Drew. You broke the biggest story in the history of the world. You’re viewed as the ultimate patriot. That’s how the New United States sees you. You knew those idiots were leaving the planet and instead of hitching a ride with them, you chose to ride it out with the rest of us.”

  “How could I have possibly hitched a ride?”

  Anderle nodded to a guard.

  The guard walked to a desk and picked up a remote. He aimed the remote at the TV, clicking the power. The large TV blipped on, a black screen with the words, New United States News Network with the letters NUSNN were printed underneath. The guard handed Anderle the remote. Anderle’s entire affect changed. Gone was the loosey-goosey, laid-back coder. In his place was a version of Anderle that Drew had only seen a tiny glimmer of; an Anderle in charge. His body was rigid, military almost; his tone serious. “Play.” He dropped his arm by his side just as a scene appeared on the screen.

  President Jefferson Kennedy’s hologram – which Anderle had successfully deployed as a cover, so he could run things from behind the scenes – stood in front of a projection screen. “We owe Drew Avera our lives.” The President’s tone was sincere, reassuring. The hologram faded. The screen changed from white to black with blue numbers counting down.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  On screen, two men were deep in conversation.

  Drew started, his heart in his throat. “What the almighty hell?”

  On the TV, Drew stood in front of his father, Colonel Slade Roberson, the man behind the entire government’s exodus to Callisto, a moon Slade declared, “habitable by human beings.”

  The cameraman was hunkered behind a bush, his breathing labored, as he filmed the meeting between father and son on his cell phone.

  Drew kn
ew it was fake – he’d never been there, never met his father in a forest, but he was captivated, nonetheless.

  The camera work was jittery, made to look clandestine and amateurish, but the lighting was perfect, their faces in focus. The sound, though, was a dead giveaway. The men’s voices were clearly audible. There was no way in hell you could get that clarity from twenty feet. People would know it was a set up, a fake, a piece of propaganda, filmed on some studio lot.

  “We’re airing this over the TV networks right now,” said Anderle.

  It was ridiculous. Yet, Drew studied the news reel as if it was his life on the line.

  Slade stood next to a helicopter, dressed in a futuristic, form-fitting jumpsuit, a helmet tucked under his arm. He put the helmet down and brought Drew in for a hug.

  Drew pushed him away.

  “You’re coming with me, son,” said Slade.

  Drew backed away from Slade, his face red. “You get on that chopper and you’re no longer my father.”

  Slade looked down. “I have to, Drew.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t back out of this now. It’s gone on too long, gone too far.” Slade glanced over his shoulder. “Guards!”

  “Stop this, Slade! You took an oath. You’re supposed to be a defender of the people. The citizens of the United States trusted you. They looked to you for protection. If you leave, you strip all that protection away. You can’t do it.”

  “Guards,” yelled Slade again. He grimaced, signs of pain rippling over his hardened face. “You’re coming with us one way or the other, Drew.”

  The camera man shifted his shot from Drew to soldiers rushing toward Slade and Drew. He panned the camera back in Drew’s direction.

  Drew turned and ran, the cameraman doing the same, following Drew, doing his best to keep the camera on Drew while pushing away foliage and jumping over downed tree limbs. He skidded to a halt just as Drew ran by, entering a dense thicket, dodging trees and brush.

  Two men came barreling after him, pistols drawn.