Project Alpha_Book 1

by R. A. Mejia

  Project Alpha

  Book 1

  By R.A. Mejia

  © 2017 Ramon Mejia

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  Dedication

  For my beautiful, patient wife. Not only has she continued to be on the frontlines correcting my spelling mistakes but she’s been my greatest supporter on this crazy journey.

  Prologue

  A man wearing a shining breastplate runs through the dark. He can’t remember how he got there, his mind is foggy from whatever the man in the mask injected him with. He only knows that if he stops running he’ll die.

  Laughter floats through the dark, taunting the older man. “Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t escape me, I’m the evil masked man.”

  Daniel knows that he’s being toyed with. In his youth he’d have turned and fought to the death, but he’s older now. Slower. He can’t compete with this masked man. Especially not now that he’s back at level one. It’ll only take one more death and he’ll be gone, permanently.

  It all started out so simple. Meet with the corporate representative and negotiate a way for Lillian to compete in this year’s System Games. Instead he somehow found himself here. Running for his life, looking for a way out. Looking for a way to warn Lillian.

  Daniel feels a prick in his thigh and he stumbles, then falls to the ground. Looking down at his leg he sees a feathered dart sticking out of it. Daniel feels the drugs from the tranquilizer dart spreading through his body.

  The man in the mask appears next to him, his tranquilizer gun already put away, and a sharp knife in hand.

  Daniel looks up at the masked figure with bleary, unfocused eyes and speaks through gritted teeth, “Even if you kill me, you haven’t won. She’s determined and resourceful.”

  The masked figure looks down at the kneeling man, smiles, and whispers, “I know she’ll find someone else. I’m prepared to deal with them too if the corporation demands it.” The figure’s hand lashes out and there’s a flash of metal. The older man slumps over, his throat slashed. As the last of the older man’s life ebbs away, his body disappears in a flash of light, leaving a small, neatly tied bag behind.

  The bag on the ground is picked up by the masked man. He taps the air once and then the bag in his hand disappears as neatly as the body of his latest victim.

  He reaches a hand into his jacket pocket and takes out his cell phone. Dialing a number, he waits till his contact picks up. There’s a click and he knows that someone, somewhere is listening and he says, “It's done. He was sent for deletion. Who’s my next target?”

  Chapter 1

  A beautiful caramel skinned woman winks at me from across the room. Her raven hair is styled to accentuate her high cheekbones and big brown eyes. She smiles as I approach and I know that she’s interested. I introduce myself, and the two of us sit and talk. I try not to let my eyes roam her voluptuous body, but it’s a struggle. After a few minutes of small talk, she leans in and whispers in my ear, “Do you want to go back to my place I nod eagerly. Before I know it, we’re sitting at the edge of her bed kissing. Things are heating up when she looks seriously at me and screams in a different voice, “Anthony, wake up! You're going to be late.”

  My eyes fly open, and I realize that it was all just a dream. My exquisite fantasy about a hot, young Latina lavishing me with attention was rudely interrupted by the sound of my mother’s voice. If you’ve never experienced it, it’s rather disturbing to hear your mom’s voice coming from some hot girl in your dream. I’ll admit, however, that it is an effective wake up call.

  I roll out of bed and stand up to stretch. Then I turn around and quickly make my bed, knowing that if I don’t, I’ll hear an earful from my mom. My friends tease me about my mom still making me do chores around the house even though I’m eighteen. They don’t believe me when I tell them that she doesn’t yell at me to do it. Rather, she has some mysterious way of guilting me into it with a sad mom look. It’s worth the few minutes to make my bed if I can avoid that devastating look.

  Still half asleep, I stumble out of my room into the hallway towards the single bathroom in the house. I try to open the door, but it’s locked. I bang on the door, and the familiar voice of my fourteen-year-old little sister yells, “I’m in here! Go away!” I curse myself for not setting the alarm last night. If Marie is in there, she’ll occupy it for at least another half hour. Instead of waiting around or going back to bed, I walk down the hallway to the kitchen where I can smell the delicious aroma of cooking food. As I enter our dining room/kitchen combo, I see my mom in front of the stove already wearing her uniform for work. I take a seat at our second-hand kitchen table and for the hundredth time wish we could afford something better than this wobbly, scratched piece of furniture.

  My mom must have heard the scrape of the wooden chair on the white tile floor because just as I’m sitting, she turns and shouts warmly, “Good morning, mijo. Let me get you a plate of food. You shouldn’t start your first day of college on an empty stomach.” Before I can say good morning back, she’s somehow already putting a plate of food in front of me. Oh boy, that smells good too! Today’s breakfast is one of my favorites, chilaquiles. Which, if you’ve never had them, are fried corn tortillas cut into triangles that are cooked in a special mix of tomato sauce, salsa, cheese, and spices. Today, they’re served with two over medium eggs and a big glass of milk. I eagerly dig into the food and thank my mom for the meal between bites. She just smiles at me and goes back into the kitchen to get my sister’s breakfast ready.

  As I’m enjoying the unique blend of crispy tortilla, gooey cheese, and spice, I wonder how my mom makes them taste so good. I once tried to make them myself but ended up with
a pan full of mush that tasted like salty, thick tomato soup.

  I’ve finished my breakfast by the time the bathroom door unlocks and my sister walks into the room. She’s dressed in a navy-blue skirt with a light blue dress shirt. Her shoulder length black hair is held back by a pink headband, and she already has her school backpack on her shoulder.

  “Your breakfast will be ready in a minute, Boo Boo.” My mom calls out from the kitchen.

  I snicker and my sister rolls her eyes at my mom’s use of her nickname. When she was little, my sister hurt herself a lot playing outside and every time she got hurt she’d come running home asking our mom to kiss her boo boo. Eventually, we all just started calling her Boo Boo, and the name stuck.

  With a definite whine in her voice, my sister says, “Mom, I can’t stay for breakfast. Stacy Patel’s mom is picking me up. We have to practice our routine before tryouts this week.”

  I shake my head at the breaks my little sister gets. Not only does she go to a private school, but she has the free time to try out for cheerleading. Sure, she’s on an academic scholarship, but it still irks me. I had to attend twelve years of public school and suffer through some of the worst teachers imaginable. I remember, in elementary school, one teacher completely forgot to teach us the science curriculum and then at the end of the year he gave everyone Fs in the subject on our report cards. I was one pissed off fifth grader that year.

  A horn honks outside and my sister runs down the hall towards the front door, yelling, “There she is. I have to go. I love you, Mom. Bye!” The sound of our front door slams a moment after she finishes yelling.

  My mom is holding a plate of food in her hands. She sighs dramatically and offers it to me.

  Woo Hoo! Seconds!

  I mean, I graciously accept the food. No use wasting after all. By the time I’ve finished my second plate of delicious chilaquiles, my mom has already cleaned up the kitchen and has her purse in hand. “Anthony, I’m leaving now. Come kiss your mom goodbye.” I only hesitate for a moment. I feel silly giving my mom a goodbye kiss at my age, but one look from her and I’m up out of my chair giving her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. She gives me a big kiss back, undoubtedly leaving red lipstick on my cheek, and she’s out the door for the first of her two jobs. During the day, Mom works as a maid at a local hotel chain and a factory on an assembly line at night.

  I shake my head at my mom’s fortitude. I don’t know how she has the energy after two shifts to still get up in the morning and take care of her kids. I’d likely still be in a sleep coma if I worked as much as she did.

  Catching a glimpse of the time from the clock on the wall, I hurry to wash and dry my dishes. Then I take a quick shower, get dressed in blue jeans and a faded Star Wars Episode X shirt. Then I am out the door with my backpack.

  Chapter 2

  It’s a little chilly this morning as I jog to the bus stop. I’m breathing hard by the time I get there, just in time to see the bus I need drive away. I groan as I wave my arms in the air, hoping that the bus will magically stop, yet knowing it’s a futile gesture. The buses, and most transportation for that matter, went fully autonomous years ago. So, there’s no driver on that bus to make it stop for me. I guess I’ll just have to wait for the next one.

  Pulling out my smartphone from my jeans, I look up the time for the next bus going to the college. Darn it! It’s going to be twenty minutes. Not wanting to waste my battery, I put the phone back into my pocket. I take a seat on the cold concrete bench next to the bus stop and take off my backpack. I place it on the ground between my feet and take out my shiny new school binder. For some reason, even after all the years of mandatory school, it’s still exciting to get these new school supplies each year. Flipping opened the binder, I check out my class schedule. Yup, just like I thought. I’m going to be late for my 8 am Anthropology class. Well, from what I read online, it’s not that hard of a course. At least I’ll be on time for my Math class at 10 am.

  The binder and schedule go back into the backpack and I try not to fidget while I wait for the next bus. The concrete bench is uncomfortable, but I’m used to it; I’ve taken the bus since I was a little kid. Our family could never afford a car. Yeah, I know I could order a ride from an automatic car company like Johnny Cab, but those mannequins they put in the driver's seat are creepy. I think the company stole their name from some old sci-fi movie. Besides, money has always been tight in our family and the automated bus is a lot cheaper.

  As I watch the steady stream of automated electric cars and buses flow quietly by on the street in front of me, an unusual sound catches my attention. I look around and see someone driving a car. Not just any car— it’s the Luxemburg 379, one of the world’s fastest combustion engine vehicles. Well, to be honest, it’s one of the only combustion engine vehicles left. Most companies went electric years ago after Elon Musk figured out an efficient means of capturing solar energy and storing it safely in batteries. The only people that even make combustion engines anymore are small high-end auto manufacturers like Luxemburg. Their cars are insanely expensive and the insurance premiums to drive these days are astronomical.

  I can’t help but laugh at the guy behind the wheel of the flashy yellow sports car. He has long blond hair and expensive looking sunglasses on. Unfortunately for him, he’s stuck at a light behind a group of autonomous vehicles that only go thirty miles per hour while in the city. He looks so pissed that he can’t just zoom around them in his fancy car. He takes a sip of his drink then grimaces. Looking around for a place to dump his drink, he sees me looking at him and laughing. I quickly avert my gaze, but it’s too late. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something flying through the air towards me. I try to move out of the way, but a full cup of some luxury coffee drink crashes right onto the sidewalk in front of me, splashing me with a dark, sticky liquid. All of my clothes and backpack are covered in the milky brown coffee. I look up to glare at the guy in the yellow sports car only to see him speeding away, laughing, as traffic finally moves forward.

  I mutter to myself about stupid rich people who have no respect for others. Still, I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to have enough money to buy one of those cars. Instead of having to take the bus, I could cruise around town in my car. I could quit my part-time job and move my mom and sister into a nicer neighborhood. I could finally get my own place too. Maybe a condo by a beach somewhere? I would set up a college fund for my sister so she wouldn’t have to take out student loans like I have to.

  My daydreaming is interrupted by the sound of giggles. Blinking, I remember where I am. Glancing to my left, I see two teenage girls giggling and pointing at the brown mess that’s covering my clothes and backpack. I smiled weakly at them and take a bottle of water I have in my backpack and try to wash off the worst of the mess from my bag and clothing. Most of it comes off, but now it looks like I wet my pants. Oh, well, it’s better than looking like I had the runs and couldn’t make it to the restroom.

  By the time the bus I need arrives, I’ve dried off a little and get on. As I take my seat, I wondering what the Anthropology professor is going to say when I walk in late.

  Chapter 3

  Even though I washed most of the drink off, I still smell like coffee, and no one wants to sit next to me on the bus. Which is fine since that means I can stretch out a little during the bus ride for once.

  An hour later, the bus stops right in front of the college where I and several other students get off. The information I looked up online when I applied said that the college campus is massive. More than 250 buildings spread over 1,400 acres, and a student population of over 30,000 people. Those figures were impressive when I read them, but they don’t compare to seeing the place first hand. I join the stream of people heading towards the center of campus, and I can’t help but be impressed by the tall eight and nine-story buildings around me.

  In front of one of the taller buildings is a long line of students, each with a piece of paper in their hands. Wond
ering if I should be in line with everyone else, I tap the shoulder of a guy in line. When he looks up from his phone, I ask him what the line is for. He informs me that it is the line to register for classes and change schedules. I thank the guy for the information and continue forward, glad that I registered online as soon as I got my acceptance letter.

  As I walk with the crowd of people, I see a variety of buildings, each with a name in big block letters on their sides. There’s the five-story library with an entire side made from glass. Of course, there’s a coffee bar next to it. Across from that are a series of one-story buildings with fast food shops and a two-story student store. Next to that is the student recreation center. There are some cute girls going in and out and I make a mental to check that place out later. As I continue to walk around, I realize that I really have no idea where I’m going. I stop and take off my backpack, crinkling my nose at the strong smell of coffee that still wafts from it. I open it, only to find that the coffee seeped through the backpack into my binder. An involuntary groan escapes my lips when I open the binder to see that all the papers have soaked up the brown liquid, even my class schedule and the map of the school I’d printed out. I rotate the papers, trying to see if I can make anything out. I can see where the Anthropology class is listed and the time it starts. Next to that are abbreviated letters and numbers for the building and classroom it’s located in. Unfortunately, those I can’t quite make out. I think it says SMD 136. I don’t know what the hell SMD stands for though.