Captain Richard Fox walked on to the stage and stood behind a podium, skimming over a document he’d probably read a dozen times. He tossed it on a nearby table and grabbed both sides of the podium. “Intel reports suggest that the Taiyonians are hostile. Good on the offensive front, excellent on the defensive. They’re a high-tech society. Very advanced. Blah-blah-screw-that-shit-blah.”
There were hundreds of pilots—jocks, all of them—hanging on Fox’s every word.
“This shit ain’t gonna be easy. I’ve been watching the Kelhoon-Taiyonian war on my holo-vid for the last couple of weeks. The Taiyonians are fast, accurate, and deadly. Their fleet is just as big as ours, their starfighters match our speed and maneuverability. They work as a team like none other. Don’t get cocky with these sons-of-bitches, because your ass will be space debris the moment you let up.” He paused, and did his best to look into as many eyes in the room as he possibly could in a span of five seconds. “We’re on a Star Cruiser, First Class, Liberty. And, that’s our job and our right, to bring liberty to the Kelhoon.”
He swiped the document back into his hands, read a couple more lines, and shook his head in dismay. “All right. I almost forgot, so listen up. The Kelhoon are off-quadrant, replenishing. We’ll be a surprise to the Taiyonians when we arrive in the Kepler System in eighteen minutes. Your squad leaders have your assignments. They’ve been thoroughly briefed. Get in your starfighters and don’t fuck up.”
He walked off the small stage and exited left. Everyone stood, including Jaxx. He had on his jumpsuit and held his helmet at his side.
Rivkah patted him on the butt like a coach on a baseball team. “Guess who’s joining our squad?” Her lips drooped.
Jaxx shrugged. More than one hot-head rookie could join the squad and harsh their mellow. “Lieutenant Struthers?” The kid acted like a rock stars. Top of the class in every thing, or so Jaxx heard.
“No. Captain Richard Fox. I think he wants to experience your unique skills.”
Jaxx held back the urge to throw up. He should have seen that coming. Damn Fox was in the mix. He hurried to a bench against a wall and sat, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. His fingers tingled and his mind spun. He shook his head. “I can’t do this. I’m not a killer.” I’m not like Fox or any of these space jocks.
Rivkah sat next to him, her hand on his back. “Listen, Lieutenant. I get it. It’s the same for all of us. Very few are born with the balls to end another Being’s life, but we’re trained for this and your training will kick in and I’m guessing so will that strange talent of yours.” She lifted his chin. “Look at me. From what I saw the last time you flew, that odd talent makes you the best pilot here. And we’re an elite crew, which means your skills rank above the best.”
Jaxx wanted to push her away. He’d been forced into this war. He was an archaeologist, not a space cowboy. “Who are they?”
“Who are who, Jaxx?”
“The Taiyonians. What do they look like?”
“We don’t know. The Kelhoons wouldn’t hand that information over to us.”
“Why do we have to kill them? Why do we even have to fight them?”
“Like I said before, it’s what we signed up to do. I think it’s bullshit to take on an alien race, but we’re protecting Earth. That I know.”
Jaxx straightened. “Shit. Alien races. We’re protecting Earth, huh?”
Rivkah raised her eyebrows. “Look at it this way. We are exterminating a menace. The Taiyonians are like rats taking over your house. You leave them be and they’ll just grow in numbers, tearing your home apart, leaving shit balls everywhere. If you get rid of them immediately, then you’ll have peace in your house again.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Rivkah pulled Jaxx into a standing position. “Don’t let Fox see you like this. He has ways of sending those he considers low-life wimps to the brig, or worse yet, on missions where you’ll never return...just to get rid of you.”
“All right.”
“Good. ‘Cause I don’t like being a baby sitter. Now, follow me.”
Rivkah led Jaxx into the launch bay. Starfighters were parked in rows and pilots were climbing into their cockpits.
“Who else is in our squadron?” asked Jaxx
“Just us.”
Jaxx stopped. “You mean, me, you, and Fox?”
“Yes, Sir.” She patted a starfighter. “This is your SF-13 Air Wing. Strap in.”
The fumes, the noise, and the knowledge that he was about to meet enemy starfighters face to face sent Jaxx into overload. The past faded and he groped his way back to his present.
“There are wars,” he mumbled. “Check glyphs for wars…”
Donny looked at the clock, grimacing. It had been a few hours but he most likely hadn’t run through the list of all the trigger words Slade had given him. From what Jaxx remembered, Donny didn’t like keeping his subjects under for too long. “Jaxx, we have to keep going. I’m sorry.” His job no doubt depended on it.
“Jaxx, understand you’re safe. You’re going deeper, conjuring up vivid memories...”
37
June 7th
Portland, Oregon
The sun’s rays splintered through the cracks in the cedar trees and branches which shadowed the spot where Drew lay. He felt for his phone. Still there. He wiped the slobber from his cheek and shook the dirt out of his hair.
He powered his phone on, watching a car drive down the street, its turn signal blinking.
Drew was tired, stiff, and a little wet from the dew. His phone displayed 8:07 AM and his phone’s battery was at twenty-seven percent. He’d need to ration his phone use.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. The phone rang. Hobbs Howell. Again. He yawned and stretched, rubbing his stomach. “Hey, Hobbs.”
“Are you happy?”
He glanced down the road and, seeing no cars, walked across the street. He needed food. There had to be a bagel shop nearby. “I don’t think happy is a word that can describe the feelings I’m having lately.”
“Well, we ran the story this morning on WNN morning news. The internet, all major news networks, and radio shows are having a hay day with our particular take on the story. That Drew Avera is our star undercover reporter and is still undercover as we speak. All the news heads are looking for you. And you have critics. We need you on our nightly news program to defend yourself. Please don’t speak with any other networks until you’ve spoken with us. You’re our reporter. Remember that.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Gotcha. And who’d you get to argue against my facts, my documents, my research that I almost died to get?” He turned a corner.
“Colonel Slade Roberson.”
Drew stopped in his tracks. “The head of the GSA?”
“Yes.”
He looked at his battery—twenty-five percent. “I have to get off the phone. I’ll call you later.”
“No, you need to prep. If Slade’s shitting us, you need to counter his spin, give us the facts.”
Hobbs was right. They wanted him to look good and right, and Slade bad and wrong. Drew wanted the same thing. Prepping was one way to do that. But he couldn’t. No battery life. “If I keep talking, my battery will die.”
A bagel shop was across the street. “Thank, God.”
“What was that?” Hobbs asked.
“Nothing. I’ll call in on the Nightly News line. Just put a picture of me up on the split screen. You’ll hear my voice.”
“What about prep?”
“Sure, but I need food.”
“Remember, Drew, during the interview always complete your thoughts, even after being interrupted.”
“Got it, boss.” He hung up, then powered down his phone, seeing the phone was at twenty-one percent before it shut off.
He jogged across the street.
Drew opened the glass door, the cooked dough aroma filling his senses. He stood in a short line.
A young woman sat at a corner table gave him a gla
nce. He smiled. He knew what she was about. She did everything in her power to not throw her half-eaten bagel away, dump her coffee, and approach him like a cat in heat. He then realized he hadn’t brushed off the dirt on his clothes.
“I’ll take two bagels and a small coffee...black.”
The cashier rang him up. “$8.85, sir.”
He reached into his pocket for his wallet. His pocket was empty. He dug into his other pocket. Empty. He searched his back pockets. Same results. He dropped his head, defeated. “Not good.”
His stomach growled. He leaned on the counter; eyebrows raised. A look he hoped was vulnerable and charming. “You’re not doing a free special on bagels and coffee today, are you?”
“Cute,” she said, “but no, we’re not.”
Drew nodded, dejected.
“My boyfriend works down at the co-op on Strand and Overbrook. If you hit them up at around noon, they have samples and, as long as you’re polite and don’t pull any asshole moves like panhandling the customers, they’ll let you graze your way through the store.”
“Wow. Thanks. I owe you.”
“Hope you find your wallet.”
Drew left the store and its heavenly yeasty smell. With a few hours to kill, he needed to raise enough cash to get his phone in the mail.
In a squidge-proof carrier.
Before anyone tracked him down and put a bullet in his brain.
Or took him prisoner.
Or worse.
Drew knew, having spent a lot of his free time with assorted conspiracists, geeks, and weirdos that there were many things worse than death. He also knew how to juggle while reciting pi, which for some reason, was a crowd pleaser.
It took him two and half hours of non-stop juggling to raise enough money for postage and packaging. He wrote his mom’s name in big, bold letters on the padded envelope and included a card—kitties in a watering can, something she’d think was darling and harmless—then sent his entire life insurance package to her in the United States Postal Service.
He checked the clock on the Post Office wall. Ten to twelve. Thank all the gods that ever were. Screw the government and the GSA and the spaceships and the conspiracy and Slade whatshisname. Free food beckoned.
Drew never liked it when organic food co-ops weren’t busy. It usually meant that the larger, corporate stores took money away from hardworking hippies.
He cruised the freebie tables arranged around the store three times and no one had said a single word. Other than the guy with the beanie, stacking oranges in the produce section, Drew was the only customer in the store. These stores always smelled of granola and sweat, and the sweat was a little too intense.
He moseyed around and made sure nobody watched, then lifted his arm and sniffed his pit. The intensity was him, not the store. He glanced at the bathroom. They wouldn’t kick him out if he had a standing wash at one of their sinks. Would they? No. They were hippies. He needed to smell a little better before heading back out to raise funds for his disposable phone.
After the wash, he found himself outside the store. And, damn, Portlandians were free with their cash. He juggled, offered up quadratic equations which apparently sounded impressive if you had no idea what quadratic equations were, and juggled his way to a new, disposable phone, a whole bagel with pastrami, mustard, and all the fixings, and been able to leave an overly-generous tip to the staffer who’d been kind enough to point him to the co-op, when he’d been sure he was going to die of starvation. Things were looking good.
His story was out there, his source material was safe. Slade was on the ropes. Drew hadn’t prepped but he didn’t need to. He had the facts on his side. He idled his way around Portland’s friendly streets until it was time for the show.
Normally, calling in at least forty-five minutes before WNN’s Nightly News was usual protocol. Things needed to be said, orders had to be listened to, and going over prep again and again was a must.
Ten minutes before airtime, he dialed WNN’s Nightly News producer, Michelle Lowry.
“It’s about time you called. Where have you been? Colonel Slade Roberson has been on standby for almost a half an hour. He’s prepared. You’re not.”
Drew looked out over the Laurelhurst Park. A cluster of brush and trees stood between him and the sidewalk, hiding him from view. “I’m ready when he is.”
“Fine. Interview starts in three minutes.”
“Put me through.”
The moment she did Drew heard the opening credits. It was a big deal, this interview. There was more to the story and he needed to get Slade to stumble or at least fumble a pass. Trouble was, he couldn’t see the man’s face. He knew exactly what he’d be looking for. He’d seen it in that Rock Magazine interview. But without a visual, he’d be relying solely on the tone and tempo of the man’s voice. Beads of sweat formed on his lip and he rubbed his pant leg nervously.
The credits came to an end. “From WNN’s Nightly News headquartered in Chicago, this is Connor Eves.”
Drew could remember the beginning credits as if watching the opening from his couch. Connor probably smiled into the camera, his good looks and large eye brows dominating the screen.
Connor spoke with conviction. Everything he said was smooth and convincing. “Today, we have a remarkable story. From what we’ve all heard, science fiction is no longer something of the future. It is here, now. It’s science fact. In stunning developments that came to light late yesterday and early this morning, our very own WNN reporter, Drew Avera, has come by documents, satellite images, and an email correspondence with a Global Safety Administration insider to give you a detailed look at what’s going on behind government scenes, particularly with the Global Safety Administration. And, he’s here today, along with Colonel Slade Roberson, who’s been mentioned in all but a few of those documents, for a special edition of Tonight Talk.”
Tonight Talk was a segment where two guests haggled it out, without much interviewing between. Entertainment that often turned into a fist fight, instead of a well-curated interview, where the guests could do their best to persuade the viewer to their side.
“Welcome Colonel Slade Roberson,” Connor said.
“Thank you,” replied Slade. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“And, nice to hear your voice again, Drew.”
Drew bobbed his head up and down. Here we go. It’s time to use my mature voice. “Thank you, Connor. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“Colonel Roberson. GSA documents, GSA satellite images, and like I said, email correspondence from an inside source has been all over the news the last thirty-six hours.”
Drew wished he could see Slade to watch the worry build on the Colonel’s face, but when Slade spoke, the guy was confident. “I can’t say much about the email correspondence, other than it was an uncle and his nephew—”
Drew butted in. “‘Uncle and nephew mean nothing in this situation. All we need to know is whether Kaden Jaxx does in fact work for you?”
“Yes, he is an archaeologist hired to research highly classified satellite images taken by the TECS IV satellite. What he was not hired to do was to speak with anyone about military and government classified information outside of the Global Safety Administration. There were several laws broken but let me first start out by saying that there is a reason for classified material. We don’t want other governments co-opting the United States special interests. Our goal is to keep the citizens of the United States safe and secure. This leak, which has now consumed the entire globe, is no longer in our hands. It’s now in the hands of governments that do not have the interest of the American people at heart. They have their own, self-serving interests. The email correspondence between Kaden Jaxx and Drew Avera was—I’m sorry to say it Connor—treasonous. This leak is going to set us back as a nation.”
“How is it going to set us back, Colonel?” inquired Connor.
“When researching highly detailed material, like the reported structures on Callisto, it is be
st to take it slow. We need to be methodical. We can no longer do that. This has created a race between us and the other major powers in the world. A frantic race creates mistakes.”
“Drew, anything to add?”
“I do.” He eyed the cars that approached a traffic light. All of them, too slow. “Let’s forget about Kaden Jaxx for the moment and get to the meat of the issue. The photographs of the underground bunker, which I sent to—”
“Which you stole,” Slade barked.
Drew shifted on the grass. Even over the phone, and hundreds of miles away, the man was intimidating.
Slade calmed himself. “Of course we want to investigate the discovery on the Jupiter moon, Callisto. How did those structures get there? Who built them? How old are they? Those are basic questions anyone would ask themselves. This isn’t some conspiracy. This is an incredible exploration of the human past.”
Connor cut in, clearly excited. “Are you saying these structures are man-made?”
“There’s no evidence to suggest any planet in the solar system can support intelligent life. So, no on the aliens. My best guess, it’s human-made.”
Drew bit his cheek. “Alright, let’s get back to the subject at hand. We can discuss aliens in a minute.” He stretched his neck to the side until the bones clicked. “Colonel, you’ve admitted that this is a manned mission. But I have taken pictures of luggage, supplies, a train that can hold a dozen giant spaceships, why so many—”
“You’re wrong. You’re jumping to conclusions. You have no idea what you saw when you were...” he laughed, long and hard; Drew could just see him sneering into the cameras, “when you were scurrying around a flight hanger with too much weed in your system.”
Drew thumped his hand into the dirt. He knew it had been a mistake to give that guard a toke. “I know what I saw.”
Slade ignored him. “We’re going to be as open as we can on this. We’ve been holding back a lot of information from the public for good reason. Now, we can’t. So, we’ll be transparent to—”
Ascendant Saga Collection: Sci-Fi Fantasy Techno Thriller Page 19
