Ascendant Saga Collection: Sci-Fi Fantasy Techno Thriller

by Brandon Ellis

  The mech fell to the side and Jaxx rolled his mech out of the way and pushed himself into a standing position. He glared at the fallen mech, sword in his hand, blasters aimed at the downed Agadon.

  The Agadon mech, its midsection melted, wires hanging, and its lower leg gone, rotated its cannon, blasting a charge at Jaxx.

  Jaxx spun. He took a powerful step forward, his foot crushing the Agadon mech’s shoulder. Sparks fizzed and curled around Jaxx’s mech’s foot. He gripped his sword with both hands, lifted it high, and plunged it into the mech’s abdomen. The Agadon mech twitched before all lights in the mech’s cockpit went offline.

  “Fall back!” came Zara.

  “Why?” questioned Jaxx. They had the upper hand. Falling back would be a critical mistake. He took one look at the battlefield and saw why. A hundred or so Agadon mech’s were falling from the sky, coming in for a landing.

  Jaxx and his new friends were outnumbered, and from the heap of dead Agadon’s and dead Leonian’s scattered across the field, these Leonians didn’t have a chance.

  Jaxx turned, following the racing Leonian mechs, heading for a hill covered with three pyramids. Every so often, a Leonian mech would pick up a handful of running Leonian warriors, cradling them in their arms, and protecting them from incoming fire.

  “Where are we going?” inquired Jaxx, his heart pumping, his adrenaline soaring.

  “Follow us. And pick up some of our troops, will ya’, fuzz face?”

  Jaxx slowed and scooped up a handful of Leonian warriors. He brought them toward his chest, holding them like he’d hold a baby. He took fast strides, pounding footstep upon footstep over the hard earth, passing the burned wheat fields and onto dry grasses and high desert terrain.

  A video popped on his screen, showing the troops he’d picked up now tapping buttons onto his mech’s chest. Several compartments opened. They each pulled metallic clasps connected to thick cable and attached it to the chains that crisscrossed their back. The cable was hooked into the mech, preventing the warriors from plummeting to their death if they slipped or were somehow thrown.

  An alarm blared. He glanced at another screen in his cockpit.

  “We have incoming missiles,” Jaxx informed Zara.

  “I’ve informed your troops and they are already on it,” replied Zara.

  Before Jaxx could reply, the gang of troops climbed up his mech’s chest, grasping one handhold after another, while still attached to the cables—cables that elongated the farther the troops scaled.

  And the warriors were fast. One by one they reached his shoulder, got on one knee and aimed their cannons at the missiles. Blue flames zipped out of their barrels, the gun’s concussion pushing the warriors backward and into the air, the cable immediately sucking them back into Jaxx’s mech’s arms.

  One missile, two missiles, and then a half a dozen missiles vanished on his screen, downed by the Leonian soldiers.

  “More are coming.” The hair stood on the back of his neck. Another half a dozen missiles headed his way and hundreds more en-route to the remainder of the retreating Leonian mechs.

  “Yes, we’re not out of this yet,” responded Zara.

  The attackers were AI beasts with bad programming, according to Zara, and that was all Jaxx knew. Why they were attacking the Leonians in the first place hadn’t yet been discussed with him.

  Jaxx’s soldiers trudged their way back up to his shoulder and crouched. They fired and again, rocketed off his shoulder from their weapon’s kickback. The cables sucked them back into Jaxx’s arms.

  He checked his screen. One by one, the missiles vanished.

  “Damn. They are goo—”

  A blast dug into the back of a mech running next to him. Armor and fire burst outward and the mech lurched forward. Flames like a tidal wave leapt over the mech’s head. It lost all function and fell forward, its legs and arms going limp. The soldiers he carried, bailed left and right just as the mech went headfirst into the ground. The soldier’s cut their cords, landing in a somersault and popping immediately to their feet, avoiding secondary blasts exploding from the downed mech.

  Jaxx shifted to the right and, still cradling his warriors in one arm, bent down and put his arm out for the downed mech’s troops. They latched on to his arm and Jaxx brought them in to his chest, then raced forward toward the hill.

  “Commence opening,” said Zara.

  The ground rumbled, shaking his mech with every step he took. A portion of the hill cracked in half, opening wide, exposing a creamy interior with large columns extending to the ceiling. Ships lined the back.

  “Jaxx, head into the opening. We’ll see you when you get there. Out.”

  Jaxx rushed forward, his heat gauge showing that his mech was close to overheating. Jaxx assumed most of the mech’s had the same issue as they ran for their lives.

  A beep told him he was wrong. According to his quick, download training he had forgotten one vital component with running a mech. When the gauge was at half the heat it was now, the mech must release heat syncs, which were overloaded batteries that stored heat pressure for the benefit of the mech. If too many batteries were full, the mech would automatically release a heat sync here and there. And his combat-mech had either malfunctioned or it was being an asshole and refused to release any vital heat syncs.

  He pressed a button, manually releasing them.

  Nothing occurred.

  He pressed again.

  Again, nothing.

  “Dammit,” he tapped on his heat gauge. It was nearing red and his mech was slowing, overheating. Yet, he was only a hundred meters from the hill’s entrance. “Don’t do this to me.”

  His mech shuddered, then jerked to a halt. The engines whined and smoke rose from his hip gyros.

  He pressed the ignition. It didn’t start. He pressed again. His troops looked up at him, worried. He waived his arms, yelling at them to exit, and to leave this soon to be pile of rubble.

  They jumped, cut their cables as they landed, and hurried to the hill.

  Jaxx lifted his hand and popped the cockpit. The warm smoke smacked into his face. He hacked up blackened sputum, while undoing his straps. Just a minute longer and he’d have been toast. He stood, taking off the spongy helmet and dropping it on his seat.

  How was he supposed to climb down this machine? There were a few footholds and handholds from his mech’s cockpit to its chest, but this time there was no ladder from the last foothold to the ground like there was when he first entered the mech. The problem wasn’t the footholds leading down to the ground, or lack-there-of. The problem was the incoming starfighters and mechs coming his way.

  He threw one leg over the cockpit’s exit and slid down to the chest where several cables hung, now unattached from the soldiers who had just used them to flee.

  Kraaaakah! Kraaaakah!

  Jaxx let out a bark of laughter. “Are you kidding me?!” A barrage of missiles headed his way.

  15

  E-Quadrant, Earth - Lookout Mountain, Tennessee

  “It is time.”

  “What?” Drew bolted upright, sweat dripping from his face. He was running, being chased by the G-men who’d killed his mom, ducking bullets, saving beautiful women from zombies wearing People’s Liberation Army uniforms straight from the Republic of China.

  He shook his head. Everything was dim, yet very foreign. God, he just needed a toke.

  “Where the hell am I?” His heart beat fast while his brain tried to adjust and bring some memory to the surface. He relaxed. “Thank God.” He was in his room, deep in Anderle’s fake White House or whatever that hacker, president-wannabe ass-hat wanted to call this underground base.

  A small night light lit the corner of Mya’s bed. Her heavy breaths told Drew that she was fast asleep, hopefully not dreaming about being a prisoner here, about longing for her father, about this Chinese soldier sleeping on the stool next to the door, his head back and against the wall, his mouth open, his eyes closed.

  Wait.
The guy was asleep.

  “It is time.”

  Drew caught his breath, startled, and looked around. He whispered, “Mom?”

  “Go.”

  He knew exactly what she meant. He always knew what she meant. She was written in his DNA. He couldn’t not understand her if he tried. Drew slowly pushed the sheets off and put on his slippers, courtesy of Anderle. He grabbed his wallet off the bedside table and pulled out a credit card, slipping it in his hands, eyeing the sleeping guard.

  The guard didn’t move.

  He put the wallet back on his bedside table and tiptoed to the door. He held his breath, his hip next to the grunt’s face, and cautiously turned the knob. Anderle had said he, “wasn’t a prisoner, but an honored guest.” The door to his room would never be locked. Drew had no clue how long that promise would last, but he would at least take advantage while he could.

  He glanced at the guard, curling his lips under his teeth, biting his lips together. He turned the knob more and glanced at him again.

  He opened the door a crack. It creaked. The guard stirred, opening his eyes.

  Drew stood still, eyes wide. He held his breath.

  The soldier smacked his lips together and leaned his head to the side, his eyelids falling, falling, falling, and closed.

  How the guy hadn’t seen him, Drew didn’t know. He looked up at the ceiling, thanking the Goddess—Mary Jane.

  The soldier’s breathing slowed, his mouth opening, sending a slight snore across the room.

  He opened the door another crack. No sound.

  Good. He opened it a bit more and peeked through.

  He quickly ducked back in, keeping the door ajar.

  A guard, leaning up against a wall a few meters away, stood next to a portrait of George Washington, his rifle by his side. He was bobbing his head, earbuds in his ears, listening to a torch-song warbler.

  Drew shot a look back at the guard sleeping on the stool. How in weed’s glorious name was he going to get out of the room, let alone stroll down the hallways to the fake oval office?

  Drew looked back through the opening between the door and the frame. A click-clack of boots sounded through the corridor and the guard in the hallway stood more erect, quickly taking his earbuds out, shoving them into his fatigues.

  General Yu walked up to the guard and leaned in, quietly saying something in his ear, the general’s face beet red. The guard quickly nodded, fear visibly washing over him, his arms becoming more rigid. Yu stepped back, his nose crinkled, looking the young man up and down with disdain. He held out his hand and the soldier reached into his pocket, pulling out the earbuds and handed them to Yu.

  Yu spit in his face and grasped the man by his shirt, pulling him forward and shoving him down the hall, releasing his grip a moment later. The soldier hurried away and out of Drew’s line of sight. Yu took his place, resting his hand on his holstered semi-automatic and leaned back against the wall.

  Sneaking out tonight wasn’t going to happen. Being under surveillance twenty-four-seven sucked ass. If he could just take a peek at Anderle’s computer, find out why Mya’s father was such a pest to Anderle and the General, and exactly what Mya’s dad was doing to be such a nuisance, then maybe he’d have the answers he needed. Then again, it could be yet another rabbit hole.

  He touched the door, about to shut it.

  “Don’t give up, Drew.” It was his mom’s voice. He stuck his index finger in his ear and wiggled it, not that that ever helped. It was an odd feeling hearing his mother. Sometimes it was as if she stood right next to him, talking in his ear. Being a stoner, he was not a stranger to wigging out, but hearing dead people was out there, man.

  “Just, go, Drew. Go.”

  He opened the door a few inches more. If he wanted, he could turn and slide through it. He took another glance at the guard in his room. The guy’s chest rose up and down, his breathing slow and calm. God, how Drew would love to sleep that soundly someday.

  He took another peak through the opening between the door and sucked in a breath. General Yu was gone. It was as if he had vanished. Drew hadn’t heard the click-clack of his shoes. He hadn’t seen the guy walk away. For all he knew, the bastard got on a magical carpet and flew off.

  It was too good to be true.

  “If you don’t get your ass in gear, I am going to kick you from here to kingdom come.” Mom wasn’t messing around. She meant business.

  Shit. He had to do it. He had to go. Maybe this was his opportunity. His only opportunity.

  He turned, sliding his body through the opening and slowly closed the door. It groaned on its hinges, just as it shut. He paused, not moving a muscle.

  No alarm sounded. No guard in a foreign language told him to stop. Most importantly, no general was in his ear, telling him he’d cut his throat.

  He walked in the opposite direction to where Yu had stood, sweat dripping like a faucet down from his armpits.

  He rubbed his thumb and index finger on the credit card, and remembered all the times Mom had shown him how to jimmy a lock, so there was no trace of you having been there…and all doors opened on command. When he questioned her about her lock-picking expertise, she would shrug. “It’s fun, Drew dear. That’s all.”

  It was more than just fun. It was a lesson, something she had passed down, something—

  He needed to stop thinking. Needed to concentrate.

  He rounded a corner, his hand on a large trash can and froze. Footsteps clomped down the hall. He ducked down, making himself a ball, hiding beside the trash.

  The footsteps dissipated and he peeked around the can. A guard turned down another hall, disappearing from view.

  He stayed quiet for several minutes, waiting for an overly-aggressive Chinese lieutenant to run up on him and point the barrel of his rifle against the bottom of Drew’s chin.

  The click-clack of boots penetrated the hall he had just came from. They stopped. Drew stood, leaned forward, and took a look around the corner. It was General Yu. Drew leaned back against the wall, mouthing, “Holy mother of Mary.” It was like the world’s slowest high-speed chase. He was going to melt from panic and exhaustion.

  His heartbeat started racing, threatening to explode out of his chest. He couldn’t divert. His plan—idiotic plan—was still underway. He needed info, data, the skinny on why Mya’s dad was so important to these assholes. Moving forward was his best and only option.

  “Mya’s dad isn’t the only reason Anderle’s keeping you in the dark, Drew. You should know this. Get your head into the game.” Again, Mom. Always sixteen steps ahead of his conscious mind.

  He looked around, making sure the coast was clear, and headed down the hall and around another corner until he was at the oval office doors. He looked left and right. No one was watching...waiting for him. He hoped.

  He slipped the card between the strike plate and the latch bolt, easily opening the doors. He pulled the candy wrapper out of the hole in the strike plate and put the wrapper in his pants pocket. He walked into the oval office, closed the door, and eyed the computer.

  He pulled out the desk chair and sat, turned on the computer and typed in the username and password. Anderle’s Achilles’ heel was his unending hubris. He simply thought he was smarter than anyone else. He’d told Drew his password, because he thought it was a riot and it would never circle back to bite him in the butt. “Joke’s on you, ass-hat,” said Drew, fingers flying over the keyboards.

  User Name: Melchizedek

  Password: 1212yordlebuttmunch1212

  The screen loaded and a standard open source operating system appeared, the perfect, hack-proof Linux system—a system designed to make hackers realize they’d just entered a mind hell. The damage that could be done on other operating systems was much harder to accomplish on this system.

  He double clicked on the home folder and clicked the file system. He opened the root folder and PASSWORD blinked on the screen. And as he suspected, another password was needed. He knew Anderle woul
dn’t be a total idiot. He would have created an entirely new password for these executable files.

  WRONG PASSWORD.

  He flipped over the keyboard. No sticky note stuck to the bottom of it with a password written on it.

  He opened a drawer.

  Folders upon folders.

  He searched through them.

  Nothing.

  He shut the drawer and went to the next. Again, nothing, and no more drawers to check. Where would Anderle keep his passwords? In a safe? He wouldn’t just consign them to memory, would he? If he did, there would be no way he could find them.

  The screen saver came on—a man wearing a Guy Fawkes mask, gripping a gun—the infamous hacker group’s, Anonymous, icon—stared at him from the screen.

  Was that Anderle? If it was, he didn’t deserve to wear the Anonymous mask, nor associate himself with that group. Anonymous were helpers of society and Anderle had turned out to be a scoundrel, a self-serving piece of garbage whose agenda he still had to figure out.

  He moved the mouse back and forth, changing the screen to the desktop. He wasn’t going to get into the root file without a password. What a waste of adrenaline. He’d crept through the corridors, evaded generals, left Mya on her own. Shit. He’d left the kid alone. He wasn’t a fit guardian. He had to get back to her.

  “Anonymous,” said his mother. “A-n-o-n-y-m-o-u-s.”

  Butterflies rioted in his stomach. He went back into the root file and typed anonymous into the password.

  He lifted his shoulders in anticipation. He drooped as WRONG PASSWORD blinked on the screen.

  He rested back in the chair, feet up on the desk, pinching his bottom lip. He dropped his feet almost instantly. Anonymous never spelled their name with a lower-case A. It was always upper-case.

  He typed in the password.