Augmented Read online

  Copyright © 2019 James D. Prescott

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any material resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-1-926456-31-7

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Real life versus fiction

  Reference material

  Books by James D. Prescott

  The Genesis Conspiracy

  Extinction Code

  Extinction Countdown

  Extinction Crisis

  New Release!

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  Dedication

  A special thanks goes out to Ethan Siegel, theoretical astrophysicist, professor and science writer, for his help scrubbing any glaring scientific errors from the manuscripts. Any that remain are mine and mine alone. As well, a thank you to E. Paul Zehr, professor of neuroscience and futurist, for your terrific help navigating the dizzying future of neural implants. Much gratitude to Lisa Weinberg and the rest of the beta team for keeping me on my toes. Finally, to you, dear reader, who make all of this possible.

  Book Description

  Breathable air on Earth is running out and no one knows why.

  A mysterious discovery nearly thirty million years old may hold the answer.

  To find it, a glaciologist and the inventor of a cutting-edge brain implant will need to work together.

  But can they unlock its shocking secrets in time to save humankind?

  While investigating hydrothermal vents in the Pacific Ocean, scientist Nicholay Panov and his crew mysteriously vanish. Weeks later, when their vessel is finally found, the hull has been crushed nearly beyond recognition. Stranger still, the wreck now lies off the coast of Antarctica, seven thousand miles from where it sank.

  Searching for answers, glaciologist Sienna Panov reaches out to Ben Fisher, the rich and enigmatic CEO who commissioned the expedition. Ben is the inventor of a revolutionary neural enhancement device. Once implanted in the brain, it has the power to boost both mental and physical abilities to dizzying new heights.

  Except Ben has recently suffered a tragedy of his own, after a savage attack robbed him of his memory and left him framed for murder. Working together, Ben and Sienna soon discover a shadowy conspiracy connecting both events.

  There are ancient secrets powerful people don't want them to uncover, secrets that trace back to America's Space Race and to a time long before humans walked the Earth. Secrets with the power to save the planet—or utterly destroy it.

  “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”

  ― Joseph Heller, Catch-22

  Chapter 1

  Pacific Ocean

  Ten years from now…

  Dr. Nicholay Panov nudged the joystick, engaging the sub’s thrusters to keep her leveled. He’d been descending through the murky depths of the Pacific for nearly an hour. His eagerness to reach the bottom was strong, verging on overwhelming. At least then they would know once and for all if Ben Fisher was crazy or whether there really was something strange down here.

  An oceanographer with nearly fifty years of experience, Nic knew every trip to the bottom had a habit of revealing something we hadn’t known before. And it was just as true today as it had been in Robert Ballard’s day. Back in the 70’s, Ballard—famous for locating the wreck of the Titanic—had discovered the existence of hydrothermal vents. Ostensibly they were little more than chimneys spewing out a rich cocktail of toxic chemicals. Impressive as that was, it hadn’t been the most interesting part. What had fascinated Ballard and company had less to do with the vent itself and more to do with the abundance of life the vent happened to be sustaining. In addition to shaping oceanography for decades, the discovery also gave scientists in far-off fields a new appreciation for the resiliency of life. If it could thrive at crushing depths once thought to be inhospitable, what then might be possible in the oceans of Europa or Enceladus?

  “Nic, you’re fifteen hundred meters from the bottom.”

  “Roger that,” he replied, checking his gauges.

  This was the second descent they’d made in as many days. The first had been via an autonomous underwater vehicle (AUV) named Betsy, but she had suffered some mechanical malfunctions that had forced them to abort. And yet, as the wise old sages liked to say, with every failure came opportunity. The handful of grainy images the AUV had brought back had offered a tantalizing hint that something was down there. The other scientists on board were far less convinced. Ramon and Alfred, in particular, believed the darkened shape was nothing more than a trick of light and shadow, a point Nic had been forced to concede as a possibility. The lack of echo return by Betsy’s sophisticated radar systems only strengthened the opposition’s resolve. They had scanned the ocean floor every which way and had seen nothing.

  But all of this was on Ben Fisher’s dime, a reality that helped in some small way to take the edge off whenever Nic caught himself worrying they might be barking up the wrong tree. Faced with the unknown, hadn’t Nic really been more interested in subverting his own expectations? A kind of buttress against the massive whopper of a disappointment that was surely on its way. That being said, if this was anything close to what Nic believed it was, then he was about to give Robert Ballard and his crew of superstars a real run for their money.

  The sub began to shudder and Nic steadied himself as the claustrophobic vehicle listed from side to side. Several minutes passed before a call came down from the Archipelago.

  “Hey, Nic, it’s Alfred. We’re seeing a rather large commotion on the water surface up here. It almost looks like the ocean is boiling. Are you seeing anything on your end?”

  “Boiling?” Nic shot back in an almost accusing tone. “Nothing here.” His hands touched
the sub’s cold metal sides as he leaned forward, peering out the tiny porthole before him. And that was when he saw it: a massive disturbance in the water around him.

  Then, without a hint of warning, the sub’s nose jerked forward, seeming to fall through empty space. Nic felt his insides rise up into his throat as though he were in the front seat of a roller coaster. The force of the sudden drop snapped the umbilical connecting it to the Archipelago mothership and in turn severed the sub’s power. The vehicle continued falling nose first before its abrupt impact back into the water. The force threw Nic forward, shattering his cheekbone as the side of his face struck the porthole.

  Wounded and pitched at a forty-five-degree angle, the sub continued its descent. But the sudden, baffling drop had done more than just batter and bruise them. The severing of the umbilical meant Nic had to rely on the backup batteries. Sitting in near darkness, his lower lip pouring blood, Nic watched as a hairline fracture along the porthole began to spread.

  “Please, God, no, not like this.” Growing up as a young man in Communist Bulgaria, religion had been seriously frowned upon. And yet, down here, all alone in the growing gloom, he saw no harm in appealing to a greater power, however slim the chances of its existence might be.

  Then, all at once, the logical part of his brain came back online, neurons firing in a desperate attempt to save his hide from certain death. But any solution required some understanding of what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Falling through empty space when you were nearly six thousand meters beneath the ocean’s surface didn’t make a lick of sense. That much was clear. More inexplicable still was the glowing blue light that was fast approaching.

  He watched it, transfixed, until he realized the crack he’d seen earlier now ran the full length of the porthole window.

  “Alfred,” Nic said, struggling against his agonizing injury. “Do you read me?”

  The radio came back with a hiss of static.

  Sinking to the bottom of the Pacific with no power, Nic was truly on his own.

  The strange light drew closer.

  When his final thoughts came, they were for his daughter, Sienna. And for the crew of the Archipelago. Had they made it to safety?

  The hope had barely had time to crystallize in Nic’s mind when the porthole gave way, exposing him to the full force of nearly six thousand atmospheres.

  Chapter 2

  …And in other news, an international search for an oceanographer and his crew last seen in the Pacific Ocean has been called off. Nicholay Panov and his research vessel, Archipelago, disappeared nearly a week ago.

  The search continues, however, for Elizabeth Howard, a reporter with the Seattle Times, missing since last week. Surveillance footage shows her leaving the Times’ headquarters late Monday evening. Friends and family grew suspicious the following day when Elizabeth failed to show up for work.

  Now over to the East Coast where Miami’s mayor, Juan Castro, refutes allegations that his city is lost, despite two of the surrounding three counties sitting under several feet of water. Fears of rising sea levels are once again pushing residents of New Orleans further inland. Hundreds of families have already been evacuated as part of the government’s massive relocation effort, one that is expected to continue well into the next decade.

  Water is also at the heart of a problem facing the west, where record-level drought has reduced the once mighty Rio Grande to a trickle and threatens to leave millions without viable drinking water.

  Across the country, air quality dipped into the danger zone once again as the National Weather Service advised folks to stay indoors, and if you’re going to venture out, be sure to wear a government-certified breather.

  And finally, tonight, some good news. Neural-Sync, the world’s leader in neural enhancement technologies, has reported record profits for the fourth quarter of last year. COO and spokeswoman Lori Fisher issued a brief statement earlier today saying the future has never looked brighter.

  Chapter 3

  He came awake with the taste of blood in his mouth. He peeled open his eyes, a gargantuan effort in and of itself, feeling like a man who had emerged from a long, restless sleep, only to find himself in a strange place he didn’t recognize.

  Where the hell am I?

  The back of his throat made a loud clicking sound as he labored to swallow, his lips wet with a warm, sour liquid.

  And why am I bleeding?

  The room he found himself in was immense. The embers of late afternoon sun bled in via a bank of ten-foot-high windows along the far wall. To his left, a row of bookcases stretched up to a second story, the top shelves visible through a glass floor. Close by was a large u-shaped couch, cluttered with a pile of throw pillows.

  This was someone’s home. A nice home. A modern, insanely expensive home. The kind generally inhabited by bankers and tech giants.

  But why does everything look so big?

  That was when he realized he was lying on the floor, face down, his arms and legs splayed out like the victim of a crazed Aztec priest, awaiting a ceremonial sacrifice. In a single motion, he pulled himself into a ball, every muscle in his body screaming in pain. But nothing his tender muscles had to say right now compared to the blazing siren of agony pulsing from the back of his neck.

  He rose to his knees, instinctively reaching a hand toward the source of blinding agony only to spot the twelve-inch knife clotted with blood still clenched in his right hand—a hand which appeared to have been dipped up to the wrist in red paint and set to dry in a hot patch of sun. He let out a tiny cry and flung the knife as though it were a coiled snake about to strike him, sending it skittering across the hardwood floor, its momentum halted by the leg of a nearby dining room chair.

  Stricken through with terror, Ben’s eyes shot back to the couch. Even in the dying light, it was clear he had been wrong about exactly what he had seen there. It wasn’t merely a heap of dirty throw pillows. A woman was sitting amongst them, her head tilted back at a distinctly unnatural angle. The bony fingers of a cold, skeletal hand curled around his pounding heart. Then he saw the deep red gash that ran from one side of her neck to the other and all at once two things became perfectly obvious: First, whoever this woman was, she was no longer living; and second—well, that one had to do with the bloody knife he had thrown across the room. The one coated with the same blood now smeared all over his hands.

  Chapter 4

  He sprang to his feet.

  This was only a dream. He chanted the words over and over, slapping himself across the face, praying he might wake up in his bed, a horror novel tented over his chest. But that pounding ache at the back of his neck was telling him otherwise. This was no dream. Dreams featured plenty of horrors and sometimes things that went bump in the night. Rarely did they include pain. Not like this.

  He went over to the woman and pressed the back of his hand against her cheek. She was cold, her flesh the consistency of hard clay. She was wearing what had once been a matching white hoodie and sweatpants. A deep red stain now ran down the front of it. But even in her current state, he could see at one time she’d been beautiful.

  “A-all right,” he stammered. “Enough messing around. It’s time to wake up. Wake up…” He’d been about to shout his own name, in a commanding, pep-talky sort of way. Instead, he stopped short.

  He wheeled around, scanning the expensive open living space, feeling a nearly overwhelming surge of nausea.

  “What’s my name?” He rubbed his blood-encrusted hands down the length of the dark blue suit he was wearing. “Okay, cut the crap, this isn’t funny anymore,” he shouted at the room, empty except for the echo of his own voice and the dead woman on the couch. “The hell’s my damn name?”

  Instinctively, his hands began patting his pockets. A second later he found the phone. Out it came, his fingers shaking violently as he struggled to unlock the device. It wanted to scan his fingerprints. “Oh, come on, you piece of crap.” He pressed down harder and was denied
once again. Yes, of course, it didn’t recognize him. He licked his index finger, ignoring the metallic taste of blood, and rubbed it against his thigh before trying again. This time the phone unlocked.

  He went into the settings and sitting right there at the top of the page was the name Ben Fisher. He repeated it several times, trying it on the way someone might try on a new shirt. “Ben Fisher…Ben Fisher.”

  Something about it felt wrong, but what did that mean in a moment like this when nothing felt quite right? Quickly, he went into his pictures. He didn’t need to flip very far to find what he was looking for. A picture of a beautiful woman smiling back at him. He swiped again, and this time she was laughing, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe, her hair tied up with a towel, trying to block the photographer—him?—from taking an unflattering picture.

  Ben—if that was his name—staggered back to the couch, his legs stiff with pain and fear. He reached out and placed the image on the screen next to the dead woman’s face and gasped.

  They were the same and seeing that suddenly filled him with an overwhelming sense of grief for a woman he couldn’t remember. But pictures didn’t lie. And neither did the blood on his hands. He held out his trembling fingers and stared at each of them. Were these the hands of a wife killer? Except he wasn’t wearing a ring. And neither was she. So that meant this wasn’t his wife, not that that changed the murder equation. Perhaps she was his girlfriend. And did that mean this fancy house belonged to him? Or was it hers? Of course, none of that mattered, not compared to the biggest question of all. What exactly had happened here?

  Up near the ceiling, a glint caught his eye. For the first time since he had snapped awake into this living nightmare, he was filled with something resembling hope. The house had a surveillance system, which meant, good or bad, his questions would soon be answered.