Exodus: The Dead Planet Series, #1

By Drew Avera

The future is darker than you think!

Serus is a killer. As a policeman he was recruited to be a weapon at the Martian government's disposal. Brainwashed into compliance, he's lost the life he once had, but his memories remain. When a hit is placed on his sister's life, Serus is faced with the dark reality that in order to save Kara, he must go rogue and doing so will put both of their lives in danger. Forced into an unlikely alliance to save Kara, Serus discovers a truth that could bring Mars to its knees, but what if it's too late?

If you like fast-paced science fiction then immerse yourself into a world controlled by a militant force; where humanity's purpose is to make the rich richer. 

If you enjoy cyberpunk novels with a noir feel, then grab Exodus, the first book in The Dead Planet Series, today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drew Avera
• Release date: Feb 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386502746

Drew Avera

I am an active duty navy veteran. I'm married with two kids and I live in Virginia. My first book, Dead Planet, was released in March 2013.

Book preview

Prologue

The year 4412 on Mars:

Pain was my only friend in this dark laboratory, this labyrinth of hell holding me captive for the last two months. It wasn’t bad at first, mostly physical exertion to the point of exhaustion. It was the kind of thing I had endured growing up playing sports, but this new part of my training was something else entirely. The human mind could endure only so much torture. At least that is what they told me coming into this. I wish I had volunteered; maybe then I wouldn’t feel as if I were a prisoner being tortured by my guards. Actually, that’s exactly what I was.

Doctor Roblin, how is Prospect Blackwell holding up? A man in a black Agency uniform said as he walked through the door. I couldn’t see his face, but I had heard his voice before. Come to think of it, I had heard his voice several times throughout my time here. Wherever here was, I wasn’t sure.

He is physically a perfect candidate, Agent Gentry. I must confess I’m more concerned with his mental capabilities, though. The doctor talked about me like I was a caged animal, inhuman, unable to think on my own.

What capabilities would that be, Doctor? There was an air of concern in the agent’s voice, though I wasn’t sure why. One would think the idea of someone willing to put up a fight would be an attribute worthy of a member of The Agency.

He is not responding well to the reprogramming. Each time we show him an image of you he becomes discontent, almost as if he remembers what you did to his father, Doctor Roblin said. Just the mention of my father brought me back to remembering what had happened. I could only see it in short spans of time: my father dead in the street; Kara crying in my arms; flashing lights surrounding the scene; and finally his face, the man who murdered my father.

Agent Gentry paced around me; even under heavy sedatives my eyes were able to follow his form. His long, tired face reflected years of abuse at the hands of The Agency. Now, as a prospect I would have the same future in store for me. My eyes closed under the weight of heavy eyelids. It had been days since I slept and I could feel every ounce of pressure on my body from the electrodes stimulating my senses. I decided to close my eyes and listen as the other men spoke.

What do you propose we do about that, Doctor? Gentry asked. I felt the air around me move as he turned away from me.

Well, many prospects have become valuable agents without receiving one hundred percent of the reprogramming procedure. Given his physical strengths and mental stamina, I would say he is capable of passing The Agency’s standards with a minimum of seventy-five percent of the reprogramming completed. That is purely an estimate and I will have to conduct further analysis to be sure.

How much of his memory will he retain?

As much as we allow, sir, Doctor Roblin typed some commands into his computer. I could see the holographic display illuminate his corner of the room as I strained to open my eyes. These are the areas of the brain that respond to memory stimuli. Prospect Blackwell is apparently fixated on those memories created within the past twelve months or so. I suspect the trauma of losing his mother and father in a short period of time has caused these barriers to our programming. I would suggest overriding the safety protocols to ensure a proper reprogramming, but it is risky. If it doesn’t work then we may lose the prospect entirely.

Meaning he will die?

Yes, sir, Doctor Roblin said as he tugged at his collar and swallowed hard. Agent Gentry loomed over the doctor and stared down at the hologram. The blue and green light reflected from his face as he looked back at me. Our eyes met briefly and I could have sworn I had seen something like remorse in his eyes. I blinked once and the look was gone.

If he were to keep these memories, how productive would he be with The Agency?

If we can get to seventy-five percent then he will perform above average, sir.

Is there a way we can target a specific memory he is attached to?

Which memory do you have in mind, Agent Gentry?

Gentry walked in front of me and grabbed my face in his hand. He lifted my head so our eyes met. I was too afraid to close them as he spoke, My request is when you are done with him, I don’t want him to associate my name or my face with the execution of his father.

That is a very specific request, Agent Gentry. At best I may be able to create a cloud over that particular memory. Anything more than that is speculative, Doctor Roblin typed more commands into the computer as he spoke.

Then I suppose that is the best we can hope for, Gentry said as he released my face from his grip.

Why would you want me to target that particular memory, if you don’t mind my asking?

Because, Agent Gentry said. I don’t want some rookie agent armed with a gauntlet to have it out for me, that’s why. I have four years until retirement. I’d like to spend that time without looking over my shoulder. Besides, I was thinking it might be a good idea to put in for a transfer, just to keep things on the safe side, Gentry said as his communicator buzzed in his pocket. I watched him retrieve it and answer, Gentry. He stood silently and held the communicator to his ear. I could see a vein throb on his temple. It was a visible sign of either anger or distress. I had been learning the different signs, but I still was confused by some of the emotions that sparked similar reactions. Understood, he said before closing the communicator and shoving it back into his pocket.

Another assignment, sir? Doctor Roblin asked while looking over the computer console.

Yes, I’m going to be reporting to Clenist tomorrow. I’ll be leaving you under the supervision of another agent. Gentry looked back at me for a moment as I tried to raise my head to meet his gaze. It was futile; I didn’t have the strength to move at all. Just see to it this prospect doesn’t remember who I am, understood?

Yes, sir, more typed commands emanated from Doctor Roblin’s fingertips as I glared up to see Agent Gentry walk to the door. I could feel the cold fluid of sedative entering my bloodstream through the veins in my arms. I made eye contact with Agent Gentry one last time, and then everything went to black.

1

Five years later:

Another assignment nestled itself snuggly into the promised chaos of my day. Multiple assignments in a single day had become something of a rarity for me as of late. Alas, good things often come to an end, and given the circumstances of my life, I was quite surprised the good things in life had lasted this long. My guess was The Syndicate had a few extra thorns in their side that needed pulling today.

The United Martian Syndicate, or The Syndicate as most people referred to it, has stood as the dominating power since the inception of our civilization. It is operated by the wealthiest men and women in the world, the ones who hold control over everything; the economy, healthcare, education, even the population of a given region is in their hands. I suppose they figured population control was just short enough of a rein to allow them control over every aspect of our humanity. It’s fair to assume they were right; the amount of criminal activity here is negligible for a place with so many established laws. This was a feat made more precarious as our society did away with any kind of historical judicial system as it was known on Earth. Now, any kind of criminal activity, confirmed or circumstantial, meets its demise at the end of a gauntlet. It would stand to reason fear is the most motivating tool at their disposal, and they use it with a gleeful vigor.

I could smell the sea salt in the air as I turned the corner on the rust-colored sidewalk luring me deeper into downtown Archea. All through the city you could see homage to our planet as each building’s exterior was constructed from the same rust-colored sand, at least in some part. It was such a common design element that most people didn’t even notice, but it was my job to pay attention to small details like that. Those details were the ones that kept a man alive in this society.

I moved quickly down the sidewalk, maintaining my usual pace. Time wasn’t of the essence, but two years of training for this job taught me to constantly keep on the move, regardless of whatever situation I found myself in. I’ve been a policeman for just over five years, and I have found I’m just another pawn of The Syndicate. The policemen stand as the second most feared organization on this planet, but we are also the most oppressed. We are not eligible for marriage, property ownership, nor are we revered as citizens. We are basically the discarded children of our society, owned by some and loved by none. Of course, that wasn't always true for me. Once upon a time I had hopes and dreams of having a family. I was even engaged to be married when I finished high school, but that engagement lasted three weeks. My dreams were suspended by my recruitment into The Agency, the legal name for the company I work for.

The one thing every prospect learned about The Agency was that they found you for the job. Once recruitment began you were stuck, unless they determined there was something within you which conflicted with their programming. I was certain the resentment I held for The Agency for putting a hit on my father would have been enough to disqualify me. I was wrong, I was burdened with this job one way or the other because after all was said and done you have two choices: accept the position or accept the alternative, which is death.

I was miserable for the first year of this job and it showed on my face; the misery still does even to this day. Coming out of the programming portion of my time as a prospect had a debilitating effect on my psyche. I was cursed with the memories of a life the doctors wanted me to forget. Those memories, coupled with the programming forced into my mind almost drove me mad. I remembered being called a success, but I felt like a failure as everything in my life fell down around me. The Agency accepted the fact I remembered my family and what I left behind, but I could not accept it for myself. This created a lot of tension in my life, and I found it difficult to create a balance in my world of regret.

At six feet tall and one hundred and sixty pounds; I’m strong and agile despite my looks. My face has become sunken in where my cheeks used to be plump. My black hair hangs longer than it should, but finding time for a haircut is not usually a priority when on the job. The only possessions I have are my uniform and gauntlet which was tailored to fit me, everything else is issued by The Agency. My apartment and furnishings are mine so long as my employment lasts. I have nothing and I am nothing. This job is the only thing that has defined me for the last five years. I have nothing else to show for my life except a death toll that rises on a near-daily level.

I turned another corner and entered the Whelming Building through the front entrance. Mr. Whelming was a wealthy man with a lot of power in The Syndicate, at least until he started making risky decisions with his investments in an attempt to build up his wealth. Now he was a target of The Syndicate because he had brought undue attention to himself and they have tasked me with the hit. In case I failed to mention it before, the term policeman is a politically correct term for political assassin. Mars had no established law enforcement organization. The Syndicate controls The Agency in a pyramid of deadly totalitarianism; everyone else falls in line or is quickly removed from their life of servitude.

I passed by the reception desk on my way into Whelming's office, which was guarded by two retired policemen. I noted the face of each of the men as I passed; a part of me recognized the taller of the two men. His weary face was very distinguishable, but after a few years in this line of work and dealing with the wealthy and all of their lap dog lackeys it could be easy to see a face and not remember the context for recognizing it.

The two men, knowing better than to interfere with Agency business, stepped aside. The brief eye contact I shared with them confirmed the years of mental scarring they experienced with thirty years of assigned murders under their belts. Retirement was the only way out of The Agency while still breathing, and I was sure these men had served The Syndicate well. I often thought of retirement as a fool’s reward for doing such a dastardly good job. Maybe I was the fool because I was still doing it instead of jumping off a cliff or firing a laser into my brain. Or, maybe my compulsion to succeed had driven me so far over the edge that I plummeted further into the darkness.

I strolled into Whelming's office unannounced and I saw him seated at his large desk. He looked up at me and the fear in his eyes showed that single characteristic which was shared by all of the distinguished guests on my hit list: regret.

Serus, he said as his face whitened. Fear mustered into a stench I could smell from ten feet away.

Mr. Whelming, I believe you know why I'm here, I said. This was after all not a social call and he knew that better than most. Whelming had been responsible for many assignments I’ve completed during my time in The Agency. For him, that time was coming to an end.

I swear, Serus, I can explain everything. Believe me when I tell you it's a matter of global security! He was trying to buy me. It was a common way people in The Syndicate tried to prevent their demise. They either paid you a ransom or they fed you enough lies to guilt you into buying them time to escape. Neither method ever worked with me, I retained enough pre-prospect memories to understand the process.

Save it, I said. You know once a hit has been placed on you it must be carried out unless it’s canceled by the person who ordered it.

I understand, but I have an explanation for what's going on. All I'm asking for is twenty-four hours to sort this thing out! He pleaded with me like a child.

I stood there and watched this man all but get down on his knees and beg for mercy. I was certain he was stalling and that charade didn't make my job any easier. I contemplated which route I wanted to take. Kill him now and be done with it, or give him enough time to run and hide? I’ll admit I don’t usually give it a second thought; luckily the right decision presented itself as