The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

The Yantulin female stares at him with pleading eyes,
shuddering in his grip like a mess of feathers fluttering in the wind.

Kriahm exhales, agitating the fluff on her face, and lets
go. She falls to the ground with a muffled squawk. Unable to control herself,
she sprawls her limbs on the floor and gropes for something to hold on to.

"Master," she screeches, an oily substance
oozing from her beak.

Kriahm steps back from the squirming creature, glaring at
her with contempt. Then he turns and resumes his course.

-

The entrance into the dispatch center is clogged by a large
number of creatures loudly complaining about their problems. As Kriahm tries to
make his way toward the entrance, a bloated and partially discolored Ilkryp
stops him with a slight nudge from a tentacle.

Kriahm steps back out of its reach and balls his fists.
"I need to speak to the lead technician about my damaged vessel, the
Kaluvian
."

"On what grounds?" The creature makes a brief
slurping sound, sending vibrations down its tentacles. It secretes various
foul-smelling fluids and vapors through the five spit-holes visible on what it
calls a face.

"I have declared a state of emergency," he says.
"My vessel has been infected with an unclassified parasitic organism. A
neophyte species currently under assessment has unfortunately also come into
possession of it. I need a fully functional containment vessel to return to my
duty immediately."

"Who authorized the exchange?"

Kriahm hesitates, unwilling to employ Amharr's status as
his tutor, especially since higher powers would immediately know Amharr
couldn't have ordered Kriahm to be granted a containment vessel of his own.
"This is an emergency," Kriahm repeats. "The exchange has not
yet been parsed through the official channels, but that can be done after I
leave. There is no doubt an approval will be given by the Ascendancy Council,
once the full account of my matter reaches them."

"Without authorization, there is no exchange."

Kriahm bows down and grabs a hand-full of the Ilkryp's
tentacles, pulls them aside, and stares into the hundreds of black pinpoints
between them which serve as visual organs.

"I do not care about your protocols,
worm
."
He prevents the Ilkryp from squirming its tentacles out of his grip. "You
have two options. You let me speak to the lead technician about getting a new
vessel, or I will match every second of my delay with a new level of pain for
you."

The Ilkryp slurps agitatedly, exuding an excessive amount
of slime. "Your vessel will be placed on the list, and will be repaired.
Then we will return it to you in a functional state. No other course of action
is possible in the present situation."

"I don't think you comprehend." Kriahm squashes
the tentacles in his grip until a bright-orange, sticky foam starts running
between his fingers.

"No authorization, no vessel," the Ilkryp
slurps, and rips free of Kriahm's grip. It leaves the shredded tentacles
behind, slithers away and slips into a hole in the wall beside the main
entrance, leaving a thick trail of slime behind.

Kriahm wipes his hand off on his robe, straightens, and
discharges furiously into the floor, making his ambi-platform field glow bright
violet. All nearby creatures step out of his way as he heads back out of the
dispatch center.

He needs a combat-ready vessel, a suited crew, and all the
weapons he can find if he is to expose Amharr's corruption and take over the
containment of the neophytes. He needs what he cannot get, not in due time, not
by conventional means. But he has an idea who might help him find the necessary
loopholes. For an adequate fee, of course, and an apology.

After Denise and I finish our list of scouting targets, I
make up a lazy excuse of wanting to see the city and head toward the river. It
might be nothing—in fact, it probably is—but I want to check out that Crispin
guy Jade mentioned. I can't pass on the opportunity of getting re-implanted,
even if it's a terribly slim one. I miss being able to snoop around
dataspheres, pulling information at will. It's incredibly crippling to be a
no-tech after living your entire life connected to some grid or another, not to
mention embarrassing having to ask people for even the simplest things.

The streets' names are displayed in codes on every fifth
building, alternatively on both sides of the street. I can't interpret them,
nor the many company logos and various ads. I'm even a bit glad about it; the
cityscape would be terribly intrusive on my mental privacy otherwise. Luckily,
I still have the printed map Denise gave me to navigate the streets.

I make my way through the district, avoiding surveillance
towers as well as possible, and eventually cross the river on a narrow
pedestrian bridge. I reach an intersection and check the map again, turning
right. Soon I find myself standing in front of a building that ought to be
Calle
Squero
, number twenty-seven. It has a heavily reinforced door, monitored by
two private surveillance bots attached to the wall.

I take a deep breath, and knock. The bots focus on me,
zoom in—probably scanning for my synet—then zoom out again. The door opens with
a loud clank. I step in slowly, squinting into the darkness of the hallway.

"Who are you?" A metallic voice comes from a
speaker mounted on the wall to my left. The door falls shut behind me, sealing
me in darkness.

"I'm Taryn Harber." I try to keep my voice
steady. "You don't know me, but you've met some of my... colleagues."

"You're one of Preston's people, aren't you?"

"Not quite."

"Why can't I read your synet?"

"I don't have one."

"Ah..."

"I need your help with something," I admit
reluctantly. "I'm not sure if I've come to the right guy, though. Crispin,
is it?"

"Please call me Cris."

"Cris." I wipe the sweat off my upper lip with
the back of my hand. "I heard you're a... that you're good with tech
stuff."

"Could be."

"I'd like you to re-implant me." I breathe
slowly, trying to keep my voice even. "With a wiped synet. No
preconfigured crap."

Silence.

Is he considering helping me, or trying to figure out if
I'm a snitch?

"I assume you understand my predicament," I say.
"I can't get one through any legal channels. I'm not even sure if I can be
re-implanted at all. Not with a standard issue, at least."

Silence again.

Is he in some back room, watching me through a camera? I
try to look astute and mind my posture. "So can you help me?"

"Maybe." The metallic voice shifts further down
the hallway to another com unit. "I will try. But I'm not sure you can
repay me, Taryn." The volume is lower. He's forcing me to advance to
continue the conversation. Clever.

I take a couple of steps into the darkness. "What do
you want in return?"

"How come you don't have a synet?"

"Long story."

"Does Preston know you're here?"

"Does it matter?"

"Perhaps."

"Look, just tell me what you want in return."

Silence.

I wonder how old he is, if he's a Syndicate's veteran or
just a paranoid young prick. He's probably hunting down data on me through the
datasphere right now.

"You grew up on Maza, Tau Ceti system. Correct?"

Sigh
. "No need to show off your skills, Cris.
They're the reason I'm here."

"You grew up in a Dorylinae hive. Before the Raids."

"What does that—"

"Is that why Preston hired you?"

"Hired?" I snort.

"You're familiar with aliens, and I strongly assume
with space travel technology as well." It's not a question. This is
starting to annoy me.

"What's this about?"

"You must be intimately familiar with the TMC as
well. You were detained for questioning after the Raids for eleven
months."

"Yes."

"And you worked as an internal communication
specialist aboard an R&D vessel, the
Galileo Four Beta
, is that
correct?"

"That's not in the public records," I say
warily. "How did you—"

"Why are you really here, Taryn?"

"I told you, I want a clean synet."

"No, here in Erano."

I hesitate.
"Preston brought
me here."

"Without a synet?"

Damn it, he just won't quit
. "None of this
matters."

"But it does: considering your record with the TMC,
you can't
not
have a synet. You understand I'm curious." I groan in
frustration. "Preston spent the past six months somewhere out in the Steph
1422 system, correct?"

"Yes."

"Were you with him?"

I shouldn't be talking about any of this. Who knows what
this creep is after? And my patience is wearing thin. "Just for a month or
so," I say.

"Why were you out there?"

I shrug in the darkness, refusing to say another word. I'm
certain he can see it.

"You found an alien ship, didn't you?"

Great, he probably knew what Preston's been doing all
along. Cris must be one of his Syndicate minions. Out of the pan and into the
fire. "Listen, Cris, I didn't come here to chat. Will you help me or
not?"

"As I said, I'll try."

The lights click on and I squint in the sudden glare. I
can see two doors further in the back, both closed. No sign of Cris.

"I will have to scan you though." The door next
to the farther speaker clicks open.

"Have a blast," I say as I walk through the open
door.

The room is small, tidy, and brightly lit. A panel opens
in the wall and a long tray comes sliding out. Several scanning devices and
robotic arms with flexible sensor arrays arch out of the wall above it.

"Lie down," Cris says from a speaker somewhere
in the ceiling.

I breathe deep and stretch out on the tray, staring at the
arms moving above me. My heart hammers wildly in my chest, and tiny beads of
sweat form on my brow. I don't know if it's the chill of the metal through my
sweaty overall, or the adrenaline rushing through me that makes me shiver.
Doesn't matter. It's my hands that worry me the most. My palms are stinging
madly. I press them against my sides, and try to lie still.

"Relax," Cris says. I can hear a smile beneath
that computerized tone, and bite my tongue.

The scanners work over me, and a slight tingle crawls up
and down my body, prickling my nerves. In less than a minute, the procedure is
over and the scanners retreat into the wall. I sit up, flexing my cramped
fingers.

Silence.

A small panel opens in the wall next to me, revealing a
metallic case about as big as my palm. It looks familiar.

"A temporary synet injector?" I ask. "That won't
work."

"No. It's a synthetic graft with an embedded bionic
microchip. It has no further function than to simulate a synet for all common
scanners and public record readers."

I stare at the small case, and a heatwave rushes through
my body. I jump off the tray. "That's it? That's all you can do?"

This time Cris laughs; a metallic, artificial laugh, as
though composed of the recorded laughter of dozens of different people. "I
need some time to develop wetware that can function with your particular
neuronal configuration."

"What—" I start, but shut up. I know exactly
what he's talking about, and he knows I know. What will he do with that
information, though?

"Don't worry," he says, as if reading my mind.
"I won't tell a single soul about the alien RNA tapped into your synapses.
I assume Preston already knows. I assume it's why he went to the trouble to
bring you here, despite being a no-tech."

"Probably."

"I'd watch my back if I were you."

Interesting. "Why are you telling me that?"

"I'd like to tell you it's because I only want what's
best for you," he says with that indubitable, audible smile. "But the
truth is, I want to study your condition. Privately."

"So that's what you want in return for re-implanting
me."

"Yes."

"How do you imagine it will work? Do I come here
regularly, let you scan me, or what?"

"All you have to do is use that biochip. It will
deliver a steady stream of biometrics to my servers."

"That's all?" I ask incredulously.

"Attach the graft to the back of your neck. It will
emulate your DNA structure and melt into your skin. The biochip will never
interface with your brain. To all external devices, it will look as if you're
wearing a standard-issue tag with a strong firewall."

"Alright." I pick up the case. "How long do
you think you need?"

"However long it takes," he says calmly.

I nod, and carefully open the metallic case. The soft
padding inside holds a patch of gelatinous tissue, about two centimeters big.
It shimmers against the gray foam, almost transparent, unbelievably fragile. I
inspect the awkward fabric, and see a tiny circuit board buried within,
sprouting minuscule nanotube filaments. I'm almost afraid to touch it.

I pick it up between my fingers. Bend forward and pull the
hair away from the back of my neck. Then place the tissue on my skin as gently
as possible.

I can hardly feel it except for the slight chill. It
quickly takes on my body temperature and then I can't feel it at all. I start
to count in my mind, afraid to straighten up and have it fall off and get
damaged. When I get to twenty, I tap it gently with the tip of a finger. I
can't feel it.

Two fingers. Rubbing. There's nothing.

"Has it worked?"

"Perfectly. You have a very interesting brain,
Taryn."

"Weird thing to say."

"We're weird people, you and I."

"Guess so." I place the empty case on the tray,
and walk out into the hallway. I stop with my hand on the door handle.
"You won't sell me out to the Ticks, right?"

"There's nothing they can offer that will tempt
me."

I nod, fighting the impression that I've sold my soul to
the devil. Except, I already did that a while ago.

The door closes behind me with a heavy clank. I walk
slowly down the street as if I'm swimming through a thick, gooey liquid.
Background noises hardly push into my awareness. I hear people talking, someone
calling out. I stumble into the intersection and someone cuts me off.

"I'm talking to you, ma'am." A Tick—a tall woman
with straight black hair and red-tattooed eyebrows. She holds up a scanner and
aims it at my face. The device beeps twice, she frowns, and her gaze fixes on
mine. "You need to come with me, ma'am."

What the fuck
? Has she been waiting for me out
here?

"No thanks, I'm fine." I free my arm and give
her a quick smile. Then I start walking toward the bridge.

She pulls my shoulder back. "Ma'am, follow me,
please." Her tone is resolute.

"What for?"

"My scanner can't confirm your identification. It's
probably just a glitch or missing update, nothing to worry about. If you would
follow me to the tower up-street, I'm sure we can clear this up in no
time."

Hell no
!

"I'm sorry, but I have to be somewhere," I say
clumsily. My pulse picks up speed.

She gives me a tired look, and touches her holstered
weapon. I step away from her, backing into the open street. "Ma'am, you
need to comply." She advances toward me.

I turn around and run straight out. Skid over the
riverbank and dart across the frozen river.

"Stop!"

Something stabs me between my shoulder blades. Pain
detonates inside my spine and my muscles convulse. I fall flat on my face on
the smoking, toxic ice. My teeth are clenched and my eyes flooded with sparks.
Within a couple of seconds the pain subsides, and my muscles respond again. I
scramble to my feet, jittery and tense.

Hands grab me, one by my shoulder, one by my hair.

I twist around and slap the woman right across her eyes.
It takes her just a second to react, but I'm already pushing away from her,
crawling backwards on my elbows and heels. I twist around, jump up, and make a
break for it.

Another electro-shot hits me in the small of the back,
sending lightning bolts through my nerves. I lose orientation for a second,
catch myself as I start to fall, and keep running. I'm almost on the other
side. Almost in the crowd. Almost free.

A dull, hard pain hits my right thigh. She's switched
weapons. I stumble up the riverbank, staggering as I regain my pace, and run
into the boulevard as fast as I can. I take the first alley right, turn left
into a street, then right again, zigzagging my way back to the apartment. I
keep looking back, but no one's following me. Even if they did, I wouldn't
stop.

I reach our street and burst into the building, hitting
doorframe after doorframe until I slam into the elevator. Panting and drenched
in sweat, I drop into the safe levels below.

My leg is bleeding heavily, making a small puddle on the
floor.

The elevator doors slide open and I hobble down the
hallway and into our apartment, ignore Bob & Rob's stares, and head
straight for the bathroom.

I'm shot. Kinetic projectile, medium caliber, buried deep
in my muscle. I was electro-shot twice.
How the hell did I keep running
?

I take off my bloody overall and step into the shower. Hot
water runs down my back and legs, dilutes the dark red into a rosy pink, and
spirals down the drain. I inspect my wound beneath the streaks of water.

Nothing. I feel nothing. No pain, no change, nothing but
the liquid heat of water mixing with the icy rush of realization that
I'm
okay
. I'm not an ordinary person anymore, not my old self. All that's gone
now. I'm the unlikely proxy of a powerful alien warlord. Capable of destroying
technology with a touch of my hand; capable of outlasting electro-shots and
taking bullets without blinking an eye. I'm a goddamn superhero—without the
noble cause.