The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

I fall backward on the deck and lose consciousness.

When I come to, Jade is bent over me with a desperate look
on his face. His sits me up and hugs me.

"What happened?" I ask, and free myself from his
hug. My head aches something fierce.

"Not sure." He slides his hand through my sweaty
hair, touching the back of my neck. I push him away and shudder.

He frowns with concern. "You're
really
not
well, Bug-Nut. You went into some sort of shock, started convulsing and
thrashing. I tried to pull the live-wire out, but it
melted
and came out
together with the plug and synet and all. It's fried. I've no idea how that's
even possible. The temperature needed to melt carbon nanotubes is ridiculous.
You should have severe burns, but there's nothing."

I rub the back of my neck and find my skin intact. There's
no trace of a hole, or burn, or even a scar.

Jade holds up the optical fiber. A small black knot
dangles from its tip, the size of a rice corn—a carbonized, frizzy mess of
micro-thin circuitry.

I lean forward. The smell of disinfectant and ozone
instantly triggers a vivid memory of Amharr strangling me. I jerk away from
Jade and clutch at my neck.

"I'm sorry," Jade says.

"It's okay." I breathe deeply, shoving the fear
back down. "It's fine."

I get up, walk to the hatch and jump out of the
Transiter
.
Jade comes after me, huffing in frustration. "I'm really sorry, Taryn. I
did everything right. I don't understand—"

"It's
fine
, Jade. Thank you, really. Just …
let me get some rest, okay?"

I climb into the open shaft, and worm my way back out
through the Station's guts. I retreat into my room, wishing I could dissolve
into the ether and escape.

Several kinds of death scroll through Bray's mind as he
marches down the corridor toward Preston's room. He could be shredded by TMC
plasma or titanium volleys, or be ripped to pieces by the claws of a monstrous
alien. He could suffocate when the Station's life support dies out, or when his
refurbished skinsuit eventually malfunctions.

As he walks on, glancing out the corridor's portholes, he
notices air escaping through the cracks in one of the outer modules. A disabled
maintenance drone, tied up with steel cables to the wheel of a door, floats
above the damaged section like a long forgotten promise of mending. The whole
station—with its improvised crew scurrying through the corridors like rats in a
decaying mechanical maze—seems increasingly absurd.

Bray stops in a maintenance junction and waits for a drone
to finish mounting a diagnostic device before he can pass. One of the drone's
arms has been replaced with a motorized gripper, and three plasma charges are
taped to its back as a makeshift battery. A blowtorch is screwed to the side of
its gripper.

The drone lights the blowtorch and aims it at the panel.
The flames erupt in an uncontrolled burst, spreading all over the place instead
of focusing on a spot. The whole maneuver looks hair-raisingly dangerous,
flames spewing around the bomb on the drone's back.

Bray walks past it as quickly as possible, adding a new
potential death source to his list.

The Station's quarters are almost empty. Everyone seems to
be going about their business somewhere else. Bray's footsteps echo into the
corridor, the rhythmic pounding of his heels making him think of incoming
gunfire. He's not the kind of guy who constantly worries about dying, not
really, it's just that he worries about dying
too soon
. If there's
anything life has taught him, it's that death is often premature and comes from
the unlikeliest source.

The immigrant orphanage at the edge of Piazzi—the largest
colony on Bessel's Eye—was the only home Bray's ever known. Wasn't much of a
home either. Built by the local government and funded by the Trust as a way to
buy themselves the option to recruit minors for the TMC, the orphanage was a
flophouse for immigrant kids. Most of them came to Piazzi illegally on cargo
freighters or stuffed between the luggage on passenger ships, their parents
either dead from the grueling travel conditions, gone missing, or simply
uninterested.

The orphanage was run by a bunch of colonial service and
welfare officers, occasional volunteers, and freaks looking for easy access to
children for a whole host of reasons. It was built cheap, near the edge of
Piazzi where the colony dome generators roared continuously, shaking the ground
as they strained to keep the hemispherical forcefield intact above the city. A
perfect location for the colony's scum. The kids grew up to know a side of
colonial life most respectable citizens usually repressed.

Bray was fourteen when he finally parted ways with his
caretaker, a man named Alfred Nykänen—a pervert and addict he liked to call
Nugh, after the sound he made when he came. Their 'arrangement' ended abruptly
when Bray managed to steal a gun from a drunk ensign. He used it on Nugh the
way Nugh had taught him long objects could be used on people. Nugh didn't like
it the other way around. It ended quickly, though. This toy had a trigger.

Bray fled into the city, and succeeded eluding arrest for
a whole month. But there isn't much stealth and strategy to a hungry boy, and
he ended up in a correctional facility for underage delinquents. Later he was
'enrolled' into an asteroid prison camp where he almost died. Then Preston
found him.

Bray stops before a rotating door that's cracked open and
disgorging a greenish light. He takes a deep breath, completes the wheel's
rotation, and pushes against the dead weight.

"Hey doc." He makes his way in between
workbenches and racks filled with spare parts, circuit boards, and containers.

Preston is hunched over his desk in the corner, behind a
pile of data crystals and sensor recording modules. The projector on his desk
is twirling a blurred rendition of the green alien's head. Preston's attention
is glued to it.

"Taryn said the aliens left." Bray looks in vain
for a place to sit. Hopefully he doesn't look as relieved as he feels, knowing
he won't have to fly out to those goddamn beasts again.

Preston turns and inspects him. Several contradictory
expressions chase across his face, fatigue winning in the end. "What's she
got?"

"Not much. She says they're not interested in
starting relations with us. Like I said, they're hostile. We're lucky they
didn't attack us."

"You believe her?" Preston has that weird look
like he knows something he won't tell. It pisses Bray off.

"Makes sense to me," he replies. "Why would
they want to get involved with us if we're so far below their tech level? They
figured we're uninteresting and left. I think we should do the same."

"What about her med scans? Any traces of that
advanced technology on Miss Harber?"

"No. I mean... I don't know. Aaron wasn't there when
I talked to her, but I don't think he found anything."

Preston curls his lip, and turns back to his projector.

He brings up a keyboard and starts coding, line after line
scrolling up through the air above his hands. His glasses start to glow in
bright colors as they overlay their analysis over Preston's code.

As the doc hacks his way through terabytes of data, Bray
tries to imagine what it must feel like to fiddle with technology at that
level. He's always been envious of hackers and tech-punks. It's as though they
have access to another layer of reality, one he's too obtuse to understand.

The doc sifts through Taryn's medical records and all the
scans since she came back. He runs the information through a set of constantly
adapting criteria as if through a flexible sieve, and compares the results. He
snorts at Aaron's casual note of Taryn's missing synet, and his interpretation
of the irregular patterns in her brain as 'atypical seizure symptoms.'

Preston eventually pauses on a recording of Taryn and
Aaron in the medbay, and leans back in his chair, scratching his beard.

"What's going on?" Bray asks.

Preston rummages through one of the many open boxes next
to him, then jams a data crystal into a slot on the edge of the desk. A list of
names, maps, blueprints, and assorted data starts scrolling before him.

A logo swirling on top of the database copy draws Bray's
attention. It's a symbol comprised of the letters D and S, back to back,
forming the abstract head and horns of a bull. He's seen this logo before, but
can't remember what it means. Before he gets a chance to ask, Preston switches
the projector back to the medbay recording. He looks at Bray, pursing his lips.

An uncanny feeling creeps through Bray's gut. "What
is it?"

"Aaron found something after all, even if he doesn't
know what it is. But I do."

Bray lifts his eyebrows. "And?"

"Keep a close eye on Miss Harber from now on. I want
to know everything she does. Where she goes, what she says, what she
doesn't
say. Everything."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to," Preston snorts. "Just
do as I say."

"Does this have anything to do with the aliens?"

Preston stands up, and starts searching for something
through the mess by his desk.

"Does it?" Bray insists, anxiety nibbling at
him.

Preston turns around and grins at him, holding another
data crystal in his hand. "You keep an eye on her until I get what I want,
and maybe I'll let you rectify your screw-up another way."

"How?"

"If I'm right, Miss Harber brought us a gift back
from that alien ship."

He turns back to his projector and scrolls forward to a
still of Taryn grabbing Aaron by the neck. Preston overlays the image with a
filter, and marks something for Bray to look at.

Taryn's hand is piercing the alcove's restraining field as
if it's bursting out of a soap bubble. Bray shakes his head, unsure what to
make of it.

"It can't get any more obvious than that,"
Preston says impatiently. "Something in her nervous system has changed.
It's all over the scans, even if Aaron doesn't get it. No normal person can break
out of a restraining field like that—not after they've been injected with a
double dose of tranquilizers. There's also the manner of her return to
consider: popping into existence in a cargo bay, no trace of the alien ship
anywhere near us. I'm quite certain they did something to her."

Bray instinctively recoils from the projection.

"And you're going to find out what. I'll talk to Miss
Harber myself, but it's important that you keep a close eye on her. And don't
let her notice. We can't risk a slip in case she's being used against us."

"Used against us? I—what— Are you sure the medbay
scanners didn't just malfunction? Maybe it's a glitch in the recording. Or
maybe she's—" Bray swallows. "What if she's infected with some alien
disease?"

"No. Her nerves and neurons don't show any signs of
deterioration or decay compared to the deep-scan we took of her when she first
came aboard. On the contrary, her peripheral nervous system shows an almost
tripled increase in the number of axons. It's branching out through her body at
incredible speed. Her central nervous system glows with electrical impulses
like a torch, and her neocortex... Here, look at the difference." He flips
back and forth between three neural scans, one from Taryn's first day on the
station two months ago, one from her admission into the medbay, and one from
last night, showing Taryn tossing in the alcove, having nightmares.

"Let's say you're right," Bray humors him,
trying to figure out how he could keep himself out of trouble if that's really
the case. "What do we do with her?"

"I have quite a few ideas... But first I have to
contact some old friends on San Gabriel."

Bray's stomach tightens. San Gabriel is one of the most
militarized colonies in the entire Confederacy, a definite no-go for outcasts like
them. What does Preston want there? Bray thinks back to the logo he's seen
earlier, but however much he tries, he can't remember what it means. It's
definitely nothing good, though. Nothing safe.

Preston switches the projector off and scowls at him.
"I thought you'd be glad I'm not sending you back out to deal with the
aliens."

"I am," Bray replies quickly.

"Good. Mind your new job, then. We'll head out to San
Gabriel as soon as we get the
Transiter
repaired. Vik's already working
with the technicians to put together an FTL engine that can move part of the
Station."

"So soon? But I thought—"

"We've got no time to waste."

"But it's suicide, doc! The Ticks'll arrest us the
moment we land."

"It will all be taken care of," Preston says.
"If you don't want to come with us, fine. You can always fly back out to
make peace with the aliens..."

Bray's tongue goes dry. He swallows thickly, and nods.

Preston smiles. "I thought so."

I've been pacing around my room for quite some time, not
knowing what to do.

Without a synet, without the possibility to fly a ship or
hide my tracks in colony networks, I'm right back at square one. Worse, I'm
stuck out here with Preston and his crew. I'd love nothing more than to be on
the front lines, seeing to it that the TMC's cycle of conquest and exploitation
is ended. If their treatment of the Dorylinae—the only sentients humanity has
encountered so far—taught us anything, it's that they're unfit to lead us into
a prosperous future along the other advanced species in this galaxy. But
Preston and his bunch won't get us any closer to that future either, especially
not since their only trump—the chance to make some allies the TMC knows nothing
about—is off the table now.

"I see you've recovered." Preston stands in my
doorway, hands in his pockets. "It's time we talked."

I sigh. "Ask away."

"Actually, I'll start by telling you something."
He steps in and closes the door behind him. "Your brain chemistry was altered. The aliens changed your entire
nervous system's functions."

My heart climbs up in my throat.

He paces slowly around the small room, then turns to face
me. "Have you ever been to San Gabriel, Miss Harber?"

"Excuse me?"

San Gabriel, where they failed to start a revolution
twenty years ago? The Ticks executed dozens of people for that, including the
resistance leader. Markan? Maican? I don't remember. My parents used to talk
about him in hushed voices. Said he was crazy, but that it took being crazy to
face the TMC on their own terms. He failed anyway. And San Gabriel never recovered.

I shake my head.

Preston's smile is cold. "I have old friends on San
Gabriel. They have some influence and access to resources, despite working in
rather precarious conditions. And they're willing to grant me the funds and
equipment necessary to study what the aliens did to you. Maybe even
undo
it, if you'd like."

Undo it
?

My heart hammers in my chest. All kinds of questions
explode in my mind, none of them getting the chance to take root.

"Before you answer, consider this: The main
difference between those aliens and all others humanity has encountered before,
is the fact that the Ticks haven't gotten wind of them yet. We have an
opportunity—an
obligation
—to make the best of that. Even if establishing
an alliance on diplomatic terms seems to be momentarily unviable, those aliens
can still be of use to us. Whatever they did to you, Miss Harber, it puts you
in a unique position and gives us an unmatched advantage."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your father and I were colleagues long before you
were born, back when Greg and I were still employed by the Trust in the
xenobiology department of the Expansion program. He was a smart man, and brave
to oppose the TMC when they forced his hand, even though everyone around him
faltered. He chose to protect the Dorylinae. Risked his career and his family
instead of making a quick buck and living with millions of sentients on his
conscience. He did the right thing, Miss Harber. I know you will too."

My hand creeps up to my neck, seeking reassurance from the
mandible that's no longer hanging there. I'm not sure where Preston's going
with this, but I don't like it.

"It's just a matter of time before the TMC finds that
ship," Preston says. "It's still out there, hiding, waiting to make
the next move. Am I right?"

I shake my head.

"Don't play dumb with me. They don't take prisoners
and release them again if they're uninterested in where they go. They're out
there watching us. And you're the straight link between our hopes and the tools
to give us back our future. Whether you want it or not, Miss Harber, you don't
get to shrug off that responsibility."

"Yes I do." My legs are shaking, heart close to
bursting in my chest. "There's no link between me and... them, and I don't
owe you anything. You wanted me here to make contact. I did. But they're not
interested in talking to us one damn bit, let alone become allies. That means
my job here is done. I'm out."

"You don't have a choice." He grins. "Not
without a functional synet. You're in our care now, and you're coming with us
to San Gabriel. You're going to let us study you, find out what we're really
dealing with, and how we can use that knowledge against the TMC. Then,
perhaps
,
we can help rid you of these alien alterations."

The hell I'm going to let him turn me into some lab rat. I
won't have some lunatics tamper with the
link
to Amharr, in the middle
of a crowded colony no less. But this may be the only chance I get to escape
this alien
curse
and regain control of my life. And if it means having
to humor Preston and his dubious connections, I guess I'll have to stomach it.
It's not like I have a choice, not without a working synet. That's one thing
Preston's got right.

I take a deep breath and steady myself. "Alright. I'll
come with you to San Gabriel, but I'm not part of your team. You can study me,
but you can't order me around. And if you
ever
hurt me in any way, I'll
pick you apart piece by tiny goddamn piece. I had good teachers in the
hives."

Preston nods with mock courtesy, and opens the door.
"Come along, please. There's one more thing we need to discuss."

I follow reluctantly, trying not to listen to the tiny
voice inside me yelling that I'm only making things worse for myself.

Preston's office is dark and messy, and smells heavily of
chemicals. Every surface is littered with junk, and the shelves lining the
walls are stuffed with unrecognizable miscellany. He takes me to the desk in
the corner, sits in his tattered chair, and turns on his projector.

Bluish light fills the room and I catch a moving shadow in
the corner of my eye. I snap around, gripped by panic at the prospect of
immediate suffocation. Then I recognize Bray and turn away, gasping for air and
rubbing my neck.

Preston leans back in his chair, sizing us up. "I
know you two have had some differences, but I need you to work together
now."

Bray avoids my gaze.

"And do what?" I'm increasingly certain I've
made the wrong decision to accept Preston's offer.

Preston holds up a hand for silence. "Take a look at
this." The projection he calls up is a Kolsamal head. I recognize Gary's
stern features underneath the dark green fuzz, and remember his first
transmission. He warned us there would be no negotiations. He told us to leave.
But we didn't listen.
I
didn't listen. I see the yellow marks on Gary's
face and my stomach tightens.

Preston brings up another projection, a full-body scan of
myself, peppered with blue dots and markers. He zooms in on the head, aglow
with thousands of sparks and color-coded sections.

"You see, I told you the truth." He looks at me
over his glinting glasses. "There are alien molecules in your brain,
neurotransmitters of some sort. They're unlike anything I've ever seen. I only
have preliminary scans to go by, but I'm sure we'll soon discover these alien
strains significantly alter your entire organism."

My hands begin to burn. If what he says is true then the
link
to Amharr is far more complex than I feared. Which makes it even more
unpredictable and dangerous to tamper with. And I fear there might not be a way
to break it, at least not with whatever hackware Preston's people have.

"So far, the only effect they seem to have is to
grant you immunity to biomimetic and electromagnetic fields."

He brings up a recording taken in the medbay, and plays a
few seconds of it. I watch myself grab Aaron by the throat, and wince.

"But I think there's more to this than meets the eye.
Isn't there, Miss Harber?"

I shake my head as nonchalantly as possible.

"Care to explain the vector of this...
infection
?"

I really don't. But I'll have to tell them
something
.
So I sketch my encounter with 'the alien leader' in as few words as possible,
making its conclusion sound as unavoidable as it seemed at the time. How my
stabbing him was self-defense, and that he punished me with this 'infection.'
Case closed.

I leave out the link and its deluge of information, or the
fact that Amharr is a different species entirely. I can't spill that without having
to explain the Ascendancy, and I wouldn't even know where to start.

"I had no control over any of it," I conclude, avoiding
eye contact with either of them.

Bray snorts. "You stabbed their leader. That's
fucking brilliant."

"What's done is done," Preston says,
surprisingly calm about it. "We can't change it now. We need to find a way
to make up for it. What I want from you, Miss Harber," Preston continues,
"in return for the considerations I am making despite your failure, is
that you help Bray with various small tasks on San Gabriel; to put your new
ability to overcome energy fields to good use."

"What about letting you study what the aliens did to
me?" I ask. "That's not payment enough for your
considerations
?"

"We'll see."

My hands sting fiercely, right in the center of my palms
where Amharr's tendrils would be. It makes me want to gnaw at my own skin, make
it stop somehow.

"As long as you're able," Preston says, turning
off the projector, "you will repay us with your help. And we'll make sure
you continue to be able. Perhaps even get rid of this infection when all is
good and done with."

I knew there had to be a catch like that. Sure, they'll
help me cut the
link
eventually, but only after they're done using it to
meet their own ends. But unless I pretend to play along, I'm stranded out here in
deep space with Amharr prowling in the darkness.

"Thank you, Miss Harber," he adds as I don't
break my silence, and waves me and Bray away.

I turn on my heel and glance at Bray. He's breathing hard,
a tiny bead of sweat sliding down his temple. I walk around him then out into
the corridor, pulse drumming in my ears.