The Rise of Io (3 page)

I
o was
second-guessing herself right about now. That in itself wasn't an unusual occurrence, any more so than the need to transfer to a new host. Io had needed to make the move often over the centuries. Her transfer rate was higher than the average Quasing's, but that was more a product of the dangers of this day and age than of her inability to keep her humans alive.

At least that's what she told herself.

No matter the frequency, Io had made a judgment call tonight that was either going to allow her carefully-laid plans to come to fruition, or set her back a few years. But she didn't have much of a choice. Joining with Hamilton was not an option. He would have definitely wanted to abort and leave India on the first plane out, and that was something Io could not allow. That and the fact that Emily's auxiliary had proven to be disappointingly unreliable on his first mission. So much for high test scores at Prophus Training Academy in Sydney. The truth comes out when people start playing with live bullets.

Io checked the girl's state. She could already tell her new host was a light sleeper, which meant Io would have to be more delicate than usual. She waited half an hour more until Ella's breathing slowed and her consciousness moved into a deeper stage of sleep before taking control and sitting her up.

This human was so small, so light, so frail. Her limbs were like twigs. The girl had suffered dozens of small injuries and broken bones over her years of living on the streets. Many of them hadn't mended quite right. Fortunately, there was no major damage, although her nose really should be reset, with the way it obstructed her breathing.

Io took a step and stumbled, nearly tipping the girl forward onto her face. Controlling the body of an unconscious human was difficult, and Io was poorer than most Quasing when it came to this skill. She took baby steps and moved the body past the beaded curtain out into the next room.

Io found the girl's phone and unplugged it from its charger attached to a solar battery. After rummaging through Ella's memory for a few minutes, she was able to locate the passcode. She checked the contacts. Everything was coded. Clever, cautious girl.

Io dialed a number.

“Twenty-four hour wake-up service. We wake up to wake you up. Can I help you?”

“Identification Io.”

“Voice recognition does not match Emily Curran.”

Io pursed her lips. The six years they had spent together had been contentious, but also far too short. Emily deserved better, and Io owed it to Colin, Emily's father and Io's previous host, to have given her better. What had happened was unfortunate. However, Io had played this particular game long enough. It was time for something different.

“Host has passed.”

“Base Binary code required.”

“Binary code one, one, one, zero, one, zero, zero, one, zero, zero, one, zero.”

Silence.

“Analyst Wyatt Smith here. You're off-book in India, Io. What the hell are you doing there?”

Io pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen. Analyst? What the hell indeed. She put the phone back to her ear. “Excuse me, Analyst Wyatt Smith, there has been a host transfer. Why am I speaking to you and not to the Keeper?”

“New protocol,” Wyatt replied. “Keeper is too busy these days to deal with every single host transition. Now, all lower-tier hosts and Quasing go through the call center.”

Lower-tier.

Io wanted to tell Analyst Wyatt Smith exactly what she thought of him, his stupid call center, and being considered lower-tier. No matter what, she was a Quasing and she outranked all the humans who worked for the Prophus. She didn't outrank any other Quasing – well, a few, maybe – but she didn't have to take this insolence from a human.

“I demand to speak with the Keeper.”

“Sorry, Io,” said Wyatt. “Just following orders. You can talk to me now or call back later and talk to someone else. It makes no difference to me.”

Io swallowed her pride and began to dictate her report. “Previous host Emily Curran expired during an ambush by Genjix agents. New host is named Ella Patel: 54 kilograms, height 1.65 meters, black hair just above the shoulders, light-skinned, of Eastern Asian and Indian descent. No distinguishable markings except for a rash on her upper back and right cheek.”

“Medical issue?”

“Worse,” Io sighed. “More like puberty.”

“Can you confirm those measurements again?” Wyatt asked. “They all seem a little light.”

Io looked into the cracked mirror in the living room, and raised one of the host's spindly arms. “Confirmed.”

“Is there another identification regarding your new host, a UIDAI number or something?”

Io looked around and saw a wallet lying on the table next to the stove. She checked the contents. There was nothing inside except for a few punch cards from restaurants, a train pass, and illiterate scribbles on scraps of paper. She found a crumpled state card in the back and recited the information.

“Stand by.” After a brief pause, Wyatt began to tell Io everything about her new host. “Ella Patel, age nineteen, carrying dual Indian and Singaporean citizenship. Nice little arrest record she has there. All relatively minor crimes. Nothing to worry about.

“No education past primary school. Current residence: unknown. Mother, Ada Patel, formerly Ada Siong, Major in the Republic of Singapore Air Force, based at Vadsar Air Base, now deceased. Died operating for the South Asian Mutual Defense Coalition during the Genjix Third Wave blitzkrieg from Pakistan in the first year of the war.” Wyatt paused. “At least Mom fought for our side. Hooray.” It was a very lukewarm cheer.

“And the father?”

“Anu Patel. Formerly a havildar with the Indian Army. Went missing after the fall of Gujurat. Current occupation: unknown. Current residence: unknown. Last known residence: Dharavi Slums, Mumbai.”

Io continued to listen a while longer. These were all things she could scrape from Ella's mind in time. Obtaining this information from the Prophus's database was much easier than probing the girl's brain, though. She would have had to update Command sooner or later anyway. None of it was going to matter in a while. None of it mattered now.

“All her relevant information is now scrubbed,” Wyatt said cheerfully. “Her records – including her extensive criminal one – have been purged; her identifications, fingerprints, and visual markers have been removed; and she now even has a great credit score. She is a complete ghost in the world systems, save for our records within the Prophus Command repository. Congratulations, Io, you are now the proud owner of a tiny teenage delinquent. Put her to good use against the Genjix, or, at the very least, steal their stuff.”

“Thank you, Analyst,” Io said. “The new host will require training. What resources do we have in the vicinity?” Io doubted the girl's chances at a long life; not that it mattered, but she might as well go through the motions of a transition, lest she arouse any suspicion.

“You're on your own in that region. The Prophus were pushed out of India during the war. Truthfully, we never had a strong presence there to begin with.”

Humanity had only discovered the Quasing's existence a quarter century ago with the invention of the Penetra scanners – the devices that could detect Quasing residing within hosts. It had been the turning point for their kind, and forever transformed their relationship with this planet's residents. For eons, the Quasing had manipulated the living things on Earth to further their goal of returning home: first the dinosaurs, and then the mammals, and finally the humans. They, however, always did so from the shadows. The veil had been lifted, and they became hunted by the very creatures they used to control.

The countries of the world eventually allied with either Prophus or Genjix factions. Hundreds of covert conflicts, coups, political manipulations, and one world war later, the two sides had settled into a cold war of sorts with both sides maneuvering in the shadows to gain the advantage over the other. All of this mattered absolutely not at all to Io right now, since the Prophus had no resources on the ground while she was here with a new untrained host.

“Wait.” Wyatt interrupted her thoughts. “I have something that may or may not be useful. There's a retired combat operative living in your area. He used to be part of the Prophus Underground Railroad smuggling hosts from Russian to Australia. He also ran a training facility and safe house during the war. He's still drawing a stipend, so give it a shot.”

Io grimaced. “That's it? No access to cash, weapons, logistical or support personnel?”

“Sorry,” Wyatt said, not sounding sorry at all. “We have operated there occasionally, but to be honest, that region is a bit of a wasteland and has been tipping toward the Genjix for years. There are no priority targets, facilities, or resources. Speaking of which, why was Agent Emily Curran there at all? She's supposed to be in Chiang Mai overseeing the northern DMZ. And what about that possible Genjix site she found?”

Io ignored that line of inquiry. There were things she wasn't ready to explain yet, or ever. The longer she kept her plans secret, the more easily the pieces would fall into place. “I am going to make first contact with the host soon. I am not sure how long it will take before I can be up and running again.”

“Wait, do you have possession of Agent Curran's body–”

Io hung up the phone. Hopefully, Hamilton took care of Emily's body. It was the least the Prophus could do for her family. Io looked in the mirror and stared at her new home for the foreseeable future.

She shrugged. Shit happens. It was time to get to work.

T
he young sheik was an ass
. A rich ass, sure, but an ass nevertheless. Shura noticed the way he undressed her with his stare and whispered to his bodyguard. She kept her eyes focused on the floor, submissive, tamed, innocent. She crossed the main floor walking perpendicular to the prince, making sure he could see her figure, the curves of her body showing through her tight dress.

It was conservative and not at the same time. It was lavender, and covered all of her body to the top of her neck. Her sleeves and gloves exposed no flesh, nor did the rest of the tapered dress that fell to her ankles.

Shura's blonde hair was pulled to one side. She was stylish yet demure, innocent yet curious. Her makeup and the long, reflective silver earrings she wore made her face glow in the light, and seemed to illuminate the room as she passed. That was a welcome byproduct of the special electrified polymer that helped mask what she really was. Advancements in Quasing detection prevention had improved by leaps and bounds during the war.

She still had to be careful. The polymer technology in her dress made her undetectable even if she was touched, but close contact from another vessel to her face would give her away. However, if it ever came to that, she should already be near enough.

Stop now.

Shura paused mid-step, looked back to where she had come from and scanned the room. Her eyes hesitated, just briefly, when she saw him, and a nearly undetectable smile appeared on her face. It was gone just as quickly as it came, and she continued searching the room for some imaginary friend.

The hook is in. Make yourself scarce.

The prince no longer bothered hiding his stare. Shura turned her back to him, and gave him a full view of what he wanted, or desired, and then she walked off, out of his view, away from the rest of the room that he fully controlled. This was what men like him did. This was why they sat on elevated platforms and balconies. These little men and their tiny kingdoms.

She stayed out of his way for the rest of the party, only making brief entrances into the prince's line of sight. Each time they were in the same room, she made a point of not looking at him, except for the briefest of moments, and always with an ever-so-slight nervous smile, and then she was busy meeting someone else.

The rest was predictable.

Near the end of the party, while chatting with a businessman from Frankfurt, Shura noticed two of the prince's bodyguards move in from either side. She ignored them even as the businessman became nervous at the sudden proximity of armed men in suits. She kept her eyes on the businessman as he excused himself and beat a hasty retreat.

Shura turned and came face-to-face with the prince. She gave him a slight bow. “Your Royal Highness.”

“Thank you for attending my gathering.” He reached for her hand and kissed her glove.

I feel nothing.

That means the prince felt nothing. Shura smiled. “Your home is beautiful, and congratulations again on your return. Your presence has been missed in the city.”

“I fear you have me at a disadvantage.”

No, she didn't. No one within a hundred meters of someone in the royal family would have him at a disadvantage.

“Dominika Yumashev.” She recited a version of her credentials in a way that reflected familiarity and then proceeded to probe him with the questions that swayed their conversation toward his interests. The sheik might be rich, and he might be guided by an infinitely wise eternal being, but he was still a young man.

Nicely done. I counted two personal bodyguards and eight more on the grounds.

“Confirmed, Tabs. This job will be easier than anticipated.”

Shura suffered through the pretense of being charmed. He wasn't bad looking, and he was smooth. In another time, with his wealth and influence, she would consider him a possible ally, or even a consort. But it was too late now. Sides had been chosen. Destinies had been made, and all that nonsense.

As with many parties thrown by the royal family, the party grew larger the higher the moon climbed across the night sky. A few dozen guests had mushroomed into a few hundred. Eventually, this forced the two of them to seek a quieter place to continue their conversation.

Shura let him lead her upstairs, past his security perimeter at the party, into a private living area adjacent to his bedroom. She noted the two bodyguards trailing several paces behind. To her right was a set of double-doors opening to a balcony. To her left, an immaculately clean fireplace, unsurprising considering the heat in this region. Cords of wood were stacked off to the side. A leather couch faced the fireplace in the center of the room.

His Highness had good taste, at least. Shura made a slow circle around the room, pretending to admire the paintings and sculptures. The sheik went straight to the table next to the sofa and slipped off his blazer. He hung his jacket on the chair and undid his cuff links. Shura stopped at the liquor cabinet and examined each bottle, settling for an Alize, waving it above her head merrily. “Let's have a good time.”

Rein it in a little. Your drama coach would be ashamed.

The sheik moved around to the couch and patted the seat next to him. “Come join me, my dear.”

Shura pointed at the fireplace. “Can you light it? I find fires relaxing. It reminds me of winters at home.”

The sheik waved a finger, and one of his bodyguards threw some cords into the fireplace. A few moments later, Shura could hear the crackle of wood and the heat of the flames on her back. She turned from the Chagall she was admiring and sauntered toward the sheik.

Shura stopped at the edge of the couch and slipped off her heels. She took her time taking off her long silver earrings and placed them on the sofa table. She shook her head and then sat down on the opposite end of the couch. “I'm glad to take those off. Now I feel relaxed. Why are you so far away?”

The sheik slid next to her. “I have been anticipating this all night.”

She cupped his cheeks with her gloved hands. His face was flushed, and his breath smelled of mint and tobacco. He leaned in to kiss her. She met him halfway. Their lips touched.

The sheik's eyes widened.

Shura grabbed a fistful of hair on the back of his head with her right hand and yanked him off to the side, sending him tumbling to the floor. With her left, she grabbed one of the silver earrings on the sofa table and flung it across the room, striking a bodyguard standing at the door in the eye. He screamed as he pawed his face and fell to his knees.

The second earring streaked closely behind the first. The other guard managed to duck just in time, and the sharp point of the needle stuck into the wall. Shura leaped from the couch, jumping over the sheik, and closed the distance between her and the guard.

She trapped his wrist to his body as he drew his pistol. Shura's fingers contorted into claws and she jammed her hand into his throat. She squeezed, cutting through flesh and muscle until she felt his windpipe, and then she twisted her arm.

Shura had already forgotten him by the time his body hit the floor. She turned toward the sheik. The man, paralyzed with shock or fear, unused to violence, simply stared as she stalked him.

“Your Royal Highness Sheik Ahmed Al Nahyan of Abu Dhabi, sixteenth in line for the crown,” she said, slinking forward with measured steps. “And hello to you as well, Khat.”

Ahmed charged her. Shura barely had to shift her weight to trip him. He fell roughly, his back striking the marble corner of the fireplace. He groaned and writhed as she circled his body.

“Wha- Wha…” he stammered, as he tried to kick at her.

She shook her head. “Throughout the entire war, the emirates have stayed mostly on the sidelines, disdaining both Prophus and Genjix, and making it illegal to even become a vessel for a Quasing. The Genjix allowed you this neutrality out of respect.”

Ahmed scrambled to his feet and tried to flee the room. Shura stepped on his ankle, and pressed down. He kicked at her with his other foot, but she applied harder pressure, until the ankle snapped. He screamed. She stepped forward and came down with her foot on his other knee. She pressed again, grinding her heel until the bones in his knee cracked as well. He tried to scream, and she stepped forward once more, kicking him in the mouth.

She knelt down next to his face and brushed the hair from his forehead. “So why, Your Highness, did you choose to become a vessel for the betrayers? What did the Prophus and their human friends offer you?”

“Please.” The words came out of his mouth all mushed together. “This is all a misunderstanding, an accident.”

“I don't believe so. Most of the emirates have strictly enforced Quasing detection. Penetra scanners dot every airport and road in and out of Abu Dhabi, and every royal palace. However, you made sure to have all yours disabled before your recent trip to Belgium.” She leaned in and cupped his chin with her hand. “Is being a vessel everything you hoped it would be?”

You are wasting time. Finish this.

“Yes, Tabs.”

“You can't kill me,” the sheik whined. “My family will not allow it. You will be giftwrapping all of the emirates to the Prophus if my blood is on your hands.”

Shura smiled. “I don't think so. You are far down the line of succession, low enough that you have little to lose and much to gain. Is that why you risked having a Quasing? Were you hoping to forge an alliance that raised your standing? Did the Prophus promise you the crown one day?”

Realization came to Ahmed, and the terror that was painted on his face melted away. He actually chuckled. “Is that what you think, you bitch? No, I don't want the crown. Being the king is a burden. I did it because it was the right thing to do, because I want my nephews and nieces to have a future. I want this planet to survive. Because…”

“Bitch? That's misogynist.” Shura snapped his neck.

About time. I thought he would never shut up.

Shura leaned into the fireplace and grabbed a piece of burning wood. She walked over to the bottle of expensive vodka, flicked the top off with one hand, and took a large swig. She came back to Ahmed's body just as a cloud filled with hundreds of sparkling lights rose from the corpse.

Shura held the burning cord in front of her and spit the alcohol out of her mouth, spewing a jet of flames. Khat tried to avoid the fire, but the slow-moving Quasing was quickly engulfed. Shura took another swig and repeated the process several more times, until the last of the lights that was once a Holy One was gone.

Until the Eternal Sea.

“Until the Eternal Sea,” she murmured. “Forty-seven and counting.”

Indeed.

Shura could still hear the revelry downstairs and the house-shaking rumbles of the electronic music. She looked at the three dead bodies in the room and shook her head. She had predicted more of a challenge. It was far too easy to kill royals. Not like the old days.

Do not be too proud of this accomplishment. Back in the old days, they didn't have succession lists this long. Seems everyone is in line for a crown these days. However, an alliance between the Prophus and the emirates would have been problematic. Your standing has been raised.

Shura listened at the front door, and then walked out onto the balcony. She was five stories up with a hundred and fifty meter courtyard to the outer perimeter where a four meter wall with spikes on top awaited her. She scanned the grounds below and saw at least a dozen guards with dogs on patrol.

She reached down to the hem of her dress and began to unravel it. Within seconds, she had enough of the specialized rope to tie onto the balcony railing and rappel down.

Wait for the man with that dog to turn the corner. There will be a group of two guards following in forty-five second intervals.

Shura mapped out her escape and waited, watching as the man and the canine disappeared around the corner. She would much rather face two armed guards than a dog. She loved animals.

Now.

Shura leaped over the side and swung down, letting the rope slip loosely in her hands as she descended. Only when she neared the ground did she tighten her gloved hands around the rope to slow her fall. She landed in mid-step and sprinted barefoot to the wall.

Two man patrol on your left.

Instead of trying to avoid the men crossing her path, Shura charged them. No need to be target practice, after all. She stayed low and out of their line of sight, keeping a row of shrubs between her and them as she closed the distance. Once she was nearly within melee range, she leaped on top of one before he realized what hit him. A downward strike knocked the submachine gun out of his hands, and then she grabbed the barrel and pulled at an angle. The strap around his shoulder twisted and tightened against his neck and armpit, trapping his head and shoulder together. Shura held on to the carbine and lurched the man off his feet as she swung around and went low at the second guard. Her right heel swung in a wide arc and cracked the side of his knee, and, before his body hit the ground, a downward chop collapsed his trachea. He gurgled hoarsely for a few seconds before going limp.

Shura turned to the first guard, still pawing at the strap digging into his flesh. She tilted her head and studied his purple face, her hands turning the rifle in a slow circle, squeezing his upper body just a little more with each twist.

Stop playing around and finish him.

Shura placed her bare feet on the side of his neck and jerked the rifle upward.

Another patrol coming forty meters off. Avoid this one.

She took off again, dashing from cover to cover. Shura reached the stone wall and crept along its edge toward the gatehouse. She stayed in the shadows and counted. One guard house, two men, one canine, and two alternating cameras on each side. A half-moon of spikes on the gate decorated the four meter high fence.

This one was going to be tricky. She could take the guard standing outside easily enough, but would be hard pressed to kill the one in the guard house before he pulled the alarm. With two cameras, each panning at different intervals, staying out of sight would be difficult as well. There was also the matter of the dog.