Myst and Ink, Book 1

by HD Smith

  Jeff picked up one of the needles and the vial of serum. A beeping sounded, and he put down the two items and pulled out his Link.

  “Oh, fuck,” Jeff looked up, “Douglas, we have to go. Um.” He looked at me. “Sorry, there’s an issue with one of the test subjects. We’ll be right back. If you know how the syringes work, feel free to start without me.”

  Within a few seconds, Jeff and Dougie were racing out of the lab. I took out my Link and continued on the thread where Susan9 and I had been talking.

  GEN: Do you know what message he received?

  SUSAN9: No. Internal Link messages are secure and not seen by the private stream administrators.

  GEN: Are there any communications you do have access to that might explain why he left?

  SUSAN9: A lab on Floor 12 is being evacuated. A chemical spill was reported 2.34 minutes ago. A suspicious package was delivered to the mailroom. Seven high-pressure sensors have activated in the restrooms. Would you like for me to continue?

  GEN: No, it was probably the chemical spill, but monitor for anything suspicious—not routine

  SUSAN9: Understood.

  GEN: Okay, I’m going to take a sample of the serum for my report. Keep a lookout … let me know if anyone comes back

  SUSAN9: Understood.

  I clicked my Link into the workstation’s holder so I could easily see if Susan9 sent me another message. The lab interfaced with my device, and instantly downloaded the instructions and test results for this batch of the serum.

  A box popped up on the screen.

  [Download full study? [Yes/No]]

  “Yes,” I said, although I assumed I already had the details hidden in Miko’s terabytes of data.

  The files began to download.

  While the sync continued, I opened the prep document. It listed the exact amount that should be put into each syringe. The process was straightforward, and Jeff had already set them up. All I had to do was insert each needle into the ampule and let the auto-loader do its job.

  First I’d get a sample for my report, then I’d fill the others.

  Checking the table, I found an opened box of unprogrammed syringes. My hand shook as I picked up the empty syringe. I hadn’t been this close to easy access silver in years. My muscles were tense. I tried to breath and relax. This wasn’t hard. I could safely do it without getting hurt. The dampening bracelets made this possible, though I still needed to be careful.

  I double-tapped the side of the syringe and adjusted it to draw out a sample. I only wanted enough of the product for an independent review, not enough to make it obvious the prepared syringes for testing were short any of the serum.

  Placing my extra syringe on the table, I picked up the X86 ampoule to get a better look at the drug. Turning the vial over, I was surprised by how viscous the silvery liquid appeared. It rolled and flowed like dark mercury. The more it moved around, the darker the liquid became. As the light caught the darkening liquid, an iridescent shimmer sparkled along its surface. I could swear the bottle hummed with energy, but that wasn’t how myst-infused magic worked. Myst couldn’t be stored like a battery; at least everything I’d ever read said so. It was one of the reasons the Reduced Myst Study at the K12 lab hadn’t produced results.

  I thought back to how the serum was described: Live Ink is a stable myst-infused injectable serum which allows a user to generate temporary tattoos on demand. If the serum allowed the user to manifest a tattoo on their skin, it seemed reasonable to assume the tattoo was an instant action variety, not a delayed action version that required a spark to ignite.

  But if that were true, then the silvery liquid would have to hold myst, like a battery—which shouldn’t be possible. If the serum were similar to permanent tattoos, which had a thin layer of dried myst embedded into their surface, then that meant the Live Ink would eventually run out, right? Of course, that style also needed a spark.

  I smoothed out the paper label on the vial. It read Live Ink - X86 initial variant, and was dated 04.87.068. Wow, it was from the initial patent filing by Conor Cortez, which must have been what Jeff had meant by the original sample. Was this Conor’s version that he’d developed for the patent?

  A notification flashed on my Link screen.

  [Download complete.]

  I picked up the extra syringe, taking care not to poke myself with the lethal silver needle. Carefully piercing the ampule, I activated the auto-load syringe.

  As I held the source of the patent research in my hand, I was reminded of what I knew about patent-focused product development.

  The Worlds Legal Authority required a significant product development within twenty-five years of a patent’s registration, or the patent was null and void. This was to allow for competitive innovation and to ensure anyone patenting a product actually created the product. Theoretical patents were not allowed. This was why the X86 Live Ink study was coming to an end. The patent date was still 100 days away, but product details had to be submitted at least 90 days in advance of the end of the project. That meant the lab had 10 days to produce a product, which in research circles was practically impossible.

  My Link beeped. Another message from Susan9.

  SUSAN9: The lab incident has been contained.

  GEN: Are Douglas and Jeff on their way back?

  SUSAN9: No. However, Dr. Monroe is on his way to the lab.

  Fuck. I checked the syringe I was loading. It hadn’t actually pulled in any serum. I must have set something wrong. Double-tapping the side of the syringe, I adjusted the draw again and clicked start. Finally the viscous liquid began filling the needle.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall, older gentleman with graying auburn hair headed toward the lab door. He was wearing the same crisp white lab coat he’d had on in Miko’s vid-feed.

  Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

  I looked down at the needle, preparing to switch out my extra syringe with the first one needed for the study.

  “Oh, shit,” I said.

  I’d setup the auto fill wrong. The entire bottle of X86 serum was now in my extra syringe.

  The lab door opened, but Dr. Monroe was distracted by his Link and hadn’t yet noticed me. I placed the extra needle with the others and hoped he wouldn’t notice my mistake. I’d fix it after he left the lab.

  My Link dinged. I grabbed it from the holder and tucked it in my pocket.

  “Jeff, are the injections ready?” Dr. Monroe asked, still not looking up.

  “No, sir, not yet,” I said. “I’ll need another minute.”

  Dr. Monroe raised his head. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked down at the prep surface, his eyes narrowing on the five syringes, then the empty ampule.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  He reached for the filled syringe. I tried to grab it first, but he was too quick. I let out an involuntary yelp as the needle scraped across my hand, leaving a trail of searing hot pain in its wake.

  Lucy-damn-hell, he’d just killed me. The protective glove like barrier created by the bracelets only stopped transfers, not scrapes or cuts.

  As I sat there frozen with the fear of my impending death, Dr. Monroe plunged the needle into my leg and depressed the plunger, sending all the X86 serum into my thigh muscle.

  I screamed out in pain at the hot, sharp burn of the silver needle, and I immediately started to convulse. I was dying, and it fucking hurt.

  “Damn it,” he cursed, ripping the empty needle out of my leg and tossing it onto the table, “now I have to explain why the final test subject received a quadruple dose of the serum.” He was clearly annoyed.

  “You’ve killed me,” I said, my vision beginning to blur.

  He laughed. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you think we wouldn’t figure out you’d hacked into the reassignment center data and got yourself assigned above your station? Or that you had a silver allergy? Quite frankly, you’ve made it easy for me to end this study in such
a dramatic fashion that no one will ever question me again.”

  “The cameras,” I said. “They’ll check the lab footage.”

  He laughed again. “I have complete control of this environment. There are no cameras here.”

  Jeff came busting through the lab door, his eyes wide.

  “What the hell happened?” Jeff yelled. Then in a whisper, he added, “I thought we were doing this downstairs.”

  “It appears we’ve had a tragic accident in the lab today. Unfortunately, Ms. Harlow failed to disclose she had a silver allergy. Call the orderlies.”

  I wasn’t religious, but I’d prayed to Lucy a time or two in the orphanage growing up. I knew I wasn’t walking out of this lab. Some people say they see a flash of light, or their life plays out before them like a data stream on loop, but none of that happened to me. I was just pissed.

  Dr. Monroe was going to get away with two murders, and for what reason? And why was Jeff helping him? Was there money in killing research?

  I screamed out again as a new wave of hot and cold rushed through my body, as if ice had been injected into my overheating veins.

  My vision blurred, but I refused to go down without a fight. I pushed myself to my feet, my leg that received the jab numb and heavy as if it didn’t want to move. I lost my balance, pitched forward, and grabbed onto Jeff’s lab coat.

  Another wave of cold and heat engulfed me, and I almost passed out from the shock. My body shook from extreme chills as the burn from the injection site pulsed through to my bones.

  “Fuck,” Jeff said, helping me to stay upright.

  “I said, call the orderlies,” Dr. Monroe said. “We must keep up the pretense until she dies.”

  Holding me upright, Jeff touched his ear. “Orderlies needed in MI-13 lab, stat.”

  “You’re going to get caught,” I said. “You’re sabotaging your own House. You won’t get away with this.”

  “What is she saying?” Monroe asked.

  “Nothing. Gibberish,” Jeff said.

  My tongue felt thick, and my mouth went dry.

  My eyes closed, then opened, then half-closed again. My body was limp. New, stronger arms were now holding me, and they picked me up and placed me on a soft flat surface—a stretcher. Small convulsions racked my body. Straps were placed over my torso and legs.

  “Find her a hospital bed,” Dr. Monroe said, “twenty-four-seven monitoring. She’s had a serious reaction to silver and an overdose of the X86 study drug. Notify Dr. Beverly immediately.”

  “Yes, sir, doctor,” the burly man who’d strapped me down to the gurney said.

  A black haze started covering my eyes. My leg throbbed where the silver needle had punctured my skin. And my body felt disconnected from my control. X86 continued to cycle through my system, turning my body temperature from hot to cold.

  I was going to die, and no one would even care.

  I closed my eyes as the orderly wheeled me through the corridors. I tried to open my eyes when we stopped and I was transferred to another bed, but I couldn’t. A chill ran through my body, followed by heat. I started shivering and sweating at the same time.

  I couldn’t tell if time was passing or not. I just ached as things around me changed and moved. People, voices, lights, sounds. It was either minutes or hours. I couldn’t tell.

  I knew only one thing for certain. I wasn’t dead yet.

  11

  City Center – Sector 1, Tau, Tuesday, 11:30 LTZ

  Liam

  Dexter’s call came in as my AutoDrive pulled into the drop off at City Center’s north entrance.

  His live-vid image was now a surfer from OE 1960. I wondered, not for the first time, if he used a random image generator to create his different looks.

  “Have you found something on Donovan already?” I asked.

  “Nope. I just got a call from the renter. He wants to know the ETA on the security fix,” Dexter said.

  “What the hell is his issue? I said it would get done today.”

  “I told him you were working on it. He threatened to withhold rent until you got it done.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Ignore him. It will be back on today.”

  “So, I may have activated a few stream crawlers to find info about the renter,” Dexter said.

  His crawlers were programs he’d created to search the stream for hidden data connections. They were similar to the code he used to search the Old Earth data, but more sophisticated in order to handle the disjointed way stream data was linked. It was genius and one of the reasons I’ve never regretted taking Dexter on as a full-time assistant.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Wyatt isn’t directly connected to any House—which we already knew, but the landlord let the security contract lapse on purpose to try to get Wyatt out.”

  “Obviously that didn’t work,” I said.

  “Nope. Wyatt figured out the security lapse was a ploy to strong arm him into giving up his lease. I couldn’t find an exact reason for the landlord wanting him out, but it’s probably the same reason you want him out. Wyatt is running a Lucy-damn illegal med bay, catering to criminals, which means the guy has dangerous connections.”

  “What did Wyatt do?” I asked.

  “He screwed the guy over by messing up his divorce. From what I can tell, the previous owner and his soon-to-be ex-wife were ending their marriage contract via a standard dissolution process invocable by the terms of their original agreement. Then House Storm’s legal team took up her case and started pulling the guy’s life and finances apart. He’ll be lucky if he has anything once they’re done.”

  “How did House Storm get involved? And how do you know Wyatt is connected to it?”

  “I’m just telling you what the crawlers found,” Dexter said. “The link is about seven levels obfuscated, but it’s there.”

  “Is that the only connection—the divorce solicitor?” I asked.

  “Do you really think we’re that lucky?” Dexter asked, although I knew he wasn’t expecting an answer. “Because of all the ill will, the landlord didn’t let Wyatt know about the sale until it was too late for him to get the upper-hand in the bidding. We only won because Wyatt didn’t have time to secure more funding.”

  “Let me guess—Wyatt went to House Storm for the funding?” I asked.

  “As far as I can tell, yes.”

  Shit. If House Storm had been approached by Wyatt, then someone on their side might decide to dig into who’d actually purchased the building. I didn’t want Oliver’s House looking too closely at my business.

  “Who in House Storm? Oliver or Byron?” I asked.

  Oliver was technically the Head of House Storm, but he couldn’t be bothered, so he let his uncle Byron run the day to day. Byron acted as Head of House, but he was really the Regent. If Byron was Wyatt’s connection to House Storm, then things might be okay.

  “I don’t know yet, but whoever it was tried to tie a trust to the transaction,” Dexter said.

  “Seriously? Then how do you know it’s House Storm?”

  After the Great Cataclysm, which occurred nearly twenty-five years ago, when the entire planet of Aratus went dark, all financial holdings for any Aratus citizen were automatically put into a trust by the Worlds Legal Authority. The trusts were sold to anyone with the means to acquire the debt of maintaining the asset. All assets were then allowed to continue making money. Any profit earned between the initiation of the trust and the final reconciliation, when Aratus rejoined the stream, was owned by the trust holder.

  When Aratus didn’t immediately reconnect, a Twyll Corporation initiative was launched. A deep space vessel known as Foxtrot 14 was sent to discover the fate of the missing planet. It took nearly ten years for the ship to make the journey. The mission didn’t go as planned. Foxtrot 14 was destroyed, killing its entire crew and returning no information as to the fate of Aratus, which was now officially listed as destroyed.

  The failed Foxtrot 14 disaster occurred fifteen
years ago. Since then, all trust assets and debts were settled on the trust owners. After all, debts were forced into arbitration and had to be settled with trust assets first. A few major corporations had made a significant amount of money, House Storm being one, but others were left with nothing but the legal entity of the trust itself.

  The remaining trusts became worthless, until it was discovered that the legal entities could be parties in new financial transactions, which would then take on the rules all trusts were bound by. It created an underworld marketing structure that allowed corporations to hide both money and their identity, making the money within a trust untraceable.

  “I’ll admit,” Dexter said, “I don’t know it’s House Storm because all trust records are sealed. I’m speculating that it’s House Storm.”

  “Again, since it’s a trust, why are you speculating that it’s House Storm?”

  “House Storm’s legal team definitely convinced the wife to put pressure on the landlord, so it seems only logical that the trust activity is tied to them, too.”

  “Perhaps, but you’ll never be able to prove it.”

  “Actually, maybe I can.”

  “How?”

  “I found this by accident. Trust transactions are hidden because no one has to declare who owns the trust, but the other party must declare the transaction,” Dexter said.

  “Correct—Trust Law 101. How is that relevant?”

  “Guess which House has zero trust transactions to declare?”

  Every House did business with trusts, because trusts owned a lot of things.

  “Who?” I asked, although I suspected I already knew the answer.

  “House Storm. I wasn’t even looking for it, but when I started poking around, I discovered that House Storm hasn’t declared a transaction with a trust in almost thirteen years. I think they bought all the trusts.”

  “Every one of them?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  Interesting. But had it been Oliver or Byron driving that decision? Actually, that decision would have been Oliver’s father, who’d controlled House Storm until Oliver forced him into retirement five years ago.