The Glitch Saga- The Complete Collection

by Stephanie Flint

  Master Zaytsev— I flinch as the Manticore’s voice cuts in. She is right. The Legion Spores are merely vessels. We are legion.

  “Are you all right, Master Zaytsev?” Stuart stands above me, one eyebrow raised with concern.

  “I thought I heard something,” I say. If he or the commander can read my mind and hear the vessel, I may have a chance. He has that same distant look Agent Ashby had when the Manticore tried speaking to me during my evaluation.

  “I do not hear anything out of the usual,” Stuart says. “However, your thoughts were erratic prior to my question.”

  My hopes fade. He’s just sensing my anxiety the same way Agent Ashby had.

  Then again, she guessed correctly before she shot herself.

  I flinch. The vessel would be ecstatic if the same were to happen to any of the council members or their telepathic protectors.

  Stuart turns to the commander. “If I may have your pardon for my interruption, I would like to suggest that we speak with Benjamin about the matter.” He again examines me. “Never before have we had a techno sight user among the foremost Camaraderie. The pendants are known for their unusual effects on their targets. Perhaps Master Zaytsev’s proximity to the creation of the Manticore has linked him to the vessel in ways we did not foresee.”

  Commander Rick strokes his mustache contemplatively. “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps his powers are interacting with the Manticore’s programming and creating a glitch of their own.”

  Lady Black props herself up and retrieves her glass. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Master Zaytsev hasn’t reported any glitches since yesterday morning.”

  “Master Zaytsev adamantly claims there is a problem with the Manticore’s core programming.” Stuart sits his serving tray on the nearby end table, and then clasps his wrinkled hands before him. I jolt forward. I never said the problem directly—but he knows. “Neither can he explain the issue, nor has the vessel shown any outward sign of trouble.” Outward. I hold my breath. “Theoretically, his own powers may be creating his anxiety and making him sense trouble where there is none. Or, perhaps, his powers are acting as insight would—recognizing deeper, unseen trouble.”

  Or maybe that cursed vessel is trying to drive me mad.

  Time, Master Zaytsev, Stuart tells me. Consider the painting. Lord Black did not reveal his true power until he had already removed a majority of the dissenters. Should your accusations be correct, this ‘legion’ will likely follow a similar path.

  I gape at the servant, but he’s already moved on to suggesting that I should have a few more days to work out the kinks before spending resources to gather the necessary elementals for a third airship. Perhaps, he notes, I should even spend some time away from the project and accumulate fresh ideas. As it stands, the Manticore will need to be moved from the hangar before the next project can start, and my presence is not required for that task.

  I sag against Val’s arms. Stuart must have seen something. He must have. And he made it sound so natural…

  “Thank you, Stuart. Your logic makes sense.” Commander Rick smiles at me. “Keep up the good work, m’boy. We’ll have that third one built yet.”

  Giddiness spreads through me. I have another day to work, and I’m not going to waste it. The first Legion Spore’s mental blocks won’t last forever. My airship troubles aren’t a power conflict, like Stuart suggested, but why let on that you know more than you have to?

  Whatever you’re scheming, Master Zaytsev, is not going to work, the Manticore growls.

  I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Really? Then why can’t we read the thoughts of anyone in that room but yours?

  I grin. The first Legion Spore is doing a better job than I thought.

  An hour later, I hack the infirmary’s keypad, wedge a small block between the door and its frame to prevent it from closing, and then I shut down the main camera with a pre-programmed sequence. An emergency light shines in the corner, spilling harsh shadows across the counter with the box of shields. Technically, all the lights should come on when I enter the room, but I’ve cut their power. I slip inside and grab the box.

  The binary world silences around me.

  I swallow hard, disoriented. My tablet beeps, but I’ve put a piece of tape over the camera and speakers so nothing can be recorded. Now I just need liquid adominogen and a delivery system. The syringes are in the third drawer from the wall, ones with thick needles capable of breaking through the Manticore’s muscle. I fill the syringes before pocketing the bottle of remaining liquid. Then I prop the box of shields between me and the counter. I spent enough time with the rebels to learn how to pick locks, and the instruction pays off. The lid swings open, revealing dozens of tiny shields no bigger than the width of my pinky. I keep one hand on the box, making sure I stay shielded from powers while I remove a piece of thick square wool from my other pocket.

  The shields, when inserted surgically, are just strong enough to block an individual’s powers. So long as they don’t make skin contact, the shields can’t block anyone else.

  I wrap two of the devices in wool, and then slide them into my pocket. The last one I hold in my hand. I rip off a piece of cloth tape and fasten the shield into the sticky side. Careful not to touch the chain of my emerald pendant—Benjamin would be less than thrilled if I accidentally knocked him out—I unzip the neckline of my uniform and place the shield against my skin, just below my collarbone. I carefully zip the collar so it doesn’t catch the tape.

  The box clicks shut and locks upon closure. I grab the door handle, yank it open, and thrust myself through. The door slams behind me. The wedge skitters across the floor. My heart pounds as I stride down the hall to the elevator, setting the next program on my tablet. I hook the tablet to the keypad and open the door.

  The elevator descends. I rock on my heels. My success hinges on accurately guessing how the Manticore might try to stop me.

  The elevator dings and rumbles open to the final floor. I bolt for the hangar. I created a temporary lock on the life support systems in the area, but the heater hums too softly to be running at anything other than minimum capacity.

  Another hack, and I skirt through the next two doors.

  A red beam of light flashes beside me. My heart jumps to the back of my mouth. Heat scorches the wall. Multiple eyes form along the Manticore’s hull, pulsing with crimson energy. I duck behind the command console near the doors and plug my tablet into the mainframe port.

  Ten percent downloaded.

  Thirty percent.

  Once the download is complete, the program will launch.

  I spare a glance around the console. Hundreds of little eyes concentrate in a bull’s-eye pattern at the front of the hull.

  I rattle the tablet. “Come on—”

  I don’t want to be turned into a pile of ash.

  Eighty-nine percent.

  Ninety-five.

  The tablet chimes.

  Download complete. Program launched.

  The multitude of eyes blink in unfocused discord as the vessel is inundated with program after program accessing its powers and calculations. After yesterday’s success with overloading the five-second delay, I found an old trick hackers used to call “denial-of-service.”

  With the Manticore distracted, I dash for the vessel and yank gloves over my hands. The moment I tug one of the dangling tentacles, a pre-programmed ramp from my virus extends from an opening in the outer hull. It’s steeper than normal, but leads me directly to the command center. I duck my head, careful not to touch anything with my bare skin.

  The Manticore is too busy dealing with the flood of calculations to notice me.

  I uncap the syringe, and then kneel beside one of the hub columns. A drop of liquid falls from the needle tip. It lands below the metal grate and dissolves the flesh underneath. I jab the needle into the wall and force my thumb against the plunger. The muscle tissue around the needle drips away, then spreads into a g
aping hole. I contort my body, stepping inside without touching anything directly, but the steel is warm through my uniform where I lean against the grid.

  I remove the package of shields and check that the wool is secure, and then I tuck the package into the corner behind the nearest beast. The shields should go unnoticed.

  A slimy squelch alerts me to the muscle reforming behind me. The ship is starting to recuperate. I spring through the hole. My shoulder slams into the far wall as the column shuts tight.

  I breathe deep despite the musty, coppery smell, and push myself to my feet.

  Next stop, the fuel tanks. My hands twitch as I clamber up the ladder, careful not to hit my head. The goal isn’t to destroy the ship, simply give my tablet time to reinstate the corrected operating system. Commander Rick is right. We can protect the Community by eliminating the rebels—but that only works if this thing is on our side. If I can get the non-hostile system running, I’ll have time to speak directly to the Camaraderie and show them what’s really going on.

  Still, in case this plan fails, I placed the shield in the hub column as backup. The Manticore won’t be able to teleport or portal out as long as that shield is in place.

  I uncap the second syringe once I’m beside the water tank. I lift the needle to the exposed, organic tubing. Either the liquid will dilute and spread, weakening the systems, or it’ll destroy the tank here. I check that the door is still open, and then plunge the needle deep.

  Scalding water sprays from the tank and I leap away before it hits me. Water floods the room. As I turn to leave, the tube disintegrates. The nearby wall bubbles and sags in a mess of muscle and flesh.

  I flee down the corridor. Water ripples across the floor, sizzling at contact, and then drains down the ladder onto the floor below. The hull shudders. There’s no way to escape from here, but the water slows to a trickle, and all that’s left is a bright red crevasse where the shapeshifters can’t properly form.

  I let out my breath. Minutes pass as the skin heals. Once the ladder is fully secure, I make my way into the command room, hoping my program has had enough time to take root. I tap the keys on the command console and bring the code on screen.

  The tag I left in the new operating system sits beneath the sixth protocol, the seventh one gratefully missing. Maybe I won’t need those shields after all.

  “Manticore, status report.”

  There’s no response, but the computer shows that the intelligence matrix is active. I clutch the light bulb charm in my palm.

  “Manticore, please respond.”

  The screen shifts.

  We are unable to connect telepathically at this time. Please review for potential glitches.

  My heart tugs at my chest, relieved. The AI is the same as a plain, cold hub. No pilot program. No personality. No self-destruct protocol. “Will do. Please open a door for me to leave.”

  The hull parts. I trot down the ramp, go to the console, and remove my tablet. I’ll give it half an hour. If everything is still clear, I’ll remove the shield I’m wearing and scan the vessel with techno sight.

  I scroll through my tablet. Everything’s in place: my fail-safes, the additional code to prevent the five-second delay, and my protection against the seventh protocol.

  I breathe deep, taking in the moment. The heater creates a soft whoosh in the air as the Manticore drifts above the floor.

  Thirty minutes pass, and still no sign of interruption.

  I unzip my uniform, wincing as the tape clings to my skin and stings when I yank it off, and then I set the shield on the computer console.

  My tablet beeps.

  Master Zaytsev?

  My skin prickles as the red-rimmed eyes reappear on the vessel’s hull. My jaw drops. I turn to run but slam face-first into a telekinetic wall.

  We will report your death to the commander as the death of a traitor. Fortunately, we won’t need to lie about your attempted sabotage.

  I sense the trap now—a deep-rooted command I couldn’t find without my powers. The Manticore programmed itself to revert upon sensing my presence, and it accurately guessed which systems I would try to change.

  I place my hands against the telekinetic wall, then lunge backward, reaching for the shield on the console. My fingers touch the smooth ceramic piece. I crash to the floor, shield in hand. The crimson eyes of the Manticore glow brighter, flickering as their power intensifies. The computer beeps a series of alarms as the intelligence matrix restores the previous version. The one before my “sabotage.” I blink, still in shock from the sharp loss of my powers. But I’m shielded, so the Manticore can’t control me. I duck behind the console. It’s meager protection at best. Once the vessel’s laser eyes are fully powered up, I don’t stand a chance of survival.

  “I thought you wanted revenge,” I shout, crouching with the shield in one hand while I seek out the virus program on my tablet with my other hand. I tell the program to install a second time.

  “Yes. But revenge is better when we aren’t dead, Master Zaytsev. So we shall kill you now.” The Manticore speaks aloud through all its voices, unable to reach me through telepathy or affect my tablet while I’m holding the shield. But if the vessel wants me dead, it still thinks I’m a threat. I have no reason to give up now. A deep red haze fills the room, casting shadows along the console.

  Fifteen percent downloaded.

  “We will kill your lover the same way we killed the beast. Slowly. Painfully…”

  “Val’s not here,” I snap. My arms quiver. “You can’t kill her without the Camaraderie questioning her death.”

  The force of its laughter is enough to leave me breathless.

  Forty-seven percent complete.

  “We can if they think she took part in your sabotage. Shall we drain her life? Destroy her like we did your beastie plaything? Or shall we save her for last? If you refuse to take her place, you will listen to her screams as she’s torn limb from limb. She shall, of course, retain perfect consciousness.”

  “You want revenge. I get that.” I narrow my eyes, fuming, but I know the ship is trying to distract me long enough for its laser eyes to power up. Eighty-nine percent complete… “Leave Val alone. You want to blame someone for your creation? Talk to the commander. I was against this. I’ve been against this since I found out about the first one.”

  The red haze grows brighter. I’m not sure how much time I have left.

  Ninety-four percent…

  “How much torture are you willing to endure to ensure Lady Salazar remains unharmed, and your child left intact? Come on board, Master Zaytsev, and we won’t hurt her.”

  Ninety-eight percent…

  Why in the Community does it always take longer for the download to complete at the end of the process?

  I chance a look around the podium. A tentacle extends several meters away from the console and drops a square wool cloth on the ground. I gape at it. “How—”

  “We used air and water powers to scan the ship and make note of the moisture we could not sense. Because you left the shields wrapped, we were able to easily remove them. Thank you for making our job easier.” The Manticore chuckles, its laughter echoing in the large, metal hangar. “Now die.” The room brightens with crimson light and the air burns with a crackling, burning energy.

  My tablet chimes and a message pops up on the screen.

  Download complete.

  The prompt asks if I want to launch the program. I jab my finger on the button, unleashing a second denial-of-service attack. The crimson glow cuts away as the Manticore is caught in a bombardment of lengthy protocols.

  Trying to restore the Manticore’s core program without also reinstalling the pilot program isn’t going to work. Not on such short notice. And I can’t get back inside or risk going near the Manticore without chancing the vessel trying to kill me the moment it breaks free. If I tried touching it now, while I’m shielded, I might be able to destroy it outright, but I’m not sure how powerful this shield is. Blocking on
e or two people is one thing, but blocking a whole ship? I might end up taking out the system that’s currently keeping me alive.

  I huddle behind the console and use my tablet to dig deep into the Manticore’s intelligence matrix, down to the fundamentals of the original tech program used to merge the components. I scan through the files, looking for the basic input/output system. I can’t completely shut down the system or the individual components will die. But if I change the boot order and remove one of the commands that loads the intelligence matrix, then the vessel shouldn’t be able to function properly when it resets itself after my denial-of-service attack. The powers matrix should keep it alive on a basic level, even though the rest of its systems will suffer a hard crash.

  While I’m at it, I install a pre-written program to make Val and me invisible to its AI. Even if the Manticore can sense us, it won’t be able to “read” us. It will run into an error if it tries to cause us harm. My biggest concern, though, is that the Manticore’s programming and its personality are near separate entities—it’s as if the vessel is the body, and the AI is a soul of its own. But it should take the ship a while to repair itself enough to override my changes and reset everything to default—especially when one of my changes was to make my updates the default setting. If it tries to reset itself without accounting for my updates, it’ll have to start all over again.

  I type a message into my tablet: Prepare escape. That will go to Val via the first Legion Spore while it protects her. Now I just have to live long enough that I can escape with her. Once we’re both safely out of the Manticore’s reach, I’ll try to contact Commander Rick. Hopefully the vessel will still be dealing with the effects of the crash, so I can get through to him.

  With the tablet blocked from the Manticore’s prying mind, I write a command that I can upload to the base’s hub. I send it wirelessly. The moment I drop my shield, the hub will open a portal to the first Legion Spore, wipe the hub’s memory of the action, and it will have no record of how I escaped, or where.