The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4)

by Zachary Rawlins

  This, Renton thought giddily, empowered by purloined nanites, was something he could get used to.

  Renton turned his attention to Lóa, an apparent blur flitting between flying debris as Nero struggled to drive her back. Renton wanted to laugh, knowing that Lóa was actually moving at a perfectly normal rate while everyone else in the room moved in telepathically induced slow motion.

  Renton flexed his augmented protocol, focusing on the psychic tether that connected him – and everyone else – to the Etheric Network, searching for the traffic surge he identified earlier. Across the room, Nero sent a table spinning at Lóa, followed by a hailstorm of broken glass. Renton did not have to watch to know that she was untouched.

  The sensation of his protocol interacting with the feed was equivalent to touching a live wire, and Renton’s mind went very briefly blank with the shock. When he returned to himself, Lóa was a few meters away from Nero, who was desperately retreating with a sliced right arm.

  Renton grounded himself, and then reached again for the feed, armored against the feedback. The sheer amount of data threatened to overwhelm his buffers on contact, but he persevered, taking firm hold of the covert connection that Lóa had established with his mind.

  Renton tested the constrains of his boosted telepathy, and the Network stuttered under the strain.

  He strode across the room, ignoring the slow movements of Nero and the remaining Hegemony soldier. Lóa smiled and raised her knife, moving at a mundane pace. Renton lashed out telepathically, launching a brute force attack against her defenses. It wouldn’t be enough to topple them, but it would serve as a distraction.

  Renton stepped inside and slapped her blade away, amused at the widening of Lóa’s eyes at the relative speed of his movements. Lóa freed her arm and sunk her knife into his chest. Renton shoved the muzzle of the Ruger against her belly and then pulled the trigger three times.

  ***

  “Really? You seem like a nice guy to me.”

  Hayley looked at Xia closely, unable to see anything in the small amount of flesh left exposed between his surgical mask and reflective goggles. He wore an enormous brown coat, entirely out of season and unnecessarily warm, the collar turned up to cover his neck.

  “Are you sure you aren’t being too hard on yourself?”

  After a long delay, Xia gave a minimal shake of his head.

  “If you say so.” Hayley shrugged and munched on a handful of popcorn. “You’re always nice to me, though. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

  Xia continued to stare at the screen, sitting stiff and vertical in the reclining chair, his back hardly touching the seatback. The movie theater was almost empty, and the few patrons who had elected to take in this screening gave them a wide berth. They had four empty rows as a buffer in both directions.

  Vegas was well over a hundred, that afternoon, and the Auditors had three hours before shift. The multiplex seemed a natural refuge.

  The audience was only indirectly aware of the Auditors, as Hayley provided them both a telepathic disguise, but they were aware of the wrongness of the situation, and avoided its locus accordingly. Hayley doubted there would be anyone left in the theater before the movie was finished, assuming the Auditors were kept waiting here that long.

  “Popcorn?”

  She offered the popcorn to Xia, leaning across the empty seat between them. He shook his head emphatically, face twitching beneath the mask.

  “Not even a little? I didn’t get butter.” Hayley held out the popcorn again, and Xia refused just as firmly. She shrugged and popped another piece in her mouth. “Not that it’s really butter. I wanted it anyway, though, even though it’s conceptually gross.”

  Hayley finished her mouthful and then set the bag on the empty seat next to her. She took a waxy paper cup from the cup holder between them, and then sucked noisily on the straw. A bald man with a shining pallet in the front row turned around and glared, but finding no source for the noise, eventually returned to the movie and the bewildering sequence of car accidents depicted therein.

  “I think you should cut yourself some slack, Xia,” Hayley said, toying with her straw and putting her feet up on the seatback in front of her. “We all have jobs to do, right? Maybe some of the things we do as Auditors aren’t very nice – I know I didn’t feel good about that thing in Japan with Ms. Gallow – but I don’t think that makes us bad people. It’s not just you, you know – by that standard, I’m a bad person, as well. Do you think I am a bad person, because of what I’ve done as an Auditor?”

  Xia stared straight ahead, and Hayley discovered that she could watch a mono-colored reflection of the film on his goggles. She was so caught up in this discovery that she almost missed the minimal shake of his head.

  “See? If I’m okay, then you are too, Xia. It’s the same thing.”

  Hayley munched thoughtfully on her popcorn. Eventually, she frowned and then set the bag aside.

  “I don’t know if I agree with guilt by association,” she said, patting her lips with a folded napkin. “Ms. Gallow does scare the shit out of me, though. No offense.”

  Hayley lifted her soda, shook it, then gave it a sad look and set it back down in the cup holder.

  “Maybe if I had known her as long as you have...how long is that, anyway? When did you first meet Ms. Gallow, Xia?”

  Xia stared stoically at the movie, which seemed to be reaching toward some sort of chaotic conclusion.

  “Okay, I get it. None of my business. Still – don’t you ever worry about Ms. Gallow?”

  Xia glanced down briefly.

  “Oh, Xia, that’s so sweet!” Hayley clasped her hands together in front of her chest, fighting the urge to traumatize her fellow Auditor by attempting to hug him. “She’s very lucky to have you to look after her. Maybe one day, when we know each other better, you can tell me why.”

  The final third of the movie featured a great deal of gunfire, an extended car chase, and so many explosions that Hayley lost count. She sighed and stretched as the credit began to roll.

  “Okay.” Hayley glanced at the face of her phone. “We’re on in half an hour. You want to get going?”

  ***

  Nero had done what he could with a first aid kit he found behind the bar, but Renton was bleeding freely from several smaller wounds when he came to, clenching his hand around the gun that fortunately was not still there.

  “Nero,” Renton gasped, using his subordinate’s arm to pull himself into a sitting position. “What happened?”

  “As best as I could see, you turned into a blur, sir. Tangled with the Hegemony woman. There were gunshots, I thought from an automatic. You both fell down. She was squirming, you weren’t moving. I took care of the other one,” Nero said, nodding in the direction of the final Hegemony soldier, pinned against the wall and impaled by four or five long wedges of broken pool table, “and moved to finish Lóa Thule.”

  Renton perked up. Nero pointed at a pile of bloodstain glass with the arm that wasn’t swathed in bandages, in front of an even more bloodstain section of wall.

  “She must have called an apport technician, sir, or had one waiting. I hit ‘em both as hard as possible…”

  “I’m starting to understand why Katya liked you.”

  “Sir.” Not a smile, perhaps, but the predecessor to one. A professional reaction, eliciting Renton’s approval. “The apport tech departed with Lóa Thule not more than ten minutes ago…”

  “Not a problem. We can find them now, Nero. Where is our retrieval?”

  “That’s the thing, sir,” Nero said. Renton realized that the concern on Nero’s face wasn’t for him. “I activated the auto-routine immediately after the Thule personnel cleared the scene.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing, sir. No response, no apport tech.”

  “Help me up, Nero.”

  It took a minute, but Renton had been stabbed before, and fought his way up. Of course, he had never been stabbed this many times, but that w
as irrelevant. The nanite patch was depleted, tossed in the pile with the rest of the bloody rags Nero had used, and Renton’s mind felt scorched, his thoughts muddy and jumbled.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  “Maybe not, Nero.” Renton closed his eyes and tried to force his protocol into operation. “I think we have another problem. There’s something wrong with my protocol, Nero.”

  “I was worried about that, sir.”

  “You were? Why?”

  “This, sir,” Nero said, passing Renton a folded gravity knife. “I found this after the apport. I think Lóa Thule was carrying it.”

  Renton opened the knife and examined the black-treated carbon steel blade. It was as sharp as grief, serrated along the top, and smeared with a great deal of what Renton took to be his blood. Frowning, Renton smeared some of it away to get a better look at the spider webs of black gum adhered to the cutting surface. The gunk was sticky to the touch, with a tar-like consistency and a strong smell of camphor.

  The briefings. Renton poked at his tired mind, trying to prompt the memory. What was it? Telepathy-inhibiting poison, that the Thule Cartel had developed for use in interrogation and detention…

  Renton reached for the Etheric Network, and came up empty. Gut churning, he reached further, for Moscow, for Ana, for Central.

  Nothing.

  Renton’s hands trembled with panic. It was like waking up spontaneously deaf.

  “Oh, fuck me.” Renton slid down the wall into a sitting position. “You were right, Nero. A trap.”

  “Can’t you contact home, sir?”

  “Maybe not by telepathy, but we could get creative…”

  Renton fished in his pants pocket hopefully, and then produced a cracked screen and a broken circuit board instead of a phone.

  “When did she do that? Fucking Lóa. I’m gonna kill that bitch, Nero, swear to God. You still have your phone?”

  Nero shook his head sadly.

  “She must’ve broken it, sir. When she got close.”

  “Fuck! This is absurd. Okay, Nero. Help me back up. We’re getting out of here. There’s gotta be a phone upstairs, or next door…”

  “About that, sir.” Nero crouched beside him, licking his lips nervously. “They must’ve had someone upstairs, sir. The door is sealed, sir, and it’s not budging for me.”

  “This is some shit, Nero. Can’t you use your protocol to knock it down?”

  “I wish, sir. The door itself is fixed in place – I can rattle it, maybe knock it down eventually, but that’ll take time. I’d try and batter it down, but this place…”

  Nero shrugged, while Renton took in the destruction. Nearly everything not nailed down – a great deal of what was – had been uprooted by Nero’s protocol, and then used to batter the Hegemony troops to death. All that remained was broken glass and firewood.

  “They had a pretty good idea of what we would do, didn’t they? That just about does it, then. Up, Nero.”

  “If you don’t mind, sir,” Nero said, gingerly helping Renton rise, “what are we going to do?”

  “I’ll tell you what. You are stuck down here, Nero, and your Mistress needs you.” Renton looked him square in the eyes. “Are you really going to let a fucking door stop you?”

  ***

  Lord North? Might I…?

  Lord North was awake instantly by the house telepath’s intrusion, without a hint of grogginess or reluctance. He rubbed his eyes, sat up in bed, and then began to hunt for his shoes beside the bed.

  Go ahead, he commanded, yawning. What is it?

  We have incoming contact, sir. A weak encrypted signal, encoded for you.

  Analysis?

  Sir. The work of a mid-level telepath operating at extreme distance, possibly using a relay to boost signal.

  Distance is irrelevant. Unless you mean…?

  Yes, sir. Our working assumption is…

  …the Outer Dark, Lord North thought. Put it through.

  The telepath faded away without comment. Lord North went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and had just put toothpaste on the brush when the contact came through. The presence was both familiar and a little surprising.

  Emily Muir, Lord North thought, beginning to brush. It has been some time.

  Lord North, thank you for allowing me the opportunity, Emily thought. Please forgive the unexpected intrusion. I am otherwise occupied and cannot come in person, however, and events threaten to overtake both of us.

  That much is certainly true, Lord North allowed, working forward from the molars. What can I do for you, Miss Muir?

  I think we can do each other a favor, Lord North, Emily Muir explained. You are, I’m sure, familiar with a certain database that the Auditors recently recovered from an Anathema installation? Perhaps you have even heard of an encrypted archive originally belonging to John Parson, currently in the possession of Central?

  I have heard rumor of it, yes.

  And you are surely familiar with the consuming word used to destroy the Hegemony council?

  Lord North spit out his toothpaste prematurely, wincing at the memory.

  All too familiar. Any more familiar, in fact…

  …yes, Lord. Well, what if I were to tell you that among the archive’s contents was that very word? Among a lexicon of similar words?

  You have my attention, Lord North thought, putting saline drops into his eyes. Please procced, Miss Muir.

  What if I could tell you how to procure the archive, Lord North? Could I count on you to retrieve it for yourself?

  Lord North filled the sink with hot water while he considered it.

  You could, Miss Muir. Do you have a location?

  The Academy analysis has reached a technical dead end, Lord North, and accordingly will be delivered to the experts at Processing at nine in the morning tomorrow.

  We’ll see about that, Lord North thought, terminating the conversation. “Won’t we just?”

  His examined his face thoughtfully in the mirror before he began applying shaving cream.

  ***

  The first door took thirty-four minutes, by Renton’s Hermes Cape Cod wristwatch. Nero battered it various ways, but finally found purchase at the armored hinges, prying them apart by sheer telekinetic effort, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.

  The next door was locked and bolted as well. Nero made no complaint, but simply went to work, ignoring the blood that was trickling from his nose. Renton watched the five-pointed crown on Nero’s neck as he worked, skin flushed and shiny with sweat, thinking to himself that Nero had a future in the field, assuming either of them survived the present.

  ***

  Chike waited and wiped sweat from his brow while Karim explored the possibilities through a scope twice as thick as the rifle it was mounted upon, experimenting with positions and angles, adjusting dials on the scope and on the rifle stand. The roof was mercifully level, but was brutally exposed to the Nevada sun and liberally treated with reflective metal tape that created blinding glare to go with the withering heat. It was the second roof they had visited that afternoon, and Chike held little hope that it would be the last.

  Karim settled in a position near the corner of the roof, protected from the glare of the reflected sun off the neighboring hotel tower by a bank of satellite dishes, and started doing calculations on the little pad of paper he carried with him everywhere. Chike crouched in the shadow of an elevator shed and let the heat bleach the thoughts from his tired brain.

  He was startled from a light doze when the link to the Etheric Network he had established lit up like a jackpot on a novelty slot machine, his thoughts crowded with arriving downloads and mission parameters.

  Chike, Karim. I need you to relocate, the Chief Auditor informed them. They’ll have the coordinates for you back at the Far Shores. The precogs have revised the mission area again.

  Of course, Chief, Chike responded wearily, grinning at Karim’s profane frustration as he began the process of packing his gear. What is happening?
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  Everything all at once, Chike. Get moving, okay? Things are about to get ugly.

  ***

  The second door was more resilient, or Nero was losing steam.

  Also, a great deal of blood.

  An hour and eight minutes of effort had yielded nothing but hemorrhaging from the nose, ears, and eyes, briefly rendering Nero unconscious on two occasions. When Renton roused him, Nero’s eyes were clouded with pain – and blood – but he did not complain or protest, turning his attention back to the hinges, and the agonizing task of prizing them apart.

  Renton felt hollow behind his calm exterior, devoured from within by anxiety, his protocol as useless as a severed limb.

  ***

  Alistair lurched into the Anathema command center, the doublewide trailer set near enough to the World Tree that a faint radiance leaked through the windows to compete with the universal blue glow of the monitors within, clothes dripping and torn and blood leaking from his nose.

  “Alistair?” Talia rose from the lead workstation, concern evident on her face. “What happened?”

  “I’m not entirely sure myself,” Alistair said, collapsing into a vacant chair. “Where is Emily Muir?”

  “I haven’t seen her for a while, but I’ll have her located,” Talia said, tapping the commands into the display in front of her. “Were you in a fight? Do you want me to sound an alert across our network? We are still transferring forces here from the Inverted Spire, but the World Tree is partially active, and we have troops ready…”

  Alistair considered it, accepting a tissue from Talia to blot his nose.

  “No,” he decided. “Not yet. Did you locate Emily?”

  Talia glanced up at her display.

  “Not exactly,” Talia said, frowning. “She’s not in the Outer Dark, or the part of it we can scan, anyway.”

  “I didn’t ask you where Emily Muir wasn’t, Talia…”