It was a shard of a Totorkha mandible the neophyte stabbed him with. Taken from a world with active hives if it's new enough to pierce his hide with so little effort. Which means the neophytes treat with the Totorkha. A dangerous choice, associating with a deconstructive race, one that already underwent the Ascendancy's containment process long before Amharr's time.
The criteria for evaluating spaceborne races is simple. If they're collaborative, productive and with a tendency toward self-sufficiency, they are deemed constructive, and are integrated into the Ascendancy's multispecies society and assigned a Dominant—a High Emranti, or a member of another superior race. If, however, they are un-collaborative, destructive and with a tendency toward parasitism of other sentients, they are deemed deconstructive and are contained—decimated and isolated to their system of origin, their technological capabilities reduced to pre-spaceflight and their development closely monitored thereafter.
The Totorkha are one of the oldest deconstructive races in the Grand Helix, and among the deadliest. This complicates Amharr's assessment, presenting a serious problem if the neophytes collaborate with the Totorkha. But more immediate concerns come first: the Kolsamal.
Amharr summons Gra'Ylgam through the vessel's Onrysses.
While he waits, he wonders if the neophyte sustained serious damage, if its neutral integrity is maintained after the link. He feels himself drifting into its mind as soon as he thinks of it, and must force himself to stop. Luckily, he doesn't have to wait long for the Kolsamal elder.
Amharr assumes a conversational posture as the crux wall opens and Gra'Ylgam steps through. The Kolsamal doesn't miss the gesture. Amharr's hands are visibly relaxed against the front of his robe, and his two powerful hind legs bent back up against his back, weight resting equally on both longer hind and shorter fore legs—leaving him standing lower than the Kolsamal.
Gra'Ylgam responds with the customary retraction for a Kolsamal. The capillary autotrophs retreat from his face, the ones covering his body remaining unchanged. His bare skin is exposed, filamentary nervures and pores forming a spongy, vulnerable surface. What was originally a gesture of resignation among the Kolsamal has become a display of readiness for open conversation with an Emranti.
But as things now stand the gesture makes Amharr uncomfortable. He beckons the Kolsamal to approach. "Speak of the neophyte," he demands in the Kolsamal tongue.
"She has been confined and is convalescing," Gra'Ylgam replies. "She is passive and cooperative, physically unharmed beyond superficial damage."
"Any demands?"
"None, Dominant. I do not think she is aware of her new position."
"But you are." Amharr scrutinizes the Kolsamal's face. "Do you intend to make any demands?"
"No."
Amharr pauses. Considers. But nothing in the elder's demeanor betrays mischief. Amharr is increasingly disquieted by the discrepancy between his expectations of these interactions and the reality of them. Anxiety almost paralyzes him. Gra'Ylgam's bioluminescent eyes flicker for an instant.
Amharr shudders, releasing some of the tension into the greedy floor. "I will ask you again: Do you intend to use this knowledge to your advantage, Siaaw?"
But the derogatory slave-name for the Kolsamal doesn't provoke Gra'Ylgam the way Amharr was hoping it would. "I will not divulge it," Gra'Ylgam says. "This matter is personal to you. I have no say in it."
"You choose not to exploit it?" Amharr asks, taken aback.
"When we were contained by the Ascendancy, our elders pledged to serve our Dominants. In exchange for assurances of... continuity. It is not my place to break the contract of my ancestors. However much circumstance might tempt me. I value your life above my own, just like any Kolsamal elder must value his Dominant before himself."
"Loyalty, then," Amharr scoffs.
"Tradition," Gra'Ylgam replies. "I also treasure your rule of my caste aboard this vessel. You are just and consistent, and we move freely aboard the Undawan. More than we are entitled to. I see no reason to upset this state of mutually beneficial stability."
Amharr allows himself to relax. "You will not speak of this to anyone?"
"You have my word."
Amharr lets out a deep breath, and advances toward the Kolsamal, studying his exposed face. Gra'Ylgam doesn't move, ready to face the inquiry with dignity.
Amharr stops an arm's length before him. He can be sure of the elder's intentions with a single touch. But the awareness of his own deplorable state is still painful. He refrains from the inquiry and makes do with observation instead. Amharr inspects the Kolsamal through multiple radiation spectra, inhales his salty scent, separates every trace of substance and classifies its composition. He forms a mental copy of Gra'Ylgam's physical image and compares it with those he has made prior. There are no discrepancies.
With a minimal sense of relief, Amharr dismisses the Kolsamal.
One threat postponed. He can count on the other Kolsamal's submission as long as they remain unaware of the truth. He trusts Gra'Ylgam to keep his secret. For now.
His Emranti partner Kriahm however, in command of the sister vessel Kaluvian that's currently two kilo-pulses away, is a more likely threat. Kriahm is Amharr's equal in rank, Quick to challenge, and close. He will not hesitate to act against Amharr, should he discover the truth. He will need to be dealt with. Soon.
But first, the neophyte. Amharr must understand it, and what has happened between them. Not knowing gnaws at him unbearably.
-
By the time Amharr reaches the neophyte's detention cell, his body is sizzling with tension again, the neophyte's draw on him stronger the more he approaches. He stops before the cell and attempts to calm himself, but his growing anticipation is impossible to withstand.
The wall opens and he steps through carefully, hit with a wave of new information.
Cowered against the opposite wall, the neophyte stares at him with bewilderment. It makes small, useless movements in an attempt to protect itself, but is otherwise silent and submissive, stripped of clothing and tools. It is still unpredictable. Amharr is far from understanding it, or the chaos of its thoughts and memories that poured into his mind.
As he advances, the neophyte cradles itself, drawing quick, shallow breaths. It releases a foul smelling liquid—a mixture of water, chloride, and ammonia—that is slowly absorbed into the floor.
The avalanche of smells assaults Amharr's senses. He must understand the creature, before he does anything rash. He must find out what knowledge it gained from their exchange, and what it intends to do. Hopefully Gra'Ylgam was right, and the creature is oblivious to what has transpired. But he can't take that chance.
"Speak of your purpose here," Amharr orders in the neophyte's language, sampled and easily assimilated during his initial observations of its race.
The neophyte presses its hands against the sides of its head, and rocks back and forth without response. Does it understand him? It must. Gra'Ylgam assured him the insertion of klaar particles into the creature's brain was successful—the particles designed to adapt to the frequency of his voice, bridging any lack of similitude between their speech patterns. The neophyte must understand him.
"If your intention was to speak for your race," Amharr says scornfully, "you have failed."
The creature stirs again and opens its mouth, but says nothing.
"You have ignored the demand to stay away from this vessel." He steps forth. "Now you refuse to answer me. Why?"
Still no reply. Stubborn creature.
Amharr trembles from head to toe, the muscles in his hind legs burning with energy. He can barely keep from lunging forward to snap the creature's neck.
"Reply at once!" he booms.
The creature flinches, and something in its facial expression changes. Amharr can't interpret it. And the other means of knowing is out of the question.
The neophyte draws a hasty breath. "I wanted to... we were..." It whimpers, and rubs its face with shaking hands. "We cam
e to meet you, to become... friends... to see..."
"Friends?"
The creature's shoulders twitch. Amharr waits for a reply, but there is none. Apparently that gesture is the reply.
"Speak of what you intend to do now."
"You're the first technological... the first advanced species we've met," the neophyte says meekly. "You're important to us, to our future. We had to get to you before they did. We needed... I needed—I had to make contact before they found you, and explain—"
"They?"
The creature narrows its eyes. "The TMC."
Amharr waits again, but the neophyte just stares at him.
"Explain," he orders.
The tingle in his nerves is unbearable again. The novelty of the neophyte's presence is more tantalizing than expected, and given his current state, almost overwhelming.
"The TMC," the neophyte repeats. "The Trust Military Corps, the organization that governs most of our colonies, smothers them, exploits them. They're ruthless murderers."
Amharr curls his fingers into fists inside his robe. "What race are these TMC?"
The neophyte stares at him for a moment. "They're human. We all are."
"A self-preying race," Amharr concludes.
The neophyte's eyes widen. "What? No, that's not—I didn't mean that we're all like that—we're good people! Mostly." The creature winces.
Amharr's inability to understand its body language infuriates him. "Speak of what you have come to know about me," he thunders. "What have you seen? Do you even understand what has happened?"
The neophyte startles and stares at him with bloodshot eyes.
"No," he says dejectedly. "Of course you don't."
"Please. All I want is—"
"Enough." He turns his back on the creature, exhausted and confused by its responses. "This is pointless."
"No!" It yells. "Wait!" And grasps at him.
Amharr wheels on it, furious at the offense. The creature retreats, mouth moving but not speaking.
He should leave immediately, order the creature's removal from his vessel, and expedite the assessment of its race so he can move on to other duties. So he can be done with this. But the urge to reconnect with the creature will not be denied. He must sort out the mess in his mind, make sense of what has happened—make sense of it—before he can even think of moving on.
He charges for the creature and lifts it off the floor by its head. He inhales its scent, senses its pulse against his hands. His entire body quakes. His self-control fails utterly, and he thrusts his tendrils into the creature's nervous system—relieves himself of the unbearable neural tension that has been building since their last connection.
5
Bray doesn't go around affronting aliens on a whim, so when they eventually eject the Transiter with him and Jade aboard, he doesn't ask questions. Just hightails it out of there, not even wasting time persuading Jade, who'd rather stay and demand explanations about Taryn's disappearance. Instead, Bray overrides Jade's controls and flies the Transiter back to Spiron station as if Death itself were at their heels. As far as Bray's concerned, that idiot girl deserves whatever happens to her.
FTL fugue is always hard on Bray, despite how many times he's been through it.
It's different for everyone. Depends on how many screws they've got loose on a good day. And how well they handle disorientation and temporary identity loss. Not many people do it more than once in a lifetime. Even with an upgraded synet, it's difficult to cope with the repeated trauma. But fugue's a necessary evil in space-travel, so Bray doesn't complain. Better than growing old and senile in some backwater prison.
Though he's sure something gets loose in his head every time he drops out of FTL. Like bearings rolling around in a rattling box; repetitive clinks and tings tumbling inside his head, making him rabid.
He eventually stops pounding his head against the wall of the Transiter. He presses his fists into his eyes, his head spinning from the self-inflicted concussion. A trickle of blood runs down his forehead. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.
When his vision clears, he looks around for Jade. He finds him lying on the floor between the chairs, shirt ripped open and stomach scratched and pinched, checkered with self-inflicted hematomas.
Bray combs his fingers through sweaty hair, and slumps back into his chair. He connects his nacom to the board computer and pushes the tip of his boot into Jade's shoulder.
Jade moans, slow to sit up. "So, tell me..." He licks his cracked lips. "Figured out what you're gonna tell Preston? How you're gonna justify leaving her behind?"
Bray doesn't answer. He tries to connect to Cynthia, but the AI remains silent, as it has since their capture. Worse, the Transiter didn't record a single byte of data while in the alien ship. After the aliens released them, it took hours for the ship to come online again, and most of its systems were fried or malfunctioned severely. No long-range sensors, all the probes' hardware wiped clean, and even internal diagnostics disabled and flushed, making any trace of collected data impossible to retrieve. Only life-support and basic navigation worked. A pretty clear 'get lost and don't look back.' Going FTL with nothing but basic computing power has taken its toll on Bray, and he's in no mood to talk.
"Plug in," he tells Jade tersely. "Might have to dock this damn thing manually once we hit Spiron."
Jade glares at him, unhappy about the dodge, but slides into his own chair and connects his nacom to the computer anyway. "Fuck," he says after a bit. "We're too far out. Gotta go it on thrust. Take us ten hours, at least."
"Great."
"Hey, at least we got this far. Can't say the same for all of us," he adds quietly.
"Just get on with it."
The Transiter crawls along on sputtering plasma thrusters, steered by three photonic flaps. Seven hours into the mind-numbing flight, Bray's foot tapping and sigh throttling no longer suffice to vent his anxiety.
"Several things—" he says curtly. "There were several things we could've done to get something out of this mission, if that bitch hadn't messed with the goddamn AI."
Jade wipes the fatigue from his face. "Like what? Deploy the probes into the star's corona?"
"Maybe, I dunno," Bray retorts. "At least we'd still be out there, having a chance. All of us."
Jade snorts. "As if you care."
"I do." Bray leans forward, hunting Jade's gaze. "I wasn't happy Preston brought in a rogue for such an important mission. But that doesn't make me homicidal, alright?"
"Whatever."
Bray starts fidgeting again, his thoughts tightening into knots. Nothing he can do about it now, anyway. Might as well deal with it. He tries to plot out the imminent debriefing, rehearsing his explanations, but he still can't figure out a satisfying version. At least none that would make him look good.
"Entering rendezvous vector," Jade says. "Prepare for docking."
Bray draws up a visual of Spiron on the inside of his chair's field, and watches it grow bigger on approach.
Spiron looks like something ripped out of a real station already long past its prime: a century old, it's made of brittle and decaying hull plates, rusty along their seams from leaking oxygen. Dented satellite dishes, unlit docking platforms, and solar webs cast out like storm-shredded sails, all show the makeshift station's age.
Jade maneuvers the Transiter carefully between treacherous protuberances and ridges, maneuvering toward a dock. Bray's heartbeat quickens.
The Transiter's magnetic clamps attach to the docking platform's buffers, and the flying egg jerks to a halt. An evac tube attaches to the hatch with a dull thunk.
Bray and Jade crawl into the tube on all fours and drop out in the station's decontamination chamber. Powerful sterilizer sprays blow against them under ultraviolet light. Then the thick door rotates open and they're greeted by a suited medical team—two men and a medroid. The med team scans them top to bottom, takes blood and hair samples, and runs numerous scans. All while Bray and Jade try in vain to
talk the med team out of their paranoia:
"I tell you, their ship was as sterile as a surgery bay," Jade says to one of the MDs. "And the aliens didn't probe us or anything. Well... not me at least."
Both MDs look to Bray, who glares at Jade.
When the med team's satisfied with the screening results, they lead them into the station proper. The entire core team is there to receive them, Preston at the head of the welcoming committee. The doc wears his typical frown, trim white beard and hightech glasses underscoring his carefully cultivated authority. Bray's face prickles as he imagines the scanners in Preston's glasses sweep over his face. But the others ask their questions first, talking over each other.
Viktor pats him heavily on the shoulder with motor-oil stained hands. "Glad to have you back in one piece, man." The mechanic's baritone carries the scent of stale tobacco.
Franky bites his lip, blushes anxiously, and steps closer. "Why you guys back so early?"
Other station hands approach too, names and faces he can't recall, all talking to each other and at him and Jade.
Preston's raspy voice carries over the others. "What happened out there? Where is Miss Harber?"
"The aliens are hostile," Bray says in a rush, and tries to slip past them all. Preston stops him, grabs his arm and hauls Bray past the now agitated crowd. Jade follows in their wake, shoulders caved in under the barrage of shouted questions. Preston all but shoves Bray into the station's briefing room, and demands he sit as Bray opens his mouth to protest.
Bray clamps his jaw and grabs a chair. He rubs his sweaty hands against his knees while Preston coms his AI specialist Amelia and sensor specialist Denise to retrieve the Transiter's data. Jade pulls up his own chair, and sits with a sigh. Then Preston lays into Bray.
"Start talking."
Bray takes a deep breath and tells Preston everything: How Taryn hacked the AI and crashed the Transiter into the alien ship, how all their sensors were fried, how they were separated and locked up for a couple of hours, then expelled without further explanation. How Taryn stayed, or was kept, behind. No way of telling. And no chance to bring her back.
The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) Page 3