The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1)

by Sicoe, Veronica

  The female snorts, and Kriahm looks away from her drooling slit-mouth. The two Ilkryp groveling on the floor, petting each other's sloughs and spit-holes with their bacteria-infested tentacles aren't a pleasant sight either. Kriahm fantasizes about his hand punching into the Kolsamal's chest to rip her spine out and whip the Ilkryp to shreds with it.

  The ferry stops, and a dull siren fills the small room. A heat wave runs through Kriahm's already tense spine. He storms out of the ferry, pushes through the crowd waiting in the stuffy corridor, and heads for the dispatch center on foot.

  For a long portion of his way, Kriahm is quietly followed by a Yantulin female, soaring a few steps behind him. He turns and looks at her on several occasions. She pretends to be unaware of him and continues her path at a painfully constant distance. Having to stop and wait for a group to cross a junction, Kriahm decides to switch things around. He changes direction and heads into an adjacent corridor leading off his actual trajectory. He repeats the maneuver several more times, until he finds himself enough removed from the mass of passengers to ignore his manners and address her.

  "Are you following me on purpose?" he asks, turning abruptly to face her.

  The Yantulin ruffles up in a soundless movement, shielding her transparent skin with a hazy white cloud of filigree feathers. She opens all four of her startlingly bright fuchsia eyes and stares back at him. "I have not had the pleasure to be in the presence of an Emranti in a long time," she says. Her voice is a symphony of chimes and echoes, covering almost the entire frequency spectrum.

  Yantulins are notorious for the hypnotizing effects their voices have on most species. Though Kriahm is not remotely concerned he could fall prey to her talents. She might be able to manipulate most anyone with the subliminal vibrations accompanying her words, but not him.

  "And what do you expect from my presence?" he asks, taking an almost invisible step toward her.

  "My expectations have been exceeded already," she sings softly. "I have been immediately drawn to you ever since our paths converged. All I dream of now is to be of service to you. What brings you here, Piercer of Minds?"

  "An urgent and important matter," Kriahm says, taking another small step, his eyes never leaving hers. "And you?"

  "Oh, my purpose is unworthy of your attention." Her down-covered body sways as smoothly as the unfurling of a cloud with every breath she takes. "Please, tell me about your purpose. I wish to serve. There are not many whose interests and concerns have the weight of yours."

  "How would you know?"

  The Yantulin bows her pretty head, sending her almost weightless mane waving through the air. "No active Dominant has ventured into Enryasse without need before. The Ilkryp's handiwork is unworthy of your refined race."

  "An accurate observation," Kriahm says, stopping right before her.

  "I would be honored to help you, if you need the talents I can offer." The Yantulin's unblinking eyes glow with interest. As she observes him closely, a barely audible murmur escapes her delicate beak and resonates against Kriahm's overexcited skin.

  "Why offer me your service?"

  "I sense greatness in your presence," she says, her voice increasingly softer. "How could I but oblige myself to you?"

  Kriahm bends his head toward her, his gaze dancing along with her tantalizing sway, his skin absorbing every bit of her presence with exhilarating acuteness.

  The Yantulin quivers with excitement, her feathers settling softly against her translucent skin one by one, revealing her bioluminescent insides in a fascinating display of colors.

  "My Lord," she whispers in a hundred voices. "Tell me what you desire... Oh... tell me..."

  Kriahm lifts his hand and reaches for her delicate features, both their ambi-platform fields increasing their permeation to facilitate contact. He draws the contour of her face in the air, making her follow his movement with passionate attention. The Yantulin almost breaks into a song of fascination, surrendering herself to his closeness.

  Kriahm twitches. With a swift, precise movement he grabs her fragile neck and squeezes.

  The Yantulin starts to squirm. Her six thin limbs explode from their unsuspected caches and flail outward in a desperate attempt to free herself. But there is nothing she can do.

  Kriahm's tendrils invade her skull, making her coil and bend under the pain. With a single unhampered burst, he fires up all the neurons in her small brain, watching their discharges flicker and throb like an intricate thunderstorm.

  The Yantulin seems to be genuinely curious about him, yet not without her own agenda. She's an independent contractor, usually employed to investigate inter-species matters before they have a chance to degenerate into conflicts. Sometimes she mitigates, other times she robs her contractor of goods and benefits without fulfilling her duty. She has no allegiance to anyone, and doesn't seem to respect others' allegiances either. She has approached Kriahm on her current employment, to find out where his vessel picked up the parasitic organisms on its hull, and what his intentions with them are.

  Kriahm tightens his grip, digging deeper into the patterns of the Yantulin's overwhelmed brain. She's known about him only since he's entered Enryasse, and doesn't know who commissioned her services. It was a secure, anonymous contact—a clever precaution against unwanted scrutiny. Her employer seems to have experience with Emranti.

  The Yantulin female stares at him with pleading eyes, shuddering in his grip like a mess of feathers fluttering in the wind.

  Kriahm exhales, agitating the fluff on her face, and lets go. She falls to the ground with a muffled squawk. Unable to control herself, she sprawls her limbs on the floor and gropes for something to hold on to.

  "Master," she screeches, an oily substance oozing from her beak.

  Kriahm steps back from the squirming creature, glaring at her with contempt. Then he turns and resumes his course.

  -

  The entrance into the dispatch center is clogged by a large number of creatures loudly complaining about their problems. As Kriahm tries to make his way toward the entrance, a bloated and partially discolored Ilkryp stops him with a slight nudge from a tentacle.

  Kriahm steps back out of its reach and balls his fists. "I need to speak to the lead technician about my damaged vessel, the Kaluvian."

  "On what grounds?" The creature makes a brief slurping sound, sending vibrations down its tentacles. It secretes various foul-smelling fluids and vapors through the five spit-holes visible on what it calls a face.

  "I have declared a state of emergency," he says. "My vessel has been infected with an unclassified parasitic organism. A neophyte species currently under assessment has unfortunately also come into possession of it. I need a fully functional containment vessel to return to my duty immediately."

  "Who authorized the exchange?"

  Kriahm hesitates, unwilling to employ Amharr's status as his tutor, especially since higher powers would immediately know Amharr couldn't have ordered Kriahm to be granted a containment vessel of his own. "This is an emergency," Kriahm repeats. "The exchange has not yet been parsed through the official channels, but that can be done after I leave. There is no doubt an approval will be given by the Ascendancy Council, once the full account of my matter reaches them."

  "Without authorization, there is no exchange."

  Kriahm bows down and grabs a hand-full of the Ilkryp's tentacles, pulls them aside, and stares into the hundreds of black pinpoints between them which serve as visual organs.

  "I do not care about your protocols, worm." He prevents the Ilkryp from squirming its tentacles out of his grip. "You have two options. You let me speak to the lead technician about getting a new vessel, or I will match every second of my delay with a new level of pain for you."

  The Ilkryp slurps agitatedly, exuding an excessive amount of slime. "Your vessel will be placed on the list, and will be repaired. Then we will return it to you in a functional state. No other course of action is possible in the present situation."

 
"I don't think you comprehend." Kriahm squashes the tentacles in his grip until a bright-orange, sticky foam starts running between his fingers.

  "No authorization, no vessel," the Ilkryp slurps, and rips free of Kriahm's grip. It leaves the shredded tentacles behind, slithers away and slips into a hole in the wall beside the main entrance, leaving a thick trail of slime behind.

  Kriahm wipes his hand off on his robe, straightens, and discharges furiously into the floor, making his ambi-platform field glow bright violet. All nearby creatures step out of his way as he heads back out of the dispatch center.

  He needs a combat-ready vessel, a suited crew, and all the weapons he can find if he is to expose Amharr's corruption and take over the containment of the neophytes. He needs what he cannot get, not in due time, not by conventional means. But he has an idea who might help him find the necessary loopholes. For an adequate fee, of course, and an apology.

  29

  After Denise and I finish our list of scouting targets, I make up a lazy excuse of wanting to see the city and head toward the river. It might be nothing—in fact, it probably is—but I want to check out that Crispin guy Jade mentioned. I can't pass on the opportunity of getting re-implanted, even if it's a terribly slim one. I miss being able to snoop around dataspheres, pulling information at will. It's incredibly crippling to be a no-tech after living your entire life connected to some grid or another, not to mention embarrassing having to ask people for even the simplest things.

  The streets' names are displayed in codes on every fifth building, alternatively on both sides of the street. I can't interpret them, nor the many company logos and various ads. I'm even a bit glad about it; the cityscape would be terribly intrusive on my mental privacy otherwise. Luckily, I still have the printed map Denise gave me to navigate the streets.

  I make my way through the district, avoiding surveillance towers as well as possible, and eventually cross the river on a narrow pedestrian bridge. I reach an intersection and check the map again, turning right. Soon I find myself standing in front of a building that ought to be Calle Squero, number twenty-seven. It has a heavily reinforced door, monitored by two private surveillance bots attached to the wall.

  I take a deep breath, and knock. The bots focus on me, zoom in—probably scanning for my synet—then zoom out again. The door opens with a loud clank. I step in slowly, squinting into the darkness of the hallway.

  "Who are you?" A metallic voice comes from a speaker mounted on the wall to my left. The door falls shut behind me, sealing me in darkness.

  "I'm Taryn Harber." I try to keep my voice steady. "You don't know me, but you've met some of my... colleagues."

  "You're one of Preston's people, aren't you?"

  "Not quite."

  "Why can't I read your synet?"

  "I don't have one."

  "Ah..."

  "I need your help with something," I admit reluctantly. "I'm not sure if I've come to the right guy, though. Crispin, is it?"

  "Please call me Cris."

  "Cris." I wipe the sweat off my upper lip with the back of my hand. "I heard you're a... that you're good with tech stuff."

  "Could be."

  "I'd like you to re-implant me." I breathe slowly, trying to keep my voice even. "With a wiped synet. No preconfigured crap."

  Silence.

  Is he considering helping me, or trying to figure out if I'm a snitch?

  "I assume you understand my predicament," I say. "I can't get one through any legal channels. I'm not even sure if I can be re-implanted at all. Not with a standard issue, at least."

  Silence again.

  Is he in some back room, watching me through a camera? I try to look astute and mind my posture. "So can you help me?"

  "Maybe." The metallic voice shifts further down the hallway to another com unit. "I will try. But I'm not sure you can repay me, Taryn." The volume is lower. He's forcing me to advance to continue the conversation. Clever.

  I take a couple of steps into the darkness. "What do you want in return?"

  "How come you don't have a synet?"

  "Long story."

  "Does Preston know you're here?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Look, just tell me what you want in return."

  Silence.

  I wonder how old he is, if he's a Syndicate's veteran or just a paranoid young prick. He's probably hunting down data on me through the datasphere right now.

  "You grew up on Maza, Tau Ceti system. Correct?"

  Sigh. "No need to show off your skills, Cris. They're the reason I'm here."

  "You grew up in a Dorylinae hive. Before the Raids."

  "What does that—"

  "Is that why Preston hired you?"

  "Hired?" I snort.

  "You're familiar with aliens, and I strongly assume with space travel technology as well." It's not a question. This is starting to annoy me.

  "What's this about?"

  "You must be intimately familiar with the TMC as well. You were detained for questioning after the Raids for eleven months."

  "Yes."

  "And you worked as an internal communication specialist aboard an R&D vessel, the Galileo Four Beta, is that correct?"

  "That's not in the public records," I say warily. "How did you—"

  "Why are you really here, Taryn?"

  "I told you, I want a clean synet."

  "No, here in Erano."

  I hesitate. "Preston brought me here."

  "Without a synet?"

  Damn it, he just won't quit. "None of this matters."

  "But it does: considering your record with the TMC, you can't not have a synet. You understand I'm curious." I groan in frustration. "Preston spent the past six months somewhere out in the Steph 1422 system, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you with him?"

  I shouldn't be talking about any of this. Who knows what this creep is after? And my patience is wearing thin. "Just for a month or so," I say.

  "Why were you out there?"

  I shrug in the darkness, refusing to say another word. I'm certain he can see it.

  "You found an alien ship, didn't you?"

  Great, he probably knew what Preston's been doing all along. Cris must be one of his Syndicate minions. Out of the pan and into the fire. "Listen, Cris, I didn't come here to chat. Will you help me or not?"

  "As I said, I'll try."

  The lights click on and I squint in the sudden glare. I can see two doors further in the back, both closed. No sign of Cris.

  "I will have to scan you though." The door next to the farther speaker clicks open.

  "Have a blast," I say as I walk through the open door.

  The room is small, tidy, and brightly lit. A panel opens in the wall and a long tray comes sliding out. Several scanning devices and robotic arms with flexible sensor arrays arch out of the wall above it.

  "Lie down," Cris says from a speaker somewhere in the ceiling.

  I breathe deep and stretch out on the tray, staring at the arms moving above me. My heart hammers wildly in my chest, and tiny beads of sweat form on my brow. I don't know if it's the chill of the metal through my sweaty overall, or the adrenaline rushing through me that makes me shiver. Doesn't matter. It's my hands that worry me the most. My palms are stinging madly. I press them against my sides, and try to lie still.

  "Relax," Cris says. I can hear a smile beneath that computerized tone, and bite my tongue.

  The scanners work over me, and a slight tingle crawls up and down my body, prickling my nerves. In less than a minute, the procedure is over and the scanners retreat into the wall. I sit up, flexing my cramped fingers.

  Silence.

  A small panel opens in the wall next to me, revealing a metallic case about as big as my palm. It looks familiar.

  "A temporary synet injector?" I ask. "That won't work."

  "No. It's a synthetic graft with an embedded bionic microchip. It has no further function than to s
imulate a synet for all common scanners and public record readers."

  I stare at the small case, and a heatwave rushes through my body. I jump off the tray. "That's it? That's all you can do?"

  This time Cris laughs; a metallic, artificial laugh, as though composed of the recorded laughter of dozens of different people. "I need some time to develop wetware that can function with your particular neuronal configuration."

  "What—" I start, but shut up. I know exactly what he's talking about, and he knows I know. What will he do with that information, though?

  "Don't worry," he says, as if reading my mind. "I won't tell a single soul about the alien RNA tapped into your synapses. I assume Preston already knows. I assume it's why he went to the trouble to bring you here, despite being a no-tech."

  "Probably."

  "I'd watch my back if I were you."

  Interesting. "Why are you telling me that?"

  "I'd like to tell you it's because I only want what's best for you," he says with that indubitable, audible smile. "But the truth is, I want to study your condition. Privately."

  "So that's what you want in return for re-implanting me."

  "Yes."

  "How do you imagine it will work? Do I come here regularly, let you scan me, or what?"

  "All you have to do is use that biochip. It will deliver a steady stream of biometrics to my servers."

  "That's all?" I ask incredulously.

  "Attach the graft to the back of your neck. It will emulate your DNA structure and melt into your skin. The biochip will never interface with your brain. To all external devices, it will look as if you're wearing a standard-issue tag with a strong firewall."

  "Alright." I pick up the case. "How long do you think you need?"

  "However long it takes," he says calmly.

  I nod, and carefully open the metallic case. The soft padding inside holds a patch of gelatinous tissue, about two centimeters big. It shimmers against the gray foam, almost transparent, unbelievably fragile. I inspect the awkward fabric, and see a tiny circuit board buried within, sprouting minuscule nanotube filaments. I'm almost afraid to touch it.