The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1)

by Sicoe, Veronica

  "G'night," Jade says from below. "Try not to break anything else. Vik's gonna have a shitfit when he sees that com unit."

  A thousand things go through my mind as I lie in bed, but before I know it, I'm swimming through Amharr's memories, falling into dream-filled sleep.

  32

  "Madam Governor," Commander Kempton greets the middle-aged woman on his projector. She has straight black hair and an ashen face. Looks tired as hell. "I assume you were busy with critical matters?"

  "Of course," she says curtly. "What can I do for you, Commander? Is there something wrong with my monthly reports?"

  "I'm just worried about the situation down there," Kempton says politely. Juliana De Luca is just as sharp as he is; not easy to manipulate. Her time as a governor won't last much longer, though. Kempton will see to that.

  "What exactly are you worried about?" De Luca asks.

  "The past couple of months have seen increased terrorist activity. I'm sure you agree this can't be allowed to continue."

  She frowns. "I'm not aware of any terrorism."

  "Of course not." Kempton smiles. De Luca presses her lips tight. "With regard to that, I've received a new commission." Kempton studies her reactions. "Hades will take direct responsibility of Erano until safety is restored."

  De Luca struggles with her temper. "I don't see any demand for such a drastic measure, Commander."

  "I assure you, there is."

  "What you call 'terrorism' I know to be mere disquiet, nothing Erano hasn't dealt with before."

  "We've registered multiple acts of sabotage against important TMC facilities," Kempton says smoothly. "And confiscated sensitive, incriminating material, interrogated people and traced illegal accesses into a maze of underground activity... We have ample reason to believe this 'disquiet' is driven in an organized and premeditated fashion. That's rather the definition of terrorism, ma'am."

  "I doubt the problem is as critical as you believe, Commander," De Luca says, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  "But it is. Only a few minutes ago our AIs picked up an unauthorized call to your office, Madam Governor." Her lips twitch. "Were our AIs mistaken?"

  "That was nothing relevant, Commander. A deranged woman making ridiculous claims."

  "Oh? What claims?"

  De Luca shrugs. "Aliens watching us. An impending war that could lead to the decimation of the Confederacy. Insane things. Nothing I haven't heard before." Kempton lifts a lazy eyebrow. "You see, Commander, there's nothing to worry about. Isolated incidents and lunatics. Nothing of real consequence. And the riots and strikes are a matter between the unions and the Confederacy. There's no need for the TMC to intervene in colony business."

  "I disagree, ma'am. As do my superiors. And we have right of command with regard to all major security issues, as conveyed by the Confederacy."

  "You call this a major security issue?" De Luca blurts nervously.

  "It only matters what they call it, ma'am. I'm just following orders. As should you." De Luca bristles. "I personally appreciate your devotion to the city," Kempton continues. "And I assure you this takeover is only temporary. The TMC will take good care of Erano in your absence."

  "Is there anything else I can offer you, Commander? Apart from my job?"

  "No, ma'am, that will be all. I'll send my First Lieutenant down in the morning. Thank you for your understanding."

  De Luca cuts the connection, and Kempton immediately asks for her com's records to be sieved.

  Sitting at his desk in the Hades command tower, Kempton stares out the reinforced window at the bustle below. Three hundred officers and fifty-seven ships of various sizes are preparing for an intervention in case the ground forces can't get things under control. Kempton hopes he won't have to do it. It'll look bad on his record.

  And De Luca's alleged prank call is nothing but crackling white noise. Her techs must have gotten really good to pull off this level of encryption. It must contain highly sensitive information—why else would she encrypt it? He orders his intelligence center to take the record apart until he knows just what the hell the call was really about. And who was on the other end. He can't shake the feeling there's far more to it than just a crazy person calling about an alien conspiracy. The old crow was too nervous. Kempton long ago learned not to trust anyone who flinches when asked direct questions. It's a skill that will serve him well as governor.

  Edric D. Kempton, Governor of Erano.

  Elating thought. Finally a fitting opportunity to put all his potential to use. No more standing at the ready, no more drills and tedious trainings, no more 'Yes, sir!' 'No, sir!' 'Whatever you fucking want, sir!' From now on, it'll be the other way around. 'Yes, Governor.' 'Of course, Governor.' 'Have a wonderful day, Governor.' Too bad it's a temporary takeover.

  He wouldn't have expected De Luca to stand down so easily though. Not given her history. What if her quickness to surrender is a blind for something else?

  Now, now, Edric. You're getting as paranoid as Hurst. Kempton shakes his head.

  Speaking of Hurst, he still has to call the old bastard and report on his progress with the Syndicate. What should he tell him? That the propaganda war has escalated into direct sabotage of TMC facilities within a week? That those damn terrorists have already stolen weapons, ammo, and critical tech right from under his nose?

  No, he'll keep his report lean.

  If Hurst had his way, he'd have to deploy the Razers and have those monstrous androids wipe the city clean. It's no wonder Hurst was called 'The Slayer' behind his back in the Academy. Kempton won't let him ruin his prospect of political advancement over a bunch of radicals. That's all the Syndicate goons are: radicals with absurd ideals. They're fools to think they stand a chance against the TMC.

  Unless they actually have an ace up their sleeve. Something the TMC doesn't know, and can't prepare for. Kempton can't get that call out of his head. What did De Luca say? Something about aliens watching Erano? A war that would decimate the Confederacy? Which aliens would go to war with the TMC? The only semi-intelligent species found so far are the Dorylinae, and Hurst made sure they couldn't become a threat long ago. It must be a different—a new—species.

  Kempton darts up from his desk, sending his hover-chair flying backwards against the wall. He calls up one of Erano's TMC hubs. A woman's head appears above his desk, her tattooed eyebrows raised in surprise. Kempton peers at the name underneath. "Lieutenant Dresden. You reported something about a non-compliant citizen with aberrant RNA?"

  "Er, yes, sir." She checks her records. "Something about the woman's readings were odd. She refused to be properly identified, then ran away. Unfortunately I couldn't apprehend her, sir." The lieutenant looks mortified. "But I managed to rip some hairs out in a fight. I had them analyzed, sir."

  "Continue," Kempton says. He hasn't read the full report, but the mention of unusual RNA stuck with him.

  "We found residual neurotransmitters of unidentifiable type. We couldn't match them with any record available in the TMC's xeno-database either."

  "You sure they're not mutations, or something synthetic?"

  "I had two separate geneticists inspect them before I filed the report, sir." She's visibly proud of her thoroughness. "The samples are absolutely alien and organic. I can't imagine anyone with the technology to engineer artificial quantum-entangled RNA sequences. I mean, we certainly don't have that technology, but—"

  "Thank you, Lieutenant." Kempton's mind is already racing through a maze of distressing possibilities.

  "Yes, sir. You're welcome, sir." She salutes stiffly. Kempton kills the line.

  Dark thoughts circle in his mind like a growing tornado. The unidentified alien RNA; a suspect call to De Luca's office about aliens and war; the increasing Syndicate activity of late—they're all connected. Something big is brewing, right in the heart of his colony.

  If the Syndicate's made an ally of some new alien race—one that can help them take on the TMC... Then De Luca could j
ust be waiting for him to get in the governor's chair so he can take the brunt of it. And maybe that's why Hurst is so desperate to bury the Syndicate quick and dirty...

  Hurst. If anyone's in the know about a new alien species prowling around human space, it's that xenophobic, paranoid bastard.

  "Why so broody, sir?" Kempton startles. He frowns at Bosco, who's managed to sneak up on him, and retrieves his chair. The lieutenant commander closes the door, and comes to sit on the corner of Kempton's desk. "The standby is going well, so far." He crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at Kempton.

  "Tell me, Bosco, have you noticed anything odd in long-range communications recently?"

  "Like what?"

  "News of a new discovery, a new planet, or relic? Maybe additional scouts deployed to a particular region, probes or ships gone missing without explanation—"

  "Like the drones in Tau Ceti?"

  Fuck! He'd forgotten all about them. "What did the Falcon report? The one we sent to investigate."

  "We can't reach it," Bosco says, somewhat embarrassed. "I've ordered a Bateleur to prep for a recovery mission—if that's ok with you, Commander."

  Kempton nods, chewing on his lower lip. He takes a long, deep breath. "I think we're in deep shit. Shit the size of which might bury us, Bosco. Shit we're not equipped to deal with. If I'm right, the Dabaran Syndicate has made some powerful new friends. And they're going to attack. Soon."

  "What friends?"

  "A new alien race. One powerful enough to go to war against us."

  Bosco stares back at him, dumbfounded.

  Kempton's thoughts darken still further as more pieces of a terrible puzzle fall into place. "I think Hurst knows about it. His fleet hasn't reported anything back to Alpha Centauri over the past months. No acquisition lists, no crew exchanges, not even an insubordination report—nothing. Instead, an R&D vessel that was supposed to fly out to 49 Librae suddenly changes course and flies to Sigma Serpentis, the general's last whereabouts." The tornado in Kempton's mind dissolves into sudden clarity, revealing the apocalyptic landscape underneath, and his jaw drops. "That egotistic motherfucker's met the aliens already, Bosco. They took down his fleet. That's why he's so obsessed with Preston and the Syndicate. He's trying to extirpate a new evil."

  "I think you're going a little over the top, here," Bosco says. "This is all speculation." Kempton glares at him. Bosco reflexively straightens up, sitting at attention. "Sorry, sir. I just doubt there's something that massive going on."

  "What if I told you I've got a solid reason to believe there is?" Bosco raises an eyebrow. "There's a woman here in Erano leaving traces of alien RNA behind her. Nothing in our database matches it." Kempton taps his fingers anxiously on the tabletop. "I believe she called De Luca, and she was speaking the truth."

  "Well I don't know what phone call you're referring to," Bosco replies, confused. "And I have a hard time believing all this. But if you've got real evidence, maybe we should report this."

  "We can't report anything just yet," Kempton jumps. The thought of some general being assigned to take over—to take away his only chance at becoming governor, and not just as a temporary takeover—makes him tremble. "We have to investigate further."

  "Alright, sir. I'll go see what I can do." Bosco salutes rather hurriedly and leaves.

  Kempton once again stares out the window, over his troops. It may be necessary to send them out even sooner than he'd imagined. But even if he deploys the Razers along with them, it might not be enough.

  -

  Hurst nods at the projection. "Thank you, Lieutenant Commander."

  "I wish I didn't have to do this," Bosco says. "But a matter like this goes beyond personal loyalties."

  Hurst smiles dryly. "Absolutely right. I will remember this. And you will be rewarded accordingly, Lieutenant Commander."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The projector winks off, and Hurst's jaw clenches. That conniving little shit. Kempton's never mentioned any of this. Hurst slams his palm down on the table.

  It can't be a coincidence. It must all have something to do with that ship he saw during the Cyan attack. There's no doubt about it: aliens have intruded into human space and are making a fool of him and the entire TMC, hiding in plain sight, planning hell-knows-what. If Kempton were the only obstacle in their way, everything would go to shit.

  But Hurst still has a hand in this game.

  He orders the Hawkyns to head straight toward Epsilon Eridani. The R&D ship will take almost ten times longer for those ninety light years than even the slowest warship, and it has only standard defensive weapons aboard, but it'll have to do. When he gets to Hades, he won't need it anymore anyway.

  Doctor Begum's theory that the Cyans use inferior creatures as an energy source to multiply, and the more intelligent ones as puppets, has been confirmed. The reason the Cyans do so, however, remains a subject of speculation. Hurst suspects they may have been created as an enslavement tool during combat. An ingenious idea, really, using fallen enemy soldiers to increase your own ranks. Devious aliens, whoever created those things. Not someone to face unprepared.

  But thanks to Begum, the little demons are his toy now. His secret weapon. All he has to do is fine-tune it and prep it for usage.

  Hurst calls Personnel Administration to ask that every single officer aboard report back with an updated med file. He asks for their personal records too, family ties, scheduled trainings, additional orders from other generals—anything that might require or tempt them to contact someone off-ship. The PAs are to single out anyone who's untied, and send their records down to Level Seven. Time to take Begum's experiments to the next level.

  33

  Kriahm walks down the E-One dispatch center corridors, looking for the Yantulin female he met earlier. He doesn't have to look far. Her bright fuchsia eyes lock onto his through the crowd, widening anxiously. Kriahm approaches her, bows his head courteously, and leads her out of the traffic to one of the regeneration rooms available on that level.

  Standing much closer to each other in the tiny room than either of them likes, the two nod a silent greeting.

  "Unsuccessful?" she asks.

  "Administrative hindrances."

  "I feared so."

  Kriahm tastes the air, looking for traces of potential complication. The Yantulin has apparently not met with anyone else since they parted.

  "Do you know of an unofficial way to acquire assistance with my mission?" he asks boldly.

  The Yantulin flutters her feathers gently. "You have found it."

  "What is your name?"

  "Igaforayka Elvenaitea," she lilts softly. "Call me Ayka, my Lord. Your dedicated guide through any hardships you may encounter, if I should be so blessed."

  Kriahm doesn't trust Yantulins in general, and this one even less. The question of why she has been employed to follow him remains open. There will be time for investigations later though, once they're underway. "I indeed require your help and your discretion."

  "Anything, my Lord." Her voice trembles with excitement in a myriad of tones.

  It quickly turns out Kriahm was right to ask for Ayka's help. She has her own ship, an impressively equipped Yantulin incursion and inspection vessel. She allegedly chartered it from one of her previous employers, who mysteriously vanished in a mission beyond the rim of the Grand Helix, failing to reclaim his possession. It doesn't bother Kriahm the least bit that she is a thief and liar, maybe even murderer, as long as she serves her purpose. And he'll see to it that she does.

  Her vessel, skillfully disguised as a cruiser and docked to another one of Enryasse's spheres, carries a skeleton crew of five, all with unclear allegiances and no recorded past.

  "The Immtrelia has served me well," Ayka says as she escorts Kriahm to her vessel. "I hope she will serve you better still."

  Kriahm squints down at her from the side. "What about your employer? Will you inform him about this? Will he allow it?"

  Ayka turns to face him, ru
ffling her feathers as if shivering uncomfortably. "There is no greater distinction for a Yantulin mercenary than to be in the personal service of a Dominant. My employer could never match that."

  Kriahm suspected as much. After all, her admiration for his kind is genuine; he felt it during his previous inquiry. "What are your demands, then?"

  An ample, ear-tingling laugh erupts from Ayka's chest. "Let us first see your mission fulfilled, my Lord. My demands are negligible, I assure you. They will wait."

  Kriahm accepts, and follows her aboard her ship.

  The Immtrelia is neither large, nor comfortable enough for an Emranti. Its skeletal crew suddenly seems overbearing. Spending the duration of his flight back to Amharr aboard a reeking, claustrophobic vessel, will be difficult. But Kriahm will endure.

  Ayka introduces him to the crew. Her first officer is a Yantulin male named Hresia, quiet and polite, and thoroughly intimidated by Kriahm's presence. The on-board technician is—what else?—an Ilkryp, but luckily a well-groomed one. The other three crewmembers are mercenaries Ayka has collected from previous missions: an impressively bulky Qidur male, a Kolsamal female, and a sexless, reptilian Naaejin. Kriahm greets all three of them in turn, investing an added effort into hiding his contempt.

  "When will we be ready to leave?" he asks.

  Ayka passes the question along. "Hresia, news?"

  "Any blink now," he replies in a comforting singsong. "Patience."

  However discontenting they seemed at first, Ayka's crew proves to have been cleverly selected. As they wait to be cleared for departure they go about their tasks quietly and efficiently, showing enough courtesy not to infringe on Kriahm's space. He observes them closely, and dares to believe they will actually be of help.

  "Alright, we're clear," Hresia says, moving over to the navigation controls.

  "Our heading?" Ayka asks Kriahm.

  He folds his hands inside his robe. "The Onfeiad Sector. Approach it from the inner curve of the arm. We must not be seen coming."

  "Certainly, my Lord. Stealth missions are our specialty." She settles her feathers and takes an elegant bow, waving her left arms in the direction of the command deck door. "Now, if you please, allow me to show you to your quarters."