Grey Ronin (The Awakened Book 3)

by Matthew S. Cox

  “When my abilities first showed themselves, I was a little girl. Every so often, I’d sneeze and pop out of my kit. Quite embarrassing at first. The first time I crossed over, I was terrified. I had no idea what happened. Honestly, clothing gets in my way. It’s expensive to leave behind all the time. Besides, I adore making people uncomfortable.”

  “Cross over?”

  “You believe in spirits and gods and whatnot, right? There’s another world, a shadow of our own. Some psionics can project their spirit into it.”

  “Astral walking. I have seen mention of it.” Mamoru paced away from the window, and her, heading towards the kitchen.

  “Non-Awakened psionics can send their spirit out of their bodies and enter the astral realm. I can bring my whole body over, but nothing that’s not part of me goes.” She winked. “I can’t even cheat and put something―”

  “You are a ghost then?” Mamoru set about preparing tea.

  She trailed after him to the kitchen, and leaned on the doorframe. “No. I am as alive as you are, but I do sometimes chat with the dead. They’re not terrible fond of me though, always come beggin’ for help with this or that, and I’m a busy girl.”

  “Why are you here?”

  At him pouring two cups, she smiled. “We are rare, but in danger. As of right now, the governments of the world know little of our existence. Psionics are often treated with derision here in the UCF. Most people are scared witless of them, but a handful are bigoted and hostile. The ACC actively hunts them down and has been known to wipe out entire family lines. Britain kills the ones it cannot control. In the Middle East, they’re shot on sight no questions asked. China forces them to join the military, with special ‘handlers’ ready to kill them if they suspect them of getting out of line. Switzerland kicks them out… too many secrets there. I shudder to think what would happen if the world truly understood us and our capabilities.”

  “My abilities do not allow me to do anything more than what is possible with cybernetics. In fact, the metal poison is more efficient.” He handed her a cup, contempt thick in his voice. “As Sadako proved, my skill with a blade is merely acceptable. I am only skilled enough to slay bundles of straw that cannot move when I accelerate myself.”

  She turned the teacup, studying the painted bamboo. “Kinetics is not your strength. Your father was misled by his desire. You have always preferred technology.” She peered at the surface of the green liquid. “You adored the quiet calm of being alone in your room with your electronics.”

  Mamoru stared at her over his tea for a moment before taking a sip. Without her at a sideways angle, the haori covered her chest and left him feeling less awkward. “What do you want?”

  “There are a handful of us working to find a better life. None ‘ave your talent. Your help could accelerate our salvation.” Aurora poured sugar into her tea, stirred it, and took a healthy swig. “You’re a good man, Mamoru. No matter what that Minamoto wankstick did to you, it did not destroy the good heart you’ve always ‘ad.” She gave him a consoling look. “That boy will never forget you. As Awakened, we must help each other, or they will destroy us all.”

  “You were on Mars?”

  “No, have you ever heard of clairvoyance?”

  Mamoru muttered into his cup as he sipped again.

  “Yes, I ‘ave watched you shower.” She winked. “Might’ve touched m’self while doin’ it.”

  He coughed tea all over the table. Aurora laughed. Mamoru retrieved a towel and cleaned up the mess, glaring at her the entire time. She shifted in the chair, twisting the cup in the saucer with small, precise motions.

  Mamoru fell seated. “What of Nami? She is not psionic.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be a bother to bring ‘er along when we depart.”

  “Depart?” Mamoru raised an eyebrow.

  “On Earth, we will always be hunted. Archon intends to find a world where we do not have to hide what we are.”

  “Will she not be the one who is persecuted then?”

  “There are so few of us, it would not make sense to bring only Awakened to a new world. We would surely die out. Archon believes all psionics have the potential to Awaken. He thinks it is a matter of finding a way to unlock it.”

  Mamoru grumbled. “I will consider assisting you, as all other paths I have walked lead me in endless circles. However, I require your aid in return.”

  “You fancy an assisted bath again?” She winked. “I rather wouldn’t mind.”

  “No.” Mamoru fidgeted.

  “What can I do then?” She raised her mug. Alluring jet eyes hovered behind rising steam.

  “If your so-called Awakened friends are as powerful as you claim, I wish them to discover the source of my dishonor.”

  Aurora set her teacup down. “I am glad to see that you realize it is okay to ask for help when you need it.” She leaned forward and winked. “I am sure we can arrange that. Are you sure you don’t want to have a romp?”

  “I am sure. Do not take my reluctance as a reflection of your appearance. Thank you for the offer.”

  “Suit yourself.” She winked. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Aurora’s body melted to glowing vapor within the haori, which draped over the chair as she ceased to be. When he no longer felt another presence in the room, Mamoru leaned back in the chair and exhaled. He flicked his thumbnail against his cup. Caiden’s joyous reunion with his mother replayed itself in his mind. Never had he expected to miss having the boy around. He had only known him for a month. At least with his mother in Araphel, he would be safe… perhaps even happy.

  He drained the last of his tea, and dropped the cup with a clink on the saucer as he thought of Nami.

  Pixie

  ain came down in sheets. Pedestrians scurried about at varying speeds from brisk walk to sprint. A squad of six men in maroon armor, carrying long, black rifles marched the sidewalk outside, oblivious to the downpour. Silver logos on their shoulders bore an angular S with a small C embedded in the upper curve and a small B in the lower curve. Security Corporation Boston, nongovernmental police, seemed to be everywhere he went.

  The private sectors within East City had their perks. Almost no gangs, and little physical crime, but they had a downside apart from the horrendous cost. Private law enforcement often let their power get the better of them and made it a routine to harass people who did not appear to be wealthy. It bore similarities to the security forces back home. The familiar routine appealed to him. Here in the UCF, however, he had to hide the bodies when they got in his way. Back home, he would leave their disgrace for all to see.

  Another advantage presented itself in how the national police force tended to leave these regions to their own devices. It had been a simple matter to create a false identity, pump up a credit account, and add himself as owner to an unsold apartment on the ninetieth floor of a residential tower. The people here may not have had a proper sense of politeness and respect, but the amenities went a long way to making him feel human again. While waiting for his food, he daydreamed about his giant jade tiled bathtub, and Nami. Sharing it with her as an equal, not a master.

  An Asian woman in a passable kimono approached and set a tray in front of him. She offered a polite bow, and retreated. Six steps away, her demure gait returned to a normal stride. As false as the plastic kamidana. Mamoru inhaled the rich aroma of nabeyaki udon from the steam plume in front of him. Three hundred credits resulted in a reasonable attempt at food. Sen Kaidan Japanese Restaurant looked the part and even had workers who appeared to be from Japan.

  When the din from outside became louder, Mamoru looked up. A woman with short, white hair and ice blue eyes tucked in out of the downpour and collapsed a sad little umbrella. She shot a glance around the room, and it did not take her long to zero in on him. He straightened in his seat as her tall-heeled boots clicked over the pale hardwood floor. Silent doors slid closed, cutting off the sound of the city. The woman stopped at his table, most of her covered by a shin-le
ngth white button-down coat. She held her right arm up, knuckles at the shoulder, with a dark handbag suspended from the elbow.

  “Mamoru?” she asked, British clear in her accent.

  He squinted. This one was much shorter than Aurora and had some color to her skin. Compared to him, she was pale, but not to the point of looking dead. She helped herself to the facing seat and crossed her legs. Despite her diminutive stature, she seemed far less cordial than the blonde demoness.

  “Are you another of them?” He poked at his noodles.

  “Straight to the point. Brilliant. Yes, I’m Pixie.”

  After a mouthful, he pondered. “They name you for your haircut?”

  Her already dour face darkened further. “No, it’s a long story. Look, I’ve come with a request for a job.”

  “Your people wish to test me?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Something like that.”

  A kimono-clad waitress arrived, offering a heated cloth. “Hello, miss. Would you care to see a menu?”

  Pixie took the cloth, wiping her hands. “No need. I’ll ‘ave the chirashi, please, and hot tea.”

  Mamoru waited for the server to walk away. “Your associate mentioned an offer of assistance locating the one responsible for what happened in Tokyo.”

  “Indeed. Before we get to that part, we need to be sure of your ability.”

  He ate a few bites, thinking. Tea arrived, which Pixie sipped at while making various impatient faces at him.

  “So, you go from telling me how impressive I am to demanding proof.” Mamoru sectioned the floating egg with his chopsticks, and lifted a piece to his mouth. “I expect you are going to ask for something an ordinary network infiltrator would cringe at.”

  “Yes. I assume you have heard of The Silver?”

  “Perhaps in passing. I have not ventured far out of Japan, virtually or otherwise, until recently.” His glare hardened over the last few words.

  “The Silver is a data warehousing complex with security rivalling that of government networks. Most net-heads say it’s impossible to breach, that it’s never been done. There’s some rumors about someone getting in once, but no one’s claimed it. Most I’ve talked to think it’s a load of bollocks. If anyone could pull it off, they’d be crowing about it all over the net.”

  “Perhaps they did, and died. You want me to infiltrate this ‘Silver’ for you?”

  “Yes. I left behind a right clusterfuck in London. I need you to go in there and destroy all the records you can find about me.” She removed a plastic case from her coat pocket, an inch long and half that wide. A fleck of black perched at the center of a white foam block. “This nodge contains enough information so you’ll know what to look for.”

  Mamoru released the chopsticks and clasped her hand, squeezing the case to her fingers. A lick of white energy danced over the back of his arm as his mind touched the electronics within the ROM nodule.

  “Annabelle… You have a pretty name.”

  The lights fluttered overhead. Every NetMini and table terminal around them erupted in a cacophony of beeping. What little color existed in her cheeks faded for an instant, before they flushed pink amid the sound of half the room saying “hello” to a dead line.

  “I…”

  Mamoru let go, smiling. “I am no mind reader. Your secrets are your own. This device contains information about you.”

  “You didn’t even plug the nodge into anything.” She gathered her composure. “Yes. Yes, of course. It is vital that those records cease to be. If what I’ve been hearing about you is true, it should be lemon squeezy.”

  The server returned with a bowl of sushi and rice, which she sent in front of Anna.

  He held an eyebrow up until the server walked off. “Lemons have nothing to do with it.” Anna suppressed the urge to laugh. Her sudden mirth made her seem much younger, almost teenaged. “I will do this, but your people must honor their side.”

  “Of course,” she said, a piece of salmon held on chopsticks in front of her mouth. “You’re one of us. We have to help each other.”

  She devoured the fish.

  Project Seraph

  louds raced through the indigo sky, luminous, cyan, and unnatural. They twisted and rolled in a wind that did not reach the ground, moving video on fast forward. Eerie light from no visible source illuminated a maze of high-walled white concrete passages that crisscrossed around the perimeter of a wide-open area. The constructed reality was the size of an entire city sector, five miles square, and filled with flat nothingness save for a massive skyscraper at the center. A shard of mirror, the cyberspace representation of The Silver lived up to its name. Toward the top, the building took on a bird-like shape, with glowing cyan eyes and traces of blue light between carved feathers.

  The maze was a manifestation of the external security protocol surrounding a network segment separated from the GlobeNet by several layers of traffic analysis systems and gateways. The ‘tunnels’ teemed with security constructs in the shape of armed men as well as gargantuan German shepherd dogs. Mamoru squinted at the chalk-white expanse. The desolation represented the ease with which a defense operator could spot an intruder traversing the connection. Numerous switchback paths and active signal sweeping left an invader vulnerable to detection during the arduous process of navigating six separate traffic segments on the way to the tangle of storage arrays and security systems the system rendered as a building.

  Mamoru observed the pattern of the security teams and shook his head, for a moment feeling a twinge of pity for the ordinary deck jockeys facing such protections. He advanced as far as he could without losing the cover of shadow in the tunnel. His hand, gliding over the wall, brushed an engraving that broke the smoothness of glass. A weak glow outlined words:

  Proscion was here.

  He tilted his head, feeling nothing from it other than plain text. It did not seem to be a backdoor, an active soft, or anything useful. What was the point of this? I will never understand deck jockeys.

  Focus on the information he absorbed from Pixie’s data nodule sent threads of his consciousness through the network in search of similar patterns. The process slowed, as more than half his mental efforts went to redirecting tracebacks to keep his deck invisible.

  Patrols appeared out of thin air, doubling, tripling the number of constructs sweeping the tunnels. The network sensed something happening that should not be, but was unable to determine where it came from. Petabytes of data swam through the forefront of Mamoru’s surface thoughts. Images flashed in a dizzying onrush of snapshots: design specs, messages, family pictures, lurid photos of politicians. All of it forgotten as fast as it appeared. The overwhelming stream of information halted on a vision of Pixie, hair wet and looking over her shoulder in a dark, rainy street. Strong glare from the side shadowed her face, as if the image had been captured at the instant of a lightning strike.

  His thoughts tuned to the distant gathering of weak electrical impulses. Mamoru pushed himself through his deck, embodying the network hardware on the far end of the connection. His mind swam through layer after layer of neural memory over synthetic strands of nerve-like fibers suspended in white nutrient liquid. The ropey cords pulsed with light as they carried signals. Minutes passed as he flew among the pale grey landscape inside the storage modules. Dendrite threads formed enormous structures through which he glided. Thunder rolled overhead with each impulse. Ahead, a thin line of energy traced across his path and stretched downward to a blinding doorway.

  Mamoru went for it. A rush of heat washed over him as everything became blank for an instant. His surroundings shifted. Walls grew around him, liquid silver broken by a black grid that formed discrete twelve-inch square panels as the material hardened. A dark blue door, heavy and armored, appeared on the other side of a modest steel table and solitary chair. Mamoru reached for the cube containing the data he wanted. The realness of his samurai gauntlet flaked off, leaving a green wireframe as he pushed his hand through the secure barrier
. A ripple spread out from the point of contact, flooding the room with wobbling reflected light.

  He forced his arm through the barrier up to the elbow and withdrew a handful of papers, which he hurled to the side. Eight-by-ten inch panels streaked in an arc through the air, each bearing moving images of the white-haired woman, spanning from infancy to adulthood. Mamoru poked a finger at each page in turn, absorbing the contents as he eradicated the data from The Silver’s file system. He hesitated at an image of her about eight or nine years of age, walking down the street with a school bag on her back. A bruise marked the side of her face, and she kept her gaze downcast.

  Mamoru sighed.

  Annabelle Morgan, also known as Pixie, had been part of an undertaking of the British government under the codename: Project Seraph. While putting on a public face of distrust regarding psionic individuals, MI6 conducted a secret breeding program among those individuals detained under the umbrella of national security. They arrested psionics and charged them as threats to the Crown, holding them without due process. Rather than prisons, they moved them to secure ‘medical facilities.’ While in custody, scientists harvested genetic material from prisoners of both sexes and attempted to match them with others whose psionic talents were similar.

  According to the files, Project Seraph’s goal was to find a way to fertilize embryos in a predictable manner with desired psionic talents―and weaponize them. Similarity to his own origin made him shudder. Is every nation trying this? The data contained here indicated the project was a dismal failure. Occasionally, a child showed no talent whatsoever, despite both parents having the gift. In no case was the estimation of ability close to accurate. Heather Morgan, Anna’s mother, escaped soon after they re-implanted her fertilized egg. She managed to elude them for almost three years before they found and killed her.

  Mamoru swiped through site photos of the twenty-year-old telepath lying dead in the streets of London, blood leaking from her mouth. A man in a black coat posed over the body as if a hunter had taken a dangerous animal. Great disdain welled up within Mamoru. I will kill this man if ever I see him. He considered his reaction. Her death was a killing without honor. Others of his caste thought little of ending the life of a commoner on a whim, but was he of that caste any more? Aurora claimed him an order of magnitude above it. His beliefs said he had fallen. A ronin is only somewhat more dignified than the women Minamoto had gifted to him.