Rook (Bridge & Sword: Awakenings #1): Bridge & Sword World

by JC Andrijeski

  That much took twelve hours.

  It would have taken longer, but the body had been prepped in advance.

  Day one came and went.

  The technician’s boss came to the room, several hours past the first signs of real change in the body’s animation markers. An older scientist, she checked the readouts on the monitor, making more and infinitely more subtle adjustments before nodding a stiff approval to the junior tech. He watched her every move in undisguised tension.

  She was not known for being tolerant of errors.

  “Now,” she said, nodding once, decisively. She had the barest hint of a German accent. “Now, we wait.”

  TERIAN LAY ENTIRELY still.

  His new body’s only hint at animation lived in an elusive attempt to focus his eyes.

  New eyes––to him, at least––they looked out from the foreign planes of an unfamiliar face. He hadn’t gotten a good look at either thing, yet, although both belonged to him now, at least until he managed to trash this particular vehicle, as well.

  He gazed up at a flat, dead ceiling, wishing he’d thought to have them put a monitor there. The dull shimmers of organics in his periphery weren’t enough to distract him.

  He had plenty to think about, but none of it was particularly illuminating.

  He couldn’t do much until he got his range of motion back, anyway. Even so, the basics of the last twenty-four hours filtered into his awareness slowly.

  A period of adjustment always awaited him on the far side of one of his little “deaths.” He should be used to it by now, but the very nature of the change made familiarity with its workings impossible. To ease his confusion, Terian had imparted a program into the transfer process that reminded him of that fact, even before bringing him fully awake. The disorientation would not desist entirely until the process was complete, however.

  He hated the quiet.

  He disliked the emptiness that lay between states of active consciousness. While every death remained unique from the one before, all instances shared certain similarities in physical sensation and mundane forms of psychological stress.

  In the beginning, silence always met him.

  Therefore, whatever the desirability of said state, the most intelligent course of action lay in accepting this fact with some attempt at grace. Philosophical musings should accompany death, Terian thought, no matter how temporary. Death, like life, should not be viewed as being without consequence. The mental ritual contained a vestigial superstition and yet, Terian liked the idea of being appreciative of the ample gifts he’d been given.

  It felt noble to him, somehow. Admirable.

  Gradually, memory began its stealthy return, too.

  Pieces of his past filtered through Terian’s consciousness like leaves falling in cold wind. Some stuck, eliminating gaps.

  Technically, all of his memories had been connected to this new body since the raw technique of transfer, but with every body came a new set of nonphysical structures, a combination of Terian’s mind and the mind of whomever’s body he now wore. Gaps remained while his aleimi relearned pathways to access the material world.

  More time passed.

  He applied pressure to the process of his rebirth, trying to access his previous body’s final moments. This early remembering took work, mainly in the form of separating his own, multi-life memories from those of the body he now wore… which of course carried only one mortal life’s worth.

  Well, really, not even that. Terian liked his bodies young.

  When they finally surfaced, the images and sensations came with no warning, a movie that began and ended without prompt or fanfare. Light exploded in his vision; Terian heard screams, felt his body flying through the air, lost in a moment of no-time as he fought to unholster his gun. Pain exploded in his head and spine as he slammed into something that shattered under his back. He raised the gun, saw a dull flash of light as it went off.

  Then another flash, from the other side of the room.

  Dehgoies Revik.

  Of course.

  Terian should have brought more than one body.

  The rest of it filtered back into his awareness at the thought. Dehgoies hadn’t been the one who threw him across the room. The baby seer had done that, the one Revi’ had been clutching in his arms, pretending he’d be willing to kill, if only Terian didn’t leave them alone.

  The Bridge. She was telekinetic.

  She could manipulate matter.

  An intense flush of emotion hit him, enough to slant out his sight, to stop his virgin mind in its tracks. He struggled to think past it, lost briefly in the memory of that discovery.

  He should have shot Dehgoies through the window of that diner.

  Then again, Revi’ always had been one for following rules, for sticking to procedure. Maybe he really would have exterminated her, if he’d felt cornered enough. Her being telekinetic only increased that likelihood. After all, it made her about a million times more dangerous than anyone in the Org anticipated.

  No, shooting Dehgoies likely would have gotten the female killed.

  As it was, she made that decision for both of them.

  A shadow fell over him, blocking the white, pock-marked ceiling.

  “Sir?” a voice said. “It is too soon. You must rest.”

  He fought to move his mouth, to speak… then to use his light.

  They needed to know.

  They needed to know about her.

  Fatigue encumbered him before he could figure out either his vocal chords or how to use his new mind. It was too much for him––the stress borne of birthing, of straining back to life––even as drugs aided his return to a blissfully dreamless sleep.

  DOES HE REMEMBER? a familiar voice said over him.

  Terian cannot open his eyes.

  He floats over himself, watching as they speak within his mind like it were a conference room on one of Galaith’s many private planes. Terian hovers there, listens.

  He remembers his death, the female scientist comments.

  It was Dehgoies, was it not? He is the one they assigned to guard her?

  Her thoughts turn affirmative. The images we’ve pulled indicate that is probable. Would you like to see?

  The other’s light indicates yes.

  She plays the memories, as one might play a video from the feeds.

  Ah. The voice sighs as its owner watches, but the emotion behind it feels complex, a flavor of pride mixed with regret. His words remain all business. She truly is exquisite, is she not? To see the two of them together, I admit, it touches something in me.

  The female scientist does not answer.

  Galaith sighs again, right before his mind grows business-like.

  You are still checking for anomalies each time our Terian returns to a new body? Each and every time, Xarethe… no exceptions?

  Yes, she says, her voice stiffly certain. He is not resurrected without a thorough examination, father Galaith. There are no anomalies. No irregularities of any kind.

  There is another silence while he thinks about her words.

  She breaks it, her voice cautious.

  Sir, if you don’t mind my asking. Dehgoies. Is it strictly necessary that he remain a part of this equation? It is clear he is no longer a friend to us, nor to—

  I do mind, Xarethe, Galaith’s voice holds the faintest of warnings. Ensure that our friend Terian remains stable, happy and free of any disturbing thoughts. As is appropriate for any good and loyal friend of the Org. Ask him to contact me as soon as he is able.

  Of course, she sends diplomatically. There are some tests I’d like to recommend. For her, I mean. For when we have her in custody…

  The voices begin to fade from Terian’s hearing, drifting from his consciousness like a boat blown further and further away by a cool breeze.

  THE NEXT TIME he woke, the old doctor was there in person, bent over the main monitor.

  She smiled down at him when she saw his eyes open, the deep lines of
her aged face making the expression into something more akin to a grimace. As always, there is something reptilian reflected in her black eyes and strangely flat nose.

  How long have I been out? he sent to her.

  She made a few final adjustments before glancing at him a second time. Her thin lips curved in another faint smile. “Approximately forty-six hours in total, brother.”

  Terian blinked. He tried to move his jaw. It remained sore.

  You know about her? he sent.

  “That our new Bridge is telekinetic?” That narrow-lipped smile. “Of course. The news hit the public feeds, brother. SCARB could not contain it. There were black market broadcasts with footage of the event. Her name is public, too.”

  We are still tracking them?

  “We are looking for them,” she corrected. “He sent out a number of decoys when he left the city. We are not sure which is him yet.”

  How many?

  “Three squads on our side. And we are now leveraging the human media.”

  How many decoys? he sent.

  “At least eight.” She paused, her voice still emotionless. “We are still compiling the last set of your memories. There are those who think you botched this assignment, brother.” When she looked over next, she smiled. “Galaith is not one of them. Nor am I. None of us could have anticipated that she would turn out to be a manipulator.”

  I want to go after them. As soon as possible.

  “Your diligence is noteworthy, brother. But your recent imprints of Dehgoies’ light will have to be collated before we will have a realtime track. Until then, the usual channels are being utilized.” She patted his arm reassuringly. “Do not worry, Terry. Another day should not matter. He cannot get out via the airports. That limits his options.”

  You still have no idea where they are. Terian stared at the ceiling. Did anyone recover the body? My body, he clarified.

  “Of course. The team is already working on it, brother. Estimate 91 days to clone and reconstruct.” The old doctor sat in a chair beside the bed, looking oddly anachronistic as she squinted at readouts over cat-shaped bifocals. “Full re-load in 106 days.” She smiled at him again, taking the glasses off her veined nose, exposing pressure marks from the frames. “You won’t be disappointed, Terry.”

  Is this one a temp? Terian sent. I don’t remember it.

  “A temp,” the woman said. “Yes.” She smiled at him in a grandmotherly way. “Would you like the same personality structure as the body he killed? It is no trouble at all. I have the base characteristics loaded now.”

  What’s available?

  “This is a seer’s body, so you have access to that biology and the requisite skills—”

  Intelligence? Problem-solving? Can I boost them at all?

  The doctor made a low clucking sound, a modulation of the sharper, more aggressive clicking common among seers.

  “There are limits, Terry. You are fairly well dispersed right now.”

  I can’t lose any of the others?

  The old woman chuckled, even as she gave him a sharper look. “All are on assignment, Mein Herr. If you remember, you are using a significant amount of your problem-solving skills with body number nine already.”

  Terian frowned inside his mind, staring up at the ceiling.

  He could see no solution, and it bothered him.

  The doctor offered, “I can add creativity. A slight warning… it would be associated with a form of sociopathy that can be a bit unstable.”

  Terian didn’t hesitate. Do it, he sent. If he could have moved his lips to smile, he would have. And if he kills me again, I’ll blame you this time, Xarethe.

  She smiled, but when she turned towards him, her eyes were hard as metal.

  “Whatever story keeps you hard at work, my fragmented little friend.” Rising to her feet, she adjusted her glasses back on her nose, peering again at the machine. “I may have some words for you, at that, if you ruin another of my bodies so quickly.”

  She glanced down over the bifocals, giving him a harder stare.

  “I will deny I said this,” she said. “But do us all a favor, Terry. Kill that son of a bitch already. I am tired of this cat and mouse game with him.”

  Terian’s lips twitched in humor.

  I don’t think that would go over well with the big boss. His face creased painfully with another attempt at a smile. I would have liked to see you in your prime, Xarethe.

  The old seer looked at him. For an instant, her eyes flash a hard white, her lids falling to half-mast, making them appear even more reptilian.

  No, she told him. You wouldn’t.

  7

  APOCALYPSE

  I STAND ALONE, on top of a high glass building overlooking a smoky city.

  An angular, steel and glass structure shaped like a square reaches up on two legs from the edges of the skyline in front of me, barely visible through a veil of smog and smoke drifting near the ground in the pre-dawn light. Beyond that oddly-shaped building, more skyscrapers reach up like jagged teeth, stretching in rows as far as I can see. A low building made of watery domes, bulging shades of blue-green and blue-white, like giant raindrops, crouches incongruously in all of that smoke, an artificial world that looks better suited to the bottom of the ocean.

  Already, lights are coming on, even though the sun isn’t yet above the horizon.

  People emerge from tall buildings and single-dwelling homes with briefcases and backpacks. Some of them jump on bicycles or mopeds, or patiently wait for buses and trains, drinking hot drinks and reading feed marquees. The whisper of car horns grows audible as others crawl along a jam-packed freeway, fighting to get downtown.

  I recognize this skyline, but I’ve never been here.

  I’ve seen it on the feeds.

  Even as I search for landmarks, sound erupts over the horizon, followed by a silence so profound the city’s heart stops beating.

  Wailing sirens start up, shocking my heart.

  I stand there, feeling my breath shorten as trails of smoke follow bullet-like shapes over a curve of amber sky. I feel powerless. Worse than powerless.

  I feel responsible.

  I did this. I have no idea how, but this is because of me.

  White streaks of light multiply to the increasing pitch of air raid horns.

  I watch, my breath caught, as people stand like penguins staring at the sun.

  The first missile hits, creates a shock wave of smoke, then a rapidly blooming mushroom cloud that looms over every building. The sky goes from amber to pink to red even as, in the distance, another missile kicks up an even larger cloud of dust, forming a second, blood-red pillar of smoke.

  Another hits, then another.

  One crashes through a leg of the upright square, another flattens the watery glass structure. I hear the scream of metal as it rips through steel, just before—

  I JERKED AWAKE.

  My face hurt from being ground into a wrinkle in the cloth seat. Drool connected my lips to the cushion until I raised my cuffed hands, wiping my mouth clumsily with the back of my hand.

  Gazing through a dirty window at the pre-dawn light, I felt my heart clench.

  But this was no smoke-drenched city of auto-rickshaws, bicycles and millions of Chinese.

  All I saw was pale blue sky above a low horizon of two-story Craftsman homes.

  Our car was the only one in the parking lot. I glimpsed ocean through the trunks of trees on the other side of the road, broken by more houses on a street that sloped downwards, probably leading straight to the beach. A seagull sat on a dimming orange parking lot light, stabbing at something with its beak it held between its toes.

  Next to me, he shifted position, drawing my eyes.

  His long body stretched across the driver’s seat, his head and neck cramped in the crack by the driver’s side door. Despite the awkward angle of his body, he was asleep.

  His face, even his hands lay open as he breathed.

  I watched him sleep.

>   I don’t know why I did at first, but something about seeing him like that drew me in. I remembered the gun he’d put to my head, the feelings I’d gotten off him in that diner, and a faint nausea slid through my lower belly. It wasn’t like how I’d felt with the headache the day before. Instead, a sharp pain coursed through my chest, mixed with a kind of longing.

  Something about the feeling disturbed me.

  I rubbed the center of my chest, frowning as I watched his face tighten.

  He’d uncuffed me from the door somewhere around Crescent City, I remembered.

  That’d been right before we’d crossed over into Oregon. He stopped somewhere to siphon gas, probably to avoid the cameras required at all gas stations. He’d also found us food, and me a toilet. I’d had to deal with him standing there while I used it, but at least he’d listened to me when I told him I needed one.

  Afterwards, he’d left me cuffed, but not to the car.

  He’d used a new plastic band for my ankles though, killing my hopes that he’d leave my feet free after cutting the first one off me.

  I continued to watch him sleep.

  That pain-nausea feeling didn’t go away. It deepened in another slow wave, making my skin flush, my pulse come faster. The pain in my chest sharpened as I broke out in a sweat. It rose over the next few seconds, crested.

  Only then did it begin to recede.

  I was just starting to relax, to breathe normally, when I felt a returning pull from him.

  It slid stealthily into my awareness, a slow, sensual tugging below the navel that brought another flush of heat, another wave of that discomfort. Shocked, I gripped my lower belly, then went back to rubbing the spot in the middle of my chest, my breath coming harder when he didn’t stop whatever he was doing. I was still watching his face as he shifted his weight uncomfortably, lowering a hand to rest on his thigh.

  When that feeling didn’t lessen, a soft sound left his throat.

  I waited to see if he would wake.

  When he didn’t, I let out my held breath.

  Forcing my mind off him, I bent forward, testing the binders on my ankles.