The Synthesis and the Animus (The Phantom of the Earth Book 3)

by Zen, Raeden

  Now Connor dried his long hair with the towel, then curled the towel around his neck. “So you’re suggesting that all Beimenians who receive the first bid are betrayers and liars.”

  “They’re all ambitious.” Arty set his own towel on the boulder where Connor’s had lain. “And worse, Captain Barão has great skills with the zeropoint field to go along with his physical, mental, and interpersonal know-how—”

  Connor tilted his head. “So he’s a lot like my father.”

  “In some ways,” Arty admitted. He looked away from Connor, as if he searched the limestone and granite for the right response. Or as if he didn’t believe what he’d just said. Connor couldn’t decide.

  “In the ways that matter,” Arty continued, “in protecting the unskilled and underprivileged the way a strike team captain should, in having respect for his fellow transhuman man, no, no, no, Connor, your father is very different from Captain Broden Barão.”

  “Do you think he’ll help us?” Connor slipped into a fisherman’s bodysuit, worn from heavy use on the submarines in the Gulf of Yeuron.

  “I don’t know. He and Jeremiah were once close. Captain Barão understood the commonwealth’s politics, particularly after Vastar died … particularly after the teams accused Jeremiah of killing him.”

  Connor thought on this. He’d heard the circumstances of Vastar’s death differently from Murray, who’d made it seem as if the commonwealth had killed Vastar, not his father, not the Reassortment Strain.

  “Did my father kill him?” Connor said.

  “I doubt it.” Arty removed the regalia from his arms and swiped beads of sweat from his face. “Your father was outbid by Vastar during Barão’s auction.” Arty again paused, as if he searched for the right words. He shook his head. “That sort of thing happens all the time.”

  He isn’t sure, Connor thought. He pondered how he might use this information to gain Captain Barão’s trust. Murray told him the chancellor sought a permanent alliance with the historical strike teams. Did the chancellor kill Vastar, framing Jeremiah? Or did Jeremiah kill Vastar, blaming the Reassortment Strain? Connor’s head ached. He rubbed his forehead.

  “How do you feel?” Arty said.

  “Never better.” Connor pushed his hands through his long, wet hair and wiped his nose.

  The truth was that he felt utterly ill, but not for reasons he’d expected. To be sure, the Polemon strike had enthralled him, traveling through the commonwealth’s supply lines into its coveted Research & Development Department, unseen and undetected, the excitement in the Superstructure, ambling among the throng of scientists, dressed like one of them in a bodysuit and lab coat, deceiving the Janzers and Marstone and by extension, the Lady Isabelle. How proud even Zorian would’ve been of him!

  Connor couldn’t remember when last he’d seen his eldest brother. Zorian often chided Connor for his underdevelopment, but Connor learned later on that the real reason Zorian disliked him was because he blamed him for their mother’s death. Solstice had died protecting Connor during a Janzer search and destroy mission in Piscator.

  Connor squeezed the Granville sphere in his pocket. It felt like a small, polished gemstone. Whenever he activated it with the ZPF, the photogenic synisms within rendered his mother’s likeness. What would Solstice think of him now, if she still lived? Connor wondered. Then he thought about Hans. His older brother had tripled as his father, his mentor, and his best friend in the commonwealth—until he had died on the Earth’s surface during a commonwealth Jubilee. Would Hans think Connor as brave as Arturo suggested? Would he approve of what they did to Captain Barão?

  Connor closed his eyes, reliving the scene at the Superstructure. Captain Barão had swayed beneath the marble arches, looking like death, exhausted and oblivious to the danger that surrounded him. The plan had unfolded the way Connor and Aera had designed it. Luke Locke and Brooklyn Harper, Polemon spies, blew a hole into the coolant piping near the Montauk Facility, drawing the Janzer reinforcements away from the Superstructure. By the time the captain neared the intraterritory transport tracks, the Janzers who guarded them had gone to secure the facility. Aera telepathically ignited the charges, disabling the Granville sky, turning the Superstructure into a gigantic underground tomb. Connor fitted the Converse Collar around the captain’s neck as Aera slipped the hood over his head. It had all happened so fast. The adrenaline had pumped through Connor like it never had before.

  And he realized his heart was pounding now the way it had then—

  “You don’t look so good, son,” Arty said. “Are you sure you don’t need sustenance, or uficilin, or—”

  “I’m okay.” Connor licked his dried lips. He felt sweat dripping down his neck and back. The Cavern was shallower in the Earth than the Great Commonwealth, but it didn’t have as robust a coolant system.

  “I’m just concerned about my father, and the plan, and Captain Barão’s willingness to help us after …”

  After Aera and Murray beat the commonwealth sense out of him, Connor thought, unable to say it. It’s something Zorian would’ve done, not Hans, not me …

  “Is it true what Murray said,” Connor continued, diverting his thoughts, “that the captain’s been demoted, with Antosha Zereoue promoted?”

  Arty knelt to the lakeside shoreline, dipped his forefingers in the water, and moved his hand around in gentle circles. The bioluminescent water streaked out concentrically. “That’s what they say.”

  “All Murray told me was that Captain Barão and Antosha hated each other, and that neither was a friend of the Liberation Front. Will this changing of the guard alter our operation to save my father?”

  Arty stood and wiped his hands together. “It’s a bit chillier than normal, isn’t it?” He dried his hands.

  “Arturo, I must know,” Connor said.

  Arty sighed. “I don’t know a lot about Antosha.”

  “Why do he and Captain Barão hate each other?”

  “Some say the captain felt threatened by Antosha, his shadow apprentice in the RDD.” Arty flipped the towel over his shoulder, then turned to Connor. “Some say he grew jealous of Antosha’s research skills and that to destroy him,” Arty moved closer to Connor, “the captain killed his eternal partner, Haleya Decca,” he put his hand on Connor’s shoulder, “upon the Island of Reverie … during a Jubilee.”

  “Just like Hans,” Connor said.

  He pressed his lips together, scrunching his face. He looked mortified. He felt something swell within him that he did not feel when he spoke to Murray about Captain Barão. It might’ve been anger, or fear, or a combination of both. How could Captain Barão tell us he loved us all? How can I trust this villain to help me save my father?

  A shadow spread in front of Connor. He broke away from Arty’s grasp, turning.

  “The captain awakens,” Murray said.

  Connor made for the cove’s entrance. He expected Arty to join them, but instead his foster father sauntered toward the lake.

  “You aren’t coming?” Connor said.

  Arty laughed like the big man he once was, putting both his hands on his slim belly. “I’ll do a lot for the Front, though I’ll freely admit I don’t have the stomach for interrogations. You go. Aera and Pirro are also waiting for you.”

  ZPF Impulse Wave: Broden Barão

  Blackeye Cavern

  300 meters deep

  “Lady Eulalie, where’re you taking me?” Brody murmured.

  “Quickly, bring another dose of uficilin.”

  The voices around Brody dropped to whispers.

  “Lady Eulalie, what happened to my father?”

  “Hurry!”

  “Got it.”

  Brody heard himself mumbling, tried to get his wits about him. He’d been dreaming, he realized. A man with dark, wrinkly skin lifted a blindfold and chucked a glass of water over Brody’s face. Brody quieted and licked the droplets from his lips. They tasted like dirt and blood. The old man forced open Brody’s eyelids and used a loup
e to peer into his eyes.

  “This fella’s been concussed,” the old man said, “and by the looks of him a lot worse.” He jolted the spindly man, whom Brody recognized from the attack, with his cane. “Dumb fool.”

  The spindly one shrugged.

  “He’ll be all right,” the woman said. Gently, she pushed a needle into Brody’s arm.

  He wheezed and puked over the side of the bed.

  “Disgusting,” the old man said, dodging to one side. “You all should be cleaning this up after you disobeyed me.”

  Brody wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. He was lying on a gurney in a small cove, his attackers around him. The tattoos upon two of them were Piscatorian, but the dark, wrinkled man with the cane appeared far too aged for any Beimenian territory, particularly a northern one where Beimenians treated their skin to a darker tone. The underdeveloped boy … and the woman … the boy, and the woman, and the spindly man all seemed … familiar. He searched his memories, but could not for his life identify any of them.

  Brody’s head throbbed violently. He attempted to connect with the ZPF and found he could not. Recent events rushed forward in his consciousness: the attack in the Superstructure, the ride in the transport, the oily chemical stench, and the baton and the pain, and now Brody registered the cold weight of the Converse Collar among his many aches and stings, recognized the glow of its green light around his neck. The design was RDD, used to suppress telepathy of skilled transhumans sentenced to the Lower Level or held in Farino Prison.

  “Are you taking me to the Lower Level?” Brody heard himself say. They didn’t respond. “Hullo?” He lifted his arms and legs—but only so far before the chains that secured him pulled tight. “What’s going on here?”

  “Johann is dead,” the spindly man said, “same as Stanley and Wilhelm and Nora and Nathan and Aislin and all the rest—”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Only Brody did know. He remembered every name from failed Jubilees, the celebrations that turned into funerals, the hope in the commonwealth destroyed by death after death after death. “I believe in our research,” Brody said softly. “I believe we’re close to the cure—”

  “You’re lying!” the underdeveloped boy said.

  The spindly man turned. He seemed surprised, yet pleased. He nodded, his teeth resting on his lower lip. He turned back toward Brody and raised the Reassortment baton. Brody steeled himself.

  “Boy! I told you to settle down.” The old man swung his cane.

  The spindly man seethed but did as he was told.

  The underdeveloped boy looked like he was trying to peer into Brody’s thoughts, his neck slightly bowed, his face sweaty, a look of determination in his sea-green eyes. He appeared adolescent, but his bearing seemed more like that of a seasoned RDD scientist than that of a commonwealth courier.

  The woman didn’t say anything. She toyed with her shuriken as if they were benari coins, leaning on her right leg, then her left. She had a taut, muscular body not unlike an aera’s.

  Could she be an aera, Brody thought, could she be the first to turn against me? Verena’s warnings seemed prescient, suddenly.

  The spindly man pointed a lean finger at Brody. “He justifies his actions as orders obeyed and tells himself what he does is for the good of transhumans.” He looked Brody in the eye. “But the truth is you were jealous of Jeremiah Selendia, and you lied to me, and you betrayed your oath!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brody said.

  He had wanted the Reassortment project, but Jeremiah brought the Lady Isabelle’s investigation upon himself! Brody had never forced Jeremiah’s thoughts, speeches, or ideas that ran counter to the chancellor’s precepts! He searched his memories for Jeremiah’s research team. And then recognition took him. Murray Olyorna? he thought.

  No, Murray of the RDD he could not be. Murray and Jeremiah had disappeared many decades ago. There was no way they had survived, not without the Fountain of Youth, not without the ministry’s knowledge.

  But what if?

  Brody squinted at the spindly man’s sunken face, the angry lines around his eyes.

  “Wheel him to strategy,” the old man said and prodded the boy with his cane.

  The boy gripped the gurney handles. The woman held open a swinging alloy door. They left the cove and moved through a dim corridor. It was silent but for drips of leaking water and footsteps over stone. A moldy stench wafted through the hall. Brody sneezed, then winced in pain.

  In the strategy room, the boy grabbed a tray that held an apple, plain oatmeal, a glass of orange juice, and a slice of flaked bread. “I know this isn’t what you’re accustomed to in Phanes,” he said, “but it’ll have to do.”

  Brody didn’t know how starved he was until he spied the grub. His mouth watered. Would they poison him? Likely not, he concluded. It would be too much trouble to risk an attack inside the Superstructure, then travel through the transport and supply tunnels with a kidnapped supreme scientist just to kill him.

  He devoured the oatmeal and shoved the bread in his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in years. “What day is it?”

  The spindly man adjusted the gurney. “The plan is to release you,” he said. “But you get any ideas,” he pointed to the woman’s baton, “and we won’t hesitate. You’ll get out of this quicker if you cooperate—”

  “If you’re interested in benaris,” Brody said, “you’ll receive none.” He downed the juice. “If you’re interested in concessions of land, you’ll receive none. If you’re interested in altering the commonwealth, this is the worst manner to proceed—”

  “My boy,” the old man said, “we seek no such nonsense.”

  The elder spoke rationally and thoughtfully. Brody sensed a person he could converse with. “I know you’re the BP,” Brody said. “I’ve heard of your methods and am impressed by your adaptation to the commonwealth’s systems. It took great skill to—”

  “Spare us the lecture, my boy.”

  The old man nodded to the woman, who activated a Granville panel that filled the room with a scene from Piscator Square where a man was being apprehended by the Janzers. “A friend of ours is in your custody,” the old man added, “a friend you once knew well.” He leaned closer. “What do you know about Permutation Crypt?”

  Brody furrowed his brow and studied the man the Janzers had cornered. He wore a tan cape and bronze chains around his neck. Two burlap sacks hung from straps over his shoulders. His trimmed beard covered his dirty face from his ears to beneath his chin, his hair a nest, his boots of worn leather, tied at his ankles and knees. Two full Janzer divisions surrounded him with the Lady Isabelle and a pack of tenehounds at the lead. Whoever this man was, he was clearly important to the chancellor.

  “I do not know this man in Piscator Square,” Brody said, “and I’m unfamiliar with any Permutation Crypt. I live in Phanes, but I stay far removed from the politics of the great city. You should also know that by now a Janzer search is likely underway—”

  The old man flicked the phosphorescent collar around Brody’s neck with his cane. “In case you’re lying for Isabelle, know that this nifty toy keeps you out of here,” he plunked his head with his cane, then poked toward the ceiling, “and with our modifications, it also keeps Marstone away from you.” Brody nodded. The old man continued, “A supreme scientist, former or not, cannot be held under duress without the knowledge of the ministry. And you, my boy, being third in line for the chancellorship, should not have been withheld this information.”

  Brody studied the image in the panel. If Jeremiah lived, he would be aware, surely. Not even the supreme director Isabelle Lutetia could justify withholding such knowledge from the ministry. He determined to seek counsel from Minister Charles—if he got out of this alive.

  “I’m not giving you access to the Reassortment research,” Brody said.

  “My boy, that’s far from what we seek.”

  “What do you want, then?”

&n
bsp; The old man swiped his long graying beard. “That will depend on what you feel within. Expect a message from us, a message meant for you and your strategist and your striker, and no one else—”

  The woman, who Brody decided was an aera (though he remained unsure which one), handed the spindly man a box. The spindly man, who Brody was starting to believe might really be Murray Olyorna, slid open one end of the box and shook it upside down, dropping a unit access card—the card that Damy had thought she lost on North Boardwalk in Beimeni City—on Brody’s tray.

  Brody cringed.

  “In case it seems like a good idea to reveal our existence or this meeting, remember, we can bring the hammer home, anytime.”

  “Let me assure you,” Brody said, “I have resourceful allies in the commonwealth, and should any harm come to those I love, we will tear you all apart.”

  The old man signaled, and the underdeveloped boy replaced the hood over Brody’s head.

  ZPF Impulse Wave: Damosel Rhea

  Beimeni City

  Phanes, Underground Central

  2,500 meters deep

  A raven landed upon the white marble bust of Chancellor Masimovian adorning the stone skywalk above the Janzer division’s post. It pecked and squawked, Lead, lead, lead, repeating a Janzer’s assertion to Damy earlier that they needed a lead in Brody’s case. Damy wished the damn thing would fly through one of the tunnels and disappear.

  She sat next to Verne on a seat made of synthetic liquid that froze at thirty degrees Celsius. After hours waiting, her bones felt like one giant bruise.

  Damy sighed. Verne took her hand.

  When Brody hadn’t returned home the night before, or the morning after, Damy had reached out to Verena and Nero through the ZPF, but Marstone indicated they weren’t available. She left messages and contacted the DOC, as was required by the Office of the Chancellor when a supreme scientist disappeared. Supreme scientists made for valuable targets to the criminal mind keen on ransom, though Damy couldn’t recall a successful abduction payoff in the hundreds that had been attempted over the decades. The Janzers always located the supreme scientists, usually within twenty-four hours, which was why, with no news at all on Brody’s whereabouts, she was starting to really worry.