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

by Zen, Raeden

  “You can’t wear that, my boy,” Pirro said.

  “I can wear whatever I want.” Nero turned to Aera. “So, Brody didn’t imagine you after all.” He examined her as if to determine whether she was a hologram. “They said you died—”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Aera said. She grinned. “I was a striker once, like you—”

  “You served Chancellor Masimovian,” Nero said. He’d clearly not worn this striker synsuit in a while, for he tested his movements, twisting side to side, pushing out his elbows, stretching to his toes.

  “So did you.”

  Nero put his hands at the base of his back and leaned. His back cracked. “I serve him still.”

  “Do you, now?”

  Nero narrowed his eyes. “The stories … they say you’re one with the ghosts in Nyx … they say—”

  “I only know the Western territory as Angeles. Now shut up and prepare for the raid.”

  Piscator Shore

  Piscator, Underground South

  Their transport arrived at the deserted Shore Station, patrolled by a single Janzer division. Everyone would be in Piscator Square in the territorial capital, or at home, preparing for and partying during the Bicentennial.

  This is it, Connor thought. We’re on our way, Father, and I’ll see you to safety. Dead or alive, you’re coming home.

  The transport entrance cleared, and Murray moved his hand to the opening. “Aera, if you would be so kind …”

  Pirro smiled.

  Aera flew out faster than Connor had ever seen her move, even during their training sessions. She tumbled to the center of the Janzer division, which spread apart like a school of fish. She rose and spun, and in movement unseen, the six shuriken she’d attached along her leg flew, as fast and opaque as hail, through the Janzers’ visors. They all collapsed around her.

  Her amethyst eyes flashed when she bowed.

  “Bravo, my girl!” Pirro said. He tapped his cane against the transport and repeated, “Bravo.”

  “She’s okay,” Nero said.

  “You haven’t seen anything,” Murray said.

  “Let’s clear them out,” Connor said.

  He and Arty lifted their weapons and piled the Janzers in an alleyway. Murray took out the cameras with blasts from his pulse gun. Pirro moved across the limestone methodically with his cane. Murray, Connor, Aera, and Nero, bound for Draco Village in Phanes, split from Pirro, who split from Arturo, each destined for the supply lines in his own transport.

  Draco Village

  Phanes, Underground Central

  Connor hopped out at an abandoned warehouse. The transport eased over the maglev track slowly, then rapidly took off to return to Beimeni City, as Murray programmed it to do. Even from here, Connor could glimpse the lights from Hammerton Hall.

  Closer to him, the walkway was falling apart, and next to it pieces of the maglev track were torn at points. Connor was surprised transports functioned in the village at all. He stood among dying saplings, broken concrete, construction vehicles, feral cats, and heaps of trash that danced in the sooty air. The warehouse stood half-built, half-open to the night, and the rest of the village’s structures were even less complete, the decay apparent in their flaked stones. Even the sky was in ill repair, lacking the stars so essential to the Beimeni illusion.

  At the warehouse door, a hole opened, filled by a wrinkled Draco-gray eye that appeared the size of a pecan when it blinked. The alloy doorway, manually operated, slid and screamed, revealing an elderly woman on the other side. The hum of a factory reached Connor’s ears. He smelled molten alloy, burned wood, and chemicals. BP workers strode about in biomats, constructing what, Connor did not know, for he wasn’t privy to this aspect of the operation. They established an assembly line to load up ten transports that hummed in wait. In the center of the warehouse lay an ebony tarp beside a wooden table.

  “Murray’s with me,” Aera said to Nero, “Connor with you.” Murray unrolled a massive scroll over the wooden table, schematics, an archaic rendition with lines, arrows, times, compass, and a list of weapons. “We’ll avoid Janzers at all stages.” Nero agreed and Aera added, “Your captain’s intel suggests an S-shape, X-shape, and pinwheel are the common iterations of Permutation Crypt, but we’re ready for anything.”

  The diagram featured a mapping of each with tunnels denoted by black cylinders drawn on the left and right sides. “We’ll locate ground zero and the center of mass during the descent.” She pointed to the letters C-O-M splayed above red dots at the middle of each formation. “Expect the core to be better fortified than the perimeter.”

  Nero nodded, but something about his shifting stance and snake-slit eyes made Connor uncomfortable. Was the striker wary of this plan? Was he truly on their side?

  “We’ll dig down directly from here—” Aera said.

  “Hold up,” Nero said. He threw his pack of gear next to the table. “This isn’t how I conduct missions, learn as we go, no prep, ad hoc—”

  “I’ve fully vetted this operation,” Aera said. “You’re new here—”

  “I’ve seen half the planets in the solar system and most of the Earth’s surface, orbited the sun at close proximity, and traveled to the center of an exoplanet on the other side of the galaxy.”

  Aera spoke in a language known only to the strike teams. “Maybe so, but you’ve never conducted operations against the Janzers. You don’t know how they operate. You have skill, sure as all strikers do, but you rely on your strategist in planning.” Then, in Beimenian, she said, “Trust in my judgment as I know you trust in Lady Verena’s, and we’ll win.”

  Nero put his fist beneath his chin, his eyes scanning the blueprints and plan designed by Aera.

  She has him, Connor thought.

  Nero turned to Aera. “Are you waiting for an invite?”

  Aera let herself smile, something Connor didn’t see often. “We’ll use the mineral crushers to penetrate to the supply shaft and descend to the southern tip of the Crypt.” She pushed her forefinger along the blueprint, from the Beimeni zone to the Middle zone. She tapped the parallelogram labeled PERMUTATION CRYPT. “We’ll use ground-penetrating radar to obtain real-time maps and determine the center of mass.”

  “What about the transformations?” Nero said.

  Aera tapped an alloy box attached to her hip. “We’ll use a low-frequency EMP to destroy the mechanism.”

  “What about our electronics? Won’t they be disabled too?”

  “It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s the best plan we have. Better to go in there with Janzer synsuits and with shuriken and our fists than to be drawn into a never-ending labyrinthine hell.”

  “Fair enough,” Nero said. He tested the edges of his shuriken.

  Aera snatched one from him and held it over her chest. “Fidelity and honor.”

  “Loyalty and protection.” Nero mirrored her with a shuriken of his own.

  She handed him the shuriken, and he attached it to his synsuit. “Now you’ll find out what it truly means to be a strike team striker,” she said. She lifted the tarp. Beneath it lay the Draco Village bedrock.

  The BP removed their biomats and outfitted themselves in military fatigues, then formed ranks near the transports. “What’ll happen to the people here?” Connor said.

  “Them?” Murray smirked as he splashed camouflage synisms over his face, “they’re about to blow up Phanes.”

  The timer on Connor’s armlet beeped, indicating that the transport bombs had arrived along the travel and supply lines on the eastern side of the Phanes Beltway. He handed Nero, Aera, and Murray the rappelling equipment and their helmets, and put his on.

  His breath fogged the base of his visor. Sweat flowed down his cheeks in rivulets. He’d trained so long for this, but now the time had arrived. He’d no longer be tucked away in Blackeye Cavern or Hydra Hollow where life was simpler and somewhat safer. He even kept his neurochip installed, carrying a recaller to disrupt Marstone.

  Father, please
hold on, I’m coming …

  Murray set the timers for the bombs in the warehouse.

  Nero raised his brow.

  “No trace to the BP on this,” Murray said.

  Connor brought over the mineral-crusher tanks attached to belted packs with tubes that snaked out to a pair of gloves. He helped Nero and Aera put on their equipment. They checked their power supplies; the holographic readouts above their armlets indicated full power. Connor telepathically requested his hologram shift to a live feed from Hammerton Hall and he counted, “Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six, fifty-five …”

  Magnificent Masimo! Magnificent Masimo!

  Magnificent Masimo! Magnificent Masimo!

  “Thirty-four, thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one …”

  Magnificent Masimo! Magnificent Masimo!

  Magnificent Masimo! Magnificent Masimo!

  “Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, thirteen …”

  Magnificent Masimo! Magnificent Masimo!

  Now Aera held up five fingers, four, three, two, and closed her fist. “Execute!”

  Nero telepathically activated the crusher glove. Silver phosphorescent light tumbled over the village bedrock, and he disappeared with the earth.

  Murray activated the ground-penetrating radar.

  The crushers hollowed through the ground like termites burrowing through a tree. Nero’s dusty silhouette emerged and dissolved as he fell, farther, farther, farther.

  “Halt!” Murray said. Orange light flooded the pit. “First stage complete.”

  Connor, Aera, and Murray rappelled down the pit on their bellies, one arm on the rappel device near their belts to control their descent, their other arm and legs extended for balance.

  “Good, this looks good,” Aera said when they arrived, now vertical, holding the carbyne ropes.

  Murray adjusted the GPR, and a new rendition emerged. “Aera, you’re up.”

  She dropped to the ground. “How far?”

  “Preset to fifty meters,” Murray said.

  Two flashes, and the sound of air whistled up from the supply shaft. When the dust disappeared, Aera said, “All clear here.”

  “Let’s move!” Nero said.

  They dropped into a nook lined with alloy, wiring, and mold. Connor heard a transport approaching, though he saw no headlight.

  “Prepare for stage two,” Murray said.

  The transport eased and stopped near the nook. The entrance cleared, Arturo called to them, and they climbed on board.

  During the journey, Murray and Nero continuously reset their GPR devices. They rendered images of the earth beneath Phanes and searched for the hollowed portion of Permutation Crypt.

  “Arty,” Nero said, “slow it down, we’re close.”

  “You sure?” Murray said.

  Nero brushed his forefinger over Murray’s hologram. “You’re not using it right. You have to turn the red knob all the way to thirty,” Nero curled the knob, “and the one over here to twenty-five. Otherwise, the signal won’t be strong enough.”

  “Got it.”

  Arty halted the transport. He shouldered a burlap sack with new rappelling equipment. They exited the transport and attached the ropes to the piping that ran along the shaft.

  “You sure this’ll hold?” Nero said.

  “These pipes should be able to withstand an impact from a transport,” Aera said, “so we should be fine. You’re up, striker, and remember, the crushers can’t penetrate the Crypt, but the Crypt might be able to detect their usage. So take us close, but not too close. We’ll set the EMP near enough to disable the shifts and security.”

  Nero transmitted instructions to the glove, setting it to disable the crushers in ten seconds. The striker pointed the glove near his feet and held the rope. He disappeared with the light.

  “Halt!” Aera said.

  Orange light engulfed the new pit. Connor peered down.

  Nero hung belly-first, crusher glove outstretched, one hand out to the side for balance, his legs bent slightly at the knees. The rappel rope held him from the middle of his back.

  “All clear,” Nero said.

  “Time to set the breaching charges and the EMP,” Murray said. He flipped a casing on his belt, pulled out the tiny sphere, and activated its holographic interface.

  “Arty, best for you to head back up,” Aera said. She threw her thumb in the air with a closed fist. “You get any trouble, drop a flare,” she opened her fist, “and get the hell out of here.” She raised her brow. “Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Arty pushed a lever on the rappel device attached to his belt and zoomed to the top of the pit.

  “I’ll set the charges,” Connor said.

  “I’ve got the EMP,” Aera said.

  Connor brushed at the granite ground with his boot. Though he couldn’t see the Crypt’s alloy roof, he felt vibrations in his feet and legs from the structure’s electromagnetic coils. He activated an explosive cylinder, set the timer to one minute, and placed it on the ground. He laid a dozen pulse grenades nearby.

  Aera set up the EMP.

  “Timer is set for one minute,” Connor said.

  “Copy,” the team replied.

  Connor and Aera lifted themselves to Murray and Nero’s position. Nero telepathically activated the timer on the explosive cylinder and EMP. A countdown was illuminated within their synsuit visors …

  … 00:00:59 … 00:00:58 … 00:00:57 … 00:00:56 …

  ZPF Impulse Wave: Broden Barão

  Beimeni City

  Phanes, Underground Central

  2,500 meters deep

  “Stay close to me tonight,” Brody said.

  He locked his right elbow with Damy’s left. His arm and shoulder still didn’t feel right. “The body’s blueprint is contained in the ZPF,” the medical bot in Silkscape City had assured Brody, “and it is from the ZPF we will regenerate your limb.” The bot had applied electromagnetic currents to what remained of Brody’s arm, and after a few hours of tingling sensations, and to Brody’s astonishment, his limb did reform as directed from the hidden map inside the cosmos. Little good this connection did for his left forearm. Unless he sawed off this arm and regenerated it as well, he would forever carry the burned T delivered by synisms in the syringe Lady Isabelle had injected into him: the burn that destroyed his animated strike team mark.

  Beside him and Damy, transports arrived and left, left and arrived, one after another, and a cool breeze that gave Brody goose bumps flitted over the stairs. The aristocrats gathered at Hammerton Hall’s base, and it was standing room only on all the platforms.

  Brody had never seen so many Beimenians in such a small area. This explained why the chancellor had called in fifty thousand Janzers from the outer territories. Masimovian spared no expense protecting his people from the BP. It made Brody sick to think on it.

  Not far from where he and Damy now stood, Danforth Diamond interviewed Minister Genevieve Sineine of Boreas Territory. Danforth’s fur cape was fit for a king, and Genevieve’s hair, puffed high and swirled through synthetic gemstone-studded bands, fit for a queen. The hall’s blue-on-blue phosphorescent light glowed behind them. Before them, a sea of Beimenians awaited the show.

  Better the minister in Danforth’s claws than me, Brody thought. He didn’t want any attention tonight, not until he knew the BP operation had succeeded, and that Nero had obtained Jeremiah Selendia for the ministry’s proof.

  “When will it start?” Damy said.

  Brody drank in the sight of his eternal partner, the silk gown that hugged her muscular back, the way her hair twisted up around her head and fell in loose curls upon her right shoulder, the daisy above her ear, her face healed from Lady Isabelle’s bludgeoning.

  She tapped her right foot against the marble step, looking even more nervous than he was. When the attack came, she would flee the Bicentennial, retrieve the children, and disappear. She still resented Brody’s acting without consulting her but said she would see to the safety of Pas
ha and Oriana. They agreed it was too great a risk leaving them in Dunamis, vulnerable to the commonwealth’s agents.

  He squeezed her hand tighter. “It will come when it comes. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you or our children—”

  “How can you say that after the ambush in Lovereal?” Damy looked up, a combination of doubt and hope in her expression. “Neither of us is in the fighting shape we were in after our Harpoon Auctions.” She laughed bitterly. “Who knew I’d need all that swordplay Lady Parthenia insisted—”

  “Isabelle’s attack in Silkscape City caught both of us off guard. That’s why we must stay in public view while we’re here. She’d not dare harm us at tonight’s celebration. The chancellor would never allow it.”

  Damy didn’t have time to answer, for Lady Eulalie Variscan fluttered over the stairs. “Oh, look at you,” she said to Damy, “so exquisite. How all those stuffy scientists must envy you in Palaestra.” She grinned and swayed her voluptuous body. Her skin was taut and powdered perfectly, and her eyes changed colors as she moved.

  “Pleasure, Madam Developer,” Damy said, bowing.