The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (28 page)

Bray stomps up and down the length of his room, picking up
the shards of his stupid illusions. How could he have thought she'd give a damn
about him?
She
of all people—the bitch who threw his fragile life into
chaos. He should be mad at her, but he can't. Instead, he's mad at himself for
dreaming of a life with her.

Preston contacts him on an encrypted synet com line,
giving him a set of coordinates. Bray would rather dig a hole for himself
inside that frozen, toxic river than go to Preston. He goes anyway.

Erano's streets are roaring. Sirens are blaring, cars and
shuttles buzz around like angry wasps, armed Ticks march in groups yelling at
people to clear the streets. Every now and then, a boom announces yet another
explosion, followed by a new column of smoke rising toward the dome.

Bray sneaks through alleys and side-streets, ducks around
parked cars and containers, making use of shadows and various commotions to
cross the district undetected. By the time he gets to Preston's coordinates,
his nerves are on edge, that damn beast of a woman almost forgotten.

The building is a closed down storage facility. Bray walks
up three stories, past locked doors and 'No Trespassing' signs, and enters a
small maintenance room in the attic. Preston greets him with an absent nod.
He's working on his synet, probably coordinating Syndicate movements. Vik is
crouching before a narrow window, wearing tactical lenses. Franky's here too,
busy with his flexpad. He offers Bray a brief, puzzling stare, then continues
working.

Bray walks over to Vik and leans against the wall, peering
out the window over his shoulder. "What are we doing here?"

"Stakeout," Vik says. "This is yours."
He hands Bray a makeshift detonator.

Bray's hand feels clammy touching it. It's made of a
re-purposed nacom with a fingerprint reader on top. The display shows a standby
connection to the TMC grid he painstakingly hacked by himself just a week ago.
"What's this for?" His voice is shaky.

"See that hub, seven hundred meters up-street? That
little baby will trigger a series of commands at the touch of your thumb, and
blow that hub sky-high."

Bray looks around, feeling disconnected from reality.
Preston argues loudly with several unit leaders, unable to confine his
irritation to his synet. Franky's fingers scamper over his flexpad. Sirens howl
in the distance.

Bray stares at the detonator in his hand as if it could
spring to life any moment and bite him. He swallows dryly, and holds it out to
Vik. "Can't do it."

Vik nods toward Preston. "His orders."

Bray holds out his hand firmly. As if on cue, Preston
draws in, a fierce frown etched into his forehead.

"What took you so long?" Preston asks.
"Never mind. Get to work, we don't have all night."

"No." Bray's voice is much softer than he
intended.

"What's that?"

"Won't do it."

"The hell you won't. Stop wasting everyone's time and
activate the charge. That detonator's coded to your print—to grant you the
honors, so to speak."

"I'm not doing it," Bray says, this time
resolute. "Maybe it's all I've got, but I've still got a say in
this."

"No you
don't
, Bray."

"Fuck you. You don't own me, doc."

"Of course I do," Preston growls. "I busted
you out of that prisoner transport back on Bessel's Eye; gave you a purpose,
food and shelter, the clothes on your back, and ass to fuck these past nine
years. Your guts would be feeding the plants in a greenhouse right now if it
weren't for me. So get it through your head that everything you are belongs to
me. I
own
you, body and mind."

Bray's fingers close around the detonator. Sweat drenches
his shirt and the room contracts around him. He wants out. But he can't move. A
thousand thoughts cross his mind, all fighting viciously for his attention, one
in particular circling around and around, making him sick: he should have left
with Taryn.

Preston straightens his glasses. "Whenever you're
ready, Mr. Dakins."

Bray stares out the window at the TMC hub. Lots of people
scurry around it. He stares at the detonator in his hand, worried his thumb
might have somehow slipped over the fingerprint reader. He leans his head
against the window frame, breathing heavily.

A series of explosions erupts on the skyline. A deep
shudder runs through the building and through his bones.

"Now," Preston orders.

Bray's throat constricts as several sirens go off, crying
out in a multiplied howl. Lightning strikes down from the overcharged dome in
dozens of places.

"Now!" Preston yells.

Vik grabs his arm, staring at him expectantly. The hub
still flickers in Bray's swimming vision. People run across the street, yelling
and pointing at the smoke swallowing up the horizon.

"Do it!" Preston yells.

A flinch, and Bray's thumb comes down.

The hub bursts into a spray of shards and flames, flung
outward on the lip of a shockwave to pierce and shatter all windows nearby.

Preston slaps him over the shoulder and cackles.
"Well done, boy!"

Bray's face is numb. He looks down into the street, as Vik
hurriedly packs away his gear. "We need to go."

Bray rips the lenses out of Vik's hand and crouches at the
window. The street is swallowed by smoke. He finds the hub's smoldering carcass
in the green-and-red view of the lenses, zooms in and searches, stomach
tightening with every passing second. The hub's shuttle landing platform has
collapsed on a man. Two others try to pull him free. They're screaming at each
other, pulling harder in tandem. The trapped man's torso comes loose in a spurt
of blood and guts.

Another explosion. Part of the building keels over—people
stumbling, screaming, men and women—and hits the ground in a wave of rubble,
burying them all.

Bray can't breathe.

A siren falters and dies less than a click away. Then a
sharp whistle cuts through the air.

Bray drops the lenses. The air around him feels sticky. He
watches the others bend their knees, pivot, and dive in slow motion, pushing
off the floor toward the door, right as the first missile hits across the
street. The floor shudders and Bray scrambles for traction, squirming away from
the window and the spittle of shards flying at him. He feels big and clumsy,
much too slow, much too close to everything.

Time accelerates and his senses catch up with the rest of
him. Flash blindness and tinnitus give way to a blaring hell.

"Down! Get down!" Vik screams.

Thunder cracks overhead and the ceiling drops like a
guillotine right next to Bray. He jumps and skids, sliding for the door. Vik
grapples his sleeve and jerks him along, barreling down the emergency stairs
two and three at a time, bouncing off the walls and through another door.

"Franks!" Bray yells, peering through the smoke
and dust. "Where the fuck is he? And Preston?"

Vik jerks him to the left. "This way."

They're out into the street. The city has fallen into
darkness, street lighting no longer active. Smoke fills the air, and the roar
of the choking Rebreathers merges with the shriek of sirens, the whistle of
missiles, and a torrent of screams and cries.

"Fall back to the Spoke," Preston yells from
behind.

Bray turns his head, still chasing after Vik, but can't
see Preston among the dozens of panicked people gaining on them. They're all
running toward the Spoke now, coughing and stumbling over pieces of buildings
and shuttles, ducking away from incoming debris.

Preston catches up as they turn into another street. Bray
grabs his arm, jerks him to a stop. "There were
civilians
down
there! You had me kill innocent people!"

"Let go of me!"

"Watch out," Vik calls.

A sharp descending hiss—and another building cracks open
in a geyser of debris and fire. Bray's fingers dig into Preston's arm, his
teeth clenching tight.

Preston glares back at him. "What do you want to hear,
Bray? That only the bad die in war?"

"They were civilians, for fuck's sake!" Bray's
voice breaks in his throat.

"It's a fucking
war
, Bray. Things blow up,
people die. And we need to keep moving."

"But, we— We killed—"

"No, Bray," Preston says sharply. "
You
did."

Then he's off with Vik toward the next mark.

Alone, in the middle of a blistering hell, Bray finally
caves in—a ruin among ruins—as the city comes apart around him.

Commander Kempton dons his jacket and runs down the
corridor. News of explosions all over Erano—ripping eleven hubs to shreds,
forty-three towers and three large ammo storage units—yanked Kempton out of his
morning shower into a full-on hurricane.

Bosco and three others are already waiting for him in the
command center. They assault him with bad news and questions, speaking over
each other. Kempton storms past them straight toward his tactical desk. He
brings up a live 3D feed from Erano's Rebreather stations, and wipes the back
of his neck where residual water and fresh sweat have mixed into a tingling
mess.

The whole of the projected city glows with alerts and
emergency codes, throbbing like a diseased beast. A
dying
beast. Kempton
draws a deep breath and clasps the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening as he
leans forward.

"Sir, we have to send down the troops," a
Sub-Commander says, his own hair still wet from an unfinished shower.

"Twenty Falcons and two Milvus warships are in
standby already," a Major adds.

"I've ordered the lasers online as well," Bosco
says, leaning over to look Kempton in the eye. "They'll be ready in five
minutes."

"Sir, what are your orders?" the Sub-Commander
asks, brows knocked together.

Kempton stares at the map, trying to recognize a pattern
in the bombings but finding none.

"Sir," the Sub-Commander insists.
"Orders?"

Kempton exhales, and snaps back to awareness. "Hold
the lasers on my order. I don't want the dome or any life-sustaining facilities
to be damaged."

"Send in the warships, then?" Bosco asks.

Kempton shakes his head. "Not yet."

"The troops?" the Major asks.

"No."

"But sir—"

"No!" Kempton bellows.

Everyone is looking at him. For a second, Kempton is
tempted to walk out on them, get aboard a ship, and leave the system. But he
knows his duty. "Lock down all city exits." He finally lets go of his
desk, and drops his gaze back to the map. "Deploy the Razers."

Bosco clears his throat. The other two exchange puzzled
glances.

"Have them patrol all districts. Shoot any armed
non-TMC personnel on sight. No prisoners. Except for Preston," he
stresses. "If they find and identify him, he's to be taken
alive
."

"Are you sure it'll be enough?" Bosco asks.
"The Syndicate may have automated facilities, AIs inserted into our
systems—"

"The Razers will do for now. I don't want to cause
more damage to the city than necessary, or start a war."

"We're
already
at war!" the Sub-Commander
blurts.

Kempton remains resolute. "Deploy the Razers. And
keep the warships in standby."

"Yes, sir," the Sub-Commander concedes.

"Dismissed."

The Major turns on his heels and leaves the room. The
Sub-Commander throws a last glance at the blinking map before leaving too.

Bosco lingers.

"What?" Kempton snaps at him.

"Nothing, sir. It's just..."

"Spit it out."

"I'm worried you're not setting the right
priorities."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm afraid your concern with the long-term political
impact of your choices makes you forget your immediate duties. Your
military
duties, Commander."

"I'm also a governor," Kempton says.

"Ad interim."

"Not if I do this right."

"But sir—
Edric
—"

"That will be
all
, Lieutenant Commander."

Bosco salutes stiffly and leaves, every step as precise
and deliberate as if on parade.

Kempton stares at the map rotating before him, covered in
red sores. Sweat runs down his back as he plugs in his nacom and calls General
Hurst. The General greets him with his usual disdain. Kempton reports on the
latest events and the course of action he's taken.

"Is that it?" Hurst asks, leaning back in his
chair.

Kempton nods, stomach tighter than a navy knot. "Yes,
sir."

"It might interest you, Commander, that I already
know of all this." Hurst tugs at his goatee.

Kempton isn't surprised. He feared one of his subordinates
had likely betrayed him by now. Given the way things are going it might even be
Bosco. How bitter their friendship should end this way.

Hurst smiles, driving a chill up Kempton's back. "I
also know several other things, Commander—interesting things which you quite
conveniently omitted in your reports."

"Sir?"

"I'm willing to let them slide on the condition that
you get me that woman."

Kempton feels numb. His voice becomes quiet. "What
woman, sir?"

"The one with alien RNA. Get her for me and I'll
ignore the fact that you lied to a superior officer, and allowed terrorists to
start a guerrilla war under your nose." Hurst leans in, growing ominously
on Kempton's projector. "If you don't, I'll court martial you faster than
you can spell your daddy's name. Are we clear?"

Kempton nods, a trickle of sweat running down the side of
his cheek.

"Good. You have seventy-six hours to apprehend that
woman and eradicate the Syndicate. That's how long it'll take me to reach
Hades. Don't try to be creative, Commander. Just get it done."

"Yes, sir." Kempton salutes stiffly as the
projection winks off.

The room spins around him. He swallows the bile burning
his throat, and walks around the tactical desk to the window overlooking the
port. He stares past the warships at San Gabriel's crescent rising in the
darkness, and chews his lower lip until he tastes blood.

-

Hurst picks up his Nexus and connects to the Hades
Emergency Management AI, which Bosco activated the moment the bombings started.
The HEM AI has taken over San Gabriel's security systems remotely, and is
preparing for total lockdown. It allows Hurst a time-boxed read-only access, a
sort of dry courtesy to his high function.

The HEM AI paints a concise picture of the ongoing
attacks, overwhelming him with data despite the limited access. Hurst struggles
with the input, wrestling an overwhelming migraine, his time ticking away. On
the brink of losing consciousness, he finally succeeds to verify Kempton's
actions—see how he's handled the Syndicate's attacks and what he's
really
doing to stop them.

There are no significant troop or surveillance upgrades,
no serious improvements to the city's defenses whatsoever. He's deployed the
Razers, but much too late. They could have been effective if Kempton had
deployed them from the start, when Hurst ordered him to—before the Syndicate
got hold of heavy weapons.

Hurst has only two minutes until the HEM AI cuts his
access, and Erano falls into Kempton's hands. He must do
something
.

The HEM AI has locked off the city, and maxed up the dome.
Its plasma net could slice an armored warship now, if anyone were stupid enough
to try and fly through it. All city gates and cargo tubes are sealed as well.
On lockdown, Erano is a self-contained, unbreakable bubble. Hurst likes the HEM
AI's ruthless efficiency. If AIs alone, instead of untrustworthy pricks, would
handle security issues, there'd be no room for mistakes. And no fertile ground
for terrorists.

In addition to the HEM AI, located on Hades and fully
under TMC control, Hurst finds another fail-safe located on Erano: the Colonial
Immune System, designed solely to prevent dome overrides from inside or out.
Once the CIS is activated, Erano will be completely cut off from the
Confederacy.

Thirty-eight seconds left until the HEM AI cuts his
connection, and activates the CIS.

Hurst addresses the AI directly and relays his emergency
code several times, identifying himself by neuronal pattern on three different
levels. Eventually he gains access to a little hidden Trojan he long ago spread
among the Confederacy worlds, to prevent things like the Ceti fiasco from ever
happening again. If things really turn to shit down there and Kempton loses the
colony, he'll at least make sure the colony never falls into alien hands.

He successfully activates the Trojan seconds before the
HEM AI cuts him off.