Sweating with excitement, Hurst prepares to receive the neural input from his Swarm Captain. The Nexus doesn't take long to launch the interpretation algorithms, and then the multi-dimensional geometry encryption of the kesi connection is sizzling with data.
Drenched in adrenaline and injected neurostimulants, aided by the ease of experience, Hurst finds himself inhabiting Captain Mori's body as he stands in the command center of the SSV3. He inspects the alien planet on the Captain's viewscreen.
The Sweeper swarms have encircled the alien planet, hanging now like mechanical puppets from his own fingers. All their systems are online. The Sweeping fields are ready to envelop the planet in an electromagnetic mesh, capable of overloading any type of electrical device and organic nervous system in a matter of seconds.
"Prepare to sweep in ten seconds," Hurst relays through the Nexus, and through the Captain's voice on the other end. The order passes through the man's unresisting mind like water through a sieve.
"Yes, sir," one of Mori's commanders says. "Starting sweep deployment countdown. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven..."
Through Captain Mori's eyes, Hurst sees the surface of the planet as it's illuminated by streaks of light, the ships spanning their mesh between them like spiders interweaving their gossamer filaments.
"...Four. Three. Two..."
The planet's surface cracks open, and several alerts go off throughout the swarms. The sensors blank out and the AIs declare Red Alert. The Nexus' emergency protocols kick in, kicking Hurst out, and forcing his consciousness back into his body on the Ares, twenty-one light years away from the action. With the Nexus connection broken off the helmet powers down.
Hurst lunges from his chair to slam both fists on the table. He hails Captain Mori via conventional kesi. "What the fuck?" he barks at the flustered face hovering above his desk.
"We don't know, sir. Our sensors got fried by an EM backlash and the AIs are stalled under emergency maintenance routines. All we have are naked visuals and ultraviolet—we're blind across the rest of the spectrum. But the planet's breaking apart in some sort of cataclysm. We're not sure what's happening."
Hurst builds himself a 3D projection of the planet. With no conclusive readings it looks like a green glass marble bursting from within. Black, jagged lines grow and multiply across its surface, fissures and clefts the size of canyons, tearing the planet's crust apart.
"Sir, the expansion is accelerating," Captain Mori says. "The planet's flying apart."
"Impossible," Hurst mumbles. But he witnesses the outer crust exploding nonetheless.
"The fragments will impact us in two minutes, sir. I'm ordering a retreat."
"The hell you are. Are the generators still powered?"
"Well yes, but—"
"Then run the sweep."
"Sir?"
"Run the goddamn sweep, Captain. That's an order."
The Captain swallows audibly. "Sweeping in three—two—one. Mesh deployed, sir."
Hurst watches the planet flare up as the mesh descends upon the cracking surface and is absorbed into the multiplying cracks within seconds.
"What the—"
"Sir, the expansion has gained even more speed. We're facing impact in twelve seconds. All swarms, back away five thousand clicks, immediately."
"No one's leaving," Hurst yells. "Get the situation back under control."
"We're trying sir, but we must gain distance."
Hurst clamps his fingers on the corners of the desk. The image quickly loses quality, as the planet continues to expand in thousands of enormous chunks and pieces of debris.
Hurst relays the SSV3's internal audio input to his projector. The room is filled with the nervous chatter, clicks and taps, beeps and hums of the busy Swarm ship's command deck.
"Sir, the fragments are changing direction," Captain Mori says. "They're grouping, and heading straight for our ships. Retreat! All ships, retreat!"
"Keep formation and lay down fire!" Hurst yells.
"Fire!" the Captain orders. "All ships, fire!"
The noise in the background grows louder in cascading bursts. The rapid hammering of automated missile launchers falls into the background under the hisses of the SMPDs hurling their superheated magnetized plasma disks out into the void. And the deafening staccato of the shell-sputtering turrets.
Hurst wipes beads of sweat from his upper lip. "Report."
"The chunks are breaking apart, sir!" the Captain yells through the noise. "They're still coming at us. Seventeen ships hit, shields barely holding. No, wait, they're getting through!"
"Keep firing!"
"They've pierced the shields and are attaching to the hulls. Twenty-five ships hit, sir. Twenty-eight."
"Fire everything you have. Blast those fuckers out of the sky."
"Our weapons have no effect! They're everywhere, sir, billions... billions of them coming from every side. Sweet Mother."
The AIs cut off the decaying visual relay, rerouting power elsewhere. All Hurst has now is audio: a cacophony of clanks, yells, screams, weapons' fire, and blaring alarms.
"Captain!" he calls.
"Sir, there's an unidentified object coming from the outer edge of the system. Closing in damn fast."
"More of those things?"
"Not sure, sir. No, no. Something else."
A muffled explosion booms from Hurst's desktop speakers, followed by the hissing chorus of emergency repressurization units on the SSV3's command deck. Then a sharp white noise roars over the audio.
"It's a vessel, sir," the Captain yells. "It looks like... like a concave mirror. Almost as big as the goddamn planet."
"What?"
"They're going after it too. Sweet Mother, they're so many. They're attacking everything."
"Who's attacking?" Hurst roars. "Is the alien ship firing at you?"
"No. No—oh fuck! They're on our hull. They're breaking in. They're breaking in! Too late for shields—energize the hull!"
"Lock down the command deck," Hurst orders. "Weld yourself in if you have to."
"Intruder alert—all hands to weapons! They're eating through the walls!" the Captain screams. "What the fuck are they? Sweet Mother. Fire! FIRE-FIRE-FIRE!"
The transmission explodes with the cracking of guns and the torrents of slugs ricocheting off bulkheads. A colossal metallic roar fills the transmission. Then there is only screaming.
"Captain, cryo your ship! I want prisoners or samples of whatever the hell's attacking you! You hear me, Captain? Captain!"
The desk computer beeps three times signaling the end of transmission.
Hurst bolts from his chair, panting heavily, sweat trickling down his face. Half his fleet is gone. Half his fleet! And that alien ship—an unknown species—witnessed him fail.
He rips the useless Nexus helmet from his head and hurls it across the room, shattering it against the crystal mirror.
He falls back into his chair, breathes deeply, arms slumped across his knees, and hails the Ares' flight commander.
"Yes sir," Commander Felini replies.
"Are we done here?"
"Last two batches coming in now, sir. We'll be ready to depart in fifty minutes."
"Is there another TMC ship anywhere near us or Epsilon Ophiuchi?"
"One moment, sir." Hurst gnaws at his lower lip, eyebrows kneaded together. "There's an R&D vessel near 49 Librae. It's twenty-three point sixty-eight light years from Epsilon Ophiuchi, sir."
The general considers for a moment. "Have it rendezvous with us outside the EO system. Don't log this flight. Get us there quietly, Commander, and instruct the R&D vessel to do the same. I'll clear the formalities with its captain in person. There's a situation that needs resolving."
"Situation, sir?"
"Just hail the damn ship and take us to EO. We have six FTL survey drones to pick up in stealth tangents. But keep us flight ready."
"Yes, sir."
"Time to FTL?"
"At least seventy-three minutes, includi
ng the re-docking of the drones and the—"
"Report back to me after drop-out the instant you're awake, fugue or not. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir. Commander Felini out."
13
Amharr returns to the Undawan after delivering the human, and is greeted by an unwelcome request. Kriahm demands a debriefing about the state of the neophyte assessment. Amharr dismisses the Onryss that insists he tend to the request immediately, and heads for his private chamber first.
He'll have to deal with his partner sooner or later, and keep his condition a secret. Even if he succeeds, it'll only buy him time to address the matter before it becomes known and he'll have to face the consequences.
Amharr pushes the distressing thought from his mind for now, and tends to his immediate physical needs. The delivery of the human has taken a greater toll on his body than expected, and he must feed and rest before he faces Kriahm.
A very long time has passed since he last transported another being by himself. It's very disturbing. The problem is not the klaar of his Striker enveloping him in its smothering grip, and easing him through the walls of the human station. It's not the almost intimate proximity of the human either, but the fact that it felt so... natural... that deeply unsettles him.
Amharr doffs his robe and places his palms on the wall of his chamber. Like every wall and floor on the Undawan, it is made of samyth, a Raimerian multifunctional and neuro-responsive material. It reacts to his touch and extends to form an oblique platform, allowing him to lie down. The samyth then covers his body in a velvety film, cleansing his skin and leveling out the tension in his muscles and tendons. It recalibrates the nanites in his body, and replenishes him by supplying nutrients and water.
Amharr closes his eyes and tries to relax. In the depths of his mind, a spark ignites and flickers. It sets him instantly on edge, alerting all his senses.
He leaps up from the cleansing platform and takes a few quick rounds of his room. Electric tension mounts in his spine, the way it has done since that horrid incident. The Phylra particles nesting in the back of his neck are excited, emulating the overall physical reactions the human is experiencing right now, forcing him to resonate with her.
Amharr's electric tension burns through the soles of his feet and into the floor of the Undawan. The vessel feeds greedily on his energy as much as it does on actual fuel, and Amharr vengefully exhausts his nervous systems, hoping to burn out and no longer care about the stimuli. After an excruciating length, he gives up. Heads instead for the crux of the Undawan, to accept Kriahm's request.
He summons Gra'Ylgam to join him en route. There's a chance his presence will distract Kriahm, as well as offer Amharr support. How deplorable that he should feel the need to rely on a slave for strength.
They enter the crux together and Amharr goes to stand behind the console, leaving Gra'Ylgam in the entryway. He takes a moment to center himself, places his hands on the synaptic nubs, and receives the call. The sister ships bridge the physical distance between each other in a matter of blinks.
The Master Onryss comes to hover above the center of the room, spinning faster and faster. It descends and meets the floor with a reverberating boom. Then sinks into the floor where the klaar mixes with the samyth to form a swirling pool of black and silver.
Slow, round waves spread out from the center to ripple toward the walls, dispersing before reaching the Kolsamal's feet. At their epicenter, the waves bulge out and rise from the floor, becoming first a mound, then a tall, slender shape. Soon it stands as tall as Amharr, and takes on the features of an Emranti.
Amharr steadies himself, and looks at the placeholder of his assigned partner standing before him.
"Kriahm," he acknowledges coolly.
"Amharr," the artificial embodiment replies equally coldly, voice emanating from the floor, the walls, and the ceiling all at once, crashing back on itself like a breaking wave.
Amharr ignores the intrusion he always senses during these encounters, and remains calm.
Kriahm's substitute head turns to snarl at the Kolsamal. "Are you trying to insult me? Dismissed, Siaaw."
"He is here on my request. He stays," Amharr says harshly. "You have something to report?"
Kriahm rests his hands flat against the front of his robe. "There has been an incident while I was charting the outskirts of the neophytes' territory. A number of their ships engaged a formation of unidentified entities, an uncatalogued species. They did so without provocation."
"Your lack of insight into their motives does not mean they do not have any," Amharr replies, gripping the rigid material of the crescent between his fingers to steady his nerves. His palms have already begun to itch and sting—not a good sign. He must control himself until this briefing is over.
"Whatever reason they might have had to attack, it was not justified by our standards," Kriahm says. "The neophytes acted in a deconstructive manner."
"Humans," Amharr replies. "They call themselves humans. They are single birthing, single life-cycle creatures, with a tendency toward self-parasitism and a rather inefficient command of their own technology."
"How impressive you know so much of them already." Kriahm tilts his head sideways as he inspects Amharr. "And without making contact, too."
Amharr throttles a chill chasing down his back. "I hope my efficiency is not news to you. It was the main reason you were appointed as my partner. To learn from me."
Kriahm's fingers twitch against his robe.
"Continue with your report," Amharr says.
"The formation the humans attacked revealed itself to be a cluster of artificially enhanced microscopic organisms. It reacted violently to being engaged. The organisms swarmed out and destroyed the human ships, then came after the Kaluvian."
Amharr lets go of the console. "They perceived your vessel's presence?"
"Not just that. They attacked my vessel and succeeded in penetrating the kinetic and electromagnetic barriers. They even damaged the klaar of the outer hull. All the Onrysses aboard my vessel currently malfunction. I have never seen such a behavior, nor do I know of any organisms or weapons capable of damaging Raimerian technology. Alas, no Ascendancy vessels seem to have been confronted with this type of organism before. I find this highly disturbing."
Amharr considers this. An artificial microorganism capable of damaging klaar? It must have been designed with destructive intentions. Nothing encountered or developed over the past three galactic cycles is capable of damaging Raimerian vessels. Now something is found during the assessment of the humans? This cannot be coincidence. Can it? The immediate future suddenly seems much bleaker.
Wherever the truth lies, there can be only one conclusion—the humans must be contained. Their disregard for open warnings, their relations with the Totorkha, their involvement—whatever it may be—with this new threat, and even Taryn's reaction to his inquiry, all indicate that the humans are deconstructive.
But he cannot perform the containment, not yet. He hasn't even begun to untangle the mess in his mind. He needs more information, more time, before he can attempt to rid himself of this link without sustaining severe neurological damage. He can't begin a containment that could kill Taryn along with billions of others. He'd be rendered useless in the middle of a war.
Yet how can he postpone the inevitable? How can he argue against evidence so clear?
"I wonder if the Raimerians are aware of this new threat to their technology," Amharr says. "The humans obviously have no command or understanding of these organisms or they would not have fallen prey to them. They must be of someone else's creation."
"Agreed," Kriahm answers. "This discovery will anger the Raimerians greatly. I predict other vessels will be brought in for the containment of the neophytes in our stead, and we will be reassigned to the investigation of this new threat. It could potentially advance our position within the Ascendancy."
Yours, maybe, Amharr thinks. I will likely not survive.
If other vessels
are sent in—if another Dominant replaces him—he'll have no control over what happens to the other end of his link. And the new Dominant will have questions about everything Amharr has learned thus far. No Emranti would ever be fooled into believing everything's fine with him, not in person. And he has no justifiable cause to delegate such a meeting.
And yet if no other vessels are sent to replace them, and they must carry out the containment themselves, Kriahm will not tolerate weakness or hesitation. His rashness and unwillingness to share power makes him a dangerous foe, but an even more dangerous partner.
Amharr needs to discern a third alternative. Fast.
Scenario after scenario runs through his mind, increasing his pulse and nervous tension and forcing him to fight for control of his physical reactions. No answer presents itself.
"Amharr?" Kriahm calls warily. "Your skin is charged and glowing. Are you functioning properly?"
Amharr draws a deep breath. "Have you inspected the organisms yourself?"
"No, I did not want to subject myself to unnecessary danger." Kriahm tilts his head. "I do not possess resilient beasts such as your Kolsamal aboard the Kaluvian. My Semri-Ar failed to contain the samples they gathered properly. The organisms contaminated them and caused rapid cell deterioration, so I had them destroyed. The only organisms we have now are the ones consuming the outer hull." Kriahm turns to stare at Gra'Ylgam. "Why don't you send me a unit from your troops? You can surely spare a dozen Kolsamal."
"No, it's too risky," Amharr says quickly. Then realizes how Kriahm might misinterpret his concern. "The humans are likely deconstructive," he offers by way of explanation.
"Yes, I have already concluded that."
"I cannot afford to lose any of my troops in case I must expedite the containment. I am sure you agree."
"But the contamination of my vessel is more—"
The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) Page 9
