The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1)

by Sicoe, Veronica

  "If you're displeased with how I organize things, Miss Buxton, feel free to go out there on your own," Preston says, pointing up in the general direction of space.

  Amelia mumbles something into her cleavage, but gives it a rest.

  When everyone's successfully camouflaged in the insipid local garb, Goatee takes the lead again.

  The super-speed cargo train waiting for us in the tube to Erano looks like a gigantic metal snake. I can't see the seams between the compartments and wagons, and no windows or fancy banners on its sides. The train is still being loaded up with cargo further ahead, but it's so long, all I can make out is a blur accompanied by the drum of robots heaving and stowing crates.

  Goatee leads us into one of the open cargo wagons. He takes us some good hundred meters through the train, until we reach two sets of empty plastic benches. While we're taking our seats, he freezes with a deep frown on his face, checking his synet input. Then he whispers something in Preston's ear, and both of them turn and look at me. Preston cusses under his breath.

  I stick my hands into my pockets, and try to rub off the itch in my palms.

  "I'm sorry Miss Harber," Preston says, "but Sergeant Costa here informs me another riot is just taking place in D-Two. TMC reinforcements have set up filters at every passage point. They're scanning all transports and triaging civilians by entry grounds and clearance."

  Costa smirks at me through his goatee.

  "Can't we smuggle her in as cargo?" Jade asks.

  Amelia cackles somewhere behind us, but I won't turn to look at her.

  "No, the cargo unloading process is automated," Costa says. "And supervised."

  "We can't risk it. You'll stay behind in sergeant Costa's care until I find a safe way for you to join us." Preston seems as displeased with this as I am.

  "I'll stay behind with her," Jade says. "We'll work on some interactive maps of Erano's information pathways back on the ship. We might need those later."

  "Good idea," Preston nods. "Bray will stay behind too, just in case."

  "That's not necessary," I say, trying hard not to look directly at Bray while we speak of him. "We'll be fine, and busy. He can't help, anyway."

  "I'm not asking you," Preston says, glaring at me through his thick glasses.

  I glance aside, and see that Bray is staring at his boots. No idea what he thinks of all this, but apparently he doesn't feel he has a say either.

  "Alright. The more the merrier," Jade says. "We'll catch up with you later I suppose."

  "You will." Preston nods. "I'll contact you through the Sergeant as soon as we're settled. Now get off the train, we're leaving in five minutes. And get busy with those maps."

  He shakes Costa's hand, who then leads us back out of the train and through the crowded Distribution Center. As we exit the building, a formation of TMC ships thunders overhead, jetting toward the colony dome.

  "I can get you full board in one of the Center's housings," Costa says, walking beside us.

  "No, thanks," Jade says. "We'll stay aboard our ship."

  "How about having dinner with me tonight? It's been quite some time since I've heard genuine news from abroad."

  "We've not been around much," I say. "No news to share."

  Costa's eyes narrow. He shrugs. "Too bad. Maybe we can have a drink then, talk about things we all know."

  I want to decline again, but Bray cuts in, accepting the invitation. Costa shakes his hand briefly, then opens the door to the locker room we changed in earlier.

  "You can take your belongings back with you, but I suggest you keep the overalls on. You don't want to stand out around here."

  "Thanks, Sergeant," Bray says. "Where can we find you?"

  "There's a bar at the north end of the distribution complex, some five hundred meters behind the Center. It's called Salute. Meet me there around ten."

  "Will do."

  "If I'm not there yet, just say you're waiting for the Sarge. They'll leave you alone." He winks at me, and takes off.

  I wrap my arms around my waist, stifling the hungry growl in my stomach and the perpetual chill that's been creeping over me ever since we landed.

  I've got no personal belongings to take back from the locker room. After Jade retrieves his flexpad, and Bray picks up a small backpack, we make our way back to the port.

  "Back to our luxury cruiser," Jade says. "We'll have lunch in classy lightrod atmosphere, and drink vintage recycled water. I hear twenty-five-ninety-nine was a very humid year."

  "With filet de ration bar?" I ask.

  "À la carte, my dear."

  I chuckle as we cross the rusty port decks, heading back to for the chunk of station we flew down here in. I could sure use some down time.

  I feel naked without a synet. Especially here, where every other person is a Tick or employed—and thus owned—by the TMC. But the prospect of having a drink and some fun later tonight lets me hope things can still return to normal, even in little ways.

  18

  As we make our way to Costa's bar, I rub clammy hands against my overall, trying to think happy thoughts. Loosen up a bit. Relax.

  Never had this much trouble moving on. Not after being interrogated, relegated to forced labor, and pushed around by insufferable Ticks. Not in the countless times I bottomed out after I escaped. Not even the time I was almost raped by a drunk freighter pilot. I can get over anything.

  So why is it so fucking hard to get over this? Why can't I stop thinking about that damned alien? About what happened on his ship? I keep rehashing snippets of his past, disjointed memories, thoughts and images. And I have this profound sense of displacement—of not belonging in my own skin.

  Jade keeps making jokes and prodding Bray as we walk past the Distribution Center and the evening's thinning workforce. I'm only half listening, but from the way Jade tells it, Bray had a little fling with Amelia, Preston's AI specialist, and now can't seem to shake her.

  Their mindless chatter is largely incoherent, but soothing. Though I'd rather be back on Maza, snowboarding down the hive with Edrissa.

  My Dorylini sister always knew how to make me feel better. Whenever she'd find me scared and whimpering in some dark tunnel, she'd wrap her four front-legs around me, lift me up, and rub her bulbous head against my tummy until I giggled again. Sometimes she let me climb on her back and hold on to her antennae. Then take me for a spin around a tunnel, crawling fast on all eight legs across the walls and ceiling until I squealed with glee.

  I wish she was here now, to snap her mandibles in dismissal of my worries and offer the comfort I can't find on my own. But she's back there on Maza, out of my reach, deep within our hive.

  A crawling sensation of disgust tightens my stomach at the thought of a hive teeming with Dorylinae. Something's wrong with them. With me. A strange thought surfaces from my subconscious, spreading through my mind like a disease: The Totorkha are deconstructive, dangerous vermin.

  But it can't be. It's a misunderstanding. He doesn't know them like I do. Amharr is wrong!

  And yet he knows so many things, understands so much that I can't even begin to comprehend. What if he's right? What if the Dorylinae are parasites?

  No, I can't accept that. Not in a million years. Dangerous, perhaps, but parasites? His judgment of them is wrong. They're my family. For all his knowledge, he doesn't know a thing.

  Damn this link and this insufferable, constant tension. My palms itch terribly, sending thrills through my entire body. I can feel his presence impinging upon my mind, corrupting every thought I have. It's maddening. Infuriating!

  "Taryn?" Jade lays a hand on my shoulder.

  I realize I've stopped walking—that I've been standing shivering in the middle of the street.

  Bray stares at me too.

  "I was just..." I rub my face. "What were you saying?"

  "Nothing," Bray retorts, walking on.

  As they resume bantering, I lose focus again. A whiff of acetone lingers in my nose and on my tongue. Hatef
ul, stinging tears flood my eyes. I clench my jaw, and try to banish all thoughts of Amharr. Try my best to will him into oblivion.

  I'm here, with Bray and Jade. Just the three of us. On a human colony world. This is my reality, even if it sucks. And he has no place in it.

  -

  San Gabriel's tilt keeps the mountain range bathed in orange twilight, casting an eerie haze over the port. Only a few drones are out. I can hear a siren in the distance, but it's too far away to matter. The bar is the second to last building at the end of a long array of storage halls, hangars, containers, and occasional cargo ship carcasses. Salute glows in violet neon letters above a double door with smoked plexiglass panes. No bouncers, no queue of waiting customers, not even rodents scouring around the garbage cans. The place looks deserted.

  "Glamorous," Jade says.

  "Should we wait for Costa?" I look back down the empty street. The cool air creeps into my overall and crawls along my skin, making me shiver.

  "Let's go in," Bray says, and sticks his hands deep in his pockets.

  The door bursts open and a hairy, sweaty beast of a man stumbles out and totters away. He heads toward the last building of the cul-de-sac, a decrepit and rust-eaten pile of containers and metal panes.

  Bray shrugs and walks into the bar. We follow reluctantly.

  The place is dim and cramped. Decades of vapors and foul exhalations hang in the air. There's three connected rooms, each outfitted with tired-looking men and women on stools around small tables, all rumbling, smoking, drinking.

  The middle room, the largest of the three yet still deeply claustrophobic, has a spotlit bar overhung with upturned glasses and bottles. A scrawny, middle-aged woman with short-cropped hair tends it, hunched over a beverage dispenser, chatting with a man seated before her.

  We head toward the rail, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. It's obvious we don't fit in. Similar overalls aside, we're too young, too well-fed, and too perky. We don't have the gloomy local vibe.

  Bray sits at the bar and runs his hands through his mohawk. Even his haircut screams off-worlder. Jade plunks down next to him, arms crossed on the scratched metal bartop. I straddle a rickety stool and inspect the glassware hanging over us.

  The bartender slides over to us. "Your order?"

  "We're waiting for the Sarge," Bray says. "We'll order then."

  The bartender looks him over. "Suit yourself," she tosses over her shoulder, walking back to her other customer: "Sarge doesn't normally come in Tuesdays."

  "We have a date," Jade says. "He'll be here."

  The bartender shrugs, and busies herself mixing a drink.

  I scope the bar as inconspicuously as I can manage. There's maybe twenty-five people in this room alone. Their voices and clinking glasses melt into low background noise. Most of them are at least a couple of decades older than us, some old enough to be my grandparents. Dirty boots, worn-out overalls, callused fingers and glum faces, pooling around us.

  Jade nudges me to look to our left. A bald man, in black denim pants and a gray sweatshirt, sits alone by the wall. He turns a whiskey glass between his fingers, staring at the swirling golden liquid. The light in here turns everything sepia, like wax melting over people's faces, transforming their expressions. But I still recognize the distinctive mark on his face. The deep jagged scar that must have torn through skin and muscle and cut into bone. The trace of a Dorylini mandible.

  I gnash my teeth. There's only one sort of man that lived to carry that mark away from Maza.

  Jade grabs my arm, locks eyes with me and shakes his head. I press my lips together.

  "Let's get something to drink," Bray says. "I'm thirsty." He waves at the bartender. She's in no hurry to serve us.

  "So..." he taps his fingers on the bar top. "You two've known each other since you were kids, right?" I nod. "Stayed in touch?"

  "Not really," Jade says. Then shouts at the bartender: "Hey! Order." The woman ignores him.

  "Why not?" Bray asks. "You seem close enough."

  "We're not," I say absently, staring at the scarred man over my shoulder. He takes a slow sip from his drink.

  "We didn't use to be," Jade corrects me. "But now that we're pretty much stuck here together—" He shrugs.

  "I didn't realize you two were—"

  "We're not," I say.

  Bray nods, thoughtful. I look away. Can't keep my eyes off the old soldier.

  The bartender finally takes our order, pours us three beers, and leaves down the rail again. I take a sip, gag on the bitter piss, and set the glass down.

  Bray takes a few swigs, looking at me from the corner of his eye. "I take it you're not seeing anyone, then?"

  "I see a lot of people, Bray. The problem is they don't see me."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Exactly."

  He gives up. Maybe I'm not making a whole lot of sense. Or maybe Bray's just really not my type. Maybe it's because I can't take my eyes off the vet nursing his drink.

  "You're a tough nut to crack," Bray prods. Chuckles. "Been around aliens too long."

  "Fuck off," I snap, louder than I'd intended. People are looking at us now.

  "Hey," Jade whispers. "Let's not make a scene."

  "I'll save you the trouble." I get off my stool. "I'm going back to the ship."

  "Of course you are," Bray mutters into his beer.

  I don't answer as I stalk past them, past patrons, and past the scarred man looking up from his whiskey glass. Our eyes meet and he flexes his jaw, tensing the scar tissue on his cheek.

  It's like I'm watching myself from a vast distance as I lean across the table and smack the glass out of his hand. It shatters against the floor and I hear Jade's soft "Aw, fuck," in the sudden silence of the bar.

  My heart hammers in my ears. Blood rushes to my face—feels like being on fire.

  "Heartless butcher," I growl at him, clenching my fists.

  His eyes darken and he shoots up, rough hands flat on the table. "What did you call me?"

  Jade grabs my arm and hauls me back. "Sorry. She mistook you for someone else. She's... not well."

  "Off-world skunk..." he mumbles. "Goddamn alien."

  Something inside me snaps and my fist flies toward his face. He dodges it reflexively, and grabs me by the jaw. I gasp for air.

  "Hey, stop it!" Jade yells. "Let her go."

  The vet shoves Jade away, staring at me with hatred blazing in his eyes.

  Bray grabs his shoulder and the vet turns—just as Bray hits him square in the jaw. I fall, clutching at my face.

  Several people close in on us.

  The vet wipes his jaw and straightens up, fists knuckle-white. Bray cracks his shoulders. The shout of "What's going on here?" stops them both in their tracks.

  I turn and see Costa make his way through the gathered crowd, a scowl etched on his face. "Federico," he acknowledges the vet. "One too many drinks again?"

  The scarred man spits on the floor at Bray's feet. "Ya know these blow ins, Sarge?"

  "They're guests here," Costa says. "Leave 'em to me."

  The man snorts, throws me a look that tells me he's still considering cracking my skull against a wall, and shoves his way through the crowd and out of the bar.

  "Anyone want a fill-up?" the bartender shouts.

  The crowd mills and mumbles, dispersing. Most shake their heads at us. A few look ready to pick up where Federico left off.

  "We should leave," I say quietly.

  "It's safer in here, right now," Costa says. "Trust me."

  "I'll risk it."

  He shrugs, and sits on a bar stool. Bray joins him. The bartender's previous companion clutches a beer bottle, a predatory stare locked on Bray.

  "You should really stay put," Costa says tersely.

  "Sure you don't want to have another drink with us?" Jade asks.

  "I'm sure." Every single cell in my body is screaming at me to get out of this place.

  He looks as though he might come
with me. I scowl, and he gets it. I nod my good-byes and head out into the frigid air of the port.

  It takes a couple of steps for me to notice the group of armed officers coming my way. My heart kicks in my chest. They haven't seen me yet; maybe just coming to have a drink. But maybe Federico called in some friends.

  I pivot and head back, walking right past the bar. I don't want to feel people's eyes on my back all evening, or try to enjoy myself knowing that I owe Bray. My last option's the wreck at the end of the street.

  I squeeze in between two tilted metal planes into foul-smelling darkness, bumping into crates and stepping on things I don't want to think about. My eyes adapt to the muddy light, and I notice a pair of dirty feet stick out of a rag pile just before me. A woman lies there, covered in garbage, ass up, face hidden by flaxen hair.

  She stirs and scratches herself. I try to back away quietly but send an empty metal crate tumbling to the floor with a loud bang. She jolts upward and slaps the hair form her face, staring at me with bulging, bloodshot eyes.

  I've seen that look before. I recognize the crazed stare of a floathead trying to discern reality from madness. Beastly rage ignites in her eyes.

  Run!

  The woman lunges at me and I dart for the door, slamming up against the crates. Then I crash into the hairy man I saw tottering out of the bar a while ago.

  "Well, whattaya know," he grins down at me, blocking my way. "Christmas's early this year."

  I try to duck past him, but he's strong and drunk, and doesn't hesitate: He puts me in a headlock and shoves his other hand between my legs. Then he heaves me up and throws me onto the pile of musty rags the woman crawled out of.

  I stagger up, shedding garbage, and make for the door. His fist thunders down on my jaw. I sprawl back into a crate and he rams his forearm up into my throat. I bite my tongue and choke, trying to wriggle free, but I can't.

  He grabs hold of my overall and tears it open. Spittle drips down his chin as he inspects my body. I lift my knee to push him off, but he's quicker and stronger. He knocks my knee aside and wedges his legs between mine, crushing me against the crate with his body.

  "You're damn fit, eh?" He bares his teeth. "You'll make a fine body for my Stella, ain't that right?" The woman cackles and cheers him on.