"State your purpose in Piazza Del Sapere," the bot drones.
Bray grins at the hovering machine. Then bolts up the street toward the second bridge, sprinting for the boulevard.
The bot bursts into an earsplitting alarm and strobe lights, and gives chase.
Bray's heavy boots hammer on the concrete. He won't make it into traffic before the bot catches up, so he dives into an alley between two buildings. It's so narrow both his shoulders scrape along the walls. The bot pursues him, alarm blaring, strobe washing him in unnatural white. His vision flashes painfully each time he looks back.
He escapes into another street and heads for the next passage, then out into the boulevard. There are people on the sidewalk, staring at him as he slows down into a jog, constantly looking over his shoulder. The bot hasn't followed him out here. The boulevard must be out of its territory.
Bray slows down into a walk, panting and sweating despite the evening chill. He worries the sentinel operating the tower back in the Piazza managed to catch a glimpse of him. He checks the local datasphere for an arrest warrant on his fake name, but nothing shows up. Maybe a trespass isn't enough to warrant an arrest, but it sure gets him noticed. Fuck.
This is the worst job he's had in the past three years. If Taryn hadn't fucked up the contact mission, he'd be out there in space right now, free to do whatever he liked.
No, not really. He'd still be doing what Preston wants. He owes the old bastard too much. He'd probably be dealing with those alien freaks, too.
At least he doesn't have to play watchdog for that little beast of a woman. He's by himself now. While she's doing fuck-knows-what with Jade. How fucking great is that.
-
As the evening nears, Bray's no longer comfortable in his mine-worker cover. What could he come up with if an actual sentinel stops him for questioning? That he's out for a new job to better his career? He'd give anything to just vanish into thin air and pop up at the other end of the galaxy, somewhere without errands to run for old begrudging bastards, and where crazy girls can't pollute his mind.
The few restaurants lining the boulevard aren't open yet. Some of their lights have come on, but the doors are all locked, their status lights still burning red. Bray checks his synet for alternatives. The city's public datasphere takes the opportunity to flood his brain with thousands of advertisements. He makes a mental note to ask Preston for a spam-filter upgrade, and wonders how his synet would fare in the event of a cyber-attack. The datasphere must be crawling with viruses and worms, and he's not had a full firewall upgrade in three years. Bray quickly disconnects from the datasphere, an imagined tingle crawling over his scalp.
Near the perpetually busy intersection, Bray finds a place that's open even this late. An expensive cocktail bar named Voluttà.
The semi-transparent door chimes delicately as he enters. He pretends not to look around like a newcomer, but can't help absorbing the beauty of the place. The walls and floor are tiled with real granite, streaked with various colors, perfectly polished. Most likely imported. A bar runs along the right wall, shaped like some gigantic abstract banana, carved out of what Bray refuses to believe is real, cream-colored marble. A dozen fancy coffee tables sculpted in brass and actual wood cluster against the opposite wall, occupied by eight people of various kinds, all sipping their real fruit cocktails. Two of them are TMC lieutenants, talking to each other in hushed voices, barely audible over the eerie instrumental background music.
The bartender wears a black suit and bow, a silk replica judging by its sheen. He nods courteously at Bray, gaze appraising him in the blink of an eye. Bray returns a quick smile and takes a seat as far away from the Ticks as possible. Luckily, they pay him no mind.
The table has an embedded interactive menu shaped like a pineapple. Bray pretends to consider his choice, while he glares at the prices and wonders what world the ingredients must have been imported from to warrant those sums. He eventually orders a Barking Spider with an extra shot of blood-orange juice. He watches the bartender perform his little circus act as he mixes the ingredients.
The price of the cocktail keeps spinning in his mind. What the hell, the doc can afford it, Bray decides. After all, he deserves a little treat since he's not getting any freakin' break.
While he waits for the bartender's grand finale, he scans the room from the protective shadow of his cap. The lieutenants are whispering energetically to each other, completely oblivious of their surroundings. There's a lady with her preteen daughter, both wearing identical dresses and ridiculous hats topped with exotic grasses, with holographic butterflies fluttering around them. Maybe the upper class dame is waiting for her partner to escape the late shift in one of the fancier labs. Do scientists really earn that much? Maybe he should've stayed with Nugh and let him pay for school, find him a job... Maybe he would've had a pretty little daughter, too. If he'd found the right girl, and if Nugh wouldn't have raped him to death in one of his drunken fits of passion. However, if he hadn't killed Nugh and gotten picked up by Preston, he wouldn't have met...
He grunts and shakes his head. The bartender serves him a colorful glass with a slice of blood orange lodged on its sugar-coated rim. Bray glances up.
"Bon appettit!" The bartender smiles dryly, and returns to the bar.
Bray carefully takes a sip. It tastes like crushed rainbows and pulpy sunshine, tickling his tongue and making his mouth water in delicious pain. He peers at the others sheepishly, as if he's doing something forbidden. He takes another careful sip, savoring every drop that rolls over his tongue. He lingers over every sip for as long as he can, delaying the inevitable end of his enjoyment.
The data package he's downloaded from Cris almost makes his wrist itch. What's the deal with that freak? Why didn't he show his face? And why's the package so large? What's in it—databases, malware, weapon schematics?
Bray stares at the sinful drink making the glass sweat between his fingers, and plays a little more with the liquid temptation. He rescues the slice of blood orange from the brim of the glass, and sucks at it carefully.
Whatever he downloaded, it must be important, maybe even enough to force the guy into hiding. How deep is Preston really sinking him? He accesses the data package, no longer able to resist his curiosity. It's encrypted. Of course.
Bray empties his glass with a last sip, and stands up.
"Sir?" The bartender spreads his hands on the counter top, looking intently at him.
Damn. "One moment, please."
Bray quickly checks the account information Preston's given him for emergency expenses, and activates the debit port. The interactive table displays a six-digit alphanumeric product code in glowing red letters. He taps it into his nacom, smiles self-assuredly, and walks over to the bar.
The bartender scans his wrist with a small handheld. Bray gives the two TMC lieutenants a last sideway glance. They're still oblivious of him, now quietly staring into their half-empty glasses. He's about to step outside, when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder.
In a decade-old reflex, he darts forward and bolts into the street. He steals a glance behind, and sees the bartender grimace fiercely half a step behind him. The man grabs him by the overall and pulls him back and sideways, slamming him against the wall.
Bray pushes off with both hands, spins and kicks him in the thigh. He only makes it a couple of steps away before that heavy hand thunders against his ear and slaps him around the corner of the building into a side-alley.
Bray catches himself quickly. Unfortunately, so does the bartender. The surprisingly athletic man kicks him right in the small of his back, knocking him to the ground.
Bray flips around and crosses his arms over his face. The bartender kicks him in the stomach instead. He curls into a fetal position, coughing painfully.
"I hate scum like you," the bartender says. "Think you can fool me with a fake account, you piece of shit?"
Bray wraps his arms around his bruised stomach. Fuck Preston and his goddamn
hacks. And fuck Taryn too. She should've been here to code that damn account properly. Then he wouldn't be getting his fucking guts kicked in right now.
"You're lucky I'm feeling all nice and friendly today," the bartender says. "Next time I'll crush you like the filthy shit-worm you are. Click that?"
"Won't happen again," Bray huffs. He turns over, knees bent uselessly against the pain.
The bartender straightens his bowtie and suit, and sticks his hands in his pockets. "You should thank me for not having those Ticks arrest you."
"Thanks," Bray groans. And means it.
The bartender spits in Bray's face, and walks away.
24
Jade hasn't said a single word to me since we dropped out of FTL. I'm not sure how much of his silence is worry and how much is anger, but I'm not in the position to pester him about it. I'm thankful he waited for me—probably hoping I'd change my mind, even though it now means I'm flying back to San Gabriel and Preston and all.
My fugue was much milder this time. It's as though a new strength has grown within me. A sober, implacable strength that protects me from the nightmares of my past. It's not my own strength, it's Amharr's. And that's what's bugging me. What else did he change? Am I still myself?
The old me would have never accepted help from a mass murderer. Especially when that 'help' is a perverted form of self-preservation that involves killing my alien family, destroying my home, and throwing me to the bottom of the human pecking order by wrecking my wetware. Yet I can't deny I'm somehow glad he did it, which fills me with guilt and all sorts of conflicted feelings. He even almost made me feel...
A chill runs down my back. I can't believe we've switched from loathing to almost...
No.
I should stop thinking of him. I can't even grieve for the Dorylinae properly, for my childhood friends and alien sister. All I can think of instead is his ravenous hunger... that craving...
No!
He's a soulless monster, completely oblivious of others' lives. If he wouldn't become traumatized—or whatever he thinks will happen if our connection gets cut—he'd have killed me long ago. He only set me free for his own wellbeing. I must hold on to that.
Jade flies the Transiter through one of Erano's cargo port entry points and carefully maneuvers it into that rustbucket of a ship's open bay. When we get out it's obvious pretty quickly that the port's respectable denizens have raided Preston's ship to the bone. Panels are ripped out of the walls, quarters are trashed, and the storage crates are smashed, shot open, or completely missing.
Jade closes the bay gate to secure the Transiter, still not saying a word to me. Then we head toward the Cargo Distribution and Administration Center, looking for Sergeant Costa.
The Center teems with people. As I check one of the large monitors suspended above the hall, I realize we landed square in the middle of the afternoon shift. Jade walks up to the next best guy, and asks to see the Sarge. The man hesitates, inspecting us top to bottom, then points us toward the back of the Center.
We make our way through the bustle and come to a small center wrapped in plexiglass panels. The door slides open and we enter a crowded waiting room. The ceiling is nothing but a muffle-zone forcefield that keeps out the external noise. The room is lined with plastic benches and a few booths, all clearly meant to shut out noise, not vision. A good thirty people already wait inside.
I notice Sergeant Costa coming toward us with a stack of flexpads, stopping to shake several hands before he finally faces us with a wide grin.
"Well how about that," he says. "The two Musketeers."
I cross my hands on my chest.
Costa shakes his head and walks back to his little plexiglass office. Five other officers are there, pushing papers and flexpads out through wickets to the waiting people. Several complain that we're defying the queue.
"We need to get into Erano," Jade says.
"Well, it's not gonna be easy. But I'll see what I can do."
"Have the riots in D2 ended?" I ask.
He grins at me over his shoulder. "They never do, sweetheart. But don't worry, I'll see to it you're safely delivered."
"Thanks," Jade says.
"Now why don't you wait out there, eh?" He gestures at the crowd behind us. "I'll try to contact Preston for you." He pushes a couple of loudly complaining workers aside, and slides the transparent door closed in their faces.
Jade and I find a place to sit on a plastic bench—easier than expected since most people stood up to grouch and claim their papers the moment Costa got out. I can see him stand there, grinning, nibbling at a sandwich and chatting with his colleagues, not once trying to call somebody.
My palms are itching. I rub them insistently against my knees.
Jade is sitting next to me, legs stretched out. I stretch my legs out too, frowning at my frost-damaged boots. They look strangely distant to me, as if they're a projection and I'm not really sitting here at all.
"I wonder if they know," Jade muses, his voice masked by the overall cacophony.
"What do you mean?"
"The Ticks, about the attack on the hive."
I shrug. I stare at Costa having a merry time, wishing my eyes could burn a hole through the plexiglass and straight into his greasy forehead.
"They must have surveillance drones around Maza, right? The TMC wouldn't just leave aliens unsupervised in human space. Wonder if news already got to the high ranks."
"I don't know, Jade. I don't care."
"Seriously?" He turns toward me. "That's like a declaration of war. That alien just attacked Trust property, in Trust space. Think the TMC's just gonna let it slide?"
"Maza finally got wiped clean without them having to spend a single credit. Of course they will. They tried to damage the Master Hive for weeks, not making a dent. Now someone else did it for them. Case closed." My palms are burning now.
"You forgotten how xenophobic they are?" Jade's voice echoes in my ears. "They're gonna see red when they find out about this. Probably track us back here and pluck us off this rock one by one. All because of that fucking alien!"
"Be quiet. People are staring."
Jade rubbernecks to check and at least five people avert their faces. "Whatcha looking at, dipshits? Mind your own crap." I chuckle. Jade snaps his head around and huffs at me. "You think it's funny?"
"Not really." I'm laughing anyway. I sigh and lean my head against his shoulder. He freezes. He slowly leans his head against mine and lifts a hand to stroke my face, but doesn't. He rests it on his knee, almost touching mine. His shoulder heaves softly with every breath, and his heart beats through the veins on his forearm. He's full of life, even when he stands still—afraid to move and startle me out of my closeness. He's a living being: a human, just like me. We're both people, friends, and we're close.
Except I don't feel close to anything anymore. Not since I've had to revise my understanding of close.
"He really got to you, didn't he?"
I stand up, refusing to look at Jade. I walk up to the plexiglass door of Costa's office, and grab the lock. It stings my palm and I jerk my hand back. A tiny thread of smoke snakes out of the lock. I clench my fist to stifle the stings, press my other hand against the door and slide it open.
Costa and a couple other guys stare at me. One even tells me to wait in line. Another swears he's locked the door and bitches about the shitty security system. The little office reeks of old sweat and moldy food. And I swear someone farted two seconds ago.
"Didn't get through, miss," Costa says. He takes another bite of his sandwich.
"Bullshit."
He swallows and throws the rest into a bin. He spins around with his chair and gives me a sleazy look that just begs for a punch. "Think you're gonna have to wait 'til tomorrow. Don't worry, I've got a nice place for you to stay."
"Not interested."
"You sure? I've got expensive sheets and VR perks, imported straight from Alpha. Off the record, of course."
"N
ot in this life, Sarge."
He narrows his eyes. "Too bad. Well, let me check things again." He turns the chair around and taps lazily on his computer. "There's something in one of the tubes for you. Want to get it now?"
"No, I think I'll come back next week," I snark.
One of his colleagues chuckles. Then looks away when I glance at him.
"Fine, I'll get it for you." Costa stands up. There's a set of opaque transport tubes dropping in from a complex lattice hanging overhead. A pressurized package-distribution tube hisses open. Costa retrieves an aluminum box slightly bigger than my hand. "Doesn't say what to do with it."
"Give it to me."
There's that shifty glint in his eyes again. "Looks expensive to me. Sure you don't want an escort to Erano?"
"I'll manage."
He shrugs and hands me the box. "Suit yourself."
I slide the glass door open and walk back out to Jade. I sit on the plastic bench and open the box. It's a synet injector.
Jade groans. "Shit, I totally forgot about that."
"I didn't."
"What now, Bug-Nut? Did Preston leave a message or something?"
"Nope."
"Any ideas?"
I slap the box closed and slide it into my pocket. I'm done waiting for things to just shift in my favor. Time to do some shoving.
"Let's go, Jade. I'll inject it when we're in Erano, and hope it lasts long enough to get me through the filters." I open the main door, and the roar of hundreds of machines and people swallows us.
-
We find seats on a cargo train, doing our best to blend in with the natives. All the way to Erano I can feel the box hang heavy in my pocket. That synet won't last longer than five minutes. The sentinels will realize something's wrong if it malfunctions. Or if I start twitching and foaming at the mouth. But I have no choice.
San Gabriel's brown, permafrosted landscape whooshes past the wagon's window-strip. I begin to count the meteorite craters as we rush past, but I can't keep my focus.
The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) Page 18
