I pick it up between my fingers. Bend forward and pull the hair away from the back of my neck. Then place the tissue on my skin as gently as possible.
I can hardly feel it except for the slight chill. It quickly takes on my body temperature and then I can't feel it at all. I start to count in my mind, afraid to straighten up and have it fall off and get damaged. When I get to twenty, I tap it gently with the tip of a finger. I can't feel it.
Two fingers. Rubbing. There's nothing.
"Has it worked?"
"Perfectly. You have a very interesting brain, Taryn."
"Weird thing to say."
"We're weird people, you and I."
"Guess so." I place the empty case on the tray, and walk out into the hallway. I stop with my hand on the door handle. "You won't sell me out to the Ticks, right?"
"There's nothing they can offer that will tempt me."
I nod, fighting the impression that I've sold my soul to the devil. Except, I already did that a while ago.
The door closes behind me with a heavy clank. I walk slowly down the street as if I'm swimming through a thick, gooey liquid. Background noises hardly push into my awareness. I hear people talking, someone calling out. I stumble into the intersection and someone cuts me off.
"I'm talking to you, ma'am." A Tick—a tall woman with straight black hair and red-tattooed eyebrows. She holds up a scanner and aims it at my face. The device beeps twice, she frowns, and her gaze fixes on mine. "You need to come with me, ma'am."
What the fuck? Has she been waiting for me out here?
"No thanks, I'm fine." I free my arm and give her a quick smile. Then I start walking toward the bridge.
She pulls my shoulder back. "Ma'am, follow me, please." Her tone is resolute.
"What for?"
"My scanner can't confirm your identification. It's probably just a glitch or missing update, nothing to worry about. If you would follow me to the tower up-street, I'm sure we can clear this up in no time."
Hell no!
"I'm sorry, but I have to be somewhere," I say clumsily. My pulse picks up speed.
She gives me a tired look, and touches her holstered weapon. I step away from her, backing into the open street. "Ma'am, you need to comply." She advances toward me.
I turn around and run straight out. Skid over the riverbank and dart across the frozen river.
"Stop!"
Something stabs me between my shoulder blades. Pain detonates inside my spine and my muscles convulse. I fall flat on my face on the smoking, toxic ice. My teeth are clenched and my eyes flooded with sparks. Within a couple of seconds the pain subsides, and my muscles respond again. I scramble to my feet, jittery and tense.
Hands grab me, one by my shoulder, one by my hair.
I twist around and slap the woman right across her eyes. It takes her just a second to react, but I'm already pushing away from her, crawling backwards on my elbows and heels. I twist around, jump up, and make a break for it.
Another electro-shot hits me in the small of the back, sending lightning bolts through my nerves. I lose orientation for a second, catch myself as I start to fall, and keep running. I'm almost on the other side. Almost in the crowd. Almost free.
A dull, hard pain hits my right thigh. She's switched weapons. I stumble up the riverbank, staggering as I regain my pace, and run into the boulevard as fast as I can. I take the first alley right, turn left into a street, then right again, zigzagging my way back to the apartment. I keep looking back, but no one's following me. Even if they did, I wouldn't stop.
I reach our street and burst into the building, hitting doorframe after doorframe until I slam into the elevator. Panting and drenched in sweat, I drop into the safe levels below.
My leg is bleeding heavily, making a small puddle on the floor.
The elevator doors slide open and I hobble down the hallway and into our apartment, ignore Bob & Rob's stares, and head straight for the bathroom.
I'm shot. Kinetic projectile, medium caliber, buried deep in my muscle. I was electro-shot twice. How the hell did I keep running?
I take off my bloody overall and step into the shower. Hot water runs down my back and legs, dilutes the dark red into a rosy pink, and spirals down the drain. I inspect my wound beneath the streaks of water.
Nothing. I feel nothing. No pain, no change, nothing but the liquid heat of water mixing with the icy rush of realization that I'm okay. I'm not an ordinary person anymore, not my old self. All that's gone now. I'm the unlikely proxy of a powerful alien warlord. Capable of destroying technology with a touch of my hand; capable of outlasting electro-shots and taking bullets without blinking an eye. I'm a goddamn superhero—without the noble cause.
I should try to save humanity from the Ascendancy's containment, but I'm not deluded enough to think I can. All I can do is limit the damage, and stop assholes like Preston from fucking things up even more. But first, I need to get this new 'power' of mine under control as much as possible. No use in carrying a loaded weapon if you can't aim it right.
30
Everything is vibrant in Taryn's eyes. Reality is palpable, her feelings are universal, and death is nothing but a distant chimera. She has no grasp of the truth.
Amharr writhes in his nest, unable to stay awake, unable to rest. He's caught between two worlds, struggling to regain his balance. His strength is waning. Her perspective has melted into his, and now he can't escape her. He hates what the link is doing to him; hates what he feels when he indulges it; hates himself for wanting to keep indulging.
The link will ruin them both. The Raimerians will not take kindly to it. It's only a matter of time until they become aware of his tolerance of the intolerant—a deconstructive neophyte species within their Helix. And it really is their Helix. It has been for countless eons, since before his species even burrowed its way out of the ground of his homeworld.
The Raimerians are endless, uncaring beings, similar to what the humans call gods or creatures of myth. Except they're real and much more powerful than the humans imagine. When they decide something is unacceptable, it loses all chance to exist, be it this link, their lives, or their entire species.
Taryn doesn't understand this. To her, everything is an adventure with the potential to be outlived, even this link. She has no grasp of the truth, and her naivety is maddening.
Amharr drifts in a sea of her scent and voice, filled with intoxicating playfulness. Seemingly endless time passes before he can shake free of her presence and return to his duties.
The wall of his quarters, however, doesn't react to his call for exit. It won't let him through. Amharr places both hands on the soft samyth, willing it to open, but nothing happens. This is outrageous! Is he to lose control of everything?
He growls, fires up his nanites and tears the samyth open with a forceful rip. He steps out into the corridor and marches on, shuddering with frustration and anger.
The moment he enters the Undawan's crux, an Onryss approaches him. Its surface ripples slightly as an inaudible conversation happens between them. Amharr walks around his command console, listening to its report. The Onryss backs away, and he rams his fist into the crescent. Sparks fly up and rain back down on him.
His First Commander glares over his shoulder. He looks away the second Amharr notices.
A human ship has approached and contacted the Undawan while he was indulging in the link. Contacted!
The First Commander places his hand on one of the intact sensor nubs. "Interpretation of radiation and radio bursts was successful."
"Render it," Amharr orders.
A low vibration quivers through the floor of the crux, tingling Amharr's feet. A human voice speaks up in the same language as Taryn.
"To the unidentified vessel infringing on Confederacy territory: This is Trust Military Corps Commander Jackson of the tactical ship Ceti Falcon Thirteen. This is a direct request. Stop your advance immediately and state your intentions. I repeat, stop your advance. State your int
entions."
Amharr balls his fists.
How has this happened? Has the Undawan been drifting? Has it ventured deeper into human territory without him willing it? Or has he unconsciously pushed it further in?
Why isn't it cloaked anymore? Why doesn't it do what it's supposed to? It should have avoided contact automatically.
Amharr tries to clear his mind and decide on an appropriate course of action. But his thoughts are a jumbled mess of yearnings he can no longer control. His whole body trembles with frustration.
The Undawan has been reacting very strangely to him lately. It started with the Onrysses flocking around him upon his return from the Totorkha hive. Then his own quarters denied him exit. Now the crescent's synaptic nubs don't acknowledge his touch anymore. That's probably why the Onryss had the First Commander waiting to assist him.
There is only one reasonable explanation: the vessel is resisting him.
"Dominant?" The First Commander stares expectantly at him. Amharr has the uncanny impression the brazen young Emranti can sense something isn't right with his Dominant. "Your orders?"
Amharr can't focus. He's lost inside his mind, among her thoughts and feelings, running away from a threat, being shot at, bleeding. Taryn is fine, she must be. He can't tolerate the thought of her being hurt.
"How many human vessels are we dealing with?" Gra'Ylgam asks from Amharr's shadow, where he's been standing quietly, as always of late.
The First Commander sizes him up with a disapproving look. He turns back to his controls, not dignifying the Kolsamal with an answer.
Amharr makes another attempt to gather his thoughts. Repeats Gra'Ylgam's question: "How many?"
"Thirty-four."
"All manned?"
"Yes."
"Armed?"
"Yes."
"Must I extract every piece of information from you piecemeal?" Amharr snaps.
"A single warship carrying thirty-three attack vessels, with a total of one hundred fifty-seven humans aboard," the First Commander rushes. "They're armed with various kinetic, explosive, and radiative weapons. But even their combined capacity is negligible. The threat doesn't lie in their ability to damage us, but to disclose our presence, Dominant. They currently maintain position just within our weapon range, obviously unaware. Repeating their message at random intervals."
"Survey them passively," Amharr says. He looks down at the shattered crescent as if seeing it for the first time. He steps away from it and goes to stand beside Gra'Ylgam.
The First Commander grimaces, but says nothing. "Am I to retaliate if they attack, Dominant?"
"You wait for my orders."
"Understood."
Amharr turns toward the wall, but it remains closed. Gra'Ylgam notices and quickly reaches forth, prompting the samyth to open. Amharr hurries out with the Kolsamal close behind.
He takes several steps, then snaps around, stares accusingly at Gra'Ylgam, turns around again and walks a bit more. Then stops and balls his fists, shuddering from head to toe. The floor stretching out before him is smooth and impassible, oblivious to his effort to remain standing on it. The texture of the samyth beneath him feels porous, like a sea of tiny gaping mouths. It takes him consistently more willpower to keep from slipping right through it.
"No improvement?" Gra'Ylgam asks.
Amharr turns and looks at him. "No... None at all."
"Can I help? I will do all I am capable of."
"I know."
"The First Commander's suspicions are of no importance. He will not act against you."
"I know."
"The mutinous Kolsamal are still hesitant. My efforts to sway them have not lessened."
Amharr lowers his gaze. "I know."
Gra'Ylgam smacks his jaws loudly, and Amharr cringes. His spine has tensed beyond discomfort, burning inside his body like a glowing metal rod.
Gra'Ylgam takes a few cautious steps toward him. "The humans have not called for reinforcements yet, so I presume they have not understood what they face."
"They do not matter."
"You have to decide their fate nonetheless," Gra'Ylgam says grimly.
Amharr looks into his small, green eyes. "No matter which action I take, the outcome will be the same: death."
"You will order their containment?"
Amharr stares at the treacherous floor. "The Raimerians will not tolerate this questionable species, or my behavior towards it. Sooner or later, we'll all die on their order. There's no point trying to interfere."
"True for countless species before," Gra'Ylgam concedes. "Though perhaps not so for the Emranti or the Ilkryp, who carry out the Raimerians' orders. But true for all others, yes. Yet it need not remain this way."
Amharr inspects him closely, and for a moment—for the briefest of moments—the Kolsamal's placid face almost soothes him. But the chaos within him regains the upper hand. "I have contained many dangerous species before. I never doubted the contribution that brings to the Ascendancy's prosperity. I've always believed in the supremacy of the Raimerians' principles, even to the detriment of individual cultures."
"Do you doubt them now?"
"I understand now that it isn't a matter of belief." Amharr studies the traces of pain showing on the Kolsamal's face. "No matter if a species is contained or admitted, its existence is eventually assimilated by the Raimerians. We are all of us nothing but witnesses; not even tools. Our contribution, either way, is insignificant."
"I do not understand." Gra'Ylgam is tense now.
"The Raimerians don't multiply or evolve. They grow." Amharr approaches the Kolsamal, his muscles and tendons nearing their turning point. "They will continue to grow regardless of what happens around them. At the end of any string of actions the threat to the Ascendancy will have been lessened, and the Raimerians will have grown. There is no use in trying to direct or change their path; no use in taking any action about the humans either. They will be consumed either way. Their lives, as well as mine, will contribute to the Raimerians' growth just the same."
"This is nonsensical."
Amharr blinks in disbelief.
"The future heads wherever it may," Gra'Ylgam says. "But the only reality is this moment. The only truth that exists is immediacy, your presence and mine in this place, in this time, in this form."
"Kolsamal philosophy," Amharr says dismissively. "It lacks foresight. One of the many reasons your society was denied continuity."
"The Emranti philosophy of ever-spanning energy, in all its elegance, is worse still. It lacks focus."
"You don't understand the—"
"I understand," Gra'Ylgam interrupts. "It's much easier to contemplate the inevitability of things than to admit your resignation."
"I will not allow—"
"My race was butchered and enslaved despite our fierce resistance," Gra'Ylgam continues undeterred. "We have lived in your gutters and died on your orders for ninety generations. Still, we have never surrendered. Every new generation comes into being with the same irresistible drive to fight for its freedom. Even in the creases of our enemies' palm, in the bowels of their life-sucking vessels, we boil up with vengeance. Now, this very moment, below your feet, young Kolsamal prepare for battle, ready to carve their way out of this beast of a vessel even if it kills every last one of them. But you—your species, your ancient, mighty species—you just gave in."
Amharr glares at him, bristling with rage.
"You stand here before me," Gra'Ylgam continues, "claiming to understand where your existence is heading, believing to know how everything will end. Your understanding is nothing but capitulation. You rationalize defeat before you even attempt to fight."
"Fight what?" Amharr thunders, towering over him. "The Ascendancy? The Raimerians themselves?"
"Your fear! Start by fighting your own fear."
"You know nothing of my fear."
"I do know. I know you have become afraid of yourself. For the first time in your extensive, empty life, you have
strayed from the path you walk—the only path the Raimerians have allowed you. You experience something no other Emranti ever has, and you fear what it stirs within you. You fear to stand on your own. You fear to be different, to be the first to break free."
Painful vibrations run through Amharr's body, setting all his nerves aglow.
"You are changing," Gra'Ylgam says. "You feel it every time you close your eyes. But you cannot accept the freedom it brings you. You have forgotten what that even means."
"You're wrong," Amharr answers. "There's no freedom in this, only madness."
"The loss of old limits is always maddening, at first."
"You are wrong."
"You can't recognize what you've never known. But I know. I remember. Every Kolsamal remembers."
"No."
A powerful shudder floods Amharr. The nanites coursing through his nervous system ignite with furious frenzy. His vertebrae burst open, ridging his spine and venting overexcited plasma. Electric arcs and brilliant white flames lick his skin. They blaze up around him, funneling violently toward the ceiling.
Gra'Ylgam's autotroph coating begins to singe. He tenses up and cringes, but doesn't step back. "It may not have mattered to you before," he growls, fighting the pain of being burned alive. "Serving the Raimerians, finding them new feeding grounds, allowing them to consume world after world after world. All you've ever known is death, and you accepted it. But now it matters to you that the human lives. You care about another life, and that brings you freedom."
Amharr's skin is whipped by currents, his core a brilliant spire of painful light. He bursts repeatedly with uncontrolled surges, until his destructive energy reduces him to a smoldering, quivering bundle of misery.
He recollects himself, rebuilds his skin and clears his senses, and looks at the mangled Kolsamal standing before him. Gra'Ylgam quakes from head to toe, hanging on to life with every cell in his body, gaze still locked on Amharr's. The coating on his skin has died in hellish plasma flames. The wound covers him completely. Pain distorts his face.
The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) Page 23
