Mindlink (4 page)

A pair of aliens bookended her and grabbed her arms. Their
fingers bit into her flesh and she jerked away. “Hey. Try a little finesse, why
don’t you.”

Neither of them spoke and seized her again, tighter. She
planted her feet, only to be pulled off of them. The aliens dragged her toward
the hallway where everyone else had disappeared, twisting one of her ankles.
Pins and needle erupted all the way down her foot.

“Let go!” she demanded. “You can’t do this to me.”

They ignored her.

A flash from the second floor caught her attention. A uniformed
alien watched the ground floor proceedings from behind a glass wall.

Déjà vu, or something like a repressed memory, buzzed between
them as she locked gazes with the alien. A shiver rippled across her back.
Twice. Authority emanated from his rigid stance and he wore his uniform like an
extension of his skin. If he walked onto a set, everyone would snap to attention
in zero point four seconds—even the blasé production assistants.

Nobody had to tell her he was the one in charge.

Panels opened into the sterile hallway. It stretched beyond her
sight, seamlessly, the air more stale than eight hours into a flight to Monte
Carlo.

The Prozac twins halted and the pause allowed her to gain her
footing. Another panel flipped, and just as she was about to kick one of the
aliens, they guided her inside the small, gray room. So much for the hope of any
color. The panel closed, sealing in the three of them. More panels flipped and a
long, white table slid out.

Oh, now she got it. They expected her to go through some sort
of mandatory detox routine so they didn’t exchange deadly germs. She relaxed her
taut muscles and took a deep breath. So their cultures were different and they
needed some lessons on how to interact with humans.

She could teach them.

They tapped on the devices in their hands. Every alien carried
one, so it must be important. The whole idea here was to exchange knowledge and
what better way than to learn their technology. “What’s that thing you’re
tapping on?” she asked.

Nothing. Not even a flicker to show they’d heard her. Maybe
they didn’t speak English, but when she’d said—

With a muted buzz, skeletal arms with metal pinchers extended
from behind a panel and tore her clothes off. Every stitch, even the wig.
Painfully.

“Ow! What kind of party is this?” she demanded, rubbing a
chaffed arm. These aliens were uncivilized. At least on the set, assistants
scheduled nude scenes with plenty of notice. “Give me my clothes back!”

The arm disappeared, clutching her tattered clothes. She worked
hard to stay a size two, and even an alien had to appreciate how good she looked
naked, but this wasn’t what she’d signed up for.

“I’m not kidding. Give me my clothes.” She’d be happy to never
see that drab suit again but the room was frigid and the jacket pocket held her
lucky lipstick case. Lucky and irreplaceable.

The aliens ignored her and dragged her to the table, then
lifted her onto it with iron-hard hands. Clamps shot out and pinned her against
the table.

She was trapped.

“Hey! Get these off me.” She flexed her chest and wiggled her
legs but the clamps didn’t budge. The metal was cold, so cold, and burned into
her flesh.

What happened to the intergalactic summit between species she’d
been promised? Earth had sent its most respected scientists to this planet and
this was how they were treated? A lead role was
so
not worth it. The Academy could keep the Oscar. She wanted off this table, out
of this claustrophobic room and away from this alien insanity. “I want to see
your boss. Right now. This can’t be the welcome your leaders approved.”

One of the aliens approached her with something in his hand. A
long, skinny stick cased in slick, white material. Without warning, he shoved it
up her nose. Her
nose
.

Reflexively, she tried to swing her arm up to pull it out, but
the table held her captive. The stick beeped as she started coughing.

Erratic heartbeats pounded against her ribcage, hard enough to
feel. Her nostril stung from being stretched and tears of panic blurred both
eyes.

The stick lengthened and crawled up into her sinuses,
slithering around in her head. Aching cold engulfed her. She was trapped. Pinned
like a seventh-grade science project. These aliens had no idea who they were
dealing with. Obviously. This could
not
be
happening.

Tears dribbled into her hair. “What is that thing?” She choked
on the last syllable as bile burned up her esophagus. But still, they didn’t
speak.

Unbearable, piercing pain stabbed at the backs of her eyes. She
cried out and twisted against the hard restraints in uncontrolled spasms. With a
tug, the alien removed the white stick from her nose.

The stick disappeared, but the thing in her head stayed. It
moved
. Frigid tentacles slid around in her
brain, worming through tissue with sickening squelches she could feel and hear
simultaneously.

It was alive. And it was inside her.

Screams echoed through her head. Scraped past her raw throat.
Her hands clawed at the clamps. The alien thing in her skull couldn’t be there.
It couldn’t stay.

But it was.

Would it kill her? Carve up her brain with finely honed
blades?

A panel in the ceiling flipped and another skeletal arm
descended. More? Shoving foreign stuff into her body and letting it creep around
in her brain wasn’t enough? She shrieked as it whirred toward her.

A probe touched her forehead, between her eyebrows.

Click
.
Click
-
click
.

Images flashed through her head, of the pyramid at the other
end of the hall, of the other people on the list. Schematic diagrams she’d
copiously studied to become a scientist. Her mom, smiling, and telling Ashley
she’d be an Academy Award nominated actress soon...

What
?

More images flashed—faster and sharper—of reams of text from
her papers on thermodynamics...

Dr. Khan saying, “...equilibrate in an isolated physical system
so as to result...”

Senator Blanchard’s pasty white thighs... The front page of
Star
, with a spread of her passed out in a
club... Her manager telling her she’d been replaced in
Coyote
Princess
...

All of her worst moments, and then some, flashed by like street
signs at ninety.

The orange couch burst into her mind. That awful orange.
Orange, and flashes of a male leg, a male hand. Sick waves rolled through her
stomach as the shame and humiliation gnawed through her all over again. Slick
with sweat now, she tried to block the memories but they came back, almost as if
pulled by an unseen force.

Terror numbed her legs, her throat. She couldn’t swallow. Both
eye sockets burned but no tears formed. Orange flooded through her mind,
churning her insides. More bile crawled up her throat, nasty and bitter.

She longed to hold her lipstick case. The hard, solid shape
never failed to center her. Losing that last link with home broke open a torrent
of tears.

She was going to die here, alone. Killed in cold blood by the
alien octopus implanted inside her skull. She would die without fixing her
career. Die without ever falling in love, the real kind of love, like in the
movies. What happened when you died? Did it hurt? Nothing could hurt worse than
the shredder the aliens had set loose in her brain.

If she died, none of her fans would know what happened.
Disappearing into this role hadn’t saved her after all. The aliens had stripped
away Dr. Jonsson and left Ashley V on the table. The final mistake in a long
line of bad decisions and even worse luck.

The already agonizing pain escalated. Images faded. New,
foreign ones took their place. Not memories. Mechanical parts, spinning in 3-D.
A complicated model of a machine rotated and reversed back. Formulas, but not
ones she’d studied. Kryptonite.

Wait, what?

Glowing green tubes flashed again, stacked into a pyramid on a
floating pallet. Oh, they were supposed to be stuck into the machine, on the
underside. But how did she know that? The concept just appeared, almost as a
memory, but she knew it was right.

How? Why?

Just
stop
,
already
.

Whatever the aliens’ goal, they were going about it the wrong
way. Blinding pain made it impossible to think. Ashley had plainly never given
her mom’s migraines enough sympathy.

Groaning, she shut her eyes, but it didn’t help. Being trapped
on the table wasn’t nearly as bad as being trapped in her own mind. Even on an
alien planet, she couldn’t escape her past. And she’d managed to run away to the
one place she couldn’t escape from herself either. No escape—a punishment for
not belonging.

The probe clicked a couple more times. Images from her real
memory began flashing again. Of her in costume on the set. Reading through a
revised script. Driving, dancing, taking a shower. Other mundane things. She
tried to think about purple cows to prove she could. The image appeared and was
promptly swept away.

But not by her. The octopus.

It was almost...rifling through her brain, like its slippery
tentacles selected and then discarded images. Every passing second, she became
more aware of the separation between her own conscious thoughts and the foreign
presence.

The probe retreated into the ceiling. The pain lessened to an
almost bearable level. Shuddering, she fixed her pupils on the closest alien.
“Let me go.”

Great, racking coughs followed her terse command, grinding her
ribs against the restraints. This alien planet was destroying her skin, and
David Renner would have a conniption when he saw the condition of his lead
actress. How long would it take for the bruises to fade? No makeup artist in the
world could cover all of them.

The alien’s mouth stretched into a thin, unhappy line as he
consulted the thingamajig in his hand. He loomed over her and his breath
whooshed across her face, warm and icky. Mating ritual? Dining ritual? She spit
at him, but missed. What she wouldn’t give for a tire iron to smash in his alien
head.

How dare he shove a jacked-up corkscrew into her nose and slice
up her brain like an amuse-bouche? Or put weird alien formulas in her mind. Or
whatever they’d done. Her memories belonged to
her
,
and only by not thinking about all the bad stuff in there could she get through
the day.

The cosmos had conspired to teach her a lesson and she got
it—she could run a kajillion miles but she could never truly be rid of the past,
no matter what, because the ugliness lived deep inside and was a part of
her.

The alien tapped some more on his device and spoke in a low
voice to the other one in an unrecognizable language. More tapping. The clamps
holding her hostage vanished.

Now was her chance. Someone around here was going to pay for
this. She poised to spring up, desperate to escape her captors. With or without
clothes.

Her vision went black.

Chapter Three

From the sanctuary of his office,
One
frowned over the reports streaming in from the various teams.
Little of it satisfied him. He tapped through the text and ignored the
escalating thump of his heart.

Not one team had produced results. The team processing the
expert in theology noted experiencing a rare issue with the implantation. He’d
never seen it happen during his tenure but a predecessor had documented a
similar incident where the implant fused incorrectly due to the Mora Tuwa’s
enlarged corpus callosum.

One
bit back an unprofessional
word. The king would not be pleased to hear they’d lost a subject before
harvesting the anticipated knowledge, especially on the heels of the first
issue. A subject had been unspecified, therefore useless, and he’d been
obligated to send
ORU
an explanation—they’d only
received one expert in genetics.
One
had granted
approval to send the subject to recycling.

He preferred dealing with the king’s assistant when reporting
success. The reverse was not pleasant.

Another report came online. Excellent. The expert in
astronautical engineering was critical to solving the fuel crisis, preferably by
illuminating an alternative source.

He scrolled through the report but the team’s conclusions made
no sense. One of the Mora Tuwa pretended to be a specified expert but actually
knew little about Earth’s spaceships. How had this happened? And why?

He must attend the processing session for this false subject so
he could ascertain the full extent of the problem. His team had perhaps misread
the knowledge harvester’s diagnostic feedback, and he would not accept their
mistake as fact. Couldn’t accept it. As he strode to the inclinator, a beep
halted him in his tracks.

A message from
ORU
scrolled onto
the screen of his handheld: ZXQ-One
will
appear
before
his
Highness
King
Kufu
to
explain
the
issues
with
the
Mora
Tuwa
.

One
expelled a pent-up breath and
responded, almost dropping the handheld as his palms grew slick midway through a
word. So, then. Instead of the hour of his triumph, it would be the hour of his
demise. The Mora Tuwa shouldn’t have been allowed to fulfill the specifications
themselves. He would pay for the mistake of placing his professional reputation
into the hands of a substandard species.

Scrubbing a hand through his shorter hair,
One
exited the Acquisitions building and walked to the closest
transportation center. The king likely did not intend to listen to
One
’s poor excuses for the issues. A painful tightness
in his abdomen compelled him to run test dialogue through his head regardless.
He rehearsed it over and over during the ten-minute walk as if the proper speech
might alter the facts.

He’d failed.

The train station near the Acquisitions pyramid was devoid of
workers, and with nothing to impede his progress to the center of Kir Barsha,
the ride ended much too quickly.

He paused at the entrance to the lift so the scanner could
process his ID and verify access. He’d never ridden in the lift before.

As it rose, Kir Barsha spread out below him—gray pyramids
lining the streets as far as the eye could see. Security barges slid along the
streets and dark maintenance droids peppered the lighter common areas. Service
workers monitored the droids through their handhelds and another worker strode
through the entrance to the Research and Development pyramid.

Sharp lines and clean thoroughfares crisscrossed the lower
city, visually splitting each division into equal pie shapes. The river
bisecting the city flowed to the lip of a canyon where its silvery trail twisted
away, beyond the perimeter to the horizon.

How unfortunate to see the city for the first time from this
vantage point as a result of colossal failure.

The lift stopped. A Security worker waited for him, face
downturned, and
One
fixed his eyes on the ground in
kind as the worker verified his identity with two quick taps to his handheld.
The worker turned and
One
followed, trying not to
trip as he viewed the upper city for the first time.

A high stone wall surrounded the upper city, shielding it from
citizens below. Thriving plants in varying shades of gray grew from
geometrically shaped pots and he walked on a street paved with small, shiny
stones. He stepped onto a moving sidewalk behind Security and stepped off at the
entrance to the palace, careful to keep his expression blank, though the wonders
around him threatened to break his composure. The foliage alone warranted a
second and third glance.

An ornate expanse of stained concrete embossed with the circle
of the Ancestor
Sohlar
stretched under his feet. A
Security station guarded a break in the second stone wall around the king’s
residence and State office.

Security again verified his identity and disrupted the
invisible current flowing between two towering needlelike obelisks. A live
current would connect with a citizen’s implant and halt the offender’s brain
activity instantly—the Telhada’s favored system for maintaining order. The
palace loomed above him, pyramid-shaped, but constructed with patterned stones
and elaborately etched glass. Beautiful, instead of utilitarian like the
pyramids below.

One
entered the king’s throne room
and his spine quivered. He paused to regain control. The king would allow him to
explain and
One
would be absolved. No other
alternative existed.

His Majesty’s throne room defied description.
One
had never seen such luxury or so many things
without purpose. Adornments covered every wall and surface—stone statues,
swirling, intricate murals depicting the lives of notable Ancestors, long metal
swords and staffs collected from an ancient barbaric period in Earth history
when Mora Tuwa hacked each other to death over trivialities.

Members of the court reclined on long, fabric-covered chairs,
some competing against each other in games played out with carved pieces
scattered across stone squares. These privileged few were bejeweled and dressed
in the draping robes of the Telhada. A hairless cat blinked at him from its
place of honor on a fluffy cushion at the queen’s feet, flipping his tail back
and forth.

“Approach,” the king commanded, his dark eyes snapping with
ire.

High Priest
UBA
, Director of the
Afterlife, stood to the king’s left, now clad in ceremonial robes and a special
headdress designed for his leading role at the Festival of the Ancestors the
entire planet of Alhedis would celebrate later tonight.
UBA
shouldn’t be here at the king’s court and his presence was as
perplexing as his inclusion in the king’s inspection of the Acquisition process.
As
One
was in no position to ask questions, the
Director’s capacity would remain a mystery.

One
knelt on one knee until the
king told him to rise and then started to account for himself when the king cut
him off.

“Explain.”

The king’s abrupt manner sapped a bit of his courage. He was
grateful he’d prepared in advance as the words spilled from his lips. “Not all
the Mora Tuwa volunteers fit the specifications sent. I am monitoring the
processing teams and will have a full report as soon as possible on the rest. I
am confident we can salvage—”

“Salvage?”

One
closed his mouth and waited for
the king to continue. The silence grew into a flattening presence and the eyes
of the court behind him lasered up his spine in judgmental sweeps.

“Salvage means you must reclaim an operation not performing at
peak efficiency. Goals will not be met. The end result will not be whole.” The
king bit off each word as if he had a bad taste on his tongue. “Is
this
what you meant to convey?”

The cat’s tail twitched and curled, the only movement in an
otherwise still room as the court waited with indrawn breath for his response.
Their day must be leisurely indeed if this inquiry provided such
entertainment.

“I cannot complete the project according to the original
parameters,”
One
stated. “I can however produce
measurable data in the areas of genetics and quantum theory.”

The king sniffed. “That’s less than half. You must do
better.”

High Priest
UBA
leaned in to the
king’s ear and spoke in a low tone. The king nodded and said to
One
, “The Mora Tuwa experts in astronautics. What is
the result of the processing?”

One’s forehead tightened. He’d not taken time to send
ORU
a report about the imposter and regretted how
unprofessional it would now cause him to appear. “The reports are inconclusive.
One of the two is not an expert. The other has not completed processing. I
expect the results shortly and believe the harvested knowledge will provide a
solution to the fuel crisis.”

Heavy brows drew together at the base of the king’s crown,
underscoring
Sohlar’s
emblem. “The issues with the
Mora Tuwa are in the astronautics area as well? You feed me bits and pieces to
cover your failings. I require a complete report.”

“Two of the subjects are not experts,”
One
stated. “Genetics and astronautics. We lost the theologian in
the implantation procedure. This is the full extent of the known issues.”

“Inexcusable. I cannot fully express my displeasure in losing
the theologian and this singular opportunity to understand the Mora Tuwa’s grasp
of higher powers.” The king’s even tone belied the fury gathering across his
countenance.

“Your Majesty, I understand. I beg of you to grant me leave so
I may ensure the remainder of the processing is successful.”
One
bowed and willed the king to approve of his
request. He must be given a chance to address his mistakes.

“You have already had that chance,” the king reminded him. “You
failed.”

“The project is not progressing as expected. I wish to make
restitution in the only way I can.” He wasn’t accustomed to performing badly and
less accustomed to begging. Surely the king appreciated
One’s
loyalty to the Telhada and would recognize his desire to prove
it.

UBA
spoke in the king’s stead this
time. “You have brought His Majesty great dishonor. We do not believe the
situation can be rectified.”

The court, with the exception of the queen, shifted and
murmured. Sycophants, particularly those who had no role in the hierarchy of
citizens, should not be allowed to remain during important business. He did not
care for witnesses to this extreme disgrace in the first place but liked the
distraction even less.

Directness must be his strategy now as he’d employed every
other one at his disposal. “What is your will, Your Majesty?”

The king looked pained and shook his head. “I had high hopes
for you,
ZXQ
-
One
. You
have thus far been an exemplary citizen and everything we expect from those
given the privilege of high-level positions. It is disappointing to have been
mistaken in your abilities. You are hereby sentenced to recycling.”

“No!” Denial burst forth from his lips before he could check
it.

Recycling
. No less than he
deserved.

Sudden slickness coated the back of his throat and he
swallowed. It would not do to lose his composure. “Please, Your Majesty. Afford
me another chance. The processing can still yield valuable information for the
Research Division, though I realize I should have gone to Earth to guarantee the
Mora Tuwa fulfilled the specifications appropriately. I have learned a great
deal from this mistake.”

With a rustle,
UBA
stepped in front
of the king. “The king has spoken. Do not disgrace yourself further. Accept your
sentence with dignity.”

The walls of the throne room wavered, shrinking the space
around him and syphoning off the oxygen. In desperation,
One
offered his last argument. “The Mora Tuwa are craftier than we
have supposed. They sent these subjects for a malicious reason. I am concerned
for His Majesty’s safety and for the entire Telhada.”

UBA
cackled and crossed his arms in
a show of power, looming over the proceedings in his tall headdress. “Are you
questioning the abilities of the Security Division to assess and nullify a
potential threat to the king?”

The king dismissed
UBA
with a deep
frown. “Why do you believe this? Has the processing led you to information you
have not yet shared?”

“It is only logical. Why else would Earth send incorrect
subjects without an apparent purpose? The Mora Tuwa are an inferior species but
do not lack intelligence. Therefore we must assume they planned this and
determine why. I will obtain this information and report to you their
intent.”

“A fancy speech from a disgraced worker on his way to
recycling,”
UBA
taunted. “We are not impressed with
your conspiracy theories.”

The king cleared his throat and drew the attention of everyone
in court. No one shuffled or spoke as they waited for what would surely be his
final word on the matter. “The theory has merit.
ZXQ
-
One
, determine why they have thrust
these useless subjects on us and then recycle them all.”

UBA’s
eyes flashed with dark
persistence. “Your Majesty. I beg your pardon, but the law is clear.
ZXQ
-
One
has failed in his
duties. He must be recycled. The social order would cease to exist if we stop
following the rules. You must understand this.”