The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (14 page)

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.

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. Hateful, 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.

Fuck
. They want to transfer that addict's mind into
my body. Like my head isn't crowded enough already.