The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

The darkness reeks of ethanol and tears flood my eyes. I
rub at them angrily, missing my oxy-mask. As the chilly stench creeps into my
lungs, I clutch at my pendant through the sleek fabric of my skinsuit.

I stare into the depths of the room. There's a smear some
distance ahead. I rub my face one last time, and start toward it. "Hello?
Is someone there?"

Then I realize what I'm looking at, and stop.

The alien rises before me like a pillar, two meters tall
and ghostly pale. Two large black eyes open in an unreadable, mouthless face.
Curved protrusions frame its head like a broken crown, thick tentacles snaking
down from its head, coiling toward me.

Jagged, layered armor plates cover the alien's shoulders,
its torso bare and ribbed. A thick seam runs down the center of its chest to
disappear into a broad belt at its waist. Dark-green fabric drapes down from it
to cover the alien's legs and pool on the floor like a veil. I can't imagine the
shape of its legs, but if its two fibrous, multi-jointed arms are any
indication, the alien's agility and precision must be terrifying.

It glides across the floor toward me. And when it stops my
breath stops too. Up close, the alien's skin is glacial. I can't help but
wonder if my touch might shatter it.

The alien bends forward, eyes unblinking, not making a
sound, not even breathing.

In the suffocating silence of the room, all I hear is my
heart beating in my eardrums.

"I'm Taryn," I whisper, my throat constricted.
"I'm a human. We came here to meet you."

I remember the first alien's advice to remain quiet, and
swallow hard. My hand drifts to my pendant.

The alien zeroes in on my hand. It blows a gust of bitter
fumes into my face. "Speak of that," it booms. Its voice resonates
inside my ribcage like a blastwave.

My temples itch with millions of tiny stings, and I'm
unbearably sick. I want to run, but I just stare into its dead eyes and stumble
backward.

The alien lunges at me. Cold long fingers contract around
my neck. I struggle, try to scream, to fight, but I can't breathe. I claw at
its glassy skin until my nails break, and it doesn't even react. Its other hand
comes up, latches onto my face. Two fingers jab at my forehead, and two on each
side of my jaw. Their cold tips press into my skin, spread, and crack my mouth
wide open.

It lifts me off the floor and hundreds of hair-thin
tendrils writhe from its palm, plunge down my throat, up into my sinuses, and
straight into my head. I black out.

An ocean of sticky darkness seeps into my mind. Something
swims through it, hungry and enormous, tearing at my thoughts. Pain washes over
me, and I convulse.

The alien pulls me closer until our foreheads are almost
touching, noxious vapors steaming from its face.

As the alien roots through my head, I see my mother's
face, her soft black hair, the love for me in her eyes. She smiles wearily as
she tucks me in, lies to me about the screams in the hive. I'm close to crying.
I want to cling to her with all my might, but I promise to stay hidden inside
this nook. To watch her leave, knowing she will die.

I see my father's smile as he waves at me from afar. I run
to him, to jump into his arms, but the blast of a grenade knocks me back into
the tunnel. I watch him twirl and burn, screaming, under the embers raining
from the hive crashing down on us.

I see an avalanche of charcoal insectoids flow out of the
dying hive that's been my home. See them torn apart by a hail of bullets from
dozens of warships, and sprawled across the snow in rivers of thick yellow
blood.

Please no
...

I see myself spread out on a table, probed by droids and
tools and rude gloved hands, stung and cut open and welded back shut.

Please stop
...

I see the aliens I grew up with huddle in a corner, their
plates cracked open, mandibles broken, antennae ripped free and strewn. Rows of
soldiers stand at the ready. I stand among them like a soulless shell, ready my
weapon, aim and shoot.

No
...
Don't
...
Please
...

For a moment, the nightmares recede and I remember where I
am.

The fingers around my neck tighten, and my mouth bleeds.
My fist clenches around the mandible pendant. With a single, vengeful jerk, I
rip it off and ram it into the alien's neck.

The barbs shred my glove, but the pendant pierces its
skin, and I shove harder. Jerk the pendant up and down until I tear a gash
through its throat and down into its chest. Hot, acrid blood sprays out and
sizzles on my suit. The alien's glassy skin ripples, veins stippling beneath
its skin like wild, poisonous roots.

I slip back under and tumble down into the heaving ocean
of memory. This time, the
thing
that follows me no longer roots
randomly. It penetrates my mind, shredding everything in its path. Turns me
inside out. Then crashes on me like a wave.

I see faces, eyes, mouths, features of beings I don't
know, hands striving to reach out and touch, tentacles, claws, all grasping for
me. A featureless sea of countless creatures that boils around me—a maddening
procession of worlds exploding, decaying, being reborn, then destroyed, until
there is only death.

My
death. Quick and painless.
Please
...

This can't be real.

Then there is only one image: a frail creature, so little,
caught in my grip. I watch it squirm and bleed, suffocate, and fade. It's very
close.
Inside of me.

I see myself writhe in the alien's grip. I'm in the wrong
mind, the wrong body—in
him
.

I let go with a panicked twitch.

Consciousness returns and I crumple to the floor, hacking
up my lungs. The alien crouches beside me, stares at me with those unreadable
eyes. He yanks the mandible out of his neck and the dark veins retreat from his
skin. His wounds close like lips sealing, seamless and soft. The ice-blue glaze
slides across his skin once more.

I spasm violently. He stands up, his attention elsewhere.
The massive, dark-green foot of another alien lands beside my head. The
newcomer gurgles in his own tongue, and I find I understand him.

"Must I end it?"

"No," my tormentor says. His thunderous voice
burrows through me. "Restrain it."

Taloned hands lift me like a rag doll and throw me over a
broad shoulder, my feet dangling down the alien's back, face buried in his
chest. He carries me out into the gloomy corridor.

I moan and lift my head to look at him. I recognize the
marks on his face. Now I understand what they are, and how he must have got
them. Even though I'm hardly breathing, a sob breaks loose. Hot tears fill my
eyes and drop on his green velvet fur.

"Stop that." He adjusts me gently. "You
will dehydrate."

I surrender, allowing his movements to rock me in and out
of consciousness. Until he shrugs me off and lays me on the floor of another
room. He bends down to inspect me with those small, luminescent eyes. "You
did not listen to me. Why did I lose words to a reckless creature?"

He turns away, and leaves me alone with my misery.

I curl into a ball, wipe my face and mouth, and stare at
the clotted blood on my hand. Stars twinkle in the darkening red, three tiny
shards of metal with hair-thin tendrils winding out of them—the three
interconnected nano meshes that used to be my synet, my colonial identity. My
painstakingly hacked ticket to independence.

Now it's disabled and ejected. Exorcised by an alien
monster, like the rest of my mind. Ripped out.

Replaced
.

Dominant Amharr paces up and down the crux of his vessel,
struggling to bring his nervous systems into alignment again. The soft but
durable structure of his command room, with its control crescent in its center,
and the master Onryss hovering near the exit wall, quivers and fails around him
as if it were a mirage.

He balls his fists until the tendons in his multi-jointed
fingers stretch beyond their natural ability, and the nanites in his body take
over hardening his fingers into a steely grip. He could easily crush every
obstacle or enemy in sight. But this time, the opposition is inside of him.

His skin has healed, and the wound in his neck and Phylra
gland closed almost immediately. Nonetheless, damage was done. Despite the fact
that his physical integrity is restored, it is undeniable that his identity has
somehow been violated.

The feeling of that neophyte—that
specimen
of the
newly spaceborne race he is meant to assess—lingers unnaturally long. He can
still feel its erratic pulse, smell the organic residues staining his hands,
taste its blood and saliva on his tendrils. He crawls with revulsion.

The creature's brain was chaos. Worse, its memories mixed
with his own. He is filled with confusion. Pacing doesn't calm him. His senses
run amok regardless of his attempts to reassert control.

It will fade
, he reassures himself. But he knows
it's a lie. Something like this doesn't heal.

His three interlinked nervous systems approach overload,
overexciting his nanites and making his skin glow faintly blue. The back of his
neck prickles and stings, until the mounting energy reaches a tipping point and
discharges through his nerves and the soles of his feet into the receptive
floor.

He waits for the calm fatigue that usually comes after he
fuels the vessel with his energy. It doesn't come. He's still on edge. Still
feels that abhorrent creature inside him. It stabbed him just as he was
investigating its memories, trying to understand its motives and nature. When
that horrid mandible pierced into his Phylra gland, it flooded his body—and
through his tendrils, the neophyte's as well—with paired, ultra-sensitive
Phylra particles. It happened precisely as his nervous systems were mirroring
the neophyte's, and the ignorant creature likely caught a glimpse of his mind
as a result.

How is it even possible? High Emranti are engineered to be
safe from this. They've long evolved beyond such primitive bonds and feral
responses.

Amharr presses his fingertips against the radices in his
palms. Bitter antiseptic floods his tendrils, clearing them of any foreign
particles and cleansing his gustatory sense. It doesn't help. He can still
taste her in his mind.

He remembers running through dirty catacombs, playing
meaningless games with vulgar creatures, looking at faces he's never known
before, and speaking in a language not his own. The vermin's mind has polluted
his own. Has corrupted his awareness. Foreign information floods the vast
neuronal pathways of his brain, rampant knowledge that has never been analyzed
and cataloged. Its invasion is indiscriminate, unfiltered by nanites. He feels
diseased
.

My mind knows things I don't
.

There are facts about himself, though, about his past,
that help to ground him. Amharr recounts them like a silent mantra, pushing
himself into accustomed clarity by brute force.

Since they broke their ties to their homeworld and their
ancestors, the High Emranti have continuously enhanced their bodies and adapted
them to life between the stars of the Grand Helix. One of the first things they
shed was their primeval ability to form
deep links
. That...
barbaric
...
means to share visceral input between mates and partners was superseded by the
all but faultless
bionic links
, perfected through self-improving
nanotechnology. Those temporary connections do not function outside their
species. Not even with Primal Emranti, their distant relatives who chose to
remain on their homeworld. What happened with the neophyte is not possible.

And yet.

This is my doom
, Amharr realizes. He paces faster,
strains to focus on other matters, but nothing helps. Nothing ever will. A
horrible sense of vulnerability overwhelms him.

With great difficulty, Amharr summons sufficient
self-control to tackle matters constructively. The first problem on his list
are the Kolsamal. Specifically, their current elder, Gra'Ylgam—docile
intermediary to the Kolsamal flotilla populating the lower levels of the
Undawan
.

Sharp and attentive, Gra'Ylgam must have realized Amharr's
corruption the moment he entered the vessel's crux to retrieve the neophyte.
But there had been no sense of imminent attack, which in itself was strange.
The Kolsamal are a forcefully subdued species, and Gra'Ylgam in particular, as
their elder, should have reacted with violence. But he tended to his duties
instead. Perhaps he is only biding his time, analyzing the risks before he strikes.

Amharr places his hands on the synaptic nubs of the
command crescent. They glimmer and hum, rendering their diagnostics directly
into his brain. Mnemonic patterns show him the
Undawan
's internal
systems, every living being aboard, and every piece of equipment or ship
currently in the bays.

The technology of the small, crude neophyte ship is being
assimilated and cataloged. A first analysis reveals its threat potential to be
negligible. By the level of technology used, and all the probable variants the
neophytes may have developed around it, their race won't pose any considerable
problems. However his assessment of them turns out, they'll be easy to deal
with. They are a typical, uninteresting candidate for yet another long
integration process.

Well, uninteresting except for their connection to the
Totorkha.

It was a shard of a Totorkha mandible the neophyte stabbed
him with. Taken from a world with active hives if it's new enough to pierce his
hide with so little effort. Which means the neophytes treat with the Totorkha.
A dangerous choice, associating with a
deconstructive
race, one that
already underwent the Ascendancy's containment process long before Amharr's
time.

The criteria for evaluating spaceborne races is simple. If
they're collaborative, productive and with a tendency toward self-sufficiency,
they are deemed
constructive
, and are integrated into the Ascendancy's
multispecies society and assigned a Dominant—a High Emranti, or a member of
another superior race. If, however, they are un-collaborative, destructive and
with a tendency toward parasitism of other sentients, they are deemed
deconstructive
and are contained—decimated and isolated to their system of origin, their
technological capabilities reduced to pre-spaceflight and their development
closely monitored thereafter.

The Totorkha are one of the oldest deconstructive races in
the Grand Helix, and among the deadliest. This complicates Amharr's assessment,
presenting a serious problem if the neophytes collaborate with the Totorkha.
But more immediate concerns come first: the Kolsamal.

Amharr summons Gra'Ylgam through the vessel's Onrysses.

While he waits, he wonders if the neophyte sustained
serious damage, if its neutral integrity is maintained after the
link
.
He feels himself drifting into its mind as soon as he thinks of it, and must
force himself to stop. Luckily, he doesn't have to wait long for the Kolsamal
elder.

Amharr assumes a conversational posture as the crux wall
opens and Gra'Ylgam steps through. The Kolsamal doesn't miss the gesture.
Amharr's hands are visibly relaxed against the front of his robe, and his two
powerful hind legs bent back up against his back, weight resting equally on
both longer hind and shorter fore legs—leaving him standing lower than the
Kolsamal.

Gra'Ylgam responds with the customary retraction for a
Kolsamal. The capillary autotrophs retreat from his face, the ones covering his
body remaining unchanged. His bare skin is exposed, filamentary nervures and
pores forming a spongy, vulnerable surface. What was originally a gesture of
resignation among the Kolsamal has become a display of readiness for open
conversation with an Emranti.

But as things now stand the gesture makes Amharr
uncomfortable. He beckons the Kolsamal to approach. "Speak of the
neophyte," he demands in the Kolsamal tongue.

"She has been confined and is convalescing,"
Gra'Ylgam replies. "She is passive and cooperative, physically unharmed
beyond superficial damage."

"Any demands?"

"None, Dominant. I do not think she is aware of her
new position."

"But
you
are." Amharr scrutinizes the
Kolsamal's face. "Do you intend to make any demands?"

"No."

Amharr pauses. Considers. But nothing in the elder's
demeanor betrays mischief. Amharr is increasingly disquieted by the discrepancy
between his expectations of these interactions and the reality of them. Anxiety
almost paralyzes him. Gra'Ylgam's bioluminescent eyes flicker for an instant.

Amharr shudders, releasing some of the tension into the
greedy floor. "I will ask you again: Do you intend to use this knowledge
to your advantage,
Siaaw
?"

But the derogatory slave-name for the Kolsamal doesn't
provoke Gra'Ylgam the way Amharr was hoping it would. "I will not divulge
it," Gra'Ylgam says. "This matter is personal to you. I have no say
in it."

"You choose not to exploit it?" Amharr asks,
taken aback.

"When we were contained by the Ascendancy, our elders
pledged to serve our Dominants. In exchange for assurances of... continuity. It
is not my place to break the contract of my ancestors. However much
circumstance might tempt me. I value your life above my own, just like any
Kolsamal elder must value his Dominant before himself."

"Loyalty, then," Amharr scoffs.

"Tradition," Gra'Ylgam replies. "I also
treasure your rule of my caste aboard this vessel. You are just and consistent,
and we move freely aboard the
Undawan
. More than we are entitled to. I
see no reason to upset this state of mutually beneficial stability."

Amharr allows himself to relax. "You will not speak
of this to anyone?"

"You have my word."

Amharr lets out a deep breath, and advances toward the
Kolsamal, studying his exposed face. Gra'Ylgam doesn't move, ready to face the
inquiry with dignity.

Amharr stops an arm's length before him. He can be sure of
the elder's intentions with a single touch. But the awareness of his own
deplorable state is still painful. He refrains from the inquiry and makes do
with observation instead. Amharr inspects the Kolsamal through multiple
radiation spectra, inhales his salty scent, separates every trace of substance
and classifies its composition. He forms a mental copy of Gra'Ylgam's physical
image and compares it with those he has made prior. There are no discrepancies.

With a minimal sense of relief, Amharr dismisses the
Kolsamal.

One threat postponed
. He can count on the other
Kolsamal's submission as long as they remain unaware of the truth. He trusts
Gra'Ylgam to keep his secret. For now.

His Emranti partner Kriahm however, in command of the
sister vessel
Kaluvian
that's currently two kilo-pulses away, is a more
likely threat. Kriahm is Amharr's equal in rank, Quick to challenge, and
close
.
He will not hesitate to act against Amharr, should he discover the truth. He
will need to be dealt with. Soon.

But first, the neophyte. Amharr must understand it, and
what has happened between them. Not knowing gnaws at him unbearably.

-

By the time Amharr reaches the neophyte's detention cell,
his body is sizzling with tension again, the neophyte's draw on him stronger
the more he approaches. He stops before the cell and attempts to calm himself,
but his growing anticipation is impossible to withstand.

The wall opens and he steps through carefully, hit with a
wave of new information.

Cowered against the opposite wall, the neophyte stares at
him with bewilderment. It makes small, useless movements in an attempt to
protect itself, but is otherwise silent and submissive, stripped of clothing
and tools. It is still unpredictable. Amharr is
far
from understanding
it, or the chaos of its thoughts and memories that poured into his mind.

As he advances, the neophyte cradles itself, drawing
quick, shallow breaths. It releases a foul smelling liquid—a mixture of water,
chloride, and ammonia—that is slowly absorbed into the floor.

The avalanche of smells assaults Amharr's senses. He must
understand the creature, before he does anything rash. He must find out what
knowledge it gained from their exchange, and what it intends to do. Hopefully
Gra'Ylgam was right, and the creature is oblivious to what has transpired. But
he can't take that chance.

"Speak of your purpose here," Amharr orders in
the neophyte's language, sampled and easily assimilated during his initial
observations of its race.

The neophyte presses its hands against the sides of its
head, and rocks back and forth without response. Does it understand him? It
must. Gra'Ylgam assured him the insertion of
klaar
particles into the
creature's brain was successful—the particles designed to adapt to the
frequency of his voice, bridging any lack of similitude between their speech
patterns. The neophyte
must
understand him.

"If your intention was to speak for your race,"
Amharr says scornfully, "you have failed."

The creature stirs again and opens its mouth, but says
nothing.

"You have ignored the demand to stay away from this
vessel." He steps forth. "Now you refuse to answer me. Why?"