The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (21 page)

I grind my teeth, turn on my heel, and dart back into the
alley.

The bot gives chase and an earsplitting alarm blares out.
Strobing white light flashes on the walls and ground before me.

I take a corner, graze the wall with my hand, and hurl
down a maintenance alley. I reach the end, kick my boot up and push off the
wall to my left. Then I'm off into the next alley, the mechanical demon close
on my tail.

I jump over sloping pipes and twist around corners,
running flat out. I skid across dumpsters, duck under passageways, and grapple
around storage crates with my bare hands. Adrenalin fuels me, the rush burns my
lungs. It's liberating.

The bot keeps after me, undeterred, and I dash between
buildings, dodge people, skip over garbage heaps. The chase getting harder, my
energy burning up.

I take a right into a broader alley, and realize too late
it's a dead end. I reach the wall at full speed, run up against it for a couple
of steps, grab a pipe traversing the alley and haul myself up.

The bot adjusts its height, its shrill klaxon making me
rabid.

I spin around on the pipe, hurl my legs over and drop back
into the alley, grabbing the bot with both hands on my way down. I land and
crouch, smashing the bot against the pavement with the momentum of the fall. It
cracks and sparks, but wobbles right back up, gyrating in brightly lit madness.

My hands burn furiously.

I jump and grab it again, holding it tightly against my
knees, willing to crush it. It's buzzing and screeching, trying to break my
bones and free itself. I press tighter.

Behind the bot's blinding flashes, I can see its entrails
glow white hot with energy. In almost an instant, I fully understand them. And
I want them to burn.

Bright pain stabs through my forearms, ripping a scream
out of my chest. The bot drops to the ground. I stumble backward and fall. The
bot is quiet and charred, a blackened ball of lifeless metal rolling slowly
away from me across the pavement.

I push back up, rub my hands against my overall. My skin's
intact, but I have a brain-splitting headache. I kick the bot out of my way and
head back to Denise. I constantly look back, checking if anyone saw me, if I'm
being hunted. A few times I think I see a shadow duck behind crates or slither
around corners, but I'm not sure. My head's spinning and hurts like a bitch. I
can barely focus.

I meet with Denise on the nearest public sidewalk, assure
her I escaped in time, and we march on to the next tower. I don't mention a
word about frying the bot.

General Hurst frowns at his projector—at the handsome young
man there with short-cropped hair, a resolute jaw, and amethyst eyes, striking
against his olive complexion. "Commander Kempton," Hurst greets him.
"Good to meet you."

The commander is calling in from Epsilon Eridani, a system
that's otherwise in General Satou's jurisdiction. But his old friend is
vacationing on Indira with his wife and husband, and delegated council duty to
Hurst as a personal favor.

"How are things on Hades, Commander?" Hurst asks
casually, finding it refreshing to tend to some old-school TMC business after
being on hold for so many years.

"All in order, sir, apart from some strikes and
uproars, and anti-Trust propaganda. Nothing unusual for this corner of space."

Hurst frowns. "Then why did you contact me on a
secure channel?"

The commander lifts his neatly trimmed eyebrows.
"It's come to my attention that a wanted person is currently stationed
planetside, getting in touch with several
delicate
long-term surveillance
targets."

"Who're you talking about?"

The young man glances quickly at something in his
vicinity, then back at Hurst, not a single muscle of his face betraying his
thoughts. "Professor Waylen Preston, sir. Former head of the Deep Space
Probe Development Center on the Tau Ceti station, before the Raids. He's
presumed to have been involved with the Dabaran Syndicate, but we've never been
able to prove it. He was deported to 61 Cygni when the TMC retreated from Ceti.
Spent over seven years there before we lost track of him."

What are the odds? One of the terrorists directly involved
in the Ceti fiasco. Maybe a good chance to tie up a loose end. Hurt grins
inwardly. He folds his hands on the table top. "Any idea what he's doing
there?"

"He entered Erano a week ago, with seven others. We
don't know where exactly they're quartered, or if they're still together. He's
keeping a very low profile, sir."

"You said he contacted someone?"

"Indirectly. One of our undercover agents noticed
unusual information transit and indicated him as a possible origin.
Circumstantial evidence. I'm sending you the presumed contact list now."

Hurst receives the file transfer through the secure
channel. He gives it a cursory glance; none of the names look familiar. He
files it away for further investigation. Then brings up Commander Kempton's
personal record. It's impeccable. Awards, orders, no brawls or minor
law-breaks, volunteered for extra training. A career dog.

"Commander, what do you think I should do about
Preston?"

The young man regards him for a couple of seconds, still
betraying nothing. "Sir, with all due respect, I'm not in the position to
offer my advice."

"What's your personal opinion, then? Off the
record."

The commander hesitates. "With permission, sir. Given
Preston's background, I would assume he poses a threat to the stability of the
colony." Hurst nods approvingly, and the commander continues: "I
would therefore upgrade surveillance and crowd inspection protocols. And I
would try to inject someone into Preston's network directly."

"And then?"

"If he
proves
to be a threat, I would mobilize
our ground units and apprehend him, sir."

"Apprehend," Hurst snorts. "Not very
effective with his kind, Commander. Only postpones the inevitable. If you
confirm a threat, I want you to
exterminate
it."

"Sir," the commander says gravely.
"Planetside public transportation has suffered numerous sabotage
attempts, with increased frequency as of late. There's been uncomfortable
press, strikes, and demonstrations—even drops in TMC revenue and temporary
funding cessation from the Trust. Not to mention the costs from the interrupted
mining schedules..."

"I get it, Commander, times are difficult. But the
Dabaran Syndicate is no trifling thing."

"What I mean to say, sir, is that times are always
difficult on Erano. This has never been a quiet place. I'm a native. I
understand the fragile balance here. How these people tick. My job involves
treating potential rebellion stimulants with
utmost
care. Arresting and exterminating
a notorious personage without good reason is going to cause even
more
difficulties. Dealing with terrorism in Erano is a delicate matter, sir."

Hurst frowns at the projector. "What are you more
concerned about? Public opinion, or dangerous terrorists running about freely
in your colony?"

The commander sighs. "Erano is always smoldering,
always waiting for a good enough reason to burst into flames. If Preston
intends to pour gasoline on my colony, the fire's going to be hard to
extinguish indeed. But I don't want to pour it myself."

"Remove the gasoline, then," Hurst offers,
impatient now. "Aren't you capable of controlling your colony?"

Commander Kempton considers his reply carefully. "A
few well organized accidents at this stage are much better than martyrdom, sir.
Not to mention cheaper. And the frail balance of ideologies in
my
colony
remains untouched." He drops his stern mask. "I'm not eager to create
a second Maican, sir."

Franco Zhang Maican, the biggest thorn in the TMC's side.
Hurst was still a lieutenant when Maican shocked the Confederacy with an open
revolt against the Trust Military Corps. How he'd managed to rile up so many
people—five million civilians, and quite a handful of influential TMC
internals—was beyond comprehension. The TMC's set up contingents near every
colony since and Hades became the largest TMC headquarters outside of Alpha
Centauri.

Hurst glares at the eager young man on his projector.
Career dogs are precision tools, always careful not to make mistakes and thus
perfectly suited to deal with 'delicate matters.' This specimen has a sense of
politics, too. The commander reminds Hurst somewhat of himself, though he was
already a colonel at that age. He'd long understood that politics brings
temporary power, while the military is long-lived.

Hurst nods at him. "I want you to deal with Preston
quickly and quietly then, before he becomes a threat. Root out his network as
well."

"Yes, sir."

"Inform the local governor that she is temporarily
overruled in this matter. What's her name...?"

"Juliana De Luca, sir."

"Yes. Just tell her we're one step short of declaring
martial law, and she'll cooperate quietly. You'll command all of Erano's
forces, military and civil. Eliminate Preston and anyone he's contacted
planetside. Use the Razers if you have to. Is that clear?"

Kempton's eyes widen at the mention of Razers. "Yes,
sir."

"I'll hear from you again when you're ready to report
your results." Hurst prepares to cut the connection.

"Sir, one moment."

"What?"

"I have another matter to discuss. Several of our
planetary surveillance drones in the Tau Ceti system have failed to send in
their data. They seem to have been disabled."

"What? Why the hell didn't you tell me that
first?" Hurst leans forward. He takes another look at the commander. While
he was assessing Kempton, the commander must have assessed him as well,
checking whether he could trust him with this information. Hurst isn't sure if
he should be furious or impressed.

"All seven drones are in orbit around Maza,
sir," Kempton says. "They'd normally send a surveillance report every
thirty hours. They failed to do so two standard days ago. The technicians
already checked the com; it's fine. Sometime within the last seventy-two hours
something must have happened to the drones."

Hurst tenses up. "Was it the
Klackers
?"

"The cause is still unknown, sir." The commander
looks lost for a moment, then his stern mien returns. "I can deploy a
Milvus warship to Tau Ceti immediately. Fully armed."

"How soon will it get there?"

"Two standard days."

"Good. Send it in hot. I want every bug on that rock
accounted for." Hurst taps his foot nervously. "Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"Dismissed."

The connection cuts out and Hurst flexes his neck and
cracks his shoulders. A headache looms on the horizon, threatening to ruin the
vague sense of accomplishment he's had from Begum's experiments with the Cyans.

But this is much more pressing. Tau Ceti is
his
turf.
His
system. Those damn
Klackers
should be groveling under
the moon's crust, not attacking orbital drones.

Except... they couldn't have done it. Something else is
going on. Maybe sabotage, maybe a full-fledged attack. Maybe even the
Syndicate. Preston's appearance on San Gabriel can't be an accident, that's for
sure. Nothing's accidental with terrorists. And the timing's too perfect. What
if he's gotten things moving in more than one system?

Commander Kempton needs to get things under control fast.
If he so much as hesitates, Hurst will be breathing down his neck in person.
He'd much rather be there himself. But he still has that blasted resource
acquisition chart to complete. Three more systems to go. Feels more like
thirty. He can't spend the next two months scanning rocks when terrorists are
regrouping in TMC space and aliens are shooting down his drones!

Aliens
...

Could the strange ship his swarms detected during the Cyan
attack be involved in this? Have they flown to Tau Ceti?

Hurst's headache is in full bloom now.

He dials Level Seven and asks for the best IT technician
to come in for an off-record data altering operation. That acquisition chart
will have to do with a fake completion report. Hurst has more important things
to take care of.

-

Commander Edric Kempton studies a 3D map of San Gabriel and
Hades rotating over his tactical desk. He has fifty-four Milvus ships at his
disposal, currently spread throughout the system. Thirteen Falcons are in
cislunar space, overlooking the Confederate traffic to and from San Gabriel. He
can send one of those to Tau Ceti. It should be enough. A few dysfunctional
drones are no reason to be as paranoid as General Hurst.

His first lieutenant commander, Graziano Bosco, studies
the hologram with him, frowning at the patchwork of buildings and streets.

Kempton straightens up. "Hurst wants me to smoke out
Preston and 'exterminate' him. Think he's that dangerous?"

"Hm." Bosco streaks his fingers over the
projector, spinning the city around. He picks up the desk's mobile command
console and highlights several shapes on the map. "We have seventeen hubs
and ninety-three surveillance towers. Only fifty towers are manned and
functional at the moment. The rest are inactive, damaged, or dismantled. We
have to reactivate them, but manning them won't be enough. Need to upgrade the
tech too, and order a full-spec check of all com relays and surveillance
equipment, city-wide."

Kempton frowns at his tactical officer. "Are you sure
that's necessary?"

"Terrorists are no trivial issue. Not here."

"But is this man really a threat to us?"

Bosco stares at Kempton from underneath his bushy
eyebrows, making him slightly uncomfortable.

"I mean, we've only got intel on a wanted individual
entering the city and contacting old friends. Isn't Hurst overreacting a
little, thinking of an impending full-fledged terrorist attack? Maybe we should
just bring him in on a trivial matter, interrogate him, and deport him to the
outskirts somewhere. It's not like the Confederacy cares about him. The big
shots probably don't even know he exists."

"What they know is irrelevant," Bosco says.
"It's what General Hurst knows that's important. He's our superior. We
follow his orders."

"If things were always that easy." Kempton paces
around the table. "There's a bigger picture we need to consider here,
Bosco. One Hurst likely doesn't understand. I checked his record. He's prone to
overreaction. It's what got him sentenced to resource acquisition duty—the Ceti
fiasco was his handiwork. An entire colony lost, almost a million people
deported, twenty thousand killed; not to mention the enormous material
damage."

Bosco shrugs. "And?"

"He's not considering the long term benefits of
alternative courses of action. All he cares about is maintaining control
right
now
, staying in power, saving his own ass. He's not a visionary."

"Sir?"

"I don't intend to make the same mistakes, Bosco.
Especially not in my home system."

"We're not talking about xeno-politics here. These
are terrorists."

"Are they?"

"Preston, going by his record, has a long history of
altercations with the TMC. I don't blame the general for wanting him gone,
along with everyone who might have his back."

Kempton stops opposite of Bosco and leans over the desk,
his forehead penetrating the projection. "An upgrade of the magnitude
you're proposing is guaranteed to draw attention. We don't need that right now,
not after all the riots and street fights. We need to tackle this subtly."

Bosco stares at the map, chewing the inside of his lip.

"What?" Kempton asks, a little irritated.

"I still think we should send reinforcements and
upgrade the surveillance towers. It's not going to get bad publicity. There was
a big riot just last week. Four people killed and twenty injured, including two
TMC officers. No one's going to question why we're reinforcing local
presence."

"Except for the unions who rioted because of our
excess presence in the first place. No reinforcements. And keep all upgrades
low profile." He resumes his pacing. "Make me a list of all the
agents we have down there. I need someone who can get close to Preston
quietly
."

"Fine," Bosco grumbles.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you don't
want
to go about this discreetly, Lieutenant Commander."