The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (29 page)

The noise on the streets is uncannily familiar to me.
Explosions, screams, alarms and whistling projectiles, crumbling buildings and
bursting debris, footsteps hammering and tires squealing. I sprint down the
boulevard, smoke stinging in my throat.

A chorus of shells explodes to my left. I duck
instinctively and turn right, run past the Research Tower and head for the
Spoke without looking back. A hiss overhead, and I veer into the cover of an
alley just as a shower of debris comes pelting down. The building next to me
bursts into flames, spewing molten plexiglass shards down into the street.

Someone screams behind me. People are injured; too many to
count.

Another building comes crumbling down with a cascading
squeal of metal. Waves of dust and smoke crawl over the shaking ground like
ghosts fleeing the blast.

I run deeper into the alley then come to an abrupt stop. A
boy, no older than ten, lies against a dumpster, face a smear of flensed flesh,
body bent in pain.

I step back in horror, gasping for air.

This can't be happening. How can I stop it?

I back out of the alley and try to find another way toward
the Spoke. It's my best bet to find Preston, and make him stop the attacks—
any
way I can. I'll break into the Spoke and hack into the city's network. I'll
chase that fucking bastard down through his communications and
stop
this.

Sirens wail in the distance, ominous and dizzying. I
stumble around in the smoke-filled darkness, lit only by fires and the search
lights of security shuttles above, and eventually see the tall black wall of
the Spoke at the end of a street. I pick up the pace, dodging debris flying
down around me, heart throbbing in my throat.

Two hundred meters ahead, a missile hits an overhung
parking platform. A private shuttle tumbles down in a smoldering pile of
synthetics and metal. It hits the Spoke with a shrieking, tearing sound,
slicing through its sheathing as it falls. Another whistle, and I scramble for
cover. The missile hits the Rebreather, five hundred meters away. Fire rains
down from the groaning monstrosity, blazing in the night.

I crawl around a truck abandoned in the street, gaze
darting left and right, chasing the screams of people and blasts roaring around
me. I reach the Spoke and assess the damage. The crashed shuttle smolders,
crackling and spewing sparks, half buried in the torn wall. Molten cables roll
out of the wounded Spoke, a broken cooling pipe hissing fiercely inside.

I cough in the acrid smoke, and look up at the dome. I
ball my fists. It's now or never.

I crawl into the Spoke past the crushed remains of the
shuttle, squeezing in through a jagged opening. I cut my hands and knees,
feeling my way through the wreckage. The deeper I crawl the darker it gets, and
the noxious vapors sear my throat.

I lean against a duct, coughing fitfully. The ground
vibrates beneath me, carrying the dying throes of the burning Rebreather. My
head spins and my hands sting painfully, as if a million fire ants were
marching through my nerves. I have to keep moving, no time to waste.

The sound of equipment humming and coolant whooshing
through pipes draws me in deeper. I listen for certain vibrations, for the
whirr of server coolers or the hum of processing units. Wedged in between pipes
and plastic tubes, I finally find a bundle of red cables. I focus, desperately
hoping, and start to see the electrons shooting through them in rivers of
light.

I trace the cables down to a relay node, then further to a
set of three connected servers, lodged in between the many ducts and pipes and
tubes filling the Spoke. I grin in the darkness.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and crouch in front of
the servers, back pressed against a throbbing cooling duct. I run my fingers
over the casings, under and around them, looking for latches or panels I can
pry off.

Before I realize what's happening, I'm already speeding
through the wires. Racing through billions of terabytes at impossible speed,
struggling not to broadcast anything that would give me away.

Preston. I have to find Preston. But so many other things
draw my attention that it's impossible to stay focused. I drown in hundreds of
thousands of code lines and numbers, and circled by dozens of frantic AIs, like
sharks gone mad in blood-infested waters. I get tangled in the labyrinthine
scripts they generate, and pushed into connections I don't want to make, chased
down lines I don't want to travel, unable to stop.

I crash against the impervious bulk of a self-encrypted,
adaptively firewalled AI complex, guarded by tens of smaller, vicious code
dogs. I try to back out and evade their reach, erasing my tracks as well as I
can. But it's too late. I realize with a start that I've drawn the attention of
the Colonial Immune System.

The CIS is active—that means the dome is locked down, out
of the Confederacy's reach—and
that
means the Ticks are fighting back. We're
officially at war.

I chase down maze after maze of code and information,
fleeing from the many guard dogs, looking for even the tiniest backdoor through
the CIS blockage. There's none.

My head bursts with pain and my nerves are glowing hot.
Should I give up? Surrender? Not a chance. I dig harder, investing every bit of
energy I've got.

A shard of code draws my attention—a strange little thing
I've never seen before. It makes unusual choices, follows atypical paths, as if
it were a foreign cell traveling through a huge, overloaded organism. It's
incredibly fast, too. I glimpse it for a microsecond, then it's gone. I hunt it
down, trying to see what it's doing. It leaves only minute traces behind, tiny
modifications of the city's routines, snippets of code attached to various
programs, small anchors dropped in maintenance systems, waiting to be
activated.

I know what it is, now: a meta-virus, digging its way
through the city's metabolism one vital system at a time. It notices me and
tries to read me. I fall back quickly and it gives chase.

This virus is different from anything I've ever seen. It's
more like a special operations script, or an emergency program. Very high end.
I fight to escape its aggressive pursuit as it tries to trace me back to a
physical source and deactivate me. I must disconnect.
Now
.

It tries to interfere with my programming, to infect me
and take me apart—except I'm not a program. It tries harder, faster, getting
more violent and resourceful with every attempt. I can hardly think in the
downpour of data trying to scramble my mind. I jerk away from the server,
snatching my hands back, and bump my head against the cooling duct.

I sit there panting in the bitter air, holding my head and
sifting through the avalanche of information I just escaped from. What the hell
was that thing? What was it doing?

I replay the encounter in my mind, again and again, trying
to make sense of it. Bits of code, glimpsed here and there as the virus tried
to corrupt me, start coming together, assuming a terrible shape. My heart goes
into overdrive. I fight for each dizzying gasp of air, hyperventilating,
gripped by sudden panic.

Everything will be lost if that program runs its course.
Everyone will die.

I replay the remembered commands—unable to accept them.

"
Executive orders by FH67895432.GEN2:

To all ground-based TMC synthetics: end operations on
August the 2nd, 2456, at 31 p.m. local time. Retreat via emergency tunnels, and
enter open space operation mode.

To program V23DLN: override command of all Razer units.
Cut power to Erano's life support systems on August 3rd, 2456, at 00:00 a.m.
local time, and collapse the filament net.

To all Razer units: perform a class three Sweep of the
Erano colony and all adjacent constructions. Notify FH67895432.GEN2 upon Sweep
completion and deactivate
."

I swallow hard and sit up, shuddering from head to toe.
Slowly get a grip of my senses.

In less than 20 hours the power to Erano's Heaters and
Rebreathers will be cut and the dome's filament net will fall. Everything in
the city will be shredded to pieces, and every single human inside—civilian or
not—will die. The Razers will make certain there are no survivors, however
unlikely. A class three Sweep means the termination of all life-forms and the
destruction of all digital information they possess.

Erano will be wiped off the planet.

Someone—a TMC general—
FH-something-GEN2
—has ordered
a genocide. And I'm square in the middle of it.

"Have you decided?" Gra'Ylgam asks. "We are
about to enter their inhabited space."

Amharr blinks. All his superior skills as a High Emranti
have been corrupted: his ability to predict the evolution of complex events;
his inclination to create order around him and subdue all disturbance factors;
even his powers of concentration and swiftness of thought have waned. Because
of the link. He can't stop diving into it, seeking out Taryn's thoughts and
emotions,
experiencing
her. It consumes him like a powerful drug.

"Dominant, we must act."

"Bring the vessel to a stop," Amharr says.
"Tell all Emranti aboard who aren't dealing with the Kolsamal rebellion to
gather in the main bay and ready their strikers."

Gra'Ylgam glares at him for a moment, then grunts. "I
cannot give orders to Emranti."

"Yes, of course... You are right," Amharr says
absently.

"Dominant, you must clear your mind. The rebellion on
the lower decks is in full swing now. The Kolsamal have killed seven Emranti,
and lost only thirty-four among their ranks. It's only a matter of time before
they come for
you
. I won't be able to defend you."

Amharr stares into the distance, caught in a maelstrom of
Taryn's experiences—something wild and tantalizing about being chased through
an information network.

"We're closing in on the humans as well,"
Gra'Ylgam continues, stepping closer. "They will discover us despite our
cloaking and engage us in battle. We are unable to properly fight them in this
state. You must make a decision. You must do
something
!"

Amharr snaps around to regard him. Then he grabs the
Kolsamal's face. Gra'Ylgam clenches his jaws, trying to resist Amharr's surges.
He starts to spasm, then bleed through the mouth, little green eyes locked on
Amharr's in a painful stare.

Amharr unlatches his fingers and Gra'Ylgam slumps to his
knees. His autotrophs wither and die, first on his face, then down his neck and
chest. His yellow skin turns ashen as Amharr's recombinant cells race through
his bloodstream. They meld with the particles inserted to heal him last time
and alter his body chemistry, change his metabolism and DNA structure with
exponential accuracy and speed, endowing him with abilities much like the
Emranti's. He should be able to manipulate the vessel's
samyth
and
klaar
,
and even communicate with Onrysses on his own very soon. He should also be able
to withstand Emranti inquiries from now on, and defend himself against their
surges.

Amharr inhales the Kolsamal's new scent, verifying the
success of his unprecedented, irresponsible, yet utterly necessary deed.

Gra'Ylgam's body adjusts, regaining its old strength and
starting to find new one. He stands up, trembling and flexing, and faces Amharr
eye to eye.

"Now you can command the
Undawan
and all
Emranti in its service," Amharr tells his mutant friend. "Go. Assume
your duty,
Dominant
."

Ga'Ylgam's muscles twitch. He forces himself to speak.

"This is still," he snorts, "only procrastination."

Amharr scowls at him for a second, then a strange new
sound rings from his biphonic biosonar plates—a sound no other Emranti has ever
made before. He is laughing. A human sound, as similar to Taryn's tickling
laughter as he can make it.

Gra'Ylgam growls and shudders, withstanding the strain of
the changes acting on his body.

Amharr inclines his head in a bow and walks past him
slowly, each step painfully hard. He exits the vessel's crux for the last time,
reeling under the nausea of his efforts to remain composed, almost wobbling, as
if swaying in an unseen wind.

Bray is lost.

The city comes crashing down around him as he races
through its streets. In his mind, the man he's seen shorn in half keeps dying
gruesomely, again and again. Bitter smoke fills his mouth and stabs its way
into his lungs. His legs carry him without direction or purpose, hands
uselessly balled into fists, face going slowly numb.

Buildings everywhere are blowing apart or tumbling down,
housing units collapse, trains and shuttles and cars shatter and burn.
Everywhere civilians die.

Bray keeps running.

He keeps replaying the moment he activated that trigger,
as if he can somehow find a loophole in the memory, slip through it, and change
the past.

Preston is gone; run off with some other Syndicate unit to
dive into the quicksand of his war. Vik went with him. And Franky?

Waking from a dizzying nightmare, Bray finds he's run back
to the storage building. He stumbles into the crumbled building as if he's
remote-controlled. Steel joists and girders protrude from the rubble like
crushed, splintered ribs. Bray fights through the wreckage, calling
"Franky? Hey Franks, where are you?"

He should have dropped that detonator. Should've prevented
that man's death. There were
civilians
down there—
fuck
!

"
Answer me
, Franky! Where are you?"

He crawls up the collapsed staircase, squeezing in between
crushed panels and walls, digging through the rubble and cutting his hands on
metal scraps. He should have stood up to Preston; should have refused to join
this madness from the start. He should have stood his ground like Taryn. She
has integrity—he doesn't. He's just a coward. No wonder she doesn't want him. A
goddamn fucking coward.

"
Franky
!" Bray screams. He bends over in
a coughing fit. Kicks down a pile of scorched boards and stumbles into the
attic room. Calls for Franky again, yelling at the top of his lungs.

A moan bubbles up through the background noise, coming
from the far right corner. Bray climbs over the remains of the ceiling, and
finally finds him. "Hey, I'm here, buddy. I came back for you. You
okay?"

Franky's sunny blond hair is muddied with soot, one foot
stuck under a chunk of concrete, his leg bleeding profusely through the
shredded fabric. He bites his teeth together, eyes unfocused.

"You'll be alright, Franks. Hold on." Bray
starts looking for something to pry the kid loose with. "I'll get you out.
Don't worry." Finds nothing but rubble. He grabs the chunk of ceiling with
both hands, groans and pulls, and falls back with it, almost dropping it on his
own boot. Franky screams in pain and swears loud enough that the walls ring
with it. Bray helps him up carefully, holding him around the waist. "Can
you walk?"

"Hope so," Franky says. "Where's
Preston?"

"Fuck Preston."

Franky stares at him, but says nothing.

They hobble through the wreckage, Franky dragging his
mangled foot. He's light as a child in Bray's grip. He really
is
almost
a child. Kid's seventeen, for fuck's sake! Preston has
children
killing
and dying on his behalf.

He's let Preston kick them around for years. Accepted it,
tolerated it, even tried to convince himself it was necessary. But he's been
Preston's bitch from the moment he stepped out of that prison.

No more.

"Where you taking me?" Franky asks, forcing Bray
to stop so he can rest. "Aren't we supposed to meet up with the
others?"

Bray startles. "Do you know where they are?" It
dawns on him that he's completely ignored all his synet input ever since he
touched that detonator. He never thought to check for Preston's latest orders,
for the Syndicate's progress, or the next thing on his fucking to-do list.

"I got updated coordinates just minutes ago,"
Franky says, slightly bewildered. "Didn't you?"

"My synet isn't working right," Bray lies. He
doesn't want to check it. In fact, he thinks of his mnemonic password and shuts
the damn thing off. "You lead the way," he tells Franky.

The air is hotter, denser somehow. The booms of explosions
and demolitions, the screams and whistles of people and missiles, the sharp
sizzle of lightning from the dome whipping the city, all grows louder and
nearer with every passing second.

"Bray, my leg hurts." Bray grabs Franky tighter
and almost lifts him off the ground, holding most of the boy's weight on his
shoulder as they walk.

The bedlam's reached a new level. The TMC's retaliating in
full force now. All hell's broken loose around them.

Bray's lips are dry and cracked, his chest constricted and
his muscles burning. Inside, underneath the fear of dying and the bitterness of
failure, Bray's never felt more awake. His thoughts have never been clearer.

"I can't walk anymore," Franky says, and
wriggles free of Bray's grip. "My side hurts too, worse than my leg."
He holds his ribs as he coughs, and leans against the back of a shattered
building.

Bray looks up. A Rebreather sucks in the whirling darkness
overhead, rumbling violently. He tries to figure out where they are, but all
the buildings look alien now, deformed and grotesque. It doesn't matter where
they are. Everything's gone to fuck.

"Snap out of it, Bray." Franky looks up at him,
worried.

Bray grins. "Snapped out of everything, Franks. Off
the fucking grid, this time for good."

"What the hell you talking about?"

"Look around you." He spreads his arms wide in
the downpour of dust and ashes. "It's Judgment Day."

Franky shakes his head, and tries to get back on his feet.
"We don't have time for this, Bray. Gotta find the others."

"Well look at you." Bray smiles. "All grown
up and determined. You wanted to ditch just a few days ago, but now you're all
up for action."

"I just don't want to die," Franky says through
the rattle of scree pelting down around them. "Right now, I'd rather be
standing next to Preston than out here in the line of fire."

"True. That old bastard always stays safe from consequence."

Franky almost gets his footing, but slides back to the
ground. He grits his teeth, holding his bloody leg.

A piece of overpass comes crashing down a few meters away,
covering them in soot, and a stream of panicked, fleeing people gush out of an
alley. A shower of bullets scatters them. They scream as they fall and sprawl
face-down in the wreckage. Bray watches in horror as several Razers stomp out
of the alley. Their joints hiss, guns snap into place, and their visors scan
the dead at their feet. One of the weaponized androids turns toward them, and
aims.

In that near-infinite moment, Bray sees his life for what
it really is:

He's always been a tool, working in someone else's hands.
Fear kept him obedient. Fear of facing the truth—that he's wandered blindly
through a miserable life, with nothing real to fight for. Everything that could
have meant something to him is gone. Hope too.

Bray never felt freer in his entire life.

He ducks and feigns right, then scrambles left and dives
behind an upturned truck, out of the Razers' sight. One of them fires,
peppering his trail with bullets, plumes of impact dust nipping at his heels.

Bray peers around the edge of the truck for a split
second—sees Franky slumped over, a mound of bleeding flesh—and crawls away on
hands and knees, fleeing into a building.