The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

After the sixth time he came to me, I stopped resisting.
Now we don't even pretend to talk anymore.

That first time was the most painful. It took me days to
shut out the terror and confusion—the
realization
that I was losing my
mind to another.

If I hadn't mistaken his questioning for torture... If I
hadn't stabbed him at the most inopportune moment, as his nervous systems
adapted to mine thought by thought, memory by memory...

I hurt him. But for all the wrong reasons. And hurt myself
through him more than I may ever be able to mend. Only after I stopped
resisting did I finally understand.

The physical pain has lessened, and the terror of death
that had gripped me at first has receded into a mute understanding that I will
simply die. Maybe right away, maybe not for another century, but it will
happen, and it will be on
his
terms.

Deep inside me, where I no longer dare to venture on my
own, I'm constantly pulled toward him. It's a will-crushing need. It scares me
out of my mind. What he's left of it.

In those moments, when he slips into the room and
hesitates, something stirs inside of me, a compulsion to reach out and make
peace, to give us both much earned relief. But then he touches me and storms
through me with such violence that I'm unable to follow what's happening, let
alone intervene.

Each time, my thoughts and memories pour freely out of me
like water through a broken dam, and I lose every sense of who I am. In that
vacancy, an enormous world of alien images and thoughts plunges in. His mind is
so much ampler than mine, his emotions so much more powerful—from ice-cold
indifference, to obliterating rage, to absolute serenity. I'm completely lost
in him, like a drop lost in a furious sea.

I grew up dreaming of a multispecies society based on
tolerance and cooperation. It was my only motivation to keep going after the
Raids on Maza decimated the Dorylinae, and left just
one
of thirty hives
standing. How could I not have come here to make contact with a new species?
How could I not keep hoping?

Now I have nothing. And he wants my nothingness too.

-

I jolt awake, naked and sticky with sweat and blood.
Something's writhing inside my head.

Oh fuck—make it stop! Please make it stop
!

I dig my nails into the floor. Would tear it open if I
could, but the damn stuff just grows back. I sit up instead, my fingers bruised
and sore. My tears have mixed with the blood on my chin and dried there. I
don't know where I am, or how much time has passed since I last knew.

An alien comes in, a green mountain of muscle: Gra'Ylgam,
the Kolsamal elder. The knowledge of his name and species, like so many other
things swarming through my mind, Amharr's feverish raids have left behind. It's
always Gra'Ylgam who comes to feed and clean me, and he too seems to stay
longer each time. But I might be mistaken. Time doesn't make much sense to me
lately.

When my voice comes back, and I find some thoughts of my
own, I start to talk.

"Where is my team?"

The Kolsamal throws a glob of rosy goo on the floor and it
rolls toward me...
smush... smush... smush...
It stops against my knee.
"Gone back."

I pick up the glob up and sniff it. Odorless, as usual.
"Were they hurt?"

"No."

"Why not?" I press the spongy surface of the
glob against my lips and suckle. It's tasteless, as usual.

Gra'Ylgam parts his jaws, and rolls his slimy tongue at
me. I smile back at him, and suck the viscous knot greedily. He waits for me to
finish.

"How long have I been here?"

"Almost one
jala
." He smacks his jaws
shut and swallows.

Almost twenty-one days. More stolen knowledge. It's good
it comes so easily, my head hurts like fuck when I try to focus.

I discard the empty, wrinkled glob, and watch it disappear
into the floor like a tiny carcass into a swamp. "How much longer?"

"However long the Dominant needs."

"For what? Why doesn't he just kill me? Why torture
me like this?"

"He does not want you dead." Gra'Ylgam sits
beside me. The fluff covering his muscles sways and ripples in tiny waves, as
if caught in a breeze. The motion makes me seasick, so I close my eyes and lean
against him. He doesn't move away.

"You attacked him. You caused this."

"I was defending myself. I don't deserve to be driven
mad for that."

He grunts, and I open my eyes. "Not mad." The
capillary green fluff on his arm has elongated and grown, trying to crawl up on
my face. I wince and push away. Then remember the marks on his face and bite my
tongue.

"Please, talk to me, Gary. Tell me what's
happening."

"Gra'Ylgam."

"I can't pronounce that. Please just... talk to me.
Help me understand."

"Dominant Amharr wanted to question you. You disrupt
his inquiry, and injure him. He loses control. Goes too far with his inquiry.
Now he cannot stop."

"Tell me more."

And for whatever reasons of his own, he does. Gary tells
me of Amharr and the High Emranti, and explains the role they play within the
order of the galaxy, and what that involves. He tells me of a galactic union of
immense proportions—the Ascendancy—ruled by an ancient, incorporeal species—the
Raimerians—and run by dozens of other species made of flesh and bone. He tells
me of the Kolsamal race, and their history of slavery in service to that union.
He tells me of Amharr's unusual tolerance, despite his ruthlessness and
efficacy as a Dominant.

I slowly understand the affinity Gary seems to have for
me. We not only share the experience of an Emranti 'inquiry,' but that of a
race at the mercy of others. Yet, I feel as though the qualms of human
colonists exploited by the Ticks are a distant and ungrateful luxury, compared
to what the Kolsamal endure. But injustice is injustice, regardless of its
size. And Gary knows it too.

He tells me the Ascendancy investigates every species
advanced enough to reach them, and judge if it's a threat, potential ally, or
potential tool. They have entire fleets prowling the galaxy for just that
purpose, all led by Dominants of their own.

Amharr's job is to determine if humanity is a problem or
an opportunity. And so far all he's come to know of it... is me.

I lean back into Gary's wriggling, living fur.

Gary doesn't ask me things. There's nothing he craves from
me. It allows me to like him. Between Amharr's consuming hunger and my guilt
for single-handedly ruining our chance at a peaceful encounter, Gary is a
moment of peace. In his own way, he's a welcome friend.

He lets me cry until I fall asleep.

-

"Where are you taking me?"

Gary drags me through the corridor, almost crushing my
hand. I haven't been on my feet for a long time and have trouble keeping up.

"Gary, stop it," I yell at him, and try to free
my hand. "Where are we going?"

"You must return." He yanks me forward.

"What do you mean? Tell me, damn it."

"Walk."

He's angry with me. Furious. But why?

The walls billow outward as we pass. If I consciously
watch them, they seem inert again. A mirror-sphere accompanies us soundlessly
along the ceiling. An
Onryss
—Raimerian technology. They're supposed to
help the Emranti control their vessels and thralls, but Gary suspects they're
in fact controlling the Emranti. He never talked to Amharr about his suspicions.
No Kolsamal ever talks to an Emranti unless talked to.

"If you don't tell me where we're going right
now..." I scowl at him. In vain.

After a subjective thousand clicks Gary stops and I bump
into his shoulder. A doorway opens in the wall to our right and the Onryss
slips into an enormous, softly lit room. Everything aboard Amharr's vessel is
softly lit, as if he can't stand extremes.

Gary grabs my shoulders and stares at me desperately.
"You will return to your origin."

"My what?" The last standing hive on Maza? Maza,
covered in snow and ice, glinting in harsh sunlight... My memory distorts, and
I recall a field of copper-colored weeds, and the stench of burning bodies
wafting toward a turquoise sky.

No, that's not right. I've never seen that.
Have I
?

Gary glares at my confusion. Presses his claws into my
shoulders to ground me.

"Do not forget what happened here," he says.
"Remember correctly."

I nod drunkenly. "Alright."

He smacks his jaws, ushers me through the doorway, and
walks away.

The Onryss waits for me further ahead. As I walk deeper
into the room, I see a tear-shaped, mirror-reflective craft, not much bigger
than a TMC Dart. I approach cautiously, seeing my face in the reflection for
the first time in weeks. My mouth is a skewed, unsightly bruise. My eyes not
much better. It's me alright, but not quite me. I reach out to touch the glossy
surface, but before my fingers can meet it, it begins to ripple.

A rampway rolls out of the craft like a tongue, and I walk
in, leaving the Onryss behind in the gloomy bay.

The ship is dim and silent. That familiar smell of ethanol
and ozone finds me, and I know I'm not alone.

He's standing right beside me, back pressed against the
curving wall.

"Why?" I whisper.

"This is my last attempt." His voice is low and
vibrant, the rumble of a volcano about to erupt.

"What attempt? What will you do to me?"

"Remove you from my reach. Return you to your own
kind. If it succeeds, I will never see you again."

"And if it doesn't?"

He glares at me with his immobile eyes, then goes to stand
behind a white, crescent control console. I have no idea what he expects of me,
but I'm pretty sure what he thinks of failure.

"Sit," he booms.

I sit.

He spreads his multi-jointed fingers over the controls.
Tiny electric arcs bolt up to his fingers, and the console's surface comes
alight in a myriad of colors. Bulges rise from it to meet his palms. And though
I can't consciously feel it, I know we're moving.

I lean against the wall and hug my knees. The floor hums
under us, throbbing with his energy. It makes my skin crawl.

"Where are we flying to?"

"The same place your vessel went."

"Spiron..." I bite into my knee.

Amharr presses his hands down on the console, and a sudden
heaviness floods me. The vibrations crawl through my marrow and the floor sucks
at my skin, numbing it. Before I can panic I lose consciousness.

When I wake, Amharr is leaning over me. "Stand,"
he says.

I stand.

He slings his fingers around my neck and holds me still.
The glaze on his skin ripples and pulls back, as the seam of his chest widens,
tearing open from neck to waist. I watch in silent horror as the two halves of
his ribcage spread apart, laying bare hundreds of ribs covered by a glossy
membrane that ripples with every breath he draws.

The floor crawls up my legs, to my knees and thighs. It's
not moving upward—we are sinking.

As the floor reaches my chest he pulls me closer toward
him and draws my face into the open cleft of his torso. The sleek membrane
envelops my face and clogs my nostrils, mouth, and eyes. I fight for air and
gasp into the unyielding gum, my fingers clawing numbly at his skin. He closes
his ribcage gently around my head, and everything else fades away.

A violent shock wakes me. I lash out wildly, coming up
fighting.

Someone touches me, wraps me in gauze and presses
something cold over my face.

My eyes fly open but my vision is hazy and I can't
breathe—
can't breathe
—
can't breathe
!

Rustling and swishing, steps pounding on a metal floor,
muffled voices. Then something wet dislodges from my face with a painful
suction.

"Miss Harber," a man calls, panting right next
to me. "Can you hear me, miss?"

"Her pupils are responding."

"You're alright, we got you. You'll be fine."

He's wrong.

"Hold tight, this'll sting a bit."

Something hisses under my left ear. It doesn't sting—it
burns. I want to tell him where he can stick that needle, but all I manage is a
hoarse grunt. Then I choke and gag.

"Your lungs are damaged, but you'll recover," he
says. "I just gave you a dose of suppressants and tranquilizers. Try and
stay calm, we're almost at the medbay."

I push my head up and look around. I'm pinned to an
anti-grav stretcher by a medical stasis field, being pushed down a station
corridor. Bulkheads blur past overhead. A scanner arm runs back and forth along
the side of the stretcher, taking readings.

I don't know the curly-haired man galloping alongside the
stretcher, or the bearded guy—the one talking to me—pushing it.

"How in hell did you just pop up inside the cargo
hold? Station sensors didn't catch a single speck passing the radiation
shield." Then, to the other man: "Run ahead and prep the alcove—
now
.
She's going into shock."

"Got it," the curly guy shouts, already
sprinting off.

"Wait..." I lisp. "No shock."

"Yes, shock. Try to breathe slowly. We're almost there."

He presses another injector to my neck. I snap my head
around to bite him, but I'm not fast enough. Goddamn substance burns through my
veins like liquid fire, and I wish I could cough it up and spit it in his eye.

I cringe as I'm pushed into a painfully bright room. I
hate that I can't defend myself, even from this. I'm so fed up with being
pushed around and touched and probed, I swear I'll break his hand if I get the
chance.

The MD disables the restraining field, heaves me off the
stretcher and plops me into a medical alcove. Its immobilization field comes on
and turns me limp again from the neck down.

"Get the medroid working," he tells Curly, and
shoves the stretcher aside. Then frowns at the alcove console.

People have gathered at the door to rubberneck, all
dressed in colonial-khaki jumpsuits and overalls. They're workers and
mechanics, faces I don't know and have no interest in knowing.

Curly pushes a booting medical android next to my alcove.
Leaves me to stare at the waking mechanical beast while he shoos the gawkers
away. Then he scurries to the medbay's central bulkhead to use the intercom.

The medroid is a mute metal gorilla with dozens of spindly
limbs. Some of them are nothing but elongated flexi-drills, others are
injectors and saws, scanners and pliers, skin-cell sprays and nervewire
weavers—weapons welded to an unfeeling machine with x-ray eyes. It hums to
life, and its cooling system crackles underneath the alloy hide like tired
bones snapping to life. It gives off a faint smell of ozone and motor oil. My
lip curls.

"Miss Harber." Preston. "What the
hell
happened?"

I wish the tranquilizers had worked.

"How did you get back here?" He pushes the
medroid aside to sit on the edge of my alcove. "Did they drop you off?
How? Where's their ship? What did you learn?"

"Miss Harber is stable, no severe injuries." The
MD pushes the medroid back into place. "But she needs rest. Why don't you
come back later, doc?"

"Right." Preston remains seated. He even leans a
bit closer, staring me in the eyes, as if he's trying to determine I'm really
me. Then he lays his wrinkled hand on mine.

He hasn't cut his fingernails in weeks, and the creases
around his knuckles look like dehydrated suction cups. I want to pull my hand
away so bad it burns, but I can't move. I want to yell at the MD to drop the
field, but if I speak, Preston will know I'm coherent, and I don't want to talk
to him. I've nothing to report on his ally making mission other that we might
have a new enemy now. And I'm not even sure about that. I'm not sure about
anything anymore, except that I'm no bit closer to my goal of landing a fatal
blow against the TMC.

Preston leans back with a frown. "At least you're
alive. We'll talk about the rest later."

"Perfect," the MD says, and steps aside, making
way for Preston to leave.

Preston takes the cue and stands up, taking his hand off
mine. My skin starts prickling like a bag of ants.

"Fix her. Fast," Preston orders, heading for the
door.

Bray stands there, leaning against the frame with his arms
crossed, face darkened by a frown. He throws me a spiteful look, then follows
Preston out into the corridor like a dog.

"Well, let's get you 'fixed' then, shall we?"
The MD smiles at me. He pulls a plug out of the medroid's shoulder and sticks
it into my nacom. "You having hallucinations? Glitches in your visual
cortex?"

"No glitches." There's no synet left to cause
them anymore, but I'm not going to tell him that. He'll figure it out on his
own soon enough.

Shit
. No synet means I can't pilot anything, which
means I'm stuck here. Unless Preston has me re-implanted, I'm useless. And I
don't want his hackware. He'll likely want to reconstruct my memories like the
Ticks did. He'll trace back what happened on the alien ship, and find out
about— No. No way in hell. I need a clean synet before he gets wind of my
no-tech state, one I can tweak myself.

"I don't understand this," the MD says.
"There's no feedback from your nacom. Must be damaged, or maybe the
nervewire's interrupted somewhere. I'll have the medroid do a deep scan."

"No." I shake my head vigorously.

"It's standard procedure. Nothing to worry
about." He smiles like I'm a kid throwing a tantrum.

"What's your name?" I divert him, trying
desperately to move inside the field.

"I'm Dr. Galatas." His smile softens. "Call
me Aaron."

A trickle of sweat runs down the side of my forehead.
"Aaron, could you please leave the deep scan for later? I'd rather talk.
Eat something. I've been out there so long. The aliens don't cook, you know.
I'm starving."

His eyes widen with late realization. He looks at the
medroid standing by, ready to drill into my skin, and nods. "Alright.
We'll see about that deep scan later. Hey, Chuck, get the lady some food from
the mess hall."

Curly mumbles something on his way out.

I turn my head away, wishing I was somewhere else. But I
can only go back down inside my mind, and I'm afraid of what I'll find there.

"So." Aaron sits carefully next to me.
"What were they like? Bray said they were primitive brutes. But I doubt
brutes are intelligent enough for the kind of technology it took to get you
back here. I mean, by the Mother, did they
beam
you in here? That would
be—" He whistles. His smile broadens with excitement, waiting for me to
explain. But all I want to do is claw myself out of this alcove and make a run
for it.

"Ooo-kay," he says after I don't answer.
"Wrong tack. I'll give you another dose, let you get some rest, and you
can eat after. I'll run the scans while you sleep, alright?"

He thumbs a small pad above the medroid's injector arm,
and the monstrous thing stabs forth toward my neck.

"No! If that touches me—"

He raises an eyebrow as the needle goes in. Too late. The
injector hisses under my ear and my veins are burning again. As the MD waits
for me to pass out I grind my teeth and lurch with all my might. My fingers
twitch and my knees buckle. I free a hand, push through the field and grab
Aaron by his throat.

He squirms and grabs my hand with both of his, and pries
my fingers open.

"Fuck!" He stumbles away from me, coughing and
clutching his throat.

I scramble out of the alcove, past the medroid, past the
center bulkhead, and bump straight into Chuck and his lunch tray. Aaron catches
up and grabs me from behind.

"Help me," he yells, pulling me back. Chuck
grabs my shoulders and I squirm in their grip. "What the hell got into
you? How did you—"

"—Let me go! No more shots! No medroids! And for
fuck's sake stop touching me."

Chuck lets go as if I burned him. But Aaron's not about to
quit. "You've been on an alien ship for almost a month." He wrestles
me back to the alcove. "You could be contaminated with alien organisms,
your synet corrupted with some unknown virus, or suffering from severe
trauma." He plants me in the alcove and straddles me, holding me in place
with his own weight. "By the way you're acting it's all of the above. Now
calm down,
stay
down, and let me do my job. I promise I'm not gonna hurt
you, or do anything without asking you first. Okay?"

I nod and pretend to relax. My heart is pounding in my
ears. I'm panting, sweating, obsessed with escape like a caged beast. Even if I
flee from the medbay, I can't get off the station by myself. Not without a
synet. Fuck!

Aaron gets off me, watching me skeptically.

I grab his wrist. "No tranquilizers. And no field,
please. I can't stand being held down anymore after all that happened."

He nods, then thumbs the medroid into scanning mode.

-

I open my eyes after a shallow, nightmare-ridden sleep, and
find Bray staring at me, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"Hi." I stretch inside my alcove. "What's
up?"

He shakes his head at me, goggle-eyed. He smells of sweat,
disinfectant, and hair gel. I lean away a bit.

"We have to talk."

I harrumph and sit up. To my surprise, I feel much better.
No more dizziness, no fatigue, and all my senses are acute and focused. I look
around the medbay for Aaron or his mechanical minion, but we're alone.

"Do you feel funny?" Bray asks.

"What?"

"Do you have any unusual symptoms, like headaches,
dizziness, hallucinations?"

"You mean you're actually here?"

He rolls his eyes at me. "Did the aliens do anything
to you?"

"Sure, they stuck probes up my ass to look for
humanity's secrets."

"I'm serious." In fact, he really does look
serious. "The aliens are hostile, aren't they?" He's actually
worried. How cute.

"Not as hostile as humans usually are."

"But they
are
, right? Preston wants to... He
thinks..." He scratches his head, then frowns at me accusingly. "He
wants me to fly out to them again."

To Amharr.

My stomach tightens. "So? What's that got to do with
me?"

"You're the one who fucked up the contact mission.
You should go, not me."

I sit up. "What do you mean
I
fucked up?"

"You crashed the
Transiter
into the alien ship
'cause you had fire ants up your ass."

"I made
contact
," I snap. "My
job
.
What would you have done—wait for the stars to align?"

"You got us captured."

"I got myself captured, Bray. You escaped. Quit
whining."

"Listen, you little—" He stops. Breathes. Looms
closer. "I don't care what excuses you come up with, but this time it's
my
call to make."

"I'm not flying back out there, Bray." My throat
is dry. "The aliens aren't interested in negotiating relations
anyway."

"What do you know about it?" His eyes narrow.
"What happened out there?"

"Doesn't matter. They're gone now. It's over."

He tilts his head, scrutinizing me. "Gone?" I
nod. "They just took off," he says. "Flew away, just like
that?"

"Yes, damn it."

"And they said nothing about coming back?"

"It's not like we had friendly chats over a cup of
tea, Bray. He didn't tell me anything, okay?"

"
He
?"

"They!
Whatever
." My heart is racing.
"There's no point in going out there anymore. You can tell Preston I
confirmed that. Satisfied?"

He folds his arms across his chest. "Yes."

"Perfect."

His gaze flits up and down my face a few more times, to
make sure I'm sticking to my word. Then he turns on his heel and leaves.