Asterion Noir: The Complete Collection (Amaranthe Collections Book 4) Page 3

  “That…wasn’t my intent. Perrin, I only wanted you to take the operation seriously. I want everyone to take operations seriously.”

  “I do, Jo. This is my life as much as it’s yours, remember?”

  “Of course I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose and stood. “I realize it is. Fine, I’ll try to work on my discretion. If we’re done, I think I need some depri time.”

  Nika eyed him for a second. “We’re done. We can decide on the ID distribution protocols later.”

  He nodded vaguely and disappeared out the door.

  She studied the door after his departure. “He seems more ornery than usual tonight. Is he tweaking around with his processes?”

  “I don’t think so. This afternoon he found out his best friend from a prior gen got arrested for assault. With the new, tougher penalties, a conviction will mean a decade at Zaidam Bastille.”

  Nika frowned. “Does he want us to look into it? See if we can help his friend somehow?”

  “No. I asked, but he said he’s not comfortable barging into a former friend’s business, not when he doesn’t know much about who the guy could be now. People change when they up-gen, and sometimes they change a lot. That’s why we do it.”

  Nika directed the continuing frown at her glass. Unlike everyone else here, she hadn’t existed in a cognizable form for long enough to watch people she knew up-gen and change overnight. “Is it?”

  “Yeah. We don’t want our processes to grow stale, our personalities jaded or, worse, our minds mad.”

  “I understand the philosophical justifications behind up-genning. It’s just…why is it mandated? And why a minimum of every three hundred years? Did scientific analysis produce this length of time as the outer safe limit, or was it picked because it’s a round number? And why are the Guides exempt?”

  “You want me to spout the party line? I can do that.” Perrin took a deep breath and struck a dramatic pose. “The Guides must retain the wisdom of the ages to perform their functions optimally and chart our course and the Dominion’s future through a dangerous cosmos. Their processes are constantly evolving as a consequence of their work, so they don’t need to up-gen to avoid stagnation.”

  “Why can’t we do the same? Aren’t we always evolving, too? Always learning, adjusting and refining ourselves?” Nika sighed, recognizing she had just exposed her generational immaturity—but it wasn’t like Perrin didn’t know.

  “I’m not sure of the point I’m trying to make. I hear about Joaquim’s friend and…it sounds as though he got stiffed with a bad up-gen, and maybe he shouldn’t have been forced into it. It’s another rule sitting atop a massive pile of rules, and it’s a uniquely invasive one. For a supposedly free society of independent minds, we have a shit-ton of rules, and it feels like people long since stopped questioning their purpose or necessity.”

  Perrin arched an eyebrow. “Welcome to the rebellion?”

  “I get it. I’m not saying anything that everyone here doesn’t fervently believe.” She glanced back at the door. “Are you two going to be okay?”

  “We already are. I knew he was upset about his friend, and I don’t mind that he called me out.”

  “You’re too forgiving of him. And even if you don’t mind, the people serving under you do. On an operation, your team has to trust you completely, and to do so they need to believe that your peers and superiors have faith in your abilities. He undermined your authority in front of them, and it risks undermining your team’s confidence in you.”

  “This is why you’re in charge—you think like a leader. I’m too worried about fostering peace and harmony and making sure nobody’s feelings get hurt.”

  Nika laughed kindly. “This is why we love you, and also why you run The Chalet. Not many people could get over a hundred recalcitrants and dropouts to play nice with one another in an enclosed and increasingly crowded space.”

  Perrin made a face. “It’s not easy. Yeoman’s work, really. As I think on it now, I believe I deserve a raise.”

  Nika nudged the pitcher of wine toward her. “You can finish off the expensive syrah.”

  “Oh, so tempting, because it’s delish. But I’m dragging here. I need rest. Skipping depri and heading straight for a full sleep cycle. Combat operations still wear me down, and I’ve got two new potentials to screen tomorrow.”

  “Go. Rest and recharge. You’ve earned it.”

  Alone in her room at last, Nika contemplated the window projection for a moment, where a full moon cast ripples of silvery light upon steel-gray waters lapping at a ghostly white beach. She smiled at the peaceful but fake scene as she stripped to her underwear and wound her hair into a twist atop her head.

  She hadn’t set out to lead a rebellion. The first three months after Perrin and Joaquim found her in that alley and took her in, she spent figuring out how to be alive. How to be a real person in a world where everyone but her had hundreds or even thousands of years and dozens of generations’ worth of experiences enriching their sense of place in that world.

  But everyone at The Chalet had been open and welcoming toward her, though it was a much smaller group back then. It hadn’t been difficult to empathize with their grievances against the government—an act made far easier by the fact that, given her circumstances, she was not predisposed to trust the system. Or much of anyone, save those who had cared for her when she’d been lost and desperate for the most tenuous lifeline.

  Somewhere hidden behind the labyrinthine system of government rules and records and policies hid the answer to who she’d been before, and why she’d woken up a blank canvas in a rain-soaked alley with no memory and no past. If she could tear the system down, maybe she could find that answer in the rubble.

  After those first months, she’d started stepping up and getting involved. The group had an excess of passion but no direction; they were little more than a collection of disaffected people angry at their overlords but with no idea what to do about it.

  It had turned out Perrin was right—in time she found she was a natural leader. Without meaning to, she gradually took on mentoring roles, then planning and organizational ones—choosing targets and honing their disparate grievances against the government into a coherent strategy to effect change. Joaquim and Perrin started coming to her to resolve disputes, then to make decisions.

  Both of them were talented in their strengths, but their frequent disagreements meant the two of them combined did not add up to one true leader. They both realized it, too, because they’d openly admitted as much when they’d come to her and asked her to officially take charge of the group.

  It had felt right…like the inevitable first destination of the natural course of her new life. She might not know who she had been, but she’d come to know who she was now, and the idea of leading the fight for others to live freely and be their truest selves excited her.

  In the year and a half since then, their core size had tripled; they’d formalized an extensive web of allies, acquired more and better equipment and extended their capabilities in almost every way. She was proud of the fact that under her guidance they had transformed from sporadic troublemakers into a force worthy of being called a rebellion.

  But though she embraced this life and her adopted place in it, she never forgot how it began. She never put away the mystery of what came before.

  In the mirror on the wall behind her, the soft glow of the tattoo spanning her upper back glimmered. Stars, in the shape of a winged creature—a phoenix, possibly, or some more base bird of prey. It resembled a constellation, but no such constellation was visible from any of the Axis Worlds. It called to her soul when she studied it, but she could not decipher its elusive whispers.

  What did it represent? Maybe nothing beyond whimsical body art. Maybe something critically important, if only to her.

  She unlocked the false panel in the left wall and stepped inside the small chamber that had once been a closet, then closed and locked the panel behind her. After activating t
he equipment, she lay down on the chaise and adjusted her position until the interface port pressed flush against the base of her neck. It locked into place, and she activated the connection.

  Ηq(root) |n0 → Υ

  δ { Ηq(root) |β}

  init sysdir

  init sysproc

  init storeproc

  init portnex

  < Ηq(root) → Ω

  handshaking

  < Σ → β

  checksum:

  < βθαα βα θαθ αθ ββθθ αβαα αββα αθβθβ θαβα βαα ββββ αθ βαα

  checksum → Τ

  kernel signature:

  < ͶαθθΞβ∀ΨβΑΩ

  kernel signature → Τ

  handshake complete

  init storerec

  Ηq(storerec*) |n0 → Υ

  <

  The process of copying the memories of the day into her personal data store began.

  Once recorded, they would propagate through a secure nex pathway to two additional physical data stores hidden in safe locations. Once a week, all three stores pinged her—not her current persona, but the kernel operating beneath it—with their location and status.

  The system worked to ensure that no matter what ill fortune befell her in the future, she would not be erased a second time. Not for long.

  She closed her eyes.

  My persona on Y12,463.102 A7 is Nika Tescarav-kyr.

  I have lived other personas, but I cannot say what they were.

  I will live other personas in the future. I cannot say what they will be, but I can say this: they will always be me.

  I will never lose myself again.

  3

  * * *

  Dashiel Ridani was going to be late.

  Whether on account of the Justice-erected force field ringing the Dominion Transit HQ promenade or the throng of spectators ringing the force field, the outcome looked to be the same—he was going to be late. And he did despise being late. Reputations crafted over the course of centuries had crumbled into dust for lesser offenses, and his already hung from a cliff by an unraveling thread.

  Of course, he could have remembered to run his alcohol mitigation routines last night, or early this morning, or whenever it was that he’d finally succumbed to a poor form of sleep. Then, instead of waking a wreck of stubbed functions and bad pointers and having to load a far harsher flushing routine, he might have been able to leave home early enough to allow for delays.

  Flushing routines were a son of a bitch. His veins still burned from the caustic, unforgiving abuse this one had inflicted. But it had gotten him up, moving and now, here.

  Ηq (visual) | scan.physical(270°:90°, 5 seconds)

  Τ → gridpoint (27.4,14.3).optimalRoute

  The routine had scanned the crowd arrayed between him and his destination, measured its ebb and flow and identified the quickest course through it. He plunged in.

  The virtual path he followed sent him on several counter-intuitive veers, but a couple of annoying-but-benign jostles later he arrived at the force field and the Justice checkpoint accompanying it.

  The security dyne stationed at the checkpoint relayed its preprogrammed speech in a monotone loop. “Access is restricted to assigned Justice personnel and preapproved Dominion Transit employees—”

  “Advisor Dashiel Ridani, Industry Division, requesting entry clearance.” He placed all five fingertips of his left hand on the floating pane beside the dyne.

  “Identity signature confirmed. Entry granted, Advisor.”

  He slipped through the opening that materialized in the force field and adopted a rapid but controlled stride a notch below a jog across the promenade.

  The moderate pace gave him an opportunity to casually inspect the facade of the Dominion Transit HQ building as he approached. It looked rather the worse for wear, sporting blown-out glass across three floors and collapsed trusses on two corners. The widespread damage meant it was unlikely to be business as usual inside, which in turn meant his borderline lateness might go unnoticed by anyone who mattered.

  His suspicions were confirmed when he reached the lobby and the waiting reception attendant. “The directors convey their apologies, Advisor Ridani, but their morning schedule has been unavoidably disrupted. They expect to be meeting with Justice officers for the next twenty-three to thirty-one minutes. Do you wish to reschedule or wait?”

  He considered the scattered debris littering the lobby floor, the scorch marks on the walls and the floor, as well as the significant Justice presence on the scene, and he found he was…curious. “I’ll wait. Ping me when they’re available.”

  “Yes, Advisor. Our lounge is down the hall—”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be upstairs.”

  The graffiti demanded Dashiel’s attention the instant he stepped off the lift on the fifth floor. Etched into the wall above a wrecked room he thought had been the data vault was a single word:

  N O I R

  The rippling, iridescent white glow of the letters created an entrancing effect, and he found himself standing there in the hallway contemplating the dramatic flow of the script.

  “Quite a calling card, isn’t it?”

  Dashiel mentally retreated from his reverie and looked to his left, where the comment had originated. Adlai Weiss, a Justice Advisor, stood beside him scowling with far less admiration at the graffiti.

  “It does make an impression. I appreciate the irony, if not the vandalism.”

  Adlai frowned. “The irony?”

  “ ‘NOIR’ in blazing white.”

  “Ah, yes. I believe we are expected to take from it that they are shining a light into the darkness, or something to that effect. But an arguably honorable motive never stopped a crime from being a crime.”

  Dashiel nodded sagely. “Indeed. Your case?”

  “For a year and counting now, though I question for how much longer. The Guides’ displeasure with the terrorists is growing. They want results, and I’m not delivering.”

  “Maybe this will be the incident that breaks the case wide open.”

  “I would welcome the break, but I’m doubtful it will happen.” Adlai eyed him curiously. “You’re looking a bit worn. Rough night?”

  “Fabulous night—I think. Rough morning.”

  “Dashiel, at this rate you’re going to wear that body out in record time.”

  “So? There are more where it came from.”

  “True enough.” Adlai motioned down the hall. “Have a few minutes? Want to see the carnage?”

  “Absolutely.” He fell in beside Weiss.

  “What brings you here this morning? Morbid curiosity?”

  “If it was, you know I’d never admit it. I was scheduled to meet with the Dominion Transit Executive Board at 0800 local to negotiate terms for a hardware contract renewal.”

  “Ah. My officers have them occupied for the moment.”

  “So I’ve been told.” They arrived at the gaping, jagged hole beneath the graffiti. Two blood stains marked the floor on either side, though the bodies they must have belonged to had already been carted off. Inside, swarmbots scanned and recorded every centimeter of the room while two Justice officers were plugged into the main server surveying the damage.

  Dashiel took in the particulars of the scene with a quick glance. “Data breach?”

  “One can only assume. What data corruption NOIR may or may not have introduced into Dominion Transit’s records is still to be determined, but we should understand the nature of the invasion by tonight.”

  Dashiel chuckled under his breath. “Good speech. Well delivered.”

  “Think the Guides will buy it?”

  “They have little choice in the matter. Your humility is admirable, but the truth is they can’t replace you. Any alternative candidate is far inferior to your experience and skill.”

  Adlai briefly smiled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence. The reality, though? NOIR has demonstrated a knack for covering the tracks
that cover their tracks. I have zero personal doubt that they did something to the data stored in the vault, and an excess of personal doubt that we’ll ever discover what it was.”

  “I would assume the purpose of the intrusion was to scramble either the ID files or the historical transit records, or both. It fits with their ethos—they don’t believe individuals should be tracked by the government, so they’d be naturally inclined to destroy the tracking data stored here.”

  “True, but my gut tells me this hit was designed to ensure they could transit without being identified or tracked.”

  “Oh.” Dashiel thought on it briefly. “But if that were the case, shouldn’t they have been more discreet about it?”

  “And this is why you’re a businessman and not an investigator, my friend. All this?” Adlai waved his hand at the destroyed vault, then leaned back and pointed up to the graffiti. “This is a message to me, and through me to the Guides. It says they know we can’t get to them. It says they’re not afraid of us.”

  His internal comm pinged. The directors will see you in two minutes.

  He clapped Adlai on the shoulder. “I’m confident you’ll expose their folly and prove them wrong. Now, if you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”

  Charts, graphs and endless reams of data encompassed Dashiel’s perception within his focus sphere. Color-coded by classification, stylized by product pipeline and sized by percentage of revenue, the collective data represented hundreds of base materials and components feeding into dozens of product fabrication lines at eighteen factories spread across every Axis World and four Adjunct planets.

  Thanks to the unfortunate damage suffered at Dominion Transit HQ, the contract negotiations this morning had resulted in a more beneficial arrangement than he’d expected to receive. In addition to their regular and ordinary component needs, the company now required not merely replacement parts but more advanced, more secure replacement parts for their data vault and conduit hubs, as well as the lines connecting them.