Ariadne Read online

  Xev shakes his head. “There can be no doubt that she’s alive. All those who ordered her death have since been killed—and not in good ways. Those guys suffered, you know what I mean? Revenge, plain and simple. It had to be Esta. She hated betrayal more than anything. She was taking the biggest risks of us all, working for both sides. And the Company wanted to throw her away like so much fucking trash.”

  “No,” I croak. “No.”

  The news shocks me, rattling through me to my core and I momentarily lose myself, unconsciously forgetting to hold back Ariadne. Her terrible thoughts screech into me and I crumple. Part of me wants to let the ship’s entity devour me, to swallow me whole, but my sense of self-preservation takes over and I force Ariadne away again. As I push against her invasive mind, new memories are freed from deep inside me, memories that are at odds with what I know to be true. Opposing recollections commingling and fighting one other for precedence. Fragmented recollections colliding and breaking like the shards of glass in the smashed hotel mirror that has haunted me ever since I came out of hypersleep. And instead of my own, guilty accusing eyes staring back at me, I see the flashing, golden eyes of Esta…

  I take a deep breath of the heavy, ozone smelling air. The Wormer has its own atmosphere—a thin envelope allowing me to breathe and to observe an amazing starscape, although most of it is hidden by the cloud of dust these machines spew out—hanging in space like a polluted, stained comet.

  The Milky Way, half-obscured, extends up and over my head, surrounded by a myriad of pinprick stars. Andromeda is beautiful set against such stark blackness. An astounding vista, but cold. I feel myself shivering.

  “Vatic?”

  The voice is faraway, faint. A woman’s voice. The timbre is familiar, painful. I can’t answer, I mustn’t answer.

  “Vatic! Come inside. And close those damn doors, it’s freezing.”

  I turn and stare back into what I recognise as a bedroom. I’ve seen this vista before, hundreds of times. A double bed sits against the far wall, a black satin over-sheet thrown onto the worn carpet, the bedclothes crumpled. I leave the balcony with its spectacular views, walk inside and close the doors, recognising fitments that seemed to have been seared into my brain: twin bedside lights each with an orange lampshade standing atop cupboards with chrome handles. A cabinet stacked with booze and littered with half-empty cocktail glasses. A large black and white print of a reclining woman smoking a stylised cigarette—her bright red lips the only colour. A crumpled blue dress lying on the floor next to an upturned, sling back shoe. A dressing table above which hangs a mirror with my reflection. I’m wearing a black suit with an open-collared white shirt. Underneath, I glimpse the grey of a skinsuit. I’m muscular, taut—and dangerous. And those eyes… they sparkle and burn like twin, blue, angry suns. Bright and steely—manic with the fervour of truth and deserving retribution.

  “Vatic,” the voice continues. “Fix me a drink while I’m getting ready.”

  I then notice the buzz-gun in my hand. Palm-coded, deadly.

  “Vatic? Are you deaf?”

  A naked woman enters the room from the en suite. Red hair flows from her head in a cascade of curls. Golden eyes stab out of her face. Eyes like my own. Haunted, wired, unnatural in colour. She’s a Skilled. “What the hell is this?” she says calmly, her finely chiselled chin dipping towards the buzz-gun.

  And then I speak those words. The words I dread to hear: “I know it’s you.” My voice is cold, empty.

  “Vatic, let me explain. Let me—”

  But I don’t let her explain. Instead, I press the stud and shoot. A single shot. She crumples over, landing on the dressing table with a crash, the mirror smashing everywhere.

  I watch her die, the blood seeping from the hole in her side as big as a melon, my cold, blue eyes glittering back at me from so many broken shards.

  “Oh, Vatic…” she gasps.

  …The scene as it has played out a thousand times in my mind. The horror and the guilt branded into my subconscious. Those myriad accusing eyes. My eyes. And yet this time, the memory has a transparent quality.

  Unreal. Like I’m seeing it from far away.

  The figures move and speak like ghosts. Ghosts that fade and disappear. I see myself lying on the same hotel room floor. Esta squatting above me. Attaching something to my head. And it all comes crashing back.

  I was brain-squeezed… Esta forced me to believe I’d killed her!

  Since I’ve been recovering from my near-death in hibernation, my memories have been a jumble. But it wasn’t the hibernation that scrambled my brain. It was something more sinister. The effort of keeping Ariadne away from my mind has somehow weakened the hold of these implanted memories.

  “Vatic,” Xev says with concern. “You okay?”

  I come back to myself. “She brain-squeezed me,” I gasp, feeling an incredible sense of relief.

  “Esta? But why? Why on earth would she need to do that?”

  “I had my orders,” I spit angrily.

  “You mean you were really going to go through with it, you were really going to kill her?”

  I nod, the memories slowly falling back into place. “She planted terrible memories of grief deep into my mind. She wanted me to suffer for her death—a death that never happened. Her revenge, I guess. I’d gone there to kill her. Like the mindless Company drone who had killed all those millions in the war.”

  “I never thought you’d go through with it,” Xev whispers. “Why?”

  “That was me back then, wasn’t it? The man of Black and Blue and White.”

  “But why didn’t Esta kill you? She knew you were coming for her. I warned her.”

  “It’s simple,” I reply, coming back to myself. “She didn’t want me dead, she wanted me alive and suffering.”

  Xev gives me a confused look.

  “She loved me.” Three simple words, words that have hounded me ever since. Cutting into me. Burning me with hot knives of guilt.

  “A Skilled in love? No way. You are heartless bastards and Esta was one hard-faced fucker. Hell, you were a good match.”

  “She knocked me out and used a memory-squeeze to change the version of events. Why else plant such feelings of grief and remorse inside of me? She wanted me to know exactly how the betrayal of her love hurt her. She wanted me to feel that forever. That was the hook that kept everything else in place. The one truth that held the rest of the lie together. Her love for me.”

  Xev stares into my one good eye, the words registering across his face. His uneven eyebrows furrowing, before letting out a low laugh. “Wow! A Skilled in love. I would never have believed it. No wonder you tried to hide yourself in the Colonies. Why you wanted to become a fucking farmer. Esta is one cruel bitch.”

  “You were right. Me, a farmer? It’s a ridiculous notion. But I couldn’t see through it. I couldn’t see past my own guilt and grief.”

  Xev chuckles.

  “What?”

  “All this time I thought you were the best Skilled I’d ever known. Hell, I even admired you, not that I’d have told you that. But Vatic out-smarted by someone else? By Esta? …I would’ve never imagined that in a hundred fucking lifetimes. Esta played you for a fool, Vatic. She duped you. A farmer in the Colonies?” he repeats with incredulity. “I can’t quite fucking believe it.” His chuckles turn into full-on laughter.

  I pull myself up to stand on shaking legs, aware of everyone looking at me. “The show’s over!” I shout at them. “Get a move on!”

  There is a lot to process, and it will take time, time that I don’t have. And even though my mind is still adjusting, there is a new feeling. Excitement.

  Esta is alive.

  I vow to get off this ship and go and find her.

  “GET GOING!” I say, ignoring the confused expressions, although the sneer on Eric Klund’s face sticks out like a sore thumb. A thumb that needs to be slapped sometime soon if he doesn’t change his attitude.

  Xev gives me a sideways gl
ance. And even through the folds of his face, I can see that he thinks I’m diminished. I’m no longer the Vatic he thinks I was.

  Fuck him.

  I walk past everyone to the front, instructing Xev to bring up the rear, my thoughts still jumbled.

  After a few silent minutes where I can feel everyone’s eyes burning into my back, Rooba Jen comes up to me, walking on my shoulder like an official consort. The Jen are single-minded and power-orientated. I’m in charge—a bright, white flame she finds impossible to ignore. Forget that the ship is gonna get blown apart sometime soon, that I just suffered some peculiar mental breakdown, and that I’m an emaciated stick with one manic eye—I’m the top dog and that’s all that matters.

  She says nothing, content to glide along at my side, her head tilted in my direction, as if listening to my thoughts.

  “Don’t stand so goddamn close.”

  Rooba dutifully takes a step back. But I know her obedience is only feigned.

  To me, she’s just another suspect. “Don’t play your games,” I spit in her direction. “It won’t work.”

  The Jen seems pleased I’m speaking to her, regardless of my tone.

  “Not even when you know I’m willing to become whoever you want me to be?” she whispers. “To take on any physical shape, face, or gender to satisfy your needs… even then?”

  The face of Esta flicks unwelcome into my mind. Her large, wired golden eyes and red, crazy hair. I subconsciously ready myself for the wave of grief and guilt that always accompanies her name. This time it doesn’t come. I’m lost for a moment until I realise the new truth. Esta is still alive.

  I shake my head. “I don’t need anyone, especially not a copy.”

  “A copy? So, you do have someone in mind?”

  “Don’t mess with me,” I reply, annoyed at my slip. “You’re a suspect like anyone else. An augmented individual such as yourself, with your stripped-down DNA, would be easy to mimic. That puts you at the top of my suspect list, especially as you’re not on the official ship’s roster.”

  Rooba shrugs, her array of clearly visible breasts quivering under the chiffon of her sheer robes. “You must know that all Jen are copyrighted and recorded? Each genetic strand stamped by the Company? They may own the genetic processes, but I paid for them. In sweat, blood and everything else you can imagine. I’m most definitely not an imposter. I never understand why everyone else is so desperate to hang onto their original genetic identity. DNA is unimportant, or do the Skilled think otherwise?”

  I don’t answer her question. I was created in a damn test-tube. Space knows what my genome looks like under a microscope. I’ve never had the inclination to check myself out. I can’t imagine it’s anything pretty. The bottom line—I don’t own my DNA either.

  We arrive at Glaxtinian’s cabin a short while later. The hatch is closed, but the lock isn’t engaged, probably left that way by Xev, but I’m taking no chances. I kick it open revealing a reasonably large, but functional room. I usher everyone inside and get Xev to guard the door. I don’t want anyone else running off.

  Glaxtinian clearly didn’t have time to unpack. Her cases are neatly stacked in one corner, apart from the ones broken into by Xev. A bottle of brandy, half empty, lies on her bed. I’m surprised to find an en-suite head and shower unit. This is the kind of accommodation reserved for the Strategist or another high-ranking member of the crew. But then again, Glaxtinian was a Company Grandee, and an Arbiter—they expect the best. She was here to stay… that’s a fact.

  Could she have been killed by the person who’s cabin she took? I consider the possibility longer than it merits, before discounting it out of hand. But Glaxtinian’s presence on this ship could’ve put someone’s nose out of joint… and that someone was most likely Professor Chandrasekhar.

  Glaxtinian’s job was that of ball-breaker. And after what Xev told me about the professor, I guess he’s the type to try and keep his balls intact. Shooting Glaxtinian in the gut in front of the entire crew doesn’t sound like the move of a survivor. The professor might be responsible, but it seems too clumsy for someone who’s survived this long at the top of his game. I guess he’s lying dead somewhere on this ship. Gassed, like almost everyone else.

  I go over to the room’s single desk that doubles as a dressing table. A few typical items, recently unpacked, lie on top. A brush, make-up sticks, tissues. There’s also a winking data-centre. Her personal device. Locked and bio-linked to Glaxtinian with no way inside.

  Instead, I systematically search the drawers, not expecting to find anything, and discover a simple folder. One word is printed on the cover: Ariadne.

  The Company is paranoid. The days of hacking, of illegal access to wafers and data-centres are long-gone. But they still fear the possibility of an enemy agent somehow breaking their incredible encryption systems. Perhaps it’s because they’re working on doing the same to their rivals. The practical result? The Company has gone back to using good, old-fashioned paper.

  I open the folder, expecting an alarm to go off, but nothing. Inside is a sheaf of documents.

  Ariadne design specs.

  And pages and pages of printed notes from Glaxtinian. Mostly to do with costings and targets. My hunch about why she was aboard was correct.

  “What have you found?” Hewlis says.

  “Looks like Glaxtinian—and the Company—were not happy with how Professor Chandrasekhar was running things. From what I can tell, she came aboard with the intention of taking control of the project. Is that possible Klund?” I ask the geek. “Was the professor being side-lined?”

  “The professor’s work upon Ariadne, was ground-breaking and quite, quite brilliant. I cannot imagine that the Company would want to replace him. It makes no sense to me. The man is a first-order genius.”

  “But didn’t you say Ariadne had gone insane? That doesn’t sound like brilliance to me, it stinks of failure.”

  Klund shakes his head as if I’ve said the most stupid thing. “Ariadne was a prototype. Prototypes have their teething problems. The first step in a larger program. Breakthroughs do not happen overnight. It takes years and years of work, refining and adjusting.”

  “What’s happened aboard this ship is more than a goddamn teething problem. And it seems the Company got wind all was not well.” I hold up the folder. “Chandrasekhar’s days were numbered. The ship’s schematics have been augmented without Company approval. There’s also a series of logged incidents detailing some of the problems aboard. And rumours and gossip concerning the professor and his fractious relationship with the crew—particularly the Strategist who he was at odds with. Which means…”

  “Glaxtinian must’ve had a spy aboard,” Xev finishes for me.

  “The Company wouldn’t exist without lies and intrigue,” Velez says dismissively. “I’ve not met one grandee who didn’t get where they were without bending the truth, without manipulation or simple threat.”

  I can’t disagree with the chef, although I’m guessing her ire comes from her demotion. VIP chefs get to the top of their profession by merit alone. No amount of lying, extortion or skulduggery would make an iota of difference to the quality of food she was able to produce.

  Pirella’s eyes flick towards Velez as she speaks—a frightened dog reacting to an overbearing master. The chef sure played Pirella for a fool.

  I continue my search, rummaging through Glaxtinian’s luggage, but find nothing of interest. Just clothes, and expensive ones at that. I’m about to give up when I feel something in a zipped compartment. I open it and pull out an antique, silver-rimmed photo-frame. Inside is a digivid of Mandibald Glaxtinian with her arm around a very attractive woman. Standing in front of them both is a blonde boy in his early teens. Unmistakably, Murton Boyd.

  “BOYD? I don’t get it,” Hewlis says, taking the digivid off me and staring at it.

  The screen changes to show other photos. The same three people. Boyd as a baby. Boyd as a toddler, Boyd growing up.

  I expe
l an annoyed breath. This investigation is one tangled mess. Nothing is coming together. Nothing fits with one another. Glaxtinian is at the centre of all these events, though, that much is for sure. Her death was the catalyst that somehow caused this on-board horror show. And at the back of everything? Ariadne. Chiding away at me. Trying to force her way back into my mind, hampering my investigation.

  “He is related to that woman?” Klund says.

  “Seems that way,” I reply, annoyed with myself. I should’ve paid more attention to Boyd from the start. The kid was upset about something, that was for sure. I thought it was simply everybody dying, but it was one person that Boyd was grieving for. Mandibald Glaxtinian.

  I round on Drex, roughly pushing the kid back against the cabin wall. “What the hell do you know about this?”

  “It’s not for me to say,” he replies bullishly.

  I consider pistol-whipping him some more but decide on a different approach. I’ve already beat up on this kid. And despite everything, he’s still just that. A kid. “Look, Drex,” I begin softly. “You need to tell me. Out with it.”

  “Boyd swore me to secrecy. I can’t—”

  “Did he also make you swear to keep quiet when yours and other’s lives may depend on it?” I snap at him.

  Drex shakes his head, his thick, greasy hair sticking to the sweat of his face. “Glaxtinian… she was Boyd’s mother.”

  “His goddamn mother!” Hewlis exclaims.

  Drex nods and swallows. “Yeah.”

  “Then why are you a sublieutenant and not him?” I ask. “Hell, why is he even a corpsman at all? With her influence, he could start out as a goddamn officer.”

  Drex’s voice is calm and measured, but his bottom lip trembles. “They didn’t get on. Not for a long time. Glaxtinian left when he was just a kid. Soon after, his other mother died. Boyd blamed Glaxtinian for that.”

  “Boyd killed Glaxtinian?” Velez says, her arched eyebrows furrowing. “You think it was him who shot her in the gut with a buzz-gun for revenge? …Maybe I misjudged the kid.”