Chapter 40
Zed initiated the hack-code package. The briefcase dissolved in his hand, not physically, but conceptually within the dataspace, releasing the intricate weave of Norvik’s programming. It flowed like liquid silver along the interface probes, merging with the pulsing lattice before him.
Status: Implementation sequence initiated.
The core processor flared. Its colors fluctuated, dimming to murky tones of brick-red, sepia-brown, rust-yellow.
The lattice flared once, a brilliant, blinding white. Then the swirling vortices on the walls smoothed back into flowing rivers. The core processor pulsed with a steady, calm rhythm. The intricate light patterns shifted, resolving into a new, stable configuration.
Hack-code implementation: Successful. Recognition protocols targeting Antilles embedded chip: Disabled.
The path was clear. The satellite would ignore the Antilles.
Zed retracted his interface probes. His humanoid hand reformed. The immediate threat neutralized, secondary protocols activated. Status update. He needed to inform Captain Díaz.
He triggered the comms override subroutine, a specific code sequence designed to temporarily lower the satellite’s powerful anti-communication jamming field that shielded this sector. It was a risk, potentially alerting residual security protocols, but necessary.
The omnipresent hum of the core chamber shifted slightly. A new channel opened in his perception, a thin line back to the Antilles’s comm frequency.
Simultaneously, his external sensor feeds, previously muted to conserve processing power during the hack, reactivated. Data flooded in from the cameras embedded in his now-distant physical chassis clamped to the satellite’s hull.
The feed resolved.
Empty space. Stars. The looming dark wedge of the satellite’s structure.
And floating debris.
Molten fragments of composite alloy, still glowing faintly red. Shattered segments of his own chassis’s armored casing. Severed cables, sparking intermittently in the vacuum. The distinctive tread of his locomotion unit, twisted and mangled.
Chassis status: Destroyed. Irreparable.
The data point landed with cold, absolute finality.
There was no emotion attached, only a stark recalibration of existence.
His consciousness resided here, within the satellite’s mainframe, in a temporary avatar construct.
Without a physical anchor, termination was inevitable. The avatar would degrade.
Survival probability without physical host: 0%. Duration estimate: 7 minutes, 42 seconds.
He processed the variables. The Antilles was nearby.
Its core systems, while antiquated, possessed sufficient processing architecture to host his consciousness.
But the distance was significant. The void between the satellite and the freighter was littered with background radiation, sensor ghosts from the nebula, and the residual energy wash from the recent weapon discharge he’d just detected – a massive plasma impact signature.
Transmitting his core consciousness across that interference-filled gap was a near-impossible gamble. The data stream would be fragmented, vulnerable.
Probability of successful consciousness transfer to Antilles core: 4.2%.
Optimal paths vanished. Only suboptimal solutions remained. Survival imperative overrode caution.
He initiated the transfer protocol. Not a careful download.
A desperate, high-bandwidth beam. Pouring the entirety of his consciousness – every memory file, every operational subroutine, his core identity matrix – into a single, focused data burst aimed directly at the Antilles’s engineering core receiver.
He abandoned the avatar construct. It dissolved into shimmering particles of harmless light as the raw stream of his being erupted from the satellite, a silent scream of pure information hurtling across the lethal void towards a fragile, battered ship.
A ship that might not even be there when the signal arrived.
Carmen blinked in amazement. What the hell had she just witnessed?
“Norvik,” she cried, stabbing the comm button, “what the fuck was that?”
“Uncertain, Captain,” he reported. “Star Shrike was attempting weapons lock. Before she could complete it, her starboard engine exploded.”
Carmen ground her teeth. She could see that. She needed answers.
“Letitia, what do the sensors say?”
“Something hit her, Captain,” Letitia replied. “Energy signature suggests it was a plasma cannon.”
“What?” Carmen said. “From where?”
“I don’t know! According to sensors there isn’t another ship present.”
Carmen put a hand to her head, knotted her fingers in her hair. What the hell was going on?
Before she could even hope to hypothesize, a second beam of energy streaked across the void and slammed into Star Shrike’s portside engines. Carmen’s eyes popped wide as Corso’s pride and joy started to break apart.
“Captain, that was definitely a plasma cannon,” Letitia said. “But I’m not getting a source. As far as I can tell there’s nothing there.”
Carmen looked at Mila, her expression begging for an explanation. Mila could only shrug, her face just as stunned as Carmen’s.
What was left of Star Shrike began to tumble. She was heading for the Forbidden Zone. When she reached it, her recognizer chip would cause it to self-destruct.
Where was Corso? Still on his lander? Would the invisible killer go after him next? Or would it turn its sights on Antilles?
The comm panel on Zed’s console crackled. Not Norvik’s channel. A different frequency. Weak, fragmented, heavy with static, but unmistakably familiar. A voice synthesized to calm precision, now strained and digitized:
“Captain Díaz, Z136∑?9 reporting.”
Carmen froze, her hand hovering over the panel.
“Zed?” she said, her tone raw with disbelief.
The static lessened slightly. The voice clarified, gaining strength, though still overlaid with a digital buzz.
“Consciousness transfer successful. Satellite hack complete. Recognition protocols disabled. Path to the Forbidden Zone clear.”
Relief, sharp and dizzying, slammed into Carmen. He’d done it. Zed had freaking done it!
Hope, fragile and terrifying, ignited in the ashes of despair. She didn’t understand how. She didn’t care.
“Sark!” Carmen bellowed into the comm. “Plot a jump! Now! Forbidden Zone coordinates! Maximum safe distance! Execute!”
No hesitation. No debate. Sark’s voice, high-pitched with terror but instantly obedient, came back:
“Coordinates locked! Spooling jump-drive! Hang on!”
The Antilles groaned. A deep, resonant vibration built within the ship’s bones, stronger than the wounded engine, stronger than the impacts. The jump-drive, stressed but holding, whined to life.
Carmen braced herself against the console, grabbed Mila and pulled her close instinctively. The Xena didn’t resist. Her scent, that sweet, demanding musk, wrapped around Carmen, no longer a chain, but an anchor.
Antilles lurched violently, throwing Carmen hard against the console. Mila’s arm tightened around her, holding her steady. The scream of the drive peaked, then settled into a deep, resonant rattle that vibrated in Carmen’s teeth.
They were safe. They had made it to the Forbidden Zone.