The Truth of the Matter
Jackie, Lyra, and Aiden all set out together, their chromeware glinting under the dome lights. Kieran, the Chair of the Nexus Directive, and one of the core processors of The People's Consciousness, or Spark—The Resistance—had debugged their departure protocols.
He observed them leaving in a Nexus Directive deep-dive hull, his face now a cold mask of efficiency. Orion, the Chairman of the Board, stood beside him, the polished synth-steel of his torso catching the bioluminescent glow of the Subaquilus One dome. Both men wore the grim, calculated expressions of corporate-military assets as they watched the trio vector out through one of the main tunnels. The tunnel itself led directly to one of the massive hydro-stabilizer pillars supporting Stratos Pelagia Island's hover-plate far above the crushing deep.
Orion spoke first, his voice a low, synthetic rasp that bypassed the need for a comms unit. "We are bleeding Mistake Vectors letting her go."
"We will keep a Neural Lock on her feed," Kieran countered.
"She is a Prime Asset."
"She doesn't know the Payloads you carry, old friend. None of them know they are Assets, but as she pushes the edge of the Threat Threshold, the Protective Sub-Routines will surface to ensure our Asset is shielded."
"She is a Contagion."
Kieran said nothing for a long beat, the deep, resonant thrum of the submersible's hydro-propulsion system the only sound between the two men. They watched the three figures rise into the vertical access shaft of the massive stabilizer pillar.
"Existence is a Zero-Sum Risk," Kieran finally murmured. He glanced at Orion, his own synthetic skin flawless, almost too smooth in the dim ambient light. He looked into his old friend's eyes and read the man's ignorance like a poorly coded data-slate. A slow, chilling smile hardwired itself onto his lips. "Kimberly's current condition should hard-fact that for you."
Orion's eyes narrowed, his internal bio-regulator cycling rapidly. "You've always been a glitch-ridden bastard, Calvin." His synthetic lung, a heavily-modified Mark-III Pneumatic, worked harder as he fought to suppress his rising thermal signature.
Kieran—who was still officially Calvin Post to Orion—looked at him with genuine, if chilling, pity. They had been System-Partners once, before Calvin uploaded the Kieran persona. Now…
He looked back to Jackie and her team and smiled, a predatory satisfaction in the curve of his mouth. He and Orion were the Legacy Code. Jackie would rewrite the future-state. It was past time for the old firmware to finally crash or be updated.
Jackie's ocular implant extended her re-breather tube and saline mask as the three moved from the protective tunnel into the vertical stabilizer shaft. The water here was different—a dense, highly-pressurized saline solution that acted as a natural coolant and pressure-stabilizer for the pillar's colossal superstructure.
The shaft was a wide hydro-channel, easily allowing the three to ascend shoulder-to-shoulder. Only the rhythmic rush of their own labored breathing was transmitted through their open comms, the powerful pulses from their individual propulsion jets driving them quickly toward the surface.
Subaquilus One's huge habitat dome rapidly became a distant, glittering nano-shard below. As they closed on the 500-meter airlock, Jackie's ocular implant whirled, processing the heavy contact ahead. BDJ whispered, a confident, smooth voice, directly into her neural net.
BDJ: "Tragger Esson Deep-Run Hull, military grade, call sign Status Equilibrium 6. Sixth-generation submersible chassis equipped for ultra-deep-sea and trench dives exceeding 2,000 meters. Features a pliable Subaquilus-titanium alloy hull that allows for dynamic flexibility and can withstand all known crush-depth pressures. The unit has capacity for a 25-person wet-crew. It is also configured with—"
'Deactivate voice-out, BDJ. Just Net-Dump the specs to my cortex,' Jackie mentally commanded.
BDJ: "Executing Data Transfer. Standby for Synaptic Integration."
Lyra spoke into the comms channel. "Is that our extraction rig?"
"You have visual lock at this range?" Aiden's question was less a query and more a cybernetic assessment of Lyra's optical acuity.
"It is. I believe it's Patrick's hull."
"You call Dr. McGregor Patrick?"
Jackie simply shrugged, the movement muffled by the water pressure, letting the gesture serve as her only answer to Aiden. They reached the massive 500-meter airlock hatch, and Jackie cycled her breathing in preparation. She knew this ascent was about to hit its first conflict spike.