Insynn_NINE Series 3 Read online

  INSYNN

  by Loren Walker

  Copyright © 2017 by Loren Walker.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Octopus & Elephant Books

  www.oandebooks.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2015 BookDesignTemplates.com.

  Cover by Deranged Doctor Designs.

  INSYNN/ Loren Walker. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-0-9973922-6-5

  For the ones that I love.

  PART ONE

  I.

  When Iyo Sava died, and his grandson was declared his successor, a hundred meetings took place in the city of Lea. Shaky alliances formed, and arguments went through the night on whether or not action would, or should, take place. The grandson wasn’t a true Sava, the men and women grumbled; for years he existed on the outskirts, taking advantage of his family’s connections and wealth, always at a distance, holding no loyalty to anyone. It didn’t matter what the old man wanted, the arguments repeated, or that there was only one surviving blood relative. The shift in leadership would ruin them all.

  Theron Sava knew all this, because every conversation was reported back to him. His advisor, Bianco, came to his apartment every morning, ready with fresh gossip and the day’s schedule. True to his character, Bianco needed no prodding. As soon as he cleared the threshold, Bianco launched into his updates: another gathering in West Lea, another muttered wave of threats, followed by half-hearted plans to appeal, to confront, to challenge the appointment at the end of the month.

  “But nothing concrete,” Bianco always added at the end, as if that fact was soothing. “Of course, they know better.”

  True enough. People might make threats, but no one would dare to directly challenge Theron, not with Bianco assigned to his care. It was the only reason why Theron hadn’t been attacked at night or assassinated yet. Appointed by Iyo Sava, with the task of guiding Theron’s succession, Bianco was known for his strict adherence to code and his undying loyalty to the Sava name. Most of his hair was gone, save for his white-flecked brows, which loomed over still-piercing black eyes. His face was slack with age, he had a double chin that wobbled when he spoke, and a comfortable belly over his trousers, but his hands were thick and calloused and he was known for using them if he felt disrespected, even at his age.

  Anyone else would be grateful for the protection, Theron thought. I’d rather have a fight.

  But he said nothing as Bianco rattled off names, times and places, pushed at him to get ready; they would be late, for goodness sake’s, and he wasn’t even dressed yet, cajoling Theron like a child, huffing and sighing. It was easier, for now, to play along.

  There were meetings all day, meetings in every borough of the capital city: meetings with old, grizzled heads of families; offended upstarts who needed their egos soothed; eager businesses looking to earn a place on their protection list. More than once, Theron wondered if any of them suspected how damp he was underneath his tailored suit, how his heart thrummed, how his mind raced, composing the words milliseconds before he opened his mouth. Did they all do the same?

  Other times, he felt foolish for even caring what they thought. Close up, the Sava Syndicate was pathetic, really, a bunch of small-scale operators that focused on the black market, underground smuggling in mekaline, fuel cells and other illegal goods. The syndicate held influence in the industrial North, parts of the East coastline, and throughout Lea: construction companies, dock loading enterprises, restaurants, all covers to obscure revenue and redistribute. When Keller was the heir, the syndicate was moving into robberies, security breaches, corrupting public officials. Now that Keller was dead, business had plateaued, and everyone was looking for direction.

  It should be easy to dismantle the whole system. He just couldn’t figure out how.

  And it wouldn’t happen as long as Bianco remained so close, peering into his eyes like a paranoid mother, asking if he saw lights, or colors, or felt like he needed to sit down.

  His seizures: his ongoing curse. Brain damage as a child that never healed, was never managed with any combination of medication. Being so close to Theron’s grandfather, Bianco knew about every experimental treatment and drug regimen, and all the subsequent failures.

  Still, one morning not long after his grandfather’s death, a man appeared at Theron’s door, visibly nervous, carrying a leather satchel, the smell of antiseptic about him. A doctor. A miracle cure.

  Theron sighed. “My advisor sent you,” he said bluntly, without introducing himself. “You’re here to cure me.

  "Well,” the man stammered. “I’m here to help, sir. I understand that -

  "It’s unnecessary,” Theron cut him off. “So whoever calls to check on the results? Tell them there’s nothing you can do.”

  “Going by the files forwarded, you haven’t been evaluated in over ten years. There have been a lot of advancements in research, Mr. Sava, many treatment options.

  "Brain damage is brain damage,” Theron said through his teeth, hating every second of this conversation.

  “Yes, of course,” the doctor demurred. “But I must at least attempt to correct your condition.”

  Sure you do, Theron thought, staring hard at the man. And your life is dependent on making me appear stronger, healthier, a worthy leader. Bianco’s rough hands were all over this.

  Still, when the man was finished, and the door clicked shut behind him, Theron ordered a cease and desist notice sent to the doctor’s clinic. He didn’t have the time to empathize with the man’s situation.

  In the evenings, Theron went to parties and charitable functions. He shook hands, he nodded in conversations, he used some standard lines of intimidation or indifference, and even threw in a scripted joke now and again. He worked to remember to stand up straight so there would be no sudden slap on his back from Bianco, that friendly reminder to stop slouching. Be proud of your size, Bianco was always telling him. Slumped over like that, you look like a boy. Be a man. Shoulders back.

  If he wasn’t at a party, Theron was on a date. Bianco arranged dinners with beautiful women every week: girls of every height and weight and color, beautiful eyes, poignant profiles, slim and ethereal, soft and curvaceous, all tucking their hands into his elbow, flashing their heirloom jewelry, talking about families and religion and the latest in entertainment news. He went through all the routines of engagement, and they were always willing, their hands roving, their chests pushed out, watching for his response. But the ones who stuck around quickly grew sick of him. They were bored of how much he worked, how quiet he was, how he wasn’t interested in mekaline or reckless behavior, how he wouldn’t start a fight or threaten someone’s life in their honor. They never knew what he was thinking, they never knew how he felt about anything. Theron heard every variation of the word “cold” thrown at him. He didn’t stop them from leaving. Another candidate was always ready to take their place. As Bianco believed, it was important to show the world that Theron was a ‘regular, hot-blooded man, who loved beautiful women.’

  After the fourth woman severed her connections, Bianco confronted Theron in the town car. As the bodyguard, Grey, waited outside, Bianco placed his fingertips together and
asked Theron if he was a homosexual.

  “And if I were?” Theron shot back.

  “If you are, so be it,” Bianco said. “But you need a woman to create a family, whether she is your wife or your employee.”

  Theron rolled his eyes, sinking into the cushions.

  Bianco puffed out his chest. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to pass on the blood of your father and your grandfather, and all those before them?”

  No, Theron thought. I damn sure do not.

  But the man kept pushing. “Do you want to grow old alone?”

  Theron slammed his hand against the door, a hard thwack!

  Grey turned at the sound, peering through the tinted window.

  But Bianco’s eyes glinted. “Good to see a little fire in you.”

  It made Theron want to punch him. He held down the urge as Bianco knocked on the window, gesturing for Grey to open the door.

  “Get some rest,” he told Theron. “Busy day tomorrow. Be ready at eight.”

  Theron’s apartment was on the forty-seventh floor, in a silver skyscraper, nestled in the city’s most exclusive neighborhood. His grandfather bought the place before he died, the deed placed in Theron’s name, already furnished in traditional dark colors, heavy fabrics and leather. When he opened the door and caught the familiar scent, Theron half-expected the old man’s ghost to be there, smacking Theron across the back of the head, uttering that familiar growl: “I knew you couldn’t be trusted with anything important.”

  Theron kept the lights off as he shrugged out of his suit jacket, undershirt and trousers. He left them where they lay, the soft swish of fabric the only indication of where they landed. Then he removed the gold ring from his middle right finger, and laid the gold Sentry pistol next it. Other Savas kept their rings on, even when they slept, to their custom-made handguns could always work for them, and only them, should danger arise in the night. But Theron was glad to shed both items from his person.

  Finally, Theron took out five black cubes from the desk by the window. He rotated them in his fingers, like a juggler, as he took a seat in his leather chair.

  In moments away from Bianco and the bodyguard, Theron had bought five Lissomes, those communication and research devices available in vending machines throughout the city. He set them on the edge of his desk carefully, lined up four inches apart. Then, with five quick flicks of his hand, the Lissomes were activated. Only hours remained until eight in the morning, and there was so much to monitor, so much to push forward. He dove into the light of the pixels before him.

  Theron was in the process of establishing a manufacturing company in the North, near the city of Daro. It wasn’t so unusual in his field: the Sava Syndicate held over a hundred businesses, serving as fronts. His would be one of many, glanced at, but unacknowledged, just as he wanted. Publically, the company would produce the trinkets he invented: the shock-absorbing gloves for martial arts sparring, for example. But internally, the business would specialize in defensive equipment. HALOs to start, those half-circles of metal that could disrupt telepathy and other psychic transmissions. People would buy them in droves when the story of the NINE became public knowledge. That day was coming soon. He would be ready for it.

  But before he could start production, Theron needed full ownership of the HALO. The headgear was developed in tandem with Renzo Byrne, a week of tossing around ideas, soldering, shaping and chip installation. Fair was fair. Renzo was co-designer. Theron wanted to be professional about it.

  A month ago, he’d sent formal paperwork to Renzo, with a generous offer to buy the HALO design outright. Then again, two weeks ago. Still no response. For the moment, Theron chose not to push. He was still too angry with Renzo and the rest of his family to make direct contact. He could always send someone, if needed, to press the issue.

  As he worked, he brought up an audio recording. Voices rippled through the Lissome’s soundsystem, alternating between his own quiet questions and Kuri Nimat’s choking, desperate replies. The sessions were now so familiar that Theron could mouth every question and response.

  “Why bribe Sydel for money?

  To extract the implant…. We were desperate…. Shantou was getting worse….

  Why did she deteriorate, and not you?

  It was a mistake….

  Tell me what you did.

  We snuck into a medlab, we bribed the technician… but we didn’t know there was metal inside our heads…. the MRI on Shantou, the magnetism…. it ripped through her brain, she was screaming….

  What does the metal implant do?

  I don’t know…. please, I don’t know….

  Where is Shantou now?

  I can’t…. I won’t tell you….

  Did you kill Yann Qin?

  Not on purpose…. I just wanted to talk.…

  Why leave me and my cousins alive? Why not kill us, along with our parents?”

  “I was scared.… I was young, I just wanted you to forget that you’d seen us …. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone….”

  Theron stopped the recording. Opening another drawer, he removed a tiny plastic bag, and turned it over in his palm.

  Barely a millimeter wide and one-inch-long, the needle had no discerning features.

  “It’s been in there for years,” the surgeon had told him weeks ago, eying the item with interest. “Some sort of industrial accident?”

  Theron had said nothing, his hand outstretched. The examiner dropped the needle from the tweezers into Theron’s gloved palm. Before him, Kuri Nimat’s corpse lay on its stomach, the back of its skull was opened, bloodless, surrounded by wet tools.

  Twenty-five years, Theron thought, holding the needle between his thumb and forefinger. The metal caught the moonlight. He still didn’t understand what it was, but he would soon, when he found the right person to take it apart and examine it.

  Patience. The information was out there, somewhere. And so were the rest of the NINE, who presumably had the same implants in their skulls.

  The NINE. A group of strangers, brought together for an underground experiment, who left as powerful psychics, who killed most of Theron’s family, and then disappeared into the world twenty-five years ago. Even with all his research, Theron still couldn’t figure out why. Why did the NINE kill his parents, his aunt and uncle, but leave him and his cousins alive? How did they go into their brains, skew their memories, their personalities, so none of them were ever the same? Theron had been left with frequent seizures, but he was mostly the same person. But Kadise, Keller and Xanto, they were different after the NINE, so cruel, unable to process sympathy. Of course, given that they were blood members of the Sava crime syndicate, their cruelty was seen as a positive, and Theron’s condition as weakness. But now he was the only one left alive. The last one who cared enough to find out the reason why, and to ensure that it never happened again.

  The night stretched on, the black turning to blue. Finally, sleep knocked on the back of Theron’s head, unable to be ignored any longer. He’d trained himself years ago to need little to no rest. Just a couple of hours, and he could put on the mask again.

  Rising, Theron turned to stand in front of the great bay window, the centerpiece of the apartment. He’d jimmied open the glass on the first night he moved in. The design didn’t include air from the outside, but he figured out how to pop it from the frame and put it back into place every morning, so Bianco wouldn’t see it. It was routine now, he couldn’t expect to sleep without the process. When the window was open, every night offered the rush of possibility.

  Reminding him that the end was in sight.

  II.

  Theron held a weekly appointment with his cousin, Jetsun Sava, at her law offices in Upper Lea. Jetsun was his lawyer, his second cousin, and in some fashion, his friend. She was dismissive, and abrupt, and far too concerned about her beautiful blonde exterior, but she held onto secrets. As far as he could tell, she had never disclosed his risky interactions with the Byrne family to anyone. r />
  “Another dramatic breakup, I hear,” Jetsun murmured, poring over the registration paperwork. With her free right hand, she typed like she was playing the piano: wrists arched, her fingers flying in a pattern, maintaining his world.

  When Theron shrugged, Jetsun just smirked. “So cool and smooth about it. Aren’t you different since Ges. Have you seen her lately? She’s got three kids now, but she’s just as snotty-looking as ever. Looks like she’s aged twenty years. Not very attractive."

  "Thanks, Jet,” Theron said flatly. It wasn’t news to him. Over the past ten years, he’d seen Gesminna a few times. The last time, she had only two children, both black-haired, blue-eyed and sullen; she was married off to some lower syndicate boss in Lea. That memory of deceit that used to wrench him, though, was hardly a pinprick now. Progress. Or maybe just numbness, after so long.

  Jetsun leaned back in her chair, her nails tapping on the handrail. “You still hung up on that girl?

  “Gesminna?

  “You know what I mean.”

  He did. But he didn’t acknowledge it.

  Jetsun tossed her head back, shaking out the blonde waves. “Should I make some inquiries? In case you’re feeling lonely?” she drawled.

  “No.” It was easier to remain curt.

  Jetsun sighed, a low, musical hum.

  “Yes, indeed,” she murmured. “You’ve certainly changed. I hardly recognize you.”

  Good.

  He kept that remark to himself.

  * * *

  Theron Sava spent his first twenty years as a slave to his infatuations: he fell in love, hard and fast, with a dozen different girls. Everyone knew who his family was, and his cousins thrived on the attention and fear, but Theron wished for another life. Maybe that was why he was so quick to fall.