Soul Jacker: A Cyberpunk Thriller by Michael John Grist

Author:Michael John Grist [Grist, Michael John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781799014058
Google: gs_nwgEACAAJ
Goodreads: 44155397
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: 2019-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

13. DON ZACHARY

Don Zachary owns an entire Skulk. In truth he owns them all, and I can see that ownership glowing in the air like colorful tracer rounds; his path linking him to every floating barge in proto-Calico.

I slow the speedboat engine as I draw near to the Skulk's central dock. There are marines there with Kaos rifles held at the ready, dressed in the black regalia of Hawks; mercenaries who fought in all theaters of the War, for all coalitions.

Don Zachary's path shoots through their chests too. It shoots through mine, and leads to a tightly-woven nest at the heart of the Skulk where the Don is rumored to have built himself a tsunami-proof bunker.

The dock is circled by a tall plate metal wall, and there are Hawks up there manning howitzers. I sense them rouse as my speedboat comes into range of their floodlights.

"Stop there," a voice calls out, and they point their weapons my way. Bullets rake the dark water before me as a warning, but I do not stop. Instead I reach out and pluck at the threads between me and these marines even as they form. I follow them back through the air like I would in the EMR, jacking straight into their Molten Cores where the threads between us plug in neatly: their eyes, their ears, all the means they use to sense the world.

I unplug them.

It is so easy, like smoothing a surface-level engram in the jack-room, with Carrolla watching over from above and the EMR machine shaping the electromagnetic soup around me, except I don't need an EMR machine anymore. I am a fission reactor burning hot, able to Lag bonds with my mind alone, and each one serves to drive on the chain reaction. Even as I pull their switches and work the Lag, I remember Mr. Ruin doing the same thing in the shark arena; dropping Zachary's thugs with a thought.

I have that same power now. It is intoxicating; a better high than the godships. The jolt of power from each one spooling free is substantial. They heighten my senses and increase my reach, recharging the slow dwindle of the godships' vigor. I have never Lagged a waking soul before, and never felt anything like this.

It feels indescribably good.

I pluck at their Souls like a virtuoso banjo-ist, keeping my presence in their minds as nothing more disturbing or important than the ache in their legs from standing duty all night. Though they see me, I prevent them from really seeing me. I'm like a ghost walking before them in plain sight.

They do not fire as I pull up and rope in. I could flex my muscles and Lag them all into puddles on the dock, if I wanted. I control what they see and how they feel about what they see.

"Sir, you can't park that here," one of them says, his eyes lukewarm and calm as a gentled shark. He can barely see me.

"It's the Don's boat," I say, and let this slip through for them all.

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