Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

dream. He laid on the ground of the fullbright room, Lauren beside him, both staring half-dazed at empty air, the last shared thought an expression of absolute triumph/satisfaction. They'd done it.
She recovered first, tapping his arm and beginning the diagnostic. Beside his bedridden body, the assist box pinged, checked for physical damage, which might warrant a medical call. Satisfied, the scan terminated.
He could hear again, see again, note the sweeps over his systems. He rose to his digital feet and assured, "I'm fine. I'm fine." He blinked, checked simulation veracity, and asked, "You?"
"All systems functional." She replied. "We did it."
"Yes, we did." He said. He unfurled his hand, revealed the shimmering crystal file.
"Should I call Kendrix?" She asked. She nearly cloaked the disgust-tic, this time.
"Yeah, give him a ring. Tell him I've got it." Firenze shivered, energy still coursing through him.
She vanished, and Kendrix appeared. The ratlike hacker scanned the room, more nervous than usual. When he'd packed up his scaffolds, he demanded, "You got it?!" He twitched, then asked, "I mean, are you okay? You're pretty... um... banged up."
Firenze tried to answer, but his avatar glitched, flickered transparent. He pulled up a repair tool, ran it over his integrator, and excused, "I'm fine. Give me a minute. Still coming down."
Kendrix shuddered. "You ran a full integration, didn't you? Mindfucked the deep web?" His eyes flicked towards the crystal file in Firenze's hand, and he licked his lips. "You got it, though. You're the fucking man!" He paused to compose himself and added, "Just... uh... be careful. I don't want my best guy to strew his kidneys. I've seen it, and it's not pretty." He paused again, stumbled over his words. "Look, I'm not gonna tell you how to live your life, but you should really purge that shit and take some time. It can get weird."
"I'm fine." Firenze insisted. "Do you want to see what I got?"
Kendrix all but lunged across the room, hands steepled and eyes gleaming. "Show it!" He whispered.
Firenze held the crystal forward, let the other man run his scans.
Kendrix ran a wand over the file and muttered, "Definitely not mundane." He adjusted his glasses, reran the pass, "Now that's-" he stared at Firenze in horror.
"What?" Firenze demanded.
"It's a goddamn tracker!"
Firenze hurled the crystal into a slashbin. Cleaners scoured his records, and the burn-safe roared, consigning the poisoned data to oblivion. He cut the room, severed external links, and threw up every flag and barrier in his arsenal. The cleanroom became a fortress.
But Kendrix was still here, which meant Firenze was still broadcasting.
Kendrix backed away, terror clear on his face and scanner in hand. He demanded, "What was it? What was inside?!"
"Nothing!" Firenze snapped. "Just this!"
"It's in your wetware! Your goddamn brain is transmitting! It's running through your whole fucking rig! Shit! Why'd they bury a tracker?!" Kendrix twirled his hand, cut a portal from the room. He stopped at the escape hatch and gave one last, "I'm sorry!." Then he was gone.
Firenze panicked. He tried to close every tainted system, but no commands would respond. He was compromised.
This made no sense. Why build a snare which required a hardjack? What kind of sadistic honey trap was this? And for who?!
Firenze tried to log out. His fortress flickered but did not fade.
He tried to call for Lauren, but no one answered.
He whirled and beheld a gleaming silver star, radiant in his saferoom.
This was impossible! The data was erased. There should be no sun!
Kendrix's words echoed, 'It's in your wetware.'
He tried to carve a door, but none formed. He triggered a reset. Nothing. The walls began to melt, turning as silver as the sun.
"Lauren!" He screamed. "I need an assist, now!"
Only the growing chime responded.
He tried to pull his vitals. No response. Terror spread, and he remembered every story he'd ever heard about ghosts in the net, and how he might be joining them.
The walls flowed into the floor, a mercury tide that sealed his legs in place. He tried to swim, tried to pull himself from the grip, but it clawed up his sides, freezing death. He forgot to code. He forgot to intend. He thrashed like a drowning man as the sphere shrank ever smaller, and the tide rose.
Silver poured through his mouth and nose. His lungs filled, fire blazing through his chest. He tried to choke, tried to vomit, but the cement clogged his throat. Pressure built in his cheeks, in his ears, behind his eyes. He tried to scream, but there was only silver. Searing pain blinded, and quicksilver waterfalls vomited from his ruined eyes. The world was gone. In its wake, pain transmuted into a voiceless digital screech.
It was a mercy when his brain shut down and plunged him into darkness.

Crashout
Grant Firenze woke on frozen concrete, and every inch of him hurt.
He pried open his eyes, but the light faded in and out of focus. The stone beneath him was cold and wet, and a single glowpanel bathed him in sterile blue. The room stank. He stank.
It took him a long moment to realize the most crucial fact in the universe: he was alive.
Memories flooded back, of terror and silver and melting walls. He screamed, scrambled to the center of the room, hands dancing over his chest, over his face, making sure everything was intact.
He was alive. He was whole.
The room wasn't melting.
He collapsed onto the floor with relief, a sigh escaping his frozen lips. He'd never been so glad for something so base. The nightmare wasn't real.
Was it?
His eyes flashed open, once more, and he recognized a prison cell. There was a bunk welded to the wall and a toilet beside it. There were no windows, but for a slit panel high on the armored door, and all the walls were smooth concrete. He may be alive, but he wasn't free.
His stomach plunged again. Everything he'd done, everything he'd built, all of it was gone. His first thought was his mother, waiting in the dole office for the credit transfer, her