A fake attack on the tower. More stupid dissidents fooled by the ICC propaganda, the officials from Security will no doubt chuckle to themselves. The Interspatial Communication Centre isn’t in the tower. All those beautiful images of flights in the recruiting films, those eyes fiercely turned to the skies, those heroic low-angle shots: all a sham. The real ICC is underground. But they know that now. And they know how to enter the belly of the beast. Partly thanks to Egon. Your man.
In the ghostly glow of the biolume, you lovingly, proudly scrutinize the muscled back, the sculptured buttocks and thighs in the black jumpsuit that replaced the wetsuits. A little surprised, but pleased mostly, at not being afraid. Like with exams: panic before and, when the time for action comes, a great sense of calm. And not without a certain latent thrill, all the same. You’re going to change the course of history. He made a little face when Dominique said that. “More like make change possible — that’s a little different. But at least it will bring down the status quo. What will happen after that … hard to predict.”
You agree with him completely. Never believed the ICC was an essential factor in the survival of the Alliance. Instant, absolutely protected communications, on Earth as well as in space, yes, that’s important, but not that much. The Axis possesses advanced enough technology in other areas to provide a counterbalance. Two giants braced against each other for decades, and the energy they expend just to stay in place is destroying everything around them. Something has to give, anything, anywhere! And the ICC is the perfect target: an abomination that must end, regardless of the role it plays or does not play in the balance of power. As it is now, if the Alliance ever won thanks to the ICC, it would be worse than if it lost.
And if the Alliance lost the war because of the destruction of the ICC, well then, it would lose. What difference is there now between the two sides? There never was any. Go back to the good old days? Ha! You stopped believing it when you were twelve years old: your grandparents’ stories really sounded too much like the government propaganda. And could you go back to them anyway? The radioactive areas will be off limits for millennia, and irreparable damage has been done to the very roots of life. Sea levels won’t go down for centuries, if they ever do. And the dead, so many, the humans, the animals, the plants, who will revive them? No, you have to do what you can, here, now. And here, now, thanks in part to the information obtained by Egon, the ICC can be destroyed.
One foot in front of the other, splish, splash, echo, echo, glint, glint, no end to it — nearly two kilometres in the main pipe, then another kilometre up a gentle slope in a secondary pipe, head hunched down, knees bent. In spite of the fatigue, and the awareness of passing minutes, a strange sensation of being split. As if your brain were operating in a different time from your body, suspended — stolen time. It’s weird, anyway: you’re going to destroy the ICC, and you don’t even really know what it is. Apart from the buildings, that is. But the procedure, what the acronym and the propaganda are really covering up… A jealously guarded secret, which does not keep the rumours from spreading, even when they are regularly denied, even with threats of prosecution for antipatriotic conduct. According to what Dominique has managed to extract from the few documents that are still accessible, one can only assume some kind of technological equivalent of telepathy, which burns out the brains of the subjects after they have been used for a certain period of time: pretty far-fetched! Only one thing is certain: whatever they’re doing at the ICC, the subjects don’t survive, or not for long.
Even Egon doesn’t really have any idea. The times you tried to talk about it with him, he just shrugged: “They kill people with it, that’s all you need to know.” In the beginning, about a decade ago, they recruited openly. War Effort, Your Country Needs You, The Final Push to Victory — how many final pushes to victory have there been in the last fifty years? And almost none of the recruits were ever heard of again. The trails of the few official survivors all ended in dead-ends, or attracted too much attention from the Security Services for the investigators. The others, they say, “fell on the field of honour.” At first there were medals, big showy funerals, speeches. Then it became routine, and “FOFH” has entered everyday language; the Infonets hardly bother ever mentioning it anymore — they probably didn’t even need to be discouraged. And now, the recruiting is still going on, but mostly by trawling in prisons, asylums, and even, they say, in hospitals and retirement homes, all of which the government denies vehemently — and, in fact, how could anyone prove it? Prisoners, common and political criminals, the insane, old people, and the terminally ill die every day. It’s normal. How many, and when exactly, is easy to disguise, especially in War Time, under the seal of almost fifty years of sacrosanct National Security.
If this monstrosity is what ensures the survival of the Alliance, as they claim, then the Alliance doesn’t deserve to survive.
Suddenly, you notice that, at regular intervals, light filtering vertically through the ceiling of the pipe, through cracks. Your heart jumps in your chest. Above, now, is one of the corridors of the ICC, in the last basement level of the complex. The exit is not far. You check your watch: eighteen minutes till the diversionary attack.
Egon stops under one of the discharge grates, takes out the little torch, which lights with a discreet pop. You use Superglue to close the catch after you both go through. The opening isn’t very wide, but you trained for this (with occasional fits of uncontrollable laughter that were transformed into erotic interludes — those slow-motion contortions were just irresistible).
Egon goes through first, and, between two panoramic sweeps of the cameras, sets up the device that will tap into and shift the phase of the images transmitted by the surveillance system, then replay them in a loop.
Now there’s nothing to do but wait for the diversion. Twelve minutes. Egon, squatting comfortably with his back against the wall of the pipe, checks the clip of his K-16. Also squatting, your thighs burning, while you check that the timers on your explosive charges are properly set, you are hoping he won’t need to use the rifle, nor you your pistol. Minimize the loss of human lives, and if possible avoid it completely, is what the group agreed to — or else what would be the sense of mounting an assault against the ICC because it kills innocent people? The extremists argued that anyone working for the ICC is not innocent and deserves what they get. “Judge, jury and executioner, eh guys?” Egon remarked. “Who made you emperors of the world?”
“And did the government have a legitimate mandate to create the ICC?!” protested Dominique.
“After being legitimately elected?” added Sahi.
Egon didn’t bat an eyelash: “No, but we can hope the next one will be. Wouldn’t you prefer to see a proper trial and all the guilty ones punished, the real guilty ones, not just a handful of stupid patsies?”
You voted with him, which convinced the undecided: contaminate from the ICC building the autonomous data banks of the complex — delayed viruses, worms and other goodies concocted by Sahi — then blow up the underground labs with the charges carefully calculated to avoid causing a cave-in. That was the night you became lovers. When the issue came up later of choosing who would go with him, there wasn’t even any discussion: it would be you, of course. Live together, die together if necessary — you know you’re destined for each other, whatever the outcome of your actions.
Finally the intermittent wailing of the alarm siren, the light filtering through the grate shifting to flashing red. Go.
You reach your first destination without a hitch, the room with all the ICC equipment. Egon was right: not even guards at the door. They think they’re secure in this sixth basement. A code is required to get in — nothing a well-placed little charge won’t fix. You’ve put on your masks. The charge explodes, hardly spectacular but effective: silently, the material of the door melts around the lock mechanism, and the hole continues to grow. Throw in gas grenades, dull explosions
, count slowly to five, slide open what remains of the door, go in through the cloud, which is already dissipating in the stroboscopic red of the alarm.
A metal sphere approximately three metres in diameter. A jumble of cables and tubes and tanks and batteries ties it to other machines that cover the walls: computers, monitors, control panels.
Not a single body on the floor.
Stunned, you turn and look at Egon. He seems to be waiting for something, his head tilted a bit to one side.
The siren falls silent. The red light stops flashing. Egon nods as two grey silhouettes, guards, appear behind him in the doorway, followed by two silhouettes dressed in white smocks.
“Good,” he says with a sigh, “the game’s over.”
“Cryopump … helium condenser … hyperfluid … heat exchangers … superinsulation … membrane filters … cryomagnetic crystals … superconductor electromagnet … yttrium-barium cuprate … superconductor ceramics…” The familiar terms pepper your mind, bouncing from one voice to the other while in Frölich’s wake they walk you around the metal sphere, activate devices, open the internal compartment lined with silk fibres, “…resistant to cold and hypoallergenic.” You don’t ask questions. You’re not really listening. You concentrate on nodding your head, smiling with the required hint of respectful admiration, while the memory writhes inside you. Even after all this time, it still requires an effort that irritates you. Really, why don’t you just suppress it? But you know the answer: then you wouldn’t know where you come from, who you are. Oh crap, just as well. What does it matter? The important thing is that sphere. The important thing is that everything is ready for what comes next. You will make sure they ‘discover’ how to use a magnetic field to perfect the preservation of organic matter by taking it as close as possible to absolute zero. You won’t have to wait too long. That’s what’s hard, has always been hard for you, the waiting.
You’re still staring at Egon when the two guards come over to you and relieve you without violence of the bag of explosives. After setting his K-16 down on the floor, Egon takes his bag off with a shake of his shoulders, then rubs his neck with a little grimace.
The two guards walk off with the bags at a measured pace without looking back. The two technicians come and stand on either side of you, but don’t touch you. You still don’t move. You can’t. Petrified, one might say, but really it feels more like all your muscles, your tendons, your bones have turned to water. As if your skin were the only thing holding you up.
They didn’t take your pistol.
Almost at the same instant, you know it’s loaded with blanks. It was Egon who took care of the weapons.
He glances at one of the two techs, and nods assent. A sudden pressure on your forearm, a light hiss. Just enough time to look, see the syringe, open your mouth — and already your legs are giving way under you. Sturdy arms grab you, lift you, and lay you down on a hard surface. All you can see is the ceiling. Completely paralyzed, totally conscious. You can’t blink. You can’t close your eyes. In your head, in your petrified body, a tornado of horror, rage, terror. So much violence with no outlet, you can’t take it, you’re going to explode, your heart is going to stop, you want it to stop, right this instant, immediately, you want to die, you have to die.
No, not this time. You hear. You hear footsteps moving away, a chair rolling with a little squeak, clicks — someone is keyboarding. Humming sounds, little hissing sounds, a motor starting up, or something… You don’t hear Egon coming over to you — his shoes have silent soles. His face suddenly appears in your field of vision.
With quick, yet gentle, movements, he starts undressing you.
“I’ve obtained preferential treatment for you,” he says through his teeth. “Because I’ve been a good hunting dog again — a good dozen dissidents, plus all the ones they will lead them to, so it was worth a little favour. And besides, you don’t know much. Nothing Dominique and the others won’t be able to tell them. And… I really like you. At this point, though, I’m sure you don’t give a damn… My poor little Katie. So full of good intentions, big beautiful ideas. But we’re not living in that world now, if we ever did. Destroying the ICC wouldn’t make any difference, you see. They would find a way to re-establish the balance of power. They don’t want the war to end. They agreed on that a long time ago. Eternal war means eternal power for them. That’s why they can’t be beaten. And in that case, it’s hardly worth putting your ass on the line for nothing, is it? If you can’t beat them, might as well join them. Except you wouldn’t want to. Heroic and stupid, my little Katie. Or just young. Maybe you would have got over it if you’d had enough time, but that’s just it, time is what you’ve run out of.”
He’s not mocking you, he’s not boasting. He’s explaining. He wants you to understand. What? What more than what you’ve understood just now, when your world was turned upside-down? When he gets to the underwear, he makes a little irritated noise, walks away, then comes back. You hear a new sound, metal against metal. Scissors. An instant later, you feel the cold contact against your skin.
“You won’t be going to the zombie plant. Not to prison either, you would just be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. So to speak. Frankly, I’m not sure you’re going anywhere — no one knows. The first human guinea pigs never reappeared, the ones whose brains were intact. I’d rather like to believe that they never reported, wherever they found themselves after the transition. Clever of them, eh? But anyway, this is roughly what’s going to happen: you’re going to be put in the sphere. There, your body will be cooled to a very, very low temperature. And at a given moment, off it goes! It will disappear. Not disintegrated, you have to understand. Just … disappeared, vanished. Not a single molecule will remain. The zombies go where they’ve been programmed to go. You on the other hand, not programmed… The idea, the theory at least, is that you can go anywhere. Somewhere else. Alive. Pretty interesting, isn’t it?”
The invisible machines are charging up, or warming up, whatever it is they’re supposed to do: there is an intention, a purpose, in this organized symphony. Egon straightens up with a sigh.
“You’ve hardly understood anything I’ve been saying, have you?” he says with a bit of a twisted smile. “But you don’t need to understand.”
He disappears. On the periphery of your field of vision, to the right, something white passes. Movement. You’re being rolled. To the sphere? An arm behind your shoulders. They sit you up, hold your head upright. Egon’s voice, again, in your ear, unnecessarily, “Look.” You can’t help seeing the sphere, which opens slowly with a toothless yawn. Inside there’s a kind of shiny sarcophagus, connected to every size of wires and pipes.
Egon takes you in his arms. He steps onto the base of the sphere and places you in the sarcophagus, not without some difficulty — other hands on you, one of the techs must have come to help him. They stretch out your legs, your arms. Under your neck there’s a bulge, and under your buttocks and calves there are hollows: the sarcophagus is roughly shaped to accommodate a human body. The material, whatever it is, is hard and cool.
Once again, above you, Egon’s face: “Try not to be too afraid. When the shell is closed, a fast-acting anesthetic gas will be piped in. You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”
He leans over, his lips brush one of your nipples, and then he withdraws.
Immediately, in an almost silent gliding sound, the shell of the compartment begins to shut. It is thick but translucent. You can feel the movement of the sphere as it closes in turn with your seeing, to your right, a horizontal patch of light that shrinks on the periphery of your field of vision.
The gas begins to fill the compartment with a slight hiss. Diminishes. Grows fainter. Vanishes.
“Still here, Doctor? You’re a real workaholic!”
You turn around to see the silhouette of Jorge Dayar in the doorway. He still sometimes calls you b
y your title — a vestige of European politeness that he has never completely given up, apparently. You thought he was gone. You could reply that he’s still there too, but that would only emphasize the parallel. Best to limit interaction once again. You close the cage and go on to the next one.
“And why are you feeding the animals? That’s Agatha’s or Sherri’s job.”
Yes, the youngest ones, the Girl Fridays at the bottom of the pecking order.
“Agatha wanted to leave earlier today. Family obligations. Besides I like looking after the animals.”
And they have to get used to seeing you leave the lab very late — because soon, once the new tests are started, they will need to get used to seeing you come back at night, always for the animals.
Dayar picks up a carrot top that has fallen on the floor, and pokes it through the mesh towards one of the pink-eyed rabbits. “I see. You have a hectic social life, don’t you?”
“I’m not certain it’s compatible with serious work.”
Except for Richard Branchet, the “nutty professor,” who is one of those eternal adolescents anyway and as crazy as the younger ones, Katrijn Verbrugge is the oldest member of the team — all the others were less than thirty, even Jorge Dayar, who is only aged by his brawny build and his usually ponderous walk. She’s supposed to be the most sensible one. That at least is the persona you chose for her in the beginning — workaholic, yes, a good little workhorse, reliable, and rather mild-mannered.
“All work and no play? There’s more to life than work!” he protests. “And even for work, it does you good to air out your brain once in a while! Go out, do something else. See other people. Or the same ones, as the case may be, but in a different context. It’s Richard’s wife’s birthday today, and they’re having a little party. I’m supposed to go by their place. Why don’t you come along?”
Tesseracts Nine: New Canadian Speculative Fiction Page 12