Through the Singularity

by L. Frank Wadsworth

  She is scared. She hasn't told them everything, and she thinks they know that. She is afraid they're holding her until a more experienced inquisitor arrives. These guys have been amateurs. She decides she may have to change her strategy. Start spilling what she knows to whomever shows up—cooperate to survive. She doesn't think Clive or Nils will be able to help her, and really, they've only used her. That's all anyone ever does.

  She doesn't know how long she has been held. She lost several days after they came for her. They were waiting for her in her home. She came in, and they grabbed her, and stuck a needle in her neck. She came to in this place. She has no way to tell time. She sleeps when she is tired. She eats when they bring her food and water. It isn't great but enough to survive. And that is what she plans to do. Survive.

  She hears her door unlock, so she sits up on her bed and prepares herself—for whatever may come. Two Sklávoi Ashtoreth goons walk in—the same two that have usually taken her to other rooms to be questioned. They motion for her to stand up and turn around. She knows the routine. She complies, and they handcuff and blindfold her—with a little rough handling but no hitting. “Glad to see you’re behaving today. You have a special visitor,” thug one says to her.

  Great, it's as she has feared. They walk along a different route this time, a longer one. Suddenly, they stop, and things sound muffled. They move up with a jolt—an elevator! They move up high enough for her ears to pop a few times. The ride jerks to a halt, and she hears the doors open. They turn her around and start walking again. They probably go no more than 50 feet when they sit her down. They remove one of the cuffs and run it through the back of the chair before reattaching it. Then she hears them leave. All is quiet.

  She sits there, straining to hear any sounds. It is eerily quiet, but she senses she is not alone. Is that breathing? She hears a rustling sound as someone comes over to her and snatches her blindfold off. It is bright in the room; sunlight streams in from a large bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. Even though there are slats hiding the view of what is outside, the light is so bright it hurts her darkness-adjusted eyes. She sees a shadow walk by, feminine, tall, and incredibly aloof. She blinks as her eyes adjust. She is sitting across a small conference table from the other person. As she regains her sight, she sees that she is very tall, nearly two meters in height, and very athletic. Her skin is a warm brown, and her face is framed by long brown hair that flows down to the middle of her back. Her face has angular and fine features, very exotic. It is hard to tell what combination of races are in her background. But her eyes, they are an unnatural shade of blue—almost a pure cyan. And they are locked on Cheryn, watching her every move, measuring her every reaction. There is vast intelligence behind those eyes, and something else. Something very chilling, a darkness with a boundless depth.

  “Welcome home, daughter. It has been a very long time,” she says in a low contralto voice.

  “Who are you?” Cheryn asks, mystified at what she has heard. This couldn't possibly be her actual mother.

  She laughs, a musical, lilting sound, full of humor and dark malice. “I'm sorry, Cheryn, but I am not here to entertain your questions. I'm here to find out all that you know that I might be interested in.” She gets up and walks over to her. “And you really have no choice but to answer, because I will simply pry all your secrets from your mind.” She walks behind her, takes one of her long, slightly hooked fingernails, and digs a deep furrow on her neck.

  “Ow! You don't need to do that. I'm happy to tell you what I know,” Cheryn says.

  “Your happiness doesn't interest me, and I have no reason to want to banter with you. And I really do need to open a pathway to your blood,” she says as she scratches a long gash on her own arm, closing her eyes and smiling as though she enjoys the sensation. She then places her arm on Cheryn's neck, smearing their blood together, and holds it there. Cheryn tries to move, but the strange woman grabs her head with a vice-like grip and holds her steady. “I wonder what I should do with you when I'm done here,” she asks rhetorically. “Once, you served a purpose in this organization, but then you joined our enemies. You grew close to a Mr. Nils Hagen. Did he promise you a normal life? There is no such thing. I'll have to make an example of you, but there are so many ways to do that. Let me dig through your mind first and see exactly what you know…”

  Suddenly, Cheryn feels this creature in her head. It is like the time Nils used the med-kit on her. “How very interesting. He can use galanen tools. What else can he do? Well, well, well…how very interesting. He knows Zaleria, that bitch off-spring of the pretender. I wonder how well. Clive defers to him, he seems—old. Older than he looks. I'm sure he does. I'm sure he does. This explains a lot.”

  Cheryn is horrified. This creature has gotten into her head and just taken whatever it wanted. It must be one of those aliens. A galan.

  “Oh, I assure you, they would never claim me; nor would I claim them. I like you, because you scheme. You think to use what you know to gain leverage. Too bad I already know it all. But you, you know too much, about me. For now, I think you have your uses. The first is to satisfy my pleasures. The second is as bait. But I want you to know what you are going to experience. I am filling you with my symbiots, and with them, I will control your body. I will make it do whatever I find amusing. But don't worry, you'll still be inside, watching and experiencing everything. Completely unable to stop it. And then, when Mr. Hagen—if that is indeed his real name—finally shows up to rescue you, you can watch me destroy him, through you.”

  She feels pain everywhere, subtle at first but growing steadily worse. She learns the symbiots are filling her with the neurotransmitter that signals pain, everywhere. She cries out in agony. “Enjoy this, daughter. Pain is pure; pain is chaste. It is good. I will do so much to you, and physically, who knows, you may enjoy it. It will not be pure, and it will not be chaste, and you will feel used, dirty, and worthless. You will come to look forward to the pain, because it is honest, and pure, a reflection of my hatred of you and your new friends.”

  Cheryn screams, cries, and moans the rest of the day away—hoping her torment will end. But it is only just beginning…

  ∞∞∞

  When it comes to remoteness, the Australian outback cannot be surpassed. Perhaps in the center of the Sahara or Gobi deserts, you could find a more remote location, but not with modern infrastructure. The only real problem is the fact everyone knows everyone else, but there is enough change-over as people come and either deal with the harsh environment and limited amenities, or flee. So a few new executives at a remote station doesn't cause that much of a stir. The locals are curious, but by nature reserved. People come here for a variety of reasons, none of which includes wanting to stick their noses into everyone else's business or to have other people pry into their histories.

  It doesn't take long for the new arrivals to get established. The string of mines that use this particular clearing house are fairly autonomous. The local staff take care of almost everything and are well compensated for their efforts, which allows the new security chief, marketing, and finance directors to easily come up to speed on how things work.

  Those employees who work the closest with them suspect they are part of some government sponsored program, which isn't too far from the truth. They certainly have much better than average communications gear and a huge server farm used for computing who knows what. The story is it is used to conduct geographic modeling to aid opal exploration. But the locals know their job is to keep things running smoothly and to not ask too many questions, so the new 'executives' are free to conduct their activities—whatever those are. They aren't the first to come through here, and they probably won't be the last.

  Achi looks over at Zaleria. They've both remolded themselves yet again to establish new identities. This time, Achi has aged himself to around forty, changed his facial structures to be more square, and changed his hair and eye color to dark brown. Zaleria has matched his height and age, and lightene
d her hair to brown, with lighter highlights, and hazel brown eyes. She has changed her appearance from Asian to southern European—possibly Spanish or Italian—still tall for a woman and heavily muscled; it is very difficult to lose mass but easy to shift it around. Clive is, well, Clive is Clive they joke. He has grown a beard and is working on dreds, which is about as counter to his nature as you can get, but he does look completely different.

  “Well Rosa, how do you think things are going?” Achi asks.

  She smiles a bit at his using her false name. “Alright, I suppose, Vance. This place has a lot going for it. At least the shell no longer has a direct line into our thinking. We've severed all its pathways this time, I hope. Do you think there are any others?”

  “If there are, I'm sure it'll manifest itself soon. We should start focusing on first tier operatives, folks like Cheryn used to be. We know of the ones in Seattle, for instance, and a few others in London, Paris, Beijing…”

  Clive walks in from outside, sweating. “Wow, it'll take a while to get used to this heat. It must be at least 42 outside today.”

  “43,” Rosa says. “A bit toasty. Builds character.”

  “Then I can see from the way the Kelleys are sitting in the air conditioning that you lack character,” he laughs.

  “Now Keyon, it's not our fault that security requires a lot of perimeter checks. You could do those in the evening, or at night. Nothing, not even trouble, moves during the day here,” Vance says.

  “Yeah, that's what worries me. It'd be the perfect time to actually try something. I'm really hoping we've given that thing the slip this time.”

  “We were just discussing that and figure the best way to test it is to start having the Irruptors take on some of the bottom tier units—like the folks in Seattle.”

  “The shell already knows we know about them, so we should probably go after some of the others first; I like Beijing. Completely different from anything we've done to date,” Keyon offers.

  “There is merit in that,” Vance says, thinking. “Actually, I like that a lot. Rosa, thoughts?”

  “Concur. We should make it happen. What is our goal? Capture and question? Then what? Tag and release?”

  “Capture and question, definitely. Not sure what should come after that. I don't like putting them back into play.” Vance rubs his chin, thinking. “Keyon, what do you think we should do with them?”

  “Hold them. The real question for me is where? I'd suggest far from Earth.”

  “It can't be too far. The gatekeepers will not allow us to transport unwilling primitives through D-space,” Rosa reminds them.

  “And the galanen know this how?” Keyon asks.

  “Earth isn't the first place we've felt the need to isolate some undesirables, but the inability to move them to another planet made us learn how to deal with them within their own local systems. Apparently, the gatekeepers are more concerned about spreading a problem race than they are letting one fail. However, this is the first time we've faced a shell actively trying to make a race fail; it isn't fair to judge a race when an outside influence is trying to subvert them from within. We're in new territory.”

  “So what can we do with them?” Vance asks.

  “Well, we can try re-education. If that doesn't work, we can hold them until things change enough to re-introduce them or let them live out their lives in isolation. If we need extra space, we can bring in a station or modify a moon or asteroid—somewhere we don't think humanity will be inclined to explore. For instance, if we bring in a station, we would site it well above the ecliptic, holding a fixed orientation with Earth—so not in orbit—which would make it extremely hard for humanity to find or reach. Plus, there's nothing out there for them to want to explore.”

  “So whoever we pick up may be getting a life sentence in jail for committing a crime they aren't even aware exists,” Keyon says uneasily.

  “That is a possibility, certainly, but that is also why we try re-education first. We can keep them in a semi-conscience state while we explore their willingness to change. We show them the truth about what they serve and see how they react. If it is within them, we can try to reintroduce them to Earth in such a way that they have alternatives to what they were doing—with unclear memories about why they had a change of heart. Similar to what Vance did with Cheryn. There are other foundations out there acting on behalf of the galanen. However, if they don't want to change, there isn't much else we can do, ethically. We won't kill them, and we can't have them continuing to interfere on behalf of a shell.”

  It is clear to Keyon this makes Rosa, and probably most of the galanen, very uncomfortable, and he recognizes their options are limited. They are trying to make the best choices they can, even though they are all bad. Just as Vance has often taught. Ironic, or perhaps just an evolved perspective? “Ok, so do you have facilities enough to start? I assume the galanen will use Luna for now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I think we should start.”

  Vance gives them a bit more time to reflect. “Any second thoughts? No? Okay, I'll contact Beltare and get the offensive started. We'll need to monitor reactions. We'll start with the periphery and then escalate our tempo and move in towards the inner circles. Eventually, we'll have to start going after the financiers, which will not go unnoticed by humanity. Many of these folks are well known, rich, and powerful. That is when it'll get weird. Hopefully, we can identify where this thing has set up its home and leap-frog this level to go after it directly. After it is gone, we'll have time to deal with the rest.”

  ∞∞∞

  The first few operations go well. They take out cells in Beijing, London, and Paris. After this, the cell in Seattle takes to the street and riots, burning down a five-city block area of tenements. A dozen people are killed. Following this, they decide to go after one of the primary financiers, a billionaire oilman based out of Qatar. His private yacht disappears without explanation, and while some wreckage is found, no bodies are ever recovered. After he is declared legally dead, control of his empire is contested. His appointed heir, a bit of a playboy, suddenly finds several board members no longer support his taking over the reins. Control is tied up in legal limbo for months before passing to a board of trustees, several of whom are advised by well-placed galan.

  Meanwhile, the former billionaire is now a primary resident aboard a galanen space station parked 200 million miles above the Sun's north pole. Under gentle mind probing, when semiconscious, the galan learn many details about his contacts with key Sklávoi Ashtoreth intermediaries. Those in charge of dealing with funding. They decide their next strike will be a simultaneous raid to pick up the seven different handlers he knew. This will require them to split their now three 12-person Irruptor teams, but they don't have enough to go after all seven without dropping each squad below six, which is too few. They decide to augment their manpower with Achi's group in Australia, sans the mortal Clive, plus Beltare, Fandtha, Jevelle, and Toshi. This will give them seven teams of six. So much for the generals not fighting. They form their own team, to not break-up the synergy within the other groups, although Clive is livid.

  “This is my fight too!”

  Beltare regards him with sympathy. “Clive, if any of our corporeal units are destroyed, they can be regenerated. You are unique, and mortal. There is no reason to place you in jeopardy. We know this isn't your desire, but you are also the only other human who can help direct the galanen if something happens to the rest of us, especially him,” she gestures at Achi. “Do not underestimate this role.”

  “That sounds great, but you really just don't want my life on your conscience. It's all about you,” he retorts.

  She reluctantly nods her head. “I admit, it seems to me your life is short enough as it is. And as much as I shouldn't care about that, I do. I don't want to end our sharing until we must. But that also does not make the other things I have said less true.” She kisses him on the cheek and whispers, “Please do not think ill of me
for it.”

  “Damn, look, that isn't fair!” he tries hard to stay upset with them, but he can't. It really does make sense. “Aarrgh!” he vents, as he realizes they're right. “Promise me you'll be careful. I suspect the shell has anticipated this move and has laid traps.”

  Their targets are in Paris, Istanbul, Dubai, Singapore, Hong Kong, Los Angeles, and New York. Jevelle will lead Achi and the rest of their team to try and capture an international financier named Tamika Kyamoto in Los Angeles.

  They are issued the most advanced gear the galanen manufacture—ballistic vests with ablative energy absorbing layers; a horde of mini remotes to extend their awareness, and if necessary engage hostiles; and webgear full of multi-spectral sensors, capable of 'seeing' in any wavelength, from radio waves up to gamma rays. Adversaries might try to hide in the visible, maybe even in the infrared, but they can't hide in all wavelengths without defying the laws of physics. Finally, they carry newly developed small arms capable of a wide range of energy or kinetic effects. And unlike most galanen small arms that recharge slowly over time by scavenging energy from the environment, these also include the capability to be reloaded, in case they get depleted. They also carry small graviton generators that can produce several effects, the most useful being the means to hide their visual and infrared signatures to try and remain stealthy. And if all else fails, they have embedded thermal oscillators that can be triggered in several ways, even remotely if necessary—the ultimate 'kill switch.' They will not risk capture by the shell.

  They decide to infiltrate from afar, not using waveriders to get in close. Each galan travels a different number of days prior to their assaults to various locations, and then begin traveling to their final staging areas. Each group will form up and begin their final attack timed to coincide with all the other groups. The precise timing is intended to multiply the complexity of any response. If the shell tries to intervene, it will be hard pressed to do so for every target; it will have to pick and choose.