Sanctuary

by H C Edwards

  The young guard shook his head.

  “Maybe it’s a mistake,” he said. “Maybe it was an accident.”

  Misao reached up and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “You are a good man, Todd. I wish there were more like you.”

  When she removed her hand, however, her demeanor changed. He was young, but he needed to know just how serious all of this was.

  “That being said, if we come across her, you put her down hard and fast with that rifle, and there better be no hesitation. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He nodded, his lips a straight line.

  “What do you make of it?” the guard named Stanton asked, pointing at the scattering of footprints in the dust.

  The permanent scowl on his face hadn’t changed. She wondered if he ever had other expressions or just the one. He was intuitive though; that, she had to admit. Anyone else might have spied the footprints and not given them a second glance.

  “Give me a second,” she said, perusing the scene at her feet.

  They were on the second floor of the recycling plant, in an open area that was rife with large crates and stacked steel bars on pallets. There was a singular crate, some shredded strands of what appeared to be rope, and more dusty footprints.

  “My guess is the woman met up with some people here, or maybe they brought her. These,” she stooped to gather the fibers. “These look like strands of rope.”

  “What does that mean?” Todd asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she replied.

  She spied something else, went to her hands and knees, and clicked the flashlight on, moving it around.

  “Do you see that?” Misao asked, pointing.

  “See what?” Stanton huffed. “Those spots?”

  Sighing, but not too loudly, Misao nodded.

  “I think its blood,” she relayed, scanning the path of the droplets.

  “So what…someone brought her here and beat the crap out of her, and then drug her off?”

  Misao shook her head.

  “I don’t know. But those footprints in the dust.”

  Todd, the younger guard, leaned over.

  “I see them.”

  “Well, there’s three sets,” Misao pointed out. “I think they all left together.”

  Stanton, who had walked off following the sets of tracks, came back.

  “Wherever they went, we can’t follow them. The footprints end at the stairs. They’re girded metal; no trace.”

  Misao stood up and wiped her hands on her pants. She pushed up the sleeve of her shirt to access the forearm computer she had.

  “Call the main admin building for sectors 11 through 16,” she spoke while pressing down a green tab on the screen pad.

  A few seconds ticked by where all heard three consecutive beeps, and then a man’s face was projected from the screen. His features were too immaculate to be anything but synthetic.

  “You’ve reached the admin building. This is Liam Tremblay, how can I assist you today?”

  “Liam, this is Councilwoman Hideshi. This is my access code,” she stated, punching in the numbers. “I need you to pull up the power grid for sectors 13 through 16.”

  “Those sectors have been closed for the last few weeks,” the hologram explained. “We only have minor systems running, mostly for backup.”

  She was hoping to find some part of the plant running or using an excess of power on the grid that she could track down, but then she had another idea.

  “What work crews do you have operating in this area then?”

  “One moment.”

  There was a brief pause that lasted a few seconds.

  “Hm,” he responded thoughtfully. “We do have three rotating shifts that have been working in that area for the past few weeks.”

  Misao felt her heart quicken.

  “Where?”

  “Sector 15, the trade hub.”

  “The trade hub?” Misao repeated.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Why are they down there? All trade routes have been suspended for the past few weeks until…”

  She trailed off, her mind making the connections.

  “Thank you, Liam,” she said, hitting a button that ended the call.

  “What is it?” Todd asked, moving closer, sensing her excitement perhaps.

  “The pumps,” Misao replied. “It’s the only reason anyone would have to be here. The work crews are clearing out the tunnel. They must have been the ones who found her.”

  Todd looked confused.

  “What do you mean by pumps?”

  “You don’t know?”

  She assumed that the ASF had been the ones to round up the survivors of Charlottesville from the trade hub after their harrowing escape through the tunnel, but then she also realized that the council was insistent on keeping news of the fallen sanctuary as quiet as possible until they could figure out how to break the news to the rest of Akropolis. Perhaps only a handful of the guards were privy to that information.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she deferred. “Let’s get back to the transport and head to the trade hub.”

  “Do you think we’ll find her there?” Stanton asked, piqued interest being the only change she had seen in his gruff demeanor so far.

  Misao paused, wondering if she was chasing phantoms. It was possible that she was wrong about everything. Perhaps Mia Zhuk was hiding somewhere else in the same plant at that very moment, huddled away, listening with baited breath and waiting for them to leave. But then that wouldn’t explain how she could elude the pings. The copper shielding had been left behind. The only way to mask her signal would be with specific tech that she obviously did not have, which could only mean she had help. The real question was, did those people know who they were aiding?

  “Let’s go find out,” she said.

  The Secret

  “You appear slightly anxious, Quentin,” Sia said, startling him from his reverie.

  “I’m okay,” he replied, though he was far from it.

  The jumble of memories and flashes of images were relentless. Each time he let his mind wander he was assailed by them, as if a flock of birds were battering him with their wings. He’d glimpse something, but before he could so much as focus, it was gone, flitting away on the breath of some unforeseen gale.

  “Is there something I could do to assist you?”

  Quentin was just about to ask to be left alone, when a thought occurred.

  “Sia?”

  “Yes, Quentin.”

  “Did you know my mother?”

  Silence for a moment.

  “My program was brought online just two years ago.”

  “Of course,” Quentin replied, wringing his hands together. “That was a ridiculous question. It’s just…difficult to concentrate right now.”

  “I am aware of what happened at the lab today.”

  He raised his head, though of course there was no physical manifestation to actually address. Sometimes he forgot that she was just a voice in his ear.

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Your father explained it to me.”

  Quentin hesitated then lowered his voice.

  “Do you know what’s happening to me?”

  “I do.”

  But there was no further incite following.

  “Tell me, Sia,” he pressed.

  Still, she didn’t answer.

  Quentin felt frustrated. He was tired of secrets, tired of not knowing what was going on. It seemed that most of his life he had been mired in a deluge of uncertainty and fractured memories. The accident during his boyhood was to blame for most of it, but even as he grew into his teens, he had always felt…incomplete, as if there were huge chunks of his life missing. He used to be accepting of this, until the incident at the lab, until he was given access to the plethora of memories he didn’t know he had.

  “Why won’t you answer me, Sia?” he asked, his frustration starting to turn towards anger.

 
; “I am sorry, Quentin. I have been instructed not to discuss this with you.”

  “By my father?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  “Wonderful,” Quentin grumbled, sighing heavily and letting the anger flow past him.

  It was difficult to hold onto that emotion, took too much effort, especially when it was all he could do to keep the tidal wave of memories from overwhelming him. He knew that if he relaxed his guard they’d overtake him, and then what? Would he lose himself in them permanently?

  “Quentin?”

  He looked up to see his father standing there, concern affixed to his face.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up,” Quentin replied.

  His father had been in the basement lab, working on what he said would be a solution to the problem Quentin was experiencing, though he didn’t know how that was possible.

  What could be done with repressed memories? His father’s specialties were quantum mechanics and engineering; he was no psychiatrist. It was his mother who had known the workings of the brain intimately. She had been a biologist and neurologist, among other things.

  Griffin, his voice hesitant, said, “I think I found something that will help you.”

  “Really?” Quentin asked, feeling hope and relief at the same time.

  He wasn’t sure how long he could hold whatever was happening to him at bay. It was hauntingly similar to those days following the accident, when he sometimes felt as if he’d lost himself, or at least enough of him to see a stranger in the mirror.

  “Yes,” his father said, appearing distressed and at a loss for words, two things that Quentin couldn’t remember ever seeing exhibited at the same time.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  There was something in his father’s hands, a small object that he kept nervously fiddling with.

  “This thing,” he finally said, holding up a little square chip. “This is a neural inhibitor, a firewall of sorts. It was first used hundreds of years ago to combat PTSD in troops returning from war. It blocks memories that are deemed…traumatic, that could cause irreparable psychological harm. In the beginning of Akropolis, the Quantum Cloud wasn’t very stable. Some profiles were complete, while many others had corrupted data from improper syncing. Your mother modified this processor years ago to help with the QUBITs who were revived with these corrupted data files.”

  “What?” Quentin asked, confused.

  “Bear with me,” his father entreated. “We found that the corrupted memory files would eventually destabilize the quantum matrix that formed the brains of the synthetics. This was followed by synaptic failure…and eventually death. Removing the corrupted files created the same situation eventually; it just took a bit longer.”

  His father sat down in the seat opposite Quentin.

  “We realized that the degradation had nothing to do with engineering, but rather the psyche. Missing memories worked the same as traumatic repressed memories.”

  “Dad,” Quentin confessed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Griffin frowned then appeared to have an idea.

  “Okay, there was a guy who lived long ago named Radulovic. He explained that the brain was like a radio with AM and FM channels. Do you follow?”

  Quentin nodded.

  “He said that the brain operated on two channels, with FM being the channel that accessed memories, while AM was the one that accessed the subconscious. Well, we have these things in our brains, as well as the synthetic brains, called GABA receptors. These receptors are activated when you experience something extremely frightening or traumatic. The receptors then encode the memories and store them on the AM channel. Basically, those corrupted files acted as traumatic events in the brains of synthetics, and because they were stored in the so called ‘subconscious’ part of the quantum brain, they started to cause damage to the matrix, unraveling it.”

  Again, he held up the chip, this time handing it over to Quentin.

  “Your mother came up with this solution. She modified the inhibitor to release a neural signal that re-routed the GABA receptors to a different channel, what we could call the PM, or phase modulation. That is where we stored the implanted memories. Since we couldn’t remove the corrupted data, we trapped it. As long as the neural inhibitor was working, the matrix was stabilized and the QUBIT would be fine.”

  “Did they ever know?” Quentin asked. “That those memories weren’t real?”

  Grififn nodded.

  “Some of them, yes. And eventually there were those that reversed their revival clauses and joined the Ether…but not all of them.”

  “I don’t understand,” Quentin continued. “You said it was used for the QUBITs in the early days of Akropolis?”

  Again, his father nodded, his expression intense.

  Quentin was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate, but something nagged at him. He chased it around his brain for a few seconds until he finally caught it by the tail. When he did, he looked up at his father, shocked by what it might portend.

  “You said Mom modified it for those QUBITs,” he said, his lips feeling numb.

  “That’s right, Quentin.”

  “But that would mean…that would mean…”

  “That she did that over three hundred years ago,” Griffin finished the sentence.

  “I-I,” Quentin stuttered, reeling from the revelation.

  “Your mother and I…we revived the very first synthetics within the walls of Akropolis,” his father explained. “That chip you’re holding, Son…that was always meant for you.”

  Quentin wanted to deny it, needed to, but a whining scream seemed to be building up in his ears, a tone that was felt more than heard, and before he could utter another word, something popped, and everything went dark.

  When he opened his eyes he recognized his father’s basement lab. He was reclined in the pneumatic chair with something strapped to his head. His father was standing in front of the holographic projection screen with his hands by his sides. He was staring at an image of a brain, or rather, what appeared to be a synth brain.

  “Dad?”

  Griffin turned around. He looked exhausted, but he also wore a small smile.

  “Hey, Kiddo. How are you feeling?”

  “I feel-”

  Quentin stopped, realizing suddenly that his head was clear of the erratic dissonance. Eyes wide, he breathed deeply and thankfully. How quiet everything seemed, how calm the world appeared.

  “I feel fine,” he grinned, laughing out loud a bit in his euphoria. “I feel great.”

  “Thank God,” his father replied, smiling widely now.

  Quentin sat up.

  “What happened? I remember…I remember…”

  He looked down at his hands…then up at his father in dawning horror. Shoving off the chair, he backed away shaking his head.

  “No…no, Dad…tell me it’s not true…please tell me…”

  “It’s going to be okay, Son,” his father said in a placating tone. “Just calm d-”

  “STOP SAYING EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY!” Quentin screamed at him, hands going up to his head, fingers intertwining in his hair.

  He pulled hard, felt the tears come to his eyes along with the pain. His hands left his hair to roam over his face, pushing and pinching his cheeks, scratching at the skin. He felt it, felt it all. Looking down at his arms, Quentin formed a claw with his hand and dug at his skin. Long white streaks appeared, but that only made him dig harder, scraping with his nails until lines of blood began to appear.

  “Stop that!” his father shouted, but Quentin didn’t or couldn’t hear him.

  He was grunting or mewling or moaning; he wasn’t exactly sure but there were strange sounds escaping from his mouth and he needed to see, see past the skin, the blood, the sinews and the tissue and down to the bone, if there was real bone, if there was anything real at all anymore-

  The slap across his face cut off the sounds emanating from
his mouth and rocked his head to the side. The pain was like jumping into an ice cold bath. He sucked in a breath sharply, hand going to his cheek where it burned like fire.

  “I’m sorry, Son,” his father said, panting. “Please, come with me.”

  He guided Quentin back to the pneumatic chair and eased him back into it, hitting a floor button to incline the seat.

  Quentin, still in shock, could only stare at the blood welling from the gouges in his skin. His father disappeared into the bathroom for a few seconds and then came back with a hand towel that he wrapped around Quentin’s forearm.

  “Your neural inhibitor was malfunctioning,” Griffin said. “Linking you to the Cloud the way I did must have fried it. I’m not sure why, but it doesn’t matter. I replaced it and now-”

  “Am I real, Dad?” Quentin whispered.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “You’re as real as me, as anyone else,” his father replied somberly.

  “But…I’m not human…I’m…I’m…”

  He couldn’t bring himself to say the word synthetic. There had never been a stigma attached to that word before, because he had always known that sooner or later revival was in his future, almost everyone’s future, except now in the space of a few minutes he had learned the complete opposite.

  “Have I always been…”

  The question couldn’t make it fully past his lips. He was too afraid of the answer.

  “Since the accident,” his father finished.

  “H-how…long ago?”

  “It was before we came to Akropolis…I’m sorry, but…it’s been over three hundred years since…”

  Quentin felt his lower lip trembling.

  “You didn’t save me that day…at the beach.”

  “I tried to,” Griffin replied desperately, holding Quentin’s hand in between both of his. “I tried so hard, but you were…you were gone. Your mother-”

  His father had to hide his face for a moment and wipe away tears with the back of his hand.

  “Your mother, thank God…she knew what to do. We brought you back to the house and she made me upload your consciousness to a cloud profile. We knew it would work because…because I was the one who designed the Quantum Cloud. We’d been using it with the government for years with their soldiers. But there was too much ischemic injury to your brain. We couldn’t make a complete profile. It resulted…it resulted in corrupted data files. Complete revival was not possible.”