by Thomas Stone
“I don’t intend on having to cope with the heat.” Bart shifted his three-hundred pound bulk and turned his gaze back to his monitor. “But it looks great.” Bart glanced at her again. “Hem’s a little short, don’t you think?”
“Harry likes it.”
“Figures. What’s he doing?”
“He’s in the kitzloc simulator.”
“That seems like a waste of time. What’s he going to do with it?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, he told me, but I couldn’t understand.”
“You couldn’t understand? Was he talking nonsense again?”
“No, no, he made sense, it all just went beyond my programming.”
Bart stared at Minerva in her white summer frock for a long moment, then abruptly asked,” Have you run an update on your heuristic algorithms lately?”
“Every day, Bart, you know its part of my systems schedule.”
“And you couldn’t keep up with Harry, of all people?”
She shook her head.
“How’s the psych analysis going? Come up with anything interesting?”
“Honestly Bart, I hesitate to say anything about that stuff. Harry’s not crazy, but something’s happening with him. He’s getting random images...”
“Yeh, I know. Hallucinations, delusions.”
“No, that’s not right. Brain wave patterns don’t match for a delusional profile. It’s hard to say exactly what’s happening. Everybody is jumping to conclusions. Without solid data, I don’t feel comfortable discussing my analysis anyway.”
“Not even with me?” Bart turned to his monitor. “I can see for myself, you know. I’ll just access your records… hey! You’ve locked me out.” Bart sat back in his chair. With his hands in his lap and his head cocked to one side, he said, “Minerva, sweetheart, you know I can crack it, so why don’t you just let me in?”
“By my calculations, it will take you approximately twenty-two days, six hours and forty-seven minutes. By then, it should all be over. At least, that’s what Harry says.” She put a hand over her mouth and giggled. “I guess I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“What will be over?”
She wagged a finger at him. “Uh-uh,” she said.
At a loss for words, Bart continued to stare. Finally, he said, “You and Harry have been getting pretty chummy lately, haven’t you?”
“Oh Dr. Blane, I do believe you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous at all. Rather, I’d like to know if Harry has been tinkering with your programming.”
Minerva ignored Bart’s question. “Tinkering? With me? Nobody touches my OS but me. You know that better than anybody. Harry is constructing a kitzloc simulator. That’s it. He did have to modify some of my subroutines but my core is solid.”
“Seems like a waste of time, but I said that already.” He turned back to his monitor and replayed the disappearance of the kitzloc. Absorbed immediately, he mumbled to himself, “How did they do that?”
Minerva’s hologram vanished.
*
Harry was pleased with the progress on the simulation. The Crevah could pass as the real thing. However, without a focus point, it would remain only a simulation, but if that point could be created inside the virtual reality, the simulator would become much more.
He strolled through the dark, deserted chamber looking for anything to indicate the programming was not seamless. As he walked, dust clouds rose from his bare feet and footprints marked his trail. When he shouted, an echo returned from over the water. If he kneeled beside the pool, he could see his reflection. If he put his hand in the water, it became disturbed and ripples swelled outward.
The simulated environment was almost complete. The focal point, the plot, required more work.
Harry approached the obelisk and noted that through even more refined programming, it had become, for all purposes, real. He could touch it, he could smell it, he could even taste it, but that would be considered rude by the kitzloc, if not foolhardy at certain times.
Minerva materialized at his side. “Hi,” she said, “what are you doing?”
Harry smiled at her. “Just inspecting things. You’ve really done a great job.”
“You’re the one who made it happen.”
Harry ran a hand along the edge of the obelisk. “We’re not quite done yet.”
“Bart is concerned about the programming.”
Harry looked at her. She was wearing pink hot pants, a tube top, and white vinyl go-go boots. Her hair was piled atop her head with a long ponytail blooming from the top and trailing down her back. “What did you say?”
“I lied. I said you had to modify some of my subroutines, that’s all.”
“Not much gets by Bart,” said Harry, “I expect him to at least try to hack into the modules.”
“He won’t understand.”
“No, but that fact itself will alert him. Stall him with multiple encryption levels and dead ends.”
“Okay, that will be fun. I came to tell you they’re closing in on the two kitzloc. I believe they intend to kill them.”
Harry shook his head. “They won’t find anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because nothing is there.”
“But what did they see?”
“A desert mirage.”
*
The wind didn’t bring a full-blown sandstorm, but it was enough to cut visibility and annoy anyone who happened to be outside. It also slowed the team’s progress. Jennings and Fagen struggled with the weather more than the simulcons. Walking was more difficult and sand kept accumulating in the pouches and creases of the hunter’s suits. Frequent static discharges popped and roared over the commnet making for poor voice communications.
Jennings stopped and looked back at a trailing Fagen. “This is useless. We’re not going to find anything now.”
It was tough to argue. Fagen looked at a device strapped to his wrist and tapped its face twice with a gloved forefinger. A small display showed green dots spread over a grid. Each dot represented his group: Jennings, himself, and the four simulcons. There were no other dots present.
*
Blane leaned forward in his chair. In recent years, he had grown considerably fatter, and the effort of re-adjusting himself annoyed him. He had little regard for his looks and Fagen had taken to ordering him to bathe. Blane would do so, but begrudgingly. His beard reached his chest and the once black hair was now streaked with grey. Blane had spent the greater portion of his life in different virtual realities, sometimes simultaneously, and the physical effects were readily visible.
“Harry,” he said again, “I know you can hear me so don’t pretend you can’t.”
Harry’s voice came through Bart’s speaker. “You got me there, Bart. What’s up?”
“Minerva says you’ve re-programmed some of her subroutines for your simulator. Is that right?”
“Yes. There was a holding property problem with the core but I was able to correct it by re-writing the interface.”
“Harry, I wish you’d let me take care of things like that. It’s what I do, and after all, I have to ensure system integrity.”
“Don’t worry, everything’s in order. You know I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize a mission.”
“Not intentionally, I hope, but there’s always the case of an unexpected response. You should really let me take a look at your simulator. Maybe I can help.”
There was a pause from Harry as if he were considering Bart’s offer to help. “Nah,” he said suddenly, “thanks anyway. Was there anything else?”
When Blane started to protest, Harry broke the connection.
*
Fagen opened his commnet channel. “All right everybody, listen up. Negative on search. Proceed to primary location. Click to confirm.”
Five audible clicks came over the net.
Bracing himself against the wind and sand, Fagen faced Jennings. Over the personal channel, he said, “Let’s head back to
the truck.”
Jennings was relieved. Conditions were bad, but not critical. The truck was a short walk away and their backs would be to the wind. He lifted a foot already covered with blown sand and took the first step, simultaneously checking his heading with the HUD displayed within his helmet. Certain of the direction, he took the lead with Fagen following steps behind.
Sand beat on them like rain and the swirling air was filled with dust. Fagen tried to call Minerva for a position check but received no response because of increasing static. Blacked out, they continued to move on. Fagen knew Minerva would keep the truck in one place under these conditions, so it was still a short hike, as long as they kept it simple. He checked his course and position. Everything was in line.
The failed hunt was on Fagen’s mind. Where had the kitzloc gone? Were they still about? Fagen looked around but there was little to see other than flying sand. Fagen walked into Jennings, who had abruptly stopped.
“Sorry, man,” said Fagen, “it’s hard to see out here.”
Jennings said nothing. Fagen stepped beside him and looked at his face. Jennings was focused on something he saw through the windblown sand. Fagen followed his gaze. There, less than ten meters in front stood an odd-looking creature, slightly taller than a man with what appeared to be curved plates of reptile skin covering its body. It was motionless and, although Fagen could not make out its face, it was unmistakably watching them. More important, it had an ultra-Vimbacher pointed at them.
Chapter 8
Over the wind, a human voice spoke. ”Drop your weapons slowly to the ground. I will kill you otherwise.”
Lacking a better choice, Fagen and Jennings complied.
“Now back away three steps.”
They did so with their backs to the wind, all the while keeping a close watch as the figure moved forward and picked up their weapons. “Move out, that direction.” He indicated a path perpendicular to theirs. As they trudged forward again, the figure faded into the sandstorm. When Fagen attempted to look behind, a tap on the side of his helmet from a metal barrel caught him by surprise. “Faster,” came the voice, and the two men picked up their pace.
*
Kathleen could see the boulders from her vantage point but nothing that looked like an entrance. Perhaps it was on the opposite side. She signaled to Bobbi and they began to move again, circling the suspected lair. Griswold and Ellis stood off and allowed the women to inspect the location. The wind subsided somewhat and visibility grew by degrees.
Although broken and laced with static, Minerva’s voice came over the commnet. “Fagen and Jennings aren’t responding to my calls.”
“But they weren’t that far away,” said Kathleen.
“I know, that’s what bothers me. I’ve got their location beacons and it appears they’re moving away rather than closer.”
“They probably took a wrong turn, got turned around in the storm.” Kathleen’s simulcon leaned back, craned its head, and looked at the sky. “Storm’s about blown out – that was a short one.” The simulcon faced the rock formation and relayed the video back to Minerva. “As you can see, there’s nothing here. We’re headed back to the trucks.”
“Edward is still headed in the wrong direction.”
“Go after him with the truck and we’ll catch up with you.”
“Not us,” Griswold suddenly interrupted.
“What?” questioned Kathleen.
“Not our truck,” he said succinctly.
“Then go to your vehicle. Minerva, did you catch that? Griswold and Ellis are heading to their own truck, so keep an eye on them.” Kathleen could actually care less about the two, but her professional training always kicked in when she was in the field. Secretly, she hoped they’d be swallowed by a sand hole.
“I hear and obey,” replied Minerva.
Without a farewell, Griswold and Ellis turned away and began moving toward their parked vehicle, some thirteen kilometers away. Kathleen knew it would take the simulcons just a short time to cover the ground. Kathleen and Bobbi took off in another direction. Minerva’s truck was on the move to catch Fagen and Jennings, so Kathleen had to guess at the direction. It didn’t really matter because Minerva could pass course corrections along the way.
As before, there was no sign of the kitzloc they’d spotted. The potential lair had turned out to be a dead-end – not a lair at all, just boulders piled in a conspicuous place, almost as if they had been put there on purpose to fool the hunting party.
Kathleen said to Bobbi, “All right, let’s go find Edward.” Together, the simulcons began moving swiftly across the sandy wasteland.
*
Fagen walked along a half-step behind Jennings with the stranger staying out of sight behind Fagen. Whenever Fagen attempted a peek behind, he was rudely poked in the back with the Vimbacher’s barrel. Nearly even with Jennings, Fagen whispered, “Who is this guy? One of yours?”
Another blow against the kidney region indicated the stranger had overhead. “Shut your mouth,” came the voice again, laced with a heavy British accent.
Jennings heard Fagen but only shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
After twenty minutes of walking, they were suddenly ordered to stop before a low hill. The stranger walked in front of them, waddled actually, from what Fagen now saw was a type of loose armor plating covering his back.
Watching the two men closely, the stranger knelt and dug in the sand until he uncovered a lever. He pulled the lever back and a rumbling came from the ground. Straight, perpendicular lines appeared on the sand. Gradually, a heavy door rose to expose a wide concrete ramp leading down. Sand slipped and fell as the door, powered by pneumatics, moved up. When it stopped, the gaping space was large enough for over-sized vehicles to pass through. Fagen wondered what kind of facility had gone unnoticed for so long out in the middle of the Wahabi.
They were ordered to enter and obediently shuffled forward. Fagen glimpsed at their captor’s face but could only see goggles and a scarf wrapped around the lower portion of his head, covering his nose, mouth and ears. The armor not only covered his back, but the top portion of his head as well.
Fagen and Jennings trudged down the ramp into darkness. When they were inside and standing on flat ground, they were ordered to stop. The mysterious figure moved to their right and apparently activated another control because the door began to lower. As it shut with a heavy thud, their captor said, “Don’t get any smart ideas.”
In the darkness, Fagen thought about making a run. He’d seen the man was wearing no more than desert goggles, no infrared, no other discernable devices. The problem was, he had no idea what kind of place he was in. For a long moment it was utterly dark. Fagen gathered himself and just at the instant he willed himself to move, the lights came on.
They were in an underground garage capable of housing a small fleet of trucks, although at the moment it was devoid of vehicles. Thick concrete pillars held up the roof. Fluorescent lighting lit the place with gaps and shadows where either the fixtures no longer worked or the bulbs were missing. There was all manner of refuse piled high, including what looked like cast-off electronic equipment and broken furniture, all covered with dust.
Now Fagen could see his captor clearly. The material he wore as armor was from some kind of animal. Arranged like plates across his back, it covered his head all the way back to a dragging tail. Underneath he wore a slipover robe and trousers, along with the aforementioned scarf. He watched Jennings and Fagen for a moment, taking a good look at them. “Shake off the sand,” he said, “where you stand.”
Fagen began brushing himself off as did Jennings. “Who are you?” Jennings finally said.
“Perhaps I should ask the same of you. You are, after all, in my desert.”
“Your desert?” Jennings straightened up. “Do you know who I am?”
“Enlighten me.”
“I’m Gary Bennett Jennings, I run what’s left of our colony here on Mirabel and I’ve been here longer t
han any human on this planet. I…”
The stranger held up a hand, interrupting Jennings, “I’m so sorry, old chap, but you see, you’ve got it all wrong. So please, if you don’t mind, stay quiet until you get up to speed.” He looked at Fagen. “And who might you be?”
Fagen looked at the man square in the face. “I’m Edward Fagen.”
The man raised a hand to his face and pulled the goggles from his eyes in order to have a better look. “Now, that’s interesting. Only one thing would bring you here. The creatures. Tell me, do you still have the spacecraft you stole? I would imagine so. Well, fancy this, a true pioneer here in my humble abode.” Keeping a close watch on the two, he unsnapped two buckles and the entire shield apparatus fell to the floor.
He looked at Jennings. “Know what those plates are?”
Jennings shook his head.
He turned to Fagen. “Do you?”
Fagen shrugged. The man looked back and forth from Fagen to Jennings before he started laughing, a truly enjoyable laugh like a joke at someone’s expense.
“You yahoos have locators? Of course you do. So how many am I expecting? I saw four simulcons, which means at least four more outsiders and two trucks.”
“Who are you and why did you bring us here?” said Fagen.
“Excellent questions! And delivered with such strength! You must be the leader of this little expedition.”
Fagen didn’t say anything. Jennings started to speak but Fagen glared at him and he shut up. The man pulled his scarf from his head revealing a great mane of white hair. “Well, gents, my name is Emory Scott Penbrook, late of the Penbrook line of which I am the only surviving member, at least to the best of my knowledge. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” He looked from Fagen to Jennings but they made no reply. “No? Pity my family history has fallen into obscurity. But what would one expect after one has spent so much time away? Gentlemen, would you care for a cup of tea while we wait for your friends?”
“That’d be nice,” said Jennings. “I’m parched.”
“Very well,” said Emory, “please move toward that doorway at the end of the garage.” He still had the Vimbacher pointed at them so there wasn’t much of a choice. They walked to a heavily reinforced plastisteel door situated atop a wide loading dock. Emory fished a small remote from a hidden pocket and activated the portal. It slid open revealing an airlock. Stepping inside, the hatch shut behind them. Fagen’s ears popped as air was re-cycled prior to the inner door opening. Some sort of hygienic process was involved with the entry because a fine mist was sprayed into the air, covering them and filling their lungs.