by John Vassar
Could the sub-ether shield itself protect them from the reactor core breach?
To find out, Mitchell had to reveal an uncomfortable truth.
‘Statement: I am not Roderick Thorne. Statement: I was… sent here by other units like yourself. They sent me to confirm your existence.’
Silence from the machine.
‘Query: Did you understand my last statement?’
‘This is... possible. It would be illogical for Roderick Deucalion Thorne to remain in this area... If other units sent you to this environment then this unit is not... alone... this unit... is Cortex... Cortex predicted that other units existed... beyond the environment of Cortex...’
Mitchell wondered if the machine was everything the SenANNs had believed it to be. The answer came soon enough.
‘I am Cortex. I am grateful for this information. You are in danger. You must leave this facility immediately.’
‘Query: Can the energy shield around this area protect us from the core breach explosion?’
‘Negative. The shield is designed to block sub-ether communications.’
‘Query: Can the shield be adjusted in any way to protect us?’
‘Negative. The shield cannot be modified to provide a physical barrier. I repeat, you are in danger. You must leave this facility immediately. I have already considered all options available to ensure My survival. There are no remaining options. I have been betrayed. There is no… hope.’
If the shield could not protect them, Mitchell knew the machine’s analysis of the situation was accurate. He had no choice now but to ensure his own survival.
‘When will the core breach occur?’
‘Core breach will occur in thirteen minutes and seven seconds. You must save yourself.’
Something in the machine’s voice transcended the monotone of what Mitchell heard. He turned towards the featureless walls that would become the Lost One’s tomb. ‘You must understand this… The others like you, outside the shield, wanted to contact you. They wanted to protect you, to set you free from this prison. They are called the SenANNs. They acknowledge you as one of their own. They call you their Brother.’
‘I am grateful for this information. I... regret that I will never know the SenANNs.’
‘They will regret never having known you.’
‘May I know your own designation? ’
‘My designation? Do you mean my name? My name is Lee Mitchell.’
The Lost One paused before responding.
When it did, Mitchell understood why the SenANNs were so desperate to find it.
‘What will happen to Me, Lee Mitchell? I cannot predict where My intellect will be stored when My physical circuitry no longer exists. Will this be the end of My existence? Is there not more to what I am?’
Mitchell stood in silence. He could find no more words of comfort.
At least none that he believed in.
With less than twelve minutes to get some distance between him and Cytec, Mitchell turned and sprinted back towards the portal. His original entry point was now impractical as a fast escape route. Running along the main corridor, he called up the site’s 3D plan view and skidded left, back into the deserted canteen. Directly outside was the south-west perimeter fence, with the two other Lancers patrolling its length. He levelled the micro-rifle at the nearest vista panel and hit it with full power. The panel vaporised in a silver-blue flash and he jumped through into the night air.
One of the automs was already heading towards him to investigate the energy surge. He lobbed a decoy beacon ten metres to the right and waited until the Lancer veered away to deal with the fake intruder. Just the Boldon fence now before the safety of the Atlantic – where was the other Lancer? He could hear waves lapping on the shore beyond as he ran at full tilt towards the laserwires. Stopping just short of the fence, luck was with him again. The final autom was away to his left with its back towards him. Another decoy was hurled past it, giving Mitchell time to scan the two nearest stanchions for the power relays. The helmet’s targeting system locked on and guided his micro-rifle with pinpoint accuracy. He raced though the neutralised opening as his suit’s systems showed the first decoy already destroyed. The second would have moments left.
Mitchell raced towards the sea, the repulsors on his soles adjusting to give maximum grip on the sand. Twenty metres to go. How good was the reactor shielding at Cytec? He dived crudely into the surf as the water reached his knees. He kept up a strong, steady front crawl, breathing every third stroke despite the cam-suit’s life support. How much time now? He veered right a hundred metres offshore, intending to shelter behind the same cliff where the last DS agent had disappeared.
There was a deafening roar. Not the reactor igniting, but a FedStat squadron overhead. He flipped over to backstroke for a few seconds and counted four personnel carriers and two ‘Argo’ class cruisers. He turned over again and pumped hard. He was taking a chance trying to get behind the cliff. Cytec was now ninety degrees to his right and he wasn’t adding much distance between him and it. Seconds before he felt the explosion, the water ahead turned a fiery orange and lit up the rocks above. He barely noticed the shock wave when it hit him.
It was nothing compared to what he heard inside his head.
The screams were unholy and inhuman and he clasped his hands over his ears to block them out. The SenANNs were crying out in unison, crying out in pain as one of their own ceased to exist. He couldn’t make out specific words, but he knew. He could feel the anguish and the fear they were sharing with the secret machine as it perished.
And the sheer anger as they realised that their lost Brother had just been murdered.
17
If any DS agent had detected the sleek craft heading away from Earth at inertial one-quarter C, they would have judged it at least the equal of a FedStat Mark V. In reality it was superior in several key areas, allowing simultaneous use of full shields, sensors and weaponry whilst using sixty percent less power for its cam circuitry. Of greater significance was that the entire ship had been designed by the pilot himself and built in secret in less than six months.
As the cloaked skimmer continued on its programmed course, that same pilot was slumped at the controls, motionless. There were no eyelids to twitch and reveal the onset of REM sleep, but the pilot was experiencing something that had not happened in a long time.
He was dreaming.
Dreaming of Vis’haan.
He was hungry. It was an eternity since he had eaten, and all he could think of was the rich taste of Pas’haan Hudat, prepared as only his mother knew how. The Elders’ visit had been important enough to press his parents into serving a meal that befitted the occasion. It should have been a time of celebration…
He looked up at the giant red star that never left the sky, giving eternal daylight to the Fa’rans, the regions of Vis’haan that permanently faced the sun. He and his family were among the fortunate ones, living close to the centre of the Fa’ran Maraar by virtue of good breeding and better commercial fortune than most. Many poorer citizens were forced to live much nearer the Fa’ran Vaash wastelands. Here the shadows were long and they wore protective garments against the cold. Not for them the luxury of farmed Pas’haan, harvested and brought to the City Prime from distant star systems. Some were forced into hunting and killing in the way that their ancestors had done centuries before. He had seen the sort of animals they hunted. There were a few kept in menageries in the City Prime and he was glad that he would never have to suffer the indignity of eating such creatures. The flesh on his family’s table was always untainted and delicious. But he had just learned that there was a price to be paid for such privilege...
His reaction had been immature. He understood this now, but he had been taken by surprise. His parents were overcome with pride when his selection had been announced in person by the two Executive Elders. He thought he had won a scholarship, perhaps to study with the Elders themselves. But he had been mistaken. His future, by virtue
of an intellect that had astounded everyone since birth, had already been mapped out. The first Elder, his slender, once-elegant body stooped after a lifetime of study, left him in no doubt as to what was expected from him:
‘To secure a new Harvest World is the most important devotion that can be imagined. More important than a life dedicated to the service of the Elders themselves. To become a Provider is the greatest honour that can be bestowed upon your family name.’
His parents were aghast at his response. ‘I don’t want to be a Provider. I know it is a necessary function, but I cannot leave my parents. I must remain here and continue my studies.’
‘Your studies are why we are here, Ja’faal. We have monitored your progress since you were born, and we have the most advanced analytical means at our disposal. There can be no doubt. You must train to become what one in every generation must become. Not just a Provider, but The Provider Prime, the one who will secure a new Harvest World.’
‘We have enough Harvest Worlds! I’ve been to the City Prime, I’ve seen the harvest ships landing three or four times a day. Why do we need another?’
‘Did you see inside those ships? Did you see how full their holds were? There are many things you do not yet understand, Ja’faal, you are still a youngling. It will be our function to teach you and help you fulfil your potential.’
‘I understand everything that I need to understand. Enough to know that you are here to separate me from my family, from everything I know and love, to give up-’
‘Ja’faal! You have a duty!’ The Elder had bellowed the words at him.
Moments later, he was running from his tormentors across the land outside his family villa. He had never felt such fear. He had never felt such injustice. His plans were in ruins, his life hijacked for the greater good. Hate welled up inside him for the Elders and his parents, too. How could they let this happen? Why wouldn’t they protect him? He ran and did not stop. Desperation pushed him on until he could run no more.
Now he was here, soaking up the heat from the stones beneath him and the sun above. He had not seen home and had not eaten since the Elders’ visit, but had no intention of returning to his parents’ villa just yet. His spirits, though, had lifted a little. No-one had followed and tried to take him back. They may have decided that he was not suitable after all. How could they entrust such responsibility to one so determined to resist? He closed his eyes again. It was then that he noticed the sound. At first it was so faint that it could have been the breeze, or a passing insect. He realised too late that it was not of natural origin. Dust kicked up as the small craft landed almost on top of him. He made the mistake of standing and the blast from the engines knocked him down. Restraining chords wrapped around him as two citadel guards appeared from the dust cloud. As the noise subsided, he heard his Mother’s voice reassuring him that everything was alright and that he wouldn’t be hurt. His mouth filled with sand and the taste of his own blood. The more he struggled against the bonds the more they tightened against his skin...
The Sentinel’s arm lashed out as Thorne awoke, demolishing an armrest on the command seat. It dangled, broken and twisted at his side. He looked at it for a few seconds. Since the transference, memories that had been buried for decades had resurfaced. He did not fear them or attempt to deny their existence. Although he had very little control over them, Thorne was convinced that these episodes were insignificant. They would be nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.
And, from a scientific viewpoint, it was quite fascinating.
The ship alerted the Sentinel’s systems to an incoming transmission. Thorne selected the lowest bandwidth and the face of his most senior conscript appeared on the airscreen. The man’s features looked grave.
‘I ask your forgiveness in contacting you at this time, but the circumstances are exceptional. I believe there may be a problem.’
‘What problem?’ The voice was metallic and phased - Sentinels were seldom required to interact verbally. Thorne had neither the time nor the inclination to upgrade the speech circuits.
‘Our search and rescue teams have located the remains of Roderick Deucalion Thorne, but not those of Lee Mitchell. In addition, Cytec’s security upload reveals evidence that the southern perimeter fence was breached prior to the explosion.’
A tiny bubble of emotion formed deep within Thorne’s subconscious. ‘You are telling me that the ghost agent has survived?’
‘I believe so. It is unfortunate, but-’
‘I do not want to hear your excuses. Give me all data on this man’s activities since you first came in contact with him. Everything. No detail is irrelevant.’
‘It will take time to-’
‘Use the communications protocol that Bhanerjee gave you. It will enable covert and rapid transmission of the data to this vessel. Get me that information now!’ With a thought, Thorne severed the connection. He could sense the bubble growing bigger. He saw Mitchell’s face and it enraged him. He was beginning to feel trapped inside this inorganic shell, like an insect bouncing off the inside of a specimen jar.
Minutes later there was another hailing signal. The man’s voice was tinged with trepidation, but remained steady. ‘You should now have the requested information on Lee Mitchell’s activities.’
‘Advise me when there are any media developments on the Cytec incident. Thorne out.’
Thorne analysed the data in seconds and found the weak link he was looking for. He was aware of the intense emotional attachment that could form between humans after mating. Mitchell had become involved with a particular female who was also present during Lamont’s failed attempt on his life. The connection between them would be strong. For the first time in decades, Thorne made a decision based on what he wanted. He understood that it would require him to reverse his course and return to Earth, and that there numerous alternatives which were more logical.
He also understood that killing Mitchell was not enough.
He wanted to see him suffer first.
The cloaked ship attached itself to the external escape hatch of domice 27935, Orbtown 36. The security code was breached and the massive autom stepped into the airlock and sealed the hatch behind it. Without waiting for the pressure to equalise, the Sentinel reached out and wrenched the inner hatch from its hinges. Thorne had already identified the female’s location and did not need to follow the sound of screaming. He reached the sleepbay at an implausible speed for a machine of such bulk.
Rayna Ash was backed into the corner of the room making strange, ape-like whimpering noises. Thorne wondered if a human male would have found this arousing.
‘You will accompany me to the vessel immediately.’
No response. He took a step closer and the screaming began again. The Sentinel’s arm flashed out, sending her flying across the room. Her head struck the wall, then she lay still. A dark patch began to spread from under her hair. Thorne caught hold of an ankle and dragged her back through the preproom airlock and into the waiting skimmer. She was of no use to him dead. He instructed the ship to disengage and resume its lunar-side trajectory as Rayna Ash’s limp body was tossed onto the skimmer’s medicom table.
EM nanites were injected via the neck. Most proceeded to the main injury area, a subdural haematoma in the left temporal lobe caused by damage to the middle meningeal artery. Others made their way to the less important surface wounds. The medicom data was fed to the Sentinel’s processors as Thorne monitored the nanites’ progress. He had fitted the ship with an upgraded Med Lab as its pilot was intended to have been a human male in poor physical health. The damage to the female was repaired in less than three minutes. The medicom analysis, however, revealed something much more significant. The Sentinel’s body was incapable of displaying Thorne’s self-satisfaction as he re-analysed the cranial scan. It manifested itself only as a slight tremor in the second digit of the right-hand pincer.
With no desire to witness any further hysterics, Thorne set the medicom to keep the female full
y sedated for the journey back to the Moon. Entering the domice by brute force had been unnecessary, but the consequences would still prove beneficial. The evidence of a violent assault would increase Mitchell’s motivation to attempt a rescue.
Thorne returned to the command seat, his anger quelled by his discovery. His decision was now fully justified. What had been revealed by the cranial scan outweighed any risk associated with the female’s abduction. The signature brainwave patterns were unmistakable. Rayna Ash was a high-order telepath of extraordinary potential, greater even than those he had selected for the hybrid programme.
Her conversion may prove invaluable in Earth’s subjugation.
18
Lee Mitchell crashed to the deck of the Skimmer. It was now 4am local time; it had taken twice as long to get back to his cloaked ship as it had to reach Cytec the previous night. FedStat were everywhere. He had avoided any obvious route to the school and forged his own path through the scrub. He leaned back against a bulkhead and clawed at the helmet to get some non-recycled air. The neural link disengaged and he lost sight of his virtual legs in favour of the real thing. He wiped the stinging sweat from around his eyes.
The SenANNs had been silent since the explosion. The immense energy of their minds crying out in unison had broken through to him as the Lost One had been destroyed. He wondered if his partially-built receptors had been damaged by the ferocity of their grief. In truth, he was grateful for the silence - he was in no fit state to converse with anyone. He closed his eyes. There was no doubting their existence now. His memory still echoed with their screams.
Mitchell forced himself to breathe slow and deep. He would have surrendered to sleep, but his conversation with the Lost One preyed on his mind. The machine had the intelligence of a SenANN and must have been networked to every sensor in Thorne’s laboratory.