The Sunseed Saga

by Brett Bam

  "How many humans are on Earth Harbour as of this moment?"

  "Approximately 30,000 off-worlders and 22 earthmen are currently in residence."

  "22 Earthmen, is that all? This place looks so huge and busy, how do they manage it all?"

  "Earthmen are a special breed, Captain. They demand a great respect. In some ways, they are rather like royalty to us.”

  "Are you an Earthman, Lutho Val Max?"

  "No, I serve the Earthmen. I was born here on the Harbour. I have only been down the umbilical once before. I am part of the workforce. There are many of us barracked here. This is a Protocol facility, Captain. Humans are kept for tasks such as greeting and guiding off-world humans and certain other political endeavours, but everything else is run by the Protocol. We need no other assistance."

  Dalys wondered for a moment at the phrases humans are kept, special breed, political endeavours and We. Lutho had not counted himself and his fellow workforce as humans when she had asked. She looked at the swarm of traffic around her and the sprawling city below and thought of the space station under that, and suddenly she felt like a stranger in a strange land.

  Her objection to the Protocol was on an instinctual level. She had been raised to treasure her individuality and creativity. The Community of Man boasted of freedom as their greatest strength and encouraged it in their children with love. At home on Saturn's moons, their inalienable rights to freedom and equality were fiercely defended. From the asteroid belt with its millions of independent stations. to the gypsy caravans linking them. and from the alliances of the outer planets to the cometary societies, people carried their individuality as a flag of freedom against the oppression and tyranny of organisations like the Korporatsie and the Rommel Corporation. Or, as so inelegantly displayed before her today, the Protocol.

  It was well documented that the Protocol had absolutely no regard for human privacy and had raided people’s lives indiscriminately for centuries before the inevitable political fallout with the Community of Man that had driven a digital wedge between the two cultures. And here sat a living breathing victim of that invasive policy. She pitied him even as she admired the subtlety with which his mind had been invaded. She wondered how deep that control ran. Was he conscious and aware? Did he willingly submit or had this life been forced upon him? For all intents and purposes, this man was a slave to the beast which permeated this place. Of course, in the vast reaches of the Community of Man such slavery was not unknown. She thought of the buttonheads, people addicted to digital realities throughout the Community and the Tek Lords who manipulated AI and were in turn manipulated by them. There were so many different societies eternally dependant on the ancient technology gifted to the Community of Man by the Protocol. The technology was very diverse and very dangerous. It penetrated all levels of society throughout the solar system and was largely responsible for mankind’s success in colonising space. By itself it was mostly harmless, it was only the applications of the tech that made it dangerous, and there were always people and organisations willing to abuse the Protocol’s gift. She had once fought a long and bloody war against the Korporatsie to stop the abuse of human rights. And now she was horrified to find such ignorance of those principles in this place of humanity’s birth. It was one thing to hear of it through a news source and another to experience the reality first hand. It chilled her to the bone.

  However, she had to admit the great accomplishments she had seen today overwhelmed the best the Community of Man had ever managed. All the rest of the solar system could do was retro-engineer the Protocol’s most basic technology and bastardise it to serve their own needs. They hardly understood marvels like the magnetic umbilical, or the acceleration helix, and all of their study led to nothing more than frustration and a million wild theories as to how it worked. Now a thousand years had passed since the Dispersal, since mankind had left Earth. A thousand years for a technologically superior race of machines to grow and evolve. Who knew what they were truly capable of? Who knew how deep their influence went, both out there in the Community of Man and here inside this poor victim?

  She turned and looked out the window. Dalys felt pity for this place and this people, this different community. She felt sadness for them that balanced out the awe. They could keep their technological treasures, she would keep her heart and mind and individuality. Through the surging traffic she watched as another spark climbed the umbilical and began its fall to Earth.

  Lutho didn’t appear to be very special in any way, just an ordinary if somewhat lifeless man.

  She tried to imagine what he could see as he steered the transport easily through a sky filled with chaos, apparently without any sensory input from the swarm around him. Could he see trajectory graphics superimposed over his vision? Did he see info tags on the other vehicles? Was he in non-verbal communication with an unseen control tower somewhere? How much control over their mad flight did he actually have? Was he simply an instrument, a tool used casually by a larger intellect? Should she just outright ask him about it?

  She sat straighter in her seat as the transport dropped and slowed from the flow of traffic. As they descended to the city above, Dalys wondered what lay waiting for her on the ground below.

  The flyer landed in a spacious park and the crew bundled out. A blue haze hinted at a secure cordon field that surrounded the lawn. Lutho Val Max stepped forward, touched the field and it switched off. Now they were in the middle of a throng of people, hundreds gathered in one place, all of them gaily dressed and wandering around what appeared to be an entertainment centre. They were in a small square at the base of one of the taller buildings in the centre of the city. Dalys could smell delicious food and hear the solid thump of music from a nearby dance club. Restaurants and market stalls vied crazily for space with fast food vendors and throngs of customers. Holographic adverts screamed information at them, trying to squirt unwanted market catalogues. It was an environment similar to any found on a million stations across the system, except for the fact that complex robots served the guests instead of waiters or valets, which was a marvellous thing to see.

  “Most of the humans on Earth Harbour spend their evenings relaxing in this district. You'll find that it has enough facilities to satisfy any of your needs. Everything is supplied by the Protocol for standard Terran prices. Should you wish to rest there are several places that offer accommodation of varying standards. Feel free to use them.”

  “No thanks Lutho, we'll sleep on board the Ribbontail, but thanks anyway.”

  “As you wish.”

  Their guide led them further into the entertainment district. They lost Jack Mac and Berea at an establishment that boasted hot baths and massages, and Oscar and Curtis couldn’t resist the lure of strong aromatic components from an eatery which promised spicy content. Moabi twittered in her ear about being out there alone but she ignored him. She was wearing her belt after all.

  Lutho Val Max and Dalys finally found themselves standing in the lobby of a building waiting for an agent of the Luna Corporation. He turned and faced her. “Congratulations on your Earth Visit Visa approval Captain. You are also cleared by the Protocol to remain on Earth Harbour and conduct business with our tenants. I wish you a long and happy stay here with us.”

  “Wait.” She stopped him. “I haven't applied yet.”

  “Captain, you applied verbally over an hour ago. Your request has been processed and employment found. We will be happy to have you transport water for us.”

  Dalys smiled. She didn’t have to lie about who she was or what she was doing. She’d been here less than a day and she was already meeting with agents of reliable corporations and there was good food and drink to be had. This might not be Saturn, but at least it wasn’t Mars. Things were looking up. Ten minutes later, Dalys was standing in a bar speaking with a young beautiful boy, and for the first time in a long while, she felt like a predator on the prowl, rather than the prey being chased.

  Chapter 6

  Marcos
De Sol

  45 days before the flare

  Marcos De Sol opened his eyes from a deep and dreamless sleep. He waited patiently for the status field to discharge and his body to emerge from the fugue that the field induced. This was his favourite time of day, a pit-stop on the road out of oblivion, when he could savour the sensation of being alone. A single moment before the world came crashing in on him with its demands and anxieties, before the Protocol established itself in his thoughts and begin to direct his actions. This was his sole instant of privacy, his temporary individuality, his one tiny slice of freedom. It was the only time he could think without intrusion, and as always, he thought of his son.

  Marcos De Sol had no experience of emotions as complex as love and nurture. The closest he ever got to any idea of family was this momentary fluttering of his secret morning obsession. He had an affable, compliant personality and his facial features were often set in an expression of morose acceptance. He suffered from a subtle, fidgeting demeanour and he became easily agitated if the day presented him with any kind of challenge or change in his routine. When left to himself he would fiddle with his hair or bite his nails, and his eyes would flick about never settling on anything for too long, his gaze filled with an ever-present apprehension. On the few occasions he was forced to speak, his voice wavered and he would stammer and become tongue tied. The greatest calm he ever felt was when he pictured that small little boy with the shock of black hair so similar to his own. The screaming little child he had created without knowing what he was doing or why. The terrified baby he had placed in a glass cage, which filled with an amber gel. He remembered the words he had read in some forgotten place long ago. Father and son. It was in a simple book, a relic of the ancient days. He could no longer remember where he had read it or what he had been doing at the time. He simply remembered the colourful pictures of a man and a boy playing together in a field. Together and happy. His emotions about this little boy were extremely complex and confusing. There had been a single moment of peace, as he carried the child from the tank he was born in to the tank he was raised in. The child had looked up at him sleepily, tiny eyes squinting against the soft light in the room. He was small and pink, he gurgled and drooled, and without thinking Marcos had wiped the spittle away. That simple gesture was his own impulse, an uncontrolled movement, soft and tender. The child had looked at him, their eyes met and he felt a brief connection. Marcos held onto that moment, cherished it, obsessed over it, ran it through his mind again and again and again ad infinitum. It had changed his life, that single gurgle and that small gesture. A surge of emotion he could never identify or understand or resist. He returned to it in this morning moment every day.

  The violet tinged hue of the field flickered and sparkled and finally came down, collapsing in on itself like a tumbled wave into a smoky residue that skimmed across the polished marble floor of the chamber. Marcos exhaled a long breath and his head dropped forward, his neck muscles stiff and painful from the fugue sleep. He rolled his head to loosen them and stretched.

  A static hiss began at the edge of his perception and grew steadily louder.

  It was not a physical sound, it was loud and dominant in his senses. Its approach made Marcos fidget with a lock of hair at his temple while he darted a nervous glance around the room, as if he could see the approaching noise. He perceived it as an approaching wall of cloud on an internal mental plane, and he quailed at it. It came tumbling towards him, dwarfing him, its actual size dizzying in its perspective. It was an unavoidable wall of tumbling electrified energy. The flooding, roaring chaos swept over him, leaving him with a sensation of being suddenly immersed in water. The plunging moment was full of murmurs and lights and screams, threads of information. One thread in particular touched his forehead and glowed bright silver and then white-hot.

  New thought and energy flowed into him, he lifted his head and stopped fidgeting, his gaze steadied. When he opened his now silver eyes, Marcos De Sol was not the only one looking out on the new day. The world had opened like a book and he could perceive so much more than before. An added digital reality spread out before him, electricity flowed through the air in colourful ribbons and data blinked in and out of existence like fireworks in the distance.

  He could see two worlds, the physical one he came from, and the real one laid over the top of it. At the same time as he stood in his sleep chamber; he also stood on the edge of a great precipice looking down on a massive city of light, looking down on the last power left on Earth, looking down on the Protocol in all its revealed glory.

  Marcos De Sol was one of the last remaining human beings on the surface of the earth. He had been born into the service of the Protocol and used as a machine his entire life. He was wet-wired with a tremendously sophisticated neural interface that penetrated his mind to the very core of his soul. The Protocol was aware of every neurological twist and bend in Marcos' brain. It monitored his thought processes and interfered with them, so Marcos received his orders from the Protocol as if they were his own thoughts. It knew about his morning obsession, his one single weakness. It understood what it was, even as Marcos did not, and it did not care.

  The Protocol was so ingrained in his physical self, so deeply penetrating and controlling it could subjugate his sensory input. Often it would simply disconnect his eyesight to prevent him from seeing certain things and he would go through his entire day blind and yet functioning perfectly, completely unaware of where he was walking or what he was touching. He had no idea why it did this to him. His memories were often erased, or his brain used in a storage capacity, or for processing ability, blended and networked with thousands of others, a sensation similar to seeing other eyes near to him, glowing and blinking in the dark and nothing else. These various obstacles were random and almost always unexpected. He’d never understood the motivations behind the different and temporary afflictions he was forced to endure. He was convinced he never would understand. It was all beyond his mental capacity to comprehend. He was powerless against it anyway, like a microbe in a hurricane he went where he was cast.

  Marcos had been born into this life. His very DNA had been manipulated and opened and raped since before he ever had a thought. For him the loss of self he suffered was of no importance because a sense of self was a foreign concept. He regarded himself as simply a piece of the Great Machine. He was given directives and he followed them, it had always been that way. He had never felt or thought anything he was not instructed to. Until the arrival of the small boy with the black hair.

  Now he felt a great many things in his small morning moment. He felt love for the boy, he felt fear of his possessor, and he felt loathing for himself. He had memories to keep, moments to be contemplated, a son to remember.

  It had been a bizarre experience, the enforced masturbation, the surprise of orgasm, the process of fertilising the egg, the placement of the package in the facility. He remembered it all, but only realised the consequences of his actions after the fact. The Protocol had never attached any importance to his emotional state, it could not. His contribution produced a boy child. A small creature he had seen only a few times since. As a freshly fertilised implant, as an infant he placed in a life support tank, and a few times since on facility inspections. The boy was growing quickly. The experiment was a success so far, but would soon be put to the test. It would use his son as it had used him. It would poke and prod, examine and experiment, sample and control the boy’s entire existence. His son was to be slave to this machine that did not care. It would take his life and break it into small pieces and then swallow each one. It was a carnivore, an insatiable monster that would consume his son as it had consumed him. And there was not a thing that he could do about it. He had to accept his fate. So, he moved through his day at the behest of the machines. Normally he would do so without paying too much attention to what he was doing, allowing himself to be led along sedately. But today, he noticed he was walking towards a landing lawn and an awaiting flyer. Completely u
naware of how his life was about to change, Marcos entered the transport, which waited at the very highest roof of his home, a tower so high it seemed that the Earth was curved. He flew south towards his destiny.

  The massive silver dome of the Installation glinted in the harsh, hot sunlight, beating the steel of the dome with its relentless and ruthless radiation. This was the Protocols manufacturing and power supply capitol, the largest structure ever made on the surface of Earth. The massive sphere had a radius of hundreds of kilometres. On its edges, where a gravitronic compression field bit into the earth’s crust, a magnetic cushion was formed and the entire sphere of the Installation rotated on its own axis, performing a single revolution every 24 hours. It was visible from space, shining at the base of the African continent. It floated on molten magma at its lowest levels and marked the passing clouds at its highest. It ground its majestic way through a great stone cavern carved from the Earth’s crust. The range of mountains surrounding its circumference was jagged and steep. It was a marvel of technology and power. The Protocol could manipulate the internal environment to satisfy their every whim, up and down varied drastically within its metallic walls to suit the needs and requirements of the Artificial Intelligences within.

  Marcos felt a tremendous surge of excitement when he realised what their destination was. This was the place the Protocol kept the boy. As the flyer descended he noted there were several others parked on the landing lawn. From their markings and the murmurs in his head he recognised that the Human Supervisory Board was gathering.

  His face twisted in a momentary twinge of dread. He did not like the other humans, did not like to be around them. It was a rare occurrence, but when it did happen he saw his own misery and terror reflected in their eyes. They were just like him, prisoners in this reality, every man and woman just as pathetically trapped as he was. It was like looking into a mirror which revealed far too much.