Which was, apparently, he thought, followed by passing out. Now awake, he felt a little more mellow about it. His frustration at the complex nature of the puzzles had waned somewhat, and the curiosity he felt overruled his irritation.
He laid his hand on the terminal screen intending to search, but his stomach rumbled audibly and produced a heavy hunger pang. He winced and thought, one thing at a time, I suppose. He walked out of the office towards the cafeteria to satisfy at least one of his biological needs.
By the time he returned to his office, a cup of steaming, black coffee in tow, it was nearly 3:00PM. He felt surprised that no one had come looking for him, but he supposed the lack of interrogation subjects meant the military campaign down below was still going on. He didn’t mind; it gave him the opportunity to continue personal projects.
He set the styrofoam cup down on the desk and lifted the lid on the terminal. The computer, in sleep mode, blinked to life and a sluggish glow spread over the screen, which still showed the motionless image of Coleman’s face.
He tapped a few keys on the keyboard and closed out the video file. This time, however, there was nothing else. No additional text file, no more hints. There was nothing. He closed out the window, seeing no further usefulness to it, and the same applied to the search window that contained it. However, when he closed everything, he noticed that, upon the empty desktop, sat a file that wasn’t there before. It was an application, not a video.
He opened the application, and his brow furrowed as he saw some arcade video game come up on the screen. Even as a child he had always been too busy with his schooling to often engage in such a base practice, not that his parents would have allowed it in any case. A black screen came up with several boxy, pixilated figures. A series of what he would describe as quivering rows and columns of strange alien-esque creatures at the top of the screen moved back and forth, dropping small squiggly lines that he guessed were some kind of harmful projectile. A small rocket-shaped vessel at the bottom didn’t move. When one of the projectile lines hit the vessel, it turned into an expanding graphic asterisk: some kind of crude explosion.
Michaels frowned. He liked playing silly games about as much as solving riddles, but at least the rules for this were well-established. He experimented around a little. He controlled the ship, which could move back and forth along the bottom, but not up or down. A few more button presses and he found that he could fire white blobs: his own projectiles. When they hit the enemy ships, they “exploded” in similar fashion.
The whole thing was very unimpressive and very old. Visually it looked little better than a toddler’s finger painting. From what he had seen, interactive entertainment programs of today looked much better than that and seldom existed without educational or training uses. This thing could have been some relic from the past. He thought to himself, as he played, this must be another of Coleman’s stupid hobbies.
As Michaels continued playing the game over the next half hour, running out of lives every few minutes and needing to restart the whole debacle, his frown deepened into a grimace. Eventually, a frustrated and angry scowl adorned his face. He was not very good at the game.
As per his usual reaction, he slammed the lid on the terminal and sat back in the chair. He fumed for a few minutes, grinding his teeth and watching bad graphical spaceships shooting back and forth every time he closed his eyes.
Michaels rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and reopened the terminal. Back and forth his little ship traveled. He fired haphazardly, his shots taking down several of the enemy ships. This continued for a while, and they destroyed his vessel a few times. He was down to his last life and there was one enemy left, which whizzed back and forth on the screen. He fired wildly as the ship got closer and closer. Finally, one lucky random shot of his obliterated the last of his foes.
Bright green text popped up with the word “Congratulations!” He smiled, surprised at the satisfaction he felt from the victory. The text faded out and dissolved into a central ‘play’ button set inside a circle. He moved the cursor over it and clicked.
The video file opened, the window was labeled, “mlc-nan2,” and Michaels watched Coleman speak once more. He was surprised to see that, instead of the usual excitement and enthusiasm, Coleman looked exhausted and sullen, with hollow, sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes as though he was under a great deal of strain. He looked at the timestamp on the video. It came four days before his disappearance, and the man spoke with bitterness.
“Between the system malfunctions and Lange’s constant messages, I’ve barely had time to pursue my project, let alone make entries about it.” He frowned. “Lange has been more insistent of late, and I don’t believe I will be able to keep him in the dark much longer. I don’t want to reveal this magnificent finding to any of these hedonistic simpletons.” He shook his head, “I believe it will merely be used as a means of gaining further superiority over other individuals,” the man on the screen clenched his jaw and wore a sour expression, “just as everything else in our ‘enlightened’ society.”
Coleman sighed wearily, “It’s a shame that such a monumental discovery is marred like this and necessitates secrecy. The very implications of intelligent life should be astounding! Discovering the key to eliminating disease, injury, and death should usher humanity to true enlightenment and tolerance.” Michaels’ brow furrowed as Coleman continued speaking.
“I almost considered destroying the tissue sample,” the man on screen shook his head, “I’m not sure that I could, even if I had wanted to. The technology is so resilient,” Michaels could here the awe creeping into Coleman’s voice, “I’ve attempted numerous experiments and observation on the micro-organisms found within the sample, and I have confirmed that they are, in fact, what is keeping it both alive and slowly regenerating it. Nano-technology hundreds of years ahead of our own.” He shook his head. “It is almost too difficult to believe, but test after test has proven it.”
The excitement was once more mounting in Coleman, sweeping away the weariness. “I have no doubt that given sufficient time: years, decades, centuries even; the specimen would fully regenerate into a living being; the nanites keep working away, repairing and manufacturing the tissue, which has indeed gotten centimeters larger since I first opened the encasement.” A thoughtful look crossed Coleman’s eyes, “Of course I have no idea what such a creature would be or look like. It could be a domesticated pet for all know. I also am unaware if it could retain any memory of its experiences. The nanites in the sample are sophisticated beyond any of our measurability. It would seem they hold their hosts’ entire genetic pattern within internal memory; is it such a stretch to think that they could store disposition, personality, and experiences as well?” There was a long pause as Coleman appeared to be in deep thought. “I’m considering another test. I want to try implanting some of the nanites into a tissue same, or even a cadaver. If they are as sophisticated as I expect, they’ll be able to recognize organic life.” Coleman rubbed his beard. “Perhaps they could benefit from utilizing existing tissue: revitalizing and manipulating it to recreate the original host.” He gave a short laugh. “Concealment of a corpse like that would be an issue… It’s not as though I can just experiment on a body up here without being observed or questioned.” He seemed to consider it.
Another thoughtful look came upon his face. “Although… It could be possible to relinquish my experiment to a place free of Citizen influence.” Coleman nodded to himself, “Yes… that could work… Monitoring such a trial would be near imposs-”
There came a knock at the door, this time not on the video but in reality. Michaels sighed, paused the video, and called out, “Yes?” with as much patience as he could muster.
“Ah! So there you are!” Dunlevy’s muffled, cheery voice spilled in from the hallway. With his customary eye-rolling anytime the sociology head came near, Michaels depressed the switch that disengaged the lock on his office door.
With the usual
heavyset exuberance, Dunlevy came bounding into the room. “Hello, hello! How are we doing today, my dear Gregory?” He plunked down in the seat opposite Michaels, eliciting a loud groan from the cushioned, wooden chair.
Michaels gave a dismissive wave, “Just fine, Arthur. I’m actually very bus-”
“Ah hah!” Dunlevy’s eyes glinted with pleasure. “You finally called me Arthur! I just knew you’d learn, eventually!”
Michaels clenched his teeth in irritation, “Was there something you wanted?”
“Now, now, don’t be that way. We’ve been looking for you all day!”
“Who is we?” Michaels inquired.
“Myself, Miss Laverock, and Citizen Myers wanted to consult with you.”
Michaels raised an eyebrow. “Regarding what?”
Dunlevy hesitated, “Well, now that you’re on the advisory council, you must understand that we, on the research and information dispersion, the ah, civilian branch as it is called, don’t always exactly see eye to eye with the Inquisitors. Or even with the opinions of Citizen One. We have our concerns.” Dunlevy paused. “About the contingency program. About its usage.”
Michaels raised an eyebrow. “Why? It seems like a perfectly reasonable proposal to me. It would solve our problems in the most efficient way.”
Dunlevy cocked his head, “Why do you say that, Gregory?”
Michaels shrugged, “Time and effort are a precious resource not to be squandered. In dealing with those remaining below, we waste a great deal of both. A purging plan would rid us of any more irritation they represent. We would no longer be able to recruit them for labor purposes, but I hardly see a problem with making Citizens labor more themselves or recruiting more of the lower rankings to do such work. Washing our hands of the issue would be the easiest way to accomplish it.”
Dunlevy wore a grim expression, “And you have no qualms about implementing a plan to murder that many individuals?”
Michaels made a dismissive gesture. “Of course not. Why would I? You can barely even call it murder. It’s not as though they’re real people. They’re practically…” He searched for something appropriate. “well, beasts. Would it not be best to put them down and end the human race of their impurity?”
This seemed to strike a nerve in Dunlevy, who said, teeth clenched, “You can’t possibly mean that.”
Michaels got incredulous, “Are you kidding? How could I not?” He let out a sardonic laugh. “Come on now, Dunlevy; cease this silly business. Are you trying to be funny? I really don’t have time for your-”
Dunlevy sprang from his chair and gripped Michaels’ collar with both hands, hauling him to his feet and dragging him over up against the wall. Michaels, with no fighting ability or inclination, cowered under the strength of the larger man.
Spittle flew from Dunlevy’s mouth as he hissed, “I told you. To call me. Arthur.” Michaels said nothing, eyes wide and frozen like a frightened animal.
Just as suddenly, Dunlevy released him. Not expecting it, his captive dropped to the ground as he paced away. Without turning around, he said, measurably more calm, “If we followed those idiotic ideals this society would crumble within the year.”
Michaels, regaining his composure now that he was out of immediate danger, glared angrily as Dunlevy continued, “That kind of attitude causes nothing but social unrest and has never ended well. Impressions of superiority never end at one station. They continue on and on and on for no other reason than blind satisfaction. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
After clamoring to his feet, not taking his eyes off of Dunlevy, Michaels had the crazy idea of hurling himself at his foe’s unprotected back. With this thought came a pang of fear that Dunlevy would whirl around and do something much worse than throw him against a wall, so he decided against it. He knew that he had no fighting ability to speak of anyway. He straightened his rumpled shirt, smoothed his disheveled hair, and stood up straighter.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Arthur.” Michaels spat.
Dunlevy whirled around, scowling. Michaels cringed involuntarily at the aggressive motion, hating himself for being so easily frightened. Dunlevy did not charge forward again or do anything else physical. He said, stabbing his finger at Michaels’ with each emphasized word, “What is wrong with me is that I put any measure of faith in the abilities of a sniveling little coward.”
Dunlevy sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps I made a mistake in your nomination. I thought you would be smarter than this. More sympathetic. That you would be understanding. Coleman was wrong about you.”
Michaels did a double take, “What are you talking about?”
Dunlevy looked up and smiled, “Never mind. It’s not important.” He gave Michaels an intense look. “Learn to be better. For your own sake.” He leaned in closer, causing Michaels to draw back. “Not everything is as cut and dry as Citizen One or the Inquisitors would have you believe. They are not always right.”
“What… why…?” Michaels was at a loss.
The rotund man suddenly perked up, “Well! I believe I’ve taken up enough of your time, my dear friend Gregory. Enjoy your afternoon!”
Michaels sputtered and tried to figure out what just happened, all manner of questions and threats on the edges of his lips, as Dunlevy bounded out of the room, leaving his usual air of joviality behind as though nothing else had happened.
Michaels stared at the empty door. He was trying to get angry about it, but the entire thing left him more confused than anything else. Social unrest? What is he talking about? How can he, a sociologist who has studied them so extensively, believe in any value to those people? He shook his head. It has to be some kind of joke.
Still, when he looked at his hand, he noticed that it was still trembling from the encounter. He tried to still it with his other hand, but he kept shaking just as much. The remainder of the video file far from his mind, he saw the empty styrofoam cup on his desk. Suddenly, the thought a refill and something to eat sounded like a good idea, as well as not being alone for a time. The encounter, strange and schizophrenic as it was, left him feeling uneasy. As he left the room, a few of Dunlevy’s words echoed in his mind, Learn to be better.
Chapter 26: Best Laid Plans
“I am telling you: we should not be burying their dead. We should cut off their heads and put them up in the elevator! It would send a clear message to them that we are not to be trifled with!” Sergei continued arguing with Victor as they walked through the desolate, dimly lit streets.
“And I’m telling you: a message like that would terrify them.” Victor replied.
“Exactly! Then-”
“Then what?” Victor said, a hint of exasperation cutting through his customary calm. “They’d be put on their guard and we’d never have a chance to use any element of surprise.”
“Why would we need to surprise them? They are nothing but a pack of bloated cowards. They would fall like sheep.”
Victor stopped walking and turned towards Sergei, who eyed at him defiantly. “The only reason we have seen such success down here is because they severely underestimated what we can do. For the last several years, I’ve been working very hard to cultivate that attitude, as well as build up our military capabilities.”
Sergei replied, “Yes, there is no doubt that you have great strength…” He turned towards the side, looking at the empty space next to him. “Yes, yes Piotr, I know we have to respect what they’ve done.” Isaac gave Victor a questioning look. Victor shrugged and shook his head. “But we can use their strength.” Sergei turned back towards the other two. “We can show those bloated pigs who is to be feared.”
Victor laid a hand on Sergei’s shoulder, “We will show them. You do not have to worry about that. The solution may not be quite as,” he cracked the slightest of smiles, “subtle as you might want, but I promise you: the time for direct fighting will come.”
This drew a smirk out of Isaac. Sergei scoffed and quietly whispered to the invi
sible person next to him. The other man, walking with them, remained silent, not giving input in the conversation or wondering about Sergei’s nonexistent friend.
Desmond was another small faction leader who was generally left to his own devices, even by Miguel. This was because he housed less than two dozen people capable of combat, and more than half of them were under the age of twenty.
Desmond and his wife, Olivia, started taking in orphaned and abandoned children roughly five or six years prior. They gathered them together in an abandoned multi-story school in the southern downtown region. The two had begged for food from every other faction leader, which worked in a small but survivable fashion. Even Miguel threw them a pittance once or twice. Fortunately, the Silver Fox had believed Desmond to be a pathetic bachelor, never being made aware of the woman.
Children left behind, a few abandoned in the years since the separation, some volunteers, and others who couldn’t help themselves found a safe haven with the pair. They took care of near fifty children of various ages, and with assistance managed, using supplies abandoned in their school to get a very rudimentary system of education set up.
Victor went there first, not because of their potential contribution to a military effort, but because Desmond and his wife represented a very humanitarian position. Their presence in the union would further legitimize their bid for the surface.
Victor looked over at Desmond, once again not surprised that he was able to care for children. He was a little older, in his mid-forties. His long, gray hair was usually tied back, but his lightly lined face and soft, green eyes behind round spectacles radiated a sense of calm, comfort, and safety. He had said nothing during the argument, which was unsurprising. He had no knowledge regarding military tactics; he and his wife were schoolteachers before the separation.
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