by Kyte, Adrian
It was not that he had to be somewhere; this was his day off – although as far as Delina was concerned this was just another work day, a day working towards that great goal of near instantaneous communication between planets, maybe even galaxies. He imagined her imagining him engaged in some experiment with directed wormhole projections towards a distant solar system. Not that she knew the details of his work, just enough to have an idea that he played a pivotal role in this project, that he led a team that were at his behest. Perhaps she even suspected that this team included a few attractive women, in admiration of his skills, enraptured by his passion – for his work. Yes, he’d known the signs from a particular blonde, had turned down the offer of a drink even though she claimed it was only to discuss work. There was no denying the number of opportunities a man in his position had to be with many women. But then, he was happily married. Had everything he could possibly wish for. Why risk jeopardizing that with one night of passion, to fulfill a curiosity for something a bit different? Maybe more adventurous, maybe dangerous. A year ago he could have rested on his laurels, have revelled in how much better his life was than the majority of men. But now, he remembered there was an alternative: dangerous and adventurous … but exciting. The Torbin of ten years ago would have feared that, feared getting burnt, been hampered by insecurity. The Torbin of even a year ago would have taken stock and realized, sensibly, there was just too much to risk losing on some youthful fantasy. If only. If only on their first encounter he’d had the courage to take that chance.
Now he felt he had the courage.
Was it success, or the passing of years and the realization that everyone had their shortcomings but only some knew how to make them seem irrelevant, no matter the reality?
Now he was looking around the seats, just hoping. It had been thirteen years since he had last seen her. What were the chances of seeing her again? Yet he had a feeling – far from anything he could rationalist – that this was the right train. And so he moved throughout the coaches. Looking down at the seated passengers, some of whom glanced back at him, some projecting miffed expressions as if he were impinging on their private space.
Now he was sure this was the last coach to be searched. A mote of doubt started to infect his mood. He persisted until, two rows from the end he found someone he recognized
Him! The man from the restaurant. The man glanced up, recognizing Torbin immediately.
The man smiled, half nodding in acknowledgment ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What a coincidence seeing you again.’
A wave of irritation washed over Torbin. ‘You’re … Royston?’
‘Nearly. It’s Roidon.’ The man grinned more broadly, seemingly amused that Torbin should misremember his name.
‘Well, nice to see you again Roidon, but I was just---’
‘Looking for an old flame?’
‘What? No! I was merely...’ But he could think of no excuse to come up with.
‘You were looking for a woman. With whom you felt you had some connection.’ He nodded once more. ‘I know what that’s like.’
‘Yes I’m sure.’
‘You won’t find her on this train.’
‘Is that so.’ Torbin fixed him with a challenging stare.
‘She can’t be found.’
‘How would you know?’ Torbin questioned.
‘Because I know women, and I know about obsession. Even when it drives you to the brink of losing everything, you still carry on – just for that one chance of the thing that tantalizingly eludes you.’
‘What’s this, psychology one-o-one?’
‘No, just some friendly advice, from someone who knows you.’
Torbin sat in the adjacent seat. ‘You know me? Because I sure as hell don’t remember you.’ But even as he said he knew that was not entirely the truth.
The man had that slightly smug knowing look. ‘You’ve forgotten, Torbin, because it had suited you. And I could have left you like this in your life of contentment. But now, it’s not enough is it?’
‘Just tell me exactly from where you know me, what was our association.’
‘All right. But you won’t believe me.’
‘Try me.’
‘Three years ago---’
A noise. An explosion. The train braked so suddenly they were both thrown against the seat in front, Torbin hitting his forehead on the back of its headrest. Roidon was groaning, saying something about it happening again. And at that point Torbin acknowledged the message he was trying to convey.
A guard appeared, right on cue it seemed, telling them an explosive device had been detonated, and that they must leave the train without delay. But the the guard’s next action did come as a surprise. He grabbed a still-muttering Roidon by his upper arm, and said: ‘It’s you! You’re the one who planted the device.’
Roidon suddenly straightened, tried to shrug the man’s grip off his arm. ‘Don’t be absurd. Why I want to plant a bomb on this train?’
‘We have your image on record.’
‘As a culprit? That’s not possible.’ A smile formed which then developed into a manic laugh. ‘Oh, of course. Anything’s possible here. Forget that I’d have zero motive for planting a bomb. You just want me out – away from here. Away from him.’ He nodded, and that knowing smile again but not looking quite so smug. ‘Well here goes. Torbin, three years ago you were---’ Roidon had slumped forward. Torbin looked across at the guard who was brandishing a key-fob type device.
Torbin glared at the expressionless man. ‘Why did you do that? He was no threat.’
‘That is where you are wrong, sir,’ the guard told him confidently. ‘This is a highly dangerous man. A subversive, a terrorist. He was trying to inveigle you into his devious game.’
‘What are you talking about? How could you possibly know?’
‘Sir, it is all here.’ The guard showed Torbin his PDU tablet, which featured an image of Roidon, and rather prominently the word terrorist above a list of crimes.
Torbin knew something was very much amiss here, yet he allowed the guard to haul the still unconscious Roidon away, as another guard arrived to assist. Everyone was filing off the train now. In the absence of any other options, Torbin followed suit.
* * *
6
Zoraina trudged through a forest. The trees were alive with chirping birds and chittering monkeys. Simply fulfilling their genetic imperative. There was something enviable to such obliviousness. She could even fool herself into believing that Earth was in an ideal state, better than previous centuries when human encroachment had rendered much of this area barren from decades of agriculture, survival as much as short term profit. You could think: this is nature in all its diversity, thriving as it had a millennia ago.
There was no problem getting away from Ipcardi. Her excuse had been to conduct an environmental survey. Ipcardi didn’t even question that other than making her promise she’d return ‘soon’, his serene smile maintained seemingly having already achieved his objective where she was concerned. It only made her all the more doubtful of his resolve; his distraction, his loss of focus. Yet at the same time it was heartening to experience traditional human behaviour, when previously any want could be catered for synthetically. A microcosm of human civilization stripped bare. The Machines – according to what she had studied from their intercepted comms – disdainfully viewed humans as morally dubious pleasure seekers, corrupted from the simplicity their genes had once promised. The Machines’ adversaries the Elusivers seemed to share the same view. No surprise given the Machines were themselves a product of these ‘god-like’ beings; their fear that humans would one day create a similarly advanced non-bio technology. Sentient machines: were they really such an unforeseeable byproduct of the the things to fulfill a need in labour-saving, pleasure-seeking beings?
And her kind were of course far too wise to go encouraging robot evolution. Ever the benign outsiders, observing but not interfering. So Zoraina had broken the cardinal rule – cardinal bei
ng the operative word. Zoraina, however, knew that the Temporal Directive was in the process of a serious revision, a loophole here and there being teased out, a once unambiguous stricture reinterpreted for the modern age, made relevant as so many other doctrinal texts had been. The core mandate of her mission to ‘gain a more intimate knowledge of human society, the remains thereof’ itself was vague enough that she could justify her actions.
Yet, she was in trouble. They only knew she had stayed the night in this man’s hut. But that was enough to draw only one conclusion: an unattached female who recently acquired human form. Of course, it would only seem natural to experience the most pleasurable of what this new body had to offer. They surely knew there was always a risk. But at least by participating in human congress she had affirmed her human qualities.
They had sent her the communiqué via her sub-cranial transceiver, the message processed in the hearing portion of her brain as if someone were speaking to her in stereo. ‘Extraction will be at coordinates etc etc.’ Her subdermal scanner threw up an image of a green vector-wire grid with a red dot she had to hone in towards. At this point the idea of her true purpose being discovered by her new lover (a term perhaps over-qualifying his status, at least by human standards), or even one of his associates, had a certain appeal. There might even be a greater chance of her continuing on her mission. Sure, there’d be some kind of punishment but she felt confident she could – as an attractive human female – charm her way out of the worse consequences. But with the B’tari it was all about the simple parameters, Council judgements.
Even though she’d reached the vector point – with a bleep to confirm that – the swiftness of the beam took her by surprise: a sudden feeling of lightness, a haze of light all about. To an outsider just a disturbance in the air for no more than a second. The B’tari had prided themselves as the masters of stealth.
Her handler, Zandaren, already waiting in the port bay into which she arrived, wearing the white tunic uniform, arms folded, his unaltered reptilian face scouring. This was not going to be anything even approximating a warm welcome.
‘Glad you made it back safely,’ he began in the B’tari language. ‘Observations indicate you became fully integrated.’
‘Yes I did it with one of them,’ she admitted straight out. ‘Am I to be punished for that?’
‘Punished. No,’ he assured her, yet the sour expression remained. ‘The intelligence you have gathered has been invaluable. We would never have suspected humans of using Elusiver technology. Frankly that changes the game for us.’
‘What about for me?’
‘For you, we have a mission that will send you into the heart of human society.’
‘What society? Is there more than one?’
‘In the real world, maybe not. However, there is the other realm.’
‘But you said I would not be punished.’ She wished she hadn’t sounded like the rookie they surely regarded her as.
‘Zoraina, you have proved your ability to adapt. Think of this as a progression.’
She detected the pleasure in his voice at meting out this new order.
‘Tell me I’m not going to become hooked up in the same substrate like those poor people.’
‘As far as we know they are not suffering. They are just unaware.’
‘What good---’
‘Your mission is to meet up with a man named Roidon Chanley, a former asset of the B’tari.’
‘And then?’
‘We will inform you once you are immersed.’
‘But once I find Roidon I will be allowed to leave?’
‘You will have the command codes neurally imprinted.’
She smiled with obvious falseness. ‘Total trust as ever.’
* * *
7
The news reader’s form was positioned as if her desk were near in front of Torbin’s comfy chair. How incongruous she appeared in his lounge in her formal shirt, all bolt straight and precision pronunciation. He wasn’t really concentrating on the news story – something about the merger of e-commerce companies – to be sure of what he heard. So he requested a replay, but this time there was no repeat of the sentence. Of course not. But how many times could he simply dismiss it?
He continued to listen as she moved on to a story about re-wilding the Amazon rainforest. Now he would be prepared: he requested a projected real-time display and set up the room monitor to record. And then, less than a minute into the package, a reporter said, ‘...underutilized cleared section, once used for soya produ---’ she repeated as if a glitch had sent back the programme, which should now have been live. What gave the lie to any glitch theory was the reset of the time display; the odds of both occurring simultaneously … well, he couldn’t even calculate. Checking the monitor feed, showed no such repetition. Then it was personal to him. This left only two options to consider: either he was going insane or time really was repeating.
He switched off the projection. Delina was not due back from work for at least another two hours. Within that time he had to have his answer. He requested a link with Dr Fortenski. Naturally she was busy. However, after a twenty minute wait, she did indulge him with a ‘brief consultation’, her form seated behind a desk.
‘Doctor, it’s happening more frequently now,’ he told her.
‘I see,’ she said with a slight drawl of reservation.
‘What do you suggest?’
She looked skywards as if searching for inspiration. ‘I wish I had a course of action,’ she said. ‘But even a diagnosis can only be arbitrary.’
‘I can’t take this any more,’ Torbin protested. ‘I think I’m going mad.’
‘Then you’re probably not,’ she reassured him.
‘Then how else can you explain it?’
The psychiatrist looked at him intensely. ‘There is only one course of action I can suggest,’ she told him. ‘A full neurological scan.’
Torbin considered this, considered the scenario that they’d find a simple fixable dysfunction. Then they would rewire his neurons, or remove some growth. Or something worse: an endogenous disorder which meant he could no longer be part of society. Or discover nothing, and then he would be committed for further tests for a psychological condition.
Still: ‘Okay, doctor I’ll go for the scan.’
Dr Fortenski relaxed into a posture of relief. ‘I’ll make the appointment and get back to you.’
A flash of panic, a physical pain darting through his chest. A feeling manifest of having made the most appalling error, an act that seemed irreversible. It didn’t matter that he knew the psychiatrist to be someone of integrity; that an appointment is not legally binding and can be cancelled. He felt he’d committed himself and was now on that journey’s descent to a dark unknown place. He remembered once being barred down on some grim theme park ride promising a new level of terror; never wanted to try it but felt he should to prove he wasn’t scared. How could there be any quick fix or even diagnosis? Whatever he was going through lay outside the norm (he felt certain) of psychiatry. He was an oddity whose potential diagnosis – if it were to be represented in analytic numbers – would somehow be discomforting, unsettling, disturbing; not even so much for him but for the medical community. If they really could no longer deny the reality of his experience.
But just as he settled down in his chair, returned the live news feed, it began to happen again. The news reader in staccato repetition, the words: ‘for safety considera---.’ A repeating loop, resetting her posture each time to repeat those words. He hadn’t even any idea what she was talking about. He looked at the projected analogue display, which itself flicked back.
Nausea took hold, he wanted to puke but couldn’t quite.
Just … escape!
Torbin jumped off the chair, ran for the nearest door.
Outside in his front garden, the world appeared unchanged. Then he looked overhead. It was a car, at a distant enough altitude that it only appeared as a grey oval blob, but its res
etting of position was unmistakable. Then he noticed a bird repeating in sync.
The world is stuck. The world is stuck!
The world was losing its coherence; Torbin was losing his grip on it. Going away from him in all its unacceptable unreality.
* * *
8
Roidon Chanley was more than simply an asset of the B’tari, he had become the protégé – the boy wonder brought back from his own self induced annihilation. He was less and yet paradoxically more than a man. It must have made him view life in a unique way. Zoraina had everything on him, it gave her a sense of power as much as privilege. Especially observing him in his current predicament: locked in a cell. Roidon’s sense of powerlessness and frustration must be greater than that of any normal prisoner, given his awareness. Yet she already had a respect for him, for what he had tried to do to lead to this.
Here she was a visitor, his lawyer, asserting her right for a private consultation. Her clothes were efficient, smart but tightly fitting enough to emphasis her well-honed human form. She knew Roidon would appreciate that: women were his Achilles heel, she understood. Here this felt like a safe use of power.
Roidon’s cell looked less than comfortable; a remand holding place designed in its austerity for him to reflect on his ‘criminal actions’. Conveniently framed to keep him from his objective.
At her approached, her insistent clicking heels on the hard floor, he looked up, his sour expression brightened. Just a man in a dark blue – prison-issue – jumpsuit.
‘A visitor.’ He was looking her over in just the way she expected. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
‘The honour is all mine, Mr Chanley.’
‘Are you about to tell me that my reputation precedes me?’
‘Something like that.’
‘That means you were sent by the B’tari.’
‘Yes, I work for them.’
‘Convincingly human,’ he surmised. ‘I would happily be taken in by such deception. It would not be the first time.’