The Captured

by Kyte, Adrian

  This is ridiculous, he thought. He strode hurriedly towards it, opened it. A brightly lit corridor. To begin with he could make out no details; the light was so bright and so even it was as if his eyes were simply overwhelmed. But he had a sense of there being two sides so he continued walking, somehow knowing this was what he must do.

  It ended abruptly. The lack of a door made no sense. Then to the side faint outlines appeared. A rectangle. Equally on the other side. Text in stark black formed on one door, then the other. To his left in bold sans serif: This door leads to your immediate death. His right: This door leads to re-integration with your cloned body.

  ‘How am I to take this seriously?’ Roidon said, his voice echoing convincingly.

  ‘You have three options, but only five minutes to consider them.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘If you choose neither of the doors, then by default you will remain here.’

  ‘Just to be sure: re-integration, back to being flesh and blood?’

  ‘Yes, you can be assured it means a return to the form you have always sought most. But your other version will have to die.’

  ‘By my own hands?’

  ‘Yes. Unless you’d prefer we kill him in our own way.’

  ‘Then it’s simple: I choose my life.’ Roidon said, fully aware that not only was he choosing life, he was choosing conflict. But he couldn’t have it perfectly.

  He opened the door. The light this time was blinding.

  * * *

  21

  Torbin Lyndau stood two hundred and eighteen centimetres tall. He had the strength to lift a tonne. Could for hours withstand forces that would kill a man in seconds. The natural ravages of entropy were an irrelevance; no age-related degeneration, except over geological time. There were no vulnerable points, at least none that were easily accessible. He was potentially a killing machine. He was potentially a monster, despite a physiognomy that could from a darkened distance be mistaken for a human. But he was useful to the B’tari, and they to him – holding out the promise of a new human body, one that was like his original only with enough of an improvement that it would still feel like him. And then...

  He was moving through the stars. After a ride in the B’tari’s ship he was left to make the final leg of the journey, with the addition of a full tritanium suit (making him look typically like the other human captureds), a fusion pack on his back. Torbin had become so removed from humanity he could survive for hours without oxygen, absorbed energy through solar, but also by eating (not that he experienced the pleasure from eating, it was simply a way of converting nutrients). He could also generate his own energy through movement – kinetic regeneration.

  The planet from orbital height had the serenity of Earth. Similar proportions of green and brown lands, covered in swirling white wisps.

  His approach had to be precise; for this he was given additional software, which provided simple graphics to align. Surely it would have been possible to have some automated system, but then: I am the system, the controlling AI.

  In his current form no unusual signature would be detected; there was a uniformity in design, with many opting for jet packs. Only his descent from orbit may seem irregular. A glow engulfed him like some malevolent aura. His olfactory detectors picked up the burning metal. Would I be scarred? That’d give the game away.

  The burning lessened; he slowed to a terminal velocity, as any skydiver. The B’tari probe had identified an abandoned compound. Side fins burst forth, giving him the appearance of a hyperjet. Then retro thrusters. As far as he could see there there were only abandoned fields, overgrown shrubs and hedges surrounded by woods. Perhaps a road, or just a track. Nothing of tarmac or concrete.

  He swooped down towards a tall forest, vectors guiding him into the clearing. The landing was so hard he felt he should have damaged something; there was a momentary disorientation but his overlay indicated no damage. Maybe he really had been intended to fly, simple add-ons obviating the need for external transport; another advantage to convince people of their ascendancy beyond the biological.

  Looking round at the unsullied landscape, listening to the birdsong, it could have been Earth.

  Like Earth post human occupation. Now it became clear to him: the unarguable positive side of a post-humanoid world. All other species getting by fine without them. Had they, the Machines, recognized a tipping factor from the equilibrium, seen how the top species had appropriated every resource and land – encroached on it? The divine right of a sentient species. Even post religion there was only ever the lip service of kindness paid to those lower down the food chain sidelined, exploited. A wildlife reserve here, a national park there; the occasional breeding and medical assistance program, all the while wild animals were being slaughtered for profit, land used for food and housing.

  And yet, the notion that technological advancement as the enemy of the natural world now seemed like an irony. If this is the pinnacle: a fraction of its highest sentient beings interacting with the world and in a less invasive way than ever, was that such a bad thing?

  He tried to think of his mission. The first thing: locate rebel group, their compound. He wasn’t certain of their location, no transponders or active scanners allowed here, only geomagnetic coordinates obtained from a passing probe scan. Torbin felt like a child on an errand, the reward of his old body hanging over him, incentivising, stifling any possible reasonable questions – voiced doubts.

  It was funny how the human element in him still generated a wariness of wildlife. A bear, a wolf, a wild boar or whatever the equivalent lay in wait. They’d simply fear him as they would any active machine. No, just something hidden in the shadows, something keeping tabs, waiting for him to walk into a trap. The forest canopy dense enough to hide his grey face; the rest of him in khaki clothing.

  He followed a simple direction arrow in his HUD. At first unnecessarily slow; his reaction time was such that he could run through a dense sequoia-type forest at well over thirty kph, through bracken or mud.

  The forest gave way to an overgrown meadow, and more fields before a line of hills. Old agricultural land? He wondered. He increased his speed, registering fifty kph, until it occurred to him that this may look suspicious. By whom? The overseers, as I head directly into their trap. So he slowed but still ran, until the arrow branched off in two directions. Stopped, surveyed the landscape. Those rolls of hay, all neatly piled up. No agriculture.

  An anomaly that appears to be something banally natural. Could the Machines not see that? Still, perhaps his HUD tracker gave the game away. It ensured he searched for that slightly out of place oblong dark area at the front of the hay rolls. It gave him the surety that he should push at this section. And, sure enough, a gap revealed itself. The inside only illuminated by the sun. His own eyes enhanced the outlines of a passageway with steps descending into what even he could not see. Yet there was no question but to follow those stairs, as if his tracker was more than just that – a part of his programming. His forward motion no longer based on visual information but proprioceptive feedback – for each of the steps, the faintest rush of air from the side walls. And then, at the end, another door, opening.

  Light overwhelmed for a few seconds. Then he realized They were expecting him, of course, as he became aware of a recognizably humanoid metallic figure holding aloft a glowing blue cable device. The cable between two prongs like a plastic flosser, glowing, cracking with a deadly energy.

  Fleetingly a couple of options did present themselves; maybe his thinking had been enhanced. He considered kicking the weapon wielder, or simply grabbing the device. His reaction time would surely have greatly improved from his human state. Except he was dealing with, possibly, his equal in those respects. Furthermore, this was not – should not – be the enemy but a potential ally. So he simply allowed the electric device to be lowered onto his head. Then gave in to the enveloping fugue, that (he was sure) any human would experience as excruciating pain. For a second, maybe even le
ss, he even mused over the idea of how good it would be to die. Until that was overwhelmed by confusion. By oblivion.

  * * *

  22

  Had he really died? Zoraina considered, as she watched Roidon regain what amounted to consciousness. Did he even care if he had?

  He sat up. Alert now, it was a sudden thing – a reactivation. He was taking in the clinical brightness of the med centre, the variating graphics and numerical readouts of the monitoring equipment, which really wasn’t optimized for someone of his configuration.

  His metallic face, with its limited opening of a jaw, acknowledged her presence. ‘How long?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you been out – unconscious?’

  ‘Out of action. Quiescent. I don’t know if there is enough of my brain left to be considered conscious.’

  She wouldn’t indulge him in philosophical musing. ‘You’ve been out fifty-two hours, give or take. It seems the Machine master showed you little mercy.’

  ‘Nobody likes being manipulated to their detriment. I hope I created the necessary distraction.’

  ‘Distraction wasn’t the primary objective,’ she said emphatically. ‘You really are our best choice for communicating with the entity.’

  ‘Takes one to know one, kind of thing? Not that any of you B’tari truly believed I had a chance.’

  ‘It could have killed – destroyed you, yet it left you. Does that not count for something?’

  ‘Perhaps it thinks its life is marginally more interesting with me alive. Don’t know why it didn’t just scan me and …’ Roidon craned his head back as if a sudden revelation had come to him.

  ‘It took a copy of your mind-state. Then it has no need for you,’ Zoraina surmised.

  ‘It likes to play games. It may think of them as an experiment, or just a strategic option. You see, killing me is pointless since it knows you lot can simply bring me back to life from a spare copy. And don’t deny there is one; the B’tari knew my chances of surviving were minimal. No, this is about the long game; this is about breaking me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ Zoraina admitted.

  ‘If I told you in simple terms what I suspect, you would tell the Council. And I am afraid that they – in their infinite wisdom – would play just the game the machine entity hopes. React with seeming caution.’

  She suspected he had become paranoid. ‘I will tell them nothing that will put you in jeopardy. Only, you have to be honest with me at least.’

  ‘Here’s honest. When I first met you, Zoraina, I did hope we could share more than a mere exchange of words; when I was under the illusion of being a man. Now I see you and feel nothing. You could have had some power over me, call it sexual capital. This human form of yours, how very calculated. Now you have nothing. Except perhaps if you can genuinely promise that one day I will be in a human body.’

  ‘Why be so cynical? It’s not an attractive trait, you know.’

  Roidon shook his head. ‘I don’t care about attractive, I care about being human.’

  ‘I wish I could promise that. And not just because of the leverage it would give.’

  ‘You can’t sway things with the Council? Or is it that females are not allowed influence, especially when they look human?’

  Zoraina refused to rise to that. ‘Is it not enough that we can protect you?’ she asked.

  ‘For a price.’

  ‘There is no matter of paying a price, Roidon, there is acting in both our interests: you assisting us in overthrowing this machine menace.’

  He looked at her, seeming to consider his next response. ‘Be it that I am clutching at straws, but there remains something of the organic me.’ He pointed to his head, as if she didn’t already know. ‘Is it too much to ask to grow me an organic body to match?’

  She rolled her eyes in a human-like gesture. ‘Roidon, that request is beyond my ken. Maybe you are right about the lack of status of this female, at least.’ She gave him a sideways look. ‘In any case, why do you so want to become human?’

  ‘I spent most of my existence as an AI yearning to be human. To feel, viscerally, pleasure and even pain seemed like the ultimate richness of life – intellect without confinement. To be bereft of that again is a cruelty you can barely imagine.’

  Zoraina was sure he exaggerated. Even in this form there must be pleasures to be had. After all, the promise of pleasure served as a survival mechanism for anything even vaguely sentient. Was he simply playing for pity?

  She only said, ‘No, perhaps I cannot.’

  Roidon rose from his seat. He did so with such abruptness it made her flinch. ‘Well … what’s my mission then?’ he asked, looking towards the exit. ‘I just want to get on with it.’

  ‘I will need instructions from high command,’ she told him.

  ‘Actually, no need,’ he announced. ‘I have a fair idea of what I need to do.’

  He then hurried to the exit. For a moment she thought he was going to rip off the door before it had time to slide open.

  Was he angry with her? Upset at his predicament? Roidon, she always imagined, was a man of cool logic. He was much spoken of amongst her associates, as an almost legendary figure. He’d experienced the erasure, he’d sacrificed his mind to save a woman he loved. He was viewed in romantic terms. Yet here he was storming off like some petulant youth. Or maybe she had simply misread his reaction, and he was about to do something noble.

  * * *

  23

  Torbin knew that in one sense he was alive. Firstly he had sight. A wall made from wooden panels. Kind of homely, he thought. Until he noticed the device looming over him – an enlarged needle attached to an articulated arm. Not a needle but a probe with a red light at its end. He wanted to move away from but he had no sensation of anything that could move. He was just eyes. No sounds or smells either.

  Just eyes.

  The room juddered. A face, of a similar soft metal complexion to his, and likewise cybernetic body. For a moment a sense of relief. This was where he was meant to be. He could even allow himself the warm feeling of kinship.

  That soon wore off. The being removed the metal mask. What looked convincingly like a cyborg revealed itself to be humanoid: a scaly green face something vaguely similar to the B’tari before they’d opted to become more human-like.

  More juddering. Then the needle probe descended, disappearing from his sight, but he understood it to have made contact with his brain – the room shimmered momentarily, geometric shapes in pinks and blues flashed then darted across his visual field.

  Suddenly words were coming at him. YOUR IDENTIFICATION DOES NOT MATCH OUR CONTACT LIST. THEREFORE WE ASSUME YOU TO BE ONE OF THE FOLLOWING: A SPY, AN INQUISITIVE CITIZEN, OR OUR CONTACT. SINCE YOU WERE WEARING A DISGUISE WE CAN LOGICALLY SURMISE YOU ARE HERE TO INFILTRATE OUR GROUP. BE ASSURED WE WILL NOT USE TORTURE BEFORE WE TERMINATE YOU.

  How to reply? He simply thought the words. I am your contact Torbin Lyndau.

  DO YOU HAVE A CODE?

  Code? They gave me no code.

  WHO?

  The B’tari.

  PREPARE FOR A MEMORY SCAN.

  They bullied him. Why? Because it made them feel better about themselves, he thought, as the bigger boy tripped him up in the playground, to the others’ amusement. The girls particularly seemed to laugh the loudest; not only that but it was a laugh of contempt, a laugh that seemed to contain the message “we think you are so pathetic we want you to know about it.” So much was conveyed in laughter. It moulded him, made him introverted and remote. It made him seek out methods of escape in the virtual realm.

  Then one day he found a path he knew he should take, one that would eventually lead him to greatness, a success to transcend all the pettiness of youthful concerns. And when the things denied him no longer seemed to matter, they became his: the adulation, the women. That one special woman. And then when it was all taken away, by those he thought of as his enemy and his possessor, he turned to another. A saviour, of sorts �
�� the B’tari. But he could not simply exist, it had to end in a mission that saw him captured once again. A possessor of an even worse kind than than the first. An enslaver. Finally, out of a warped sense of clemency for his alliance, they gave him a life he had been denied for so many years, a life he could have happily remained in. But then something of him began to reject that perfect life. Perhaps it was simply too ordered, all wonderfully coherent instead of the randomness of real life; his rational mind finally kicking in, telling him in the strange repetition phenomenon that for someone like him any sustained happiness could never be true. Or that simply what he once thought of as the perfect life could only ever be self-delusion.

  Yet, had he bought into the deal offered him, or had it been given as a fête acompli?

  He just could not remember. Whether he had suppressed that memory or not, the idea of accepting a deal from the Machine overlord was nothing short of abhorrent.

  OK. SCAN COMPLETE.

  WELCOME TORBIN. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. YOU WILL BE INTEGRATED IN A SUITABLE BODYSHELL PRESENTLY.

  ‘What does “SUITABLE” mean?’ Torbin shouted in his mind.

  ONE THAT WILL NOT BE DETECTED BY THE OVERLORDS.

  ‘This was not part of my mission,’ he said, knowing only the ultimate objective of his mission; the interim stages he hadn’t factored beyond meeting the rebels.

  WE SHARE A COMMON INTEREST, DO WE NOT? DEFEATING THE MACHINE OVERLORDS?

  ‘All right, fine. Do it then.’ How curious that now he missed his mechanized body, it had become more than a vehicle. What the mind accepts given time. But to demand it back would seem unconscionable.

  Things soon became hazy, his thoughts random and disjointed as if he was drifting off to sleep. He couldn’t distinguish whether his vision was of the surroundings or internal. There seemed to be something from a nightmare … no, a memory: silver legs either side attached to an oval body. He was looking down upon it, seemed to be atop it.