by Kyte, Adrian
Still now.
‘Torbin?’ A voice, not in his head. Male but of some foreign accent he could not determine. ‘Do you understand my words?’
‘I ...’ he uttered from somewhere that was not a mouth, not from a face.
A face appeared before him, the scaly being. ‘The translator should be working. Please answer in the affirmative if you understand.’
‘Yes. I understand you.’
‘On whose authority are you here?’
‘The B’tari.’
Had he been duped, thinking he was the B’taris’ main asset instead of the bit player he seemed to be now? Surely his history with them counted for something. In annoyance he tried to move, thought of leaving, using his new range of powers to escape. Only he wasn’t moving at all. Just an inert thing: a processing unit on a stand, forced to see in whatever direction he was pointed.
‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding,’ Torbin explained. ‘It is better that you let me go.’
‘I disagree,’ came the swift response. ‘But we don’t have time for arguments.’ The being reached over to something below Torbin’s line of sight. The limited view that was his world became distant, meaningless.
*
Part Three: Of the Flesh and the Fake
24
Roidon, at least the part of him that shared their memory, had been under the illusion of corporeality for the best part of three years of subjective time. To discover his real-world self as a mechanoid-cyborg had felt like a fate worse than death.
Now: life, the imperfect fleshy, bony wonder of it. Even here inside a spacesuit with all its additional armour plating to protect against stellar radiation, was still a precious delight.
So provenance be damned. Ethics, morals, they were relative. What mattered is existence itself, the beingness of it rather than where it came from.
Still, he would do what was requested of him. It was in his best interests. There could only be one Roidon Chanley. And indubitably the corporeal version was the truer Roidon rather than some tokenistic bit of organic brain, fused and governed by optronic hardware. Therefore he’d have no compunction to kill that version, albeit with merciful swiftness. That was the only deal he’d made. Yet this had never needed to happen, if not for his sentimentality in allowing that other version to live. The overlord, he imagined, would regard such regret – from an act of weakness – as a valuable lesson. Well, no more weakness now. Just self preservation.
At his current trajectory – shifting in and out of the grey flumes of null Higgs field tunnels created by accumulated matter from whatever particles his suit could collect – he’d reach the B’tari base in only a few hours.
Right now, drive-packs portable enough to attach to the side of his suit contained antimatter in magnetic confinement, primed to react with particles so exotic they would only exist naturally for a femtosecond. And yet no harm came to him. His suit could travel as far and as quickly as the most advanced B’tari ships. On the face of it the B’tari stood not a chance against the Kintra. They out-thought the greatest AIs. So why not be one with them? Were they not technological perfection? Simply, he reasoned, that their notion of perfection was based on different criteria to his. To them he must be a curious anomaly not merely for still wanting to be human like so many of the captured, but for his origins, for how he once revered the ultimate artificial creation.
Disillusioned? Quite possibly.
Even as he revelled in his single-minded rejection of the Kintra machine culture, he was aware of just how dependent on them he remained.
He exited the final subspace tunnel. His on-board navigation directed him to Earth with a haste that made him momentarily nauseated. There he entered orbit, surmising that a different set of processes were at play. Or maybe this was where he gained some autonomy. Really he wanted this pause, wanted to contemplate the world that once held so many riches. From this height a fragility, a precious equilibrium, something even restored without humans. A world that had been taken to the brink. But even then he remembered the same simple beauty containing so much ugliness within its hidden detail. Now there really was virtually nothing to corrupt nature, be it red in tooth and claw.
Roidon noticed himself – or rather his suit – fading to transparent. An odd thing to have a sense of a body. His HUD overlaid a map with a tag on the B’tari base, a secondary hideaway they doubtless thought less vulnerable than moon-base alpha. He didn’t need to do anything except let the thrusters guide his descent. This lack of control provided the apprehension that kept him alert. Of course, his visit was known by the local Kintra overloards, he was given a free pass even if they were not told the nature of his visit.
He was in night-time when he touched down a few hundred metres from the base. Still invisible in most of the EM spectrum, he ran. The suit retracted its armour plating, revealing a material akin to Kevlar but no doubt more exotic, enabling a surprising agility and speed. The tritanium exoskeleton also enhanced his strength. His movements were silent. Rimless spectacle-style lenses provided an IR overlay to the already photon-enhanced environment. At this time a good chance the B’tari were asleep. His counterpart had no real sleep requirements, no human fatigue, on paper a clear advantage over him. He remembered in that form a feeling of being trapped in consciousness. Another mistake of the Kintra, thinking that eliminating the need to sleep was a further improvement when, even though the need for sleep was often thought of as an inconvenience, people enjoyed the process – the prospect of escape from the stresses of life, a chance to let the imagination run free. The easiest timeout. A release that was only eventually replaced by artificial reality. Yet old habits die hard; even in the virtual realm sleep had to be replicated.
The base, naturally, was underground. The entrance hidden within the turf of a hill, only indicated by his HUD. As he expected it was well locked. A standard explosive charge would only alert the occupants, so he had to use an ultrabeam laser and a plasma cutter attached to an oblong device that burrowed its way to the underlying metal like some hyperactive mole, employing its laser therein.
There was still enough noise that he became worried; the B’tari were as vigilant as ever these days. They believed the machine overlords were completely unaware of their presence on earth, when in reality the Kintra simply were not concerned. At least that had been the state of play until Roidon was able to furnish them with vital intel, extracted it in the copy process; his counterpart entirely unaware. The B’tari suspecting? Regardless, when the hatch caved in he pushed on through, descending steps in total darkness, with only a wire-frame outline based on what little thermal differences there were.
Another door again. This time he set the cutter to laser only. Then through a short corridor. Then to a door with palm and voice sensor, and a slot for an interface. At this stage lax security. Of course, his other self could not use either of the sensors and must have used this slot interface. Roidon here inserted what amounted to a skeleton key, a plug that expanded to fill the slot, from which a thin cable to a device running through every possible algorithm until it found one that established communication. If the B’tari knew of his presence and were waiting to entrap him they were doing so with more stealth than he was using.
The door slid open to reveal a dazzlingly lit room, before his optics reverted to daylight mode. A living room, curiously prosaic in its arrangement of tables and chairs, a sofa and beige walls. A warning overlaid his vision, faint EM presence.
Too late. He felt himself being grabbed under his arms with so much force he even felt pain. He was then thrown against the sofa. Regaining his composure he looked up to see his other self, the unexpressive dull-silver face, a moment to ponder how that other could have evaded his sensors. No time to react.
‘Surprised?’ the other said. ‘Hadn’t you anticipated we’d be prepared?’
‘I had an inkling you would be ready. After all, you are me.’
‘So what was the point in coming here?’
‘To
show you how you could exist. As flesh and blood again.’
‘A ploy to make me jealous?’
‘No. To bring you a message from our machine overlords.’
‘Proceed.’
Flesh Roidon spat out the mini dart. As soon as it left his mouth the projectile powered up its tiny fusion rocket, ensuring that the other would not have time to react. It impacted at about two hundred kph whereupon it emitted an intense EM burst. This rendered his metal self incapacitated. It took an effort to move the rigormortis-like limbs enough to apply handcuffs, and only then forward facing.
Roidon was about to jab an electrical pulse probe into his counterpart when that other reanimated, jumping to his feet and twisting his wrists. The handcuffs were basic steel bands connected with myriad bunched buckycarbon nanotubes. Realizing he wasn’t going to break them in time, he kicked out at Roidon’s knee. The pain was lessened by the tritanium reinforced Kevlar-analogue He imagined his knee would be shattered otherwise.
Flesh Roidon backed away. The handcuffs were clearly too tough for anyone to break, and that being acknowledged metal Roidon was approaching his other with piston-driven efficiency; a calculation already made in that optronic enhanced brain. FR simply side-stepped, then reached for his side arm – a more powerful EM pulse weapon – and fired just as artificial Roidon kicked up at his hand. The invisible beam had hit enough of his adversary to render him immobile, then topple over like a deactivated robot. For good measure he fired again. Then from a side pocket he extracted a device shaped like a stubby screwdriver but with an ultra sharp end, and jammed into a point just below artificial Roidon’s head. This would, he hoped, send an electrical pulse powerful enough to fry those photonic pathways, causing what organic brain there was to do likewise. A mere second was more than enough. This all seemed too easy, he expected more of a challenging fight from someone of such strength and intelligence. Only that monstrosity was in no way him. Something born of him, yes, but a twisted version that had been subject to a delusion of life beyond the virtual, who bought into it because the alternative was unthinkable.
He could be nothing but grateful for the machine overlord to have preserved his mind-capture since their takeover, with still his memory fresh of how good, how ennobling life can be. The B’tari: they were happy for that machine perversion of existence to continue, otherwise that self would have been integrated into a human body at the first opportunity. Instead, how convenient for it to do their bidding: a thing of strength, of immense intelligence, that didn’t fear death … but a thing with little appetite for life. Certainly not enough for self-preservation,
As Roidon strode along the exit corridor, he mused over how strange it was that no b’tari had tried to stop him or even made an appearance. Maybe they had laid a trap outside, the only escape route. Or maybe they knew there could only be one outcome.
Roidon emerged to no challenge. He just walked. To where, he had no idea. He was simply allowed his freedom. Freedom in a world of very few humans to work with or exploit. Maybe the B’tari knew this, thought he would have no options on his own.
* * *
25
Torbin took a moment to soak in the irony. He was the very arachnoid creature he so detested – the very symbol of how sentience can become appropriated into the most grotesque form and to that end for the purpose of working for the side of good, biological sentience. To think of Torbin the man as now just an irrelevant indulgence. Yet, he didn’t look down (there were no eyes to close); he still felt like a biped; his part-organic brain not adapted. He was glad of that.
Then he continued on. Scuttled across fields of wild grass, through forests in the way a demented metal spider might. Only this one had a purpose. The indignation – as his eight legs pumped rapidly through dense woods – had diminished, reduced to some irrelevant part of his mind. Maybe it meant he was thinking more like one of those arachnoid creatures; maybe that was the point, that he only need receive basic instructions but still behave convincingly like one of them. After all, he surmised, a good spy, like a good actor, must assume the identity as if it were a deep-routed truth – of how to speak, how to think without remove.
His navigation HUD led him to what seemed like a random place in a meadow. It created a regular green squared vector frame. He used one of his forward legs to calve an outline. He thought of digging at it, but if this was a hatch … ‘Open.’ The word he thought as if it were speech but it came out as two clicks. The vectored square proceeded to lower, very slowly. He stood on it.
Down. So rapidly it was all just a blur. A jarring halt, followed by intense light, fading as his optics adjusted. Resolving into view before him were other metal arachnids. They appeared to be motionless. He began to wonder if they knew there was something not right about him, were studying him. Until one of them approached, lifted a canted leg, the tip of which pressed into his exotic-metal thorax. ‘Identified, Otrix 483/7A. What is the purpose of your visit?’ The words were clear although synthetic-sounding English. There must a translation unit the rebels had fitted.
Torbin couldn’t think of how to answer, yet an answer came out – unbidden – in clicks that were meaningless to him.
‘Understood,’ came the voice translation. ‘The shuttle will depart for the fleet ship in approximately sixty-eight minutes. Records state you have been out of commission for two-hundred and sixty hours. Why has central command not listed your recommissioned status?’
Again the clicks emanated from him as if he had no control. Either these were anticipated questions for which a preprogrammed response or somehow the rebels had control over him. Was he a drone, no more autonomous than those around him?
‘The modifications will indeed be useful for conversion of planet K-758/b. I will submit myself for a similar upgrade,’ came the response. Clearly the rebels had something planned extensively. Yet he couldn’t understand why they didn’t just send a bona fide drone intelligence. Instead, he felt trapped as if in a dream; nothing like a spy but merely a helpless observer. His seemingly voluntary actions not free will but an illusion.
The lead arachnid informed him it was time to leave. He followed them down a tunnel into a large hanger. The ship merely looked like a larger version of themselves but with six legs; resting in a collapsed position, its legs splayed out. Hardly imaginative, he mused. But then that was the point? These creatures regarded imagination as an irrelevance; they simply existed as grunts to serve the wider cause of the more sentient intelligence. And now he was following them as they seemed to disappear inside the craft as if it was absorbing them. He had to keep going, not showing any hesitation. He wanted to close his eyes but only now realized they were fixed open. Always seeing; they never had any reason to shut out the world. No reason to sleep – the surprisingly chilling thought. Of course, sleep was inefficient.
The one in front of him thrust itself at their craft as if about to break into a sprint, and simply disappear within. He tried to do the same; not giving it too much thought. But felt himself begin to stumble. Nevertheless the skin of the craft accepted him as a cell would a virus. No feeling of resistance.
They all seemed to be standing freely, nothing to hold on to. A screen appeared, followed by a mass of symbols of varying colours that made no sense to him. He could see the ship leaving the hanger, the sky a sudden presence, the ground shrinking away at an unnerving rate. Through clouds, into space in only a few seconds, with no sense of movement as if he were only watching a movie.
In orbit, an ovoid object with splayed nacelles. It became the only thing in view. A large opening appeared levering down like a giant mouth of a whale, revealing a cargo bay. As they entered the mothership, text appeared in Torbin’s HUD view. It was English. YOU WILL SOON BE IN VISUAL RANGE OF XENOBAR, THEIR COMMANDER. HE IS ESTIMATED TO BE THE THIRD HIGHEST WITHIN THE KINTRA EMPIRE. HIS ELIMINATION WOULD SEVERELY HAMPER THEIR EFFORTS TO TRANSMOGRIFY THE LOCAL GALACTIC REGION. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
He tried to imagine how h
e could possibly eliminate the Machine commander; he didn’t appear to be carrying any weapons on him, he was surrounded by other arachnids. This must be a suicide mission, he reasoned.
Torbin again followed the others, this time through an iris, then along a corridor, and finally to a gargantuan room inlaid with a dazzling abundance of gold and silver, strange curved objects that seemed to have no practical function, the very excess of opulence. Maybe, he thought, it wasn’t that the commander had expensive taste but there was some physical advantage; the purity of the metal. Gold and silver: the great conductors. Yet he still got the impression there was some fetishism of precious metals; the opposites of flesh. It took a few seconds for his optics to adjust to the intense reflections to see the looming figure of what must be the commander. He/it bestrode the room as a biped of ultra reflective chrome. Two articulated limbs atop an elongated tear drop and a separate dome with a single dark strip as a visual sensor. The commander must have stood at least ten metres high – the excess of imperiousness. They all gathered around him. Then more text appeared. IN ORDER TO TRANSMIT THE VIRUS YOU MUST MENTAL-CHANT CODE 86549 TWICE, WHEREUPON THE BURST WILL BE SENT. IT WILL TAKE APPROXIMATELY FIVE HOURS TO TAKE EFFECT, DURING WHICH TIME IT IS IMPORTANT TO MAINTAIN COVER. PLEASE MOVE WITHIN THREE METRES OF SUBJECT.
The commander began to emit a series of clicks. They soon became words he could understand. ‘Planet K-758/b is occupied by sentient species know as the Cartoans. They have recently completed their forth world war and as thus have depleted resources, most especially defensive armament. It is therefore an opportune time to convert this war-like species. Please be assembled in holding bay seven.’ Torbin wondered how many of those words were an actual communication, designed for a barely autonomous species. He suspected much of it was internally mediated for his benefit, a reconstruction of prior strategic planning. After all, why would the commander even bother explaining the rationale for the mission to minions that were no more than drones?