The Captured

by Kyte, Adrian

  They filed out. As he passed the commander, Torbin mentally repeated the code from the text still present: ‘86549, 86549.’ The commander fixed a gaze at Torbin, causing what felt like some equivalent response of stress: a heightened alertness; a curious fear. Then he heard: ‘Code transfer confirmed.’ The commander looked away as Torbin hurried to rejoin the others. Surely they wouldn’t even conceive of one of their own commandeered by a sentient being, much less one that carried a digital virus, Torbin assured himself. They entered what seemed to be an observation room. A planetarium-effect view of space.

  The stars now a distorted blur: some kind of hyperspace. At some point, he reasoned, they will discover him. Out here, too far to be rescued by the B’tari; certainly not the rebels who had nothing really to lose by failure of this mission, except perhaps the uncovering of their identity once he had been interrogated.

  And how far would I be prepared to go to maintain this cover?

  Within a second of exiting hyperspace the planet appeared. Torbin had no idea whereabouts in the galaxy this was. The planet had a similar Earth-like quality, a fecundity of green and brown land surrounded by blue sea, with the covering swirls of cloud. Like Earth a benign quality for habitation. There was not much time to speculate over how Earth-like were the beings; the other arachnids were filing into the shuttle with military efficiency. The commander loomed over, issuing clicks, appearing to show no sign of the virus. Since it seemed the commander would not be following, Torbin wondered if there is a first officer, or simply issued with their instructions they’d already been set in train. Perhaps they worked like ants – as a collective intelligence, sending signals to one another. How good it must be, he thought, not to have the burden of any moral qualms. An unquestionable purpose without a conscience. Just a link in a chain. But an ant does not appreciate its lack moral responsibility. Would such a limited reality be better? Distracted thoughts. The most pressing concern, not linked-up to the others, would his cover be revealed?

  Torbin tried to keep in drone-like step. They were not wasting any time, heading directly down to a city of elaborate geometric towers and flow of ground traffic. It made him think of Earth from a history doc about the mid-twenty-first century.

  The shuttle swooped down into a park. Within seconds of landing they were disembarking. He then caught sight of the inhabitants: they appeared disquietingly humanoid, except with a greenish tinge to their skin, perhaps taller. Torbin had no sense of gravity in this form. But he was able to run at a phenomenal speed, following the others as they gave chase to the terrified beings. When one had been caught, the arachnid inserted a sharp-tipped limb into a screaming mouth. What followed made Torbin want to vomit, although he realized that could not be possible; he was still (thankfully) thinking as a human.

  Once the arachnid had removed every limb from the now collapsed being it approached the other spiders, who were now stationary, which included Tobin. That one clicked furiously. They then returned to their shuttle. In the cargo area was something that looked vaguely like a gun. It was big, about four metres in length and one and a half deep. Then loaded on caterpillar tracks, to slowly wend its way down an exit ramp. Once on the ground, one arachnid faced it, presumably sending instructions; the gun then emitted a shrill noise as it manoeuvred through paths and trees of the park. In the distance Torbin could see the local inhabitants collapse like rag dolls. This gun-like device had either disabled or killed them. The trouble was, he could only observe as the thing trundled along rendering more inhabitants incapacitated, all the while arachnids were gathering bodies, piling them up; leaving them.

  Certain things didn’t make sense: if that was a method to capture sentient minds for conversion it could take years to go through an entire population; yet as far as he was aware Earth’s inhabitants had been converted within, at the most, a few months. Was this a test run? Just collecting samples?

  Already there was a defensive response. Four chemically-propelled aircraft loomed over firing some kind of projectile weapon. ‘Tatatat,’ came the sound as these projectiles ricocheted off the arachnids, and even himself – seeming to be perfectly harmless, not even a hindrance!

  The attack ceased and the aircraft retreated. Then a deeper sound, a rumble that his HUD indicated was from his left side. Nothing yet on visual. The others were pressing on, but no faster than the megagun, giving any potential victims plenty of time to escape.

  Torbin was developing the distinct sense that their plan had a flaw. Or else this was some extremely clever ruse. He was now sure these arachnids were the early first wave, nothing more than cannon-fodder. A suicide mission? Maybe they were simply there to gauge the level of defence capability of the host planet.

  Now the leviathan loomed overhead. Those underbelly cylinders were nothing other than missiles, a form of armament that may be crude in its destructive power but with the capability to decapitate a steel structure. The other arachnids seemed to have acknowledged its presence judging by the rapid clicking.

  One of the missiles, inevitably, was fired. Seconds seemed to stretch in which he became aware of its speed and trajectory, a knowledge beyond the meaningless symbols in his HUD. It was heading towards him, but he didn’t need to avoid it; one of the troops had leapt up and latched itself onto the missile, and within a millisecond had caused its course to alter in an upward trajectory. In fact, it was now loping back. The arachnid detached itself just as the missile settled into an unavoidable course toward the aircraft. The explosion turned the craft into a fireball. Torbin took comfort from the surety that death must have been instantaneous, if there were a few seconds of utter terror. He knew about the needless deaths from war, when wars were fought by humans rather than drones. Biological beings against drones commanded by unimaginably advanced machine intelligences would be so uneven he wondered if they’d simply accept the futility of resistance. But no, if these beings were like humans they would fight to the bitter and pointless end.

  And so more aircraft arrived; more missiles turned against their hosts. Then onward to the heart of the city. To the power grid control centre. As night fell so did darkness over the city. Power cables ripped out seemingly at random; siren warnings, flashing graphics on control panels. Until what was left still active finally switched off – literally. Torbin was amazed at how one switch could do this. One of the arachnids carried the megagun up a flight of stairs; another brought along a dislodged cable, bare wires exposed. All the others followed. When the cable had run out of extension, the one carrying the megagun pressed something on its side, then there extruded its own cable complete with some kind of adapter which simply mated with the power cable. A perfect compatibility, as though this had been done before. Of course, it had. Now they continued upwards with an unencumbered fluidity, unending cable extruding.

  After about four flights of stairs they reached the roof. The megagun seemed to acquire a brooding ochre glow – within wire-frame delineations – in the pitch darkness. They all halted on a flat platform with a view across the dark shapes of city buildings; lights of vehicles moving with a sense of urgency; the faint sounds of panic. Torbin wondered how Earth would have reacted, vastly more technologically advanced. Surely it would not have been so easy to switch off the power. The gun, about the size of his metal body, was being positioned on a tripod. A central pole extended raising it about a further three metres. A few clicks were given, and one of the arachnids scuttled off down the stairwell, he guessed to reactivate the power. Less than a minute later the gun’s glow became a fearsome amber as if was simply overheating, an accordingly strained whining and vibrating. The power boosted to the very limit. Nothing visible emitted, just a disturbance in the air, enhanced by his HUD. He noticed then some of the moving lights stop. It may have reached across the city. But the entire planet? There needed to be thousands more. Perhaps there were. And he was just one of a unit. Yes, he surmised, merely the first wave.

  But soon Torbin realized something was wrong. The clicking b
etween the other arachnids seemed frantic; they were gathered near each other. A message then appeared in Torbin’s HUD. VIRUS HAS ACTIVATED. RETURN TO MOTHERSHIP.

  * * *

  26

  By the time she found him motionless on the floor in the lounge quarters, she knew what had happened. Cameras had tracked Roidon of flesh since his infiltration, had observed him committing the murder.

  Except it wasn’t truly murder, there needed to be some other category for this. Not even like fratricide of a twin or a clone. Was the murdered version conscious, or simulated to appear so? Hardly a question she needed to deal with. Her commander had taken the stance that events should play out without their interference. After all, that was what the B’tari were best known for, hitherto. Only one version of Roidon could exist. And yet she felt a pang of grief for this version, who now looked so utterly synthetic as if anything resembling life was never more than a trick designed to fool those who wanted to believe. But then she had believed. Roidon was always more than the sum of his parts; the one now at large no more than a copy of a copy, just another form carrying the Roidon Chanley mind-state. Who could say that that flesh version had sentience any more than the cybernetic Roidon?

  He must know he would be tracked, must be aware that with just one word from the Council he’d be hauled in. Earth was Roidon’s spiritual home – for want of a better word. His psych report lingered much on his love of the visceral, pleasures of the flesh – which made sense given the past he was allowed to retain: providence of the B’tari. He’d become a figure of obsession amongst her compatriots, especially the female ones. ‘Open personal file 46c. Close file.’

  Now she sat in the control room, its bank of monitors, flashing LEDs and push button controls like something from a museum of twenty-first century tech, and yet their solidity was curiously reassuring – a nostalgia of the B’tari that never seemed to let up. Orbiting cameras tracked Roidon as he walked for miles, stopping to imbibe the meagre supplies he had pilfered from their base. Much of Earth now was a wasteland, if a beautiful one. He soon had reached an abandoned residential area, moving in and out of homes unoccupied now for decades. He would find very little edible food, she surmised, no drinkable water and certainly no power. Darkness was already falling. He’d have to deal with solitude; but she imagined that would be the least of his problems. Did she want him to cope, or come running back to the warm embrace of the B’tari? Or just her? Or somehow make it alone? She couldn’t yet decide ... although she did want to see him tested to the limit.

  * * *

  27

  Darkness shrouded the empty streets. He welcomed it. A perfectly clear night; the moon yet to rise.

  Roidon looked up at the stars: fine points, barely twinkling, he could lose himself amongst them. Feeling wonderfully small and insignificant. Just to experience the nowness without burden of a past, without figuring in anyone’s consciousness. Lifted. The ground beneath his heavily-booted feet barely registering. Even being in a starship in open view mode had nothing of the visceral feel that he could reach out into the infinite, his face exposed to the cool night air. Only the houses intruded, as blocks so bereft of life he wanted nothing to do with them. Did nothing to illuminate them.

  Eventually he had to decide. A shelter for the night. So far he had only collected flash packs of cereals and biscuits; nothing to cook had preserved. Still, enough food to get through the night. He activated his side torch; floodlight mode, one house stood out as slightly more appealing, with its old style veranda and arched front door porch, like something from half a millennia ago.

  Yet, inside, the effect could not have been more of a contrast. He flinched when the lights activated. An independent solar collector, he guessed. The interior was still furnished, and in the living room a sofa chair still bore the faint imprint of a human posterior. On a coffee table were cups and a confectionery wrapper. It really felt as if someone would soon return, find this intruder. He had to rationalist that there could not possibly be anyone who could still claim this place as their home: the last regime of capturing was over a decade ago; anyone evading must be in some bunker, not daring to venture out. Were the local Kintra informed of his visit, his special dispensation? Or was he only allowed the illusion of freedom? A pointless concern now, he explored the other rooms. A kitchen still had a working refrigerator. There was food, even meat (presumably vat grown). A cooking unit, a functional replicator. He could live here for weeks. He surveyed the bedrooms; some still retained that just-occupied look, but there was one that’d obviously been left as a spare, a guest room. It seemed curious that a house could be left functioning in this way, that it and its resources had not been assimilated. Not even a modicum of sentiment could be ascribed to the Kintra machines; yet he had to run through in his mind the logical sequence that guaranteed no humans would return. He imagined there’d be no warning. It could have happened in their home, but he saw no sign of any struggle. Their doors were locked, and no vehicle parked. A day out, then. The car shot down, but they could not be allowed to sustain any brain injury. The screaming kids, the pleading parents. But if they had known about ‘the capturing’, then it would have been a desperate futile attempt at escape. How people can act out of futility, even if it means prolonging the fear, prolonging the pain; the Machines baffled at such illogicality. Well, that was soon to be remedied once their minds had been fully integrated with machine perfection. Only, after what he knew of the madness that followed, if they were not in the virtual realm then they were in a small minority.

  It suddenly struck Roidon that he was immensely tired. Vigilance had kept the possibility of sleep as a non-consideration, adrenaline his stimulant. Now he barely had the energy to get out of the suit. Even hunger and thirst were things he had to pay attention to, or wake feeling worse. Basic needs. How wonderfully human! Wonderfully real!

  * * *

  28

  Aboard the mothership the commander was surrounded by his minions, clicking wildly. Both the chrome goliath’s legs twitched sporadically, near to toppling; an occasional click issued from him but otherwise Torbin imagined the commander must be incoherent, his minions in a state of disarray.

  Then they turned to Torbin, they surrounded him. They knew. They must know. It was then, as if his shell had known he was in trouble, that the instructions appeared. ACTIVATE PROTOCOL 16A. He simply repeated the instruction. Then: PROTOCOL 16A HAS BEEN INITIALIZED. But already they were probing him – the rogue element. One of an arachnid’s legs had become a diamond-tipped drill, levelling at where Torbin’s eyes would be.

  ‘Please, there is no need for this,’ were Torbin’s heightened thoughts. ‘I am here to initiate a change in plan.’

  ‘There is an anomaly,’ came a m
etallic voice.

  ‘No. I am in charge now.’

  ‘You do not possess the correct grade clearance, therefore you must be amended.’

  The creature now began to drill into Torbin’s head casing. ‘Stop,’ he protested in vain. For now his shell material was resisting even the diamond drill, yet the thing persisted, whining away like an archive depiction of a dentist’s drill – that parents would use to frighten their children into good dental care.

  ‘Anomaly must be examined. Anomaly must be recti ...fi … ed.’ The drill stopped, then pulled back. The creature then started waving its forward legs randomly. Just twitching now, as did the others. The text then: PROTOCOL COMPLETE, VIRUS INITIALIZED. APPROPRIATE CRAFT AND SEEK OUT REMAINING VESSELS.

  ‘How?’ he questioned.

  CANNOT PROVIDE ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.

  OK, so I’m allowed some initiative.

  In the muted red light of the commander’s section Torbin found a bay of winking lights and strange geometric symbols. There appeared to be no interface point other than a large dark circle, upon which he placed himself. Immediately: ‘Interface recognized Do you wish to proceed with full link?’

  ‘Yes.’ His reply tentative.

  Then: he was in space, orbiting the planet. The ship had effectively vanished from view; maybe this was how it seemed to any outside observer. Then, when the illusion had become quite disorientating, a graphical display appeared before him: geometric shapes intersecting then moving apart, dancing greens and pinks. It meant nothing; he felt like the impostor he truly was.

  ‘Seek out compatriot craft,’ he thought aloud.

  ‘Two are approaching orbital insertion,’ the ship informed him. This felt amazing! He was communicating with a ship interface not even designed for an arachnid but for the commander. The rebels had planned this in such detail he had to admire them. But from what he knew he had to do, surely something, some protocol, would prevent him?