by Kyte, Adrian
‘Compatriot craft are in synchronous orbit.’
‘Destroy them.’
‘My programming forbids me to comply.’ Of course. Just too easy. The flaw in their plan.
‘Send me prevention protocol algorithm.’
‘Sending.’
Well, if the rebels had properly thought this through... ANALYSING PROTOCOL. ROTATING QUAD QUBIT ENCRYTION. BROKEN. REROUTING THROUGH INTERFACE. PROTECTION OVERIDED.
‘Destroy other ships.’
‘Manual targeting only. Fusion missiles on line.’
‘Proceed,’ he said, perhaps redundantly.
A targeting vector came up on his vision; he simply had to imagine turning his head as if focusing eyes. ‘Fire!’ The first one detonated, in a curiously slow-mo manner, but he knew there wasn’t time to linger on it. He scanned round for the second ship which was already manoeuvring out of orbit. He focused intensely, his mind so alive, feeling supremely powerful. ‘Fire!’ This time he watched as the craft broke apart, imagining the arachnid soldiers confusion that their high commander had turned against them. Would they have experienced fear? Unlikely; these were non-sentient grunts. He was right not to have any compunction. There were few morally easy wars, he reflected, but perhaps this could be one of exception.
Now he had control. ‘Ship. Take me to Earth.’
‘Do you wish to arrive in minimum time?’
‘Yes!’
‘Engaging subspatial tunnelling array.’
‘Excellent! How long till we arrive?’
‘Twenty-three minutes.’
All around the milky-white melange, as if all of the stars were mixed in a giant blender. Then smoothly out into real space, where in a few seconds Earth appeared. He was then instructed into a shuttle which took him towards the B’tari base.
Something was wrong. Through the viewscreen the approaching earth juddered. Had he been detected by the machine overlords, identified as the rogue ship? Now targeted? There was no sign that anything had hit.
‘Shuttle. What’s wrong? Is there damage?’
No reply. Perhaps it only operated on an automated system.
The ground seemed to be approaching at a terminal velocity: a morass of forest became individual trees. Except he wasn’t going to hit them. The side of a hill appeared to be his landing site. His crash site. Unlike like most craft, which had built in redundancies for systems failure, he knew here there would be no concessions for preserving life, in the unlikely event of...
He’d done this journey so many times, yet he still had such a fondness for it. He knew every tree the train would pass, close enough and slow enough to catch the particular yellowing of maple leaves; distant ferns climbing the mountains with snow peaks in their early stages just above. Silent, totally smooth.
No wonder people did not want to dispense with such old technology – gliding merely a few metres above ground, above a line which gave a predestined journey that could never be corrupted. Torbin could just relax in the certainty that he’d arrive at his destination untroubled, uninterrupted.
And, yet, he had that sense again. She could be on this train, it was her line, even though he hadn’t seen her for years.
He was a happily married man. He thought he was. Or convinced himself of that. But he’d had a chance with someone else, someone he let get away. The train could bring strangers together, make them willing captives in each other’s company. Yet he chose to walk away, back to his seat and the certainty of his life. Now, if he found her, he would not walk away.
And so he went searching, through the coaches. Until he found her, just as he knew he would. Emelda – engrossed in some infofeed, projected from a thumb-sized datatab on her lap – with that tell-tale oblivious expression. Torbin looked at her for a few seconds. A bit older; well, seven years give or take since that last encounter. Still, her figure had not declined; if anything she was in better shape, her tight skirt revealing a trim abdomen. Copper-red hair, tied back. Maybe a few more lines around her eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever studied her so closely before. He leaned in, compelled by the thought of kissing her, the abandoned joy of it – the prelude to...
Then brought himself back, looked at her hands for that significant ring. None; still hope. He reckoned she must be around forty. He would often be suspicious of single women of that age, wondering if they were divorced and embittered or still looking for That Special One, the soul mate. And what a burden to be bestowed onto said special person. How many merely settle, he wondered, resigning themselves to the belief that it was never more than a futile quest? But then, what could be worse than thinking you had met that special one only for that person to shatter your illusions?
Yes, he thought, where would we be without our illusions? Is it best to keep them protected like the most delicate crystals, or risk their exposure to the harsh world?
‘You could destroy me,’ he said under his breath. ‘You could give me paradise and turn it into hell.’
So close now but she wasn’t aware of him. He had to say something aloud; say her name. Or once more walk away, and never know. Never look back. Live a safe life.
He took a breath, tried to compose himself. Failed. But was there ever a right moment?
‘Emelda?’ There, committed to the moment.
She looked up, a jolt of awareness. ‘Err. Yes?’ Did she not recognize him?
‘It’s me. Torbin.’ He smiled, then continued, ‘We’ve met before. Don’t you remember?’
‘Oh, yes. I do vaguely.’ She didn’t look happy to see him.
‘I’m sorry if I interrupted you.’
‘No, not at all.’ Her voice, mellifluous again as he remembered.
‘I just thought. Well, we never got to know each other properly. I think we got off to a bad start.’
‘Yes. Think we probably did.’
‘Is it okay if sit next to you?’ Curiously, she was on the outside seat.
‘Sure, why not?’
He expected her to shuffle along to the window seat but instead she got up to let him through. But just as he had sat next to her a warning came through the comm. “I’m afraid there is a technical fault with this train.” The strangely metallic male voice, continued: “We will have to stop within a few minutes. Please be assembled at the front two coaches. An arrangement will---” An explosion, not seen but somewhere near. Unimaginably loud. It rocked the train enough that it knocked Torbin violently to the side. His head hit the side glass.
Darkness.
* * *
29
In the bright morning, Roidon surveyed the empty street. The silence was a presence he had never felt before; it was only ever an absence. Not even the faintest breeze against his ears now. Just a gentle internal tinnital buzzing: his brain desperate for input, turning up the volume.
Where were the creatures – the birds, the last surviving pets or their offspring? Silence: an ominous prelude to something threatening, warned this most primitive part of his brain.
No, assured the more reasoned part, they are leaving me be. He imagined being caught in a stand-off between the two major powers: the B’tari not daring to reveal any sign of their existence to the other side whose response even he could not guess at. But he knew the machine entities recognized throughout their hierarchy the historical significance of the galaxy’s foremost biological power.
Time for a walk. Time to move on; not look back. Time to dispense with any notion that he could have a home. Roidon the nomad. Roidon in a world where living creatures no longer belonged. No, it was just here. Something about this town that was forbidding. He no longer wore the encounter suit as it seemed excessive to the point of paranoia, with its array of sensors. Instead he looked like a civilian, wearing clothes taken from the house, near enough the right fit for his fairly average sized frame. In any case, why had the suit not detected anything last night? What could have changed? Better not to settle in one place, to risk being comfortable. He carried a backpack with enough food
and fluid for the rest of the day.
The sky was mostly clear. A warm breeze had now developed, gently swaying the trees. Yet street after street all silent. It reminded him of a post-nuclear landscape once the fallout was gone; the silent killer within the deceptive tranquil beauty. Nuclear devices were a crude method of clearing an area of its population; precision strikes or biochemical weapons could be far more effective without rendering hundreds of miles uninhabitable for millennia. The Kintra were all about precision, wasting nothing, which was why he found no rotting corpses. Did that explain the lack of animals? Maybe pets who could find no discarded food, simply died from starvation. Birds, foxes, rats may have declined but certainly not enough to cause a collapse in the food chain.
A plan? No, not anything specific. All he had sought was to get his life back. To thrive, to get pleasure. Maybe find someone; find a woman. Just live a little. One thing he was not going to do was play the game the B’tari and the machine overlords expected of him. Roidon, they must be thinking, couldn’t possibly even try to eke out a normal life, just settle into obscurity. No, he had to have some grand scheme planned, something to upset the uneasy balance. By whatever orbiting device they were observing him closely, reading his facial expressions, his line of sight, or maybe just some AI with his profile reporting back something that constituted significance.
It was not as if seeing street after street bereft of anyone had come as a surprise. Only that he had what every living person starts off with on a journey. Hope: the one thing that kept you going in the face of futility. But now his future on this course seemed to spread out in nothing but empty streets.
So many vehicles left in driveways. He targeted a wealthy area: the fastest autos. Naturally they all had sophisticated security systems. He had to use a laser tool to get through the side shield, inside flashing red and the owner would be informed of the attempt. Secondary security – DNA and face mapping activation. He lasered through the forward console.
‘Please be aware that you are committing a criminal act,’ the car told him. ‘Continuance of any sabotage will result in the authorities being informed.’
‘Yeah, go right ahead,’ Roidon muttered. Oh for the days when cars had keys, or wires that could be shorted.
Eventually he managed to reroute the optronic relays, bypassing the ident security system. Before his eyes a HUD appeared, and then: ‘Do you wish to state a destination?’
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Just assign me manual control.’ Fortunately even in this day and age people preferred their vehicles to be way below Turing standard; just like servile robots. Still that persisting fear of the non-bio sentient. Roidon allowed himself a brief chuckle.
A control stick extruded from a concealed compartment. It had a top button for upward thrust, a front trigger for forward thrust, which seemed wonderfully archaic. A hundred and eighty degree view appeared. On pressing the climb button the vehicle lurched up with a disappointingly gentle thrust. All moderated for the civilian middle aged male, Roidon mused.
Forward was a bit more exhilarating. Maybe just the suggestion of a thrill when he kept the acceleration going, when buildings and the once endless streets now rushed past in a blur.
To where, then? A place where there are still people.
‘Assistant. Can you give me a thermal overlay? But do not display anything below twenty degrees.’
‘Complying.’ Eventually most military grade tech became so ubiquitous and cheap it was simply included as an afterthought. He couldn’t imagine it ever being needed; most people either wanted a predetermined destination or just go out for leisurely cruise.
‘What is the max radius?’
‘Two hundred kilometres but you will need to climb to eighteen thousand kilometres.’
‘Okay. Also highlight any movement.’
‘Complying.’
At about Mach-4 Roidon passed through various North American states. Even New York gave no indication of life. There he slowed and descended. Skyscrapers were mostly rubble, it looked like the inhabitants had put up something of a fight. He zoomed in. Grass and weeds of many kinds filled in any gaps, reclaiming the land as if human habitation were merely transitional. Only a few heat signatures, which turned out to be surviving automated systems for power supplies, designed literally to be bomb-proof. Not even a rodent. Still. Post-nuclear without the radiation. So not only human minds had been captured and converted but every mind. What if there was no discrimination between species? How arrogant it was to think of this great dividing line separating humans from every other rather than simply a continuum. Machines designed purely to assimilate biological entities, process them in the way of an artificial enzyme – thought to data.
Am I meant to feel such despair? Give in to loneliness and succumb to one side or the other?
No. there had to be survivors. For all his doubts about people’s ability. There were simply too many. Cooperation and collective thinking had to devise some means of escape. Or was that merely wishful thinking? What he really needed was a woman; the urge never stronger perhaps here where there were none – the classic psychology of denial. Maybe that is what will break me eventually.
He headed south.
At full altitude he passed over Nevada. Finally a thermal reading came up positive. At first he wondered if it was just the general heat confusing the readings. Slowed, descended. In the desert region, something, someone, had entered a building. He knew this area, it was the site of a pseudo-religious cult, a masquerade for a resistance movement against the Elusivers. A bunker of sorts. Roidon tried not to see any significance in what may be a random coincidence.
Roidon knew that he was reckless; logic suggested he should not just head towards whoever it was with no stealth. Perhaps having survived this long fostered a false sense of confidence. But trying to hide and failing would be worse. Surely that’s what the Kintra expected.
He landed the vehicle about two kilometres from the building. There were no hills, no other buildings or anything to provide concealment. So he walked in the baking desert wondering if it really would have made any difference if he’d just landed right outside; at least he could attempt a hasty escape.
That must be the very same building: a simple compound. He was certainly sensing a trap here. He got close. Only one small window. Something was moving inside. The glass was so dirty he could barely make out the moving figure. But when it turned to face him, rather than move away from sight he became fixed to the spot. Unmistakable.
It was himself!
Part Four: Perfect Copies
30
Roidon had been tracked to the last known location in the Nevada desert. Zoraina, in the B’tari control centre, had become increasingly restless sitting before a monitor. Her orders were strict: do not pursue unless subject’s life is clearly in danger. And even though the very possibility she might go to his aid was itself a concession, she had considered disobeying the conditional order ... until her commander’s image appeared, as if he had somehow sensed her intent.
‘Zoraina,’ he said, ‘We received a report of a crashed vessel containing Torbin Lyndau. We believe it was shot down as part of reprisals after a successful mission. There are likely to be more offensives so we have initialized a security lock-down. Torbin has been recovered. We have his mind-state in storage, running in a virtuality program. But there is a problem. Your assistance is required.’
Damn. It had to be Torbin, she thought. Tribulation Torbin bringing the wrath of the machines upon us. Sent on a mission that was bound to have repercussions.
She made for her vessel through the tunnel to the hanger, feeling monitored not just by her own kind. That’s what the Machines did; regardless of security, you knew they would find a way through it. Every b’tari she encountered seemed to have a nervous edge about them these days; some tried to hide it, but something in the cadence of their speech betrayed a fearfulness. Understandable. And she wondered if that’s how the Machine overlords wanted it: fe
ar of a thing that can never be dissuaded from its intention, with a proven record of indomitability.
She set off towards the moon. The Earth shrank away at a giddying rate; without inertial countering she would probably have been killed from a brain haemorrhage. Her craft had the usual stealth tech, invisible to EM, thermal and sonic trackers or any radar systems, and even to the humans’ eye. No reassurance now. It just felt you could only do whatever the Machine overseers allowed you to get away with, and that the B’tari hierarchy – Central Council in particular – refused to accept they were no longer supreme in strategy, or perhaps even in wisdom. This new strategy seemed to make use of the worst elements of Temporal Directive: minimal involvement; using proxies to do the dirty work with only a bare minimum of instructions, only to have to clear up the mess subsequently; and plans that were way to slow to adapt to the rapidly changing situation. Maybe if they hadn’t let organic Roidon escape their outcome would be much improved. He’d be here with a more pro-active strategy instead of roaming about in his typical loose cannon way.
The two kilometre area of cratered moon rock before her didn’t actually exist; it was a merely a holographic projection hiding the base, suspicious though it may have seemed if anyone observed her craft suddenly disappearing.
The lab was typically both austere and meticulous: light grey workbenches suspended holoscreen monitors covering every aspect of the recovered mind-states, all under efficient white lighting. On one long workbench Zoraina observed what she recognized to be the frontal body sections of three arachnids, hooked up to various sensors, their neural nets writ large on the monitors as fluctuating graphs streamed with data to the side – the meaninglessly recursive subroutines of something that doesn’t know how to respond to its environment.