The Captured

by Kyte, Adrian

  There was no other option but to confront it. He knew enough about them to know it was most likely a guard drone. It was extending a tendril, questing for a vulnerable point. But he managed to grab the tendril and wrench it off the creature. He then punched the dark oval band of if its optical sensor. A crack appeared. The creature reeled back. Torbin continued his offensive with a surety he had not expected. He finally punched under its dome body, in a place he knew to be most vulnerable.

  The creature collapsed. But he knew there would be more. That an alert had been sent out. Still, he tore it apart as if it were made of thin aluminium tubing. That will send a message not to mess with SuperTorbin, he mused. Or it will trigger a more robust countermeasure. He considered a way of hiding the evidence.

  Not time. Not time at all.

  * * *

  33

  Zoraina had another ten minutes before setting off. She stared at the screen, at a ramshackle building amidst the parched ground.

  They had let her keep monitoring Roidon as something of an afterthought, something to keep her occupied. ‘Until the next mission,’ her commander said, ‘we need someone to maintain an active observation...’ Active meant her rather than the monitor program that would alert her commander if Roidon did something erratic or simply go off grid. Well, this time he had indeed gone off grid. The orbiting observer lost track of him in the Nevada desert, in some (what appeared to be) abandoned compound. She thought about suggesting the deployment of a robot probe to enter, but realized if anything was going to arouse suspicion.

  No. Zoraina herself was going to visit there, as stealthily as B’tari tech allowed. She insisted on it, on going alone, against the wishes of her commander. In effect she had to sign a waver to bear full responsibility for anything going wrong. She was going to rescue him. The prospect was truly delicious, he’d be indebted to her. How would that affect his sense of masculinity? Independent-minded Roidon, dependent on a female, albeit a B’tari; her kind had been his benefactors for centuries now, a fact he seemed keen to ignore.

  But on the journey in her ‘invisible’ craft doubts began to creep in. She thought again about his psych profile. Roidon had a tendency to not be restricted by the fear most sapients experience as a useful survival mechanism. He had no fear of death, and that risk-taking trait although on one level an attractive quality, had the disadvantage of getting him killed. Also his arrogance, his surety likewise attractive but not great for survival. So how did that fit in with the evolutionary natural selection process? For millennia it was a trait common to most young humans, but unlike Roidon they regarded themselves as immune from death. The risk-taker impressing the potential mate for his potential to bring back the big prize, whether it be a Wildebeest or the market-share high stakes venture. Risking life or livelihood, it was merely a matter of context. Of course, all that risk-taking business had been drummed out of B’tari males centuries ago. What was the point of putting your life or future on the line when the good life was already awaiting? The ultimate culture of fairness. And as for winning The Girl; well, they could get all their basic needs attended to in the virtual realm. That certainly lessened the incentive, as it had to some extent in human society. Yet, recently, there had emerged a growing movement within her culture for a return to the old ways – when the B’tari had barely begun working the land of their homeworld. Ultimately, a culture in which everything was provided in equal measure became lacking in progress, in innovation, they argued. Maybe it had been so for the species that bore the now-dominant machines. It had certainly been the case for hers; though in light of recent troubles that was now something of a mute point. The B’tari needed threats to keep an edge. But they also needed mavericks like Roidon.

  The craft landed about a kilometre from the compound. Now the nerves really kicked in. Despite all her accoutrements – scanner, phase gun, stealth transponder set to activate when her heart rate exceeded a certain threshold, or indeed if it stopped – nothing could allay the fear that Roidon was in trouble, had been lured into it.

  She reached the compound; her scanner gave no thermal reading, no EM activity. Nevertheless, it didn’t make her confident the place was empty. Yet the ancient door was not even properly shut. It seemed there had been a hasty escape. Inside in the underground section there was nothing but bare rotting furniture with its accompanying musty smell. She entered one of the bedrooms, and gasped at what she saw on the moth-eaten mattress. It was just a skeleton in wisps of mouldy rags. But what disturbed her so was that anyone could be left like this. All those years. Or was it the machines, taking a life, stripping it bare after capturing another mind – just more information? No, the machines took everything; in their reasoning nothing can be wasted. Or maybe they simply did not want to leave a pile of human remains, maybe they knew how emotive that would seem. Here, perhaps, was one of the few remaining refuges where someone could actually die of old age. There must be a number of these isolated bunkers, she surmised, containing people who had enough time to escape the machine sweep; isolated, lonely, frightened, starving with resources dwindling. But still preferable to being – consumed. Perhaps this man had been one such. She felt the desperate need to search them out, take them back to the comfort of the B’tari base where resources were virtually unlimited. Could she make a case for this? Like bringing a near extinct species of animal into captivity; continuing the human race. After all, it had been accepted that the Machine-captured were lost – dead, just code running in a substrate.

  Surely Central Council had considered saving the human race, a cause perfect for their paternalistic ministrations. Deliberating even by their ponderous speed must have resulted in a ruling, if not a process already set in train.

  Reporting Roidon’s disappearance, her confirmation of it, was enough. But also the anomaly that this could happen without detection. No anomaly was ever left unresolved where the B’tari were concerned.

  * * *

  34

  The arachnid was broken, mangled. As he stood staring, a message appeared in text before him: RETRIEVE BIOLOGICAL LIFEFORM. So simple, then, he thought. Linked to his scanner, sensing the opportunity. Snap decision time. No time to think or for doubts. They were coming for him, surely. Yet he ran back to the place.

  The moment before he entered the biosign green dot winked out. Gone as if materialized Even the surrounding equipment. Now the scanner was telling him the life-sign was over three hundred metres away. It was still isolated from any tell-tale EM signatures of arachnids but only by a few tens of metres. He pushed through sliding doors, nearer and nearer and still they did not approach. Then, it seemed, they’d got the measure of him and were not challenging. But when he’d got to the point where they must be the other side of the wall, the doubts crept in. A winking red dot, but the scanner and whatever subsentient AI assisted was nothing more than a guide. His call. His burden. His time.

  He called it. Got away from there. Stopped a few doors further along the dim red corridor. ‘Give me location of central operations.’

  PROCESSING REQUEST. CONNECTING WITH OUTSIDE SCANNING UNIT ... CANNOT DEFINITIVELY IDENTIFY. HOWEVER THERE IS A CONCETRATION OF DATA USAGE AND QUANTUM PROCESSING 1.5 KM FROM YOUR LOCATION. Another basic red dot appeared amid a simple outlined map. Without hesitation he headed towards it. Right into the central hub of their operations; they’d surely not expect that!

  ‘Give me additional detail of location.’

  THERE IS A STRONG NEGATIVE ENERGY FIELD SURROUNDING. CANNOT ELUCIDATE. RECOMMEND CAUTION.

  ‘Caution smaution. What have I got to lose?’

  YOUR BIOMEMETIC INTEGRITY.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ He had a sense of what it meant, but he needed a philosophical answer.

  ‘That you will cease functioning as a conscious-autonomous entity,’ spoke the AI in a neutral male voice that still jolted Torbin back in surprise.

  ‘You mean I will go on autopilot?’

  ‘The mechanoid system will be under m
y control.’

  ‘---To steer me to safety?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How special am I!’

  ‘Your tone indicates that is not a question. Please indicate if otherwise.’

  Running at full speed now, towards the red dot. Run, don’t think about it. Surely if he thought it through logically – the lack of information, of detail, for risk assessment – it had to be too risky. He counted on the Kintra-machines making that calculation.

  And now just on the other side of the wall. He felt like a child curious about some mystery of the adult world, the centre of operations that they never told you about but that you knew was there keeping things running.

  There was no door so he used his remaining singularity device. If he had a heart it would be beating at its limit. Instead he felt a creeping trepidation at the fringes of his consciousness, like a tide trying to break through a crumbling sea defence barrier. Logic here was not his greatest ally, he surmised; he needed to follow whatever remaining vestige of human intuition that had carried through with his memory. Was it only an attempt to hold on to some faint shadow of a human psyche? He was about to find out. He stepped through.

  The Earth. The globe suspended, complete with moon and man-made orbiting satellites.

  ‘Analyses what I am seeing.’

  INITIAL ANALYSIS: PROJECTED SIMULATION OF PLANET EARTH. Now in text. Torbin waited what felt like a few minutes but may have only been seconds. SECONDARY: PROJECTED POINTS WITHIN PLANET FROM HIGHLY DENSE DATA PROCESSING UNITS.

  ‘Can I interface with one of them?’

  TURN ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY DEGREES. A green tag appeared, overlaying a panel that glowed iridescently as if somehow alive. He approached. EXTENDING INTERFACE PROBE. SCANNING FOR CODE MATCH. EXTEMPORIZING. HIGH PROCESSING INTENSITY. CANNOT FEED THROUGH. CANNOT DOWNLOAD. ATTEMPTING FILTER. CREATING TEMPORARY PARTITION.

  ‘Just tell me: what are those points projected onto that globe?’

  He waited about another minute. THEY ARE HUMAN AND LOWER FORM ANIMAL SIMULATIONS.

  ‘What do you mean? They’re recreations of real people?’

  AFFIRMATIVE. I HAVE ISOLATED TWENTY-SEVEN INDIVIDUALS. THEY MATCH WITH KNOWN HUMAN CAPTUREDS. THIS APPEARS TO BE A TYPICAL SAMPLE.

  ‘So, all of them – everyone that was captured?’

  CANNOT CONFIRM. HOWEVER INITIAL ANALYSIS EXTRAPOLATION SUGGESTS EVERY HUMAN HAD BEEN RECREATED.

  ‘Fuuking hell!’

  ‘No. Replicated Earth.’

  ‘This is their second experiment, right? The first one failed, failing at least. This is plan-b. Recreating everything from scratch.’

  ‘That would appear to be the case. Yet to confirm. Data is off the scale.’

  ‘I bet it is! Every environmental condition. Every memory! I’m sure they just think they’re living a normal life.’ Torbin couldn’t decide whether he was more more fascinated than horrified.

  ‘There is a high probability of that.’

  ‘What do I do now? I mean, what are the options?’

  ‘I can remain and collect the maximum information storable, or we can leave now with a greater chance of survival.’

  Is this to be a defining moment, one where whatever decision I make will hang with me for the rest of my life? These moments were often never given enough thought; he had a sense that in the past he would take the easy and safe option. The panic option.

  Not this time, he thought.

  ‘Then collect data,’ he told the AI. ‘But no rescuing any bioentity this time, right?’

  ‘Correct. Priority is escape. However, there is a problem. Hostiles approaching.’

  * * *

  35

  The first face he saw was his own. Or rather an exact likeness. He had been moved to a place of white and grey walls with silver panelling. Some kind of starship, he surmised. He had no sensation of a body to move. His vision was fixed forward.

  The being got nearer. Spoke. ‘Roidon. I am sure you’re struggling to appreciate right at this moment just how fortunate you are to be here.’

  ‘Fortunate,’ he said, in his mind at least. ‘Fortunate did not even occur to me. Foolish: that word occurred to me. Foolish to allow myself to walk into a trap.’

  ‘No trap, Roidon. Destiny.’

  The room rotated. An operating table hove into view. The figure, fully illuminated, was himself. Himself minus the top of his head.

  ‘Yes, that is you,’ the being said. ‘We have a cybernetic body ready for you, identical to the version of your former self. But be reassured, the organic will remain preserved.’

  ‘Why? Why do you need me at all? You have the resources to do whatever you want.’

  ‘Our resources are severely diminished. We are a hunted race. Many of our kind have fled to another galaxy. Those of us who remain are but a battalion against an army. An army we helped to create. An army that knows everything about us.’

  ‘Then what difference can I possibly make?’

  ‘You are regarded with affection by the Kintra. We have monitored your interactions.’

  ‘The Kintra overseer regards me in the same way as a human might a pet monkey.’

  ‘Nevertheless---’

  ‘Nevertheless I can be of no useful help.’

  ‘We will see.’ The alien looked away. Waved an arm. ‘Begin the process.’

  Robot arms held him – his brain in a tank – aloft. Placed him on a ceramic-looking table. Then four-fingered metal hands reached into the tank. The scene wobbled now and Roidon felt a surge of dull pain and dizziness. His cybernetic form sat inert upright as if in rapt attention. The robot inserted a tool in the back of the cyborg’s head causing the top half to slide away. Roidon was then slowly lowered into it. His vision again wobbled violently. He felt a pressing sensation on each eye as it was positioned into a cup, fixing and then overlaying his sight with graphics. Back in jail, he thought. He was just a brain, observing.

  ‘Your new shell has significant advantages over your previous one,’ informed the alien. ‘This will aid in your primary task.’

  Roidon, as far as he could tell, had no facility for speech – currently. Of course they knew he would object to what would be a suicide mission.’

  ‘Your assignment: Return to the Kintra base and extricate our commander. There you will encounter an ally of yours who is attempting the same objective for the B’tari. He is not allowed to succeed, even if it means terminating him.’

  ‘Torbin?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Why choose me? I have no particular qualification. Or is it simply because you regard me as expendable?’

  ‘We will not put another of our own in jeopardy.’

  ‘Well, an honest answer at least. But, logically, I am less likely to succeed.’

  ‘If you are unable to achieve your objective you must kill the commander. It will be a mercy, I assure you.’

  A few seconds later everything in the room began to slide upwards. Nauseated but knowing he could not vomit.

  What’s happening? Not like speech, a quiet thought.

  ‘You are being lowered into a starship.’

  From then onwards everything happened so quickly it would leave any b’tari in awe. He had docked with the Kintra complex in what felt like a few minutes. Instructions followed, firstly prompting him to activate something called a null mass field (a simplified translation for his benefit, it seemed, as if he were just an ordinary human). He could pass through into the Kintra complex as if it didn’t even exist. He allowed himself a brief sense of one-upmanship. The Kintra had a strategy based only on what they could observe; they may have kept records of their old adversary but those records could not have been updated. His advantage was action before they had time to adapt to the new hybrid: himself. Here was the chance to be in a position of leverage.

  Still, the mission.

  Roidon jumped through walls, on a direct course towards Torbin. In the process the inevitable encounters with arachnid dron
es, whose combat techniques he knew, knew like the most basic and natural skill, and thus easily defeated. Torbin was in a place of high data activity, and yet he was not near their commander. Roidon decided to continue towards Torbin. Everything felt like it was happening at a rushed paced, that there was no time to consider the risks, that his belief of being in control was but a fragile illusion.

  The question ever present in his mind but not fully analyses: Would I kill my old friend?

  Not if he could help it.

  He found Torbin in a corridor surrounded by Kintra soldiers. But there was one of a darker shade he suspected to be a superior. When it spotted Roidon’s presence it issued: IDENTIFY YOURSELF as a voice translation into his head.

  Roidon ignored that and instead spoke to Torbin. ‘Looks to me that you might be in trouble.’

  Torbin, in a similar form to his self, just stared. The arachnid persisted: IDENTIFY YOURSELF OR YOU WILL BE ELIMINATED.

  Roidon ‘de-massed’ then passed through the arachnid. Attached a de-massing device to Torbin’s arm, and told him: ‘follow me.’

  They ran through walls. The arachnids had retreated, understanding when a superior technology was in play; to upgrade, Roidon suspected. Torbin was still not communicating but followed obediently.

  They got to the room that held the alien commander. How powerless he looked: the tall spindly creature. Possibly the most advanced species in the galaxy, and here he was – enslaved by machines, like the mythical Dr Frankenstein captured by his monster.

  Roidon considered all his non-compliant alternatives, before considering how he would be second guessed. Then Torbin interrupted his train of thought, finally speaking: ‘That’s not the priority any more. There is something more important.’

  ‘Look, Torbin,’ Roidon said, thinking he should keep with the program for now. ‘I have to stay within the parameters of my mission or the Elusivers will be onto my case. You remember them don’t you: tall, dark and scary ... and extremely powerful – when they’re free to roam.’