The Captured

by Kyte, Adrian

  As the nurse acknowledged his nascent awareness Torbin put the question: ‘How bad was it? It was a serious crash, right?’

  She nodded. ‘I would say so. You’ve been out for two weeks. Had to do some major regeneration.’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised to have survived at all.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Lyndau. We can do wonders these days!’ She smiled broadly.

  ‘Then I can leave?’

  ‘Give it another few days and I’m sure you’ll be ready.’

  ‘Really. What’s the point? None of this is real anyway.’

  ‘Oh dear. That again.’ The nurse sighed. Then she produced a hypofuser, and in an action so quick that Torbin had not a chance to respond she pushed it into his arm.

  The next thing he knew he was in a darkened room but for a spotlight in his eyes. Then a voice. ‘Torbin. Do you remember us?’ The voice had a whispery and metallic quality.

  ‘The Elusivers?’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve been observing.’

  Torbin smiled, grimly. ‘Of course. Even the B’tari have nothing on your ability at observation.’

  ‘We are indebted to you for your part in rescuing our leader, but that does not obviate past actions against our kind. Do you see how wrong and misguided you were?’

  My mind beginning to lecture me? ‘You were about to wipe out all of humankind. Who would’ve bought the argument that you were the lesser of two evils?’

  ‘There is only one path now. Do you understand?’

  ‘What can I possibly do in this sham of reality?’

  ‘Torbin. There is more freedom here than in the real world. Here you can devise a solution without the oversight of the Kintra-machines.’

  ‘Me! What can I do?’

  ‘You and others. Recreate our work.’

  ‘Why not you – as the experts?’

  ‘We cannot exist in this realm. It is forbidden. The program does not allow it.’

  ‘You mean the B’tari won’t.’

  ‘Only registered Earth inhabitants.’

  ‘Fine. But what’s in it for me?’

  ‘A return to a life you had before … before the tragedy.’

  ‘Before Emelda was killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘We can only give you our word. But we can make you an additional offer: the belief that your life is real.’

  Torbin thought about this. If it were possible, could he really be happy? ‘And yet,’ he said, ‘I’ll still know about my – mission?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But you will find out in due course.’

  It would, he thought, be a lie, going against some core part of his being. But how similar to before as a Captured in the virtual realm? A continuation of a contented life that his mind eventually refused to accept. Where was the ongoing struggle, the sense of insecurity? Instead: fear of it all falling apart, then when everything felt safe – a dissatisfaction with his lot, questioning his own happiness. Always something better. Always that one thing that was missing from his life, tantalizingly out of reach. And he’d take that now by whatever means. Take that chance of happiness, however superficial it ended up feeling, if there could be no other guarantees of it in real life.

  ‘OK,’ Torbin finally said. ‘I want to forget any outside world.’

  ‘It shall be done.’

  He stared at the pinewood panelled ceiling pondering the last words: ‘It shall be done.’ What shall be done? Strange dream!

  Then he noticed her at the side of the bed, getting dressed. Emelda in her underwear, slipping on some sports leggings. Oh how he wanted her, right now! His heart pounding furiously, efficiently pushing blood so hard to one area of his body it ached; all the while his throat tight and his breath so irregular he could be hyperventilating. He had to have her. Right now!

  Torbin stumbled out of bed, with that one thought carrying him over towards her. His desire obvious and constricted within his underpants. She was looking down at that area.

  She smiled mischievously. ‘Steady on tiger,’ she said. ‘It’s still early. But I have to go for my run.’

  ‘I want ...’ His throat so tight he could hardly get the words out.

  ‘You want to make love? Or just a quickie, eh. I reckon it will be with you in that state.’

  Was she mocking him? Did she want it to end quickly? Have some control, Torbin.

  He got closer to her.

  ‘A bit of patience, now,’ she told him.

  She began to undress again, but stopped once she’d got back down to her underwear. And Torbin felt like he was going to climax very soon. Perhaps she sensed this. He tried to calm his thoughts. Not look at her body.

  That scent she was wearing. Probably only deodorant but it held memories of pleasure, of joy. Her hair was untidy but that only invited him to run his fingers through it. Her shoulders bare. He considered unfastening her bra but liked the way her breasts were held; her cleavage a tantalizing enticement. This was not the time for foreplay. But he kissed her, and as he felt the gentle press of her lips on his he also felt her hand slide under the elastic of his underpants causing him to shiver with orgasm.

  Afterwards she told him. ‘We can can do it properly tonight. I have to go for my run now.’

  * * *

  41

  The creature, according to the monitor, was conscious. It was laid out on a pivoted operating table in a clinically white room. A tall, spindly thing with large, dark almond eyes. Opened but not seeming to register her presence. She had the urge to touch it – the most advanced biological creature known to the galaxy.

  Another quick report, she decided. End

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘We need your knowledge, your insight. We don’t want to have to extract it. You know what that can do.’

  She looked again at the monitor, called up its sub menus. The Elusiver had to undergo some fairly invasive neurosurgery to remove implants left in place by the Kintra designed to extract not only memories but also any new thoughts. How humiliating for anyone, but for a high commander it must have shamed their entire species. So much so that he seemed to have been abandoned to his fate. Disowned perhaps. What must such despair have felt like? Just existing as a thing to be plundered. But was what the B’tari doing any better? Would the Elusiver be able to see the distinction? It should feel no obligation to talk.

  Zoraina studied the neural output. It was very subdued, consistent with either post-trauma or depression. Depression; that was understandable.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do,’ she offered the creature, not really expecting a response.

  She noticed it twitch now. It said something. Then the words were projected to her, via some hidden translation device. ‘Kill me.’

  Zoraina shuddered. ‘No. That’s not … I’m not allowed.’

  ‘Kill me. Please.’ Neural activity became elevated.

  She was startled upon noticing Roidon beside her. She hadn’t heard him enter the room.

  ‘You look tense,’ he remarked.

  ‘I expect you have a remedy for that.’

  ‘I was
just making an observation.’ He turned to face the creature. ‘I heard what he said. I think we should do as he says after extracting whatever useful knowledge is in that super intelligent head.’

  Zoraina noticed the creature’s neurological readings were becoming increasingly elevated.

  ‘That’s callous even for you, Roidon.’ She was definitely not going to have sex with him now. This was not the man she had, well, thought about.

  ‘It’s logical and also ultimately humane. I mean, what alternative is there? Leave him hooked up to your monitor, keeping him imprisoned here?’ He had probably made a good point but she wasn’t going to concede that.

  ‘We can rehabilitate; find a new accommodation,’ she said.

  Roidon snorted. ‘You make him sound at best like some criminal, or at worst a wild animal. Look, Zoraina, no one could recover from being tethered up to those machines for years. Can you imagine that – years! Who wouldn’t be broken?’

  ‘I want you to leave now, Roidon,’ she told him. ‘Or I’ll call the base commander.’

  He nodded as if to acknowledge an inevitability in her response. ‘The commander is rather busy at present with my impersonator who did try to kill himself. The chief wants to consult with you on this matter. Though I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Neither can I. I’m sure if it is such a pressing matter he can call me directly.’ She knew Roidon would detect her scepticism.

  ‘Very well.’ He walked away briskly. And as soon as he left the room she felt a sense of relief, as though a weight had been lifted.

  She turned to face the recumbent alien. He didn’t have the type of face to hold many expressions and yet he did look profoundly sad. She imagined the gamut of emotions: first the fear of being captured by the unfeeling Machines, then the anger from humiliation, followed by the utter despair, and there must have been such immense loneliness.

  She opened her diary, thinking one day this could be the last account of a civilization

  Before having further time to think, she increased the level of pain suppressor until it nullified all brain activity. The creature even appeared to smile before closing his eyes. She only hoped he would die before the medic had time to react and reach here.

  * * *

  42

  ‘Can you understand what I’m saying?’

  The voice seemed somehow familiar and yet indistinct: male but no discernible accent. A three spotted light shone in his eyes, making him squint to see who was speaking. He couldn’t.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, without even thinking, as if he were no more than a baseline AI.

  ‘Good. Then tell me what information you intended to gather.’

  ‘Information. About what?’

  ‘Our plans.’

  Roidon remembered now, at least he remembered a version of himself. ‘My plan is to help defeat the Kintra machines not spy for them.’

  ‘Not according to your organic counterpart.’

  The explanation suddenly occurred to him. ‘The Elusivers – they used me to rescue their leader and now they’ve hung me out to dry.’

  ‘Why would he lie?’ the interrogator said to some other hidden figure, but his voice sounded different – synthesized, maybe a part of his brain translating from their native language. ‘Is he one of them?’

  ‘What do you think?

  ‘Yes he’s one of them.’

  ‘As far as the tests are concerned he is Roidon Chanley.’

  ‘You mean the ones you are allowed to run without causing damage.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Who is Roidon Chanley anyway but a recreation of an artificial sentient intelligence?’

  ‘Then your assertion can never be proved.’

  ‘Neither can yours.’

  ‘Then we are at a stalemate.’

  ‘Look. The machines don’t need to spy. Neither do the Elusivers for that matter. But they do want to run the show.’

  ‘Show?’

  ‘Huh. B’tari literalism. I mean take control of elements, factions, resources that can be useful in their fight.’

  ‘Isn’t that what we do?’

  ‘Not by force.’

  ‘Just subtle manipulation.’

  ‘Does that include this scenario?’

  ‘I will consult my commander.’

  The light then went off. No sound of his interrogator retreating or leaving the room. Just silence. And knowing the logic that his case would at best be reviewed by the Council; at worst he’d be considered irrelevant and his circumstance would remain unchanged. In frustration he tried to move. But there was nothing in response.

  So here it is: nothingness, the absence of every external presence, every reminder of being alive. Was this how it felt to be lonely? For all his years, and for all his philosophical enquiry, Roidon had never stopped to consider what loneliness meant; it was an irrelevance. Never allowed himself to be isolated beyond his control, at least not in such a total and hopeless way. Sensory deprivation was surely tantamount to torture. Could they do this; leave him without anything? That was not the B’tari he knew.

  And then, the brutal possibility occurred to him. His new captors were not the B’tari after all. What would it take for the Elusivers to gain control of this base? They were not the power that once dominated the galaxy, but they retained the knowledge and were operating effectively under the noses of the Kintra. It made sense that, in their diminished state, they would appropriate the technology of the B’tari and then operate a more aggressive approach not bound by some irrelevant directive. They were the masters of stealth and may still take on the guise of the B’tari, all the while having access to every resource that was previously kept bound within strict regulations. It wasn’t that he ever even approved of the B’taris’ cautious approach, or would object to the Elusiver strategy. He had no real allegiances that went beyond convenient self interest; an honest admission, where others deluded themselves with some notion of something greater. Altruism: the greatest deceiver. He just wanted to be free. Free and irrelevant, rather than being bound by responsibility. Could anyone see that? Or did they only see Roidon, the man whose reputation precedes him; from whom so much is expected. How good not to matter, to not have an impact on anyone’s life. He reflected on his previous life where he’d witnessed the utopia of the artificial realm, a system that ultimately broke down because the percipients could only be fed their lie of good fortune up to a point where it no longer became credible to even a psychotropically induced mind. And so it seemed to be happening again in the captured virtual environ. Only now he would gladly go back in there, subject himself to whatever labotomisation it took to truly believe in the simple good life.

 
; * * *

  43

  Monday morning. Torbin didn’t want to go to work. In his dozy but aroused state he wanted stay with Emelda, hoped that she would wake and be receptive to his needs. Last night once again she had been too tired; and he didn’t want to force the issue, although she had refused him a number of times this week, promising it would happen the following night before rolling over and going to sleep.

  So today, what was he doing? Oh yes, something involving the Zychrotron. Beyond that, it all seemed a bit vague, oddly.

  In the lab, in his office, Torbin’s console activated as he sat at his desk, ready and insistent with its projected screen layers. A welter of data to sift through, despite how the computer filtered for priority. He wondered why he even needed to do that kind of processing rather than the system itself. He had a vague notion it was only for the chance of moving things to the next stage that still required the fuzzy thinking of a human.

  Now something caught his eye, a screen layer flashing in red. He plucked it from the air. A MESSAGE FROM ROIDON CHANLEY. I AM FROM A SECRET ORGANISATION KNOWN AS ESDA. WE DEAL WITH THE SECURITY OF PLANET EARTH. WE WORK WITH THE BEST EXPONENTS IN ANY FIELD, MILITARY OR CIVIL. WE ARE IN URGENT NEED OF A SOLUTION TO A GRAVE THREAT TO THIS PLANET, AND HAVE ALREADY RECRUITED TECHNICAL EXPERTS BUT NOW REQUIRE AN EXPERIMENTALIST PHYSICIST. PAYMENT FOR ASSISTANCE WILL BE CONSIDERABLE. PLEASE INDICATE YES IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN THIS ROLE. FUTHER DETAIL WILL FOLLOW UPON REPLY. HOWEVER, THIS MESSAGE WILL BE DELETED.

  Torbin sat there, wondering what possible threat there could be, and how could he commit himself to something about which he knew nothing, or for which he felt barely qualified. Still, he didn’t think for long, suddenly acutely aware that someone could peer into his office and see the message.

  ‘Yes,’ he mouthed.

  The message disappeared. Then another telling him that a location had been downloaded into his personal device.

  Today, in three hours. Turning back to his screen, there were only work-related matters. But the meaning of them somehow eluded him, there were graphs and lists of calculations without context. Vaguely he had an idea of the parameters of his research; now just data. The thought struck him in a cold rush like the sudden ingestion of ice-cream: I don’t belong here. I can’t stay.