by Kyte, Adrian
‘I am. I so am!’
That brought a smile to the doctor. He was rather handsome, in a baseline B’tari way.
‘You will need to rest,’ he told her, in his doctorly way.
‘I have too much to do,’ she insisted. ‘I must speak to the commander. It is rather urgent.’
‘Something you discovered in the sim?’
‘Yes. Something very frightening.’
* * *
53
When it woke him it seemed no time had passed. At least, he would always tell himself, there could simply be no memories strong enough to form – or to activate his hippocampus – and so his mind logically concluded (on surface impression) that nothing had been experienced.
Now a siren wailed, telling him another ship had been detected in the area. It came on visual. Its elaborate configuration – all tapering toruses, like the folly spires of a rich man’s home but on its side – told Roidon this was not a Kintra vessel but that of an Elusiver.
Roidon considered his options, as limited as they were. The Elusiver craft had discovered him, probably observing him for some while. Realistically, he would never make it to Earth in this ship.
So he ordered his ship to move in closer. Within a few kilometres he could be destroyed in an instant, and no one would miss him. Yet he suspected that wouldn’t happen, that he could still be of use to them, if only as a decoy. They at least shared the same ultimate objective.
He told his ship to put out a hailing signal. The Elusiver craft did not respond. He kept getting nearer. Then: a shot, a shudder, a flicker of lights. Status report: Engines disabled. There was nothing Roidon could do now. He waited for the inevitable.
The inevitable happened. The creature materialised before him, tall dark and spindly limbs. And there was no need for words; Roidon understood the dynamics: he would submit.
In an instant he was in the Elusivers’ ship, on some kind of reclined back metal chair, faced with an array of coloured lights. His own HUD was telling him just about every external system was off line. And indeed he had no motor control. Just a brain again.
The Elusiver stood before him, imperiously turning its head. Perhaps the only time he had seen one of these creatures in their true form was when he rescued one from the clutches of the Kintra machines. And he knew that in doing so he had probably ensured his continued existence.
‘Roidon. Do you believe you have a purpose?’ it said in its whispery tones.
‘I’ve always sought out a purpose.’ He realized he hadn’t actually said the words, it was more like a thought projected.
‘Then your purpose is to assist us.’
‘Well, I do believe we have a common objective.’
A holographic display appeared, a large aspect of the local solar systems. Red dots represented the Kintra incursions on planets; one was Earth – completely in red. The display zoomed out to show about a quarter of the galaxy, and again more planets dotted in red. Then it moved on to the near sector, which included the B’tari outpost. Clusters of red dots were around observation probes used as a lookout.
‘The probes cannot see any more. The Kintra machines are invisible to them and to all the surrounding planets. These worlds will be taken over within days.’
‘Then it’s too late.’
‘The Kintra machines believe that. They also believe our species to be an irrelevance.’
‘Then they become complacent. Is that it – a false sense of accomplishment?’
‘They are essentially lazy. They will only expend the minimum resources to transform the galaxy to their infrastructure.’
‘So we shouldn’t do anything to disabuse them of that belief.’
‘We cannot be seen to do anything.’
‘Dare I say that you may be underestimating them.’
‘We do not suffer the hubris of humans.’
‘You once believed yourselves to be the most advanced species in the galaxy.’
The creature appeared to sway momentarily as if physically shaken by the implication of Roidon’s comment.
‘We have never formally made such a claim.’
‘No, but that was never necessary. And given your achieved status, you must have some plan.’
‘There is only one outcome that will resolve the crisis. Temporal erasure.’
* * *
54
Torbin was back in the blistering heat of Nevada, trudging across parched and cracked land towards Roidon’s compound. This time he took a bottle of water, drinking then sprinkling over his head as some gesture to offset the oppressive presence of this semi-desert. This time he wore a long sleeve white shirt and light-stone trousers; the unhindered sun relentlessly trying to subdue what exposed skin he presented to it. But it seemed even in this, the hottest place in the developed world, the heat was more than it should have been. His wristband was telling him it was 53 degrees C under the shading of his shirt sleeve.
He’d told his boss he was suffering from the after effects of the accident, an excuse which may not be entirely inaccurate: his memory certainly still seemed to be affected. Could he keep this excuse going for a week? Two weeks, before his job really would be in jeopardy? Then he’d have to make a decision either to commit himself to rebuilding a secure work-life existence – a guaranteed salary that ensured they’d remain in their home And if Emelda really was yearning for more excitement in their relationship she would most likely – surely – not look elsewhere if he could at least reliably provide that security. Maybe she could start that family she had hinted at. Settling down; security – all sounded rather appealing now. Of course she’d claim her own financial independence, but his job had a considerable salary; it meant a comfortable life in a big house, it meant at least two holidays a year. With that no longer guaranteed, he had nothing on the likes of Roidon Chanley: a man he was sure could offer the kind of excitement Emelda would come to realize she deserved. The idea of comfort and financial security would go straight out of the window with Roidon on the scene, despite what Emelda thought she wanted. Well there was one thing she wanted that Roidon could certainly give her. And so, irony of ironies, he was considering working for that man; being an underling, paid just enough to keep him there. It also meant Roidon could have more contact with Emelda, with the excuse – of course – of visiting to discuss a work-related matter. Oh what a happy trio we’d make, he thought bitterly.
At this point he considered turning back, making a return to work. He had stopped, paralyzed by indecision. What if he went back only to discover he really had lost the ability to do his job? Then he’d have nothing, no option. A man debilitated from an accident. Unemployable. Nowadays there was very little in the way of manual work, and anything that had once been done by an artisan could now be achieved with considerably more reliable precision by a robot. That left the more artistic professions, the kind that – by dint of human sensibility, such as interior designers, architects, conceptual and fine artists – who were still preferred by the contractee to be done by a fellow human. Torbin felt himself have no real artistic sensibility, more a man of logical thinking, with perhaps a hint of creativity. But now, something he had once taken for granted seemed fractured. Had he thrown it all away with one act of carelessness?
How fragile our existence is; how foolish we are to assume its permanence. An unbidden thought.
With so much that could be corrected by medical intervention, even damaged brain cells, it seemed his case was an unusually unfortunate one. Maybe he could serve as a reminder to all those who took for granted their unencumbered centuries-long healthy life; perhaps go on lecture tours. No. Of course, no one wants to be told their life is anything less than prosperous. Was prosperous not the byword for this century? It’s what the media was telling everyone; it’s what informed Emelda that she could have even more, even better. Don’t just have hope, have real, realizable plans for an ideal future.
‘There’s no choice,’ Torbin told himself. ‘A special vocation.
’
So he continued the final kilometre to Roidon’s shack. The building shimmered in the heat haze as if floating on water. It looked unreal. He had to push at the door to check its solidity. Roidon opened the door as soon as he did this.
‘Better late than never,’ Roidon commented.
‘Sorry … boss.’
Roidon waved his hand dismissively. ‘No boss here, my friend. We work as a team, in the assignment of our life.’
They descended the stairs in the welcoming coolness. Roidon’s lab buzzed with the activity of heavy processing and analyzing – whatever it was he had no idea. In fact, not for the first time did he feel utterly out of his depth. He had a vague memory of his first day of work in his physics lab, but he remembered no feeling of anxiety or anything like this inadequacy to the task. It seemed like deluded self-confidence now.
‘So what do you have lined up for me today?’ Torbin asked, tentative.
‘I’m going to send you back in time.’ Then a smile formed, as Torbin realized he was not being serious.
‘Well, I aim to be useful.’
Roidon laughed. ‘I always find it good to keep a sense a humour about things, however bleak they my be.’
Bleak? Torbin realized it hadn’t featured in his list of anxieties. Too much to contemplate, on another order of things to worry about. Do I really want to know?
‘The world isn’t as it appears. We are surrounded by a threat you can hardly even begin to imagine.’
‘Well, try me.’
‘Machines, mechanoids – whatever you want to call them – are taking over.’
‘Sounds like something from a sci-fi B-movie.’
‘They want to assimilate all biological life and harvest the information.’
‘As I was saying.’
‘This is serious, now. We have to devise a counter measure.’
‘Why is it down to us? This all seems somewhat below the radar.’
Roidon nodded, acknowledging Torbin’s rationale. ‘The official government response involves sheer brute force, attempting to destroy the machine infrastructure. Hopelessly inadequate.’ He then gestured to the bullet-shaped pod Torbin remembered seeing with the creepy-looking doll inside but this time empty. ‘The temporal erasure field,’ he continued, ‘is within its confinements. We will develop a field strong enough expand to cover the entire planet. It will take us back to before the machines ever gained a hold.’
Torbin now fully believed Roidon to be a megalomaniac. Yes, he had witnessed the doll disappear; it looked like an incredible conjuring trick. But this was beyond the scope of any sane rationale.
‘I don’t think I can help with this assignment,’ he said. ‘There must be someone more qualified.’
‘You don’t believe anything I’ve said, do you?’
‘I’m not sure what to believe any more,’ Torbin admitted.
‘Then go home, go back to your old job. And just pretend everything is fine, just as the leaders want you to believe. But bear this in mind: what I’ve offered to you is employment, a good living salary, not just some hare-brained venture.
Well that’s so magnanimous of you, Torbin didn’t say. Instead: ‘I hope you can find someone else up to the task,’ before walking out.
* * *
55
It came to her while she was sleeping; dreaming about her childhood again, happy and carefree in that warm place.
Zoraina thought this was another dream. The lights of the room failed to activate by thought or verbal command. Only the small red light near the door panel – which indicated there should have been no problem with the room’s power. Meanwhile the creature stood before her, visible only as a tall, spindly shape looming over her bed.
She sat up, not even conscious of her nakedness. The creature got closer and it was then she realized she’d seen it before, the one that warned her about the Machine invasion. An Elusiver. Out to avenge the death of its leader? Anyway, could this even be real? If not a dream then perhaps still another level of the Earth simulation.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ it said, in an androgynous voice. ‘I am not here to harm you.’
‘I don’t even know you’re real,’ she told it.
‘This is no deception. We have been observing you – your base – for some time.’
‘Generally, we do the observing. Why observe us?’ She was aware of how tremulous her voice sounded.
‘They are near. You may believe you are safe, but that is the false sense of security they depend on.’
‘So. You are warning me?’
The creature swayed slightly in a way she recognized ‘Advising you to take the necessary precautions.’
‘Okay.’
‘The Earth simulation: it is running too slowly, the current rate of progress will mean it will be destroyed along with your base before success.’
‘Have you been observing the Earth sim?’
‘Yes. Its time ratio is only three times that of real time. It needs to be increased by at least a factor of five.’
‘Fifteen times real? That’s a lot to ask.’
‘It is the minimum to ask for yours and our survival.’
‘But that is just one avenue of research. The Council have not even given it official sanction.’
‘It is one we cannot pursue, since the Kintra machines are observing our remaining outposts. Any sign of high energy experiments will be detected.’
‘The observers being observed. I understand. There is only the virtual realm now in which to do them. But what about the final technology? That has to be real.’
‘Nanoconstructors can produce much and rapidly enough for a probable chance of success.’
‘How do you know they will ever even create a solution? These are people.’
‘We trust Roidon Chanley to work towards a solution.’
And then the creature was gone, like a projection switched off. In fact, she concluded, that is what it must have been. No alien could penetrate this sanctum. Alternatively she had never even left the sim. Funny how that nagging feeling kept with her – ever since believing she had come out of its immersion only for that world to fall apart; improbably now, in retrospect, in the way some ARs can adjust the parameters of logical perception. But how could she tell that had not happened again? Back, seemingly, in this reality nothing extraordinary had happened before the Elusiver visit. So accepting it had really happened, what could she do?
What she couldn’t do was sleep.
Zoraina got dressed. It was still the middle of the night – de-facto; activities on the station quietened, and there were no conferences or work for most of the inhabitants, only those in security and maintenance, which was fine since none of them had the debilitating problem of sleeping against the UV-stimulated circadian rhythm. Many lights did have a UV component to give the feel of a day, but those night workers had it tailored for them in their local environments.
Now it was her head that felt fuzzy. She requested a coffee, something she had become familiar with on Earth. An acceptable drug.
She recorded a file.
This was the problem she had with Earth-sim: interference. Should she risk a nudge here and there, like she had in her ill-fated interface claiming to act as an intermediary between Torbin and Roidon, or let the program evolve? Strings being pulled at many levels, she mused; the Elusivers were involved by proxy (just as how the B’tari had always been with real Earth) and she was to be their instrument. It would never get approval from the Council, she was sure. Frankly, the council would be too slow to act in this instance.
So within the hour she made it down to the lab, half expecting her access privileges to now be rescinded. Or was it they didn’t consider her enough of a danger except perhaps to herself? Or they weren’t anticipating her to make such an early start? No one to supervise, to monitor. This was ideal!
The Earth sim was still connected to a power cable and basic telemetric monitor. It only told her that power and thermal levels were within acceptable parameters, as with the data processing rate: time running three times that of reality (if indeed this was reality, since she still wasn’t a hundred percent sure).
To boost the processing rate by five times was nothing short of dangerous. It was running via an outboard processing unit – the internal one was simply there as stop-gap for transportation – which had the potential to be clocked at least twenty times higher. So she brought up the maintenance screen, an oldstyle solid VDU within the main console giving an impression of stolid reliability, bellieing the considerable risk. Six, eight, ten, twelve. The power increased concordantly. She imagined the people in the sim rushing about like busy ants, totally unaware of their frenetic pace. On the other hand something could have gone drastically wrong; it was impossible to tell from such basic telemetry. There had already been been a glitch for no obvious reason. When dealing with such complex systems it had to be finely balanced. Still, the warnings were clear; the Elusiver had reached her here and in the virtual realm. Had chosen her, perhaps the only one with access and knowledge and the ability to comprehend just how imminent the threat had become.