by Kyte, Adrian
Roidon smiled broadly, and Torbin had a curious sense of him being that reassuring older brother he’d never known, even though the other man looked over a decade younger.
‘You’re just having a crisis, Torbin. It may take a while to adjust. However, we simply do not have long. How much time, I do not know. But we can’t waste any on your acclimatization’
The image appeared in his mind. Emelda – quite vivid now – her wild red hair and curvaceous body, as if she were in the room with him.
‘Is she real?’ he said, still thinking of her.
‘Emelda? She’s as real as you want her to be.’
‘No, I mean in real life.’
Roidon looked down. It seemed like a rare and uncomfortable moment for such a self-assured man.
He looked up finally, solemnly. ‘I’m afraid to tell you she’s dead. It was many years ago. You could say it was another lifetime. You did get over her, Torbin. But it took many years.’
‘And we don’t have many years, right? So I should just move on.’
‘I wouldn’t have put it so brutally. But you are absolutely right.’
Torbin nodded. ‘We work towards a controlled temporal erasure. I get the feeling I have worked on something like this before.’
‘Oh you have, Torbin. Welcome back to your true vocation.’
* * *
58
It was too easy. The Elusivers ship exploded into a trillion pieces. They had put up no defence or even attempted to hail him. Roidon even began to wonder if somehow he was being fooled into thinking he had destroyed them, that this was some illusion designed to make him drop his guard. His ship, at least, was telling him the craft no longer existed, that what remained – in the burning dust cloud he saw before him – were base elements.
Sure, he had acted swiftly; a moment of hesitation seeming fatal. Nevertheless these were regarded by many as the most advanced species in the galaxy; too some they were gods.
Obliterated, so easily? No, they had to have survived somehow and be standing by to reek their revenge. One more reason for his own elimination. Still, if the Kintra were good to their word (and there was no reason to believe they would be, but really he had no other option than to give them the benefit of the doubt) he could return to Earth.
On his instruction the ship went back into hyperspace, and Roidon allowed himself a mote of satisfaction.
Earth seen from the distance of high orbit looked unchanged on its dayside. Perhaps less grey of the artificial constructions of pre-capture times. By now the materials from them had been reused by the Kintra for their own propagation. One thing you could genuinely say about the machines is that they wasted nothing. He chuckled to himself at the thought of all those environmentalists who envisioned a future idyll: no waste, no pollution, no overpopulation. No compromise. In that sense the Kintra were the ultimate environmentalists. Yet – thinking how bad the biosphere had been tainted pre-twenty-second century – Earth had made great strides in the last few centuries. The most noticeable difference was on the night side. Lighting had become so efficient and focused that you didn’t see the clusters and speckles of light, but there would still be a pink or orange glow to the cities. Now total darkness. And even radio communications – although similarly only a fraction of leaking signals from the heights of the late twentieth century – was now non-existent. It made him hesitate, mull over what opportunities there could be remaining for him when the only form of sentient life was below ground.
But there was another reason to hesitate. What would be the one place the Elusivers knew he’d be drawn to? He’d also be under the gaze of the Kintra, and bait for the Elusivers. A trap within a trap. Who’d be calling whose bluff? And was it even desirable that more Elusivers were targeted? He decided not. He refused to take sides. He would be a mercenary for whoever made the best offer. A basic kind of survival he would once think not worthy of him. Maybe some of his ego had been chipped away. Or maybe, he reflected, when the reality on the ground has shifted so dramatically, when opportunities are scarce, you accept anything that enables survival.
Right now he was free, in a ship of considerable luxury. As far he knew it had the capability of taking him to almost any part of the galaxy if not beyond. Thoughts of noble intent were sidelined; he imagined himself like the young man who’d got the gift of a sports car from his indulgent parents, the ultimate status symbol he was going to use to his own gratifying advantage. Just maybe someday he would return to Earth, perhaps help repopulate it. Right now the universe was his oyster.
He requested a list of reachable worlds with surface intelligent life, and carefully considered his choice.
* * *
59
At first she didn’t accept the reality of it. Could it be a simulation? A dream? Was she even alive and not herself a simulacrum of an uploaded mind?
When the commander entered the medroom, Zoraina sat up in bed. He gave a brief smile of acknowledgement. From him it was the warmest reaction she could hope for. He said, ‘They tell me you’re having trouble accepting we really are under attack.’
‘Commander, I knew this day would come. But so soon?’ She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, was afraid to ask.
‘Do you know what date it is?’
‘I don’t,’ she admitted. And braced herself.
‘B’tar standard 214/6, which means you’ve been out for seventy-three hours.’ He then nodded in acknowledgement of her shock. ‘You nearly died, Zoraina. You looked like a frozen corpse. The doc said you essentially were dead for a while. What were you thinking?’
What was she thinking then? Sacrifice herself for the sake of … the galaxy? Yes, that grandiose reason suited quite nicely. However: ‘I had to preserve the functioning---’
‘Yes, I know the purpose for freezing the room. But you could have taken more care.’
‘Why---’
‘Why does it matter? It matters because you are a valuable member of our team.’
She hadn’t thought of herself as that any longer. Had it been a test of their commitment to her? Not consciously. But then so much we do is below the surface of the rational – sensible – mind as much as we like to think otherwise. Yes, take it to the limit, and if we fail the test then it’s over anyway. Was that so different from attempting suicide?
‘Commander, I appreciate your confidence in me,’ she said at last.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.’ Then he broke into a mild laugh, and she felt herself smiling.
‘So how bad is our predicament?’ It was not even the question foremost in her mind but it was the appropriate one to ask.
‘Worse than it needed to be, had we actually spotted the emplacements. This is a total forucup.’ (B’tari expletive with no direct translation). ‘If we survive this the Council will decide my fate. Anyway, more important considerations.’
Zoraina got up off the bed. There were probes attached to her head and her body; she even was still in a hospital gown. It seemed these flimsy garments were primarily designed to make one feel vulnerable. She demanded to be released.
The commander rushed out at the first sign of the doctor appearing; all medical fussing nonsense to him that a droid could perfectly well do. Zoraina was allowed to get dressed. She hoped then she’d feel more like her old self, but instead there was something not right, an insecurity. No, a lost security, a lost self-confidence, despite the encouraging words from the commander. She had the memory of self-assurance, wrapped up in places, in situations with hopes of success more than fear of failure. Only that seemed delusional now, a blinkered forging ahead with some plan or other. Then the failures happened, the last of which had nearly killed her. And now what could she possibly do against the Machines?
Of course the high command were sending their reinforcements from the B’tari homeworld, most likely to arrive within twenty-four hours. By then there may not even be a base left, just dust whilst all its inhabitants had been captured with their knowled
ge incorporated into the totality of Machine knowledge.
First priority: return to the Earth sim.
But the lab was in shutdown like so many essential areas. Her ident was no longer accepted. So she banged on the frosted glass door. Eventually someone did answer, a young scientist. Zoraina could hear in the background someone – most likely the chief scientist – shouting that no one was to be allowed in. However, the young female recognized Zoraina. She said, ‘I know why you’re here. But you must also appreciate why the Earth sim is off limits.’
‘I just need to know it is running okay.’
‘It’s fine,’ the scientist nodded.
‘I need to see that for myself. Please.’
‘Very well. But I could get into trouble for letting you in.’
It was as the scientist assured her, still functioning in the freezing cold room at fifteen times speed. What readings she could glean from the monitor display told her that no program glitches had occurred: a stream of data tagged on to a line running along an x y axis. In spite of the cold she felt the warm reassurance that at least one thing in her life was running as it should be.
The chief scientist walked in, and Zoraina expected a barrage of disapproval but instead he seemed to acknowledge her commitment. He said, ‘We will take great care of the sim until the very last moment. All our lives are in danger now. There is no need for you to stay here. I’ll be here to the end. After all, this my lab – I built it up to become the pride of the B’tari diaspora. The Council would expect me to stay here and defend it even if that means dying in the process.’
Zoraina nodded at what seemed like a prepared statement. She trusted the people here, not least him. She could leave; there was nothing more she could do. And then?
Fight to the death.
* * *
60
Still he went back, knowing none of it was real. Stood outside his beautiful house – his special cabin, his love nest. She would be in there, he knew.
A breeze had picked up, he noticed. A cloud scudded across the sun, flowers and grass swayed with increasing violence. Why? Was it meant to signify something – an ominous sign? After all, things didn’t just happen any more. No, they were programmed in. Or at least a reaction to some other factor, and that here being himself. He was, he’d now learned, part of a massive interacting network. He was just one of billions (even Roidon didn’t know the exact number), all modelled to varying degrees of accuracy on captureds. To think of all those people unaware of their true nature, going obliviously about their lives. Maybe that was not so different to real life; they merely concerned themselves with what surrounded them: work, relationships. Just the same as me, he thought, even after being given such an opportunity to do something great. The tyrannous trap of the mundane.
Maybe he was more important because of what he now knew. Maybe he was here destined to do a great deed. But didn’t most people in this simulation consider their lives important, their place in the world special?
He wondered whether Emelda in his life was a good thing or just another distraction. Is she here to mollify me? Can’t cope with the reality of her being dead.
And yet he was unable to make love to her. Perhaps to do so would somehow have undermined the memory – the sanctity of those memories. Yes, he thought, just let them be memories rather than something inauthentic. Except any memories of her were so vague they seemed like a dream. He did recall a classic favourite album he’d been afraid to play (although now a ruinously caricatured version playing in his head); the fear that he would not appreciate it as much as that special time when it so captured his – soul. Why not – even as a scientist – use that word? A tune bound up in a happy place, a happy time. Trying to relive it, and failing, only to find it was not as good as you remembered. If the memory of her returned, vivid, would what he had a chance of now feel a lie? Or would it reveal something of his previous life?
Disillusionment: his greatest fear.
Now he had a choice: confront the memory, or walk away never to return.
It didn’t take very long for Torbin to decide. He headed towards the cabin. Emelda was there as he knew she would be. No, not his true Emelda, but he could accept that now, could accept this imitation. As usual she was reclined on the couch watching a holodrama, sipping coffee.
‘Em,’ he said. ‘I need you now.’
She put down her coffee with enough haste that some of it spilled over the edge of the cup. She got up, turned to face him; scrutinize him. Or analyze his attentions – by use of a complex program based on his own memory of her, since the replication of the dead were generally excluded in Earth sim.
‘You want me, do you?’ She nodded. ‘Let’s see how much you want me.’ She made towards him. He then took off her top and pulled down her leggings for her to obligingly step out of them. She was naked underneath. Torbin tried to slow down his thoughts; to be truly in the moment. Then just allowed the welcoming sense of familiarity. That perfume, the one he recognized and knew he could lose himself in.
Torbin wasn’t sure this was how the original Emelda would behave; perhaps the original would not be so impetuous and need more persuading. She was now removing his clothes. Then they met, they kissed. Her body soft against the hardness of him. His senses alive, his worries rushed away into total irrelevance. The moment all-consuming. He pushed her on to the couch.
It was over quickly. But he had done it, finally. Now feeling as if a curse had been lifted. It didn’t have to be special, he’d assured himself. And yet for a while it had been.
Later that evening he thought he should leave her, not live a lie. But then after they had shared a meal and a shower, he decided he could stay with her a few more days.
Days became weeks. Torbin spent his daytimes working with Roidon on their special project to save all of humankind, his evenings with Emelda. All the while knowing it would soon end, just as all lies did. Nothing would remain of him. But in the meantime he was – he could only admit to himself – happier than he had ever remembered being. It felt like a life without the uncertainty; because, in the end, his life here only needed one purpose – his work. All the rest had no consequence.
Or at least he convinced himself of that.
* * *
61
One important thing had slipped her mind. In the midst of panic – sirens blaring and lights switching to emergency red (as if conserving such amounts of power would really make a difference to what was added to the defence units) – it had all been about saving the Earth sim. Now she remembered responsibility for Torbin was primarily hers. Only once did she update his memory with that of the sim version (which would normally be done automatically and remotely but instead she had to upload it from a flash tab).
Zoraina ran through the red illuminated corridor to the auxiliary med unit – a place where the injured convalesced, or those in a more serious state were left until they either regained consciousness or died.
When she got there she encountered the same emergency dim red light, and it seemed the room had been been cleared of all its patients. Initially the thought occurred to her Torbin had also been taken in either some act of benevolence or mistaken for someone in a hopeless vegetative state and then disposed of, in the ensuing panic. It was odd, that sense of sheer heart-stopping panic; was this how a mother felt on thinking her child could be missing? She shook her head at such an absurd notion, and commanded the lights to activate – which they did; after all, this was a medical facility where power had to be independently generated. And then the dead-like form of Torbin became apparent, still hooked up to the stasis feed. The man had been deemed too mentally unstable to be woken. She had the option to carry him out. He wasn’t a big man but she was now physiologically a human female; as a B’tari she’d easily have the strength. There were not even any AG stretchers remaining.
Nothing else for it, Zoraina decided. She switched off the stasis field, activating the wake-up protocol infusing various stimulant dr
ugs into the man’s brain. After less than a minute Torbin gasped awake and sat up like some horror-movie monster brought back from the dead. She almost expected him to say ‘I’m alive!’ but instead he just stared at her, eyes wild.
‘You’re okay,’ she assured him, without invoking evidence. ‘But we need to leave, there is an emergency.’
‘What am I doing here?’ he said, eyes darting about.
‘There’s really not the time to explain. Our life is in danger.’
‘You abducted me?’
‘No. This is supposed to be our safe refuge, but it has been compromised. The last escape vessel will leave in less than twenty minutes. Now please, we must leave.’
After having been in stasis for over two hundred hours, his legs did not seem to be working so she still virtually had to carry him along. Seeing the emergency light and hearing the waling siren did start to motivate him to manage a few steps.
Torbin wasn’t speaking, but every so often he’d mumble something. He seemed deeply unhappy to be awake. The thought even crossed her mind that it might have been better to leave him at the base and at the mercy of the Machines. Maybe they would recapture him and reintegrate his mind-pattern into the artificial reality substrate on Earth, if that still existed. It depended on whether in some machine-like logic he was still viewed as their saviour-by-proxy.
No maternal feelings after all, she assured herself.
‘Come on,’ Zoraina encouraged as she headed along the final tube, rising towards the sea bed. Torbin at least was moving independently if falteringly.
The plan to escape the base was beginning to feel like a suicide mission. It was just there was no alternative. Better to die trying, she thought.
The tube ended to a splayed out section, along which were three airlocks. Each one had a panel display indicating whether there was a shuttlecraft or, more unusually, a larger vessel still attached. The other two craft had gone; she half expected there to be none left at all. But here was one that did not match any code for a B’tari vessel. Unknown.