The Captured

by Kyte, Adrian

  Torbin pushed harder at the machine resisting his puny efforts. This was pain he welcomed, this was something positive not least distracting. Life was too uncertain, the future too finite, the past too complicated for him to worry about any longer. Surely this had always been the way to some extent. Don’t we all need distractions? he thought, to function properly; otherwise there is nothing but an abyss when you truly looked into the distance.

  The thought then came into his head, as much as he resisted it: What would Roidon do?

  * * *

  73

  It had been a good supper, Zoraina acknowledged, as she walked back to her quarters through the labyrinthine corridors. She again accepted the assistance of one of the drones to show her the way on the convoluted journey. Not just the food, which the robot hosts seemed able to cater perfectly (in her case some southern American cuisine the name of which she couldn’t quite remember) but also the obvious sexual attention Torbin had been giving her. There was something needy and rather lonely about him, which, although quite understandable was not exactly attractive. B’tari culture had evolved away from such traditional notions, that a male should be strong in every way, should be self sufficient. But it seemed in recent times there had been a shift back to the values of old, when her race existed on the margins before even interstellar travel – at least if those historical and mostly fictionalized accounts were to be believed. Maybe he saw her as lonely and needy, but apparently that could be attractive in a female. Well, for certain men, she amended. Anyway, looks-wise he was far from the best humanity had to offer. In his favour, he was fairly young in appearance, having opted to return as a more youthful version. But really she was not physically attracted to him enough to want him in that way. Besides, if rumour got around that they were having sex it would only serve to isolate her further: one final step to going native. Already other B’tari were distancing themselves. But – only to ever admit to herself – she rather enjoyed being the focus of his desire. Just to be wanted in a time she might have been most lonely. In these fraught times it felt like the normal rules were becoming extraneous to what truly mattered in life; a wartime mentality, when the most basic urges take to the fore. But more than that, a burgeoning sense of the end of everything. The trick, she had learned from humans, was to not let on she was engaging with that mindset … or at least only engaging in it in a very reluctant way.

  It seemed there were two prevailing beliefs of an endtime; if not through war, then then something more absolute. Knowledge of the Earth sim and its latter purpose had spread like wild-fire. Yet it was a subject that seemed off limits for discussion; it was beyond any normal frame of reference, much like the impending death for those of no belief in the hereafter. Yes, why discuss it when the very concept of after could not possibly be fathomed?

  In her bedroom she was starting to undress when she noticed something silver glint outside the port window amongst the stars. It was fleeting, less than a second, and then gone. After about a minute of continued staring out into space she turned away, rationalised it as some trick of her mind. But now she felt self-conscious. The possibility of being observed however slight was enough for her to command the external-view window to opaque over.

  Zoraina shook her head in an exaggerated self gesture and sat on her bed. Then a sound. From outside. Scratching. ‘Unblock,’ she ordered.

  A shiny leg, moving rapidly out of view. She squeezed her face against the glass. The leg scraped against the outer surface causing her to recoil in horror as if struck by electricity. She had to remind herself that this was not a real window, not real glass. And yet what it showed should be what was truly out there.

  The thing was before her. An oval body, a small round head with antennae and eight legs, one of them doubled as a drill bit working its way through … whatever represented the window.

  For a while she could do nothing but stare, horror and fascination in a finely compelling balance. After what may have been less than half a minute Zoraina forced herself away from the window, ran through the corridor shouting: ‘We’re under attack!’

  A drone approached her. The arachnid way it scuttled made her recoil for a second. Responding to this it stopped abruptly and asked: ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes!’ she replied, exasperated at its lack of comprehension, and almost breathless. ‘There is a problem. We are under attack from those … spiders. Metal spiders, Machines – Kintras!’

  ‘That is impossible,’ it said in its impassive way. ‘This station is under constant surveillance for Kintras or any other invaders.’

  ‘I am telling you, they are here; right outside my quarters.’

  ‘Very well. I will escort you.’

  She considered this. ‘You go ahead of me. You search my quarters.’

  ‘Agreed.’ It surged on ahead.

  In her panic she’d left the door open. The drone entered, its antennae poking forward, and swishing like an ant in a strange environment. Zoraina waited outside for about a minute and then ventured in. The drone was in her bedroom searching round, at least making a show of diligence. It turned to face her. ‘I have run a full spectrum scan and have detected no presence of the entity you describe, either within or without.’

  Then it occurred to her in all its horror. She’d left the door open; the creature could be anywhere on the station.

  ‘Oh my...’ she muttered. ‘It could be here, anywhere inside. You have to put out an alert. Everyone has to be evacuated from this station.’

  ‘This entire complex has sensors to detect unauthorized entities. There has been a constant vigil since the hostile ascendancy of our enemies,’ it explained.

  ‘And yet,’ she said in a moment of calmness, ‘The Elusivers have gone. Why would that be?’

  ‘Our masters have regrouped and are working on their final solution.’

  ‘Final solution?’ She knew what that meant, but there was something about the way drone had put it that seemed somehow sinister.

  ‘Information is restricted,’ it told her. ‘That includes the whereabouts of their location.’

  ‘And of course,’ she added, ‘this would be the obvious place to target.’

  ‘This place is secure. We will maintain constant vigilance.’ The drone then headed for the door. Zoraina thought to say something to stop it, to remonstrate that this base was under attack, that the Kintra were so technically advanced that they could surely evade even Elusiver technology. But the drone left hastily and the words just did not come in time.

  Zoraina sat on her bed, certain that she would not sleep tonight, that she would not want to sleep, and certain there could only be one outcome for every sentient on this base. Capture.

  * * *

  74

  The voice again: quiet, whispery and uncomfortably intimate, like a golem acquired from some dark place of dark pleasures. A thing that wants its toll.

  Torbin was back in his room.

  ‘Bring up the station schematic,’ it demanded.

  ‘No. I refuse.’

  ‘Do it now or you will suffer pain like you have never suffered before.’

  ‘I refuse. I will not harm this place of refuge.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Torbin braced himself. But it wasn’t enough; the pain was in his forehead, then seemed to leak into his jaw. He knew the brain has no pain receptors and yet it felt deep within: a burning, churning, pulsating, sickening, becoming all his world. The room had disappeared from view as his eyes watered to such an extent that vision blurred to a meaningless grey. The pain was most intense around his eyes. He wanted to pull them out. But as he started to grab them, the pain subsided.

  Torbin then noticed he was emitting a noise that was simultaneously a cry and a groan. He allowed himself to collapse on the floor and just let the tears flow.

  ‘See,’ the voice said. Not triumphant but coldly matter-of-fact. ‘We have control now.’

  There remained a dull ache around his eyes, the after
image of a pain so intense it consumed his world, now just glad to be relieved of its full effect. He wanted to ask that thing in his head how it got to be there, but now he was afraid to engage with it in any way.

  What was that it wanted him to do? The memory of that request had become lost in the fog of pain.

  ‘The station schematic,’ it reminded him. It knew his thoughts, then. Of course, it had perfect access.

  He complied: a map appeared, floating before him. It meant nothing beyond a set of lines and blocks.

  It told him, ‘Request data server room location, access code 735 delta zero b.’

  Torbin repeated the order and the code. A small area glowed red, zoomed in, became three dimensional.

  ‘Download it into your PDU. Then head for location, whereupon you will be issued with further instructions.’

  Without delay Torbin headed off into the corridor, followed the designated route via the HUD his PDU projected into his retinas. When he reached what he now knew as the restricted zone, a drone approached him.

  ‘This is a sentry drone. When it asks, you must repeat the following: “My clearance code is 735 epsilon delta.”’

  Right on cue the drone requested his clearance, then accepted his response. Torbin took the first stride towards the now-opened door, and just had time to take in the warm air and hear the gentle buzzing of the servers as he spun round (not sure at all that this was the best thing to do). Then a deep breath before calling out to the retreating drone: ‘This station is in danger; I have been ordered to sabotage it. Please stop me.’

  As the drone turned to face him, the pain returned. Torbin just managed to say, ‘There is something in my head. Take me to med---’ The power of speech left him as he collapsed, quite convinced that he would die.

  The world left him mercifully swiftly.

  Part Ten: Reality Check

  75

  Roidon awoke in a different place. The same wan red illumination, giving little away from his fixed viewpoint. But a vague sense of motion, a low rumble – barely detectable – suggested this to be a ship.

  A change of circumstance inviting hope. Foolish hope, he assured himself.

  He had slept when possible; there was nothing better to do, it was his remaining means of escape. Oh, he knew of those in past times, in times before adequate medical intervention, of people who had been paralyzed from the neck down, tetraplegic. He knew of a famous physicist who had lived a fulfilling life with only the use of his facial muscles (a similar disability to Roidon now), notwithstanding how the reality of such a life could be glossed over simply because it was unpalatable.

  ‘Fact is you can get used to all manner dreadful circumstances,’ came the reassuring words in Roidon’s mind from an unremembered speech. ‘....Can find strength if not inspiration from the most unlikely source. Freedom is a state of mind’, he had heard it said. But here he was a prisoner twice over. No, worse than just that: he was abandoned, not as a result of wilful action but indifference. That was when time no longer had any markers, let alone a resolution point. ‘You are only confined by your imagination,’ they’d say; ‘there are no limits to how far the psyche can travel.’

  What crap, he thought, just self delusion to assuage the despair in a time before true immersive artificial reality. Only the few exceptions could thrive, exceptions that make the rule.

  Sleep ends and the dull pain of reality once more intrudes, and death – let alone a proper life – is but a distant fantasy. Yet he had been woken by something. A change in the situation, not just a grasping out for anything. Lights flickered, what dim red ones there were. Even though he felt nothing, the movement conveyed in his vision. Roidon understood that this Kintra craft was under attack or was engaged in some battle. At least this gave him the hope of death. But who could be powerful enough to defeat the Kintra?

  The Elusivers? They knew better than to take on their arch enemy in a head on battle. So the Kintra had taken the battle to them, to their base? To their homeworld?

  The shuddering got worse; the light went out for longer. The distant sound of an explosion; a welcome sound in this sensory deprived darkness. A welcome feeling that he was facing destruction.

  Ah. When he saw the creature before him, he surmised it was most likely a hallucination, didn’t dare to believe it could be real. After all, for all the harm they had done to him he wanted to see an Elusiver more than any other, they were now the only worthy adversary to the Kintra.

  It spoke then. ‘Roidon Chanley. You have no place here. This craft is under our authority.’

  Just what he wanted to hear. ‘You overcame the Kintra?’ He dared himself to ask, although the words were actually thoughts.

  ‘This ship along with its crew have been neutralized’

  ‘Oh please let this be real.’

  The creature stepped towards him. ‘You have no value to us. Neither has this ship. But if you wish to participate in battle against your captors, then we will restore you and this vessel to command capability. Is that acceptable?’

  Perhaps they weren’t aware that he had destroyed one of their ships.

  ‘Yes it is acceptable,’ he said, or thought, trying not to sound too pleased

  ‘Your motor functions will be restored.’

  The creature seemed to vanish, and Roidon felt even more certain he had imagined it all; the power of wishful thinking. Alone. Still darkness, probably adrift.

  Will die slowly. Truly abandoned – an unbidden thought:

  He was contemplating how bad the suffering of this gradual decline would be, when the full lighting restored in one dazzling instant. Then he saw them: creatures in white pressure suits, doing some kind of repairs to the system. Another emerged from his peripheral, approached him; hoisted his limp semi-metallic body into an upright position.

  ‘Your spinal cord has been severed,’ the Elusiver noted ‘However, this ship contains a regeneration unit that appears to be designed for your semi-organic structure. We will connect you to it.’

  ‘Thanks, I’d appreciate that,’ Roidon replied, still weighing the probability that it was all part of his delusion. ‘But tell me: do you really think you can win this war?’

  The Elusiver in a half turn of the head seemed to be considering this question. It said finally, ‘We have a solution that will restore everything to its original state. There are, however, complications.’

  ‘Aren’t there always?’

  Roidon blanked out for some indeterminate time. When his awareness returned he found himself alone at what must be the helm of the Kintra ship, whether virtual or real, a 180degree viewscreen before him displayed what he understood to be the Elusiver homeworld. It stood to reason that would be the Kintras’ next target, but somehow he expected more than just a fairly ordinary Earth-like planet; at least for it to be elaborately defended with exotic armaments rather than these burnt out wrecks. Orbiting also were damaged vessels: dark tapering blocks emitting smoke. It all made the Elusivers seem curiously vulnerable. Or was this some strategic masquerade? To be conspicuously high-tech and powerful may prevent some from trying to colonize but there were always species wanting to assert their position as top dogs of the galaxy. The Elusivers’ dominance had been a quiet one, asserting their power through hidden means, only revealing themselves because of their intervention; like the B’tari on steroids, came the curious notion. Well now the Elusivers were truly forced into the fray, their past actions excluding any possibility of a formal alliance. Undoubtedly more Kintra must be on the way; this was where it had to end. It would, he imagined, be a rather appealing spectacle to witness a surely epic battle.

  Now he had freedom of movement, of the galaxy, there was only one place he wanted to go.

  Earth.

  * * *

  76

  They were in the station – everywhere. They were hidden in the shadows; they had corrupted the (frankly) dumb drones who were now running the place. The problem was, she had nowhere to go to escape the Mac
hines. When she called up the schematic of the station, specifically requesting the location of all artificial entities, all it displayed were those very drones.

  Whilst the noise of the metal arachnid scraping against the now opaque external-viewer vied for her attention, Zoraina sat on her bed wondering how she might have avoided being led into this trap. It had all become so obviously just too good to be true, a place of safety among the only species powerful enough to protect them. Only for the Elusivers this was just another outpost, one now acting as a decoy.

  ‘Why are you bothering with us now?’ she shouted at the window. ‘What use are we to you?’

  Her fear now was rapidly turning into anger. Why not just face them, she thought, and be done with it?

  Zoraina got dressed, drank extra strong South American coffee; had something to eat; packed her things. Tiredness had become a background fatigue, eyes heavy but caffeine and adrenaline gave her that sharp edgy tingle. She consulted the map, now downloaded into her PDU.

  The corridor was empty. She followed the virtual arrow projected into her retinas. Any second now, she thought. Yes, I see you. Just round the corner of a junction. The creature had poked a metal leg round. Not a service drone; too large, this was an arachnid, hoping to catch her as she got to the end. Only she strode on as if she hadn’t seen it. Except, when she did get to the corner, it had gone.

  Let it follow me, let it try to stop me.