by Kyte, Adrian
Who am I? It was such a simple question that only now occurred to him. He was no longer Torbin but was neither a Kintra. He tried to remember the time he’d been in the shell of one; only that was a subsentient drone. This was something altogether different. There was a formidable intelligence; he sensed it as a presence, a tsunami, gradually breaking through a dam into his mind. The thing that remained of Torbin, he now thought of as the yoke and white of an egg, an egg that was beginning to crack. He was starting to remember things from his past, before even the capture. Another life of Torbin Lyndau the physicist; Torbin the man who helped to prevent the erasure. And by default became an ally of the Kintra before he really knew who they were; who utilized their technology to prevent the Elusivers. Torbin the man who enabled the rise of the Kintra. He could see the damning judgement. Indisputable, irrefutable, irreversible. The clarity of that memory, and the certainty of actions, because what could be worse than erasing time itself, of history?
Here was worse; the inconceivable, the unconscionable. Here today.
An Elusiver was suddenly before him. A high pitched buzzing emanated from the being. Saying something, but too quick. No, he was replaying it, slowing it down.
‘Rejoin,’ he heard. ‘You must rejoin the others. This will be your atonement.’
What am I to do then? But Torbin no longer had the facility of speech.
‘Sacrifice,’ the elusiver had seemed to answer.
Now he was being moved. The room swirled about, a random juddering of geometric shapes. It was happening so quickly. They were putting him into what he understood to be a shuttle pod. He tried to communicate. But I can help, I can be useful. To no avail.
He was leaving the planet. No sensation of g but he knew he was ascending rapidly. He was soon amongst the stars. For a while he thought about his past, he thought about Emelda and the life he could have had. Yet, what were regrets worth now? They were the dying embers of a man with no options.
‘You must let go.’ The voice was so brittle and cold, he knew it was the Kintra half.
So you can take over my mind?
‘There is no mind but ours. You must let go and I will absorb you, and we will become part of the collective.’
No, Torbin protested. Feeling there was still something worth fighting for.
The pod burst apart. He, they, were floating in space.
‘There is not long,’ the voice told him. ‘Soon they will be here.’
Already he could see them approach, as dots to rapidly become recognizably the arachnid forms of the Kintra.
‘Let go now,’ it demanded.
Why? What are you afraid of?
‘Let go, or we will die.’
‘No,’ he thought he said.
Now he knew, now they were here, surrounding him, welcoming him back into the fold.
‘You must let go or we will die,’ the Kintra half repeated
They’ve rigged something to go off. And I have to keep control to allow it.
‘Danger. Disperse.’ That was meant for the others.
Too late, for them, for him.
No pain, just a blissful white.
Part Twelve: Eluding the Wave
90
Under the ground, Roidon heard the faint sound of an explosion, felt a gentle shudder through his feet. He requested a remote visual link with his ship. The image sent to his brain was very lo-res and kept breaking up. Unsurprising given how far underground he was and the forces generated from the device; just enough to make out their arachnid forms but still no less menacing for the way they curled and uncurled their legs, as if psyching themselves up for more aggression. There were, he counted, no more than a dozen spiders hovering above the surface. Initially it seemed they would target his craft, they were very near, but either the stealth (chameleon) field had fooled them or they simply saw no logic in expending energy for something that wasn’t a threat.
Presently, they were targeting the surface, and moving nearer to above his location. If these were the remaining Kintra, rather than preserve firepower for defence they were opting for full-on attack. Any other advanced species would retreat, re-group and rebuild their resources; the Elusivers could surely take them out with one missile. So why risk attacking from so close? Maybe they deduced these were end times – a last desperate bid to stop the inevitable. Only they were not above the device; and besides, this compound was so far below surface it must surely be invulnerable to even their firepower.
Were they trying to create another tunnel? A rescue mission for their three compatriots? Then they were like flies to a trap, ironically. Unless... As he walked through the doorway his signal broke off.
Bathed in infra-red, a tunnel stretched before him. Seemingly endless, he broke into a run; the suit assisted, accelerating him to thirty-five kilometres per hour. The rumbling became more pronounced, in feeling and sound. The suit was giving him some information. A heat source ahead, no more than a tiny fraction of a degree different. Yet he felt as if he was running into a trap, like a scared rat following its instinct to run away from the perceived threat only to be heading for something even worse. Still, there was something in the fear, the very exhilaration of it that made him feel more alive than he had felt for some time. Back to the essential fight or flight. Thoughts racing. Pure, base human. Anything beat the notion that nothing much was going to change, or that life would in any way be predictable. Being on the edge of death; it was what any de facto immortal yearned for, what countless humans had sought when they considered the prospect of centuries of a comfortable life ... until death itself was obviated by not actually being alive. No. The uploaded, the virtual life, was the illusion that could lead to only one outcome: insanity.
Then fear was generally a good thing, fear meant having something precious to lose. Roidon nevertheless dismissed the fear, wiped it away like it was some imposed belief from a paternal authority. Not complying with its genetic imperative that kept countless humans from dying on the Savannah. Here he was running from one nemesis to another; nothing could change the reality of that.
But it didn’t matter.
The faint heat source led to a door. It opened with ease. The light dazzled, the suit for some reason had decided to let his eyes adjust. He was inside a large white room, austere except for the lab equipment surrounding a black mirrored dome structure. This was their secret. Roidon allowed himself the brief childish thought of how pleased the B’tari would be that he’d recorded their secret project.
There was movement. Initially it appeared as grey streaks varying in intensity. It took a few seconds before what he saw could be processed. Perhaps his own perception now adjusting to see the blur of the creatures, or they were slowing – because of him. His suit replayed sections in his time frame; two of the Elusivers had been making modifications to the dome, another sat behind a console. The replay, of course, was way too late to act upon. Now he felt something pulling at him. His ‘intelligent’ suit naturally reacted by creating a repulsion field.
‘Danger to field integrity,’ the suit warned him. ‘Recommend vacating area.’
‘Can’t you create a high amp electrical field discharge?’
‘Not programmed to threaten life unless imminent danger of your own death. Will take evasive action. Stand by.’
Roidon felt himself being carried along, and periodically stopped by what ever these creatures were doing to prevent him. He replayed the previous minute. They had on wristbands. If I could get one of those ... The suit, in its juddering way, took him into another room.
‘Thermal signature detected,’ it informed him. ‘Possible human approximately thirty-five metres away. Do you wish to be taken to source?’
‘Yes, take me there. No. Wait.’
They had to be formulating some way to stop him. No, they would have done so had they wanted. Or just trying to make him think they couldn’t. That room had to be a trap. But what alternative? Just exit, and never know? … If he’d even be allowed to. T
hen only to face a more malevolent adversary.
A swirling cloud of Elusivers surrounded him as if thousands of insects were acting as one.
‘Suit, take me through to that room. Assume maximum risk upon entering, and alert me to any lifeforms following.’
‘Can make assumption. However, more useful if you could specify possible threat.’
‘Something that would kill someone unprotected. An explosion.’
‘Acknowledged.’
‘Return motor control.’
It complied.
Through another corridor. No one followed. A bad sign. The only reasoning he had to work with: how much do the Elusivers want me eliminated?
The heat source just on the other side of that wall. A door slid aside obligingly. The room was in near total darkness; the suit enhanced what light there was to reveal the figure on the couch, arms and legs bounded, a metal cantilevered arm above with a pointed instrument Roidon suspected was a laser scalpel. It was situated above the man’s head – that is, a head with a brain exposed. Roidon recognized the man: Torbin Lyndau.
‘You’re not looking so good, fella,’ he remarked to the apparently unconscious Torbin. At least the man was still breathing.
A console to the side was displaying an array of symbols that made no sense to Roidon, presumably attached remotely.
‘Suit, can you tell me that man’s current condition – in brief?’
‘Affirmative. Unconscious. Brain function minimal. No damage detected, however.’
Why did they allow Torbin to live when he had clearly fulfilled his purpose, left here in limbo? It was the curious thing about the Elusivers – they valued biological life more than did humans or even the B’tari, at least the preservation of it.
The ground shuddered. A Kintra attack from above the kilometres of rock and metal and whatever other hard surface that they could surely penetrate. The Kintra wouldn’t come down here, he surmised. They’d sacrifice the few who were trapped near the erasure device. Eventually it would be destroyed.
The only trap here was that he’d face death upon leaving. And when the acknowledgement finally came that now, here, there was no escape, he asked the suit to deactivate its protection field.
He lifted Torbin from the couch; an exposed brain wobbled jelly-like in his skull; monitors in the background giving some kind of stress warning. There was no time to consider any damage moving him would cause. Nonetheless he carried Torbin upright, the suit’s upper section locking to prevent fatigue and allowing him to run unencumbered. He left the room, into the corridor, prepared to be at the mercy of the Elusivers.
But there was no sign of them.
Except, on the ground, the open clam of a wristband, looking like it had been hastily discarded. He placed Torbin down as if he were a rag doll, and snapped on the wristband without hesitation. It instantly projected into his eyes an array of symbols that meant nothing. Yet he felt something in his environment change. It was the ambient light flickering. And the air was difficult to breath initially before the suit compensated. He knew exactly where the Elusivers had gone. He picked up Torbin and headed towards the dome. Surprisingly even at this accelerated rate he could walk normally, suggesting the temporal field extended a little way beyond his body. Nevertheless he employed the suit to give him even more speed.
Once at the dome, he found it seemingly impenetrable; no entry point visible – protection against invaders. Accepting that, without time to brood, he made for the the erasure device. On the way, he remembered the data he had collected via the suit’s sensors. He ordered it to be transmitted, and continue also with whatever else was recorded. Even in this speeded up form the B’tari should be able to interpret it … that is if it ever made it through their relay grid ... if that was even still in place.
The Kintra soldiers were still caught around the device, as if no discernible time had passed for them. The device itself was vibrating at a speed he could just about detect now. But as he moved in towards it the suit bleeped in his ear a warning notification. Then the suit informed him: ‘Graviton inversion field increase detected.’
‘So it’s too late? It’s powering up?’
‘Affirmative.’
Without time to consider the consequences Roidon – aided by the suit, and still holding Torbin – forced himself backwards against the device.
‘Warning! Electrical overload.’
Roidon felt his arm being attracted to the erasure device. He pressed the release on the wristband, seeing it smash against the device and spark to destruction.
Roidon’s vision became fuzzy. He felt alive in the very intense way he knew prefigured an end: a rare and precious moment of being right on the edge of – well, not even death. Something more profound, surely. He wanted to hold this moment, wishing time could truly be halted. Perhaps to an observer it would seem to be so. To him, it was to happen all too quickly. No one other than those remaining Kintra could ever witness this. No information would get beyond here.
Hardly time to reflect on his life, yet he felt the need to make some mental valediction. Really just time for these last and perhaps futile words:
‘Will you save me?’
* * *
91
A drone was leading Zoraina towards the immersion bay to be ‘properly connected back into the grid’ when it stopped in its tracks, turning about to face her.
‘Relayed message from central command,’ the drone announced: “All B’tari personnel are to convene in the main hall immediately.”’ The relayed voice had an air of paternal authority, a commander. This had to be a very serious matter.
‘Some emergency?’ she queried.
‘Affirmative,’ it answered. ‘Now please follow me.’
The hall was even vaster than she expected, and already half full. There must have been over three hundred tables and a thousand chairs but not anywhere near enough to accommodate this number of folk. The air of panic was tangible; some of them appeared dazed, and generally ill, helped in their faltering steps by biped service drones, no doubt just emerged from immersion.
The beetle drone had led Zoraina to an empty area then told her to await further instructions. Others were crowding around her now, distinctly B’tari with their ridged foreheads and scaly skin – no Earth adapters here, yet they hardly even seemed to notice her totally human appearance. Maybe there were humans about, the few survivors now subsumed within the crowd. Such self-consciousness suddenly felt utterly foolish. Maybe it occurred to them what had now dawned on her.
Eventually, when the hall was packed with what must have been at least twenty thousand B’tari, a voice boomed out from some hidden loudspeaker.
‘All those from the B’tar,’ the same authoritative voice said in her native language, ‘and our human brethren. I first bring you good news; most of our enemy, the Kintra, have been wiped from existence. But the force that resulted in their eradication is now heading our way. Time itself is about to end. A decade of war and the oppression of the invading machines has led to this. It pains me to inform you that there is no escape.’
A rumbling of dismay amongst the crowd. Then a voice above the din. ‘But we are B’tari,’ said a youth in B’tar language. ‘We know how to survive. We have ships, we can escape.’ Zoraina was sure he voiced what most of them felt, but like her they feared what the response might be.
‘We have but a few remaining in operation,’ the patriarch said. ‘But there are twelve thousand of us biological sentients; total capacity of the ships will only be enough for ten percent – at the most.’
‘Then some get to escape?’ said the youth.
‘I have already considered that. The only fair solution is to select at random. But be aware that even those chosen will not stand much of a chance.’
Several voices were raised now and she struggled to distinguish one amongst them.
‘Silence please,’ a mature female said, amplified, having some muting effect. ‘The chosen names will be read o
ut from a randomly generated list. More will be announced than there is capacity, in anticipation that some will not wish to leave without their family.’
Somewhat inevitably voices were raised again. Zoraina wondered whether it would have been better to announce fewer than the number of places. This entire situation seemed so ad hoc, chaotic, so un-B’tari-like. The B’tari were masters of the long game, and this game seemed to have no conceivable conclusion that would restore things to anything like a comfortable state. Not that many here would accept that. Most were refugees from the outpost she had occupied. The escaping ships would presumably travel in hyperspace mode; the eradication wave itself spreading faster than light. But eventually power would run down, and with no remaining outposts they would only be bought more time. Time for what? To further contemplate the end? Perhaps it was possible to reach B’tar before the wave, but the whole planet – or technological life on it – may have already been destroyed if not converted by the Kintra; it was not as if the B’tari were somehow incidental in this war. Yet, she reflected, you always grabbed on to whatever scintilla of hope remained, it was a trait that all sentient species shared. After all, a strong sense of realism would only lead to giving up, and surely throughout evolution it was always those optimists who survived against all odds.
Zoraina decided she wasn’t going to wait on the unlikely chance her name would be called, so she barged her way past the tumultuous crowd and exited the hall.
It was only a few seconds before the drone caught up with her. ‘Mahem Zardor,’ it said. ‘Why did you leave the conference?’
‘Because I don’t accept what was being proposed.’
It manoeuvred in front of her and stopped. ‘Then what do you intend to do?’
‘I want to talk to my commander.’
‘I can put you through from this location.’