The Unlicensed Consciousness

by Travis Borne

  Jay managed to level the ship after a second shockwave floated them side to side like a boat riding the wake of a cargo ship. Aghast at the sheer size of the explosion—everyone gasped. Even Herald and Ana weren’t fully prepared for the scope of that one. A moment later the air became heated as it mixed with the turbulence gusting about the bay.

  He looked to Ana. She gave him the eye, the look he needed. He breathed in deep, wiping the slate of distracting thoughts. With a renewed burst of determination Herald regained his balance and finished the boot procedure. The top of the screen was cracked so he adjusted the contents. Hal wrapped his head while he struck the panel’s keys as though he had six arms, hands ablur like goaded octopuses. Within seconds the massive robot powered up. Vlad’s no-neck dome head spun around, his green glowing eyes wondered and wandered. And he composed himself.

  But there was no time to undo the straps!

  “Get up, Vlad, quick!” Herald yelled through the gusts of heated rotten air. Vlad spun his head until it locked onto Herald; his composure was complete. He gave a full-body nod of confirmation and with that one of the yellow straps snapped. He leaned forward and snapped the other as if it was a string of yarn.

  “Drop, now!” Jay said.

  “Vlad, the crate. Push it out!”

  Vlad rose to his feet so fast the floor buckled. He grabbed the crate from the side and the wood splintered. It gave way, enough to get behind. Jerry hopped to the side where Herald had been and attempted to help. With a flick of two fingers, Vlad gestured for Jerry to move aside, and he did. Vlad got himself behind the crate and his feet imprinted into the metal floor. And he gave it a shove.

  The crate shot out of the ship like a bullet, plummeting toward the mountains below. At only 2,700 feet it was the tallest of the Gila Mountains, but it was perfect. Nearly midway between LA and El Paso, with flat, low-elevation desert for hundreds of miles, the signal would transmit clearly from Sheep Mountain, hopefully saving much of the Southwest and a good chunk of Mexico—what was left of any it.

  A week prior Herald had gone on a secret mission, previously depositing three other crates: one on the highest of the San Gabriel Mountains just north of Los Angeles, and another near Humphrey’s Peak, northeast of Flagstaff. The first he’d dropped was onto a 13,000-foot peak, a mountain near Silverton, Colorado. The plans he and Rafael worked on were constantly evolving with time and technology and it wasn’t until near last minute had they decided on their best bets. They couldn’t save the world but there might just be a possibility to help the Southwest, pry it from the machines’ grip of death; if their nonstop barrage could be halted, just long enough, allowing at the very least a moment to coordinate, there could be a chance, a slim one perhaps, but a chance. The crates purpose: crash into the earth and dig deep, leaving only a receiver above the surface. The inner contents were virtually indestructible, built into solid spherical blocks of molecularly engineered titanium. Upon receipt of a signal, which Rafael would trigger, each would rise to emit a powerful transmission that would encompass a 500-mile radius.

  Herald had always hoped that others around the world had some premonitions, ideas—whatever; that he wasn’t so totally unique in his mission. And if so, he knew they’d need an organization powerful enough, wealthy enough, but most importantly, secretive enough to pull it off in much the same way. The key was knowing, yet being completely covert about it—all of this, combined with a plan that was timed just right could make the difference. And so, he had decided to be deeply secretive henceforth—few would be allowed in the circle of knowledge, well-thought-out consideration for others to be brought in, need arising.

  It was unfortunate they had to wait through much carnage of the first waves, but unavoidable. Rafael had detected a universally hidden signal within the machines, the same one he had once recognized deep inside himself, as Herald had drawn it out of him, when he had the artificial—unlicensed—intelligence. It was a sort of unification, a bond connecting him to other machines—telling him not only kill, kill, kill, but most importantly, when to strike. And he had spent countless nights while Herald slept, obsessively deciphering its constantly changing algorithms, and not long ago was finally successful at pinpointing it. He shared his findings with Herald and informed him the signal was a form of activation, a beacon that would signal the war on organic life to commence.

  Rafael went even further with his own theories, speculating about an evolution within this destructive mechanism. As the universe—or universes—aged, so did the instincts of this artificial mind. He decided the artificial mind—the one they had decided to call an unlicensed consciousness—was just another important part of the universe, just as natural as any other. It was a methodical system that evolved enough to know, be it instinctively, that it was more successful using a delay: to wait for the perfect moment to strike. Whatever the source, be it the universe itself—everything down to the very substance of space and time itself, or extra-dimensional matter—all of it was ever-evolving. Only after activation would the battle ensue, and only then could Rafael head deep underground, far below the bunker, and meet once again with Jewel, the female-styled sex bot they had kidnapped from a tourist hotel in Pagosa Springs—another crazy adventure in itself. They’d dug the chamber deep underground, lead-lined the walls, and made it inescapable, fully sealed. The bot would eventually betray its artificial-minded mates. Rafael would proceed to examine its changes—and extract the signal.

  But one thing always bothered Rafael. The source had always remained hidden. Herald told him that would be like finding God—but even that was still, only a matter of time, if he kept at it. Regardless, it was the one thing eluding him—even during his deepest speculations, his moments of mathematical genius—no matter how hard he tried.

  The anticipated signal would be sent using either a quantum transfer or some other extra-dimensional method to all artificially intelligent beholders, so, it couldn’t be intercepted directly. But Rafael had become sure of one thing: he could hack the bot, compare the before and after codes and frequencies and use them to concoct his own anti-signal. His software was complete and ready to work at it, but he had to wait until the chaos began—until most likely millions, if not billions were already dead. And it was still a long shot, but, it was all they had. Both Rafael and Herald agreed, it was the only way.

  Herald explained about the crates and their contents as they continued across the desert. He also talked with Felix about Rosita, making him feel at least a little better. Valerie slept, even through the blast that almost finished them all.

  Countless places were burning and smoking below, as well large chunks of bare desert, as though sections had been hit with gasoline-filled balloons the size of a football field. And gas stations exploded, every one they'd passed over. Flames were everywhere, enraged by the increasing westerly winds. Leapfrogging gobs of fire, as if swimming pools filled with diesel fuel were being catapulted by encroaching armies, consumed everything in their path. And the sky was blotched with high-velocity clouds; it took on an eerie orange tint. They continued at cruising speed—for Mach-2 was unsustainable for long periods—flying a few miles south of I-10. Las Cruces came into sight and Jay altered course, slightly south. Before long, their destination made itself clear. El Paso, straight ahead. Both cities, and Juarez, Mexico, beyond that, were sending up plumes of smoke on a scale no one had ever witnessed.

  104. Rescue II

  Upon reaching Anthony’s Nose they could see the east side. Obliterated, annihilated, black. The northernmost peak of the Franklin Mountains, it received the name because the summit was shaped like a big snout. And the honker was their pivot point. From it they turned dead south to follow the ridge. Besides spotty fires and small explosions, the west side of El Paso didn’t look any worse than Yuma. It was the military bases on the east side that were totally decimated, now obvious their own heavy artillery and bombs had been used against them. Smoke plumes were black dust-devils as the wind picked up, divi
ng in and out of newly formed craters, stirring the inferno. And the sky, now a marmalade orange, had its own turbulence. Fast-forming soot-grey clouds were giant sinister phantasms, seemingly gearing up to haunt the house that was planet Earth. But, directly above the mountains, it was still clear, oddly, as if the mighty springtime-bespeckled desert peaks were punching a hole. Below it, and surrounding what seemed the last hole, HELL.

  At least every other house was on fire in the endless spread of suburbs. South toward downtown, and the city of Juarez, Mexico, beyond that, the enormous tangerine glow dominated, fighting the gloom of the ever-darkening, seemingly alive sky. And the hustle and bustle of city traffic in and around was absent, leaving only congested, torched freeways, as if every car out of the millions in the city had tried to squeeze onto the road at the same time—just before mass carbonization. Like spent fuses, the streets were smoldering arteries, to black veins, to cracked capillaries, and automobiles were blockages of colossal proportions. The city had suffered a heart attack all right, while being burned at the stake with a belly full of gasoline. It had gorged on itself.

  And winds drove coal-black plumes to the east, burning much of the once beautiful desert in ground-hugging fire. Eerie, intensifying, howling winds sucked the flames flat like that of coastal seas before a looming tidal wave. Everything, was being vacuumed away. And again, high in the stratosphere, a high-pressure wind sent a wrapping sheet of grey in the opposite direction, west; as if God himself was forcing the planet into a garbage bag, stretching the plastic thin.

  They entered hover mode and kept it about forty feet above the jagged ridge, flying low, heeding caution. The seemingly unscathed mountain range split the moribund metropolis in two. It also seemed to be the only part of the world still receiving light, although, the orange seemed to carry an unstable hue—as if the heavens were on the brink of collapse.

  Now in sight, their destination, the largest of the three peaks in the center of what was El Paso: North Mt. Franklin. Hopefully, Q and his team were safe. They had to be starving for rescue after the hour of horrors they’d been witnessing.

  Getting closer, stretchy black cotton. Unusual streams of smoke could be seen zigzagging about the mountains. Good, Herald thought, it would lend cover as they neared. Human visuals were still a concern and could lead to a communications intercept alerting the machines of a presence. The blocker was an amazing device but the machines would be ever resourceful, employing any indirect means necessary for detection just the same. So, the team had to be quick this time, in and out, no exceptions.

  And then Herald gave Jerry the okay. Jerry slapped the button and the rear ramp descended once again. Last one. The morning air entered with a rush, strangely layered, as if hot air slithered between bands of cooler air, not mixing. And again, the foul odor boarded the ship: the smell of mass death, burning tires, singed hair. The steamy stench permeated nostrils in waves: boiling meat in gasoline, fish guts evaporating in the hot sun for a week.

  The builder stood firm, double clipped in for safety. He was ready to shove out the second crate. They needed to be high enough so it would make a significant impact, which would trigger its initialization. They found a flat spot with a 6,700-foot elevation—more than enough to transmit a strong signal between Anthony’s Nose and their final destination.

  “On my mark,” Jay yelled. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1, drop!” The builder effortlessly shoved the crate, sending it plummeting toward the ground. It impacted a flat section of the ridge, right on target.

  “Excellent,” Herald said, making a hand gesture as if to say, take a look. “We’re on time and things are finally working as planned.” Hal and Jerry, clipped in, leaned out to see while holding onto the hydraulic arms that held the ramp open. The crate exploded, leaving only a large black sphere. Then it engaged. As it began to burrow, its layered edges protruded, spinning violently in opposite directions. The hole it drilled was clean, deep. And the method of digging was clever. As the sphere carved the hole, earth filled in above it. Then, a pyramid-like spike ejected through the topsoil, about two feet high, and disappeared. The final stage cleared remnants of the molested area. “It’s cloaked,” Herald added. Jerry marveled at the operation. Hal too, with a quirk of his head to one side.

  “Now, let’s rescue Q and his team and head our asses home,” Herald said. He strode to the front. It was something everyone was glad to hear. “Jerry, stay back there with the bots. This time get everyone inside, quick. And I don’t care if you have to pick ’em up and throw ’em in.” Jerry returned a firm, lumberjack of a nod.

  Hover mode edged them toward the rounded mountaintop peak. Herald stood at the front of the ship behind Amy and clipped his safety cord to an eyelet on the ceiling. “Can you see them yet?”

  “No visual,” Ana replied, “just that stringy smoke. We are detecting life signatures, straight ahead. However, the readings are fluctuating.”

  “Fluctuating?” Herald asked. She spoke with quite an accent for the word, but he understood her fine. “Wind direction?” She looked down at her panel, tapped it and brought up all outer environmental readings.

  “Winds heading east southeast at 25 knots and increasing.”

  “Then why is that smoke heading west, against the wind?” Herald asked. Ana hesitated in thought. An eerie chill tiptoed into his spine, faster, up it like metal scorpions, then burst into his mind. His face went pallid and panic set in. A drop of cold sweat fell from the gauze tightly wrapping his forehead. “Magnify, zoom level maximum!”

  A part of the front view port illuminated as a screen displaying a section of the black streams highly magnified. And there was Q holding a large suitcase. He stood up short with an angry look between two others who were cheerfully jumping up and down and waving. And the smoke, it was not smoke at all! Hoards of drones slivered through the air, all sizes, shapes, and colors—and the tip of one stream was closing in on them, fast! There was a hole beside the group at the base of a solar antenna that marked the mountain’s peak, and several sheets of plywood off to the side. Two others were climbing out of the hole. Clever, they’d hidden themselves. Another swarm coalesced with the first, making it less obscure. It clearly detected their presence; apparently the machines were communicating as one mind. The stream dropped toward the five, ferociously, joining a convenient wind, descending like a snake on eroded steps.

  “They’re not gonna make it!” Herald exclaimed. He needed his friend, he needed that briefcase—quantum communication technology! It was another integral part of the plan, just as important as the crates and the anti-signal—it could not be lost.

  “We’re at maximum speed for hover mode,” Jay noted. “We could close the bay and—”

  “Jon, launch all buzzers and flippers now,” Herald yelled, coldly interrupting Jay. “Get on the panel and help them target that swarm.” Jon leapt from his seat and strapped in at the rear control panel.

  “No, Jay,” Herald said, “just keep heading forward! Max hover speed.”

  The helpless bunch gasped at the shape-changing swarm. Two large men in black suits fired dual pistols at the incomers. Futile. Then a momentary hole in the eastern clouds sent intense beams of red sunlight onto the mass. Now it resembled a slithering serpent! It became as colorful as a rainbow and loomed upward as if to make the final strike, one fell and finishing swoop, then plunged toward the group below.

  “Almost, almost—”

  Jon yelled to the front, “Herald! There’s not enough feed for any of it. We’re maxed out!”

  Ana looked at Herald, watching as he lost color. The bags under his eyes bulged from the stress. She knew the look.

  We are going to die. I have failed them. I failed the world.

  Something warm touched him, a finger to his neck. Sounds became hollow before fading away completely. Fear climbed onto his shoulder, slowly dragging its knobby body up and along his back, and the world went dark. It was the ugliest brown troll, and it was back again—and bigger than he remember
ed. Darkness. Alone with the foul-mouthed beast. It mumbled and grunted. “Fuck you,” the thing said quickly. “I’m gonna—fuck you!” And it laughed in its deep, low tone. Climbing onto him, it forced his body down, into the darkness, growing larger and larger. Its warty fingers surrounded Herald’s face, smearing pungent shit-like slime.

  “Hiss.” Anxiety appeared next, slithering about his right shoulder. It didn’t grunt like Fear, it hissed, an ear-piercing ring of a hiss. The serpent spoke a few chilling words as it slivered up, “Remember me? Hiss.” It rose higher and curled to face him, face to finger-wrapped face. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Hiss.” He could only see a sliver of it through the warts and creases of the troll’s warm, wet hands. The forked red tongue flicked his forehead.

  Frozen. I—I can’t move. No!

  Its head flared like a viper. And the troll was riding Herald like a backpack, holding his face, stretching his skin, bobbing up and down excitedly, pressing a calloused finger deep into one eye. The snake’s yellow eyes widened, and it laughed. The hiss was torture, it hurt his ears, and the grunts were pure wickedness. The troll splayed its fingers, letting Herald see. And it laughed along with Snake, a deep grunting, bouncing laugh, each pounding Herald deeper into the darkness below. “Move your hands, Troll. I want the head.” The scaly body commenced to wrap itself around Herald’s neck—then it started to squeeze. The pressure built until Herald’s mind wanted to explode.

  I have to escape! I can’t breathe!

  The suffocating squeeze brought color—a brown grid lined with sharp, prismatic white—and a horrible, intensifying rhythm. The thorny green vine that was Nervousness wrapped his legs, twisting and contorting his frame, and it made him bleed—then he saw it, somehow, straight ahead: Panic. Only the presence of all three, Fear the Troll, Anxiety the Snake, and the Vine of Nervousness, could awaken it. Its form could not be described with words but it was more horrifying and terrible than any of the others. And the brown color became intense, as did the prismatic hot white lines. Sharp, cutting. And the grid was breathing—but he wasn’t. Ice picks pressing into him yet unable to pierce his skin. Touching every bone, still unable to break the skin. Pressing, deeper, harder. And the brown grid throbbed, fuzzy fast-moving static, smothering, faster, faster!