by Black, Pat
-Coming?
-Gone.
-Techs, fixit.
-Techs?
-Techs now?
-Fixit!
He broke the seal on the glowstick and dropped it to the stone floor. Although they were sheltered from the wind, the sound seemed amplified by the wide expanses of the cavern. The rock seemed to moan at them. There were no sign of the ferals; he had heard that they shunned this path, or that the inhabitants of Tegrit chased them off.
Although the fire was sheltered and healthy, he knew it would be touch and go. He had never before seen anyone so pale; she was near-translucent, with hardly any flesh on her bones. He had piled blankets, jackets, insulated foil, everything he could over her. But her chill was not merely physical, her tremor not just a reaction to the freezing cold.
“You have to rest,” Cutwater said, gently. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she clutched at it with icy fingers.
“Like when a Unix goes down or misdirects, something something, no chuckles,” she said. “Need techs. You have techs? Any techs?”
There was no orange halo around her, now. Resting against a rock was her pedestal, a heavy burden which he had carried into the cave along with her only because it would save her life if it came back.
“There’s no techs,” he said gently. “Not out here. You’re going into shock. I’ve seen this happen before, with people who disconnect. I’ll do what I can to help. Do you have a help unit attached to the pedestal? Something battery powered?”
She had heard and understood him, although her subsequent babble might have been simple delirium. This is what passes through her mind, he realised. It might even be how she talks to her friends, if they actually talk at all. “Batteries nowise, nosense tools, always techs, why no techs?”
“There are no techs out here. You’ve gone out of range. I’m going to try to get help at the monastery. We’re nearly there. You need to be brave, alright?”
She clutched his hand, crushed it to her face. Her eye darted in the firelight. “Neverwarm. Never be warm. Cold nowise.”
It had happened not long after the pedestal had risen from their tight-packed ice tomb, a gentle, effortless ascent into the night air. They had floated close to the cave mouth, when it had simply dropped, spilling them both to the ground. The pedestal and the Unix tentacles had fallen into silence.
What scared Cutwater the most was the fact that she could do everything but scream; the mouth had fallen open, the visible eye had bulged, but she could not make a sound until he had carried her out of the snow.
“No-one,” she whispered. “GoneToReal. No-one. No techs.”
“I’ll do what I can for you. Keep talking to me, alright? I’m here.”
“Gone.”
The cave grew bright, and for a moment Cutwater thought some of the kindling had gone up. But the quality of the light was different, more regular than flame.
He spun around.
Another pedestal hovered into view over some jagged stalagmites on the floor of the cavern. A dark figure slowly came into focus on top of the unit, a face he recognised.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.
The figure smiled. “Hello, Mr Cutwater.”
**************
Synopticaps for revisers.
Sexface spread the concept of synchro. Dutton spread the virus that tapped into viddies around the world. Sex was the key.
Mazimdas harnessed the power of synchro. Once people had their sexfaces on the internet, Mazimdas knew that mental synch-ups were the way forward. Once the technology was released commercially, there was no stopping it. It happened fastwise. Within five years, the world was in synchro, and Mazimdas industries had control of the One True Software.
The first Unix units made Mazimdas the biggest company in the world, and Mazimdas the First Nominal worldwide. “Any language, any thought, anywhere, anyway: never wonder again” was the goal.
Reaction kicked in. Ferals – often living in remote communities, shunning light and techs – grew to be feared and hated on the edges of synchronisation. Many withdrew to caves, mountains and forests, only seen on viddies.
More sophisticated groups emerged, but mainly the Disconnected philosophy held sway among dissenters. Men and women who rejected sych-ups forged their own lives.
Mouth viddies said a monastery in either the Andes or the Himalayas, providing an analogue seat of learning, existed. It became a pilgrimage for the Disconnected, a retreat from synch life, a communal, nowise way of life. The name of the monastery was Tegrit. No viddies of Tegrit existed until the Cutwater-Joon Incident.
RECKON: Propagation of Deadly Myths of challenges to Mazimdas, especially rumours of the Split, or the Newcomers, are punishable by temporary Severance.
**************
Cutwater carried the girl over to her dormant pedestal. She had fallen into unconsciousness. Cutwater was so cold himself, he couldn’t tell if she had a pulse or not.
The newcomer, a dapper little man dressed all in black, wearing shades beneath a swept-back hairstyle that spoke of an ancient era of glamour, hovered over Joon’s unit, playing a greenish laser over a panel on the base of Joon’s machine. Soon, it kicked into life, levelling out and rising into the air. The heatshield expanded into being again, and Cutwater longed to be inside it.
“Put her down,” the newcomer said. “She’ll be fine.”
“She’s weak. Are you sure it’ll work?”
“I’m sure.”
Cutwater laid her on the metal pedestal. The green laser light traced across her Unix implant. Instantly, her eye snapped open. “Mazimdas!” she cried, alert in the orange glow. “You came for me. You came for me…”
The man smiled benignly; then he clicked his fingers, and the girl sank down onto the pedestal. A zero-G field kicked in, raising her a few inches off the surface. Her long spiky hair relaxed, untethered and trailed as if underwater, parallel with her limbs, and she slept with a near-beatific expression.
“Good trick,” Cutwater said.
The newcomer’s heatshield mingled with Joon’s; he checked her Unix implant was secure, allowing his hand trailing across her cheek for a moment.
“Poor child,” he said. “She’d never known severance before. What a miracle she survived.”
“So I have to ask… Are you him?”
Mazimdas nodded.
“You sure? Not a hologram, or a double, or a clone..?”
“There’s only one Mazimdas, my friend.”
Cutwater sank to his haunches, digging into his pack for a tin of tuna. “You speak suspiciously well. Like, proper English.”
“I’m actually a traditionalist,” Mazimdas said, arms folded in front of his chest. “There are such communities among us, you know. Synchronisation is a broad church.”
Cutwater laughed. “Oh, I know it, brother. All communities, all thoughts, all fantasies, even dreams… everywhere, all the time. Nothing hidden, nothing restrained, nothing refined. What a nightmare.”
“It’s progress, Mr Cutwater. Evolution. You’re a throwback.”
“And you’re a maniac. What happens when there’s a mass failure? When we run out of power? Look what just happened, here. You’ll have millions of deaths on your hands.”
“I’ve heard these horror stories before. Apparently I was going to brainwash a generation. Apparently there’d be no political thought or theory ever again. It didn’t happen.”
“Oh you brainwashed a generation, alright. You got people so caught up with their synch-life that they forgot to achieve anything in the real world. You’ve got people glued to their sofas worse than TV ever managed. They all bought your funny little headsets, and fell into line. And you sold it to them as freedom. You are a genius, Mazimdas, I’ll give you that.”
“People are freer, better educated, well-nourished, and able to live their lives in leisure. Ignorance is banned. Empathy is second nature. I’ve ensured the human race will survive. I’ve demolished barrie
rs between people.” Mazimdas grinned. Cutwater couldn’t help but grin back. “Sorry to brag.”
Cutwater held out the tin of tuna. “Care to dine? It’s not often I share my rations with living deities.”
“Not for me, thank you. I ate before I arrived.” He touched a food patch on his wrist.
“Not so traditional after all, then?”
“Needs must.”
“So… I’m presuming there’s a reason you’ve come out here?”
“Of course. I want Tegrit.”
Cutwater coughed on a mouthful of food. “You mean militarily? I don’t doubt you could do it. Your disciple here nearly brought the whole mountain down thanks to her raygun stunt.”
“She did save your life from the ferals.”
“She attracted the ferals in the first place. Anyway. Tegrit. What’s your angle?”
Mazimdas stood stiffly, hands behind his back. “I’m somewhat frustrated by this little corner of the world, Mr Cutwater. I’ve had my eye on your progress for a while. Ever since Joon made you her viddie project, before you set off.”
“Really? I wonder why. I didn’t think it was possible to get bored in synchronisation.”
Mazimdas laughed, incredulous. “She loves you, Mr Cutwater. I expect that’d be difficult for you to process.”
Cutwater laughed. “She loves me? Don’t you mean ‘she wants bumpage’ or something similar?”
“’Love’ is word she has never properly used in her life, Mr Cutwater. But she understands it.”
Cutwater glanced at her pacific face, the softly billowing hair. She looked as if she was underwater, serene. Robbed of gravity, she was a slight thing, with painfully thin legs. Although there was no need to do so, he had a sudden urge to cover an exposed patch of her shin, just to keep it warm.
Mazimdas went on: “I saw your pilgrimage as an opportunity to find out about this place. One of the few locations on earth our sensors cannot penetrate. And one of the few places on earth which can cut out the sensors and operating capability of a 461 Unix.”
“Ah. You sense there’s something sinister going on? Up here in the mountains?”
“Not for the reasons you think. I’m curious, Mr Cutwater. In a world where everyone knows every fact, every secret, every desire and impulse and dream, there are still strongholds, places that satellites cannot focus in on, where sensors cannot penetrate.”
“What do you want me to do? Spread the word of Mazimdas?”
“I want you to help Joon capture what’s in there. If her pedestal cuts out again, then her Unix implant will now render her unconscious, to spare her the trauma. But she’ll still be able to viddie the place using older tech – analogue stuff. Ancient history. If you bring me back the results, or you help Joon to record them, I will promise you what you most desire.”
“Aren’t you supposed to offer me three wishes?”
“Just the one.” Mazimdas pointed towards the cavern wall. One of his fingernails flashed red for a second. Then a square of light blinked into existence. It was a hologram, vivid as life. On it was a farmhouse, surrounded by waving cornfields, honey yellow in a sinking sun. In the foreground of this image was a signpost, which read “Haygrove”. The image was so clear and sharp, Cutwater had the illusion of a breath of wind stirring his hair.
Cutwater whispered the name. “No-one knows about Haygrove but me.”
“You were synched at one time, Mr Cutwater. You might be physically gone from synchronisation, but your dreams remain. Everyone knows about Haygrove. The place you desire. A simple wish – charming in its way. House. Home. Wife. Children. Trees and green fields. Peace. But I can make that dream a reality. You can have the dog, too. You can even choose the wife, if you wish.” The image changed, to take in a border collie dog, its chin resting on its paws. In the doorway was a woman, long-legged and curvy, with golden hair. With a sudden shock, Cutwater saw that she had Joon’s face – an older Joon, but no less beautiful, with obvious signs of incipient motherhood in her body and face.
“There are havens, as you may know,” Mazimdas said. “Places where the Disconnected go. We don’t drive them out, Mr Cutwater. They drive themselves out. They flee from comfort to the harsh places, the wild places… The ends of the earth. But even these heretics are welcome back in the world of synchronisation, living apart, living comfortably. They pose no threat, and we do not pose any to them, in turn. All we require is their information. That could be you. My price for your dream is information. Tell me about who lives in Tegrit. Find out what their business plan is. Pure and simple.”
Cutwater blinked. In the time it took his eyelids to rise and fall, the image on the wall was gone.
“Look,” he said. “I’m going to Tegrit. They don’t have business plans, there. Not ones you’d understand, anyway. I’m going to meet the people of the monastery. If Joon wants to come with me, she can. I can’t answer for her safety once she gets there. You’re not welcome there, Mazimdas. Neither you, nor your products. Maybe you should just accept there are people and places that you’ll never control. Benignly or not.”
“It’s not about control. It’s about sharing.”
Cutwater laughed hard at this. At last, a frown creased Mazimdas’ brow. “Sharing. Another one of the great lies. Share this. Like that. Spread the word. Any thought, any time, anywhere, anyhow. Sharing is just another way of surrendering control. Deep down, you know this.”
Mazimdas became sanguine again, and smiled. “I wonder why you do this? When perfect health and a life of leisure are within your grasp, you make it hard for yourself. Why? Do you need something to strive for? Some goal to work towards? Why can’t you understand we’re already here? Utopia has arrived, Mr Cutwater.”
“I do it… If I’m being honest… Because it pisses people like you off.”
Mazimdas nodded. “Quite. There’s always that. Well. I’ll be off, Mr Cutwater. But I’ll be around. The offer stands. You can accept it at any time. Use Joon if you wish to get in contact with me. And the world.”
As his pedestal floated off towards the cave entrance, Cutwater got to his feet. “You know, there’s a part of me that will always regret not trying to kill you.”
“You can’t kill me,” Mazimdas said, his voice fading. “That isn’t a boast, or anything. It’s just that you can’t, even if you actually did. I’m part of synchronisation. No-one dies. Only the body. That’s the goal of our next-gen tech: digital immortality. I’m working on it. That means it’ll be a reality soon.”
The heatshield moved off into the white.
And then it happened; a deluge of crackling light, purple thunderbolts tearing across the sky in jagged fingers from some hidden source on the mountainside. Cutwater winced as the light outside grew intense. The purple bolts concentrated on Mazimdas. Briefly, he was silhouetted against it, arms outstretched in alarm. He might have screamed, but it was lost in the noise.
Then Mazimdas’ shadow figure flew apart like ashes in the wind.
The air had barely stirred during this barrage, although the air carried a heavy scent of ozone.
On her pedestal, Joon stretched and stirred. Her face twitched, rilled and contorted as the synch took her. “Dreams,” she said. “Mazimdas came to save me! Wildwise, or what?”
Cutwater rubbed his eyes, blinking. The shade of Mazimdas was still burned into his field of vision in afterimage, arms outstretched.
“We have to go,” he said. “It’s not far now.”
**************
Jaune is the new you. Synch with us. Be new.
**************
The gates were not hard to spot if you knew a rough location, and Cutwater wondered how so many had missed them on their way through the valley. Set into a fissure opened up in the mountainside, dark and studded with brass, they opened with a crack like a giant stretching in the morning as Cutwater and Joon approached.
Cutwater wondered where the repulsor guns they’d used were stored.
“Still in
synch,” Joon said, fingering her implant. “Score!”
“How’s things going? Any news?”
Joon frowned. “News? News all the time. You and me are news now. Reckoned in full. What news do you mean? News of what?”
“Oh, nothing special. Just wondered if you’d heard any big breaking stories. Hey, we’ve got company. Stay alert.”
A monk came towards them – not quite what Cutwater would have pictured, but fairly close. His yellow robes were surreally bright in the torchlight, with a scarlet sash over one shoulder. He was sleek and muscular, but his lined face hinted at great age. In the background was the monastery, an architectural mash-up of pagodas, spires, minarets and slate that only made sense in sum. Other monks glowered at them from watchtowers and sentryboxes; some of them carried spears which weren’t really spears.
“Welcome, traveller,” the monk said, raising his hand. “You have come far.”
“Hello,” Cutwater said, returning the gesture. “I’m Cutwater. This is Joon. She comes of her own free will, though she knows her apparatus is not welcome here.”
“Don’t worry, Cutwater. We know who you both are. Your companion is welcome. You have brought us a great victory. You have helped to deliver the world.”
Joon appeared to have gone into a trance. “Billions,” she said. “Viddies in billions, now.”
“Won’t you join us?” the monk said. “There are refreshments in the monastery.”
Cutwater bowed his head. “I require only your hospitality. I’ve finally found Tegrit. I want to stay, learn, and serve, completely free and untethered.”
“You will. You both will.” The monk gestured towards a central cobblestoned path, leading to a massive, central palace, hexagonal in structure with a domed roof. “We are Jaune.”
Cutwater frowned. There was a wire curled around the back of the monk’s ear, a transparent coil that was not immediately obvious, snaking in and out of his beard. Cutwater could now make out what was written across the sign which dominated the frontispiece of the nearest temple.