by T. K. Malone
“Agreed,” he finally and quietly said.
“Wait, what?” Laura said, looking from Zac to Noodle and then to Billy and Loser. “What’s agreed? How?”
Noodle hadn’t broken Zac’s stare. “No gavel,” he said. “You’ll have to use your glass.”
“Aye,” Zac said, his voice now resounding around the room, and he struck the table with his glass.
“Aye,” muttered Noodle, as Billy then did the same, and finally Loser, leaving the silence of a course now set lingering over the table, until Laura exclaimed, “Would someone mind explaining what’s just happened?”
“It’s simple,” Billy said, reaching for the last glass and pulling it away from Loser. “We have to align with someone.” He shrugged. “And, as we’re already aligned with Charm—for the sake of Connor—we go with Irv and Walt.”
“Just like that?” Laura said.
“What’s so hard about it?” Billy poured out another whiskey. “Even if you take Connor out of the picture, they’re still the smart move.”
“But Switch?”
“Switch is on a shelf,” Zac said.
Laura looked around the table, but no one offered an explanation until Noodle laughed and said, “On a shelf, to be taken down at a later date.”
She rolled her eyes, studied the ceiling for a moment and then said, “Okay, so any action is deferred. I get it, but the thing is: you aren’t going to just slide in with these folks. They hold all the cards—they’ve got all the power.”
Billy looked at Noodle. He seemed fit to burst, as though straining to hold something back; indeed, they both did, both bursting into laughter at the same time.
“You assholes,” said Zac, then he looked at Laura. “Forgive them; humor sees them through. Of course they need us. Why else are we still alive?”
The truth of Zac’s words appeared to dawn on her by degrees, until she too gained a glint to her eye. “And you’re sure of that?”
“Sure as we can be,” Zac told her. “In fact, the ball’s very much in their court.”
They were led out of the room a couple of hours later, the guards not saying a word, merely pointing with their guns to direct them along a short forest trail toward a large cabin set into the hillside. For the most part, Zac kept his gaze to the ground, thoughts of Connor dominating his mind. Laura pulled alongside him as they neared the cabin.
“This is where they live.”
“It’s going to be tough—biting my lip—going to be hard.”
She squeezed his arm. “Try,” she muttered as they walked up the steps and into the cabin.
The smell of pine hit Zac straight away, the hallway fresh and airy. A door swept open and Walter looked out. “Splendid,” he said. “In time for some lunch.” He stood aside to let them in. “Please, take a seat.”
The room was little different from the cabin they’d just left, the exception being the table and chairs, these looking more suited to a formal dining room. One by one, they took a seat.
“Mind your manners, Loser,” said a rather muted Noodle, as though he felt a little out of his depth. A short line of waiters appeared, and, much to the bemusement of them all, lunch was served. Walter sat at the head of the table, watching each of them in turn.
“Please eat, drink the wine, and then we’ll talk.”
Though his stomach churned with pent-up frustration, Zac realized how hungry he was as soon as the food hit the table. Any conversation was placed on Switch’s shelf, but once they were done and all sitting back contentedly, Walter coughed.
“The conclusion you’ve reached is satisfactory, not ideal but satisfactory, and time presses; time, gentlemen…and lady, of course, is now very precious, very precious indeed. So, what retribution do you have in store for us later?” he then asked, his voice now laced with an undertone of threat. “Yes, the cabin is bugged for our convenience.” He paused and raised his glass before continuing. “Not that I am overly worried about that. No, not at all. Are any of you familiar with the law of parsimony? Occam’s razor?” He took a sip of his wine.
Zac scanned those at the table, seeing furtive glances which reminded him of children being scolded. He found it amusing in a strange way, although Laura was the exception. He decided she probably did know but was electing to keep it quiet.
“No?” challenged Walter. “Well, one particular offshoot of that way of thinking can be summed up like this: it’s vain to do with more, what can be done with fewer. Now, we have a particular problem which revolves around a certain scenario currently ongoing, which is to say nothing while still blabbing away. Sharing a secret, Zac Clay, divulging a plot hatched over the fullness of time, is something I have particular difficulty with. You see, I don’t care for people, don’t trust them, and because of that I rarely get any trust in return.”
He signaled for more drinks and then waited until all the plates had been cleared and the drinks served. Without asking, he took a smoke from Zac’s pack and sighed.
“But I suppose I have to start somewhere, and as your life is pretty much an open book, Zac, it is mine—ours, if you include my father—which needs to be wagered so a deal can be done. So, here’s that deal.
“Yes, we do need something from you. There, I’ve said it. But what, eh? Occam’s Razor tells us what; the simplest explanation is always the best, or that you shouldn’t use more when you can use less?”
He lit his cigarette. “Take for instance the apocalypse. What is the simplest way to avoid another?”
“Don’t make any more bombs?” Noodle offered.
“Yes, er, Noodle, but if man can, he will seek dominion over another, so we can assume the bomb will be made.”
“Then kill all the men,” Noodle tried again.
“Exactly. Occam’s razor would have us kill every man, woman and child, which would then ensure a nuclear war could never happen again, but there’s an obvious issue with that in that we would all be dead. So, essentially, bugger Occam, or interpret it differently. Trust me for now; trust me a simple answer to the conundrum of the razor is indeed possible, just not desirable. Which brings me neatly back to using more or less.”
Walter paused for a moment and then cleared his throat.
“I think we should have some wine. Renshaw,” he shouted. “Three bottles of red and some glasses. Explanations,” he then muttered, “are so difficult because actions are the children of events, and action is the spawn of reason, and in many cases, who can explain what truly motivates one? Suffice it to say, I will try.”
He took a draw on his smoke, appearing to consider his next words.
“As we’ve already told you, Charm squirreled away a vast number of the Black City’s residents, and by vast number we mean a few in real terms but significant enough, we could form a new city. What I haven’t told you, as you rightly suspect, Zac, is your brother is among them, and nor have I told you of certain other issues which have occurred.”
“Connor…”
“Your brother is alive, although we would…we do have reservations about how Josiah is managing his safety. In many ways he’s sailed too close to the wind with his charge. Now, there is a small issue in that Josiah Charm thinks of things on a very localized level. It’s almost like he’s consumed with the little area of land around us and forgets the rest of the world still exists, and that could be his downfall or his greatest asset; to focus on a micro or macro level—who knows what will work best, eh? So, tell me, why has he sent you here? What ploy is he playing out?”
“I don’t follow,” Zac muttered, shifting uncomfortably on his chair.
“Follow? No, you wouldn’t. Reading between the lines, Charm sent you here and told you to say you’d delivered the Nevada Mead. Well, that’s all well and good, but on the surface it means little to me at all, apart from you fitted a fuse which connects Project Firebird to the outside grid. While you factor that in I ought to tell you he paraded your brother in public view just the other day. So, what’s changed and why is the
fuse so important? It tells me Charm is taunting my father and I, that he’s achieved something he was unsure he could.”
“Paraded?”
“He let Connor out of the compound, endangering him greatly, and just to make a point.”
“But why?”
“I’ve already told you—I don’t know, but I suspect circumstances have changed.”
“But that’s impossible. Charm sent us here a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry?” Walter said.
Zac sat back, staring at the man, concluding the man truly didn’t know. “The instructions to come here were packed in with the fuse. That crate’s been in Christmas since before the bombs dropped.”
“Then it’s worse than I thought.”
“What is?”
“I’m now fairly sure he sent you here in anticipation of a need that neither my father nor I had even conceived of until we were wondering what to do with you. I think he was a step or two ahead, no matter how far behind we thought he’d fallen. I think you are his insurance.”
Zac took a long breath and an equally long sip of his drink. Noodle and Billy were exchanging confused glances, Loser seemed lost in a world of his own, and Laura was biting her lip as though an awful lot hinged on what was about to be discussed. “Is there a point to all this?” Zac finally asked.
“There is,” Walter assured him, his thin lips then pressed firmly together, as though attempting to keep his secrets from spilling out. He stared at Zac for quite a while, until he breathed in sharply, as though he’d come to a conclusion.
“We think Oster Prime is about to clean shop.” Walter leaned forward. “And last time he cleaned shop, he wiped out the world as we know it.”
“He’s still alive?” Zac muttered.
Laura ran her fingers through her hair. “Jesus,” she whispered.
“You mean...” Noodle stood and walked around the table to stand behind Walter.
“He means,” said a chilling voice from the hallway, “that Prime only got the job half done.” Irving wheeled himself in through the doorway. “He now means to eradicate every single thing that’s a threat to his power. The underground compound Connor’s holed up in—although compound’s a pretty loose term for it—is under siege by the federal army, and by all accounts about to break. Factions within factions, Zac, plots within plots, and they’re all bubbling away quite nicely. We, that is Walter and I, estimate the probability of Connor surviving as the man you knew is diminishing day by day for more than one reason.” He wheeled himself up to the table. “Ah, a red; marvellous,” and he helped himself to a glass. After taking his time to appreciate it he shouted, “Renshaw!” and looked back at the doorway. Zac’s eyes followed his gaze.
A merc now stood in the doorway, a machine gun resting easily in his hands, as though it was part of him, something Zac was sure he’d use if given half a wink from Irving.
“What the…” said Billy, but Walter stood.
“Trust,” he said. “We told you trust has to be earned, and you don’t trust us, which is a bit of a problem when it comes to two sides who don’t trust each other but who need to come together.”
“Laura?” Walter asked.
“I’m undecided, Father.”
“You see, Zac, if I can persuade Laura, then I can persuade anyone. Let’s try another tack. Renshaw, if you would?”
Renshaw placed his gun by the door and came into the room. A whirring sound caught Zac’s attention, and he looked up to where it was coming from. A slot had opened up in the timber ceiling and a large screen had begun to lower through it. At the same time, the windows turned from clear to black and the lights dimmed. When the screen came to a rest just above the table, a high-resolution map of the entire area appeared on it.
“What we have here is our ‘land’, if you like,” Renshaw said, discarding his tunic and turning up his sleeves. This is us,” and somehow he moved a cursor on the display, “this, the valley with Firebird in it; this, Morton Valley; and so on. This red blob, here, represents the federal army, and therefore the enemy—for our purposes, anyway. And by the way, they’re steadily getting reinforced.”
Renshaw looked over them, appearing satisfied they were all following him.
“Inside this mountain we have Project Firebird. Over here, the preppers' compound; and farther over, Sendro Verde, Christmas and the Pen, and that’s just about it. In total, we estimate a few thousand souls. So, why is Oster Prime so interested in this neck of the woods?”
He looked around, clearly waiting for answers. Zac glanced at Walter. The man was sitting patiently, clearly relaxed, watching as if he were appreciating a magnificent sunset.
“It can only be Firebird,” Loser said. “He must be after the brains.”
Renshaw nodded. “On the surface, that’s what it would appear, but the surface is often just an innocent foil for what lies beneath. Do you really think Oster Prime hasn’t got his own bunker, his own cheat? Do you really think the Russians, Chinese and Koreans don’t have theirs?”
Loser scratched his head. “So, everyone’s got a bunker, and we’re back to square one.”
Walter began to clap. “Exactly, that’s exactly where we are, square bloody one.”
“Why do I think there’s a big ‘But’ coming?” Zac asked, refilling his glass and pulling another smoke out of the pack.
Walter flashed him a grin. “There’s always a ‘But’, Zac. What do you need to make a city?”
“People? Buildings?”
“They can make a village, but a city, Zac, that takes technology. What do you think Charm’s been smuggling—or rather, you’ve been smuggling on his behalf—out of Black City for the past few years? What do you think Charm’s been up to?”
“Technology?” Zac guessed.
Walter laughed. “Building blocks, Zac, building blocks. Your gang have smuggled everything from viable human eggs to harvested sperm—the population. It sent out the building blocks needed to rebuild the beginnings of another Grid—to grow a city, and it sent out all the knowledge ever gathered in the first one. In essence, if everyone was going to cheat, we wanted to be the best at it. Except for one problem: it all went without a hitch.”
“Problem?” Zac asked, and felt Laura squeeze his hand.
Walter stood. “Indeed. Packing the combined knowledge of man into such a confined space was solved by Laura’s mother—initially. We recreated intelligence, made it mobile so it could inhabit nearly any crystaline structure—a rock, for instance. We were to experiment on interfaces—plugging a human brain into the matrix, if you will.” Walter had walked around the table and was now behind Loser. “John was supposed to be the first to try it, but Laura’s mother got cold feet.”
He patted Loser on the shoulder. “His code name was Godfrey, not because of our old English roots, more because we saw it as setting God loose, setting him free. If ever a god could be interpreted as anything, it was knowledge. All our research told us,only an adolescent mind would survive the transition. Then Connor came along.”
Zac tensed, but Walter waved him down. “What happened next wasn’t our fault. We like to think it was an accident, and not the other explanation.”
“What other explanation?”
Walter rounded the table to face Zac. “The other explanation is the AI known as Sable, manufactured her own escape—to put it simply—she burst free and invaded Connor’s body.”
“So,” Loser muttered, “you tossed me on the scrap heap because I was too old?”
“Yeah, Godfrey,” Noodle smirked. “For a minute, there, you could have been God.”
Loser cast him a sideways glance. “You can go off people, Noodle. You do know that, don’t you?”
Walter let a sigh pass his lips. “Scrap heap? We paid your father handsomely. Is it our fault he squandered it, that he drank it away?”
Zac perked up a touch. “But what’s this time stamp, this thing which made Loser too old?” The question hung in the air before he rem
embered the real point of his words. “Why was Connor lined up to replace him? Why him out of all of them?”
Walter stared at Zac. “You should discuss that with your father.”
In the ensuing silence, Irving wheeled himself backward. “A family issue,” he grunted.
Walter moved behind his father. “I think we’re done here. Before I answer any more of your questions, I want to show you something. Will you allow me that?”
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Because you won’t believe us,” barked Irving, at which he held his head in his hands. “Yes, it was always the plan to use Connor. He was the boy. There, I’ve told them, Walter.”
“Father!” Laura screamed. “My mother forbade… You promised.”
“I never promised anything of the sort.”
Irving looked up. “But, we never did modify him. It was taken out of our hands, and the AI had already invaded him by the time we were alerted to the…the accident. In hindsight we should have terminated it there and then. Trouble was, we wanted to see what would happen. You see, it should have been contained, should have been stopped.” Walter had become fidgety, seemingly unsure of his words. Zac wondered if he was lying.
Laura shot to her feet. “No, you didn’t?”
“Yes, we did. We think she saved his life, so we decided we’d nothing to lose. We let her live.”
“Sable?” Laura spat.
“Sable,” Irving confirmed.
Zac wondered what he was hearing. He wondered why it was as bad as they appeared to infer. “So, this Sable saved him?”
Irving stuttered before eventually spilling out, “In a manner of speaking. She took over functions he couldn’t manage—essentially, she became his life support system. We thought it would last only a few days and then he’d die, she with him, but the boy flourished, recovered well and blossomed. He seemed to be able to keep Sable under control as though she were a lower level AI. Then all this happened, and a day or so ago, we think Charm made a mistake.”