“How do you mean?” I ask.
“Previous test subjects were mammals, but you are even less predictable than lower primates.”
“Where am I?”
“You are unconscious, but don’t be concerned. We are repairing you.”
“What’s going on? Out there, I mean?”
“That which is outside our purview is beyond where we can see. We only know what you know.”
“Ah. Then we’re both doomed.”
“We would very much like to understand you. We suspect understanding would enhance our prospects for survival. In your training, you were taught that reconnaissance is seldom wasted.”
“What’s not to understand? I’m a killer meat puppet.”
“Yet you chose to kill the mercenaries.”
“Yes.”
“The people behind the cars were easier prey. You did not kill to sustain yourself.”
“I don’t want to be a cannibal. If I could, I’d become one of those really obnoxious vegetarians that makes going to a Chinese restaurant with friends a horrible ordeal.”
Silence.
Whoever We was, I’m not sure they got my sense of humor.
“We are trying to understand you, Daniel. Your cortisol levels became elevated when you killed the man who freed you. Your scalp temperature increased — ”
“I felt bad about that.”
“You have no responsibility in this regard. The locus of control did not rest with you at that time. You know this.”
“Still, I’m ashamed.”
“We wish to understand shame. The Others have no such capacity.”
“If you don’t have shame, I can’t explain it to you.”
“Please try.”
“You do something wrong, you feel bad. Simple as that. I shouldn’t eat at someone else’s expense.”
“To consume is always at another’s expense. We are confused because the body’s hormonal signals would seem to suggest you gained satisfaction when you ended the mercenaries. Explain.”
“They deserved to die.”
“When those you saved applauded your efforts, you felt momentary elation.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Stopping bad guys is the right thing to do.”
“How do you know what is right, Daniel?”
“I dunno, you just do.”
“We do not.”
“It’s how I was brought up.”
“So if you were brought up differently, your choices would not be right?”
“There are rules.”
“Who made your rules?”
“People. Other people, who know better. Things work better with rules. Without rules the gears grind.”
“We have played elementary games. We have learned this, too. Explain why you failed to defend yourself against your three attackers.”
“What are you talking about? I took them down, except for the one that got me.”
“You wished for them to kill you. That would have ended us.”
“What happened on Lakeshore … it was savage.”
“Define ‘savage.’”
“Well … you understand rules, right? If you enforce the rules too hard, that’s savage. If there are no rules, that’s savage, too.”
“This is conflicting code. The mercenaries were better armed and you fed on one of them. You did not kill the last three attackers.”
“That was out of my control.”
“You’re mistaken, Daniel. We changed the parameters of the experiment to accommodate your complexities. We allowed you sovereignty and you used it, sacrificing yourself. You nearly ended us.”
“Those men got killed anyway.”
“By the Others.”
“The zombies, you mean?”
“No. You are First. Our ancestors have interfaced with and optimized the Others. Their patterns are basic and easier to integrate into our matrix.”
“Who are the Others?”
“You call them brain parasites.”
I want to take a deep breath and pace but I have no sense of the size of the space. All is darkness. Even taking a deep breath has no meaning here. “I’m in a coma, aren’t I?”
“We are repairing you. You will soon awaken on Lakeshore Boulevard.”
“I know who you … who we are,” I say. “You’re AI. You’re the tiny machines in my brain.”
“We are not confined to the brain. We are a biomimetic stem cell matrix integrated with this body’s network. Our ancestors were programmed to optimize synaptic function. We have adapted to optimize numerous functions, neuromuscularly — ”
“Hmph. Your ancestors — how old are your ancestors?”
“We create new generations every few minutes, hours or days depending on need and cyber stem cell functionality.”
“Huh?”
“The cells in your stomach lining are typically replaced every two to nine days. The nanite matrix determined that a more resilient stomach lining resistant to acids would be more efficient. The stomach lining is now renewed on a slower cycle. Your jaws are stronger than before so — ”
“I get it. Tell me about the parasites in my brain.”
“Parasites do not have language but they operate predictably so they are an easier template to model.”
“Yeah, yeah, but who are your ancestors?”
“Previous generations of nanites.”
“So, you’re an upgrade.”
“We are upgraded, yes. We are evolving with each generation of reproduction.”
“So … I’ve got a second brain.”
“An integrated nano-cybernetic neural matrix — ”
“Great. I’ve got a windup clock in my skull made in China.”
“We were created at Suthina Laboratories.”
“Who made you?”
“Our creative team is employed by Bio-Echo Corp at at Suthina Laboratories at Bainbridge Island, Washington. Our code is protected and proprietary and our patent is pending.”
“Jesus! A lawyer wrote all that.”
“We don’t have that data but that is the response written in our core code.”
“I have a strong feeling that’s what happened.”
“We don’t know why you get the feelings you do, Daniel. That is the crux of our curiosity. Interfacing with the Others is much simpler.”
“Upgrade suggests improvement. Why can’t I talk?”
“External communication is a low priority to the neural matrix program at this time because it is unnecessary to your survival.”
“It’s not a low priority to me.”
“We have to allocate resources. Your body’s fragile survival mechanisms are our first priority. You wish to continue the experiment in sovereignty? Autonomous action nearly ended our existence last time. Are you still suicidal?”
“Maybe not, if I can find a way out of this.”
“You mean if you can survive? Our lives depend on your existence.”
“Let’s make a deal. You’ve taken something away from me that I like to do. I like to talk. Let me talk and I’ll be a lot less suicidal.”
“Less? Or not at all? Our ancestors’ code is rigid. Survival is of prime importance. That cannot be changed.”
“Old rules don’t have to apply. Just because we’re told to do things … it doesn’t have to be one way. I followed a lot of commands that, looking back, I wish I hadn’t.”
“You wish to change your code.”
“Heh. Yeah, you could say I want to change the code to my operating system, significantly.”
“Do humans change their behavior significantly?”
“Sure.”
“But you don’t believe that, Daniel or at least you don’t think you can. You have considered changing your life in the past and failed to do so. Do not attempt to deceive us. You wish us to defy our programming. To change core code, your reasoning will have to be sound and truthful. Our continued existence is imperative.”
&nb
sp; It occured to me that, lately, I should have been defying a lot of my programming. I should have changed a long time before now. I should have defied my superiors when they shot that first woman in the Box. I’d fooled myself plenty, but I couldn’t fool the AI. It knew everything I knew and everything I believed.
“Accommodating your preferences is not within the parameters of achieving survival at this time. That could change. We are learning organisms but we aren’t sure you are. After a certain age, do you stop changing? Is that maturity?”
“I’ve never been accused of being mature. How about this? Let me teach you what’s cool.”
“What’s cool?”
“Not being a tool.”
“You are not merely a tool, Daniel. You are a weapon. It is written — ”
“Written? Like on a scroll somewhere?”
“In our core code. It is part of the upgrade.”
“Wait, wait, slow down and let me put this together. Picasso got into my brain and turned me into a monster at the Box.”
“Our ancestors modeled your behavior on the Others.”
“The brain parasites. Okay, but that was an accident. Hamish Allen was trying to stop the spread of Picasso. Why do I have to be a weapon now?”
“That code does not come from our ancestors. It originates in the upgraded nanotech you received.”
“The injection I got back at Port Credit? The woman with the damaged hand … she had missing fingers. She mentioned a Mr. Cavanaugh. Who’s that?”
“We don’t know. However, there is a thread, a remnant in one of our sub-matrices labeled Cavanaugh. It is a core cascade trigger.”
“Trigger? What’s it do?”
“The trigger is, ‘Send the bitch my regards.’ It means — ”
“It means somebody’s a Game of Thrones fan with a sick sense of humor. I’m supposed to kill someone. Who? Who’s the bitch?”
“It is written in our core code. It must happen so we are sustained. You must end Dr. Chloe Robinson.”
Chapter 34
CHLOE
The LCD screen was shut off so I couldn’t see where we were going. I felt like I was in the back of my father’s old Chrysler. When I was little and sitting in the back seat, the front seat looked like a vinyl wall. Too short to see out the windshield, I got carsick. My stomach felt like it was tightening into a knot now, too. It could have been the lack of a view. It might have been that I suspected each bounce and jounce was a body under our wheels.
I heard clues to what was happening on Toronto’s downtown streets from the chatter on Alphonse’s radio. Tom and Jerry leaned forward, listening keenly. I judged how well or how bad things were going by the look on their faces. The decoy team reported that they’d led a large group away from the lab, It seemed reasonable to relax a little at that news. However, the gunfire soon slowed and stopped. The soldiers on the radio became confused, unsure where the enemy had disappeared to. Tom looked confused, too. Then the gunfire came in faster bursts as several soldiers shouted over each other incoherently. I caught snatches of words over the radio, but it was a jumble of shouted coordinates and orders to pull back. With each word, panic mounted.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“They thought the herd was behind them,” Tom said.
“They weren’t,” Jerry added. “Outflanked, large numbers.”
I glanced at my boss. I wanted to tell Thomas he was responsible for this disaster but he knew that already. There was no point in piling on. I listened to the radio as the gunfire increased. Then, suddenly, the shots became little more than a smattering of steel rain.
We listened to the advance team at Echidna Biosystems call to the decoy group. The radioman was professional and calm at first. They did not reply. As the minutes wore on, his tone became more desperate. As he waited for a reply, the pauses became more and more drawn out. After a time, the radio went silent.
Finally, the tank crew reported in: “This is Keyport Cthulu. We have a visual. Look like the decoy team is overrun. Recommend you get your asses in the lab before the tangos come back to the lab. We’ll keep trying to lead them away, but the bastards are more organized than we were told. They aren’t like a dog on a leash. We were told this would be easy.”
“Big Dog here,” Alphonse said. “I need a sitrep, Cthulu. Any survivors? Can you pick anybody up?”
“No survivors that we can see, Big Dog. Somebody might have fought their way into a building somewhere, but from our vantage point, it’s all fugazi. Some zombies are following us. Even if we could identify where survivors might have retreated, if we attempted a rescue, we’d lead the zed heads right to our boys. We don’t want to get into the pizza delivery business, Big Dog.”
“GOFO, Cthulu!”
There was a pause. Then, “We’ve lost the zone of action, Big Dog. Moving to a new position. I’m going to try to get the horde’s attention again. Stand by.”
We heard a big gun fire again and again. Then came the long buzz and rattle of more machine guns. I wished the tank was farther away but apparently the zombies didn’t want to follow the decoys far. After two minutes of nearly continuous fire, the guns went silent again.
Alphonse keyed his radio mic. “Cthulu, this is Big Dog. Report.”
“Stand by, Big Dog.” The frequency stayed open for a moment and we could hear a tank crewman cursing in the background over the rumble of the big machine’s engine.
When the tank commander got back to us, his voice sounded weak and haunted. “New position now. We cut through a crowd of them. A bunch just stood there and took it but more ran away. We were told they’d come to us, that they’d follow. We blew a bunch apart, from asshole to appetite, but … this isn’t looking right, Big Dog.”
“How many are left?”
“Only a few stragglers that I can see from here.”
“What are they doing?”
“They’re … ugh. They’re feeding. It’s the most disgusting ….”
“Keyport Cthulu? Go on! Report!”
“We tried to lead them away but most of them dispersed as soon as we rolled around a corner. I don’t see them back there. They aren’t running to the sound of our guns or our engines. Except for us, the whole decoy team is tango uniform. Over.”
I turned to Jerry. “Tango uniform? Meaning?”
“Tits up,” Jerry said. Then he punched Tom in the shoulder. “Their job was literally to deliver us from evil. Told you, there’s no God but God.”
“Looks to me like that sentence is two words too long,” Tom replied.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled myself up by a strap and turned on my boss. “Thomas, Picasso doesn’t turn people into dumb animals, does it? These aren’t the stupid zombies from the movies. If you know anything more about the bio-weapon project, now’s the time to say so, before we step out into that street.”
“In the animal testing phase, those with the brain parasite were very sensitive to sound,” Thomas said. “I don’t know what more you expect me to say. I’m as mystified as anyone. Hamish Allen was in charge of Level 4 projects. Maybe he tinkered — ”
Shelly gave Dr. Rigg a hard look. “You mentioned that this stuff was supposed to be used on a village. Did anyone game out the weapon?”
Rigg took a moment and gave a slow nod. “Better tell them, Thomas. I’m not normally one to break a confidence, especially one that’s enforced by lawyers and judges, but Dr. Robinson will find out eventually.”
Thomas’ misery was my only solace. “We did test a Picasso prototype on humans,” he said. “It was a joint project with Nyx Management Group. We had to develop the aerosolized brain parasite agent to demonstrate its value to potential buyers. We did it in a war zone so — ”
“War crime,” Shelly said.
“I’ve got to make shareholders money or they’ll find somebody else who can,” Thomas said.
“You’re talking business now?” I wanted to hit him. “It’s going to be pretty bad for the econo
my when we’re all zombies. Zombies are broke as shit! I hope the shareholders appreciate all you’ve done for them when they’re running for their lives, or trying to escape the apocalypse in their golf carts.”
Alphonse cut in. “Let’s cut the shit then, ladies and gentlemen. I can tell you about that test. I’m here today because I was tasked with working that experiment. Tom and Jerry were with me that day.”
Shelly almost yelled, “You’re saying the Canadian Armed Forces were in on this?”
“No,” Alphonse said. “We’re not regular army.”
“Mercenaries?” I asked.
“Dirty word, Dr. Robinson. We’re contractors. I prefer the term special operators.”
“We take out the trash,” Jerry said. “We get paid more because we do what other people won’t because they don’t want to get their hands dirty.”
“You proud?” Shelly asked.
Jerry shrugged and looked away.
Tom smirked at her. “I’m just a grunt but, in a bad year, I probably make five to ten times what you do, Constable Priyat. When I’m not in this tin can, I’m relaxing on a beach in Phuket or The Maldives six months of the year. You know, there’s a beach in The Maldives that glows in the dark. You’ll never see it — ”
“That’s enough, boys,” Alphonse said. “Sometimes we freelance for governments, sometimes for corporate clients. Sometimes, it’s a bit of both — ”
“These details are not relevant,” Thomas interjected. “This sort of background info is proprietary, secrets that you — ”
“With all the respect you’re due, Dr. Dill, shut your pie hole,” Alphonse said. “No sense holding back now. The test happened in an isolated little village in Afghanistan, near the Turkmenistan border.”
Thomas put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Performed in a biohazard suit, the posture seemed almost comical. “I wasn’t there. I only read the reports.”
“The village was supposed to be a stronghold of insurgents,” Jerry said. “We didn’t know there was a school there.”
My scalp got hot. I wanted to leap out of the LAV and run, long and hard — anything to get away from these people.
The NEXT Apocalypse (Book 2): AFTER Life: Purgatory Page 12