Sleeper Protocol

by Kevin Ikenberry

  “Today?” The idea of going outside, on my own, brightened everything. Whatever I was supposed to do, a voice-activated television and a hospital room were not going to help me. The fact that I didn’t know my name would not stop me. There should have been fear, but excitement overrode it completely. “I feel like I’m making this up as I go along, but I want to do this. Today.”

  “We’ll get to that,” he said, grinning. “How about ya follow me, mate?”

  The hallways of the hospital were almost vacant. A few staff members—it was impossible to tell doctors from nurses—hustled from closed door to closed door. The quiet emptiness struck me. “You’re not very busy here.”

  “You’re the only patient in this ward right now,” Garrett said as we turned a corner into another wide hallway. “Downstairs, there are a few hundred patients receiving other types of treatment. We’re treating everything from broken bones to heart transplants.”

  “What ward am I in?”

  “This is the Integration Center. We have a staff of thirty dedicated solely to blokes like you.”

  “What’s that mean? There are more people like me?”

  We made our way down a short hallway with windows from floor to ceiling. “Your particular condition is the first of its kind. Those of us who aren’t interacting with you during your stay are studying every bit of data we can glean.”

  At the end of the hallway were an elevator and a bin of umbrellas. “We’re going outside?” I asked, smiling.

  “Might still be raining. Want an umbrella?”

  “I’ll take a chance.”

  We stepped inside the elevator, and the ride was quick and silent. The doors opened to a rainforest. Dank, musty air filled the elevator cabin, and I drank it in. Rain no longer fell, but drops of water tumbled from the large tropical plants and trees. A small path, no wider than a person, led from the elevator in both directions along the rooftop. Palms and other unfamiliar trees stretched into the sky. Everything was deep, bright green and healthy despite the cool temperature. Breathing deeply, I could see a fine mist of my breath in the air.

  “Spring or fall?” I asked as we passed into the garden.

  Garrett opened his umbrella and fell in behind me on the path. “Spring. A bit cooler than normal today, but summer is coming.”

  A large palm trunk stretched above us. Something about it seemed out of place. “Palm trees don’t like cool temperatures like this.”

  “They are phytomechanically engineered.”

  “What?” The palm tree swayed in the light breeze. The rough bark felt no different than any tree I could ever remember touching.

  “Phytomechanics,” Garrett said. “All of these plants are specifically engineered to remain green and healthy year-round despite extreme temperatures and volatile precipitation shifts.”

  From the edge of the roof, we looked out over the city. The building was much taller than I’d thought. At least sixty stories in the air, the breeze off the harbor was fresh and cool. Clouds touched the tops of the surrounding buildings, and mist fell in sheets. A garden adorned every rooftop. “Why create something like this?”

  “Two reasons. The first should be obvious. What do plants breathe?”

  “Carbon dioxide,” I replied. “Cleanse the air.”

  “Precisely,” Garrett said. “The other part is the real reason for phytomechanical engineering. This garden supplies more than 80 percent of the fresh water required for this building. The walls store rainwater collected up here, which in turn is an excellent insulator. Twenty percent of the water is used to maintain the garden. We recycle all of the water continuously. That’s a standard practice these days.”

  “Why? You’re next to an ocean. Can’t you just desalinate?”

  “Sure, but that takes a significant amount of energy and effort. Why not just recycle what we use every day? We do desalinate a little, but recycling is better.”

  That made sense to me. Whatever the year was, I remembered lingering concerns over water rationing and drought conditions. I listened to my mind for a moment more but found no other memories. “The engineering is to help the plants do more with less water—is that right?”

  “Partially. This garden also generates 30 percent of the energy we need for daily operations.”

  “What?” I blinked. “How is that possible?”

  “Not a biologist, mate. Something with the way sugars are produced and processed. All living things generate electricity. The garden is built into the roof to access that power and transfer it out to the power grid.”

  The sheer audacity of the garden overwhelmed me. The thick foliage and vegetation appeared meticulously cared for, and I didn’t notice anyone else on the roof but Garrett and myself. The tiny drops of rain collecting on the plants ran down wide, green leaves and disappeared. I couldn’t help wondering where it went. I glanced down at other buildings with equally impressive rooftops. “Why show me this?”

  “A measure of scope. This is how much the world has changed.”

  “You’re not afraid that all of this would make me want to jump over the edge?”

  Garrett laughed. “You can’t. Suicidal behaviors or ideations would cause your motor functions to shut down until you could be stabilized. It’s happened before.”

  “You said that I was the first to have this condition. How could suicide have happened before?” I faced him, crossed my arms, and leaned against the roof.

  He peered out at the horizon and tilted his head slightly. “You are the first of your condition to wake up, yes, but I’m saying that suicide in this society is no more. We found a way to significantly shut down the ability to take one’s life. Millions of people used to die of suicide every year. We’ve eliminated that on most counts. Look, it’s mainly biochemical response control, if I had to name it.”

  “But you haven’t cured it.” I wondered for a split second about trying it. Any attempt, and I’d likely not be anywhere close to leaving.

  Garrett nodded. “No. If a man is determined to take his own life, nothing can stop him. Like I said, it’s happened before, and in similar conditions to yours. There is considerable strength in the human mind. That’s something I want you to remember as you go walkabout. Take your time, ask questions, and experience life to the fullest extent possible. You have a very limited time to integrate.”

  “Why is it limited?”

  “Treatment protocols. We try one course of treatment and then reevaluate.”

  A low rumble of thunder rippled out over the harbor. “How much time do I have to integrate?”

  Garrett shrugged. “We’ve estimated that your memory should return within a year. By the time we’re done testing, you’ll have a little more than ten months.”

  “I thought you said I could leave soon.” The taste of outside air, neither recycled nor controlled, captivated me. Sitting on my ass for two months would not be easy.

  “Yes.” Garrett shifted the umbrella between his hands. “Ten months is from when we initiated the process. You’re on day forty-two right now.”

  I recoiled as if slapped. “But I just woke up at Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair.”

  “That’s right. You’ve been in treatment for the last forty-two days. Once we believed you might wake up, the clock started. You’re what we call Stage One. Don’t worry about what it means just yet. What’s important is getting you to full integration.”

  “What happens if I don’t integrate in a year?” Time felt like a noose tightening around my neck. “I come back here?”

  “Yes, for reevaluation.” Garrett opened his mouth as if he were going to add something but then shut it. The look on his face told me that he’d said more than he wanted to.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Garrett took a deep breath. “It’s not goin
g to be easy. But there are some rules that will help you. Most people have a neural implant, like a computer in their head. Most people won’t be able to get information about you. You’re a null file, and that will scare people.”

  That sounded fun. “Why?”

  “Because they’ll know not to touch you, and most people won’t even look at you or talk to you just to be safe.”

  I squinted at him. “Won’t touch me?”

  “Tactile stimulation, in your condition, could provoke strange responses.” Garrett shrugged. “We’ve used these procedures when dealing with the various sentient races of the galaxy—”

  “What?” I shivered. “Did you say aliens?”

  “Yes.” Garrett tapped his device. “You won’t find any on Earth. They were restricted to Luna and the other planets some time ago. Their technology is what helped us wake you up.”

  Flying cars. Aliens. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember either of those existing. The questions in my mind gelled into one. “You said you’d tell me. What year is it?”

  He stared at me for a long moment, and I had the strongest feeling he was wishing for his tray of syringes. “The year is 2305, mate. You’ve been asleep a long time.”

  The trail of flying cars above the Harbour Bridge paused in midair. Traffic seemed to be as pervasive as cockroaches. “If I go out there, won’t I need money?”

  A funny look crossed his face as if he were searching for the meaning of the word. “Oh, currency! No, you won’t need anything like that.” He chuckled and shook his head as if our conversation was fun and not troubling.

  “When I leave here, how will I pay for food or lodging?”

  “We’ll get to the ways of the world soon enough.” Garrett stared out over the harbor. “What I can tell you is that you seem to be in perfect health and are about twenty-eight years old. Once we get you cleared for walkabout, I’ll make sure you get all of the information you need—either from me or from a protocol—I promise.”

  I followed his gaze to the dramatic skyline. A driving sheet of precipitation emerged between the buildings and marched down the wide glass and steel corridors. I could smell the wet, clean rain approaching. The insistent drops thumped into the leaves and splattered along the rooftop around me. There were still a million questions in my mind, but none seemed important enough to ask. Reevaluation had an ominous sound to it, but I left it alone. The way Garrett had said the word made me think it was equal parts nothing and everything. I felt uneasy about it, but it wasn’t going to keep me from leaving the center. Nothing else felt important, and a part of me wondered if that was part of the treatment plan. With no name and barely any sense of awareness beyond my body, I needed to focus on the basics. Three hundred twenty days didn’t really matter if I couldn’t remember the guy in the mirror.

  Rain fell in big, cold drops through the cooling air. The water on my hair and skin sent chills down my spine. I am alive. The thought brought a smile to my face. Raising my chin to the sky, I closed my eyes and let the rain wash over me.

  “You all right, mate?” Garrett asked. “Sure ya don’t want to get back inside?”

  I snuck a last long glance at the Sydney skyline. What will it be like to be out there, surrounded by people I don’t know, finding my way without my name?

  Garrett studied me from under his umbrella, his blue eyes watching.

  Ask questions, I thought. “Where can I go?”

  Garrett pointed toward the ocean. “Anywhere you want, as long as you stay on Earth. The moon is pretty dull anyway, and you’re not cleared for interstellar flight yet.”

  Dull or not, the moon sounded like a perfect place to go. The rules, it seemed, reached far beyond me. “Where else can’t I go?”

  “There’s a list. We’ll get the protocol to work that out for you.”

  “But if I want to go anywhere that’s not on the list—and I mean anywhere—I can go?”

  “Yeah.” Garrett motioned toward the elevator. “Let’s get you out of the rain for now.”

  Walking back to the elevator wasn’t so bad. My legs felt better, lighter, than ever. The world was strange enough that I wanted to know more. More awaited me than flying cars, phytomechanical gardens, and the sense that I’d been asleep for a long time. I was alive, and whatever they wanted me to discover, I could find it.

  I might not like what I would find out, but I had to know.

  Chapter Three

  The early-morning fog and rain gave way to a stunning late-spring day. The afternoon sun streamed through the two windowed walls of General Crawley’s office. Five floors below, a young man wearing work coveralls and carrying a khaki backpack strode away from the Integration Center.

  Crawley watched until the man disappeared around a corner without looking back. A satisfied grin crept onto his face, and he thrust his hands in his pockets. Here, no one could see him breaking regulation.

  A tone from his desk interrupted the quiet moment of accomplishment. Crawley said softly, “General Crawley.”

  “What did you need, Adam? I’m late for a Council meeting.” He could hear the snicker in Penelope Neige’s Parisian-accented voice. “Is this official or personal?”

  Crawley tried not to smile. He’d known the newly appointed chairman of the Terran Council for more than twenty years, and she rarely made any meeting on time. “Official.”

  There was a pause, followed by the snick of an electric cigarette lighter. “You’ve been successful?”

  Crawley breathed slowly. “We have a subject awake and preparing for his walkabout. He’ll be leaving the center within the hour.” Giving him a head start had always been a part of the plan, but his old fair-weather friend did not need to know that. Trust was not something Crawley gave a politician easily.

  “Really?” He could hear Neige exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke. “Are you sure this isn’t going to be a waste of time and resources, Adam? This is… what, one hundred years in development, and you’re just now giving the Terran Council a possible subject?” She laughed in his ear.

  It was melodious and enraging at the same time. Sacrificing the ability to have a family, a loving relationship, and his career in the Terran Defense Force would never be enough in the eyes of some. His team worked with genetic-mapping research that lengthened the human lifespan. They cured cancer and a host of other diseases.

  Neige, and those like her, never understood what it was really about. The politicians wrote off the work as research, but Crawley and his precious inner circle knew better. Using a twenty-first-century subject had been the goal all along. The Terran Council wanted soldiers for the defense of humankind, but what they preferred, without saying as much, were docile men and women who would not question or fight without direction. Crawley wanted victory. The Greys wanted to eradicate humanity, and acquiescent soldiers better suited to political machinations would make that possible. Crawley and his team wanted to give Earth a fighting chance. Anything less was unacceptable.

  Crawley felt the redness creeping up his neck. “Running off the Greys is hardly a waste of time and resources, Madame Chairman. Without the Terran Defense Forces and our research, the Greys will burn Earth to a cinder when they return.”

  “If they return.” Neige chuckled but said nothing for a moment. Even the Terran Council knew the danger posed by the Greys, no matter how far they shied away from it. “And you’re monitoring the subject how?”

  “No neural connections. He has a standard guidance protocol instead.”

  Neige’s voice rose above its normal diplomatic tone. “No. He gets a Class Three protocol. We need to be sure he is a valid subject, Adam. I’ll have it downloaded immediately.”

  “I really think—”

  “You heard me, Adam!” Neige recovered her composure in an instant. “I’d love to chat about this, but with a coheren
t subject awake and on walkabout, higher-security protocols are necessary.”

  Crawley felt anger rising in his chest. “A Class Three protocol is not necessary.”

  “For the Terran Council, General, I believe it is. Is there anything else?”

  Crawley fumed but kept his voice measured. No matter how much it infuriated him, the woman was predictable to a fault. “No, Madame Chairman.”

  “I can always tell when you’re trying to kiss my ass, Adam. It doesn’t suit you.” The line clicked off, leaving Crawley resting his chin against his tightly clenched fist.

  Damn that woman. A Class Three protocol served no purpose other than to subvert Crawley’s own reporting methods. Every move that the subject made would be broadcast directly to Penelope Neige, giving the chairman and the Terran Council the opportunity to interfere at each turn. Direct reporting, Crawley thought with a grimace. Whatever I know, she’ll know. Which was exactly what she wanted. Unless we can stop it.

  Neige had been an undersecretary of military affairs when they dumped the cloning program in her lap. From the first meeting, Crawley knew she was trouble. The woman would do anything to stay in power, and in this case, she enjoyed the perfect political position. If the experiment failed, she could brush it off as another Terran Defense Force failure. If the experiment succeeded, she had the power to embrace it and leverage it against her political adversaries. The biggest problem was that she didn’t believe the Greys intended to attack Earth. The silent aliens had jumped away in 2281 and had not been found since. But failing to prepare for battle with them was a chance that Crawley couldn’t take.

  He sat at his desk and raised his shiny black shoes to the acrylic surface that doubled as a screen. “Encrypted connection to Livermore. Now.”

  A synthesized human voice answered sixteen seconds later, the delay necessary to encrypt the transmission and bounce it from Earth to the moon before decoding it. “Livermore, access code, please?”