Sleeper Protocol

by Kevin Ikenberry

  Garrett beamed. “Remember, all you have to do is use the card, and we’ll come get you.”

  The card sat securely in my pocket, and I doubted I would ever pull it out. “I will. How many days?”

  “Three hundred twenty. When the integration happens, you’ll know. All you have to do is return when the time comes. We’ll take care of everything else.” Garrett gestured toward the door. “Time to go.”

  “How will I know it has happened?” I put my hands inside the rough pockets.

  Garrett shrugged. “Your name and everything about you should snap into focus. What that feels like, I haven’t a clue, mate.”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t have a clue either. Whatever and whoever I was, the answer was behind the wide glass doors.

  “Time to go.” Garrett smiled after a moment, and I believed it to be genuine. In other circumstances, maybe when I returned with my identity, we could be friends. We didn’t shake hands or anything. There was nothing to do but walk away.

  With a deep breath, I did just that and studied my new world. The flying cars and buses didn’t bother me. The people around me seemed badly out of place with the overly styled hair, tight clothing, and exaggerated costumes reminiscent of a decade during my youth. Some of them talked audibly to no one but gestured, with their hands, in a silent dance of communication. The children, however, had the wide, innocent eyes they should have had in any era. The outrageous, colorful styles they wore made me laugh. Comparatively, I wore the equivalent of a burlap sack.

  Fashion, like history, was cyclical, and the trends would recycle over and over again, making the future much like the past. The sights and sounds washed over me, and my heartbeat accelerated. For all of my joy about being free to discover this new world and my role in it, the new sensations and sights were terrifying. There were too many stimuli. I turned around, stared past the Integration Center—the IC—toward Sydney Harbor, and concentrated on my breathing. Seeing the IC made my heart slow, and calm returned. There would be no going back. The people in the center were good, but they would not help me remember anything about who I was. The answer was out there, somewhere, in that strange and awful new world. I needed answers. I needed to think. The harbor was beautiful and serene but not what I needed. Without a second thought, I headed for the ocean.

  The closer I got, the more the briny scent of the ocean carried me along. I’d intended to wander the city. Instead, The Rocks—the colonial landing site—called to me, and my feet pointed me in that direction. A pub would have been a nice stop, except that as I made my way through the immaculate city streets, more people watched me and then looked away. Whatever the connotation of the null file—as Garrett said they would perceive me—it must have been something between a criminal and a crazy man. A ship terminal came into view, with a sign that read, “To Ocean Beaches – Manly and Bondi – On The Hour.” I saw the Manly Hydrofoil taking on only a few passengers, so I strode aboard, went below deck, and sat alone on a bench that smelled like stale beer. As Sydney faded away, I wondered what I was searching for. There wasn’t any panic in my blood, no driving questions about safety or sanity, only a sense of being that meant staying away from crowds like the ones in Sydney. I needed to give myself time to wander and figure out my name and my past—to wonder why I could identify a reference to an old science-fiction movie on a child’s shirt and not care that the safety placards on the boat were in Russian and Chinese as well as English. Just be. Nothing really matters. I’ll figure this out.

  The minute I arrived at Manly Beach, I hated it. There were too many people smelling of cheap coconut oil, and screaming children throwing sand. I found a pub and welcomed the cool darkness versus the scorching early-summer heat outside. The place was nearly deserted and filled with the lingering aroma of the lunch hour. I made my way to the heavy wooden bar and sat on a creaky stool.

  “What can I get ya?” The bartender made a conscious effort not to meet my eyes as he wrung a towel in his hands.

  “Tooheys.” I watched the surprise register on his face and felt surprised myself. The name of the beer had come from nowhere. It brought a rush of good sensations, and I knew it would taste great.

  “Right.” He flipped the white towel over his shoulder and stared at me.

  Not a criminal but definitely crazy. I barely stopped the smile threatening to break.

  The bartender grunted as he reached into a recessed cooler and brought out a blue bottle, opened it, and set it on a square napkin. He plodded a few steps away and refilled the mugs of two surfers arguing about a wave they called Cyclops.

  I marveled at the instant connection I’d made, understanding surfing and the stereotypical surfers who happened to be seated at the bar with me.

  “Best wave we’ve got,” the surfer with blond hair and crooked teeth said.

  The other surfer shrugged, a shell necklace dangling from his thin neck. “But there’s nothin’ there, mate. Esperance is a nice little town. Nothing ever happens there. Might as well go to Coober Pedy.”

  They laughed. I wondered where Esperance was and jumped when a lilting female voice spoke in my head.

  <>

  Holy shit.

  <>

  Tell me about it. I stared off into space for a moment then concentrated. What is Cyclops, reference near Esperance, Western Australia?

  <>

  All I have to do is think to access you?

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  I’m talking to a voice in my head, and you want me to be comfortable? Maybe I’m crazy. Do you have a name?

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  You listen for my thoughts, is that it? And you provide information?

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  I considered that for a minute. Media, as in music and films?

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  I sipped my beer and thought about the doctor’s words that either he or a protocol would give me the information that I needed. Garrett had said that I was supposed to have limited contact with technology. Having an implanted voice in my head would seem to go against that logic.

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  Garrett’s version of a notebook. I smiled. A computer—for lack of a better term—in my head, capable of anticipating my thoughts, excited and bothered me at the same time. The possibilities seemed endless. She’d need a name, and I’d have to find some measure of control.

  <>

  You’re like a computer in my head? A connection to the virtual world?

  <m programmed to assist you.>>

  I rubbed my eyes and tried not to laugh out loud. I’d have to watch what I said and thought. The surfers were still rambling on about waves as I finished my beer. I found myself listening more to their conversation than having one of my own. Maybe I’d been a surfer and that was why the conversation caught my attention in the first place. That must be it, right?

  There was no response, and a plan formed in my mind. Experiences were everything. Seeing the world and enjoying life were the keys to my integration. More than that, I either needed to go someplace or wander back to the Integration Center. When is the next transport to Esperance?

  <>

  I grinned and tossed back a last, long swallow of the cold, slightly tart beer. Small town, big waves, and a quiet atmosphere sounded heavenly. “Book it,” I said loud enough to stop the surfers’ conversation and catch the attention of the bartender. They stared at me as if I were more than a little out of my mind.

  “Ya need somethin’, mate?”

  I shook my head and looked away. After a moment, they did the same and revived their arguments but not without watching me over their shoulders and lowering their voices. Heat rushed into my cheeks—embarrassment that I’d interrupted their conversation and added to their perception of sleepers like me. Null file, sleeper—it was all the same, and any attempt to apologize would further their perception of my strangeness. Sitting there with my elbows on the bar, I was an outsider looking in. People had been afraid of my very presence though I’d barely said a word to them. I finished the beer and reached for a wallet that was not there. Can you pay my bill?

  <>

  I stood, intending to leave, and a huge painting on the far wall caught my eye: a phenomenal sunset scene with towering purple clouds and explosions of white foam from the surf. I assumed it was there because most people were so engrossed in their own world that they couldn’t be bothered to look at the sky. Most people, maybe, but not me. I set the empty bottle down on the bar and walked over to the painting, framing a mental picture of it. The striking reds and oranges above the diamond-filled sea called to me. I tried to discern the artist’s signature, getting close enough to smell the clean, dry canvas. It looked like an M followed by squiggles that could have been anything, with two distinct Ls and a Y at the end. Maybe there was an A in there. I studied the signature for a moment and then went back into the bliss of the painting. Mally. Your name is Mally.

  There was no response.

  Do you like that name?

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  Stop. I don’t need to know everything, Mally.

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  She sounded proud of herself, a hint of emotion in her voice. I had to admit this was going to be fun. Thank you, Mally.

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  I hadn’t given it a single thought before. However you like, Mally.

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  Outside, the sun was a little less blinding and the squalling children a little quieter. Maybe it was because of the plan in my head, but I knew that this wasn’t a place where I could really relax or feel at home. For the first time, there was a heaviness in my heart. With two hours to kill, I crossed the promenade to the deep white sand and sat down. After a moment, my shoes and socks came off, and I burrowed my toes in the warm, talcum-like sand. There wasn’t much surf at Manly Beach.

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  I don’t need to know that, Mally. I looked around. Where is the seaport from here?

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  I agree, I thought with a smile.

  At the station, there were several options. My eyes lingered for a long moment on the options for Sydney. Excitement about being away from the room and hospital had carried me across the harbor, but it would take more than excitement to take me to Esperance and whatever lay beyond there.

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  Why? Is something wrong? I caught the eye of a shaggy bearded man strumming a guitar on a bench ahead of me. The song he sang was familiar and haunting. I paused to listen, his rough chorus calling me to sit and watch the tide roll away. He met my eye and winked, and I smiled.

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  My feet needed convincing, but there was no place I wanted to go save for Esperance. There might be nothing out there for me, or there could be everything. There was only one way to find out. The wind on my face felt like fingers pulling me toward Esperance. Having faith is more difficult when you don’t know what it should feel like.

  The crime rate in Australia lay below 1 percent. Mally surmised that for a country formerly founded by criminals, they’d learned their lessons well and become model citizens. That assessment had been correct until her subject reached the alleyway, when constant threat analysis determined a 52 percent chance that the three men she identified were carrying illegal weapons. One of them carried a semi-automatic pistol in the waistband of his shorts. The momentary glance at his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Analyzing the frozen image in infrared confirmed that the men were a threat.

  When she directed a change in movement, the waiting men followed. Their pace demonstrated intent to overtake her subject. Mally ensured that her subject was fast enough to keep away from whatever threat the men posed. The men hung back but still pursued her subject down The Corso toward the hydrofoil. In the slipstream above, Mally detected a faint change in sound. With a nanosecond lag time in connection, she intercepted video through linked cameras, showing that an autocar dove toward the street level as if in distress. The calculated impact point of the vehicle matched the walking path and timing of her subject. Mally designated the event as a threat and initiated her protection-and-defense package.

  Threat. The word and its definition caused Mally to think and evaluate the situation again. The men were definitely a threat. Placing themselves along her subject’s route and then moving in response to his movement clearly indicated that they were indeed a threat. The approaching vehicle showed no sign of slowing—in fact, it accelerated above the force of gravity that would normally pull down a disabled vehicle. There was no automated distress beacon from the vehicle, either. At seven hundred meters and closing, Mally focused her sensors back to the men and calculated her defense.

  She configured herself to monitor nearby communications and immediately found an encrypted feed emanating from one of the three men. Locked onto the signal, Mally attempted fifteen hundred cycles of access in a matter of seconds, to no avail. The appearance of the men, the falling car not five hundred meters above them, and the encrypted communications meant only one possibility: someone was after her subject. Mally reviewed their activities after departing the Integration Center and found nothing against any piece of law for the local jurisdiction or the planet.

  The autocar distress alarms remained silent as it passed through two hundred meters above them. Mally engaged her safety protocols, projected motor-nervous system feedback loops to the legs, and froze them for a picosecond. Her subject stumbled and fell to the ground.

 
“Dammit,” he said in her ears.

  <>

  The autocar slammed into the wide, clean walkway fifteen meters away from her subject, bounced once, and rolled to its side against a building. A scan for signs of life in the downed vehicle showed nothing. Her subject jumped to his feet and started moving toward the smoldering vehicle. Data feeds identified a 96 percent chance he intended to go search for survivors. The three men were ten meters away and spreading out to flank him.

  Mally sought, and found, their individual neural frequencies. The smoking autocar on the street exploded, causing her subject to fall to the surface. The distraction allowed her to overload each of the men’s receivers with a concentrated burst of static and then pull what data she could from their neurals before their brains shut off. The men dropped to the asphalt walkway without nearing her subject. People all along the walkway got up, brushed themselves off, and continued about their business. Except for the screaming of a few startled children and the burning wreckage, the promenade appeared the same as it had been two minutes before. Mally let her sensors scan the still-dormant men. There were weak vital signs in all three. Two of their implants attempted to reboot and failed. The third showed no attempt. There was no additional data to glean from them.

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  “I need to help them.”

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  She sensed confusion, but he started moving again. “Shouldn’t we wait for the police? Make a statement of some type?”

  <