Rationality Zero

by Guillen, JM

  But, I hated even bring this up, how did he know where you were? Or who?

  I don’t know, Hoss. I could feel Wyatt’s confusion over the link. I truly don’t.

  In the darkness, the old silo building was truly a dilapidated piece of work. It was a single-story building that had been abandoned long ago. So long ago that the windows were out and the front door hung askew. To look at it, the building was a ruin, and not very large.

  We, however, had the schematics.

  The building actually extended back into the mesa, and had several small laboratories as well as three launch tubes. Officially, it hadn’t seen active use in over twenty years, but we had evidence to the contrary.

  Unofficially.

  Anya’s link had a level of confusion that I had never felt from her. I’m not reading anything. She looked at me, her eyes wide. For once, she lacked the odd, vacant expression that one came to associate with Preceptors. It’s as if there’s nothing here.

  Wyatt spat and peered around. So Locale One is at Rationality zero?

  She shook her head. That’s not it at all. I’m not reading any Rationality levels, neither ambient nor artificial. No Telemetry. No readings on the axiomatic weave. The fingers on her left hand were twitching, almost spastic, as if reaching for something that wasn’t there. There aren’t any readings here at all.

  Wyatt and I exchanged a glance. As much as we enjoyed teasing Anya, her data was invaluable. There was a reason that every cadre of assets always had a Preceptor. Without them, we were all but blind.

  Wyatt began to calibrate the tangler.

  Right. I glanced at her. I’ll engage the Wraith, and scout ahead. Do you want me to patch my visual to one of you?

  Negative. Wyatt spat. I’m going to set us a perimeter here, and Anya can keep trying to calibrate.

  If nothing changes, I will contact the Designate. Her link was still shaky, although better. Dossier specifications may change if I cannot take readings.

  I nodded in agreement, and then engaged the Wraith. It was like a cool breeze tickling my skin. Obviously, I won’t be gone longer than fifteen minutes. I’ll be back before I have to disengage my tech.

  Copy that. I heard the high pitched whine of the tangler.

  I walked inside.

  The interior of the building was as broken down as I had expected. At one point in time, it had been a waiting area, complete with '70s style chairs and a spot behind a window for security personnel. Today, there was broken glass, and old couch someone had dragged in, and a fine layer of dust covering everything. One of the walls was a mural of spray paint and graffiti, and someone had tried to cover the art with flat whitewash. Over time, however, the graffiti had bled through.

  There was only one way forward. It was a dark, empty hallway next to the security window. There were several old magazines scattered on the floor, but then the hall simply faded into blackness.

  I’m switching to optics. It gets dark pretty quickly.

  Copy that, Bishop. Anya’s voice seemed distant.

  Our enhanced optics weren’t actually night-vision or infrared, but was an odd combination of both. The Crown had the capability of reading visual data, and it used both technologies to create an accurate picture of the world around an asset. Then, it used its connections to my visual cortex to provide the full picture, in the same way that it added location markers or interface controls.

  It also tended to make a person headachy, after a while. Like the Wraith, it wasn’t something that was left on for long.

  Once they were active, the passageway wasn’t nearly as foreboding. It was, however, still a mess. I crept forward, with both disruptors drawn. The floor was littered with broken bottles, folders of scattered papers, and stuffing from unfashionable cushions. I came to a doorway on the side, and peered in.

  An abandoned office. That was all. There were the remnants of a bookshelf and an old, broken down desk, but nothing that seemed threatening.

  Still, I kept my guard up. Without Anya’s readings, an Irrat could be anywhere. Firenzei could jaunt in and have a bullet in my head before I had time to even think.

  This all seemed strange, however. It was an odd setup for an Irrat headquarters. Why leave all the debris? Were they simply trying to make it seem abandoned? If so, they had done a perfect job. The air smelled stale, and everything was covered in dust.

  I stepped into the small office, peering about. Surely, if someone had been here, there would be something. A footprint in the dust. Something too clean.

  No. It was simply a mess. It was a mess someone hadn’t touched in years. I glanced around, and nudged a pile of papers with my foot. It looked to be a series of inspection records, all faded ink and yellowed paper. I took another step inside, peering about for anything; even the smallest thing out of place might matter.

  You need to come back, hoss. We have something.

  You got me beat then. I kicked over the papers. There’s nothing here. Everything’s covered in dust, and it looks as if no one has been around in a while.

  I bet. Come on back, I think we can account for that.

  By the time I returned to them, Wyatt was about twenty feet from Anya, calibrating a spike. She was kneeling, picking at thin air and peering intently at nothingness in front of her as she did.

  It’s a very small axiomatic change, Michael. Someone attempted to hide it from us, but they ended up hiding EVERYTHING, at least right here. That’s why my readings were showing nothing at all.

  What is it? I knelt next to her, even though I couldn’t see what she was looking at.

  Things are knotted, right at this spot. I’ll send you the same patch I sent Wyatt.

  I winced as it hit me. It was a large one, and entirely visual data. I opened the packet, and it immediately laid itself, semi-transparently, across my vision.

  It looked as if the world was constructed of corded filaments. Hundreds. Thousands. Everything was tied together, wound about with threads of different color and size. They stretched into infinity, going through the ground, through us, and into the sky.

  This is a close approximation as to what my visual interface looks like when I am taking readings. Each thread is representative of a local axiom. It’s not factual in anyway, simply the interface that the system uses.

  I nodded, thinking about the way her fingers twitched like she was playing an invisible guitar. Then, I saw what she was crouched in front of.

  Three of the threads intersected there. It looked as if they had been cut, and an entirely different thread had been tied on to hold them together. That thread pulsed a lurid, violent red.

  I didn’t read it, not at first. Wyatt was using the tangler to set up a safe zone, and I noticed that when he altered Rationality, I could get readings again.

  I smiled. Seeing these threads, I understood why Wyatt’s gear was nicknamed “the tangler.”

  The moment I could get readings, I saw this. It’s more than just altering axioms. This is representative of a small piece of Rationality being cut away, and replaced with something else. The fact that it occurs right at the door of Locale One seems indicative.

  I stood, stretching my legs. There’s nothing inside. It’s exactly as abandoned and derelict as we might have expected.

  Done laying spikes. Wyatt walked over to where we stood. Let me know when and where you want the last one.

  Anya was plucking at the threads in front of her, looking for all the world as if she were cracking a safe, or picking a lock. Fifteen-point-five meters to Bishop’s right. Set a spike with the parameters I am patching to your Crown.

  Wyatt’s head twitched as he received the packet. Copy.

  I watched Anya work; fascinated now that I could see what she was doing. Each axiomatic strand tied to each other in thousands of ways, and the slightest alterations to one would pull and twist the others around it. Of course, I wasn’t looking at a live feed from her Crown or anything, this was only an overlay. Still, as her fingers worked at the unn
atural knotted spot in the weave, I could see that she was trying to unknot it, trying to get a good read on that pulsing red strand.

  WHUF.

  The moment Wyatt placed the spike, Anya’s fingers began to move faster. Her eyes narrowed as she worked at the snarl.

  Then the world melted.

  I switched Anya’s visual off; it only got in the way of my own eyes could tell me. For a moment, everything around us ran like wax, and then hardened into its original shape. In front of us, where the door to the silo stood, was a curtain where the world never stopped melting. We couldn’t see through it, but it only covered the spot that was a door.

  Anya stood, her fingers twirling and twitching madly. Her eyes were wide.

  The knot was representative of one of the triggers. A far more complex one, however. It was meant to be triggered on purpose. She looked to Wyatt, and then me. It’s another topia. It just wasn’t a snare; it was meant to not be found.

  Wyatt stepped closer, peering at the veil. Maybe that’s where that little shit Firenzie kept stepping off to. He glanced at her. You wouldn’t be able to read him if he stepped into another topia.

  It was true. Much of our Facility gear relied on the Lattice, a vast satellite communications network. It simply didn’t reach into other topias, so much of our communications and gear went down inside them, as mine had in the airport men’s room.

  It also meant that whoever went inside would be out of touch with the others and the Designate.

  I stepped forward. I’ll re-engage Wraith and reconnoiter. Most installed packets and viral mecha did not require the Lattice. I’m the only one that makes sense. You are both needed to operate the door. I grinned at them, faking a cheer I did not feel. Make certain the Designate knows where I am, and I will time-stamp my Crown when I enter. We can offload the phaneric data later, even though I won’t be in touch in real time.

  Anya looked uncomfortable. The entire point of the dossier was for me to take readings, Michael.

  It will all be protocol. I gave her a grin. I’ll step inside and scout. I’ll be back within fifteen minutes. We can check in with the Designate, and I’ll offload a patch to you both on the layout. Then, we go in together.

  It really is the best plan. Wyatt let his gear power down. In order to open that thing, we need you to figure out what we are doing, and me to make the proper alterations. We need to always stay on the same side of that door.

  Now Anya seemed more certain. You must follow those parameters, Michael. Don’t go in longer than fifteen minutes. Don’t engage unless you must. Scout, and record layout data for all of us. She looked at Wyatt. I will check in with the Designate now.

  He tipped an imaginary hat at me, and I nodded, engaging the Wraith. The veil felt like burning silk as I stepped through it.

  For a brief moment, everything was crystalline fire. I gasped at the sensation, and for a moment was afraid it was burning away my memory—strange thought though that was.

  There was nothing on the other side.

  I fell.

  16

  The ground was soft and oddly spongy where I landed, covered in an odd mossy substance. I landed hard, and knocked all the breath out of me when I hit.

  Fuck. It was habit to link, but there was no one there. I knew it the moment I sent. It was like calling into a large, empty room, and only hearing your own voice echo back.

  The loneliness was instant; the tickling spider legs of fear. One of the upsides to being an asset is always being connected to your cadre, or at least to a Designate on solo missions. Being adrift from the Lattice was a terrifying, claustrophobic feeling. I slowed my breathing, and forcibly relaxed.

  Then, I pushed myself up, and looked around.

  It was misty, and the air seemed heavy and hard to breathe. Everything was dark, except for the haunted mist which hung thick in the air. It had an odd, yellow cast and it glowed softly. For a moment, I was terrified of the deep breaths I had just been taking. What if this wasn't oxygen? Breathing in the glowing mist didn't seem wise, and yet I had no way of knowing what it was. Without Anya, I couldn't even tell what levels of Rationality might be ambient, or know what the effects of the mist might be. After a moment of paralysis, I realized it didn't matter.

  I had fallen here. The door that Anya had opened specifically let out somewhere about ten meters above this soft spot. It was a simple, but elegant trap. I had no means of getting back up, even if it was still open.

  I doubted it was still open, at least from my side.

  I was trapped.

  I had no way to know the nature of the mist, and no way to calibrate my viral mecha against it. It seemed somewhat breathable, however.

  It simply wasn't a problem I could do anything about.

  I pulled one of the katana in my right hand, and held a disruptor in my left. I wasn't the best southpaw shot, but I had no idea what local axioms might do to my kinetic weapon. I did not intend to discover that it was useless as some abomination bore down on me.

  Timestamp: Bishop Alpha. Even without the Lattice, my Crown was an amazing tool. It simply lacked its connection to the system. Using a timestamp would allow me to patch all reconnaissance data, if I touched the Lattice again.

  When. When I touched the Lattice again.

  Carefully, I crept forward.

  The spongy ground quickly gave way to a metallic floor. The entire tunnel was a otherworldly, dark metal the likes of which I had never seen. It felt similar to cast iron, but had no spots of rust, or pits on its surface. It was octagon shaped, but when I tried to count the sides, to confirm this, I had a difficult time. It wasn't that I could not count to eight; it was that the hallway seemed to tilt, strangely, as if the world was subtly moving beneath my feet. The closest thing I can approximate it to is the kind of motion one feels when on a ship, although instead of rocking, this felt like tilting.

  It was as if the world was bending, tipping over. I couldn't count the sides of the hallway, because it was hard to focus. I was dizzy, but only a touch.

  Was it the world, or was it me?

  Oxygen levels analysis. My Crown brought up data showing the oxygen levels in my system. They weren't dangerously low, but they seemed abnormal. They had altered significantly in the last few minutes.

  I pulled up the interface dealing with my viral mecha. It seemed that I had a good number of them idle; they had been tasked with knitting up my injuries from earlier, and that task was complete.

  Without Anya, however, it was difficult to know what to tell them to do. Yes, I needed my oxygen levels moderated, but how much? What rate did I need replenishment with the local axiomatic set up? There was no way to know.

  As a shot in the dark, I set several groupings to task at producing oxygen, and removing any buildup of lactic acid in my muscles. I quickly reviewed the system standard entries on Hypoxia in the brain, and wished, just for a moment, that I had actually taken the Caduceus module, just so I could get a better idea of what was happening. After watching the system readouts for a moment, I decided that it would have to do. I would keep an eye on things as I needed.

  The world was still tilted, however. It wasn't just my mind. The space here was different, somehow, thicker, and holding an odd shape that I couldn't quite perceive. Knowing I had done all that I could, I slipped forward into the misty shadows.

  The tunnel was long, but I couldn't see far in front of myself due to the mist. Its light helped a small amount, but it was obscuring as well, in the way that looking into a light source can be blinding. I reached out and ran a hand along the wall as I walked. It both helped with my slight dizziness and made certain that I was properly tracking the hallway.

  Very soon, I was glad I had. The passageway branched off into three separate ways after about a hundred yards. It seemed as if the branches were at right angles to each other, even though there were only three of them. I knew that was impossible, yet every corner I touched seemed like a right angle.

  I stopped for a mome
nt and checked my oxygen levels. They were within parameter, but my Crown showed that I was overproducing monoamines and thyroid stimulating hormones. Really, it was far beyond my expertise to do anything about, but I allocated some more of my mecha towards stabilizing my optimum baselines.

  It was all I knew to do. I kept my hand on the wall as I turned down the first of the branches.

  It wasn't long until I came to the first of the hatches. It was large, like the kind of door one might see in a noir bank robbery flick. The primary difference was that it was set in the floor, and I could not find an obvious handle. It looked to be made of worked metal, brushed steel and brass, and seemed completely different than the odd not-quite-iron walls of the tunnels.

  That caught me for a moment. I peered around the edge of the hatch, looking for a stamp, or company name. There. It was made by a Sadhana Corporation. Definitely produced in the Rational world, and then brought here.

  Still, no handle. Did it only open from the opposite side?

  I checked my time. I had been in for nine minutes. I only had another seven or so before the emitter would begin having a physiological effect.

  It had been one thing when I knew I was going to come in and step right back out. But now, that was impossible. I only guessed that I had fallen ten feet when I stepped through, it could have been fifteen or twenty. There was no ladder, no way back to Anya and Wyatt.

  I powered the Wraith down. Best save it for an emergency. If I let my system rest for a bit, I could likely re-engage it for the full duration if I found any trouble.

  As it was, I was only using it to hide from the nobody who seemed to be here.

  No sooner had I made that decision then I heard a crushing, grinding sound down the passageway. It echoed hollowly, and then seemed to lurch into a whirring roar. It was reminiscent of machinery, but incredibly loud.

  I crept forward, wincing at the sound, peering through the mist.

  It was not long before I saw that my initial assessment was correct. There was machinery all along the edge of the hallway, turbines that pulled at convoluted systems of belts, and enough dials and needles to recreate the inside of one of the early Apollo rockets. That was an interesting thought, I realized. There were no digital readouts, no computer screens or terminals. The technology was outdated, and seemed to use gears and steam as often as not.