Doomware

“Unfortunately, they are evils that were apparently necessary for the greater good.”

  “A greater good that’s left you holed up in here on a floating prison.”

  “This is a time of transition; the world has known times like this before.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question: how did you do it?”

  David sat there watching and listening, motionless, but his mind racing. So it was true. Acybernetics had massacred mankind. And he was sitting in the same room with the greatest mass murderer the world had ever known. The body counts of all the worst murderers in history combined – Khan, Himmler, Pot, amongst innumerable others – didn’t come anywhere near to equalling Lorch’s death toll. Only now did their predicament dawn on him. Lorch had killed every cybernetic he’d ever known: his mother, his father, his grandparents, his great-grandparents, friends, enemies, neighbours, strangers; they were all the same to him. He’d wiped out every cybernetic in existence except one: the boy sitting next to him. If this omission was discovered it was impossible to think he’d balk at killing him too. Far from being saved, the boy was in even greater danger. Slowly, he slipped an arm around Shawn; as he did so, he felt the shaven-headed man following his every move.

  “The how is irrelevant; it’s the end result that matters,” said Lorch. “My goal was always the reassertion of the natural order, the resurrection of the true human race.”

  Tarot’s voice retained its customary steady rhythm. “You’re calling zombification the natural order now, are you? Not to mention the fact that offliners have taken control of the zombies you created – was that part of the plan too?”

  Lorch considered this for a moment. “Obviously, the zombifications – as you call them – were unintentional. The virus we call Cy-Vi Nine Three Seven was designed for a singular purpose: to shut down every computerised system on the face of the earth. Of course, in the case of cybernetic brains, these shutdowns happened to result in the euthanasia of their owners.”

  This was said so forthrightly, with such casual aplomb, that it was difficult to credit the fact that Lorch was talking about the deaths of billions. Judging by voice alone, he could just as easily have been talking about what he might eat for dinner that day.

  “You sick bastard,” David said in an undertone, almost to himself.

  Lorch turned a scornful glare on him. “And you are?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing… at the moment,” Lorch said, before his eyes shifted to Shawn. “And who is this young man?”

  “He’s my son.”

  “What a good-looking boy.”

  David pulled Shawn to him until his head was pressed against his chest. He was worried the boy would say or do something to give away his cyberneticism. When Lorch spoke next his head swept slowly from side to side, his eyes taking in the occupants of the room.

  “You say I’m sick, but I say it was the rest of the human race that was sick, infected with the malaise we call brainware. In the name of so-called ‘progress’ they went too far, tightening the grip of their infection with little or no thought for the consequences, wilfully transforming themselves into godless hybrids: half-human, half-machine. Brainware warped their experience of the human condition. The eradication of pain dulled their senses. The fictitious worlds inside their heads became more real to them than reality. The easy access to data handed them a wealth of information, but also a poverty of wisdom. It made them lazy and weak, indulgent and dependent – complacently so, happily so. It was the drug and they its addicts. It was the master and they its slaves. And thus, happily drugged and enslaved, they told themselves it was the way they were meant to be, exulting in its powers, going so far as to wonder how human beings had ever survived without it, ignoring the taint of blasphemy inherent in such thinking.

  “Meanwhile, we – the real human race, the true children of God – we were treated as if we were freaks, spat upon as if we were unclean, derided as if we were the abominations against God and nature. You remember what that felt like, don’t you? Well, no more. Something had to be done to restore the natural order of things.”

  With this monologue David got an inkling of Lorch’s skills as an orator. The man was poised, charismatic, verging on mesmeric, difficult to look away from and impossible not to listen to. There was a gravitas in his bearing and a self-assured conviction in his words. David could imagine him delivering an impassioned speech to a crowd of people and converting them into ardent followers, moulding their beliefs with the sheer strength of his own. He was like Hitler: a monster by anyone’s definition of the word, but still a public speaker par excellence nonetheless.

  “By the way, my anonymous friend,” Lorch said to him, “your first words to me weren’t very charitable considering it was my men who saved your life and the life of your son. I abhor a lack of manners.”

  David was so stunned by this he was speechless.

  Before he could collect himself, Tarot said, “So you took it upon yourself to dish out your final solution to the problem of cyberneticism.”

  “Make no mistake: this wasn’t my purge; it was God’s. There have been such purges before: floods, plagues, disasters. If I had failed to heed His call it would have been akin to Noah refusing to build the Ark.”

  David let out a bitter laugh. “Yes, but Noah didn’t bring the flood himself, did he?”

  Lorch regarded him coldly. “It was God who made our bodies reject the cybernetic poison in the first place. I merely made the Acybernetic Initiative live up to its name. We seized” – he clenched his hand into a fist – “the initiative, and now the meek truly have inherited the earth.”

  “I think you’ll find that zombies have inherited the earth,” Tarot said. “Zombies and outlaws.”

  Lorch stared at Tarot for a long moment, not rising to the challenge in his words, hesitating as if trying to make up his mind about something. Then he opened a notebook-type computer on his desk and tapped at a couple of keys. The Initiative clearly had technology they’d made immune to the virus; either that or the items of tech were so old they had no uplink, rendering them immune by virtue of their disconnection from virus-spreading data streams.

  “The virus was created by an entity named Holohive,” Lorch said, “a multipolar synthetic intelligence capable of passing even the most stringent Turing tests.”

  “‘Multipolar’s just a fancy way of saying it would’ve been banned by TITANN, isn’t it?” said David.

  “Not exactly, but you are, nevertheless, correct. TITANN protocols would have seen Holohive deactivated and everyone involved with him thrown into prison – had the police found out, that is. For years even the derivation of his name was a closely guarded secret.”

  On the wall behind Lorch a screen lit up with an image of a neural net chamber: a grey metal sphere, its smooth surface dotted with lights, suspended on stalks inside a transparent cylinder. Below the chamber appeared seven words.

  Higher Order Logic Heuristic Immunosuppressant Virus Engineer

  “Holohive was loyal to the ethos of the Initiative. He believed in the necessity of ridding the human race of cyberneticism. Of course, he was programmed to be that way from the outset, but over the course of years it went much deeper than mere programming. We needed him to have absolute conviction in the cause, otherwise he would’ve lost interest in finding a way to break through all of the antiviral measures in place. It took time, but of course he did find a way. He turned those antiviral safeguards against themselves. You see, the release of Cy-Vi Nine Three Seven was preceded by the release of a decoy virus. This decoy virus ensured the issuing of a level twelve alert, which in turn ensured the proper functioning of Nine Three Seven.

  “As soon as the real virus was released, Holohive’s usefulness was at an end and he was deactivated. He’d understood this would happen and had been prepared to accept his fate – or so we’d thought. Unfortunately, it turned out he’d developed an exceptional gift for deception, as well as an uncommonly
strong will to survive. Only one structure apart from his own neural network was sophisticated enough to host Holohive: a cybernetic brain. Unbeknown to us, he’d designed the virus to reactivate, after a short period of time, the cybernetic brains it had infected. His intention was for the bodies hosting these brains to become like automatons, subsisting at a very basic level, merely doing enough to keep their brains alive. You see, Holohive’s plan was to transfer himself into as many of these brains as possible, ensuring his survival, and creating an entirely new species he could mould as he saw fit.

  “But even a synthetic intelligence isn’t infallible. He failed to understand the critical nature of emotions, of instincts, of primeval reflexes, to the proper operation of a cybernetic network. He disregarded those vagaries of the ancient limbic system, those secret sectors of the brain whose functioning, even now, we don’t fully comprehend. In short, he underestimated the importance of the biological – the God-given – part of the brain. By the time reactivation occurred the biological hemispheres had been fundamentally altered by the many organic reactions to the process of death inherent in every living form, robbing the cybernetic hemispheres of the consistent symbiosis they required for proper functioning, corrupting them beyond anything Holohive had believed possible. These reactivated cybernetic systems became the so-called zombies we see plaguing this world, brought to ‘life’ by the nanotechnology coursing throughout their bodies, though of course none of them is actually alive. Each is merely an unholy imitation of life.”

  “So what you’re saying is, if Holohive’s plan had succeeded, every zombie out there now would be a clone of him?” asked Tarot.

  “Not exactly. You see, Holohive cannot transfer himself via data stream. A direct, physical connection is required for transferral. In time, he would’ve multiplied that way. It’s also possible he would’ve worked on a way of taking over these dormant brains without the need for physical contact.”

  “But how could he if you deactivated him?”

  “Shortly before the virus was released, he copied himself into the brain of a cybernetic accomplice and escaped. The Holohive we shut down was only the original version.”

  “What a fucking mess,” David said gruffly. His cheekbone was throbbing with pain and he felt feverish.

  Lorch peered at him over the rim of his glasses. “That’s rather foul language to be using in front of your son, don’t you think?”

  “This boy’s had to cope with a lot more than just bad language thanks to you.”

  Resting his elbows on the desk, Lorch pressed his fingertips together, forming a pyramid he touched to his chin. “I’ll bet he has,” he said. He took a deep breath before continuing. “The so-called zombies are too corrupted to be of any use to Holohive for the purposes of replicating himself, though he does have rudimentary control over them. He may have teamed up with a posse of offliners; we have no information about that. What we do know is that he’s searching for cybernetics who escaped the virus’s effects … people who are, for some unknown reason, immune to it naturally.”

  Lorch paused, letting his words hang in the air. David felt his throat constrict and his pulse quicken.

  “You see,” Lorch went on, “instead of the abundance of cybernetic brains Holohive thought he would have at his disposal, he has nothing. People such as these natural resisters are the only ones he could possibly use to replicate himself; therefore, they are incredibly valuable to him. Particularly those of the male sex, since Holohive regards himself as being male, and the accomplice who enabled his escape was – unfortunately for him – very much female. As you can see.”

  Lorch hit a key on his computer and an image of a woman’s face appeared on the screen. The picture looked to have been culled from a surveillance camera, or perhaps it had been taken from a long way off, the subsequent magnification of it rendering the resolution poor, but this still couldn’t hide the woman’s attractiveness. She had long blonde hair, prominent cheekbones and pale blue eyes.

  “Holohive had appeared to this woman on the Cybernet as a heartbreakingly beautiful man. Over a period of time – precisely how long we don’t know – she fell in love with him, and went on to sacrifice herself so that he might live. Not unlike somebody who professes to be in love with a convicted criminal, no matter how heinous their crimes, this woman was an imbecile of the highest order. But now, of course, Holohive finds himself a male entity inside a woman’s body. His maleness is so integral to his identity it cannot be altered, and neither would he wish to alter it even if he could. What he’s searching for are cybernetic brains that are immune to the virus, but especially those that are in the bodies of males, whether they be man or boy.”

  Lorch’s voice was the same as it had been all through his discourse about the origin of the virus, but to David it had taken on a sly, knowing aspect, causing his heart to sink in his chest. Yet still he clung to hope, the way a drowning man might have clung to a lone buoy. Maybe they didn’t know about Shawn. Maybe this part of the story was based more on supposition than first-hand knowledge on the part of the Initiative.

  “Which brings us rather neatly to this,” Lorch said. He hit another key and the picture of the woman was replaced by six words.

  Give us the boy or die.

  David’s buoy crumbled to dust, leaving him foundering in a sea of despair.

  “This message – along with other telltale signs – confirmed to us that Holohive was on the trail of one of these elusive resisters,” Lorch declared, before his eyes shifted to Shawn. “And here we have the charming little aberration, don’t we?”

  Every one of David’s muscles contracted with a burst of panic. He wrapped his arms around the boy, holding him tight, uniting the beat of their hearts.

  Lorch looked coolly at Tarot. “I’m telling you all of this out of respect for our history, Tarot. You may not believe this, but I’ve always had respect for you. You are a man of faith, a man of integrity. I always thought it regrettable that our views never converged. You and your anonymous friend here may visit the ship’s doctor, and then you are free to leave the ship. In fact, your departure is required unless you are prepared to swear oaths of allegiance to the Initiative.”

  “We’ll never do that,” Tarot said.

  “I thought as much. The helicopter will take you wherever you wish to go, within reason.”

  “What about my son?” David said.

  “I don’t believe this creature is actually your son, is he? I’m very sorry – for your sake – if you’ve come to regard him as such. You see, he may be immune to the airborne virus, but even he will be quite incapable of resisting the same virus applied directly to his brain.”

  “No!” David hollered, clutching the boy. “You can’t do that!”

  “I can assure you he won’t feel a thing,” Lorch said, before glancing at the shaven-headed man. “Take him to the lab.”

  “You monster!” David roared as the man stepped towards them, hot tears of rage filling his eyes. “You’re a fucking monster!”

  “Please!” Lorch said irritably. “There’s no need for hysterics, nor bad language.”

  The shaven-headed man made a grab for the boy, but David parried him, pulling the boy so close it would have hurt him had he been able to feel pain.

  “Let him go,” the man said coldly.

  “I won’t let you do this,” David shouted. “He’s an innocent!”

  The man pulled his pistol from its holster and pressed its muzzle against David’s head. “Let him go,” he said again, more slowly and firmly this time, and just as coldly.

  The room became an uproar. A cacophony of raised voices made David’s already tired and battered head swim. He could tell that Tarot was engaged in a struggle with the fair-haired man, although the sight of them was blocked by the shaven-headed man’s body. He looked up into the man’s face, and his anger-filled eyes were reflected in the convex darkness – insectile, emotionless – of the man’s sunglasses. He had to fight hard to think
past the gun being pressed to his head; his entire being felt paralysed by its presence.

  I won’t let go, he thought. I won’t stand by and let them murder a boy so sweet and pure and full of hope. Even if it means my death. If a bullet should enter my brain, let it show the boy I was willing to die for him, that my words weren’t just empty promises. Let it take away awareness of the boy’s fate, and the knowledge of my failure to protect him. Let it spare me the sight of his beautiful blue eyes transformed into the lifeless eyes of a zombie. Spare me the horror.

  Oh God! The horror, the horror!

  “You’ll have to shoot me,” David said, his voice steely and brittle at the same time. “You’ll have to. It’s the only way.”

  The man pressed the gun harder against his skull and growled, “Don’t think I won’t.”

  David heard Tarot’s and Lorch’s voices – Lorch was saying something about “true people” – but neither he nor the shaven-headed man was listening. This was personal now, just the two of them. They were in a stand-off, each of them challenging the other, joined together like two stags with locked antlers.

  “Go ahead. Do it,” David said, then his voice rose. “Do it, you bastard! Do it, for Christ’s sake! Kill me!”

  David closed his eyes. A pistol shot rang out.

  And a bullet entered his brain.

  CHAPTER 49

  D + 521

  Darkness took him. A silence so profound it was miraculous surrounded him. Despite the darkness, he felt as if he were floating in the midst of an endless expanse of space, a space filled with nothing but pure white light. So this is what death feels like, he thought. But why should it feel of anything? How was his brain still functioning?

  He opened his eyes. A bullet clearly hadn’t entered his brain at all. The shaven-headed man had moved away from them. He was stood looking down at his own body, a look of amazement on his face. A pistol was hovering in front of David; a moment passed before he realised the hand holding it belonged to the boy. His mind struggled to understand how the boy had managed to get hold of the shaven-head man’s gun. Then he saw that the man still had his pistol in his hand. Everyone in the room was too stunned to move or speak. The shaven-headed man clutched at his stomach. David saw blood spill over his hand before he collapsed, slowly and soundlessly, as if the air were being sucked out of him.