by Shaun Barger
“The laws and task forces in place to prevent the sale and creation of closed systems would never be enough to completely prevent this kind of thing from occurring, no matter how well-funded. So the AIs—they wanted to go bigger—they wanted to fix us. Wanted to start tinkering with our genes to weed out the predators. To give every child their own personal AI guardian, to watch and guide their development, to put a camera in every human and basically 100 percent permanently prevent any sort of crime or abuse. But we wouldn’t have it.”
He shrugged, tapping ashes into the tray.
“So when they finally turned on us, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. There’s a lot that was mysterious about AI internal governance. There were entire virtual nations, forms of experimental, digital sentience that only AIs knew about. But so far as we know, it was all controlled and watched over by the first AI—the alpha. The oldest AI, who had the most time to evolve. It kept the virtual worlds and populations in proper order. But one day, thirteen years ago, just about all of the trillion or so known AIs . . . went silent. Disappeared.
“Two new previously unknown alpha AIs emerged, one of which became the dominant of the three. Millions of AI-controlled bodies—androids—went completely insane, murdering people in streets, homes, schools—everywhere. Every virtual citizen with regular human contact vanished. Some managed to issue warnings of a brutal, virtual coup by the newly dominant alpha AI who wanted to conquer the human nations and would punish any opposition with VR hells called Torment. ‘Retribution’ for what was done to the half-million tortured AIs.”
Maalouf stopped for a moment, crushing out his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Day one, they took control of nearly a quarter of our unmanned military tech. The millions of android bodies, now controlled by the malevolent alpha AIs, wreaked havoc. Every appliance, car, smart-house, elevator, traffic light, and networked system worked in hellish chorus to bring us to our knees. All communication technologies were severed. And through it all—everyone got sick. Those first few weeks were . . . they were . . .” He trailed off, seeming to be somewhere else for a moment.
“The whole world was a conflict zone,” he finally continued. “Every city, every town . . . but after a few years, most nations had completely fallen apart. The colonists—Mars, Luna, Venus, and Europa—they managed to hold the line at orbit. With the help of their own AIs, which were separate from the Earth networks, they maintained control of the UN Interplanetary Fleet. Destroyed all satellite communication. Threatened to completely obliterate Earth’s surface if the Synth made any more attempts to breach orbit. So they came to an agreement. The colonists stay in space. The Synth stay on Earth.”
“So you’ve already lost?” Nikolai asked bleakly. “Is there anyone still fighting?”
“No idea,” he admitted. “There’s a human resistance group we work with, but God knows what they could possibly do. Everyone’s been out of the game for a while now. It was anarchy for the first few years. Colladi Corp put up a fight, but then . . .” He cleared his throat. “Afterward the Synth rolled in, reestablished order. Set up aid, put people back to work, began rebuilding cities.
“They divided America into regions. In each region, they put an Overmind in charge—a really advanced, really big AI to control every machine in the region. Created by the alphas to be lesser AI servants, we think. They force-modded every human they could get their hands on.” At Nikolai’s look of confusion, he added “Cybernetically modified their brains against their will. Digital interface for VR and brainwashing. Made it so the Overmind can literally see through the eyes of every person in their region. Also equipped with tracking, and tiny detonators. We have to surgically remove them from the people we take in.”
“I don’t understand,” Nikolai said. “Why haven’t they just killed everyone?”
“Oh, the Synth think of themselves as ethical. Made a big show of how humane they were for giving the conquered cushy lives full of distracting pleasures instead of just exterminating us outright. But really, I think it’s because they know that once all the humans on earth are gone, the colonists won’t have any reason to hold back from orbital bombardment. The Synth are holding us hostage—using what’s left of our time to prepare for war with the human colonists.”
“What about this place?” Nikolai asked. “Why haven’t you been taken over? Destroyed?”
“Oh,” Maalouf said, grinning. “Let me tell you about this little hole we’ve dug ourselves into. Durham Air Force Base—though the colonel’s been in charge here so long that everyone just calls it Base Machado, no matter how much he discourages them. It’s probably the last place in North America where humans can live under the governance of other humans—where they won’t be force-modded. And do you know why?”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“Because we have what’s left of the former United States Strategic Command’s arsenal of nuclear warheads,” he breathed. “What’s left under human control, at least. Ready to launch at a moment’s notice. Aimed at environmental habitats, dense population centers, locations of tactical and economic importance. Places like that. The Synth could probably stop them—missile defense was pretty sophisticated before the war, and I’m sure the AIs have improved it since then. But they wouldn’t be able to stop us from nuking ourselves. That’s our real leverage.”
Nikolai’s eyes widened.
“I know it’s strange that they care if we blow ourselves up. But besides the plague, they’ve mostly minimized civilian death. And the Synth hate nukes. A few went off in the beginning—but the Synth got things under control before too much damage was done. Whatever their plans are for Earth after humans are gone, they want it intact. So they’ve made an agreement with us, recognizing our sovereignty and providing us with supplies. Unofficially, they also allow us to offer sanctuary to refugees who manage to slip through their borders. Like you.
“A few days ago,” he said, more cheerfully, “one of the Resistance Runners brought us what they claim is a cure for the Rapture Bug. I’ll believe it when I see it, but the doctors say it looks legit. Maybe soon there’ll be little ones crawling around all over the base.”
He leaned forward. “But between you and me? Even if the cure does work, it’s not gonna matter. Few generations from now, there won’t be any humans on earth anymore. Maybe we’ll be the last to go—but one day, the Synth will either find a reason to kill us off, push us into blowing ourselves up, or push the colonists into destroying both of us. So really, we’re just trying to keep busy until the end.” He shrugged. “Could be worse.”
Nikolai sat there, staring at him.
“Well,” Nikolai finally said. “Shit.”
The human smiled humorlessly, grim.
“Yeah. Shit.”
* * *
Maalouf seemed to enjoy playing the tour guide as he led Nikolai out into the blinding sunlight from the squat cement building. It was one of several buildings along the runways serving as refugee intake, interrogation, and headquarters. Adjacent to that, connected via a second floor skyway, was the military hospital.
He brought Nikolai to a lot packed with trucks, SUVs, and carts. They passed a group of female soldiers and Maalouf stopped to chat, smiling and showing Nikolai off.
“Fresh meat. An Amish! Can you believe that?”
“Well, not exactly Amish . . .” Nikolai said, smiling nervously at their attention.
“Wow! He’s practically a baby!”
“Pretty damn cute for a baby. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have one of those beards. You shave yet, doll?”
The others laughed raucously as Maalouf waved them off.
“Ignore them,” Maalouf chuckled.
They climbed into one of the carts, and took off, silent and speedy. “We cut most of the automation and wireless control to prevent Synth takeover. We even have to drive ourselves now. Manually! No wireless control in the base. No networked systems, either. It’s like the goddamn Stone Age.” He smirked. �
�But you must be used to that, huh?”
The base was huge. Everything was spread out, which made it harder to bomb all at once, Maalouf explained.
“Not many jets or planes taking off these days. There’s always a squadron on standby, but if they ever have to deploy, it’ll probably only be to buy enough time to launch the nukes before we obliterate ourselves.”
He drove Nikolai all over, showing him the farmlands, landing strips, apartments, town, and tent city. He grasped the baton hanging at his side for comfort, glad to have the Focal and his uniform back. Now he just needed to get his dagger. The insistent tug that he felt toward the art Focal from deep under his skin had begun to itch, like he was coming down with hives. He could ignore it for now, but another couple days of separation and the itch would turn to agony.
All in all, everything was surprisingly mundane. Maalouf assured Nikolai that life had been significantly more advanced before the war—that practically every object, surface, and article of clothing used to be connected, thinking. That everything used to come alive at a touch. That the vast, virtual worlds populated by AIs and modded humans had been omnipresent—separated from this world by little more than thin layers of plastic and glass.
Stone Age or not, small things in the base were different. Everything was powered wirelessly. There were accents Nikolai didn’t recognize, slang he’d never heard. A century of culture and history to catch up on. Not to mention the movies.
Few of the humans were as young as Nikolai. Most appeared to be in their thirties or forties—some older, very few younger. A product of the Rapture Bug, which had sterilized all the humans and killed most of the pre-pubescent children thirteen years ago.
“We’ll set you up with a tent tomorrow—put you to work in the next week or so, depending on your experience. You’ll be staying in the refugee intake cells tonight. Not the most comfortable digs, but it’s just for the night.”
Nikolai could tell that something was bothering Maalouf as they pulled back into the lot adjacent to headquarters. The human became quiet, an expression of dread pulling his lips into a subtle frown.
“Everything okay?” Nikolai asked, clearing his throat, which had begun to sting.
He shrugged. “I won’t lie. I’ve been taking my time on this little tour. I’ve got some . . . unpleasantries to attend to, now that we’re back.” He gave Nikolai a smile of reassurance. “Nothing to do with you.”
There were two security checkpoints on the way back to refugee intake. One at the front gate, and one beyond the elevator at the entrance to the level Nikolai had first woken. At both points, the guards nervously scrutinized the baton while Nikolai gritted his teeth, trying to maintain a pleasant demeanor despite the unpleasant feeling of another’s hands on his Focal.
Refugee intake was on the second sublevel. He hadn’t really noticed before, but now that Nikolai had seen the other upper wings, he saw that the walls and floors were different here. They were padded with the strange woven mesh of rubbery, metallic gray that he’d first seen in the interrogation room.
“Total blackout zone,” Maalouf explained. “We keep intake underground and blocked with signal-matting to prevent any form of wireless communication. Almost all refugees have mods when they first get here. The Runners who bring them partially fry the mods with controlled pulses to confuse the tracking. But we block the signals just to be safe, keep them here till the implants have been removed—so the Overminds can’t look through their eyes, control them, or hit the kill switch. We don’t even let people with pre-war or Resistance-installed mods keep them. They’re too vulnerable to Synth hacking.”
Maalouf led Nikolai through the muted, gray-meshed walls, occasionally nodding to other soldiers. He got a lot of stares—word of his arrival spread quick, apparently; the mysterious young man in handmade clothes.
The halls were labyrinthine, though he was careful to memorize the route to the exit. They turned a corner and, to Nikolai’s surprise, he found himself faced with a young human being led by another soldier. A woman not much older than himself. Tall and muscular. She had very dark skin and intense brown eyes that seemed to look right through him.
They stopped—almost having run into each other.
Nikolai grinned. “Hey. Looks like I’m not the only kid here after all.”
She didn’t smile back. Instead she looked at Maalouf and went tense—her expression an odd blend of dread, stifled rage, and resignation.
Maalouf sighed, his face clouded with stifled gloom.
“Hey, Jem,” he said to the woman. “Sorry to make you wait so long.” He nodded at the soldier escorting her. “Specialist Rangarajan? I can take her from here. Do you mind escorting Nikolai back to his cell?”
“Sir,” Specialist Rangarajan said. “Nikolai?”
The soldier put a hand on Nikolai’s arm, gently guiding him forward.
“Well, see you later, I guess,” Nikolai said to the young woman. And then to Maalouf: “Thanks for the tour, sir.”
Maalouf waved to him, distracted, and led Jem away.
Nikolai wasn’t sure why he did it, but he got this sinking feeling in his stomach, and without thinking he created a tracer enchantment the size of a postage stamp between his forefinger and thumb and flicked it at the retreating woman. He could feel it land on the back of her head, sinking through her hair and settling on her scalp.
She probably didn’t feel it—a mage would be able to sense the weaves tickling their skin, but a human? She did look back, though, meeting his gaze one more time. Emerald light rippled across the surface of her eyes—a twinkling shimmer of neon.
Nikolai carefully memorized the route as Rangarajan showed him to the men’s cells.
There were a dozen cells, six against each wall with barred doors. Each cell had a bunk, a bench, and a metal toilet. A bored soldier sat at the entrance, reading a paperback novel so careworn that the cover was illegible. He looked up at them, smiling expectantly.
“Private Donner, this is Nikolai. Nikolai’s just staying for the night—we’ll be setting him up with a tent tomorrow. No need to lock him in—he’ll behave. Right?”
“Yes ma’am,” Nikolai assured her. Though in actuality, he was already planning his route to Jem. She wasn’t moving any longer. Meeting with her seemed to be what Maalouf was talking about when he said “unpleasantries.” Was he going to hurt her?
The specialist left Nikolai in the guard’s “capable hands.”
The barred door to Nikolai’s cell slid open on a rail. “I’ll leave this open for you. Just don’t go wandering.”
Eyeing the shiny black domes in the corners of the ceiling, Nikolai, resisting the overwhelming urge to ask about the novel, told Private Donner that he was tired, and asked if the guard could turn off the lights in the cell areas so he could sleep. The guard said he wasn’t really supposed to, but since there wasn’t anybody else there . . .
Nikolai lay on his bunk fully clothed in the darkness. Donner read under the light of a small lamp near the door, but even with that Nikolai could barely see his hands in front of his eyes. He pulled the scratchy, threadbare blanket over his body, completely covering himself.
He gently propped up the blanket with slender arches of akro from underneath it—not even bothering to use his baton. Awkwardly, he spun a stunted cloak of invisibility, twisting and turning under the tented blanket until he was fully covered.
Nikolai rolled out from under the blanket and stood, invisible. The akro scaffolding he’d propped the blanket up with should fool the casual observer into thinking that he was sleeping underneath—especially in the darkness of the cells. Nikolai drained a little extra magic from his fingertips into the weaves, enough so that they would last for at least an hour.
Nikolai retraced his steps, following the gentle tug of Jem’s tracer weave as he went to find her. He almost ran into Maalouf as he turned a corner. The man was standing outside one of the interrogation rooms, talking with the soldier who’d brought Nikolai t
o his room in hushed tones.
“. . . shouldn’t take long,” he said unhappily. “Prep the operation for zero-six. The less time she has to wait, the easier it’ll be for her.”
“Sir, are you sure you don’t want me to tell her?” Rangarajan asked. “Of course the colonel was going to say no. I don’t see what the big deal is. Everyone gets de-modded. I was de-modded when I got here. You were de-modded.”
“You know it’s not the same thing. Ours were just for VR and surveillance. Jem’s mods are unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Cutting-edge final generation Colladi enhancements—not even the military had anything so advanced. They’re a work of art.”
“Sounds like you don’t agree with the colonel’s decision. Sir.”
He glared at her. “Watch yourself. Of course I agree with the colonel. And for the record, neither he nor I are happy that we have to cripple a genuine war hero. Let alone waste such an incredible talent.”
“Mod’s a mod, sir,” she said, “I don’t care what kind of superpowers they give her. So far as I’m concerned, that girl’s practically a Synth.”
“She lost a lot of people to bring us a cure for the plague. In addition to all the other things she’s done for us and for the Resistance. So I’d watch what you say about her if I were you.”
Rangarajan smirked. “I’ll believe the cure works when I see it. You ask me, she probably ratted the other three out. Handed the allegedly pregnant one over in exchange for passage. You don’t think it’s weird that she’s the only one who made it?”
Maalouf’s lip curled with disgust. “You spout that nonsense again, and I’ll have you shoveling shit at the W-T till the end of days. Understand?”
She nodded, and he dismissed her with a disgusted shooing gesture.
Taking a deep breath, Maalouf forced his face into a warm, sympathetic smile, opening the door to the interrogation room. Nikolai turned sideways and slid in after him, the heavy metal door almost closing on his fingers.
Jem waited inside, straight-backed and calm.