by Alec Birri
Kalten looked at the Secretary of the Treasury. ‘What are the chances of that happening?’
He was confident. ‘There’s nothing on the horizon and certainly no crash. If anything, Europe becoming part of the Caliphate is causing investors to pile into Wall Street like never before.’
It was the one bit of good news in a sea of bad, but the President was still perplexed. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Why would Savage engineer the end of the very thing that quite literally made him? It’s almost as if…’ Kalten became quiet. He ran a hand over his head. His fingers paused at the dents in it.
‘Mr President? Are you okay?’
No answer.
The general exchanged nods with the Secretary of Defense before coming to attention and saluting his commander in chief. ‘Sir. I request permission to launch a retaliatory strike.’
‘Hmmm?’
‘Action, sir. We must take immediate action.’
‘What? Er, yes. Action.’ Kalten dragged his mind back into the room. ‘But where, how and with what? Thanks to AI, nuclear weapons are out of the question and even if we went ahead with the plan to liberate Europe, what’s to stop our GIs and Atroops being made to turn their rifles on themselves or, worse, bow down and worship Allah?’
The apparent fruitlessness didn’t deter the general. Quite the opposite – his face lit up. He recovered the map from the floor and gestured with it. ‘Mecca.’ Reactions in the room varied from puzzled to bemused. ‘Along with Medina, Jerusalem, Najaf and any other site deemed holy to the Muslims – we destroy them.’ Kalten’s mouth wasn’t the only one to drop open. ‘Don’t you understand, sir? It’s one of their faith’s five pillars – any Muslim not making a pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime, won’t be allowed to enter Heaven.’ He went from face to face. ‘I say we nuke ’em with enough atomic energy to make the shrines impossible to visit forever.’ A collective shock didn’t seem to dim the general’s enthusiasm. ‘It’s simple. Muslims will then have to bow down to the one god that can forgive them their sins – ours.’
The silence that followed was deafening, and it was a while before someone responded with the obvious. ‘But what about our allies? What about Israel? The Saudis? The thousands of innocent people? If there are religious gatherings at the time, we could be responsible for killing millions.’
The general didn’t look at the SoS. ‘Forget it. As we speak, the Israelis are sucking up to the Palestinians and the Saudis are doing the same with Iran – they’re beyond our help. And as for killing millions instead of thousands, well, let’s just say I’m relying on it – there’s a good reason why I carry the Islamic calendar with me everywhere I go.’ He tapped a pocket.
‘What? You’re deliberately going to target the shrines on their holiest days? Forget millions, if the Caliphate empire is as big as we think it is, billions might be killed!’
The general decided to give the SoS his attention after all. ‘It’s the price of their freedom, ma’am.’
‘What about the oil?’ The general switched his attention to the Treasury Secretary. ‘We’d be liberating that too.’
‘Well, that’s the “where”.’ Kalten was interested again. ‘What about the “how and with what”? Nuclear weapons are impossible to use.’
The corners of the general’s mouth turned back up. ‘Ours are, that’s true, but not all of Russia’s arsenal.’ He stuck a finger on the map. ‘Kapustin Yar.’ They all peered at where he was pointing. ‘It’s an old sticks ’n’ strings missile base left over from their Soviet days – not a computer in sight – and thanks to Ivan’s habit of leaving things out to rot, it’s got plenty of missiles standing idle, too.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Stick a couple of warheads on each, grease the guidance systems, fuel ’em up and away they go!’ He broadened his grin. ‘And do you wanna know the best part?’ The general was behaving more like a used-car salesman than the potential initiator of World War Three. ‘The Russkies will get anything that retaliates!’
Everyone but Kalten gawped at the unthinkable. The President beckoned for the map and the general gave it to him.
The SoS was keen to at least suggest an alternative to the madness being described. ‘Sir, we mustn’t overlook the opportunity here – your chance to go down in history as the most peaceful world leader ever.’
The general sneered, and was about to say something when Kalten stopped him.
‘Go on.’
‘It might be the spread of Islam and not Christianity that’s causing the world’s lions to lie down with its lambs, but that’s still happening under your watch. Imagine how the history books will portray a man who had the power to end it all but chose not to.’
The general couldn’t help himself. ‘Pah! Name me one world leader admired for doing nothing?!’
Madam Secretary didn’t hesitate. ‘The Pope? Nelson Mandela? Barack Obama ring any bells?’
The general shook his head. ‘Trump must be turning in his grave.’
‘What’s the range of these missiles?’
They both looked at Kalten.
‘They’ll reach their targets, Mr President, don’t you worry.’
‘That’s not what I asked you.’
The general had to think before he could reply. ‘Er, to be absolutely sure no robot interferes with the process, we would need the Russians to use their earliest systems, and they could only reach Europe so, London max.’
‘London, eh?’ The map was handed back.
The SoS tried one last time. ‘Sir, I beg you to think again. It might not be the peace we want, but it’s still peace nonetheless. I recommend we seek to broker an agreement with the Greens while we still can.’
The general continued to fight his corner. ‘Sir, if you don’t do this, you will go down in history as the only president to have given into pacifists.’
The President gazed into the space between them. He turned to the general. ‘How do we know the Russians would even agree to a strike?’
The general moved, as if sensing he just needed to seal the deal. ‘Sir. If civilisation as we know it is truly under threat, you can guarantee we’re not the only ones having this conversation.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you think not just the Russians, but the Chinese, and even the North Koreans are doing right now?’
Kalten turned away from them all. ‘But how to make contact without arousing suspicion? Everything not monitored by artificial intelligence is being eavesdropped on by every man and his dog.’
There was a desk at the end of the operations room, and Kalten was drawn to some dust-encrusted items sitting on top of it. Despite the grime, a red telephone stood out. He walked over.
‘Do you think this thing is still connected?’ They all looked at each other before making a collective shrug. ‘I wonder…’ A light on top of the phone blinked. The sound of its bell made everyone jump.
Kalten was as puzzled as the rest when he lifted the receiver. He then turned back to his government. ‘Dimitri. We were just talking about you.’
Chapter Ten
‘What year would you like?’
‘There’s a choice?’
‘The judgement is clear, Mr Adams.’ The clerk read it out. ‘The appellant is hereby granted leave to serve the unexpired portion of his sentence online, subject to the restrictions at Annex A.’
‘Mister Adams. I guess I’m going to have to get used to being called that.’ James half-smiled as he spoke and Tracy squeezed his hand.
The clerk sympathised. ‘Only in the real world. That’s the beauty of the Interworld – you can be, do and call yourself whatever you want. I was Humphrey Bogart last week.’ His eyes misted over. ‘There’s something about Casablanca. Not to mention Ingrid Bergman, if you know what I mean.’ He winked at them.
Tracy checked on the carry-cot. Their son wa
s fast asleep. ‘What year would you suggest?’
‘Well that depends,’ said the clerk, ‘on whether you want to remember your past or not. Anything within living memory’s pretty straightforward, but if you elect to live in Paris during the French Revolution then I suggest wiping the slate clean and having something more appropriate implanted – you’ll soon miss not being able to tweet or hail a cab just by thinking about it.’ He gave them both a look. ‘Not to mention your heads if you decide to be the duke and duchess of somewhere. And without flesh and blood to come back to, that can only mean one thing.’ The clerk drew a hand across his throat while making a noise from the back of it.
James was confused. ‘But we are coming back.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘His sentence is three years?’ Tracy was just as perplexed.
The clerk frowned. He scanned the display hovering in front of them. ‘Ah! Wrong guidance – my apologies – that was for euthanasia. Yes, here we are. Convicted Sex Offenders.’ He double-checked to make sure. ‘Behavioural correction only, I’m afraid – no memory adjustments allowed. Part of your punishment, I guess.’ His eyes switched between them. ‘And as you’ll be returning to terra firma, I assume you’ll want the years to match?’ They both nodded, and the clerk moved on. ‘Talking of corrections, I see you’re an atheist. Would you like to believe in God? It’s my understanding Islam is fast becoming the world’s only religion.’
‘No thanks, I’ve already been made to feel sinful for the rest of my life.’
‘But you are sinful, Mr Adams. And you should think yourself lucky. The Pornography Bill is about to be signed off and had that been law at the time of your arrest, you would now be looking at a darn sight more than three years.’ He peered at James. ‘You have completed your medication, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. What are the restrictions?’
‘Hmmm?’
James pointed at the judgement. ‘You mentioned restrictions – what won’t I be allowed to do once we’re there?’
Virtual pages turned. ‘Not to approach a minor unless under the supervision of an adult.’
James’ shoulders sagged. Tracy pulled herself closer to him. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not letting him out of my sight.’ Nothing was going to spoil her plans for the family.
‘Good. So, if we could all merge to agree that, you can be on your way.’
James refused to. ‘Is that it?’ The clerk nodded.
‘But what about our bodies?’
‘What about them?’ said the clerk.
James glanced at Tracy before answering. ‘Where will they be kept, for a start? And what about diets and exercise routines? And when do we get to say goodbye?’
‘Ah.’ The clerk sat back. ‘We used to do that, but it became too emotional, not to mention tedious. There’s only so many times a man can watch a family cry over each other only to be swamped in tears of joy when it’s realised the new existence is no different to the old one.’ He leaned forward and winked. ‘We do it while they’re asleep.’
The couple looked at each other. Tracy was the first to pick up on what was being suggested. ‘You mean…’
The clerk scanned the room as if looking for something. He then widened his eyes at them both, and nodded.
‘We’re already here?’ said James. ‘When did that happen?’
The clerk grinned. ‘Last night.’
Tracy thought that impossible. ‘But Johnny and I got up at our usual time. Breakfast, washed, dressed. Even the car’s parked outside.’
‘Your virtual car is parked outside.’ The clerk was enjoying himself.
Tracy put a hand on her bump. ‘But what about our babies? My mother? Our family and friends?’
The clerk raised his hands. ‘Calm yourself, Mrs Adams. They can visit you both online whenever they wish, and you and your son are free to reoccupy your bodies in the same way.’ He patronised, ‘It’s only your husband who’s serving a sentence.’ The clerk opened his mind again. Tracy and James reassured each other with a smile and a squeeze of their hands before merging with it.
In silence, the walls of the courthouse morphed into those of a chateau. The clerk waited. Not for more questions, but for the appellant and his wife to get over the shock of their new home’s appearance: a baroque drawing room complete with marble fireplace, elegant furniture, extensive drapes and a carpet that would have been impossible to walk on had its pile been any deeper.
Tracy laughed, clapped her hands and ran to the French windows as fast as her pregnancy would allow. A squeal then signalled her approval of the fountain in the ornamental gardens beyond. The clerk got up, moved next to her equally-captivated partner and took out a handkerchief. ‘Never fails to get to me this bit – best part of my job.’ He dabbed a tear and held out a set of keys. ‘Would you care for a tour of your practice, Doctor Adams?’
The cell door opened at the same time as the body’s eyes. It climbed down from the bunk, got dressed and made its way to the prison wing’s exit.
Those who had yet to win their appeals commented on its departure.
‘See you in the Interworld, pal.’
‘Mine’s a beer when you get there.’
‘Jammy bastard.’
Similar sentiments were expressed by them all. All except the tallest. Savage attempted to make eye contact with the body, but it didn’t respond.
The gate opened, and the body entered the prison’s central hub where it was joined by others emptied of their thoughts the previous night. A couple of corridors later, they left the building and boarded a bus.
The vehicle drove out of the main gate and into the country. Some of the bodies hadn’t seen trees or grass in years, but they didn’t look at either – lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. A fly landed on the face of one. The insect approached the corner of its mouth and began feasting on what lay encrusted there – the remains of a meal. Some miles later, the bus turned off the highway and headed towards a construction site.
Such was the popularity of the Interworld, even bunkers yet to be completed suffered with lines of traffic, and as home access had been banned for safety reasons, workdays teemed just as much as weekends; queues of cars became lines of pedestrians, all excited either at the virtual theme park’s suggestions for a perfect other-world experience, or marvelling at hand-held devices bristling with their own ideas. Some swallowed pills. Anything to escape the drudgery of real life.
The bus had priority and overtook the lot. Had the heads of the bodies inside still contained thoughts, they would no doubt have recognised the envious looks they got and perhaps responded to the angry retorts, shaking of fists and poking of tongues by small children, but they didn’t so weren’t able to.
The bus passed through a security barrier, down a slip road and pulled up alongside the other government transport parked at the end. Bodies able to unload themselves then did, while wheelchair- and stretcher-borne cargo incapable of doing the same were assisted by those strong enough for both tasks. Much like the people at the front of the facility, they formed a line. Unlike the main entrance, however, it was done in silence – no billboards, hoardings or virtual posters here. No red pills or hand-held electronic devices either.
Outside, the weather required a coat, but inside, the bunker was warm. Pinpricks of perspiration indicated that even without their minds, each body continued to function at some basic level. Warmth became heat, and a rivulet of sweat ran down the face of the body with the feasting fly. It knocked the insect from its meal and it attempted a return, but the temperature was increasing, and at a rate that soon had sweat pouring, so the fly decided to look elsewhere. It left the bunker. Whatever cerebral level the bodies were operating at didn’t appear to include a similar sense of self-preservation.
Like the entrance to a busy subway station, the line joined others crowding
onto escalators. Those unable to descend by themselves continued to be cradled by those that could.
An unpleasant odour caused some of the bodies’ noses to wrinkle, so the bunker’s AI reduced or disabled the sense. What was waiting for them all at the bottom of the escalator roared like a rocket engine, so the same was done with hearing. Similar measures were taken with taste and sight – anything to reduce or eliminate that most basic of animal instincts – survival.
But the further the bodies descended, the more their limited senses were bombarded and to the point where the AI couldn’t curtail them all without threatening the journey’s purpose. Even when smoke began streaming eyes and irritating throats enough for coughing to begin, the bodies were forced to endure the discomfort until seconds and not minutes remained. Only when respiration was no longer necessary did the AI cause each body to hold its breath. Just the strength to stand or carry would be required at the very end, and even that wouldn’t be important once the weight of those following on behind had become too much.
Despite the suppression of senses, a primeval awareness of the unnatural prevailed and when the temperature became hot enough to sear skin and consume hair the instinct was to panic, but without consciousness, it was impossible for the bodies to comprehend. The first to fall did so more in confusion than fear.
It was the same for the body that followed. Its brain had once contained the thoughts of a disgraced psychologist, and although it sensed that the melting around its face and neck was wrong, it couldn’t think why. Along with the rest of the condemned, it tumbled into the furnace anyway. A scream indicated something still resided, but burning vocal chords made the sound strange.
Somewhere between the squeak of a rat and the bleat of a sheep.
‘Oh! Someone just walked over my grave.’