by Tara Basi
Peter only knew he was crying when the mechanical silently appeared at his side offering a napkin.
“Is sir well?” the machine asked, doing a reasonable job of sounding concerned.
Peter coughed and wiped his eyes, a little glad he hadn’t kicked the droid, even though it was only following its programming. There wasn’t a whiff of self-awareness in all that confection of manufactured concern. “An allergy. I’m fine. Thank you.”
He steadied his bubbling emotions and tried to concentrate on preparing for his impending encounter with the anonymous Orb Industries representative.
As the mechanical had predicted, an hour or so later, the lounge doors swung open to reveal a small, office-sized space, no bigger than Zip’s.
“We have arrived, sir,” the mechanical said, unnecessarily, while bowing and holding out a shiny brass arm to indicate that Peter might wish to disembark.
Cautiously, he stepped out of the relatively spacious lift-lounge into the cramped area beyond. A quiet hiss from behind caused him to turn around in time to see the lift panels slide shut. In a panic, he started banging on what had become a wall, which refused to open. Worse was the shocking realisation that his Headgear was defunct. There was no Net signal. He was dead to the world, severed from any contact with Zip, any opportunity to search for Quattro or anybody, or anything, that might help him.
The Suit arrived a moment before Peter’s desperation and frustration were about to spill over into unhinged screaming and wall-kicking. Its presence startled Peter into considering if he was in a VR. There was nobody in the Suit; it was billowing gently in an unfelt breeze. Without a Net connection, VR wasn’t possible. Besides, it was obvious to Peter he wasn’t under: the coffee on the way down had been terrible. All of which meant the Suit had to be a holo projection.
The Suit brought Peter out of his daze. “Welcome, Peter.”
“What’s going on? Where are we? Have you found Mathew?” Peter fired off.
The Suit didn’t answer. A wall of the cramped office shimmered and disappeared, revealing a vast, brightly lit space dotted with workbenches, equipment and secure isolation rooms. The Suit waved its empty sleeve over the scene.
“Welcome to your new laboratory. You should find everything you need. The equipment here is far more powerful than your home setup.”
Peter stepped forward and looked around. For a moment, he forgot about the lost Net connection, Quattro and Zip. It was the most advanced setup he’d ever seen: a dream laboratory; he could accomplish so much here. He’d taken two more steps forward before he remembered the Suit hadn’t answered any of his questions. Peter spun around. “What’s this for? What do you mean, new laboratory?”
“Don’t worry about Mathew. There are far more AIs out there than you might imagine. Mostly, they’re harmless, lost in some crazy introspection about the meaning of life, God and such. But, to be safe, we’ve got the big guns on his trail. He won’t get far.”
Peter was relieved: Quattro might still be saved. “Where am I?”
The Suit ignored his question. “We know about Quattro, that she’s bodied. In the wrong hands, she might be reverse engineered and her true purpose uncovered. We couldn’t allow that.”
Peter began shaking his head, pacing up and down and flapping his arms, his face contorting between anger and misery. “You mustn’t harm her.”
“They’ve left London. She’s safe, for now. Perhaps we should discuss the reason you’re here, Peter, and then solutions may emerge?”
It was an obvious threat. Peter was powerless; he could only nod.
The Suit fluttered towards a stool by a workbench and sat. “You’re, of course, familiar with the bounty of the Orb. Sadly, London is the only island of civilisation and advanced technology left in the world.”
Wondering where this was all leading, Peter could only silently confirm he was aware.
“If London falls, there’s nothing left. A new Dark Age will blanket the world. London’s wealth, its existence, rests on the Pilgrims. Thirty million a day ride the Waves, paying handsome pilgrimage fees.”
He couldn’t hide his impatience anymore. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
“Peter, please, all will become clear. The Orb’s bounty ensures every citizen of London wants for nothing; they have the Net, housing, a generous salary for life.”
“I don’t have a bloody Net connection, you damn holo!”
The Suit chose to ignore Peter. “The Church controls the world, except for the Orb, and London. We’re that last secular hold-out. The last of the Ungodly who aren’t working for the Church. Only fear of what we might do to the Cuboid and the Orb if they attacked has maintained a balance in our M.A.D. relationship.”
Peter was beyond angry. He couldn’t fathom where the Suit was going. “What’s any of this got to do with me or my technology?”
“The balance is eroding. The office of the CEO is becoming more aggressive. The cold war is warming up.”
“Then we’ll lose.” It was obvious that the Church’s vast military force camped on the other side of the Channel Tunnel could take London in a week.
“Exactly, Peter. Years ago, we took concrete steps to prepare our defence. Among other things, we commissioned your work.”
It occurred to Peter then that the Suit might not represent Orb Industries at all. Perhaps it was some crazy individual. He had to get out of here. “My work? A defence?”
“Orb Industries and London face a terrible dilemma. We need to damage the Church, severely, so it cannot wage war, but retain the Pilgrims’ faith in the Orb. Without the pilgrimage revenue stream, London would collapse into chaos. Blowing up the Cuboid and the Orb is no defence. That would be economic suicide.”
The empty Suit might be a crazed individual, but its logic was impeccable. Peter could only summarise the impossibility of the proposition. “Kill the Church without alienating the Pilgrims? Keep the bounty, lose the curse?”
The Suit dismounted from the stool and started pacing. “Exactly, Peter.”
It was as if the Suit was telling Peter that an economical and safe fusion energy source would save the planet. Who could argue with that? Except, no one had figured out how to make one. Peter wondered if there was another optical key somewhere in the laboratory, to unlock the lift.
The Suit stopped pacing and faced Peter. “What if the Tramp came back and revealed the Church’s corruption?”
Peter had stopped listening. He was distracted by trying to find a way out of this hell. The shock of the Suit’s statement grabbed his attention, as if a rabid dog had clamped its jaws on his genitals. Everything fell into place. This was the blasphemy Zip had warned him about. The Suit was even crazier than he’d imagined.
“Are you mad? You can’t bring the Tramp back,” Peter whispered.
“We have his Recording.”
“What? How?” It was the Church’s most prized relic. The Tramp’s body had been obliterated by a Mossad assassination squad nearly two decades ago. The almost indestructible Recording chip was all that survived.
Peter had to sit down. He staggered over to a workbench and climbed onto a stool, laid his head down on his arms and tried to think. The Suit stayed silent, giving Peter time to process the idea. If they really had the Tramp’s Record and brought him back, the consequences … It was too much to think about.
Peter lifted his head. “It’s crazy. It’d be like bringing Jesus back, or the Buddha. He was the first witness to the Orb. He founded the Church. Who knows what’ll happen.”
“It’s still our best option, our only option, for preventing war.”
The Suit was serious. Peter had to find a way out of this. “It’ll be old Recording technology. It might not work.”
“That remains to be seen,” was the Suit’s only comment.
Peter struggled to marshal his thoughts. “I haven’t solved the sleep problem; the Tramp will go crazy. None of this will work. You’re deluded.”
“We don’t need him to survive for long. Just long enough for a sermon or a new Revelation. That’s all it would take. Imagine Hitler bringing back Jesus to denounce the Jews. That kind of thing.”
His head felt so heavy he had to rest it on his arms again for a moment. Thoughts chased each other like dodgems. “Listen, let’s say I bring him back. He’d be self-aware, like Quattro. You wouldn’t be able to control him. People will know he’s an AI. The Church will know. None of this is going to work.”
“It’s an established, undisputed fact. Recordings can’t be read by anyone but the Recorder. In life or in death. Every Recording is uniquely encrypted to the Recorder’s brainwaves. Professor Simmons’ research started off as a theoretical method for extracting information from the Record of dead enemies. Imagine, Peter, being able to peer into the mind of your rivals. Simmons postulated that a Recording might be reverse engineered to reproduce the original consciousness in an AI matrix and thereby, indirectly, access the contents of the Recording.”
Peter wondered when the Suit was actually going to tell him something he didn’t know. “I’ve seen her theoretical work. It’s the basis of my technology. You gave me her prototype.”
“It was unfortunate that Professor Simmons killed herself before the work was finished. Even if it had been completed, as a Pilgrim, I think she might have resisted working with the Tramp’s Record. A remarkable woman, as you know, Peter; she was your colleague, close friend. Now, after all these years, her Record reanimation prototype and your hard work have made the theory a reality. And we’re the only ones who can do this. Resurrect the dead. Immortality, Peter, one day. For now, though, a few lucid days with the Tramp should suffice.”
The Suit wasn’t a crazy loner. This had the full weight of Orb Industries stamped all over it. But Peter wasn’t convinced his technology was unique. Someone had made Mathew; he wasn’t a normal AI.
“If the shock of revival doesn’t send the Tramp crazy,” he said, “what makes you think you can control him? He’ll know; the Ks knew they weren’t really alive. You can’t hide it from him.”
“We’ll try again.”
“What?”
“Reset and reboot.”
Peter understood only too well what the Suit was saying. “You’ll kill him if he doesn’t do what you say?”
“We need enthusiastic co-operation. Eventually, we’ll find the right motivation, or London will fall and it won’t matter anymore. Your experience with the Ks will be invaluable.”
Peter jumped off his stool and flew at the floating Suit. “No, no, no! I have to look for Quattro. I’ll train whoever you want.” He tried to grab at its shoulders. His hands passed through the holographic cloth. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it shocked Peter into realising he was alone in this place, in the bowels of the earth, cut off from everything and everyone. But there was still a way. He had leverage. “I won’t do it. You can’t force me.”
“Peter, even if you somehow found Quattro, she’s going insane. The poor tortured soul has only days left. Alone, without the right equipment, you can’t help her. Here, you have the facilities to find a solution. You have Kiki’s Recording. You can reset and reboot as well.”
Peter slipped to his knees and sobbed, “No, no. I can’t let her go through it all again. Save Quattro, bring her here, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Very well, Peter, we’ll try. You have our promise. If we find her alive, we’ll bring her here, and you can see her once the Tramp has been resurrected successfully. Are we agreed?”
Peter sobbed uncontrollably. What choice did he have? He nodded weakly, then he remembered, “Quattro has a tracker.”
“We know. Now, this place is going to be sealed until our business is concluded. I’m sure you understand the need for absolute secrecy. On the descent, we sterilised your Headgear. Did you know that K3 had planted a backdoor in it?”
The mention of K3 seemed to be an echo of his own hidden thoughts, some half-discovered dread. “K3? No, that’s impossible. Kiki wasn’t technical. It would take a genius, a master hacker, to do anything like that,” Peter murmured.
“She had Net access, Peter. We can’t take any chances with the Tramp.”
His stomach fell. He couldn’t help himself: the bitter liquid contents of his belly erupted from his mouth. Then he blacked out.
Blurry lights pulsed and poked his eyes with their harsh brightness. Bit by bit, focus returned until Peter could make out a face. A madman with red eyes was staring at him out of a flabby, waxen face. A loose-lipped mouth opened and closed, repeating the same silent words over and over. A trickle of saliva escaped from the flapping lips to run down the man’s chin. With growing disgust, Peter realised he was looking at his own distorted reflection.
Peter tore his gaze away from the accusing, crimson eyes and took in his wider surroundings and immediately screamed in terror. Mathew was standing over him.
“Peter, you’re safe.”
Peter rolled and fell out of the cot he was lying on, landing painfully on the hard floor. He ignored the pain and began scrabbling away on his hands and knees, trying to get enough momentum to rise and run. It wasn’t happening; his feet slipped and slid all over the shiny floor. His breath came in sharper and shorter bursts as he desperately tried to escape Kiki’s killer. An unyielding grip on his shoulder brought his frantic escape to an abrupt end. He was gently lifted to his feet and physically rotated to face the shiny monster.
“Peter, I’m here to help you. There’s nothing to fear.”
Despite his horror, Peter managed to whisper, “Mathew?”
The shiny thing tightened its grip on Peter’s shoulders and drew him closer until its near-featureless face was close enough to kiss. His fright had him encased in ice. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.
The machine effortlessly lifted Peter up, carried him back to the cot and sat him down. It draped a blanket over his shaking shoulders and moved away before returning with a mug of coffee. Carefully placing the cup in Peter’s hands, it held them steady with its own surprisingly gentle fingers. Peter sipped nervously, coughed, spluttered, then sipped some more. Slowly, he recovered his senses and grew a little calmer. “You’re not Mathew?”
The machine released its supporting hold on his cup and stepped back. “Bunny, assigned by Orb Industries to assist you.”
Still in a daze and confused, Peter struggled to vocalise his chaotic thoughts. “You look like Mathew.”
“Bunny, not you nor I, is one of an experimental series, developed by Professor Simmons herself.” There was no hint of pride or any other emotion in the statement.
An AI? It was an AI? How could Orb Industries be using an AI? Then he noticed the sparkling kill-vest: little lights on a gossamer web that covered Bunny’s chest. The Suit could disable or kill it in an instant. The machine was a prisoner. This lab was a prison for both of them. A fluttering in the corner of his eye caught his attention. The Suit was still in the lab, hovering a few metres away. With a raised sleeve, it acknowledged Peter.
“As I was saying, this laboratory is completely sealed and far away from any human habitation or Net connection. Bunny has never left this room. He was the last one to work with Professor Simmons, right here. He should prove very useful to you, Peter.”
“I prefer to be addressed as ‘it’ or ‘Bunny’,” the machine said, flatly.
“Of course,” the Suit answered. “I’ll be going now.”
Peter jumped up, spilling his coffee as the blanket slipped from his shoulders. “Wait, what about Quattro? How long am I going to be down here?”
“We have an agreement, Peter. I’ll return with news about Quattro when you’ve manifested the Tramp. Bunny has his Record.”
The Suit blinked out of existence, leaving Peter alone with Bunny in the otherwise empty lab. Peter collapsed onto the cot, his situation rapidly sinking in. If he didn’t bring the Tramp back, he’d never see Quattro again, and he’d never leave this
place. Was that what had happened to Professor Simmons? Was she imprisoned down here and then killed herself when she couldn’t take it anymore? Bunny? Petula sometimes called him that. Thinking back to those times, he remembered how jealous she was of Melisa. That she wanted Peter to leave his wife.
Quattro’s words came back to him. “Petula sent Melisa VR recordings … You should be proud. Fucking Professor Petula Simmons.”
Had Petula really sent Melisa VRs of the two of them together? Petula wouldn’t have. She wouldn’t. Quattro had to be lying.
Chapter Twelve – The Old Team
While she didn’t want to ask the old man for help, especially so soon after he’d said she would need it, there wasn’t much choice. Zip wouldn’t get very far on her own in the wastelands beyond the wall. Not in the daylight. Out there, on her own, a panic attack would get her killed. Searching for Quattro at night would be suicide. So Zip made the voice call.
The Quartermaster’s reaction wasn’t unexpected. “You want to go outside? Why?”
“There’s someone out there who knows what I hid in your graveyard and why,” Zip said, knowing it was the only reason the Quartermaster might agree to help.
In the silence that followed, Zip imagined the Quartermaster puffing his cigar thoughtfully; his interest was definitely piqued.
“I go north from time to time. Trading and the like. I could take you.”
She knew the next part was going to be difficult. “I’m not going to the settlements. The person I’m looking for is about thirty klicks northeast of the Walthamstow Cross gate.”