by Tara Basi
Zip wrapped her hands around her head; another dead end. “I can’t remember. Don’t you think I want to?”
“Let Creep scan,” Mathew said, as though he were only offering to refill her glass.
Q thumped the table. “You’ve got to be crazy to let that monster in your head.”
Zip emerged from her own embrace like a timid tortoise, hesitated, then took a deep breath. She had to know. “OK, read-only and all my anti-virus is in paranoid mode.”
The room fell silent and no one moved. Zip realised she had stopped breathing. Her shoulders were tensed. She’d pulled in her neck as though she were bracing herself against a physical assault. How stupid. She let her breath out and tried to relax. Looking up at Creep, Zip said, “You can start.”
Creep answered immediately, “Scan complete. Results collated.”
“Really?” Zip asked, surprised and pleased that it was over.
Mathew asked, “Details?”
“Many anomalies. Dormant apps. Enormous. Complex. Like Quattro. Impossible to analyse. Evidence of Record-tampering and time-shifting. Unreadable. Encrypted mail, pending send, linked to heartbeat, a failsafe.”
Zip shuddered. She felt violated, not by Creep but all the craziness it had found. Like most, she had a terrible fear of Headgear viruses, especially the rogue military stuff that still roamed the Net and the Pilgrimists’ Revelation virus. She was so sure her Headgear was infection-free.
“You’re wrong. My Headgear’s clean. Your pet’s defective, Mathew.”
Creep was undeterred by Zip’s lack of confidence. “Anomalies are benign and dormant. Too complex for attacking simple Headgear systems. Email linked to heartbeat marked highly important.”
A note linked to her heartbeat? Jesus and the Tramp, a suicide note? Her suicide note?
“Where the hell is it?” Her voice was cracking. Could it be a note to herself from herself, about the terrible things she’d done? Did she want to know? Know why she’d cut her own throat? If she knew, she might cut it again.
“Inaccessible without key, unless sent. It must die,” Creep concluded.
“No,” Mathew answered, before Zip or Q could react to Creep’s cold conclusion.
“Can’t I access it now I know?” Zip asked, relieved Mathew had rejected Creep’s advice.
“Do you have the key?” Mathew asked.
“If your pet spider didn’t find it, I don’t have it.”
“Key lost. It must die,” Creep decided.
“Can’t you, it, hack it?” Zip asked, starting to feel very uncomfortable about where this was all leading.
“No. It would take decades to hack. I can’t wait,” Mathew said.
Zip could detect a torrent of indecipherable data being exchanged between Creep and Mathew. Were they arguing over what to do with her? Zip noticed that the Quartermaster had set down his drink and put his rifle across his knee.
He was aggressively chewing the butt of his cigar when he spoke to Mathew. “So, what’s your plan? You have one, don’t you?”
“Stay calm and listen. We don’t want to hurt you,” Mathew started to explain.
Zip stood up and unholstered her sidearm before she spoke. “We’re listening.”
“Creep will stop your heart with an electric shock. The message will get sent. Creep will intercept it then it’ll revive you with another shock. It’s the only way.”
Zip wondered in what world stopping her heart didn’t count as hurting someone. Even if it could work, did she really want to see the last letter from Colonel Zara – someone she’d tried so hard to bury?
The Quartermaster thumped the table with his fist, stood up and grabbed a dazed Zip by the shoulders.
“Are you crazy? What if the note doesn’t even exist? We don’t need the note. Forget about this talking Orb crap, and who cares what happens to a bunch of AI human wannabes?”
Zip turned her head towards Mathew. “What if I don’t make it? I’ve got to leave a message for Alice.”
The Quartermaster released his grip on Zip and, with a shake of his head, slumped back down on the sofa and poured himself another whisky.
“Headgear needs a Net link, otherwise the note will be erased if you die. Our link’s fried,” Mathew said.
“Die soon, hurry,” Creep added, as though it were trying to comfort Zip.
“How’s this going to work?” she asked, ignoring Creep’s macabre interventions.
“Take Creep, go back to London, leave your message for Alice. Then Creep will stop your heart.”
“And start it again, or Creep’s one dead AI, and so are you,” Q quietly said.
The unmoving, ornamental Mathew didn’t answer. Creep fell silent. For many moments, neither moved nor made a sound.
“Well, you two deaf?” Q shouted.
“I think they’re … talking again. Give them a minute. I could do with a refill,” Zip said, holding out her empty tumbler.
The Quartermaster picked up the bottle and poured a big drink for her and himself. Q wasn’t going to argue with Zip. She’d made up her mind and could see that he knew. The two old lovers sat in morose silence and waited for the machines to speak.
It was Mathew who broke the silence. “Creep says you’ve a ninety-percent chance of coming back. There’s no guarantee.”
“That’s not good,” Q started to say when Zip interrupted him.
“Let’s sleep on it. Decide in the morning. You got bedrooms?”
Mathew pointed at a closed door and froze without lowering his arm. Creep hadn’t moved for some time.
“I’ll take the couch. It’s only a few hours till dawn,” Q said, raising his glass.
Zip nodded and made her way to the only bedroom. The room lit up when she entered. It could have been any room in any upmarket hotel. There was a large bed, a desk, chair, brown-wood bedside furniture, inoffensive art on the walls, another door leading to a bathroom carved from a single block of white plastic. There was even a virtual window overlooking rolling greenery with a smattering of tall trees, illuminated by a full moon. Zip sat on the end of the bed and cried unhappy tears while wondering what the difference was, between happy and sad. The salinity? If that was true, hers were very salty.
Had she always been dead? Never really recovering from cutting her own throat? A zombie inside a dead girl pretending to be alive? She didn’t want to die again. Why was she crying? Who for? Absurd questions. Zip was crying because she wanted to. Her situation. The world’s situation. Her old lover’s devotion. All these things, altogether, brought down the tears. Even poor Mathew, the AI killer, bound in metal, befriended by metal, made her cry. Quattro, who’d never asked to be resurrected, Kiki, who didn’t want to be killed, made her cry. Peter, whom she guessed was going to endure a greater suffering before he found relief. Some of her tears were for Alice and her grandchildren. Mostly, the tears were for Zip. Whatever happened, whatever was to come would be bad. Really bad.
Chapter Fifteen – The Tramp
Peter would have given up days ago, but he couldn’t, not if he wanted to see Quattro again and get out of this basement laboratory. The Suit was unambiguous. If he didn’t manifest the Tramp from his Record, Quattro was as good as dead. He could not allow that. The odds were not good. The Tramp’s Record wasn’t like Kiki’s. It was old technology; the fidelity wasn’t the same. His resurrection routines were struggling to fill in the gaps in the prophet’s intellect that they couldn’t extract from the Record. And there was a part of Peter that detested the idea of bringing the monster back to life. The damned Tramp had started it all: the Pilgrims, the Church and, worst of all, the Pilgrimists. All those forced conversions. The Tramp had killed his wife just as sure as if he had hanged her himself. How could this one man have tricked the world into believing a giant, alien, blue ball was God?
“Peter is making progress,” Bunny said, surprising him.
Bunny had been a coldly enthusiastic assistant. Peter wasn’t so optimistic.
“H
ow can you say that? He’s stable for a few minutes at the most and then … crash.”
“Bunny believes that repeated attempts do no harm and we learn more from each VR session.”
“Maybe, maybe. Unless we can keep him conscious for at least twenty minutes, we’ll never learn enough to stabilise his personality. And to stabilise him, we need a calm VR setting that doesn’t immediately alert him to the fact that he’s been dead for more than two decades.”
“Does Peter suggest we change the VR setting?”
“Yes, Bunny. We have to try something new. I have an idea, something that might convince him that a great deal of time has passed since he was last conscious and that he isn’t dead.”
The large square bed floated above an illuminated, white floor like a low bank of cloud over a snowfield. A rack of medical equipment filled one wall from the bright bleached floor to the brightly bleached ceiling. The apparatus twinkled with little lights, animated charts and oscillating dials. A transparent wall, directly opposite the gently humming machines, offered an inestimable view of the Orb from the inside wall of the Cuboid.
An old man, dressed in sky-blue, silk pyjamas, lay stretched out on the bed. His clean-shaven face looked serene. The barest of smiles played on his thin lips. Long, bleached hair spread out across the pillow, surrounding his head like a messy halo. Wrinkled hands casually rested on his slowly rising and falling chest. His eyes were lightly closed. A deep, untroubled sleep cradled the old man in its arms like a mother rocking her baby. A neatly attired doctor and a pretty blond nurse stood quietly at the end of the bed. Waiting.
Little lights winked and the old man’s breathing deepened. Charts spiked and the sleeper’s eyes fluttered. They opened slowly, revealing deep-blue eyes, alert, intelligent, aware. Calmly, the old man surveyed his surroundings. He moved to rise and the top third of the bed rose smoothly to assist him. The man noticed the purposeful-looking doctor and the beautiful nurse. He gave the doctor a perfunctory glance and turned his attention to the nurse. His eyes slowly wandered over the curvaceous nurse’s tight white uniform. He yawned and said, “I need a fucking drink.”
The nurse and the doctor exchanged glances before the doctor spoke. “Luminance, do you remember what happened to you?”
The old man ignored the doctor’s question; his eyes followed the nurse’s slinky movements as she approached his bedside, picked up a jug from a stand and poured him a glass of water. He smiled lasciviously at the nurse as she brought the glass to his thin bloodless lips. He sipped at the water and wrinkled up his face.
“I could kill a double vodka. Maybe you and me could find a bar later.” A wicked smile lit up his crumpled face.
The nurse’s bland expression didn’t change, and she didn’t answer. Returning to the end of the bed, she resumed her position, standing next to the doctor.
The doctor continued his questioning. “You’ve been very ill, Luminance. In time, perhaps some wine would be in order. Now, do you remember anything?”
The old man’s expression changed as he tried to recall. He became agitated, distressed. “Who are you? What am I doing here? What’s wrong with me?”
“All in good time, Luminance. Tell me the last thing you remember.”
The old man stabbed his finger at the doctor. “Don’t bloody call me that. It’s Sid or Tramp. I want none of that Luminance bullshit. What the hell’s your name?”
“Very well, Tramp, I’m Doctor Morris. You can call me Peter if you prefer, and this,” Peter said, turning to his assistant, “is Nurse Mary. Please, stay calm and tell me about your recent memories.”
“I’m trying, you bastard, it’s fuzzy. There was a meeting … about the Orb. I was leaving. Then … nothing. My Record, it’s not working. What the hell happened? I need a drink, a proper drink.” The Tramp was shouting and impotently trying to climb out of the bed.
The nurse came to his side and attempted to make him more comfortable. The Tramp weakly pushed her away and, for the first time, seemed to notice his hands. He ignored the nurse and held them out in front of his face, flipping them slowly over and over as though he were seeing his own hands for the very first time. His fingers started to tremble uncontrollably as he brought them closer and ran them over his face, through his hair, getting more and more distressed. The old man pulled a lock of his straggly, white hair into view and screamed. “What have you done? I want a mirror. My hands. How? They’re so … old.”
The doctor nodded and the nurse walked over to the bank of equipment and touched a control. The old man calmed down. His head fell back on the pillow, and he stopped trying to get out of the bed.
“Tramp, I know this is a shock. We’ll explain everything. You’re well; we can make you young again. As young as you want. Pilgrims everywhere would be honoured to donate a healthy body.”
“Pilgrim body? New body?” the Tramp mumbled, his eyes half closed.
“Yes, Tramp. We can fix your Recorder too. It’s just a temporary glitch. Nurse, a little more animation please.”
The nurse adjusted a control, and the old man became more alert; his eyes were fully opened and focused on the doctor. “What’s happened to me?”
The nurse took a seat by the bed. She clasped one of the old man’s hands between her own and squeezed it gently, warmly, and smiled sweetly. The doctor took his seat on the opposite side of the bed and grasped the old man’s other hand in a firm, reassuring grip. The Tramp looked from the nurse to the doctor and appeared calm.
The doctor spoke in a quiet, soothing voice, “Tramp, there was an incident. You fell into a coma. Today, you’ve been revived. The entire world rejoices that you’ve returned to us.”
The Tramp’s heartrate jumped a little. He turned to look at the nurse, who soothed his brow and smiled reassuringly. Turning back to the doctor, he asked, “How long?”
“You fell into a coma in the year nineteen; it’s now forty-two.”
The Tramp gasped and his heartrate leapt higher. “Two fucking decades?” Weakly, he tried to pull his hands free from the nurse and the doctor. He struggled to get out of the bed. “I don’t believe you. This is some Industries trick. You think I’m crazy? This isn’t real. It can’t be.” The Tramp was shouting again and trying to rise.
“Tramp, please, stay calm. Everything will be alright,” the doctor said.
The Tramp wriggled and twisted in the bed. “Let me up! I want to get up.”
The doctor and the nurse took hold of the Tramp’s elbows and gently helped him get to his feet. With his arms over their shoulders, he slowly staggered towards the window and looked out over the interior of the Cuboid. “It still there? The Cuboid, the Orb?”
“Tramp, many things have changed, but the Cuboid, the Orb and the Revelation endure. Your legacy is more powerful than ever.”
The Tramp stared wide-eyed at the doctor, his breathing ragged, and he struggled to get his words past his lips. “It’s really true,” he started to say and then clutched at his chest and cried out. The doctor and the nurse gently helped him back to the bed and made him comfortable. The nurse adjusted some dials and looked over at the doctor.
“Perhaps you’d like to rest now? We can talk later.”
The Tramp rolled his eyes and, in obvious alarm, clutched at the doctor’s sleeve. “There’s no Net. Is it gone?”
The doctor smiled and patted the Tramp’s hand. “It’s still here, bigger and better than ever. Your Headgear just needs an upgrade. We’ll attend to it when you’re feeling better.”
The Tramp wasn’t placated; he grabbed hold of the doctor’s coat sleeve and pulled him closer. “I want to see for myself. I don’t believe you. Something’s not right. Connect me now. You hear me? Now!”
“I think we’ve talked enough for today. I’m applying a sedative. When you wake up, it’ll seem like no time has passed at all, but you’ll be rested and calm,” the doctor said, and signalled to the nurse.
The simulation evaporated, leaving them back in the lab. Peter
thumped the desk in frustration. Bunny was standing where Peter had left him.
The machine slowly approached before speaking. “Progress.”
It was progress, of sorts. It was the longest time they’d managed to keep the Tramp stable. The addition of Bunny as the pretty nurse to the VR seemed to have helped. She’d diverted the Tramp long enough for Peter to begin a conversation. It was all taking so long. Every previous attempt had failed within minutes: the Tramp went crazy or the simulation froze. This was their fifth reset and reboot. But he had done what the Suit had asked. The Tramp had been manifested. Peter looked up at the ceiling. “Where’s Quattro? You promised me.”
Unexpectedly, Peter got a reaction this time. “We have Quattro. You can see her soon.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“You’re doing so well. Just a little more progress and we’ll bring Quattro to you.”
Peter growled in rage and frustration. There was nothing he could do but carry on. If he refused, he might never see Quattro again. He wanted to stop, take a break and think through the next steps carefully. There wasn’t time. Quattro might already be hearing voices, becoming violent.
Bunny was standing still, awaiting instructions.
“Let’s go again.”
“What scenario do you propose?”
“I said let’s go.”
Back at the Tramp’s bedside, Bunny was again transformed into Mary. Peter held the old man’s hand gently and forced himself to be calm, patient. If they were to avoid the delay of another reset and reboot, he would have to pick up on any signs that the Tramp’s simulation was about to fail and stop the session immediately. The frail old man was lying on the bed, as they’d left him. His dead eyes were wide open; he wasn’t breathing. Peter nodded, and Mary leaned back towards the machines and turned a dial. The Tramp blinked, and his breathing restarted. For a second, he was still and then, without warning, his whole body twitched violently as though he were being electrocuted. Mary laid her hand on his forehead and the spasms subsided. He calmed.