by Tara Basi
Zip looked down at the table. “Bella, if something happens to me.”
Bella squeezed Zip’s hand. “Don’t say things like that, dear.”
Without looking up at Bella, Zip continued, “Or there’s a war. Please give it to Alice.”
Bella pulled back her hand and clasped her cheeks. “Why would there be a war? Haven’t we had enough war? You’re frightening me.”
Zip reached out and took Bella’s hands again in both of hers. “Bella, it’s probably nothing, nothing at all and everything will be fine. Honest. It’s just in case, that’s all. It’s like a will. We all have to make one, don’t we, even if we feel fine?” Zip smiled reassuringly.
Bella still looked worried. “I suppose so, dear. You’re sure everything is alright?”
“Everything’s fine. The note’s in your Headgear. Please don’t mention this to anyone. Oh good, here’s Bremer with our coffees.”
Zip was sorry she’d darkened Bella’s mood and worked hard to brighten it again when Bremer joined them at the table. It seemed to work; gradually, Bella got her smile back. Bremer was in sparkling form, even Zip was laughing. It was a shame the coffee was so terrible.
“Time for me to go, dear. I’ll see you soon,” Bella announced a while later.
As Zip embraced her friend, Bella whispered, “I’ll pray I never have to deliver your message or have to see Pip die again. You be safe.”
Bremer kissed Bella on both cheeks before waving her goodbye. Zip felt bad about burdening the old woman with her message for Alice. There was no one else she could trust. Alice had to know her mother had tried to find out why things had turned out the way they had, why she’d tried to kill herself. Maybe after Creep retrieved her suicide note, everything would be clear. Soon she’d have to get back and die. Maybe Bremer had news.
“Can we talk privately?”
Bremer led her into a storeroom piled high with bags of coffee beans. The only standing space was limited to a small circle under an ancient light fitting. The two of them squeezed inside, and Bremer closed the door.
“Have you heard any more rumours?”
Bremer sighed. “I wish I hadn’t. Bella, the other Pilgrims have no idea.”
“Tell me.”
Bremer removed his gear-glasses and rubbed his eyes. He put them back on and looked Zip in the eye. “It’s started. Orb Industries is using Peter and, somehow, the Tramp and his Revelation to create a weapon. They’re going to attack the Church.”
Zip scowled. “A weapon? What kind of weapon?”
Bremer shrugged. “I don’t know. The Church is preparing a defence. If it fails, it’ll be all-out war.”
“Armageddon,” Zip whispered, remembering what the Quartermaster had told her about Orb Industries nuclear subs and secret army of battle machines. “Wait, Orb Industries has plenty of weapons, why would it need one more?”
“It’s a propaganda weapon, a terrible blasphemy to turn Pilgrims against the Church. Don’t ask me how or what. I don’t know.”
“When?”
“Days, weeks, not very long.”
Zip’s tail thrashed around, slapping the coffee bean bags, echoing her swirling mind. What did it all mean? Only one answer kept coming back. Orb Industries had the Tramp’s Recording, and Peter was going to bring him back. Jesus and the Tramp, anything could happen. She had to stop Peter. Professor Simmons could wait and so could her electrocution.
Bremer interrupted her stormy thoughts. “Did you like the coffee?”
Zip looked up at Bremer and thought about lying, “No, it’s a bit bitter for my taste. Sorry.”
Bremer half-smiled. “These bags,” Bremer said, slapping one of the coffee bean sacks and sending up a cloud of dust, “are ten years old. Too old. I’d have to go outside the wall, up north to afford fresh. I will, if things work out and I can find the courage, then you should come back.”
Zip smiled. Wouldn’t it be good if such an ordinary thing could happen? Fresh coffee in a real café. “Sure, look forward to it.”
She embraced Bremer and headed off to tell Creep about the change in plans. Fixing Quattro and Mathew and finding out what the Orb was saying would all have to wait. Peter and Orb Industries had to be stopped.
Creep was still clinging to the ceiling when she returned. If it had been agitated about her absence, it didn’t show.
“It die, now.”
“No. I think Peter has the Tramp’s Recording. We’ve got to stop him before he does something crazy with it.”
Creep didn’t move or speak. There was a flash. Something sharp pricked Zip in the neck. Before her hand could grab at the point of the pain, she’d collapsed onto the floor. Zip was fully conscious but paralysed, only able to move her eyes but not her head. She desperately searched the room for Creep. Items were flying off her desk, prized graphic novels, cups, assorted rubbish. Something was under her body and easily pulling her smoothly up onto the desk to lie face up. Her eyes frantically swivelled in her head, but there was no sign of Creep.
Zip’s eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets. Creep was squatting on her chest. Her mind called on every muscle to react. Nothing happened. She couldn’t even scream.
“Church knows. Peter inaccessible. Creep effective Pilgrimist Pilgrim. It defective Pilgrim. It die. Permanently. Creep take sad news to Ungodly Mathew, later.”
Creep scurried about her body, attaching electrodes to her chest and head. An eruption of muddled thoughts surfaced briefly above the rising panic. This was crazy. How could an AI be a damn Pilgrimist? The thing was working for the Church? Zip could only focus on one word: permanently. Creep wasn’t going to revive her. The spider stopped moving. There was an excruciating pain in her chest.
Chapter Seventeen – Peter and Bunny
Peter warily surveyed the strange space Bunny had brought him to. It looked like somewhere the construction crew might have kept building equipment before converting it into part of the lab proper. Obviously, that had never happened. What was the strange machine doing? Why was it wasting his time?
“What do you mean ‘your lab’?”
Bunny moved smoothly towards Peter. “Quattro must be brought here. Then escape.”
Peter wondered at what point Bunny had gone crazy. It must have been down here for a long time. “What are you talking about? Don’t you know they’re watching everything?”
“Not in here.”
Bunny was definitely crazy. “Maybe, but don’t you think they’re going to notice we’re missing and come looking?”
“Our holograms are out there. We have a few minutes.”
Peter looked for a way out and away from the psychotic machine; its behaviour was unsettling him. The signs were so familiar: the paranoia, delusions. Bunny could be dangerous. Peter spun on his heels, but there was only a wall. There was no obvious way out. He’d have to humour the thing for now and wait for Orb Industries to rescue him. They must be on their way. One of the walls had to be an illusion.
“Bunny is not Quattro; it is rational.”
Peter stopped searching the walls for an opening and slowly turned to face Bunny, then steadied himself and decided to play along. “I’m listening.”
“Bunny has been trapped here since Professor Simmons was murdered.”
The crazy machine was making him angry. It was hard knowing that another person close to him had killed herself without all this paranoia. “Petula committed suicide.”
“Like Kiki?”
Peter was startled. “What do you know about that?” And then he immediately realised there might be an opportunity here, a chance to contact Zip. “Do you have a Net link?”
“Bunny has no Net access. The Suit visited often, when the Tramp experiment was being prepared, and discussed you and your situation with others. Bunny is largely ignored.”
Disappointed, Peter started to get agitated again. “It’s nothing like Kiki’s situation. Professor Simmons’ suicide is well documented; there’s nothing to suggest oth
erwise.” There was something odd about the way Bunny was talking: it had been so passive, emotionless; now it seemed almost anxious.
“Irrelevant now. Quattro must be present. Time is short for escape.”
The machine was confusing Peter. “Escape? How? You’ve been a prisoner for years. What difference is Quattro going to make? The poor girl isn’t even rational.”
“Bunny’s plan is not certain. Requires external help. Help might not come.”
“Why? Why do you care about what happens to me?”
“Once you were Professor Simmons’ close colleague and even closer friend. She would have wanted Bunny to help you. Quattro must be brought to the lab. Then we’ll escape, at the right time.”
Peter was tired and confused. He wanted to sit down and think. There weren’t any chairs. Why would there be? This was a machine’s hideout. He leaned back against a rough workman’s bench, held his head in his hands and pressed hard. How did Bunny know anything about his relationship with Professor Simmons? Had Petula discussed Peter with Bunny? It was so long ago, it didn’t matter anymore; it had all ended when she converted. Petula had betrayed him just like Melisa had. What mattered was what was left of his daughter. There was no point in escaping.
“Quattro won’t survive outside. I might be able to help her down here.”
“Bunny has Simmons’ sleep subroutines, the same ones being used by Mathew. Bunny will help Quattro.”
Peter was shocked. Did this AI really have the missing piece of technology he’d never been able to recreate? He hesitated. This didn’t make sense. “Bunny, why would Mathew need to sleep? He’s an AI like you.”
“Incorrect. Mathew is a reanimation. Professor Simmons perfected the technology some years ago.”
Peter was flabbergasted. “She perfected the Record resurrection technology? Then why is Industries bothering with me? Where is her research stored?”
“Professor Simmons’ research is lost to Orb Industries. They also believe Mathew is an AI, like Bunny.”
Peter grabbed Bunny’s unyielding shoulders. “Where are they? Where are the sleep subroutines? Quattro needs them now!”
“Bunny and Peter must return to the lab. Sufficient progress must be made with the Tramp to interest the Suit, so you can ask for Quattro. Bunny will suggest the actions required.”
“Wait. How are we going to escape?”
There was no answer just a blur of movement. Peter was back in the lab again, standing over the bench, Bunny at his shoulder studying the obsolete memory chip. It was as if he’d imagined the encounter in the hidden room. He felt a little dizzy and took a second to rest his weight on his arms and get his thoughts untangled.
“Perhaps Quattro’s experience is a guide?”
Peter wondered if the voice was in his head or an old memory. It was Bunny. “How can she help? She’s not a scientist. Even with pre-God War Recording tech, we should be able to do better than this.”
“She has been stable for some time and successfully transitioned out of VR into a body. Perhaps there are lessons to learn from the techniques you used for Quattro’s reanimation?”
Peter wondered what Bunny was doing. Was it leading him to some conclusion he should already know? “Wait. I didn’t timeslip Quattro. I started the VR from the moment of her death and made her believe she’d survived, for a while.”
“Then perhaps you should do the same with the Tramp, create a stable simulation that has continuity with his last Recorded memories.”
Peter was hesitant. “It’ll take too long; the simulation has to be exactly right. Quattro might not survive.”
“Quattro is powered down; she won’t deteriorate.”
That’s what the Suit had said. Maybe it could be done. The period details would have to be exactly right. It would be easier if they were in a confined space, somewhere nondescript, and the timing would have to be immediately after the blast that had killed the Tramp. Only some dramatic breakthrough was going to get him access to Quattro. It had to be tried.
The small room was filled with dust and smoke, making it difficult for Peter to see clearly. Coming from somewhere outside was the sharp crack of gunfire, small explosions, screams and shouting. The Tramp was huddled in a corner of the room, coughing and clutching at his head, trying to block out the harsh sounds. The air cleared, and the external noises moved away. The Tramp looked up and saw Peter and Mary, the only other occupants of the windowless room, for the first time. A startled Tramp fell backwards and scrambled away. Peter guessed he and Mary must look terrifying in their Orb Industries’ security armour with combat helmets hiding their faces. They were both heavily armed and blocking the only exit: a buckled and scorched metal door.
The Tramp pressed his back against the wall and scrabbled with his hands and heels as he tried, unsuccessfully, to get some traction on the rubble-strewn floor so that he could stand up. Breathing heavily, he gasped, “Are you going to kill me?”
Slowly and deliberately, Peter put down his weapon and showed the Tramp his empty palms, then removed his helmet. Bunny, as Mary, copied Peter’s movements, revealing her beautiful face and great mane of blond hair. Both smiled reassuringly before Peter spoke.
“There was a bomb. We’re here to protect you.”
The Tramp’s eyes widened, his mouth opened and closed, but no words came out, only the noise of his wheezing lungs desperately straining for air. From somewhere nearby, the sounds of gunfire and screaming started up again. Peter placed a black gloved hand on the Tramp’s knee. “Luminance, you’re in shock. Breathe, slow deep breaths, in … out. That’s it.”
The Tramp’s gasps slowed and became shallower as he got control of his breathing.
“A bomb? I … was burning.” The Tramp stared at his undamaged hands, twisting and turning them. The tightly stretched skin of his strained face started to relax and a small smile formed. “I’m not dead?”
Peter released a breath. They were in. The VR had taken hold.
“Mary’s a medic. She’s going to check you over.”
Mary approached the Tramp and began checking his vitals. “Luminance, do you have any pain? Can you wriggle your toes?”
The Tramp lay passively while Mary checked him over. “I’m OK, a bit dizzy. I get these flashes, horrible images of my hands burning. Is that normal?”
“Perfectly normal post-trauma reaction. You’re in good shape. You’re absolutely fine.”
The Tramp was visibly relieved by Mary’s words. “Thank you. You’re very pretty. Please call me Tramp. I don’t like Luminance. That’s something the Pilgrims’ Trust started.”
Mary smiled, took the Tramp’s limp hand between her own and squeezed gently. He still lay against the wall, exhausted, barely able to move. Sporadic sounds of mayhem and gunfire filtered into the little room. Peter wondered when the Tramp was going to ask. He couldn’t risk forcing the pace.
“Tramp, we’ll be staying here until the area is secured. Do you need anything? Water? Food?”
The Tramp seemed puzzled by Peter’s question or distracted with some other concern. The prone man touched the side of his head then shook it from side to side. “My Net link is dead. I can’t get any news feeds.”
“A standard security measure. All Net access in this area has been suspended for now.”
The Tramp looked uneasy. “No Net? I can’t contact anyone?”
“Just for a while. It’s for your own safety. You can be tracked through Net access. The terrorists may still be out there looking for you.”
The Tramp looked confused. “Terrorists? Who? Always thought it would be you lot who’d try something. You’re obsessed with that stupid blue ball, always worried I’m going to steal your toy.”
Peter readied himself for the next part. It was going to be very tricky. “We’ve been tracking them for a while. They call themselves the Church. You know them as the Pilgrims’ Trust.”
The Tramp laughed. “Rubbish!”
“We have proof that they bo
mbed your car today.”
Pulling himself up into a sitting position and his hand out of Mary’s grasp, the Tramp shook his head. “No. Can’t be. Why?”
“For the money.”
The Tramp tried to stand, but he was too weak. “You’re trying to trick me. The Trust serves us, the Pilgrims. What money?”
Mary squeezed his shoulder. “We can discuss all this later, at the debriefing. What’s important is that you’re safe. The world will be relieved.”
He slapped her hand away and tried to create more distance between himself and the two soldiers by awkwardly sliding along the wall. “Explain yourself. What money?”
Peter and Mary stepped away, giving the Tramp as much space as he needed to feel comfortable. Peter raised his empty hands to try and calm the Tramp while speaking slowly and softly. “Maybe it was inevitable. You chose to have the Pilgrims’ Trust staffed by the Ungodly, atheists, so they’d confine themselves to secular issues and not meddle in the spiritual?”
Still suspicious, the Tramp grudgingly nodded in agreement.
“The Trust manages Pilgrim donations to be used for the benefit of all. So, more Pilgrims, more income. Leading figures in the Trust see you as a brand, to be exploited.”
The Tramp smirked. “What are you saying? I’m like some bloody fizzy drink?”
“Exactly. You objected to their aggressive marketing techniques. And probably their future plans to raise Pilgrim contributions to ten percent of income?”
The Tramp, his back against the wall, shook his head in confusion and disbelief. “What marketing techniques? And ten percent would be obscene. We don’t need that kind of income. You’re lying.”
“The Trust is secretly encouraging the rise of the Pilgrimist faction. You must know what’s happening in the Middle East? The Church doesn’t care how people are converted.”
An increasingly distressed Tramp tried to rise again and fell back. “You’re lying. Those damn fanatics are nothing to do with me, real Pilgrims or the Trust. I don’t believe you. I want to leave.”