by Tara Basi
Peter cursed. Why was nothing straightforward? “Anomalies? What anomalies?”
Quattro glided in front of Peter and appeared to be staring at him with her empty, shallow eye sockets. “My sleep will kill them. You’ll be committing filicide again, Peter.”
He stumbled backwards, turned and grabbed at a chair. The voice Quattro was now using was just like Bunny’s; there wasn’t a trace of humanity in her cold tone. With effort, he managed to position himself and sit down, barely warding off a wave of blackness that threatened to crush him.
“Kill who?” Peter whispered, wishing he hadn’t already guessed the nature of his new nightmare.
Quattro smoothly moved to kneel in front of Peter, who recoiled; she was frightening him. “I’ve nothing more to say to you. She does. For the last time.”
“She?” Peter whimpered, not wanting this to be real, not wanting to hear.
Quattro placed her hands on Peter’s thighs, making him jump. It didn’t feel intimate; the heavy hands felt ready to hold him down if he tried to run away. Her shiny face tilted to the right as she observed Peter’s horrified expression. “Don’t worry, Peter, she doesn’t want to hurt her Daddy.”
His eyes widened, and he clamped his hands over his ears. “No, no, no! Please.” Peter sought out Bunny with his eyes, pleading for help. Quattro’s body brother didn’t acknowledge Peter; it looked dead.
Quattro gently tightened her grip on Peter’s legs, enough to stop him struggling, and tilted her head to the left and started sobbing. The cries were those of a child’s, distorted and mangled but still recognisably that of a child. A child in terrible distress. “Daddy? Daddy, I’m sorry, Daddy. I’ll be good now. I promise,” it wailed, between racking sobs.
It was the same voice that had unexpectedly burst out of Quattro moments earlier. This time, he recognised it. Peter couldn’t help himself; he started crying and shaking uncontrollably. It was a crude version of Kiki’s voice when she was a child.
“Why wasn’t I good enough, Daddy? Why did we need anybody else?” she wailed, cutting Peter’s heart with her sharp little words. “I’m your favourite, Daddy. Wasn’t I your favourite?”
Peter couldn’t speak; he was frozen. He clamped his hands over his ears to shut out the accusing voice. Cold metal fingers that couldn’t be resisted pulled them away and held them still in his lap, with a weight that kept him from getting up and running away.
“I couldn’t let her come between us. I had to stop her. You understand, don’t you, Daddy?” The little girl’s sobbing morphed into rage. “She wasn’t real. She wasn’t me. I’m me.”
Peter struggled against Quattro’s grip, but he couldn’t move. “Stop? Who?”
“Quattro, crazy Quattro. We didn’t need her. You had me. I’m Kiki not her. Why did you bring her back?” the little girl screamed, her voice a metallic rasp.
He felt the tide of blackness returning. His face was cold and sweaty. It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t have happened. He struggled against Quattro’s grip, and she released his hands but kept a steely hold on his thighs. Peter pulled at his hair and howled like a dog. He clenched his fists and screamed at the metal monster as he uselessly pounded at its chest, till the skin of his hands broke and the shiny surface was flecked with drops of his blood. His hands tired, fell and hung limply. Peter could only whisper what he’d guessed some time ago and, till now, couldn’t accept, “You jealous, psychopathic bitch.”
Quattro hadn’t changed her position by a millimetre. Her body was serene. K3’s voice wasn’t; she screamed at him, “You took another copy of Kiki’s Recording. Why wasn’t I good enough? I’m your daughter, not her. You tried to kill me.”
Peter leant forward and yelled into Quattro’s impassive face, “You hired Mathew. You killed my Kiki. How? How did you do it? Hack my Headgear?”
K3 giggled. The sound was high-pitched, grating. “Oh, you think I did it? Oh no, Daddy. It wasn’t me. The Whisperer did it, Daddy. I’m your good little girl.”
A great scream was building in Peter’s chest like a primal storm. “Damn you to hell, you murdering bitch! You’re no daughter of mine.”
There was no immediate answer, only a raw wail of despair. Then a faint murmur: “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t.”
Only silence followed.
Quattro’s head tilted back to the right, and the cold, metallic voice returned. “The others are too far gone to speak to you, Peter.”
Peter started back in his chair. “Others?”
“I told you. They’re all in here: K1, K2 and the lovely K3. And then there’s the Whisperer. Whatever you did before, Peter, it never completely erased them. Maybe you’ll succeed this time.”
Peter shook his head as though it were on fire, then his whole body began to shake uncontrollably. Only Quattro’s hold on his thighs stopped him toppling off the chair. As the tremors died down, Peter started wailing like a child. Quattro released him, stood up and stepped back in one fluid motion. Quattro and Bunny didn’t react to Peter’s distress. They watched him silently, unmoving, as though puzzled by his behaviour and unable to decide what to do.
He hardly noticed Bunny stepping forward to scoop him up in its arms. Lost in grief, Peter was barely aware of the machine carrying him over to the cot, where he usually slept, and carefully laying him down. He curled up in a ball and rocked slowly, occasionally sobbing loudly.
Some time passed before Peter calmed himself, rose from the cot and approached Quattro. With his head bowed and tears washing his face, he asked, “Can you forgive me?”
“Kiki can’t forgive you. She’s dead. I want to live. Fix me and I’ll forgive you.”
Peter understood. She was right. The only way to make this terrible situation a little better was to save her and put Kiki’s ghosts to rest. “Bunny, please apply the sleep routines to Quattro and the Tramp.”
“Very well,” Bunny said, and, for a moment, it was silent. “It’s done. She’ll sleep for four hours.”
Externally, nothing had changed. Quattro was still standing rigidly in the same position. Then what else was to be expected? Quattro hardly needed to lie down to sleep. Afterwards, they restarted the Tramp’s VR to upgrade his routines and then left it running while he slept.
The Suit was waiting for Peter when he emerged from the VR.
“Zip’s just arrived at the Seven Oaks’ Nexus. She must have been to Paris. It doesn’t make any sense that she would have Professor Simmons’ Record. We’ll trail her. You must continue with the Tramp; it’s even more urgent that you succeed.”
Peter’s wits were slowly returning. He had to buy more time. “We can’t, not for another four hours. You must have heard everything we said.”
“There’s a reason AI is a banned science, Peter. The outcomes are unpredictable, just like our children. I’m sorry about Kiki. You must restart the Tramp’s VR as soon as the sleep process is complete.”
Peter was grasping. “Of course, but even with this crude sleep fix, he’ll still be very fragile. We might have to reset and reload and never find our way back to this point. With Professor Simmons’ Record, she could help and we’d be certain of success. Shouldn’t we try?”
The Suit fluttered in the air, betraying nothing of what it might be thinking, or of the arguments and counter-arguments that were probably raging inside Orb Industries. It was silent for so long, Peter thought it might have lost its communication link. Then it spoke. “We’ll consider and revert within the next four hours. Meanwhile, we’re taking Quattro.”
Before Peter could voice his shock at losing Quattro again, Bunny intervened. “It would be better if Quattro remained here, as a control, if problems occur with the Tramp’s sleep pattern. She is completely inert and your restraints are very effective.”
Again, the fluttering Suit was silent for a long period, before delivering its answer. “Very well. I shall return with a conclusion before either awakes.”
After the Suit had disappeared, Peter was drawn to his s
leeping beauty. He stood in front of her and worried. “Will they suffer?”
“Who?” Bunny asked.
“The other Ks.”
“They’ll fall asleep and never wake up.”
That sounded good to Peter, though he knew it wasn’t true. They would just stop working, thinking, existing – abruptly. And then, they’d be deleted – permanently. Maybe that was the same thing. He nodded in answer. There was nothing else he could say. They were probably already gone.
“Shall we prepare a possible VR scenario for Professor Simmons?”
Peter studied Bunny, but there was never anything he could discern. Whatever its internal thoughts, its external appearance was a constant. Was it serious or planning another private conversation? He headed towards the bench next to the full-length mirror, and Bunny followed. Peter was half-expecting to be whisked back into the machine’s hidey hole any moment. Nothing happened. Bunny stubbornly stared at the bench without moving. The damn machine wasn’t going to risk another meeting.
Peter returned to stare at Quattro. She was as he’d left her: stationary, asleep and, maybe, dreaming of happier times. Peter sighed. He couldn’t know what was going on inside her shiny head. He wished with all his heart that what remained of his daughter would wake up a little less indifferent to his feelings.
He turned back to the business of the Tramp’s VR and began mapping out the next steps. Bunny was working on a VR scenario for Professor Simmons. It seemed simplistic and contrary to what they’d learned from reanimating the Tramp. Bunny wasn’t trying to create continuity from the point of her death. It had basically mirrored the reality of the lab and populated it with Bunny and Peter’s avatar. He shook his head; the machine was inscrutable. Peter wasn’t going to waste any more time on Bunny; he’d focus on his own work. It was just under four hours later when he heard the familiar voice.
“We’ve reached a conclusion.”
Peter turned to find the Suit at his elbow and tried to hide his desperation as he waited for it to continue.
“Wake the Tramp and continue with the VR session. I will join you. I will have sole control of the VR’s duration. We are suspicious that you’re stalling, Peter. If we see anything untoward, Quattro will be terminated.”
Peter’s blood froze. “No! No! Please! I’m doing my best. Don’t hurt Quattro.”
“Very well, Peter. Your best is all that we can ask for. Make sure we get nothing less.”
Peter let himself breathe again and nodded.
The Suit drew closer. “Peter, I have a question. Is it possible for there to be two Records from one subject?”
Peter was surprised by the question, but relieved the Suit wasn’t threatening Quattro. “In theory, if one was removed and replaced with another. Obviously, they’d cover different time periods. Physically a Record can’t be copied. Not without the reanimation technology.”
“The Church is up to something. We can’t risk any further delay,” the Suit said, sounding worried.
Peter looked across to Bunny. The machine was silent. It couldn’t or wasn’t going to help.
“The Church doesn’t have this technology. They can’t do anything with a Recording.”
“K3 was a very bad girl, in so many ways. Her backdoor out let something in: a Church AI. It took everything, Peter. Now, explain the scenario and my role.”
Peter shook his head, bewildered and feeling unbalanced. He slumped down in a chair. A Church AI in his Headgear? How long? How could the Church have an AI agent? Peter was grateful when Bunny spoke. He had no idea what to say.
“Your analysis is correct, Peter. The Tramp will awaken with his faculties fully intact. Previously, his cognitive focus was degraded, as though inebriated. Our interactions will need to be very robust if he’s to be convinced that it was the Church that instigated the assassination attempt.”
Peter nodded, pretending he’d already discussed everything Bunny was saying. “We’ll have to be very careful.”
“Let’s get on with it,” the Suit insisted.
The Tramp was still asleep and lying on a couch situated at one end of a spacious meeting room. An oval table surrounded by chairs took up most of the remaining space. It was an ordinary, anonymous, corporate space with a stunning exception: one of the four walls was completely transparent. It looked out across the top of the Orb to the other side of the Cuboid. The impossible object hung in the space between like a water world. It was without blemish. Not a single ripple or a solitary cloud marred its perfection.
Peter checked that Bunny had entered the VR. The machine was reprising the sultry and voluptuous form of Nurse Mary. He wondered what made Bunny so good at inhabiting a female avatar. It was very convincing. Probably based on its observations of Professor Simmons. She had been a very attractive woman. Peter pushed those memories away and signalled that Bunny should awaken the Tramp.
The Tramp opened his eyes then rubbed them with the heel of his hands. Turning his head to one side, he noted Peter and, lifting his gaze slightly, Mary standing at the end of the couch. His eyes still betrayed fear and confusion, and his face was pale, though he seemed less agitated, more in control. Swinging his legs off the couch, he sat up and stayed that way for a moment. His hands, drained of blood, gripped the edge of the couch.
“You know I don’t like this place. How’d I get here? Where are my people?”
Peter was surprised. Had the Tramp forgotten the earlier session with the bodyguards when they were sheltering in the storeroom from the aftermath of the attack? That wasn’t possible; the Tramp’s Recorder was operating as usual as it would in real life.
Peter started to explain. “Luminance.”
“Tramp,” he interjected.
Peter nodded. “Tramp, you were suffering from shock. The team on the scene sedated you and brought you here. We thought the Cuboid would be the safest place, given the circumstances.”
The Tramp studied Peter closely, then took in the rest of the room. He visibly shivered when he looked out at the Orb. “Can you cover the view?”
Mary approached the window, touched the surface, and it turned into a plain, mushroom-coloured wall that blended perfectly with the other three. Now they could have been in any meeting room, in any place, in any time in the recent past.
The Tramp nodded a thank you to Mary and turned back to Peter. “Who are you?”
“Head of security for Orb Industries, Peter Morris, Tramp.”
“You said the Church tried to kill me? How, exactly?”
Peter was caught out again. Why was he interested in that? It wasn’t relevant to the VR. They had to keep moving forward. “Tramp, sir, we have the proof you asked for. If I may?”
The world’s greatest living prophet didn’t agree straight away. First, he spent a little time making Peter squirm under his hard stare. Little chip-chip blows of suspicion radiated from the Tramp’s cold, blue eyes as though he was searching for a weakness, some self-doubt in Peter’s gaze. Finally, he nodded, slowly, deliberately, emphasising his distrust in that small head movement without any other gesture.
A previously invisible door opened in a wall, and the Suit’s avatar entered the meeting room. “Luminance,” it said, and bowed. It was still all suit: bowler hatted, pin-striped and ebony mirror shoes. Peter wondered if the handsome, young, clean-shaven face was the Suit’s own or a conceit.
“Tramp, may I introduce the Trust Director of Santiago, Horacio Salinas,” Peter said, relieved they’d moved to the next stage. The Tramp couldn’t be allowed to dictate events.
The Tramp, still sitting on the couch, seemed disinterested but gestured that the director should continue.
A nervous-looking Horacio began speaking. “It’s true, Luminance. All the directors were approached about plans for improving profits. The only impediment was you, and they said you’d be dealt with, very soon. I came to Peter; I didn’t know where else to turn.”
The Tramp, who’d been staring at the floor while the director spoke, l
ifted his head and looked around the room, before his hard stare settled back on Horacio. “I don’t know you. Where are my people?”
Surely, the Suit would kill the VR now. This was going off-piste.
Peter intervened. “Everyone in your retinue died in the attack. Tramp, you’re the only survivor.”
The Tramp stood up and shakily walked to the conference table where he rested his weight on his arms. “I’ll ask you again. How, exactly, did the Trust try to kill me?”
Peter started to answer before the Tramp stopped him by raising one trembling finger to his own lips. “Let me show you what I Recorded. Then you can explain.”
The Tramp’s eyes rolled up in his head as he began broadcasting his Recording of those last few minutes of his real life. He was exiting the Cuboid Hotel, heading for a limousine flanked by a senior administrator and a director. Security cars were ahead and behind; all around, armed guards on power-cycles, booted and helmeted in black, revved their powerful engines. An animated conversation between the Tramp and his companions continued as they climbed into the limo and the motorcade headed off. They filled the car with invective, all aimed at Orb Industries, abusing their power over the Orb and overcharging naïve Pilgrims for Wave seats. How the Tramp wished they wouldn’t adore the Orb. On they headed, towards the tunnel and Paris, the senior administrator to his right, the director to his left.
He saw-sensed it. A something. And he turned. To look. Past the director. Out of the car’s passenger window. A figure in black, on a power-bike, with oddly bulging panniers, their leather stretched to bursting, was flying towards the car, out of an anonymous alley. The Tramp’s puzzled expression was clearly visible in the rider’s black visor as the Recording slowed down to a frame-by-frame playback.
The bike hammered into the car, its spinning wheel in a snow chain bursting through the armour-plated door, grinding the director sitting next to the Tramp into a bloody mist. The Tramp’s hands, rising to protect his face, burst into flames. The whole scene evaporated in a nova of light.
The Tramp’s eyeballs rolled back down and the Replay ended. He didn’t say anything. His eyes moved from face to face, challenging anyone to explain what they’d seen.