by Tara Basi
When Zip caught up, the technician was standing beyond a wide-open, high-security door inside some kind of laboratory. Zip entered warily, glad that Mathew was right behind her and unharnessed. More lifeless bodies were strewn about the room, collapsed on the floor or bent over consoles. There were two conscious figures sitting on a bench, nursing their heads and moaning gently: Director Thick and Director Thin. A flash of light in the corner of her eye made her jump. It was only Mathew. He’d moved at incredible speed to stand over the twitching body of Creep. The treacherous machine was lying on its back with its legs curling and uncurling in jerky movements.
“Is it dead?”
“Immobilised, like everyone else.”
Zip was relieved that the people she’d seen crumpled up in the corridor and the laboratory were still alive. Her sympathy didn’t extend to Creep; it was a shame the treacherous Pilgrimist AI wasn’t dead.
At the sound of their voices, Director Thin looked up. “She wants to speak to you, both of you. She did this. Damn technicians have no idea how. Find out what she wants and get her out of my Headgear. Get it to stop.”
“What’s going on? Do you mean Professor Simmons?”
Director Thin shrugged and pointed towards a door at the back of the lab. Director Thick groaned loudly and squeezed his head. The technician who’d led them to the lab had disappeared. Probably run off while he had the chance. Zip wondered if she should be running away, too, but Professor Simmons was her best hope of finding out exactly what had happened during her missing week and why she’d ended up with a coded note to Peter and Professor Simmons’ Record. And, maybe, who had killed Kiki and why. If Peter didn’t already know.
Zip headed in the direction the director had indicated, with Mathew following. Beyond the plain door was an unremarkable room with a half-dozen chairs ringing a table. At its centre was a square block of glass with something inside it: a Record. Zip assumed it had to be Professor Simmons’.
“What now?” she asked, as much to herself as Mathew.
Mathew moved to one corner of the room, facing the door. “Wait.”
It was reassuring having him around. He was covering their exit, making sure they wouldn’t be surprised by anything coming through the door. Zip took one of the seats and settled down. The thought of meeting Professor Simmons and finding out the Orb’s secret terrified her. Whatever the Orb was saying, she had a feeling it wasn’t going to turn out well. And why had Professor Simmons asked for Zip? They’d never met. She couldn’t possibly know who Zip was.
The glass cube glowed slightly, and then a giant wire-frame head, a female head, appeared in the air above the table. Zip rocked back in her chair and pushed herself away. The projection’s empty eyes scanned the room, lingered for some time on Mathew before settling on Zip. An amber alert told her an authorised guest was accessing her Headgear.
Her voice trembling, Zip yelled, “Get out of my head! Are you Professor Simmons?”
The head’s mouth moved. “Why is the mission off-schedule and off-plan? Zara, explain.”
Zip stared at the wire head, completely stumped by the unexpected question. This clearly wasn’t Professor Simmons. The thing was obviously an AI. Its voice was flat and artificial. There was no pretence that there was anything human about the speaker.
“You know who I am?”
“Situation unplanned. Running diagnostics.” The head turned away from Zip to study Mathew. “Mathew, operational, assumed destroyed. Unplanned.”
“What are you?” Mathew asked, clearly determined to start getting some answers.
Zip was half-listening; her Headgear was throwing up more alerts. “Get out of my head!” she screamed.
The wire head ignored her pleas.
Zip tried again, “Get out!”
The head disregarded Zip and answered Mathew. “Cyber-weapon Beta.”
Zip wasn’t in pain, but all the flashing lights, tremors and beeps were nauseating. She could hardly think, let alone stand up and try to disconnect the Record.
Mathew leaned forward. “What’s my purpose? Am I a weapon?”
“Purpose of Mathew unknown.”
The storm of information alerts in Zip’s Headgear abruptly stopped.
“Diagnoses complete. Organic and Record memory wiped. Attempting Record memory recovery. Wait.”
Was it looking for her missing week? Zip braced for another Headgear storm that didn’t come. “What the hell are you doing inside my head? Start talking, or I’m going to pull the plug, you damn machine.”
It didn’t answer. Beta seemed unconcerned by Zip’s threat. She got to her feet and reached through the holographic head to search the glass cube for a way to turn it off or remove the Record. She easily found both. First, she removed the Record then switched the glass cube off. The head stayed in place.
“Organic memories irrecoverable. Oldest Record backup damaged by Reset. Attempting repair,” Beta announced, as if it were only recovering the data from a damaged hard drive, rather than messing around inside her head.
Zip stared at the Record crystal in her hand. How was it still operating, and what was it doing? “There was no Record of that week, even before the Reset. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“Incorrect. Record index for critical period time slipped to childhood during wipe. Headgear Record index corrupted by Reset. Repairing.”
Zip shivered. Was it really going to get her lost week back?
Beta had reverted to its silent state. She looked through the silent head at Mathew. The wires of the floating face were being weirdly distorted and reflected by Mathew’s mirrored body. It looked as if he were being scanned like an item in a supermarket, and the scan had become stuck.
“Mathew, do you know what’s going on?”
“AI weapon’s knowledge limited, in case of capture. Focused on its mission. Treat it like a weapon.”
Mathew was right. The only thing the cyber-weapon might know anything about was its role in the mission. Everything it did would be related only to that. Somehow, getting her memory back was key. She must be important.
“Beta, who’s your field commander?”
“Colonel Zara, now known as Zip.”
“As your commanding officer, I order you to stop tampering with my Headgear and answer our questions.”
“Memory recovery partly successful. Headgear Record index is being rebuilt. Gaps likely. Recovery will take too long. Field commander is incapacitated and relieved of duty. Contacting first alternate. Unavailable. Contacting second alternate. Unavailable. Computing alternate mission plan.”
Zip groaned in desperation. At least, if she did get the Record of her missing week back, she could answer her own damn questions. Her Headgear was doing something with her Record. A timer suggested initial results would be available in twelve hours. She turned back to Mathew. “Any ideas?”
“Wait.”
She banged the desk with her fists and growled in frustration. Another curse of her new youth; she wasn’t good at waiting anymore. Zip stormed out of the room to find the directors. Maybe they had some answers.
The pair of churchmen were much as she’d left them: their bowlers lay discarded on the floor; pinstripe jackets had been untidily thrown over chair backs; silver ties were pulled askew and their waistcoats left unbuttoned. The immaculately dressed and powerful Church directors Zip had first seen at the end of her hospital bed in Paris had been replaced by two frightened and dishevelled old men. Thin was still sitting on the bench, trembling slightly and staring up at the ceiling. Thick had found his way to the floor and was lying on his back. He repeatedly clutched at his head and rocked it from side to side. Zip wondered why these two were still even conscious.
She stood over Thin. He lowered his hands and lifted his head to meet her gaze. The whites of his eyes were cracked with bloody veins, and his pupils were pinpricks. She wondered if he could even see her.
“What’s going on, Director?”
It was a laugh of s
orts. A strangled sound which tailed off very quickly. “You don’t know? You brought it here.”
“You made me, remember?” Zip answered, feeling little sympathy for the crippled churchman.
Another cackle escaped his lips. “We did, didn’t we. You’re very clever.” He rubbed his eyes and groaned before continuing, “What the hell do you want? What does it want?”
Zip realised it was pointless questioning the directors. Only Beta seemed to have any answers. She’d have to wait till it finished computing its bloody alternative plan. It wasn’t a long wait; moments later, Beta called her back. And not just her. Thick and Thin were unsteadily climbing to their feet and shaking their heads, looking a little better. They followed her into the room where the wire head and Mathew were waiting. Zip wondered if Mathew had managed to exchange any data with the weapon. Probably not; a cyber-weapon on a mission wouldn’t unnecessarily risk infection. Beta turned towards the directors, as though Zip weren’t even in the room. She threw herself into a chair and tried to be patient.
“Beta will enter a dormant state and return full control to the Church immediately and purge itself completely in ninety-six hours, if certain conditions are met.”
The directors looked as surprised as Zip. The men exchanged glances before Thin answered, “Our technicians in Rome and New York will have you out and dead in hours.”
“Beta has enabled an audio channel with your technicians in New York and Rome. Consult and consider.”
The directors managed to look even more surprised. There was a moment’s hesitation before they both quickly left the room. Zip could hear furious whispering from beyond the door that ended in a torrent of profanity. Two crestfallen and decidedly nervous-looking directors returned.
The AI spoke before the churchmen could say anything. “Beta assumes your technicians estimate it will take weeks before you regain control?”
Director Thin made a harsh noise in his throat and nodded. “What are your conditions?”
“One: immediately halt all pilgrimages for ninety-six hours.”
Thick, who’d kept his silence so far, shouted, “What? That’s crazy! Why?”
“Potentially catastrophic Orb Event will occur in eighty-four hours. Two: inform Orb Industries that at least a five-kilometre hemisphere around and under the Cuboid is to be evacuated.”
The churchmen’s eyes blossomed and their faces paled.
Zip remembered the deadline she’d mentioned in her note to Q, to get out of London before the end of March. It hadn’t made any sense before. That deadline was only days away, the same time as the so-called Orb Event. Her whole body tightened. Alice and the children were in London and within five kilometres of the Cuboid.
“How do you know this?” Zip asked.
“Professor Simmons’ discovery. Orb Event in timescales indicated is near certain. Nature is unknown.”
Zip relaxed a little. “So, nothing might happen?”
“Orb Event will happen. Nature unknown.”
Thick grumbled and grunted, “Maybe this, maybe that; I don’t believe you. Why should Orb Industries?”
“Beta does not require Church belief. You will comply with conditions or your systems will remain compromised. Industries will be informed and most likely exploit the situation by launching a fatal strike against a defenceless Church.”
The look on the directors’ faces told the same story as Zip’s startled expression. Horrible though the idea was, Industries was unlikely to ignore a chance to land a mortal blow on their enemy. The slums and Church palaces of Paris, New York and Rome would be destroyed. The Church might never recover.
Thin nodded slowly. “Very well, but how will we convince Industries?”
“Three: inform Industries immediately of your Orb fears and recommendations for evacuation. You will stop all pilgrimages now and you will stand down and start withdrawing Church forces from Calais as a sign of good faith. Industries will note this and take your information seriously. You will warn Industries that four hours later, via the London Church network, you will inform all citizen Pilgrims of the pending Orb Event and order them to evacuate the danger zone. If Industries has already commenced evacuation procedures, then the Church will endorse whatever reason Industries has given for the evacuation and instruct Pilgrim citizens to comply with Industries instructions.”
Zip couldn’t help herself, she whistled long and low. It was a very clever AI. The directors didn’t look happy, but they seemed resigned. They had little choice. Thin nodded his assent.
“Fourth—”
Thick bellowed, “Fourth? How many damn conditions are there? We need to know them all before we agree to anything.”
“Fourth and final condition: you will inform Industries that you are sending Zip to London. Zip will be accompanied by Mathew. Neither may be impeded and both must be urgently reunited with Peter Morris.”
Thin smiled, and Thick positively grinned. “You’re going to infect their systems as well, the whole Net? Correct?”
“Negative. Beta must remain here to ensure Church compliance. Cyber-weapon cannot be cloned.”
Zip was confused. She held up the Record she’d removed from the glass block. “This isn’t Professor Simmons. It’s you, a weapon. A spent weapon.”
“Negative. Dormant Beta weapon hidden in Zara’s Headgear. Record is Beta’s unique trigger mechanism.”
Her Headgear was full of secrets, vicious black bulldogs hiding in the shadows. Creep and the psychiatrist at the Richard Dawkins Hospital had hinted that there was something unpleasant lurking down there.
“Where is Professor Simmons’ Record?”
“Present Peter Morris with the encrypted note,” Beta said.
Yes, the note. The strange note with its ones and zeroes that had been attached to Zara’s email. Had Peter’s ignorance all been a pretence or was he like her, wading through mud, in the pitch dark, towards some unknown destination?
The directors whispered together for a moment before Thin spoke. “Agreed, release our systems.”
“Done. All conditions must be complied with immediately. Any delay and your systems will be deactivated.”
Outside, the corridors filled with low moans. The churchmen were waking up. The directors rolled their eyes, checked their Headgear and sighed in unison and relief. They were happy with what they’d found. “Wait here while we make the arrangements,” Thick said to Zip as he headed out the door after Thin.
The Beta wire head was still floating above the table and Zip was still bursting with questions. “What exactly is the mission?”
“Until you remember, you are unauthorised to know any more. Deactivating communications interface.” With that, the head disappeared.
Wonderful, Zip thought. It couldn’t tell her anything about the mission till she’d recalled everything about the mission. The perfect logic of an AI. Zip turned her attention to Mathew. “Why’s Beta sending you to London?”
“Family reunion.”
“What?”
“Maybe Quattro’s there.”
Zip couldn’t help a wry smile, even if Mathew wasn’t joking.
Mathew turned away and left the room.
A curious Zip followed him out into the main lab. She found him pulling the legs off Creep to leave the maimed creature twitching uncontrollably, surrounded by the wreckage of its limbs. Satisfied with his dismemberment of Creep, Mathew returned to the meeting room. Zip approached the Pilgrimist AI and after a moment’s hesitation, gave its still-jerking body a hefty kick that sent it sailing across the lab to smash against a wall and fall to the floor. It felt good. Creep wasn’t moving anymore.
The previously eerie silence that had filled the underground bunker since Beta’s attack was being steadily replaced by a growing buzz of activity. This nest had been well and truly upended. Nervous-looking technicians were slowly returning and busying themselves at the benches scattered around the large space. Some gave her furtive glances, most kept their heads down an
d ignored her. Whatever they were doing, it was quietly manic. One picked up the mutilated torso of Creep, gathered up its limbs and put it all in a bin.
Through the open lab doors to the corridor, she could see troopers running past in both directions and occasionally a senior administrator in a flap. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere. If the directors really were stopping the pilgrimages, then the travel plans of millions were being ripped up. Flights to Heathrow would be cancelled, the London-bound track of the Channel Tunnel closed. Zip could barely imagine the chaos at the vast Calais train station. There would be pandemonium. It would be relatively easy to stop the old buses on the Great North Road. All those poor shocked Pilgrims; it was going to be terrible for them, impossible to comprehend. The journey to the Cuboid, to travel on a Wave to see their God, was a life-changing event they dreamed about and saved towards for years. For some of the wealthier Pilgrims, it was an annual blessing, a holiday, and the only moment of beauty and happiness in their otherwise ugly lives.
She remembered the elderly Norwegian couple on the train and how far they’d travelled, the cost, the difficulties they must have faced. They were lucky they’d made it in time. Millions and millions were going to be left stranded. Where were all those marooned Pilgrims going to go? Would they wait it out, if it really was only for ninety-six hours? Might they get some comfort from the last of the returning Pilgrims and their stories? The ones who’d made it before the great full stop.
And what would the Pilgrims find when they finally got to London? Would the Orb still be there? If it were gone, if London were gone, what would happen to the world, the Church? Zip wouldn’t care: if London were gone, she’d be gone too and she wouldn’t want to be brought back as a machine’s dream.
Her spiralling musings weren’t getting her anywhere. She decided to return to the meeting room. Watched over by Mathew, Zip tried to relax and rested her head on the table.
She was asleep and beset by nightmares in seconds. London was burning. A blood-red Orb floated high over the blazing city, dropping bus-sized firebombs. The hellfire became rivers of lava flooding the streets, melting stone and steel before plunging down exposed lift shafts to fill the underground with burning lava. She was trapped in the ruins of the Cuboid, pinned down by rubble. A wave of molten, white fire rushed towards her. Zip screamed.