Singularity's Children Box Set

by Toby Weston

  All around was nothing. He pictured himself treading black water. There were no other humans for hundreds of miles.

  He tried another approach: he clenched the webbing with his hands and hooked his elbows through the loop of strap, so that it ran tight up under his armpits. Then, he shrugged his lower body free; with a rush of vertigo, his torso and legs swung down like a pendulum. He arranged himself, stretching his toes so he could almost reach the water.

  Ready to drop…

  A plunge into water.

  Adrift. Alone. Water black and clear.

  Nothing beneath; no foundation to appeal to…

  He decided a bath could wait. But even from the hanging position, getting safely back into his prison sock was a lot harder than anticipated.

  It was late afternoon and a delicate pine-scented breeze stirred leaves and evaporated sweat from his dust-speckled brow. Segi grabbed a cup of water, darting in and out of the new kitchen before anybody could find him anything more important to do, then he set off for a walk to clear his head. Zaki was below ground, worming through the guts of the vessel, installing the remaining parts. Segi took the chance to take a last circuit of the farm before his upcoming trip. The wizards at N had arranged a ZKF auto to take him into Latakia the next morning; from there, he would follow the pilgrims’ trail, presuming on the charity of the faithful, on his journey to Mecca and on to Punt. Even with his legitimate Caliphate papers, he wasn’t looking forward to the journey. He really needed to make more time to cram up on the Koran in case he was quizzed by the Mutaween on the way.

  He arrived at the bioreactor pipe, which his drones had persistently failed to clean, and used a stiff brush and damp cloth to rub away a dusting of sand which had somehow become caked onto clear pipes, causing the bacterial broth within to become sluggish and jellified. Sufficiently illuminated, the mass should break up and production should ramp back up to normal. He hoped they wouldn’t need to flush the whole system. He wasn’t sure Zaki would be able to drain and restock the tubes on his own. Segi also hoped that he wouldn’t be coming back to a hundred metres of necrotic slime.

  He flipped open a paper copy of the Koran and read through some sections he had highlighted with sticky notes. He had already packed. He would be away for at least two weeks, but more likely a month.

  The filaments inside the drone’s camouflage dreads would absorb radar; but, even so, once they reached the Gulf, the drone became even more evasive and paranoid, skimming the surface so close that it was forced to rise for each peak and use its wings to fling it back down into each trough. The sensation was exactly like slamming along on a speedboat, each crest a mini-collision.

  This bone-rattling journey went on for half a day. Then, the sea suddenly became turquoise in colour and, without warning, they were flying over and amongst trees.

  Guatemala whipped beneath as a blur of green, transitioning as night fell into a velvet black punctuated by rare collections of lights. The ride was now much smoother and Keith finally slept for a few hours. He woke, finding himself freezing, but managed to curl into a foetal ball and fall back to sleep. After what felt like minutes, he was woken again by a return of the juddering sensation. Unzipping and pressing his face through the slit, he could confirm that they were again over water... the Pacific, not a tract renowned for its narrowness...

  “I don’t think I can manage another week of this, if that’s how long we’ve got,” he confessed.

  “Not long now,” the Torch lied.

  A few hours later they were climbing vertically, puncturing a low stratum of cloud before bursting into brilliant sun.

  Keith stuck his head out and held a hand in front of his eyes to deflect the wind. Squinting, he scanned 360 degrees. There was nothing to be seen; just the mottled shifting body of the drone surrounded by cloud, sun and sky.

  “Where are we heading?”

  “We are catching up with a Xepplin. You will transfer aboard.”

  “It’s okay to pop our heads up? Nobody watching us down here?”

  “That’s the assumption, I assume.”

  Keith pondered the drone’s somewhat contrived choice of words for a few seconds and then, squinting, he peered forward again. He thought he could make out a white speck in front, floating above the lower deck of clouds.

  He had been concerning himself for a quarter of an hour with the logistics of a hundred mile an hour, mid-air transfer from a furry, multi-winged dragonfly, to a gigantic, air-swimming Sky Whale. In the event, it was surprisingly straightforward.

  “Hold tight.”

  “Seriously, or are you just saying that because…”

  The drone flipped onto its back.

  “Shit!” Keith managed.

  The drone was now flying upside down, something Keith had not considered. From the gap in the open zipper, he could see the belly of a Xepplin above. A hatch opened, hinging down and revealing a staircase on its upper surface. Keith could see two men in goggles, secured with lines; one climbed down a couple of steps and waved at the drone.

  Keith unzipped all the way. The drone had now risen, so that it was flying in the wind shadow of the stairs. Keith kneeled up and caught the harness he was thrown. With Keith secured by a line to the Xepplin, the drone now inched closer, until Keith was able to grab hold of a proffered hand and then, after only a few seconds of confused scrabbling, he was inside the Xepplin, out of the roaring wind.

  The man who had helped Keith onboard reached down carefully and closed the zipper. As soon as he was clear, the drone had flashed away. Its camouflage made it immediately impossible to separate it from the blue and white scenery.

  It had been eight days since Keith had surfaced to consciousness surrounded by sirens and distant screaming. He was hairy, smelly and exhausted. The two crew looked at him with some concern.

  “A shower and new clothes,” he said, keeping his voice steady.

  “Yes, sir!”

  ***

  He was tired, but had no intention of lying down for the next hundred years. Instead, he showered, changed into the jogging pants and T-shirt he had found, and headed to the Xepplin’s gym for a careful warm-up and a five-mile jog.

  While he had been pounding the treadmill—running through a sun-dappled forest replete with flighty deer and doe-eyed woodland dryads—someone had thoughtfully cleared his stinking rags from the first-class cabin and left him a change of clothes. He seemed to have been given some time off; so, after his run and a second shower, he changed into the new clothes—pale canvas trousers and a dark, turtleneck cashmere pullover—and took his lunch in the first-class lounge at the bow of the Xepplin.

  It was late for lunch and early for dinner, but a few travellers were at the bar or seated on the sofas arrayed before the massive, curving panoramic windows.

  “Join me, Keith,” said a familiar voice.

  “Nick,” Keith said in surprise, joining his King beside a table for two. For a second, he had been fooled; but, at a subliminal whim, his Spex highlighted local manifesters and the King acquired a glowing halo. In the ‘olden days’ he would have achieved the same by jiggling the Spex on his face, seeing the overlaid reality wobble; but the new pair—which had been left with his clothes and a matching Companion—were flawless. “Sorry about the mess in London.”

  “No, I’m sorry, seriously. It’s on me.” Niato rarely looked conflicted, but a shadow passed over him. “I know I’ve got a reputation for breaking eggs, but this is a tragedy.”

  “The dead, or the Forward retaliation?”

  A flash of pain caused Niato to wince.

  “Sorry,” Keith said before the king could respond. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s true,” Niato replied sadly.

  They sat. Keith ordered a cold beer, the King asked for a green tea.

  “Is it okay for us to be talking?” Keith scanned the few other tables.

  “As long as you subvocalize and keep calling me Nick it is. I look like a Nikita
avatar to everybody else here. As far as we know, you’re still clean, dead for years, biometrics unlinked.”

  “Alright, I’ll watch what I say out loud.”

  “We should be okay,” Niato said, then paused while a human waitress placed Keith’s drink on the small table. When she was gone, the king continued. “Look, I came over to explain. You’ve had a tough time and are probably blaming yourself.”

  Keith shrugged and took a sip of beer—the first in far too long.

  “We had to try, Keith. Can I convince you of that?”

  Keith didn’t answer straight away, thinking it through. “I know why you think that. I am not sure you are right.” He paused again. “I know the stakes… but I do know I would not be able to take the same risks… maybe I’ve seen too many graves in my time. But maybe that’s exactly why we need you…”

  “Because I’m out of touch and entitled?”

  Keith shrugged. “It doesn’t matter why.”

  “Exactly. It doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t matter how. It only matters that we do. I really do believe this, Keith. If they remember me in a hundred years, maybe it will be as a monster. But I have to try, because there might not be another chance.”

  “I don’t really buy that, to be honest, Nick.”

  “Really? We are on a knife edge, Keith. The Torch is ours today, but others will develop micro-nukes soon. Then there are the Zeno processors, rogue Synthetic Cognition, pandemic, nanotech-grey-goo, weaponised biotech. If those, or the new doomsday machines we are inventing each week, don’t wipe us out, then we will just fall relentlessly under the spell of bot propaganda, hyper-stimulation and tyranny. The people are too sedated, too monitored… too cosy! Once the Forwards build their own Zeno processors, there won’t be any more revolutions. You see that, right? A John Smith on the streets of London already spends his entire life in a shadow reality designed to guarantee his compliance…”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve just been there remember.”

  “Right. The Contraction was the last window,” continued Niato. “It stirred things up. The Mesh and the FACs, the Fabs and Kin—they are all its spiritual children. Like Atlantis, we were born and escaped during the few years that the giants were unconscious or woozy… but now, that window is closing. Monsters like BHJ have recovered their strength and are tucking all the loose ends back under their blanket of oppression…”

  “So, give up! It’s over! Surely the detonation was all Pritchard needed to come down on you like a ton of bricks?”

  “Could be. They are not letting anything out. We think they are holding out for proof…”

  “Honestly, that doesn’t sound like Pritchard,” said Keith. “Since when has he been bothered about proof; he’s got BHJ to manufacture it for him!”

  “It’s the optics,” Niato said. “If the Forwards start a war based on nothing, the Caliph or Hind might decide they are next and come to our aid. They need to show that we are a rogue state first…”

  “Right. But there is nothing? Or we would have heard…”

  “The detonation cleaned up any physical evidence,” replied Niato, “and so far, it looks like you got away clean.”

  “Bloody hell! That was a close miss then!”

  “Too close!”

  Niato’s tea arrived. It was carried by a short lady in a traditional Nipponese Hakama.

  “It’s still a few days until you get to Bäna,” said Niato. “Chill out a bit on board. Rest up. But then I need you to rejoin the Dugong. We’ve got to get some of our tech out there in case of another escalation.”

  “A couple of days?” Keith considered. “Better than nothing, I suppose. But I’m pretty knocked about, Nick. And why am I getting a bad feeling about this?”

  “Well, amongst other things, it’s a case of Torches. We need to get them to the Fab near Latakia.”

  “Not very classy, Nick! You can imagine I’m not thrilled at the idea of spending more time in the company of bombs.”

  “It’s k…”

  “Don’t say it’s fucking karma!”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” Niato said somewhat implausibly. “I meant it’s… ’cus you already know them. I’m sure they would appreciate having somebody around. We’ll get you enrolled in the ZKF and set up as their commanding officer or something.”

  “Magnificent. I am looking forward to it already.”

  “Great. The younger brother will meet you in Punt in about two weeks. The Dugong is already on its way.”

  ***

  Two days later, the Xepplin descended to its penultimate port of call. It moored to a purpose-built spire on the Atlantis Tower Hotel Honolulu. A dozen passengers disembarked, their cases rolling or scuttling after them as they crossed the short bridge.

  A steward, a wiry, cheery chap in knee-length shorts and crisp white jacket, smiled while he took the ticket details from a pudgy man with thick, curly hair wrapping the back of his head, while leaving the top as polished as a billiard ball.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” the steward said and moved to accept the next passenger, then stopped, mid-motion. “Sorry, there seems to be a problem. It actually looks like we are full. I am not sure how that happened… please wait one second while I clear this up.”

  “How can you be full? I can see people coming off!?”

  “Yes, sorry, it’s probably some glitch.”

  “Glitch my fucking arse! This is outrageous!” Ben pushed forward, knocking the young steward out of the way.

  At the end of the bridge, two additional Xepplin crew had materialised. These had the look of people less used to being pushed around. Standing shoulder to shoulder, their body language dared Ben to try something. Behind him, several similarly serious, chunky, men were jostling to get close enough to support Ben, their boss.

  More crew were returning from shore with boxes of fresh shellfish and cases of wine. Taking in the weird stand-off, they struggled past without comment.

  “So you’re full, are you?” Ben asked eventually, after they had all been standing for several minutes.

  “Yes, sorry,” replied the steward. “It looks like regulations have changed and we were actually over capacity. With the departures, we are back down to fully loaded. I am sorry. There will be another Xepplin to Bäna same time tomorrow.”

  “Oh look!” Ben said innocently, as two confused yet ecstatic passengers pushed past the crew and headed down the ramp. Each was clutching an unordered mess of possessions and were followed by larger items of autonomous luggage. A few seconds later, there was another, then a couple—a man and his smiling partner. “Well, I guess there is space, after all!”

  “Thanks for everything, Spencer,” one of the jolly refugees said to the steward.

  “You’re leaving?” the steward asked, picking up a sock which had slid from the heap of clothes the man was clutching.

  “We sure are,” said the man. “First class to Mundo and free tickets to watch Stef!” He turned to give his partner a smoochy kiss on the cheek.

  “Will you look at that!” Ben said once the ramp was clear again. “It looks like some berths have just become available. Can I maybe take my seat now?”

  The older of the two crewmen on the bridge nodded to the steward. Ben’s heavy-set friends pushed forward, eager to follow their boss up the ramp, barely allowing the steward to check off their names from his list.

  They were shown to their berths: level one, six cubicle beds—which, despite the earlier claims of overcapacity, were together in one block. As they passed, a few passengers whiling away time in the second-class dining hall looked up, perhaps thinking Ben and his thugs were an Olympic rowing crew and their cox.

  A vibration passed beneath their feet and Ben’s ears registered a subtle movement. They were underway. The great Xepplin began turning slowly north-west, away from Honolulu, for the final two and a half thousand kilometre hop to Bäna.

  “Look lively,” Ben subvocalised to his security chief. “We want this over before we
leave jurisdiction.” The man took a vape from his pocket and held his thumb down for five seconds to activate its second function. They waited as a tiny, noiseless fan began to spin, sucking in air and dust…

  “Nothing yet, Mr Baphmet.”

  “Right. I’m going forward to check out the first-class accommodation. You chaps lurk around here and upstairs. Let’s find the treacherous fuck!”

  Ben was aware of eyes on him and the clutch of uniformed crew following sceptically. This certainly meant there would be many more eyes, and other assorted sensory devices he was not aware of, scanning him intimately.