Immortal

by Nick M Lloyd

  MacKenzie smiled – a hybrid of biological and non-biological. ‘It’s all unnetworked.’

  ‘Completely,’ said Kusr.

  ‘What are they using the computer for?’

  Kusr forced a thin smile. ‘That’s another fifteen years of work, not that I am volunteering.’

  ‘Good work,’ said MacKenzie. ‘I recognise you didn’t enter the bargain willingly, but I will keep my side of it.’

  The pieces were in place. Walking to the door, MacKenzie felt growing hope. He had enough now to confirm the Ankor could deliver their part of the bargain and give him a true hybrid existence – TechMeld.

  MacKenzie headed back towards the main floor with Juan.

  Just before the armoured doors he met Taylor, who was clearly looking for him.

  ‘Liverpool was four times the original planned yield,’ said Taylor, falling into step beside him. ‘Did you know?’

  Really?

  MacKenzie, taken aback for a moment, shook his head.

  Although, given that Washington had been added to the list of initial explosions, it shouldn’t have surprised him. There were clearly machinations and forces beyond his control at work.

  ‘It was them,’ said Taylor. He didn’t mention them by name. The flash of hate in his eyes told the story clearly enough.

  The Transcender faction.

  MacKenzie doubted it would have been the main Ankor group. Most of the work he’d done with MIDAS to collate and send population dynamics data had been to strictly minimise the deaths required for the Ankor plan. Almost everything they did was with an ultimate reverence for life. The Transcenders, however, were a different story.

  ‘I assume they had their reasons,’ said MacKenzie.

  ‘What about Martel’s spies?’ asked Taylor, the tone of his voice sharp. ‘That was you.’

  True. The spies – the ones Martel had slipped into Anglesey as part of the refugee groups – had been killed. The filtering systems within the first stage of the Hot Zone had easily identified them as British special forces.

  ‘They were combatants,’ said MacKenzie.

  ‘They could have been locked up,’ said Taylor.

  ‘I suspect it may be the additional deaths in Liverpool that are bothering you,’ said MacKenzie, unwilling to be lectured by Taylor. ‘Why don’t you take it up directly with the Transcender faction? They are, after all, members of your church.’

  Taylor opened and shut his mouth a few times before turning and disappearing up the corridor.

  MacKenzie reflected as he continued on his way up to the main floor.

  When the Ankor had explained their beliefs – the so-called Simulation Theory – MacKenzie had researched it. Several credible Earth academics had already postulated the theory and devised potential experiments to verify it.

  Taylor had been dispatched to Chile to determine whether it was possible that Earth, humanity, the Ankor, the Sun, the stars, were all part of an enormous simulation being run on a computer in another universe by the god that the Ankor worshipped.

  The experimental results had been inconclusive. Taylor had returned partially chastened, mumbling jargon about how it was impossible to irrefutably prove the entirety of a system from within that same system. He’d also returned thoroughly converted to that same religion.

  The ease with which Taylor converted to the Ankor religion had been noteworthy, although perhaps not so improbable. Taylor had already devoted his life to programming lifelike human characteristics into computer simulations of people; full Simulation Theory was a logical extension.

  It offers an alternative, Taylor had said. An eternal soul without the need for a rich old white man with a beard throwing lightning bolts.

  At that first meeting, MacKenzie had been mildly respectful to Taylor. Now, having had to put up with his nonsense for ten years, he was scathing.

  The Ankor had clearly discovered – constructed – a god in their own image.

  Just the fact that they somehow had a need for a god unnerved MacKenzie.

  God and Man: only one can live forever.

  After his own failed relationships with Earth’s religious groups, MacKenzie had reconciled himself with that phrase.

  He believed the final defeat of death – gaining physical immortality for all members of humanity – would render ‘God’ unnecessary. People would no longer have to debase themselves, scrape, and worship just for the chance of everlasting life in Heaven.

  MacKenzie grimaced, remembering a particularly annoying exchange with a Jesuit Cardinal Francois something who said Only God with Man can live forever, implying a necessary symbiosis. Of course, God needed Man … after all, faith lends substance. But Man did not need God.

  It was unsettling that the Ankor – as close to immortal as possible – appeared to need a god.

  There’s always the chance they’re right.

  Arriving at the main floor, MacKenzie climbed the stairs and walked over to the back wall. He plugged his tablet into the requisite port and opened the camera system.

  A picture appeared of the holding area with the wolves … the Blessed.

  The wolves appeared to be taking their new housing in their stride. Not surprising, given they lived in a prison and had been moved into a series of holding cells that looked remarkably like a prison.

  MacKenzie opened a hatch below the port. Inside was a series of multiple mechanical dials and switches. Carefully selecting the correct ones – failure would have serious repercussions – he set the system to be operational.

  Now, most of the wolves would be processed.

  Wolves …

  The DNA sequence that led to brains developing with enhanced survival instincts was present in about one percent of the general population. Within the prison system, that percentage rose to eight. A happy circumstance for Francis MacKenzie, as it made collecting the requisite number of wolves easier.

  MacKenzie smiled. His own DNA had shown the wolf sequence too. That hadn’t surprised him; his will to survive ran deep. It was interesting, however, that the Ankor needed that specific trait. It hinted of weakness.

  Weakness …

  His own DNA analysis had also shown a predisposition to asthma, which was most likely why he was in this current situation. His earliest memories as a six-year-old boy were of struggling for breath with lungs that wouldn’t work. Four times before his tenth birthday he’d passed out, felt his consciousness slip away.

  On the first occasion, waking up in hospital had been more frightening than the event itself – which he hadn’t understood. By the third time, he knew enough to be scared.

  Am I frightened of death, or am I just being reasonable?

  On his actual deathbed, MacKenzie knew, if an angel appeared and offered him another ten years for the lives of ten strangers, he’d take it.

  A hundred? A thousand? Fifty thousand?

  A sliding scale, and everyone was somewhere on it. Many people wouldn’t take life to extend their own, but they’d take a hand, or a finger. You’d have to look pretty hard for someone who’d refuse to slap a stranger in order to be allocated another three months of life.

  The Ankor seemed to have similar moral conundrums. In fact, Earth was lucky that the current configuration of the Ankor had a tendency towards minimising collateral damage.

  Two factions.

  The two hundred and thirteen operational pods were all ‘the Ankor’, but of them, fifty-eight were aligned within a small faction that did not see themselves as part of the whole. Referred to by the majority as: ‘those-who-do-not-submit’, ‘the-sterile’, and ‘the-breakers’, the smaller faction accepted the premise of Simulation Theory and believed their universe was running on a computer. However, they had wildly different goals – creation is not ownership, they’d said.

  MacKenzie called them ‘Transcenders’ and their influence over the Ankor majority – who were always trying to rehabilitate them into the whole – couldn’t be understated.

  Pr
odigal sons.

  From the earliest negotiations the main body of the Ankor had allowed Transcender representatives to be involved.

  They’d been openly hostile towards MacKenzie, but he’d eventually brought them around, mostly by committing to provide them with special favours at the expense of the main faction.

  Once he’d gained a measure of the Transcenders’ trust, he’d engaged them in discussion about their own beliefs and goals. He’d tried to be empathetic, but every conversation had filled him with dread.

  If they get their way, they’ll nail the doors shut and set fire to the place.

  CHAPTER 25

  SpaceOp, Sunday 28th April

  A sense of relief passed through the main floor as the rocket cleared the launch pad, and ninety minutes later entered a stable orbit two thousand kilometres above Earth. Rocket Launch One – RL1 – had gone without a hitch.

  SpaceOp had needed that success. Even though significant radiation from Liverpool had not yet materialised and there had been no more A-Grav malfunctions, gloom was weighing on everyone.

  Tim, resigning himself to staying in Anglesey for at least another week, sat with Dexter helping with the news feeds – a job he shared with Sam.

  MIDAS reported the reaction to RL1. Generally positive, alongside the usual moaning about lack of transparency, distrust of the Ankor’s motives, and general hype about plutonium.

  An alert sounded on his monitoring screen. The director of the CNSA, Director Qin, was about to make a formal statement.

  ‘We call upon our colleagues across the globe to significantly increase the level of transparency with regards payloads. We recognise that most launch sites have been told by the Ankor to keep payload information secret. We suggest that humanity disregards that requirement. Furthermore, we would like the UK Space Agency to submit to a physical inspection. In anticipation of a positive response, People’s Republic of China is sending an inspection team to Anglesey.’

  From what Tim had gleaned from canteen and corridor discussions, the Chinese request was justified. Although some people knew roughly what was arriving into the Storage Zone, no-one had sight of what was assembled in the final rocket inventory. The people who worked in Assembly even lived in different accommodation on the northern coast.

  Tim kicked off a private search. The results came back in moments.

  SpaceOp CNSA Disagreement

  CNSA worried about SpaceOp cargo

  Trending words: Ballistics, Flight Path

  Clicking through, there was nothing official from the CNSA. They had only broadcast the request for an inspection. On the generic science chat boards a rumour was trending that the flight path of the RL1 launch was unusual and that the payload may not be simple ‘nuts and bolts’.

  Aware that Mission Control was unnaturally quiet, Tim glanced up.

  MacKenzie, now under a semblance of control, had walked to the edge of the mezzanine level and addressed the room.

  ‘My orders are agreed with both the prime minister and the Ankor. We will not invite any inspection teams from anywhere, be they Chinese, Russian, American, or United Nations. Rocket Launch One has been a success. We have nine more to go.’

  MacKenzie returned to his desk.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Dexter, who had slid his chair over.

  ‘No idea. Have you heard anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Dexter. ‘It’s hard to see who could claim something was unusual about the flight path, given almost no-one would know what the payload was supposed to be.’

  Movement in the corner of his eye drew Tim’s attention to the door that led down to the MIDAS server room.

  Charlie.

  Had he just been with Sam? Or had he been in one of the other server rooms? Or had he been through the armoured door?

  As Charlie walked towards the staircase, Tim tried to catch his eye.

  Success. Charlie started veering towards him.

  MacKenzie descended and intercepted Charlie.

  Tim couldn’t hear what was said, but Charlie was sent towards the main doors.

  ‘Follow me, Boston,’ said MacKenzie, now focusing on Tim.

  Leading Tim through the rear doors, past the MIDAS server room and towards the armoured door, MacKenzie studiously avoided eye contact and small talk.

  Once through the armoured doors, they followed the corridor as it descended with a shallow slope, turning left and right. The only light came from the thin strip lights on the roof, and their footsteps echoed.

  They passed the room with all the network connections and the passive data sniffers.

  They didn’t stop.

  A few minutes later, after Tim had judged they had descended three floors, they arrived at another set of closed doors. On the left was a bare table and an old-fashioned lift.

  Juan stepped forward and opened the lift manually, simply sliding a metal grid door the side.

  MacKenzie pointed at the table. ‘Do you have anything electronic on you?’

  Tim showed him his phone. Juan took it and put it on the table before taking out a handheld scanner and using it to frisk Tim thoroughly.

  Once it was clear Tim was clean, MacKenzie pointed into the lift.

  Tim entered, MacKenzie next, and finally Juan, who shut the doors behind them.

  Juan turned what looked like a steering wheel from an old sailing ship.

  The lift is operated manually!

  They descended.

  Inside the lift, Tim could hear Juan’s breathing as he turned the wheel.

  I’m going to be murdered

  After a descent of perhaps two storeys, Juan stopped turning the wheel and opened the doors manually. A further set of doors, heavily reinforced, stood closed in front of them. Juan opened them.

  MacKenzie entered, ushering Tim to follow him. Remaining on the outside, Juan closed the doors behind them, locking them in.

  The floors and walls of the new room were covered in a series of metal meshes. MacKenzie indicated for Tim to stand on a two-metre-square concrete plate in the middle of the room which held nothing but a couple of plain wooden chairs.

  MacKenzie operated some switches on the wall.

  Nothing appeared to happen.

  ‘I assume the Ankor can read every transmission, listen into every conversation, and probably mimic any electronic communication,’ said MacKenzie. ‘But this is a secure Faraday room. You know what they do?’

  Tim nodded. A Faraday room blocked all electromagnetic radiation. There was no chance of the Ankor eavesdropping electronically.

  Unless they have incredibly advanced technology, like anti-gravity or faster-than-light travel …

  ‘I don’t entirely trust the Ankor … or the Chinese,’ said MacKenzie. ‘I want to know what the Chinese payloads are.’

  Tim remained silent. Outwardly, MacKenzie was doing everything he could to please the Ankor.

  ‘What do you need from me?’ asked Tim.

  ‘I have obtained passwords for the main server room at the Chinese National Space Agency,’ said MacKenzie.

  ‘Haven’t they closed down the internet?’

  ‘I have a route in.’

  Knowing that MacKenzie was technically literate, Tim didn’t bother to bring up all the issues about firewalls and network controls. He had to assume that MacKenzie would have considered the basics. ‘They’ll notice the activity and close us down in a few seconds. Maybe trace us.’

  ‘I assume it would only take MIDAS a few seconds to find the information if it knew what to look for.’

  Tim thought about it. A few seconds was a long time for a computer – but searching petabytes of arbitrary data still took longer than that. ‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’

  For a moment, MacKenzie stared at Tim. ‘I can give you a file that holds the search data: key words, basic images.’

  Tim looked towards MacKenzie’s hands, expecting to be passed a zip drive.

  ‘Juan has it,’ said MacKenzie. ‘He will
give it to you five minutes before you run the incursion.’

  So, I can’t be trusted to see it now …

  ‘They’ll trace us,’ said Tim. ‘It won’t look good.’

  ‘I have a hard-wired network pipe running from the coast just north of us across the Irish Sea and into a school just outside Dublin,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Once the results come through, cut the connection.’

  That should work. The trail will go cold in a school in Ireland. It may look like a student.

  ‘Where’s the access point?’

  ‘In the room that holds the network security,’ said MacKenzie. ‘You can hook up MIDAS manually to the Dublin network from there.’

  Tim had been in the room before, when installing various upgrades of MIDAS. Even six months ago, it had been thick with cabling, physical breakers, and data sniffers.

  ‘Actually,’ said Tim, ‘if I’m just using MIDAS to search, I can load a copy onto a laptop and plug it in directly at the access point. That way, it won’t be so easily traceable back to us.’

  ‘You can get a full copy of MIDAS onto a laptop?’ MacKenzie sounded incredulous.

  ‘If it’s used simply for basic search, yes. You use it here for complex analysis. That takes up almost all the processing and data space. By loading a clean copy onto a laptop, we can be sure it starts without Ankor viruses.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Tim, now warming to the task, ‘we could use MIDAS Production as a diversion. Have Sam run a hack at the same time, draw attention away from Dublin.’

  ‘Can you do it now?’ asked MacKenzie.

  ‘It will take a couple of hours to prepare.’

  MacKenzie nodded, turned to the box of switches on the wall, and deactivated the electric circuits. A moment later they were back in the elevator.

  --------

  ‘He’s not asking for much, then,’ said Sam, sitting in her wheelchair at the MIDAS server room admin workstation.

  Tim shrugged. Carefully not saying anything remotely contentious, and using scraps of paper to write notes on, he’d given Sam the summary of his conversation with MacKenzie which, although only forty minutes old, was already feeling like a dream sequence.