The Last Server

by H. J. Pang

  Lantern left through the door, locking it behind him.

  Greg knew it was dangerous trusting anyone, especially someone who would love to get his hands on stuff he had no other way of getting hold of. But it had been a long day, a day filled with crazed victims of The Storm, murderous triads, and a nutcase who thought he was still the station manager of a long abandoned MRT station. A minute after he finished a stew he knew not the ingredients of, Greg was fast asleep.

  The evidence pointed to Fusionopolis. Home of the 418 Triad. The hub of their war machine. That Greg had gleaned as he listened in to conversations among the guards. It was said that where industry had fallen throughout the known world, it was making a comeback in The Mountain, Capital City of the Southeast. It was considered both an honour and privilege to be even a slave there.

  By holding a guard at bladepoint with a shiv he fabricated out of a sharp flake of granite, Greg found out what had happened to the missing kids, and he escaped within that very hour.

  Most of the 418 members went bare-chested, with their tattoos paraded for all to see. It was thus impossible for Greg to impersonate anyone, but not so difficult to kill his way out.

  The guards didn’t expect a fully-trained soldier to revolt. They certainly didn’t expect any of the slaves to get hold of a gun. But Greg did, and he lost no time in making full use of it. Starting off with silent kills, he had no choice but to resort to going loud near the entrance, where the most guards were. Having run out of ammo, and not wanting an entire fighting force pursuing him, Greg cut down the supporting timbers to the mine’s entrance. Greg hated to see the last vestiges of working technology go to waste, but the radio station on the topside had to go. The wires and electronics were quickly reduced to an unsalvageable mess. No one would be using it anytime soon.

  And without looking back, Greg knew his victory was bittersweet. Some would say he was now free. But no one is ever truly free until he is reunited with loved ones lost.

  The metal door creaked open and Greg sprung up, parang in hand. He didn’t relax even as he saw it was Lantern.

  “It’s time to go,” said Lantern. He was dressed in the same clothes as before. Greg was wondering why he didn’t change, but then, he would blend in wearing maintenance overalls should anyone challenge him. Slinging his pack across his shoulder, Greg followed Lantern out. He wondered if he should ask Lantern for a set of his overalls as a disguise, but Lantern would want deniability should things go bad. Greg didn’t blame him; he might have done the same thing in his place.

  Some of the lights were still on, but no one was around. Below the balcony, on ground level, two 49ers could be seen sitting on chairs. Nobody could be seen on any of the corridors, but Greg kept low anyway, taking care to look around corners before he proceeded. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he made sure his revolver was still secure in his waistband.

  The complex had completely changed in character. Earlier in the day, there was always some form of activity going on, such as patrolling guards, or even commoners lugging their loads. But now, no such activity could be seen. Greg supposed that any guards still awake had their own manner of getting around. An R&D complex which housed several high-tech companies, research organisations, and government agencies before The Storm, Fusionopolis was a confusing mass of corridors, and if it weren’t for his guide, Greg would have been hopelessly lost.

  As they progressed forward, it was obvious that the way ahead was given to more high-tech facilities. Right before they rounded a corner, Lantern raised a hand to stop Greg.

  “There’s a security post right around here,” he whispered. “It’s manned at every hour of the day. The 418 doesn’t want anyone sabotaging the research that’s taking place.”

  Greg took a look. Up ahead, a series of window grilles that were salvaged from HDB flats were bolted together to form a kind of fencing. A set of double-gates were locked with a rubber- wound bicycle chain. Two more guards sat beyond. It was hard to tell if they were asleep through the grille at this distance, but it was obvious they weren’t getting in this way.

  “So what now?” Greg asked.

  “There’s a ventilation shaft we can use to get to the area,” Lantern replied. “Follow me.” Moving away a few metres down the corridor, Lantern opened a door. The smell of grease and dried sweat hit Greg. Rags and other unused stores littered the room, and he stopped rubbing his nose fast enough to see Lantern pulling off the cover to a shaft. Lantern pulled himself into it, and Greg followed suit. He would have liked to pull the cover back on themselves, but there wasn’t enough room to turn around even if he wished to. He followed Lantern who had flicked on his lighter up ahead, the metal walls pressing in on him. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see patches of rust on the stainless steel walls. Some parts of the shaft looked like it had warped inwards, the uneven surface a consequence of The Storm, but Lantern simply crawled through those areas. Greg almost panicked as he felt his broader shoulders seized by the narrowed space, but a hard wriggle got him through. He made a right turn, then a left.

  From his own estimate, they were past the checkpoint, and already a distance ahead of it. Lantern crawled over a hatch, and popped it loose after taking a look through it. The metal landed with a clatter and Greg froze, but Lantern slid through without pause. Following the handyman, Greg saw that he was in a janitor’s closet. Rolls of cleaning cloth lined the shelves, with bottles of chemicals next to them. Two mops lay against the wall, with a pail of dirty water next to them.

  “Do as I do,” whispered Lantern, picking up a toolbox. He creaked open the door to the room, and Greg followed.

  It was like stepping into another world. Where the drabness and destruction of the world was apparent even in the open spaces of Nexus, right before him was undamaged glass, metal and plastic. Clean corridors of polished tile stretched on, lit by fluorescent bulbs throughout its length. The contents of each individual lab were visible through the glass windows that framed their boundary walls. There was equipment he remembered seeing from his university and polytechnic days: measurement equipment such as oscilloscopes, thermocouples and multimeters, and testing rigs with clamps and prefab circuit boards. There were even working LED and CRT monitors with readings, attached to a mess of wires linked to racks upon racks of what could have been a LAN system. Despite half of the lights of the corridor remaining on, there was no one to be seen. So much undestroyed technology, and all of it right here, under the control of the 418. Greg could barely get his head around it all. One could awaken in these corridors and not know the destruction of the world outside.

  “This is the lab they’re keeping the kids in,” Lantern pointed at a section they were walking towards. Here, the glass windows were lined with reflective film, so no one could see what’s inside. “The cages are behind the mainframe computer that’s been set up here. I’m getting the gun before I open the door.” Lantern stopped before the door, holding out his hand.

  “How do I know there’re really cages behind there?” demanded Greg. “I can’t have you making away with your prize while I go inside.”

  “Then you’ll never know,” said Lantern coolly. He turned and walked towards the exit.

  Greg grabbed him on the shoulder, but Lantern was ready. He swung his toolbox towards Greg, who barely managed to block it. Fighting back the dull throbbing spreading across his forearms, Greg twisted Lantern’s offending arm, sending the toolbox clattering. Tools and fasteners of all shapes and sizes scattered across the tile. With his free hand, Greg grabbed Lantern around the throat. Pushing forward, he slammed him against the glass window of the lab.

  “I’ll get in, with or without you,” hissed Greg. “It seems that someone thinks he’s indispensable. All this for a piece of metal?”

  A groan of a child could be heard and Greg froze, his fingers posed around his victim’s throat. It came exactly where Lantern said it would. Greg backed off as Lantern made several choking noises, fumbling for the keys to the lab. He eve
ntually got it open, and Greg dashed inside.

  “What about our deal?” demanded Lantern.

  “You’ll have it when I come back out. That means you’re going nowhere,” Greg replied. He pushed past the equipment placed upon trolleys, and rounded what appeared to be an enormous computer setup. Another door led to a separate room, and Greg crashed inside.

  The first things he saw were the cages spread across inside the entirety of the room. Hanging over them were wires and connectors of every conceivable type, and Greg could swear he could see connectors for Apple and Samsung devices. The cages were all empty, save one at the far corner. Walking slowly towards it, with his heart in his mouth, Greg got closer.

  A boy sat hunched against the corner of the cage, clutching his head. He couldn’t have been more than ten, and bore the marks of countless signs of abuse. Bruises, welts, even what looked like two-pronged marks that could have come from an electronic control weapon.

  This wasn’t Jin. The kid’s shaved head had a number of probes attached. Two wires from the ceiling led to two of them, with the indicator LEDs glowing green. Shackles on his legs and arms kept them from removing the wires above.

  Greg puked right on the floor. He had travelled far and wide, only to find that not only was his son gone, he probably had all manner of chips and wiring and whatnot installed into him, all as part of a sick experiment for who knew what. Only now did he notice that what he thought was rust was actually blood on the bars of the cages. Now that he was still, he could smell the piss and shit over his own puke.

  “Who are you?” asked the kid. Greg stumbled back up, not even wiping his mouth on a sleeve.

  He flattened his back against the bars of the cage behind him for support.

  “I’m Greg,” he said. “I’m looking for my son.” He fought back another bout of nausea.

  “There were other kids here,” the kid grimaced as he spoke. Perhaps it hurt him just to speak. “A few of them stopped moving, and they took them away. But there were some who were still awake when the bad people took them.”

  “What about Jin?” whispered Greg. The kid looked blankly back. “Who?”

  “Jin. My son.” Greg gripped the bars. He backed away as the kid recoiled. “Look, kid, do you have a name?” he asked. He knew this was just a child, but he couldn’t help but feel impatient. He had to get going, but something about the kid made him remember his life before.

  “Oh, names.” The kid thought for a moment. “Sorry, it’s hard to think sometimes.” He shook his head slightly. “I’m Guo Li. I only came in yesterday. There were four others here. The guys with tattoos get angry when any of us talk or cry, so I only talk to them when there’s nobody around. I asked the others what their names were, but they don’t remember much. The one next to me said he was called 1-1-0-7, and the one across is 1-1-0-9, but I don’t think that’s their real names.”

  Greg saw a medical clipboard affixed to the kid’s cage and grabbed it. Scheduled Neuroimplanted Datalinkage and Cerebral Uplink Overhaul followed by a list of chemicals and readings—Greg didn’t have to be a doctor or computer professional to know all this were bad news. The 418 had been tinkering with the brains of their subjects, sticking wires and who-knows-what into their minds. And with side effects, it would seem. According to the notes at the bottom, so far, no surgery or installation of any foreign devices had yet been done on subject 1108, who had been scheduled daily doses of some drug Greg couldn’t pronounce. The short-term memory of the kid suggested some form of mind-altering drugs. Who knew when they intended to begin surgery. Tomorrow? After he had been deemed sufficiently sedated?

  “What’s this about?” asked someone to his right. Greg cursed his carelessness and turned. A guy in a lab coat stood at a nearby door. He wore goggles that seemed to increase the size of his eyes by five times and had hair that was scraggly, yet fluffed out. All this would have been incredulous if it weren’t for the nature of this place.

  “Someone who wants to know where his son is,” said Greg, stepping forward with his revolver raised. “Believe me, with all the shit your people put me through, I wouldn’t be surprised if I shot you right now. Where have you taken him?” he screamed.

  The geek barely flinched at this outburst. “Consider yourself a victim if you may, but many of us are no more free than these children were. It is only through conformance that we live yet.”

  “Where. The. Fuck. Is. My. Son?” bellowed Greg, and the geek found himself slammed across the cage. The kid squealed, but Greg was past caring about courtesies. He could feel the veins in the geek’s neck budge, but didn’t care.

  “The thugs sent a couple of kids to the Last Server,” choked the geek. “There, their minds will be put to the test in the digital and mundane. We know not what, save the Red Pole of the Labs.”

  This guy had the cheek to talk rubbish to him. Greg wouldn’t have thought twice about breaking his neck, even in front of a kid, but once again, he had forgotten the most important rule of survival: to always be aware of one’s surroundings. Only then did he realise they weren’t the only ones in the lab.

  “Put our guy down, you cheebai,” said someone from behind. Looking back, Greg saw that the doorway he had entered was now crowded with 418 guards. All were decked out in full combat gear, complete with MP5 submachine guns and scowls. Right at the back was an angry Lantern. Even if Greg had a full cylinder of ammo to call his own, he would come out worse in a fight. He wondered if he should have given Lantern his payment, but there really hadn’t been anything to stop him from turning on him either way.

  “Take the glasses out of my coat pocket and put it on,” hissed a voice, and it took Greg a moment to understand it was the geek who had spoken. “When the lights go out, follow my lead.”

  “What? I’m supposed to trust you now?” snapped Greg.

  “It’s your only hope of getting out alive,” the geek replied. Greg saw how true that was. Already the 418 response team was creeping closer, and the only reason they hadn’t opened fire was his close proximity to two of their assets—their test subject and scientist, if you could call the geek that. That could soon change.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, do it now,” said Greg, his heart beating furiously as he slid a pair of oversized eyeglasses out of the coat pocket and over his eyes. “This gun of mine isn’t going to do shit.”

  “As you say,” replied the geek, as he reached for another pocket. Greg tensed.

  “Why you take so long? Let him go!” yelled the 418 guard.

  A number of things happened then. The lights went out, throwing the whole place into darkness. On reflex, Greg sprung backwards and dropped to a crouch. Gunfire erupted throughout the lab. Almost immediately, Greg saw to his surprise that the view before him was illuminated in a field of dark green, punctuated by bright strobes of SMG fire. The geek was dashing through the door he had entered from, and the illuminated display before Greg pointed an arrow towards him, complete with distance and destination. Night vision goggles coupled with real-time locator? Wicked shit. He ran through the door after the geek, keeping low as another staccato of shots erupted around him.

  “Use your flashlights lah, fucking bodohs! Never use brain is it?” yelled one of the guards. Greg caught sight of the geek flitting into a room, and followed him closely. The geek slammed the door after him, wedging it shut with a table. Rows of bullet holes sprouting through the wood suggested how short-term this measure was.

  “What do we do now?” yelled Greg. Around him were stacks of computer parts, along with unused monitors and CPUs. The lack of any other door suggested that this was a storeroom, rather than an actual part of the labs. The heads-up display on his glasses highlighted the geek in a reticule, accompanied by what he could only presume to be his handle, “ITm4ster”. ITm4ster was now bent over the floor panelling, his fingers reaching under it.

  “Help me pull this off!” snapped ITm4ster, and Greg felt around the edge of a floor panel. One of the door hinges gave in
from a kick, but the table kept it closed. With a pop of plastic, the panel slid off, revealing cables and metal struts. Quicker than Greg would have imagined, ITm4ster dove headfirst into the gap, squirming under the hole’s edge.

  “Follow me and cover the hole!” came his muffled voice, and Greg did as he said. There was no space to squat, so it was an awkward position he found himself as he lowered the floor panel over himself. Right then, the door to the storeroom finally gave.

  “Where they go?” yelled one of the 418.

  “Check under tables! Check the vents!” another screamed back.

  ITm4ster crawled ahead of him, so Greg tried to keep up in the narrow space. He grunted as he felt the scratch of metal brackets holding the mess of power and IT cables in place, along with their glowing indicator lights, and wondered briefly what would happen if one of the wires were to give him a shock down below. Better that he didn’t think about that now.

  --FOLLOW ME--, the display on his glasses read. Curiouser and curiouser indeed. And this guy, ITm4ster or whatever the hell his real name was, was leading him down the proverbial and somewhat literal rabbit hole. They made another turn in the darkness, and Greg could just hear the sounds of gunfire punctuated by the crunch of plastic. The guards finally decided they had to be hiding beneath the floor panelling.

  They came out into another room, though this one seemed to be a server room of some kind. Racks all around hummed with the flickering of green and blue LEDs, giving off the room’s illumination. Removing his borrowed glasses, Greg realised a backup generator must be powering the server racks during the recently-induced blackout. He was starting to wonder if he should sabotage the 418’s operations by pulling out a couple of racks when ITm4ster reached for one of them.

  “Touch not the Devices, for they are sacred to us,” said ITm4ster. And right before Greg, he stuck a finger into an ethernet port.