by H. J. Pang
“What are you—” began Greg, but he never finished his sentence. Two of the floor’s panels opened in a silent hum, like the wings of a gull beginning to fly. In the hole that formed was revealed a stairway, which formed a square spiral down into a cavern. Glowing veins that resembled the tracts of a circuit board ran into the darkness. Several cables could be seen leading into its depths, and somehow, Greg knew this did not lead to anything that belonged to the 418.
“Follow me,” continued ITm4ster in a monotone, but Greg stopped him with a hand.
“Hang on,” he said. “Just who the hell are you? And where are you taking me?”
“Such little time, and yet so many questions!” breathed ITm4ster and Greg can’t help but wonder if such a voice could belong to a person. “I am your saviour and guarantor. Without me, you would have but perished in the place from which we left. Dally any longer, and we will surely be discovered. For though this room is but part of the 418, not so is our sanctum down below. Either follow, or leave.”
With that, ITm4ster stepped inside the hole.
INTO THE RABBIT HOLE
GREG FIGURED THAT nothing could possibly be worse than a neo-triad on your heels with MP5s and an assortment of SAR 21s. With all the options laid out like that, the choice was obvious. But who in the world actually spoke in that corny way of ITm4ster’s? It wasn’t like many people read books before The Storm. He stepped slowly into the stairway, and hefted hard at the doors to close them after him. They wouldn’t budge.
“The doors close by themselves. The Cloud acts on its own whims and fancies,” came ITm4ster’s voice. Shaking off the creepiness all this was giving him, Greg stepped onwards. Every step he made on the plastic material—at least, he guessed it was plastic—illuminated some form of light source beneath, adding a light blue glow to his steps. This was just so … Tron. He had watched that old classic with his family back when they still had a home to call their own, and too much about this abyss he was descending into was in the realm of science fiction.
He reached the bottom of the stairs—which had to be at least six storeys down. ITm4ster stood waiting for him. Looking around, Greg couldn’t see any sign of a door, or any other point of entry.
“Acolyte ITm4ster to enter the Sanctum,” droned ITm4ster.
“What?” asked Greg.
“Access not granted,” came an electronic feminine voice. “Unidentified lifeform detected. Guest or foe?” A flat monotone, it carried neither warmth nor suspicion.
“Requesting Guest Application 248-34,” answered ITm4ster. “Submitting Guarantor Protocol 958-23.” As he spoke, Greg could see him drawing his fingers over parts of his skull. A subdermal Wi-Fi connection?
“Access granted. Welcome, Acolyte.” Hydraulic actuators hissed as a heavy segment of steel composite was lifted from its perch, high-efficiency electric motors barely humming in the silence. ITm4ster nodded once to the stunned Greg before stepping within.
The corridors they entered had the walls of some kind of metal, of what colour Greg couldn’t tell, given the ambient illumination provided on the ceiling above. The glowing tracts he had seen made their way through the ceiling above, alternating between green and blue. Looking closely at the walls as he followed his guide, Greg realised it was inscribed with thousands upon thousands of ones and zeros. Binary code. The fundamentals of all digital computing and communication. Running a hand over it, he found that the numbers were not cast, but chiselled, stamped, or otherwise engraved onto the surface. What significance do these numbers present? Do they speak of source code long since lost with The Storm, or did it show pathways to server directories only the digital or mentally-inclined could make sense of? Greg wanted to stay, but ITm4ster was far ahead by now. Who knew what might happen were he to be found unaccompanied by anyone else here.
Greg needn’t have worried. Not a soul could be seen in the corridors they passed. The doorways he passed were all open, and it was only upon closer inspection that he realised they had no doors to speak off. He caught glimpses of what looked like small server rooms, except that they were hooked up to all manners of display meters and paraphernalia that would give any layman who tried making sense of it a brain tumour. There also appeared to be what looked like sleeping areas, only that the beds were situated next to a mess of wired connectors and equipment that may have once belonged to a hospital.
“Where is everybody?” asked Greg. The acolyte continued walking, the faint unnatural light of the surroundings glinting off his skin. Sometime after they had entered the sanctum, ITm4ster had discarded his lab coat. Beneath it, he was wearing a white shirt and pants, which caught the ambient light well.
“The Brothers are currently attending a sermon by the Administrator,” he replied. “I must ask that when we go in attendance, you are not to interrupt them in any way, for such an affront in the Inner Sanctum will hardly be tolerated. Also, let me make the introductions.” ITm4ster stopped at a section of wall. Somehow, Greg wasn’t overly surprised. Nothing here resembled normal architectural standards.
“I seek to breach the Firewall, and partake in the Vastness of The Cloud!” ITm4ster spoke with his head bowed. With a click, the section of wall lifted.
A rhythmical chanting could be heard the moment the hidden door was open, and Greg could feel the chills down his spine as he followed ITm4ster. Darker than much of the corridor he had just come from, the passageway resembled the entrance to many of the auditoriums and theatres Greg had been to before The Storm. In fact, Greg could see the marks where a signboard demanding that all phones be turned off would have been. The moment he stepped out into the source of the sound, Greg knew he would never be witness to such a sight anywhere else in the wasteland.
Seated in a half-circle on elevated seats on both sides of where they entered were numerous cultists, all swaying to the rhythm of the chant that reverberated throughout the Sanctum. All looked as geeky, if not more so, than ITm4ster, with oversized goggles resembling the ones he had worn. Some had hoods, while those who didn’t revealed hair that grew each and every other way. Each one of them had a wire trailing into the back of their necks, which swayed with the movement of their hosts. The chants consisted of intonations of various sounds, including gasps, clicks, and even a chittering that sounded like telephone feedback. This was interspersed with several invocations by the leader of the congregation.
“… and it is through the Code that we exist, and through the Script that we live and prosper!” extolled the priest. Older than the other devotees, he had a white beard that glowed blue in the ambient light, tied once around his neck. From his lectern, a cable likewise trailed into the back of his head. “For it is only through ones and zeros that all things come into being! So be it said!”
“So be it said!” chorused the congregation. They swayed together like a wave, or in Greg’s mind, like stalks of grass.
“Long had it been foreseen by Father Jobs, and Father Gates! For only when we are connected can we be part of the greater World!” roared the priest. “And only then can the World have a part of us!”
“As they had said and so foreseen,” chanted the followers. “The Internet of Things was but the beginning, Transcendence is the start to the End …”
The priest raised his hands slowly and deliberately, and a hush quickly fell over the congregation. The clicks and chirps died away.
“Why have you brought an outsider in our midst?” asked the priest with only the slightest tilt of his head. Despite not looking towards the newcomers, there was no doubt he was speaking to ITm4ster. Now that he was turned towards them, Greg could see he had a tattoo that resembling a data tract across his face and exposed parts of his hands. His tattoos and threads of his robe glowed with an otherworldly light, and Greg wondered if there was ultraviolet light integrated into the room’s lighting, or something else entirely.
“Forgive my trespass, Administrator!” spoke ITm4ster. “In the midst of danger to my life, it had come to me that this man’s
life be saved.”
“Just as unintended code births forth a virus, unwanted intruders harbour discord and danger,” hummed the priest, and miraculously, all manner of weapons appeared in the cultists’ hands. Even as he whipped out his own revolver, Greg could also hear the signatory squeal of an electronic control weapon being readied.
“Peace! I ask for peace!” squawked ITm4ster, throwing himself before Greg, even as the cultists stood and chanted. The Administrator himself held what appeared to be an enormous water gun, but the cult’s fervour confirmed its far more deadly intent.
“Speak forth your reason for trespass, intruder!” demanded the Administrator as he stepped forward, cerebral cable trailing behind. “That, or 20,000 volts await you!” He resumed chanting a verse of his own.
“Put your guns down first!” yelled Greg. His hands shook as he gripped the scratched grip of his revolver.
“What the Admin says, you follow,” said a voice behind him. “Do so, or be erased.” A loud click came from behind Greg’s head, and he didn’t need to turn to know it was the sound of a shotgun being racked.
The incredulity of what he had seen since entering the sanctum would have had Greg in hysterics if it weren’t for his time in the mines and the wasteland. In the wasteland, he had seen people commit atrocities to each other for the simplest of resources. He had seen gangs of bikers riding the broken highways of Johor in the hope of finding what was left of their old hangouts, burning precious fuel for a lost cause. So what was there to stop a bunch of computer freaks from falling in their own flights of fancy, and worship computerised code as their Gods? His Taurus 85 dropped to the floor with a clatter, barely visible upon the dark floor. One of the cultists stepped forward to take it.
“Let us adjourn our communion to a more uncertain time,” said the Administrator, lowering his weapon. “Your intervention is most welcome, Wesley. Please take the intruder to the Quarantine Folder. I need to have a word with you, Acolyte IT,” he added to ITm4ster.
A prod from a shotgun muzzle gave Greg all the impetus he needed to get going. Going straight through the sanctum, a door opened automatically, and Greg stepped into a corridor he hadn’t been in. Not that it made much difference, given its similarity to the others. He chanced a look back as he walked.
“Eyes to the front!” snapped Wesley, and a jab of the gun barrel had Greg facing the front once more, but not before he got a good look at his escort. About his age, Wesley looked nothing like any of the other crackpots he had seen in this joint. His goggles resembled the old SAF ballistic goggles, suggesting it was directed more towards protection than digital immersion. His hair was cut shorter and he wore a T-shirt and cargo pants, above which were pouches which probably contained devices of an offensive nature. His confident posture and grip of his gun not unlike that of the few garang soldiers he had observed back in the army suggested a more physical background. Greg was glad he hadn’t tried resisting. This guy had the skill to take him out in an instant, and maybe even tweet or post about it in whatever application or LAN network this place had.
Greg had expected a door that functioned somewhat similarly to the ones he had seen earlier, but “Quarantine Folder” appeared to be a glorified name for a cell. Sure, Wesley tapped his head to wirelessly unlock the door, but it still swung upon hinges, just like any other.
Greg entered the room, and saw that it was partitioned in three different sections: the walkway, which he was now in, and a cell on each side. The Quarantine Folder had none of the splendour of the glowing circuitry of the walls and flooring Greg had seen earlier. Instead of proper prison bars, metal mesh had been welded, tied, or otherwise held together to make up the cell door and walls.
“Get into the cell on your right,” commanded Wesley, and Greg complied. He just had time to see an old bench and a bucket making up the only contents of the room before Wesley slid the grate to the cell shut.
“Should you try to escape, or otherwise hurt our flock, I will personally delete you,” warned Wesley. His face betrayed no expression whatsoever. “That is your final warning.” Before Greg could ask him to elaborate what “delete” meant, the well-armed computer cultist left, electronic door clicking shut.
Okay. These guys were officially whack. As whack as anyone could be post-Storm. All Greg had left to do was wait for the Admin to come and say his piece. He may have found out what experiments were taking place in the 418 IT labs, but Greg still didn’t know where Jin was. He shuddered briefly as he thought about what he had seen on the clipboard affixed to the cage. Implanting data connectors to a person was one thing, but doing it to children? But then, the triads weren’t known for doing things the right way. Not even before The Storm. Even their hazing rituals were pretty intense stuff.
A pair of eyes glinted at him from the opposite cell and Greg turned quickly. It was the kid he had seen in the IT labs. What was his name again? Guo Li.
“How did you get in here?” hissed Greg.
“When you were holding the guy in the white coat against the cage, I took his keys,” said Guo Li. “The men with guns went away, so I unlocked my cage and followed them. After they left the room you ran into, I found the way you had gone. There was an opening on the floor, so I went in.
Then some funny-looking guy with big goggles took me to this room.”
Greg leaned his head against the mesh. This was no place for kids. Or any sane person, for that matter. “Did the guy in the white coat do anything bad to you?” he asked.
Guo Li thought for a moment. Those drugs he had been fed must be doing their job. “No. He talks a bit weird, actually quite good to me. The other people shout and sometimes beat me, but he doesn’t. Sometimes, he look like he doesn’t know whether to do something or not.” He looked closely at Greg. “You have children?”
Greg sat back against the wall of the cell. “Yes.”
“One of them is called Jin?” asked Guo Li, beating out a rhythm on the mesh. “What games does he know how to play?”
Greg wanted to yell back at the kid, and tell him that the world was completely fucked up, and one was extremely lucky if one had time to consider taking a breath. But as he looked into the glints that made up Guo Li’s eyes, he realised that he really wasn’t much different from Jin in age. Thrown into the mess of the world before they could even contemplate the seriousness of it all, Guo Li might have experienced some of the horrors Jin had.
“He didn’t play much,” said Greg. “Back in the Mines, he would sometimes draw things in the sand, so you could say he’s an artist. Before The Storm, he said he wanted to design computers.”
“What are computers?”
Greg stared at Guo Li for a moment before realising that the kid was too young to have known what computers or smartphones were when The Storm happened. It was strange really, then back before The Storm, smartphones and tablets were so commonplace that even young children had their eyes and hands glued to them for most of the day. Some parents had even stuck tablets in baby prams. Greg had found that utterly fucked up in more ways than one. In a way, The Storm had done some good by resetting the bad habits of the past, but Greg doubted the enslavement of hundreds upon thousands of people was worth it all.
“They’re devices that show you information you can see or read,” said Greg.
“Like books?”
“No, they’re not the same thing. Look, I’ll tell you more later if we have time. Where were you from?”
Guo Li beat out a rhythm on the mesh. “Why do you want to know?” he asked. A cautious kid. His parents had taught him well.
“Well, you need to get back to your Ma and Pa. Otherwise, they’re going to be worried about you,” said Greg. The irony of the two layers of mesh between them wasn’t lost, but he didn’t intend to sit still when his captors arrived.
“They’re both dead,” answered Guo Li. Greg stiffened.
“I’m sorry, kid,” replied Greg. But words were just that—words.
“It’s alright,�
�� Guo Li sighed. “When it happened, I felt really sad. But Uncle Kim Shang said they died for their country, so it is okay. If they died caring only for themselves, then it’s not. But then, if I didn’t follow some of his guys, I wouldn’t kena caught. So now I dunno what is correct.”
Greg mused on this for a second. “Your uncle allowed you to follow him?” he asked doubtfully.
Guo Li’s eyes dipped. “He didn’t,” whispered the kid. “When he goes on missions, I follow from far. He never sees me.”
“Why did you? The world is dangerous.”
“I want to be like Mama and Papa. I want to serve the country,” Guo Li stuck his chin out defiantly. “Uncle said I cannot, but if we don’t all do our part, how can our country become strong? So I follow them, learn what they do. But then they suddenly have to run. I was too slow to catch up with them, and then the guys with many tattoos caught me. They’re very scary, one guy even beat me.” Guo Li showed the bruises on his cheek. “But this guy, I think he’s some sort of leader, he said they need keep me healthy. Then they locked me in the cage, next to other kids. I tried to talk to them, but they don’t feel like it. One even told me to go and die. When the guys in white coats came, one by one, they took them away. A few days later, you came.”
Greg scratched his head, settling himself against the mesh. All this was interesting, but didn’t tell him much about the situation. He was just about to clarify where Guo Li was actually from when the door to the cells hummed open. The Admin entered, followed by Wesley.
Now that he was up close, Greg could see the Admin had the hood of his robe drawn back to expose his head and neck. Across his skin were markings that resembled the circuitry one could see on pre-Storm electronics, accentuated by his whitish hair. Greg was wondering if they were simply tattoos, or served some higher function when the Admin spoke.
“My acolyte told me of the circumstances leading to your chance meeting,” spoke the Admin. There wasn’t any noticeable accent to place his ethnicity, and Greg wondered if all cultists had received some form of speech implant. “He stated that despite the defences the heretics above had in place to their labs, you managed to find your way in. It was clear you were not there for the treasures they hold, but for someone else. Who may that be?”
