by H. J. Pang
Greg kept mum, staring back into the Admin’s eyes. It seemed to glow slightly as the cult leader spoke.
“Listen, outsider. The only ones welcome here are those who worship the Code in some way. The reason why you haven’t been deleted like protocol dictates is because ITm4ster believes you have skills that could prove useful.” The Admin leaned in closer. “But your outward hostility has me wondering about the danger you pose to the Code, along with my acolyte’s judgement. So how about you answer my questions, and prove just how beneficial you are to our cause?”
Greg could always spit back at him. But when he thought about it, this Brotherhood, or Fraternity, or whatever else they were hadn’t done him any harm. If anything, he was the trespasser. They could have stunned him with one of their electroshock weapons—assuming they actually worked—before throwing him into this glorified cell. And they had taken the risk of harbouring him. Unlike the triads, these people didn’t seem to be living under the heel of an oppressive power. They were minding their own business, right until he came along.
“I’m looking for my son,” Greg finally said. “He was taken less than two weeks back. I heard he might have been in the labs.”
The Admin drew his head back, his face creased into a frown. “Your son? Perhaps you should start from the beginning.” Wesley looked on wordlessly.
Greg didn’t know why these guys needed to know about his own personal quest. But he had barged into whatever counted as a holy refuge for them. Anywhere else in the wasteland, it would have been “shoot first, ask later”. But a group like this couldn’t have built their sanctum without the right know-how. They likely had connections to places throughout the country, the 418 even, as ITm4ster had proven. And so he told them how he came to be there. His time in the mines, his journey through the MRT tunnels, the deal he had made with Lantern.
The Admin scratched his chin when he was done. They didn’t even seem fazed by the ferals in the tunnels. “What do you think about all that, Wesley?” he muttered.
“There is a 93.79 percent probability of his telling the truth,” said Wesley. Wesley maintained his composure even when speaking to his Admin.
“I know that, Guardian,” snorted the Admin. “If I need numbers, I can consult my own sensors. I was asking if you believe our visitor can help us towards our ultimate goal.”
“He does seem rather composed, for a wastelander,” commented Wesley. “He will definitely be of greater help than the average Brother.”
“Help you with what?” Greg narrowed his eyes. “And before we even start, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
The Admin looked back at Greg. “I am the leader of my flock, the keeper of the Digital Verse. My username is 1 and 127, the beginning and the end. For it was I who started this sanctuary, and without I it shall fall. Many of my followers have cast aside their analogue lives for want of a digital salvation. It was only through a great undertaking on our part that this became possible. We are the Brotherhood of the Code, seekers of Binary Truth.”
“I’m puzzled how you managed to carve out a space right under the 418’s HQ,” mused Greg. “Did you both have an arrangement?”
The Admin’s eyes flashed. “Sacrilege! We have no dealings with the likes of those defilers!”
“But your acolyte—”
“ITm4ster? He was our Trojan in the system! How else could we have rerouted the power the Heretics hang so greedily onto? He feeds us news on their actions and plans. So that we may bide our time to strike. But now that his cover is all but blown,” the Admin eyed Greg critically, “it seems that you owe us.”
“Owe you?” asked Greg incredulously. “I didn’t ask to be saved!”
“Then we should throw you back out,” suggested the Admin. “In bit strings even, if necessary.
The outlaws of the 418 shouldn’t become ours.”
“Admin, if I may make bold, perhaps I can speak to the outsider?” Wesley ventured as Greg and the Admin glared at each other. He had taken off his goggles, and beneath it, Greg could see the indentations the goggles had made. Rings of pink could barely be seen on slightly tanned skin, confirming that Wesley did go topside every now and then. He had to be no older than 32 at the most, yet his eyes carried that professionalism Greg recognised in those independent types. His eyes were far from hard, but neither were they the orbs of a starry-eyed student fresh out of university.
“Say your piece, Guardian.”
“As you have probably discerned from your brief time here, few of us here are operationally inclined,” said Wesley. Unlike the other acolytes, he gestured with both hands and head, his eyebrows enunciating what he said. “I am but one of the few who have skills beyond the ways of the Code. There is a situation in which your skills would be of help to us.”
“And what makes you think I have these skills?” demanded Greg. “Sure, I may have broken into the labs, but I’m just an ordinary guy.”
“Not so by our observations,” affirmed the Admin. “Softwareanalysis confirms your confidence in ranged and close combat, well beyond that of the average 49er soldier. Furthermore, ITm4ster was first-hand witness to your manhandling of him. Close combat techniques right out of SAF Documentation MSD-3138-3A! If you hadn’t told us who you were, I’ll say you were from the Old Guard.”
“I wasn’t from Guards or ADF,” snorted Greg. “If your all-knowing software is so great, you would have been able to tell I was from 6AMB. That’s under Combat Maintenance.”
The Admin looked livid, his hand reaching into his robes. Wesley cleared his throat.
“You’re really out of touch with the world, aren’t you?” he said quickly. “We weren’t talking about units or formations. Not that they exist anymore, mind. Not unless you consider the last remnants banding together in the vicinity of City Hall. The Old Guard are the last surviving contingent of the SAF.”
“The task, Wesley!” said the Admin sharply.
“Very well, Admin. We can talk about current affairs later,” said Wesley. “The point is, I suspect we know where your son is.”
Greg gripped the mesh of his cell. “Don’t lie to me.”
“According to ITm4ster, several children were subjected to tests in the labs you were in,” continued Wesley. “Now, though ITm4ster was not involved in the higher-level planning of such experiments, he knows that the children had been sent to a server facility some distance from here.”
“Server?” said Greg. Then his face contorted. “You’re lying!”
“Why would we be?” asked the Admin. “We aren’t the ones with something to lose.”
“All the servers were destroyed during The Storm!” roared Greg. “We all saw what it could do, even our buildings weren’t safe from it! And you expect me to believe that of all places, a working server facility still exists upon our sunny island? Speak of it in your gospel, if you will, but leave me the fuck out of it!”
“It is really so difficult to believe?” asked Wesley, and the calm tone he projected caused Greg to turn back towards him. “In the 21st century, our country was at the forefront of science and technology. We had research facilities dedicated to the study of every field. We built structures no one had thought possible. We invented the first flash drive.
What few people know is that we have a data bank right beneath Gardens by the Bay and Marina Barrage. It is where the last of the world’s data is stored. The “sustainable ecosystem” at Gardens by the Bay? The damming system at nearby Marina Barrage? It’s all built to power and cool it.”
“And the 418 controls it,” said Greg. “What has this got to do with my son?”
Wesley and the Admin looked at each other. “He and the other children may have been brought there to unlock the server system with their neural implants.”
It took a half minute for the facts to sink in. “Let me out of here!” Greg snarled, kicking and thrashing against his prison. A sizable dent formed on the mesh where the Admin’s face was, and he noted with some sati
sfaction that the cult leader flinched.
“Initiate Pacification Protocol,” ordered the Admin. He maintained his composure even as Greg thrashed and bashed against his cell.
“Admin?”
“Do it.”
“Fuck your pacification ritual! Fuck you all! Let me out!” screamed Greg. He didn’t care if they thought he was an animal; all he wanted was to go rescue his son from those whoresons that called themselves the 418. They will pay for what they have done, they will suffer for long and terrible moments—
Two jets of gas sprayed out of the cell walls over him. Emitting several large chokes, Greg collapsed, blurry images of two figures flashing past. What looked like a child looked on, even as he gave one final wheeze.
JOURNEYING FORTH
GREG’S EYES FELT puffy. He would gladly sleep for a few hours more, but something told him it would be a bad idea. He had to reach someplace, somewhere. Try as he might, he could not remember where. What work detail was he on? Shaft Crew? Excavation? He rolled to his side, expecting to drop his feet to the floor.
He felt the characteristic pitch in his stomach as he fell, awaking with a shock. Smooth and cool, the surface he was on felt nothing like any place in the mines.
“Don’t worry. You’re fine,” said a voice. Greg flinched, looking around wildly. The room was lit by a soft white lighting, which reflected off the smooth white of the tiles. He blinked his eyes hard, struggling to make sense of it. Ahead of him was a figure dressed in white, along with another in dull colours.
“Take deep breaths, it’ll be a short while before the endorphins are flushed out of your system,” said the voice. It sounded familiar. “How’re you feeling?”
He wasn’t in the mines. No one gave a shit about anyone in there. If you fell sick, the enforcers sent a slave crew to drag you out to a containment area. There, you were left with the other sick and wounded. Only water would be provided. At the end of each day, an enforcer would come by and prod each body with his club. If you looked well enough to work, you would return back to your duties. If you weren’t, but still showed signs of life, he would leave you till the next day.
For those who didn’t respond … Greg heard the tales. A crew would take them to the exit and have them buried. This way, no one escaped by playing sick. No medical care of any sort was given, unless you knew someone with folk knowledge. And their help always came with a price.
For someone to ask how he was feeling, he was anywhere but there.
“I can’t see shit,” mumbled Greg. He blinked hard, and yet his vision remained blurry.
“Alright, adjusting sensory inputs,” mumbled the white figure. Greg felt his vision gradually getting sharper, almost like adjusting the focus knob on a pair of binoculars. He blinked twice, and saw ITm4ster and Wesley before him.
“Feeling better?” asked ITm4ster. Unlike the guy he had met back in the 418 labs, the ex- infiltrator now wore the robes of his order. Strapped to his waist was a device that appeared to be some sort of signal interface, with graphs and readings pulsing in several sections.
“Yeah,” Greg tottered slightly as he sat upright. “What happened, anyway?”
Wesley and ITm4ster looked at each other. “You were unconscious. So we treated you.” It was then Greg realised he had wires attached to him. These led to an oscilloscope that had been pilfered right out of a polytechnic, with its inventory control label still affixed. Upon his arm was a tube that was fed with some fluid from a drip bag. Within the same room was another foldout bed with two tanks of oxygen nearby. He was in a sick bay. A pretty high-tech sick bay, in wasteland terms.
“Treated me?” Greg realised he was supposed to be angry about something, but somehow, he felt airy, calm even. “I don’t see any meds around. What did you use?”
“Most symptoms of the body can be interpreted as the direct result of chemical imbalances within,” said ITm4ster. He spoke with the smooth voice and confidence of a doctor. “Responses are also triggered by brain signals, which are little more than electrical pulses. I had therefore adjusted them within the average parameters.”
“You were messing around in my head?” said Greg in alarm. So that’s what all these wires were for. He fumbled with them, despite ITm4ster’s protests. “Are you even a real doctor?”
“Count yourself lucky, outsider,” growled Wesley. “ITm4ster had a minor in Biological Systems before The Storm. You've just undergone treatment only our order is privy to. If it weren’t for the auspices of the Admin, we would leave you out for the 418.”
“What did you guys gas me with anyway?” snorted Greg. The probes were too difficult to remove, so he let ITm4ster pluck them out. “That was rather high-handed.”
“A non-toxic concoction. Things being as they were, you weren’t in any state for conversation. If nothing else, the rest would have done you some good,” said Wesley. He didn’t look at all perturbed. ITm4ster proceeded to draw a surgical tube out of Greg’s arm.
“How long was I out?”
“Close to nine hours.”
“The fuck!” Greg jerked forward. “You mean I lost half a day sleeping it out?”
“You came to our sanctum at two in the morning. It’s eleven now,” said Wesley. “And may I remind you that you weren’t in any state to continue? Not just in terms of anger management, but fatigue and malnourishment. The rest and IV drip helped with that. Besides, the Admin is more than willing to resume where we left off.” The acolyte jerked his head to the door. “Shall we?”
Greg felt he should be angry about being gassed and put through questionable medical procedures without his consent. But much as he hated to admit it, he felt far better than he ever had. Perhaps it was the long-needed rest, or even the unorthodox treatment he had been subjected to. With a nod to ITm4ster, Greg followed Wesley out.
The corridor was lit the same way as the night before, only that the colour of the light source was now a pale yellow rather than dark blue. A day-night simulation program, if Greg was to hazard a guess. A passing acolyte bowed as they passed, but Greg didn’t hold any fantasies of it being accorded to him. Up ahead was a door set in the side; Greg recognised it as the entrance to the cell room. For a moment, he thought he would be put inside the cell again, but Wesley remotely opened the door opposite it.
Like the cell room, this one held none of the frills evident in the corridors or congregation hall. A bare plastic table stood in the centre of the room, with the Admin sitting at the head of it. On the right was what looked to be a two-way mirror looking into a room identical to the one they were in. On closer look, the scene beyond appeared grainy, confirming it was actually a wall-to-wall monitor display. With a start, Greg saw that the kid was seated alone at a table. What appeared to be electronic entertainment devices including a pair of augmented reality googles were scattered throughout its surface. Guo Li did not pay them any attention, however, choosing instead to hug his legs close to his chest, humming a tune that could be heard through the speakers.
“Good morning, Greg,” greeted the Admin, and Greg turned back towards him. “I trust you had a good rest? Have a seat.”
“It appears so, Admin,” said Greg. He could see a faded A*STAR label on the back of his chair as he pulled it out. “It wasn’t like I had any choice in the matter.”
The Admin smiled. “We all do, Greg. And every action begets a reaction. You will find that much of the wasteland would be more brutal in meeting out justice. As long as we’re on the same screen, I’m sure you’ll forgive us for our trespass.” The cult leader inclined his head.
“I guess.”
“Good. It appears that the two of us have our own set of goals. The 418 have your son. They also have in their control an ultra-high capacity server farm. As you can see, my flock are not fighters. We’ll gladly take up arms to defend our beliefs, but are best suited to pursuing the way of the Code.”
“Really.” Greg chanced a look at Wesley. The Guardian merely looked back.
“We
sley is an outlier, and like you, he had also been trained in the arts of war. Before The Storm, he hailed from 9th Signal Battalion, the key communications arm of the SAF. It was his own pursuit of the Code that led him to us after the Crash laid waste to everything. There are few of those alive capable of decrypting the coded radio frequency we broadcasted, and yet he had. We would have been discovered by the 418 if it weren’t in part due to his fortifying of the place. From time to time, he and ITm4ster get us what we need from the outside.”
“What is this place, actually?” said Greg, looking around. “How can the 418 not know it exists?”
The Admin’s eyes flared. “It is a gift from the Code! One does not question it.”
“You expect me to—”
“Leave it, Greg,” said Wesley, and Greg was surprised at his calmness. “Our ways are not privy to those outside it. The Admin’s only wish is to protect his flock.”
“Anyway,” the Admin’s voice now carried an edge, “I know that the 418 had discovered the server no more than a year back. One of their excavation runs of the Barrage area must have yielded it. From what I gather, despite having physical access to the server, they’ve been unable to get past the encryption. Transporting the children there suggests they have need for organic intervention. As I had mentioned in our last meeting, it is possible they’re experimenting on neural interfacing.”
As far as Greg knew, bio-electronic interfacing didn’t exist even in the year leading up to The Storm. It wasn’t possible for the simple reason that the precise electrical signals from electronics weren’t directly compatible with the random impulses of an organic mind. He had read an article in a tech magazine about local researchers in A*STAR extolling the wide potential such a study would have, but that was the last of it. Like everything else, the theory and tech behind it was lost during The Storm.
