The Last Server
Page 20
The Shoppes was deemed a potential threat as it was a breeding ground for the Mindless. Now that the Old Guard and the Brotherhood had the ammunition production lines of the 418, it was a matter of bringing enough men, weapons and ammo to clean the mall up. It took the better part of two days, including some newly-formulated flamethrowers and firebombs, but no one could deny that with its neverending stretches and natural light in its interior, The Shoppes was prime real estate for anyone looking to settle, being far more spacious than the cramped interiors of Citylink. Within a year, half of the old shops had been converted to living quarters, and was renamed Marina New Town, in the tradition of housing estates before The Storm.
Greg was an honoured resident of the Sanctum, The Utopia and The City. He held the honorary titles of Mediator and Peacekeeper, serving as a bridge between the common people and their leaders. Though he spent the first three years in The City in order to raise Guo Li, he regularly travelled among the different settlements and helped where he could. Often it was water and land disputes, but occasionally, there were external threats that had to be addressed. Bandit gangs new and old still posed a problem, along with rogue pockets of 418 loyalists.
Guo Li’s upbringing had been mostly taken care of by the late Major Shang. His fierce desire to serve the community meant that it was all Greg could do to prevent him from being overzealous. Out of necessity, children grew up quickly in the wasteland. By the time he was 14, he was going on perimeter duty with the rest of the men, even participating in two of the raids on bandits holed up in the old Haw Par Villa theme park and the PSA Vista building. Guo Li thus became a valued soldier among the ranks of the Old Guard, and despite wishing to keep him safe, Greg knew he wouldn’t have been happy anywhere else.
The BOC were also in the process of modifying surviving smartphones and tablets to receive satellite signals. So far, only key personnel in the communities such as Greg had them and they were used mainly for status updates and emergency communications. Greg received a message one day while he was inspecting the outdoor sanitation at Marina New Town. People had been using the nearby Singapore River as both a source of water and dumping area for their waste, and Greg was discussing plans with the community leaders to limit unnecessary access to the river.
“Hang on,” Greg said to the foreman. He took out his RugGear phone and thumbed the screen on. A white envelope showed at the top of his screen. Rather surprised, as none of the communities had SMS functionality yet, Greg opened the message.
Greg’s finger hovered over the green Call button. He had experienced enough crap in his lifetime to know that it was always a bad idea to return a call to an unknown caller. There were enough phone scams from before The Storm, and they may have experienced a resurgence the moment some semblance of technology returned to the world.
Another message popped up. < Not a scam, Greg.>
So this person knew his name. Even if it was a disgruntled 418 soldier bent on giving him an expletive-filled threat, he could get this over and done with. Pressing the Call Back button, Greg braced himself and listened. There wasn’t a dial tone, given that the signal wasn’t transmitted by a standard phone network, so Greg wondered if he was doing it right.
It’s so peaceful here.
Greg dropped the phone, cursing as he did. The foreman and his assistants looked back at Greg, and the Peacekeeper waved to show it was nothing. He gingerly picked up the phone. Still working, though, so Greg placed it against his ear.
Your face was a riot, you know that? came the amused voice from before.
“Wesley?” gasped Greg. For years, he had believed the acolyte had passed on, never to speak again. “What’s going on? How can you see me? Where are you?”
So quick to ask. So many questions, laughed the voice. As always, I have been in The Cloud. You will forgive me if I didn’t speak to you earlier, but until my old fraternity had restored the more mundane means of human communication, I had no way of getting in touch with you. Besides, I have been busy.
Greg wondered what anyone could possibly be busy with if they had gone over to the other side. But then, Wesley was as hardworking in death as in life, as his exploits following the incident with the server had shown.
If you were wondering how I could see your impression of a comedian, it was through the selfie camera on your brick of a phone, continued Wesley.
Greg snorted. “RugGear phones were built to last. But enough about me. How are you doing there?” Greg gave a pause. “And how’s Jin?”
Jin has been left to his own devices. In The Cloud, we of the Flesh-Free are able to go where we please, explained Wesley. We are neither master nor slave. You have to let your son go, Greg, or such wishes will consume you. I believe Guo Li is well? The communications logs say that much.
“You can access our signals?” asked Greg. That didn’t sound secure.
Each and every member of the Brotherhood has a unique network footprint. Given that I am something of a divinity, the Administrator himself allowed me full access. This way, I can make improvements regarding latency and connection issues.
“Can’t have the internet hanging when someone accesses a webpage, right?” Greg said. He could, however, hear the hint of a sigh in Wesley’s voice. “Is there anything wrong, Wesley?”
There was a pause so long, that Greg thought Wesley had disconnected. When he next spoke, it was wistful and weary, as if he had travelled a long way.
In my time in The Cloud, I have seen and learnt so many things. I have travelled through network directories to data stores displaying information I had never envisaged the human race to be capable of creating even fifty years from now. But in one directory exists a link to a file that could mean the difference between life and death on Earth. That file is not in the interconnected satellite network, and appears to have been moved some time after The Storm happened. And the network signature responsible for that has not been created by any computer program written by man.
“So … what exactly are you saying?” Greg asked.
Someone had set the file to move itself when a catastrophe of unprecedented scale occurs. Each and every device, be it a laptop or smartphone, leaves a unique network signature that can be traced back to its origin. The fact that this wasn’t created by a human computer suggests these are beings we don’t know of. They moved a very rare and important file that defined the human race in its extremities. If that file remains lost, who’s to say what could happen when another Storm claims everyone? There’ll be no one left to do anything about it.
“Wesley, what is on that file?” asked Greg quietly. The transcended acolyte’s voice was deathly serious, and Greg knew this to be no laughing matter.
The file is gone, but the contents description that remains in the link directory indicates it shows the Past, Present and Future. Greg, when I accessed the directory, it set off an alert to multiple recipients, to whom, I don’t know. But they aren’t of this world. There’re going to be others on the trail of this file, and you cannot allow them to have it!
Greg felt a deep trepidation rising within him. Around him, people went about their normal lives, believing they would be forever safe from those who would take their freedom from them. Parents were showing their children how to set up water catchment devices before the sun set, and a carpenter and his apprentice were building a seesaw for the community playground. And now Wesley was telling him all this was for naught.
“Wesley, who are after the file?” asked Greg. “If not people, then who?”
Beings not of this world. Aliens. Wesley’s voice sounded frantic.
“Wesley, let’s be logical here. You and I know that aliens don’t exist.” Greg’s voice now had an edge to it.
No one believed The Storm would ever happen, but it did, argued Wesley. Is it really so difficult to believe? Out of the billions upon billions of galaxies, not to mention planets, wh
at are the chances that Earth is the only one capable of sustaining life? Has it occurred to you that there are beings much greater and superior in technology, who have been observing us from the very start? They might even have caused The Storm. Greg, if the world is to come to an end again, don’t you want to know when it may happen? It’s not just a duty to yourself, the Old Guard, the Brotherhood, or even the community at large. The human race depends on it. You have to find the file before those who wish the human race harm gets hold of it—
Wesley’s voice died in a crackle of static so loud that Greg yelled, almost dropping his phone as he drew it away. He forced himself to listen, and thought he could hear garbled screams in the static. And then a disembodied voice came, a voice with an intonation that was a mix of animal and machine, and could not have been vocalised by a human throat.
Your time will come.
Greg’s phone indicated a new message, and he quickly opened it. Upon it a series of numbers and parentheses, a pattern that Greg recognised as longitude and latitude. That was where the file might be. That was where he had to find the last remnant that gave a clue to how the Future might be shaped. He had to summon the Commander of the Old Guard and the Administrator, where they might discuss a plan of action, and perhaps even contribute men to a task bigger than any of his previous undertakings. They may even have to get the help of the ex-navy personnel and skilled labour to build a boat that would be able to take him to these coordinates. Perhaps even an entire fleet to bring several specialist teams with him.
But one thing Greg knew for sure. The future had never looked so bleak, and The Storm was merely the beginning.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Last Server was birthed forth from an idea I had in 2013, and it is with much joy that I'm finally been able to see it in print. Just like Greg's journey across post-apocalyptic Singapore, not every journey is completed alone. I would thus like to take the opportunity to thank the follow individuals who helped make this book possible.
Chris Mooney-Singh and Savinder Singh, who organised the Mentor Access Programme, during which I completed the manuscript. Without the MAP, I might never have completed the first draft of the novel.
Desmond Kon, who mentored me during the entirety of the MAP. His suggestions and analysis of my draft helped me consider the best way to introduce events in the novel.
The Arts House for sending my work for editorial feedback at Textures 2019.
Anita Teo and She-reen Wong of Marshall Cavendish who gave me the chance of having my first novel published.
My friend, Ellery, who accompanied me on my field trip around Marina Bay to research possible location scenes in The Last Server, let me bounce story ideas off him and helped read through the first draft.
My cousin Kheng Wee who gave feedback on the first draft.
National Arts Council, who allowed me and the other mentees of MAP the opportunity to give a book reading in SWF 2016, and to be a featured author at SWF 2019.
My mother who first introduced me to the Singapore Writer's Festival. She also backed me by means of never discouraging and reminding me my writing wasn't a complete waste of time.
Last but not least, to all you dear readers, who are willing to accompany Greg and I on this journey.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
H.J. Pang has been writing since 2007. After proving his worth for two years in the Singapore army, H.J. got a degree in mechanical design and spent some time as a design engineer. He is currently working on his Master’s thesis involving thermal damage in carbon fibre. While not doing experiments and writing research papers, H.J. is traipsing around the country, writing whenever he can while travelling in one of two forms of public transportation.