The Chronotrace Sequence- The Complete Box Set

by D J Edwardson

  Relief washed over Gavin that Darius was still alive, but it was followed immediately by a cold realization. This is the man who will equalize my thoughts in the next flat-line. All the years we’ve known each other won’t matter when it comes time to make the decision. He won’t understand. He’ll think I’m a deviant, a threat to the Collective.

  Seeing Darius’ body infused Gavin with a sense of desperation. If anyone knew a way out of his situation it would be Darius. He knew the esolace better than anyone. Was there some sort of loop hole or back door around the flat-lines which Gavin didn’t know about? A rash plan formed in Gavin’s mind: he would connect to Darius’ subconscious thoughts.

  It was expressly forbidden to make that kind of connection with another Developer, but Gavin had nothing to lose. They were going to equalize him if he didn’t do something.

  He knew he didn’t have much time, so he accessed the first memory he could find, the one from Darius’ thoughts just before he’d blacked out.

  The storm had thrown Darius into a panic. Not again, he thought. He attempted to send a mental message out across the esolace. This is Darius. I need a lev sent to my location immediately. A storm has hit.

  The next moment he lost consciousness. There was nothing unusual about the message at first glance, but when Gavin checked to see what channel he had been sending it on he discovered it was something called the miasma channel. Gavin had never heard of it.

  That’s strange. As a Developer, he had access to every single channel on the esolace. At least he thought he did. Diving further into the memory, the details about this unknown channel soon became clear.

  The miasma channel was essentially another level of the esolace which existed above and beyond the access channels used by the Developers. In the same way in which the memorants used hidden administrative channels to monitor and manipulate other members of the Collective, the miasma channel could be used to do the same with the Developers. Darius had been using it to control the rest of the Devs without anyone knowing. He had access to everything.

  Rifling through his mentor’s mind, memories of Darius using the channel to manipulate the thoughts of others rushed by—as he sat in the command center, as he rested in his living quarters, as he passed a Dev in the hall. A wave and a nod and then—the thought, whatever it was Darius wanted to get rid of, was gone. Gavin had always known Darius was the most skilled memorant amongst the Developers, but this? This was beyond imagination.

  At first, the discovery filled Gavin with rage—then fear. He realized that once Darius awoke he would use the miasma channel to erase Gavin’s knowledge of it. He would continue controlling the Devs, and through them the entire Collective, exactly as he had before.

  But then another possibility occurred to him. While he remained unconscious, Darius’ mind was completely open. That was why it was expressly forbidden to connect to the mind of another Developer in this way. A Dev could unlock whatever memory he wanted, just like they did in a flat-line. But as a memorant, Gavin could take it a step further. He could manipulate someone's thoughts as well, change them as he saw fit, even create new ones.

  Gavin could transfer the knowledge of the miasma channel to his own mind and erase it from his mentor’s. He didn’t stop to think it over. The assessors would arrive to investigate what he’d found at any moment. He would never get another chance like this.

  Expertly moving through Darius’ thoughts, Gavin did what a memorant does best, he changed the past, reworking Darius’ memories and thoughts. As the assessors arrived and Darius awoke, no one realized what he had done. No one ever would.

  “Where am I?” Darius wondered, but then his vision came back into focus. “The ridge. The storm. It’s over now.”

  “Yes, Darius,” Gavin replied. “It’s all over now. Everything will be all right.”

  One of the assessors called for a lev to be sent to their position while the others helped Darius to his feet.

  Gavin sat back as the assessors applied proto-viand strips to wounds to accelerate the healing process.

  By the time the lev arrived, Gavin had made up his mind about what he needed to do. He returned with the others to the Institute and said good-bye to Darius.

  “Thank you for saving me,” Darius told him. He rarely spoke out loud and the emotion in his voice was genuine, but Gavin could see through the miasma channel that it was selfish pride which fueled his feelings. Darius counted survival as the highest good and his personal survival highest of all. Gavin had risen in Darius’ estimation for his actions, but he could just as easily fall tomorrow if he did something which threatened what Darius valued.

  Gavin nodded and walked into the hall, keeping his observations to himself. He had other matters to attend to. He hurried towards the Command Center and sat down in one of the black, polymeric chairs. Closing his eyes, he let his mind roam free across the esolace using the miasma channel to remain unnoticed. One by one, he visited the minds he found there: Malthus, Cyrith, all of the other Developers. Each mind he touched he reformed with the information he wanted it to have. He left none of them unchanged. It was Gavin’s great equalization.

  He erased all knowledge of his existence from their memories. He knew he could no longer stay in Oasis and he did not want them coming for him after he left.

  Then he eliminated any references to the Remapping Initiative, effectively shutting down the program in a matter of moments and, he hoped, protecting the Werin people from the Developers forever.

  There was one last thing he needed to do before leaving Oasis. Since somatarchs had proven somewhat ineffective in harvesting Werin from the desert—they ended up killing roughly half of the potential subjects they encountered—the scientists had decided to try and infuse the Werin themselves with bioseines and send them out in small groups to infiltrate their settlements. But the program was just getting started and only a single Werin had been operated on to date. With the Remapping stopped, he would no longer have a purpose. And he did not belong in Oasis anyway. So Gavin erased all knowledge of the Werin’s presence from the esolace as well. He was going to save the Werin and he was going to start today.

  He rose serenely from his chair and walked through the Annex. Entering the Institute, he made his way to the chamber where the Werin was being held. With his zoelith, he roused the unconscious man from stasis, extending his hand towards him.

  “You need to come with me,” Gavin said.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “My name is Gavin.”

  There was a pause as the two regarded each other. The Werin’s eyes glowed bright with gratitude.

  “I’m Will,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Invisible to the rest of Oasis, they walked out of the Institute together, past the perfectly engineered streets and buildings, past the ever vigilant units of assessors and squads of somatarchs, and out into the storm-ridden desolation of the Vast.

  Twenty-Five

  The Eyes of Dead Men

  A soft scraping noise in the compound snapped Adan out of Gavin’s memories.

  He only had a vague notion he had actually even heard it. The memories were still so fresh in his mind he half-expected it was Gavin coming back from Oasis with Will. But as Adan came to his senses, his present surroundings reasserted themselves. He and Will were resting in the compound and Gavin was somewhere out in the Vast.

  As Adan lay there, the knowledge that it had been Gavin who had rescued Will settled into his mind. Will had said that the person who rescued him from Oasis was dead, but Gavin was very much alive. Maybe he had some reason for saying it, but Adan wondered why he had lied.

  Again Adan heard something outside. It sounded like fabric flapping in the wind, but the noise was quickly swallowed by the wind brushing against the walls of the shelter. Maybe one of the tarps had come loose. Was another storm coming on?

  As if confirming his fears, a breeze wafted across his face. Though it was pitch black, he realized that th
e door to the shelter must have slipped open.

  He was just about to reach over to see if Will had gotten up in the middle of the night when a tremendous weight came crashing down on top of him. He tried to free himself, but powerful hands grabbed hold of him.

  Then the weight on top of him flew away. He was flipped over and slammed face down on the canvas bedding. His captors jerked his hands behind his back and clamped them together with something stiff and rubbery. Then they did the same to his feet.

  They dragged him across the shelter floor onto the sand outside, raking his face in the grit.

  Sounds of a struggle erupted inside the shelter. Will shouted once and then the noises ceased, followed by the gritty scraping of another body dragged out onto the ground nearby.

  Adan managed to roll over and work himself into a sitting position. He could make out the occasional sounds of movement, but most of it was masked by the wind.

  He reached out to Will with his mind, but his thoughts echoed back to him. Will was probably unconscious. At least Adan hoped that was the reason.

  “Will, where are you?” he whispered into the darkness.

  He received a vicious blow to the chest in reply. The impact left him writhing on the ground and gasping for breath. He sputtered and choked for several long, terrifying moments until, at last, he snatched a gulp of air into his lungs.

  As he lay there heaving, he tried his best not to think about the pain. He wanted to cry out, but he dared not make a sound, fearing another blow. After his breathing settled down and the pain quieted to a dull ache, he forced himself to sit up again. He squirmed his way back up and leaned against what must have been one of the barrels. The wind was dying down, but the only thing he could hear was the sound of shallow breathing. Something told him it was Will. It had to be.

  He tried tugging on the clamps binding his wrists, but the material had no give whatsoever. While he struggled silently, his captors moved about in the dark, overturning barrels and ransacking the shelter. Things went on like that for a while until the light of day made a feeble attempt at brightening the world around him. At last he was able to make out the outline of Will’s prone body and the dark shapes moving about the compound. There were four of them. Three were rifling through Will’s supplies and equipment. The other one was keeping a silent vigil over Adan and Will.

  As the light grew gradually stronger, Adan saw that the figures were dressed like Waymen, but he soon came to doubt that they were. None of them spoke to each other and the one standing guard, who was directly in front of Adan, did not even move. He stood in mute watch over the prisoners, still as stone. It was unnerving.

  They had to be somatarchs.

  Fighting against the churning fear in his gut, he stared at the figure in front of him, looking for signs that his intuitions were wrong.

  When the figure’s eyes became visible, he lost all hope that they were human. It was as if the eyes were still caught in the nighttime light. Anatomically, they looked like any other eyes, but they lacked that spark of life which all other eyes possess. Adan imagined this must be what it was like to look into the face of a dead man. What he saw sent a shudder through him.

  He forced himself to look away. After he first locked eyes with the somatarch, he never looked directly at them again.

  From that look he knew he was in the presence of something that had no regard for human life—a cold, dispassionate, pitiless thing. Before he had seen its eyes, he had thought about the possibility of escape. Now he knew they either meant to kill him or take him back to Oasis. In Adan’s mind, there was little difference between the two.

  Without warning, the somatarch lurched forward. It had been still for so long that Adan jumped from the shock of it. In a blur, the somatarch was down on one knee beside him, staring into his face. It was so close Adan could smell the stench of it. If looking into its eyes had been like seeing a dead man, perhaps this was the smell of death as well.

  “Who are you?” it said, speaking quickly. Its voice was deep, but the words, while not exactly monotone, lacked any meaningful inflection.

  Adan was almost as shocked at its having spoken as he was when it moved. He began to tremble, thinking that his moment had finally come.

  “Tell me who you are,” it demanded in the same passionless tone.

  “I—I’m—I’m Adan,” he mumbled.

  “Where is the Wayman camp?” the somatarch fired back.

  Adan shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking—”

  The somatarch did not wait for him to finish. Its arms shot out and it grabbed him. Before Adan knew what was happening it wrenched him upwards into a standing position.

  Another one of the somatarchs whipped out a large cloak from its satchel and threw it over Adan’s head. Adan jerked backwards, but they grabbed him on either side so he couldn’t move. Their fingers dug into his bones.

  “Wait,” Adan pleaded. “What are you doing?"

  They pulled the cloak down around the rest of his body and tied it around his shoulders and feet so that he had even less freedom to move than before. They yanked the hood down over his face, but the fabric had tiny little holes which allowed some visibility, though everything was hazy and blurred.

  Wrapped inside the cloak, one of the somatarch’s hefted him onto its shoulders and shot forward, as if Adan were nothing more than one of Will’s canvas sacks. It bounded out of the compound and into the dimly lit wastes.

  Adan may not have been able to see much of his surroundings, but he had no doubt about where they were going: they were taking him back to Oasis. Though that was where Will had been trying to get back to all along, Adan was certain this was not the way he had planned on returning.

  Adan’s second journey into the desert was far different from his first. He had been desperate with hunger then, but at least he had had the hope of finding food and water. There would be no such relief at the end of this journey.

  Though he had passed out from exhaustion during the last trek, he would have preferred to be walking on his own again this time. The rancid stench of the somatarchs was overwhelming at first, but somehow he learned to tolerate it over time. The chaffing of the cloak against his skin was another matter. It grew worse the longer they traveled, rubbing his skin raw.

  He hoped Will was not suffering as much as he was, but he had no way of knowing. He still couldn’t connect to his mind and dared not call out to him. From time to time he could make out Will’s form on the shoulders of one of the other somatarchs, wrapped up just like he was, and he knew that at least they were still together.

  The somatarchs kept up an amazing pace considering they were carrying such burdens. Adan didn’t see how they could sustain it, but they never seemed to slow. They only stopped once a day to apply viand strips to themselves and their prisoners and to swap out Adan and Will onto a fresh set of shoulders.

  They pressed on, even through the night. How they could tell where they were going in the absolute darkness he did not know, but they kept the same pace even in the dark, relentlessly pushing towards their destination.

  Despite the endless jostling and rubbing, Adan managed to sleep for short stints at a time. It was never very restful and he always felt just as tired when he woke up as he did before he dozed off, but he was thankful to at least escape the miseries of the journey for a short time.

  When awake, he distracted himself with thoughts of Senya and the children. He tried to imagine them in a safe place, far away, where the somatarchs could never find them. He recalled the aroma of their hogar, the light in Lila’s eyes, and the feel of the cool rag Senya had used to wash his face. And he remembered Senya’s words, ‘Everything in the end, is passing’.

  Oh, how I want to believe that, he thought.

  But as the journey wore on, the words sounded more and more hollow.

  Twenty-Six

  A Tempest of Men

  Towards the end of his fourth day with the somatarchs, a shril
l cry jarred Adan awake. His captors came to a stop, standing perfectly still in their unnerving way.

  Adan listened anxiously, but heard nothing for a long time beyond the low, gentle whispering of the wind.

  At length another cry rang out across the desert. This time it was answered by several others, far off, but coming from different directions. As if the somatarchs had been waiting for this, they sprang into motion. If Adan thought they had traveled swiftly before, they now seemed to almost fly across the dunes. The rapid clip meant that Adan’s body was tossed and banged about more than ever. The cloak raked back and forth across his sores and he cried out it pain, but of course there was no one to help him.

  Shouts in the distance followed, accompanied by the slowly growing rumble of many feet pounding against the sand. It sounded as if dozens of people were converging on their position at a dead run. Soon, the noises surrounded them.

  The somatarchs relaxed their pace and came to a halt once again. The day was almost spent, but in the dying light hazy forms closed in around them. The approaching men came to a stop twenty paces or more from where the somatarchs stood. They looked like they were dressed in the desert gear of the Waymen, but the light wasn’t strong enough to say for sure. A low murmur ran through the surrounding group. Several of them broke off and advanced to within a few paces. The strangers were breathing heavily. One of them spoke.

  “Hail, shivs!” The man’s voice was so hoarse it sounded little better than a cough. The words were in a strange language Adan had never heard before, yet he somehow understood them. He had no idea how this could be, but he had no time to consider it.