by T. K. Malone
“Well,” Croft said, his posture now tense, “Kenny Holmes—”
“Indeed, I can fully understand,” Charm said, waving away the need for an explanation. “Byron Tuttle, though, he may be getting on, but he’s nowhere near as out of shape as our friend Kenny.”
“I was questioning him about this place—about you.”
Charm clapped. “Honesty; fantastic. And tell Kirk why you really detained his men at the entrance.”
“They were armed and unconfirmed.”
“Unconfirmed?”
“As to whether they were hostiles or friendlies.”
“And now?”
Croft hesitated, and Connor knew the commander still hadn’t made up his mind.
“Now…” he said, looking at Kirk. “Now we’re the best of friends.”
Charm hesitated, a bemused look crossing his face which slowly turned to a half smile of intrigue. “Oh, I doubt that.” He looked away from Croft, keenly back on Connor. “You were saying… Sticks, I believe,” he prompted.
Connor stuttered, pulled from his observations.
“Sticks seemed to think that Banks was clearing the surrounding towns, caging people…”
“Caging people for what reason, Connor?”
“To make them slaves,” Connor at last said, and Charm’s laughter soon filled the vast chamber.
4
Connor’s Story
Strike time: plus 5 days
Location: Project Firebird
Connor squeezed Molly’s shoulder. She jerked awake.
“You should get some rest,” he whispered, looking over her at Sticks’ unconscious body. “Has he woken?”
Molly shook her head. “I never even knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That he’d got shot again. I was just running, running scared.” She looked up at Connor. “And yet he still waited till we were inside.”
He squeezed her shoulder again. “Go on, I’ll sit with him.” Molly got up, slowly. Her hand trailed along Sticks’ arm to his hand, then she walked away before pausing at the door.
“Is this it?” she said. “Is this it for us…for him?”
Connor knew Molly was on the edge; he knew because he too was close. “We’ll get through it,” he said, but she remained at the door. “We will,” he insisted.
Molly bit her lip and blinked. “If you say so.” She left. Connor took a deep breath.
Lies; they both knew his words for what they were, but they both also knew those lies were all that held the place together at present. Whispers had spread like a virus, Croft’s defeat being hailed as the start of the end by those who didn’t even know who the commander was. Charm had instructed Connor to deal with it, to settle the unrest, and forced him to go on air.
But for now, he sat in Molly’s seat, staring at the young man who’d saved them.
“I lied to them,” Connor whispered. “Told them it would all be okay. Told them that yes, you’d all had to retreat into the compound, and yes, there’d been a battle outside, but I didn’t tell them with whom.”
Connor ran his fingers through his hair. Sticks just lay there, breathing. He looked vulnerable, Connor thought, too young to die, too vulnerable to live. He hadn’t noticed Sticks’ freckles before, nor quite how red his cropped hair was. And he did look young, so very, very young, but Connor knew he was older than his boyish looks—he had to be. Then he wondered how long Sticks had been away from his family—if he had a family—how old he’d been when The Free World had ‘napped him.
“I lied, Sticks, just plain lied to them. They all think you beat off the Cossacks—think they’re all dead, think this was a defensive move and we’re just recouping.”
Sticks’ eyes flickered open. “But are they calm?” his whispered words stuttered out.
Connor couldn’t help but grin. “Sticks.”
Sticks managed a half smile. “Well?”
“Yeah, they’re calm for now.”
“Then it don’t matter.”
Except my brother would be rolling in his grave, Connor thought. Information had been sacrosanct to Zac. He’d berated Connor time and again for toeing The Free World’s line, for maintaining their propaganda machine. Had the residents of Black City been thankful of those lies as the bombs had dropped? Were things different now? Or were the lies still the same?
“But it does,” Connor muttered, and Sticks barely discernibly nodded.
Connor yawned, a long, deep yawn, the kind which pulls your boots up tight. Sable? His mind drifted back to her. What computer did she need access to? Why wouldn’t or couldn’t she function in here? He looked to the side of Sticks’ bed, to a computer screen set flush in the wall. Reaching out, he placed his palm flat on it and watched for any sign that the dull, gray screen would respond.
Sticks twitched, just slightly, but enough for Connor to pull his hand away.
“No,” he heard Sable’s voice in his mind.
Connor reached once more, pressing his hand again against the plasma screen.
Sticks jerked, stiffened and then slumped back. “What the…” and his voice was stronger than before. He looked at Connor, his eyes searching for an explanation. “What?” he again asked, but Connor wasn’t at all sure what was going on. He’d no experience of Sable having any influence on anything but him.
“I… I don’t…don’t know. Truly, I don’t.” Sticks didn’t question him further, only looked up at the ceiling and shut his eyes for a while, before then repeating, “Then it don’t matter”.
But it did, it did to Connor. Sable was his closest friend, yet she was also a mystery to him. An AI—nothing odd in that—every gridder had one, to one degree or another. Sometimes they were there just to monitor the wearer’s health, or diary, address book and the like. But Sable was so much more than that. She kept Connor on track, offered advice—a sounding board which steered him in every aspect of his life. The last five days had been a challenge for Connor, his first time without her since he’d woken up in that hospital room, all that time before.
Sable would have told him what to say those few hours past, and Connor wouldn’t then have felt any remorse at what he may then have done. Connor blinked his eyes open; he hadn’t realized they’d been closed. Had he really become that reliant on her?
“Thank you,” Sticks said, his eyes still shut. “Whatever you’ve done, thank you.”
Connor said nothing, too busy searching out Sable in his mind, probing, trying to find her. He kept whispering the same question over and over: “Where are you?” Then he realized his hand was still on the screen, and he looked up at the sole ceiling light, seeing it blink, as though it had just been switched on, and he felt his hand pulse and knew Sable was back.
“The soldier Sticks will sleep now. He is healing at an accelerated rate.”
“Sable, what just happened?
“I disabled the jamming signal which was affecting my ability to function. It could only be done from here.”
“From where?”
“From this military area—it has links to the outside.”
“So, you’re back?”
“I never went anywhere.”
“My bloody AI’s back,” Kenny muttered as he dumped his dinner tray down.
Connor looked over at Byron Tuttle. The aged librarian appeared to be stifling a grin but swiftly looked down at his plate and started playing with his food.
As Kenny dumped himself down on the seat next to him, Connor began, “Don’t you—”
“Like him? Need him? No, I don’t. He’s incompetent at best.”
“He?” Byron looked up and across at Kenny. “I’ve always thought it odd they encourage gender assignment to what is, in essence, nothing more than a computer program. That said, most males statistically plunge for a female voice.”
“Really?” Kenny seemed taken aback. “A woman?”
Byron sighed. “A female voice—it’s a computer program,” but Kenny took no notice.
&
nbsp; “What’s yours?” he asked Connor.
“Sable, her name is Sable.”
Byron began to say, “It can’t have—”
“You let a female into your mind? What if you’re…you know…up to stuff?”
“Like Byron says—”
“It’s not a sentient being. They’re not living,” Byron almost fumed, his voice stilted.
Kenny visibly slumped. “All I’m saying is this: whether it’s real or not, living or no, it doesn’t matter. It talks to you, and if it has a female voice then it’s female. How can you have a woman knowing your most private thoughts?”
Byron Tuttle held his head in his hands.
“I never really thought about it,” Connor confessed. “Sable’s voice has always been the same.”
“Well, you must have chosen it when you set it up—from the options menu. They don’t just spring up from nowhere, you know.”
Connor froze, just for a moment, and then laughed, nervously. “Must have,” he said, but then noticed Byron studying him closely. “How can yours be incompetent?” he quickly asked.
Kenny rolled his eyes. “Where do I start?” He leaned in. “No common sense,” he whispered. “None of them. Sure, they’re AIs, the most intelligent computer programs man has yet invented, but…” Kenny appeared to lose his train of thought.
“But what?” asked Byron.
“Well, the clue’s in what I just said: ‘Man’ invented it. The AI can only be as intelligent as the person who programmed it.” He looked around. “An idiot must have done mine,” Kenny murmured.
“Don’t take this the wrong way.” Byron reared up. “But you’re the idiot, Mr. Holmes, and why are you whispering?”
Kenny waved Byron’s proclamation away. “Idiot or not, I don’t want to upset him.”
“But he’s in your head.”
“Yes, well…”
“What’s yours?” Connor asked Byron.
Byron pushed his plate away. “I don’t have one,” and he tapped the side of his head. “Photographic memory—no need.”
Kenny furrowed his brow. “But what about your health? Maps? Stuff like that. What about them?”
Byron raised an eyebrow. “Maps? When I lived on a uniform grid? What part of photographic memory don’t you understand? And as for health, I am perfectly fine. No, I wasn’t permitted an implant.”
“Not permitted? Had you done something wrong?” Kenny’s spilled out, as though it were a challenge.
Byron sighed. “No, nothing wrong, but it caused some disquiet among those in the city and the governments' hierarchy. They just didn’t want the risk.”
“Risk?” Connor asked.
Byron turned to him. Connor returned his stare. “An AI, Mr. Clay, with access to my memory—and a memory, Connor—with access to all the information The Free World had ever accrued. Can you see now?”
“I doubt mine can even read,” said Kenny.
“Oh, dear God,” Byron said, and got up. “Connor, I’ve a mind to search out Commander Croft. Have you the time to accompany me?”
Before Connor could reply, Kenny waved him on. “Go on, you go. I’ll set everything up and run the afternoon’s recordings—no one’ll know you’re not there.”
Connor nodded and left with Byron.
“You know he’s an imbecile, don’t you?” Byron said as they walked along the corridor.
“He helps out, and I don’t think he’s the fool he makes himself out to be.”
“No?” and Byron appeared truly surprised. “What do you think his function is, then?”
“Function?”
“Reason. What’s his reason for being selected? Assuming there was some kind of elimination process during which The Free World chose who was to survive and who wasn’t, why do you think he beat nine million other folk?”
Put like that, Connor really did have to wonder, but then he had been wondering about himself, as well. He told Byron as much. Byron stopped by the stairwell down to the military area. “I always assumed you knew why you were picked. In fact, I’m not even sure you were. It’s no coincidence we met on the first day…night, whatever it was at the time. It’s no coincidence we found the military area. If you believe both of those statements, then Kenny Holmes can be no mistake, either.” He held the door open for Connor. “We just don’t know why.”
“Have you any theories?” said Connor, taking the steps down two at a time.
“Only one.”
“And?”
“We have the highest of the high in here, Connor—leaders in their fields, whatever those fields may be. A gene pool the like of which the earth has never seen.” They got to the bottom of the steps and walked through the doorway into the deserted third floor. “Someone has to average it out, someone, Connor.” Byron chuckled his way along the next corridor.
Croft looked over his desk at them. His office was small and spartan, smaller but perhaps a little less spartan with all three of them squeezed in. Like everything else in the military area, it was olive green: floors, walls, ceilings. “Settling in?” he said in answer to their inquiry. “Fairly well, considering.”
“I still can’t quite make any sense of it,” Byron said, and then relaxed in his seat and crossed his legs.
Tapping his fingers on the desk, Croft seemed to form his reply carefully. “Orders, Mr. Tuttle, rarely make sense, especially those surrounding an event like the end of civilization. Ours were clear: to protect these coordinates and the gate’s entrance at all costs—from everyone. Once the ‘event’ was over, we would be afforded entrance and sanctuary. The bunkers, lookout posts, everything, had already been constructed while the place was being built. The transition from an engineering role to one of guard duty went so smoothly, we didn’t question it. We just watched the coaches roll in and out. It never occurred to me to even go through the entrance—indeed, I’d not a clue as to whether I was cleared to do so or not, not before the event.”
“So—”
“Mr. Tuttle, you answer me a question. Why should I tell you anything? What clearance do you have? Apart from an apparent free rein to roam around, given—no doubt—by Josiah Charm.”
Byron smiled. “Perhaps you’d be wiser to take orders from a librarian rather than a military which attacks its own soldiers?”
Croft inclined his head. “A valid point.”
“Let me answer your question with another,” Byron continued. “Why am I here? I offer no skills like Molly—you met her briefly—she was the microbiologist. Should we all get out of this alive, I'll guess Molly will be in great demand. Connor, well, his talent is useful for now, though I think he’ll eventually have to find something more to offer. Kenny? Kenny is a bad example, but we have engineers, computer specialists, framework analysts, every conceivable person we’d need to create a new city—a new and functioning world—not as advanced as the last, but certainly a good leg up. So, why me?”
“You said you’d answer.”
Byron stroked his bald dome and then tapped his head. “You’d think it would be the accumulated knowledge of countless books, wouldn’t you? But, Commander, you could store that on a chip the size of a dust mite. No, I think I’m here solely because I despise mankind.”
“Despise…mankind?”
“Indeed. An AI can’t fathom anything but logical reasoning. Put the illogical in front of it and it will attempt to make it into a logical premise—which we both know is impossible. Why were you left outside? Surely common sense would have seen you stationed both inside and out. You wouldn’t, after all, defend a castle by leaving all your soldiers on the outside, to get slaughtered, now, would you?” Byron tapped his temple. “I think I’m here to figure that out, and to do that, you have to answer my questions.”
Croft stood, letting out a huge sigh. “Coffee?”
Both Connor and Byron nodded, and Croft went and opened the metal door to his spartan office and called out for some. “Order,” he then said, “is gradually evolving here. Sometimes
the military takes a while to get used to a new place, new corridors to march down, new areas to protect. We are the oil in the machine, not the machine itself. The oil needs to find all the nooks and crannies before the machine can work.” He then sat back behind his desk.
Byron let loose a small chuckle. “Are you shedding yourself of all responsibility? I don’t believe that garbage for a second. Where did your orders come from?”
“Assuming I’m answering your questions?”
“Assuming so, yes.”
Croft cupped his chin and slowly rubbed it. “You are, of course, versed in the structure of the army, in the difference between state and federal?”
“I am, but maybe Connor isn’t.”
“Connor, The State Defense Force has no ties with The Free World army. Our name comes from the old and now long-defunct states. When the grid cities closed themselves away, the SDF altered too. Our job became superfluous, and so we were reassigned. The federal army, on the other hand, what with its perpetual overseas wars, had little in the way of resources to ‘protect’ the grid cities, to safeguard the homeland, and so we took over that role. So, you see, there’s our problem, our conundrum.”
Connor felt a familiar sense of distraction. It came from the reassuring feeling of the duality of thought he was used to sharing with Sable, and he knew she too was digesting the commander’s words. It lent him more confidence, and once more he wondered at his symbiotic relationship with her.
“Banks isn’t supposed to be here,” Connor said.
Croft smiled.
Byron muttered, “Especially not at this time, not now, not when The Free World is on its knees.”
“Indeed,” Croft said. “If anything, it’s the last place he should be. Black City has no strategic land value to an invading force. Tell me, Byron, what would you imagine the Free World army would be doing at the moment?”
The coffees arrived, and Croft received them, soon doling them out. After taking a sip of his own, Byron openly considered the question. “I can think of a few thousand places that Banks’ own aims might be better served. Plus, the nearest federal base is over a hundred miles away, and its main function is training. So, two conclusions: either Banks was ordered here in advance, or he was already waiting near here.”
