by T. K. Malone
“There are some things I need you to do.”
6
Connor’s Story
Strike time: plus 7 days
Location: Project Firebird
Byron Tuttle peered through the crack of the door he’d opened shortly after Connor’s knock.
“Sable says—” Conner began.
“Still referring to a computer program by a name, Connor?” Byron muttered, sleepily. “What do you want?”
“Sable says—”
“Whatever Sable says, can’t she say it in about an hour? It’s the middle of the… It’s the middle of something; difficult to say down here.”
“It’s eight twenty-two in the morning.”
Byron scoffed and opened the door fully. He was wearing a pair of jogging bottoms, from which his wispy torso emerged, too thin for his bulbous head. His skinny arms made him appear almost insect-like. “Coffee, then perhaps, though did you know it has no additives which keep you awake now? AIs, Connor, they sense it entering your body and up your orexin levels. Come in, come in.” He turned away from the door and into his little room. “It has a similar effect, makes you alert and all that. Why do you think my moods are so damn flat? Might as well make us a couple while I get dressed.” He stopped and tapped his temple. “No AI, no buzz from coffee, no kick from synthetic alcohol, no nothing. Now we’re off the grid, you’d think we could get some of the real stuff, wouldn’t you? Maybe Molly could grow me the ingredients—I know how to make it all.” He paused. “Moonshine; that’s what they used to call it, moonshine. I could make moonshine. Turn away, or the next bit will be quite frightening. These open-plan spaces don’t allow for much privacy.”
Connor turned away and rifled the kitchenette, looking for what he needed. “What’s the point, then?” he asked.
“Point?”
“In having a coffee?”
“I like the taste. There, I’m decent. Now, just what did Sable need to tell me that was so urgent?” He paused and slowly shook his head. “You’ve got me at it now.”
Connor passed him his coffee. “She wants to know if the plans for this place ever crossed your desk. Don’t ask me why. You were hardly in the building department.”
“Sit, Connor.” Byron took his coffee and sat on the couch. “You gridders never did ask any real questions, and if you did, you normally ended up in the correctional. Librarian, Connor, was a title I chose. It’s an old word for a keeper of books, or more accurately, the curator of a library. Books, as you may or may not know, fizzled out a long time ago. Everything, Connor, everything passed over my desk. Plans for this place… What do they call it? Project Firebird, I believe.” He sipped his coffee. “Do you have a cigarette?”
Connor pulled out his packet and lighter. “Do these make you mellow?”
Byron flicked him a glance. “Don’t you listen?” then he lit his smoke. “The ones your brother brought in, yes.”
“You knew Zac?”
“One of his regulars. Saw you a couple of times—when you visited him. I saw you, but you wouldn’t have noticed me.”
“Can’t recall—”
Byron waved his comment away. “No, no, I didn’t seek to be noticed. I liked him, though, Zac, and the big fellow, Billy Flynn. Your brother asked me a similar question to yours, and on more than one occasion. His request was the old sewer layouts, the supply line plans, that sort of thing. I’d imagine it gave him the upper hand in keeping ahead of Charm’s dogs, though they didn’t bark so hard.”
“Maybe he hid in them—survived the blast.”
Byron took a draw on his smoke. “You know that can’t be the case. Your AI, Sable, would have already informed you of the odds of his survival.” Patting Connor’s knee, he said, “If anyone could have wangled a pass though, Zac and Billy would have found a way. And yes, I do recall seeing details about this place. Mostly requisitions, feasibility studies, strata analysis, that sort of thing, and mostly to make sure the files were collated, the paths checked, and the trail deleted. The word librarian was not an accurate title. My job was to destroy and erase.”
“Except…”
Byron tapped his head again. “Exactly. And it was something that confused me for a long while. Why, Connor, why was, or even am—I tolerated? I’ve come to some conclusions on that. Firstly, Josiah Charm was the one instrumental in making sure I was placed where I was, many years ago. He also arranged the removal of my implant—though they were fairly primitive back then.”
“He told me he didn’t trust you with an AI.”
“And that’s why you shouldn’t trust Charm. I’ll bet with a different breath he said he didn’t think AIs were real, were at all useful or had ever really been used. Charm has been a politician for so long, sometimes he can’t even follow his own lies.”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
Byron looked surprised. “Go on.”
Connor tried to find the words, but each time they seemed wrong.
“Just spit it out—simple is best,” Byron assured him.
“I think he confuses on purpose. I think he muddles you so you start doubting what you think.”
Byron pointed at Connor. “Damn right. That’s just what he does. There’s a word for it, but photographic memory or not, I just can’t think of it at the moment—gas-something, lighting, lamping; something like that. But yes, damn straight, that’s just what he does.” Byron chuckled. “Yet why, when we’re here, at the end of the world, why are we still following his way? True, we’d be dead by now without him, or on the other hand, would we be even more alive?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Two birds on a stoop, Connor, one’s in a cage, one’s on a rail. The one in the cage brags: ‘Look at my nice shiny cage; it keeps me free from the cats, the eagles and the snakes. None of them can sneak up and hurt me.’ The other bird looks at him and simply says: ‘But you can’t fly…’ The grid city, cities, Connor, they were nothing more than cages the gridders put around themselves all those years ago, and people like Charm have kept them looking pretty, kept the wires polished. He does that by feeding misinformation. Why would you think a petty thing like total destruction would stop him?”
“So, what do we do?”
“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but we follow your AI. She—and I can’t believe I just said that, either—she seems to be the only one with any ideas.”
“Sable?”
“Sable. What does she want me to do?”
“You want to do what?” Commander Croft muttered.
Connor leaned on the balcony railing beside Byron, looking out over the loading area, across at the gates. “I want to borrow Sticks and a couple of soldiers who can keep their mouths shut.”
“Sticks is still in the medical area.”
“No, I’m not, sir ,” said Sticks, emerging from a doorway behind them, Molly beside him. “Feeling okay. Not quite one hundred percent, but not quite as bad as I expected, given everything…”
Croft raised his eyebrows. “Remarkable. And you, Byron, what part do you play? And Kenny, Kenny Holmes, is he a part of this little plan?”
“He’ll be along. We’re trying to keep a tight-knit group,” Connor told him.
“For what?”
“We’d like to go…exploring—”
“Commander Croft,” Byron butted in. “Sable—”
“Connor’s AI?”
“Yes. She’s identified certain…black spots in the construction plans which were drawn up for this place. Now, given that you expect Banks to commence blowing up the gates one by one any day now, wouldn’t you think it prudent to start looking at options?”
Croft looked around the balcony, at his readying men, then down at the tarmac below, where they were preparing for an attack; stacking sandbags, stripping down guns, piling up munitions. “We’re attempting to cover all options.”
Byron began shaking his head. “‘Countless’ is the answer to your unasked question, Commander Croft. I’ve studied
countless military battles and campaigns, and as I’ve said before, sieges. Now, it would be fair to say that Banks and his army are better drilled and manned than yours are, yes?”
“Agreed, though I’m no longer sure they’re better supplied. This compound is reasonably well-stocked, to say the least, though a lot appears to be missing. But we have enough guns. Guns, I might add, that may well have helped us before, may have even stemmed the tide.”
“Even so, a siege rarely has more than one outcome, and even if it’s victory, it’s never fantastic for the occupants. So, you’ll excuse us if we seek other options.”
“There is one other thing,” Sticks added. “Connor needs immediate access to your computer systems.”
“Immediate access—the DJ? Listen, am I missing something here?” But then it seemed to dawn on him. “Your AI? Why?”
“Because it…she,” Byron went on to say, “thinks this area is electronically linked to the outside world. Or the connection had been restored after the EMP of the attack took the systems down.”
“But she…” Croft coughed and fidgeted. “Sorry, it’s a bit to get used to.” He cleared his throat. “She, I take it, had something to do with Sticks’ remarkable recovery?”
“She adjusted his meds,” Connor told him. “It was while she was doing that that she sensed the connection. And I think she wants to optimize a few things.”
Croft looked at a loss. “Have I got a choice?”
“Why would you want one?” Molly pitched in. “Not sure you’ve got anything to lose.”
Connor followed Byron as the librarian marched off. “This way,” he cried, as though pleased to be the one who knew where to go. “Just you, Connor,” he then said. “Not much point in cramming the others in. I take it she wants to go to the server room?”
“Any port will be fine.”
“She said, ‘Yes’,” Connor replied, hurrying to keep up.
“Thought so.”
“And that, Connor, is how you know you are alive. I could never lie.”
“Good to know.”
“What?” said Byron, disappearing into a narrow corridor, seemingly sure of his route despite it appearing maze-like beyond. “Now, it’s just along here somewhere. Though the rooms looked much the same on the schematic, but…” and he pushed open a door. “Here we are. Any idea how long we’re going to be?”
“No,” said Connor, sensing that was the right answer.
“Right, then, I’ll just nip back and grab a drink and a sandwich, leave you to it.”
He appeared a little nervous, as though wanting to stay but not wishing to intrude. Connor squeezed past him. The narrow room inside was about ten feet long, banks of what he assumed were the servers in ranks on either side. A computer screen sat on a desk at the far end of the room, a lone chair tucked underneath which Connor went and sat on. “I’ll see you back there, then,” he said and waited, until he heard the door click to. All the talk about Sable had been strange, something he’d never experienced before. Now he was beginning to understand their relationship, everyone wanted to talk about her like she was some kind of oddity.
“So, what do I do?” he asked, switching the monitor on.
“Just press your palm onto the touchscreen.”
“Like this?” Connor reached out.
He felt her consciousness shift, seep along his arm like a syrupy tendril of awareness, then to his fingers and finally beyond. He felt more than that, though, felt his own awareness being dragged along with her, like a confused passenger.
“Don’t resist,” he heard her say, and so he relaxed. He watched as an interested observer while her consciousness ranged through what he instantly knew to be the military’s networks. He watched as she restarted links, turned on systems and optimized weapons. And then he could see a mountain ridge, then a road; a busy road full of soldiers and jeeps all beavering away at something, though he couldn’t decipher what. More mountains appeared, more trees, then the bunkers they’d run along, and finally he understood Sable was switching on outside cameras.
Eight more screens blinked into action, but these were dark at first before becoming iridescent green. Each slowly portrayed an empty curved tunnel, through which a roadway ran. Then all the screens became one, all focused on what was now clearly a single tunnel.
“Commander Croft may better prepare now,” and Connor realized he was looking at the roadway which ran through the nine Hell’s Gates. Sable then withdrew, back through Connor’s hand to regroup her many tendrils into their dual being. From there, she chose a different way, a long path which stretched Connor’s mind—took him farther, much farther than before. On they traveled, along sweeping curves and lengthy straights, until they came to what seemed like a narrow bridge. There, Sable hesitated, soon retreating all the way back toward their joined minds. But as she passed through Connor’s palm, she terminated the path, building what resembled a wall, but one Connor knew didn’t really exist. It may not have existed, but he was damned sure it was as real as anything he’d ever imagined before.
“The pathway to the outside world has been restored. I have terminated it for now.”
“Why?”
“Because, someone has reconnected it recently. I don’t know who or why, but if my calculations are correct, that bridge was near the center of the blast area.”
Connor accepted her words, trusted her instinct.
“Are we done?”
“Done.”
When Connor went back, there was no sign of anyone else on the balcony but Croft. The commander was looking out from it, his back to Connor. At first, he didn’t turn, though Connor knew he was aware of him, for he’d seen Croft tense. Eventually, though, the man did turn and he looked Connor up and down, an equal measure of wariness and respect coloring his eyes.
“You did all that?” he asked as he made to walk toward Connor, but then he stopped. “My sergeant tells me rooms are springing into life all over the place, that what we’d assumed to be defunct computers and screens have just…turned themselves on.” Croft retreated a step and leaned back against the balcony railing, as though more comfortable with a measure of distance between them. “Apparently, we have the outside under surveillance. We can see the tunnel. And—and this is the bit I could really have used a day or so ago—we even have a number of remote weapons. I don’t know whether to be extremely grateful or just plain pissed off. Why wait until now?”
Connor didn’t move, and for a moment, didn’t know what to say. Then confidence replaced doubt. “I couldn’t do it before. I didn’t understand everything.” He went to the table and took his old seat. Croft also sat down.
“But you do now?”
“No.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I think it’s just beginning.” Connor took out a cigarette. “I have a strange feeling this is something more than just a few computer screens.”
“And you’re scared?”
Connor stared at Croft. “What makes you say that?”
Croft gave a small laugh. “The last few days, Connor, the last few days, I’ve seen cowards become as brave as the best of them, and I’ve seen the courageous curl up into a ball. But you, well, you’re scared, but scared of something different. You’re scared of yourself.”
“Yes, I am.”
“This AI…this power within you: I’m not scared of it. I was wary of it a little while ago, but not so much now.”
“Why?”
“When did it start to change?”
“At Sticks’ bedside.” Sable was now silent, as if she’d withdrawn to let Connor field the commander’s questions. Yet even though she was offering no opinion, he could feel her now, knew what she was doing; she was deciding based on what she’d just found out—what they’d both just found out. “She changed at Sticks’ bedside.”
“How?”
“She left my body for the first time.”
“And what did she do?”
“Sable healed him.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
“Why?”
“Because she revealed herself solely to help.”
“Yes.”
Croft smiled. “In which case, above all else, I now know my mission.”
“Which is?”
“To protect her.”
“Am I supposed to fit down there?” Kenny asked, peering into the hole. It was about two feet in diameter, the top of a metal ladder visible, the rest of it vanishing into the depths.
“Sable tells me it’s a fully accessible service duct and you should easily be able to negotiate it.”
Kenny looked up at Connor and then flicked a glance at Molly. “Tell her I admire her optimism. Can she turn on the lights?”
“The lights are motion activated,” Connor told him. “So, who’s going to be first?”
Sticks looked from one to the other and shrugged. “I guess it’s me.” He eased himself onto the ladder and then down, clearly still feeling a little delicate. Molly followed. Ever in Sticks' shadow, Connor thought.
Croft had assigned them two other soldiers. Sticks knew both but had offered no opinion on either. Connor watched them look at each other, as though goading the other down. The one nearest Connor was a typical gunny; square jaw and forehead, square crew cut and a matching body. Connor thought Kenny was more likely to fit down the duct than this one. The other was neither big nor small, an average Joe, his name aptly just such. Whatever silent battle of wits had gone on, Joe followed Molly, and the other, Gino, went next.
“Well, if he can fit…” said Kenny, and he, too, began his descent.
Connor hesitated for a moment. “Which way?” Sticks called from below.
“Away from the gate,” Connor called back, and hopped onto the top rung.
The service duct was, as Sable had promised, ample in size, though they could only walk in single file. They were all silent. Only the sound of nervous breaths and the clomp and scrape of boots on the metal grate which carried them, and ran off into the distance dared break the stillness, until Kenny spoke.
