by Ryan Rinsler
The sun was low, casting a red glow over beautifully clear and serene sky. The high clouds were a gradient of a multitude of colors, from orange, to red, through purple and white. The windscreen of the car automatically dimmed as they turned into the sun, the bright evening light being reduced to a dim yellow disc hovering just above the horizon.
They were high in the mountains on roads only wide enough for a single car, and as they wound their way through the hills, Connor drifted in and out of sleep. Beside him sat Mana, looking thoughtfully through the window, and in the front, beside the driver, was Rachel. Driving was Sonny, the guy who’d given him the threatening welcome on his first visit to the mess hall. Although Connor was wary of him he gave him the benefit of the doubt and forgiven him his misgivings, despite the lack of an apology.
As the twinkling of the city ahead began to catch Connor’s eye, he roused himself and sat up. It was far in the distance, and behind it a silhouette of mountains, cast by the deep red of the evening sun. There were a number of huge buildings nestled in the center, yet dwarfing them all was one single colossus — a monolith rising from the ground to such an altitude it dwarfed everything in its radius. Clouds poured from the top like those from the peak of Everest, and as the column twisted upward to the sky, its curves and recesses reminded Connor of the bough of some huge tree on a distant alien planet.
“Where is that?” he asked.
“The city? San Jose,” replied Mana.
“What’s that building?”
“That’s where we’re headed.”
Connor leaned forward to get a better look. The building was glistening in the evening light, the surface reflecting in a way he had never seen before. It was almost digital, the image of the sunlight jittering around the faces like a computer animation. It was breathtaking, and, to keep it so, he would keep looking down at the surrounding buildings to reaffirm the immense scale.
He’d been asleep since they got in the car, and hadn’t had time to catch up with Mana. Kyle’s body felt like it was on death’s door – he was weak and he had a constant headache. It still amazed him that he could feel a headache in another person’s body, and was dismayed that the feeling couldn’t be switched off with the touch of a button. He was feeling a little better after his sleep, and was keen to begin the next step in his training.
“How did Matt get on?” he asked.
“He’s very capable,” replied Mana. “Between him and Nolan they cracked the security in half the time it took them to do it on your side. He’s a talented young man.”
“Really?”
“This car you’re sitting in now has been at our facility for five years,” he replied. “You see, whatever force they use to control their scouts also allows them to use their vehicles.”
“And you can’t use them?”
“We know that whatever NanoHive regulates these people gives off some sort of, well, call it an electronic aura. A kind of field that allows them certain privileges and disallows them others.”
“Like what?”
“Like the ability to drive cars,” Mana replied. “We can’t just step into one of their vehicles and switch it on. It only works for them, and only when they want to.”
“So how do you get around?”
“We have an old gas helicopter you flew in when Ruby got you. It’s been good to us, and for some reason they don’t seem to pick us up that often. Maybe their detection gear only looks for electrical signals, we don’t know, but either way it completely outperforms the drones they try and chase us with. The problem is it’s on its last legs now, and our stockpile of fuel is running low. Vehicles have always been difficult to come by for us. Sometimes we’ll come across an old civilian car but as there’s no means to power them now, they’re just lumps of metal. Any working car or truck is part of their regime, and just don’t work for us.”
“And Matt’s fixed that?”
“Yes, for this car at least. How he does it I’ll never understand, all that typing and swiping. It’s a mystery to me. He sat there working on it for a solid day, and then, whoosh, the lights came on and it burst into life. The whole place cheered, it was amazing. For so long we’ve struggled with transportation, and now we have this. We can travel the streets without being flagged, we don’t have to run from building to building on foot, disabling cameras as we go. Sure, there’s risk attached, I mean, if we get stopped we’ll have serious problems, but as long as we keep off the freeway and watch the pinch points, we’ve expanded our loot radius by a huge amount.”
Connor couldn’t believe what a difference Matt had made. He’d brought him along for emotional support, and to beat someone over the head with the odd stick. Now he’d managed to push the resistance forward to places they’d not been to for years.
“Having someone as talented as Matt to pick up the software and programming side for us is proving pivotal in what we’re doing here.”
“So I see,” said Connor, with a happy nod.
As they dropped into the city, darkness had set in and the roads glowed softly to light their way. The traffic was light but constant, with cars passing them a few times per minute, but what Connor noticed was that, aside from the odd truck, they were all what looked like Scout cars similar to the one they were in. They were tall, black, SUV-like, with dark windows all round. As they drove he noticed this more and more, differentiation painfully conspicuous by its absence. The sidewalks were empty, as clean and unblemished as the day they were laid, shop shutters were down, even at that early time in the evening, and there were no Gyros, although the tracks remained.
“Where is everybody?”
“Oh, at home,” said Mana. “They’ll be watching T.V. or something by now, or tucked up in bed.”
“What, everybody?”
“Everyone you’d call a civilian.”
“They’re not allowed out?”
Mana turned to him. “Try not to think of it as what they are allowed to do and what they are forbidden to do,” he said. “Think of it more what they choose to do. They choose not to go out. They choose not to do these things. Things that you and I would call fun, or recreational.”
“So they’re like robots?”
“I suppose you could call them that,” said Rachel over her shoulder. “They’re obedient to Silk’s regime but also they regulate themselves as well.”
“How is that possible?”
“Well, we don’t know the full extent of it,” she said. “From my knowledge I’d guess they’re somehow tapping into the prefrontal cortex and manipulating it.”
“In English,” said Mana, “we think they are able to control the part of the brain that affects aggression and decision making.”
“Pacification,” said Connor, in sudden realization.
“Exactly,” confirmed Mana.
“They’re likely doing other things in there too,” said Rachel. “Slaves are subordinate to them but not to anyone else. They seem to follow this rule set that’s somehow ingrained in them. That’s what you saw when that woman almost dialed you in.”
“Before you bashed her head against the wall,” teased Mana.
Connor rolled his eyes playfully. “So, she was preprogrammed to alert the authorities if they come across someone, what, walking?”
“It starts with that,” said Mana. “They’ll question you, and if you don’t give them satisfactory answers then they hot dial the scouts and they’ll be on your location quicker than you can blink.”
“Everyone is given a code,” said Rachel. “They know their code automatically. We assume it’s delivered to them via the NanoBots but we can’t be sure, but after she asked you if you were verified, that would’ve been the next question.”
“Oh, um, yeah that guy, that Hans guy said something to me and I read a code back to him without even thinking.”
“That would have been a code 1184 source check,” said Mana. “The reason you knew what the code was, is the same reason your immune system is constantl
y working — you, well, Kyle, has these things in him all the time. Some base codes will still work whether you’re immune or not.”
“Are there other voice commands?”
“We’re assuming there aren’t many that work for NonComs like us,” said Rachel, “Otherwise they’d use them all the time, I’m sure.”
Connor turned and stared out of the window at the desolation. They were passing many suburban houses, most of which were inhabited, yet some run down and appearing dilapidated. “Do these people have jobs?”
“Slaves? Oh yes,” said Mana. “They all have jobs. They work in factories and warehouses, drivers and such. Most businesses are centered around Silk and keeping it running. The rest are sanctioned by Silk and serve one purpose or another.”
“And…” said Connor, thoughtfully, “Why is everything closed?”
“‘Everything’ is quite a broad term,” said Mana. “Specific things are no longer needed. Anything fueled by libido or image, gone. Restaurants, gone, coffee shops, gone. Enjoyment, disposable income, frippery, all gone. Shopping malls are a thing of the past. Shopping is a thing of the past. Even grocery shopping.”
“Nobody buys groceries anymore?”
“They don’t need to, there’s a replicator in every home now. They rolled them out a year after they took over.”
“For free?”
Mana shrugged. “For free, or… by force.”
“Uh?”
“Replicators are the sole source of food for these people. For all people. For those who don’t have them there are meal stations around the city, hundreds of them, that dish out meals to whoever needs them.”
“Even homeless people? With no money?”
“Those are two things that don’t really exist anymore,” said Mana. “You’ve no doubt seen the empty houses on the way here, yes?”
“Yeah. Loads of them.”
“Something you’re not used to I would imagine.”
“Real estate is fought over pretty savagely where I’m from. I should know, I sell it.”
“Then it will no doubt come as a shock to you to know that thirty percent of accommodation in and around Los Angeles is uninhabited.”
Connor looked around sharply. “How is that possible?”
“Well, look at it logically. There’s only two ways that could happen – one, an increase in properties or two–”
“A decrease in population.”
“Precisely.”
“And, what, that’s part of the plan?” asked Connor in disbelief.
“Who knows what the plan is, but it’s what we’re dealing with now.”
“And where do these people go?”
Mana looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. “Another thing we don’t know, but we can assume. We do know one of the main reasons though. When you saw your first dud, do you remember where that was?”
“Um, I dunno, Oakley some way.”
“Do you remember the building?”
“Yeah it was an old school.”
“They’re all old schools now, Connor,” said Mana. “Why do you think that is?”
With every statement there followed a question. Mana was leading Connor down a path – a path into the depths of his own nightmare. With every revelation came another shocking twist.
“There’s no education now?”
“It’s worse than that, Connor. Deeper. Why are there no schools?” He was pushing him, forcing him to admit what he already knew. Forcing him to face the reality they’d been thrust into.
He paused, his mouth becoming one on its own, detached from his brain and unable to speak.
“You know the answer Connor, you just need to say it,” said Mana.
He did know the answer, and it was as obvious as it was chilling. He turned to Mana and spoke.
“There are no children.”
34
Stanley’s heart raced as the two technicians, who were wearing begoggled hoods similar to those you would see as part of a radiation suit, strapped his wrists to the arms of the chair. Despite having predicted and since reconciled this outcome in his mind, confirmation of his expectations did nothing to quell the fear building inside him of what was to come.
Hans relaxed into his chair, a glint in his eye, the corners of his lower eyelids raising ever-so slightly as he gazed into Stanley’s wide, brown eyes. Hans’s expression appeared calm yet excited, which drove the fear into Stanley’s mind even deeper. He was of a constant cold sweat, his breathing heavy.
“Things are going to get pretty dark from here, Dr. Chen,” said Hans as the technicians stepped away. He had an air of eager curiosity about him. “There’s some information that you have, lurking inside that head of yours, that I want access to. Of course, you’re probably wondering why I don’t strap a cap on you and extract it from there. Well, there are a few reasons. As you know, you can’t really get specifics that way. All too fuzzy. But the main reason is I want to make you say the words. I want to hear it from your mouth. Having some kid reading out what the ones and zeros on a screen mean just doesn’t do it for me. I want to hear the music, the passion behind the words.”
One of the technicians opened a box on the floor beside them and withdrew a large hypodermic needle, which was already filled with a silvery, pearlescent fluid. Hans reached out his open palm, in which the technician placed it before taking a couple of steps back along with their colleague. Staring down intently, Hans slowly closed his fingers around the barrel of the needle, then after a moment of apparent contemplation, and without lifting his head, flicked his eyes up to meet Stanley’s.
Stanley took a sharp intake of breath through his nose.
“What do you know about me, Dr. Chen?” he asked, suddenly switching back to his previous relaxed state.
“What?”
“What do you know about me? It’s a simple question.”
“I, uh, I don’t know anything.”
“Oh come on,” he said, checking the cleanliness of his nails while still holding the needle. “You quit your job, then don’t care to find out anything about your successor?” He spoke in a condescending tone, his bottom lip sticking out mockingly, like a sulking child.
Stanley didn’t reply. He didn’t have the words. All that was running through his mind were the possibilities of what that needle could contain. Noticing his fearful stare, Hans glanced down at the needle on which Stanley’s gaze was transfixed.
“You’re wondering what’s in this, yes?” After a few moments of silence he placed it on a small metal tray on the side of the chair, and leaned forward. “All in good time. First, tell me, what do you know about me, Dr. Chen?”
“I don’t know anything,” he repeated.
“Oh, come. This isn’t part of your interrogation, this is small talk. This is me getting to know you and you getting to know me. So let’s talk.”
After a pause, Stanley decided to speak. “I know you’re German.”
Hans laughed heartily, then slapped his thigh. “German!” he exclaimed. “Wow, Dr. Chen, news travels fast.” He chuckled to himself. “Hansel Otfried Richter, a German. Who would have thought.”
Stanley wasn’t laughing.
“So, what do you know of, say, my background?” he asked.
“I…”
“Go on…”
“I heard you were in homeland security.”
“That’s right, broadly speaking. An odd career change, don’t you think?”
Stanley shrugged.
“One of the heads of anti-terrorism, suddenly taking a job in robotics? You don’t think that’s strange?”
“Maybe.”
Hans laughed. He leaned forward and patted Stanley’s leg, which flinched sharply. “Loosen up a little, Dr. Chen!” he said. “Let’s not be all doom and gloom here. Now, any idea why they wanted me as the head of some robotics department in an electronics company?”
Stanley shook his head.
“Things have changed since you left, Dr. Chen. Oh
yes, they’ve changed a lot. You see, there’s a lot more going on here now – things that someone like you, a scientist, or whatever, wouldn’t have even dreamed of. Sure, I may not know the ins and outs of how it all works, that’s what staff are for, but what sets me apart is that I know what it could be used for. I have thirty years’ experience of pressing people’s buttons. What I do, which some would call torture, but that being such a draconian word, I prefer interrogation, is a very simple equation. The old fashioned ways of extracting information required blood and removal of things, but that’s such a messy business. We live in an age where meat is assembled, not grown. Everything is computerized. The world has progressed, Stanley, and everyone needs to adapt.”
He paused, before continuing. “I was appointed in this role to make a difference to America, and the whole world, really. Not because I can program some artificial intelligence to cure cancer, but because I can devise weapons, uh, tools, that could make the president of any country in the world call our CEO and tell him the whereabouts of each of his or her children. I can design interrogation tools that deliver so much mental suffering that you would happily agree to the murder of everyone you know and love just to make it stop. Our CEO knew the potential of what you were doing here, and it needed someone like me to realize that potential. Do you understand?”
Stanley remained motionless.
“Now do you get why I think it’s so ironic? You being here?” he said with a beaming grin. “If you hadn’t stepped down from your position here, there’d be no Hans Richter and no Dr. Chen strapped to a chair.” He genuinely seemed as though he expected Stanley to share the joke.
“Incredible,” he replied, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Suddenly, Hans’ expression dropped, and as it did he reached for the needle and slammed it into Stanley’s thigh, hitting the plunger immediately. He stared at him intensely, holding the needle which was still embedded in Stanley’s leg, until eventually he withdrew it and dropped it back onto the metal tray.
Stanley tensed, looking down at the entry point on his thigh, waiting for something to happen.
Hans sat back. He flipped open his BlackBook and smiled at him. “What is the fundamental action that keeps you alive?” he asked, before beginning to tap and swipe the screen. After a few moments, reacting to the silence, he stopped what he was doing and looked up. Stanley’s head was pushing back into the chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
