The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  Dr Nautern watched Caroline’s sleeping form, lying face down on the surgical bed, with some confusion. “She should have recovered from the anesthesia by now.” He felt for a pulse, counting silently to himself. “Her pulse is unusually weak.”

  “Could the conditioning process have failed?” McNamara asked.

  “No, we were very careful. The telemetry indicated the procedure was executed perfectly.” The surgeon picked up the tilt control and rotated the bed from the horizontal to forty five degrees.

  As the bed lifted, revealing Caroline’s face cradled by the head cushions, McNamara’s eyes widened as he swore under his breath.

  “What have you done!” General Gray declared.

  “I don’t understand,” Dr Nautern stammered. “It’s impossible.”

  “Obviously not,” McNamara said dryly. “Is she going to recover?”

  The doctor's face paled. “We implemented the daughter’s neural design. The damage to the mother’s brain would be . . . catastrophic.”

  “So she’s unconscious because she’s a vegetable?” McNamara demanded bitterly.

  “I can’t explain it. The computer should have alerted us immediately. It must have detected the mother’s neural scan was different from the daughters.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you to look at her face!” General Gray snapped. “You people rely so much on your damn technological toys, you forget to think for yourselves!”

  “Can we use her in the Neural Net?” McNamara asked. “She's still got a lot of classified knowledge we could use.”

  “She'd be chronically brain damaged,” Dr Nautern replied. “Accessing her memories will be impossible now.”

  “So what happened to the girl?” General Gray demanded. “And who put the mother in her place?”

  McNamara’s face showed a flash of realization. “The mole! He switched them to cover his tracks, then he sabotaged the computer systems, to conceal the fact a different subject was being conditioned.”

  “Is that possible?” General Gray asked.

  “If they were a systems expert, it is.”

  “How many people on the base could do it?”

  “Not many, a couple of computer scientists.”

  “Arrest them immediately, and anyone else who has the skills to override the computer system,” General Gray ordered. “Perhaps some good will come out of this. Our mole has finally made a mistake.”

  An orderly entered the recovery room and whispered to Dr Nautern. The Chief Surgeon’s face reddened, then he nodded. The orderly glanced apprehensively at the general and McNamara before making a hasty retreat.

  Dr Nautern exhaled despairingly. “That’s not all. Szilinsky is missing. Someone has removed him while he was unconscious.”

  “Seal off every building,” the general said. “Have security teams search the base, room by room. Put guards on every door in and out of the main complex. I want to know what every single human being on this base has been doing for the last three hours, and I want corroborating statements. Anyone who cannot get at least two witnesses to testify to their whereabouts is to be arrested.”

  McNamara nodded. “Szilinsky can’t have been taken off the base. Neither can the girl. We’ll find them.”

  “You’d better,” the general declared angrily.

  “What should we do with her?” Dr Nautern asked, indicating Caroline’s unconscious form.

  “She’s useless to us now,” General Gray replied. “Dispose of the body.”

  “She’s still alive,” Dr Nautern noted uncomfortably.

  “You created the problem. You fix it.”

  The head surgeon stared at Caroline’s sleeping form. “I could give her an injection to put her to sleep.”

  “She’s already asleep,” McNamara said starting for the door to organize the search teams. “You want to stop her breathing.”

  McNamara hurried out of the recovery room, followed by the general, leaving Dr Nautern alone with Caroline. He did not relish extinguishing her life, even though he knew she was now brain dead. He decided to wait a few hours, hoping she would expire naturally. Most of the chronic failures had died soon after their procedures.

  Except for that bureaucrat in Washington, he remembered. Rayborne’s survival had been a miracle. He'd been totally unsuited to the procedure. Dr Nautern hoped Caroline Malleson would not prove to be another miracle.

  * * * *

  Christa roused slowly from a deep slumber filled with inexplicable memories. The sensation of movement, the strange impression of her mother holding her, the nightmare of her mother’s living death. The thoughts jarred, waking her, giving her the presence of mind to force open her heavy eyelids. A tiny light glowed above her with enough strength to fill the room with soft shadows and obscure shapes. She rolled her head, confused at the sight of the machine parts, odd tools and electronic devices. Through the fading effect of the tranquilizer, she recognized a storeroom of sorts.

  Christa pushed herself weakly onto an elbow, wondering how she got there. She saw the bag at her feet, and the clothes and gray flecked golden hair on the floor, then she rolled clumsily off the trolley, sending it skidding across the room. On hands and knees, she crawled to the hair, picked up a handful and looked closely at it. She touched her own shaved head absently, knowing it was not her hair, recognizing the unique blend of colors.

  Mama, what have you done!

  Christa took a calming breath, then focused her mind and reached out for her mother, but no answering thought came to her. Instead, she sensed smaller, closed, aggressive minds nearby. She concentrated on those little minds, realizing they were searching for her, and were getting closer all the time.

  Christa crawled to the trolley and pulled herself up onto it. She opened the bag at the end of the trolley, hoping for a note from her mother, but found only the clothes she'd been wearing when captured. Christa wanted to shed the hospital gown, but knew in her current uncoordinated state, it would take too long to change, and the angry little minds were getting closer. She grabbed the bag and stumbled to the door, listening for the approaching guards. She saw the key at her feet, and realized it had been slipped under the door. Quietly, she turned the handle, discovering she was locked in. She started to reach for the key, when she heard a door slam in the hall outside, followed by the sound of heavy boots. The footsteps grew louder, stopping outside the storeroom door.

  The handle twisted several times as a security guard tested the door. “It’s locked. Go get the key.”

  “Map says it’s just a storeroom.”

  “They said every room. Get the key.”

  Hurried footsteps sounded as one of the guards ran back down the corridor to find a key. Christa forced her mind to focus on the man beyond the door, sensing his impatience. She knew she was in no state to use a mind trick on him, and even if she were, she couldn't run far while the tranquilizer kept her arms and legs like rubber. She looked anxiously around the room, fighting off a desire to sleep. There were no other exits, only a small air conditioning vent near the ceiling.

  Christa took several wobbly steps to the trolley, then slumped across it as her head started to spin. Lying half across the trolley, she walked it to the wall beneath the vent. Gathering her strength, she climbed shakily onto the trolley using nearby shelves for support, then pried open the vent and pushed the bag inside. She dragged herself part way into the vent, then gently nudged the trolley away from the wall with her toe, sending it gliding into the middle of the storeroom. For a moment she teetered, half in, half out, with weak unresponsive arms scrambling for grip, then she pulled herself up into the vent.

  The sound of a key being inserted in the lock was like a thunderclap through the stillness of the storeroom. She pulled her legs in hurriedly, clawed the vent closed with her nails, then silently crawled into the shadows of the vent and around a bend.

  Two security guards, dressed in military fatigues and carrying assault rifles, stepped into the storeroom. They held powerf
ul flashlights, which they used to supplement the feeble bulb in the ceiling to pick out the pile of clothes and hair lying on the floor beside the surgical trolley.

  From her hiding place in the vent, Christa heard one of the guards speak into his radio. “Corporal Garsoni here, we’re in . . . Room N34, repeat North 34. Found clothes and a stretcher. Someone was here. It's empty now.”

  The radio hissed back, “Roger that, N34.”

  The crack of a gunshot shattered the dark silence of Christa’s hiding place. She flinched, thinking the shot was directed at her, then she heard surprised swearing and a burst of automatic fire. Adrenaline pumped her awake, spurring her to scurry silently into the black void of the shaft, not knowing where it led, wanting only to put distance between herself and the gunshots. Down the vent, muffled echoes of shouts and gunfire resounded hollowly, then as suddenly as it had begun, the gunfire ended. Not taking time to look back, she crawled forward, around bends and along shafts, not knowing or caring where they led.

  Behind her in the storeroom, the second guard fell onto the floor. Close by, the first soldier lay slumped against the wall, blood oozing from several bullet holes in his chest.

  Mitch stepped into the room, gun leveled, taking in the room at a glance. He saw the empty trolley and the clothes on the floor, but no Christa.

  The guard's radio hissed, “Report in once you’ve searched all the rooms in that corridor.” A pause, then, “Corporal? Acknowledge.”

  Mitch looked down at janitor 04 standing in the corridor behind him. “Where is she?”

  The small robot captured the question with its optical sensor, reading Mitch’s lips, then EB spun the robot left to right, signaling he didn't know.

  “I thought you knew everything.” He stepped out of the storeroom and looked uncertainly down the north facing corridor. The robot rolled forward and extended its small claw arm to grip his trouser leg, pulling Mitch south. “We came that way. She’s not down there.”

  The robotic janitor extended its floor polishing brush, raised it vertically and rotated it, mimicking a dish antenna.

  “I know, you want to phone home. Are you sure you don’t know where she is?”

  It lowered the floor polishing brush, using it to point south.

  Reluctantly Mitch nodded. “You tell me as soon as you see her. Deal?”

  The robot released his trouser leg and rolled down the corridor without responding.

  “Guess so.” He picked up the soldier's radio, then started after the little machine.

  * * * *

  Robotic janitor 04 stopped before the intersection of two corridors, barring Mitch’s way with one of its telescoping arms, then it extended a circular brush and began polishing the floor. The little machine circled into the intersection, examining the way ahead with its optic sensor, so EB could determine the next move. Seeing the corridor was clear, the floor polishing brush ceased spinning and its telescopic arm retracted, then it zoomed off down the passageway.

  Mitch hurried after the little machine, along a corridor marked by an absence of doors and a left wall buttressed by heavy steel girders. When they'd covered barely a third of its length, Mitch became aware of a low hum that reminded him of the monotonous drone of a ship’s engines.

  “Heavy machinery?” he asked, but the robot didn't acknowledge his question. He rested his hand on the left wall and felt warmth. “The tank’s on the other side of this wall, isn’t it?”

  The robotic janitor made no response, but continued to whir its way toward the end of the corridor. When it neared the corner, it stopped and again extended its telescopic arm signaling Mitch to wait. He switched off the radio and waited as the robotic janitor rolled slowly forward, polishing the floor and turning to observe the passageway ahead. Mitch realized the janitor was continuing to scrub the floor, and was now rolling back and forth, systematically covering the entire corner area as if following its basic programming, but keeping its optic sensor aimed down the corridor. It was then he heard a distant voice and the sounds of boots on polished floors running toward them. Mitch took several steps back from the corner and readied his gun.

  The robotic janitor extended another arm which it used to vacuum the corners, while it continued polishing. The click of the soldier’s boots on the floor panels grew louder, then as they rounded the corner, the robot propelled itself into the middle of the corridor and rotated. Its vacuuming arm struck the first soldier’s shin while its claw arm shot out and clamped on the second soldier’s ankle. Both men stumbled, the first falling on his face, dropping his weapon when his hands came up to break his fall. The second soldier fell only to his knees using one hand to steady himself against the floor while his other hand kept hold of his weapon.

  Mitch leapt forward and struck the kneeling soldier on the side of the head with the butt of his gun, sending him crumpling to the floor, unconscious. The second soldier rolled away, reaching for his rifle. Mitch lunged over the unconscious soldier, aiming the butt of his pistol at the second guard’s head, but the guard blocked the blow with one hand as he brought up his rifle with the other. Janitor 04 spun on the spot, extending its telescoping claw arm to block the rifle barrel with a clang as metal struck metal. Mitch wrestled the soldier's blocking arm aside, then crashed his pistol butt into the soldier’s forehead, sending him reeling back, out cold.

  “Good job, Hoover.”

  Mitch pocketed his pistol, deciding to scoop up one of the M16s. He switched the radio back on, once again monitoring the periodic transmissions of two man security teams all over the base as they reported the progress of their searches. So far, the two guards he'd shot hadn't been found, but it was only a matter of time before a search party was sent.

  The robotic janitor tried retracting its telescoping arms, but its vacuum arm was now bent from the collision with the guard’s shin. It hung partly extended at an odd angle from the little machine, as its tiny servo buzzed helplessly, trying to retract it, then fell silent as the controlling program recognized a malfunction.

  “Tough break. You’re the first vacuum cleaner in history wounded in the line of duty.”

  Oblivious to the remark, the robotic janitor whirred off down the corridor to a metal security door with a rectangular name plate reading, Switch Room. The electronic key pad’s numbers glowed in sequence as EB released the lock, then Mitch pushed the door open to find a room lined with metal cabinets housing banks of control switches. The low pitched mechanical hum was much louder now, and seemed to emanate from beyond the door on the opposite side of the room. The door’s name plate identified it as the Filtration Room.

  The robot trundled over to a gray cabinet labeled Satellite Communications and stopped. Mitch opened the cabinet door to find rows of switches labeled numerically from 001 to 120. Almost all the switches were set to the ‘OFF’ position, except for those which permitted the base commander to remain in contact with his superiors. He began flicking all the switches to the ‘ON’ position, unable to determine which switch opened the link between EB and the satellite dish. When he'd finished, he turned expectantly to the robotic janitor for confirmation, but instead the small machine turned toward the door, ready to leave.

  “Guess that got it.”

  Mitch let the robot out, then stopped when he saw two soldiers running toward him. A third soldier, one of the men he'd pistol whipped, followed slowly, holding his head. He darted back into the Switch Room, slamming the metal door shut and leaving janitor 04 in the corridor with the approaching soldiers. A volley of bullet’s raked the metal door, ricocheting back into the corridor, some striking the robot. The impact knocked it off its wheels, shorting out its electrical system, but not before it transmitted images of the security men. EB immediately sealed Mitch into the Switch Room for his own protection, then unlocked the Filtration Room door. Mitch heard the inner door unlock, reading it as EB signaling it was his only escape route.

  The Filtration Room was a hot and humid rectangular space with a towering ceil
ing, dominated by four large recycling machines. They were connected to the immersion tank by the same heavy pipes that enveloped the southern wall of the building. The machines hummed busily, purifying, reprocessing and warming the immersion solution, before returning it to the tank through the myriad of pipes that rose to the ceiling high above and fanned out through the walls.

  Mitch hurried past the recycling machines to a metal ladder bolted to the southern wall. He slung the M16 over his shoulder, then climbed the rungs two at a time all the way to the ceiling where a metal pressure hatch barred his way. He tested the hatch’s central locking wheel, finding it spun open easily due to frequent use. He pushed the heavy hatch up until it rocked back past the vertical and stood propped up by a hydraulic arm. A cloud of hot air and steam wafted down onto his face as Mitch clambered up through the hatch onto a metal landing in the south west corner of the giant immersion tank. He was struck by the humidity, which reminded him of the tropics during the wet season.

  Stretching off into the shadows was the placid surface of the immersion solution, broken only by the central black towers of the nodal superstructure. The towers were linked by narrow metal walkways and were secured to the tank’s walls by lateral girders. Where the walkways reached the walls, platforms similar to the one Mitch now stood on rose just above water level, each with an access hatch mounted on it. At regular intervals, pipes angled down from the roof providing outlets for a hundred streams, purified by the filtration system and filling the entire tank with a multitude of trickling sounds. Suspended from the low roof was a crane mounted on tracks, that could position itself over any point in the tank, and was strong enough to lift a node or a cross-beam.

  Mitch stepped to the edge of the platform and peered down into the shadowy depths, past the four layers of nodes, to the gray metal at the bottom of the tank far below. A few weak lights scattered through the superstructure was all that broke the darkness below. It was enough to reveal small torpedo like objects, equipped with tool using arms, that cruised at varying depths through the complex steel structure below. He realized if a node’s life support system failed, the person attached to it would be dead, so the maintenance robots worked constantly to prevent malfunctions. Halfway down the north wall of the tank, was the vast glass window of the control room, fitted between the second and third layers of the node superstructure. He saw Mouse sitting at the computer console, strangely illuminated by the flickering light of the computer screens facing him, oblivious to his appearance in the tank.