“As you command.”
But as the days went by after the fall of Atlanta, James couldn’t shake the urgency of the foreign neuromach’s insistence. Listen to the disk? Enter the Singularity? It seemed absurd, it would be like walking off a cliff … but, on the other hand, walking off a cliff isn’t quite so mad when there are Reapers about to pounce on you.
And he felt the net of doom closing around Coventry. It was less than a week later that Shanghai fell. James got the news before most, having some communications with the neuromachs there when the swarm hit. He went right from there to his shift at the Singularity.
A question had bothered him all this time he was processing the strange instructions from Atlanta: why would anyone make that up? What would be the point of fabricating such ridiculous hopes, unless there was really something to them?
Shanghai’s fall pushed him over the edge. It was no small thing to risk insanity, but the alternative seemed hopeless. So when he was out of rotation working the Singularity, he quietly turned his mind to listen to the disk.
At first there was nothing. No madness, which pleased James greatly, but nothing else either. He had to strain himself, pour himself out, listening, listening, pushing his powers to listen … he heard something. He thought at first it was human; it was a sentient mind, certainly, and no terrestrial or alien beast. But as he listened he quickly became convinced that it was not human. It was something else, a mind unlike any he’d touched before.
The mind was profoundly strange, but not chaotic or hurtful. James could receive from it sensations and images, but not words—at least not in any language understandable to him. The message he got was a repeat of Atlanta’s bizarre instruction, both in content and the sense of undefinable urgency; they must enter the Singularity, and they would be safe. When finally he broke contact he felt weary, confused, and very curious.
He did a second forbidden thing, and disobeyed the Castellan’s orders by investigating the matter himself. Through his personal terminal, with high-level clearance, he could search the history, records, and writings of humanity’s remnants. He scoured them so intently that he actually forgot Callie was coming over. But, by then he’d pieced together enough of a hypothesis that he had something to share with her. In defiance of the Castellan’s direct orders. Through his neuromachy, so that it wouldn’t be overheard.
“I listened to the Singularity today.”
She was terrified, but he calmed her and told her why, and she had the presence of mind to listen rather than react.
“What did you hear?” she asked.
“I came into contact with another mind—an alien mind.”
“How do you mean?” Callie said.
“It’s difficult to explain. Neuromachs can feel the minds they’re connecting with. Whoever reached out and met me was sentient, intelligent, emotional … and not human.”
“You’re suggesting,” she said, “that you made contact with the aliens?”
“I don’t know.” James was careful. “I don’t think so. Every impression I had from … whoever it was … was benign, sympathetic, even imploring. Callie, my encounter prompted me to research and try to create a hypothesis. Around the time of the Reprieve, a number of sources claim to have had contact with a different alien species from the invaders, an alien force perhaps trying to help us. I know that doesn’t have a place in the accepted history, but the claim is there. If true, it would explain the turn our history has taken. Suppose another alien arrived and destroyed or drove off the invader? That would explain the Reprieve.”
“Maybe,” she said, less afraid and more thoughtful now. “Though it would not explain why such a benign ally would have left us in this sorry state and not done something to reverse the terraforming, or wipe out the Reaper infestation.”
“There could be any number of reasons,” James said. “We know nothing about the culture or background of this possible second alien race. Perhaps they couldn’t undo the invader’s work. Perhaps there were ideological barriers preventing them from doing so. But I think … perhaps the mind I met put the Singularities here, and meant them for a very different purpose from ours.”
“But there’s something more,” he said. “I think the Castellan knows all of this. The training that tells us how destructive the Singularities will be to us doesn’t account for any of this.”
“You mean it’s a conspiracy by the Castellans to suppress the truth? Why would they do that?”
“They think they’re protecting humanity. They don’t want to let go.”
“James …” she reached out and stroked his hair, “what if you’re wrong? What if the Singularity has had some effect on your mind?”
“What if I’m crazy?” He smiled a little at that, but it didn’t cheer her up. “Callie, what do we have to lose?”
He laid out a plan, if it came to it, to abandon Coventry.
Some hours later, James reacted even more numbly than most to the projection announcement of the Castellan.
“Citizens of Coventry, take notice. Shanghai has been destroyed. We may expect refugees. Be confident that all the resources of Coventry are turned upon this problem. This is a grim occurrence, a tragedy we will mourn; but do not be afraid. You are safe in Coventry. Coventry will protect you.”
A few thousand refugees did reach Coventry, having been sent out before the swarms. But almost as soon, the first scouting insects filtered in over the scorch zone.
James served his shift on the barrier. When he finished he went over to Callie’s quarters and lay on the couch with the lights dim, holding her. Ennui had crystalized in Coventry. They didn’t cry or scream or scramble; they sighed.
“Is this our last night?” Callie whispered. “Is it humanity’s last night?”
James had no answer.
The swarms descended on Coventry within twelve hours.
“All citizens to duty stations,” the Castellan’s voice came over the speakers. “Coventry is under attack. Do not be afraid; maintain your station and follow all directives. You are safe in Coventry. Coventry will protect you.”
James complied, taking his place again on the barrier team, which was now at double strength. But it was no contribution to the defense, unless opportunistic Reapers tried to move in—the swarm had no mental presence that was susceptible to neuromachy.
A visual feed brought James the view from different cameras outside the stronghold. What looked like a low black cloud raced in from the east. It separated into twisting streams which darted this way and that before descending on Coventry. The heavy rail guns fired into the swarms, shell after shell, tearing hundreds of insects to shreds with each shot. Explosives detonated, and fire spouts jetted into the mass.
The citadel shook with the blasts, and the hammering of continuous gunfire echoed muted through the corridors. Then another noise joined the cacophony, a peculiar screeching sound. One by one, the cameras stopped transmitting. Then the whole citadel started to vibrate.
“All citizens, prepare for possible armor breach,” came the Castellan’s voice. “Engage personal oxygen supply, and report to your internal defense stations. Remain calm and follow all directives. You are safe in Coventry. Coventry will protect you.”
Some of those around James scrambled to comply, some wept, but most just held their place, stunned. The defense had failed; the swarm was breaching the walls.
James tried to rouse whomever he could, and made for the lower stairway. He’d known it would come to this, and he’d prepared for it. He shouted to whoever he could see, “make for the Singularity!” He shouted with his mind, sending his thoughts into the great mass of humanity around him, “make for the Singularity! It’s our only escape!”
A deafening boom came from above, and they all fell to their knees. The sound of gunfire met James’ ears. As he regained his feet he secured his oxygen supply, but still cried out with his mind for others to come.
Castellan Harper’s projection was everywhere, reciting over
and over again, “Do not be afraid; maintain your station and follow all directives. You are safe in Coventry. Coventry will protect you.”
Callie was already outside the Singularity chamber when James arrived. She rushed to him and he clutched both her arms, but didn’t stop moving. With his access, James took down the security barriers, and left them wide open. They entered the Singularity chamber, a swelling mass of people behind them, wild with noise and confusion. Enough of the neuromachs stationed about the disk abandoned their task to push the quaking, lingering giant of Coventry onto reserve power.
The Singularity ribbon throbbed in front of them: a ribbon of impenetrable black, quivering with strange life. For a moment, all the commotion died, and the crowd of refugees watched with a sort of wonder. Then James ran forward with Callie’s hand in his.
They rushed straight into the Singularity, shivering and afraid, tears and sweat mingled on their faces and necks, doom behind them and strange hope ahead. For a moment their whole world was darkness, and James could barely see Callie beside him, could barely feel the warmth of her fingers locked in his. Then they fell out the other side, and from the Singularity behind them came the refugees of Earth.
Most had remained behind. But a few thousand made it through the Singularity before the orb dissipated with a whirr. James and Callie and these others stumbled now, bewildered and filled with awe, upon a carpet of green grass with a clear blue sky above.
DIGITAL EDITION
LCHAN
JOE REACTED TO THE chime of the incoming email much like a mother responding to the cry of a child. His fingers danced a complicated flamenco across the keyboard, accompanied by the clacks of the strikes of his fingertips. There was but a single new message, winking at him. From Alan, one of his colleagues down at the department. He sighed. No subject header. And a huge attachment to boot. A twitch of his index finger brought the email up. No content either. Nothing but a single mysterious file. Nothing recognizable in the filename. Just a string of nonsense numbers. Another click would have opened the file. Joe would have. He almost did. Of all times to trigger one of those banal reminders from IT.
His finger was heavy on the mouse button as he drew the translucent ghost of the email from his inbox and held it over the trash icon. He imagined it squirming there, like some sort of wriggling bug. But he didn’t let go. He’d have to ask Alan about it the next day.
He strode confidently through the quiet corridors of the library office. Located in the bowels of the building, this was where old books went to die. Silence wasn’t a rigidly enforced rule down here—it was a shroud, coating the place even more thoroughly than the dust.
The idea behind the conversion project was simple, expand the access to the University’s considerable repository of knowledge. Democratize and digitize it all. It would save the university a bundle when the books were evicted from the premises, shipped off to some offsite storage to moulder and rot, their erstwhile homes converted into shiny new offices.
There were a few teams on the conversion project. Alan led one of them, working on cataloguing, scanning, tagging and bagging. Alan and his small team were working on some particularly strange texts. A mismatched team, to be sure. Gordon was a department veteran, counting down the days to retirement. With his spindly arms and little pot belly, he put Joe in mind of a starving tick. Kimberly, a fresh-faced young lady in her mid-twenties, her hair dyed an unnatural pink, the buttons on her clothes holding in rolls of flesh straining at cheap cloth.
And Alan, of course. They’d entered the administration at around the same time. A lucky break had given Joe a slight head start in his career, above Alan, The smarter of the two and never afraid to let Joe know it. They’d been friends at the start, not so much anymore.
Alan’s team was working on something particularly dark. One of the older professors had been an avid picker, known to scavenge the many yard sales and antique shops up and down the New England coast. He had a particular morbid focus on the unsavory past of the region and his collection reflected that. The man was long gone, dead by his own hand. He’d been indulging in a little action on the side with one of his teaching assistants, an affair that went sour in a spectacular fashion. The scandal rocked the university at the time, ending with his hand curled around a bottle of pills, dried vomit crusting on his papers.
Digitizing that esoteric collection was both daunting and futile. Joe needed Alan’s keen attention to detail, and Alan’s career, in Joe’s opinion, needed the kind of handbrake that could be afforded by chasing down a pointless project. Alan’s strange email’d reminded Joe that he’d been meaning to check up on the team for some time.
Joe rapped on Alan’s office door a little harder than he meant to. The long walk down had given him time to ruminate over the slipping schedule. His armpits chafed against the sodden folds of his shirt, compounding his annoyance at the mocking silence from behind the door. He barged in, the door swinging open to reveal a cramped office, books piled high, concealing the rest of the darkened room. The light from the corridor ventured hesitantly inward, reluctant to illuminate more than a small portion of the room.
The switch by the door clucked at him irritably, telling him that the lights were out. He turned to go but paused at the sound of someone stirring deep in the room.
“Alan?” he called.
“Joseph.” The response was breathy. A sigh almost. Joe felt the anger from a moment ago evaporate, mist before the morning sun. Fear lurked below, uncomfortably perched on his stomach and blocking the back of his throat.
He took a step further into the room, careful to stay in the tiny triangle of light. “Hey, man. I just … uh, came down to check on your team. See if you had any problems with the server.”
“No problems. We have everything we need.” There wasn’t just the sound of Alan’s voice in the room. The other man was moving about in the dark, beyond that there was a softer sound, a tiny scratching noise. Writing. The man was writing something.
“You sent me something strange last night … I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“You still have it?” Alan’s voice boomed, thick with anger. Joe took an involuntary step back. His heel caught the edge of a thick book on the floor and he steadied himself against the doorframe. “Don’t open it. Never look at it.” The voice was almost beyond the range of his hearing, soft. Far too soft. Joe leaned further in. “Don’t look at me. Get out, get out!” The hidden man’s voice rose higher and higher until he was nearly screaming. Joe stumbled back out of the room, stricken by the aural onslaught.
Joe was glad that for the silence and light of the corridor. In his haste, he’d kicked the book that he’d nearly tripped over out of the room. He bent over to pick it up, thinking to nudge it back into the office. He’d just picked up the dusty tome and turned around when the door slowly shut itself in front of him. The tumblers fell into place, sealing the door. Joe scooped up the book and fled.
What had Alan been working on? He was almost certainly off the deep end. Drugs or worse, thought Joe. He’d have to report this. The thought of petty administrative revenge calmed him. He saw himself filling in a HR complaint. By hand. This had to be savored, too personal an experience to leave to the meaningless babbles of a keyboard. Insubordination. Poor work performance. Neglect of university property to boot. What if Joe had damaged that book on his way out? Alan’s fault. All his fault.
He settled down at his desk, squirming uncomfortably until he fit his bulk into the cheap office chair the department had provided him. Where to start? Probably with the damage to university property. Something concrete that wouldn’t require much investigation from HR. He set the book on the table, reverently. The cover was plain black leather, cracked and worn with age. No title, no author. Nothing on the spine. Joe opened the book gingerly. The first page was blank. Lines appeared on his brow. He flipped a page. Blank. And another. Blank. The book was blank all the way through. Joe shut the covers, raising a cloud of dust. He sneezed.<
br />
Strange. A notebook perhaps? An empty notebook wasn’t about to find its way into the university’s collection though. He powered up his computer, opening up his emails. Nothing new, apart from a reminder from IT to clear his inbox before he overshot his email quota.
Odd. He’d always been particular about filing off his emails. He managed to find an email with Alan’s latest progress report. Up to now, he’d been impressed with Alan’s attention to detail. The man was thorough. He’d cataloged each digital edition obsessively. Physical descriptions, book length, authors. Joe soon realized the folly of his work. He had no information about the book whatsoever. In any case, why on earth would he be looking for a blank notebook in a catalog of books? The episode must have unbalanced him more than he cared to admit.
Something’d caught his eye though. The catalog index on the last book the team’d worked on. He checked Alan’s other email to be sure. The numbers lined up. Alan sent him the last digital edition last night. He looked up the details of the catalog.
Cover: Black leather. Dates to mid-seventeenth century based on the style of language used. Approximately two hundred and fifty one pages long. Author unknown. Title not specified.
Something clicked. It had to be the same book. But the book on the table was empty. He picked it up again, looking closely at the pages. Handwritten, they said. He could see the little indentations left behind, ghost words, as though someone had scrawled on the pages with a pen and no ink.
So. A team, working on arguably the most boring task in the world, managed to mess up their work. Alan wading somewhere off the deep end, muddling around in the dark in his office. A three hundred year old book that’d been read and digitized, with nothing more than blank pages. This was turning out to be a bad day. Joe wondered what on earth the team digitized if the book was empty. He brought up the file from the night before. He glanced at the meta information. Two hundred and ninety-three pages. Joe massaged his temples with his thumbs. There had to be a mistake. There were more pages in the digital edition than in the empty physical copy. Joe looked up at the text of the book.
Dark Horizons Page 8
