Conscious

by Vic Grout

  One of drunk St. George’s unfriendly friends was closer than either of them realised. It was unclear exactly what he had heard – or thought he heard – but it was enough to catch his ear and interest. He thrust his head between the two of them in an unwelcome lunge.

  “What was that you said, girls?”

  “Wasn’t important,” muttered Jenny hastily. Aisha froze and said nothing.

  “No, you,” he maintained, raising an insolent finger to point at Aisha. “I heard you say something about knowing what was happening.”

  “No, I …,” Aisha began in alarm, but was shouted down.

  “I heard you! You said it was part of the plan!”

  “I did not; I …,” she tried again but, by now, the exchange had alerted drunk St. George himself, who was even drunker – and less rational – than earlier.

  “What’s the shit?” he drawled aggressively, taking a step in their direction.

  “The fookin’ rag-‘ed knows what’s going on,” his fellow patriot shouted, placing a restraining hand on Aisha’s shoulder. “She knows what’s happening!”

  “Get off!” bawled Aisha, slapping at the unwelcome touch. Jenny attempted to force her way between the two but was pushed away roughly and fell.

  “Knows what happening? Behind it then, more like!” snarled drunk St. George. He stumbled into her and grabbed her other shoulder. Aisha screamed.

  “We should have fookin’ known you Mussie scum would be responsible,” the first patriot shouted as they both tightened their grips. “You need teachin’ a fookin’ lesson!” He raised his other hand to strike.

  But they were both drunk and Aisha was sober; they were stupid and she was clever. She turned and bent her knees, and twisted and dropped out of their hold. As the two thugs fell together into the space she had left like a vacuum, she straightened and kicked out at their combined form. At the moment drunk St. George rebounded away from his fellow bigot, her heel struck him a powerful blow high up between his legs. He grunted with pain.

  “Rag-’ed Bitch!” he roared. His other hand swung backwards and they heard the smashing of glass as the bottle he carried broke against the temporary light-pole behind him. Forwards came the arm once more, his hand clutching the soaked and jagged remnants of the bottle by its neck. It continued on, in the same movement, towards Aisha’s face. Jenny staggered to her feet.

  The broken bottle’s trajectory was more a thrust than a slash but Aisha contributed her own relative movement by trying to duck out of the way. The result was a sweeping contact across her face. A red, seething heat seemed to spread from ear to ear as she saw the glass glint different angles in the light. As Jenny watched in horror, blood splashed from a dark line drawn across both her eyes.

  “That’s for my brother!” drunk St. George spat.

  Most of the crowd recoiled in shock; a space opened around the English battle. A few, after their initial surprise, moved in to help; others seemed less certain of who deserved the support. Cries and questions were heard in many tongues but the stags could only understand English. Eventually, someone shouted.

  “What’s happened?”

  Jenny ripped off her coat and used it to try to stem the flow of blood from Aisha’s face. Neither were able to reply. Instead, drunk St. George, violently compromised between the pride of his deed and fear of retribution, turned to the nearest of the encircling mass and screeched,

  “This is the terrorist scum behind all this! This is their fault! All of it!” His arm described a semi-circle, indicating the scale of Aisha’s culpability across the park – possibly the world; he still brandished the bottle neck as a symbol of his heroic conquest.

  The mood of the crowd changed – not universally or to the last individual – but overall. A lot doubted drunk St. George’s claim but, in the passion and confusion of the moment, some clearly considered it credible. A few still appeared concerned for Aisha’s injury; others seemed more uncertain. But many had suddenly found an unexpected outlet for their pent-up frustration, fear, and anger of the past week or so. After ten days of fending off a growing enemy they could neither understand nor undermine, they at last had a visible target directly in front of them. Rationality might have to wait on revenge. The threat was clear.

  Jenny had to make an immediate decision, which she did. The crowd looked thinner in one direction than the others. Still holding the screwed-up coat to Aisha’s eyes, she grabbed her arm with her free hand, pulled her with all her strength and ran towards the weakest point in the circle. Most people gave way before them but a few stood firm and several rounded in pursuit. They burst through the first line without much difficulty and into clearer space with fewer people in their way. Beyond the immediate audience of the attack, there was less awareness of the situation and, in principle, less resistance. They dodged and ran about fifty yards, chased by a growing group of several dozen or so intent on further retribution. They threw themselves into the darkness of the trees, avoiding – often only at the very last moment – both human and wooden obstructions. They exploded from the cover into the light on the other side, Jenny’s arms and face cut in every direction by the slashing of a hundred branches. The pursuing crowd grew.

  But soon they could go no further. The crowd along the far side of the pathway, opposite the trees, was so dense that they were funnelled, without choice, along its length. The vigilantes gained on them. At the far end, they came to a temporary fence behind which most of the portable generators were placed, out of everyone’s way. It was too high to climb and crowds blocked any way around on either side. Aisha could not see and Jenny dared not relinquish her hold on the, now drenched, makeshift tourniquet: blood still seeped from behind it. They stopped, turned and faced their fate with their backs pressed hard against the icy wire mesh. Their pursuers slowed, realising that their prey had no means of escape, and moved coldly in for the final act, some brandishing sticks and knives. The stags, by this time, were nowhere to be seen. Aisha understood the impending violence quite as well as if she could see and grasped Jenny’s free hand as a last, desperate gesture of friendship.

  *

  Suddenly there was gunfire: two distinct shots were heard close by. For Aisha, seeing nothing, her immediate thought was that their attackers were even more fully-armed than they had feared: she waited for an impact. Jenny, however, could perceive the rear of the group hesitate, slow and begin to fragment. As they did so, through the gaps, uniformed soldiers came into view, sprinting towards the impending confrontation. More warning shots were fired to alert the leading ranks of the pursuit group. In total, between one and two hundred men and women in uniform appeared to have entered the park.

  But the mob’s front line was lost in its blood-lust. Some never heard; some heard but could not bring their madness under control. They continued to advance; others turned to face the troops, who became an extension of the enemy. Further shots rang out and people fell. On each flank, the soldiers spread out and pushed forward, level with the leading vigilantes; then began to encircle them. There were cries to stop; some did but many pressed on. Away through the blurred crowds of troops and public, Jenny thought – just for a moment – that she saw Stephen standing between two officers.

  Five men, the very vanguard of the avenging group, closed in on Aisha and Jenny. They waved knives and cudgels. The soldiers raised their guns. Further warnings were shouted. The five continued to advance, murder in their eyes: they were within striking distance now. A sharp command was followed by the near-simultaneous crack of twenty or thirty rifles and the five men fell dead before them. Small trails of blood formed quickly, flowing away from the bodies and combining in growing pools between them. Jenny vomited in a mixture of relief and revulsion, then felt Aisha grow heavier against her side as she gradually lost consciousness and collapsed at her feet.

  *

  S = 0.832

  “Jesus, bloody Christ!”

  Bob turned round in surprise. He had not realised Jenny was behind him unti
l she spoke. In fact, she had only just arrived; he had been so engrossed in his thoughts – none of them good, that he had not heard her creep uncomfortably down the steps of the control room. He darted her a questioning, but compassionate, look.

  “The hospital room’s let me go,” she volunteered by way of explanation, struggling to hold back tears. Her arms were bandaged and scratches showed vividly on her nose and cheeks; the last remnants of her black eyes completed a sorry picture. “I think they’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  “How is she?”

  Jenny swallowed hard. “Alive. Apart from that, I’m not sure. I caught a glimpse of her face as they rushed her off to theatre – before you and Andy got there. She’s a real mess, Bob.” She could say no more. Her throat contracted into sobs as she tried to speak.

  Bob’s head drooped and his eyes stared, without focusing, at the floor. “I just wish I’d figured it out sooner,” he moaned softly.

  “Wouldn’t … have … made … any … difference,” Jenny drove the words out in staccato form between sobs. “You didn’t … really know … what was … going … to happen. Clever … to have … figured … it out … at all.” She sat down beside him; they held each other close, united in their grief.

  It was 9:30am on New Year’s Day and, already, the hours since midnight lay behind them like a lifetime.

  From Bob’s perspective, the essential narrative had begun a few minutes before the New Year celebrations. Having, been reminded by Jill that Europe was an hour ahead of London, he had realised suddenly that other parts of the world had, of course, been celebrating the New Year at different points through the afternoon. These celebrations would involve sudden, short increases in mobile data traffic, as people called distant loved ones. Some lines of higher population would produce greater surges than others but there would always be an effect of some sort. Checking Hattie’s data for the temporary rise in the S value, over the previous several hours, it was alarmingly clear that the ‘blip’ always started a second or so after the hour, and continued for a number of seconds after that. ‘It’ appeared to be observing the new mobile data and its regularity was probably helping It distinguish it from the rest of Its traffic internally. It was ‘learning’, as Aisha put it. At some point, he had been fairly sure, It would be able to make the transition from observer to exploiter and the change would be permanent. The hour before Europe’s midnight (New Year for some Eastern European countries and much of Africa) had shown a particularly long blip and there was every indication that the next one might be for real.

  Of course, Bob’s real concern was what It might do with Its new technological abilities, and whatever other threats might emerge from Its increase in complexity. A riot was far from his mind. He was immediately concerned for Aisha and Jenny, however, and had acted fast nonetheless. He and Andy failed to contact them but Stephen had sprung into action. As soon as Bob had explained his fears to him, as tersely as he could, Stephen dispatched three of his team at once, made two twenty-second calls and left the room himself immediately after. Bob’s instinct had been to follow but Andy had managed to persuade him that he would be more use having the technical information to hand ‘back at base’. (Apart from a brief visit to the hospital centre to see Jenny – Aisha had already been taken to surgery by the time he arrived, he had been there in the control room ever since. There had been no sleep.) Sure enough, a second or so after midnight, Hattie’s reading had risen to S = 0.742. This time, however, there had been no retreat: after another few seconds, it had suddenly jumped to S = 0.830. On the room’s main display screen, any node or link that was any colour other than red became red and they were instantly surrounded by the sight and sound of RFS on a scale they could barely comprehend. There were large sparks, flashes, explosions and several immediate injuries. Mobile devices behaved erratically. Much of their essential equipment had to be disconnected to contain the problem even in limited form. Once again, Hattie’s fuses saved her and repair and replacement of sections of the main display screen had become an ongoing project. As the night wore on, a new wave of news of personal tragedies infiltrated the control room. Bob managed to get a short message to Jill but, by then, she already knew, to all intents and purposes, everything he needed to warn her.

  *

  On Stephen’s relaying the news to not-Thompson, a minute before midnight, a number of well-planned and rehearsed processes had launched into action. The remaining few Brussels police (a few dozen) and troops (nearly a hundred) still held on final emergency standby had been activated in seconds, from different bases, and sent to join forces at Parc de Bruxelles. Stephen and his closest deputy had followed behind as the Berlaymont unit had deployed onto Schuman and sprinted towards the park.

  According to official police reports, when the closest contingents of the armed squad had arrived at Parc de Bruxelles, they found, for the most part, an air of confusion but something short of outright panic. The removal of the area from the power grids had served to limit some of the large-scale destruction that was immediately apparent elsewhere in the city. There were several injuries, and a few deaths, from drone crashes and other incidents but, compared to the continuing RFS escalation of the past few days, and the new levels of horror beyond its boundaries, inside the park the situation’s sudden deterioration was less apparent. ‘Its’ newly-acquired mobile capabilities were a universal nuisance but not quite so deadly in the park itself. One police unit would later report that, as they entered Parc de Bruxelles past the theatre, a group of drunken louts, ten or more, possibly British, were fleeing in the opposite direction. As they ran along Rue Ducale, an explosion blew a wall out; none were seen to rise from the rubble in which they fell.

  In the relative calm of the park, reports continued, a particular source of disturbance was easy to locate. Four different armed units quickly converged on the western edge inside Rue Royale. The situation clearly required immediate action and, within a few minutes, ‘after appropriate warnings were issued’, thirteen people had been shot, eleven fatally. Two women in their forties were rescued ‘from a threatening situation’, both injured – one of them seriously.

  Stephen had accompanied Aisha and Jenny in the ambulance that took them to the hospital section of the network facility. There would be far less pressure on available staff and facilities there, he said. He gave directions for Andy and Bob to be escorted to meet them. Fires raged unchecked and bodies now lay unattended by the side of the road as the ambulance drove the short distance from the park to the facility. Mobs were rioting; shops, open or closed, were being looted. Death was all around. Aisha was taken into surgery immediately on arrival at the hospital. Bob had arrived shortly afterwards and remained nearly an hour. Andy was still there.

  *

  ‘Beep’ S = 0.833

  Many of Hattie’s outputs were now fed directly into the room’s main display and programmed to give notification of any variation. Much of the left-hand side of the huge screen (when it worked) showed her ‘scope graphs and there were several lines of breakdown analysis of the S Parameter, along with copious unwanted nonsense It had provided elsewhere – and was proving impossible to eliminate. The S value itself, the most important figure of all, produced an audible signal – a simple, sharp beep – to alert them when it changed. The new value was still flashing as Jenny and Bob both turned to the screen. Jenny regained her composure enough to consider the work in front of them. Stephen and his deputy returned from a meeting with persons unknown.

  “So, is it everything we think?” asked Bob. Stephen nodded gravely.

  “Indeed it is,” he answered sombrely. “Our sentient Internet, ‘It’, now appears to have complete mastery of all communication channels.”

  “Everything?” asked Jenny.

  “Everything.”

  “The mobile networks? 4 & 5G?” suggested Bob.

  “Everything. 4 & 5G, experimental 6G, the newer extended LTE & LPWA, Bluetooth and BluetoothX, Zigbee and OpenZigbe
e, mobile control protocols, land-based, airborne and marine navigation channels, satellite links … everything. It is reasonable to say that It can now potentially interfere with any device we might choose to connect to It, the very moment we do. The implications of this are, of course huge.”

  “Not only this,” added his deputy, “but the, ah, … ‘It’ now appears to have a level of control above the physical layer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We mean,” Stephen explained, “that some of the problems we begin to see arise this morning are not restricted to malfunctioning devices. ‘It’ is producing more than successful signals. There is clear evidence of movement of data.”

  “Surely that’s been happening for a while? We know a lot of data’s been lost as systems fail.”

  “This is not merely lost data. ‘It’ appears to have begun to manipulate data of Its own accord. It may still be a random process – it almost certainly is – but we see information being sent and received outside of our control. Often – nearly always, in fact – this is incomplete, as the original control frames generally were when It was in Its early stages of development, but we are beginning to witness a crude level of manipulation of our information, rather than mere interference with it.”

  Bob considered this for a moment, nodding, watching the fragmented and meaningless text appearing and disappearing from the main display screen. He then, not without difficulty, opened Facebook on the machine in front of him and looked at his own timeline. It was a mixture of legitimate older posts and utter garbage. And in there somewhere was a few lines of something that looked a lot like his most recent credit card statement. Was this just his local view or could others see this? “Bloody Hell”, he gasped. “It’s playing silly buggers with our stuff!”

  “But, how can that happen?” asked Jenny incredulously. “That’s application layer! How can a load of data flying around where it shouldn’t, find its way so far up the protocol stack?” However, she suddenly remembered her brother’s photo on Aisha’s phone earlier.