“As far as I know, she is still within the Enclave, believing you are in Detention for refusing the pairing. They have been appealing, which may have succeeded had there been no need to cover up your disappearance.”
Her face flushed warm with annoyance. “No, dammit. I mean the woman whose uterus I came out of.”
“Oh.” Dad-AI leaned back. “Liliana Martin. She was quite a bit younger than my biological self. The human I once was believed she had fallen in love with him, though she dated him on a dare, and stayed around for some months later out of guilt when she realized the ‘scientist nerd’ wasn’t such a bad guy under the lab coat.” The boom arm drooped, digitized voice taking on a somber tone. “Eventually, she decided to move on. You weren’t even one year old yet. I suppose being nineteen, she figured it better to leave you with an ‘adult’ for a parent.” It sighed, all the lights in its lens-eyes pulsed brighter and fading with the sound. “If she were still alive, she’d be seventy-eight now.”
“She died?” asked Tris, mildly ashamed of herself for not feeling much of any emotion about the idea.
“I do not know either way. The day she told me she wanted to leave was the last day… I correct myself―the day she told my biological counterpart that she wished to leave was the last time he saw her. He was at least pleased she gave him the news in person rather than leaving a note.”
Her jaw tightened. “She didn’t seem too upset about leaving me behind.”
Dad-AI swung side to side, a gesture perhaps meant as a head shake. “She believed herself too much a child to care for one.”
At a mother that didn’t want her, a dead father who wasn’t… but was, fear of ten thousand Enclave soldiers overhead, and the need to protect Abby, a twinge of horrendous nausea overwhelmed her. She raised her hands, and stormed out. “I… don’t know. I can’t do this. I don’t know what the hell to believe anymore.”
Dad-AI swiveled, extending after her as much as the boom permitted. “Tris?”
Out in the hall, she leaned her folded arms against the opposite wall and rested her forehead on them.
After a minute or so of silence, shoes crunched dust and concrete silt behind her. The approach sounded like Kevin, so she didn’t bother moving. He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey,” he whispered.
She mumbled, “So I guess I’m not really eighteen.”
“I can see no situation where me making any kind of a grandmother joke results in an ending other than your fist in my nose… or balls.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Besides, if you’re biologically eighteen, that makes me feel a little… odd.”
“Nine years isn’t that much of a difference.” She turned away from the wall to wrap her arms around him. “Besides. I’ve been awake for twenty years… even if some of it was in virtual reality. I think I want to go home. I’ve got the worst feeling about Abby. I wanna hold her.”
“You’ve gone super-mom.” He smiled. “Where’d that come from?”
“I dunno.” She scratched at her stomach, again feeling like a nutrient packet that had been sucked dry and thrown aside. Longing for what I can’t have? “Maybe I’m still angry that they took my ovaries.”
“That sounds kind of painful.” His sympathetic look lasted about four seconds before he grimaced. “What’s an ovary?”
She chuckled into his shoulder. “I’m not explaining that now.”
“Look.” He held her face in both hands, lifting her head so she made eye contact. “We’ve come all this way to stop these fuckers from dropping that green shit on anyone else. Maybe that electro-dad of yours is full of crap. Maybe he isn’t.”
“Can you believe that?” One tear slid from each of her eyes and crept down her cheeks. “Could you believe you were born before the war? That the parents who you thought you were crazy are victims too? That your own father helped them―” Tris glared at the doorway. She pulled away from Kevin and stomped back into the room.
Dad-AI, stretched to the limit of the boom toward the entrance, glided backward. The tilt of the ‘head’ and dilation of the irises seemed happy to see her return.
“How could you have gone along with it?” Tris pointed up. “With making the Virus?”
It bobbed. She imagined it shrugging if it had arms. “I, forgive me, he didn’t. That’s why they killed him.”
“You keep slipping and saying I.” She squinted. “Are you really alive and speaking through this thing?”
Dad-AI slouched. “No. I am sorry, Tris. Sometimes the illusion of being a human I never was feels too real. The memories appear to be mine, but they are not. I am sure, despite everything, he would have been very proud of the woman you’ve become.”
“But, I know my father helped with some of the design. Doctor Andrews told me.” Tris folded her arms. “Why?”
“I will be less obtuse. Yes. Your father did initially participate in the design program of a manmade virus. However, its initial concept came about as a mechanism to distribute vaccines and a restorative nanomedical treatment for radiation damage in the manner of a contagious agent. The early founders of the Enclave believed the population would not readily accept technological medicine, and so they sought to release a benevolent plague so to speak. A contagious virus that would carry with it a cure as well as inoculate those it infected from the usual array.”
“Usual array?” Kevin slipped back into the room, and pushed the door closed.
“The usual vaccinations. Measles, Mumps, Rubella, Polio, Chicken pox, ad nauseum.” Dad-AI bowed its ‘head.’ “Alas, the paranoids won out. Before Agent-8 could be released into the world, opinion towards outsiders changed. The Enclave shifted toward weaponization of it. Rather than curing the people who had survived nuclear war, the First Council came to see them as contamination on the Earth, a disease in and of themselves that needed to be eliminated before we could re-emerge. They believed any who had not sheltered in here to avoid the worst of the radiation and environmental disasters would only introduce runaway genetic damage into the human genome―and had to be euthanized.”
Tris scowled. “Who the fuck do these people think they are that they can arbitrarily make a decision like that? How are they that much better off after generations of breeding in closed quarters? I bet half these people are so inbred they’re their own fathers.”
Kevin laughed.
“I… rather your father… agreed with you. Hence… dead.”
Hands balled into fists at her sides, Tris fumed. How many Amarillos had there been? How many families thrown into paranoia, torn apart by the fear of the Virus as much as the Virus itself. They were ready to murder Abby over a goddamned cold. A growl started deep in her chest and rose from her throat.
“Okay.” Tris looked at not-Dad. “How do we blow the fuck out of this place?”
“I do not think that is wise. I will guide you to do what you must do. I will explain more as you continue. You know the man for whom I was modeled. Ask yourself deep inside the nature of my intentions. I will not mislead you.” Dad-AI swooped across the room. A tiny claw arm extended from the underside of the ‘head’ and disconnected a USB memory stick from one of the computers. It whirred back over, offering it. “This memory module contains software code that emulates the function of a router. It is already configured with the appropriate data translation routines.”
“You’re gonna clean a toilet with that?” asked Kevin.
Dad-AI angled to face him. “A router is a computer networking device that provides a connection between two dissimilar networks and―”
“Dad!” yelled Tris.
It pivoted back to her.
“Save the Networking 101. You just said we don’t have time.” She grabbed the USB. “Right, so I don’t think there’s going to be any 2020 era computers in the Quar. I’m going to need some kind of hardware connection too.”
“Correct. There is a prototype Petafiber card in one of the labs. You should be able to install it in one of the computers, which is alr
eady connected to the Stanford network. Then, you would only need to run a fiberoptic line through the ventilation ducts. I have calculated the best path for you at 217.4 meters to a small office room. The storage closet there should have a cable long enough to make the run. They have not used cables in many years, so it will likely go unnoticed long enough to complete the upload.”
“What upload?”
“My consciousness,” said Dad-AI. “Once I transfer myself off the dying Stanford net and onto the Enclave system, I will be able to grant your wish.”
“Great. And what happens if I get caught?” She looked at Kevin.
“Probability scenarios take up quite a lot of resources that I need to allocate elsewhere at this moment. Will you settle for ‘that would not be wise?’”
“No shit.” She bowed her head, took a breath to psych herself up, and looked up at the boom. “Okay. So how are you going to lead me anywhere?”
The small drone glided into the doorway.
“Consider that my finger pointing the way.” Dad-AI tilted a bit, as if trying to smile.
Kevin pulled the .45 out of his pocket. “Be careful. If anything goes wrong, we haul ass back the way we came and hope the subway’s still clear.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” Tris walked at the drone, which glided away and zoomed down the corridor.
“Be careful,” said Dad-AI.
Tris paused in the doorway to glance again at the machine mounted to the ceiling. “I have no idea why I trust you, or why I’m inclined to believe what sounds like a massive load of bullshit… but… thanks.”
The boom arm bowed.
Whirring hung in the corridor about twenty paces away.
“Tris, please follow,” said the drone.
“Oh, I am going to shoot that thing.” Kevin hurried through the door.
She grabbed his shoulder. “We need it.”
“Right.” He pointed the .45 at it in a ‘your days are numbered’ gesture, and lowered his arm.
The chuckle in her chest couldn’t quite lift the weight of duty and guilt sitting on top of it. By the time it reached her lips, it petered out from a laugh to a faint smile. She marched after the drone, which continued past the computer lab to another stairway. Since the window here remained intact, it waited for her to open the doors before gliding onward. It led them two stories up and came to a hover at another set of black-painted double doors. A sign on the wall referred to this floor as B1.
“Damn, how deep was this place?” asked Kevin. “We’re still underground?”
She pulled the door open. “I’m really going to stop asking how deep some rabbit holes go.”
The corridor outside contained hundreds of old desks, chairs with an attached slab of some beige plastic-like substance that looked far removed from what anyone could consider comfortable. While the drone glided merrily along above them, Tris and Kevin struggled to climb over clusters of debris, jogged through short spans of passable hallway, and climbed again.
Eventually, the drone stopped at a heavy wooden door with a tiny square wire-reinforced window. Tris crept up to it and grasped the knob. She stared at the ceiling, terrified at the thought a couple thousand Enclave military walked around less than twelve feet overhead. She’d been in the Quar before, but hadn’t remained there long enough to have learned about the old university below it. Then again, that sort of knowledge she imagined the Enclave wanted to keep secret. Above her might be a tarmac full of Hoplites as easily as a building where soldiers practiced hand-to-hand fighting.
She turned the knob, pushed the door in, and gasped.
Before her lay the same room as depicted in the photograph of her at five years old. Within two breaths, the smell of old technology, older paper, and a faint wisp of pipe smoke weakened her knees. She stared at the same desk her father used to work at, standing in front of the same worktable that once held his prototype android limbs.
As if on autopilot, she walked to the spot where she’d always sat on the floor, and sat on the floor. The room seemed wrong when viewed from the height perspective of a grown woman. Maudlin thoughts, wishing the world had never gone crazy, squeezed her throat closed.
Kevin approached, looking around with a whistle of awe. “Wow. This is that room. Hey look, a 2019 calendar. It’s still there.”
“I don’t want to look.” She wiped sadness from her mind and stood. “If we don’t screw this up, I’ll have years to cry into my beer over what my life might have been. I can’t do it now.” She scurried to a table near the back right corner, where a handful of PCs sat dormant.
The drone glided to land on Dad’s desk, and bounced a few times.
Tris looked at it. “Is it resting or is it ‘pointing’ at the desk?”
The drone bounced a few times.
“I’d say pointing.” Kevin crept over.
She changed course. “Oh, the prototype card.”
A moment of rummaging drawers turned up a locked metal case about the size of a book. As soon as she raised it from the drawer, the drone slid back a bit and powered off. She set the case down on the desk, pulled out her smallest lock picks, and got to work. Kevin paced around, drawing and concealing his handgun as if he couldn’t decide if their odds of bluffing exceeded their odds of needing to shoot their way out if someone found them. It was unlikely, but possible. But if anyone saw a firearm, especially an old-tech one, Kevin would have to use said old-tech firearm.
Nine agonizing minutes later, the diminutive―though sturdy―lock yielded and popped open. She stuffed the tools back in her shoe, closed the sole, and flipped open the case.
Between two slabs of dark grey foam sat a green PCIe card with a silver metal frame around the entire circuit board. The outer-facing edge contained small socket in the middle.
“Wow. Back when I was five years old, this card was probably more valuable than a shitty house.” She blinked at it and set it back in the case. “Right… need to find a working system.”
Kevin sat at the desk and put his feet up while she went from computer to computer until one turned on. When she found a ‘winner,’ she shut it off again and flipped the tower on its side.
“Why’d you turn it off again?” He raised an eyebrow.
“I can’t put the card in when it’s on. Antiques were touchy like that.”
A minute or four of searching turned up a screwdriver from the worktable, and she made short work of installing the prototype card. The system already had an Ethernet line connecting it to the Stanford net, so she had only to run a fiber line to create a bridge to the modern network.
“Great.” She looked around at the walls. “He said vent. Do you see a vent in here?”
Kevin pointed.
All the way on the left end of the room, as opposite to the entry door as one could get, a three-by-three foot air filter covered an intake duct. She studied the upper walls as well as the ceiling. A few other openings, exhaust ducts, looks about eight inches tall and a foot wide. She doubted even five-year-old her would’ve fit through those.
“Well, I guess the choice is kinda obvious.”
He nodded. “What’s the plan?”
She jogged over to the empty worktable under the vent, climbed up, and pulled the cover off. A dusty, square metal shaft proceeded in a few feet before curving straight up. “This is going to suck. You’re not going to be able to bend enough to fit. Wait here. I’ll scream if I get stuck or need you to come after me.”
“You sure?”
“No, but you’re not exactly quiet.” She kissed him. “Give me fifteen minutes before you come looking… unless you hear any strange noises.”
He held her tight for a few seconds. “I don’t like this, but if you think it’s best.”
“None of this is ‘best,’ only necessary.” She kissed him again before crawling up into the shaft.
A short distance ahead, a curve in the duct bent vertical. She braced her shoes on the half-inch seams between sections of ductwork and shimmied
up. Hopefully, this doesn’t turn into a maze. She crawled to the curve and stood inside it, pulling herself upright with a hand on each side. A crosswind lofted her hair as soon as she peered over the top. The duct to her right ran back over the lab, and ended at a fan unit about where the wall would be. Not going that way. To the left, the shaft extended about forty yards before reaching a ninety-degree right.
Tris crawled as fast as she could go without making too much noise in the flimsy metal tunnel. The passage after the turn stretched even farther, with a left offshoot a decent ways off. She shimmed ahead, biting back curses whenever something on the top of the vent scraped her back, or she put her knee down on a flange between sections.
When the duct firmed up, as if embedded in dirt, she picked up the pace as it made little noise. As she neared the offshoot, her hair pulled forward and trailed out in front of her face. Devoting one hand to holding it out of her eyes slowed her somewhat. Roaring of fans grew louder as she neared the opening on the left.
She peered in as soon as she could, finding a curved duct blasting air into the section she crawled along, aiming it in the same direction she’d been moving. Not wanting to go face-first into a turbine, she continued straight with a stiff tailwind.
Some minutes later, light stretched into the duct from the left. Her best estimation had put her a little past 217 meters, but she gave that up to nerves. This had to be where the not-Dad wanted her to go. She edged up to a square grille, smaller than the intake, but still not too difficult to squeeze through.
The room on the other side reminded her of Detention. Black gloss tiles and white walls. From the floor-level opening, she got a glimpse of a few desks and strong daylight. An antiseptic smell swirled in her nostrils and brought back memories of home. Her whole house reeked of the same chemical when she was nine. I’d been thawed. That was the Enclave… Maybe it’s not a smell, but the absence of stink? Everything’s constantly being cleaned here. Her stomach churned at the memory of her first night in the Wildlands sleeping in an old sewer. And those bastards who’d captured her had been so foul. Maybe Kevin had a point. They hadn’t raped her because they worried the Enclave wouldn’t pay them if she’d been ‘contaminated.’ But that didn’t stop them from squeezing and groping.
The Roadhouse Chronicles (Book 3): Dead Man's Number Page 32
