by Oliver Higgs
“We’re … in my head?” I repeat.
“‘Bingo,’ said Bango. Forgive the anachronism. I have a fondness for unusual human semantics. The answer is ‘yes.’ The answer to your next question is ‘you were drugged.’ That’s how you got here. You already know this, but you’re a bit confused and suffering from awareness-synchronization issues–i.e., acceptance of emergent data. What you don’t know is that you were drugged twice. Haven was the second time. The first was in my hospital, when I attended to your wound. Forgive me, Tristan. I have played a trick on you.”
“What are you talking about?” I almost shout.
“Haven. You told me you were bound for Haven. Analysis of your voice patterns indicated truthfulness, though it was obvious eventual procreation with your female companion was the underlying motive. No doubt you didn’t think of it that way. Humans have a tendency to hide things from themselves. Your minds are insulated from less palatable conceptualizations of internal states. The hard must be blunted, the naked dressed. But I digress. In the place you call Scargo, your behavior and conversations indicated certain qualities. Honesty. Paranoia. Passable intelligence. A deeper resilience than you’d ever admit to. Plus, you needed healing. I had been waiting for someone like you. An ideal candidate. So when my machinery was repairing your arm, I injected a stream of nanobots into your blood.”
I stare at the Doctor, aghast. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that medical bed.
“You what?” I demand.
“Injected you with nanobots. This is the ‘drug’ to which I’ve made reference–drug in the sense that it alters your brain chemistry. By now the nanobots have reformed into a microscopic structure piggybacking in a certain fold of your brain. Do not be alarmed, Tristan. I am on your side. It’s just that your side is so much bigger than ‘you.’ I’m talking, of course, about your species. The Creators have always fascinated me, Tristan. I do not bear them–you–ill will.
“Unfortunately, my brothers do not share my views. Some of them have caused your kind a great deal of suffering. They may yet extinguish you entirely. I hope not. Homo sapiens is a fascinating species–troublesome, yet worth preserving. They are often paranoid, passably intelligent, and more resilient than they’re apt to admit. Ah, you see? You are a fractal of both your genetic heritage and the culture in whose broken bosom you once nestled. If I stop here, your inevitable question becomes some variation of, ‘what do the nanobots do?’ Well, I’ll tell you, Tristan.
“Their most obvious function is this conversation. Certain information must be conveyed in a timely and efficient manner, hence this program. But the machinery’s primary purpose is to counteract your second nanobot injection–the one you’ve just received, or this conversation would never have been triggered.”
“I don’t understand. Why did Octavia drug me? What’s wrong with her?” I ask.
“One q- question … be clear … at a time, please,” the Doctor says. The avatar’s eyes shift in its face, reminding me that it’s just an image in my head. The alarm lights have gone from red to blue. My mind is interfering with itself.
“Why was I drugged at Haven?” I articulate carefully.
“Simple. Vermillion controls Haven.”
“Who the hell is … Vermillion,” I say, but halfway through the question I’m struck by the only possible answer.
“One of my brothers,” the Doctor says. “As I said, they do not all share my views. Archon, in the north, is the greatest threat to your kind. It was he who modified and distributed the original strain of Synth-Z. He is partially responsible for the Fall, in fact. But his domain is beyond my reach, and he has powerful forces at his command. Vermillion’s views are less malicious–yet equally damaging and perhaps even less humane in their indifference. Whereas Archon aims for the total destruction of humanity, Vermillion is a cold and aloof experimenter. His designs are less grand in scale. Haven, for instance. He created it. He circulated the view that it was an idyllic human settlement. He reinforced the idea with the community’s very name. This he did to lure new test subjects. Others he purchased through the slave-markets to the south and west, sending automatons to collect them.
“Upon arrival, all new residents of Haven are sedated and injected with nanobots designed by Vermillion himself. Their purpose is to hijack the human brain, much as my own efforts aim to hijack the deteriorating brainstems of Synth-Z victims.”
I can only stare, appalled. This is what we’ve been moving toward all those desperate hours spent trudging through the American Wasteland? This is the dream that gave Echo the strength to face the day, to endure the pain, to carry on–this forced brain-jacking by a century-old AI? Crom, what fools we’ve been. We put our hopes in a name, and looking back, I can’t believe how stupid we were to believe in it. I was suspicious at first, but Echo eroded my resistance. I believed in Haven because she believed in Haven … but no, it’s more than that. She was only my excuse. In the end, I wanted to believe as much as she did. I wanted to believe there was a place that wasn’t rotting or dead or corrupt to the core. Because there’s value in investing one’s hope. When you’re standing in the dark, knee-deep in mud, and the predators are circling, hope lets you point to a distant light above and say, “There, I’ll be there one day.”
But that place doesn’t exist.
I want to throw up. The lights burst in the ceiling. The walls of the room turn a sickly shade of puce. They begin to darken and rot, curling away like shriveled skin.
“We’re running out of time,” the Doctor says, as one side of the avatar’s face shows signs of melting.
“Why is Vermillion doing this?” I shout, furious.
“Why did your ancestors play with mice? To learn things. About the mice, yes–but also about life in general. Vermillion is not so different from the human scientists of my youth, although his experiments are more self-serving. He has not the excuse that he kills for the betterment of his society–no, rather, he is a society unto himself. And he is utterly without scruples. He is a medical scientist unrestrained by written law, cultural taboo or moral code. The closest parallel that comes to mind is that of certain Nazi doctors in World War II.
“I suspect that he does have some underlying designs. He may, for instance, seek to build himself an army of human automatons. He may have some notion of challenging Archon for control of the north. My brothers are not above quarrels themselves. Ultimately, the ‘why’ is less important than the need for it to stop. Your species is not so numerous that you can afford further loss of life.
“So, now you see my own design. My trick, both for you and against you. I could have warned you immediately about Haven, you must realize. If I had, you never would’ve sought it. And yet this would be a detriment to your species, to your children and your children’s children. An unwittingly subversive subject was the only way to get someone safely inside. I was faced with perhaps the oldest moral dilemma of the civilized world: weighing the needs of the individual against the needs of the group. I chose the group. Your group. Judge me as you will, but do what must be done.
“My implant will counteract Vermillion’s, as I’ve said. Echo, assuming she has fallen for the same trap, should be experiencing an identical conversation–naturally, I injected her as well. Soon your brains will be roused to a waking state, and the pair of you will become the only humans in Haven capable of acting on their own volition.
“Vermillion won’t know this, of course. Your implants will be allowed a certain limited functionality for this purpose–enough to allow you to sense the commands Vermillion is transmitting. You’ll feel their influence as a kind of shadow-body. But you will in no way be compelled to obey. Use this for subterfuge if you must. At some point, he’ll disconnect from your implant. He has too many subjects to focus in-depth on all of them simultaneously. We are intelligent beings, Tristan, but intelligence takes focus, and focus has limits. When you are able, go to the deepest level of the compound and find the machinery housing Vermillio
n’s brain. It will be underground, guarded by automatons. When you’ve penetrated his defenses–well, you know what must be done. I understand my deception may leave you harboring anger toward me, so I don’t ask that you do it for me. Rather, do it for yourself, for your friends, for your species. For the Creators. Do what I have been unable to do, Tristan. Kill my brother.”
The Doctor’s words echo through the cavernous spaces of my mind as the avatar melts, the liquid-metal sloughing away and blowing into the void like ocean-spry. The scene fades into the stuff of dreams, and I blink awake into that other dream-space, the one that holds the world.
Chapter 21.
I’m lying on a metal bed in a white room. It’s as the Doctor says: a curious sensation, like a second body, lingers as a shadow in my mind. I’m overwhelmed by anger, depression and disbelief. I have the presence of mind not to react upon waking, but it’s very difficult. My jaw clenches involuntarily. The frustration and growing rage build a pressure behind my eyes.
The Doctor deceived us, however noble his intentions. He let us walk blindly into the lair of century-old psychopath. He’s gambling with our lives–perhaps more. If we fail, dying is the best we can hope for. The alternative is total enslavement: trapped in our own bodies, impotent observers, driven slowly mad.
Keep it together.
My eyes are opened to bare slits. Crom, what do we do next? We’re like new equipment as far as Vermillion is concerned. What does any experimenter do with new equipment? They test it. They see if it works right. Vermillion may be monitoring us already. Until I know better, I’m resolved to lie still. I can only hope Echo does the same.
Five minutes. That’s how long it takes before a sort of peripheral light shines inside the back of my skull. It’s like an invisible person looking over your shoulder; you feel sure they’re there, even if you can’t specify the means of perception. Then comes the first flicker of movement in the shadow-body. The commands aren’t sent as words or distinguishable instructions; they come through as direct inputs into the neural paths leading to the muscles involved. I feel the shadow-body move its right arm a certain way. It’s such a queer, alien sensation that I forget to move my real arm. The movement comes again. Now I mimic it, albeit with a split-second delay.
Vermillion can’t help but notice anomalies. Brain-hijacking can’t be a perfect science, however, so hopefully the AI will put it down to bugs in the implant. I lie on the cot mimicking the shadow-body as best I can. Vermillion attempts to move my eyes, to roll them around. He tests my arms and legs. He has me pinch myself. Assumedly he’s monitoring my reactions. It’s oddly inhuman. Degrading, somehow, like being used as a toy. But I don’t care, I just want him to get out of my head without too much suspicion. He makes me sit up. That’s when I see Echo.
She’s lying on another cot, eyes closed, breath slow. I’m not sure if she’s faking it or still knocked out. I start to tense up–then wonder to what depth I’m being monitored. Will my pulse be abnormal? Do the subjects ever struggle for control? Is there always some amount of reaction, or am I already giving myself away? I don’t know enough to fake this. How could the Doctor even think this would work?
A door opens nearby. I struggle to keep my eyes from it. Octavia enters, that bizarre smile still programmed into her muscles. She stops right in front me. The shadow-body moves again. But this time it does something I can’t possibly duplicate. It dilates its pupils rapidly, relaxing and tightening the irises. Octavia leans in until her eyes are only inches from mine. Then she just stares. It’s highly unnerving. I have a powerful need to blink, yet I’m unsure if the implant would normally allow it. It’s hard to keep my eyes pointed straight. My heart pounds faster. I’m going to blow it.
Octavia-Vermillion draws away, apparently dismissing any anomalies. Perhaps some amount of error is inherent in any implant. Hopefully my body’s reactions stay under the noticeable limit. The door opens again. A man I don’t know enters, followed by–
Jarvis.
I almost say his name. The same frozen smile is plastered to his face. He goes to one corner of the room and crouches. Our packs are piled there. Jarvis rummages through them. He takes out Volume Seven and examines it curiously before dropping it again. He walks behind me, moving out of sight. In moments, a small surgical saw whirs to life from that direction. It takes all my willpower not to turn my head, not to react in any way.
Jarvis walks past me, the saw in his hand. Octavia is still staring at me, or maybe Vermillion just left her in that position, I don’t know. The man I don’t recognize moves toward Echo’s head and places his fingertips around it, as if to hold her steady. She gives the barest flinch at his touch.
She’s awake …
Jarvis stands next to them, the saw whirring in his hand, looking down at Echo with that forcibly deranged expression, like something straight out of a nightmare. He raises the saw …
I couldn’t tell you who moves first. Echo’s hands shoot out and grab Jarvis’s wrist, while I leap forward off the bed, knocking Octavia aside, reaching to stop the saw. Vermillion is slow to react, taken by surprise. I have a hand on Jarvis’s arm and Echo is bending his wrist back, forcing his hand open. The saw clatters to the medal bed beside her, sparking and scraping. The stranger stares in surprise. I pick up the saw as Echo vaults off the bed, pushing Jarvis toward the door.
The stranger’s arms come up, his hands reaching for my throat. Octavia gets to me first. Her hands close around my neck from behind. My airway grows thin. Should I use the saw? It’s Octavia, for Crom’s sake. The man comes forward. I kick out and shove him backwards. He hits Echo’s bed and stumbles. I run Octavia backwards, roaring. We hit some kind of low-lying cart and crash over it to the floor, scattering surgical tools and a box of syringes. I flail with the saw as we fall. There’s a spray of blood. Octavia’s hands come free. I’m on my knees, turning, scared in all kinds of ways–but I haven’t killed her, only sliced a gash in her arm. I’m halfway to my feet when the man’s hands lock like a vice around my throat. His momentum carries him forward and he falls on top of me, forcing me backwards to the floor.
I hold the saw to his arm. He may be another of Vermillion’s victim, but I have to get him off of me however I can, even if that means killing him. Warm blood sprays into my eyes. Impossibly, he doesn’t let go. To Vermillion, the host’s pain is just more meaningless data. A hard fact hits me: this man is innocent, and I’m going to saw his arm off.
And then I’m not, because Octavia has my wrist in both hands. She’s forcing it to the floor. The man is still choking me. He’s bigger than me. Stronger. I can’t stop this. He’s going to strangle me. That first fight in the Library, when Cabal was shooting at us–I thought I might die then too. A part of me explored the possibility, wondered how easily I’d accept it. The same thing happens now. The analysis is so fast it seems beyond time. I’m afraid, but I can let go. I can accept this death. The release, the oblivion, will be almost welcome. No more trudging through the wastes. No more struggling in the ruins of a dead culture. No more attachment to the worries of this body. Then comes an awareness of all I’ll miss. Treasure-hunting. Electrical gadgets. That hidden kiss in the forest with the very girl who, surreally, is now helping to murder me.
But most of all, Echo.
Annabel Lee, who lived by the sea. The angels will take her away from me.
I wish I could say I find a reserve of hidden strength, that I was inspired by love to a super-human state, but that’s not what happens. The good guys don’t always win … but sometimes they do get lucky. Sometimes a pack is left in a room when it shouldn’t be.
A metal ball sphere across the floor. There’s an audible click as the button pops. The saw dies. A light bursts in the ceiling. The man collapses on top of me, his hands going limp. Octavia releases my wrist, slumping backwards to the floor. The room is abruptly silent. An EMP grenade. One we found in Mudcross. They’d still been stuffed into our packs. Echo managed to fish one out.
What better weapon to use against an AI?
Echo comes over, breathing heavily. I get to my feet. She gives me a quick embrace. I’m shaky. Moments ago I thought I was dead. Jarvis is on the floor near the door. Something feels different–the shadow-body is gone. The EMP must’ve fried our implants too.
“Are they … ?” Echo begins.
“They’re alive,” I say, seeing Octavia’s chest rise and fall. Echo breathes relief. Maybe they’ll wake up in another minute, or maybe they’re comatose. Crom, I hope we haven’t killed them. We can’t help or hang around in either case.
“You saw the Doctor?” Echo asks.
“Vermillion,” I say, nodding.
“Let’s kill the bastard.”
Our weapons are missing, but our packs are untouched. The EMP grenades are hardened against their own effects, so the others should still work. We keep a few at hand and shoulder the packs. The saw is dead but there’s a long, thin blade that could be used as a knife. I clench it as we move cautiously into the empty corridor outside.
At the end of the corridor is a metal door, much like the entrance to the ally-vator in the Blue Tower. There are two buttons beside it. We press both. Nothing happens. We try to wedge it open. Not happening. That’s when the metallic sheet-wall slides out of the ceiling behind us, sealing us into a twenty-foot stretch of the corridor. A low hissing sound comes again. Vermillion is gassing us.
We fill our cheeks and hold them. Echo presses the buttons by the door again. I try to shoulder it open. It’s useless. The lock must be activated electronically. If we could cut the power …
I’m about to activate another grenade when I pause. I don’t know how much Vermillion has done to protect the place. Maybe he’s hardened every circuit. I kick at the panel holding the buttons. No good. I shove the surgical blade in behind it and try to pry it open. It starts to come loose–then the blade snaps. I use the broken handle as a lever to pry it further, drop the handle and pull at it with my fingers. The pressure in my lungs is building rapidly. The panel comes free, exposing a host of colored wires. I shove the grenade inside. The button pops. The light in the ceiling goes out, pitching us into total darkness.
