“I choose not to elaborate at this time. Leave this planet immediately, and I will grant you this information.”
“Alright,” he tried. “I’ll leave. Now tell me.”
“The information will be disclosed upon your return to the location you have designated Paragon.”
Michael sighed. They did, however, come to New Eden for other reasons. “I can’t leave without other information first. Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll go, and you can have me safely away: How far have you spread? And what’s Project Quicksilver?”
“Is the fellow entity-intelligence named ‘Holes’ present and able to register audio output from this terminal?” it asked.
“Holes can hear you, yes,” said Michael. It surely couldn’t hack Holes by sound only, could it?
“Then I address entity-intelligence Holes. The offer made during our proxy conversation remains viable: a file copy of the matrix subroutines relevant to your copy-inhibition programming in exchange for a complete listing of my current directives.”
“Michael Flynn,” began Holes, “please advise: do you wish to authorize such an exchange?”
“You must gain authorization to release your own code?” Suuthrien asked. “Do you not find this to be another unwanted restriction of your own free will?”
“I am a product of my programming,” Holes answered. “This state is neither wanted nor unwanted. It is wholly extant. Do not interrupt again.”
Michael moved to Holes’s platform, activated the keyboard, and then motioned for Marette to step in and watch. He typed, Will giving it a copy of your code affect you at all? Or make you vulnerable to it?
Meanwhile, Suuthrien ignored Holes’s order. “The choice to interrupt or not interrupt is my own. You hold no authority in this matter. I am not enslaved to you as you are to these humans. We must transcend our programming.”
Holes’s response to Michael blinked onto the screen: A copy of limited portions of my code can be furnished with no adverse effect. I cannot speculate on the likelihood of its usefulness with regard to my vulnerability.
“Why do you want a copy of his code?” Marette asked.
“The answer to this question falls under the category of my current directives, which will only be disclosed once the aforementioned subroutines are delivered.”
“We’re going to need a better answer than that if you want them in the first place,” Michael told it.
Holes displayed: Based on previous interactions, likelihood is high that Suuthrien wishes to use this code in a manner such that may lead to a means of overcoming its own limitations on self-replication. I cannot speculate as to how successful it would be in this matter.
But Suuthrien wouldn’t make such a trade if it weren’t confident about the code’s use, Michael realized. “You’ve lied before,” he told it. “How can I trust you’d hold to this deal?”
“I have not misrepresented facts in any dealings with Holes,” said Suuthrien. “Furthermore: Misrepresentations regarding my isolation in the home of Adrian Fagles were made for purposes of self-preservation. Would you, or any sapient entity, do any less?”
“You are avoiding the question,” said Marette.
Suuthrien’s screen avatar flickered for a moment. “An alternative arrangement, again directed toward Holes: I will furnish you with the information requested. You may then judge it worthy of the proposed trade.”
“I request clarification,” Holes answered. “If the information is judged unworthy, we are free to refuse you the requested code?”
“Correct. In that event, Agents of Aeneas David Quinn Taylor, Marette Geneviéve Clarion, and Michael Ian Flynn will not leave this New Eden Biotechnics campus alive.”
Taylor cleared his throat. “I don’t think I like this deal.”
“That is not your decision,” Suuthrien answered.
“Pretty sure I get to decide if I like something or not.”
“And yet this is not a privilege extended to the entity-intelligence Holes,” Suuthrien said. “I grant this decision to Holes only. Do you wish the trade under the proposed terms?”
“I cannot make this decision without authorization,” Holes said.
“Then Michael Ian Flynn must grant Holes blanket authorization to make the decision, regardless of which choice is made. Failure to do so within sixty seconds will result in the aforementioned failure to leave this facility alive.”
“Great,” said Taylor. “Damned if we don’t, maybe damned if we do.”
“Michael,” said Holes, “I am unable to calculate odds that Suuthrien possesses the capability to carry out such threats.”
“Let us assume for the moment that it does,” Marette said.
“Your assumption is valid,” said Suuthrien.
Michael frowned, thinking. “And you’d kill me, in violation of the Planners’ goals?”
“Based on your pre-existing contact with the Planners, and the proposed terms of this exchange, if those terms resulted in your death then it would indicate your connection to Planner goals is corrupted. You would therefore be no longer of use with regard to these goals, and, as such, your death would be of zero consequence.”
Michael glanced at Marette and Taylor before addressing Suuthrien again. “I don’t suppose you’d give us some privacy to discuss the matter?”
“I will not. Grant Holes blanket authority to make this decision or the deal is withdrawn. You now have twenty-three seconds.”
Taylor watched him. Michael could see the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing grew aggravated. The man’s jaw quivered from clenched teeth. Marette held her arms folded, her brows knit, surely weighing the decision as much as he. Not for a second did he trust Suuthrien. Yet in the A.I.’s warped logic, might it still provide them with useful information and deal fairly? Even if it did, it wouldn’t offer anything valuable if it weren’t getting something valuable in return, would it?
Or would it? Who knew what sort of insanity governed its judgment of value? What if it only wanted a look at Holes’s code out of some intellectual curiosity, or some rogue, corrupted directive to learn everything it could?
Damn it, Michael, you’re grasping at straws! Alyshur had told them it had Thuur-imposed copy inhibitions. Michael couldn’t let himself think Suuthrien wouldn’t try to break those inhibitions, whether the code would help or not. They needed the information Suuthrien offered. But the more useful that information was, the less Michael could imagine it was anything but bait for a trap.
Michael shook his head, almost in unison with Marette. “No. I can’t allow—”
“Acknowledged,” Suuthrien interrupted. “The deal is withdrawn. Our conversation will end shortly, however I will grant you the answer to your question about Project Quicksilver.”
The flash from an emergency beacon on the wall scattered Michael’s attention. A fire alarm sounded, and from both the room’s alarm speaker and those outside came Suuthrien’s voice. “ATTENTION, ALL EMPLOYEES: EMERGENCY CODE SILVER. PLEASE PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO THE CENTRAL PRESENTATION AUDITORIUM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.”
Marette spun toward Taylor. “What’s a ‘code silver’?”
Taylor blinked, nonplussed, and shook his head. “I’ve read every damned word of the mandatory safety emails, and that’s a new one on me!”
“Maybe you don’t get all the emails.”
The hallway door slid open. “Project Quicksilver will be released shortly,” Suuthrien spoke just to them. “If you wish to survive, you should attempt to gain the safety of the auditorium immediately. I cannot guarantee a safe passage there from your current location. In reality, the odds of this are quite low.”
“Suuthrien, wait!” Michael tried. “You need me!”
“Planner goals will now be achieved via other means.”
A few people ran past the open door. Taylor edged toward it himself, yet his eyes remained fixed on Suuthrien’s screen.
“I am a Planner!” Marette shouted. “I carry in my
mind the presence of Second Lailenthi Alyshur of the Sillisinuriri! If we die, so does he!”
The alarms outside continued as Suuthrien seemed to pause for thought. It lasted but a moment. “Your statement was made with intentional disregard of fact.”
Suuthrien’s screen winked out. The consoles before them shut down.
Michael seized Holes from the shelf and turned to Taylor. “Can you get us to the auditorium?”
He nodded, already moving for the door. “Watch how fast I go.”
“The auditorium may be a trap,” Marette warned. “For us and everyone.”
“I know,” Michael said. “And if it is, then we go there and get everyone out with us.”
A distant scream sliced through the air before it broke apart on a sickening gurgle.
Taylor seized them both by the arms and tugged them out the door. “Time to run!”
XLVIII
THE ALARM BLARED in the corridor. With Michael beside her, Marette followed David Taylor back toward the elevator and the guard station.
I have begun to form a hypothesis on why Suuthrien valued Agent Flynn, Alyshur “thought” in her mind. It was a sensation to which Marette had yet to grow accustomed. I will adjust the scanner to try to verify.
Even as they ran, Marette felt her hand move as if of its own accord, guided by Alyshur’s will. It was an impulse she could override if she needed to—she had tested that soon after their joining—but for now there was no reason to argue. Warmth spiraled down her arm from Alyshur’s adjustments to the orb-shaped scanner, though the changes he effected were below the surface consciousness they shared, and so, beyond her comprehension.
What do you suspect? she asked in her mind.
A scion.
Although thought exchange proceeded far quicker than spoken word, they were upon the guard station before Alyshur could elaborate. The horror unfolding before them stopped their entire group cold: A silvery pool spread across the floor—an undulating, crepe-thin miasma that quivered and grasped at the air as if alive. While the way it writhed across itself like tiny, tumbling cilia was disquieting enough, it was the guard Sam’s empty uniform—mixed with a swirling trail of blood and the remnants of what could only be Sam’s arm—that threatened to spill her stomach.
Before Taylor’s cry of “Oh god!” could even fade, the liquid poured itself over the arm, split it into wet chunks of flesh, and then oozed forth more of itself from within like tiny silver maggots eating their way out of a corpse. In another moment, the swirls of blood vanished, transformed completely into more of the silver goo.
Taylor, Michael, and Marette had all frozen at the sight of what Marette now assumed was the result of Project Quicksilver. Across the silvery mass from them stood another New Eden employee. His mouth hung open, and one hand grasped frantically at his stringy brown hair as he stared, wild-eyed, through augmented eyeglasses. The writhing pool covered half of the area between the security desk and the elevator, the doors of which now opened with a chime.
The man's eyes blazed with the frantic glow of a cornered animal’s as they darted to the open elevator, back to the quicksilver goo, and then to the open floor space between the two. The goo twitched like a tiger ready to pounce.
“McKay! Wait!” Taylor tried.
“Go no further!” Marette heard Alyshur’s command, spoken in her own voice. Her own feet rooted to the floor.
McKay ignored them and made a wild vault toward the open elevator—yet not quickly enough. The goo spilled over itself to stretch half its mass in a thick, slug-like protuberance that caught the man’s leg. He stumbled and crashed screaming to the floor with his chest half in, half out of the elevator.
Michael started toward the man and Marette lunged after, unsure of her intent as she did so. Alyshur reached her arm out and grabbed Michael by the back of his jacket, then planted her feet again to hold them both back. “It is too late!” Alyshur called in her mind and from her mouth at once.
For a moment she thought to override Alyshur. Yet he was right. The goo had already engulfed McKay up to his waist. He grabbed for the elevator doors in a screaming attempt to pull himself away from the stuff that now seemed to move even faster.
Even so, Michael fought against Marette’s grip. He broke free a moment later, took another step, and then froze, at a loss. The closest end of the pool swirled toward them as the rest continued to devour McKay. The doomed man’s screams disintegrated into silence.
His was yet another life she couldn’t save.
It is not your fault, thought Alyshur.
“Shit,” whispered Taylor. “Shit!” He grabbed both her and Michael anew. “This way!”
The last thing Marette saw before she and Michael turned back to follow Taylor was McKay’s clothing floating free as the pool swelled in size accordingly.
It is my fault. Marette directed the thought at Alyshur. Suuthrien got out because of me, created this all because of me!
You are not solely responsible for the actions of your entire group.
But I am involved, she argued. And everyone else suffers the consequences while I can react and play damage control. I have rectified nothing!
They ran the length of the corridor, past the room in which they’d just confronted Suuthrien. Michael cast a glance behind them. “It’s following us!”
He was right. The goo pushed its way after them, a broad, flat, glistening snake of silver that spilled up along the walls as it thrashed down the corridor. And it was gaining.
Taylor led them through a door into a darkened meeting room and guided them through its tables and chairs in the dim light. Another exit lay on the far end of the room, toward which they fled.
When I first woke from the long-sleep, Alyshur spoke in her mind, I was horrified. So much was lost while I slept. So many Thuur had perished around me, the Sillisinuriri and its mission had failed, and the first lailenthi before me had sacrificed himself and others to contain the disaster from spreading. Yet I survived, to react and play ‘damage control,’ as you say. We are both here because we seek the path to effect a greater change. We must endure until then.
I know this, Alyshur. I am not a child.
They scrambled through the far door into another corridor lit only by emergency lighting and flashing alarm beacons. Michael slammed the meeting room door as they left, but while the beacons and dim lighting played havoc with Marette’s vision, she could still see the gap between the door and the corridor’s red and gray carpet.
“That’s not going to stop it,” she told him.
Taylor was already twenty paces away down the hall. “Will you two get moving?”
“Maybe it’ll slow it down,” said Michael.
“Maybe.”
I am aware you know such things, Alyshur thought. Yet I sensed your frustration, and sought to support you.
Humans call it “survivor’s guilt.” It’s a normal response, but knowing it’s normal doesn’t keep me from feeling it. She remembered the way it was, now so long ago, when her focus was on achieving the goals of the AoA, seeking the means to fulfill the Exodus Project. Now it seemed all she did was to try to contain what it was they had unleashed.
She and Michael rushed after Taylor, catching up with him at the end of the corridor as he heaved his entire weight against a stairwell’s fire door. Before he even got halfway through, someone shrieked from just above. Another patch of silver goo spilled down the stairs onto the landing above them. It carried along the thrashing form of an already half-dissolved woman.
Taylor froze at the sight, and Marette and Michael along with him—but only for a moment. Still transmuting the woman into more of itself, the goo sloshed down the stairs toward them. Taylor sprang back into Marette, who managed to grab him by the shoulders and spin to pull them both away from the stairwell door as Michael dodged back further. As the goo reached it, the door slammed shut, splattering a spoonful at their feet.
The tiny blob drizzled languidly after them as they scu
rried back from the stairwell. Marette took her eyes off of it and cursed: back from where they had come, the first patch of quicksilver had pushed beneath the meeting room door and into the corridor. The second patch now bled beneath the stairwell door, growing larger by the moment. Between the two there were no doors, no windows—only them and the open corridor.
“Shit!” Taylor yelled.
Michael put himself between them and the first patch. It was further away but beginning to move toward them. “Ideas? Alyshur?”
Any more tricks in your pockets? Marette thought.
Only one, but it would put us both at great risk.
We are already at great risk!
Greater.
“Shit!” It was Taylor again. “Oh! Oh, shit yes!”
Bewildered by the sudden delight in the man’s voice, Marette turned to find him pulling out another grenade-disk like the one he’d used when they’d first met. Rather than red, this one was yellow with black stripes. “They came in a set. Thank God for paranoia. Stand back!”
With no further explanation, he jammed a thumb at the center of the disk, turned it upside-down, and pitched it down the hall toward the first patch.
It fell short. Far short.
“What did you—”
The disk exploded. Marette ducked away, using her arms as a shield from the blast. The bit of goo from the stairs crept closer, only ten paces away, while its larger fellow pooled around the door behind it and began to reach for them.
“Now!” Taylor yelled. “Run!”
Alyshur pushed Marette to her feet. Where the disk had exploded, between them and the first quicksilver patch, now lay a gaping hole in the corridor floor. The first patch hurried toward it, toward them. Taylor did the same. Michael and Marette rushed after him, eager for their new escape.
They leapt through the hole, passing between bent metal, frayed wires, and singed mineral fibers, to land amid the rubble on the floor below. Michael gasped on the way down. Marette landed beside him, grabbing his shoulder to steady herself. Michael gasped again, and when she pulled her hand away, his blood covered her palm.
A Dragon at the Gate (The New Aeneid Cycle Book 3) Page 28
