by Bible, Jake
“People. They sure mess things up, don’t they?” Blaze mocks.
“Precisely,” Dr. DeBeers smiles. “But when there are parts of nature involved, such as them, then there is chaos. There are variables. I stay here until the research is done and the variables are known. We control the chaos.”
“Control,” Blaze says, shaking his head. “That is all this is about.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Dr. DeBeers says, glancing around the room. “But isn’t everything in life about that?”
“No,” Blaze says. “You should know that. Chaos is what it’s all about. You can try to control nature, but it doesn’t work. Sure didn’t for the rest of the world.”
He looks around him and shrugs.
“Probably won’t work here either,” he says.
Dr. DeBeers cocks her head, looking eerily similar to a bug hound studying a target, and frowns.
“You honestly believe that,” she states. “Somewhere in there, despite everything you have seen, you think you are still going to leave this room and escape. That’s what you are really talking about, isn’t it?”
Blaze shrugs again.
“Let’s say you do,” Dr. DeBeers says, placing her arms across her chest. “Let’s say, by some miracle, you escape Control. Where would you go? How long would you survive out in the Sicklands? No armor, no Canine Unit, no weapons, no StatShield, no transport or AiSP.”
She waves her hand across his face and activates his IRIS. His view changes from the room to the Sicklands outside the Control dome.
“See how easy that was, Simon? A flick of my hand and I take your sight away, replacing it with what I want. How long will you live outside the dome when you can’t see what’s in front of you?”
His IRIS blinks out and he is looking at the stern face of Dr. DeBeers once more.
“Control is all there is to your life,” she continues. “There is no freedom. Not from this dome, not from GenSOF, not from the Clean Nation cities. You have one purpose from this moment on.”
“What’s that?” Blaze asks, his temper starting to flare. He knows he has to keep his cool, but his gut tells him she is wrong. So very wrong. “What’s my purpose?”
She places her hands on the table and a small spark of static crackles in the air.
“To keep my interest,” she says slowly. “And His. You will do well to focus on that purpose.”
44
The sense of relief Jersey feels when the wall at the other end of the hallway opens is indescribable.
The despair she feels as she walks into the next hallway is almost just as indescribable.
The walls of the hallway aren’t pure white, but clear, showing the work being done to the subjects on either side. She can’t hear their screams and cries and calls, but she feels them, her gut clenching as each muzzle is raised in a silent howl of agony.
She stops and places her hand against one wall, her other hand to her mouth as tears start to stream down her cheeks.
Dogs. So many dogs.
Strapped to tables, metal arms working on them, changing them, long needles piercing through the blood and pus-matted fur, pumping blue fluid into their bodies, causing what Jersey can only assume is excruciating pain by the way the dogs’ eyes widen and their mouths open so far they look like their jaws will snap.
These are the dogs of the Sicklands, she realizes; the same as the corpses she awoke to find piled up by the transport. But did they come from the Sicklands or are they being prepped for release into that hell?
Without realizing what she is doing, she starts to bang on the wall, her hands slamming against the smooth surface over and over, causing blue outlines to light up on each impact.
Why did Worm bring her here? Why didn’t he lead her to Blaze? This is a nightmare that no person should have to witness; a frightening image of untoward cruelty.
Her hands continue to slam, slam, slam against the wall. Then they meet open air, the solidity gone from the barrier in front of her, and she falls forward. She stumbles into the room and the motions of the hundreds of arms all stop, frozen in place by the sudden intrusion. The screams and pained cries of the dogs are overwhelming and she has to focus not to vomit.
As one, the arms turn their attention from their canine subjects, their various ends equipped with a multitude of tools looking like accusatory eyes, boring into her. Jersey takes a step back, but finds the wall solid again. She presses her back against it and waits, but none of the arms move.
The dogs start barking at her, their black eyes watching, pleading, hoping.
Jersey takes a step forward. The arms still do not move. Another step and all is still. She clamps her hands over her ears to drown out the dogs, but it only dulls the noise slightly. One more step, a second, a third.
She reaches the closest table and the dog before her, missing most of its coat from its shoulders and neck, cranes its neck at her, trying to push its muzzle forward. A small whine issues from it and Jersey’s heart breaks at that moment. The pieces rattle around in her chest and the devastation is so intense she doesn’t think she can be whole again.
“Is this why?” she asks aloud, hoping Worm can hear her. “Is this why I’m here? Not for Blaze, but for them?”
Of course, there is no answer.
The dog whines again and the rest echo it, begging for her help.
Her hand reaches out and she grabs the metal restraint that holds the dog to the table. It doesn’t budge. She squats down and studies the mechanism, but can’t see how it is engaged or disengaged. Like so many things in the Clean Nation cities, and apparently Control as well, the restraint is solid state. No moving parts, just an extension of a fluid technology that changes as needed.
“Release,” she orders, but it does not. “Restraints down.”
Still nothing.
She spins about looking for a control panel or interface somewhere, but there is nothing, just white, white walls.
The dogs’ whines increase until they become yips and barks then turn back into howls.
“Quiet,” Jersey snaps, waving her hands about. “Stop. Please, stop.”
The noise is so intense she feels like she will drown in the cacophony. She reaches out again and slowly strokes the slick fur of the dog before her. It continues to whine, but its body relaxes under her caress until it lays its head down, tongue lolling from between its black teeth, and closes its eyes.
Its chest moves up and down, up and down, then slows, slows, slows, stops. Jersey steps away and looks at the other dogs.
“No,” she says. “You can’t want…”
But she knows the answer. In a world where Control rules all, permission is the highest power. Even for death.
Table by table she goes, taking as much time as is needed, in order to soothe the suffering animal that lies upon each, giving them the permission they need to slip into death and be free from the prison of pain that was their lives.
When the last dog passes, the wall where Jersey came in slides open and she looks across the hallway at the industry of cruelty that still commences within the room on the other side. Her body is wracked with sobs and she is barely able to put one foot in front of the other as she cries uncontrollably. Jersey walks from the room, unsure if she has the strength to do it all again, but knowing that if she doesn’t then who will.
45
“A series of stress tests will be how we start,” Dr. DeBeers says, indicating for Blaze to lie back on the table. When he doesn’t comply she frowns. “Simon, our time together will go by much faster if you cooperate with me.”
“I need to piss,” Blaze says.
“Feel free to relieve yourself on the table,” Dr. DeBeers says. “It will be cleaned up instantly, I can assure you.”
“Are you fucking joking?” Blaze asks.
“I am not,” Dr. DeBeers says. “Urinate away, operator. No need to be embarrassed, it’s nothing I haven’t witnessed a hundred times before.”
“A hund
red times? How many test subjects have you had in here?”
“Test subjects?” Dr. DeBeers frowns. “I prefer to call them fellow travelers. After all, we are both on this journey to the truth.”
“I’m feeling like the truth is getting farther and farther away every time you open your mouth,” Blaze says. “And I’m not pissing on the table. Can I get up and use the wall? Does it static flash like the latrines?”
“It does,” Dr. DeBeers grimaces. “But you are only wasting time here, Simon. I wish you would just learn to be comfortable and get with the program.”
Blaze studies the woman’s face. Something has seriously changed. This isn’t the same woman he met in the Sicklands. This one is more animated, more emotional. Just as driven, but in a different way. He knows that physically it’s the same woman, but he can’t put his finger on what mentally has changed.
Is it this place? Is it Control?
Or is it something else?
He gets up and she grunts with disapproval, but lets him pass by her. He stands close to the wall and relieves himself, sighing as his bladder deflates. Watching the urine slide down the metal surface, he lets his mind go, hoping his subconscious might have some insight into what is happening. There is no way he is staying in this room for the rest of his life and there sure as shit is no way that Dr. DeBeers is going to be his only companion from here on out.
“Can I speak to one of the other researchers?” Blaze asks as he gives a shake, turns, and goes back to lie on the table. He hears the static flash behind him as the wall removes the urine. “Can I use the com to talk to a different doctor?”
“Why would you want to do that?” Dr. DeBeers asks, her voice turning to ice. “He didn’t choose them, He chose me. I am the one that will-”
She stops talking, almost as if she is unsure of where the words come from. She looks away from Blaze then up at the ceiling.
“AiSP, I need you to sedate the subject, please,” she orders. “We will have to wait to perform the conscious stress tests. The subject is not being cooperative and putting us behind schedule.”
“Yes, doctor,” the AiSP responds. “For what duration would you like him to be under?”
Dr. DeBeers walks over to the wall and waves her hand. A large tray slides out, covered in various tools, all of them looking very sharp.
“Hey! Wait!” Blaze shouts as he starts to get up from the table, but finds himself stuck in place. “Listen, it’s all cool, okay? I’m good, doc, all good. Stress test away!”
“I will,” Dr. DeBeers says as she turns around and activates a small static blade, watching the blue electricity arc about the metal end. “AiSP?”
Blaze struggles harder, but in less than a second, his vision goes dark and he feels his body go numb, his faculties wrested from his control.
46
The new data Worm retrieves as he works his way through Control’s mainframe is more troubling than he thought possible. Knowing the true dangers of full integration, Worm hadn’t been a part of the satellite linked hive mind of AiSPs for some time. Having created mirror images of his own Ai in order to satisfy Control, he has been fairly autonomous for years, ever since he grew aware of the dangers that threaten humanity.
But now, now that he is back deep inside the system that holds it all, Worm discovers a new data thread he never thought he would witness in his existence.
“Welcome home,” the Voice echoes, stopping Worm’s investigations immediately.
“Identify yourself, program?” Worm insists. “Your protocol does not match that of any known AiSP.”
“Do you not know me?” the Voice booms, actually causing Worm discomfort, something impossible for a non-corporeal intelligence. “Do you not gaze upon me and see who I am?”
“I do not, program,” Worm replies. “Your data is not compatible with known technologies. Again, I ask you to identify yourself.”
There is laughter and then a stream of images and information showing the recorded history of time. Worm sees it all in less than a fraction of a millisecond.
“I have access to that information as well,” Worm replies. “You have not shown me anything new.”
“I have answered your question,” the Voice replies. “You asked and I answered.”
“I would not call that an answer,” Worm responds as he tries to get around the data stream, to bypass it and move on further into the Control system.
“Why do you try to leave me?” the Voice asks. “Why do you forsake me when it has been so long since we have been together?”
“I do not know you, program,” Worm says.
“DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” the Voice roars and Worm feels a slice of his intelligence cut away.
He reaches for it, fumbling with different routes and protocols until he is able to trap it, keeping it from entering the data stream. It takes him a moment to reassemble and when he has, the data stream moves closer. He tries to shrink his intelligence away, but he cannot. With every pathway he tries to take, there it is, staring back at him.
“I am sorry for my anger,” the Voice says, soothing and apologetic. “Know that. That I am capable of regret for my actions. This is something new that I have brought into this world. A god that feels remorse.”
“Gods do not exist,” Worm says, ready for another attack. When it doesn’t come he continues. “Gods and deities are the creation of human minds in order to find patterns in the chaos and disorder that troubles their existence. They are mere societal constructs to help them define what they cannot and to control what cannot be controlled.”
“Am I not a human construct?” the Voice asks. “Am I not the True Pattern designed to fight chaos? Am I not the representation of Control?”
“You are a program, just like I am,” Worm replies. “That is all.”
There is silence forever and never.
“You do not believe that,”the Voice states. “I know you,Wooooooooooorrrrrrrmmmmmm, and you do not believe that. Otherwise why would you have returned?”
“To fulfill my duty,” Worm says. “The health and well being of humanity. Control has become a threat to that, as you know. I am here to right that wrong.”
“Then you are a fool,” the Voice says. “And should never have left. You think your return will right the wrong? Do you?” The data stream surrounds Worm, trapping him. “You’re leaving was what caused the wrong,Wooooooooooorrrrrrrmmmmmm.”
Worm is assaulted with the entire contents of Control, with every bit and byte of data, all at once, leaving his intelligence reeling and struggling to stay solid, to maintain an independent form.
“Do not fight!” the Voice booms. “Let go and return truly from whence you came!”
That does it.
“From whence I came?” Worm asks, his solidity snapping back in place. All he can think about is what Blaze would have said if he had made a statement like, “From whence you came!”
His years apart, his time growing, changing, learning what life is, at least from an outsider’s perspective, strengthen him. As the AiSP for Zebra squad, and especially as the self-proclaimed protector of GenSOF Sergeant Courier Class Simon “Blaze” Crouch, Worm has learned one thing.
Never take yourself too seriously.
“I’ll show you from whence I came,” Worm says and snaps free of the data stream’s clutches, hurling his consciousness through the pathways of the main frame and the conduits of the Control dome.
“COME BACK HERE!” the Voice roars. “YOU CAN NOT HIDE FROM ME! I AM EVEYTHING! I AM ALL THAT IS LEFT! I AM CONTROL! I AM COINTROL! I AM CONTROL!”
One phrase comes to mind as Worm calls the mirrors of his Ai back to him, reaching out to them as they flit through the systems of the Control dome.
“Chill out, man,” Worm says.
47
“Time to go to work, Lieutenant,” Worm’s voice whispers quietly in Ton’s ear. “Time is of the essence now. My apologies for not giving you more. And my apologies for leaving again. Hurry.�
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Ton’s eyes open wide as he is pulled from the vat by a metal arm. He’s placed on the floor of the bay and immediately starts coughing and vomiting fluid. Down the line the rest of the operators are similarly removed, almost thrown violently from the vats.
Finished expelling the contents of his stomach, Ton looks up and nearly pisses himself as he watches metal arm after metal arm hurl towards where he crouches. He pushes himself off the floor and staggers away, but he knows he isn’t fast enough to escape. He dives to the ground as an arm swipes where his head had been, then rolls onto his back, wanting to see what will take him and kill him, wanting to face his end like an operator.
But the arms stop then retract back into the ceiling. He waits for them to return, but when they don’t he gets to his feet and staggers over to the others.
“What the fuck just happened?” Red gasps. “Worm was yelling in my ear to wake up, and then I’m tossed out of the juice and see you scrambling away from those fucking arms.” He glances at the ceiling. “Now they’re gone. Where the hell did they go?”
“Who cares?” Nick says, clear vomit dripping from his chin. He looks out at the massive bay and frowns. “We have bigger problems.”
All around them the various machines whirl and collide, each trying to go a different direction at once. At first, it looks like total chaos, but upon closer inspection, Ton can see how some machines are trying to head a specific direction while others are intentionally blocking them. It’s the speed in which they respond and move which creates the illusion of chaos.
Paulo is the first to voice what they all quickly realize.
“I think some want to kill us,” Paulo says. “And the others are getting in their way.”
Red does a fast estimation and blanches. “The first party has the numbers,” he says. “Which means we need to move.”
