Chaacetime_The Origins_A Hard SF Metaphysical and visionary fiction_The Space Cycle_A Metaphysical & Hard Science Fiction Saga

by A. I. Zlato

  After a few minutes, she managed to open her eyes. Seeing the City from the sky … and, more important, the Tower. Her Tower, her Machine, so beautiful, she could not do anything but admire it. Baley stared at its immenseness, its sleek design, which originated from the ground to reach the sky.

  It was wonderful. Getting closer to the Tower, one could see buildings grow, as if they were drawn to its magnificence. The Kandron began its descent, and the overview faded. Baley brought her thoughts back onto the investigation. Once the animal landed, she took off the strap and slid swiftly, eager to get away from Edgard. It had played its part; not she had to play hers.

  As soon as her foot touched the ground, she automatically became a Special Agent. She barely paid attention to Paul, who followed her in silence. A lot of people were present on the suicide site. Medical examiners, analysts and technicians were working hard. All teams worked in perfect harmony with one another. Each team knew its role, and, most important, all were connected to the Machine, which was making small changes in their chips so that they could work collectively and optimally. The Chief Medical Examiner and his assistants evaluated the bodies and recorded their observations. Analysts and technicians conducted measurements, took samples for laboratory analysis.

  Although they seemed much focused, they could not conceal their astonishment to see a Kandron on site or to raise eyebrows when Baley stepped off the animal’s back. She ignored these signs of surprise and asked to see the preliminary reports of each team, then entered the cordoned-off section of the crime site. Because it was indeed a crime, a crime perpetrated against the City, against the Equilibrium, even against the children themselves.

  Baley doubted that such a large number of children can decide to die collectively, without someone strongly encouraging them. Through mental manipulation, probably. It was her job to find out what caused the deaths, to see beyond appearances.

  Inside a gym, the children’s bodies lay on the concrete floor. Arms along the body, the feet were pointing towards the centre of the three circles they had formed. First one circle, then a second, and now three concentric circles … She walked slowly, seeking both details and an overview, everything that could give her a clue. Why these children in particular? What did they have in common? Simultaneously, she was checking the reports she just received. The environmental scan did not reveal anything. The gym, the flooring, lights, the heating system … everything seemed normal. Same conclusion about the children. They showed no pathology, and had been in good health before they committed suicide, the cause of which remained unknown. Baley had virtually no conclusive element, but she trusted her instinct to uncover details that had eluded everyone else. She continued checking the crime scene. Paul started speaking, and his action startled her. She had almost forgotten his presence.

  “Three concentric circles … like the symbol of the Machine. Strange. In ancient manuscripts …”

  “We don’t need a history lesson here. We are in the present. A weird present, that is …”

  “Everything connects to the past. The study of the past helps to understand the present … I was saying this symbol is never designed in the manuscripts. They refer to the Machine but not Its symbol and …”

  “What’s the connection?”

  Baley started getting angry.

  “You would agree that the Machine’s symbol is very important, is it not? This cannot be a coincidence, if these children had drawn it, especially since it had never been designed anywhere, outside the Tower. Don’t you find it odd?”

  “What is odd? That nobody had drawn the Machine’s symbol? How does the answer to that question help us here?”

  “Well, I am not sure, but the fact that it had never been drawn by a human, in any document, except by these lifeless bodies … I’m just thinking that …”

  “That what? What is your conclusion?”

  “That we need to dig deeper on that aspect.”

  Baley sighed. She had to capitalise on the presence of this individual, though his bookish remarks did not bring much to the investigation.

  “So tell me, what do you see … she asked, trying to show goodwill.”

  “I see that on each circle, bodies are the same size. The same frozen facial expression, as if they had called for help before their demise. Perhaps the symbol is used to ask the Machine for help. Something like “Machine, please help” … a call for help, from the grave.”

  Baley had to recognise that his findings were sound, even if his interpretation was unlikely. Had a manipulator chosen these children based on their size, or had they selected themselves based on that criterion? Furthermore, how had they managed to set their bodies to form these perfect circles?

  She then noticed tiny traces on the ground, indicating that someone had first drawn three circles, to allow the children to position themselves correctly.

  Perfect geometric shapes, same size … All this had been carefully prepared. What could one infer?

  “They started by drawing a circle, then two, then three …” she said to herself, rather than to Paul. “Nothing says they will not add a Fourth Circle the next time. Out, the Machine’s symbol. The same size, however … we need to investigate in that direction?”

  She continued, this time addressing him.

  “Well, I propose that we work separately.”

  “Why? I thought we were working together”, he replied.

  “You can do some research, and see if something identical had happened before. I must file my report to the Machine, and I cannot do with you around.”

  “Yet, you said the study of the past was useless … You are getting rid of me. However, my observations are valid. And I think, unlike you, that the Machine’s symbol holds the key to this investigation.”

  “Follow your idea, I will follow mine, and we meet later to cross-analyse our findings.”

  They both went separate ways, Baley by rail, and Paul by air thanks to Edgard.

  She went home, and found Lars in the kitchen, devouring his sandwich. He looked up, and smiled. He was about to speak when he noticed her focused stare.

  He sat on the sofa, and listened to his wife, without interrupting. She told him about her day, and the beginning of the investigation, and of course without going into details he did not have to know. He knew she was going to immerse herself, body and soul, into this inquiry, and that he would not see her for several weeks. That prospect would trigger some disputes, because nothing else would matter for her, and he would have to take care of the family alone. He knew that, as he also was sure their relationship would withstand that episode, because the Machine was their pillar. He was proud that his wife was selected to help solve the Problem, and was sure she would succeed, as she had before.

  She stopped talking as Iris, their 15-year-old daughter, came home. Her age, which was above the age of the suicide-committing children, was a relief, but it was the only positive criterion. Like all teens, Iris spent her time defying authority, questioning the choices the Machine made, which had chosen an electronic engineering job path for her. At home, that rebellion had reach an unbearable climax. She let herself onto a chair.

  Sighing, Baley walked to the kitchen, and Lars followed. They exchanged a familiar stare that shed light on their seventeen years of complicity. They had met at school, when they were studying the Machine. Their mutual admiration for It had brought them together, before proper love arose. Lars had become a mechanic, while she was selected as Special Agent. While still in the same school, but following different curricula, they continue to see each other, before finally settling at the end of their studies.

  He worked in a field that was unknown to Baley; he accessed some parts of the Machine that were forbidden to her, as well as he had no access to the first floor. Their respective chips prevented them for talking about the details of their work, about their personal connection to the Machine. They could still speak, still talk about that passion that took a large part of their life, chat about thei
r respective work days, as the average couple would.

  Once in the kitchen, they continued their conversation on Baley’s new investigation, lowering their voices. They never wanted to talk about work in front of their daughter, opting to keep these matters for themselves. Baley expressed more anger about having to work with a teammate, and what is more, someone from the Periphery. The conversation was cut short insofar she had no concrete evidence for the moment.

  She looked into the living room, noticing that Iris had deserted the area, certainly to take refuge in her room. Loud music was heard, as if she wanted to confirm her mother’s remarks. Iris could have, obviously, listened through her chip, and thus kept the place quiet, but she wanted to use an archaic system, as a provocation. Baley looked at Lars, and knew they were going to broach the topic that had been at the centre of their conversations lately … Iris. She used to be a smiling and happy child, liked discovering new things, admired the Tower excitingly, loved studying … and now she had become a gloomy and withdrawn teenager.

  How should they act, as parents? She rejected any discussion. And didn’t like any aspect of her life. The Machine, that was good for nothing. Electronics, the job path that was chosen for her, was good for nothing, the City that was good for nothing … They talked almost every day about the best approach to handle her attitude, without ever agreeing on a single strategy, let alone implement it.

  Depending on their state of mind or fitness level, they would let it go, fight about it, or attempt a conversation. Full of good intentions, Lars brought dinner to the table, while Baley called Iris, asking her to come down for dinner. The teen came out of her room, scowling. She sat on a chair, curving her spine, determined to shut up and show her grumpy side. They started eating in heavy silence. While serving the food, Baley dared ask her how her day was. Her daughter replied tersely.

  “As usual.”

  “Did you have interesting courses? ... Baley ventured a conversation.”

  “No, and you know that!”

  “Nothing was positive during the day? Have you talked to your friends? Are things …”

  “This is none of your business! And no, there is nothing positive in my life! I don’t want to become an Electronic Engineer. I don’t want to work for that metal box! Humans should be free … uhhh …”

  Iris’ chip had just sent her an electrical shock, so that she stop having such thoughts. The Machine steered humans’ thoughts, only to protect Itself, and thus preserve the Equilibrium. Anti-Machine reflections were forbidden, and were the only one so. That was why Iris stuck to that kind of thinking. Baley did not think her daughter was fundamentally anti-Machine. Iris was just anti-system, and everything similar to provocation caught her attention. Despite the pain triggered by the electrical shock, she managed to finish her sentence.

  “They can do without the Machine … hhh …”

  The pain knocked her out for several minutes. Baley could not figure out what was worse. See her daughter suffer, or hear her utter these monstrosities. How can they dare live without the Machine? Just listening to that kind of talk gave her nausea. She stared at Lars, and noticed that her husband was also suffering. Nothing could justify such attitude. Nothing. Livid, he asked her daughter to leave the dinner table and go away. Baley tried to interfere, but Lars’ dark stare dissuaded her. His suffering converted into anger, and even though she did not agree with his attitude, she understood it perfectly. Provocation must have limits.

  Iris stood up, without saying a word, and locked herself in her room. Lars ate the rest of his meal, in silence, and then put on a movie in the living room. Baley thus found herself alone at the table, in an apartment inhabited by three people.

  Continuity seems obvious. Yet nothing is more difficult to explain than the connection between cause and consequence. A chronological sequence of facts does not bind these elements in any way — quite the contrary.

  Recollections from Chaacetime

  Chapter 8

  : Space H. (1st Encirclement)

  Iris closed, with relief, the door to her room. She had once again argued with her parents. They did not understand her, and were not even trying! Finally alone, far from the admonishments of her mother and especially her father, she leaned back on the closed door. Her room was her refuge, the only place where she allowed herself to cry. This room was the only welcoming place in the apartment, a place she controlled. She could decide the colour of the walls, the crystal displays, the lighting and the furniture placement. And those were the only things she could control. The rest of her life was laid out in advance, decided by the Machine.

  She projected, through crystals, a series of four-dimensional images. Three dimensions for space, one dimension for movement, thanks to a simulation harness she set up. She had requested a natural landscape, a stream flowing merrily among trees, the foliage of which partially hid sunlight. Finally alone. Her room was now replete with peaceful and soft colours, sunlight and water, trees and rocks. She walked inside the harness and saw vegetation scrolling. Under her feet, she felt like leaves were crackling. Such a beautiful natural landscape that she could never admire in real life.

  Such a gorgeous landscape existed certainly somewhere, but too far from the City, too far from the Machine and Its dictatorial control. She could not escape the Its influence, without feeling immeasurable pain. Nothing compared with what she had suffered earlier owing to a non-conforming thought. Something worse! The Machine did not allow humans to escape Its grip. No, this natural corner was only accessible through virtual reality. Static, she admired the splendid panorama, and tears of frustration streamed down her cheeks. She felt confined in a prison with invisible bars, a net whose meshes tightened a bit every passing day.

  When she was younger, she admired her parents, envied their First Circle chips, which were permanent chips. At that time, she only had a temporary chip, while waiting for Graduation Day. She wanted to follow their professional footsteps, bound to this wonderful Machine. Being adult seemed so interesting to her. She wanted to grow quickly; she wanted to discover this ultimate connection with the most beautiful pieces of technology. She wanted to discuss with her parents, as they did between each other, with a minimum of words, thanks to the device that shone on their temples. Then she grew up. She understood now what the Machine really was, and what the chip exactly was used for. A golden cage … with an emphasis on cage. She would have liked so much to talk to them, to show them they were wrong, but years of communication between them were over. They had become true calamities, with their stupid questions and narrow minds. What she had seen in them, as a child, had disappeared. They now were nothing but two humans so enslaved that they were proud of that bondage. She cried harder, gasping with rage and helplessness, desperate because she was so misunderstood. Finally alone in her room, loneliness felt unbearable. Nobody understood her. Withdrawn in her misfortune, Iris collapsed.

  When despair had reached a stable level, she made the landscape disappear and left the harness. She asked the crystal displays to paint the walls in black, to mimic her mood. In this gloomy atmosphere, she lingered in front of the mirror, studying her own image. The first thing she saw was that damn chip. She knew she could not remove it. It would be possible, but only thinking about it would trigger atrocious migraines.

  It was worse than anything else … it was an invisible chain that altered her behaviour, her movements. How could she tell if she actually had freedom of thought? This thing filtered all electrical impulses in her brain, that is, all her thoughts. She had no way of knowing when it stepped in to divert the flow of ideas, steering them in a different direction. This digital parasite engineered a permanent and insidious control mechanism. It worked in the shadows, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. She was the prey. Iris put her hand on it, to hide it in the mirror, to make it disappear. If only she could pull it off. The pain knocked her out for a long moment. It was a non-conforming thought. She should not have that thought. Yet, she had it. A
nd she insisted. Damn chip … f*ck* Mach …

  She then self-inflicted a few minutes of pure pain, during which she felt really alive. She was able to develop thoughts that the Machine considered subversive. It was a victory. Small, but a victory, nonetheless. She straightened up, and with her hand still covering the chip, she went quickly over the rest of her anatomy. She did not find herself pretty, like all girls her age. Skinny, she had no gorgeous curves like the majority of her friends. She looked like a rectangular box, stretched beyond measure.

  There she was. She looked like a shelf. Black. Of course. How could she find a boy who would fall in love with a piece of furniture? What moron would like a girl like her? A marginal girl, who did not like the kind of life her parents offered her? An ugly rebel? She stopped breathing to hold back tears, to no avail. Ugly she was, and ugly she would remain for the rest of her life. It was like that; there was nothing she could do about it. Looking closer into the mirror, she nevertheless found her blue eyes beautiful. They were indeed the only thing. Her hair, coloured black, fell over her shoulders like stems of a dead plant. A shelf featuring a dying plant. Too classy, that young woman!

  She lay on her bed, staring at the black ceiling. She tried to remember since when she had started feeling so unhappy. There had not really been a significant triggering event. It had been a slow tumble. Perhaps Graduation Day had accelerated her fall in the bottomless pit of despair. On that day, like other days, she stood there, silent and weak, awaiting her assignment. On that day, some would tell her which Circle she would need to integrate, before inserting her final chip. Both her parents were in the First Circle, and she was a good student, so she obviously expected to stay close to the Machine — and her parents.