The Sentient Collector (The Sentient Trilogy Book 1)

by Ian Williams

  “We can’t go anywhere from here, except back the way we came,” Ruth said. “There’s no telling how far it goes before we’d hit the farm towers if we continue.”

  He had already gotten past this consideration and was now looking for something they could have missed. Perhaps another hidden door, or even a secret lever nearby. He slid his hands along the wall and felt for any gaps similar to the one found in the metal doors earlier. All he could feel was a layer of dirt and grease that quickly covered his hands in a dark, coal-like substance. If not a door then maybe a trapdoor of some type? To find out he dug the front of his shoes into the ground. Either side of the metal track was solid concrete underneath a thin covering of more dirt. His shoe only went in by an inch before hitting the hard surface.

  Graham started to suspect that they had finally reached the end of their journey. The Sentient Collector had chosen to punish them for seeking him out, or he was just far too paranoid to be found. It hardly really mattered anymore why they may have been left for dead, they had and now they needed an escape plan. Ruth’s desire to backtrack was the only thing swaying him toward a decision. It was as good as the alternative.

  “We need to get going then. Waiting here is just delaying the inevitable.” Graham set off with a heavy trudging rhythm to his strides. He set the pace and was not about to stop.

  Yet at less than a couple of metres into his journey he was stopped by a sudden creaking noise. Then a whoosh of air sped past him, taking a loose grip on his clothing and pulling them forward. As the air raced away it gave its progress away by the swirling cloud of dust and dirt that was whipped up in its wake.

  He spun around to see Ruth standing tight against the wall and looking back up the tunnel. Following her gaze revealed a parting in the wall that had not been there a moment ago. There was something inside the opening too, or someone. He approached with his feet landing as softly as he could manage. But a crunch of grit under his shoe soon revealed their presence. As if reacting to this unintentional noise, the gap widened until a person could fit through.

  Was it a ghost they were both seeing? It certainly seemed so to Graham when a strange, white haired man stepped through the hole and headed for the rail-cart. He wore a brown cardigan with cream coloured slacks and black shoes with scuffs all over them. Once upon a time they probably sparkled with a gleaming layer of polish, now they were terribly dull and faded. His clothing was old and with multiple moth balls hanging from existing tears. In his hands were two plastic boxes, each filled to the brim with something.

  “Hello?” Graham said.

  “Yes, yes, yes. You know, you could help me with these if you wanted,” The old man said like they already knew each other well. He set the boxes down gently inside the waiting rail-cart and then turned to go back into his hiding place. When he saw that Ruth and Graham were frozen and unresponsive he rolled his eyes and tutted. “Unbelievable.” The man then disappeared inside.

  “What on Earth is happening?” Ruth asked, believing her voice to be soft enough for the odd man not to hear. She was wrong.

  “This will go much quicker if you two actually did something rather than standing around and asking silly questions,” the man called from the other side of the large door.

  Graham was first to look into this hidden world, buried deep underground and apparently only accessible through the farm tower’s crop transport tunnels. He edged around the door and saw a pile of similar plastic boxes. The man was loading them into the cart like a delivery of produce. The question was who waited at the other end for these boxes?

  “Take two each please and put them in the cart,” the man ordered without the courtesy of an explanation.

  “What’s in the boxes?” Graham asked.

  The man stopped his process of checking the next pile before starting on the current one, and spoke sidelong to his overly inquisitive companion. “Boy, you two are nosey aren’t you? If you must know, they contain D-Stims, and I’m late with this batch. So, if you please.”

  Following the man’s gesture toward the stack of boxes, Graham did as he was expected and took as many as he could carry, which was two more than the old man. He took them to the cart and placed each carefully on top of the ones already inside. His look to Ruth was one that asked her: just what exactly is going on? She responded with the same expression, eyes wide with her mouth agape, and a shrug of the shoulders to finish it off.

  “Excellent. This shouldn’t take long now,” the man said.

  “So are you dealing D-Stims?”

  The man turned to Graham and giggled to himself. “Dealing? That’s funny. No I just make them.”

  “You make them? And then sell them to the city?” Ruth asked, her tone suggesting she was not buying the story.

  “Why is that so hard to believe?” The man once again vanished around the corner while he spoke. “They’re good fun and they make lots of money for my project.”

  “And what is this project you’re running?” Graham followed the man and was then forced to take another load before he was shooed away.

  “No, no, no. I can’t tell you yet. That would spoil the surprise,” the man said.

  “Fine, then can I ask you another question? Are you The Sentient Collector?”

  The man stopped for a second to consider what had been asked, two more boxes of D-Stims in his hands. “Hmmm, a funny name that is.” He resumed his loading of the cart without elaborating.

  “Well?” Graham asked.

  “What?” the man replied as if confused.

  “Are you him? We’re here to find The Sentient Collector, is that you or not?”

  “Oh, I see. Yes that’s me. It’s not a name I like though. I prefer my real name.” The man reached out and grabbed Graham’s hand to shake it roughly and vigorously. “My name’s Stephen, what’s yours?”

  Chapter 14

  Sanctuary

  After the rail-cart had been filled and sent on its merry way, rolling away like the rickety heap of rusted metal it actually was, The Sentient Collector – or Stephen as he introduced himself as – took them further into his world. Down a narrow corridor they came upon a second line of steel track, this one Stephen’s private route, and were soon shooting along at a great speed.

  This time they were not forced into a carriage that was much too small. They were sitting on soft bench seats, like the ones in their everyday Mag-Lev cars. They looked out glass windows too, which showed the tunnel zooming by in a blur of blinking lights as each flashed by. Between each light, their pod was returned to near pitch black darkness. At this velocity they were soon to arrive at the farming towers. Somehow Stephen had all of this to himself; a world built just for him.

  “Would either of you care for a toffee?” Stephen held out an already opened packet of sweets. “I shouldn’t really be having another. I promised I’d wait till after dinner.”

  “No, thanks,” Graham replied. All of the time they had spent with Stephen had been filled with odd moments such as this. He had spoken of others earlier in a similar way, like a child would about their parents.

  Ruth stayed quiet during their journey. She sat looking suspiciously at their new friend, trying to decide if he was playing a game with them or not. The man was not what they were expecting at all. How someone so seemingly harmless could have control of the most prevalent of drug distributions, larger than the city had ever faced before, was hard to explain. He appeared nothing more than an old man with a sweet tooth.

  The slurping noises Stephen made as he sucked on the candy had begun to gnaw at Graham. There were so many questions he still needed answers for. It looked unlikely that Stephen could really tackle any of them. This was the man Elliot had been working for, the man who shared his views about the MARCs he and Graham had caught together? His eccentricities would have been amusing if not for the time limit that had been placed on Elliot’s life.

  At the end of their journey, Stephen stuffed the bag of treats into his cardigan pocket and dis
carded the empty wrapper between the gaps in the floor. He was hiding the evidence of his transgression. Whoever had requested he not spoil his dinner with candy would apparently be disappointed to find out about it.

  “Come, come,” Stephen said as he took Ruth’s hand and helped her out. He was a gentleman at least.

  Their platform was less than ten metres in size and had only one exit, a door of thick steel that reflected the small amount of light around them. They followed – Ruth with her arm linked with Stephen’s – and were led through the door, then on through a weaving maze of corridors with extra routes jutting off in a seemingly random way. But Stephen knew exactly where to go. His mind was evidently much sharper than his child-like behaviour suggested.

  Past these many hallways and the rooms that were contained within them, remained one more, large metal door. Stephen temporarily let go of Ruth’s arm and struggled with the locking mechanism – a ship’s style spinning lock with a thick metal, circular handle. After putting his weight behind it, the lock eventually began to turn. He then spun it with both hands. It opened with a rush of air that was sucked into the room beyond, joined by a short lived hissing noise. Stephen took Ruth’s arm again and led them inside.

  “Whoa,” Graham said, as his eyes automatically explored his surroundings.

  This part of Stephen’s home looked huge. The ceiling was high above and pitch black as the lights all faced down to their tiny human world. While the walls were at least fifty feet apart. In the middle of the room sat a large, two metre wide metal cube, walled with thick glass and a holographic surface projected inside. Also contained within were three things he recognised instantly. “Are they the MARCs you’ve collected so far?”

  Stephen laughed as he wandered over to a panel of switches by the side of the large cube. “These? No, no, no. These are just the newest. You’ll just have to wait and see.” He clapped his hands together after the panel had passed his inspection, then walked away with a skip to his first step. “You’re going to really enjoy this.”

  With only the glass between him and the MARCs contained within the box, Graham stared at the flowing shapes he had spent years killing like vermin. He had yet to see anything that really changed his mind about them, he was relying on Elliot’s judgement for now. His best friend had risked his own career and life over saving a handful of these things. He was intrigued to hear what Stephen had to say, even if he expected most of it to make little sense.

  Looking through the glass to the other side, he could see Stephen running through some mental checklist, clicking a sequence of buttons and flicking an assortment of switches that appeared to be doing nothing at all. He was acting out of habit by the looks of things, like he was satisfying a sudden compunction rather than actually activating things. Though he eventually did find switches that did something, the lights.

  Soon the entire room was visible – except for the ceiling still. To the left of the central cube was a wall of screens surrounding a larger one in the middle, all of which were turned off. Then to the right, a window that stretched the entire length of the room, with a door at the far end. Nothing could be seen through this. A closed shutter sealed off whatever lay beyond it. At the back of the room were three more doors, none open and not one visual clue as to what they contained inside.

  Stephen had now finished his bout of OCD and was concentrating on turning on the many computer screens left dormant until now. These beeped and flashed as they came to life. They were anything but normal modern screens as Graham had expected. They were in fact part screen and part holographic projector, with half of the information sitting a few inches in front of the glass. Nothing written on them appeared to be remotely intelligible either, at least to the uninitiated.

  When he realised he was being an impolite host, Stephen quickly left what he was doing and shuffled over to Ruth. He took her arm once more and led her over to a small communal area of soft cushioned sofas to the immediate right of the entrance, which Graham had missed completely. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back,” he said. As he left he began to whistle while looking around the room. “Ralf? Here boy! Come on boy, Daddy’s home.”

  Graham joined his sister in taking a load off of their tired feet, and let himself sink into the welcoming softness of the chair. He watched as Stephen continued to look around the place, checking under the tables beneath the wall of screens and then in the three rooms at the back. Whatever he was looking for – he suspected a pet of some kind – there was no reply at all. No dog panting, no cat purring, not even the flutter of wings.

  “What exactly are we doing here, G?” Ruth leaned toward him and asked, this time under her breath so Stephen could not hear.

  “I have no idea. We need to get our location to Elliot so he can tell the people threatening him. If we can’t do that, we can’t get the device off of him.”

  “Maybe we could use one of those computers over there?”

  “Have you seen them, Ruth? I don’t think they’re ordinary computers. They look a little out of date.”

  Suddenly Stephen returned from out of the left most room with a cup in one hand and, what looked to be, a blueberry muffin in the other. That meant this room was almost certainly a kitchen of kinds. “Here we are, tea and a treat. You can eat it. I’m not allowed without asking first,” he said offering both to Ruth. He kept the right side of his face away from them, as though he suffered a sudden bout of shyness. “Oh, I forgot there were two of you. Give me a minute, I’ll get you something too.”

  “No, that’s fine, thanks. Look, is there any chance I could make a call out of this place. I need to check on my friend,” Graham said. He saw no harm in asking outright, Stephen surely new nothing of why they were really there.

  “Sorry, but I don’t talk to anyone outside. Where has Ralf disappeared to? Here boy!” Once again, Stephen had become preoccupied with his search for Ralf.

  “Now Stephen, you know Ralf died a few years ago, don’t you?”

  Graham and Ruth snapped their necks to the side to see who had spoken. Neither of them had heard a door open, nor had they seen anyone following behind them. Yet both were surprised to see another man in the room with them. He stood by the entrance, suggesting he had somehow used it without either of them seeing.

  Mid-search, Stephen stopped and peered up to the ceiling as he grappled with his own memory. “That’s right, he died. We buried him outside didn’t we? Oh, he was a good dog, he was, always happy to see me.”

  “That’s right, Stephen. Now, why don’t you see to making Graham here a tea as well,” the unknown man said. His appearance was a whole world away from Stephen’s, with a sweeping brush of auburn hair and not so much as a single blemish on his brown loafers. He wore a red turtleneck jumper and nearly skin-tight, black pipe-jeans that hinted at a taste for fashionable clothing. “Hello, my name is Luke.”

  The sudden arrival of another person – who thankfully sounded coherent – brought Graham to his feet like a spur to the thigh. He extended his hand out to greet the man called Luke. In his eyes someone with the answers had finally arrived. Was he in fact The Sentient Collector? Perhaps even the real man in charge? Waiting, ready to shake hands, Graham was surprised to see Luke become visibly uncomfortable at the idea of doing so. Sanity appeared a relative thing this far underground.

  “Please accept my apologies for not bringing you in myself. Stephen is a bit of a shock to meet at first,” Luke said.

  “He’s been very kind. I’m Ruth, and this is my brother Graham.” Ruth stood and offered her own hand in an attempt at sealing their new friendship herself. But yet again Luke was compelled to step away for fear of making any physical contact.

  “Is he OK though? I mean, he seems a little lost at times,” Graham asked as politely as he thought possible.

  Luke’s expression became one of sadness in response to the question. He watched Stephen, who had entirely forgotten about Graham’s tea and was now sweeping the floor around th
e large cube. His eyes continued to track his friend as he answered. “We tried something about 18 months ago that didn’t quite go to plan. What you see is what is left of The Sentient Collector. In a way we are both now the man you have been seeking.”

  “So what do you actually do here? Elliot said you do something with MARCs?”

  “Let me ask you something first, Graham.” Luke stepped backward until he was beside the large cube, which he then held a hand out toward. “What do you see in there?”

  Graham found the question an odd one to have to answer; surely Luke knew what they were? After joining him by the imprisoned MARCs, Graham looked inside. “They’re MARCs.”

  “No, I mean what do you really think they are? What Simova have branded as a Malicious Awareness and Resurgent Corruption is in fact nothing of the sort. Yes, they can damage technology and sometimes cause harm to people, but that is exactly what any trapped being would do; lash out.”

  It was beginning. Graham had been waiting for this chat. It was one he and Elliot had had on a few occasions already, usually after a couple of pints. MARCs were more than they thought, or there were things about them that people did not fully understand. Elliot had even told him how given the chance they could become peaceful entities. He had always returned with what he knew to be true; no MARC had ever gotten beyond this basic level of intelligence, they were just not capable of it.

  He had been silent for far too long now, he needed to say something. “They’ve never be anything more than a pest. What I see are three dangerous faults that create nothing but panic when they randomly appear.”

  “Randomly?” Luke said, almost snapping back. “Perhaps a short history lesson would help put things into perspective.” Again he backed away, this time in the direction of the wall screens. He talked while moving. “Nineteen years ago, Simova were a small tech-research company that were about to change the world.”

  “Yes, I know all of this. They created the world’s first artificial intelligence,” Graham interrupted, with an arrogant snort of derision. He did not appreciate being talked down to.