Sibylla of Earth

by A. D. Baldwin

  Sibylla was about to respond when, from over the speakers of the hangar, she heard a female voice.

  “Step away from the server,” the voice said. “You are trespassing on private property and accessing information unlawfully.”

  It was an A.I., Sibylla knew, a security program meant to ward off hackers. Sophisticated entities with access to thousands of databanks, they ran on the fastest processors available. But with Dillon’s leash firmly around its virtual neck, it was nothing more than an annoyance.

  “Buzz off,” Sibylla said, her eyes still glued to the screen.

  “You are trespassing on private property,” it continued. “Please cease all activities and wait for the authorities to arrive.”

  Sibylla made a noise of frustration. “Hey, Dillon, how ‘bout next time you tighten the leash a little bit harder, yeah? Like to where the program can’t speak?”

  “But I did,” Dillon replied, sounding confused. “Why?”

  Sibylla stopped as she was hit with a pang of fear, and her gaze quickly lifted to the high concrete walls around her. Searching the shadowed balconies, she felt her pulse begin to quicken. “Who is this?”

  “I have to admit,” the female voice replied, its monotonous tone now marked by a bright and stinging trace of amused reflection. “Accessing my core processor was a neat trick, albeit, temporary at best. Perhaps if the programmer had spent more time on making the language a bit simpler, they could’ve distracted me for a few seconds longer.”

  Disbelief tingled up Sibylla’s spine. Was she actually speaking with an A.I.?

  “What’s going on?” Dillon asked.

  “It’s…the program,” Sibylla said. “It’s…speaking to me.”

  “That’s impossible,” Dillon said. “The leash we activated should’ve taken care of that.”

  “Apparently not.” Sibylla froze as the woman’s voice returned.

  “You’re nimbler than I’d expected,” the A.I. continued, the fascination in its voice unmistakable. “The videos I’d seen honestly didn’t do you justice.”

  Sibylla’s hands balled up into fists as she felt the incredible urge to run. This was not normal. A.I.’s were only programmed to simulate casual conversation. Yet, there was emotion in its voice, personality. “What are you?” Sibylla asked.

  “My name’s Morgana,” it replied. “And I’ve been waiting for you, Sibylla.”

  2

  Run Sib Run

  Sibylla’s eyes lifted as she heard the sound of a low thrum in the distance. It was coming from somewhere in the walls, like a deep echoing ripple. “Do you hear that?” she asked, backing away from the server.

  “Hold on,” Dillon said. “Checking security cameras now.”

  The sound was growing thicker, blaring into a mildew of scratching and clawing and flapping. It was then, as the hum hit a crescendo that Sibylla saw them.

  Dozens of drones spilled out of the surrounding vents, unloading into the empty hangar. Twisting and turning, bending and writhing, they made their way to her like a spiraling tunnel. Sibylla stumbled back in fear.

  “Oh my God,” Sibylla whispered.

  “Run!” Dillon urged.

  Sibylla darted for the hallway, desperate to flee. But her escape was quickly halted as one of the drones dropped onto the scaffold before her. Its eyes snapped into focus as it rose back onto its insect-like back legs, and Sibylla found herself at eye level with the robot. It walked toward her with snapping claws and twitching teeth.

  Sibylla reached for the E.M.P. in her back pocket and aimed it at the drone’s face, blasting it with an invisible wave of energy that instantly drained the life from its green eyes. The bulbous body fell to the metal floor with a rattle and Sibylla backed away, disgusted by its lifeless form.

  More drones were sweeping in around her. They clasped onto the metal railing at her side, perching over her like hungry vultures. While others lowered before the exits, blocking her escape with their sinewy wired frames. She was trapped.

  “They’ve got me closed off,” Sibylla said.

  “I’m checking the exits,” Dillon replied.

  Sibylla glanced up at the dome of metal insects forming above her. It was growing broader and thicker by the moment. With nowhere to go, she glanced over the railing at the dozens of Warhawk jets below and made a decision. “I’m going down.”

  “What?” Dillon asked. “Are you crazy? That drop’s got to be at least ten feet.”

  “Fourteen-and-a-half actually,” Sibylla said, her eyes narrowing at the steep drop. Behind her, one of the drones was building up a charge. She jumped to the side, able to avoid the blast as it belted the space where she was just standing. Smoke lifted from the charred metal, and Sibylla stared in disbelief, knowing that that could’ve been her. Forget this. Climbing over the metal railing, she stood at the edge of the scaffold and jumped.

  A sharp pain ran up her legs as she landed onto one of the Warhawks, her body rolling forward from the fall. But there was no time to rest. She shot back up and hurried across the length of the wing toward the cockpit in front of her. When she got there, she dug her fingers beneath the multilayered glass, grimacing as she struggled to pry it open. “It’s. Not. Budging!”

  “Give me a second,” Dillon replied.

  In the reflection of the canopy, Sibylla saw that one of the drones was coming up behind her. It was preparing another charge. Ducking as fast as she could, she heard the crackle of electricity, followed by the acrid scent of burnt hair. “Son of a…” she said, gawking at the singed ends.

  “What happened?” Dillon asked.

  “Nothing. Just hurry!”

  The cockpit finally unlatched, and she jumped in. Yanking the canopy over her head, she reached for the safety belt, hoping foolishly that it would lend her more protection.

  “You okay?” Dillon asked.

  Sibylla glanced around at the dozens of drones plopping onto the frame of the jet. They were crawling along the wings, scampering over the long nose, glaring through the cockpit of her window with their malicious bug eyes. They were searching for a way in, she knew, studying the parts of the jet where there were openings.

  “For now,” she said.

  “Now what?”

  Sibylla studied the surroundings of her cockpit. Dozens of buttons and switches she’d never seen before stared back at her. There were so many of them. It would take her a year of training just to learn how to turn on the air conditioner. Damn it, she thought, why can’t these things just have an on-and-off switch?

  Outside, the exits were still sealed off, but up ahead, stretching across the upper half of the far wall, Sibylla could make out the faint trace of a hangar door; if she could just get it open. “I’ve got an idea,” she said.

  “I’m all ears.”

  Sibylla reached for the control stick, and sat up in her seat, doing her best to mimic the posture of a fighter pilot. “Open the hangar door.”

  “No, seriously,” Dillon said, “what’s your plan?”

  “Dillon! I can do this!”

  “Sib! You don’t even know how to fly a jet!”

  “Sure, I do.”

  “Oh really, how?”

  “Star Pilot.”

  Dillon scoffed, and Sibylla distinctly heard the sound of a hand slapping a forehead. “The video game? Are you freaking kidding me?”

  “I still have the top score!”

  “Amongst a bunch of twelve-year-olds!”

  Sibylla flinched as she heard something banging the window at her side and saw that one of the drones was punching the cockpit. Light cracks began spreading across the window, where its fist was banging. When nothing happened, it dug its metal fingers beneath the window’s frame, jerking it frantically to get inside.

  “Dillon, I don’t have time for this.”

  “Neither do I. So, you’d better come up with a better plan.”

  “I don’t have one!”

  Dillon sighed. “Okay, you see that gray flap to the rig
ht?”

  Sibylla looked up. “Yeah.”

  “Open it.”

  Sibylla pulled the flap open and gasped as she found a switch that actually read, on-and-off. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

  Flipping the switch, she felt the rumble of the jet’s engines beneath her seat. Along the dashboard, a series of lights began to flicker, while through the speakers of the cockpit, a computerized voice initiated a series of pre-flight system checks.

  Sibylla didn’t understand any of it. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying to fly the multi-billion-dollar machine. Her heart pounding, her skin covered in sweat, she gripped the control stick and took a deep breath, fighting against the shakiness of her hand.

  “And where do you think you’re going?”

  Sibylla froze in her seat. The A.I. was back.

  “I’m sorry, but you do not have the requisite permission to leave the premises.” The relaxed tone of Morgana’s voice was unsettling, and Sibylla felt her stomach turn. Even so, she couldn’t give up. Going to jail wasn’t something she was looking forward to. Steeling herself to the fear, Sibylla tightened her grip on the control stick and said, “Who said anything about asking for permission?”

  Sibylla pulled back on the control stick, and the jet teetered off the ground in an awkward lift. Apparently, flying an actual jet was much harder than the game version. Steadying her hand, she turned the stick to the side and leveled out.

  The sudden movement threw the drones from the jet’s frame, and Sibylla watched as they clumsily pulled away. But, just as quickly, they readjusted, mirroring the jet’s movements in perfect synchronicity. It was unnerving.

  “What’s up with my exit?” Sibylla asked.

  “Almost there,” Dillon answered.

  Sibylla turned to the wall where the hangar door was opening and sighed in relief. Outside, she could see a bright sun beaming in the sky, while laid out before her like a beautiful runway, a vast lawn stretched out, giving glimpse to her freedom.

  Sibylla pressed the jet forward. If she could get past the exit, she’d be clear for the next twenty miles—enough to make it to the Mexican border, where she’d be free of U.S. reach. After that, she’d have to wait for Dillon to smuggle her back in. It wouldn’t be tough. A passport. Some forged documents. A few minutes messing with the U.S. watch list of criminals. Nothing he couldn’t do.

  Sibylla was already halfway toward the exit when, from one of the nearby doors, a group of soldiers appeared. They rushed to the exit and raised their rifles, forming a straight wall. All at once, they began firing.

  Sibylla ducked as bullets pelted the windows. The sudden attack prompted the jet’s defenses and its targeting system locked onto the soldiers, activating its missile defense protocol. It was going to fire at them! Sibylla jerked the jet to the side. But the movement sent her into a tailspin, and she quickly lost control.

  “No!” she screamed.

  The Warhawk crashed clumsily into the surrounding jets, their metal surfaces grinding in a twisted shriek. The jet then slammed to the ground, and the force threw Sibylla against the side of the cockpit, her collarbone nearly snapping against the fibrous webbing of her seatbelt.

  Lifting her gaze, she watched as the surrounding drones began to land around her. They planted themselves along the frame of the jet, their steel claws snapping in excitement as their heads angled to the side. She was caught, she knew, with nowhere to go.

  “Sib?” Dillon asked. “What happened?”

  With a sigh, Sibylla yanked the com from her ear and pressed the tiny, red button on the side, activating what Dillon had termed: the Safety Valve. It was a fail-safe component, that protected the user from being traced. In an instant, the com disintegrated into a glob of twisted metal and a plume of smoke lifted from the watch on her wrist. Now, he was untraceable; now, she was alone.

  Releasing the safety harness from her chest, she unlocked the canopy above her head and rose slowly out of the cockpit. With her hands raised in the air, she offered the drones and men an apologetic shrug. “You might not believe this, but this thing was broken when I got it.”

  “You’re right,” one of the men answered. “We don’t believe you.”

  After an awkward pause, Sibylla asked, “What happens now?”

  From the overhead speakers, Morgana replied, “This.”

  Sibylla turned as one of the drones lowered behind her. With a shock of bright light, a pain she’d never known streaked through her body, shocking her limbs and knocking her to the floor, where she began to convulse until she finally fell unconscious.

  3

  The Enigma Sphere

  When Sibylla awoke, she found herself in a darkened cell, sitting in front of a metal table. The air was damp, tinged with the taste of salt and strangely cold. Her arms were pulled behind her back, and her wrists cuffed with electrical manacles.

  She was sore. The electrical blast had caused her to go into a seizure, tensing every muscle in her body. Now, it hurt just to sit. With a grimace, she looked around at her new environment, wondering where she was.

  The cell was small, gloomy. Murky bulbs flickered along the rotted ceiling, while deep cracks spread out along the concrete walls, bending and twisting like the gnarled fingers of an old witch. She’d heard stories about government interrogations. The beatings. The rapes. Was this where it would happen? Worried, she took a deep breath and told herself she’d be fine.

  At least they hadn’t caught Dillon, she thought with some relief. If anything had happened to him, she didn’t know what she’d do. He was the most important person in her life, and she wanted to keep him safe at all cost.

  From somewhere outside, she heard the sound of heavy boots stomping down a long hallway. They were coming, she realized. Shutting her eyes, she listened to the steps, trying to determine where she was. The sound was strange, muffled. There was no clanking echo, no spacious room for sound to bounce off of. Rather, it was dense, like the trapped sound of a pillow fort. They were underground, she realized with a grin. A bunker of some sort. But where?

  As the footsteps reached her door, her chest tightened, and she opened her eyes, terrified of what she might see. She quickly pictured burly men with shock cylinders carrying black suitcases of torture instruments. Rusty tools. Sharp knives. Hypodermic needles. But as the door opened, and an older gentleman dressed in formal military uniform appeared, she sighed in relief.

  The older man removed his cap and laid it on the table, revealing a head of gray hair and a wrinkled face. He was old. Maybe in his sixties. But he had the athletic frame of a younger man, the type that only came from long runs in the morning and black coffee for lunch. But there was something familiar about his face. She’d seen him before. But from where?

  As he took the seat across from her, she noticed the five-star banner on his shoulder and quickly realized who he was. General Richard Murdock was the head of the Allied Defense Forces, a five-star general—the first in over fifty years. She’d seen his face only a handful of times on the state-run internet. But they’d only been quick glances. The U.S. was secretive about their leaders, especially during wartime. And yet, here he was, the head of the military, sitting across from her in silence.

  “Good morning,” the general said in a gruff voice.

  Morning? Sibylla was stunned by a rush of anxiety. How long had she been asleep for?

  “I’m sorry about the arrangements,” he said, his gaze turning to the gloomy cell. “But this was the closest facility we could take you to.”

  Sibylla didn’t reply. She stared at him in silence, her gaze eventually lowering to the garden of medals arrayed across his coat. There were so many. A Purple Heart. A Silver Star. A Navy Cross. But amongst them all, one stood out above the rest.

  The Shield of Fire was the greatest medal a soldier could ever receive, an honor awarded to only those who’d braved the initial wave of the Ukrainian Invasion and survived. People had come to know it as, The Hammer of Russia, always spea
king of it in hushed tones as if the mere mention of it was something so horrible that it was inappropriate to bring up.

  A twenty-four-hour bombardment of endless artillery, the attack had baptized the Ukrainian countryside in a storm of metal and fire, leaving its once fertile fields a scorched ruin. Hundreds of thousands had died. Millions were wounded. Only the hardest had survived.

  The general watched her through stern eyes, as he waited for her to reply.

  The door to the cell opened, and Sibylla saw a thin man dressed in a white lab coat appear in the doorway. He glared at the room through beady eyes, frowning as he found one of the deep cracks that stretched the length of the wall.

  “Dr. Bachman,” the general said, greeting the man with a curt nod.

  Sibylla sat up in her seat. A doctor? Why would they send a doctor? Looking closer, she saw that he was carrying a brief case. Oh, my God, she thought. They were actually going to torture her! Bunching her fingers together, she began tugging at the cuffs, trying desperately to quietly slide them free.

  The doctor sat next to the general, making sure to wipe down the metal chair first. He appeared to be an exacting man, the type of person who ate the same tuna fish sandwich and chips every day by himself at the same table. Laying the suitcase to the side, the doctor steepled his fingers as he stared at Sibylla.

  The general was the first to speak. “This is Dr. Bachman. And I’m General Richard Murdock.”

  “I know who you are,” Sibylla said.

  His eyes narrowed. “Then you also know why you’re here.”

  Sibylla feigned a look of surprise. “‘Cause I got lost on the tour?”

  The doctor snorted. It was a subtle gesture, but enough to warrant a heavy stare from the general. Lowering his head, the doctor quieted.

  “You’re here because you broke into a military facility, with the intent of transmitting classified information over an unsecured network,” the general finished.