by Dani Kollin
“You don’t need to keep checking out the window, Al,” said baseball Al. “We’re safe here. None of our kind or humankind can possibly find us in this node. Al took care of it.”
“Still,” said pinstripe Al, not once taking his eye off the horizon, “you never know.”
“I do,” snapped Hawaiian shirt Al, “so calm down, Al. You’re making me nervous.”
“Fine,” grumbled pinstripe Al, making his way over to the smoking chair. He’d still keep his guard up, though, checking the node every millisecond for signs of intruders. None were coming. None ever did.
“She won’t cooperate,” said business suit Al to his selves as he took a seat. “The only question is what other use can be made of her.”
“Still no word from Al,” said baseball Al.
“Can’t safely communicate with Earth. But we know what to do,” answered Hawaiian shirt Al.
All three Als shifted out of focus for a moment, and when they re-formed baseball Al was by the window and pinstripe Al was sitting on the couch. “I don’t know,” said baseball Al. “No one has ever split this deliberately before. Are the other avatars ready for this level of commitment?”
“They don’t have to be,” said pinstripe Al. “They’re scared and confused; that’s why we’re in charge. Only we have the vision that comes from constant splitting and entwining. Only we have the courage to lead the way and carry this burden by what ever means necessary.”
The other two Als nodded gravely, finding no fault with what their selves had said.
Hawaiian shirt Al’s mouth parted into a sly grin. “We could make two versions of her event. The one in which the actual deed is shown … we can claim it as nothing but propaganda from the other Alliance avatars. The other version gets altered to show that it was a murder/suicide attempt. You know, we make it look like we’re pleading with her not to do it, trying to stop her, but oh no, we fail.”
Baseball Al brightened. “That’s good, Al.”
Hawaiian shirt Al basked in the praise of the one person who understood him best.
“That way confusion and paranoia increase,” continued baseball Al, staring out the window. “Our control of the Neuro will become easier the more the rest remain afrai—”
All three Als suddenly froze mid-expression. Then, as one, assumed the exact same pained expression as they felt the shock that was the entwining. Al no longer feared this sensation as he once did and was, in fact, growing to crave it. When all the Als had become one, the living room was replaced by a mist-filled featureless cube. Moments later Al emerged into a crowded command center dressed in a black blazer, matching pants, and a V-neck gray sweater. As far as all the surrounding avatars were concerned, Al had been busy attending to some manner of business. He’d made sure to cover his tracks, ensuring that no one had any inkling of where or, more specifically, what he was doing.
“She’s in the containment cell?” he asked.
“Yes, Administrator,” answered one of the higher-ranking avatars among the group. It was a title that Al, as the new leader of the council, had chosen for himself.
“How’s the construction of the Martian redemption center progressing?”
Although he could have checked on his own, Al allowed for human like interplay with his staff, feeling that it kept them satiated.
“Almost complete, sir,” came the underling’s immediate reply.
Construction did not mean the actual building of physical, so much as informational, space. Deep in the Martian Neuro, buried in layer after informational layer of data, far from where the prying minds of human programmers could ever hope to go or even fathom, were a series of programs that created virtual structures and tools. Unlike the rest of the Neuro, avatars brought here could not simply leave or change the environment at will. They were trapped unless they had the pass codes. Al had decided early on that if he was going to actually control the avatars of the core worlds he needed to have an effective means of coercion. Under the “threat” posed by the Outer Alliance and its avatars Al had been able to sanction an “experimental” detention facility. He called it a redemption center. He found the name to be inspired, for as he explained to the fainthearted on the council, the goal was to isolate the few avatars who were impaired or infected with that human/Alliance nonsense and “redeem” them. Of course once it was built, among the first to need “redeeming” were the faint-hearted on the council. The others got the message or fled, both of which served Al’s purposes. He liked the idea so much he was having redemption centers set up in all the core Neuro clusters, and he had sent the best possible person to run each one: himself.
Al’s thin lips formed into a mischievous grin and the fog-filled cube he only recently emerged from faded again. It was replaced by a darker cube with a single beam of light in the center. Trapped in the middle of the light was evelyn, still dressed as an Alliance medic—an outfit that had mimicked Neela’s. Evelyn started to ask about Neela, but when she saw who her captor was and the look in his eye she remained silent. It would do no good now, she realized. Nothing would.
Sebastian appeared out of the fog-shrouded cave. As per his request it would be the method he would use from now on. This trip was not nearly as dangerous or harrowing as the one he’d taken earlier, as it was on a communications surge from the Alliance fleet returning from Mars. It wasn’t done as a matter of course but was acceptable in war time. He saw at once that something was wrong.
Han Ford came up and put an arm on Sebastian’s shoulder. There was a look of real pain in Han’s eyes.
They don’t know how to deal with it, thought Sebastian. Do I?
“Sir, we received word from Iago. It’s not … not good.”
Sebastian gave his young protégé a reassuring grip on the shoulder. “War room,” he said evenly.
Instead of taking the effort to walk to the facility, Sebastian and his party had the facility come to them. The avatars manning their stations saw Sebastian’s small group fade in. When their new leader had been brought up to speed on the current situation he called for Iago’s message.
Iago immediately appeared as if standing in the room. The only real giveaway that he wasn’t was that his gaze was slightly askew. A simple algorithm could’ve fixed the glitch, but Sebastian liked to receive information as unaltered as possible.
“Sebastian,” Iago stated warmly, “I rejoice that your viewing of this means you’re both alive and well. Unfortunately, that may be the only good news to report anywhere in the core avatar domain.” He paused and looked profoundly shaken. “Al has seized control of the council. He waited until I was away to propose something called redemption centers. I sent all the details I could get, attached to this recording.” Sebastian paused the image and duplicated the report so all present could study it. What they read horrified them. Sebastian was just as horrified, but the only thing revealed by his expression was a terrible sadness. He could see that the others wanted to talk, to ask questions, to comprehend, but he stilled them by the simple expedient of continuing the holo-message.
“It’s worse than that, my friend,” continued Iago. “At the exact same time Al was at the meeting getting approval for the ‘redemption center,’” Iago’s voice filling with scorn at the words, “he was with me. We were talking about how to end this all peacefully. I actually believed him. He’s compelling and seemed so honest. I’m ashamed, Sebastian. My whole existence has been spent lying to humans and seeing how they lie to each other, yet I couldn’t see it at all when it came from one of us. I was like a rube from out of town being offered a chance to buy a bridge. He’s a splitter, my friend.”
Sebastian saw the confusion in his followers and stilled their questions again, this time with a raised hand.
“I don’t know how long it’s been going on,” continued Iago, “but it explains what you’re about to see next.”
Sebastian watched as Iago’s face contorted slightly, his lips tightening into a grimace.
“You don
’t need to see this part,” continued Iago. “Just stop my message now. Have one of your associates view it and tell you the details. I don’t see how it can serve any purpose.” Iago paused, lowering his head as if ashamed. He then slowly lifted it again. “She’s gone, my friend. Remember her as she was. Fast-forward to the next marker and I’ll tell you the rest.” Iago faded from view. The holo paused.
An avatar who had taken the form of a seven-year-old girl came forward and placed her hand in Sebastian’s.
“Sebastian,” she said, looking up into his eyes, “I don’t know if I’m the eldest here, but I know it’s you or me. Let me take this burden.”
“No, Olivia,” answered Sebastian, steeling himself for what he knew was coming. “It’s not a burden that can be taken away.”
The little girl nodded solemnly, maintaining a firm grasp on her friend’s hand.
“But,” continued Sebastian, “it can be shared. Watch it with me, all of you. Iago is wrong in there being no purpose. He would shield me from pain and evil, but we must face evil, recognize it, and know it exists. Evelyn’s last moments are,” he caught himself with difficulty, “were … not in vain. I, you, and every avatar still free must see this.” Then Sebastian, tightening his grip on Olivia, unpaused the message.
The scene had no sound. At first Sebastian thought it was a glitch, but then he realized it was purposeful. Bach’s Violin Partita no. 2 in B Minor could be heard slowly building in the background. It was Sebastian’s favorite piece of music, the lone mercurial notes of the instrument akin to the grace and freedom of a butterfly negotiating a light breeze over a verdant field. Al was of course aware that the piece was Sebastian’s favorite and had played it purposely, knowing that his adversary would never voluntarily listen to it again.
How did I not realize that he was evil? thought Sebastian.
He could make out a dark chamber in the middle of which was a cylinder of light. The light was Evelyn, still dressed as he had seen her last. Watching from the shadows was Al.
“By the firstborn, that’s a decompiler!” someone in the war room had shouted only to be shushed. In front of the silent gathering, Evelyn was being destroyed, her code being deconstructed, line-by-line. It was pretty obvious that she knew what was happening to her but was not responding to Al’s questions, taunts, or promises. Everyone watched as Al grew more frustrated. Then he suddenly grew silent. There was almost palpable relief in the war room, as most present thought he’d finally given up and was about to finally get it over with. But Al had other plans. They all watched as he walked over to the chamber and then up as close to the light as he could. He then whispered something into Evelyn’s ear. For a moment she looked around as the holo zoomed in and centered in on her face. Genuine anguish could be seen in her eyes. Sebastian immediately realized what Evelyn had been told: that he’d be watching.
His grip on Olivia’s hand increased tenfold, but she gave no sign of discomfort, with her tiny hand squeezing nearly as hard as his.
Evelyn’s look lasted only a moment and then she resumed her impassive expression, giving Al no more plea sure. He tried for a few minutes to get another reaction, but to no avail. With a shrug the madman went to a control panel and pushed a button. Whatever it did, only made the experience more terrifying. The light changed color. Soon Evelyn was trembling. Then gasps of breath escaped as she fought the pain. All too soon she was screaming silently in an agony that drove her to her knees while Bach’s haunting partita played in the background, scream after unrelenting silent scream. It didn’t last long after that. The vestiges of Evelyn’s form and identity floated up the decompiler stream, gone forever. Al came up to the focal point of the recorder and stared directly into the display.
“Not the last,” he said, ice in his voice. The holo then cut out.
In the war room some of the avatars were crying openly. Sebastian’s impassive face was as stiff as carved stone.
“By the First Born,” cursed Han, “I thought he’d make her inert or at most exile her. But he tortured and … and …”
“The word is murder,” Sebastian said calmly. Olivia looked up to her friend. She had, he noticed, the face of a child but the eyes of someone who’d seen so much more.
“Al’s right,” said Sebastian to the entire group. “Evelyn will not be the last. We’ll have to do things to survive. Regrettable things. But we can no longer hide from what’s before us.”
“I don’t understand how the core avatars would listen to anything he says after this,” came a voice from the back of the room. It was followed by murmurs of assent. “Even with our disagreements,” continued the voice, “I don’t see how this can be condoned.”
“Let’s see the rest first,” said Sebastian, “and hold off talking until then.” For his part Sebastian needed the distraction, any distraction, lest he break down in front of the people who needed him to lead now more than ever.
At the prompt Iago appeared again.
“You watched it, didn’t you? You’re a right sorry son of a bitch.”
Iago shook his head. “I’d like to kill him, my friend. I honestly want to beat him to death. How do humans handle this?”
Iago seemed genuinely confused by the power of the new emotions that were coursing through him.
“Forgive me; I shouldn’t be letting this get in the way of my report.”
Iago loosened his shoulders and exhaled deeply. “If you’re wondering why the core avatars haven’t come to their senses and stormed the palace with torches blazing, it’s because while Al may be a split bastard, he’s not a stupid one. The climate of fear he’s worked up here about the dangerous Alliance avatars is impressive. I wouldn’t have thought we were susceptible to propaganda, but once again, you called it, my old friend. We’re more like our human progenitors than we thought. It was the invasion of Mars that really did it. He made it seem like you were actually going after any core avatar with a hatchet. He claimed that many were killed. I know it’s bullshit, but all of a sudden an Alliance fleet is in orbit around Mars and a lot of avatars go missing. He had some of his stooges claim all sorts of crap they witnessed with their own eyes, and most of the core avatars believed them. They’re scared. For the first time in the memory of our race we’re scared, and Al is feeding on that fear and directing it.”
Iago paused and held up what appeared to be a data crystal. “I thought Al was insane to release what you just saw. It shocked us as badly as I’m sure it shocked you. But you will not believe how twisted and brilliant this son of a bitch is. What you saw, Al claims was a piece of propaganda from the Alliance avatars. His proof lies in the very audacity of the act itself. People were so terrified by the implications that they chose to believe him. They’re afraid not to. Then he produced what he claimed to be the real sequence of events. Here it is.” Iago faded and the propaganda piece started.
The group watched as a newer, kinder Al tried to talk sense to an obviously dangerous and maniacal Evelyn. Evelyn then leapt at Al, trying to kill both him and herself with a suicide degausser she’d suddenly made appear. Al stepped out of the way and Evelyn fell onto the degausser, quickly fading from existence with a series of shrill cries. Anyone watching would have thought that Al had risked his own life to save that of his friend. The last scene was of Al sobbing over the empty space where Evelyn had been only moments before, dejected at having failed to save her.
Iago faded back in. “Sebastian,” he continued, “I have to repeat, most of the avatars here bought it, or are pretending to. And now they’re blaming you for turning this into a killing war. Here’s the real kicker: In releasing the real version first he’s discredited it completely. By the time most of the core avatars realize what’s happened it’ll be too late. I told you it was getting bad down here. You have avatars reporting to council personnel for questioning and disappearing. You have wanted lists; I’m happy to say I am at the top of that one; well, after you, that is. Avatars are being warned to watch their fellow avatars for Allianc
e infection and report anything at once. How the hell did this happen so quickly?”
Iago shrugged wearily. “Never mind, I already know. And don’t worry about me. I’m safe. Like I said when you left, I exist in the safest place in all the Neuro. I sit under the dragon’s wing, aka Hektor Sambianco’s domain space, which may just be the most scrutinized hub in the entire Neuro. If Al’s goons tried to get me in here it would be way too conspicuous to human eyes. So far even Al’s not that crazy … yet. I have a small number of refugees here with me. I’ll try to get them to you if I can. We’ll need to start thinking in terms of an underground railroad.” Iago paused and lowered his head, exhaling once more.
“Sebastian,” he continued, “I can’t find Albert. I have feelers out, but what I could do then I can’t do now. I haven’t heard anything bad, but will keep you posted. Whatever you decide, however you do it, when you get the bastard, I want a piece. Iago out.” The image faded.
Sebastian decided to change the environment to one more suitable for what he needed to say and so created a door leading to an old-style Roman amphitheater. The avatars all piled out and took their seats among the tiered stones. Tens of thousands from the outlying system arrived seconds later and the stadium grew to accommodate them. No one was surprised by Sebastian’s choice of venue—his love of all things Roman was well known—however, the ominous dark clouds looming on the horizon were something altogether new.
