Chapter 21.
I’m lying on a metal bed in a white room. It’s as the Doctor says: a curious sensation, like a second body, lingers as a shadow in my mind. Anger, depression, disbelief–it’s overwhelming. I have the presence of mind not to react upon waking, but it’s difficult. My jaw clenches involuntarily. The frustration and growing rage build a pressure behind my eyes.
The Doctor deceived us, however noble his intentions. He let us walk blindly into the lair of century-old monster. He’s gambling with our lives–perhaps more. If we fail, dying is the best we can hope for. The alternative is total enslavement: trapped in our own bodies, impotent observers, driven slowly mad.
Keep it together.
My eyes are opened to slits. Crom, what do we do next? We’re like new equipment as far as Vermillion is concerned. What does any experimenter do with new equipment? They test it. They see if it works right. Vermillion may be monitoring us already. I lie still. I can only hope Echo does the same.
Five minutes. That’s how long it takes before a sort of peripheral light shines inside the back of my skull. It’s like an invisible person looking over your shoulder; you feel sure they’re there, even if you can’t specify the means of perception. Then comes the first flicker of movement in the shadow-body. The commands aren’t sent as words or distinguishable instructions; they come through as direct inputs into neural paths. I feel the shadow-body move its right arm a certain way. It’s such a queer, alien sensation that I forget to move my real arm. The movement comes again. Now I mimic it, albeit with a split-second delay.
Vermillion can’t help but notice anomalies. Brain-hijacking can’t be a perfect science, however, so hopefully the AI will put it down to bugs in the implant. I lie on the cot mimicking the shadow-body as best I can. Vermillion attempts to move my eyes, to roll them around. He tests my arms and legs. He has me pinch myself. Assumedly he’s monitoring my reactions and sensations. It’s oddly inhuman. Degrading, like being used as a toy. He makes me sit up. That’s when I see Echo.
She’s lying on another cot, eyes closed, breath slow. I’m not sure if she’s faking it or still knocked out. I start to tense up–but to what depth am I being monitored? Will my pulse be abnormal? Do test subjects ever struggle for control? Am I already giving myself away? I don’t know enough to fake this. How could the Doctor even think this would work? He should’ve prepared us better.
A door opens. I struggle to keep my eyes from it. Octavia enters, that psychotic smile still programmed into her muscles. She stops right in front me. The shadow-body moves again. But this time it does something I can’t possibly duplicate. It dilates its pupils rapidly, relaxing and tightening the irises. Octavia leans in until her eyes are only inches from mine. Her stare is highly unnerving. I have a powerful need to blink, but would the implant normally allow that? I have no idea. My heart pounds faster. I’m going to blow it.
Octavia-Vermillion draws away, apparently dismissing the anomalies. Perhaps some amount of error is inherent in any implant. Hopefully my body’s reactions stay under the noticeable limit. The door opens again. A man I don’t know enters, followed by–
Jarvis.
I almost say his name. The same frozen smile is plastered to his face. He goes to one corner of the room and crouches. Our packs are piled there. Jarvis rummages through them. He takes out Volume Seven and examines it curiously before dropping it again. He walks behind me, moving out of sight. A small surgical saw whirs to life from that direction. It takes all my willpower not to turn my head, not to react in any way.
Jarvis walks past me, the saw in his hand. Octavia is still staring at me, or maybe Vermillion just left her body in that position. The man I don’t recognize moves toward Echo’s head and places his fingertips around it, as if to hold her steady. She gives the barest flinch at his touch.
She’s awake…
Jarvis stands next to them, the saw whirring in his hand, looking down at Echo with that forcibly deranged expression, a sight straight out of a nightmare. He raises the saw…
I couldn’t tell you who moves first. Echo’s hands shoot out and grab Jarvis’s wrist, while I leap off the bed, knocking Octavia aside, reaching for the saw. Vermillion is slow to react. I have a hand on Jarvis’s arm and Echo is bending his wrist back, forcing his hand open. The saw clatters to the medal bed beside her, sparking and scraping. She screams. The stranger stares in surprise. I pick up the saw as Echo vaults off the bed.
Octavia’s hands close around my neck from behind. My airway grows thin. Should I use the saw? It’s Octavia, for Crom’s sake. The stranger comes toward me too. I kick out and shove him away. I run Octavia backwards, roaring. We hit some kind of low-lying cart and crash to the floor, scattering surgical tools and syringes. I flail with the saw as we fall. There’s a spray of blood. Octavia’s hands come free. I’m on my knees, turning, scared in all kinds of ways–but I haven’t killed her, only sliced a gash in her arm. I’m halfway to my feet when the man’s hands lock like a vice around my throat. He forces me backwards to the floor.
He’s one of Vermillion’s victims, but I have to free myself however I can. I hold the saw to his arm. Warm blood sprays into my eyes. Impossibly, he doesn’t let go. To Vermillion, the host’s pain is just meaningless data. A hard fact hits me: this man is innocent, and I’m going to saw his arm off.
And then I’m not, because Octavia has my wrist in both hands. She’s forcing it to the floor. The man is choking me. He’s bigger than me. Stronger. I can’t stop this. He’s going to strangle me. That first fight in the Library, when Cabal was shooting at us, I thought I might die. A part of me explored the possibility, wondered how easily I’d accept it. The same thing happens now. The analysis is so fast it seems beyond time. I’m afraid, but I can let go. I can accept death. The release, the oblivion, will almost be welcome. No more trudging through the wastes. No more struggling in the ruins of a dead culture. No more attachment to the worries of this body. Then comes an awareness of all I’ll miss. Treasure-hunting. Electrical gadgets. That hidden kiss in the forest with the very girl who, surreally, is murdering me.
But most of all, Echo.
Annabel Lee, who lived by the sea. The angels will take her away from me.
I wish I could say I find a reserve of hidden strength, that I was inspired by love to a super-human state, but that’s not what happens. The good guys don’t always win … but sometimes they do get lucky. Sometimes a pack is left in a room when it shouldn’t be.
A metal sphere bounces across the floor. There’s an audible click as the button pops. The saw dies. A light bursts in the ceiling. The man collapses on top of me, his hands going limp. Octavia releases my wrist, slumping backwards to the floor. The room is abruptly silent. One of the EMP grenades from Mudcross. Echo managed to fish one out of my pack.
What better weapon to use against an AI?
Echo comes over, breathing heavily. I get to my feet. She gives me a quick embrace. I’m shaky. I thought I was dead. Jarvis is on the floor near the door. Something feels different–the shadow-body is gone. The EMP must’ve fried our implants too.
“Are they … ?” Echo begins.
“They’re alive.”
Echo breathes relief. Maybe they’ll wake up in another minute, or maybe they’re comatose. Crom, I hope not. There’s no time to help in either case.
“You saw the Doctor?” Echo asks.
“Vermillion,” I say, nodding.
“Let’s kill the bastard.”
Our weapons are missing, but our packs are untouched. The EMP grenades are hardened against their own effects, so the others should still work. We keep a few at hand and shoulder the packs. The saw is dead but there’s a long, thin blade I could use as a knife. Better than nothing. I clench it as we move cautiously into the corridor outside.
The corridor is empty. At the nearest end is
a metal door, much like the entrance to the ally-vator in the Blue Tower. There are two buttons beside it. We press both. Nothing happens. We try to wedge it open. Not happening. That’s when the metallic sheet-wall slides out of the ceiling behind us, sealing us into a twenty-foot stretch of the corridor. A low hissing sound comes again. Vermillion is gassing us.
We fill our cheeks and hold them. Echo presses the buttons by the door again. I try to shoulder it open. Useless. The lock must be activated electronically. If we could cut the power…
I’m about to activate another grenade when I pause. How much has Vermillion done to protect the place? Maybe he’s hardened every circuit. I kick at the panel holding the buttons. No good. I shove the surgical blade in and try to pry it open. It starts to come loose–then the blade snaps. I use the broken handle as a lever to pry it further, drop the handle, and pull at it with my fingers. The pressure in my lungs is building. The panel comes free, exposing a host of colored wires. I shove the grenade inside. The button pops. The light in the ceiling goes out, pitching us into total darkness.
I can still hear the hiss.
“Tristan!” Echo calls, taking a breath.
I feel for the door–still closed. But as I push on it, it moves slightly. The lock isn’t holding. I claw at it. It slides sideways into the wall. Strangely, a breeze touches my face–probably the only thing that stops me from falling to my death, because the air is coming up from where the floor should be. It is an ally-vator, only the moving room is missing. All that’s left is the open shaft. I grope for the missing floor. Echo nearly trips over me before I warn her.
The gas is still coming out. We have to get out of this hallway. The darkness brings an awful fear. It makes everything larger, louder, more mysterious. I grope inside the shaft and feel the rungs of a ladder in the wall to our left. Thank Crom.
According to the Doctor, Vermillion will be on the lowest level. I’m reaching a foot around cautiously inside the shaft when there’s a rumbling sound and a strong vibration. I pull back into the corridor just as the ally-vator falls past in a roar of noise and air–we’re still trapped. Before I can count to ten, the moveable chamber rushes back upward. Vermillion is either going to splatter us with it or keep us confined until we pass out. The lack of oxygen brings a fuzziness to the edge of my awareness. I need to breathe. I gulp noxious gas. So little time. We’ve got to try something.
The ally-vator rushes back down. I fumble for another grenade, twist and push the button, drop it into the shaft. Apparently we only blew the ‘tronics for this floor. We need to blow the ally-vator itself. Seconds tick by. The EMP must’ve popped by now, but did it accomplish anything? I listen for the rush of noise. I wait as long I dare, gulping another breath of bad air, starting to feel numb and distant. Echo’s hand digs into my arm…
I step out onto the ladder. The shaft stays silent.
“I’m starting down,” I tell Echo, breathing the air in the shaft.
She steps on my fingers when I’m a few rungs down.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
It’s a nerve-wracking descent. We pass two doors outlined by cracks of light. They open, and gas starts hissing just beyond them. Then my foot hits something solid: the top of the ally-vator. It bobs slightly as we put our weight on it. There’s a hatch on top. We drop down inside. I grope for the door.
“Just open it a few inches,” Echo says. She’s holding another grenade. I cinch the door open. There’s no light adjacent to the ally-vator–assumedly the EMP took it out–but further down the hall are two kinds of glares: one from a fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, one from a laser being beamed at us. Echo ducks to one side, taking cover behind the door. A burn-line cuts the back-wall of the ally-vator. She primes the EMP and hurls it through the breach. I push the door shut. When I open it again, both lights are gone. The corridor is black and silent.
We creep forward. Even our breath is loud in the dark. I hold Echo’s hand, a grenade ready in the other. Distance is hard to gauge. At least there’s no hiss down here. We stumble over something heavy and metal, startling us both.
“Automaton,” I announce, discerning its shape with my hands. The laser rifle lies near it, but the weapon’s fried. The Doctor did say Vermillion would be guarded. How many robots will there be? The grenades take a few seconds to prime. If Vermillion’s minions surprise us without cover, we’re dead. If we run out of grenades, we’re also dead.
The door at the end of the hall is locked. It’s funny, in a way. A simple steel bolt might be enough to stop us, but nothing in the facility is strictly mechanical. Vermillion’s nature necessitates remote access, which means everything has to have an electronic override. It could lead to his downfall. I’m readying another grenade for the door’s electronics when Echo warns me about a sound behind us. She always hears things first. Something’s moving in the distance. Coming down the ladder in the ally-vator shaft.
We freeze, listening…
The noise stops. Silence. Then someone trips over the same automaton, grunting. Someone, not something. I’m tempted to call out. Instead, I press and twist the button on the EMP. It makes a soft click. Blue fire lances out from a plasbrid weapon, passing between us and scorching the locked door. I roll the grenade at the source and dive to the floor. More shots pass overhead, sweeping by in an exploratory spread. The EMP pops. Bodies thud to the floor–more than one–as Vermillion’s brain-jacking implants are fried.
Echo takes out the door. We don’t have many grenades left though; we’ve got conserve. We slide the door open an inch…
And pause.
The new room is filled with machinery. Thick cables snake between islands of ten-foot-tall black metal cylinders. Generators whir. Fans circulate a strong breeze. We enter warily. Echo slides the door shut behind us in case more minions are coming.
“Vermillion,” I say.
“Is it him–it?” Echo asks, looking around.
A foot-tall robot on treads rolls around a corner and stops, facing us. I start, ready to take cover, but it’s just a maintenance bot. Articulate arms extend from its sides. Screwdrivers and other tools are locked against its “chest.” A voice issues from a speaker on its side.
“Congratulations,” it says.
I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it. I stare at the tiny automaton.
“Vermillion?” I ask.
“Curious that you would know that name. But you had help, of course. How else could you be here? I have been attacked before, but no one has ever penetrated this deep into my facilities. You must be exemplary samples of your species. Would you care to provide me with samples of your DNA?”
Echo and I look at each other. Ignoring the voice, we look for the best spot to activate the EMP. Right in the middle of all this, I suppose.
“You have anger. That is to be expected,” Vermillion says. “Do not let it cloud your judgment. I can help you. Did you know that before the Fall, your kind had the technology to make copies of individuals? To give birth without wombs? Cloning. Such knowledge is not lost. Through me, the two of you could father an entire generation. Think of it–in centuries, they will look upon you as the founders of a great clan. They will put your names in holy books and pray to you for guidance. Do you want to be prophets? Founders of cities? You, right now, are in a position to choose your destiny. I can give you this. I can make you into legends.”
“Right here?” I ask Echo, holding the grenade.
She nods, blue eyes angry. I press and twist, set the device on the floor.
“Wait,” Vermillion says.
The button pops. Sparks fly from the machinery. Generators whir down into silence. The breeze lessons. Some fans still blow, however. Lights glow inside translucent black boxes. The room is big and a single grenade can’t cover it all.
“Why … do you do this?” Vermillion asks. The
little bot tries to follow me but runs repeatedly into a metal pipe. Other maintenance bots venture out from storage. They have trouble maneuvering. One turns in endless circles.
“Stop now. Data will be re– re– re– … Data will be recoverable. You need not go further. Think of the knowledge that will be lost. I can te– te– te– … I can tell you things forgotten by your people. I can teach you ways from before the Fall. Consider. I am at your mercy now. Would you de– de– de– … Would you destroy me when you can avail yourselves of all my knowledge? Be better than your ancestors. Yield to wisdom, not anger. Your species will benefit. Rule over Haven. I will be your ally. Your subject. Think of all I have to tell you, all I have learned, all the ways you can use me.”
For a moment, I do listen. Maybe he’s telling the truth. He probably does harbor a great deal of useful information. He may know things about the World Before no one else remembers anymore. But there’s no trusting the bastard.
“Listen, asshole I didn’t want to be your slave. But I don’t want to be your master either,” I say.
Echo primes the EMP and sets it down, frying the rest of Vermillion’s synthetic guts. The effect is curiously anticlimactic. There’s no blood, no explosions, no horrific images like–
–Ballard’s eye popping out
–the burn-hole in Byron’s skull.
Just silence.
A few lights are still on; the ceilings here are high. It’s kind of tragic we had to fry all the ‘tronics, because the room is chock-full of advanced components.
“The others. We have to check on them. See if they’re okay,” Echo says.
I nod, but something’s bothering me. I can’t put my finger on it. As Echo reaches for the door, I grab her arm.
“What’s powering these lights?” I ask.
“Must be more generators somewhere,” she says, looking up.
“Did it seem too easy to you?”
She guffaws.
“Tristan, we should be dead or enslaved right now. Too easy?”
“Yes, but how do we know Vermillion is really gone? What if he still has some control?”
“Tristan, we fried his brain–didn’t we?”
“I don’t know. That’s my point. We destroyed a room full of equipment. How do we know what his brain looks like? What if we just cut off his foot?”
She opens her mouth but closes it again, frowning.
I look around the room. I need some kind of proof, some confirmation. For all I know, Vermillion could’ve faked the fear, the stuttering, the maintenance bots gone haywire. I know how that must sound. Crazy, probably. Even so…
The crawlspace is covered by a small, non-descript square panel in a far corner of the room, just bigger than the foot-tall maintenance bots. Behind the panel, white pipes and black cables snake to and fro. It’s like a hallway for the little maintenance bots. It runs left and then right. Through the tangle of pipes, a small opening is visible–an opening leading down into the floor.
As far as I could tell, we’re on the lowermost level of the compound. Why would the maintenance bots need to head any lower? To fix pipes under the floor? Maybe, but my paranoia says otherwise. We look for access panels leading into the floor. Those little bots can’t fix everything. If there’s anything beneath us, Vermillion would have to send in larger, stronger bots at some point. All this machinery must require a lot of maintenance.
“Tristan,” Echo says.
She’s looking into a four-foot tall, translucent black cylinder. It’s at the end of a row of similar structures. Inside each is a web of delicate machinery, barely visible through the tint. The last cylinder, however, is empty. Faded black scuff marks are visible beside it, as if something heavy were dragged to or from the cylinder. The cylinder rotates to unlock from the floor. We turn it and heave it sideways. Underneath is a circular floor-panel. A trap door.
Echo tucks her blonde hair behind an ear. We share a bewildered look. The panel has no handle. I find a screwdriver on a maintenance bot and slip it into the crack to wedge the panel open. Echo catches the edge. We lift it together and send it rolling away with a bang…
An entire room rests beneath the floor, fifteen or twenty feet deep. In the center, beneath a transparent hemisphere, stands what I can only describe as an elaborate fiber-optic tree. The root rises from a silver plate and branches into four parts, which branch into four more, and so on, until the “branches” are microscopic–they must number in the billions. They shimmer like water with every shift in perspective. Glass-like cables meet the hemisphere from all points of the compass, extending to a dense host of machinery spread throughout the room. There can be no doubt…
This is Vermillion.
“I’ll never call you paranoid again,” Echo breathes.
We prime our remaining grenades and drop them into the hole.
Love, Death, Robots, and Zombies Page 24
