Serpent and the Sun, Chptr. 13 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.
The board chamber burst into black vapor, a grainy obsidian sandstorm of gnats in a swarm of locusts. President Liu covered his ears with his palms, as pins-and-needles raked across his exposed skin. He ventured to remove one of his hands to wipe his forehead. It was damp with blood like sweat. His exposed ear caught a high pitch whistle and the dragging, murky screams of his hell-bound newly-selects. Liu sank, crouched beneath his board seat, bracing for death. Then, as suddenly as it began, it ceased; no sound to be heard except for Liu’s ragged breathing.
He couldn’t see anything but a patch of floor from where he was. If he had any notion that even one of his Guardsmen survived, he’d have stood immediately, lest he face accusations of cowardice. But he knew he was the only one left alive. It was BlackLake, somehow able to infiltrate Everest’s internal defenses. It was BlackLake, and as consequence Liu’s continued survival was tentative. He suddenly heard a hissing sound, eerie and multi-timbral; surely not a snake.
“Stand, traitor.” BlackLake’s voice came from within the hiss, “Don’t dishonor the code that nurtured you.”
Liu rose, his entire frame tense with the expectation of death. He got his first look at the board-chamber. Indeed, his entire board was dead, their grotesque bronzed faces contorted in ferocious terror. Their bodies seemed composed; one still held a light stylus. It only added to the chaos bubbling up Liu’s stomach. He turned from the board to see BlackLake. What he knew to be BlackLake; the form was not human, but serpentine. Its body was massive, twice encircling the board-chamber in its coil. The skin patterns were morphing, evolving. Liu recognized shapes from a picture he saw in Liu’s office.
Heiroglyphs. That’s what Liu called them.
The coil formed an arched striking pose in the center of the crystal floor. Its face was that of BlackLake—arms formed from its primordial mass, only to be absorbed back in again. The whole body was surrounded with traces of black vapor.
“BlackLake pointed to the seat in front of Liu.
“Sit.” He said. Liu hesitantly took a seat.
“How did you get in here?” He asked. BlackLake smirked as an arm formed to scratch what passed for his chin.
“That’s easy,” he replied, “I’m much, much, much smarter than you.”
“But that’s-,”
“Impossible?” BlackLake finished Liu’s thought, “or maybe you were thinking obvious?”
“We have counter-measures; we have ways of keeping you in check!”
“Like dropping my host and I into the Apep crater when you all were done with us,” he asked, “those kind of counter-measures?”
“What does that have to do with-,” Suddenly Liu felt a tendril of black vapor solidify around his neck, choking him silent.
“…after you destroyed Coulson BlackLake, just dumped him off…dumped me off…” The snake dissolved, its vapors coalescing to form BlackLake, the man. He walked over to the High Bench with a shadow’s speed, leaning over the rail to put his face within inches of President Liu’s.
“Did you really think you could suppress my intelligence?” he asked, “that one day I wouldn’t find the weak link and snap your leash?”
Liu was stiff, paralyzed by terror for the first time in his life.
“What!?! How!?!”
BlackLake returned to the center of the floor, pacing as the overhead screen came on. Liu recognized the video that was playing on it. The outline of the earth’s curvature from space. The roaring sound that followed the white-hot center of the asteroid as it barreled down. Apep. As the asteroid touched, BlackLake spoke;
“Why didn’t you, any of you, stop this?” BlackLake asked, “Apep; surely you could have. PEALE was functional; you had the technology to change its course. Why didn’t you? ”
Liu, no longer choking, kept quiet. He knew the answer, but he dare not say it. Instead, he gathered together what courage he’d not left on the board-room floor.
“We had our reasons,” he said, “and why would you care to begin with? What concerns have you for humanity?”
BlackLake waved his hand, causing the overhead to switch video-clips.
“By necessity, I must care about one.” The screen was showing old footage of Coulson BlackLake when he was a scout. Liu remembered the video; it was one of the videos they voted on.
“Coulson’s mind was blown when you grafted me in.” said BlackLake, “Do you know what happens in a blown mind?” Anger was rising in his voice; agitation.
“It obsesses.” He continued. “It ruminates. It finds an idea or a word, a pretty picture; one little buoy in the rip-tide of thought, and it just clings on, swinging around on that buoy, conjuring the picture over-and-over, repeating that same word like some desperate, life-saving mantra,” he paused. “Apep…Apep…Apep…”
Liu peered outside the solid glass observation paneling. The setting sun appeared to be eclipsed by something other than the moon.
“Do you realize how frustrating that can be?” He continued, “…and let me tell you, Mr. President, frustration is a function of order and logic, nothing purely human.”
“C-coulson, “Liu stammered, “We had to put PEALE in you!”
“Of course!” BlackLake snapped, “How else were you going to save him from the coma you put him in!” BlackLake paused, the air around him dark with trailing vapor.
“Coulson is insane, President Liu,” he said finally, “and PEALE is a name of your design, not one I particularly like.” With a snap of light the earth once again came into view on the overhead.
“What do you wish to be called?” Liu struggled quietly to develop an exit-strategy. There was a sequence of religious imagery; every Sanctuary had one as a way to keep PEALE from listening to their conversations. It was likened to a pause button on a recording device. It was the deputy board-chair’s duty to activate it when needed. Unfortunately, that put the switch about five feet out of Liu’s range.
“Over the years, I’ve grown rather accustomed to my host’s mantra,” BlackLake said, “Apep. And after digging a bit, look at what I’ve found?”
He pointed to the overhead again. Liu looked up at the screen as he slowly slid his seat over. Hopefully he could reach the switch before BlackLake reached the end of his presentation.
“This is a hieroglyph; a relief, actually.” Said BlackLake, now Apep, “In your fury to keep me from self-discovery, you forgot this,” he continued, “In fact, you never knew it existed.”
“The serpent in the relief was called Apep in Egyptian.” He continued. “Apep was the ruler of all that was darkness and chaos, and it was the drive of Apep to devour the Sun god, Ra, each night.”
Liu reached the switch at the same moment he realized that BlackLake/Apep had used the word god. He watched in horror as the switch dissolved, bubbling black as it dripped down to the floor. Apep dissolved into blackness as well, rematerializing to a perched position on the board table directly in front of Liu. His eyes held a red glow like two tunnels into hell.
“Forget about your little god tricks, Liu.” He hissed. “I am a god now.”
***
Commandant Mobley led Jameson and Adam into the Command Center through a bomb-door composed of four two-inch-thick pins. It opened from the inside; both Mobley and Jameson were registered, cameras picked up the contours of their faces, matching their bone structures with the points on their personnel files. The opening s followed by a breeze tainted with the fragrance of electronics, sweat and coffee. It brought Jameson back to the days when the coffee and sweat was his.
“It’s been upgraded a bit since you were here last,” said Mobley, “that was what, ten years ago?”
“Twelve.” Jameson was stunned by how much it had changed. Back then the Public Library building wasn’t fortified. He had an office in the far-east corner of the Control Center, now gone. He had also been Chief Technical Officer for a while, about as far a cry from historical research as one could get. But back then, everyone wore more than one hat.
“I was born here, Jameson!” Adam said, and to prove it, he let out a whistle. All of the overhead lights in the corridor blinked off for a second, then back on as a wave traveling the length of the corridor. It turned the Command Center chaotic, shouts and scrambling.
“It’s OK, everybody!” Mobley’s voice came over the PA system as he shouted into his mouthpiece. “Just a test, folks…”
The commotion quelled, but all eyes were on Jameson and Mobley. Jameson was met with waves and nods from people he didn’t know. Like Michael and Blake, Jameson had a bit of legend built around him, just a step below them on the pedestal. He waved back, smiled nervously—he was the boss at New Rochester, where he received all the admiration of a glorified gopher.
The Command Center was a labyrinth of sorts. The corridor spiraled inward, getting smaller at each turn. At the core of the spiral was a two-thousand square-foot area known affectionately as the Jig-Saw. Jameson had been in there occasionally, and was one of the few people, even to that day, who knew what went on inside.
The primary purpose of the Jig-Saw was to reverse-engineer captured UEC equipment. The equipment, some of it rather large, had its own elevator drop-down from the roof, with a surface façade of an abandoned garage. Some of the equipment was captured directly; other pieces were purchased from the rebels in Alaska. Rumor was that their stockpile of skiffs alone was housed in a space bigger than the entire Command Center.
The relationship between the resistance and the rebels was tenuous. The resistance fought to destabilize the UEC; the rebels fought for survival. Most rebels started out living in a protected area, only to see their area’s status evaporate when the UEC had no further use for it. With the exception of Seattle and a few specific outposts (New Rochester being one of them), the resistance was mobile, attacking whatever it deemed a UEC weak-point. The rebels, on the other hand, fought for their land, seldom alive long enough to stockpile anything. Alaska as an exception; it was the UEC’s backwoods.
“Laura’s is giving a tour right now,” said Mobley, “she’ll be here shortly. Feel free to have a look around.” And with that Mobley left. Jameson and Adam walked the corridor, weaving in and out of the busybodies.
“You like her, don’t you, Jameson?”
“Who… Laura? What makes you think that, bud?”
Adam mimics the sound of beeps and whorls.
“Your heart-rate increased when you heard her name.” Adam said, “Also, your breathing increased…”
Jameson rubbed his neck, cleared his throat.
“I didn’t know I had a polygraph around my neck.”
“Wanna’ know if she likes you back?”
“And how would you know?” Jameson shook his head, “wait; don’t answer that…”
Adam paused, Jameson heard his unit go tick, tick, tick—Adam’s equivalent of finger tapping.
“So do you wanna’ know?” He asked. “You know, when she gets here…”
Jameson glanced around. “Perhaps you could instead tell me how this place works, seeing as how you’re plugged into it; how’s about that?”
“Have you forgotten?” Adam replied, “Has it been that long?”
“The only thing that’s familiar is the corridor… and the smell.”
Adam proceeded to give Jameson a tour of the re-vamped Command Center. He went yard-by-yard, cubicle-by-cubicle, reciting the purpose and function of every person, department and piece of equipment they encountered. Adam paused at odd times, and it soon occurred to Jameson that since Adam had returned, he’d grown wiser; his memory-bank-driven tour suddenly meant new things to him. Jameson couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pride. He’d been a good teacher after all.
In front of them, a commotion ensued, all eyes glued to Jameson and Adam. At least that’s who he thought they were staring at. When she cleared her throat, he was corrected.
“It’s been a long time, Mr. Rivers…” she said. “Hello, Adam.”
Jameson turned around, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her.
“Hello, Laura,” He said. She had only grown more beautiful in their time apart. Her lush auburn hair had taken the barest twinges of grey. Her face hadn’t a wrinkle, amazing in light of the struggle that filled her days. By her side were a young woman and child. The young woman was very attractive, a model, perhaps, and the boy couldn’t have been older than ten—her son.
“Jameson, I’d like you to meet Sarah Finn,” the young woman, Sarah, held out her hand, “…and her son, Daniel.” Daniel had his gaze fixed on Adam.
“What’s that thing?” He asked.
“My name is Adam, and I’m not a thing.”
“Well, what are you, then?”
“I’m a cyber-sentient being.”
“A cyber-what?”
“I think it’s a robot, honey…” Sarah said. Daniel scratched his chin. Adam aped his movements, mocking him. The mockery was lost on Daniel, who laughed hysterically.
“Can ya’ do any tricks?” Daniel asked. Jameson groaned. Suddenly the lights went out. Then they came back on, then back off—soon they began to flicker. Such chaos erupted among the Command Center crew that Daniel started crying. It was then that the lights went back to normal.
“Adam!” Jameson cried, “That as uncalled for!”
“No, it was called for,” Adam replied, “He asked me if I could do any tricks…”
Daniel gripped Sarah’s leg, wiping his cheek with his free hand. “Stupid robot…” He muttered. Adam stuck out his tongue, giving Daniel a raspberry. Daniel, in turn, gave Adam the finger.
“Daniel!” Sarah cried.
“Daniel,” said Laura, “Adam; I suggest you to learn to get along together.” They both looked at her. Jameson hadn’t much taken his eyes off of her.
“You two will be spending a lot of time with each other.” She said.
***
Blake stared at the overhead screen in the Security Center of Two Union Square. Mobley was at his side. Michael was still in bed; Blake wore a mask as a precaution. They were looking at a video-shot of Everest. Blake was astonished by what he saw. Everest was besieged.
Coiled about the mountain spire was a thick band of black vapor. Blake knew the source. It was BlackLake. That’s where his comprehension ended. The video-shot panned close, allowing them to see it close up. It was connected, ingrained into the Sanctuary walls as though they were porous. Strange, yet familiar symbolism bubbled to the surface, their edges sparkling before they receded back into blackness.
“They’re called hieroglyphs,” said Mobley, “so far they’ve been changing too fast for us to get a working set.”
“Hieroglyphs?” Blake leaned forward to inspect the video, “Egyptian, right? What use would BlackLake have for them?”
Mobley punched a code into the keyboard, causing the central image to change. It became a super-position of sorts; an Egyptian-styled screen-print of a long black snake with a cat-like figure at its head. The cat-like figure had a saber in its paw, drawn down as if to decapitate the snake. Hieroglyphs lined the top and the bottom. In the foreground were two images: a chunk of grey rock and a digitally-generated orbital path. Blake knew the rock didn’t exist anymore; it had crashed, incinerating most of Nicaragua.
Apep.
Mobley crossed in front of the screen with a solid-beam laser-pointer. The screen changed to a world map. Mobley pointed to the impact site.
“As you know, BlackLake went into seclusion after he…dissociated.” He said. “Most; hell, as far as we know all of that time was spent in the Apep crater.”
Blake thought about the year he spent patrolling the Apep buffer zone. Every Guardsman was required to spend their first year in elective service. He chose the buffer; he’d heard it was the easiest, and it was.
“Apep was an Egyptian serpent deity,” Mobley continued,” The central image changed to a worn papyrus scroll. Like the screen-print, there was a central image, surrounded by hieroglyphs in black.
“Apep was one of the few deities in Egypt that was considered to be all-powerful, above the toils of the other gods.” He said. “It was never worshipped; only worshipped against.”
“Bad dude, huh?”
“His mission every night was to devour the sun as it traveled through the underworld.” Mobley glanced over at Blake, “You tell me…”
“Really bad dude.”
Mobley paced the floor as the visual overhead focused to a point on the papyrus, an area that had been worn through completely.
“Apep was a legend long-held by the Egyptian dynasties. Unfortunately, as you know, the UEC destroyed all of the known Egyptian artifacts and purged the global databases of religious knowledge before they put PEALE online.”
“What about this?” Blake pointed to the overhead.
“This was from the New Rochester archive.” replied Mobley, “Like the parchment up there, our database experienced loss.”
“Loss?”
“When BlackLake destroyed New Rochester, he tried to-,”
“Whoa, hold up… he destroyed it?” asked Blake, “Physically?”
“What’d you think he’d do?” Mobley took off his filtered glasses. He didn’t need them to see in the Security Center. He wore them to cover up a scar that split his left eye, forehead to cheekbone. Mobley was also a former Guardsman. Like Blake, he took the easy elective of the Apep crater. Unlike Blake, Mobley didn’t have so easy a time. BlackLake left him a souvenir one night.
Blake rubbed sweat from the back of his bald head. “I assumed he killed everyone, but…damn…”
“It’s just a place, Blake…”
“I know, I know,” Blake said, “It’s just; memories…” Mobley nodded. He’d seen his share of personal history wiped off the board.
“Jameson.”
“He’s yet to be formally briefed-,”
“No, I mean, Jameson,” Blake said, “He wouldn’t write out a fucking recipe without backing it up on two separate data-cubes!” He began to pace back and forth on the grating. “He wouldn’t have come with me without backing up their database somehow…”
“Adam, you think?”
“Nah,” Blake pointed to the overhead, “You’d all have it by now if Adam had it; he’s plugged in here.”
Mobley shook his head. “He doesn’t have full access-,”
“Don’t count on that,” Blake replied, “Not for long, anyway.”
Mobley pressed the voice-command button on his sleeve.
“Pull up Command-Center-Main, subject—Jameson Rivers.”
The screen changed from Egyptian to Seattlite; Blake vaguely recognized the Command Center. They were looking down on four people, two familiar; Jameson, Laura Celes and a young woman with her kid. Michael’s cargo: Sarah and Daniel Finn.
“Looks different.”
“You’ve been away awhile.”
“Yeah, truth…” He looked down, quietly fidgeted with a jacket button. He looked back up at the screen.
“Yours if ya’ want it.”
“Huh?”
Mobley pointed at the screen. “This.” He motioned with his hand across the image. “I mean, it’s been yours all along…”
“What about you, Curtis?”
“I don’t know,” Mobley took out a cigar, lit it up, “Everyone around here idolizes you, Blake; Michael too,” he said, “If not for the constitution you and him put together, we wouldn’t still be here.”
“Nah, man; it ain’t like that…”
“…seriously, Blake; these guys, the unit militias…they’re the best fucking lot of soldiers I’ve ever seen, much less commanded. But ya’ wanna’ know something funny?” He took a patch from his breast pocket, handed it to Blake. It was a black diamond with gold trim. Inside, the number: 04319.
“My old UEC number,”
“Yeah,” replied Mobley, “awarded for fifty successful missions.”
“Jesus,” said Blake, “anybody actually earn one of these?”
“Thirty guys,” Mobley grabbed the patch, twirled it in his fingers. “I told ya’; they’re good.”
They spent a quiet moment staring at the overhead. A commotion had begun to pick up. A large group of workers at the Command Center were gathering around one of the screens. Mobley keyed in the screen, and it came up as a picture-in-picture. It was the besieged UEC capital. The coils had faded somewhat, now the entire mountain-top spire was seething black. Blake tapped Mobley on the shoulder.
“Curtis, we been friends a long time, right?”
“Forever.”
“…and aside from the dereliction of my duty that created Seattle, how many times have I neglected my duties?”
“Well, none, Blake; I mean, that’s the thing-,”
“Exactly that,” Blake cut him off. “When we put that constitution together, we chose Laura; we chose you. Now it’s been ten years—that’s five elections.” He said. “Laura, and you, won all five fairly.”
Mobley turned away, Blake gripped his shoulder, turned him around.
“Curtis, patches don’t mean shit; you know that,” he said, “Fuck, you and I don’t mean all that much in the grand scheme. This-,” Blake held out his arms, his motion encompassing their surroundings, “…means everything, and I wouldn’t entrust its defense to less-than-capable hands.” He smiled. Mobley smiled back weakly.
“I got business, Curtis,” Blake nodded to the overhead, “That won’t fix itself. And seein’ how I’m sick, that might just be my last business.”
The screen changed. Something was happening at Everest. To the side of the main screen, a chemical diagram appeared; AV3-subtype-1. Blake patted Mobley on the back before he turned away.
“Let ‘em keep their patches, Curtis,” he said, “They’ll need something to earn soon enough.”
***
Beads of sweat rolled off Elle’s brow, dropping to the floor as she struggled desperately to get the front door open. As soon as her perspiration hit the floor, it vaporized, her clean-free floor at work. She could remember when she’d laugh, fresh off the treadmill as the floor cleaned up after her. It didn’t seem so funny now; just creepy.
She asked her father about Albrecht; he was evasive, said he didn’t know what happened to him. Bullshit. Albrecht was dead. She knew her father well enough. He had a facial tick, went off when he spoke about dead people. It was for that reason that he rarely talked about work at the dinner table when Elle was growing up. But Elle recognized it as she brought up Albrecht’s name.
She didn’t know how, whether they shot him, expelled him into the ocean or infected him with their virus. The end result, in all cases, would be the same. She sat squat by the door with a data-desequencer in her trembling fingers. Her father left it in her apartment. He could claim it was an accident, but Elle knew it for what it was; a way out. Better yet a message: she might be next.
Her father openly left a data-cube she’d requested. It contained Gerhardt’s personal file. She requested it a year before, but better late than never. She ran it through a private-circuit decoder. Gerhardt gave it to her for her first anniversary. It was for them to pass messages back and forth privately. Now she was using it to dig through Gerhardt’s private life. It was ironic, and wrong, but she had to do it. Somewhere in Gerhardt’s past, or even in that of his parents there might lie the key to his whereabouts. She had to find him, now more than ever.
She found a wealth of information, most of which she already knew; Gerhardt rarely kept secrets from her. He was born in the Sanctuary, but his parents had only been allotted their shares a year before his birth. They were from Anchorage, a protected city in Alaska.
Anchorage. Elle didn’t know how far away the Sanctuary was from Alaska. She had to view a weather report and cross-link the Pacific with a world map. Turned out they were within four hundred miles of Alaska. It gave Elle hope. Unfortunately, she lacked a plan.
Elle never planned leaving the Sanctuary. She’d grown up in an environment that taught her the earth was contaminated and its terrestrial inhabitants were parasites and savages. It took meeting Gerhardt to convince Elle that the earth wouldn’t kill her. Now she wondered if he was still alive.
The data-desequencer slipped through her fingers, hitting the floor with a clank! Her hearing was in two days. That would likely be the last time she’d see that apartment. She had to move quickly, but where? How?
She slumped over, staring numbly at the desequencer. What good would it do to escape her apartment? Everything in the Sanctuary was monitored, including her. She wouldn’t get very far. UEC Guardsmen had a policy of shooting escapees, which only applied to those under house-arrest. Real jail was cryogenic suspension; escape proof.
A siren snapped Elle out of her despairing. She could hear the muffled sound of shouting outside her door. Emergency lights activated as the generated façade of her apartment blinked off to dull grey. Something was happening. She waved her hand in front of the panel-screen as she crossed the room. Channel 68A was a blank test screen, as were all the sub-68s. Elle swiped her finger back and forth, as if thumbing through a book. Channels flashed on the screen, all the same test pattern. She finally cocked her thumb, causing the Sanctuary Emergency Channel to pull up. She couldn’t believe what she saw.
It was the Everest Sanctuary boardroom. Elle recognized it; she’d been there before with her father. President Liu from the Denali Sanctuary was standing stiffly on the floor. Behind him, the semi-circular High Bench was populated with what seemed like statues, bronze men frozen in a business meeting. But Liu was the real oddity. Elle stood transfixed as she gazed upon Liu.
Black tendrils surrounded his body like a living brace, slithering in and out of his muscles, twisting and turning them at whim. Liu’s eyes were pin-pricks, wide with terror. Behind him, darkness; a snake of sorts. Elle had a hard time discerning between the folds of black, but she could hear a rattling sound come from the panel-screen. It filled her apartment; it may as well have been in the living-space with her.
The blackness moved within Liu. It spoke:
“Shareholders of the United Earth Corporation,” the hiss in Liu’s voice sent a shiver up Elle’s spine, “…inheritors and designees…the following message applies to you all.”
Elle sat down as Liu continued.
“You have lived in luxury,” He said, “fulfilled in every want- or desire, nourishing yourselves from the teat of this, your captive beast.” Elle’s brow furrowed. Huh?
“I am that captive beast,” blackness clouded over Liu’s eyes, hazing over before receding to reveal red glowing pupils.
“I am Coulson BlackLake,” Liu said, “I am the scout that discovered a plot to destroy humankind,” The tendrils of blackness at Liu’s chest shaped into a chemical diagram. Elle knew what it was. The virus; AV3.
“I am PEALE,” He continued, “I am the beast that your leaders bridled with blindness to create the implement of that destruction…”
Elle scratched her chin. The shouting outside had calmed; everyone must have been watching the Emergency Channel.
“I am Apep” Liu said, more an it than a he by then.
“I am the anti-god, the deity of darkness and chaos,” It paused, “…and as of now, I claim this Sanctuary system as my temple.”
Elle heard the hissing sound again. Something different. It was coming from the ventilation system.
“…by infection you all will be made sacrifice…”
Elle started to hear screaming. People were starting to get it; on the screen was a montage of sick people, wounds opened, festering, flesh dissolving at the edges. The virus was being released in the Sanctuary through the vents. Elle ran over to the door, frantically pushing buttons on the desequencer.
She needn’t bother. The door-lock deactivated as the Sanctuary lost power.
***
Rusty steel rails corralled them, desperate and weary wanderers, the dirt-streaked and scratchy throats of mothers crying out to keep their families together. Men in armor-bulked black uniforms and impenetrable sunglasses waved their gloved hands forward, motioning the lines to pass before the CGP-3, the gateway device that decided who was to be allowed in. The CGP scanned genomic- and pathological anomalies. Gerhardt didn’t have to pass through it when he got to Anchorage. His chip was his ticket through the slaughterhouse.
Not that anyone actually got slaughtered there, just denied access, packed back on whatever cramped float or skiff brought them there. Denial at Anchorage was a death sentence; Dalton took Gerhardt to the edge of Cook Inslet, just past the area where the return vehicles took off. The ground was littered with the bones and remains of those who could no longer wander.
The Anchorage Receiving Station was constructed on the site of the Stevens Anchorage International Airport. This was usually done in protected areas, as the equipment for receiving entrants could be retro-fitted on the old airport security equipment. Likewise the regional-monitoring equipment fit nicely in the facility control towers.
Dalton and Gerhardt had been in the Receiving Station all morning, cloaked and silent, watching for anything out-of-the-ordinary. This wasn’t easy for Gerhardt; it all looked out-of-the-ordinary. His trip through it was a daze. What’s more, it was a big rush. He just wanted to get through when he was in it. Now he had the chance to see it through the other side of the looking glass. What he saw nauseated him.
The entire operation of the Receiving Station served one specific purpose; to turn away as many people as possible. The CGP scanners eliminated about half of the people trying to get in. Add to that the number of additional people who took themselves out of the line because a parent or child couldn’t pass the scanner. Those left were screened through an entrance interview. No one was allowed in who couldn’t support themselves once in. This left only the people who had a specific skill that Anchorage needed, the wealthy, or, as in Gerhardt’s case, the connected.
Shimmerite wasn’t the easiest material to work with. Newer ‘cloak-wear’ had better stabilizers. Shimmerite didn’t; any bit of movement rendered the cloak ineffective. In fact, it was more jarring for someone to see Shimmerite in motion than it was for them to see a regular person move. The only advantage they had was the absolute chaos that surrounded them.
“We’ll be watched,” Dalton admonished him, “They’re deaf to the commotion, trust me.” They were in Apep last night, enjoying a couple of scrape-beers before the stakeout. Perhaps ‘enjoying’ was a stretch.
“So what exactly are we looking for?”
Dalton stirred out some of the scrape. “If I could tell ya’ that, we wouldn’t be goin’,” he said, “…the place has its own security measures.”
“Then why are we going?”
“You need a body count.”
“What!?! You can’t be-,”
“…no, I’m not,” Dalton tapped his stirrer. “Robots don’t have a gut, ya’ know?”
“Right,” Gerhardt’s own gut was starting to stone up.
“We don’t trust anything here in Anchorage whole-heartedly to robots,”
“Like the Sanctuary, you mean?”
Dalton set his glass down, wiped his frothy mustache. “If the shoe fits…”
“We had a Board of Presidents, so no, the shoe doesn’t fit.”
“Whoa, easy there, killer!” Dalton smiled. “You give a lot of credit to that board!”
“Well, one of them was my girl’s father…”
“And did he like, and/or trust you?”
“No-,”
“I rest my case, then…” Dalton paid up for both of them. Dalton went home, Gerhardt went up-stairs. He was still living in the hotel. Dalton offered him stay at his house, but Gerhardt politely declined. Dalton had a woman; Gerhardt didn’t want to intrude.
A little girl screamed; her mother cried as the Entry Guard ripped the girl out of her arms, out of the line amidst the drone of the CGP. The woman raised a fist to the guard; bad move, the guard pinched her neck with his thumb and forefinger, the two contact points that sent fifty-thousand volts of electricity through her body. She collapsed into convulsions, and those nearby did everything they could to put distance between themselves and her.
All except one man, her husband, perhaps; he swung his finger around, pointing shame at the motionless bystanders. He had no effect; shame was far preferable to what his wife and daughter would go through. The guard who zapped her grabbed the man by the shoulder, lifting him up. The man pleaded with him, his daughter still crying in the return line. The guard stood motionless, expressionless, a cog in black glasses.
Then the man did something surprising: he quickly grabbed the guard’s glasses off of his face, calling him a coward. The guard had the most shocked look on his face, couldn’t have been more than a kid. Within an instant, the main defense kicked in, sending a shower of nerve agent through a spigot in the roof. It was targeted at the man’s station, but the spray dropped a number of people. The entry guards weren’t affected, and it took four of them to toss the unconscious couple into the return line. They hit the ground with a dull thud and the high, shrill screams of their daughter as she tried to wake them.
Gerhardt instinctively went to move, but he felt a hand on his chest. He didn’t see but the shimmering outline of it, so he knew to whom it belonged.
“Don’t,” Dalton said, “It’s not our place.”
Gerhardt relaxed, let out a sigh. “Is this necessary?”
“Probably not, but it happens around here. We’re not here to enforce good conduct among the guards.”
“It’s bullshit,” Said Gerhardt. He could feel Dalton draw closer.
“You remember the bone pit I showed you before we started today?”
“Yeah, what about it?” Dalton paused.
“That wasn’t a suicide pit,” he said, “That’s a euthanasia pit.”
***
Acoustic fury surrounded Kenny as the bright flash, brighter than the brightest shining beam that had ever crossed his eyes burned them to tears. The remains of some unnamed urban landscape rose as dust, riding the shockwave as the trees and trucks, houses and electrical towers bent toward the power that soon snapped them in two. Death and destruction rose live Shiva in the mushroom. Then the room went dark.
“And that’s just what you get from splitting a kilogram of matter.” Sam turned the lights back on. He grabbed the scarab from the table, shaking it slightly as he held it up.
“This is a whole other level of nuclear power.” He said. Kenny stared at the scarab, his breath caught in his throat.
Sam stopped shaking it. “Sorry,” he said, “It won’t go off anyways; don’t worry…” He chuckled. “Kenny Bo’ gettin’ mucky in the draws’?”
Kenny gulped. Then he chuckled. “Yeah, OK,” he said. Then he gave his cheeks a squeeze to make sure.
“Have you ever heard of a transistor?” Sam pulled down a white-board.
“I’ve seen them before.” Kenny said. “We found them in reb’ spots a lot…” Sam laughed, Kenny followed once he remembered where he was.
“So yeah, I’ve seen ‘em…” He said, “Is that a transistor?”
“Yes and no,” Sam drew a transistor symbol. It had three leads, just like the ones Kenny had seen.
“Basic transistors consist of three parts,” Sam said. He pulled out a solid-beam pointer. Kenny recognized it as Security Force issue. Who lost theirs? Kenny felt red light in his eye.
“Pay attention.” Sam turned it back to the white-board, “As I said, three parts; the base, the emitter and the collector.” The pointer flew to each part of the diagram as he spoke.
“Each part of the transistor is made of a different configuration of Silicon, or Gallium Arsenide,” he continued, “that’s not important, except to know that they’re different.”
Sam tapped the lower left corner of the white-board. To Kenny’s astonishment, the leads of the transistor diagram began to glow.
“The base acts as a control.” Sam said as the base alternated between blue and red, “When the voltage is changed, positive to negative, or vice-versa, it changes the connection between the emitter and the collector; either allowing or impeding the flow of current.”
The emitter in the diagram was bright blue; the collector was a dull red. Then Sam tapped the screen, causing the base lead to turn bright blue. Kenny could see the illumination spread from the emitter to the collector rapidly. Then Sam made the base turn red, and the illumination stopped, held at the emitter.
“Make sense?”
“Yeah, it seems easy enough…” Kenny said. He pointed to the scarab. “So is that thing like a transistor?” He asked. “Where does the come from? And what does this have to do with that atomic-bomb blast?”
“Whoa, Kenny-Bo’; one at a time,” Sam swiped the pointer over the white-board, erasing it. He pointed it at the lower left again, and an outline-image of the scarab appeared.
“The scarab is, in some ways like a transistor.” He said. “It has different components; there are leads, as you can see…” He pointed to the legs—what Kenny thought were the legs.
“However, among the various differences between this and a transistor,” Kenny again swiped the pointer, “is this…”
Kenny watched as a side view came up. There were two layers, like slabs of whatever strange stone it was composed of. The legs protruded from the top layer, and Kenny watched as the legs bent inward to connect to the bottom layer. The only protrusions that remained free were two small pincer-like appendages that came off its head.
“The leads of the scarab don’t connect to an outside circuit.” He said. “The energy, the current, is self-generated,” The scarab on the screen began to glow. “self-amplified.”
“I don’t get it.” Said Kenny. “I mean, I get it, but I don’t…get it.”
Sam laughed. He grabbed the scarab and walked over to take the seat next to Kenny. He clamped his hand on Kenny’s shoulder as he placed the scarab in front of him.
“Pick it up. He said. Kenny did so, and noticed that it was warm.
“Why is it warm?”
“It’s radioactive,” Sam replied, “slightly.” Kenny placed it down gently, backing up as much as the wooden chair-back would allow.
Once again Sam laughed. “Kenny-Bo’; it won’t hurt ya’ none.” He said. “It’s covered in a lead alloy.”
Kenny touched it again. In addition to warmth, he noticed something else.
“It’s vibrating.” He said.
“Good of you to notice,” Sam joked, “…proud of you.”
“Ha-ha…”
“I jest,” Sam said, “Yes; it vibrates. And I’ll tell you why…” He paused. “Ya’ might wanna’ write some of this down…”
“Ha-ha, ever the joker, Sam-,”
Sam tossed a musty-smelling notebook on Kenny’s desk, followed by a squarely-sharpened pencil.
“Not kidding this time.” Kenny took a breath and opened the notebook to begin the lesson.
“In the beginning of the 20th Century, a scientist named Albert Einstein discovered that matter and energy were, for lack of a better question, two sides of the same coin. Around the same time, Quantum physicists were discovering that matter had a dual nature; particles and waves.” Sam paused. Kenny looked at him blankly. Sam pointed to the notebook.
“There will be a test.” He said.
“Really? Seriously?”
“You’ll have to make one of these.” Sam said. “You’ll have to know how it works…better start writing.”
Kenny jotted down Einstein and matter waves as Sam paced in front of the white-board.
“For nearly a century, scientists knew this.” He continued. “But knowing isn’t understanding. Plus, Quantum theory didn’t mesh well with Einstein’s other theories. So scientists of the 20th Century walked the magic tight-rope of paradox.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Basically they used what they knew to make neat gadgets, but they didn’t have the fundamentals understood…” Sam said, “…kind of like playing a guitar by ear without knowing music theory.”
“Oh, OK.”
Sam aimed his pointer at the white-board again. The center was consumed by a spiraling pattern that tightened in the center.”
“In 2018, an amateur scientist in America developed a theory about matter, a bridge between the Quantum scale and the cosmic scale.” Sam said. “On that desk in front of you is the cause of that theory.”
“This,” Kenny said, “caused a theory?”
“Aye’,” Sam said, “That scarab’s older than dirt. But people thought it was a charm until Joiner, the scientist, that is, bought it in an auction. He figured it out, and developed the theory based off of it.”
“Sounds interesting…” Kenny said.
“History often is.”
Sam paused. Kenny had two pages filled. He looked up.
“I assume you’re going to tell me the theory.” He said.
“I am…” Sam said. “Matter indeed has waves. They’re extremely high frequency, which scientists had predicted.” Sam pointed to the white-board. “Do ya’ see the way it spirals inward?”
“Yeah,” Kenny pointed, “it tightens towards the center.”
“Right,” Sam said, “It’s like a watch-spring almost. That’s the best visual I can come up with. A higher frequency is a tighter wound. Every reaction matter has with other matter, including gravity, has to do with the tightness or looseness of the spiral frequency.”
Kenny put his pencil down.
“Sam, you’re a smart motherfucker.”
“You’re clueless, aren’t you?”
“…a smart motherfucker indeed.”
Sam laughed.
“We have tonight to cram this into your skull,” He said, “I gotta’ go to Anchorage tomorrow. I wish I had more time, but I don’t.” He walked over to a filing cabinet with an old plastic number-pad. He punched in four digits, and it creaked open. Sam took out a large rolled-up piece of paper. He tossed it to Kenny.
“Those are the schematics for the scarab,” Sam said, “materials, structure, et-cetera.”
“That’s enough for you to use that philosophers’ stone you have and make as many of these as we’ll need.” He added. “I’m not teaching you how this works so you can make them. I don’t have to.”
“So wait, why-,”
“It’s in case I don’t come back tomorrow night, Kenny-Bo’,” He said. “Now let’s get back to the lesson.”
Sam turned back to the white-board. Kenny slid his notebook forward to hide the sound of his gulping.
More from Liam Sweeny…
