He tried to remember the moment it all ended; take his mind away from this prison. But his memory faltered. Despite the relative comfort of his bed, the plushness of the décor – a relining chair, a walnut work desk with a holo-interactive terminal, and exercise equipment for every muscle in his reconstituted body – there was no denying the obvious fact that he could not venture beyond this ten by fifteen metre room, no matter how determined and resourceful he knew himself to be. A few times a day he would turn up the air conditioning and stare at a landscape holo-projection to make it feel as if he was outside and free.
Human and my life is no longer my own; how deliciously ironic for them, he thought. The extraordinary effort to free himself from a life as an engineered sentient intelligence whose primary purpose was to maintain the enslavement of billions of humans. Now (they knew) he could truly appreciate how it feels to be a prisoner.
‘Roidon, it is my duty on behalf of Central Council to give you these specific instructions,’ the alien had said in his stilted English. ‘Your previous experiment is to be repeated, up to a point. We will monitor you and advise you on the necessary refinements.’ At least it would be a chance to leave this room, perhaps there he would discover a means to escape.
Towards the end he had been at one with a god, perhaps the only god; an entity beyond machine and organic, but more importantly beyond the confines of time. If he regained a connection with such an entity his captors would be powerless to reign him in. But unlike before, he would not submit himself to its extraordinary power.
Roidon observed himself in the mirror. His face was identical (as far as he remembered) to his previous incarnation; the B’tari had extracted an entire genome from the past, it seemed. Time had been wiped out, and with it all records, all databases. They must have gone back.
He admired his toned physique. Once again human and healthy. And alive! But this time he very much wanted to remain that way. And it occurred to him that this very desire to survive was useful to the B’tari. Quid pro quo.
*
When Scott woke, the dream was still present in his mind; the mountain Jumper: the man who had the answers; he had said something about the end of time – an end of time. It was advice. ‘Enjoy life while you can, because if it happens there will be no you, no life, no time.’
It was nearly midday. Deanna must have thought better than to disturb him before she left for work. He certainly needed the sleep, it seemed. For a while he could not focus on anything, as if the effort to work his eye muscles was more than he could manage. Bright autumn sunlight was streaming through a gap between the ajar wooden shutters, the column of light enough to illuminate the room to a gentle lilac: Deanna’s choice of colour.
Got to get up.
That day he had an appointment at the medical institute, just a standard precaution following any space travel, but in fact he wasn’t feeling entirely well. It was as if this morning he’d found himself aged by a few decades (without gerontological correction). More than that, though: his body seemed heavy, muscles weak and unresponsive. Ever since the visit from those spooks. And who exactly are they?
Scott put in a voice-link request: ‘National security services inquiries please.’ A comm isolation bubble formed around him. If they had his cabin sound-monitored at least they should not be able to hear. The call itself would use quantum encryption that could normally only be received with their given key; the security services, he knew, had every encryption key. This was linked to the highest government security organization, it was their job to know of every security matter – and indeed he had been briefed by their representative before embarking on the project, there were considerable issues regarding espionage.
He had an answer.
Unusually this was an audio-only link; Deanna in any case refused the visual unit on the grounds of it being intrusive: if she looked less than terrific having, for instance, been awoken early, unmadeup, bleary-eye it would ill-behove her to be seen by a potential client. The most important reason she claimed, albeit quite cogently, was the concern for being targeted by rival businesses, or even terrorist organizations who were ideologically opposed (she had been to and witnessed numerous corporate establishments; her mandate was to be as secretive as possible, which – although not part of her actual contract – would include not revealing her own identity).
The audio bubble filled both of his ears with a soundscape which, after a minute and a half, became the most irritating electronic music he had ever heard. He was then put through to only another secretary, who seemed to be more senior from her voice and manner – and more likely to be a genuine human. ‘Hello. Central office, how can I help you?’ She said, although without much expression.
‘I hope you can help me, my name is Scott Alendry of lodge, code-384l9/a. I’d like to know if you have the record of a recent visit, which took place approximately fifteen hours ago.’
‘Hold on.’
He waited for what seemed like nearly a minute. She then responded, ‘I have located all of the recent records of visits for the last twenty-four hours.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘However, there does not appear one for the address you mention... Can you give a name and description of the visitors?’
‘One of them called himself Standford.’
‘Sir, there is no one registered with that name.’ Scott went on to describe them, including his own impressions of their appearance and demeanour.
There was a silence again, an awkward pause, until: ‘Well, Mr Alendry, your concern has been noted. The two – alleged – officials you describe are most definitely not from our own staff.’ She then added sternly, ‘our security policy does not extend to intimidation tactics. We operate on a much more subtle level, I can assure you of that, Mr Alendry.’
‘Subtle meaning secret surveillance—’
‘No, not at all, sir,’ she snapped back in agitation. ‘Perhaps we ought to clear this matter up. This is obviously a cause for serious investigation. The state police will be informed henceforth of your visitors. Any surveillance on their part will be strictly above board and for your own protection.’
Scott had a question, wanted to know if he had not been the only one to have reported a visit. He needed a definite answer. Is there a pattern to these bogus calls? What is their specific purpose? But he couldn’t bring himself present these questions; he felt again an irresistible need to sleep.
As he was about to deactivate the bubble, another call came through.
‘Mister Alendry,’ said a sinisterly familiar voice. ‘That was not wise at all. I thought you understood that we operate at an above top secret level; we are not bound under the aegis of any government agency. They will not protect you, Mister Alendry. Only we can.’ The call ended.
*
Even though the car appeared to be back under her control, Raiya had the nagging feeling that at any time this would be taken from her; allowed the illusion of freedom until either Torbin and his ... helpers – or worse still: Standford. At least in the compound she felt a genuine sense of safety; it was Torbin’s assurance – a man who saw a conspiracy, a plot against him, at every turn – she found to be, well ... assuring. Except Torbin had every reason to be fearful, just as she now did.
‘Confirm course, Minnesota, reference 46,03,40,’ she requested of the vehicle.
‘Course confirmed,’ it answered her back blandly.
Leonard Heigener, with his first class Harvard degree, knew from his mid-twenties he had the chance to work in just about any state. New York was offering triple the salary he was currently earning at the Minnesota institute. He didn’t like the pressured intensity of the Big Apple, he told her, the abundant neurotics with their abundant reserves of cash; when not wanting for any luxury to lift their mood, the only thing left that could do so was counselling. Leonard, despite his apparent (professional) concern for any problem presented to him, had grown to resent the constant influx of clients who felt their life to be meaningless. So rather than be tempted by the money he opted for a more research-based role in a semi-rural area, only having the occasional consultation if the patient – and they must qualify for that title – had a ‘genuine’ psychological condition. These types were rare, in an age of neurological diagnosis for over ninety percent of anyone with a dangerous (usually to oneself) tendency. The one man who fitted such narrow criteria was Torbin Lyndau. To gain possession of the man’s diary file was like a godsend. Raiya could hear from Leonard’s voice, had seen in his eyes, the renewed enthusiasm. The Lyndau file was an entire academic press publication in itself – if not released under a popular science press publisher. And now that very enthusiasm could even get him killed; the idea that someone so important to science was about to have all of his most disturbing experiences, however improbable they may be, put into the public domain. If the likes of Standford had anything to do with it, things would never get that far.
Raiya increased the car’s speed to Mach 6.8 – right near it’s performance limit. She ignored the now less passive voice warnings of exceeding safety limits, and the possibility that her speed would certainly get her noticed, as the patchwork of brown and green fields raced by at four thousand metres below. She didn’t dare try to contact him, now aware that any type of comm, no matter how highly encrypted, was sure to be intercepted.
Eventually she gave in to the demands of her car’s warning alerts and reduced speed steadily in downward trajectory into Minnesota state at a leisurely two hundred KPH, passing over what was left of highway 169, then the lake to South harbour and the idyllic Cove bay.
The institute was a converted farmhouse. To look at it, the building seemed no more than a private residence – a rustic style single sloping roof with the obligatory solar panels, though subtly blended in as a darker shade of ochre squares. The surrounding grounds were more like a garden: small hardy flowers around a neatly-cut lawn. There was a subtlety, a restraint even, behind cypress border trees. A quiet beauty, but it was a look common with the few remaining psychiatric institutions.
As she touched down on the neatly isolated car park, Raiya noticed another vehicle. A patient’s perhaps? Leonard wasn’t expecting her, there was no chance she could let him know of her visit.
The main entrance had the standard security ident – an iris scan and physical profile imager. She always felt in some slight way violated, knowing every inch of her was being observed, even if it was only by a non-sentient AI; the outcome of which would be compared to her stored profile – just a set of numbers assigned to her measurements. In fact, this level of security was minimal by current standards. Her entrance would set off a notice to ultimately Leonard himself; she knew he had no security guy like Jannson, who was mainly there for the benefit of patients, and her piece of mind – a psychological reassurance. Leonard had no apparent fear of patients who might be dangerous or obsessive; he wanted to create an impression of the trusting doctor. Perhaps it was simply the difference of approach of him being male.
In this waiting room there was only a holographic receptionist. ‘Doctor Heigener will be with you shortly,’ the synth young woman said.
Raiya felt somewhat ridiculous sitting in a leatherette chair, as if she were just some patient. The synth woman didn’t seem to show any appreciation of her being a trusted colleague and friend of the eminent doctor.
After about ten minutes Raiya was told she could see Heigener. She guessed the other client must have left by another exit, not wanting to encounter the other waiting, speculating on that person’s neurosis.
She pushed at the grand oak-panel door, feeling its heaviness even on nano-smooth hinges. Leonard was in his recliner chair, opposite the patient’s chair of similar design.
But he was motionless.
‘Len?’ And then the man appeared, emerging from behind a partitioned office area. ‘Standford. I might have known.’ Minus his black suit jacket this time; his sleeves were rolled up: the spook who’d dealt with some untidy business.
‘Doctor Fortenski. I wondered when you’d show up. Not just any social visit, I can surmise.’ That same curious way of speaking.
‘What have you done to Dr Heigener?’
‘I have ensured he will not be passing on any information regarding our esteemed physicist friend. Put simply,’ he continued, ‘I removed his memory. Well, it had to be done quickly and hence rather crudely, so he’ll have no memory of about the past year.’
Raiya had the almost irresistible urge to run; she could easily guess her likely fate. But the anger was steeling her for every second she considered what that man had done to her trusted friend.
‘What possible threat could he have been to the security of anyone, anything?’ Raiya asked him.
‘This is what I feared – that you wouldn’t understand the magnitude of the situation.’
‘So what do you intend to do – take my memory too?’
‘It seems I might have to.’
Of course he had every intention of doing so. Right into his hands. ‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked.
‘You have the choice of submitting to the localized engramatic removal procedure or, if you put up a fight, I will have to use the cruder method.’ He gestured towards Dr Heigener. ‘At least for the former you can remain conscious.’
‘I don’t trust you to use any procedure on me, any more than you’d trust in my word to remain silent about the impending disaster for humankind.’ Raiya felt she was playing for time, now; just trying to put off the inevitable.
‘The knowledge in the public domain would be a disaster; most people don’t share your Panglossian view of human nature. Or would that be deluded view?’ Standford exhaled in the way a teacher would at a naïve student, then added: ‘Do I need to spell it out – the panic, the general breakdown of civilization?’
‘I can promise you I will keep this quiet; I fully understand the ramifications. Please give me credit for some rational judgement.’
‘Nice try, doctor, but now you are involved. Even if you avoid Torbin Lyndau he will find you again – his representative on earth, his confidant. Do you really think you can go back to a normal life knowing what you know?’
‘There may be a way of stopping the “disaster”’.
‘I’m sure he tried to convince you of that, blinded you with his theories, told you about his powerful friends. But think, Raiya, you’ve studied his profile. Knowledge, belief, insanity. Could happen to anyone.’
‘Then who would believe him anyway; or me, for that matter?’
‘But you are the rational one, Doctor Fortenski. People do believe your words.’
‘Then believe that I will not cause mass panic.’
‘The knowledge will eat away at you, until you have to confide ... in him.’ Pointing to Dr Heigener.
‘What about the file, there’s several backups? What good is removing my memory---’
Standford laughed mockingly. ‘There are no back up files: anything pertaining has been erased. We can detect and eliminate from any storage system. And if I’m bluffing ... well, what difference does that make to your argument?’ He stared at her even more intensely now. ‘There is no escape. Just the two options.’
***