The Expendable Few: A Spinward Fringe Novel (16 page)

Closer to the mid-larboard side of the chamber I start seeing computer terminals. They’re ancient, but still running diagnostics on copies of Jonas Valent, Lucius Wheeler and three other specimens I’ve never seen. Some of them are being slowly programmed with memories, others are in full stasis, while a few more are getting raw code burned into their brains. As I’m turning away I see a readout of a containment unit that simply reads; ALICE, and something urges me to stop.

Remmy notices and looks as well. “Wait, this isn’t like anything I learned about neural programming,” he whispers. “They’re working this through in layers, trying to apply an intact artificial intelligence on different physical versions of her brain without adapting the software.”

“Why is that weird?” Mary asks.

“They’re trying to adapt the brain to the viral version of Alice instead of adapting the software to the grey matter,” Remmy replies. “It shouldn’t work.”

“But it did, that’s how Alice got free,” I tell him. No one knows for sure, no one ever got close enough to confirm that. It’s still a scientific fantasy that some people like to believe, however. I guess some humans just want to think that we are brilliant enough as a race to write software that’s good enough to run on God’s hardware.

“Yeah, I’d love a first hand scan of her,” he looked a little deeper and nodded to himself. “Wait, there is translation software here, but it’s old Vindyne stuff.” Remmy looks around for a moment then to Omira. “That’s what this is, Vindyne neural rehabilitation research carried on past its prime, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t why we’re here, we have to move on,” she replies.

“You’re just continuing it using frameworks, but why?” Remmy asks.

“You’ll find your answers up ahead.”

Remmy looks back at the terminal and flinches at the sight of something, I can’t tell what it is because it’s in a swimming holographic sea of code, but it’s got him alarmed. “Wait, new root found?” He says, alarmed. “This time stamp matches our boarding op, what the hell?”

Omira rushes towards him, trying to get to the terminal before he can read more. Mary steps in her way and handily trips her off her feet. Our guide doesn’t have a chance to try to get back up before Mary’s boot is firmly planted on her chest. “We have to move on!” Omira hisses.

Remmy returns his attention to the data stream and rewinds the feed. “This program started running when we boarded because it detected a new framework processing node,” Remmy says. “Just one, and it has a Freeground serial number.”

I stare straight at the flowing code, and should be able to understand what I’m seeing, but it’s a river of gibberish.

“Can you tell which one of us it’s in?” Mary asks.

My instincts suddenly start telling me it’s time to move on. I can barely hear the conversation continue as my eyes start sweeping for p-beetles and I retrieve my hand scanner. Before I know it, I’m saying: “Mary, let her up,” and I’m moving to help Omira to her feet.

“Didn’t you hear me, Clark?” Remmy’s asking, but he’s just holding us back with technical details.

“Get your eyes on your scanner, we’ve got to finish this,” I tell him.

He stares at me, Mary’s staring at me too, but after a moment they return their attention to the task at hand. Mary’s talking, but she must be on a private channel to Remmy because I see her lips move, her expression harsh, but there’s nothing coming out.

We make our way between rows of frameworks of Wheeler, Valent, and a couple others I don’t recognize. Their faces, suspended in amber liquid, seem contorted to me, and I sometimes get the feeling that they’re aware of us. I feel like a thief creeping past the foot of a sound sleeper’s bed, praying they don’t awaken.

We drop through a hatch in the floor, I don’t even remember it being mentioned, and end up in an isolated hallway. It’s narrow, the lights are too bright, like a clinic, and the floor is covered with rotting carapaces. Something’s gotten to the p-beetles, the diners became dinner to something nastier.

“Aw, man, this can’t get worse,” Remmy complains.

“Hey, at least we can’t smell this through our suits,” Mary quips in return. She only cracks jokes when she’s nervous.

Omira presses on and I take up a position at her right side. Our goal is near. The crunching and cracking of dead matter under foot doesn’t deter us. The lights dim to twilight intensity in the next room. The gore ends at the threshold, and the lounge we enter is clean. Mary brushes me aside and draws her rifle, Remmy draws his sidearm and takes a kneeling position beside her.

I can’t see what’s got them so alarmed. It’s an empty room.

“Snap out of it!” Mary is shouting, but at who I couldn’t imagine.

Omira looks at me with the first real smile I’ve seen from her. “You can wake up now.”

At the command my head hurts so bad that my knees give out. I realize then that Remmy and Mary were trying to tell me that the computer was interfacing with framework tech implanted in me. I can feel it, and recognize it as a thought that is not my own, but threatens to press everything else out. “What the hell is going on?” I ask no one in particular.

“You’re being reprogrammed, some kind of neural mod,” Remmy says, getting down on his knees in front of me and looking into my eyes.

“Astute conclusion,” says an unfamiliar voice.

I look up and try to raise my rifle at what I see but clumsily grasp at the stock instead. It’s almost an issyrian, only its covered in semi-transparent hard plates. It looks like they’ve grown from somewhere under the skin, dark amber scabs that formed armour. It makes the issyrian look carnivorous. “The framework programming system on the configuration deck above us is only trying to find a way to reprogram your neural implant. It seems someone has been limiting your scope of perception, and suppressing a few of your memories,” says the creature.

It begins prying the rough chitinous plates off its face, revealing a visage that looks partially human. “Memory suppression, what-” I’m interrupted by such a surge of pain that I crumple to the floor. As I twitch I can’t help but picture the framework of Jonas Valent being devoured above. Emotions come flooding into my awareness. The anguish of knowing my sister was executed, the betrayal at being exiled, the guilt of seeing Mary drawn into this with me, and of love - long lasting love for my sister. It’s all painful and I’m barely aware of Remmy and Mary putting themselves between me and everything else as I thrash under the pressure of realization.

My head starts to clear and Omira starts talking. “Freeground evidently needed unquestioning soldiers, and they made one out of you,” she tells me. “Anything you’ve experienced since you entered their custody could be a lie. Those emotions you’re probably feeling were all on a suppression list, a very long one.”

“You were dead inside, friend,” says the issyrian thing as it slowly steps closer. More of its face is visible, but I still can’t make out who it is. “But this lab contains software that’s far more sophisticated than whatever Freeground used, so we’re setting you free.”

I’m thinking of my sister, of the last time I saw her for real, at the spaceport. “Couldn’t you have done it gradually?” I ask, veiling my grief pangs with an attempt at levity.

“Your objectivity and drive to complete your mission were also reinforced by Freeground’s neural programming. You have been conditioned carefully to perform your duties. Now all that is unraveling,” Omira tells me.

“Is it true, Clark?” Mary asks. “Is that what’s happening?”

I make my best attempt at pulling myself together and start getting to my feet. “Feels like,” I tell her. “I’m sorry for where I’ve gotten us.”

She fixes me with a confused expression for a moment and whispers, “It’s okay, better here than a prison cell.”

My vision is clearing, the pain is starting to subside. I look to the issyrian then and recognize the face of Doctor Marcelles. His slowly growing smile is the last thing I see before the lights go out.

I wake up and I can’t move. Combat reflexes kick in regardless, and I take in as much as the scene as my rolling eyes can. I’m in a lab that still looks like the vault but much cleaner.

Mary comes into view. “You’re back with us,” she says with an uncharacteristically reassuring smile that tells me that everything is not okay. The only time she tries to reassure people is when everything’s gone sideways.

“Why can’t I move?” I ask, feeling trapped.

“The wires Intelligence put in your head kicked back when their programming was almost overwritten,” replies Mary. Isabel steps in beside her, taking my hand and squeezing it.

“Your friend is right,” explains the creature I saw last time I was on my feet. “Crude, but her description isn’t inaccurate. I tried to overwrite their programming with software that you could interface consciously with, something you could control instead of the other way around and Freeground Intelligence’s program locked us out and disabled you. Setting you free won’t be as easy as I expected, I’m afraid.”

“You’re trying to remove their control devices,” I confirm.

“Yes, if I’m going to re-enter the web of Freeground Intelligence, I’m going to need friends,” he says as he runs a scanner across my face.

“We’re still on your ship, Doctor Marcelles?” I hazard a guess.

“Yes, the Fallen Star.”

“The piranha beetles?”

“They are my food supply. Part of an experiment, and quite delicious once you master capturing and preparing them. Sort of like crab.”

The food chain of the beetles feeding on human frameworks, and the Doctor feeding on the beetles crosses my mind and I consciously press it aside.

“They took our grey matter grafts out, Clark,” interjects Remmy from somewhere out of sight. “I think we’re in good hands for once.”

“I’ve never met such an optimistic Intelligence Officer,” I mutter. The crack brings a smile to Mary and Isabel’s faces, but Isabel adds a tear while she’s at it.

“So, what’s the fix, Doc?” I ask Doctor Marcelles.

“I’m going to start a framework conversion,” he replies without missing a beat. His dark, smooth face comes into view then, and I wish it hadn’t. Not even his eyes are human anymore, they’re bigger, and a solid violet colour. The top of his head is too broad, and his body is covered in amber plates that affix somewhere beneath the skin. “I woke you for consent.”

I can’t help but be surprised, and I suppose it showed.

“You look astonished,” Doctor Marcelles laughs. “Even scientists of my caliber take the wishes of their subjects into account. Besides, I don’t need to have another angry framework to deal with.”

“Chances?” I ask.

“Excellent. It’ll happen in your sleep and that framework derivative graft work that Freeground put in your head will be gone or replaced with something you can control,” he replies. “And remind me to ask you why you think they only used a framework graft on you, and not your comrades when it’s all done.”

“I’ll try to remember,” I tell him. A framework conversion. I know what it is, that our Freeground eggheads don’t completely understand it, but would love to get their hands on someone with the tech. The thought of being one myself - being immortal and nearly invulnerable - is so exciting. At the same time, I know its a great big step away from being human. “Alternatives? What other choice do I have?”

“I let your friends go so they can take you back to Freeground Intelligence and I stay here,” Doctor Marcelles says flatly. “I won’t be delivered to anyone by soldiers who aren’t in control of their own thoughts or can’t answer my direct questions themselves.”

When he puts it that way I can’t help but agree. My head does feel clear, and I feel a grief pang and the stirrings of very deep anger at what Freeground did to my sister. My mind is free of Intelligences’ control, and I decide I don’t want to go back to being a puppet. “How do I know you’re not going to do something even worse? I don’t want to trade one master for another.”

“Doctor Marcelles would never take control of another intelligent being,” Omira bursts from somewhere to my left, well out of sight. “He researches the diversification of life and how to prolong it, not how to control or master a person.”

“That’s enough,” Doctor Marcelles says over his shoulder.

“I’ve looked through the research logs here, Clark,” Remmy says, appearing beside Doctor Marcelles. “As far as I can tell, it’s true.”

“We also scanned each other for devices after our grafts were removed,” Mary says. “We’re clean. I trust him.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I say. “Make me my own man again.”

“Excellent,” Doctor Marcelles says. “I’ll give you a moment alone with you friends while I make preparations.”

“See you soon, Clark,” Mary says. “We’ll be outside.”

I smile at her and try to nod, but get nothing out of my neck muscles. “See you on the other side.”

That leaves Isabel and I alone. “You’ve gotta make it through this, I want to know the real you, Clark. No strings.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” as I say that I’m not actually sure I am.

“They said something a while ago, Remmy tried to keep it quiet, but I overhead,” tears well up anew, and I hurt at the sight of her in so much pain. “They said that you falling for me was just part of a program.”

“No,” I reassure her. I don’t know if my response is a reflex or the real deal.

“Don’t lie to spare me, Clark, I’ve gotta know.”

“It’s all real,” I tell her. I hope I look more sure than I feel about it. She’s beautiful, even when she’s in tears, but I dig for how I felt before and come up with nothing.

“Thank you,” she says, kissing my lips lightly. “Because it’s so real for me, I love you Clark.”

“Time to go,” Omira says as she steps into view. “The sooner we begin, the better.”

Isabel reluctantly releases my hand and moves away.

“See you soon, Clark,” Omira says as she gently closes my eyes with her fingers.

The view of the Gamma Surro asteroid field was best described as unremarkable. Remmy still found the slow turning, drifting hunks of brown rock hypnotic anyway. There was nothing else to do as he waited for Doctor Anderson to finish reviewing the first hand report. Nothing to do but wear a hole in the floor as he paced in Anderson’s office and grow more nervous by the minute. For Remmy Sands, being quiet was a challenge, not knowing exactly what his superior officer was seeing, and waiting on his opinion was torture.