Xenoform, page 11
Jalan was saying, ‘It’s as if there’s something in the system. Some virus, or something. It isn’t attacking me, but just… I don’t know. It cleans itself constantly, though – I don’t get it – usually it’s fine. I’m not getting anything back on the diags.’
These words fell around Debian like bombs. Something in the system. It couldn’t be, could it? Logic said it could. It could. Was the beast following him, tracing him? Maybe trying to thwart his escape? If so, there would be no hiding. The net had eyes everywhere. But if the AI was looking for him, then how had he survived the night? Perhaps there really was just a glitch in Jalan’s computer. Or perhaps the beast was loose in the net, causing general mayhem, not specifically directed at him. What was the connection to Hex’s people? And who were Hex’s people, this chain of connections leading back to Alcubierre? Who or what was Alcubierre, that formless name behind the scenes? And why their enthusiasm for killing him? Presumably they, whoever they were, wanted to keep him from releasing information about this new AI. He must have been supposed to find it, surely he must have been. What had it done to him? And perhaps the beast, if it was in league with Hex and Alcubierre, was trying to hinder his escape. Debian’s heart was beating so hard and fast in his chest that it seemed to rattle against his ribs. He couldn’t make sense of it all. The feeling of power he had experienced while interrogating Hex seemed a distant dream – now he just felt small and injured and confused.
‘Get off the net,’ he said in a thin voice, interrupting Jalan in the midst of some unheard diatribe.
Jalan fell silent. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Get off the net! Kill the router! Do it now!’
With an expression of mild annoyance, Jalan informed Debian that he had done so. His expression said that he was only humouring the bleeding young man who had wandered into his establishment, but Debian didn’t care as long as he was disconnected. ‘Why? We need to sort this out. I need to get you the doctor, get you the papers, book you the flight. I thought you were desperate to be gone. I can’t take you anywhere you know – I can’t leave the radius of the holo-projectors here. If I don’t manage to call out then I can’t help you.’
‘You don’t have a two-way?’
‘A what?’
‘A radio.’
Jalan’s face wrinkled as if he had been asked for a pint of piss. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course I don’t.’
‘Damn. You mustn’t use the net. Man, I have to get out of here. They could find me.’ The panic was nibbling at the edge of Debian’s mind again. His injured leg was jittering madly, nervously – he had to still it with one hand.
‘What are you, really? What do you do?’
Debian exhaled heavily, suddenly weak with fear and exhaustion. ‘I’m a hacker. Or I was. I guess I was. There’s something in there, man.’ With a strengthless hand he indicated the terminal, the electronic world to which it led. ‘In the net. It might be after me. It might not. I don’t know. The net might not be safe for anyone. If the beast is against me as well as Hex’s people…Oh shit. Then I’m a dead man.’
‘Look, I can give you an address – a physical address – where the doctor can be reached. He won’t be happy but maybe it’ll be all right. He knows people who can help you with your other concerns, too – gophers, but good ones. You can trust him entirely.’
‘I don’t know…’ Debian held his head between his hands, squeezing his skull as if trying physically to get his brain back into shape.
‘What’s in the net? This sounds like bad trouble, young man.’
Debian was sat holding his head, rocking slowly back and forth. He looked to Jalan Frazer like a broken man. ‘It’s not a doctor I need, it’s a computer lab.’
‘But your leg–’
‘–Is fine. I mean, it hurts like hell but I can sterilise it and wrap it and I think it’ll be okay. It’s what’s in my head, what’s in the net. I have to know. I have to know if it’s dangerous to everyone, or just me. Someone has to stop it.’ This thought did not fill him with enthusiasm.
Jalan’s eyes widened. Debian’s fear was contagious. He looked around the silent room, seeing nothing, suspecting something bad. ‘What’s in the net?’ he repeated.
‘A monster, Jalan. There’s a monster in the net and I think it’s done something to me. It might escape. It would be bad if it escaped. They tricked me into it. Those liars, they tricked me into it...’ He knew that he was in danger of sounding like a whiny little boy but found he couldn’t help it – he wanted to whine, in truth.
‘A monster?’
‘Stay off the net, Jalan, that’s my advice.’
‘I can’t,’ said Jalan softly, his face a dead blank. ‘Not completely. My simulation is hosted remotely on a secure server. The computer here just does the number-crunching. All the data’s on the server. If I disconnect the computer that runs the simulation, it stops and resets. For this instance of me, it would be like death. Program terminated.’
Debian could think of nothing to say. He looked up into the force-field features of the barman, wondering what death could mean to a computer program. Unending suspense of calculation. Wasn’t that death for people, too? He felt responsible. Jalan swallowed hard and turned back to the monitor screens, where the last spatters of corrupted data were frozen in time – a snapshot of chaos.
‘Maybe it is watching me now,’ said Debian with dawning horror. ‘Watching me through your eyes.’ He stared aghast at Jalan, and one shaking finger rose to point in accusation.
‘I’m sorry, young man. I don’t know what’s happening here, but I think you may be right about needing a lab, from the sounds of it. I know someone who has one, someone safe.’ Jalan turned to the computer terminal and made it produce an actual paper printout. He handed the scrap to Debian, who took it in shaking fingers, searching for a way to express his regret and sorrow and gratitude to the synthetic man.
‘Thanks, Jalan.’ As Debian took the paper it seemed to have a calming effect on him at once. He turned it round to read the print: TEC, UNIT 13A MOLDER JACKSON COMPLEX, STEVENS STREET. 61619.9.87220.12.33T. ‘Who or what is Tec?’
‘He’s a friend of mine – good guy.’ He seemed to consider this. ‘Well – good enough, at least. You hungry?’
Debian considered this question. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he should eat. ‘Yeah, I guess,’ he said.
‘Wait there, I’ll get you something,’ said Jalan, ‘and then we’ll clean that leg. I’m no doctor, but it don’t look too bad from here. Maybe I can fix it up myself.’
‘Thanks.’
Debian waited for Jalan to return, trying to make sense of the situation. He knew the AI could not be looking for him, or he would already be dead. At least, when he thought about it logically, he knew this. The problem was that fear kept trying to creep in, to edge logic out of the way and replace it with panic, and the battle to keep it out was like a physical struggle. Debian stared at the gibberish on the terminal screens as if trying to see the image hidden in a magic eye picture. He wanted to just connect directly and find out what was going on, but of course he dared not do it.
He was relieved when Jalan returned with two packets of crisps and a recyc-burger in a bun. Normally recyc – just the thought of it – made Debian feel sick, but as soon as he held the burger his stomach let out a feral growl and he suddenly found himself desperately hungry. Jalan watched with satisfaction, leaning against the wall, until he was done. Then the barman cleaned Debian’s wound with distilled alcohol, sprayed fleshfoam into the hole and bandaged it up. He stood back, looking moderately pleased.
‘Thanks,’ said Debian, gingerly flexing the leg. ‘Listen, Jalan, what do I owe you for all this? I know it could be dangerous for you, my just being here.’
Jalan’s expression became serious. ‘Unless you have hard money, then I think we had better leave it for now.’
‘Oh damn! Man, I’m sorry, I’m so used to doing everything over the net, I…’ Debian clenched his teeth, frustrated at himself. He felt like screaming. If this situation continued, he would have to rethink a great many of his usual habits.
‘It’s fine. You can owe me, okay, if you ever get out of this.’
Debian shook his head, once again lost for words sufficient to express his gratitude. ‘I owe you big time, Jalan. Big time.’
Jalan waved this away with benevolence. ‘It’s fine. When you leave here, which I would like to be soon now, because I have to open, you can avoid the streets most of the way to Tec’s place.’
‘Really? How so?’
‘In the alley round back there’s a hatch into the sewer. The main branch, right below the hatch, runs south almost all the way there. It’s only a couple of miles.’
‘A couple of miles in the sewer,’ repeated Debian, filled with new dread. He could not imagine how Jalan had gained a working knowledge of the local sewer system and didn’t ask.
‘Or if you think the street is safe…’
‘No, okay, the sewer it is.’
‘Good man,’ said Jalan, a little too happily. ‘And good luck.’
‘Thank you,’ said Debian, rising carefully to his feet. With the pressure of the bandage on it and the anaesthetic effect of the fleshfoam, the bullet wound in his leg was feeling a lot better. He paced up and down experimentally, limping only slightly. ‘Bye, then, Jalan.’
Debian tried to shake Jalan’s hand but the barman waved him away saying, ‘Just be careful, young man. I don’t know who or what you are mixed up with, but it sounds bad. Frankly, I don’t want to know. If there really is something seriously wrong in the net, I guess we’ll all know soon enough.’
Debian withdrew his hand slowly, guiltily. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I guess we will.’ With that, he turned and left. Jalan didn’t show him out.
The city outside felt hostile and alien – a jungle in which predators lurked unseen at every corner. He reached a dirty cloth from a bin beside the door, almost amused to see that it was one of Jalan’s expired glass-rags, and wrapped it round his head and mouth, leaving only his eyes and nose uncovered. The stink of the thing was revolting, but it hid his features, albeit it in a slightly suspicious way. Of course, if the beast had seen him do this through a spy-fly, a camera somewhere, a satellite, a robot or whatever then it was as good as pointless. If it chose to inform Hex’s people then he was a goner. Trying not to dwell on this, he made off into the dismal day. Perhaps the enemy would not attack him again out in the open. Perhaps in public, and not seclusion, was actually the safest place. Or maybe he was just trying to think of an excuse to avoid the dreaded sewer journey. He hurried as best he could on his injured leg down the alley that ran alongside the Sunken Chest. Muffled sounds of violence came drifting from a window nearby like snatches of cacophonous music. A man and a woman were shouting, glass was smashing somewhere.
Debian hurried on down the alley, his bare feet splashing through thick and slimy puddles. He ducked under a small bridge that stretched between the first floors of two opposing buildings and, out of the rain for a moment, he took the paper from his pocket and re-read the print on it: TEC, UNIT 13A MOLDER JACKSON COMPLEX, STEVENS STREET. 61619.9.87220.12.33T. An actual address and a less useful net address. Stevens Street. That was in the old Stevens Industrial Estate, a sprawling, run-down warren of factory units mostly disused since the manufacturing crash several decades before. In the southern reaches of the Undercity, due south, as Jalan had said.
‘What’s up, freak?’ demanded a female voice. Debian jumped, almost dropping the paper. He looked up at a soaking-wet young woman wearing a tiny outfit of matt-black plastic that barely contained her huge, modified breasts. She was standing only a few metres away staring aggressively into Debian’s face. The rain dripped from her large golden lip-ring. Her features, though not completely unattractive, looked prematurely aged from drugs or malnutrition. Atop her head was a startling array of small, rotating satellite dishes. She stood and stared at him, awaiting an answer. Debian was aware that he must indeed look like a moderately serious weirdo.
‘I was just going,’ he said, stowing the paper again.
‘That’s what you fucking think,’ she said and brought a large steel kitchen knife out from behind her back. ‘Give me all your money!’
Debian was exasperated more than afraid and frankly he could have punched her. Like he needed this, now! ‘Do I look as if I’ve got any money on me?’
‘You better had have,’ she assured him, moving closer.
‘Look – either you can take your toy knife and piss off back into whatever malfunctioning nanovat you slithered out of, or you can have seven shades kicked out of you by a guy who’s already been shot once in the last twenty-four hours, chased by assassins, mind-raped by the internet, dropped out of a window and then thoroughly bloody drenched. Let me tell you, that guy is way beyond the point of giving a shit.’ He thought this speech had come off pretty well, considering, and he waited for its effect to filter through, his ridiculously wrapped head held high.
The young woman visibly deflated. ‘Fucking loser,’ she mumbled, and wandered slowly away, swishing and slashing at the air with the knife in a slightly depressed manner. Debian was immeasurably glad to see her go.
He tried to get his train of thought back on track. Stevens Industrial Estate. He looked up and around himself, hopelessly searching for some sort of alternative route. Climb over the rooftops? Certainly most of them were close enough together to jump between, but how would he get up there? And he would inevitably pass through areas where there were no scrambler-baits and be spotted by spy-flies. Maybe he actually would be safe in public, though. Yeah, except for that one time when they already tried to kill me in a crowded street. Wasn’t safe then. He had stayed below the radar all these years by being unseen and so far it had kept him safe. So if not up, then down it would have to be.
He began to hunt around the alley, smashing bins and rotting boxes aside. After five minutes he found it: A small metal hatch in the ground, surely the one that Jalan had referred to, which would lead him into the sewers, the excretory system of the city. It would take him away from here, away from the prying eyes of enemies. There must be almost no cameras at all in the sewers, and no spy-flies. Were there any people down there? He doubted it, thought that the average citizen pretty much stayed out of the sewers.
Debian wiggled his fingers under the lip of the hatch, painfully tearing a nail. The hatch was either very heavy, or his strength was failing, or both. It seemed to take a long time to heave it aside so he could peer into the small opening. His night vision showed a long, rusty ladder leading down into cold darkness. He carefully swung his injured leg into the hole so that it stood upon the first rung and stepped fully onto the ladder. The bad leg throbbed, but held his weight. South. He could follow the compass readout on his HUD. Half expecting the young woman with the knife to return and catch him at this vulnerable moment, Debian climbed several rungs down the ladder until only his rag-wrapped head protruded. He could not imagine how he would look were a passer-by to happen upon him at this point. The sighting would probably spawn rumours of a tribe of desperate sewer-people, eking out a fringe existence below the city streets, emerging only to snatch children for their cooking pots. He actually laughed a little at this as he reached up to drag the heavy metal plate back into place above his head. He was careful not to let it crush his fingers as it dropped into place, but the sudden release of weight unbalanced him and he almost fell. He clutched at the wet ladder, the surface of which was sharp with thick flakes of rust, and held on for his life, with his cheek pressed against its pitted surface. He waited until his heart rate had returned to something like normal and then began to descend.
Tec, 13A Molder Jackson Complex, Stevens Street. South. Only a few miles. Yeah, he reminded himself, a few miles of sewer. And who knows what’s down here, really? He didn’t know exactly what he would or could do with access to a lab. Dare he connect to the net, even with help? How could he even pay for that help? This Tec would want paying for such a risky venture, if he would assist at all. So much uncertainty, but Debian was grateful that he had somewhere to go, something to do, and that meant that all hope was not yet lost. The rungs of the ladder crunched and crumbled as he gripped them, but they held beneath his hands and Debian continued to descend – deeper and deeper below the living streets, further and further from his normal life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Maory relaxed as far back into the driver’s seat as possible, refusing to give in to frustration. He laced his fingers behind his head, just below the point from which the DNI cable emerged. In the back the kids were bouncing in their seats, pushing and teasing each other. Perrin was attempting to tickle his sister with a bright feather that had been shed by some toy or other. Lissa, in return, was aiming a novelty stench-ray into her brother’s face, seeking a nostril or open mouth. Perrin, the elder of the two, was deftly avoiding the stench-ray while keeping up the feather-assault unremittingly. In the front passenger seat Maory’s wife Emily sat dead-eyed, nursing her temples with her head against the window. What could you do but try to shut it out?
The traffic inched forward again, so slowly that Maory let the pod just drive itself. He closed his eyes and hummed a Sharky Dave song under his breath but the chattering of the children’s high voices kept creeping in.
‘Are we nearly there yet, Dad?’ asked Lissa, leaning forward so that she could virtually shout this query into Maory’s ear.
Maory jumped. ‘Lissa, we aren’t even out of the city yet. You know where we are. Look.’ He pointed to the right, across the sea of stock-still gravpods, to where a vast crystalline dome sparkled in the dim sunlight. ‘That’s the Museum of Nano and Bio Technology. You’ve been there a bunch of times.’
