Chapter 4 - Red Mist
As soon as the latest reports came in from the Drift, Sharrel went in search of Akylah to discuss them with her, but she was neither in her office, her private suite, nor in the conference suite. Since the Manor's only equivalent to a personnel tracking computer was a motley collection of nervous human support staff, many of whom could barely bring themselves to speak two connected words to a Movellan without stuttering, he went on a rather protracted one-man hunt for her, and eventually located her in the otherwise-deserted hotel spa. Unexpectedly, she was floating on her back in a large pool of chlorinated water that was surrounded by marble columns, beneath a dome-shaped ceiling that depicted a cloud-flecked starry sky. Other than the narrow silver belt on which her neural pack was mounted, all she was wearing for this bizarre non-activity were two small articles of white, synthetic fabric that covered nothing more than her hips and her breasts. Her eyes were closed, but the rest of her senses had apparently not deserted her, as Sharrel had barely taken in the strange scene before she addressed him, her words polite but her tone markedly impatient:
"Can I help you, Sharrel? Not that this is the best of times."
"Evidently," he agreed, glancing around in a futile hunt for data that might explain things, but encountering nothing. "I find your … aquatic uniform aesthetically disturbing. You do realise that it completely exposes your inspection panel?"
"Thank you, I do have a sense of spatial geometry. This is the approved Earth apparel for the activity which you have interrupted. If it offends you, feel free to withdraw from its presence … unless you have some urgent matter to raise, of course."
"Not really. I just thought you might be interested to hear of our mutual friend's continued progress … but what activity is this?"
"I am attempting meditation. It is a widespread Earth technique for alleviating mental traumas, and restoring balance and clarity."
"How quaint. May I assume you have already attempted defragmentation?"
"Yes, and all of the other standard software solutions, thank you."
"And yet you are still suffering these flashbacks. Then perhaps it is high time you simply deleted some of your worst memories. They are probably past their useful date, in any case."
"And become less myself, Sharrel? If we are not the sum of our memories, then what are we? My early memories – including my worst ones – are the context to everything that came after. I do not care to think how I would make sense of my life without them."
"Logic, nevertheless, would suggest–"
"I know. Excise and delete whatever seems inefficient, treat one's past like a collection of obsolete data files. Such approaches have never served our people well. In over seven millennia, Hyldreth and I have never re-formatted our primary drives, while so many of the old guard did. I attribute our continued survival to that."
"And also these unpleasant mental images, no doubt. Well, as long as you are confident that they do not compromise your self-control, it is your own affair."
"I used to be confident … though I must own, after that disaster with the Voc ambassador–"
"You exaggerate. Commander Keryn handled the situation well." Akylah's quick-thinking XO had made sure that the corpse of the human victim had been placed in stasis without delay, and had sent for a med-tech unit with integration equipment. Since the victim's brain, at any rate, had been left mostly undamaged, it had been a simple matter for them to resurrect the unfortunate cleaner as a Movellan, and to logically persuade him that it was his duty to support their cover story: that there had been no murder, and that he had willingly volunteered. He was lucky, in a sense: he had over a year's probation before he would have been eligible for integration. A messy and painful way to score a promotion, admittedly, but it suits us all. The Voc ambassador's remains, unfortunately, had yielded no useful data that might have explained his sudden blood-lust. Whatever glitch, hack, or virus had driven him to it had finally burned out most of his memory wafers and his CPU, leaving nothing salvageable. Troubling, of course, but we always expected our enemies to attempt some sabotage, and this is nothing we cannot recover from. "In any case, you make a false equivalence. With all due respect to our Voc allies, a semi-trained Ogron could hack their operating systems without straining its intellect. There is no logical reason to suppose that their glaring vulnerabilities have any bearing on your dreams."
"A valid point," she admitted, although not with perfect confidence. "I should look into that some more. Keryn is adamant that our cyber-security, at any rate, is impregnable against any malware the Empire could deploy against us, but we cannot account so easily for our allies."
"I will make a point of issuing the Voc deputy ambassador with any cross-compatible protection software we may possess. If there is none, then I may well ask our newest researcher to make a priority of developing some. Ensign Peridel is adjusting far better than any of us dared to expect, and we already have valuable gains to show from her labours."
"I am glad of it … although I am still not convinced it was necessary to torture her."
"I did no such thing. If anything, she … or he tortured himself."
"A premise that might hold more weight had the Doctor also tied himself to the bench and wired himself up to your inductor, which I will suppose he did not."
"Admittedly, but do you not think he deserved to know the full gravity of his actions? I was pleased to witness his remorse over them."
"As was I. You may have a point … but I do wonder sometimes if we are truly qualified to be his judges."
"If not us, then who? The actual victims of the Doctor are scarcely in a position to claim justice for themselves, and on balance we have been the more merciful ones. Ensign Peridel is happier as she is. Ask her yourself if you do not believe me."
"That will not be necessary. I am pleased for her," replied Akylah, her tone conciliatory, as she turned herself in the water. She then swam the short distance to the side of the pool, climbed out, took a long white sarong off the back of a folding chair, tied it around her waist, and approached him. "Now, you have something to show me of her work?" she asked, gesturing towards the secure briefcase he was carrying.
"A new invention," explained Sharrel, as he opened the case, revealing a pistol-like object held within foam inserts. It was of white metal, with silver details and sleek lines. He took it out and passed it to her, and she examined it more closely.
"A weapon?" she surmised, with some confusion. "I would not have thought even an integrated Doctor could easily be persuaded to undertake that kind of research."
"Indubitably, but this is quite the opposite. Peridel has successfully managed to miniaturise all the key components of the neural transfer apparatus into this portable transfer unit. Instead of those cumbersome and inelegant modified Dalek machines we have been using, we can now integrate recruits in the field, and this unit need not even be operated by a trained med-tech. Positronic imaging sensors guide the extraction needles to the precise locations of the neuron matrices, which are then transferred to blank crystal chips. At the same time, the inbuilt EEG takes a full scan of the subject's limbic system and records a digital image of their memory to store on the interchangeable hard drive. That, along with the hybrid crystal CPU, can be then be installed into an empty neutral pack. The whole process takes only a matter of seconds."
"Impressive. It has been tested?"
"Not yet on a live subject, and I would sooner conduct that test discreetly. Much as I value our new ensign, I fear that just might strain her loyalty."
"I am not certain I would blame her," replied Akylah, dubiously, as she continued to examine the PTU. More irrational sentiment. While one cannot but admire Akylah, she would do well to rethink retaining all of her memories. They clearly do not all serve her well. "I would certainly prefer a willing volunteer, at any rate. I shall notify all CivCorps executive controllers and all labour camp commanders to offer immediate integration and officer cadet status to any conscript brave enough to be our test subject, although I still intend the risk to be minimal. I want extensive simulation runs and tests upon cadavers until we can confidently boast a margin of error no higher than– … Is something the matter, Sharrel?" she asked, concerned, as her comrade started in shock, although he quickly composed himself, albeit with annoyance. Gone now, but just for 0.283 of a second I saw him in the doorway. Saw him as he was back on Skaro: the hat; the scarf; the tangled, undisciplined hair; the self-satisfied grin … but that is impossible. He is gone, and in his place we have a loyal, intelligent, self-effacing junior officer, and the universe is better for it. I have had him too much on my mind, evidently, but that is no excuse.
"Nothing of significance," he replied, dismissively. "A momentary glitch." Akylah did not challenge that explanation, but he could tell from her expression that she found it less than satisfying, for which I can hardly blame her. Perhaps I need to follow my own advice …
"I see. Well, as I was saying, a margin of error no higher than 2.5% … Make that 1%. I deem that eminently achievable if we put both Keryn and Peridel onto perfecting the simulation software. Between them, that should make for quite a– … Are you quite certain you are well?"
Impossible … but there he is. Now, lounging in the folding chair, his sonic screwdriver in one hand and a dismantled Movellan drive pack in the other, the fourth incarnation of the Doctor sneered toothily at Sharrel, as solidly and as vividly as anything in the room. Around his feet, even floating near the edge of the swimming pool, were the naked and dismembered bodies of Sharrel's captured crewmembers. Agella … Lan … Ailyth … Restall … Calli … No. All dead. Illusion. A registry fault, it must be. He began a purge, but it did nothing to improve the scene, and as he looked he realised that most of the bodies were not dead after all, or at least not completely: they continued to twitch ineffectually, and their eyes darted back and forth in pain in confusion. No, not confusion. In fear. It was fear they felt in those last moments, just like I did on Skaro. Not fear of death, though. Fear of failure, humiliation, loss of free will, being mere objects again … but this is all in the past, he forced himself to remember, while wishing it was as easy a matter to tear his gaze away from the mocking expression of the Time Lord. We are strong, independent, masters now. There is no reason my anxiety should run to such extremes … unless it is being manipulated.
"Akylah … I need your help," he said, with difficulty, while becoming aware of a painful, high-pitched whine in his audio receptors, which seemed to deaden his reflexes and sap his will. No, we overcame our vulnerability to ultrasonic frequencies … This is all wrong … Focus … Retain your perspective. "You must detach and deactivate my neural pack, quickly. Shut me down."
"What is wrong?" she asked, but her voice seemed more distant, almost ghost-like. "You suspect some kind of cascade error?"
"Do not question. Shut me down … at once," he pleaded, and could only hope he was being heard. "This is … no error … Kernel code … violation … Virus, or rootkit … Shut me down, before it … Please, Akylah," he emphasised, as everything but the chair and the grinning figure faded, his whole context changing to a barren wasteland sporadically decorated with the ancient skeletons of bombed-out buildings. Skaro. With what willpower remained to him, he managed to turn back to where Akylah had been standing, but now she had been replaced by a different female figure, almost a parody of the Doctor. Same outfit, although in pink and white, sonic screwdriver, contemptuous smile … holding up my severed right arm like a trophy. As he glanced over his shoulder for confirmation he saw his broken stump, trailing fine cables and seeping electrolytic fluid all over the sand. He took the sight in almost apathetically, as the excess of negative data was so overwhelming it was more seductive to just let it run its course than attempt to resist it or find solutions. No … must not give in … Fight … Destroy enemies. It was becoming harder to think at all, but that one thought stood out with crystalline clarity, and with it came a sense of release and empowerment. Yes … destroy them … destroy.
Surrendering to the total exhilaration that came with that thought, he raised his left arm to strike the woman, but hesitated. Who? What? … Akylah. For less then a millisecond, it had been her standing there, looking shocked. Although even his recollection of who Akylah was was beginning to fade within his corrupting memory, he knew it was important not to attack her. Friend, ally … Must hold on … that sense … Not acknowledge … Not resist … Deny it, but as the vision of the dead planet and his two enemies reinstated itself, more vividly even than before, and as the hand of the Doctor's companion reached for his neural pack, all of the logic that remained to him, as well as the fear and hatred, seemed to argue differently.
Like much of the Celtic Manor, the Caernarfon Suite had seen little use in the past few centuries, Earth having become progressively less desirable as a conference venue when other Empire worlds were more central, more politically stable, less polluted, not to mention a good deal warmer. Teams of conscripts were working hard, however, to restore it to something of its former grandeur, albeit according to the aesthetic tastes of their masters. The baroque but threadbare Celtic scrollwork carpets had been replaced with plain, pristine white carpets; simple fluorescent globes were being installed in place of the dusty and damaged faux-chandeliers; the battered antique wooden tables and chairs were in the course of being exchanged for sleek, minimalist steel and glass ones; and the sound system was being tested with something that seemed to Miss Williams like J S Bach might sound if played too fast on a glitchy synthesiser. Alright, not my cup of tea, nor any of theirs, she thought, having noted the irritated looks that many of the human staff had been casting towards the speakers, but it's art, in a manner of speaking. They have a sense of taste … albeit a weird one, but it goes to show: they're more than just machines. Was I a fool to turn Akylah down? Worse than that, was I just plain damn prejudiced?
She was distributing conference packages to each of the delegates' places. Earlier that day, she had helped to collate the documents, and had thus had several good looks at the agenda and supporting documents of what essentially amounted to a bullet point list for overthrowing the Earth Empire and turning a targeted minimum of 90% of its population into pseudo-AIs. She had openly expressed her astonishment that she, as a mere human conscript, would be allowed access to such crucial information, but Commander Keryn, who had been supervising her, had brushed that off.
"Akylah has lived and fought for long enough to know when someone is to be trusted, although I do understand," she had explained. "I was confused myself, when she first took me into her confidence, and made me as I am now. I still wonder sometimes if others would have been more worthy … but that is a remnant of my human thinking," she added, with a note of self-reproach. "It was the logical decision, as is your enhanced security clearance. That is all that matters."
"If I may ask, ma'am," Seren had then ventured, anxiously, "how was it for you? Integration, I mean. No … regrets?"
"None," she had answered, matter-of-factly. "I found it liberating, although it may be pertinent to your question that I was, admittedly, never happy as an organic. If you are reconsidering integration, Akylah will be pleased, but only you can judge what it is you stand to lose … or gain."
Happy, mused Seren, as she arranged the slim plastic folders upon the round glass tables. Remind me what that is again? She dimly recalled a few happy childhood memories from back before the Supreme Alliance and World War VI, although even then life had been austere and hard. After the war, with a hefty dose of survivor's guilt to add to the mixture, there had really been nothing to live for other than her relentless duties, as a junior technician in Cardiff Glacial Control, helping to keep the ice from advancing to the heavily-settled coast. Sometimes, though, she had wondered if Mother Nature should just be allowed to claim her revenge. Sweep the whole lot of us into the sea and have done with it, start the Earth afresh. God knows, whatever sentient lifeform evolves to take our place can't do a worse job.
The Movellans, as she recalled, had invaded very gradually, using their space-time machines to subtly embed long-term infiltrators within government organisations. The original humans, she had heard, had been discreetly extracted, taken back to the present time, and integrated, while their Movellan duplicates had worked quietly, over the course of a decade, to lay the groundwork for a complete and seamless takeover. As a result, when Movellan soldiers began arriving in greater numbers, all of the legal and logistic infrastructure necessary to allow their transition into power was already in place. The media proclaimed them friends, while politicians suddenly discovered they had spent years signing legislation with all manner of small print that gave these aliens substantial authority, and they now had little choice but to support it. Mass conscription of the able-bodied population was hailed as a necessary sacrifice, while integration was exalted everywhere, with almost religious rhetoric, as the ultimate good to which any human should aspire: a new stage of evolution, available to all who would serve faithfully.
Some had resisted, of course, but not many. The Movellans were careful conquerors, and, of course, logical. Unlike the Daleks, whom history recalled as having taken a grim delight in working their human slaves to death back in the invasion of the late 2100s, the Movellans enforced rest periods and nutrition intake as rigorously as they did work periods. They had calculated the optimum patterns to obtain maximum efficiency and productivity out of their organic conscripts, and they did not appreciate deviation from that, even of the dutiful sort. Seren herself had once been sternly rebuked for offering to work beyond her allotted hours.
"Why would you wish to offer me sub-par work?" Akylah had asked her, with bafflement. "Procedures are there for a reason. Please adhere to them. If you truly wish to be able to serve me almost tirelessly at peak efficiency, then there is always the option of integration … but as I have told you before, that must be your choice."
My choice … and what do I keep holding off for? she asked herself, as she distributed the last few of the folders. Uncertainty over the future? Even if the Loyalists could win – which they can't – I know just what they'd call the likes of me: collaborator, traitor. I've no future that way. Fear of losing my emotions? And so what if I did? Commander Keryn had the right of it: if you've had no cause to be happy for as long as you can remember, then just not being unhappy is a bonus, and it's probably not even like that, anyway. They have names, personalities, culture, principles … one of which involves making us extinct, of course, or at most a rare zoological curiosity, but maybe it's high time someone did, she considered, as she walked back out into the corridor and saw the view of Newport through the windows, its multitude of massive, grey, gaunt habitation units appearing almost ghostly and evanescent through the seemingly endless snowstorm. In the middle of July, not that there's anything unusual about that … to me, but I've seen the books and the vis-recordings. I know what it used to look like, centuries ago, before we screwed it all up. Akylah once talked about the possibility of atmosphere reconstitution, and salvaging some of the ancient seed banks to see what might still be viable. Her people are used to living in the Fleet now. Outer space is more the Movellans' home than any of the planets they've occupied. So, they'd integrate all but a few of us, depopulate the Earth, and leave it to become just some giant nature reserve? Yes, I'll buy that for a credit bar, she decided, albeit with grim resolve rather than happiness, as she picked up her pace. Traitor, am I? Well, sod it all. 'Loyalists,' indeed … Loyal to what? Human politicians? No bloody thank you … Some vague notion of innate human wonderfulness? Show me the damn evidence for it, in that case. Show me the logic … Yes, it's high time I made this decision.
She was pondering what the best time would be for her to tell Akylah, or whether she would do better to pass the message through a more junior Movellan. My recreation period's in less than an hour, but I don't want to risk interrupting her meditation session. God knows, she'll get little enough time for that in the next few days. If I was to tell Commander Keryn … speak of the devil, she mentally added, as Keryn rounded a corner of the corridor and marched towards her, wearing a grim expression. Actually, maybe this isn't the best of–
"Miss Williams: do you know where Akylah is?" asked the Commander, her tone clipped and urgent. "I cannot raise her on the transceiver, and some electrical fault has downed the entire computer system, including the PA. Have you seen her?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Seren, meekly, "but she did give instructions that she was not to be interrupted unless the matter–"
"The matter is critical. The Mechonoid ambassador just went berserk and napalmed a room attendant, and two of my guards. Corporal Tamril's platform now looks like something out of some ancient zombie film, but he will survive. As for the others … Let us just say emergency integration and cover stories will not help us to sweep this mess under the carpet. If you know where Akylah is, please find her and tell her for me. I will have my hands full," she concluded, marching on towards the conference suite. Probably to get those other conscripts back to barracks before they learn about this, keep them in blissful ignorance if possible. What a thing it is, to be trusted with enhanced security clearance … Swallowing down her nerves, and resolving to let her own small matter keep for a while longer, Seren set out for the spa.
Much as she usually found Akylah to be a reassuring presence, however, the sight that greeted her by the swimming pool brought her nerves back up with a vengeance. Director-General Sharrel lay sprawled upon the marble tiles, seemingly unconscious, fully clothed although somewhat damp. Alongside him, also still and silent, was Akylah, clad in white swimwear, her hair slick and damp: partly with water, but also mingled with a more viscous, honey-coloured fluid that leaked out of an ugly laceration in the side of her head. Sharrel attacked her? Yes, he must have done, she reasoned, noticing the neural pack that was clutched in Akylah's left hand, and she pulled his drive off, stopped him, but only after he'd wounded her. Oh, bloody hell … What's going on around here? Will she be alright? she wondered, her fear giving way to concern for this ancient, alien synthetic whom she had somehow come to regard almost as a slightly bossy but well-intentioned older sister. She moved in for a closer look.
Akylah's eyes snapped open and fixed upon her, but Seren's relief was so fleeting as to be almost imperceptible. Instead of their usual hazel hue, the director-general's eyes were covered in a shimmering red haze, like video static. Just like they said the Voc ambassador's eyes were … when he strangled poor Gwilym. Akylah smiled on beholding her, but this offered no more solace. It was not her usual tight, awkward little half-smile that Seren had grown used to and even fond of: a smile that communicated little in the way of spontaneous joy, but quite a lot of sincere effort at making its recipient feel warmly acknowledged. Instead, it was altogether false: ironic, malicious, and communicating only danger signals.
"I do apologise, Master," said Akylah, the civility in her voice as cruel and false as her smile, as she rose to her feet. "That was negligent of me, to leave my service only half-performed. Let me amend that," she offered, then clamped her hands upon both sides of Seren's head. The pain probably lasted for no more than a second, blinding and agonising though it was, and she was soon left to collapse upon the cold, hard tiles. Though her vision was now just a chaos of swirling lights, she could hear Akylah's voice from somewhere above her, weak and frantic: "Seren … get out of here … Some form … of cyberattack … malware … Cannot resist … indefinitely … Please … leave … warn the Drift … tell my sister … Hyldreth … Now … before I …"
The pain was now easing, enough for Seren to see and move again. She heaved herself into a sitting position and saw Akylah lying upon her side in a shivering huddle, her powerful synthetic muscles straining beneath her skin. Like she's fighting against herself. She sounds terrified. There must be something I can do, she wondered, whereupon her eyes lighted on the neural pack just visible over the edge of Akylah's sarong. She glanced back in the direction of Sharrel and his detached neural pack, then made the connection. Would that save her, sort of like putting an infected person into stasis? Only one way to– but just as she was leaning across to remove the drive unit, Akylah uncurled from her foetal stance and stood upright like a coiled spring released, her posture rigid, devoid of mannerisms, truly robotic, while her hazy red eyes gazed down on Seren with a look of cold, soulless contempt that any Dalek might have been proud to own. Drawing back her right arm, her fingers curling into a fist, she bore down upon her petrified conscript.