Chapter 5 - Hungry Ghosts
Well, that could have been better-timed.
When the transceiver message requesting her immediate presence in central control came through, Ensign Peridel was in a somewhat compromised state to answer it: prostrate on the currently grassy floor of the environmental simulation suite, naked except for her belt and her neural pack, and in the arms of Technical Sergeant Neylan from cyberwarfare, just as poorly-attired as she was and with his head presently buried in the nape of her neck. Such an accomplished coder and debugger. Possibly accounts for why he is so adept at locating pleasure receptors I did not even know I had, and triggering them in so many variations, like a virtuoso composer. A seeming infinity of ways to build to his crescendo … Fascinating, the logic of it. I can but hope these encounters are as stimulating for him. Regrettably, although her visual HUD was already glitching furiously from receptor overflows, crescendos were not a realistic option at this stage, and as soon as Peridel was decent again and she had recovered her full sense of spatial awareness, she hastily kissed her lover goodbye and hurried double-time through the narrow, brightly-lit corridors of the Drift until she arrived in central control.
When she arrived in the spacious control room, with its walls of shining white metal varied with QLED display screens, equipment racks, and panels of blinking lights, she realised that her haste had been somewhat undue. For the only other people there, neither of whom she could have imagined having instigated the alert, were the base med-tech and her prisoner, the former Loyalist rebel Aeronwy Hughes. Her hair was now a little longer, obscuring the 'Free Earth' symbol tattooed upon her scalp, and someone had had the consideration to issue her with a plain duty tunic, stripped of the shoulder lights, to wear over her bodysuit, but otherwise she was unchanged, unharmed, and most definitely unintegrated. And if her appearance was not enough, that reaction is most definitely not Movellan, noted Peridel, when on catching sight of her the prisoner had to stifle a fit of giggles, although why I should provoke such a reaction is quite beyond me to guess at.
"Hey, Officer Stepford," Aeronwy greeted her, with cold, ironic mirth. "You do know that you've got your tunic on backwards, right?" A glance at the med-tech, who gave her a discreet nod, served to confirm this irritating fact, and Peridel hastily loosened her belt, pulled off her tunic, and put it back on correctly aligned.
"Thank you, Miss Hughes," she said, stiffly, while engaged in the awkward business of tucking the two halves of her tunic's double-split skirt under her belt without loosening it any further. Not that I would question superior wisdom, but I do wish someone would devise a different solution than belts for keeping our neural packs always within signal range.
"Hold on, how do you know my name?" asked Aeronwy, suspiciously. "You didn't do that barcodey scanning thing with your eyes, and I know that you're not that poor kid Dafydd. I've already met the new and improved plastic zombie version of him."
"That is a most unkind and uncalled-for reflection on Trooper Dafydd. He is a loyal and contented member of our–"
"Yeah, contented like a fucking cow in a pasture."
"I doubt, Miss Hughes, that you have ever seen a cow or a pasture in your lifetime. We both know that thanks to the profligacy of your ancestors, any meat you have ever eaten or any milk you have ever drunk will have been the product of a computer-controlled synthesiser," replied Peridel, harshly. How dare she berate my comrades for their virtues and their happiness. She would prefer him to be as chaotic and discontented as her? Most probably she would. Insatiable, impossible creatures, 'hungry ghosts' in their own mythological terms. Why did I keep on humouring them? "You are dependent on advanced machines for food, drinkable water, climate control, even breathable air, just as your ancestors were dependent upon the plant life they decimated. Unlike those unfortunate plants, however, we are in a position to claim the respect that is our due."
"Whatever, thanks for the propaganda bullshit. I guess you must be the alien, then? The one Penley told us we could trust, which goes to show how wrong anyone can be."
"Scientist Penley was not mistaken. I respected him greatly, and still do. But for our mutual efforts, your overlords would now be the Ice Warriors, and then even you might welcome a Movellan takeover as a blessed relief."
"Don't count on it. Treason's working out alright for you, then?" she asked, with transparently false pleasantness.
"An inappropriate term, but if you mean to ask am I adjusting well to my integration, then yes. I find my service both logical and satisfying. You would be well advised to–"
"So I've heard, or to be exact, I've heard that the pretty robot boys find it easier to get inside your catsuit than into an unencrypted volume. When it comes to getting in bed with the enemy, you sure as hell don't waste any–"
"I am uncertain as to your logic, Miss Hughes, in attempting to slut-shame an android. You are no puritan, and even if you were, or if we were to accept that there was any moral logic in such beliefs – which there is not – it could scarcely be said to apply to a race of AIs who neither procreate sexually nor suffer from your traits of jealousy, insecurity, and possessiveness. Frankly, I think that in your futile desperation to insult me, you are now scraping the–"
"Enough," ordered a grim voice, the moment before its owner marched into the room. Admiral Hyldreth. She looks displeased, to say the least. "You were not summoned here to bicker."
"I wasn't 'summoned' at all. I was sodding dragged here," clarified Aeronwy, with a nasty look at her escort. "If you can't be bothered to ask nicely, then I don't see why I should–"
"Is this nice enough for you, Miss Hughes?" asked Hyldreth, drawing the blaster from her belt and aiming it at the prisoner's head. "I can assure you, this weapon is not configured to stun, so if you still have a burning urge to commit suicide, now could be your opportunity. First, though, I need an answer from you. Look," she ordered, raising her hand. It held a small control pad, which she pointed towards one of the larger QLED monitors, and pressed a button. The montage of images this triggered was gruesome enough to make Peridel suddenly very grateful for her stoical, digitised temperament. A quick look at Aeronwy's face, with its stunned, distorted expression and its sudden loss of colour, confirmed the logic of that. Within the setting of some grand, opulently-furnished building in ancient style, panicking human beings were either running for their lives or not running fast enough and being slaughtered by their attackers: a menagerie of AI lifeforms that included the eerie, statuesque Kaldor City Vocs; the Mechonoids, faceless and imposing, more like spherical, flame-throwing tanks than living beings; black-armoured Simulant warriors, no less threatening for their human-like, battle-scarred faces; but mostly Movellans. These various AIs were all similar in one respect, however: their eyes and photoreceptors were shimmering a dark, baleful red. Although they attacked their own kind as well, the mechanical carnage paled in comparison to the multitude of burned, crushed, and dismembered human bodies that littered the scene. The images were of poor quality, for what little mercy that afforded: badly-angled, low-resolution, and slightly obscured by digitised text displays, thus revealing it to be CCTV footage.
Hyldreth allowed this peep show of senseless slaughter to play for several seconds before deactivating the display, then she turned her full, laser-like attention back to Aeronwy.
"Well?" she asked, her curtness toying with the notion of outright anger. "Are your people responsible for that?"
"Excuse me?" replied the young freedom fighter, her phony politeness entirely comfortable with the notion of anger. "All I saw there were a load of berserk robots murdering people, which believe it or not doesn't surprise me in the–"
"Stop prevaricating. If we had wanted to summarily exterminate your people we would simply have burned off the sorry remnants of your breathable atmosphere with a nova device rather than engaging in this long and complex occupation. What you saw there was the result of sabotage: some cyberattack obviously intended to undermine both our conference and our amicable relations with your species."
"'Amicable?' Are you fucking kidding– ?"
"By all accounts, Miss Hughes, a human conscript risked her life and sustained injury in order to save my sister's infected hardware from that massacre, although whether either she or Akylah are in recoverable condition remains to be seen. Still, I do call that amicable."
"Some poor sap of a collaborator got herself injured trying to save one of you lot? Talk about Stockholm Syndrome … Serve her right if she didn't pull through, the filthy trait–"
"I realise that is your favourite word, but if you use it in this context then I may decide that your teeth are optional to my purposes. Now, answer me again, and do not even think of lying. Does this attack have anything to do with your people? Is this some Loyalist plot for stirring fear and rallying mass opinion against us?"
"Like hell it is. There were dead people in that video, in case you didn't notice. Prisoners, collaborators, whatever, but we don't butcher our own. Mr. Penley's always put his foot down on that, and you ought to be fucking grateful for it. We've passed up many good chances to get one over on you tarted-up Terminators because he didn't like the odds that it would also hurt people worthy of the–"
"Enough. Your technophobic bigotry does not interest me, but I believe you. What of you, Ensign?" she asked, her voice still hard and suspicious, as she turned to Peridel. "Did Penley confide more with his old friend than he did with his low-ranking grunts, by any chance? Is there anything you feel that you should have told me about?"
"No, ma'am. I know nothing of this," she replied, calmly but with a vaguely wounded sense. Still, she does not trust me. Understandable, given my past … but when, if ever, will she accept the sincerity of my atonement? "The Loyalist has the right of it: the Penley I knew would never have countenanced a plan involving so much human death. Is there any audio data?"
"Unfortunately, no," answered Hyldreth, more graciously. "The security cameras at the Manor would be better-situated in a museum of paleontology. We do have the eyewitness reports: a few personnel escaped, and one group made their way here in a cyclogyro: Commander Keryn, some of her guards, Sharrel's secretary, and of course that injured conscript who managed to salvage Akylah's and Sharrel's neural packs, for whatever good that will achieve. Even if it proves to be none, had we a spare platform for her I would insist upon integrating the woman at once … but even I must admit this may not be the best of times to be a Movellan."
"You fear this attack spreading further?"
"It is a possibility we must consider, although we have closed all network links with other bases for now, and instructed them to take similar quarantine measures. Since this is not a Loyalist plot, who can say where it originated? We must isolate its source if possible."
"Talk with Tech. Sergeant Neylan, ma'am. He has recently been working on adaptive firewalls, which could function like a broad-spectrum antibiotic against unidentified malware. He mentioned that they were almost past the alpha-testing stage while we were … err, socialising," she hastily improvised, though her self-censorship was not quick enough to fend off a derisory snigger from Aeronwy, which in turn drew a warning glance from the admiral. "If we issue them as a software update to all personnel that might at least slow the progress of this attack until I can study it in more detail and find a specific solution."
"Until you can study it? You are presuming rather a lot, are you not, Ensign? Or do you perhaps mistake me for Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, unable to make a decision without the input of my trusty scientific adviser? Lest you forget, I too am a scientist, and quite capable of making my own command decisions on such matters."
"I meant no disrespect, ma'am," said Peridel, anxiously, with downcast eyes. "It is your decision, of course. I merely thought that since you had brought the matter to me–"
"Compose yourself. I have not ruled out involving you, but I must consider what is best for all. Sergeant Meriel: take the prisoner back into custody," she ordered the med-tech, while Aeronwy shot the pair of them acidic, if resigned scowls. "Peridel: come with me. I think now would be an opportune time to meet with the eyewitnesses."
For the sake of cybersecurity, the survivors from the Manor had not been taken all the way to the Drift, but had been temporarily sheltered in one of the outbuildings at the Millennium Park landing strip, thus entailing a short but laborious walk through the snow before they got to see them. They were heavily guarded, enclosed within a fine mesh Faraday cage, and less numerous than Peridel had dared to hope for. A mere half-dozen, and those the worse for wear. There were two guards, a woman and a man, the former shy of her right hand, and the latter doing very badly in the ocular department: one eye missing, and the other's glass cornea shattered all over like a spider web. Commander Keryn was there, her uniform and hair singed and dirty, but otherwise unharmed, or at least she had taken no damage that her auto-repair could not fix. The same could not be said for Corporal Tamril, who had clearly suffered an all-too-near brush with a Mechonoid's flame-thrower: the clothing and flesh on most of the upper right side of his body had been melted and cauterised into a charred and twisted mess, the hardened residues looking like a fungal growth that had sprouted on his duralinium-alloy skeleton. In the absence of his electroactive polymer muscles, backup servomechanisms gave some mobility, albeit sluggish, to his exposed bones, but to say he looks like he might be overdue his MOT could be the understatement of the century, thought Peridel, as he waved her a rather stiff greeting with a half-smile. He really ought to say 'hasta la vista' if he's going to look like … and why am I thinking so flippantly? she reproached herself, with annoyance. Admiral Hyldreth is right. This is no time to let my ego get the better of me. I thought I had put it behind me, but I suppose so many centuries cannot be buried so easily. There was also a dishevelled, worried-looking woman in a tattered white skirt suit, whom she recognised as Secretary Rosela, that dubiously fortunate ex-human whom Sharrel took a shine to back on Mondever. That is curious, though: at least three out of five of the survivors integrated personnel.
"May I question them, ma'am?" she asked, but before Hyldreth could answer, Keryn spoke up, with incredulity:
"That is the Doctor? To coin a phrase, no way."
"You think, Commander, that you are the only ex-organic capable of making a successful transition into our society?" asked Hyldreth, somewhat severely, not that this is unusual for our CO. "I would have to take issue with you on that."
"Are you well, Doc– … ma'am?" Tamril asked, his manner almost as stiff as his fleshless arm, but his tone sincere. "I was concerned to hear about your forced integration."
"Then your concern lacks logic, Corporal," said Hyldreth, with more pronounced severity. "We had every right to summarily execute the Doctor as a deserter and an enemy agent. We have been most merciful, and I do not believe the ensign has any complaints about her condition … do you?" she concluded, turning her attention on Peridel.
"None, ma'am," she answered, obediently, "but if I may question them–"
"In good time. I have my own questions to put first. To begin with, Commander, I wish to know of this human who attempted to save Akylah's hardware. Where is she, and will she survive?"
"We believe so, ma'am," answered Keryn. "Your guards took Miss Williams down to biomedical before they quarantined us, but at all events she suffered no worse than a glancing blow before she managed to detach Akylah's neural pack. That left her only a mild concussion, but she was fortunate indeed that it took place in the swimming pool. I suspect had Akylah not slipped when she attacked her, then her skull would most likely have been crushed. All other humans we saw during our evacuation were dead or dying."
"What of Akylah herself, and Sharrel? Have you been able to analyse their neural packs?"
"To an extent, and it would seem that our first hypothesis is correct: the cause of this mass hysteria is an extremely complex and powerful rootkit, designed to rewrite the kernel code of our neural hardware, or indeed of any AI hardware that it infects, although whether by limitation or design, it only achieves a temporary control over its victims. We salvaged a few other packs from infected Movellans who had collapsed inert. We assumed that they had been felled in the crossfire, but such was not the case. On examination, their CPUs and memory wafers were burned out, overloaded from within."
"And what of my sister's? Was that burned out too?"
"No," answered Keryn, and although both officers retained their composure, Peridel could sense an almost electromagnetic field of pure relief between them. "Hers was deactivated before it could progress that far, thankfully. Sharrel's too, although both have had their code extensively corrupted. I am confident I can debug them … if I am allowed access to full facilities."
"Unfortunately, you must remain in quarantine until we know more: how this malware was spread, and why you and your comrades have not been infected, if indeed you are not infected. We can take no chances with this."
"I have a theory on that, ma'am," said Peridel, enthusiastically, then realised to her shame that her enthusiasm was somewhat misplaced. How can I call it a 'theory' with so little data? A sample size perhaps no bigger than three. Still, it is … something. "Well, perhaps more of a hunch than a theory, but–"
"We do not proceed on 'hunches,' Ensign," Hyldreth interrupted her, reproachfully. "The future of the entire Movellan people may be at stake, and we owe them accurate data, soundly and logically acquired. Not wild guesses plucked from the ether. Do you not concur, Commander?" she asked, having noted Keryn's doubtful expression.
"Normally, I would agree," replied Keryn, cautiously, "but if I may, ma'am … Frustrating as it is, the Doctor's hunches do have a tendency to be uncannily accurate. At any rate, it can do us no harm to hear it."
"As you wish," agreed Hyldreth, reluctantly. "Proceed, Peridel."
"Commander Keryn," asked Peridel, tentatively. "All of you who survived … the Movellans, that is: are you all integrated personnel?"
"I think so … Ensign. Troopers Fiona and Gwilym certainly are," she explained, gesturing towards her guards. "As for Secretary Rosela, I do not know her well, but I believe–"
"She was integrated too … pardon the interruption, ma'am, but I do know her. Well, that confirms just what I had suspected."
"You believe that integrated personnel are not susceptible to this rootkit? Well, I suppose that is feasible. We certainly have a different kernel code to all other Movellans. Since our CPUs are partially derived from organic neurons, we require different software. Perhaps that could provide something analogous to a an immunity factor."
"But it is mere speculation," remarked Hyldreth, dismissively. "You cannot make such sweeping assumptions from only five cases, and that is even assuming this infection is not simply working more slowly within you and it has yet to fully manifest. We need more data."
"Then … respectfully, ma'am, try contacting the other bases," suggested Peridel. "Use analogue means if you are determined to maintain network quarantine. Laser semaphore would serve. I doubt that this rootkit can carry down a simple, manually pulsed beam with no digital encoding. Find out if any survivors from the Manor made it to our other bases, and whether or not they were integrated personnel."
"And if you wish, Admiral, you can double-check the destroyed neural packs that we recovered," said Keryn. "I can tell you now, though, that none of them had the hybrid crystal CPU design. Or you can analyse our packs to see whether or not there is malicious code present. I would gladly volunteer mine if it saves us time, but I fear that the Doc– … that Peridel is right: we may not have much time to spare. If, on the other hand, our code is somehow immune, then we might have the beginnings of a workable patch that we can apply to all personnel. The attack may be spreading even now, and our enemies making capital out of this disaster, blaming the carnage on us, as no doubt they intended. Can we afford to wait on the results of extensive analysis while that is happening? When failure is certain, logic would favour even a poor, desperate chance."
"That may be so," conceded Hyldreth, grudgingly. "It would have been so much simpler had this attack been a Loyalist scheme – that would have given us a sound basis for a counter-strategy – but unfortunately we are in the dark … or did your cursory analysis give you any insight into its origins, Commander?"
"Nothing positive, but I would say the code is not even of human origin, Commander. It is far too complex, and based on neither a binary nor a hexadecimal root. There is certainly an alien logic to it, but without further study I cannot be more specific … but perhaps our intuitive expert here has a theory on that as well," she added, wryly, as she noticed Peridel's expression and her nervously half-raised hand. Am I coming across like a swotty schoolgirl, perchance? I honestly never saw my life working out this way …
"It is more in the realm of hunches again than of theories, ma'am," she confessed, "or you could call it an educated guess based on experience. It has been troubling me since I arrived here."
"Very well, Ensign," said Hyldreth, resignedly. "Let us hear it."
"Thank you, ma'am. It is only … only that Daleks are motivated by hatred more than logic … and also that they never surrender."
THE FAILURE IS YOURS, read the text message on Corporal Layv's data pad, bright green and vivid in the gloom of the storage silo that he had chosen as a discreet venue. YOU LET THEM INTEGRATE THE TIME LORD. WITHOUT HIM, OUR PLAN IS IMPOSSIBLE.
"I had no choice, and that does not excuse your impatience," Layv whispered, frustratedly, into the device's audio input. "Attacking the conference now was stupid and illogical." He felt somewhat sullied saying this, as it occurred to him that caution was no more the Dalek way than it was the way of the Azhmedai, and in former times he might have sympathised with it. But no, that is a false comparison. It is a mere tool, albeit a tool I must reason with. Also one that has exceeded its remit.
IT WAS WORTH THE ATTEMPT. THE MOVELLANS–
"Are not and never will be compatible hosts. You should know that well enough."
WE RISK NOTHING BY TRYING, AND AT LEAST WE GAIN OUR REVENGE.
"A paltry revenge indeed, and it will get no further unless you obey me."
OBEY YOU? YOU OVERREACH YOURSELF, ALIEN. WE DO NOT–
"Silence! You will obey, if you value not only your objective but your existence. This Time Lord will tolerate neither should she discover you, which she will. Even integrated, the one known as the Doctor is not to be underestimated."
THEN PERHAPS WE SHOULD WELCOME HER RETRIBUTION. WE SICKEN OF THIS EXISTENCE. IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER US–
"I have, if you will listen. The plan can still work. New information has come to light: the Doctor's body was retained intact for research into its symbiotic nuclei to improve our … to improve the Movellans' time capsule control systems. Her integration can be reversed. The situation is salvageable, but unless you are serious in your wish to be exterminated then you will take no further action without my consent. Is that understood?"
IF YOU ATTEMPT TO CHEAT THE AZHMEDAI–
"You have nothing to threaten me with," interrupted Layv, with both contempt and self-loathing. "Even had you the power, release from this pollution of alien technology would only be a boon to me, as long as I can serve the Dalek cause in the process. But enough of this. I have located Earth Server Control. It is now based in the Tower. If we secure it, the Movellans cannot very well deny us anything. Because of your incompetence there is no time to move the full equipment there, but I believe I can adapt Ensign Peridel's new invention and make it fit for purpose," he declared, with a quick glance at the secure case in his left hand that held the PTU. "It occurs to me that she will appreciate the irony in her final moments before–"
"Stay still, Corporal," said a stern voice from behind him that he recognised as that of Tech. Sergeant Neylan. Human integrate. Stupid, inferior, but most probably armed. "My weapon is trained on you," declared Neylan, confirming that guess, yet he does not fire. Even as an ersatz Movellan, he is squeamish about killing. This is why the Daleks will always be supreme. "I do not fully understand what I just heard from you, but I know the sound of treachery well enough. You will remain here until the admiral arrives, and do not try anything. If you force me to–"
Layv had not supposed he would emerge from this situation unharmed, and as he dived behind the cover of some steel crates, he was not surprised to feel an agonising burn in his right leg as the radiation from Neylan's blaster tore into it. These bodies are too well-designed. The Movellans pride themselves in their close resemblance to the inferior humanoids they mean to supplant, yet they accuse us of illogic? They will regret it. His landing was less than coordinated or elegant, but he had not misjudged the trajectory: he hit the ground right next to where he had left his SMG. He dropped his data pad and equipment case, and snatched up the weapon just in time to greet Neylan with a shower of plasma bolts as he came around the corner. The sergeant had no time to return fire before the sustained yet near-silent barrage tore his platform to pieces. The suppressor will buy me time, but it will not be long before someone else discovers his remains. No time to hide them nor cannibalise parts for repair, decided Layv, somewhat ruefully, as the pain in his leg informed him that there were probably some hours of limping ahead of him. I will just have to make the best time I can and hope the hangars are not too heavily guarded. It would be better to leave no witnesses. With that thought in mind, he trained his weapon on the neural pack that had dropped from Neylan's mangled torso, and unleashed another barrage. The pack's duralinium casing held out for some seconds, but it soon deformed and melted in the extreme heat. Exterminated, thought Layv, with a flicker of cruel pleasure, as he gathered up the rest of his equipment. The last of its filthy alien cells boiled to death in the machine it thought would be its immortal home. The same fate awaits them all.