Z14 (4 page)

“Sorry, I’m just working on my humour routines. Humans like people who are funny, it helps put them at ease. Bad timing, huh?”

Faran just whimpered.

"Well, you’ll be pleased to know that the contract is complete. I expect you to contact me within twenty-four hours regarding payment. I will..." I tailed off because Faran had passed out. Bollocks to it, a few bucks for a kill I hadn't made wasn't important anyway – finding out what Doctor Melon knew was. I rifled through Faran's pockets, but he had nothing on him, and the inside of the farmhouse was bare apart from an old wooden table and some chairs. Sod it, I was probably wasting good time. I decided to get out to the Manoogla Heights quickly and find this laboratory. I gazed at Faran. I thought about killing him. He was probably within my usual kill parameters, but once again, I didn't have enough data to go on. I suspected he knew bugger all about anything, anyway. However, just in case I needed to track him down and speak to him again in the near future, it would help if I could be sure of roughly where he would be. So, with that in mind I quickly and cleanly broke enough of his bones to keep him immobile and in hospital for a few weeks. Stone-cold machine logic there. I strode outside and made a brief call to what passed for Boram Bay’s emergency services, notifying them about Faran’s condition and location, giving precise details of his injuries.

“Computer, set a course for the Manoogla Heights,” I said to the thin air, even as I did just that in my own mind. Bah, I’d crack a funny one of these days, the law of averages said so.

The Manoogla Heights is a range of steep, rolling hills that forms the eastern edge of Boram Bay – the actual bay, not the city – and far beyond. My cave is on the opposite side, the western edge of the Bay, with the city in between.

The hills of the Manoogla Heights are covered in jagged rocks that look like someone put mountains there originally and then smashed them clean away with an enormous hammer, leaving nothing but splinters and snapped fragments jutting from the ground. My personal terraforming theory says that something odd happened with the terraforming software in this place, but your average Boram Bay resident just shrugs dismissively and says
well, it’s an alien planet, ain’t it?

The Heights are named after the indigenous Manoogla lizard, also known as the ‘Man Oggler’. Fascinating creatures about half the length of an alligator, they used to utterly infest their namesake region. Humanity’s arrival put an end to that because Manooglas are, by all accounts, delicious. That’s always going to spell trouble for any species, but the Manoogla’s decline can also be attributed to two behavioural traits, one of which is defensive and the other, just plain baffling: They’re nicknamed ‘Man Ogglers’ because they are inextricably drawn to humans. They appear from nowhere and just stare at them, utterly transfixed. Field tests have proved that they will stop and stare at a human until they die from starvation or dehydration. Couple that with their daft defensive trait of exploding when cornered or surprised and you can see how they’ve gained the more recent nickname of ‘The Lesser Spotted Manoogla’. Honestly,
exploding
? Stupid lizards. The idea is that Manoogla ‘sentries’ are supposed to explode, killing the predator and sparing the colony, but it’s just bizarre, frankly.

I’d been scouring the Heights now for three hours – on foot, conserving jetpack fuel – trying to find this fucking hidden laboratory. I had had so many of those idiotic, supposedly endangered, lizards explode on me, that most of my flesh was shredded and my shiny robotic skeleton was showing through in a number of places. I felt strangely naked. I was also getting frustrated; the human emotion partially eclipsing the stolid, slavish computer routine, that just repeatedly said
search the area. Search the area
. On the ‘net the contracts were piling up, I should just break off this search and go kill somebo –

“Access. Granted. Warden. Cleared. For. Entry,” said a robotic voice from within a huge rock in front of me. The rock began to shimmer and waver and I heard a swishing noise, even as I caught a glimpse of a solid metal door sliding open, through the suddenly translucent “rock”. In the next split second the rock was gone and I was staring at an open entrance buried in what I presumed was the
real
rock around it. Neat trick, I thought. I could do with something like that for my own not-so-hidden cave.

“Warden. On. His. Way. In. Please. Put. The. Kettle. On,” I mimicked, before bending my arms at the elbows and hobbling through the doorway in a stiff-jointed piss-take of old-fashioned movie robots.

Okay, seems like I’m a Warden then, for sure. Cool. It might even turn out to be more appealing than being a toaster. I had a feeling – well, a logical hypothesis based on factual evidence gathered to date, but ‘feeling’ was snappier – that I was about to find out.

The laboratory wasn’t a laboratory at all. It was an actual, real-life spaceship. Okay, that shouldn’t have been anything to emulate excitement about, since every one of Deliverance’s founding settlements had a converted spaceship at its core, but this one was still actually a spaceship. I was standing on the bridge of what, from the size of it, looked like it was a small space shuttle. It was operational too, or at least, it had power. Several screens and readouts to the front of the bridge showed ‘spacey’ things, including star charts and an image of a slowly rotating, earth-like planet that just, you know, might have been Deliverance itself.

The door tried to slide closed behind me, but I’d been expecting that, and, after it banged uselessly a few times against the small boulder I’d blocked it with, it gave up. The gentle sigh I thought I heard was no doubt just hydraulics, but it made it seem like a victory. “Ha, screw you, door,” I said.

“Please. Be. Seated,” said the disembodied robot voice.

“No thanks, I’ll stand by the door and be ready to make a run for it.”

“Doctor. Melon. Always. Hoped. You. Would. Come. Back.”

“Hey, you knew the Doc? Is there a brain behind that voice?”

“Please. Be. Seated.”

Oh what the hell, either I’d find something out, or I’d be summarily deactivated, but if it came to that it’s hardly like I’d care anymore. There were two seats facing the screens and what was probably a cockpit window, currently covered by some sort of massive blast-, or heat-shield. I sat in the seat closest to the door, ready to leap out in an instant if any kind of restraints, or potentially disabling devices appeared.

“Remain. Still. While. Data. Transfer. Is. Initiated.”

What looked like a set of headphones began to descend from a now open compartment in the ceiling, attached by a slender black cable. What was this? An auditory tour of the aliens’ space museum? I suppose that would count as a data transfer, but it’d still probably induce me into a regenerative coma – which, thanks to those exploding dickhead lizards outside, would actually be almost blissful right now.

I allowed the headphones to slip into place over my head, where they instantly fired spikes into my ears, through my eardrums and into my central processing unit. Yes, it hurt – I was still driven to punish the fucker who decided things should hurt me – but I was able to quickly lock that sensation down, just as I had for the multitude of grievous injuries the Manoogla shits had inflicted upon me. Honestly, years of fighting tooled-up humans, and it took a bunch of suicidal lizards to literally tear me to shreds. But anyway, back to the two spikes buried in my brain...

I always knew that I didn’t have a full list of my capabilities. I only seem to know what I need to know about myself to survive and function on a day-to-day basis, I couldn’t take myself apart and categorically state what everything did, so it was an education to learn that these ‘data spikes’ had neatly slotted into a couple of access ports inside my head and begun interfacing with me. Never mind the eardrums, they’re just part of the overall charade that is my outer human layer, I don’t need them, and they’ll heal up the next time I get some shut-eye.

The data transfer took less than a second. The spikes retracted, the headphones rose back into the ceiling and I had a brand new addition to my memory, or a restored memory, or a completely bloody made up one, I don’t know. Everything I ‘know’ about my past and
the
past is contained in a multitude of memory files. I create new ones on the fly all the time, but, as had just been demonstrated by the ear-stabbing device, they can also be implanted by external means. Once there, if done correctly, they just became part of my history, as though they’d always been there. They may not be real, hell, none of my memories might be real, but I just had to accept that what was in my head at any given time was what made me, me, and get on with it. The memory inserted by the device was different. It had a little note attached to it saying, essentially:
Look! Brand new memory file!
Odd.

The new memory covered a conversation with poor old Doctor Melon – dated roughly five years prior to today – and it looked like the doctor and I were in this very space shuttle. I was kneeling on the floor and Doc Melon had a keyboard jacked into one of my ears and a display screen, that dangled from the ceiling, plugged into the other. He was sitting in the seat I’m in now hammering away at the keyboard, touch-typing and leaning forward to stare intently at the screen. He was programming me. Or trying to.

“Fascinating,” the doctor said. “Every time I make a gain, the dominant processes snatch back most of the ground I’ve taken.”

“Explain,” the memory me said.

“Your human personality programming is meant to be controlled by the Warden program, to be used purely as a cover and switched on or off at will, presumably so that you could blend in with humans. I’m trying to reverse that, so that the human routines are in charge, so you can
be
a person; one who can make use, at will, of the fantastic capabilities and advantages afforded to you by your – ”

“And how is it going?”

He didn’t answer, he just typed manically for a good half an hour, face set in an expression of pure determination. Ah, bless him, he was an ugly human specimen, but, even all screwed up with concentration his face looked a lot nicer than when it had just bounced down a cliff-side.

“Let’s give that a try,” he said eventually.

“Must destroy puny human,” I shouted, reaching for the doctor, whose face froze with an expression of terror. “Just kidding, Doc.”

So, I wasn’t funny back then either it seemed.

“Humour, eh?” said the doctor. “I’ll be sure to disable that. Now, I have to be careful, I think I can make you more man than machine. But, there’s good and bad in all of us, and, whilst they took you from an almost angelic human subject, if I’m not careful, I could overrun both sides of your, ahem, personality. I could leave you with nothing but your darkest thoughts, or accidentally turn you into the weak stand-up comedian you seem intent on becoming.” He gave a wry smile, and bashed away at the keyboard a bit more.

Well Doc
, I thought, absorbing the new memory as it played out,
looks like you settled for making me at least half a bastard. So, yeah, really good job. Well done.

“They?” I asked, back in the memory. “Who are they? What have you done with my relevant files?”

“Oh, my dear cyborg, I’m afraid I deleted all of that as soon as I got my hands on you. It’s just too ghastly, too terrible for words. I can’t risk you knowing what you’re meant to do. Not yet. Not until I’ve given you the ability to use your powers for good!”

In the memory, I snorted – I actually snorted at him – I’ve never snorted before, I’m sure of it. “Powers? I’ll use my ‘powers’ for me.”

“I’m failing...” said Doctor Melon weakly.

“No you’re not. I feel great. I like what you’ve done, but that’s as much meddling in my head as you’re going to do.”

“But you’re not ready. I’ve been working on you for months, and you’re just not ready. Both sides of your coding are incredibly complex – every facet of your human personality routines is linked to every other and linked again to elements of your core, Warden program. If I tweak one ‘emotion’, or ‘trait’ the wrong way it may just leave the Warden program with a raving lunatic human ‘cover’ personality. What I need, so you can master the Warden program and deny its directives, is for you to be, well, pure good.”

“Nothing’s pure Doc, we’re all stained one way or another.”

The doctor’s shoulders sagged, “You were close enough before they took you.”

“What do you mean?” my memory self said.

“I’m sorry. Later, I promise. When I’m sure I can control the Warden program.”

“Tell me now or I’ll beat it out of you.”