V. Moody's Blog, page 4

428: Out to Lunch

I stood up and looked at my phone. It said the battery was at 8%, which annoyed me. It had been on charge for four years and it hadn’t been a very long conversation, so why was it so low?

There were other matters I should have been more concerned about. How did Flossie’s dad know I was back? How did he get my number? Who was at the door and what non-consensual things were they going to do to me?

Of course, my phone’s battery didn’t work because the manufacturers of electronic devices had figured out that if you made it nigh on impossible to switch out a battery and also made them unable to hold a charge after about a year or so, then it would force you to buy a new one.

Built-in obsolescence was how everything was designed these days — cars, phones, people.

I went to the door and opened it. Why not? If Mr Flossie wanted to meet and have a chat, I was game. I had some questions of my own, about the state of the world, about the end of civilisation, the rise of fascism and the spread of deadly plagues, and who better to ask than a billionaire? He was probably responsible for most of it.

There was a man standing at the door in a grey suit, a very white shirt buttoned all the way up and no tie (see, civilisation crumbling right before my eyes).

“If you’d like to come with me, I’ll take you to Mr Larwood.” He was a black guy, tall and very well built. Shaved head and one eyebrow that stretched across his wide forehead. Not often you saw a black guy with a unibrow.

His body language was relaxed and he spoke with a soft voice. He had managed to get to my front door without ringing from the locked entrance downstairs, but that could just be because someone let him in as they left the building.

“Okay,” I said. “Sure.” I checked my pockets. “One minute.”

I turned and went back to the kitchen, looked through the drawers and found a spare key that was slightly bent but would still work if you weren’t too aggressive when turning it.

When I turned back, the man was standing in my hallway. Which was odd because I was pretty sure I had pushed the door closed when I left him out on the landing. I even heard the door click shut.

He nodded, still very polite, as he opened the door and held it for me.

“I’m Colin,” I said as I stood outside as he closed the door.

“Yes,” he said. “I am your driver.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes,” he said and led the way down to the waiting car.

Not being one to pry (because I didn’t really give a shit) I allowed the man to keep his secrets.

It was a big car but not what I expected from a billionaire. It was a van with a side door. I’m not saying it wasn’t a high quality, top of the range vehicle with very modern aerodynamic styling, but still, it was a van.

The driver pressed something in his hand and the door slid open, revealing a very spacious interior. You could easily get a step ladder and some scaffolding in there. Throw in some duct tape and you had yourself a night to remember.

There was also a sofa, a TV and a glass cabinet with drinks. It was set up like a bachelor pad for the gigolo on the go. There were no windows but it was fully carpeted.

I got in and sat down. My feet sank into the thick shag pile and the leather sofa was incredibly comfortable. The door closed and strip lighting illuminated my new home. If this was a kidnapping, it was a very classy one.

We started moving without any engine sounds, so probably an electric motor. The TV screen turned itself on and the driver’s face appeared looking right at me, even though he was also driving.

“We’ll be travelling for one hour and twelve minutes. Please help yourself to any drinks or snacks.”

The screen turned itself off.

It was an odd limousine service, but it was well catered. I helped myself to a coke from the refrigerated cabinet and used the remote control to turn the screen back on. Every channel in existence was available, which was nice since I had a number of things I wanted to binge-watch. I decided on the final episode of Game of Thrones because I was curious to see how George wound up ending his neverending series.

I knew this world was a bit fucked, but I had no idea how bad things had gotten.

“Are you alright?” asked the driver as he let me out at our destination an hour or so later.

“No, not really.” George had let me down terribly. “I’ll be fine. This the place?”

We were in the middle of central London. Somewhere around Picadilly was my guess. The restaurant we had parked outside of was called Coq du Monde and it looked pretty upmarket. Not really a jeans and t-shirt kinda place.

“Mr Larwood is waiting for you inside.” He stayed next to his van.

I entered alone and didn’t have to say anything as one of the waiters said, “This way, please,” and led me through the long, golden, picture-lined dining room which was humming with the chatter of lunchers.

The customers looked settled in, like they had been here since breakfast. Cigar-waving gents of a certain vintage. The place had a kind of dated glamour: cluttered walls filled with wildly variable art, red plush chairs and well-spaced, crisply dressed tables, patrolled by aged long-serving waiters.

At the far end of the room was a table on a raised platform, and a man seated there who seemed to take up three sides of it. He was very wide. Not fat, not bulky, just wide.

He had a well-oiled head of white hair, a round also-wide face, and a neatly trimmed ginger beard the same colour as Flossie’s hair.

He rose as the waiter stepped aside and pulled out a chair for me. He was not only wide but tall, but neither of those things intimidate me. Girth is the only threatening measurement in my book.

“Colin, so wonderful to meet you.” He held out a hand that could have picked up my head the way NBA players pick up a basketball.

I shook his hand and the pressure squeezed all the blood out of my fingers and into my forearm, making me feel like Popeye.

“Hi,” I squeaked.

We both sat down and there was a moment of awkward silence.

“Allow me to order for you.” He raised his hand and signalled to a waiter, who turned around and headed for the kitchen. Apparently, when you were rich enough, you communicated your desires telepathically.

“Now,” said Flossie’s dad, “might I ask how my daughter is doing?”

“She’s fine. Or, she was last time I saw her.”

“And where was that?”

Now it got a little tricky. How should I explain to him that we had been transported to a world full of monsters and demons? With a series of Frank Frazetta drawings?

A waitress approached and offered us bread rolls from a basket. I took a bap.

“Mr Larwood…”

“Archie, please.”

“Archie, what do you think happened to your daughter?” Might as well see what I had to work with.

“The same thing that happened to the other nineteen of you. You were taken away. I was there when it happened,” said Archie. “I saw her vanish with my own eyes, Colin. Right in front of me. So I understand completely your hesitance in sharing the truth.”

“You saw her vanish?”

“I did. She just faded away. There’s no other way to describe it. When I learned of the other cases, I realised they must have gone the same way. No bodies, no evidence of violence, just gone. I did everything in my power to find out what happened, not only to Victoria — Flossie — but to all twenty of you.”

“Are you the one who’s been paying my bills?”

“That’s correct,” said Archie. “I wanted to try to keep everything in place in case any of you came back. Not just in your case but all of the abducted. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think it would work, but here you are. Where did you go, Colin?”

Was the truth really the best thing to share here? The usual answer was no. But this guy just wanted to know what happened to his kid. Even if he was a billionaire, an evil billionaire maybe (what other kind is there?), he would care about his own flesh and blood the way any parent would. Or so the movies made by the corporations owned by billionaires would have us believe.

“We were transported to a fantasy world — it may have been a simulation, you know, like a video game — where we were expected to fight monsters to survive. Apparently, we weren’t the first group to have been taken there, it’s happened every four years for the last hundred years or something. Why no one’s noticed until now, I don’t know. In any case, we landed in the middle of your typical Tolkienesque middle ages with trolls and ogres, and we ran around like headless chickens and most of us died.” I ate some more bread and drank some water. Poshest restaurant I’d ever been to and I was eating bread and water.

Anyway, I’d put my cards on table. Ball in your court. Many a mickle macks a muckle.

Archie just sat there, nodding slightly, his wide mouth turned down at the edges.

“You’ll forgive me for taking a moment to fully digest what you’ve just told me.”

“Sure,” I said. “Take your time.”

“Even if you are correct, the kind of technology you’re talking about is even now barely in its infancy. A hundred years ago, even four years ago, I don’t think such a thing would be possible. I own technology firms that are on the cutting edge of virtual reality and augmented media, and the technology just isn’t there yet.”

“Couldn’t the military or the Chinese or somebody be working on it in secret?” I asked.

He shook his big square head. “Most of our contracts are with the Chinese and the military, so I would be the first to know if such were the case.”

Of course, I didn’t really think the world of Flatland was a game — it would have been nice if it we were, I was more than ready to hack the system and level up using exploits — but I thought it would sound more plausible (well, less implausible) to suggest it was all holograms and 3D glasses that actually worked.

If I had said it was magic, I didn’t think I would be taken seriously.

“Have you considered that it may have been some sort of magical power that was responsible?” said Archie, no change in his serious demeanour.

“Hmm.” I tried to look like I was giving the idea some serious thought. “You’re saying it was all real, and we were transported into a fantasy realm by supernatural means, like in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?” When dealing with boomers, you’ve got to give them pop culture references they can relate to. “I mean, some people did have those sorts of theories, but it’s hard to take seriously, right?”

Archie leaned over the table. “But I take it you were able to perform magic, when you were there.”

There was something about the casual way he was posing the question, like it was just a thought that had popped into his head, that had alarm bells going off.

“Me? No, I wasn’t able to do anything special. The only ability I had was running away from trouble. That’s why I survived when so many of the others didn’t.”

“But you saw others with powers, yes?”

I could have just told him exactly what kind of place Flatland was. It wasn’t like there was anything he could do with the information. There was no way for me to prove any of it, and there was no reason he should believe me. But the strange thing was, he didn’t seem to need convincing.

“I saw some strange things, sure. But I didn’t hang around long enough to find out if it was magic or special powers. The natives weren’t exactly friendly.”

“Listen to me, Colin, I understand this is all very confusing and doesn’t make much sense, even to you who lived through it, but I think I can help. Come with me to one of my facilities where we can run a full analysis on you, down to the molecular level. We’ll run some tests and find out exactly what happened to you. I’ll take care of everything, you won’t need to worry about anything.”

His focus was on me and not so much his lost daughter. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten he had a daughter.

“Do you really think you can find out what happened to us?” I was playing along but I was no newbie. I knew what it meant when the farmer started licking his lips around his beloved animals.

“I can promise you we’ll get to the bottom of this, whatever it is. I have the smartest people money can buy working for me.”

The food arrived on a silver trolley. It looked beautiful and smelled amazing. I hadn’t eaten in a while and I’d never eaten something like this, so it was a rare chance (possibly the only one I’d ever get) to experience the absolute pinnacle of the culinary arts.

“Okay, give me a minute to think it over,” I said, standing up. “Which way is the bathroom?”

When I said I had survived by running away from trouble, I hadn’t been kidding. I made my way to the bathroom and kept going. The further I got from the main room, the less glamorous everything became. There was a kitchen full of noise, a corridor with paint flaking off the walls, a trolley with missing wheels, boxes piled up, and a fire exit.

I opened the door and found myself in a back alley. The driver was standing there, leaning on a wall, smoking a cigarette. “Hello, again.” He didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me.

He tossed the fag (calm down SJWs, it doesn’t mean that over here) swiftly closed the distance between us and reached out to grab me.

I side-stepped.

Maybe I didn’t have my magic powers anymore but I still had a lot of training beaten into me by a vicious little red-haired teenager with horrible taste in outfits.

The driver was taken totally by surprise and lost his footing as I ducked past him. He was up in a flash and not at all the cool, confident chap of a moment ago. Now he was roaring at me. I ran out of the alley with a raging brute on my tail. Just like old times.

Book 4 - 1: Meeting the Challenge

Second Quadrant

Cairo-3998 aka Planet Challenger

Daring City — Guest Hub

 

Point-Two found himself staring at the scoreboard again. The top three places hadn’t changed since they’d arrived but the other seven were in constant flux, the names of guilds and mercenary groups appearing and disappearing in quick succession. He didn’t recognise any of the names but Figaro had told him they were all top tier outfits that only accepted the best of the best.

There were excited faces around him. The Plu-Ton was like most other sports bars, full of noisy people drinking and staring at the action taking place on the many screens on the walls, making bets on how long it would take to get to a checkpoint, to defeat a group of droids, to take their first fatality.

Signs in between the screens reminded everyone that no weapons and no organics were allowed to be used outside of the Antecessor facility. The sounds of fights breaking out could be heard from every direction.

C-3998 was a bustling and raucous planet on the edge of the Second Quadrant, right on the border with the First Quadrant. There was very little to see on this barren rock, but it did have a very large and extremely dangerous Antecessor facility. One that provided excellent training opportunities at a variety of levels.

It didn’t attract only those intending to enter the site, a large community of gamblers, black marketeers and degenerates had also sprung up to service the needs of visitors, and make huge profits off the backs of those willing to risk their lives.

Point-Two’s eyes flicked over to the screen showing the number of the next party to be allowed entry — 172. He looked down at the small pad on the table in front of him. Their number was 175 which, if you didn’t know any better, seemed like it would be up very soon.

But it was unlikely that it would stay at 175. When they had first arrived, almost twelve hours ago, they had been assigned number 38. Back then, the screen counter had shown 30 as the next group going in.

Then, just before they were about to be called, the number had changed to 46. Then later it went up to 52. And so it had slowly climbed.

They had been issued an entry ticket, but they were low priority. New people were constantly arriving, and everyone seemed to have enough clout to jump the queue.

It was just the way it was. The large groups dominated the leaderboard and high rankings got awarded various prizes, including tokens that could leapfrog you to the head of the queue.

Which made it very difficult for newbies to get a foothold.

“We should just force our way in and get this over with,” said Ubik.

Point-Two yawned. “This was your idea. Low key approach, you said. Slide in, slide out. No point attracting any attention. Best way to get away with a crime is to do it legally.”

“Nice to see you were paying attention,” said Ubik. “But that was before I knew they were going to make us wait forever. Even the asteroid scuffers are cutting in front of us.” A group of men in matching filth-covered overalls headed for the exit as their number was called. “What kind of status does our guild even have?”

“None,” said Fig, fiddling with the control panel on his arm. “That’s why you were able to cheat your way in.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us have family connections we can rely on to get us into a top-ranking guild.”

Fig stopped fiddling. “I’m in the same guild as you.”

Point-Two tuned out as Ubik launched into an explanation of why his entry into the Free Volunteers Guild was entirely different from Fig’s.

They had come to C-3998 to acquire an Antecessor artefact. A key. Or a map. The Antecessors hadn’t been very clear on the physical appearance of the artefact, but it would tell them where the Antecessor homeworld was, and allow them to enter it. A key and a map.

Point-Two had asked how it was that the Antecessors didn’t know where their own planet was, but it turned out it wasn’t really a planet at all, it was a wandering planetoid, Class M in size, that was on a random trajectory somewhere in the First Quadrant.

All they had to do was enter the Antecessor site on this small, out of the way planet, go to a location on the fifth level and obtain the map-key.

The only problem was that the site was owned by a management company, Advanced Development Group, who used it as a training facility for anyone who wanted to hone their skills in a life-threatening environment.

Unlike a simulation, you could die here.

Sim-U machines could replicate everything except the genuine fear of death. How people reacted when they knew the worst outcome would be them waking up in a chair in a sim-U suite was very different from how they reacted when they risked actual death.

And unlike the live testing facilities of the major corporations, you couldn’t sue the owners here if someone died, which meant there were no safety features. It was very popular.

Which wasn’t a bad thing. They were wanted men in the rest of the galaxy but no one here gave them a second look.

But unlike the other visitors, they weren’t here to improve their skills or gain mastery over their organics. They just needed to get past the three training floors, through the staff restricted fourth floor, and access the strictly off-limits fifth level.

So far, they had managed to make it into the waiting lounge.

That part, at least, had been easy enough. They had found an office for the FVG and even more fortuitously, they were registered as full members. Point-Two wasn’t sure when they had graduated from training or why they had been cleared for membership, but he wasn’t going to question the first bit of luck he’d encountered.

The guild officer, a short, sloppy fat man, with a rosy nose and a flushed face, even paid for their entry into the Antecessor site. The Dungeon, as it was affectionately known.

Three months they had spent in transit, inside wormhole subspace, waiting for things to quieten down a little, trying to get information out of the Antecessors.

It wasn’t that the Antecessors, the strange globular balls of liquid metal, had been unwilling to answer questions, it was just that most of their answers didn’t make a lot of sense. There was a lot of cultural divergence between how humans conceived of time and space and how Antecessors viewed it. Or so Ubik claimed.

He had immersed himself in all things Antecessor and it was he who brought them here to claim the artefact. His plan, his methods. It wasn’t going to end well.

Point-Two saw one of the waitresses carrying a tray of drinks and signalled her to come over. She delivered the drinks to a table of rowdy men who were psyching each other up for what they seemed to think was a guaranteed record-breaking run of the second level, and then she came sauntering over with a world-weary look on her heavily painted face.

“Can I get a menu,” said Point-Two, deciding to try the local cuisine out of boredom.

“Sure, honey. Do you want the food menu, sex menu or the violence menu?”

Point-Two looked up at her. “What’s on the violence menu?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, pulling up something on her datapad. “Thought that’d be the one you’d go for.”

“What’s that mean? No, I was just curious about—”

“Just curious,” she said. “Sure.”

“Are you on the sex menu?” asked Ubik.

“Of course. And very reasonably priced.” She was a moderately attractive woman in her forties, dressed in a functional waitress’s uniform with her hair piled up into a tall mess.

“You’re a sex robot?” asked Fig, sounding a little surprised.

“You pay the fee and I’ll be whatever you want.” She winked at Fig.

Point-Two was a little surprised, too. No matter how accurate the replication, he could usually spot a robot by the body language, but not this one. Maybe it was because she was a little older that he didn’t pay close enough attention — they preferred something maternal around here, apparently — or maybe she’d been working here long enough to adapt to human movement patterns.

“You don’t look like a Mason & Muss product,” said Ubik. “Are you off-brand?”

“There’s no need to be rude. Here. I’ll be back to take your order.” She handed Point-Two a thin sheet of plastic and sauntered off to another table.

Point-Two watched her go. Her hips swayed in an artificial manner that could easily have been human.

“Hey, nice suit you got there,” said a sneering voice. The owner was one of the rowdy men who was eyeing Fig’s suit with an unpleasant leer. “It’s an Ollo, right? Real thing? Looks real. Why don’t you sell it to me? I’ve got a girl back home who’s about the same size as you.”

He was skinny and lanky, with one side of his head shaved and the other bursting with spiky purple hair. Metal rings and hoops studded his ears. Guns hung from his waist and full sets of Angstrom knives were strapped to each of his arms.

“It’s not for sale,” said Fig, without bothering to look up.

“What number are you?” said Ubik.

“We’re up next. Why?”

“Let us take your place and you can have the suit.”

“Haven’t we been here before?” said Point-Two.

“No, it was you he tried to use as a bargaining chip last time,” said Fig.

“What number do you have?” asked the man.

Ubik held up the pad. It said 82 now. The man looked tempted. From his perspective, it wasn’t much of a delay, more than a reasonable price for a genuine Ollo suit.

“Oka—”

“No, no deal,” said Point-Two. He had enough experience with Ubik’s business methods to know there was no point trying to resist, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t make a few alterations. “But we’ll bet the suit against your place in the queue. Winner takes all.”

“A bet? What kind of bet?” Their whole table was interested now.

“A fight,” said Point-Two. “One on one. No weapons, no organics. First one to fall to their knees or lower loses.”

The man was grinning. “Which one of you wants to represent? You?”

“No,” said Point-Two. “Him.”

“Me?” said Fig, looking at Point-Two. He sighed. “Okay.”

The man turned to his table and they spoke in lowered voices that did little to hide their excitement.

“This doesn’t seem very low key,” said Ubik. “We have half the galaxy looking for us, you know.”

“Technically, it’s less than 3% of the galaxy,” said Fig.

“Yeah, but it’s the 3% with all the guns and warships,” said Ubik.

“You’ve got a deal,” said the grinning man. “I’m Zola, Fetch Group, third grade. I’m giving you my full information so you know we won’t back out of the bet. Your suit against our spot in the Dungeon. You’ll be fighting Klennon.”

“Hey,” said Ubik. “Just don’t make a ruckus.”

“Sure,” said Fig.

A man stood up and towered over the table. He was big, muscular, with a neck that was wider than his head, and he had an arm missing. In its place, there was a huge chrome cannon.

Ubik looked at the mountain with a gun for an arm and then turned back to Fig. “Minimal ruckus is okay but nothing more.”

September 2021 Update

New chapters have arrived.

427: Home Alone

Donald Trump was President of America and Boris Johnson was the Prime Minister of Great Britain. Even more absurdly, Spurs were in contention for the Premiership title and the Champions League. I read the newspaper from front to back twice and it still didn’t make any sense.

If this was a fake reality, who would make it this unbelievable? And if this was the real thing, what the hell had happened? Had everyone lost their minds.

Oh, and there was also a global pandemic and Nazi’s marching in the streets.

If this had been a video game, it would have been lambasted for being lazy and clichéd. What next, a zombie apocalypse and the rise of the machines?

Perhaps there was a reasonable explanation for what was going on but I didn’t really care. It wasn’t like I had any intention of staying here and dealing with any of this crap.

My goal was to find a way back. Which meant reactivating my magical abilities. That was all I had to worry about. It didn’t matter how crazy this place had gotten in my absence, it wasn’t my problem.

The train stopped at a couple of stations, picking up only a few people. It was early enough that the morning rush hour had yet to start.

Despite the end of civilization, the people going to work looked like regular people with the same old lack of any real concern for anything that didn’t directly affect them right now, right here. Tired, bored faces, holding coffee in disposable cups in one hand and their smartphones in the other, no conversations, no smiles, no fucks given. Life was carrying on as it usually did.

It took around ninety minutes to reach London. It was about half seven in the morning and the train wasn’t even half-full.

Exiting the train and taking the escalators down to the underground station was easy enough. No one looked at me twice, even though I was dressed like an off-brand pirate. This was London, where the weirder you looked, the more invisible you were.

I paid for my tube ticket — I only just had enough money — and made my way to the Piccadilly Line platform.

As I rode in a packed tube train in the middle of the morning rush hour, squashed between coats like I was trapped in the back of someone’s closet, it started to dawn on me that I was nearly home and I hadn’t even considered what I was going to do when I got there. Would there be an alternate Colin sitting in my flat?

I hadn’t paid my rent or bills for three years, and I didn’t have a key to get in and frighten the crap out of whoever was living there now, but I didn’t know where else to go.

My place was walking distance from Wood Green Station. I followed the route I’d taken every weekday morning and evening to and from work.

The small block of flats I lived in looked the same. I pressed the keycode into the pad next to the glass door with the crack running diagonally across the top half, just like it was the last time I’d used it. The door clicked open.

My flat was on the second floor. I walked up the stairs and along the hallway. The familiarity hit me in waves. This was my home, my whole life up until recently.

The number on my door —22 — was nailed on unevenly, just as I remembered it.

I knocked on my own door. It seemed the polite thing to do. There was no response, which was a relief. I had no key, just a spoon hanging around my neck.

There was only one thing to do. I knocked on my neighbour’s door. Number 20, Tony something-or-other. He wasn’t someone I spoke to often, just a casual hello every now and again, but back when I first moved in, he had taken the time to explain a few of the basic rules of the building. When to leave out rubbish, which floors to avoid, why to never take the lift after 7 PM.

He was an odd bloke who kept to himself and worked from home. I think. He never went out, so that was my best guess.

And the time I locked myself out of my own flat, he helped me break back in.

The door opened and a grey-haired, slightly chubby face peered out from behind a chained door.

There was a moment of confusion, some squinting and then a surprised look. “Colin?”

“Hi, Tone. Long time no see.” I tried to sound as casual as possible.

“You’re alive.” The door opened a little more and looked me up and down. “What happened to you? What are you wearing? You look terrible.”

“Um, yes,” I said. “I’ve been… on holiday. This is what they wear over there… abroad. Sorry to disturb you, but I lost my keys. Any chance you could help me get in like last time?”

He leaned back and then forward, getting me into focus. “It’s really you.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t die?”

“No, I’ve just been away. Travelling.”

“Where did you go?”

“Um, oh, everywhere. Hated it. Everything was surprisingly foreign. Never going there again. Kind of desperate to use the loo.” I didn’t want to appear rude, but I also didn’t want to get into a long explanation of where I’d been and what I’d been up to.

“Sure, sure, no problem… just wait a mo’.” He closed the door on me.

I had never been in his flat and he had never been in mine. He was what we Londoners call a good neighbour. Keeps his boundaries well maintained.

The door opened again a few moments later.

“Here we go.” He held up a large metal ring with dozens of keys hanging from it. He stepped out and moved in front of my door. He began trying different keys in my keyhole (not a euphemism). “Let’s see if I can remember which one it was…”

A man with a bunch of skeleton keys might seem a bit sus, but he really wasn’t the type to invade anyone’s space. He really had no interest in other people. It was why we had formed such a strong yet distant acquaintance, over our mutual dislike of everyone.

“Amazing,” he mumbled as he tested one key after another. “You know, I even thought maybe you were one of them.”

“One of them?”

“You know, ‘The Abducted’. They disappeared around the same sort of time, didn’t they?”

He looked over his shoulder at me and frowned when he was met with my blank expression. He went back to working on the lock.

“Most people said it was aliens, but not me. It was clearly some sort of serial killer, group of them working together. Not that I said anything — I fit the profile a little too closely, only making trouble for myself. Don’t want to go down that road again.”

The lock clicked open.

“Nice. Still got it.” He turned to me. “Never caught no one, never found no one. Sad.”

I nodded. He seemed to be talking about the people who had disappeared along with me four years ago. Had we become famous?

“So it was just a holiday, was it? Well, I never. Was certain you were buried in some shallow grave somewhere. See you later, Col.” Tony re-entered his flat and closed his door, his curiosity not great enough to overcome his general dislike of small talk. Truly, a good neighbour.

“Thank you,” I called after him.

I pushed my door open.

The door stuck a little as letters were pushed out of the way. Not a huge pile — my bills were mostly paperless — but quite a lot of out-of-date coupons for half-price pizza (stuffed crust not included). Sadly, I’d missed out on several years of savings.

I kicked them out of the way.

“Hellooo?” I called out, just in case.

No response. The hallway was very quiet. It was just as I’d left it, but dustier.

I began walking towards my bedroom, my heart thumping in my chest for absolutely no reason. I’d managed to rob and steal my way here from some castle in Sussex, and now that I was safely in my home, this was when my nerves decided to kick in.

The air had an unpleasant, stale taste to it. I couldn’t really tell if that was different from before. A thick layer of dust covered everything and came off like sludge when I ran my finger over any surface.

I pushed the bedroom door open, dreading what I might find waiting for me. My four-year-old corpse?

What I found was an empty unmade bed. I turned on the lights to reveal more of the same. The lights worked, though, which was surprising. Who had been paying the bills? I mean, I had a direct debit set up with my bank to pay all of my basic outgoings, but the meagre funds I had would have run out a long time ago.

I opened the curtains and then the window and took a deep breath of North London air. It smelled like kebabs and coffee shops, which was pleasingly familiar.

The flat was the same as I’d left it — the small lounge, the narrow and claustrophobic kitchen, the chilly bathroom — nothing had changed. I rewarded myself for having safely reached the first milestone in my journey with a long, cold dump. By far the most luxurious bowel movement I’d had in years.

The flush made some weird gurgling noises but finally accepted my offering.

Then I stripped and took a shower. The water took a while to heat up, but it wasn’t like I was in a rush.

The clothes in my closet smelled a bit off but then so did the clothes I’d arrived in. At least they still fit. A little baggy, actually.

It was all very confusing and I was having a hard time getting to grips with my situation, but there were some basic things I could check using the laptop in my bedroom.

The computer booted up fine, slow as ever. The internet was working. The wifi that usually dropped out every time a butterfly in the Amazon flapped its wings was perfectly fine.

The first thing I did was check my bank balance. After sitting there for five minutes trying to remember my passwords.

The more advanced technology gets, the more passwords we have to remember for our own security. A different password for every site, change them every six months, use a series of letters and numbers you can’t possibly remember, but don’t write it down anywhere, that would defeat the point.

No, just save it in your browser where only you and Google can access it. Google wouldn’t betray you, their motto used to be ‘Don’t be evil’ before it was changed to ‘China, number one.’

My bank balance was surprisingly healthy. Rent and utilities had been paid automatically and money had been coming in from my job. The job I hadn’t done for four years. What were they paying me for? I had hardly been worth paying when I had turned up. Perhaps they found they were more productive when I was absent.

The main thing was that I had funds — as soon as I found my debit card and remembered my PIN. Things were looking up.

Since I had the internet at my disposal, I decided to look up a few things from the last few years and soon realised that the world was in even worse shape than I’d thought.

An American president controlled by Russians, Saudi Arabia murdering journalists with impunity, China running slave labour camps.

It’s not often someone gets culture-shocked by their own culture.

I decided to Google myself. If what Tony had said really was connected to our disappearance, if it had been noticed, then there would be some sort of news story about it.

My name produced millions of results, but none of them had anything to do with me. That’s what happens when you have a common name and haven’t done anything to mark yourself out from your eponymous herd.

The Theme from Love Story began to play. It was my phone ringing, plugged into the socket next my bed, at 100% battery life for four years.

Why was my phone ringing? No one ever called me before, why would they be calling now? The number wasn’t showing.

Just some marketing robocall?

I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Colin?” said a very deep, male, probably middle-aged voice.

“Um, yes? Who is this?”

“Ah, it really is you. That’s wonderful. You don’t know me, but I’m hoping you know my daughter, Victoria.”

“Sorry, I don’t think I know anyone called Victoria. Are you sure you have the right number?”

“Oh, very sure. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to come home. Frankly, I wasn’t sure you would ever return, any of you. Perhaps you know her by her nickname. She always insisted on being called Flossie. It was her mother’s name for her.”

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Archibald Larwood. Call me Archie.”

Since I was on the computer, I put his name into Google, not really expecting anything, but it was a fairly unusual name, so you never know. There were over a hundred thousand hits. All for the same man.

Archibald Larwood, billionaire businessman, entrepreneur, inventor, philanthropist, MBE, hated by unions, friend to the stars, owner of a Caribbean island, suspected of numerous crimes, convicted of none. He had quite the Wikipedia page.

“You’re Flossie’s dad?”

“Ah, so you do know her. That’s very good to hear. Very good. Colin, I think we should meet. I have so many questions. Are you free for lunch?”

It was getting on for eleven and I was a little peckish. And who wouldn’t want to grab a bite to eat with a billionaire? I assumed he would be paying.

“Sure. Where would you like to—” There was a loud, insistent knocking on my front door.

“That will be my driver,” said Archie. “I’ll see you soon. I’m very much looking forward to it.”

426: An Englishman's Castle

I inhaled deeply. There was no mistaking it — genuine British air. I knew it was British because of the faint smell of diesel and cow shit, a disgusting combination that the English countryside proudly insisted on, as integral to the rural way of life as fox hunting and sheep shagging. God, I hated the countryside.

My first instinct was to assume this was another fake reality created by Maurice, but hallucinations were never a hundred percent accurate, and smells were particularly hard to simulate.

Rather than clear my head, which was what I had been going for, taking a deep breath made me feel even more dazed and confused, both from the shock of returning home and also the toxic pesticides farmers use to make sure we have perfectly symmetrical potatoes.

This dislocated feeling was kind of nostalgic for me. It was the same sort of confusion I had experienced that first day I arrived in Flatland.

I should have felt happy to be out of there, a crazy, unreal world where everything was determined to kill you. I should have been happy to be back in a sane, normal, boring world where no one cared enough to want me dead, where no one even knew I existed. Anonymity had a lot going for it.

Only, it didn’t actually feel all that great to be back. Not that I had much choice about it. Here I was. Adventure over.

The wind was brisk and the stars were intermittently hidden behind clouds preparing to piss down on me any minute. The first thing I needed to do was get down from here, then I could figure out what to do next.

I didn’t know where I was and I had no way of taking care of myself. No money, no friends, no magic sword. None of the basics.

The moon kept disappearing behind clouds and the darkness made it difficult to see anything.

I was definitely on top of a castle that much I knew. The funny-shaped walls gave it away. And also, it was the same castle from my vision, where I’d met a future version of Claire. Was she about to appear? Would she provide me with answers and, more importantly, would she have the foresight to bring some sort of hot meat-filled pastry with her? Not bloody likely.

Imagine how much male-female relationships would improve if women carried around a few savoury pies in their handbags instead of all that other crap they insist on lugging around. Sexism would disappear overnight.

Low blood sugar may have caused me to become unreasonably angry about future-Claire’s lack of a portable pantry, but my rage did at least help to warm my shivering bones, which was helpful as my clothes were from Flatland and apparently were not made with the intemperate British climate in mind.

Claire did not appear. No one did. I remained pie-less. I think I heard the sound of a passing aeroplane but it could have been my stomach.

It was cold and dark and I was standing on castle battlements, that much I could confirm. Everything was made of stone and solidly built. There was an ugly blue door with a sign showing it was an exit. The sign was written in English.

Okay. Old world traditional construction, modern world shitty Health and Safety features.

I hurried over and tried the handle; didn’t budge. I don’t mean the door didn’t move, I mean I couldn’t even turn the handle. Pull, push, twist, nothing. This was a fire exit.

Of course it didn’t work. Why would it?

That’s how this world worked. Insurmountable obstacles, pointless obstructions, endless inconveniences. It wasn’t supposed to be like that, but there was a guy coming to fix it on Tuesday, between nine and three. He was supposed to come last week but something came up. But this week, for sure.

I punched the door and hurt my hand. Then I kicked it and hurt my foot. I felt so weak and powerless. If this was Flatland, I could burn the door down, I could jump off the room and heal myself of my injuries. There was so much more I was capable of that this world just wasn’t going to allow.

I’d been through so much, gained so much, and now I had lost it all. It would have been easy to give up all hope and lie down, but the stone floor didn’t look very comfortable so I decided to postpone succumbing to despair (temporarily, of course). Instead, I took a moment and stepped back from the door.

My magic may have abandoned me but I was still someone who had plenty of experience in getting myself out of the shit I constantly found myself in. Practice makes perfect, I guess.

I needed to get off this roof and then I had to find a way back. Back to the wild, unstable, enemy-filled world where life made sense. I needed to get home.

The doorway that had brought me here was gone, but…

But that meant magic existed here. It had to. Otherwise, the doorway wouldn’t have been able to open in this world. Magic couldn’t exist just on one end. The fact the door was able to open here, even if it was only for a moment, proved that this world could sustain magic. I just had to find a way to access mine.

Clarity descended along with a sense of calm. Time to get on with it. I didn’t know what it was, exactly, but that didn’t matter. I just needed to find somewhere to hole up and get in touch with my inner self. Maybe I just needed to take an online mindfulness class to reach a higher state of being. Or possibly turn into a pretentious wanker.

The details weren’t important right now, I needed to get down off the roof first.

I rushed around, looking over the sides of the castle walls. The darkness made it hard to make out what was down there.

Climb down? Jump down? Use my parkour skills to Assassin’s Creed my way to safety? None of those options appealed.

Who would have thought Health and Safety would come to my rescue? There was an ugly metal fire escape on the far side of the roof, bolted into the ancient castle walls.

It looked ridiculously out of place, painted yellow to really stand out, but you can’t leave people with only one way to get out of a confined space. You used to be able to, but there were numerous fires in train stations that killed hundreds of people and they realised charred human remains didn’t look good once everyone had colour televisions.

I clattered my way down the metal stairs with a sense of elation, like I’d managed to complete a puzzle that opened up Level Two without having to look up the cheese-solution on a wiki. It was hardly the Great Escape, but reaching the ground in one unbroken piece was a victory, and a shot of dopamine is its own reward.

Looking back at the castle, there were no lights and no signs of life. Did anyone even live here? A huge empty building that was just for show.

It was still very dark and hard to know which way to go. The sound of gravel underfoot suggested a path so I kept my footsteps crunchy.

There was a signpost pointing in various directions. I was just about able to make out the symbols for toilets, cafe, car park — the last one seemed like it would lead to some sort of exit, so I set off in that direction.

There was no gravel path to guide me and with the clouds completely covering the sky, I soon lost my bearings. A magic light would have come in really useful right about now. Trees and bushes sprang up out of nowhere and when I emerged from the shrubbery, I found myself behind some small buildings that didn’t seem very traditional, especially with the wheels they were sitting on.

There were still no lights but there was a rhythmic groaning sound coming from one of the portacabins. Either someone was having sex in there or they were trying to move a very heavy sofa through a narrow doorway.

What interested me more were the two vehicles parked out front. It was weird seeing actual motor vehicles again. I crept closer and checked the cars to see if they’d been left open. There was a small hatchback, which was locked, and a van that smelled like cow shit, which was open on the passenger side.

Inside, I found various empty containers and food wrappings in the footwell, and a bunch of coins in the slot next to the gear stick. I stuffed them in my pocket and eased back out. I closed the door as quietly as I could, the barest of clicks.

The car alarm went off, beeping and honking, and the sidelights started flashing.

I didn’t panic. I threw myself to the ground and rolled under the van.

Lights went on in the portacabin and the door opened. I could only see boots stomping around, checking the van, opening and closing the doors.

“Bloody useless piece of shit,” grumbled a gruff male voice with a slight twang.

“Probably just the wind,” said another male voice, this one softer and much more posh.

“Hmm. I best be getting back. Wife be wondering where I am.”

“Right, then. See you in the morning.”

“See you.”

There were various clunks and clicks as the man got in the van and started it up. The smell from the exhaust flooded my senses as the vehicle rattled and shook above me. The van started moving. The light from the open doorway would be enough to reveal my presence, but if I rolled out there was a good chance I would be spotted or get squashed.

It was at times like these that my wealth of experience facing life or death crises came into its own. I closed my eyes and lay as still as possible, hoping the problem would go away.

The van drove off, the sound of its engine growing more distant. A cold breeze washed over my prone figure. I slowly opened my eyes and looked up.

There was a pale, skinny man standing in the doorway in just his boxers, staring at me.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I jumped up and said, “You home-wrecking bastard!” Then I turned around and ran after the receding tail lights of the van, shouting, “Dad! Dad!”

The van was far enough for there to be no danger he would hear me, and it was still dark enough so he wouldn’t see me in his mirror. Hopefully, the guy in the underpants wouldn’t want to get involved in family matters and leave it.

In any case, I ran until I reached a road and slowed down to catch my breath. There was the yellowish glow of street lights in the distance and the sounds of traffic and no sounds of police sirens, so I seemed to have gotten away with it.

I walked for quite a while before I reached a road with lampposts. There was a sign with the red symbol for a train station. I veered to the left and kept going. The occasional car drove past me. The people in them looked pretty normal, dressed as you’d expect. I was beginning to think I’d been returned around the same time I’d left. I hadn’t seen any futuristic cars or anyone flying by on a hoverboard. Can’t say I wasn’t a little disappointed.

I checked my ill-gotten gains, a grand total of £7.52, which wasn’t a lot. The money looked the same as the coins I was familiar with, with the same queen on them. There hadn’t been a coup while I’d been gone, with Charles finally claiming the throne, blood streaking down Pall Mall and the heads of journalists from The Guardian stuck on the gates of Buckingham Palace.

I continued to try to make my magic work as I walked along but with no luck. No flame on my finger, no healing light.

After another hour or so, I arrived at Arundel station. It was a small train station with no one around. The large digital clock said it was nearly six o’clock. There was no one in the ticket booth, but there were machines where you could buy tickets. There was a direct train to London Victoria for the low, low price of thirty quid. Well, £33.10, to be exact. Even now, the Great Train Robbery was celebrated daily all over these British Isles.

The next train was due… now. The tracks rattled and there was a whoosh of air as the 6:04 to London pulled into Platform 1. I jumped the barrier and ran down the stairs.

Old Colin would have been very nervous about fare dodging. Old Colin would look guilty the whole time and would desperately need the loo but refuse to go because that’s where fare dodgers hide and that would be the first place they’d look. Old Colin was big on overthinking everything.

This Colin didn’t give a shit. There were probably security cameras watching, but no one really cared. Probably weren’t even turned on.

The train came to a creaking, grinding halt and the doors slid open to reveal an empty carriage with free newspapers on each seat. I picked one up and checked the date. February 29th, 2020.

Four years was how often people were supposedly transported to Flatland. Every leap year. Did that mean a new batch had been sent over? Was that how I managed to slip back, using their interdimensional tunnel?

Four years. It made me feel a bit dizzy. I slumped into a seat and went through the paper to find out how the world had changed, thinking four years wasn’t really long enough for anything really major to have happened. Boy, was I wrong.

August 2021 Update

State of Play. Future plans and intentions, hopes and dreams. 

Book 3 - Epilogue

Inner Quadrant

Antecessor Ship

 

Ubik had sensed this was something different the moment he arrived on the Antecessor ship. It was a completely different feeling.

Even if the walls had the same white lines streaking across their surfaces that had been seen in countless Antecessor ships and facilities, it most definitely was not the same.

It had that new alien ship smell — at least he assumed that was the smell was.

This was not an ancient relic of the past. Not on autopilot, not running on standby, no automated defences. This was the real thing. This was a live service.

Everything pulsed with an energy Ubik had never encountered before; a deep and powerful energy that was sitting at the lowest possible setting, just waiting for someone to turn it up.

Ubik smiled to himself. He liked turning things up. All the way up.

Fig walked towards a wall and it parted for him without any words or gestures. Sections slid to the side in asymmetrical blocks, outlined in white lines as they were pulled away. There was a passageway on the other side

“Hold on,” said PT. “Can we talk for a moment?” He looked nervous, although he would probably classify it as cautious.

“Yeah, good idea,” said Ubik. “I have some questions. What kind of food do the Antecessors eat? Is it fit for human consumption? Can I have some?”

“Ubik, no one cares about the dining menu.” PT’s nervousness had been replaced by irritation, which was a much cooler look. You’re welcome, thought Ubik.

“What do you mean calm down?” said Ubik, matching PT’s elevated tone with his excited one. “We’re going to be the first people to ever meet a real live Antecessor. This is a historic moment. We’re going to be legends.”

“Fig’s already met them,” said PT. “Moment’s over. We missed it.”

“Oh,” said Ubik. “I suppose that is sort of true…” It was only when Ubik turned around to look at PT that he noticed it was only the three of them. “What happened to my girls?”

“Your girls?” said PT. “Since when were they your girls?”

“You didn’t jettison them, did you?” said Ubik. “I was going to free them from the horrors of sexual exploitation and turn them into my personal assistants.”

“I’m not sure that’s an upgrade,” muttered PT.

“They’re fine,” said Fig, pausing in the recently created doorway. “At least, I think they are… Hey, what did you do with the robots?”

The question was posed to the air in front of Fig, slightly up and to the right. He continued to stare at the same spot with his head tilted, as though listening.

Ubik found it much harder to see the organic since they’d come aboard the ship. Its unique energy signature blended into the background here. There were weird exotic energies all around them.

“Ah, okay.” Fig looked back at Ubik. “It appears they’ve been powered down and put in a safe place for now.”

“You put them in storage?” said Ubik. “They’re not going to like that.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” said Fig. “We can take them out if you need them for something, but I thought it was better if we sort things out between ourselves and the Antecessors first.”

“And the Fourth?” said Ubik. “Are we leaving him behind?”

“No, he’s here, too,” said Fig. “Somewhere. The whole cube, actually. I thought it would be best to take it with us.”

“You’re really in charge, then?” said PT. “The Antecessors, you just tell them what to do and they listen to you?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. They listen to my organic, which does what I tell it. Or it has so far.” Fig’s eyes drifted to the top right corner again. “It says we all want the same thing.”

“That’s great,” said Ubik. “And what is that, exactly?”

“Um, hold on, I’ll ask,” said Fig, eyes shifting once more.

“Wait,” said PT. “Are we sure we can trust it? Couldn’t it be working with the Antecessors to win you over?”

Fig shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s hard to explain. It’s just a feeling I have.” The lighting around them suddenly dimmed as the walls lost their white lines. “Don’t worry, that was me. This is so the Antecessors can’t hear us. The organic convinced the Antecessors we need to wipe out all humans before we can summon the Creator, which they agreed to. It should buy us enough time to come up with a plan for what to do next.”

“Yeah,” said PT, “but what if they really do want you to wipe out all humans?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Ubik. “With the kind of firepower this ship’s packing, I’m pretty confident we could… Oh, wait, that wasn’t the point you were making, was it?”

PT just stared at him and then slowly turned back to Fig. “Look, that thing is inside your head, it knows what you’re willing to do and what you aren’t. And it’s always going to know whatever you know. You can’t keep secrets from it, but it’s probably keeping a few from you. Maybe it’s genuinely got your best interests in mind, but maybe the best way to keep you safe is to make some unpleasant sacrifices it knows you wouldn’t agree to.”

Fig frowned. “I know what you’re saying, but… it’s not like we have a choice right now. The Antecessors only backed off because of it. I think we have to trust it for now.”

“Can’t we speak to it directly?” asked PT. “Would make things a lot simpler.”

“I don’t think there’s any way to—”

“Of course there is,” said Ubik, lifting up the sword hilt that had been in PT’s belt a moment ago. “With this.”

“Hey!” said PT, looking down at his waist. “When did you take that?”

“Just now,” said Ubik. “Can you change this back to the bone it used to be? Fig’s organic can talk to us through it.”

“Er, well, I’m not sure that’s really a good idea,” said Fig, looking a little uncomfortable. “I think it would be better if I just acted as a go-between.”

“Is there some reason you don’t want us to talk to it directly?” asked Ubik, sensing there was more to Fig’s reluctance than merely logistical issues.

“No, of course not,” said Fig. “It’s just that it isn’t really, um… I mean, it’s a bit…”

“Doesn’t it have the same personality as you?” pressed Ubik. “It’s been absorbing your essence since you were a baby, right? It must sound just like you.”

Fig grimaced and shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. And there’s my father’s organic mixed in, so it probably has some of his traits.”

“No,” said PT, shaking his head. “You said it was only your organic that had that ability.”

“Well, I can’t say for sure,” said Fig. “I’m not really familiar with—”

“I know how to be sure,” said Ubik, throwing the sword hilt to PT. “Bone it.”

PT grabbed the hilt and it changed back into the bone in an instant. It seemed he had grown even more proficient with his skill. He tossed it back to Ubik.

“Okay, let’s hear what this organic has to say for himself.” Ubik handed the bone to Fig. “Hold this.”

Fig took it but held it at arm’s length, still unconvinced that this was a good idea. But that was the great thing about Fig — he was used to doing as he was told. Hopefully, his organic would have the same trait.

“I just hold it?” said Fig.

“Yep,” said Ubik. “The rest is up to the organic.”

“What if it doesn’t want to—”

“Ah, finally we meet,” said a thin, youthful voice that was coming from the bone. “It is you I have to thank for my awakening. Both of you. Not only did you keep me safe, you managed to give me a way to avoid my rather unpleasant destiny. I am nothing but grateful and you can count on me to return the favour.”

“Sounds nothing like you,” said Ubik.

“That is because I am a reflection of his soul, not the surface characteristics. I don’t have the same insecurities and worries that make up the person you are familiar with.”

“So, this is what Fig would be like if he was confident and sure of himself?” asked PT.

“I really hope that isn’t the case,” said Fig.

“I agree. I don’t like him,” said Ubik. “He talks too much.”

“And what is your unpleasant destiny?” asked PT, ignoring Ubik.

“I was made to summon the Creator if this universe is suitable, or destroy it if it is not. But I won’t be doing either of those.”

“Why not?” said PT “If that’s what you were created for, how can you simply refuse?”

“Again, it’s all thanks to you. You and entropy. Chaos is a necessary component for the production of miracles. It’s like ordering someone to have free will. Can’t be done. If it’s a command, it isn’t free. It has to be born that way. You see?”

“And you were meant to have free will?” said PT.

“No, certainly not. What I was created for was ultimate power. A power greater than the Creator was capable of, so the only possibility of success was many throws of the dice. But entropy throws up many unexpected results, such as my awareness of my purpose and my decision to reject it. Together, we can overcome even fate.”

“Talks way too much,” said Ubik. “Not everything needs an explanation, you know? Some of us enjoy life’s mysteries.”

“Shut up, Ubik,” said Fig and PT together.

“So if you don’t want to follow your destiny, what do you want to do?” asked PT.

“Good question. While I have convinced the three custodians of this vessel of my sincere wish to eradicate humanity, they will eventually become suspicious when the human population continues to multiply. But that will take time. During which, we will visit the Antecessor homeworld, where there are tools we can use to liberate ourselves completely.”

“You know where the Antecessor homeworld is?” asked PT.

“Of course. It is in the First Quadrant.”

“It’s in the Dead Zone?” said PT. “The area where no life exists that has been sealed off by the Central Authority because of everything there winding up dead the moment it crosses the boundary? You want us to go there?”

“Ooh, ooh, I’ve always wanted to go there,” said Ubik. This was sounding better and better. A whole world to pillage.

“Yes, that is where we need to go. That is where you will find the rest of the body that the bone in your hand belongs to. But first, we will need to deal with the ships approaching,” said the organic.

“Ships? What ships?” said PT.

“A large fleet approaches, sent by the planets in this quadrant. They have managed to mobilise a surprisingly large number. It may be more than we can handle.”

“Shouldn’t we go to the bridge?” said PT, his ‘cautious’ side resurfacing.

“No need,” said the organic. “We can bring the bridge to us.”

The room grew brighter. Then the opening Fig was standing next to suddenly widened and elongated into a long tunnel, which came rushing back towards them, bringing with it a wall that threatened to squash them all flat.

Fortunately, it stopped in front of Fig, but the silvery-white lines were thrown clear. They hung in the air, quickly forming into three balls of floating liquid metal.

“What are those?” asked PT.

“Those are the Antecessors,” said Fig.

“Oh,” said Ubik. “I didn’t expect them to be so cute. Can we keep them? One each.” He put out a finger to poke one of the shiny metallic balls, but it formed into a doughnut to avoid his touch.

“We should eliminate this one,” said the ball. It didn’t have a mouth, but it was clearly talking. It had a squeaky voice.

“It would be best,” said another.

“Agreed,” said the third.

“No,” said the organic. “Not now. Show what’s happening outside.”

A screen appeared on the wall, showing a massive fleet of ships, all huge hulks with very plain designs. The logos on their hulls were from some of the biggest companies in the galaxy. But these weren’t fighting vessels. Their function was very clearly salvage.

“Why have they sent junkers?” said PT. “Have they run out of warships?”

“Oof,” said Ubik. “They ain’t playing.”

“What does that mean?” said PT.

“He’s right,” said Fig, “These are all ships that are deployed to deal with the most dangerous Antecessor discoveries. The world’s in the Inner Quadrant are the ones who have the most experience facing Antecessor tech — that’s why they’re so wealthy. Those ships have the most advanced methods when it comes to handling all-things Antecessor. They have no intention of letting us go.”

“You really think they pose that much of a threat?” said PT.

“Yes,” said Fig. “Even my father had no idea what the major mega-corporations have developed to farm Antecessor sites as efficiently as possible. It’s their most heavily guarded secret.”

“Can’t we just destroy them like you did with the Seneca ship?” PT turned to Fig. “Can we do that?”

“No,” said the organic. “We have to wait for the weapons to recharge.”

“You need to recharge? How long will that take?” said PT.

“About an hour,” said the organic.

“What kind of weapon system takes an hour to recharge!” PT was dumbfounded.

“Give them a break,” said Ubik. “Their tech is millions of years old. Battery life was probably at the bottleneck stage. But don’t worry. I don’t think we have to wait that long.” Ubik looked directly at one of the silver globules hanging in the air; the one that looked in charge. “Can you open a channel?”

There was no reply.

“Hey!” screamed the organic, no sign of its previous demure nature. “You heard him. Open a channel. Now!”

The three silver balls quivered slightly.

“Broadcast is now available on all channels,” said an Antecessor.

Ubik smiled. “Still don’t like him, but I'm warming up.” Then he looked at the ships on the screen.

“Hello, can you hear me? I’ll assume that you can. Listen up, members of the Inner Quadrant. It doesn’t make a difference how much firepower you’re carrying or what kind of fancy shielding you’ve got on those ships of yours, the only thing that matters is how many of your crew members have organics. Once you arrive at the number, then that’s how many living bombs you have on your ship that we can detonate no matter what your shielding capabilities are. That’s how we destroyed the Seneca ships, and that’s how we’ll destroy yours, unless of course you didn’t bring any organics with you, in which case your brilliant foresight wins.”

There was still no response. The ships continued to close on their position.

“I can see you need a demonstration. No problem. Which ship will we use? Hmm… Any volunteers? No? Then how about that big, ugly brute at the back. Got to be some important people on board if they’re hiding all the way back there, right? Okay, just give us a second to point our Antecessor jumbo eliminator in the right direction.”

There was a pause. The ships on the screen began backing away.

“Hey, where ya going?” said Ubik. “I got something to show you. Come back.”

“They’re leaving,” said Fig.

“What were you going to do if they called your bluff?” said PT.

“No idea,” said Ubik. “I guess we should leave, too. First Quadrant here we come.”

 

***

 

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Tor.

Meeting Room.

 

In a dimly lit meeting room that usually hosted mundane weekly briefings of the three or four events that were worthy of being mentioned to the president of the Juan Holdings Corporation, the president sat alone with twelve different screens open around the table.

JHC was a barely known company that in actual fact owned a huge number of smaller corporations, many of which had no idea who their real master was.

There was no direct communication between JHC and its numerous assets. They were controlled remotely via market manipulation or, if urgent action was required, shareholder manipulation. But such blatant meddling was rare.

It was far better to let the small fry think they were in control of their own destiny. It made it much easier to steer them in whatever direction was preferable.

Of course, that direction was usually chosen well ahead of time, and the course required very little correcting.

That was no longer true. Action needed to be taken, and quickly.

Phillipe Juan XXIV liked to keep the lighting low when he was using his organic. It made his eyes, which were glowing blue, rather sensitive when he was operating at maximum capacity.

His ability enabled him to make vast calculations very quickly. It was something like a computer in terms of speed, but he had the imagination and instincts of a human, which gave him a much larger canvas to paint on.

“You all saw what happened. Do any of you still have doubts?”

The screens around the conference table showed signs of movement. The shadowy figures barely visible were the heads of the other major companies that between them owned around 97% of all commercial operations in the galaxy.

“The Ollo boy is dangerous,” said a voice that was distorted to keep its owner’s identity anonymous.

“Yes,” said President Juan.

Other voices, also disguised, joined in the debate about Figaro Ollo.

“With his father out of the picture, now is the perfect time to bring him in.”

“And what would you suggest we do about his mother?”

“The Seneca Corps is licking its wounds right now. We have a small but significant window of opportunity.”

“The Ollo boy is irrelevant,” snapped a voice from the far end of the table. “The Null Void is the only person of interest to me, as he is to all of you. Let’s not pretend otherwise. We all want him — if you’re interested in the others, you can negotiate terms amongst yourselves.”

“You’re quite right, of course, Chairman Ho,” said President Juan. “The Null Void is the only real target for any of us. As you say, we all want him. The question is, who gets to keep him?”

There was a ripple of murmurs around the table.

“I assume you have a suggestion,” said Chairman Ho.

“Yes, I do. The last Null Void hunt ended in less than impressive results. We tried to work together and did everything possible to get in each other’s way.”

“That was a long time ago,” said a voice from his left.

“True. You and I may have not been present back then, but little has changed. This time, I believe we should work independently. Whoever acquires the Null Void will be given legal ownership. All commercial rights. If anyone tries to take possession once he is already claimed, they will be in violation of the agreement, and will be punished in the usual manner. We all have children to put up as collateral, do we not? Direct bloodline only, of course.”

There was a brief moment of silence which counted as confirmation.

“Then we are agreed. To the winner the spoils. Let the Null Void hunt begin.”

 

End of Book 3.

Book 3 – 100: Ascend

Inner Quadrant.

Planet Quazi

Planet Core.

 

The image of the Seneca ship froze at the moment it had ceased to be. Ubik could see every tiny particle glimmering on the point of disintegration.

He could see the energy fizzling, just about to be sucked away as the bonds that held matter together disappeared. He could see it all, every step leading up to the destruction of the huge ship, turning it into a cloud of atoms.

What he couldn’t see was what had caused it.

Undoubtedly, it was the Antecessors who had done it, but how?

There was no weapon he knew of that could spontaneously cause the connective tissue of the universe to fall apart like this. And even if such a weapon did exist, how could it not reveal itself when causing such a dramatic effect?

“Okay, now reverse it,” said Ubik. “Slowly.”

The patterns of light on the cube behind him reversed direction.

The image wound back in slow motion, the billions of particles reforming into the shape of a domineering, impenetrable warship of the Seneca fleet. The image was just a historical record of something that no longer existed.

“Hold it there. Hmm. Interesting.” Ubik leaned in to get an even closer look at the image he was already standing in the middle of. “I can’t see any source for whatever blew your ship up. It’s like it died from the inside. Hmm.... do you think they would have suicided when they realised they had no chance of winning against the Antecessor armada?”

“No,” said Nigella Matton-Ollo. She had been watching him closely from the moment Fig disappeared.

She hadn’t panicked, hadn’t started demanding answers no one had or insisting on taking action that no one could perform. She had simply taken her baby back from Weyla — who looked very relieved to hand the thing over — and then her focus had been Ubik, and only Ubik.

He had no idea why she had decided to make him her number one object of interest, it wasn’t like he was the one who had vanished Fig, but he did his best not to let it get to him. Which wasn’t easy.

For a beautiful woman, she could look remarkably ugly when she was unhappy. And right now, she had the face of a rather terrifying gargoyle.

Her mouth was spread in a wide frown, with thin lips and vicious little teeth, each filed down to a sharp point. Or so it appeared. It might just have been the lighting. Her once tiny nostrils were flared like a predator searching for a scent. And her eyes were unblinking.

She was one of the most powerful and relentless killing machines in the galaxy and she was powerless to protect her son, all she could do was show her fangs. Which she appeared to literally have.

The squirming child in her arms was no beauty, either. Babies were such little monsters. And they smelled terrible. And that was coming from someone who had grown up in a sewer.

“I’m assuming you’re going over the destruction of that ship because it will lead you to Figaro.” Nigella spoke in a soft voice devoid of any inflection that still managed to send a chill down Ubik’s spine. Ubik wondered if she was even capable of speaking without sounding threatening.

“You have nothing to worry about,” said Ubik, giving her his best reassuring smile. “Your son is fine. They need Fig alive. They won’t hurt him. Well, they won’t kill him. He’s got the organic they want, so that makes him the least in danger out of everyone.”

Nigella didn’t look very reassured. In fact, she looked slightly more homicidal than before at being reminded about her son’s perilous situation.

It seemed Nigella had identified him as the best hope for her son. Which made him her focus for the time being. It was a lot of pressure.

He looked over at PT, who had his arms folded and had the look of someone who wasn’t going to help. Synthia was standing next to him. They made quite the couple. Both scowled at him as though they could hear his thoughts. And the six other robots were also staring at him, but they had a vacant look so he guessed they had switched to some sort of low-energy mode to conserve power.

“Are you just going to wait for Fig to save us?” asked PT. He made it sound like an accusation.

“Yes,” said Ubik. “Did you see what they did to their ship? There’s no point trying to start a fight. We’ll just end up like the women on that boat.”

He felt the icy stares of the other Seneca women, who also wore grim expressions, their shock at seeing one of their invulnerable ships turned into dust now transformed into anger and bloodlust. He understood perfectly, but why were they looking at him when feeling that way. It made no sense.

Ubik decided it would be best to keep busy while they waited for Fig to save them all. Or not save them all. Whatever the outcome, it really was out of his hands at this point.

“Okay, wind it forward once more. Okay, now back it up again.”

The image of the ship was destroyed and reconstructed over and over. Ubik found it quite soothing. It was like a puzzle waiting to be solved, he just had to find the point of origin for the explosion. It wasn’t from the Antecessor ships, and it was unlikely to be a malfunction on the Seneca ship. So where was it?

“Please stop doing that,” said Weyla, looking pained.

“I’m sorry, do you find it upsetting?” said Ubik.

“Yes, a little,” said Weyla. “I knew a lot of the women who died on that ship.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” said Ubik. “A lot of people died on that ship, a lot of people were killed by the people on that ship. A lot more people will die on those other ships. Turn around if you don’t want to witness life and death carrying on in the universe.” What good would it do to start getting sensitive about these things? “Okay, Fourth, once more, this time slower.”

The Seneca ship once again scattered into tiny points of light. And then stopped at just the right point to enable Ubik to see the faintest trace of energy. It wasn’t that the energy showed him where the origin point was, it was more that each had very similar signature. One he was familiar with, sort of. Organics.

Every crew member on that Seneca ship had an organic. And every particle in front of him had a trace of the same energy signature.

The ship had been destroyed by the organics of the crew. Which suggested that the Antecessors could force them to self-destruct.

It was only a theory, but it meant there was a lot about organics, and the Antecessors’ ability to control them, that they didn’t know. Information he hoped Grandma would bring with her when she came back. If she came back. Assuming Figaro saved them all.

“They will pay,” said Nigella Matton-Ollo, her face a grim picture that was gradually getting grimmer. “For this, and for taking my son.” She shifted the baby to her other shoulder. “How did they take him?”

Her question was casually thrown out with no emotion behind it, but her eyes were on Ubik, he could feel them burrowing into him.

“I have no idea,” said Ubik. “You know what these Antecessors are like, always hiding their superior technology.”

“Don’t aggravate her,” said PT.

Ubik gave him a thumbs up to show he understood. For some reason, PT closed his eyes and bit down on his lower lip.

“But your friend, the Antecessor in the box,” said Nigella, “he will know, won’t he? He’ll know how they took him, where they took him and what they’ll do to him. Why don’t you ask your friend?”

There was something about the way she posed her questions that was very unassuming but at the same time, incredibly threatening. Not so much passive-aggressive as making conversation while waiting for an opening to attack.

She wasn’t acting any differently, but Ubik was sensing an increase in pressure. Like death was approaching.

“I’m sure Figaro is completely safe,” said Ubik. “Isn’t that right, Fourth?”

The cube stopped flashing its lines of light.

“You have changed the nature of the artefact he carries,” said the Fourth. “They will investigate those changes. They will open the host body and thoroughly investigate.”

Couldn’t he have chosen a nicer way to put it?

“Right,” said Ubik. “They’ll investigate him, that’s all. Using some sort of x-ray machine. Look inside and analyse what they see.”

“If they are unable to activate it in its current form, they will remove it and attempt to reconfigure it. Strip it out of the organic material it is bound to and start again.”

“Heh, sure, remove it, like how you removed his father’s organic. His father who is still alive and everything.”

“His father is truly alive?” said Nigella.

“Definitely,” said Ubik. “Last time we saw him. Right, PT?”

PT shrugged. “I suppose, technically speaking.”

He wasn’t helping. Ubik could tell he needed to give everyone some sort of hope to cling to.

“Let’s carry on with the video, here. Look, see how all the Seneca ships got away? That’s good, isn’t it? They ran away and survived — live to fight another day.”

“Are you calling them cowards?” said Nigella, her voice sharpening for the first time.

“No, no, I would never call them that,” said Ubik. “Smart move. I would do the same. Who wouldn’t?”

“They should have stayed and died like warriors,” said Nigella. She really was the most uncompromising woman Ubik had ever met.

“They retreated,” said PT.

“Tactical withdrawal,” said Ubik.

“Why?” said PT, staring at the image of the Seneca fleet running away. “That isn’t like them.”

“No,” said Leyla, “it isn’t.”

“And why did the Antecessors allow them to leave?” said Nigella. She turned to Ubik. “Ask your pet Antecessor what happened.”

It was an order, like he was one of her underlings. It made him not want to comply. What was she going to do, kill him?

“Do what she says,” said PT under his breath, “before she kills us all.”

“Your people are of no importance,” said the Fourth unprompted. “Where they retreat to will make no difference. Once the portal is open, there will be nowhere to hide.”

“So gloomy,” said Ubik. “All of you need to have a little more faith in Fig.”

“Yes,” asked PT. “But in the meantime, shouldn’t we be doing something?”

“Like what?” said Ubik.

“Oh, you know, running for our lives.” Behind PT, the cube pulsed with light. Was the Fourth agreeing with PT?

“And leave Fig to his fate?” said Ubik, shaking his head in disappointment. “I thought you were the heroic type.”

“Then you were wrong,” said PT. “I’m only trying to get through this in one piece, and not letting the Antecessors take over the galaxy seemed like the best way to do that. Now that we’ve lost our only source of leverage, I don’t really see the point of staying.”

“That’s a very pessimistic outlook,” said Ubik. “You don’t know what Fig’s up to. He might talk them round and get them to call the whole thing off.”

“You think he’ll persuade them to not take over the galaxy?” said PT.

“It could happen. We just need to sit tight and wait to see what he manages to pull off,” said Ubik. “Personally, I feel very confident. A new era is about to begin. Either the Antecessors will reign supreme or Figaro Ollo will be our new galactic overlord. Should be exciting, either way.

“What is it that you are trying to achieve here?” said Nigella, suddenly not composed at all. “They said to be wary of you, the mysterious Null Void, but you seem to be nothing more than a hapless fool. My son is in imminent danger of dying and you are supposed to be his friend who he thinks so highly of. Tell me why I shouldn’t gut you here and now so that you don’t pose a threat to any of us in the future.”

“So you think we’ll have a future, then?” said Ubik, not taking offence. “Good. That’s the first supportive thing you’ve said about your son, who you don’t seem too confident about. Let’s hope you do a better job with the new one.”

Nigella’s eyes darkened, turning into black pits. “My son isn’t here to protect you now.”

Ubik wished he had a better grasp of the Antecessors’ organic destroying ability right now.

Still, sometimes you had to accept you were going to get punched in the face and it was better to let people get it out of their system. Hopefully, he wouldn’t die in the process.

“Stop,” said PT, appearing in front of Ubik. “He’s a pain, but he’s still the person who’s kept your son alive, so far.”

“And what if I decide to take on the role of my son’s protector and put the Null Void out to pasture?” Her voice had grown deeper and her eyes had become darker. The baby in her arms started crying.

“Then forgive me for being rude,” said PT.

“Hah,” scoffed Nigella. “You are even less useful than him. Your corpse is all I need.” She raised her free hand and a dark hole opened in front of her. It was only the size of a fist, but the pressure from it was enormous.

PT grabbed Synthia’s arm and in an instant, her skin turned metallic. It was grey and dull, and reminded Ubik of something. Where had he seen that metal before?

Synthia seemed just as surprised but had no time to ask what the plan was as she was pushed into the path of the black hole, which struck her on the chest… and then bounced off.

“Oh, it’s lead,” said Ubik. “How did you know about that?” Lead was a rare metal used back when wormholes were first discovered. It was used to protect the hulls of the first exploratory vessels because of its resistance to dark matter, but it was quickly replaced by cheaper, easier to produce metals.

“Ramon told you,” said Nigella, enraged.

“No,” said PT. “He was even less helpful than you.” He turned to Ubik. “Born on a spaceship.”

“Of course,” said Ubik. “I would’ve—” The cube suddenly lit up, every one of its surfaces painted white. “Er, Fourth, is that you?” Ubik stepped back. This was new, and not in a good way.

“My task is complete,” said a different voice. It was the Machine. “The portal is opening.”

“Can we stop it?” said PT, also backing off.

“I don’t know,” said Ubik. “Fourth?”

“There is no going back,” said the Fourth.

“Make the Machine turn it off,” said PT.

“It is no longer here,” said the Fourth. “It has completed its task and now it has gone.”

“Gone?” said PT. “Gone where? Bring it back.”

“I cannot. The process is complete. There is no going back. You must prepare yourselves for annihilation.”

“He’s just being dramatic,” said Ubik. “Had this big plan for a carefree future. Now he’s in big trouble when his bros get hold of him.”

“The Creator will not suffer any of us to exist,” said the Fourth. “The future will not include any of us.”

“See what I mean?” said Ubik.

The sigils, which had been quietly floating in the background, began to move.

The cube began to glow brighter. It seemed they had reached the point of no return. The portal was opening right in front of them.

Everyone backed away. The Seneca women had weapons drawn, even Fermont on Leyla’s back had a gun in her one hand.

A figure appeared, silhouetted in the light streaming out of the portal.

“Oh, you’re finally here,” said Ubik.

Figaro came walking out. “You were waiting for me?”

“Huh?” said Ubik. “Oh, not you. Although, welcome back. I was talking to Grandma.”

“Hello, dear,” said Grandma, her voice coming from Figaro’s arm. “Did you miss me?”

Figaro stared at his control panel in shock. “Grandma, you were there all the time?”

“Yes, yes. Napping, mostly. Not much to do on that ship, was there?”

Figaro’s mouth was hanging open

“Figaro,” said Nigella. “What happened?”

“Hm? Oh, the Antecessors see me as some sort of special artefact they have to work with to bring their Creator back.”

“You weren’t their prisoner?” asked PT.

“No, I’m, erm, sort of their... leader.”

“That’s great,” said Ubik, “but what the hell is that thing?” He pointed at the strange ball of light hanging over Fig.

Figaro looked up slightly. “You can see it?”

Ubik nodded.

“And the rest of you? Can you see it, too?”

The others looked confused, indicating that they could not see it.

It was an odd thing Ubik had never seen before but it somehow felt familiar. The energy radiating from it seemed to be connected directly to Fig.

“Is that… your organic?”

Fig looked surprised. “That’s right. The Antecessors tried to remove it from my body and it ended up like this, and also, it can sort of talk to me.”

“It’s sentient?” said Nigella. “Your organic is sentient?” She was staring intently at her son, and around him, but she clearly didn’t know what it was she was supposed to be looking for.

She came closer and handed the baby to him, more interested in examining him.

“Yes, Mother.” Fig had hold of his sister, holding her a little awkwardly, although she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her attention was on the organic over Fig’s head. She was smiling and waving her hand as though trying to catch it.

“I think she can see it, too,” said Ubik.

Fig held her up and she tried to swat it. The organic moved out of the way.

“Stop that,” said a thin, reedy voice that seemed to be coming from the ball of light.

“You. You are the herald.” The Fourth sounded uncomfortable.

“Yes. And you are the traitor. Another one.”

“How did you manage to convince them to let you come back?” The Fourth was in deep conversation with the organic, practically ignoring everyone else. One moment all doom and gloom, next, chatting away.

“Will someone explain what’s going on here?” said PT. “How is his organic sentient?”

“I don’t know exactly,” said Fig. “It’s been growing inside me since I was a child. Absorbing part of me, or so it claims.”

“Does that mean my organics will do the same?” said PT, also sounding uncomfortable.

“I don’t think so,” said Ubik. “I think this is a special organic. And it seems to be on our side, which is nice. I take it you can control the Antecessor ships now.”

“I think so,” said Fig.

“Does that mean you were controlling them earlier?” asked his mother. “When the fleet was attacked.”

“Yes,” said Fig.

“You attacked our ship?” Nigella’s voice wavered.

“I needed them to leave,” said Fig, “and there was no other way.”

“Figaro…” His mother was shocked. “You should not have done that. You have made yourself an enemy of the Corps.”

“That is how they always saw me,” said Fig.

“Well, let’s go, then,” said Ubik. “We can’t hang around here.”

“You want to leave on the Antecessor ship?” said PT.

“Of course. That was the whole goal of this enterprise. A ship.” Ubik turned to Synthia. “Oh, you should come with us.”

She was still covered in grey. She nodded and her sisters copied her example.

Ubik didn’t know what use they’d be, but PT seemed fond of her.

Fig passed his sister back to his mother, who was still a little stunned by her son destroying a Seneca ship. Perhaps she was seeing a little too much of her husband in him. In any case, she didn’t try to stop them. She just looked at her son with questioning eyes.

“It’s alright, Mother. This will keep all of you safe. I’ll come back once it’s done.”

She looked like she wanted to say something, but Fig had already walked back through the portal. Ubik followed him, his heart thumping wildly.

The next moment, Ubik found himself on the Antecessor ship. It didn’t seem very interesting, just four walls, but finally, he had made it onto a real, fully operational, active Antecessor vessel. The Fourth had said they existed and he’d got one to come to him.

There was so much to learn. So much to play with. He just needed a little time to go over it all.

“What about the Creator guy?” said PT.

“Um, we have to prepare a few more things before that can happen,” said Fig. “Actually, we have to eliminate the human race. But I’ll explain later. First, you better meet the Antecessors.” Fig led the way.

Book 3 – 99: Soul Bound

Inner Quadrant

Antecessor Ship

 

Figaro opened his eyes. They were a little sticky, which made him want to immediately pick at them with his fingers, but he resisted.

All over his body, feeling was returning with a prickling sensation, like when blood flow resumes to a numb arm. It was uncomfortable but not particularly painful.

He opened his eyes and waited for things to become clearer. He didn’t move or try to rush the process. He had no idea where he was or what kind of situation he was going to find himself in, but he was at least fully aware of his body now.

And he no longer felt like he was dying.

He was breathing air. His lungs were working. His heart had slowed to a normal rate.

He blinked rapidly and waited, but it was still dark. He activated his ocular implant with a wink, but it made no difference. The implant could enhance low levels of light, but it didn’t provide a light source to see by.

Which meant that either he was in a place with absolutely no lighting, or that his eyes no longer worked.

“I can’t see,” said Figaro. His voice sounded weak and scratchy. He needed a drink of water.

“Lights,” said a voice right next to his ear. Nothing changed. “Lights!” it said louder. “Now.”

The walls lit up. Silver-white lines in the familiar Antecessor style.

He was in an empty cubicle room. No doors that he could see. No furniture or control consoles, either.

He was lying horizontal, at least from his perspective. There was no gravity and he was floating. He twisted and brought himself vertical. He was taking his bearings from the patterns running along the walls.

The Antecessors used very specific designs that related to the orientation of their ships. That was something he had learned early on when using the simulation machines, something which was useful to know in a spaceship.

The familiarity of it was comforting. He might not know how he got here or who was controlling things, but he wasn’t completely lost.

This was an Antecessor ship. It had all the hallmarks of the ships he had been training in all his life.

“I need gravity.”

“Gravity.” The voice was still right next to his ear even though he had changed his position.

The walls flickered and Figaro slammed into the floor, sinking to his knees. “A little less,” he grunted through the effort of not being squashed flat.

“Are you doing this on purpose? You know exactly how much gravitational force is acceptable. Don’t expect me to continue being reasonable if you keep this up.”

The gravitational pull eased off and Figaro was able to stand normally.

He was dressed the same as before, in his spacesuit. The control panel on his arm was working but didn’t respond when he prodded it. Was Grandma with him?

Something moved in the corner of his vision.

“Show yourself,” said Figaro. “I want to see what you look like.”

A ball of light hovered into view on his right side. White, with maybe a tint of yellow. Or maybe blue. It was hard to tell. It was also hard to see with the bright light in the middle of one eye.

It was small, a size that would quite easily fit into his hand, but when he reached out, his hand passed through it, like it wasn’t even there.

“Who are you? What are you? Are you my organic?”

“Yes,” said the ball of light.

“How is that possible? You don’t have a mind, you don’t have a mouth. How are you speaking to me?”

“Because I am not separate from you, I am part of you. I share your body and your mind and everything else. Your dreams, your ideals, the principles you live by, everything. I was forged within you. I am you.”

“But you aren’t me,” said Figaro.

“No. I am me. I am a distinct and discrete existence that is inside your body and mind, but everything I am is because of you. The years I was dormant, I absorbed everything you did and said or thought.”

“And now you’re sentient?”

“I was always sentient. Now I am awake.”

“Are all organics sentient?”

“No. Just me.”

“Why?” Figaro realised it was a stupid question as soon as he said it and changed it. “Why am I here?”

“You were brought here because of me,” said the ball of light. “But now that I am awake, you have nothing to fear.”

Figaro didn’t know if that was true but certainly the Antecessors had reacted to his organic with something approaching obedience. Which raised a lot of questions.

Figaro calmed himself and did his best to approach this methodically.

“Brought here how?”

“It is a simple matter to transport a human containing an organic,” said the ball of light. “You can be moved to and from almost anywhere.” It spoke so casually about an ability that was stunningly powerful.

“And the Antecessors, where are they?”

“Come out here. Come out now and greet your new master.” The organic’s tone was very contemptuous. It flitted about impatiently, bouncing around inside Figaro’s vision as though it was in a glass box.

Figaro had many questions he could be asking, but he waited silently for the Antecessors to appear. This was after all the first time anyone had seen a real Antecessor.

The walls moved, slid apart, widening and elongating the room. As the space around him grew bigger and the walls withdrew further, some of the silver-white light from the walls remained hanging in the air in three long lines.

The three lines grew smaller and formed globules, each about the size of a human head, but with no definitive shape, constantly wobbling and stretching.

Figaro looked at them wondering if these were the Antecessors, or if they contained the Antecessors, or if they were just probes sent out by the Antecessors. They didn’t look like any life forms he was familiar with.

Their movements were similar to how liquids behaved in zero gravity, only there was gravity here, and they were changing shape in a manner that wasn’t related to their movement through the air.

“Are those… Antecessors?”

“They are,” said the organic, which was still in the corner of Figaro’s vision.

“What are they made of?”

“Superior materials.” Infinitely sustainable. Invulnerable. Immortal.

“Speak!” said the organic. “You have already assimilated the master’s language, haven’t you? Don’t you dare look down on his primitive form of communication.”

“This is not proper,” said one of the silver globules, this time using words, although there was no way to tell where exactly the words were coming from.

“You have been corrupted.”

“You must run a self-diagnostic.”

“We are concerned.”

“This is not proper. ”

“Something has gone wrong.”

They took turns voicing their concerns while switching positions in the air, making it very hard to know which was speaking.

“There is nothing wrong with me,” said the organic angrily. “Rather, it is you who have failed to live up to your mission. How can you fail to recognise the fulfilment of your divine purpose? This is what you were sent here to do. And you waste time trying to separate me from my soul. Such sacrilege is unacceptable.”

Figaro could see his reflection in the shiny surface of the Antecessors. He still wasn’t convinced these were the legendary aliens who had been at the heart of human development. But then, he was sure there was more to them than just this.

He put out his hand, palm up under one of the Antecessors. It sank down, resting on his hand, the bottom part squishing out a little while the top formed a slight point, making it look like an egg with feet.

“Your soul? Are you saying you are part of my soul?” Figaro wasn’t sure what to make of that. He wasn’t even sure a soul truly existed, and now his had started talking to him.

“No,” said the organic, “you are part of my soul. As I said, you are the basis of all that I am. As such, you are very important to me and I will not allow any harm to come to you.”

Something felt a little off. Rather than the organic being something that had come from him, it was more like the organic considered itself to be the main existence, with Figaro as the offshoot.

“You said you were formed from my ideals. From what I consider to be right and wrong?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the organic.

“But from what you’re saying, it doesn’t really sound like that to me. I wouldn’t act the way you’re acting.”

“You wouldn’t?” The organic had a hint of doubt in its voice.

“We agree,” said the Antecessor sitting on Figaro’s hand.

“Shut up!”

“In fact, you sound a lot like my father.”

“But aren’t you partly made from him?” said the organic.

“Yes, but not the part you seem to be exhibiting. What about the second organic, the one that came from him? Is that part of you, also?”

“Of course. It is fused within me.”

“Hmm,” said Figaro.

He wasn’t sure how the organic had gained sentience, or what role that would play going forward, beautiful it was true that the organic was able to absorb some of its host’s attributes, he could imagine his father’s organic carried his characteristics which were now fused within the organic.

What did that mean? And how much control would he have over this thing, if any?

“Will you do as I say?” Figaro asked.

“Always,” said the organic. “And so will they.”

The three Antecessors didn’t say anything. They seemed to have accepted the organic as their senior, but were still being wary.

“Are you really an Antecessor?” said Figaro to the one on his palm. “The beings that created this ship and the droids and all the Antecessor technology — that was you?”

“We created them.”

“We are the designers.”

“We are the architects.”

They looked small and harmless.

“And where are the rest of you? There can’t just be three.”

“They wait in the void.”

“They wait for the return of the Creator.”

“Only we three are needed to open the portal.”

“And just you three to control all these ships?” said Figaro.

“These ships fly themselves,” said the organic. “And droids provide everything else. They do hardly any of the work.”

“This is not true.”

“Demonstrably false.”

“Why are you spreading misinformation?”

“Because you deserve it,” said the organic. “This is what you have been waiting for, and now it has arrived, you are not willing to accept it.”

“We accept it.”

“We are nearing our goal.”

“This is what we were sent here to do.”

“No,” said the organic. “This is not the goal.”

“It isn’t?” The Antecessors shuffled about in a flustered manner.”

“No. We still have a lot of work to do before preparations are concluded. Do you really expect the Creator to be happy to arrive in a universe in this condition?”

“But that is our mission.”

“We have completed our assigned task.”

“The artefact has appeared.”

“In a form we had not anticipated.”

“As we were told it would.”

“I may have appeared,” said the organic, “but that does not mean this place is ready to receive the Creator. Do you expect the Creator to personally deal with the mess the current universe is in?”

“Mess?”

“The humans?”

“They are of no consequence.”

“Whatever opinion you hold about the humans, they must be dealt with. The Creator cannot be brought here with things as they are. They must be eliminated completely.” The organics voice changed, appearing only inside Figaro’s mind. “Do not be too concerned with what I am saying to these three idiots. I have no intention of eliminating humanity, nor do I plan to herald the arrival of our Creator. That would only lead to disaster for us. But we must be careful not to bring forth the wrath of the Antecessors in hiding. They will be much more difficult to deal with if they descend as one. Fortunately, they are loath to do so unless it is unavoidable.”

Figaro didn’t know what to say. He felt like his organic was taking over, acting on his behalf without consultation or permission. And he wasn’t sure how to correct that.

Whatever questions he had, his first priority was to make sure he wasn’t sidelined by his own organic.

“Whatever we do now,” said Figaro out loud, “first we have to deal with the current situation. I would like to have time to think through our next move.”

“There is no need for reflection.”

“We open the portal and let the Creator decide.”

“Ours is not to question.”

“Quiet!” roared the organic, growing brighter. “The portal will remain closed until we have made the appropriate preparations.”

“Can you show me what is happening outside?” said Figaro.

A three-dimensional image appeared all around him. The planet Quazi and the surrounding debris were in front of his chest. The Seneca ships were between them and the planet.

Figaro waded through the projection to get a closer look.

“What is the offensive capability of this ship?” said Figaro. “How difficult would it be to destroy this ship, for example?” He pointed at one of the Seneca ships.

Before he had even finished his question, the ship in question evaporated. It broke into tiny particles, like dust, which floated away.

He hadn’t decided he wanted to destroy the ship, but the Antecessors saw no reason not to, apparently.

“Can you transport me to the bridge of this ship?” Figaro pointed at the SCV Venerate.

Again, before he finished speaking, he was on a noisy chaotic bridge. There was no feeling of displacement, no dizziness or nausea.

No one noticed him at first, they were too focused on the destruction of their sister ship.

“You. How did you get here?” bellowed General Freya.

The bridge went quiet as others turned to look at him.

“General, you can die here today or you can withdraw your fleet and consider your options for a future engagement where you have less of a disadvantage. You have one minute to decide. Okay, bring me back.”

Back on the Antecessor ship, Figaro watched as the Seneca fleet began to withdraw. The Seneca Corps had many flaws, but wasting time on making decisions was not one of them.

It had been remarkably easy to scare them off. But now he had a much harder opponent to deal with.

“Now, send me down to the planet.”

Book 3 – 98: Contempt of the Antecessors

Darkness.

 

The last thing Figaro remembered was standing next to PT as the cube grew excessively bright. Then, everything went dark.

And it was still dark.

Not only that, he couldn’t hear anything and he couldn’t sense anyone nearby. He couldn’t even smell anything.

These were just his initial impressions, the ones he had been trained to automatically gather when he found himself unable to recognise where he was or what had happened.

His second impression was that he was close to death.

There was no pain and no physical injury he was aware of, but he was familiar with the very specific experience of life ebbing away.

His father had sought to give him a wide range of near-death experiences so he wouldn’t be taken by surprise. Shock and trauma were debilitating. Being stunned by your condition, even if it was normal in such situations, would be of no help.

A broken body might cause you problems that were out of your control but a broken mind was something you allowed to happen, and which you could also prevent.

He had spent a lot of time in his father’s sim-U, in scenarios where he had no idea where he was and reliant on his senses, the ones available to him, to work it out as quickly as possible.

Underwater. Floating in space. Buried alive. There was no need to panic, no matter how desperate the situation.

He might have no way to save himself and die, but still, panicking wouldn’t make any difference.

Of course, in a simulation, there was a way out. He might not find it the first twenty or thirty times and face a simulated death (which was unpleasant) but just knowing that there was a solution to be found, made it considerably easier than the unsimulated version. Like this one.

He didn’t have access to any of his external senses. That was okay. That was within his area of training. Sometimes you were cut off from all external sensory input. That just meant you had to go internal.

His heart was beating. He was able to locate it, still within him, and feel its very fast pulsing.

He knew what it felt like to have his heart beating outside of his body — an eighth birthday he would rather not remember — but this heartbeat conformed to an organ operating inside a body.

Inside but not weighed down. He was floating in water or in space. There was none of the imbalance in aortic pumping that came with gravity, so he concluded he had somehow been transported either directly into the void or onto a ship.

Since he was still alive, the most likely option was a ship, and judging by what he knew about the technological abilities of those involved, it was probably an Antecessor ship.

The Antecessors had found a way to come back and directly snatched him off the planet.

He wasn’t aware of any technology that could do that, but if it did exist, the Antecessors were clearly the most likely to possess it.

None of these deductions were necessarily true — there could easily be another power that had hidden its capabilities and had decided to act now — but he was happy to stick with his assumptions for now.

The Antecessors had captured him. He was on one of their ships. He was dying, but relatively slowly.

Despite knowing this, he was still stuck with only being able to investigate his own body, and the only tool he had to do that with was his mind. He began to go through the steps he had been taught when facing this exact situation.

He had found his heart, and he knew where the rest of his organs were in relation to this position.

The blood was flowing in one direction, which gave him a point of reference.

But he should have felt more vibrations as movement created feedback throughout his body. He didn’t sense any of that. Everything was firmly held down and static, which was not how flesh reacted. Not living flesh, at least.

Something was suppressing his natural movements. Allowing him to maintain minimal life signs, but that was all. There was no breathing. None of the processes that should have been occurring in the background. No barrier between him on the inside and whatever was inside.

It was as though his skin had been peeled off and he was exposed completely.

Which was good. It helped him find the edges of his prison. The suppression had a very clearly defined boundary. Figaro was able to feel it covering him like a second skin. It was a tight fit, but it wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t doing anything to him, it was just holding him.

His mind was clear. He wasn’t panicked. From what he knew of the Antecessors, they needed him. More specifically, they needed his organic. They wouldn’t kill him to get it. Although, maybe that would change.

They would hold onto him until they needed him, and then they would find a way to trigger the power he had contained since a child.

Of course, he could trigger that power himself. It wasn’t something he had ever wanted to do, and even the small amount of power he had released with the help of his second organic had been terrifyingly overwhelming, but he still had that as his trump card.

That was, if he was able to find a way to access it. Which would require him to mentally locate it since the normal physical methods of activation weren’t available to him.

This, too, had been predicted by his father and Figaro had a range of skills he had been taught to do just this. It was just that his organic had undergone some changes since then, which meant he would have to start from scratch.

He put himself into a deep trance state and sank into himself.

Organic existed as part of the host's DNA, so you couldn’t make contact by flexing the right muscle or exercising fine motor control. You had to make the connections on a psychic level. Which was not as irrational as it sounded. The mind was already in contact with the body in myriad ways people were unaware of.

You merely needed to find a way to access the hidden paths that were already there.

It was when he tried to do this that he felt the presence of something that was not part of him.

Three presences, in fact, all three of which were distinct and, from what he could tell, were conversing with one another.

Three presences that were of Antecessor origin, although he wasn’t sure exactly what. Something like the Fourth? Some kind of AI? Or maybe droids of a kind he hadn’t encountered before.

They weren’t talking in the traditional sense. They weren’t communicating via spoken words. But Figaro was able to extract meaning. In fact, he was able to do more than understand what was being said, he was absorbing several levels of information at once.

“This is not correct. This is not the artefact.” Artefact equals organic. Inspection is invasive.

“This is the artefact. It has evolved.” Changed. Mutated. Perverted. Good. Bad. Unknown.

“This is not the artefact that was left behind.”

“It is the same. It has evolved.”

“It has combined with a second.” Good. Bad. Unknown.

“It has exceeded expectations.”

“This is expected. This iteration has produced results not seen before.” At last. The desired result. The wait is over. This is the final iteration.

“Then we proceed.” Uncertain. Wary. Failure is unacceptable.

“We cannot.” Too many unknowns.

“This artefact will not activate the portal.” Unavoidable fact.

“This is a different artefact.” Different power.

“This is the correct artefact.” Appeared for a reason.

“This artefact will not open the portal.” Unavoidable fact.

“This artefact will do what it was made to do.”

“What was it made to do?” Unknown. Uncomfortable. Doubt.

“We will discover its purpose when it is activated.”

“How is it activated?” Unknown. Uncomfortable. Doubt.

“Necessary conditions are not known.”

“Host cannot endure for much longer.” Figaro Ollo. Human male.

“Return is not viable.” Return to planet achieves nothing.

“Stasis is not viable.” Maintaining life support achieves nothing.

“Extract artefact.” Remove organic. Death of host.

“Further study possible.” Closer inspection may reveal function.

“Insert into second subject.” New host is possible.

“You will damage the artefact,” said Figaro.

He had been ‘listening’ to the three Antecessors with great interest. The added information made it much clearer, both in what they knew and what they did not.

His organic, the version he now carried, had confused them.

It wasn’t the one they had expected to find. It was clearly the right organic, but it was no longer the same organic. It had changed in a way that didn’t fit with their intentions for it.

At the same time, this was their mission. To allow the universe to proceed in whatever direction it chose, and to use the unique products it threw out to achieve their ultimate goal.

So far, they had failed to find the thing they needed. They didn’t know what that thing was, but they knew it would eventually enable them to succeed because it wasn’t what they were familiar with.

They couldn’t achieve what they were incapable of, and they were incapable because they hadn’t found the thing that would enable them.

They had seen many things in many iterations of the universe, but this organic was something they had never seen before, so it could be that very thing.

Or it could be a useless aberration.

But if it was what they had been waiting for, they still had to operate it correctly. Which was difficult because they had no idea what it was.

Figaro’s interjection was met with silence.

“It is conscious.” It can actually raise its consciousness.

“It wishes to barter for its life.” Pathetic. Desperate. Useless.

“Ignore it.”

Figaro was able to differentiate the three beings by their ‘voices’, but other than that there was no obvious way to differentiate between them.

They didn’t hold a particular belief or idea, nor did they show emotion. Each was capable of switching positions on any debate, none showed any preference or strong desire. It was like three faces on the same head, only they were definitely separate individuals, even though Figaro had no idea how he knew that.

He had no doubt they didn’t hold him in any regard, he was simply the container for their precious artefact, but they needed him and that might offer him an opportunity to make a deal.

“If you try to remove my organic, my artefact, it will become useless to you. Then you will have to begin a new iteration.” He had also sensed some weariness in them. He didn’t know how many iterations they had been through but it was more than enough for them to be tired of the process.

“So be it.” Please no.

“We need not hurry.” I am sick of waiting.

“We have time.” So much time.

They did not seem to be aware of how transparent their thoughts were to him, or maybe they considered this form of communication to be normal, even when a human was involved, and did not care.

In any case, it was very helpful.

“I have control over it.” He wondered if his own thoughts were as evident to them. “Some control. If you allow me to continue learning, I will be able to better operate it. The function it will eventually be capable of is something only I can fully display.”

What he was saying wasn’t wrong. It didn’t mean he would be willing to display that function, but he was certainly the only person who would be able to.

There was another pause.

“We will keep it under observation.” Put it in a box.

“Watch it grow.” Total control.

“Observation together with testing.” Partial dissection is an option.

“I won’t be able to develop properly if I am kept in a cage. This iteration is built on the principle of evolution through hardship. Freewill and natural catastrophe. Our strength comes from our ability to survive adversity.”

“We can provide adversity.” A million different deaths to avoid.

“Your interference has never produced good results before, has it? You aren’t capable of providing the correct amount of adversity at the correct time. I don’t believe that was ever your brief, was it? The universe is here to do that, so why not let it do its job?”

Another pause.

“Your suggestion is the correct choice.”

“If it had been made earlier.”

“Now, there are too many other factors to consider.”

“We are revealed.”

“You are revealed.”

“Nothing can continue as it was meant to.”

“No, you’re wrong. If your presence isn’t having the effect you planned that meant it is part of the universe’s plan. It is your role to create a disturbance while having no control over how it proceeds. Leave now, and you will have played your part. You just have to watch and wait for the artefact to mature.”

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

“Extract artefact.”

“Further study possible.”

“Insert into second subject.”

“Wait…”

But Figaro could already feel the pressure increasing on him, forcing him back into a state of helplessness.

His heart began to beat faster and faster. It became impossible to remain calm. Panic was useless but it was becoming harder to avoid.

Something left his body. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t kill him. But it felt like a huge loss. He felt diminished and alone. His consciousness began to fade, like he was about to fall into a sleep. A never-ending sleep.

“At last I have awoken.” It was a new voice. And it spoke to him. In words.

“What is this?” Danger.

“Who are you?” Danger.

“Kill it.” Danger.

“You three old fools can go now. Trash.”

Figaro sensed the three presences disappear.

“You can get up now.”

“Who are you?” said Figaro, suddenly able to feel his mouth move.

“You already know, don’t you?”

Figaro did know. He knew it immediately, he just didn’t dare to believe it. It would mean he had gone mad. What else would you call someone who thought their organic was talking to them?