The Reality Rebellions Page 2

  Since Vesta was the first completed and the largest of the three asteroids, the majority of humans had been sent there. They were busily making it their own and working toward self-sufficiency.

  Here on Pallas, the Cybrid teams were still building the habitat and farming infrastructure for the four newer tubes.

  It’s a good thing Cybrids don’t need sleep. If we were biological beings, we’d be dropping from exhaustion. She and her comrades had been pushed to their limits by the construction schedule over the past several years, and even harder now that Earth was gone.

  Project Vesta’s original list of human colonists had included a broad range of individuals carefully selected for their health, intellect, creativity, broad backgrounds, and extensive expertise. They were expected to contribute in many meaningful ways to the construction and operation of the asteroids. The members of the YTG Church that Alum brought in their place lacked in many of these important areas, most notably in science and technology training.

  How are we supposed to rebuild a modern civilization with what they’ve salvaged?—she muttered as she drifted down the wide boulevard. If only Alum would turn over all the important work to existing Cybrid experts.

  She had to laugh. That’ll never happen, not in a million years.

  To be fair, the new settlers were still finding their feet. Maybe they’ll surprise me. A number of essential trades within the construction, service, and agricultural sectors were well represented. Other sectors, overly so. She wondered how Alum would place or retrain the suspiciously outsized representation of business and finance people.

  The humans, as poorly qualified as they were, had taken over everything. DAR-K still hadn’t decided what to do about that, if anything.

  With Greg and Kathy dead, she was now the closest thing to a legitimate heir to the Vesta Project Management Committee. She knew more about the project than anyone alive, human or Cybrid. Not that it mattered to Alum. He formed a Governing Council, and appointed himself as its Head. The Council dissolved the original Vesta committee, assumed all aspects of Vesta project management, and actively shut her out.

  She didn’t want to act too aggressively and demand to be put in charge. That would only lead to unnecessary confrontations between humans and Cybrids, which would end in Cybrid dominance, and the rapid extinction of the human species. That was not her intent.

  DAR-K extended a tentacle and pushed it through the window, shattering the glass. She immediately sent a work order to replace it.

  I should be building, but I’m in the mood for some destruction—she admitted. It was no surprise, given who she’d been forced to report to lately.

  Strang’s okay, but he’s clearly hampered by orders from above.

  Reporting to the new administration was nothing like coordinating with Kathy and the old Committee. Fortunately, Alum and his Governing Council resided on Vesta, hundreds of millions of kilometers away. In part, that was why DAR-K spent most of her time around Pallas and Ceres these days. Besides, the new administration already had enough on its plate getting the new human colonists organized. She’d only be a nuisance to them right now.

  As always, humans have a way of thinking they’re the most important beings in the region. And wherever they go, they take their prejudices and bigotries with them. Well, I’ve got a news flash for them.

  DAR-K and the twenty million working Cybrids in space totalled almost as many as the surviving humans. Add to that the hundred million Cybrid minds in storage who were waiting to be put into new robot bodies and the humans would be vastly outnumbered.

  She’d allow the Governing Council a little time to get itself better organized and to deal with some of the most pressing survival issues.

  And then, we’ll definitely be talking.

  3

  Greg Mahajani chose Vesta for his surgery. Besides having the best facilities for the kind of alterations he had in mind, nobody there was likely to connect his present face to his new identity as “Darak Legsu” on Pallas.

  Darak’s—that is, Greg’s—ability to jump across interplanetary distances, like those separating his home on Pallas from the surgeons on Vesta, was a secret. No one would expect to see Darak Legsu away from his home habitat.

  On the day he popped in, he was surprised to find a meticulously clean Operating theater sitting empty. He pinged the surgeon to announce his arrival.

  The Cybrid surgeon activated, instantly alert and ready to take direction.

  “Hello, I am PHL-239483. You may call me Dr. Phil. How may I help you?” the robot physician asked.

  “I want you to make me look like this,” Greg answered, showing him a facial design.

  “I’m afraid that cosmetic surgery performed by Cybrids for reasons other than rehabilitation or trauma has been recently forbidden by the Administration. You do not appear to be in need of emergency reconstructive surgery.”

  Cybrids banned from all but emergency procedures? Clearly it wasn’t due to a shortage of surgeons. Dr. Phil didn’t look at all busy. A reflection of the mood of the day, more than the demands. How sad.

  Using his lattice interface, Greg probed the Cybrid’s mind looking for the associated conceptual structures where he could override the prohibition. He felt guilty altering the poor thing’s persona guidelines to get it—correction, to get him—to agree to the surgery. Just this one time, I promise, and only for me—Greg vowed.

  First, to circumvent Dr. Phil’s concepta security. That shouldn’t be too hard; I know all of Kathy’s standard antivirus tricks. The memory of his wife brought a lump to his throat. Indulge yourself on your own time—he told himself. Focus now; mourn later.

  He recognized Kathy’s typical Quonset-five defence right away. It wasn’t one of her best protocols and was severely outdated now. He bypassed it with hardly a thought.

  There. All done, and this poor Cybrid has no idea I’ve changed his mind for him. No matter; I’ll update his security after the surgery. No independent being should be this vulnerable to direct tampering with the essence of his mind.

  Greg repeated his request.

  The surgeon scanned the diagram of Greg’s desired new face as if seeing it for the first time. “Yes, I can create this result,” he said. “The surgery itself will require twenty-four minutes. It will take a further six days for the tissue swelling to subside and for most of the scars to heal. Stem cell changes and alterations in your genetics will activate over that time as well. When would you like to schedule the procedure?”

  Greg considered which few days to book off work to attract the least suspicion. His “supervision” of the Cybrid farm construction team on Pallas was trivial. Keeping up with their plans and progress required only a few minutes of his attention every day. Cybrid teams were constructing the colonies and farm tunnels long before I arrived on Pallas. Kathy trained DAR-K to manage the project well. They’re probably more capable of working without direction from me, than with it.

  That last thought brought another twinge of emotional pain. For weeks, Greg had been wrestling with whether to contact Kathy’s Cybrid counterpart, DAR-K. He missed Kathy so much, and DAR-K was the closest thing to her that he had left. He felt the pull, but he couldn’t bring himself to make contact. Not yet. What if she turned out to be a big disappointment like my own counterpart, DAR-G, was to me? I’d rather keep my memory of Kathy as she was.

  Without the lattice-enhanced intelligence that he and Kathy shared, speaking to either DAR-K or DAR-G was sure to be an exercise in frustration. It was almost as painful as speaking to a merely slightly above-average human. It was unfair, and limiting to all, that Cybrids should still be subject to IQ restrictions imposed by paranoid Earth governments that no longer existed, a paranoia now taken up by the majority of humans in the asteroid habitats.

  Truth be told, his job made him feel more like a spy for the YTG Church-based administration than a supervisor. To offset his guilt, he spent much of his spare time developing imaginative virtual playgro
unds the Cybrids could enjoy during their recharging periods. Secretly, he toyed with introducing Cybrid lattice security upgrades through viral packages in the simulations. Shouldn’t the Cybrids—or at the very least, the human minds inside those Cybrid bodies—have the right to decide who got to mess with their minds?

  “Sir? Would you like to select a date, or would you like me to suggest one?” the surgeon prompted.

  Greg realized he’d been daydreaming again. He’d been having trouble focusing lately. He knew it was depression. If he just pushed on, things had to get better with time. Enough wallowing in self-pity. Work on what you can change. Book your surgery date.

  “How about Wednesday afternoon in two weeks? That’s when my weekend starts.”

  “Very well,” the surgeon replied. “That gives me adequate time to prepare the necessary stem cell population.” As he spoke, a tentacle extracted a punch biopsy needle from a nearby drawer. Another tentacle grabbed a sterilizing anesthetic cotton pad. “Lower your trousers.”

  The sheer size of the needle made Greg hesitate. “Not much for bedside manner, are you?” he quipped. He probed Dr. Phil’s medical database and scanned the related literature. Satisfied with the safety of this part of the procedure, he reduced the sensitivity of his backside pain receptors, turned, and loosened his pants.

  The topical anesthetic was cold but effective. Greg felt hardly more than a pinch when the surgeon extracted a number of fat cells from his left cheek. As he fastened his belt, the Cybrid extruded the sample into the waiting growth medium at the bottom of a small culture flask.

  * * *

  The two weeks between his first visit and the scheduled surgery passed quickly. Once he’d set into motion a plan to disguise himself permanently, he felt more nervous than ever about being recognized as Dr. Greg Mahajani, former co-Director of Project Vesta. He needed that new face fast.

  He barely left his apartment except to work. Other than his job, he kept to himself wherever possible. It wasn’t too hard to fool one or two Cybrid brains at a time about the appearance of their human supervisor. He could feed their visual sensors with a false image for the time being, and update their memories at his convenience.

  However, he didn’t think he could simultaneously fool dozens of human inSense lattices so easily.

  On the few occasions he had to venture out in public, he fretted that someone might recognize his face from some old news cast. It was silly and he knew it. His risk was no higher since his decision to undergo surgery than it had been when he first arrived on Pallas.

  He was happy he’d stepped back from the Project Vesta limelight a decade ago. Kathy had turned out to be a much better project manager than he could ever be and a more sympathetic public face for Vesta. For a while, he’d been resentful of her popularity. Now, he was grateful people had paid more attention to her than to him.

  As a precaution, he shaved his head and let his beard grow, altering his ID card and central records to match his changed features.

  Finally, the scheduled day arrived. He packed his bags and shifted to a supply closet in the hospital on Vesta. He hoped the three-and-a-half days off would give him a good head start on his recovery. Thank goodness for the Act for Fuller Employment of 2046 and its more humane work schedule.

  Today his anxiety would be substantially relieved. Once the bandages came off and the swelling went down, his true identity would be hidden forever and Alum and his enforcers would never realize Greg Mahajani had made it off Earth alive.

  Dr. Phil had assured him the scars would be barely discernible in a week. “Techniques have progressed greatly since the human colonists were first assigned Cybrid surgeons,” he’d said.

  Greg sensed an undertone of resentment from the doctor, likely at being forcibly sidelined from where he was needed the most.

  Before emerging into the hallway, Greg inserted Police and Ambulance reports in the respective systems to support a plausible cover story about how his blowtorch had lit some residual solvent in a tank he was working on. He constructed a new identity and fake work order to justify the job. He cited a distant tunnel to give credence to his tale, and added the names of appropriate Officers and Attendants to the report, knowing it would be unlikely anyone here knew them personally.

  Electronic trail in place, he walked out of the supply closet and lay down on an empty ER gurney in the corridor with face hastily and clumsily self-bandaged. Orders to move him immediately into the Cybrid OR appeared at the nursing station.

  The hospitals were still trying to dig themselves out of the chaos that came from hundreds of new workers and a change in management. They were used to responding to paperwork. Sometimes it was the only way they had any idea what was going on.

  An attendant moved him to the OR. When Dr. Phil arrived, the staff in the room vacated quickly, taking their anxious whispers with them out to the corridor. The Cybrid surgeon preferred to work alone, and no one wanted to watch its buzzing, whirring tentacles in action on an actual person.

  “So, I’m booked into Recovery Room Four, and I have a private room in the main hospital?” Greg asked the doctor.

  “Yes, you will receive excellent care in our facility. Please don’t worry.”

  Greg took a deep breath. “Can I look at myself one last time?” Dr. Phil positioned a mirror above where Greg lay on the operating table, while they waited for the first relaxant to take effect. He studied himself intently, committing his face to lattice memory. He had no problem overlaying the new features he’d designed onto the digital images he’d captured, but he couldn’t project how it would feel to wake up to a different face.

  He shut off his lattice. He remembered Darian’s discomfiting story of waking up to two separate consciousnesses following surgery, one biological, the other, neurolattice. An experience I can do without.

  “Okay,” he finally said, feeling a lassitude wash over him. “Let’s get on with it.”

  The Cybrid opened the line permitting the general anesthetic to mix with the saline solution in Greg’s IV bag. At the same time, three tentacles snaked over his face, injecting heavy doses of Lidocaine into the area about to be operated on. “Count backward from a hundred,” Dr. Phil instructed.

  “100, 99, 98,…” Greg began. He felt his head go fuzzy and nearly reactivated his lattice. Then he remembered where he was and resumed counting. “97, 96, 10, 9,…” A soft gray peacefulness descended over him like a fluffy blanket.

  4

  Mary’s virtual heart lurched. What the hell? Straight above, she saw patches of stormy sky between whipping fronds of palm trees. Her lungs burned. Her ribs were screaming in pain.

  She was being lugged between four men—four Trillian clones—as if she were a sack of potatoes. Her vision bobbed with their rhythmic steps. They didn’t seem to mind that every jolt sent shards of pain through her body.

  Shards and shards—she thought. Shards of Alum causing shards of pain. She would have laughed, but breathing was a challenge. She fought to stay conscious, had no energy left to struggle against her captors.

  The bobbing and bouncing paused. She heard the water dripping off her clothes and hair onto the sidewalk below. I’m wet. Why am I wet?

  Snap out of it, Mary—she ordered herself. Think! She tried a deep breath, but the stabbing sensation in her ribs stopped her short. What do I remember?

  I was in Vacationland. Trillian had Timothy pinned to the pool deck. I tackled Trillian, and we landed in the water. I yelled at Timothy to run. And then Trillian grabbed me by the hair and pulled me underwater. I must’ve passed out.

  Her captors opened the door of the quantum luxury cabina nearest the pool, and placed her inside on the bed.

  Mary lay motionless for a long while, relishing the plush cushioning under her back. Finally, the pain subsided a little, and she managed to sit up, legs dangling off one side of the mattress, and examine the room.

  The king-sized bed lay beneath a lace canopy; the netting trailed down along the four
supporting posts, adorned with intricate carvings. Bamboo weaving decorated the wall behind the pillows, while the open patio doors straight ahead of her looked out over the sand to the water. The normally gentle ocean was churning as a result of Trillian’s incursion into Vacationland.

  Wicker chairs with cushions the color of sea-foam bracketed a table in front of the open door. Chiffon curtains billowed in the gentle breeze. Croissants were piled on a plate set beside a steaming mug. She could smell their buttery freshness mingling with the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Her mouth watered. I’m so hungry.

  She took three halting steps off the bed and reached for one of the treats. Dark chocolate dripped from the curled ends of the flaky pastries. Before she could pick one up, the plate of croissants disappeared.

  She pulled her hand back in surprise, as if she’d accidentally touched a hot stove top. She massaged her fingers as she scanned the room. No one was there.

  She reached out tentatively to pick up the mug of fresh coffee.

  At least I can have something to drink—she thought. She raised the cup eagerly, and took a sip. The taste was horrible. Not coffee! Lubricant! She spat the vile liquid out in disgust and threw the mug to the ground.

  The table and chairs blinked out of existence and the patio doors slammed shut. The glass morphed into a solid rock wall. A soot-covered window looking into a black, empty cavern grew where the patio doors had once opened out onto the golden beach. Lightning flared behind the glass, and flames licked up from below. Muffled cries of anguish assaulted her ears. The wall burst into fire.

  She jumped back and wheeled around.

  As she watched in disbelief, her spacious suite dropped its cloak of luxury and transformed, more like melted, into a dank prison cell. Where the king-sized bed and a marble table boasting fresh roses had only a moment before promised a sumptuous retreat, an assortment of torture devices form medieval Earth now threatened unspeakable suffering.

  “Seriously?” she asked out loud to anyone who might hear.