Colonization Read online

  Alex Lang

  Colonization

  Оглавление

  Morning again, Mr. Mistry…

  Colonization

  The distant stars

  Whisper

  I hate my dad

  Pain

  Time to ditch finesse .

  One forgotten adventure

  Friends from tweets.

  LIVES OF PAIN

  Morning again, Mr. Mistry…

  NEWER DELHI CENTRAL STATION, 14:02 India Standard Time.

  Ronan Mistry half-speed, half-fell to New Delhi gate Central. His stomach lurched as if someone spent the last minute whirling around him blindfolded. Severe pain thrummed through his head. He hated the damn jump networks. The headache was a new thing, but the gates always made him feel sick.

  He promised myself before, but it was definitely the last time he used them. At least, he will pay for a private network the next time. It was not so, he couldn’t afford it. It was affectation of being a normal person. His humble beginnings; try as you might, could you stop being urchin from the streets of Delhi. Henceforth he would use some of ShivaTech wealth and the city a bit more comfort. He was old enough to remember the days when the planes flying in the sky. It took hours to get anywhere-which always amused young people, but, at least, your body will not break apart in a stream of bits, and again each time you want to travel.

  “Morning again, Mr. Mistry.”

  A security guard in a saffron-coloured turban looked like he was about to step over to help. Ronan didn’t recognize the man, despite the apparent familiarity. He waved and managed a smile to say he was fine, didn’t need assistance. The guards were there to look out for jumpjackers hitting travellers as they emerged from the network, not to lend a hand to travelsick old men.

  Ronan tried to walk off in a straight line and failed badly, tried to stop himself vomiting and just about managed it. He swallowed down bitter fluid that suddenly filled his mouth. Tens of thousands of people thronged the station, dashing to and from the gate array, barging aside anyone in their way. He bounced off more than one of them, mumbling an inaudible apology. He found a stone pillar, its cool solidity welcome. He waited for his head to stop swimming, standing there panting like an old dog.

  He watched as a group of uniformed soldiers pushed through the crowd: not private jump network guards but proper IndPol military officers, bristling with tazers and lasers and who-knew what else. There must have been an incident. Perhaps some unfortunate traveller had been jumped as they stepped from their gate. Ronan watched to see what would happen, whom they would arrest. He hoped there wouldn’t be serious trouble. He was in no state to run.

  There was a moment of horror as the truth of what he was seeing hit him. The soldiers weren’t running towards the gates. They were running towards him. His stomach lurched in panic.

  It was only then he saw Sageeta, his wife, hurrying along behind the soldiers, her sari trailing behind her like gossamer wings. She looked angry. She was never angry. The soldiers ran up to him then stopped, parting to let her through.

  “Ronan. What in all the hells is going on? What are you doing?” Sageeta stood in front of him, hands on hips. The soldiers surrounded them now, a ring of steel pushing the swarming crowds back. They didn’t appear to be arresting him. They looked outwards, like they were protecting him. But from what? He didn’t understand anything that was happening.

  “Sageeta. It is good to see you. I’m feeling a little ill.”

  “Never mind that, you old fool. What have you done? What is this madness?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve just come from my meeting in Capetown about the new Europe contracts. I haven’t done anything.”

  “Stop playing these games,” said his wife. “You’re going to explain everything right here and now.”

  “Explain what?”

  A looked of worry flashed across his beloved wife’s features. She spoke again, in a low voice, as if afraid people would overhear. “Explain why half an hour ago you transferred one billion rupees from ShivaTech to some no-good accounts I’ve never heard of. The company is ruined, Ronan. We are ruined.”

  “What?”

  “One billion rupees! Our entire holdings gone in a moment.”

  “It’s not possible. I ordered no such transfer.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Did you think you wouldn’t be seen? You made the transfer from a bank in London. IndPol have the images of you arriving at Euston Jump Node. And the images of you getting here an hour ago, when that oh-so lovely young woman stopped to help you. Is that what this is all about? Have you come to this?”

  Ronan waited for some of his wife’s words to make sense, but they utterly refused to.

  What she was talking about? What young woman?

  “This is all madness,” said Ronan. “I’ve just left Capetown.”

  His wife shook her head, as if pitying him. “Then tell me, Ronan, what the time was when you left Capetown.”

  “About one o’clock our time.”

  “And the time now?”

  “Obviously, about one minute later.” But as he spoke he also consulted the clock plugin in his brain, just to check. The response came back immediately. The time was now a little past two o’clock. Somehow, impossibly, an hour had by passed since he’d left Capetown.

  It made no sense. Ronan tried to speak, but no words would come from his mouth.

  ***

  Newer Delhi Central Station, one hour earlier …

  Ronan Mistry half-stepped, half-fell from the jump gate at Newer Delhi Central. His stomach lurched like someone had spent the last minute whirling him around blindfolded. A heavy pain thrummed through his head. He hated the damn jump networks. The headache was a new thing but the gates always made him nauseous.

  A security guard, recognizing him, nodded his turbaned head.

  “Morning, Mr. Mistry.”

  Ronan managed only a mumbled response. The pain in his head grew sharper, like something solid being hammered into his brain. The great hall of the station lurched around him, a blur of colours and blaring sounds. He leaned against a pillar, the stone cool on his hands.

  “You don’t look well, sir. Why don’t you sit down?”

  A young woman had stopped beside him, concern clear on her face. There were still one or two good people in the world. He tried to explain he was OK, that he just needed a moment. He sank to the ground, his back against the pillar.

  The woman put a gentle hand on his shoulder and knelt beside him so that her head was level with his. The bindi on her forehead was animated in the modern fashion: a swirling red spiral. She spoke quietly into his ear. “Listen to me, you fucker. You are not going to recover from this. You are going to feel worse and worse. Soon the pain in your head will become unbearable. And do you want to know what that pain is? It’s the feeling of your mind being eaten, old man. Do you fucking understand me?”

  Ronan stared up at her. The young woman continued to smile, the worried look clear on her beautiful face. Had he imagined her words?

  Her grip tightened painfully.

  “Do you understand me?”

  He didn’t, not at all. He shook his head. “What is happening?”

  The young woman glanced around, making sure no one was too near. “Tell me how many children you have, Ronan Mistry.”

  “What? What does that ???”

  “Just tell me. How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Boys or girls?”

  “Girls. Grown women, now.”

  “Names?”

  “They’re called …” He stopped. For some reason he couldn’t recall their names. Both had waved him goodbye just that morning as he left for Capetown.

  “What
are their names, old man?”

  “I don’t … I don’t know.”

  “And what do they look like? How tall? What colour are their eyes?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What was their favourite flavour of kulfi when they were young?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t know. The pain filling his brain was a fog. A fog through which he could see nothing.

  The young woman nodded her head, as if he had done well, given her the right answers.

  “Very good. Now let me explain what is happening to you. A small alteration to your neural matrix was introduced as you rematerialised at the jump node. An artificial algorithm hidden amongst your normal brain patterns. Right now it is chomping its way though your memories.

  Soon you won’t be able to remember you even have children. In a few hours you won’t know your own name. A few hours after that your brain’s autonomous functions will start forgetting how to function. Your heart will stop beating and your lungs will stop pumping.”

  “No,” said Ronan. “That’s not possible.” He knew it wasn’t possible. You couldn’t just alter people as they rematerialised without introducing major flaws. The ensuing corruption was always fatal. The brain was too dynamic, too fluid. The technology was years away.

  “Oh, it’s possible, old man,” said the woman. “And it’s happening to you right now. No doubt you are experiencing an excruciating pain in your head? That is one side-effect.”

  Was that true? The networks were a well-known trigger for migraines. Perhaps she’d just struck lucky. “No. I don’t believe it.”

  “Then let me ask you this. What does the name Arvan J. Stanton mean to you?”

  “He’s … just someone I knew once. Years ago, at university. Why?”

  “Did he ever give you any advice? Any words of wisdom?”

  “Actually, yes. I remember very well. He told me that whatever I did in life I had to believe the young woman with the red bindi when she stops to help me at Newer Delhi …”

  He trailed off. His memory of those words was very, very clear. But why? It was years ago. It made no sense. And why would his old friend have even uttered such nonsense?

  “Yes, you understand,” said the young woman. Arvan J. Stanton did not exist. Another alteration we made to your mind. An implanted memory.”

  “I don’t believe it. This is hypnosis. Autosuggestion. Nothing more.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  “Even if you have done this,” he said. “Even if such a thing is possible, why? Why would you want to destroy my memories?”

  “Oh, not destroy, old man. We aren’t mindless thugs. We are artists. Your memories are all still there. Just encrypted. Locked away in your brain with a key only we know. And when you’ve paid us the two billion rupees, we will give you the key and you can have your brain back.”

  “Two billion rupees?”

  “That’s the price. ShivaTech can afford it. A man of your wealth really shouldn’t use the public networks, you know.”

  The fog was lifting a little in his head now. He saw the obvious flaw in her proposal. And making deals, striking bargains was what he was good at. “So when I pay you this fortune, you’ll just drop round and fix up my brain for me? Set everything straight?”

  “You’ll need to make another jump. We’ll spot you in the network and put everything right. There’ll be no need to meet again.”

  “Yes, but why would you?” said Ronan. “Once you’ve got your money you’d be better off leaving me to die. Then all the evidence goes away. It’s a perfect crime.”

  The young woman smiled. “You’ll just have to trust us, won’t you? You’re hardly in a position to bargain.”

  He could see the faintest hint of worry in her eyes. You learned to read people.

  “Actually,” said Ronan, “I think I am. They’re certain to post mortem me. I’m willing to bet your hacks to my brain-if they exist-will show up. That will raise suspicions. People might follow a trail that leads back to you. And I don’t think you want to take that risk.”

  The brief frown of annoyance that flashed across her features told him he’d hit the mark. She nodded her head from side to side, trying to suggest indifference. “We’ll take that chance for two billion rupees, old man.”

  He considered. He still didn’t believe her. But if there was a chance she was telling the

  truth …

  “I’ll make you an offer,” he said. “One billion rupees and I don’t send the money until I’m fully restored to health.”

  “That’s not going to work, old man.”

  “Ah, of course, because you were also planning to wipe all my memories of this conversation, weren’t you?”

  “Obviously. You’ll be in no state to sanction further payments. You won’t know anything about them.”

  “Then I’ll give you half the money now and place half in an account in your name but which you can’t access for twenty-four hours. That will give you time to restore me.”

  The woman studied him for a moment, looking for the flaws in the plan. He just had to hope she didn’t know everything ShivaTech’s systems could do. Finally she nodded. She’d might not get all the money, but she’d decided even half a billion would be enough. As Ronan had calculated she would,

  “Very well,” she said. “But not in my name. Use Arvan J. Stanton, understand?”

  “As you like. I’ll have to jump to London to arrange everything.”

  “You remember your non-existent friend’s old contact number?”

  “For some reason, yes, I do. Very clearly.”

  “That’s the account number for the first half of the payment. Make sure the new account is in his name, too, and we’ll see it. And remember: in three hours time you won’t recognize your own face in a mirror. So don’t fuck up.”

  She smiled and stood up. She lifted her scarf over her head to cover her features. “Oh, and be careful in the jump network, Ronan Mistry. There are some bad people out there.”

  She turned and strode away. He soon lost her in the teeming crowds.

  ***

  Doctor Kay Alvarez was engrossed in an analysis of the fractal equations from her latest tests when her boss staggered in. She hadn’t seen Ronan for nearly a year; these days the owner of ShivaTech didn’t travel so much. Her delight at the sight of her old friend was immediately tempered when she saw the state of him. He was clearly struggling to stay upright.

  “Ronan? What has happened? You look terrible. Shall I get a doctor?”

  “You are a doctor, Kay. That’s why I’ve come to see you.” For a moment she caught a flash of her old friend’s humour. Then he sank into a chair and held his head in his hands.

  “We need to get you to a hospital,” said Kay. “You know very well I’m not the right sort of doctor.”

  “Actually,” said Ronan, “you are exactly the right sort. I need you to scan my brain and look for

  … anomalies.”

  “What do you mean anomalies?”

  He appeared to be having trouble getting the words out. He was clearly in great pain.

  “Please,” he said. “There isn’t much time. I need you to do this now.”