Perhaps it was because it was an unscheduled logout, but the room Arnel found himself in — the same one as always — was empty. Of course, until recently, he never even would’ve considered the option of logging out if he didn’t have to; there was only a world of pain to greet him, back then. He couldn’t even see.
Had someone told him that one day he would wake up, and that everything would’ve been fine, he would’ve thought that person was verifiably insane. He still would. He could see, yes; he was not in pain, sure; but there was a greater problem than any one of those things — even put together, they were a lesser problem than the real issue.
Every electronic device in this room was connected in some way to Theta. Every building he could see through his window, with the glowing neon signs of mass advertisement, was connected to Theta. In fact, Theta ran the programming and scheduling for those advertisements, many of which urged people to join the military for a “life of adventure”. What adventure? Driving trucks? Repairing drones? Filing paperwork? Ah, yes, the one weakness of drones: no opposable thumbs. If only they could hold a pen to write words. Or, heaven forbid, if only they could somehow electronically store, write and process data.
Sarcasm put Arnel in a good mood. Something about laughing and sneering at his own situation had that effect on him; like a venom that feels good before it causes permanent damage.
Prometheus-7 was not like the other Arcologies; and it was definitely unlike Prometheus-14, which was where home was for Arnel. Seven was spacious; more luxury than necessity, something that it owed to the fact that it was vastly under population capacity. In fact, just like hospitals, seven was not making any profits. It always ran in the red. But it was a necessary expense — again, just like hospitals — for it provided services that other Arcologies could not. This was mostly due to the manufacturing sector in the cold, dark underground of the Arc.
Weapons. That was the name of seven’s game. Drones, Satellites, rifles; many components were sourced from this particular Arcology. There were others, of course, but seven did not just produce weapons; it also developed them.
And not just weapons. Arnel’s right eye was proof of the kind of research and manufacture that went on in seven. Bioengineering, cybernetic technology, and weapons. If Arnel had to guess why this particular Arcology was underpopulated, he had two options and they weren’t exclusive to each other. The less civilians around, the better. The other option was that scientists probably did not like to live in tiny little tin cans, packed together like sardines.
Sardines, huh? Now that Arnel had a taste of real food — at least desserts — he couldn’t help but feel hungry, even though he was perfectly aware of the fact that the nutritional fluid had taken care of his hunger and thirst needs.
Where was Ermin Saltzer, anyway? The man had practically camped in this room until recently, now he was nowhere to be found.
< Location of subject: Arc-1-Alpha. Purpose: Classified. >
Arnel side-glanced his surroundings. For once, he didn’t feel terrified of the voice — if it could even be called that — in his head. He was terrified of hearing it here. In this place. Certainly, he realized that acting a bit haughty, earlier, was a bit of a risk, but this went beyond haughty, and firmly into the realm of suicidal stupidity worthy of the Darwin Award.
Now that he thought about it, why hadn’t Theta found him yet? Surely, there was a reason. Of course there was a reason. It was impossible to imagine Leviathan would take such risks without certainty of the outcome. But how?
Arnel imagined himself like a black hole in the great system that was Theta. But even if that were the case, surely, Theta would’ve noticed by now. Especially considering the fact that Ermin Saltzer was in alpha, likely reporting to Theta. No, Theta surely knew about Arnel.
Did that mean that Arnel appeared as a normal person to Theta? Subject: Arnel Weis. Normal person — nothing to see here. Is that what Theta saw when the entity looked at him?
Arnel turned towards the terminal in the corner of the room and sighed as he reached for the lead. He slapped the patch on his neck and closed his eyes.
The world opened up to him. He felt like he was floating — or perhaps falling? — and it was a disorienting experience. He hadn’t done a dive into the cybersphere in a very long time. As expected, his ghost was bound to the limitations of the hospital. He didn’t find himself in a room, or a place, as much as it was a virtual mind-construct of the hospital’s internal network. It was a sort of undefined space — a landing — leading to other places.
He willed himself to dive deeper, seeking out the cafeteria. He wanted to eat. Food was on the menu, as redundant as that may sound. Chicken was food. Nutrient fluid was for dying people.
However, his mind could not penetrate the barrier of the cafeteria’s construct. The virtual door had a large [Closed] written all over it on red tapes that criss-crossed across the door.
Dejected, Arnel inwardly sighed.
[ Do you require assistance? ]
A private message appeared in Arnel’s mind. Arnel pressed the air in front of him — something he knew how to do in the cybersphere, but only recently learned it was possible to do in Singularity also — and a scroll opened up in front of him. It was a chat window. Arnel pondered why he never tried to do this in Singularity. He partly blamed the realism of the world. It just didn’t seem… virtual.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Arnel focused on the message.
Sender unknown. Arnel pondered the meaning. Maybe it was a nurse, or an administrator. Most likely, it was a helper program or AI.
“I would like to order food,” Arnel said.
[ Unable to comply. Rephrase input. ]
Ok, so it wasn’t a person. At least, Arnel hoped it wasn’t a person. There was a growing trend of people who desired to be like artificial intelligences. Instead of Singularity, they spent their lives in the cybersphere, constructing worlds and massive networks. They believed that one day, they could incarnate Artificial Intelligence, and live alongside them, or alternatively, become one by uploading their consciousness into the network.
There were more dangerous ideas as well. Like the urban legend that dying deep within the cybersphere would disconnect one’s ghost from their physical body, forever trapping them inside the sphere.
“I am hungry,” Arnel said, rephrasing his input.
[ Recommended action: Eat. ]
Arnel narrowed his eyes. AI was not stupid. Was this thing making fun of him?
“Yes,” Arnel said. “For which I need food brought to my room.” He drew out each syllable, as if he was speaking to someone who did not understand the language — not that there was a concept of language in the sphere. It was all thoughts. Perfect comprehension and conveying of ideas.
[ Stand by. ]
Arnel narrowed his eyes to even smaller slits. This was a militarized AI. Instead of the generally polite please wait, he got a stand by. That explained the responses he received. Militarized AI wasn’t exactly famous for politeness or common sense. They were problem solvers. Troubleshooters, and not just figurative ones. Militarized or not, it was still just a helper program; there was no reason to be concerned.
It took almost a dozen seconds, but finally, a reply arrived.
[ Method of delivery? ]
“Room service?” Arnel asked. He wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that question. Method of delivery — into his hands? Hopefully, it wasn’t asking about the method the food was delivered — through the stomach on that one, preferably; chewing and swallowing.
[ Closest match selected. ETA: three minutes. ]
Did he not get to select what he wanted to eat? Maybe a pizza?
Before he could ask, the next reply almost floored Arnel.
[ Subject is under Type-II lock. Access to most facilities is restricted. Would you like to disengage Type-II lock? ]
Arnel stared at the door in front of him. Was this AI about to release him? “Yes. Affirmative.”
[ Stand by. ]
Arnel saluted. “Standing by!” Could he actually finally leave the hospital? At least in the sphere, but it was something.
[ Lock disengaged. General access code granted. ]
Arnel almost jumped with joy. He was free!
The transparent tape on the door disappeared. The hallway unfurled, as if space itself was expanding. The entire network was suddenly available to him.
The joy was very short-lived. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something that he did not have the permissions to know until a moment ago.
And it terrified him. It was the identity of his liberator.
Refusing to believe what he saw, with a strained voice, he said: “Please identify yourself.”
[ This unit is a Subordinate-class Machine Arsenal Agent with nuclear first-strike, orbital bombardment and electronic warfare capabilities. Codename: Deucalion. ]
Arnel’s heart sank. He started hyperventilating.
This wasn’t his liberator. This was his executioner.
[ Detecting mood fluctuations. Would you like to watch a movie? ]
“No!” Arnel responded, practically shouting the word. “No. Thank you. For the assistance. Farewell.”
Watch a movie!?
[ Have a good day, Code. ]
Arnel disconnected from the sphere and scratched the lead off his neck, throwing it to the floor. His fingers were trembling. His whole body was trembling. His heart monitor showed a dangerous spike, which was holding steady now at one hundred and forty beats per minute.
Deucalion. The Machine Arsenal assigned to the defense of the Prometheus Constellation. A fitting name. Everyone knew of Deucalion, but few have ever seen it. One could buy plushies and toys in the shape of the arachnid weapon of war. It was practically the mascot of the Prometheus cluster.
Perhaps something that even fewer people have done — seeing the Machine Arsenal, that is — was talk to its AI.
Cold sweat poured down Arnel’s back, drenching his plain shirt. Goosebumps appeared over his arms as he could not stop replaying the entire sequence in his head. Had he known who he was speaking to, he surely would’ve done things differently.
He actually asked Deucalion for room service! He almost wanted to go back and apologize to the AI. Maybe if he begged for forgiveness, a good outcome was still possible. He realized that most of his thoughts, at that moment, were guided by panic.
Arnel tried to calm himself down by convincing himself that it was a strange, but albeit harmless conversation. He tried to remember the conclusion that he was under Leviathan’s protection, and that everything would be fine.
Then, his window exploded, and reflexively, Aren threw himself on the floor while simultaneously thinking it was all over. He was about to die. Plastiglass fragments showered the room, falling all over the place.
He was so terrified that he could not even act, beyond helplessly hugging the floor.
The powerful mechanical roar of whatever it was that invaded his room reverberated in the walls, and in the instruments, and in the metal frame of the pod. It was so loud that Arnel could feel the floor vibrating.
And then, surprisingly, it receded into the distance.
For several minutes — at least, the way Arnel perceived it — everything was mostly quiet. He could hear the curtains dragging across the walls as the wind buffeted them. He could hear the distant whining of his heart monitor, tapping out a rhythm that would generally prompt emergency intervention if he was thirty years older.
His mind-state could only be described as overwhelmed.
Side by side, a soldier and a nurse burst into the room. Arnel, who had crawled under the bed, could only see their legs. Slippers and white stockings for the nurse, uniform and boots for the soldier.
“Clear!” the soldier shouted.
“What happened…?” the nurse asked. There was more confusion than concern in her voice.
The soldier’s feet shuffled a bit. “You can come out,” the soldier said. “It is safe.”
He recognized that voice. It was the same soldier from before. Half-reluctantly, Arnel crawled out from under the bed, and the soldier helped him up, and onto the bed once more.
“We’ll get you a new room,” the nurse said. “I will be right back. What a strange incident...”
But Arnel could not hear her. That was not entirely correct. He heard her, but her words did not register.
Arnel stared at the package on his bed, right next to him. A pizza box.
Room service.
Arnel was not hungry anymore.