Daniel Suarez - Influx

“You should also wonder if I am a prison guard.”

“Then this isn’t just my private hell. It’s a prison.”

“Yes, my friend. You are in Hibernity, the BTC’s prison for wayward geniuses. It is a dubious honor, I am afraid.”

“And how do I rule out your being a guard?”

“By following the logic of your situation.”

“Okay.” He paused. “And that logic is…”

“Clearly you must follow the logic on your own, although I will get you started, if you like.”

“Go ahead.”

“The logic of your situation is that of centralized control. The BTC wants very few witnesses to what transpires here. The minds it has imprisoned in Hibernity are exceedingly rare and particularly prized. The guards, interchangeable, mere custodians with little knowledge of this place’s true purpose—which purpose is, of course, to develop a means to separate consciousness from free will. To subjugate and unify multiple consciousnesses and thus achieve a biological quantum grid. A machine of many souls but no identity.”

Grady felt dread all over again thinking about it. He started following the logic. “Which means they don’t want anyone to interact with us.”

“Correct. Guards are not permitted to interact with prisoners except in rare emergencies. They guard the prison, not us—and are in some ways prisoners themselves. Were one of them to interact with a prisoner, he would be swiftly and decisively punished.”

Grady looked around at the walls of his cell. “No one is ever going to let us out of here.”

“No one will ever come for us. As of last month, I have been imprisoned here for twenty-eight years.”

This news came crashing down on Grady like a great weight. “Twenty-eight…” His voice trailed off as he slumped down against the wall. “My God.”

“Please do not lose hope so soon, my friend.”

“But twenty-eight years. I… I don’t know that I—”

“My history is not your future. Much suffering has been experienced, but in the process much knowledge has also been gained. Do not lose hope.”

Grady tried to keep from sliding into an emotional abyss, but he finally sat up a bit. “Okay. I’ll try. But God… twenty-eight years.”

“We are entombed here, true, with the goal that we never speak to another human. Left to the mercy of AI interrogators that have been grown specifically to study our minds and create models of how we perceive our universe. By design we would eventually perish under their tyranny as they altered our brains. Perhaps a decade or fifteen years after our suffering began.”

“Oh God…”

“But we avoided that fate, did we not? And we must save the others who are no doubt still suffering. We must take back more and more of ourselves as time goes on.”

Grady found himself nodding. “Yes. Hell, yes.” He stood up and examined the incredibly thin black thread. “What is this wire made of?”

“The same fibers you no doubt still have in your brain.”

“And what happened to the brains they were in?”

“The donors are very much alive. The same systems that put those wires in your brain can also safely remove them. We can show you how.”

Grady almost reflexively ran his hand over his scalp but stopped before he injured his hand. “Yes. I’d like my thoughts to be my own again.”

“You sound young. How long have you been a prisoner, son?”

Grady concentrated on that. “I don’t know. I was brought here… it was sometime in 2016, I think. I’m fairly certain. After the…” The trail of his memory ended there.

“Well, then you are the newest prisoner we have found thus far. I am certain the others will want to hear of current events in the outside world.”

“Others? There are more of you?”

“Yes. We call ourselves the Resistors.”

“I saw your symbol.”

“Then you are an electrical engineer?”

“Sort of. A physicist really. Among other things.”

“Renaissance people are very common here—those whose ambitions do not fit neatly within the categories of society.” There was a pause. “But I’ve been quite rude. Let me introduce myself. My name is Archibald Chattopadhyay, nuclear physicist and researcher. I also have an abiding passion for Greek poetry—but I suspect the former, not the latter, was the reason for my incarceration.”

Grady laughed. “Good to meet you, Mr. Chattopadhyay.”

“Do call me Archie. Everyone does.”

“Okay, Archie.” Grady grimaced in concentration. “My name… I’m pretty certain it’s Jon. The AI called me that. I’m not sure about my last name. Maybe Gordon? Or Garrison?”

“You are an Anglo then—American from your accent.”

“Yes. That sounds right.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Jon. We’ll obtain your true identity from your cell support system.” He paused. “But we will also need to give you medical attention. You must have consistently refused to cooperate. In such situations interrogatory AIs attempt to isolate you from your past, to break down your reasons for resistance. In my experience such strategies seldom work. The human psyche runs deeper than our four dimensions.”

“I’ve been hearing a lot of that sort of thing.”

“Consciousness is more durable than they believe. And you are safe now, Jon. We will never abandon you now that we’ve found you.”

Grady felt suddenly emotional—whether from post-traumatic stress or some other cause he couldn’t tell. He started breathing fitfully. “May I join your group, Archie?”

“You are one of us already, or we would not have found you.”

Grady nodded to himself. “I want to learn everything I can. I want to get back at these bastards.”

“For what reason did the BTC imprison you?”

“My mentor and I developed a gravity mirror. A way to redirect gravitation.”

There was a low whistle. “Oh my. I am most honored indeed to meet you, my friend. What a wonder that must be. And what was your mentor’s name?”

“Doctor Bertrand Alcot.”

“Hmm. I do not know of him. Certainly he is not among us, but we have only located a small minority of the prison’s cells. Rest assured we will do everything within our power to locate Doctor Alcot.”

Grady felt reassured. “Good. Strange how I can recall Bert’s name so easily, but not my own.”

“Not at all strange. These AIs eliminate specific memories. Some people have no memory of their wedding or their children, but complete recall about the contents of their automobile glove compartment.”

“Why did the BTC lock you up, Archie?”

“I had the misfortune to perfect nuclear fusion back in 1985.”

Grady frowned. “Nuclear fusion? But…”

“Yes?”

“The head of the BTC, this Graham Hedrick guy, he—”

“Claims he invented fusion.”

“Yeah.”

“This is one consequence of unaccountable power. Graham Hedrick was born into the BTC. He did not join it. His father was head of their biotech division in the ’70s and ’80s. He clawed his way to the directorship and now seeks to revise his own past as well as ours.”

“How the hell can he do that?”

“Compartmentalization is deeply ingrained in the BTC. Very few in the organization have the whole picture. And a policy known as ‘The Necessary Lie’ makes it even easier. Deceit is viewed as necessary to ‘protect against social disruption.’ That gives Hedrick broad discretion to perfect his own history—to make himself a legendary figure with work he’s appropriated from others. Those who know the truth have been disposed of—or, like me, sent to Hibernity. It was Hedrick who urged the previous director to build this prison—because he wanted to erase me.”