The Last Server Page 9

  Until now. It seemed the 418 was as resourceful as a criminal organisation could ever get.

  “Then I have no time to waste,” said Greg. “I need to go get my son.” He made to get up.

  “A place of such value is unlikely to be easily breached, even for one with your capabilities,” said the Admin. He didn’t look at all perturbed. “If you think you’ve seen the best of the 418, you’re sorely mistaken. Their most hardened enforcers will be guarding it, along with the best military equipment available in the region. Tell me, Greg: all in all, how much do you know about computers?

  “I know enough.”

  “Are you familiar with any of the Script?” pressed the Admin. “C++? Java? SQL?” Greg stared back at him. “I thought not. Even if you somehow make it to the mother lode intact, you won’t be able to do anything with the server. If your son is plugged in, extracting him without disengaging the protocols will be fatal. My Champion, Guardian Wesley, will aid you in your quest.”

  Greg knew what the Admin was saying. “What’s in it for you?” he asked. The simplest and truest rule in the wasteland. When the world went to hell, with it went the Courtesy Lion, and whatever had counted as social norms. If anyone gave you a favour, it was never for free. Quid pro quo, as the phrase went.

  “For years we have lived within our sanctum, rarely venturing forth,” spoke the Admin. “Not because we fear the outside world, but because of my followers’ limitations. We may be versed in the Code, and possess far more knowledge than most other factions in the wasteland. But my followers need more than the comfort of the Code to ground them. This may be our Sanctum, but some are questioning whether it is no more than a place of worship. The data our intranet holds can only occupy curious minds for so long. They need a place in which they can be in greater communion of, a holy site, if you will. When we occupy the server, my flock will find deeper meaning in directory after directory of information. They will devote their lives to the curation of vast amounts of data, so that it may live on even in The Cloud.”

  All this sounded like the wild fantasies of a deranged maniac. “So you want control of the server, is that right?” confirmed Greg. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Preserve the data for all eternity. Help it find its way to The Cloud!” The Admin’s voice came out close to a moan. “So that we’ll be blessed forevermore by the Code. Only then can we achieve Transcendence!”

  A silence descended upon the room, and Greg’s eyes flitted to the two cultists. They both had a look of fervour upon their faces, smiles stretched in anticipation.

  “Very well, then,” said Greg, finally breaking the silence. “It appears we have mutually aligned goals. The Server for Wesley’s assistance. So how do we get there? Do we walk?”

  “The journey to the digital gardens is long and far,” declared the Admin. “And you do not have long to tarry. The Old City is extremely dangerous, come nightfall. I will have transportation arranged for you immediately.” The Admin closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s been done. Wesley will show you where to go.”

  As Greg rose from his seat with the two Codists, his eyes fell on the screen-window. Guo Li stood looking towards them, almost as if he could see Greg. His face was impassive, and yet Greg couldn’t help wondering about the kid. He took life as it came, unquestioning even when his parents died. Even now, trapped in a place he didn’t know, all he did was exhibit a mild curiosity. But what would happen once the Brotherhood got into his head? This wasn’t a place to bring up a child. He would lose his childhood, and turn into a techno-religious nut whose beliefs knew no limits.

  “What’s the kid doing there?” asked Greg, jerking his head towards the screen.

  The Admin turned and sighed. “An interesting test of our defences he proved to be. Wesley found him in the corridors shortly after your arrival. He must have bypassed our defences somehow. From what I understand from ITm4ster, he was coming up on the test list of the 418 IT research department, but has yet to receive Implantation. Good scores in mental calculations and cognitive reasoning. With his aptitude, I am sure he would make a good member of the flock.”

  “He’s coming with me,” said Greg. The Admin looked at Greg strangely, even as Wesley froze.

  “You’re in no position to tell us what to do, Greg,” reminded the Admin. “Besides which, you’re hardly equipped to handle a child in the open. Remember that you have a son to rescue.”

  “I’ve spoken to the kid. He knows the area,” lied Greg. “He used to accompany his uncle out during his duties. This is a critical mission, and we could use all of the help we can get. Once the 418 knows ITm4ster’s missing, the area’s going to be fortified tighter than MINDEF back in the day. Ways to get around them will be most welcome.”

  “You aren’t going to deprive us a member of the fold,” huffed the Admin, and Greg could see his tattoos glowing red. “Few are worthy of the Code, and even fewer available to join us.”

  “Will you really trade a holy site all for the sake of one more disciple?” asked Greg. He knew he was pushing his luck, and the Admin could at any moment being his whole cult down upon him, Wesley included. “When word goes round that the Brotherhood had helped the server come online, drove after drove would flock to you for your guidance! You would be revered for your insight, and the Code will live on in the hearts of many! But this, Admin, can only happen if we succeed. And we need the kid for that.”

  The Admin was silent, staring hard into Greg’s eyes. His in-built social analysis software was probably running at full capacity, trying to see past the bullshit Greg was trying to pull. He must either have injected enough truth into his words, or been a really smooth liar, because the cult leader finally nodded.

  “So be it said,” said the Admin, and Greg could see his tattoos reverting to blue. “Let it not be said that the Code does not live in the hearts of others! Wesley, go with Greg and get the youngster. May the Code light your path.”

  Greg was almost surprised that worked. Without making eye contact with the Admin, he followed Wesley to the next room.

  The moment Greg entered the room, it was apparent that it was meant more for observation rather than incarceration. Some form of air-conditioning could be felt, keeping the room at a comfortable temperature. Guo Li looked up at the newcomers, blinking slightly. He didn’t seem at all worried, but it could always be a front.

  “Come on, kid. The Admin says you’re coming with us,” said Wesley, not unkindly.

  Guo Li tilted his head. “Oh! Where to?” He looked happy, for someone who was in a strange new place.

  “The Marina Bay area,” confirmed Greg. “We’re going to need your help, but the world out there is dangerous. It’s best that you keep close to us—”

  “Sian. How come everyone talks to me like this?” complained Guo Li. “Treating me like I don’t know anything!” He got up and walked out the door, muttering as he did. Wesley looked briefly at Greg, but the ex-soldier just looked back with raised eyebrows.

  “Pretty headstrong, eh?” asked Wesley as they followed quickly, the door humming shut behind them.

  “Don’t ask me. We’ve only just met,” replied Greg. The kid kept an easy pace ahead of them, and for a moment, Greg wondered if he already knew the way out of here. But he eventually slowed down at a junction, where Wesley took charge.

  “You’re weird,” the kid said to Wesley. The enforcer said nothing.

  “That’s rude, Guo Li,” admonished Greg. What was he doing? This wasn’t his kid.

  “I’m not. This man is wearing goggles even when he’s underground. And he’s got wires in his head.”

  For a moment, Greg almost told Guo Li not to discriminate against people based on their looks and religion. Then he wondered if the software the BOC worshipped actually counted as one in the first place. Sure, to them their divinities presented themselves as ones and zeros, file types of .exe to .xml. But that would mean that he, Greg Lin, along with perhaps eight billion others, converse
d with deities each time they typed on their computer or phone. Who was he to judge, anyway? He was no theologist.

  Wesley simply chuckled. “It seems we have a talker on our hands.”

  They passed several acolytes on the way, who, aside from a “Hail, Guardian”, didn’t do more than look at them. They descended down a stairway that lacked the high-tech appearance of the corridors, composing of mismatched plates of metal and plastic planks, held together by assemblies of bolts and construction scaffolding. It was clear this was a relatively new excavation, and it must have taken some semblance of skill to set up. Not something Greg expected from computer geeks, but they could have easily read a cached Wikihow page or YouTube video to do it. Ten flights of stairs they descended down, with the occasional groan of steel. Just as Greg hoped they didn’t have to climb back up another flight of stairs, they came upon a steel door. Here, the air felt almost humid, like it led to the outdoors.

  Wesley rapped hard onto it, the gong of metal echoing beyond. Greg looked meaningfully at him.

  “This sector’s not connected to the Brotherhood’s electrical grid,” explained Wesley. “Besides, it’s far more secure this way.”

  “What is this place, then?” Greg asked. Guo Li looked impatient to get moving.

  “One of the gates to the outside world.” The door creaked open. For a moment, he was silhouetted by sunlight, and Greg shielded his eyes. His eyes adjusted slowly, a side effect of having been in the mines for so long.

  When Greg broke free of his prison of five years, he could barely keep his eyes open. The sun that shone upon him was both a blessing and a curse, a painful reminder of what he had missed. He had heard of those born underground, whose eyes never saw clearly in the gaze of the sun. But his pupils had readjusted within two days, so that he didn’t need a cap shading his eyes all the time. He had seen sights he had never thought he would see, kinds of people he had never known possible. He had sneaked past 418 outposts, escaped pursuit from a biker gang called the Balik Kampung, who, other than their propensity for violence, were little more than overgrown kids who just wanted to find an old haunt that hadn’t been razed to the ground.

  A difficult task indeed; of all the old rest stops Greg had seen, none had been spared the horrors of the 418. Some were simply torched and abandoned. Some, including one with an A&W, was converted into a village of sorts, where 418 vehicles restocked on supplies and fuel. Greg had managed to pass them without fanfare, the jacket and armband he filched allowed him to pass unnoticed. Having planned his escape, he had stamped a bogus letter with a Minelords stamp, giving him more credability than any other disguise would. As Liang, the 49er at Woodlands checkpoint mentioned, he only forgot the coloured stamp of the 418 Brotherhood.

  Some of the settlements were pretty laid-back, so he could browse whatever they had to offer. As for others, he could tell one would fare badly even if one was a 418. Greg once came upon a place where an old soccer field had been fenced off for a kind of arena bloodsport. At that time, a Red Pole armed with a woodcutter's axe was pitted not against wastelanders, but several other 49ers. Greg had left without even passing through.

  But here in the sanctum of the BOC, it was an entirely different realm. Greg lowered his hand. Through the gate, walls of large, broken concrete that had made up part of a building lay in a circle around a small clearing. The ground was smooth feature-less cement, without any tiling, so this had to be an old warehouse or storeroom. But what was of most interest was the relic sitting in the centre of it, flanked by an acolyte in grey overalls.

  “Is that—?” Greg whistled.

  “A Kawasaki Voyager?” Wesley grinned. The other acolyte got up and nodded to them. “That’s right. We found a couple of motorbikes in one of the underground carparks nearby. Flooding had gotten to its insides, but N33r here, our resident techy, has made it his life’s work to restore them. And here you have it.”

  Greg ran a hand over the seat, his hand brushing against the cool metal of the engine exhaust pipe below. The seat had been replaced with what looked like seat cushions, held in place by packaging foam reinforced with elastic straps. The metal parts were of a matte texture that he recognised as burnishing from fine-grit sandpaper. He had seen the restored machines used by the 418, but none of them had had such care given to it.

  “What about fuel?” asked Greg. As he walked around, he saw that a sidecar was attached to it. It looked to have been fabricated out of nothing more than a collection of metal shelves bolted together, with a pair of bicycle wheels thrown in to give it mobility. Guo Li made to climb in, but Greg held him back.

  “Alcohol-based biofuels,” N33r said proudly. “We have a garden and a lab that lets us make the stuff we need. Have the right blend of alcohols, and you’ll soon be moving along faster than a lunatic on steroids. It’s all renewable too, if you get my meaning.”

  “That’s if the racket of the engine doesn’t tell the whole of the 418 where we are,” replied Greg.

  “Speed is of the essence. We won’t stay too long on the roads; the Admin was pretty clear on that,” said Wesley. “You have something else for us, N33r?”

  “Do I ever,” the acolyte said excitedly. Whipping off the cloth draped across a fold-out table, he presented a selection of weapons to the two. Upon it lay two carbine-style weapons with foregrips, as well as a pistol of some sort. With their plastic exteriors, they looked a lot more like Nerf blasters than weapons of war. Both appeared to be bullpup-style carbines based on the SAR 21 MMS, a variant of the SAR 21 with a shorter barrel and mounting rails on the front and top. Mounted upon the top rail of one was what appeared to be a miniaturised GoPro camera, though Greg couldn’t see any way to aim with it. The other carbine had a rear and front sight of marked acrylic and a pen nib. The pistol, on the other hand, appeared to be breech-loaded, and was accompanied by plastic-cased 25mm grenades. Greg could see the markings of the PVC pipe used to make them.

  “These are the carbine-class Antivirus 2, also known as the AV-2,” prattled N33r. “One of my own in-house designs. Lightweight polymer alloy frames, with elastomer dampening in the buttstock. Both are in standard 5.56mm chambering, with self-adjusting breech for quicker cooling and aim compensation. These are but two of many possible configurations. Go ahead, give them a try.”

  Greg made to check out the one with the GoPro, but Wesley beat him to it. A little annoyed that he didn’t get the more advanced-looking weapon, he hefted the one with the acrylic-iron sights. The markings on the acrylic were almost professional-grade, with increments for different ranges, but it still looked too much like a kid’s craft project to him. Ammunition came in tin magazines that were still marked with the printing of candy containers used to make them, but were otherwise similar to the specifications of those used by the common M16 rifle. The assortment of worn brass and plastic 5.56mm casings suggested they had been picked off the street and handloaded. The weapon strap consisted of a wide nylon lanyard which still sported the last A*STAR Open House markings.

  “That’s for Guardian Wesley,” said N33r when Greg picked up the grenade launcher. “Admin’s orders, but I’m sure you’ll find the AV-2 more than adequate.”

  “You ever tested these things?” asked Greg, wondering if these lumps of plastic would crumble, or worse, blow apart after a few shots.

  N33r looked offended. “Of course! All the simulations tested out fine.”

  Computer simulations were one thing, field testing was another thing altogether. Greg had had plenty of first-hand experience in the Army. “You have any of the real stuff, like actual SAR 21s? An M16, perhaps?” he asked.

  N33r frowned. “You wound me! What I make is as good as anything from any factory! You’re more than welcome to go do your own shopping.” He grabbed Greg’s gun by the foregrip, making to snatch it back. Greg growled, fighting against his pull.

  “You guys are very childish leh,” commented Guo Li. He had seated himself on the lip of the motorcycle carriage, his legs swinging forward
and back.

  “Greg, I understand your concern, but I have used N33r’s weapons before,” cut in Wesley. “In some ways, they are far better than the mass-produced stuff you are used to. Your retina and arm coordination values have already been accounted for and zeroed to your specifications. And they are far lighter than lumps of steel. Sorry, N33r, but you know how outsiders can be.”

  “Indeed,” huffed N33r. “I ought to reconfigure his trigger and bolt group to—”

  “He gets the point,” said Wesley quickly, slinging his AV-2 across his back. “Get in the carriage with the kid, Greg. So, N33r, we ride directly out through here?”

  “As soon as you’re ready,” confirmed N33r. He ran a hand reverently over the handlebars of the bike, his face inscrutable. “I’ve just sent you the user guide. Take good care of Beatrice, will you? You’re off to do the warrior’s work, and I don’t want her killed in the process.”

  “One can never tell,” said Wesley. The side carriage was cramped, but had enough space for Greg to sit side-by-side with Guo Li. The seat was better than expected—made of Styrofoam packaging moulded into shape. Bag straps with clips made up the seat belt, and Greg put them around Guo Li and himself, along with two swimming goggles N33r provided. Wesley revved the bike into gear, and it pulled forward with a purr.

  So this heap of junk actually worked. For a moment, Greg wondered why Wesley was driving towards a net of rebar. Then the rebar slanted at an angle with the creak of gears, and the bike zipped over it.

  They were in mid-air.

  Greg yelled, gripping hard on Guo Li’s hand as he squealed. For a brief moment, Greg could see the surrounding post-Storm buildings, with their broken facades no tourist would ever want selfies with. Then they landed onto the hard tarmac, and Greg’s teeth clattered together. The suspension on the bike was souped up good, and they bounced quickly back to a comfortable rhythm. The wind whipped hard in the edges of his eyes, despite the goggles, and Greg had to shield his eyes from the sting.