UnConsequences

They had spent the morning kitting out the rest of the clansmen and familiarising them with operation of their new armour. Crowe and Fletch picked up the necessary skills in an hour or two and were outside practicing and getting used to the much greater power and flexibility of the new armour.

“This stuff’s brilliant Fletch”

He standing jumped at least 3 metres in the air. Fletch laughed and jumped as well. Like a couple of kids on a trampoline they bounced around laughing and kicking up a cloud of dust.

In the Lair the other four clansmen were still struggling to gain control of the new armour. In the small fitting room they were stumbling clumsily around bumping into walls leaving dents and deep gouges in the concrete. Hunter who was the trainer for the morning sighed and remotely powered down their armour.

“Hold it - How many fucking times do I have to tell you, steadily, minimal strength; the armour multiplies the force you apply by a factor of 10. You are all pushing too hard then overcompensating.” He powered them up again “Okay one at a time, Kes one step forward and stop.”

The clansman took a pace forward and despite swaying slightly managed to come to a halt.

“Good, Collins you next - one step.”

Collins managed more comfortably. Rasta and Stokes followed suit.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. One at a time again five paces - slowly!”

“We’re not bloody kids you know.” grumbled Rasta.

“You might as well be until you can control this equipment!” replied Hunter.

Close and almost instinctive control of the armour was vital in any combat situation. They spent the next two hours gradually building up their mastery of the machinery until Hunter was satisfied that they wouldn’t bump into, or shoor each other accidentally. The five of them then joined Fletch and Crowe outside. Hunter carried out with him two large crates of ammunition. He showed the clansmen how to load the ammo, a mixture of solids and explosive cartridges in tight rolls that fitted into the shoulder holsters of the suits.

The gun barrels one on each forearm were activated by buttons on the palms of the hands simply by clenching your fist. Firing was either manually by pointing at the target and pressing another button or by using the head up display to automatically aim and shoot at the chosen victim Unlike walking running and jumping this seemed to come naturally to all the clansmen and they were soon destroying their targets with happy abandon.

Hunter used the remote to shut down the weaponry.

“Well that was easy!” he said.

“C’mon Hunter just when we were beginning to have some fun ” moaned Rasta.

“Yeah Hunter, we need more practice!” chipped in Stokes.

“After lunch.”

Encouraged by the prospect of more real food the clansmen trooped back into the Lair, shooting practice forgotten for the moment.

Brovver, Grimond and Mackintyre were in the central control room of the Lair a 3D image of the route map to the Border on display.

Anyone looking at the map from the 20th century wouldn’t have recognised the shape. Sea level rise and mid 21st century storms had eaten away at the Lincolnshire coast leaving a few islands that used to be the Wolds. The bite out of the coast that had been the Wash had spread east and south into the old Cambridgeshire. Much of east Norfolk and Suffolk was a salt marsh and almost no-one lived there now. The Humber estuary had also broadened considerably drowning Hull, Grimsby and Scunthorpe, names that were now remembered by just a few elderly AI’s. To the west, Liverpool Bay had widened and the Irish Sea had flooded most of Lancashire west of Manchester. This left two narrow corridors to the east and west of the Pennines as the only possible routes north.

Mackintyre was laying out the easiest route as he saw it up the eastern side of the country. Travelling though central and western areas of the Inbetween was particularly difficult, especially with the two largest population centres of Birmingham and Manchester knee deep in warring clans. He wanted to be sure he could avoid the populated areas around what had been Derby and Sheffield and to be as far away as possible from the cesspit that was Leeds. Like border towns the world over Leeds was a seething mass of the desperate and the despicable, preying on each other’s weaknesses, feeding off each other like parasitic vampires. This left a very narrow and vulnerable corridor to his favoured border crossing point between the populated areas to the west and the sea to the east.

They would follow the maglev line north along the old A1, once out of Dragon territory there was nothing much to bother them on this part of the route. Thereafter it became more dangerous; between Sheffield and Doncaster there was a very narrow ribbon of safe ground, but the terrain was rough and difficult, the old A1(M) being a favourite hunting ground for the northern clans.

“Why that route in particular?” asked Grimond, “Why not by boat? We could hijack an east coast freighter and go in that way.”

Mackintyre could tell Grimond was itching to make use of his new armour and weapons.

“We go this way because I want to enter the Republic quietly; I would rather not have their security know where I am just yet. They would not like it and they can be quite nasty. So, announcing my arrival in a pirated boat is not an option.”

Brovver shrugged, “What does it matter Grimond, there’s bound to be fighting no matter which way we go. We can still have our fun.”

“What about transport, I ain’t walking the whole way!”

“No you’re not - vehicles are this way.”

Mackintyre led the two clansmen out of the control room and down a long corridor into where the tanker was residing. The sight of the tanker brought a smile to the normally taciturn Grimond’s face. The three went round behind the tanker and were confronted by two strange looking vehicles.

“You’re kiddin’, right?” Brovver laughed incredulous, “They look ready to fall to pieces before we even get into a fight!”

The vehicles did indeed look flimsy. Four large wheels at the corners of a steel frame, attached by a complex suspension system; five seats, one at the front with the controls then two rows of two light weight seats, totally open to the elements and as far as the clansmen were concerned leaving them weaponless and vulnerable to attack.

“You’re forgetting what you are wearing Brovver.” Mackintyre walked round between the vehicles. “These are driven by a hydrogen gas turbine which gives them a top speed of around seventy klicks an hour in almost any terrain and the turbine will also charge your armour while you are seated.”

Mackintyre put his hand on a pile of small containers. “These clamp onto the frame; they hold more tech, ammo and provisions. These are also armoured to give you added protection. I think all this plus your armour and personal weaponry should be enough to see off any ambush.” He lifted another case from behind the containers.“And if that isn’t enough for you this holds ten remote control rockets with enough punch each to take out a security tank. Any more stupid questions?”

Ever ruled by his stomach “Yeah, when do we eat?” asked Grimond.

Mackintyre laughed and replaced the rocket case.

“Right now.”

The three joined Hunter and the clansmen in the mess room.

“How’s it going boss?”

“Fine Fletch, just fine.” replied Grimond, “Now what’s to eat?”

The tables had been laid out with a selection of cold real food and drink; the clansmen were bemused by the range of choice.

“What the fuck is this?” asked Rasta lifting a banana from the table.

Hunter took it from him and peeled it.

“This is a banana” he took a bite and handed the fruit back.

Rasta looked quizzically at the rough, beige, curved tube; he shrugged and took a bite. Obviously impressed he picked up the bowl of the bananas and retreated into a corner to consume the rest.

“Greedy bastard!” muttered Kes through a mouthful of sausage.

They spent the rest of the day getting to know the ins and outs of their armour and weapons. Fletch worked his way through the manuals and tools; he would be the repair man should they have technical problems. He and Crowe learned how to drive the light weight transports as they would be driving back.

Hunter and Mackintyre retired to the control room leaving the clansmen to their tasks.

“Jason, what’s bothering you?”

The big man had been silent for a while; he scratched at his beard. “All this is great boss, but I don’t see where I fit in. I can’t go back to the Enclave, you’re heading home. I’m kinda stuck.”

“I was hoping you would come with me to the Republic. Or you could stay here with the clans, I’m sure they’d be happy to have your help. It’s up to you.”

They were like a couple of old friends circling around each other deciding whether to have sex or not.

“What would I do in the Republic? My skills hardly seem to be in demand up there.”

“Oh, there’s much more to come Jason, I want you to come with me. We’ve places to go and people to meet. I’ll make sure you get citizenship papers. We’ll have plenty to do. All this here is just the start.”

Jason sighed, he was not a natural explorer; he’d gone through life accepting what came along whatever it was, he had hooked up Mackintyre because it seemed the right thing to do at the time. He’d never really planned for anything and ended up here.

He took the plunge, “Okay, Why not, I’ll give it a go. I don’t fancy hanging around here with those guys.” He gestured at the screen showing the clansmen stuffing their faces with the unfamiliar food.

“Good, that’s settled then, but first we’ve got to get there!”

THE ENCLAVE WEDNESDAY EVENING

Drog scratched at the dressing below his left ear. The insertion of the direct AI link had only taken about an hour but it would take several hours more before it was useable. The internal connections took time to settle and for the moment the tendrils were growing through his cerebral cortex developing the necessary links. As far as Drog was concerned all this meant was that he had a monumental headache and he was not allowed painkillers as this may interfere with the process.

“Don’t scratch” said the technician, “It’ll heal much quicker if you just leave it alone.”

“How much longer?”

The technician consulted his instrumentation, and then had a look at Drog’s neck through a UV filter. He turned back to the brain scanner,

“It’s looking good. I know Connely wanted this as a rush job but I have standards you know.”

‘Standards’ Drog thought ’in this place?’He was in an illegal Soho backstreet butchers parlour; here was where the sad and delusional of the Enclave came for their bodily enhancements. The bigger breasts, the fatter penis, the drug delivery systems, all the accoutrements of the debauched and the desperate could be found here - for a price. While he was waiting to be seen Drog took note of the clientele and through force of habit committed the faces and disfigurements to memory for future use. He was surprised to see the latest advertised “Special Deal”, a heavily discounted body sculpturing to make any woman look like M.T. There didn’t seem too many takers.

Never the less the room he was in was clean and well equipped the short, fat technician efficient and knowledgeable, not in the least like the crazed junkies portrayed in the TriV documentaries. The operation was quick and quite painless until this development phase. Drog just had to wait it out. He tried to strike up a conversation with the technician.

“How did you get into this business?”

“Policemen - you’re all the same - always on the hunt for summat.”

The accent was rather more cultured than Drog expected, and the final summat was out of place. It was as though the technician was trying to hide his origins. The policemen in Drog wanted to know more; wanted a bit of background on this guy, he looked and sounded out of place in this seedy den and Drog wondered where he came from.

To forestall any further conversation the technician yanked off the dressing making Drog wince. He sprayed an antiseptic analgesic mix over the connection.

“That looks fine.” he turned to the brain scanner, “How’s the head feel now?”

“It’s easing a bit.”

“Good, that’s it then.”

He removed the scanner’s contacts from Drog’s head. “You can go back to being a cop bastard now. Give it an hour and you can plug in. Best of luck.”

He left the room.

Drog ran his hands over his newly shaven head, the ache was continuing to fade and the itch had gone. He left the treatment room and ascended to street level. The sun was going down and the streets were cooling and dry. There were a few early revellers out and about mixing with the workers trudging home. Atmosphere signs still showing a non toxic symbol and people were happy to walk around without masks. Drog decided to join them and walked back to Police HQ hoping that the last of his headache would clear before he attempted the first plug in to the AI. He was in full uniform and the more furtive revellers avoided looking directly at him; some crossing the street as he approached, others making like window shoppers in an effort to hide in plain sight.

Drog arrived at the grey imposing Police HQ just as the shifts were changing over; dozens of police entering and leaving the building. Those going in generally silent while the departing were smiling and chatting arranging assignations for later or deciding which pub to go to for an end of the day drink. Not much really changes, he thought. As he entered the building the toxicity symbol flashed amber advising those out of doors that masks might be needed soon.

Drog took the lift to the ninth floor and knocked on the commissioner’s door.

“Come in.”

Connely was in his usual chair behind his desk and in front a strange looking individual Drog didn’t recognise.

“Sit down Drog, this is Thomas Neave.”

Drog shook hands with the still seated Neave and sat down.

“Thomas will help you integrate with the AIs through the link.”

Drog looked at Neave; he too had a shaved head and the interface contact in the same place as his - just behind the left ear. Thomas Neave was thin to the point of emaciation. Drog reckoned he was at least six and a half feet tall; his long stick thin thighs stretching well beyond the seat of the chair. His face was expressionless; its planes and sharp angles dominated by a long straight nose between two extremely pale grey eyes. His hands were tightly clasped on is lap as if to stop them shaking; he made Drog feel very uncomfortable.

“When do we begin?” asked Drog.

Neave stood up “Now” he said his voice high and strained, as if he wasn’t used to verbalising. Drog realised he had underestimated Neave’s height by a good six inches. Connely also stood feeling diminutive beside the tall man.

. “We’re going to have a dry run on an old security AI to get you used to the feel of it. Neave here will act as your driver for your first trip. Once you are confident you can try to fly solo.”

The three left Connely’s office and headed for the elevator, Neave had to duck to get into the lift without banging his head.

They entered a small featureless dark room in the depths of the basement. Connely placed his right hand on what looked like a dirty patch on the wall. The rear wall silently slid back revealing a larger brightly lit space filled with 3D projectors, desks and interfaces and a low hum of conversation between the operators. Connely walked over to one of the operators, she turned and whispered a few words; Connely nodded and waved Neave and Drog over.

“This we’ve just managed to get set up, a small sensor right in BoJo’s office. It’s no bigger than a bluebottle and it even looks like one, I am very proud of it. Sharon here built it and snuck it into his office up the skirt of his new M.T. Classic”

He patted Sharon on the shoulder and led Drog and Neave into another room. He took them behind a temporary screen. “There you go gents” he said indicating two comfortable looking reclining chairs with connector cables draped over the arms. “I’ll leave you two to it; I’ll catch up with you later.”

Neave sat in one of the recliners, his long lanky frame stretching well beyond the chair’s end. He gestured to Drog to do the same.

“I’ll connect in first and prepare a shield. First timers often get lost or lose their personality in the AI. Some don’t return. I’ve seen your DNA scan, you are very vulnerable Drog. The stronger the talent the more likely you are to become absorbed. If that happened you would sit here and starve to death while your mind roamed the files and programming, your personality subsumed by the AI. Normally you would have had weeks of preparation for this moment. Personality strengthening, exit strategies, safety protocols but we have time for none of these.”

He barely looked at Drog as he spoke, his long thin fingers twitching in time to the words, like a junkie needing his fix Neave was desperate to get connect with an AI and anyone would do. He finally lifted his eyes to Drog, “Once we are in I will implant an escape code. If you feel yourself drifting, your personality fraying, then you must activate the code. This will bring you out instantly.”

Neave reached for the connector, Drog reached across and put his hand on Neave’s arm, his flesh was unnaturally cold.

“That’s it - nothing else? Just plug in and let’s go - never mind the worst that could happen is that you starve to death!”

“It’ll be easier to teach you inside. One last thing”, he pointed at a complex abstract drawing in the wall. “Initially keep your eyes open and focused on that. The abstract will help you maintain integrity. Wait thirty seconds then plug in - we will meet inside, these chairs are paired.”

With that he leaned back, closed his eyes and plugged in.

Drog watched a slight shudder run through Neave’s skinny frame, his rope like muscles lost all tension and definition and his face became slack jawed and innocent; losing all evidence of sentience and awareness. Drog sat back and peered at the strange wall abstract, it felt like it was pulling at his eyes, getting larger but no closer. He plugged in and fell even deeper into the centre of the abstract.

“Concentrate!”

Neave’s voice came from no obvious source; it jerked him back to himself and the abstract resumed its previous shape and size.

“Better” came the disembodied response.

Drog found himself with a weird double view - on the surface he was looking at the now stable abstract and recognising it for what it was a complex black and white fractal design. Internally though he was experiencing fleeting glimpses of bright programming flashing under, around and between him and the abstract. He knew where he was, what he was doing, he could feel the chair beneath his body, but part of him was elsewhere. It was slightly nauseating.

“Now Drog, the escape code is ‘Excalibur’ here is what it looks like.”

In his mind’s eye he saw a long gleaming sword with bright jewels in the hilt and cross piece. “Memorise it thoroughly. All you need do is picture this and think ‘Excalibur’ and the connection will break. But don’t leave it too long otherwise it won’t work.”

Drog was even more nervous now.

“Close your eyes and try it now Drog get used to it.”

Drog closed his eyes, the sense of nausea increased as he felt himself spiralling down though glittering pipes of code and programming, warped glimpses of the Enclave, macabre buildings and twisted agonised faces. He tried to picture the sword but couldn’t quite grasp it entirely, he screamed ‘Excalibur!’ in his mind but still the image wavered, wouldn’t solidify, he continued to fall. Without warning he felt Neave’s presence slowing his fall, as though cupping him in ethereal hands. The picture solidified into a tangible object, “Excalibur”.

Drog’s eyes jerked open the connection popped out; he was bathed in sweat and shaking. Thomas Neave also sat up; he looked unaffected by the brief sojourn into AI space.

He shook his head, “Could do better Drog.” He swung his legs round to face him.

“You really must concentrate. You’re a natural but AI space is dangerous and compelling. All the code and programming flashing by is distracting. You must focus first on yourself, your integrity. Close your inner eye and envisage the abstract that should centre you.” He passed Drog a small bottle, “Drink this, it’ll settle you. Then we can try again.”

“What is it?” asked Drog looking at the bottle.

“A mild stimulant, designed to aid concentration for a short time. It should get you through the opening phase.”

They relaxed back onto the recliners and plugged in again. This time Drog held onto the picture of the abstract, his position stabilised and he began to understand the flow of information and coding around him. He was still enclosed in Neave’s mental shield and anchored to the abstract but he bagan to see patterns in the information flowing through and around him

Even filtered and slowed by Neave’s shield he began to realise just how intoxicating this was. He understood a little better now the AI addicts who spent their lives on drip feeds linked to virtual worlds of their own creation. Here they could build entire worlds, lives they could control, be anything they wanted to be with little or no effort. Their lives limited only by their imagination. He had always hated the addicts; seeing them as less than human, rich dilettantes indulging themselves in seedy pleasures, like lotus eaters stuck in a netherworld of hazy oblivion. He began to realise how beguiling this could be; a total escape from the harsh realities of life in the Enclave; a personal nirvana, a bespoke heaven suited exactly to your needs.

“Careful, Drog, remember why you are here. You will be very good at this as long as you don’t succumb to its charms. You need to develop a thicker skin and very quickly. Hold on to your loathing of those addicts it will help you retain your personality.”

Drog held onto the picture of the emaciated ruined people he had rescued from the dreaming dens, seeing a similarity with Thomas Neave.

“You’re correct Drog, I was one of those you rescued and I thank you for it. You gave me back my life.” Neave thinned the shield a little more.

“Concentrate; hold the image of the abstract in your mind’s eye”

The swirling coding coalesced into a sharper multi-layered matrix.

“This is the AI core, in here resides the AI’s consciousness. You have to learn to find an incomplete piece and slip in; once in there you can flit through the AI’s data feeds and surreptitiously influence its decisions. You will not control, just persuade. If you try to force it the AI will destroy you. Remember the interface works both ways.”

Drog searched around the massive matrix seeking for a weak spot, not that he had any idea what it would look like. He was still inside Neave’s shield but he could feel the other man allowing him a lttle more freedom of movement. He spotted a misshaped corner of the matrix and moved towards it. He felt Thomas tighten the shield again.

“Not yet Drog.” he took them both out back to the real.

“How do you feel?”

Neave looked hard into Drog’s eyes looking for signs of distraction and disconnectedness.

“How long were we there?” asked Drog.

“About forty seconds.”

“Forty seconds? It felt like hours!”

“Hence the addiction Drog, - the drug and the virtuality give apparent immortality. It’s a hard habit to break.” There was real pain in Thomas Neave’s high pitched voice. It was clear to Drog he had been through hell.

“What do you do now Thomas?”

It was the first time he had called him by his first name.

“I run a rehabilitation centre in Stockwell; a charity for addicts.”

Drog’s respect for this strange creature grew, the man demanded action by his very existence.

“Why do you help Connely? It seems an unlikely alliance - Police Chief and charity worker.”

Neave stared hard at Drog.

“You mean you don’t know?” he clenched his fists.

“Those bastard mayors have been drugging the masses in this city for years. They’ve been pumping G’lass into the system; seventy five percent of the Enclave’s population are junkies. “

Neave wiped a shaking hand across his face,

“The Mayors have kept the population quiescent for years with doses of drugs in the water. The G’lass gives even the untalented limited access to the virtuality. BoJo makes sure that only those on his side have clean water, the rest walk around in a drugged half life. They work like crazy in dull jobs by day and spend the evenings and nights in the virtuality, playing games, living secondary but more interesting lives inside their own heads.”

He turned back to reconnect.

“Hang on!” Drog wanted to find out more, “Drugs in the water? I know BoJo’s a bastard but this?”

“Listen, nothing in the Enclave is as it seems. I don’t have time to teach you everything you should know. Stick to the plan. Plug in.”

It was easier for Drog this time to stabilise his position in the AI, Neave was still protecting him, providing a thin veil of security between him and the AI. They skimmed through the coding streams to the central matrix.

“I am going to remove the shield, envision the abstract. It’ll keep you centred.”

The thin pink veil he hadn’t realised he was looking through cleared, Drog held on to the abstract in his mind, he could feel the edges of his personality fraying, the abstract became less sharp. He focussed harder on the abstract; bringing it back to clarity, the matrix sharpened, he could sense the gap clearly now. Neave withdrew the shield completely; Drog could now sense him as a separate entity in the AI space.

“Good, you are now solo. How do you feel?”

“A bit em – thin - but stable.”

“The lack of a long term virtual presence is why you feel that way. Thin is a good description. The more time you spend here the less you will feel like that. That’s part of the addiction, the more time you spend the more you believe this is home; the more comfortable it becomes, the less superficial your life here appears. Outside though, in the real, life becomes duller and less interesting; and so the spiral down into dependence and degradation. You lose your job, you end up going to illegal parlours, your debts build up, your family leaves and you die in filth and squalor.”

“Sounds like you’ve been there.”

“I have. Now just slip into the core but do nothing, just get the feel of the info flow, then out.”

Drog recognised that Neave didn’t want to talk about his past; he slipped through the small flaw in the matrix, he felt a sudden acceleration of the data stream and exponential expansion of his awareness. It was as though he was in touch with the entire Enclave, its power systems became his muscles, the water flow was his bloodstream. He could perceive the other AIs as fellow travellers in this virtual world. He lost touch with Neave, but could make out several other virtual humans who seemed to be floating inert in the glittering chiaroscuro of the information streams. While he was watching one of these flashed and disappeared, it brought him back to himself. “Excalibur” he thought.

“Well done Drog, you obviously have the talent in abundance. But that makes you even more vulnerable to addiction.”

Drog was having trouble getting back to reality; he stared at the abstract trying to bring it back into full focus. He blinked tears out of his eyes.

“Was that someone leaving the virtuality?”

“Sorry Drog, I wish you hadn’t seen that.” He dragged both his hands down his face as if washing the picture from his mind.

“That was an addict dying; probably from dehydration. Once they get in so deep with no-one in the real to pull them out or even feed them; they just fade. Most of them die from starvation or dehydration, the flash is the last of their energy being expended in an attempt at self preservation, it rarely works.”

The tall man’s voice cracked, he dropped his head into his hands. “This is what I try to stop, but for every one I save hundreds die.” He raised head, “Connely diverts help to the charity when he can but it’s never enough.”

Drog hugged himself; he hadn’t realised how emotional an experience this would be. He had expected a cool, rational mental landscape instead he encountered a broad, complex, passionate inner space where people lived, loved and died in a virtual world of electronics and drugs. He understood that this was a hideous escape from an ugly reality.

“One last lesson and then you’re on your own. We’ll go back into the matrix and this time you will try to influence the info flow to gently and slowly turn the AI’s attention to a specific task. It doesn’t matter what it is; this is a small low level security AI you should be able to influence it fairly easily.”

They back settled into the recliners again and plugged in. This time Drog found it fairly easy to remain cohesive as he travelled through the virtuality towards the AI’s core. The gap in the matrix was slightly smaller than he remembered but in the same location or perhaps he was larger, he wasn’t sure. He slipped into the core and immersed himself in the info flow.

The streams of data flowing through the AI were enormous. Feeds from throughout the Enclave coursed through his mind, he realised how limited this AI was and he could sense much larger presences in the virtuality. These were other AIs in the network; interconnections became clearer, ribbons of data and coding streaming between the bright varicoloured nodes. He slipped into one of the smaller flows and became aware of a security feed from the huge water tanks to the west of the Enclave. The strange bifurcation of perception returned. On the one hand he knew where he was in the virtuality, but he also perceived the entirety of the tank; he was also “there”.

Neave had followed him, watching his progress looking for signs of Drog losing himself, waiting to see if his personality showed any signs of fraying.

“So far so good - now try to change the feed, make the AI believe the water level is falling.”

Drog concentrated; the splitting of his perception diminished, embedded in the flow he began to change the picture by increasing the apparent out flow from the reservoir. The AI’s reaction was instantaneous, diverting its full attention to the data stream. Sending now as well as receiving, it was looking for confirmation of the suddenly changing information. Drog was under pressure he could feel the AI probing the data stream looking for validation of falling water levels. The AI acted, it sent a small security detachment to physically check the water level.

“The next stage is harder; you need to adjust the sensors directly, inducing a fault that would explain the dodgy readings. That way we can exit without further investigation. It was a faulty sensor nothing more.”

“How the hell do I do that?”

“Look at the electricity feed to the sensor, what you have been doing is adjusting that. If you now boost the current the sensor will be damaged, that should be enough to divert the AI to a physical cause not a virtual one.”

He did just that, though he was not sure how.

“Excalibur”. Drog sat up rubbed his face, and ran his hand across his recently shaved head. He felt exhausted, drained of energy his limbs were quivering with strain. Neave handed him another small bottle.

“What is it this time?”

“Nothing dramatic, mainly water, glucose and a few minerals. It should help you recover.”

Drog drank it down his hands were shaking and he spilled some of the liquid down his uniformed chest.

“You’ve got it bad - here drink another.” The concern on his face was clear as he handed Drog another of the small bottles.

“When you interfere with the real from the virtuality, you expend your own energy. I think you rather over did it!”

“Why didn’t you warn me?” Drog exclaimed irritated.

“To understand it you must experience it. I could have warned you but you wouldn’t have believed me. You will recover very soon. But you’ll never make that mistake again. A small charge would have been sufficient but you expended a huge amount of energy. You will feel very hungry very soon.”

“I do already!”

“Good lets go eat”

In the canteen Thomas and Drog at the self service counter loading plates with huge amounts of carbohydrate heavy food. Connely was doing his rounds of the tables, encouraging and joking with the PCs; the common touch he called it. Said it kept him in touch with the real Enclave, kept him grounded. Connely spotted the two and nodded towards an empty table. The food was the usual tasteless reconstituted food crop, but to the hungry pair it was ambrosia. They ate quickly and in silence.

Drog realised now why the tall man was so thin, he must expend vast amounts of personal energy on his rescue missions. No amount of gorging could make up for the energy loss involved. Drog’s respect and appreciation for the tall man went through the roof.

Connely joined them, customary chicory coffee in hand. “Well? How did it go?”

Neave looked up from his plate, “Good. Good.” then returned to his eating.

“Drog?”

He had cleared his plate and sat back.

“I don’t know boss, it’s complicated.”

Drog stared off into mid space, his eyes unfocussed, clearly still trying to internalise his recent experiences. Connely waited, he glanced at Neave who had just finished his meal.

“Easy Chief - let him be for a while. He needs rest and time to come to terms with what he’s learned.”

Drog’s gaze came back into present, Neave handed him another of the small bottles, where they kept appearing from puzzled Drog.

“Go home Drog, rest, I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.”

The Police Chief watched as Drog rose and slowly left the canteen the small bottle in his right hand. He paused at the door, glanced back at the table and strode more purposefully away.

“What do you think Thomas - will he be able to do it?”

Neave drummed his thin fingers on the table. “He can do it all right. But whether he will survive or not is a different matter. His talent is very strong as is his will, but he has a very soft centre that makes him open to distraction, open to attack by other longer term users.”

He stilled his hands on the table top. “He could very easily die in there Connely - very easily.”

Connely slid a credit chip across the table to Neave, “You let me worry about that. This will keep you going for a few months. Thanks for your help.”

Connely rose to leave, Neave laid a skeletal hand on Connely’s arm “How soon?” he hissed.

Connely stooped and whispered in his ear, “Very!”

The Police Chief walked away, smiling at his colleagues in the canteen. Neave ordered more food.