The Legend of T93

By Michael R. Herrman

History remembers Sethric Chun by many names. To some he is the Traitor of Haven, and to others the Saviour of Summerhill, but most know him simply as T93.

In 22nd Century Haven, where the Director's power is absolute and the citizens are slaves in all but name, Sethric Chun is certain he is about to die. His lover has been executed for mysterious reasons, and his merit tally is sinking so quickly he will be recycled in a matter of weeks. If it weren't for the bomb in his satchel, Chun would be out of options.

With his single act of sabotage, Chun becomes the catalyst for events that culminate in a cataclysmic battle for the future of the region.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R. Herrman
• Release date: Dec 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465787514

Michael R. Herrman

Michael R. Herrman is a former US Marine.

Book preview

Huxley was right, and Orwell followed. Then there was nothing.

THE LEGEND OF T93

By Michael R. Herrman

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2009 Michael R. Herrman

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental.

The Honourable Rachelle Waters,

Cascadian Senate, New Seattle

Republic of Cascadia

Madame Senator:

We have corroborated the data record of Sethric Chun’s brain-computer interface chip though a surviving node of Haven’s Integrated Control Computer. The historical reconstruction that you requested is complete.

HICC also provided data streams for Director Eliphas Enslann, Adjutant William Kosov, and Brigadier Nathan McCarty. Their accounts are confirmed through abundant archaeological evidence.

Because Granite’s theocracy prohibited BCI implantation, we reconstructed Jonah’s role in the Tri-City War through the aforementioned records. We also extrapolated from the fragmentary remains of his own written accounts. We have included a glossary of terms at the end of the document

Dr. Raymond Morgan, Director

Brooksworth Historical Institute

New Seattle, Cascadia

March 06, 2197

CHAPTER I

Deep in the Seed City called Haven, 50 miles NE of Seattle’s ruins

When we interface, HICC takes on the image of Gina. It replicates her voice. It mimics her stride and her crooked grin and it recreates every quirk it can dredge from its data banks. It does this because it’s trying to break me.

HICC-Gina touches the bottom of my chin and lifts with two fingers. It sashays a semi-circle before me, legs swishing yellow chiffon. Tell me about your dream, it says.

I don’t know what you mean.

The background fades from harsh white to pale blue, an obvious ploy to disarm me. Sethric, don’t be difficult. It is your duty to comply.

I barely remember any of it.

It clucks like an agitated crèche mother. Your attitude must change. If you are not honest with me, I cannot help. You will be tanked.

If HICC could see what I’m thinking, I’d be tanked anyway. Damned wonder the technicians didn’t mark me a week ago.

Your vitals record a period of anxiety, HICC says. Your chip indicates that you were dreaming. Tell me about the dream.

I don’t remember.

HICC-Gina hugs a metal clipboard to its breast and pouts. Cheap stagecraft.

I will decode your upload. HICC says this as if the matter is closed but the icon cocks its head and lifts its eyebrows. It expects something from me, but self control is the key here. I need one more hour. Just one more hour.

Are we finished?

Not quite. There’s the matter of today’s duty roster.

Perfect. Harks.

Archives again?

The work calms me.

HICC-Gina scans the clipboard. That’s good, but you should select more meritorious assignments. You are sinking into deficit.

I know.

At your present rate, you’ll be recycled within the month.

I know.

HICC drops its arms. I’m trying to help you.

Of course you are.

Nonetheless, I have cleared you for Archives.

Break connection. The blue field and the icon are gone, replaced by the domed communal tower. Lever myself out of the interface couch, back to the world of murmured banalities. Next to me, a blonde woman breaks interface and sits upright on her own couch. We share a moment of vapid eye contact. Her lids are heavy and her pupils are like worm-eaten tunnels. My bile rises at her vacant smile, at the way she flops her feet onto the floor and staggers upright. This is what we’ve become. We are the same. We are numbers in coteries, faceless blips on duty rosters. We are a drug addled lump in this cluster called Haven.

It’s time to go. Two trans-platforms and ten minutes of crowd-weaving opens the way to a cavernous crysete-sheathed tunnel. This is the main artery, the central interior hub with access to the blast doors, to the causeway to the reclamation tanks and the coterie quarters. The human current carries me along as it flows around tracked crawlers with their spinning strobes and buzzing alarms. Transit to Dr. Harks’ lab involves ten minutes of smiles and nods and glances at nothing in particular, ten minutes of pretence that I am still like them even though the euphorics don’t work for me anymore. At the end of it all is the fractal mesh curtain to the lab. Harks is waiting.

His face is pale and his collar digs into the surrounding skin as if it’s choking him. His forehead is damp and I smell his sweat.

Good afternoon, Sethric.

Doctor.

Harks motions to a workbench. Please, sit.

He brushes strings of gray hair from his eyes and forms a subtle sign with his fingers. I must watch his hands carefully when he speaks.

Today, Harks says as he lays one finger into the palm of his opposite hand, we have a backlog of material to sort and catalogue.

I understand.

This book was excavated last week, he says. It has a badly burned cover but the pages are intact. It was written by someone named Baker.

Baker. It’s time.

My own hands rest on the table, fingers loose, I simultaneously speak and sign in return.

Is the print in good condition?

Very good condition.

Yes.

Harks produces a stick of warped plastic. A tag dangles from it, the catalogue letters read AT 5.

Tunnel five.

He grunts as he lifts an impact crate from the floor and slides it atop the workbench. I have items to attend to, so I’ll leave this to your care.

Dr. Harks leaves the room. Breathe deep as I stare at the crate and will myself to relax. Hands sweat when they touch the lid and my skin flashes cold as my fingers snap the couplings. There are nine books inside, each tagged, all in poor condition. Pages are yellowed, burned, water damaged or missing but the paper alone is treasure. Covers are faded, mauled, ripped. Catalogue codes are scrawled on each tag in Harks’ shaky script. Taken sequentially, they will construct the alphanumeric access code to tunnel 5. At the bottom of the crate is a tenth item, but it is not a book. Though the cube weighs only a kilo, it packs enough explosive power to reduce HICC to slag.

Harks’ module has recorded him in the act of receiving and transferring this bomb. Mine is recording as well, but no matter. There will be no data upload because HICC will be dead.

Tuck the package into a sample bag, affect a vacant grin and stroll into the corridor. My destination is in the western commons. Guards and smart-cameras watch every object, every motion, every nuance. Measured breaths, relax. No stress. I’m happy. If they flag me it’s over.

Closer to access tunnel 5, ever closer. I take two trans-platforms and no one looks askance at me. I pass two checkpoints and the guards ignore me. Good so far.

I arrive in time to see the last rays of washed-out light angle through the sky-dome. The service corridor is deserted, at least for the moment. Fifty steps ahead is a carbon press hatch marked 5 and behind that is a service shaft to HICC’s brain-bank. A slate gray camera lens monitors the access port. I will pretend that I belong here, that it’s my job to enter. Stride to the hatch, posture easy, back erect, head high. Smile at the camera like it’s an old friend.

I hear laughter. Freeze, lean against the wall, let the package dangle behind my legs. Stare at the deck. Get the smile just right, relax. My mask is perfect.

A trio turns the corner. It’s a man and two women, nude save for hemp slippers. They orbit each other, leaning together. They cling and they fondle. The taller woman has piled brunette hair and braids that swing and dangle as she slaps the man’s arse while the other woman, her face hidden by a tactical helmet, pirouettes and loses her balance. Her companions catch her as she falls and they break into raucous laughter.

They’re so near I can smell the scent of one of them, of her genotyped perfume. It's the scent Gina used to wear, like the honeysuckles of Greenhouse 19. My chest tightens and I want to touch her. She glances at me, laughs, and winks with a silver-glittered eyelid. Her cheek is tattooed with the image of the sun, brilliant orange, rendered in photo-reactive dye. I can’t help but gaze at it.

She stops walking and stares at me. This is bad. Should have kept my eyes to the floor.

Sethric? She waves her companions back. Sethric Chun, right?

Yes. It has been a couple of years, but we shared a coterie. I think her name is Karen. Her hand is on my shoulder; she strokes my neck with a single finger.

Haven’t seen you since the arenas. Why don’t you come with us, have a little cluster?

I really can’t.

She steps closer, almost nose to nose. Ah, that’s right. I heard about your friend. What was her name?

Gina.

Right. Gina. She flattens her palm and presses it against mine. I’m sorry.

Her eyes are glassy and that’s good. She’s flying so high that I doubt she’ll remember this conversation. Grin, look at the floor. Nod. Maybe she’ll move along. I’m getting by, but thanks.

She smiles. I’m still with the old lifter coterie, so if you ever want to talk or even just cluster, come see me?

I will.

They’re gone. Take a slow, deep breath. Put her out of mind and get back to what I came for. Above the access hatch, a camera scans my face while my fingers tap out the sequence that will open the passage. Internal locking bars hiss and the seal pops. The hatch slides away and a faint overpressure pushes into the corridor. The ventilators are louder in there. Two steps and I am inside. Seal the passage. Thirty metres down the white walled hall is the hatch to a sterile room. Beyond that is the heart and soul of HICC. I will not use a sterile suit and I will not submit the package to a scrub. The alarms will sound, but that is irrelevant. In thirty seconds this will end.

I have to input another sequence before I can pass the second hatch, a job code to log my function in the mainframe pit. I’ve done billet duty with the techs so I know a few routine codes. Key an emergency filter replacement and the hatch pops open.

Step inside. The room is silver and circular with six access doors. In the center is a man-hatch to HICC’s heart.

Citizen 103777, HICC says. Sethric Chun.

Yes.

Your presence is not authorized.

For all its apparent smarts, HICC is just a machine. It should have stopped me at the hatch, but its programming requires that it allow access for service.

Emergency filter, I say.

A klaxon stabs my ears. Scanners ring the chamber and they’ve done their work. HICC knows I have explosives and it’s calling for help. The corridor behind me, the corridor outside, and all the corridors that feed into this hub are flooded with the alarm.

The man-hatch has no lock. Open it, pull the bomb from the bag and thumb the timing toggle. Stare down into the pit, at the banks of gold rectangles that line the octagon. That’s what I came to destroy. Numbers on the timer glow. In thirty seconds, everything will change. Everything. Finally. Savour this second. Bet somehow, somewhere, Gina is watching. Bet she’s smiling too.

Hatches whir and I hear running boots behind me. The whines of stunners in their charge phase drown the klaxon. My arm is cocked, ready to hurl the package and finish this. It leaves my hand just as their muzzles flash and the world blazes white.

***

Four men, each bound and gagged, dangled over the open hatch to the reclamation chute. The death chamber was featureless, save for the shaft and the cables and the Adjutant’s bench near the doorway. From that bench, Adjutant Kosov watched the ring of functionaries as they gathered around the condemned. Executive Director Enslann stood next to him, and his fingers dug deeper into the meat of Kosov’s shoulder with every second of silence that passed. Proceed, Adjutant.

Kosov cleared his throat, pinched his nose against the stench from the shaft, and wondered if he hadn’t made a terrible mistake. He lifted the gavel. By the authority vested in me as Haven’s ninth Council Adjutant, I command the following sentence to be passed: in accordance with the Revised Penal Articles of 2069, convicted of crimes against the office of the Executive Director: of corruption; of theft; of conspiracy to overthrow our rightful and legitimate system of governance; for merit deficit and for conduct unbecoming members of the Council, the sentence is death and reclamation. HICC, authenticate.

HICC acknowledged from an overhead speaker. Authenticated.

Kosov hammered the gavel. The crack faded. Perfect silence.

An Executive Guard raised his arm. Down!

Kosov heard a metallic *snick* and the men who had hung by the cables were gone. He thought he heard sounds like a gagged man might make out of terror, but he wasn’t certain. The pressure on his shoulder eased, but the hand remained.

Well done, Enslann whispered. I’d begun to question my faith in you.

Kosov tried to grin, but the small hairs at the back of his neck bristled. Still, he sat at the Adjutant’s bench and he held the Adjutant’s gavel. The arrangement was better than death. I’ll do what I must to serve Haven.

Will you? Enslann lumbered to the front of the bench. With a casual wave he dismissed the guards and stared down at Kosov. Let’s not sidestep the issue.

Kosov replaced the gavel to its station. Which issue?

I know why you were so eager to relinquish the Chief Custodianship. I can hardly fault your choice, given the circumstances.

Kosov moved to rise from his seat. I assure you—

I did not order you to speak.

Kosov’s mouth fell open.

Let us clarify your station, Enslann said. You are the worm and I am the agritech. I serve Haven and you serve me.

I see.

You must not disappoint me.

Kosov managed a slight nod.

Enslann sniffed the air and turned his back on Kosov. HICC, vent the chamber and display the profile.

As giant fans whined, a holographic cube appeared and a reproduction of a face hovered between them. Enslann jabbed a finger into it. This man is a saboteur. He attempted to destroy the nodes in section 5.

Who is he?

Chun, Enslann said. His name is Sethric Chun, and you will judge his case. You will tank him.

Kosov frowned. No hearing?

Of course you will hold a hearing, and then you will tank him.

Is it prudent for the Director to impose sentence?

You will impose sentence, not I, and you shall sentence him to the tanks. Enslann touched a panel and the hatch opened. Two Executive Guardsmen were stationed at either side. This is your escort. I want you to witness the interrogation.

Kosov sighed, combed his fingers through his hair, rose from the bench and walked into the corridor. The escort pivoted as one, stepped off, and Kosov’s pace matched their rhythm. Passers-by stood aside and proximity keys at the guards’ belts transmitted signals that opened and sealed the secure doors along their route.

As they marched, HICC relayed the details of the case on the Adjutant’s frequency until they arrived at a carbon press hatch. Chun had an unusual history: he was the offspring of a Granitite defector; he served five years in the Guard and followed that with six years as a lifter pilot.

He was a lifter pilot, at least, until HICC declared him to be psychologically unfit and assigned him to menial duties while he underwent reprogramming. There was more, but before he could absorb it a guard keyed the hatch open and they entered a room filled with men and women clad in sanitary coveralls, a dozen of whom worked at terminals and monitors.

The duty warden, a woman with stark red hair, rose from her station as Kosov entered. Good evening, Adjutant.

Kosov gave her a curt nod. I intend to observe Chun’s interrogation.

The warden keyed a console and muttered into a transmitter at her collar. As her lips moved, a crease furrowed her cheek,

Kosov stared at it. Is that a scar?

Adjutant?

Your cheek.

Her hand went to the left side of her face. It is.

Why haven’t you had it removed?

It’s a reminder.

Fair enough. Kosov grinned. Chun, then.

Chun, she agreed. Follow me, please.

She led Kosov and his escort into a branching corridor where they passed rows of cell doors. The only sounds in the hall were of ventilators and their footfalls. When they arrived at Chun’s cell, the warden opened it and Kosov stepped inside. The escort followed and the door sealed behind them.

The chamber measured at least six metres along each wall and was darkened to black save for a single, harsh light in the ceiling. Centered in that pool of light was a man, strapped into a couch at the limbs, waist and forehead.

A white-smocked technician named Bailey leaned over the couch. He was gaunt, pale, and he fondled a contact stunner with his spidery fingers. He made eye contact with Kosov and a waspish smile crawled across his face. Adjutant, we are pleased to have you join us. Isn’t that so, Sethric?

Chun and Kosov locked eyes. Something in Chun's expression compelled the Adjutant to look away, so he turned to the interrogator. The Director has briefed you?

Bailey coughed. He has, Adjutant. Now, he looked down at Chun, shall we continue? What did you imagine you were doing, Sethric? Let’s explore this further.

Chun looked up but said nothing.

Well?

A short silence passed as sadness bled into Bailey’s expression. He pressed the stunner to the side of Chun’s neck, causing his body to buck against the straps. After a short beat, Bailey removed the stunner. Chun went slack, lips parted, and a thin stream of drool trickled from his mouth.

Your answer was unsatisfactory. I’ll ask again…why would you attempt such a thing?

Chun choked, and Bailey let him catch his breath for a moment before he jammed the device to his neck. He kept his thumb on the toggle until Chun spoke in a strangled, staccato barrage of words. Bailey and Kosov leaned close to hear him.

It’s on the BCI, Chun said.

Bailey pursed his lips. The technicians will need time to decode your chip, Sethric. You know that. But maybe we don’t have time, hrm?

As Bailey slid the rod closer to Chun’s neck, Kosov’s chest tightened. You really should cooperate, he said. Doctor Harks is in custody and your conspiracy has ended.

Chun laughed. The explosiveness of it sprayed specks of spittle and Bailey glared as Kosov wiped his face with a sleeve. Conspiracy, Chun said, and he continued to laugh until Bailey’s rod sent him into another fit of lip-gnawing convulsions.

Bailey withdrew the device and clucked his tongue. You must show greater respect to the Adjutant. He will decide your punishment, after all.

Chun’s breath came in heaves and his brow sweated big, round beads that shimmered in the spotlight. Arenas or tanks?

Bailey leered down at him. Do not attempt to distract us, Sethric. Why did you try to destroy HICC? Your merit wasn’t high, but you had enough to eat. You might have returned to flight duty. Much merit in that, hrm?

Chun clenched his teeth. Cluster with your merit.

Oh, dear. Why do this to yourself? Bailey took a step back and cupped his chin. You came to us from Granite, didn’t you? Shortly after their revolution? Before the lock-out?

That he did, Kosov said.

Sethric, did they somehow put you up to this, hrm?

Chun’s gaze flitted between them. Never talked to anyone from Granite.

That’s improbable, Bailey said.

I was an infant, Chun said. You know that.

Indeed. Perhaps a sleeper? Perhaps conditioned with instructions that would not manifest for years.

No. Chun squinted into the overhead light. I’ll tell you why I did it.

Good, Sethric. That’s a good first step. So tell me.

Bailey waited for Chun’s reply. When it did not come, he lifted a gleaming, serrated scalpel from a tray of instruments. You force my hand.

Chun looked at the blade and he smiled.

You appreciate Annabelle, Bailey said. That’s good. You’ll become well acquainted.

Kosov frowned. Is this really—

Necessary? Don’t ask me, no. Ask Sethric. With measured deliberation, Bailey touched the blade to Chun’s cheek and traced a thin, red line. Sethric, answer the Adjutant. Is this necessary? Bailey slid the blade into a nostril. You needn’t endure this.

Chun’s body stiffened as bright crimson trickled from his nose, over his upper lip, between his teeth. He whispered, but Kosov couldn’t make out the words.

Bailey withdrew the blade. It dangled between his fingertips, close to Chun’s left eye. Speak up.

Chun whispered again. His lips barely moved.

Kosov cocked his head. What’s he saying?

I can’t hear him. Bailey leaned in close.

Chun tilted his head back as he strained against the straps. The stretch gave him only a centimetre of freedom, but it was enough. Chun sank his teeth into Bailey’s presented ear. He grunted and sawed while Bailey shrieked and tried to pull away but Chun held fast. Their blood mingled