Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📗

Bruce shifted his grip and David hissed. “Watch it.”

“I am,” Bruce replied.

“Then watch it better.”

Bruce waggled some more, then gave up and sat down. He coughed into his hand, looked at the contents, and wiped the palm on his thigh. This was their first conversation in twenty years. It seemed natural to fall back into their bickering routine.

But Bruce was now in his early twenties. The coded instructions in his DNA had been followed faithfully by the computer. He had a week’s worth of beard. His hair was greasy and new. His acne scars were gone. His eyes, in particular, were bright and clear. They had none of the random, roaming stare that they had once had. Bruce Shimoda, blind in real life, could now see. Through the wetwire connection, tiny robots had carried cables barely nanometres across into his brain, uniting computer and brain in the most fundamental way.

“Hey. Good to see you,” said David.

Bruce smiled. Was it really Bruce? He looked more like Bruce’s younger brother. So much individuality had been lost – or gained, or both – with Bruce’s new eyes. “It’s good to see anything.”

David bristled at his flippancy. “Is that why you came? Why’d you spend those days firing up this old computer? You’ll bloody die in here.”

“I – we should talk about it later. The metal shark may come back.”

“Where is it?”

“They can’t swim. I ran over a log that’s fallen over the river, down there, about a mile. It slid off, into the water.” He chuckled in his reverie. “It was fun the first time. I didn’t know it would work.”

“Look, talking about time. We don’t have much of it. There was a collapse in the centre. McWhirter’s dead. They’re blasting down to rescue me.” He thought of Caroline. “Us.”

Bruce nodded. “We need to find some shelter. The shark’s call reaches for miles. Others will come.”

He adjusted his skins and rubbed his hands together. The light was fading. Unlike David, he could not address the computer directly. He had no privileges. “Now, let’s get that dart out.”

He took hold of the stiletto with both hands and put one fur-clad foot next to David’s head. David closed his eyes. Bruce tugged and he felt the shaft slide through his neck. When it was out, he clapped a hand to the wound. Blood trickled between his fingers, but not much.

“Let me see,” he said.

Bruce showed him the dart. It was nearly fifteen centimetres long and as thick as a pencil lead. The point was needle-sharp. “They immobilize their prey. They never eat alone. It’s a social thing.”

“Is it poisonous?”

“I don’t think so. Come on, before it gets dark.”

They walked down the valley and crossed the river that Bruce had mentioned. Insects dotted the air over its banks. It did not look strong enough to wash away the metadillo. David repeated his attempts to access the computer. None were successful. The stiletto had somehow damaged his vocal chords. His voice was lower.

“Computer, give me access. Password is Prometheus.”

“Password rejected.”

“Please.”

“No.”

It was murky on the valley floor. This forest now had a name. He called it Mirkwood and it was so. Its strange blue fronds; its dampness; its predators. Was the metadillo watching them? He spun in a circle as he walked. There were too many shapes and too many hiding places. Through breaks in the canopy, he saw a snow-capped mountain. The peak was still bright with daylight.

David could feel his youthful muscles ache – aha, but these muscles did not ache. The aching muscles were in another universe, under Scotland, in the ruined research centre, in a glass coffin along with his body. He imagined the legion of microbots forming facsimiles of the terrain under each foot as he pressed down. The same microbots had assumed the shape of the metadillo’s stiletto.

Bruce lead him to the right. The ground began to incline gently. The vegetation thinned. David forged on. His hiking boots were excellent; Bruce’s skins were not. He trudged as though his legs were too heavy. Often, he stopped to steady himself against a trunk, or cough.

They came to a small cabin high on the hill. The trees were larger, higher and spaced at wider intervals. The cabin was built on stony ground. David had forgotten it existed. It was modelled on an Alaskan ranger station he had found in a hiking magazine. A designer had rendered it in 3D and presto, by dint of Word, the cabin had appeared. It overlooked the lower forest. The valley deepened to the south and David could almost see the mist of a waterfall fifty kilometres away.

“Quite,” Bruce gasped, “a,” he gasped again, “view. You want some food?”

“Leave it,” David said. “We don’t have much time. I could be rescued at any moment.”

Bruce leaned on his knees to give his lungs some more space. He flapped a hand. “I’m starving. I’m getting some food.”

At length, Bruce entered the cabin. He knocked against a crude wind chime and David realised that he not felt the wind since emerging from his car outside the hotel. Perhaps that was a subtlety beyond the artful microbots. He looked up at the darkening sky and saw nothing. There were no stars. He felt as though this hill was a Tower of Babel, but he was God, wasn’t he?

Not until the computer recognised his voice.

He approached the cabin. He crouched to examine the wood of the veranda. It was not wood. He knocked. It was very hard. It had no echo. It did not have a grain. He walked to the corner of the cabin and ran his fingers along the edge where the front met the side. He withdrew his hand quickly and looked at his palm. There was nothing at first, and then a hair-line tear seemed to open by itself. Blood slipped out. He made a fist and looked closer. The front and side of the cabin did not precisely align. The overlap was razor sharp because this