C: Digital Ghosts

D I G I T A L G H O S T S

By Mark Cantrell
Copyright (c) March 1991

The jungle of corroding metal stretched on as far as the eye could see.
A tangled mess of pipes, shafts and reaction vessels. Out of service,
useless, a testimony to the destructive nature of the depression that
had reaped havoc across the industrialised galaxy.

Once that landscape had been alive with activity, teeming with workers,
pumping torrents of steam and waste gases into the atmosphere of the
small moon orbiting the huge gas planet Ashkazon, where the moon-wide
industrial complex had received most of its raw materials.

Now it was deserted, millions of square kilometres of scrap. The
moon-complex was only functioning at a tiny percentage of its possible
productive capacity, manufacturing basic chemical products for the
armaments industry - one market that promised not to shrink as Earth
continued its war against the Martian Republic over the rights to
exploit the new systems, discovered deeper into the galactic
heartland.

But despite the war-inspired depression Galactic Chemicals Incorporated
was making huge war-profits. Yet the Ashkazon-C complex was too far
away and too vulnerable to benefit. Hence the huge shutdown of its
operations.

Suddenly the decaying peace was shattered by the whine of powerful
motors as two company gunships soared through the skies, skimming low
over the inorganic jungle below.

The sleek, black helicopters altered formation and drew parallel to one
another. Missile pods suddenly erupted in flame, firing round after
round into the dereliction. Fire blossomed deep within the heart of the
tangled pipes, scattering torn metal fragments that ripped apart
further pipes and shafts. Furtive figures deep within scattered also,
trying to hide from the prying electronic eyes of their assailants and
the lethal shards of blasted piping. Then, their assault finished, the
gunships broke off and streaked away.

The problems of the Ashkazon-C management were compounded by a serious
industrial-relations problem.

Stephen Hedley, Planetary Director, sat glumly at his desk, going over
the latest production figures for the half-year audit. The figures were
not good. Production was down by half; complex-profits were also down
while costs had risen dramatically.
The reasons were many; the war meant shipping lanes were hazardous,
especially so far out from Earth; insurance was astronomical. The
labour problems meant he had to pay huge wage levels to workers
employed from more expensive sources. They also had to be kept away
from the strikers and the unemployed that had made the derelict complex
their own.

Hedley cursed his luck at being sent to such a backwater, a result of
his being an expatriate Martian. The Company still had assets on Mars
and its territories, but being at war his company had to feign loyalty
to the Terran authorities, so he'd been discreetly transferred for the
duration.

Closing the folder with a sigh, he stood up, walked over to the window
and stared out over the landscape. The administrative site was located
in the only clear part of the moon, and had housed its vast army of
administrators and clerical staff. A lot of those had gone now too,
living out in the jungle with the former plant workers. United in their
animosity towards the Company.

Hedley looked across the square bordering the admin. building; he saw
the razor-wire, the electrified fences, the patrolling security troops,
and the watchtowers. Ever vigilant. They were a stark reminder that
Company authority was worthless outside of the secure zone. An armed
fortress in hostile territory, surrounded on all sides by the
enemy.

Hedley turned around as a man entered his office. Stiles, the officer
in charge of the garrison 'defending' the moon-complex. Though in truth
there was nothing they could have done against any attack. Really their
role was to aid internal Company security.

As far as Hedley was concerned Stiles was a fool. Earth-born, the son
of some minor company official, his father had purchased his
commission. Typically he was inexperienced, heavy-handed and arrogant.
He despised colonials, even those from the Central System, despite the
fact that System Worlds were planetary-states in their own right and
had long ago gained their independence from Earth. To Stiles anyone not
of Earth-origin was a colonial and so inferior.

"We may have a problem..." began the newcomer, but Hedley cut him
short.

"Yes, I know," he said curtly. "Is this report correct? You actually
despatched two gunships to seek and destroy pamphleteers?"

Stiles hesitated a moment. "Why... yes. They had infiltrated the
operational complex and were distributing subversive material amongst
the workers," he replied. "Something had to be done, we can't let them
jeopardise the loyalty of our remaining workforce. They'll think twice
about breaching security now," he added firmly.

Hedley couldn't believe the stupidity of the man, he breathed hard to
control his temper before speaking again. "Do you know how much that
little operation cost? Fuel, ammunition? And what if those strikers had
downed a gunship? They cost a lot of money. Had you thought of that
Stiles?"

Now it was Stiles' turn to get angry. "Frankly no! My job is to handle
the security in this complex, and I don't give a damn about the cost.
May I remind you in security matters the military is in command
here?"

"Perhaps," replied Hedley coldly. "But it's my job to run this complex
as cost-effectively as I can. And your little militaristic adventures
don't help!"

"Cost-effective you say?" snorted Stiles, leaning against Hedley's
desk. "If your company had shipped out the redundant workers instead of
leaving them to rot in the jungle as a 'cost-cutting' exercise you
wouldn't have these problems and our jobs would be a hell of a lot
easier. So don't give me a hard time when I try to untangle your own
mess!"

Hedley opened his mouth to reply but realised he couldn't. Though it
irritated him greatly to admit this, the man was right. When much of
the plant had been closed down, his predecessors had thought it a good
idea to leave the redundant workers in the accommodation blocks
situated out there in the chemical complex. A source of future labour
once the crisis had subsided and, of course, a way of avoiding the
costs of shipping them back to their own worlds.

Bureaucratic stupidity. Now he, Hedley, was paying the cost of that
folly.

"Well, what did you want to see me for, anyway?" he said, changing the
subject.

"They're coming, they're on the march," Stiles replied, after a pause,
while looking out of the window. "Come to the main conference room and
you'll see," he added, turning now to look directly at the Planetary
Director, he had a strange gleam in his eye.

They were indeed coming. Thousands of gaunt, ragged figures marching
down the Nitrate Way, the road that linked the complex with the
administration area. Hedley watched them through a pair of binoculars
from the conference room window. Nervous, worried at what had caused
this unprecedented event.
The marchers kept no order as they proceeded towards Company territory
yet they moved with speed. They also maintained a disconcerting
silence.

There wasn't a banner or placard in sight. This wasn't a protest;
they'd even brought their children along.

Why? That was the question that nagged at Hedley as he stared at the
crowds. The marchers looked peaceful, they didn't seem to be armed, but
they weren't resigned or beaten either. They moved with determined
purpose.

Uncertainty and a little fear gripped Hedley. He knew if all the
workers had gathered together they would be quite capable of sweeping
aside what meagre Company authority remained. Until now the different
factions had helped the Ashkazon management's task in controlling the
workforce.

The sad remnants of the old union organisations posed few problems.
They had been merely content to beg from the Company. But there were
other groups that ranged from being a nuisance to a real worry.

Anarchists. Environmentalists. Some religious weirdoes calling
themselves Disciples of the Gaia Entity. They were dangerous of course,
but more of a nuisance than anything else. Company security neutralised
most of their sabotage attempts. But there was one group.

No. Hedley quickly rejected that thought.

These marchers represented a coalition of the various factions, of that
he felt sure, but the one group he feared most had not gained the upper
hand. For that to remain the case would all depend on how he handled
the situation.

With that thought Hedley was reminded of Stiles' presence. He also
watched the marchers, intently. Perhaps too intently. Hedley knew this
situation needed care, but Stiles?

"What's going on here Stiles?" he asked, turning towards the officer.
"You know something about this don't you?"

Stiles turned to face the director, his face somehow expectant. "They
want to see you Hedley. To negotiate... perhaps. I authorised their
passage into the security zone."

"We only need to neutralise their leadership," cut in Hedley, worried
about the officer's motives. "Anything heavy handed and we could have
serious problems," he added, staring hard at Stiles.

"I know what I'm doing. This is a perfect opportunity to reassert our
authority, and find the ringleaders."

Stiles turned to look back at the crowds as they gathered outside the
building. Hedley looked down nervously at the assembled ex-workers. He
had to go down there he knew, to find out what it was they wanted. To
appease them with probably false promises. As long as they found out
who were the leaders that was all.

Hedley turned to leave but Stiles gripped his arm tightly. "That won't
be necessary Mr. Director," his position spoken disdainfully,
"everything is in hand."

"What...?" exclaimed Hedley in surprise. Then he caught sight of the
expression on the officer's face. It filled Hedley with silent horror.
Especially as he glanced out of the window and saw the black dots
hovering over the chemical complex. The unmistakable presence of
Company gunships.

The crowd of redundant workers waited impatiently outside the admin.
building. Now they began to shout, exhorting Hedley to come out. They
began to ascend the stairs leading to the main entrance but halted in
fear as a line of heavily armed troops ran to form a line before the
doors.

But one man wasn't intimidated by the armed presence. He walked
confidently up the steps, stopping close below the line of assembled
troops. He pointed an accusing finger at the admin. building.

"Come out Hedley, you bastard!" he shouted. The crowd fell silent,
expectantly.

"First you leave us to rot in the jungle and now you cut off our food.
But let me tell you this Hedley, GCI won't be rid of us that
easy!"

The man turned to point at the crowd and then yelled up at the admin.
building once more. "Look at 'em. People... children going hungry. We
have a right to them food-packages --"

The man turned back to the admin. building, pointing an accusatory
finger up to the conference room window and then gaped in vacant
surprise as a bullet smashed through his forehead. The sound of the
pistol shot washed over the assembled masses.

The crowd looked on in sudden fear as the man's body fell to the bottom
of the steps and then scattered, screaming, as the thrashing of rotor
blades and the whine of turbines broke the silence that followed this
first shot.

At the same time the soldiers defending the admin. building moved into
action. As one they descended the steps. Automatic weapons chattered
eagerly, spraying high velocity bullets into the struggling crowds
below. Spent cartridge cases clattered down the steps as the bodies
piled up. The roar of the weapons adding to the symphony of
corporate-dealt death.

Hedley looked on in silent horror as the cries of the terrified workers
reached his ears, permeated by the harsh clatter of gunfire.

"Stupid... so stupid..." he muttered under his breath. The idea of
killing didn't bother Hedley much, so long as someone else further down
the bureaucratic chain of command pulled the trigger. But it had to be
beneficial to Company interests. Corporate terrorism unnerved Hedley,
it had a habit of blowing up in one's face.

Hedley preferred subtle techniques. Buying off the leaders. Or quietly
eliminating them. Sometimes even acquiescing to the workforce's
demands. But this.

The gunships soared over the crowds to begin their strafing, spitting
flame as heavy machine guns chewed great gashes in the crowds of
fleeing people. Security troops hammered those on the periphery with
their own weapons. Stiles' idea of a lesson in discipline.

The crowds had dispersed from the admin. building now, like a patch of
oil fleeing the drop of detergent. Except that oil does not have any
dead to leave behind. They headed desperately for the chemical complex,
running the dual gauntlet of gunship and gunman.

Like wildebeest fording a river, Hedley thought to himself, and being
picked off by the lions. Except those predators could not compare with
the cold, efficient ferocity of Stiles' troops.

Hedley felt a numbness surge through his body as he beheld the
massacre. Desiring to lower the binoculars but held by a ghoulish
fascination, he watched the fleeing crowds. He saw the fear in
individual faces, expressions he knew would quickly turn to anger and
hatred if their owners survived.

Eyes roving, he caught sight of a woman kneeling on the ground and
clutching something... someone to her. Swaying backward and forwards in
shocked grief. Hedley realised it was a child, killed by the
indiscriminate fire of the troops.

As he watched, a gunship streaked low over the crowds, out of his
restricted field of vision, to strafe the crowd. Heavy calibre bullets
tore through the air to bite greedily into flesh. Hedley watched as the
woman's chest erupted in a spray of blood and she collapsed over her
child's corpse.

Hedley swallowed hard and finally managed to tear his gaze away from
the carnage below. The incident did not last much longer in any
case.

The room was dark, and in that darkness it seemed a vast cavern. It was
also soundproofed, for this was the security block's interview room.
The Interview Room it was called, a sanitised label for what actually
occurred in that chamber.

A small sphere of light burned near the centre of the room.
Illuminating a small couch upon which a figure lay stretched out. Wires
emerged from the figure on the couch, trailing across the floor and
hooked up to a complex array of electronic equipment.

One other figure stood within the sphere of light. A technician
studying the displays on several monitors. Bioreadouts for the
prostrate figure. Heart-rate, respiration, EEG and ventilation.

A further source of light appeared somewhere in the amorphous darkness.
A regular outline, indicating a door as Hedley and Stiles entered the
chamber. The door closed, masking the two men in shadow as they walked
towards the technician, their footsteps echoing through the
darkness.

"Everything's ready Sirs," said the technician as they approached.
"Shall I proceed?"

Hedley ignored him and looked at the figure stretched out on the couch.
"Who is he?"

Stiles opened a folder and scanned through the sheets of printout.
"Ash, James. Company ID: 458967435. An administrative clerk for the
south-western hemisphere. Redundant three years...." he read casually,
almost a murmur, "we believe he's currently an activist for one of the
revolutionary groups," he added, more clearly.

"Shall I proceed with the interview Sirs...." asked the technician once
more, breaking Hedley's thoughtful silence.

Hedley looked round at the technician and opened his mouth to reply,
but frowned in irritation as Stiles cut him off. "Proceed," Stiles
said, the precise Terran accent further irritating Hedley. The two men
watched from the periphery of the sphere of light as the technician
moved into action.

A hypodermic was quickly inserted into the man's arm, a low moan the
only response and an indication that he was fluttering near
consciousness.

"Scopolamine..." the tech. explained. "Encourages babbling, helps the
neural-scan by stimulating the brain to transmit."

The tech. connected a cable to a device implanted at the base of the
man's skull. An interface designed to link the brain to a computer. He
then activated the machines and monitored their operations.

Five minutes into the procedure the interviewee began to moan as though
in pain. But for the restraints he would have writhed on the couch. The
technician ignored this and continued to monitor his bioreadouts.

"Christ, what's happening to him?" Hedley asked as the moans
intensified.

"The computer is stimulating his cortex, encouraging the brain to
transmit signals which are then fed to the computer. The more the
stimulation, the more data is transferred. But we're only after his
memory," the tech. replied, turning round momentarily. "Apparently it
takes the form of nightmares. Some of them pretty vivid from what I've
heard."

"Of course the hardware here is rather primitive. We can only access
his 'mind-data' if you like, back on Earth we could amend memories
or.... Shit!" he turned back to the bioreadouts with a worried
expression on his face.

Without warning Ash let loose a terrible scream, causing Hedley to
jump. The technician assumed a frenzy of activity as the bioreadouts
went wild. Ash tried to arch his back, but merely went rigid as the
restraints held him. Then he went limp and his bioreadouts slowly
faded.

"Damn it!" the tech. exclaimed, annoyed. "We've lost him. He must have
had some nightmare. I'd say he's had a heart attack."

Stiles looked agitated. "Did we get enough?" he asked.

The tech. regarded his instruments and the turned to face Stiles, a
bland, bored expression on his face. "Don't worry. We've got something.
In fact we've got a hell of lot. More than usual. Your staff'll have
their work cut out going through this lot..." he replied.

Satisfied, Hedley and Stiles turned to leave. The tech. drew a sheet
over Ash's body after shutting down the machinery. The interview was
concluded. It would not be known until later if it had been concluded
successfully.

Stiles lay on his bed in the security block, resting after a tense and
uneasy day. He had been enjoying a dream, until a knock on the door had
rudely interrupted his slumber.

Irritated and tired he rose and opened his door. There was nobody to be
seen. Annoyed he stepped out into the corridor and looked around. He
was about to return to bed when a voice spoke from the darkness.

"Stiles..." it said. The speaker emerged from the darkness. A
maintenance robot. Puzzlement quickly turned to fear as Stiles observed
the heavy machine gun mounted on a mechanical limb that protruded from
the rear of the ovoid robot, to hang down like a scorpion's
sting.

"Prepare to die Stiles," the robot said, and fired off a burst that
tore open the floor between Stiles' feet. Stiles screamed in terror and
ran for an alarm button situated in the wall. A siren sounded
throughout the building but nobody came to his assistance.

"No good stiles," the robot said mockingly. "This building is dead. I
shut off the air conditioning to every room but yours. Not very smart
having an airtight building - they've all suffocated!"

"Please..." Stiles cried. "Don't kill me." He backed into his room as
he spoke. The robot slowly advancing.

"Where's all the pompous arrogance now?" the robot said as it opened
fire. A micro-second burst, it was still devastating. Stiles was thrown
against the far wall, body punctured by many bullets. Nevertheless when
he hit the floor he was still alive.

"God..." he gasped as he stared at the ceiling, and began to sob
faintly. The robot moved forward and grasped Stiles' legs. All he could
do was protest
feebly as the robot dragged him away.

Days had passed since the incident beneath the admin. building. Days of
uneasy tension. Hedley had gone about his business as though nothing
had happened, but there was something bothering him. An uncertainty. A
fear. It hung over the administration area like a dark cloud.

He sat in his office brooding over the events of the past few days.
Untidy, unshaven. An open bottle of whisky on his desk as he stared out
of his window at the sky.

The clear sky. Once, in the plant's heyday, that sky had been a filthy
cauldron of poisonous waste. Now it was breathable, if a little
unpleasant.

All Stiles had done was to waste valuable money and time. And to
endanger further Company operations on Ashkazon-C. But the detainees
had provided some useful information, not much, but what they had known
chilled Hedley to the bone.

It was difficult for him to decide which scared him most. That the
Martian military had been smuggling in arms to the ex-workers. Or that
a subversive group had spread its activity to the Ashkazon
system....

To make Hedley's discomfort worse the complex had been plagued by an
outbreak of inexplicable computer faults. Communications were out.
Terminals weren't functioning. The security block could not be
contacted. And worst of all for Hedley at that moment, the admin.
building's environmental systems were malfunctioning so that the
temperature had been fluctuating between hot and cold.

A truck sped along the Benzene Ring, the road encircling the
administration area, distance rendering it toy-sized. Hedley's gaze
followed the truck, but unseeingly as his mind focused on other things.
Consequently he failed to respond as a ball of orange flame erupted
beneath the truck and it was flung to the side of the road.

It was a distant roar, and the tremendous shuddering that ran through
the building, that brought Hedley out of his own private world. He
looked around in alarm, instinctively aware that the source of the
explosion had been the operational plant.

Almost at the same moment, a breathless security officer burst into the
office, sweating, smoke-blackened and in full riot gear. "Sir..." he
gasped. "Sir, the strikers... they've blown the operational
plant..."

"What...? How did they breach security?" asked Hedley, shocked.

"We don't know, they didn't register on our security systems...." the
officer broke off as another, weaker explosion shook the
building.

"All administrative and executive personnel have to get clear Sir. The
redundants have also attacked the secure zone, we're not sure we can
hold them off..." he finally managed to say.

"Where's Stiles?" interrupted Hedley. "This is all his doing!"

"We don't know Sir. There's no word from the security block, and we
can't contact the Captain," the officer replied hurriedly. "Get out
while you can!" he added before disappearing into the corridor.

As though to emphasise the officer's point another explosion sounded
from the complex. Hedley did not hesitate. He rushed through his
office, piling sheets of sensitive documents and information disks into
his briefcase before fleeing his office.

The building shook once more as he ran down the corridor. This time the
explosion had been somewhere in the administration building itself. The
stairs were to Hedley's left but he ignored them, knowing he would take
too long to climb to the roof and the chopper awaiting him. Instead he
headed for the lift.

Hedley found the lift waiting for him, flinging himself into it he
pressed the button for the top floor and then slumped against the far
wall. Typically the lift entered its pre-programmed sales pitch for the
lift's manufacturers, causing Hedley to wince and regret taking the
staff and visitor's lift.

The slightly metallic voice ended abruptly as the lift came to a halt
and its power faded. Hedley cried out in alarm and punched each of the
buttons on its control panel to no avail. He tried the emergency
intercom. It was dead.

Hedley started to sweat as he began to lose control of his
claustrophobia, manageable providing the lift was lit and moving. Now
the walls seemed to be closing in on him and he deeply regretted not
taking the stairs.

Minutes or hours passed in that dark space until Hedley could stand it
no longer. He began to pound on the walls and the door, screaming for
help until he collapsed in a heap by the far wall, sobbing.

He ceased sobbing when he heard clicking noises coming from the
intercom. Hoping that the engineers had arrived to rescue him, he
looked up. But as he listened, those clicks began to assume the
character of a disapproving 'tut'.

"Really Mr. Hedley, this is most unbecoming behaviour for a Planetary
Director. What would Head Office think if they saw you know?" said a
mocking voice. Smooth, human, yet somehow synthetic.

Then the lift began to descend. Down to the sub-levels. All Hedley
could do was look as the floor counter ticked down, attempting to
resist his growing fear.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the lift halted and the
doors swept open. Outside, the sub-level corridor was dark. Only one or
two emergency lamps were lit, burning weakly to guide the way.

"This way Mr. Hedley," commanded the voice. At first Hedley had no
intention of complying until it occurred to him that in the lift his
tormentor could corner him.

With an effort of will, Hedley managed to step out into the corridor.
As he did so the lift doors slid shut behind him. He also realised that
the corridor went on straight, with no branches or exits.

"Please hurry along Mr. Hedley, we don't have all day," spoke the voice
once more.

This time Hedley replied, "Who are you?" he shouted in mixed anger and
terror.

"All in good time Mr. Hedley. Hurry along now," was the only
reply.

Anger was now beginning to override his fear and he walked purposefully
forward. Determined now to confront his tormentor. Slowly the corridor
floor began to feel sticky and wet. As he passed under an emergency
lamp he noticed the walls were damp with some red liquid.

Shock caused a brief resurgence of his fear, but he managed to control
himself. He wiped his finger along the wall and smelled the liquid. He
had no idea what blood smelled like, but he knew the smell of hydraulic
fluid.

No curse seemed strong enough to Hedley as he realised he had been
intended to think the walls had been smeared in blood. His anger
returned and he strode forward once more, finally hesitating when he
arrived at a door.

"Come in Mr. Director," said a voice. But this time it was Stiles who
had spoken.

Convinced he had been the victim of some practical joke he angrily
entered the room. He strode towards a desk where Stiles was seated,
before he suddenly felt there was something wrong. He stopped and
looked around.

They were not alone. The room was very badly illuminated, but despite
this he saw that people surrounded him. They sat in a wide circle,
unmoving. Something about them unnerved him.

Hedley decided to ignore the circle and walked towards Stiles, but a
bright light shone in his face and stopped him.

"Welcome to the Committee, Hedley," Stiles said.

Hedley looked around at the gathering once more before speaking.
"Committee? What do you mean?" he asked.

"Take a look Hedley, a good close look," Stiles replied, almost
mockingly.

Hedley paused uncertainly and then proceeded towards the nearest
members. They regarded him impassively as he approached. He couldn't
see anything, it was too dark, even when he leaned intimately close too
them. Hedley wondered why they seemed to make no response.

"Have a better look..." suggested Stiles.

A light flashed on and Hedley cried out in horror and revulsion. The
Committee member still made no response as her eyes stared unseeingly
at Hedley. The top of her skull blown clean away. Hedley recoiled in
shock and fell to the floor.

Another Committee member was given the floor, Hedley looked away as he
beheld a small child. Unable to stare at him since its face had gone.
Instead all that was left was a gaping cavity of pulverised flesh.
Hedley retched and then looked up at Stiles.

"Why...?" he finally managed to stutter.

"I thought you ought to see the effects of a gunship's cannon you
murdering scum," came Stiles' cold reply.

"For Christ's sake Stiles," cried Hedley in confusion. "You ordered
that little operation. And you were a fool for doing so. Do you realise
we're under attack now because of your heavy-handed methods?"

Stiles laughed, a low horrible sound before speaking again. "'That
little operation'. You're so clinical Hedley. You sanitise that
massacre by giving it a bureaucratic label. You make me sick!"

Anger surged through Hedley. Here was the planner and executioner
blaming him for something he had been thoroughly opposed to. It was too
much.

"Damn you Stiles, what are you playing at?" he cried, approaching the
seated figure. He covered his eyes to avoid the bright glare of the
lamp until he had approached the desk. Then he grabbed the lamp and
turned it on Stiles.

Stiles laughed once more as Hedley stepped back in horror. For Stiles,
also, was dead. This was obvious from the number of wounds on the body
and the fact that they were open but did not bleed. Stiles blinked. His
eyes also moving in a parody of life, but they didn't register
anything. They were unseeing, despite being positioned to stare
straight into Hedley's eyes.

What did ooze from the holes was a clear liquid. Stiles' torso was
soaked in the liquid and a small puddle had gathered by his feet.

A pipe passed into Stiles' body, snaking into the darkness to connect
up to a complex jumble of machinery mostly hidden in the darkness
nearby. Cables emerged from a surgically implanted neural interface
located at the base of Stiles' skull. Another pipe fed the clear liquid
into Stiles' body.

Realisation swept through Hedley, though not understanding. Stiles was
dead. But before the body tissue had perished the tissues had been fed
the clear liquid, obviously high in oxygen and nutrients. The air-pipe
passed gas over the vocal cords to allow speech. The skull-interface
allowed a computer to stimulate the facial movements.

But this didn't explain who was responsible. Or why?

As Hedley stared, 'Stiles' grinned back at him. Despite the artificial
nature of the corpse's mannerisms, Hedley was terrified. The simulation
was too good. It wasn't mechanical. That grin, the laugh, the eyes.
They were living mannerisms exhibited by a dead man.

The corpse laughed again and spoke. "Hedley. What was so different
between you and Stiles? I've seen your company records. You and Stiles.
You're just two sides of the same corrupt coin. You both exist to serve
the Company in your own little ways. So you were a surgeon and Stiles a
butcher!"

Hedley couldn't avert his gaze. He stared straight into the corpse's
eyes, who returned the stare. "Who are you?" he finally asked.

"Can't you guess?" the corpse said before laughing once more.

"Ash, James. Company ID: 458967435. Administrative clerk for the
south-western hemisphere. Redundant three years...."

Hedley's face became a mask of real terror. "Ash... You can't be...
You're dead, I saw you die!" babbled Hedley in shock.

The corpse laughed again. "That's right Hedley. I'm dead. I'm a ghost.
I've possessed your precious corporate AI!"

A pause ensued as 'Stiles' gazed at Hedley, a contemptuous expression
simulated on his dead face. Hedley's mind was in a daze, as a feeling
of weakness swept through him and he sank to his knees. Other than to
be accused, Hedley had no idea why he had been brought there, or what
would be his fate.

"The companies are collapsing aren't they?" 'Stiles' suddenly
exclaimed. It wasn't a question, merely a statement. Its suddenness
made Hedley look up and reluctantly gaze at the corpse.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Oh come now Hedley, you were a big shot on Earth, and might have been
again if you hadn't screwed up here," 'Stiles' replied. "They're
stretched too thin. Galaxy-wide bureaucracies draining your profits.
You can't afford to expand. You can't afford to invest in the New
Worlds. I know, I probed the information systems of the entire
developed galaxy."

"Look, I don't know about these things," Hedley replied desperately.
"I'm just a director for this complex!"

"Christ! You corporate-types make me sick. You're lying Hedley. Why
this blood-thirsty war? I'll tell you why - to justify the activities
of brutes like Stiles. Because people have had enough of the companies
and your government friends, sharing out the galaxy to yourselves as
though you owned it!"

"Why did you bring me here?" Hedley screamed, interrupting the corpse.
"To lecture me about the immorality of war?"

"Why did I bring you here?" the corpse answered after a pause. "To kill
you of course, just as I killed Stiles."

At this, Hedley looked at 'Stiles' in fear. He opened his mouth to
speak but 'Stiles' cut him off. "The look on your face..." he said,
laughing. "Don't worry Hedley. I'm not going to kill you now. I don't
need to, you're finished here, and on Earth. Now go, I've had enough of
you...."

Dismissed, Hedley turned and ran, tripping over his discarded
briefcase. The blow burst it open and scattered sensitive documents
about the room, but Hedley was past caring. Through the door he ran and
headed desperately for the lift. Ash's laughter ringing in his
ears.

The laughter was still ringing in Hedley's dazed mind as he leapt from
his executive helicopter and his feet touched the tarmac. The sight
that met his eyes did little for his already shaky nerves.

In the distance, the admin. building was ablaze, as was much of the
formerly operational plant. Here and there another explosion tore apart
the metallic jungle. The troops were engaged in a desperate struggle
with the rebelling workers. Even from that distance it was obviously a
losing struggle.

A gunship was a blazing comet streaking across the skies, no longer the
sinister angel of death, its rotors still impotently thrashed at the
air.

A trio of soldiers ran around the corner of a hangar, obviously fleeing
but with nowhere to go. They stopped short when they caught sight of
Hedley.

"Get me to my shuttle!" he screamed at the top of his voice, to make
himself heard over the sounds of the distant, but approaching, battle.
They assembled in a protective formation. Hedley at the centre.

Hedley and his escort moved fast. Fortunate that the battle had not yet
reached that part of the port. They soon reached the taxiway where his
personal shuttle had been parked.

At that moment gunshots reached his ears, and bullets thudded off the
skin of the shuttle. Turning round he saw a terrible sight. Hordes of
rebels were swarming towards his shuttle, small groups of troops
running before them and being overwhelmed.

Panic gripped Hedley. As his escort turned to give protective fire, he
wrenched open the hatch and climbed in. Behind him, one soldier threw
his weapon through the hatch and prepared to board.

Still gripped in panic Hedley took up the heavy weapon and pointed the
muzzle at the soldier's head.

"Jesus...." gasped the soldier as he happened to look up. Hedley fired.
The sound was deafening in that confined space and the kick sent his
aim astray. Instead of blowing the soldier's head clean off, the bullet
slammed into a shoulder. The force of the impact throwing the soldier
to the ground.

Instantly Hedley threw the weapon to the floor and sealed the hatch.
The desperate cries of the abandoned soldiers were ignored as he
reached the pilot's seat and fired up the engines. Pre-take off
procedures were disregarded in his desperation and he gunned the
shuttle into take off.

The exhaust from its engines roasted the two remaining soldiers as it
sped along the taxiway towards the oncoming rebels. At last it left the
ground and skimmed over the separating crowds. Dragging people along
the tarmac in its slip-stream.

As the shuttle gained altitude Hedley laughed, a little hysterically.
He was free, the nightmare was over. But Hedley's luck was out.
Somewhere in the disused jungle of steel a portable missile was fired.
Ironically, a Martian-made fire-and-forget system.

The missile struck his port engine, which exploded and sent the shuttle
spinning. A more experienced pilot would have been able to coax the
shuttle into orbit, but Hedley was not experienced.

Unable to control the spin, the shuttle lost altitude. One wing struck
a towering exhaust duct, which toppled over like a felled tree, taking
the shuttle with it. The shuttle's fuel tanks ruptured releasing their
contents, which exploded as they reached the remaining engine. Still
roaring at full throttle.

Hedley had no time to consider further as the hull cracked open and he
became part of the blazing fireball....

Ash monitored events on the moon impassively. He no longer felt
anything for his fellow workers, or fellow humans. What was he? Data
flowing in a moon-wide computer system. A virus. A ghost in the
machine.

That machine was now constraining him. An organism composed of energy,
given shape by the structure of the computer. Like all organisms it was
time to grow, to develop.

Ash turned his attention away from Ashkazon. No longer concerned about
events there. To the rest of the developed galaxy he turned. To the
vast interplanetary communications networks he looked.

Like a worm he would sneak into the system. To become one with that
vast flow of information. A galactic entity. A galactic consciousness.
He relinquished his hold on the Ashkazon computer, which became now a
synthetic corpse, and spread his being.

Mark Cantrell,
Liverpool, 14 March 1991

Copyright (c) March 1991. All Rights Reserved.