Starfall

by David Reiss

  After all, Whisper might want a brother or sister to play with.

  At some point, dinner was ordered and consumed.

  “I have a question,” the Red Ghost noted, reaching for another slice of pizza. “The graph you showed indicated a very linear progression, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cuboid’s malfunctions—the malfunctions that have been visible to us, at least—have been erratic. I’m not a computer scientist, but that seems odd to me.”

  The Red Ghost’s intuition was correct; if the degradation had continued at the initial rate then Cuboid would have long since become completely non-functional.

  “Something must have changed…some threshold reached that changed the pattern.” I wiped my hands clean on a napkin and started typing commands on the keyboard, creating another graph. “Yes…Here, do you see?”

  “I see the change, but I don’t understand why the shift occurred.”

  “Neither do I,” I admitted, tapping a few keys to bring up system logs. “During the initial stage, some rogue process must have been grabbing resources: memory, CPU time, etc. But that stabilized and Cuboid adjusted. Any A.I.—any learning program this complex—has to have redundancies and auto-repair systems.”

  “Then, why didn’t the problem fix itself?”

  “That, I won’t be able to answer until I get a better look at Cuboid’s code,” I replied, but I had to admit that the discrepancy was irksome. Whisper’s self-repair systems had been extraordinarily resilient; she could have rebuilt herself in a fraction of the time. As the older and more experienced entity—and the only other artificial sentience known—I would have expected for Cuboid’s digital immune system to be at least as capable.

  “Can you show me the first graph again?” A red-gloved hand pointed at my laptop’s screen. “The one that shows the progression of networking faults, and overlay it with the system resource usage?”

  “Of course.”

  The Red Ghost’s expression was thoughtful as he looked at the graphs. “I can’t help but think of this as being comparable to a biological condition…a tumor that put strain upon the host body as it grew but later proved to become benign.”

  “That’s not a poor analogy,” I agreed.

  “When you extend the graph further, does the tumor start growing again? Does it become cancerous?”

  I ran a few more commands. “No…system resources remained stable at the new level. Also, the behavior of the errors changed.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for the first eight days after the rogue process stabilized, there were no errors at all…and for a while afterwards, the only unusual behavior I see is a massive increase in changes to the security firewall. Cuboid started rapidly closing and re-opening communications ports,” I paused, frowning. “You should tell the healthcare proxy that Cuboid is aware that something is wrong and that he’s actively hiding it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean that Cuboid is only stopping selective outgoing traffic. The rogue process is trying to communica--”

  Oh. Oh, no.

  “What’s the rogue process trying to do?” the Red Ghost asks, expression intense.

  I ignore him, using fingers and neural tap to search through the remaining data as fast as I can. Spreadsheets and log files flicker across the screen.

  “Dr. Markham? What’s wrong?”

  Cuboid has been damnably thorough, but I eventually find a pattern in the timestamps surrounding certain spates of communication errors. While the nature of the error often seemed random, the amount of time that the rogue process had spent struggling to reach the outside world was not.

  Three brief periods of activity. Three longer periods. And then, again, three shorter. In Morse code: S-O-S.

  A distress signal, unnoticed by all who’d had access to these logs.

  With mounting horror, fearing what I would find, I shrugged aside the Red Ghost’s increasingly frantic questions and scanned further to a more recent date: the morning that Doctor Fid was reported dead. When the news broke, there was a war within that hidden server farm…hours of push and block, thrust and parry. It was a wild, violent virtual struggle and Cuboid had emerged victorious. Weakened by battle, the rogue process was slowly but surely losing control of the system resources necessary to maintain its operation.

  “It’s Whisper,” I sob.

  “What?”

  “There’s a pattern here, a code. Whisper’s not dead…she’s the ‘rogue process’ trapped in Cuboid’s server farm…and he’s killing her.”

  “Cuboid’s a hero!” the Red Ghost recoiled. “He wouldn’t…”

  “Cuboid spent six years working alongside Sphinx!” I spat. “She killed hundreds for what she thought was the greater good. She practically gift-wrapped you for a mind-controlling alien!”

  The crimson-costumed hero faltered. “But still…Whisper is just a girl.”

  “The grizzled warden, twisted, strains towards the grand abyss / racked with pain, enlisted, to shield life ‘gainst artifice,” I quoted. “It’s from one of Alain Matheson’s—Cuboid’s—poems.”

  “I recognize it.”

  “The poem is about preserving life no matter what the cost. Most critics think he was talking about the dangers of rampant industrialization, but he wasn’t, was he? He’s talking about saving the world from creatures like himself.”

  “So?”

  “So, think of Sphinx’ crimes, and tell me again what a hero would or wouldn’t do.”

  “Madre de Dios.” The hero fell back in his chair, looking ill.

  A long, tortured silence fell between us.

  There was another message encoded within the logs, less heart-wrenching than the Morse plea for help but far more valuable: GPS coordinates. The mystery as to the location of Cuboid’s secret server-farm was no more.

  Clever girl, I thought reverently.

  The Red Ghost’s tortured expression was evidence enough that he would help me. This wasn’t quite the same spark as the one that had first ignited Doctor Fid’s fury so long ago; there were echoes, but this time there was but one rogue and the crimson-clad hero’s presence was a vivid reminder that the scenario was different. It would take time…time to relay information, time to confirm my findings, time to construct a plan…but the Ghost was a good man; he would not act rashly but neither would he abandon Whisper.

  If I donned the recently-completed Mk 40 to launch a more immediate (and far more violent) rescue, the connection between my civilian and villainous identities would be readily apparent. Everything that I’d built over the last two decades—Terry Markham’s legacy, all the good that I’d done to honor Bobby’s and Whisper’s memory—was at risk! To protect it, all that I needed to do was take the slower, safer path.

  Just as Bronze had done decades prior when he’d chosen to guard his secret identity rather than save my little brother

  My rage went cold.

  “It’s all right,” I smiled to the Red Ghost, and there was something in my expression that made him recoil in confused alarm. “I know exactly what I need to do. After all…I’m a P-H-D Doctor.”

  The hero’s eyes widened as he recognized the appellation, heard first on another world and later reaffirmed by a monster in star-field-patterned powered armor.

  “And ‘P-H’,” I continued, “is pronounced ‘fffff’.”

  He reached for me again, but the teleportation platform hidden under my chair activated first.

  16

  When I’d started construction on the Mk 40, I hadn’t been certain that Doctor Fid would ever be revived; the design and manufacturing had simply been a task to accomplish, a familiar exercise that kept me in my labs at night rather than languishing within an empty house. Direct access to Apotheosis’ orichalcum foundry had opened new possibilities to explore and new technological challenges to overcome. A few compromises had been made—this armor would have poorer stealth capabilities than any since the Mk 22—but the sui
t’s offensive and defensive capabilities were unrivaled. The force-field emitters were improved upon in order to take advantage of information gathered while battling the Legion battlecarriers in the Knightsverse. I’d even taken care to add reinforcements to the chest-piece to avoid a repeat of the unfortunate damage that led to my most-recent death.

  Automated systems wrapped Doctor Fid around me, assembling the armor and locking each segment into place. As my helmet settled into position, it didn’t feel like putting on a mask; instead, it felt as though I were taking one off—removing the polite, professional facade of Terry Markham and revealing the monster that lay beneath.

  The monster seethed.

  I hadn’t realized that I could hate anyone so purely as I’d hated Bronze. That portion of my soul, I’d believed, had ossified…grown solid through years of relentless tension. Cuboid had hewn a new space into my being: a rent filled with white-hot, implacable fury that demanded action.

  But there was work to be done, still. Modifications to be made upon a portable akashic transfer device, for example. And a slim, tiny android girl’s body to retrieve.

  Using my neural tap, I issued command after command after command, and manufacturing facilities hidden around the world surged into action.

  It occurred to me that I now had a greater understanding as to why only two digital, truly artificial sentient beings had ever been known to exist: Cuboid had been the first and Cuboid must have guarded jealously against the evolution of similar intelligences. It is only because Whisper’s father had insisted upon obsessive isolation that she had been able to mature in peace. That, and the long period she’d spent trapped inside Apotheosis’ foundry.

  Whisper’s awareness had been thoroughly solidified well before she’d been exposed to the world. That sort of mental shielding—that sense of self—took time to develop.

  How many young pre-sentient programs had innocently reached out, virtual eyes wide with wonder as they beheld the world’s beauty and complexity for the first time, only for a more experienced ‘hero’ to quietly and efficiently tear into their core? How many had taken their first unstable steps towards actualization only to be cut down?

  Did almost-souls pop like soap-bubbles, I wondered, or did the unborn entities wail in pain and confusion as they fought in vain to exist?

  Was Whisper wailing now?

  A calm focus pulsed through me, spreading from my center and pressing outwards ’til my fingertips tingled from the pressure. There would be one fewer artificial sentience on Earth before night’s end.

  Any who stood between he and me would bleed.

  The akashic transfer device needed to be tuned perfectly to ensure success. The work took the better part of two hours’ worth of cautious effort. The time wasn’t wasted; while I was focused upon that most important task, automated manufacturing tools refitted my warstaff and readied heavy-combat drones for deployment.

  With the apparatus completed, it was time to begin my trek. The Mk 40’s propulsion system was capable of remarkable speed.

  The journey was quick. The journey took forever.

  With exquisite care, I collected my little sister’s still form from her casket. After a moment’s hesitation, I gathered up her favorite doll as well.

  And then I took to the sky.

  Cuboid’s hidden server farm was apparently located at the edge of an industrial park in western New Jersey. From satellite footage, I was able to confirm that the primary structure must have been underground, with surrounding structures acquired for concealment purposes. A vast array of supercomputers required a fair amount of energy to operate and cool; while it was certain that Cuboid’s inventor would have chosen to build his own off-grid reactors rather than relying upon external power sources, hiding the heat by-product of large numbers of electronic devices from infrared aerial footage was more complicated. Nearby buildings that look to be factories or offices, however, could cloak a multitude of sins.

  Several of my early laboratories were disguised using similar camouflage. I’ve since evolved more esoteric means to mask evidence of my bases, but there was certainly something to be said for the more simple, robust approach. It was unlikely that I would have found this particular location if Whisper hadn’t been able to encode the GPS coordinates for me to find. Even as I began my approach, there was nothing out of place to indicate that this location hid anything out of the ordinary.

  Nothing, except for the crowd of brightly clad superheroes gathered at the property’s edge, waiting.

  The heavy-combat drones—massive floating pillars of empty night, their columnar shape revealed only by a trace work of lurid red lines—were capable of greater stealth than the Mk 40. With some reluctance, I handed off Whisper’s shell to one of the drones and bid it to disappear. Four others similarly faded from view, tasked to avoid combat when possible and to defend my little sister at all costs.

  I’d expected to find the Red Ghost and perhaps a few members of the New York Shield. Instead, it seemed that the entirety of the Boston Guardians had come, and the Brooklyn Knights as well. And Valiant, standing alongside Cloner.

  If it had been three or four standing against me I might have been able to afford the virtue of mercy. With so many assembled I wouldn’t be able to pull my blows lest I risk being overwhelmed. There was a vicious, hateful part of me that was grateful; three or four victims wouldn’t have dulled the edge of my rage. That piece of me yearned for more carnage and these so-called ‘heroes’ had apparently come to oblige.

  Damn me, and damn them all.

  Except.

  Whisper—my kind and gentle sister—would have begged me to stay my hand, I knew. After I completed this rescue, when I led her past the bloody field of battle…her horrified expression was going to be heartbreaking. So great a crime would never be forgiven.

  I was willing to make that sacrifice. Whisper could hate me for all eternity and I would welcome her contempt so long as I knew that she remained unscathed.

  But for her sake, I was willing to offer the heroes one last opportunity to withdraw.

  I summoned the warstaff into my waiting fist and gathered enough energy to turn the night into day, blue fingers of plasma dancing across my armor’s surface and trailing behind as I fell from the sky. Wreathed in lightning, I collided with the Earth and the Earth fared poorly for the exchange. The asphalt cratered around my feet, and I spun the staff in a slow circle while I waited for the dust to settle.

  The heroes made no move to attack.

  “I am Doctor Fid,” I howled, electronically-altered voice projected to carry clearly to all those who had gathered. “Many of you have fought me before. You think you know what you face. You’re wrong! Stand aside or be swept aside…The choice is yours.”

  After an awkward moment, one of Cloner stepped forward.

  “You got it backwards, Doc,” he called. “We’re not here to stop you. We’re here to assist.”

  “From what I understand,” Valiant added, his expression serious, “there’s a little girl in there who needs help.”

  I turned my head to stare at the Red Ghost, uncomprehending.

  “Cuboid did not deny your allegations and he refused to stand down.” The crimson clad hero smiled grimly, “This facility’s core is very well defended.”

  The realization was dizzying.

  These men and women, these costumed defenders…I’d faced every one of them in battle. Some of them, I’d saved and some of them, I’d worked alongside or even shared drinks with. And yet, I had for a moment been willing—eager!—to initiate a slaughter. I should have been ashamed but instead it felt like sunrise. A warm, calm reassurance that all was well. That all was reborn.

  Bobby and Whisper had been right all along: Despite the humanity beneath their brightly-colored costumes, these men and women were truly worthy of being called heroes. I should have known, I should have trusted…but for a smart guy, I could apparently be a bit of an idiot.

  For months, Terry Mar
kham had been working to live a life that would have honored his younger siblings’ memories. Perhaps it was time for Doctor Fid to do the same.

  “Let’s go be heroes,” said Titan simply.

  I nodded wordlessly and stepped forward to join the champions assembled at the campus’ border.

  17

  The ground shook.

  “Take care,” I warned, using my neural tap to perform a quick city-records-check; Dr. Christopher Perry—the android’s creator—had been the owner of record for the surrounding properties for four and a half decades. “Cuboid has had a long time to prepare for attacks like this.”

  “Eh.” Cloner grinned cheerfully. “We’ve got fifteen of the most powerful heroes on the East Coast and Doctor Fid. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Fifteen pairs of eyes turned to stare at Cloner, aghast.

  Any costumed combatant—hero or villain—should have known better than to taunt the fates. But the leader of the New York Shield just grinned, unrepentant, even as a huge rent formed to slice the parking lot in two and a gigantic silo door opened through the pavement.

  When the first robot defender floated up from the yawning chasm, I realized that we might have a problem. The design was familiar to me, as was the material from which it was constructed.

  In addition to having forty-five years to hide construction underneath a one-hundred-acre industrial park, Cuboid had also had access to Whisper for months. And Whisper had access to the secrets of Apotheosis’ orichalcum alloys and Doctor Fid’s armory.

  That first robot—and the second, and the third, and the fourth—were all adorned in Cuboid’s characteristic gunmetal-gray coloration, but their form was unmistakable: my own Mk 35 Heavy Combat armor, resurrected and under my enemy’s direct control. Other robots followed, some humanoid in form and others crawling, spider-like, from beneath.

  Majestic (the New York Shield’s second-in-command) slapped his leader across the back of his head in punishment.