The Dead Room Trilogy

by Stephanie Erickson

  “Just so you can clear your name?” Ashby accused.

  “No. Tell no one I helped you if you want. I don’t care. No one would believe me if I tried to say I helped. I want to stop this. I can feel it barreling down on us like a freight train, Ben. We need to stop it, or it will destroy more than just you and me.”

  His words made Ashby’s blood run cold. Before he could answer, another call came through. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “I hope you do,” Mendi said. Ashby didn’t respond before he disconnected the call.

  “This is Bennett Ashby.”

  “Mr. Ashby. My name is General Quelch. I answer to the President of the United States. You’re being summoned to Washington by the president. You will appear before a council of your peers, who will decide your fate. A car will come get you within the hour. Collect your things and meet it outside your home.” He was gruff. Ashby pictured him in a green uniform standing completely straight with one arm behind his back as he talked on the phone. He wondered how close he was to the reality of who this man was.

  “I—” Ashby responded, but the man had already hung up. His fate, it seemed, was out of his hands.

  14

  March, 2025

  The ride to the nation’s capital was long and torturous for Ashby. He had no idea what they might do to him, or what might become of his bots.

  He tried to distract himself with data from the servers at Shands. It was confusing at best. A code he didn’t recognize was uploaded hours before the malfunction. Additionally, the data showed unprompted movements and decisions from the bots. Almost like they were becoming autonomous. But that couldn’t be. He needed to compare it to the data from CSMC, but he couldn’t because he was some kind of prisoner of only God knew who. Still, it made him uncomfortable to consider the possibility.

  They didn’t handcuff him, but they also weren’t friendly. No one spoke to him unless absolutely necessary. “Move here,” or “step up,” was all they said to him as he was herded through the airport and into another black car. They rode in silence all the way to the White House, leaving Ashby to stew about his future and how it had gotten so dark. Suddenly, he didn’t even know if his worst case would play out. Would he be allowed to retreat to the island? Or would he be held in some federal prison for the rest of his days?

  They parked in a garage underground, and then escorted Ashby inside. Although they hadn’t gone in the front entrance, Ashby was no less amazed by the ornate furnishings, art hanging on the walls, and lush finishes throughout the building. He’d almost forgotten the reason for his visit as he walked with his mouth hanging open down the hall, to a large set of double doors.

  “This way, Mr. Ashby,” the man on his left said as he opened the right-hand door and ushered Ashby through.

  “Ah. Here’s our guest of honor now,” the president said, with more than a little sarcasm in his voice. He was an intimidating man, older than some of their presidents, but Ashby found him to be more authoritative. He brought experience to the role, and the country thrived because of it. They were enjoying a golden age of technology, booming economy, and peace at this man’s hands. Along with all that came the miracle bots that were destroying his people.

  He glared at Ashby, but said nothing.

  “Bennett Ashby, please, take a seat.” A man dressed in a military uniform gestured toward a single empty chair at the center of a huge, circular room. The president sat in the center of one row of elevated seats, surrounded by several officials, and military personnel. The empty chair he walked toward faced the president. Behind that were rows and rows of others. From what he could tell, they were all types of people, scientists, heads of state, and more members of the military.

  “What are the latest numbers?” The President asked once Ashby was seated.

  “The death toll total across all incidents is climbing toward one hundred fifty souls, sir,” a woman seated near the president answered as she checked her tablet.

  “One hundred and fifty. Mr. Ashby, what do you have to say for yourself?” The president asked impatiently.

  “I…” Ashby wasn’t prepared for this level of attack right off the bat. He certainly didn’t expect them to thank him for his miracle bots, but they were making him out to be some kind of monster. “Look at all the good they’ve done, though. They’re worldwide, and improving the quality of life for everyone. Even those in third-world countries have access to clean water now because of C-bots.”

  “C-bots?” the presidents asked.

  That same woman piped up. She must’ve been one of his advisors. “Yes. A charity organization set up to bring bots into poor countries to aid with basic infrastructure.”

  “So the bots have worldwide penetration?” the president asked as he sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “Yes, sir. That’s correct,” she answered.

  “We’re using them in almost every aspect of our operations,” a man dressed in a military uniform sitting to the president’s right said. “They can do just about anything we program them to do with regard to cleaning engines and machinery. They can get places you just can’t get with a toothbrush.”

  “They’re inside our own military?” the president said as he looked over his steel-rimmed, square glasses at the man dressed in full regalia.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Mr. Ashby, please tell me what you know about this epic failure that has cost American lives.”

  “I don’t know much. At first, we thought it was human error. But now, I’m not so sure. To be honest, they seem to be showing signs of autonomy. As if they’re…sentient.” It was an idea he hadn’t yet discussed out loud. One he only started to consider, but not something he wanted to give life to. But sitting there, surrounded by people who controlled his future, he saw no harm in stating his concerns.

  “Sentient?” the president asked wearily.

  “I haven’t had much time to study the data from Shands, or compare it to the data from CSMC, but the simplest explanation seems to be that they’re breaking free of their programming. Making decisions they shouldn’t be.”

  “What makes you say that?” one of the scientists seated to the left of the president asked, as he put down his clear glass tablet and looked at Ashby right in the eyes. He recognized him as the year’s Nobel Prize winner in medicine.

  Ashby wondered if Mendi would even be eligible for the prize, after the media storm Ashby had created. He certainly deserved it, but whether it was the prize, or the storm, Ashby wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

  “Their behavior patterns mostly, and the programming doesn’t add up.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out his own tablet. He’d left the screen opened to the data from the server. He stood. “May I?” He gestured with the tablet to the scientist. The president nodded, and Ashby approached.

  “See for yourself.”

  “This could still be a malfunction, could it not?” another scientist seated next to the Nobel Prize winner asked. He couldn’t place the man, but recognized him. Maybe he’d seen him at a lecture somewhere.

  “Yes. It very well could. But malfunction on this scale is unlikely.”

  “So is autonomy. This isn’t some Will Smith movie. They’re machines. Predictable. Reliable,” the second scientist added.

  “Indeed,” Ashby said, before going on. “There’s something else. A code I don’t recognize appeared shortly before the malfunction.”

  “Code?” one of the military officers asked.

  “I haven’t had time to analyze it, but one seems to point to the other. As if the code was uploaded and caused it,” Ashby said, not sure exactly what he was implying.

  “Have you seen this with the other meltdowns?” the president asked.

  “No. Well…” Ashby paused for a moment, realizing a fatal error. “I didn’t look that far back at the data from the others. I only looked when the actual malfunction started.” He felt as if the wind had gon
e out of his sails. Maybe someone was behind the attacks. But who? Certainly not Mendi. Was it possible it had nothing to do with Ashby himself, and everything to do with just bringing down the country, or the world? The thought sent a chill up his spine.

  “True terrorism?” the officer asked again.

  “It’s a bit early to determine that. Study the data at length, Mr. Ashby,” the president said, looking more than a little wary. “In the meantime, what can we do about it now?”

  Someone came over the intercom in the room, startling Ashby. He hadn’t even known it was on. “Deactivate them all, immediately.” The man had a thick British accent. There were representatives from more than just his country at his sentencing, it appeared.

  “How difficult would that be, Mr. Ashby?” the president asked.

  “It would take time. Time we may not have. I would have to write a kill-switch code, and have each host upload it to their servers. Either that, or activate an EMP at all sites. That would be the fastest, but also the most destructive. It would affect all equipment nearby, which can hurt hospitals and facilities with…moving parts, for lack of a better term.”

  “Fine. Write the programming. What else?”

  Kill them. That was what they wanted to do, after all his years of hard work. They would die, just like that, and take his livelihood with them.

  One of the military men piped up. “We’re building airships, sir. Massive vessels meant to save and sustain what’s left of humanity. We started building them with the last president, after a particularly serious threat from the Middle East.”

  “Wonderful. How much time until they’re operational?” the president asked.

  “The ones in the US will be ready in about nine months. How about those in the UK and other countries?” the military man asked.

  “The UK needs more time,” the British man on the intercom answered.

  “As does France,” a woman with a heavy French accent answered, also over the intercom.

  “And probably all the others,” the president interrupted. He stayed silent for a moment, pondering his problem.

  “Sir, if I may…” Ashby said, hesitating to interrupt his train of thought. The President glared at him, and he took it as a go-ahead. Better to ask forgiveness later at that point. “Why destroy them? Think of all the good they’re doing. All the people you’ll be sentencing to cancer and polluted water.”

  “Your colleague, Mr. Mendi, seems to be on top of the cancer part of the equation, doesn’t he? He’s come up with a much safer and more versatile solution. Despite what the media would have us think of him, I find his methods quite elegant, and much safer. The way I see it, we’ll do something else about the water. That’s not an immediate problem in my book. The problem is saving lives.”

  “After only one hundred fifty people are dead?” Ashby said boldly. “More people were killed in the September 11th attacks than that. Perhaps it’s too early to—”

  “You don’t get an opinion on anything, Mr. Ashby. And how dare you discount the lives of those who’ve died at your hands.”

  “But I’ve saved ten times that with the bots,” he insisted, desperate to salvage some part of his life.

  The president seemed to soften a little at that. “Yes. And because of that, we’re allowing you to continue work. But it will be for us now, and if you step even a baby toe out of line, you’ll be shut down so fast it will make your head spin.”

  Ashby nodded, knowing there was no point in arguing. Not if he wanted to maintain his freedom.

  “Increase production on the airships worldwide. Finish them now. Divert funds, whatever you need to do. God willing, we won’t need them, and you can deal with coming up with money for your programs later. For now, the priority is ensuring our survival,” the president said.

  Then he turned to Ashby. “You will work tirelessly to reprogram the bots as quickly as possible.” His cold stare bore into Ashby, making him terrified to look at the president, but equally terrified to look away. “Humanity depends on it.”

  15

  Approximate year, 2346

  Weeks. It was weeks of terribly slow progress for Mason. Everything was a milestone. The first time he sat up on his own, talked, laughed, ate, walked, walked long distances, got dressed, everything.

  He became very reliant on Lehman and Mattli, which he despised. Mattli helped him with bathing and dressing while Lehman did most everything else. They stepped back more and more each day, but even a month and a half after what Mason could only think of as ‘the incident,’ he still wasn’t at one hundred percent. Although the doctor tried to tell him he didn’t know if he’d ever be at one hundred percent, Mason refused to accept that. That one moment would not define his life. He was more than someone else’s choices.

  As soon as he could sit up for long periods and think coherently, they started making plans. Mason couldn’t stand being in limbo. The journal weighed heavily on his mind, even if he couldn’t do much for himself. It was all he thought about most days, and how they could use it to get back to the mainland.

  Finally, about three weeks after ‘the incident,’ they were gathered in Mattli’s sitting room. Mattli and Lehman were both reading books they’d grabbed from the library days ago, but Mason was stewing. They’d propped him up on the couch and given him a blanket and several pillows, but he was still uncomfortable. His mind raced, and his body ached.

  “What do you want to do about the journal?” Mason asked suddenly, breaking the silence in the room.

  Lehman looked over at Mattli, who put his finger on his page and shut the book.

  “Well, I was thinking we’d tell the islanders eventually and work toward going back,” Mattli said calmly.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” A sense of relief spread over Mason, giving him a calm he didn’t realize he’d lost. They were on the same page. He didn’t have to fight over this.

  Mattli had told him weeks ago about the changes he’d already made, and frankly, Mason was very proud of the old man. But he hadn’t said anything more about it, nor had any of them discussed the journal since.

  “I think we can use it to build something to kill the bots,” Mason said.

  “Now you’re talking,” Lehman said, sitting forward in her chair.

  “An EMP,” Mattli said, grabbing a card off the table in front of him and sticking it into his book.

  “Yes. Like the one Ashby talked about in the journal.”

  “But those didn’t work. They weren’t powerful enough. And now the number of bots is a bit staggering based on what you saw, and what’s happened,” Lehman said, more than a little pessimistically.

  “What if we could make something similar, but different—one that never turned off? Not a pulse, but a constant signal that would create a shield. If more came, they wouldn’t be able to touch us,” Mason suggested.

  “Well, that would work. We could live inside the bubble and rebuild,” Mattli said, sitting forward, leaning on his knees and chewing on his bottom lip.

  “But living in a bubble isn’t all that different from living on an island,” Lehman pointed out.

  “Lehman. No one invited Debbie Downer to the party,” Mason said, starting to get irritated with her.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to see the potential problems with our solutions,” Lehman said.

  “There are more problems than that, Lehman. Like, how on Ashby’s island are we going to build an EMP? We don’t have power, or important things like that that an EMP would run on,” Mason pointed out.

  “Okay, but we do have smart people on this island. I think we could put something together with the supplies we have. I don’t think we have enough to run the island. But I do think we could build a pretty powerful EMP,” Mattli countered.

  “Second problem, how do we get it to the mainland? It’s not like we have massive boats,” Mason pointed out, suddenly taking on Lehman’s role as he thought through each scenario.

  “Okay. One p
roblem at a time. There are plenty of trees and resources on this island to build barge-type structures to carry what we need to the mainland,” Mattli said.

  It gave Mason pause. “You’re much more hopeful about this than I expected, Mattli. Why?”

  He was quiet for a bit, looking at Mason with a soft expression. “Seeing you in the woods that night, it changed me.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Mason snorted, but the movement sent pain through his side, and he held his breath, grimacing.

  “The island can’t go on the way it has. Those methods were great for survival. But three and a half centuries later, we shouldn’t still be surviving. We should be thriving,” Mattli said.

  Mason smiled at the man. “In spite of yourself, I’m starting to like you, Mattli.”

  “What about food and supplies after you’re there?” Lehman asked.

  “We will have to take them with us. Careful planning is in order, to make sure we leave enough behind for those who want to stay, but take enough to survive until we can start growing our own. It will be months, maybe even a year, before we have sustainable crops and things. And there are no animals or anything to eat like that on the mainland. It will be a struggle, that’s for sure.”

  “Those who want to stay?” Mason asked. He hadn’t considered that people wouldn’t want to go.

  “Well, yes. I imagine not everyone will be terribly enthusiastic about leaving this comfortable, secure life for a terribly unstable survival situation, where you could be eaten by robots at any moment if the EMP fails,” Mattli said.

  “For Ashby’s sake. You say it like that, Mattli, and it makes me not want to go,” Mason said.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “I know, but still.” Mason thought for a moment. “We need the island to do this. They’ll want to know why. Why are we risking our lives, our livelihoods, everything?”

  Surprisingly, it was Lehman who spoke up. “We wouldn’t be doing it for us. We’d be doing it for the next generation, and the generations to come after that. Someone has to start the ball rolling, so that three and a half centuries from now, they can forget how things got the way they are.”