The Phoenix Code

by Catherine Asaro

  "All sorts of things." He rubbed his ear. "I wouldn't re­peat most of them."

  She gave it another try. "So Raj is the name on your birth certificate."

  "No."

  Megan couldn't help but laugh. "You know, this is like pulling teeth."

  His lips quirked into a smile. "My birth certificate, from the fine state of Louisiana, says Chandrarajan."

  She stared at him. "You're Chandrarajan Sundaram?"

  "Please don't look so shocked. I assure you, I've treated the name well."

  Good Lord. This was the reclusive eccentric who had revolutionized the field of robotics? Unattached to any university or institute, he worked only as a consultant. Corporations paid him large amounts of money to solve their problems. She had heard that one had given him a million, after he made their disastrous household robot work in time for its market release, saving the company from bankruptcy.

  His reputation gave her a context for his conversation. Rumor said he paid a price for his phenomenal intellect; no one could think like him, but he had the devil of a time expressing those thoughts. From what she had heard, his mind didn't work in linear thought processes, so he often made jumps of logic that left his listeners confounded.

  It astounded her that he had come to the conference. She had invited him, of course. He had been a top name on her hoped-for speakers list. She had already known, however, that he rarely attended such meetings. It hadn't surprised her when he declined.

  Yet here he stood.

  "It's actually Sundaram Chandrarajan Robert," he said.

  "Your name?"

  His voice became subdued. "My father followed the custom of giving me his name, followed by my own. But in this country, it's easier for us to have the same last name. So we use Sundaram. Robert is from my mother's side."

  She wondered why the mention of his father caused his mood to turn so quiet. "It's a beautiful name."

  Raj watched her with a long, considering look. "Then there are geese," he mused.

  "Birds again." She gave a gentle laugh. "You know, I have no idea what we're talking about."

  Amusement lightened his voice. "Most people don't re­spond this way to me."

  "What do they do?"

  "Nod. Look embarrassed. Then leave as fast as they can."

  "Is that what you want?"

  "It depends." He had all his attention focused on her now.

  "On what?"

  "Hair color."

  "Hair color?" This conversation was making less and less sense by the minute. It was fun, though.

  "Red," he said. "Yours is red."

  "Well, yes. My hair is definitely red."

  "Red flag." He walked over to her. "For stop."

  It took a moment, but then she realized he was making a joke, using it to ask if she wished he would leave. Given that he had come over to her as he said it, she suspected he didn't want to end their conversation. Of course, she could be wrong. But he reminded her of her father, an absented-minded architect who tended to talk in riddles dur­ing his more preoccupied moods.

  Megan put her hands on her hips. "I do believe, sir, that you're teasing me."

  His lips quirked up again. "It could be."

  She could tell he was still waiting for her response to his unasked question. "I'm sure my hair doesn't say 'stop.' "

  A grin spread across his face. "You're quick."

  Ah, that smile. It was fortunate this man lived as a re­cluse. Otherwise, womankind wouldn't be safe from ei­ther his dazzling smile or his nutty conversation. "Not that quick. I still don't get it about the birds."

  "Winter is coming and they have a long way to go." He sounded more relaxed now. "So they eat a lot. But they aren't greedy. And they don't cheat. They only take what they need." His smile faded. "Humans could learn a lot from them."

  Megan wondered what sort of life he had lived, that he saw the world in such terms. Then it occurred to her that given the value of his intellect and personal wealth, peo­ple probably wanted whatever they could get from him.

  "Perhaps we could," she said.

  "They followed me around too, you know," he said. "I sent them away."

  Her brow furrowed. "The birds?"

  "The suits from MindSim."

  "They offered you a job?"

  "Yes. I told them no." Then he added, "But perhaps I will consult for them, after all."

  Her pulse jumped. Was he offering her the chance to work with him? She kept her voice calm, afraid that if she appeared too eager, she would scare him off. "Maybe you should."

  He offered his hand. "I'm pleased to have met you, Dr. O'Flannery."

  She shook his hand. "And I you. Please call me Megan."

  "Megan." He nodded. Then he turned and started down the road. After a few steps, he turned back as if he had remembered something. "Oh. Yes. Good-bye, Megan."

  She raised her hand. "Good-bye."

  Then he went on his way, leaving her to wonder just what was going on out at MindSim.

  *2*

  The Everest Project

  Megan hadn't expected her security clearance to come through so quickly. It made her wonder if MindSim hadn't begun the paperwork in advance, just in case. After a few weeks of negotiations, they flew her out to California to tour their labs.

  She felt like a kid in a computer-game arcade. She en­joyed this more than the pursuits her friends urged on her for "fun," like parties or holovids. Invariably, her parents joined the chorus, with hints that she should include a fel­low in the postulated proceedings—son-in-law material, of course. Their unabashed lobbying drove her crazy. They were wonderful people and she loved them dearly, but she felt like running for the hills every time they got that grandparental gleam in their eyes.

  Out at MindSim, Tony and Claire showed her the snazzy labs first. In one, droids trundled around, gravely navigating obstacle courses. She spent half an hour put­ting them through their paces before her hosts enticed her to another lab. There she met an appliance that resembled a broom with wheels and detachable arms. It expounded at length on how it moved its fingers. Then she went for a walk with a robot that had legs. Its smooth gait put to shame earlier versions that had jerked along like stereo­typical robots. Her hosts also let her try a Vacubot. She decided its inventors deserved a Nobel prize for their compassionate gift to humanity—a robot that could vac­uum the house while its frazzled human occupants went out for pizza.

  "We also work on humanlike robots," Tony said as they ushered her down another hall. "This next lab de­signs the body."

  Megan's pulse jumped. "You've an android here?"

  "Unfortunately, no," Claire said. "This work is all the­oretical. Development of the androids would go on at a facility in Nevada."

  It didn't surprise her that they had a more secure base of operations. Industrial espionage had become a thriving enterprise. MindSim wouldn't make their results public until they had full patent protection and software copy­rights. She doubted they could copyright an AI brain, though. They would soon have to answer the question: When did self-modifying software become a cognizant being?

  The next lab enticed her like a bakery full of chocolate cake. Equipment filled it, all cased in Lumiflex, a lumi­nous white plastic. Instead of blackboards or white­boards, the walls sported photoscreens with light styluses. Disks and memory cubes cluttered the tables, and mem­ory towers stood by the consoles. Although a few cables ran under the floor, most of the connections were wire­less. A wall counter held a coffeepot and a motley assort­ment of mugs.

  Two men and a woman were working at the consoles. They had outstanding workstations: Stellar-Magnum Mark-XIV computers; combination cellular phone, FAX, radio, microphone, camera, wireless unit, and modem; keyboard, printer, scanner, and holoscreens. Holos rotated in the air with views of the theoretical android: EM fluxes, circuits, skeleton, hydraulics, temperature profiles, and more.

  It all brought back to Megan her first day in college. While her friends had gone to
check out the city, she had spent the afternoon talking to grad students in the AI lab. Within a week, she was doing gofer work for their profes­sor. He gave her a research job that summer. By her soph­omore year, the group considered her a member of their circle. She understood why Tony and Claire had shown her the glitz labs first; this one had only holos to look at, nothing concrete. However, if she took the job, these peo­ple would be her team, and they interested her more than any glitz.

  Tony introduced them. The slender man with sandy hair was Alfred from Cal Berkeley. Miska came from a university in Poland. About five years older than Alfred and half a foot shorter, he had dark eyes and hair. Diane, a stout woman with auburn hair, had done a stint at a government lab and then taken this job.

  They described their work, referring to the android as "he." At first Megan appreciated their not saying "it," but then she wondered at her reaction. Already they were giving their hoped-for creation human attributes. Maybe it wouldn't want those traits. Someday they might down­load the neural patterns of a human brain into an an­droid, but even then no guarantee existed that it would think or act human.

  Their descriptions also sounded too detailed. Finally she said, "It's done, isn't it? You have a working an­droid."

  Alfred shook his head. "I'm afraid 'working' is too op­timistic a term."

  Tony indicated a table. "Let's sit down. Now that you've seen the models, we can talk about where we hope to go from here."

  As they took their seats, Alfred brought over the coffee and mugs. When everyone was settled, Claire spoke to Megan. "We've tried to make several prototypes, four."

  Miska took a sip of coffee, then grimaced and set his mug down. He spoke with a light accent. "The problem, you see, is that these androids are mentally unstable. The bodies have problems, yes, but we think we can fix these. We are not so sure about their minds."

  "The first three failed," Diane said. "We still have the fourth Everest android, but he's barely functional."

  "Everest?" Megan asked.

  "It's what we call the project," Tony said. "Surmount­ing a great height." He leaned forward. "It could be yours. Your successes, your triumphs."

  Triumphs, indeed. "What happened to your last di­rector?"

  Alfred spoke flatly. "He quit."

  Tony frowned, but he didn't interrupt or try to put a spin on Alfred's words. Megan's respect for MindSim went up a notch.

  "Marlow Hastin directed the project until a few months ago," Alfred said. "We weren't having much suc­cess. The RS-1 became catatonic. No matter what we tried, it evolved back to the catatonia. The RS-2 had simi­lar problems, with autism. And the RS-3 ... well, it killed itself."

  "He walked into a furnace and burned up," Miska said, his dismay subtle but still obvious.

  Claire spoke softly. "We don't want that to happen again."

  "I can see why," Megan said. "Is that the reason Hastin quit?"

  "In part," Miska said. "But he didn't leave until later."

  "We had a difference of opinion," Diane said.

  Alfred took a swallow of coffee. "Marlow wanted to program subservience into the RS units. He feared that if we didn't, they might turn against us."

  "It's a valid concern," Megan said. She wondered, though, if that had led to the tragedy with the RS-3. "But it may be moot. We're combining ourselves with our cre­ations as fast as we can make the results viable and safe for humans. If we become them and they become us, the issue fades away."

  The others exchanged glances. Then Miska said, "You are much different from Marlow."

  "He hated the idea of taking technology into our­selves," Diane said. "Or of putting our minds into ro­bots."

  "Would you turn down a pacemaker that could save your life?" Megan leaned forward. "An artificial limb that would let you walk again? We're creating the means to make ourselves smarter, stronger, faster, longer lived."

  "In the ideal," Claire said. "Whether or not we achieve it remains to be seen."

  "Our hope," Tony said, "is to explore the full potential of humanlike robots."

  "Including peaceful applications?" Megan asked. It was one of her main concerns. She understood the need for defense work, but she wanted to know that the fruits of her intellect would also go toward improving the human condition.

  "Of course," Tony said. "We're committed to both."

  Megan sat for a moment, thinking. "From what you've told me, it sounds like you all have very specialized areas of expertise."

  No one seemed surprised by her comment. Alfred answered. "Miska, Diane, and I are the support. Claire con­sults on the AI aspects."

  They struck Megan as a good team. However, they were missing an important component—the hardware equivalent to Claire. "Who is your robotics expert?"

  "Well, yes, that's the rub," Alfred said.

  "It's a top priority," Tony interjected smoothly. "If you accept the position, we'll have a slate of superb candi­dates for you to consider."

  "In other words," Megan said, "you don't have any­one."

  "We're taking the time to find the best," Tony assured her. "We almost had a fellow from Jazari International in Morocco, but JI came through with a counteroffer and he decided to stay."

  She wasn't surprised they had checked out JI. The com­pany had risen to international prominence over the past two decades. She had met Rashid al-Jazari, the CEO, sev­eral times. His American wife, Lucia del Mar, performed with the Martelli Dance Theatre, so they and their three children lived part of the year in the United States, and Rashid sometimes visited MIT. He was a charming man, but he didn't strike her as the type to let MindSim woo away his employees.

  She thought back to her talk with Raj. "How about Chandrarajan Sundaram?"

  "We're trying," Claire said. "But we aren't the only ones. Apparently Arizonix also wants him."

  Tony's smile morphed into a frown. He said only, "Ari­zonix," but he managed to put boundless distaste into that one word.

  "Are you sure you'd want Sundaram?" Claire asked her. "He has a reputation for being rather difficult."

  Alfred snorted. "He's a nut."

  "I rather like him," Megan said.

  "You've met him?" Diane looked impressed.

  "We talked at the IRTAC meeting. It was interesting."

  "I'll bet." Claire sipped her coffee, then blanched and set her mug down with the care one used when handling explosives.

  Curious, Megan tried the brew. It went down like a jolt of TNT and detonated when it hit bottom. "Hey. This is good."

  Alfred gave a hearty laugh. "A truly refined taste." Claire and Miska turned a bit green.

  They spent the next hour showing her details of their work. She made no promises, playing it cool.

  But she was ready to jump.

  *3*

  Nevada Five

  The hovercar skimmed across the Nevada desert like a ship sailing an ocher sea, the rumble of its turbofan evoking images of growling sea monsters. Sitting in the front passenger seat, Megan gazed out at a land mottled with gray-green bushes. The road they were following ar­rowed to the horizon, dwindling to a point in the dis­tance.

  Since passing the security check several miles back, they had seen no cars, buildings, or rest stops. The isola­tion unsettled her. As the new director of the Everest Proj­ect, this would be her home. She still had to wrap up her work at MIT and direct her graduate students, but she could do most of that from here, using the Web and vir­tual reality conferences.

  She glanced at Alfred in the driver's seat. Most of the Everest team would still work in California; with the satellite link, communication would be easy, and she could use robots for lab technicians. If this had been just a development project, she would probably have stayed at MindSim with the team. But for such intensive research, she needed to interact with the android. Alfred, Diane, and Miska had come out to introduce her. A second car followed, bringing Major Richard Kenrock, their contact at the Department of Defense, and a lieutenant who served as h
is assistant.

  The car turned off the road, its turbine providing thrust and vectored steering. It hovered across the desert on its cushion of air, rocking a bit from the bumpy ter­rain. Soon it slowed to a stop and settled to the ground, its landing motor grumbling in a deep baritone that con­trasted to the tenor of the turbofan. No hint showed that they had arrived anywhere; nothing but gravelly land and spiky plants stretched in every direction. The second car settled next to them, with Richard Kenrock in the driver's seat. The major's wave looked like a salute.

  Alfred peered at a screen on the dash. "Okay. This is it. Backspace, take us down."

  Backspace, the car's computer, spoke in a mellow voice. "Fingerprint code, please."

  Alfred touched the screen. In the other car, Major Kenrock was doing the same. With no ado and almost no sound, the land under them sank into the desert. It re­minded Megan of cartoons from her childhood, where a trapdoor opened beneath unsuspecting characters and they dropped out of sight with their long ears streaming above them. This went slower, of course, lowering them into a freight elevator enclosed by a sturdy wire mesh. As the elevator descended, she craned her head to look up. A holographic camouflage hid the opening above them, making the ground appear unbroken.

  Looking down through the elevator's mesh, she saw a garage below. Lamps lit the area, activated by the car's computer. Several vehicles crouched there: dark humvees with angular bodies. When the elevator reached the floor, the mesh opened like a gate. After they drove out, the gate closed and the elevator began to rise.

  Megan indicated the humvees. "Those look like giant stealth cockroaches."

  Alfred gave one of his hearty, infectious laughs. "I guess you could say the place is bugged."

  They left their cars next to the vehicular cockroaches and walked through the cool spaces of the garage. Its stark functionality didn't reassure Megan. She would be living here for some time. Her doubts eased when they en­tered a pleasant hall with ivory walls and a blue carpet. A robot was waiting for them, what MindSim called a Lab Partner. It stood about six feet tall, with a tubular body, treads for feet, a rounded head, and an assortment of de­tachable arms. The nameplate on its chest said "Track­man."