I get up and go to the bathroom. No sooner have I walked back into the room than there’s a knock on the door—right on cue. I’m tempted to smile and wave for the camera, which I’m pretty sure is hidden in the downlight over the TV.
“Good morning.” Lieutenant Chalmers looks exactly as she did last night. Fresh lip balm, subtle eyeliner, hair meticulously held in place. She must have slept. She couldn’t look this fresh without sleeping, could she? She’s holding fresh clothing—in my size, no doubt. There’s a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and some hair clips. I’m guessing those are optional.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the clothing from her.
“Colonel Wallace has asked if you would join him for breakfast at eight hundred hours.”
“Sure.” As polite as she sounds, I don’t really have any other options.
I close the door and glance at the clock by the bed—7:20. I take my time in the shower—making sure the curtain is pulled all the way across, just in case—and relax under the intense stream of steaming-hot water. I have no idea how long I’m in there, but when I wander out dressed, it’s just after eight. There’s been no knock on the door, and I feel a little bad. I’m not deliberately standing up the colonel, although it probably seems that way.
I open the door and Chalmers is there, waiting patiently, smiling. A thin, transparent cord feeds into her ear. I can almost hear someone providing her with instructions. Two armed soldiers follow us along the corridor and down the fire stairs. Is the muscle really necessary?
I’m wearing a blue NASA polo shirt, along with a pair of beige trousers with a little too much starch. The shirt feels as though it’s been ironed dozens of times.
We walk into the hotel restaurant. Colonel Wallace stands to greet me as Lieutenant Chalmers excuses herself.
“Good morning.”
Su-shun is over by the buffet, loading up on fruit. I can’t say I blame him. Fruit was a luxury on Mars. He’s brought Jianyu down from his room and placed him on the neighboring table—in plain sight of the troops eyeing us with suspicion. I rest my hand on the plastic bundle, but I dare not speak. My fingers linger. As much as I’d like to talk to Jai—not expecting a reply, and speaking for no other reason than to assuage my own grief—I don’t. Touch alone is a strangely human response to what is nothing but dead electronics. The soldiers watch me as though I’m about to snatch the hard drives and run. I sigh.
A familiar voice speaks from behind me. “Liz!”
“Wen!”
I turn and rush to greet her, throwing my arms around her. Wen is in her late sixties and has never been touchy-feely with anyone in the Mars colony, let alone me. She’s taken aback but reciprocates, patting my shoulder.
“How are you?”
She has a transparent plastic bandage taped over an elongated gash on her forehead. No surgical stitches, just some magical medical glue binding the skin together while it heals. She smiles. “I’m good. It’s good to see you.”
Wen rests her hand on the hard drives seated on the table beside us. If only I could read her mind. It seems she’s happy to see both of us.
“Coffee?”
The colonel smiles like the long-lost friend he isn’t. Culturally, the offer of coffee is inviting, relaxing, disarming, but not when you’re sitting next to what amounts to a weapon more powerful than a nuclear bomb. It’s just a bunch of hard drives, but it represents the last presence of an entity that tried to wipe out humanity.
I’m conflicted. Have I been speaking with Jianyu? A facsimile of him? Or a fake? Colonel Wallace sips at his coffee, oblivious to the tumult I feel. I smile weakly but fail to answer. Has the A.I. been playing me all along? Is it still manipulating me even now while the hard drives are switched off? What actually resides within those silicon wafers?
Wallace is relaxed. He places his mug on the table, but as for me, my mind is in a tailspin. I’m still trying to decipher what happened last night. I’m at a loss. Coded messages in magazines, subtitles on a TV screen, one-sided conversations hidden within fortune cookies—everything I’ve seen speaks of a degree of sophistication and planning and, somewhat alarmingly, human involvement. I thought we defeated the A.I. on Mars. Then there’s the madness in Canada.
After the awkward silence, I finally say, “Ah, coffee, yes, sure.”
Wen is stoic, dropping all the emotion she had when greeting me just moments before.
“Yes, me too.”
I thought she’d want tea.
Wallace pours two cups of black coffee from a carafe as we sit at the table. I add some milk to mine.
“Sleep well?” the colonel asks, but he already knows how I slept. I’m sure he was apprised of every twist and turn. He’s being polite. Be nice, Liz.
“Yes.”
A waiter comes over and asks, “Would you like a continental breakfast or something from the kitchen?”
“Eggs Benedict?” I ask.
Wallace says, “I’ll have the omelette.”
“I’ll get something from the buffet,” Wen replies, but she doesn’t get up. Seems she doesn’t want to miss any of the conversation.
The waiter excuses himself, and the colonel turns to me. “I suppose you have some questions about what’s happening today?”
“No. Not really.” I’m happy to disappoint him, deliberately wanting to catch him off-guard. “I would like to know about Canada, though.”
Wen raises an eyebrow. “Canada?”
“Yes. What are U.S. troops doing in Quebec?”
Wallace looks worried.
I point toward reception. “It was on television when we arrived last night.”
“I—um.” His jaw tightens. He’s doing a poor job of hiding his anger at that slip-up by his team.
“Well?” I sip my coffee, waiting.
Wen glances at me, aware she missed out on this explosive piece of information and realizing I’ve raised it to keep her up to date.
“There’s a lot you don’t understand.”
“No shit,” Su-shun says, coming up behind us. I love him. No messing around. He sits down with a bowl of bran and yogurt, and a side plate piled high with sliced fruit. “We’re not dumb. You get that, right? We’re some of the brightest people on the planet. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t have made it to Mars.”
Wallace sips his coffee, taking a moment to think before replying. “Since the attack, we’ve been tracking down various nodes—centers of resistance.”
“Resistance?” I’m surprised by the notion.
“I thought it was dead,” Wen says. “We killed it—on Mars. She did. In the basement.”
I don’t want to let on too much, but I’m intensely curious about the interactions I’ve had with the A.I. over the last day. Even though I might be overplaying my hand with Wallace and inadvertently revealing the cards I’m holding, I have to know. “How does an artificial intelligence act in the physical world? I mean, isn’t it confined to computers? Stuff like the Internet?”
“They had help.” I note Wallace doesn’t respond to Wen’s point about what happened on Mars, or whether the war actually ended. Thankfully, he doesn’t catch the implicit meaning behind my question. He must think I’m still referring to Canada.
Su-shun talks with his mouth full. “Who? Who in their right mind would help an artificial intelligence destroy humanity?”
The colonel raises his hand in a gesture that suggests he’s wondered himself. “False flags, mostly, but not always.”
“False flags?”
The sense of alarm in my voice is telling, but Wallace misses the cue and continues on, oblivious to my nerves.
“The Russians are masterful at this. They raised false flags throughout the Cold War and beyond. Their efforts swayed the 2016 presidential election, but I don’t think they ever really stopped raising false flags. They like to make people think they’re working for some other cause. They hide behind any flag they can, even one with stars and stripes on it. They know we’ll never deliberatel
y betray America, and so they play games, flattering egos, appealing to patriots, tapping into our dreams and fears. Seems the A.I. is well versed in their history, and is adept at copying them. Why attack an enemy when you can get him to attack himself? In that way, the A.I. sought a fifth column to undermine our freedom.”
Suddenly, I feel very stupid and naive.
“Some of its supporters are anarchists. All they want is to see the world in flames. Then there are the religious nutjobs. Seven data centers around the globe—the seven-headed dragon in the Book of Revelation. As soon as the number seven was mentioned, it was guaranteed to get the attention of anyone wanting to hasten the apocalypse.”
I’m silent.
“Then there are the sympathizers. They think we should go the way of Neanderthals and accept that a greater species has arisen. They see the A.I. as messianic.” Wallace looks over at the hard drives. “They want to be uploaded. For them, hearing about Jianyu is proof there’s some kind of technological heaven awaiting them. They say we should embrace the change, that we’re fighting the inevitable.”
Su-shun, Wen, and I look at each other in disbelief. The complexity of what soldiers like the colonel are dealing with here on Earth never occurred to us.
“Our job is to stand between you and them—all of them.”
As much as I hate the way we’ve been treated, I’m beginning to understand why. Should I say something about the messages I’ve received? Who were they from? Someone’s outplaying the U.S. military, which doesn’t bode well for anyone.
“And we will do precisely that,” the colonel adds, apparently interpreting my silence as doubt.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Wen says, resting her hand on his shoulder as she gets to her feet. She pats his uniform, but not affectionately. Her motion isn’t patronizing; perhaps reassuring is the best term, which is surprising, given that he’s ostensibly in charge. It’s as though she’s touching a dog or greeting a horse.
I don’t think the colonel knows quite how to interpret her response. Here in America, we don’t touch people in uniforms, especially not military officers, but from Wen, it seems to be a compliment.
She wanders over to the buffet and picks between fresh fruits and tasty pastries. I’m seeing a very different side to her here on Earth.
“And today?” Su-shun asks between bites.
“You and Commander Wen will remain here and meet with representatives from the Chinese Embassy this afternoon. Dr. Anderson is to testify before the Select Committee on Intelligence over on Capitol Hill.”
I haven’t been called Dr. Anderson in almost a decade, and the term sounds strange, almost as though it’s better suited to someone else.
Somehow, I don’t think the title of the committee describes artificial intelligence. As far as I remember, this congressional committee looks at intel on foreign adversaries.
My breakfast arrives. Two poached eggs smothered in hollandaise sauce, artistically placed on toasted sourdough bread. I’ve died and gone to heaven. I could eat another plateful. And another. And probably one more after that.
Colonel Wallace looks at his watch as I finish.
“Time to go.”
Part II
Alone
13
Congress
Wallace leads me through the kitchen with an escort of four armed soldiers. They’re wearing camouflage uniforms with disruptive patterns, which seems strangely out of place in a city. Radios crackle. Cooks stare. Orders are issued in hushed tones. Another soldier pushes the hard drives on a cart. He could carry them but doesn’t. I’m not sure why. I don’t want to let them out of my sight as I’m pushed alongside.
A convoy of Hummers sits in the back alley. The lead vehicle has a soldier manning a machine gun mounted on a swiveling turret with a thick steel plate facing forward for protection. From whom? Where the hell am I? Mogadishu? We climb in the back of the middle vehicle.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Yes.”
The vehicles pull out onto the road and turn toward the Capitol Building. We could have walked. It might have taken twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour in my frail state, but it hardly seems to warrant an armed escort. Then I see the crowds. Tens of thousands of people line the road, stretching back into a sea of heads bobbing within the park. They don’t look happy. Placards assault my eyes.
GO BACK TO MARS, BITCH
WE BLED AND DIED. YOU LIED.
SHOW THEM THE SAME MERCY THEY SHOWED US
NO FORGIVENESS. NOT NOW. NOT EVER.
ROT IN HELL, SILICON LOVER
MILLIONS DEAD. WHAT’S ONE MORE?
I never considered the impact of my reports about Jianyu. I’ve been filing them from Mars for months prior to our journey. I was honest, candid in my observations. I never thought about who would see them or what they thought about them. The nation’s wounds are raw.
An egg hits the passenger’s window of our Hummer and the gunner on the lead vehicle swivels, aiming a machine gun at the crowd. Oh, dear God, no. Please don’t open fire.
A rock bounces off the hood of our vehicle in a blur. The soldiers in our vehicle barely notice. The police manning the barricades have their backs to us, which seems strange until the roar of the crowd reaches me behind the bulletproof glass. The anger is overwhelming. The cops are struggling to maintain control. Fists shake at us. Thousands of arms rise in protest. I’ve never known such hatred. Not exactly the hero’s welcome astronauts are normally afforded.
“You’ll be fine.” Wallace seems to read my mind. “There’s nothing to worry about. Are you warm enough? Do you want a jacket?”
“No,” I say, still distracted by the crowd.
The Hummer pulls up in front of the shattered remains of Capitol Hill and I begin walking up the stairs. My legs are weak, while my breathing is labored. Earth’s gravity sucks. Colonel Wallace walks beside me with his head held high. My head hangs low, watching the steady fall of my shoes as we climb the stairs.
Dozens of media outlets are there, screaming from behind a police cordon with microphones outstretched, begging for a comment. In the absence of any reply, cameras record my every step, looking to interpret the slightest deviation in my path as some kind of sign—but of what? Does my fatigue speak to them of guilt? Is my refusal to look at them cast as defiance or defeat? It’s neither. I just want to get this over with.
There are security guards and police everywhere. Inside, the damage from the blast is still apparent. Cracked tiles line the floor. Burn marks scar the walls. Fractures run down otherwise pristine marble columns.
“This way, Dr. Anderson.” Our escort is wearing a heavily starched white business shirt, jet-black suit, a dark tie, and has a silver badge in the shape of a star set on a circle: UNITED STATES MARSHAL.
The marshal is in his fifties, with meticulously cropped short hair. His polished shoes have a peculiar rhythm on the floor, highlighting how empty the corridor is. There’s a distinct difference between the light tap of his shoes and the soft squelch of the soldiers’ boots. Given the historic separation between civilian and military jurisdictions, it’s actually quite comforting to see this distinction survived the war.
The soldiers wait beside a set of large wooden doors with their rifles in hand but pointing down at an angle. No one is taking any chances. I don’t think they trust the cops, and from the look on the face of a couple of uniformed officers standing further down the corridor, the feeling is mutual. The marshal, though, is professional, carrying himself with loyalty and pride.
Colonel Wallace gestures for me to follow the marshal, making it clear he’ll wait outside the room.
Inside, large wooden panels line the walls, with easily a dozen senators seated on a raised podium spanning the front of what could under other circumstances be a ballroom. The podium curves in a U shape to afford each senator a clear view of a solitary desk sitting beneath a spotlight. Heads turn as I enter. There are roughly fifty other people seated in rows facing
the front, all dressed in formal attire. I feel distinctly intimidated. If this is intentional, sending me in wearing slacks and a polo shirt, it’s working. I’m led to the seat in front of the aging wooden desk set in the middle of the room. Photographers crouch below the senate bench, angling for the best shot, working with telephoto lenses even though I’m barely fifteen feet away.
The hard drives containing the remains of Jianyu are placed on a cart beside the desk.
I didn’t notice until now, but high on either wall there’s a mezzanine level set into the wooden panels. There are easily another hundred or so people peering into the room from those vantage points.
“Please,” the marshal says, gesturing for me to stand behind the chair at the desk.
The desk is austere, for lack of any other term. There’s a polished chrome microphone pointing back at me, a glass of water on a tiny paper coaster, a pen, and a pad of paper. The desk is large enough to seat three or four people, leaving me feeling small.
The senator directly before me, in the middle of the podium, addresses me with a degree of formality that sends a chill through my body. “Dr. Elizabeth Louise Anderson.”
“Liz, please.” Immediately, I feel I’ve said too much.
“Dr. Anderson. Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you will give before this committee in the matters now under consideration will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Be seated.” Those two words seem to foreshadow what’s to come. There was no “Please be seated” offered as a polite invitation. No “You may be seated” suggesting a choice. Nope. I was given a direct order and I comply.
“You realize you are now under oath and can be held liable for the veracity of the answers you provide?”
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