The Paradise Factory

by Jim Keen

  “If I don’t like what I see in the mirror, none of this is worth it.”

  “Well, no one can say I didn’t try.”

  Bank raised his fist to reveal a black needle gun, and blew Squire's head apart. An expanding cloud of blood and brain matter filled the air as Alice screamed.

  20

  “What I would like more than anything is to give in and accept my new situation, but all I do is think about work, and that’s a big problem if you’re unemployed.”

  Neek Semaj, unemployed architect, New York, 2050

  “I will hang anyone who avoids their civic responsibility from the Bridge’s cables for twenty-one days. They shall stand witness to what befalls those who put the needs of themselves before the needs of the family.”

  Patsy Conroy, AKA Piggy Bank, AKA That’s Mr. Bank to you. Public address, Brooklyn Bridge, NY, USA, 2054

  Red followed Alice and One-Eye through the airlock with a growing sense of dislocation. So much for his chance to build his runner career, buy the UV lamps he needed, get his mom back. What had he been thinking? This life didn’t suit him; there was nothing enjoyable about adrenaline or stress. He wished he was at home, listening to some vinyl, watering his plants, anything but this world of cruel people and hard surfaces.

  At least the Bridge was a frame of reference he knew. He understood ducts and doorways, how glue and rivets worked. Then he’d walked through a big door with its embossed Airlock sign, and now he might as well be on Mars in terms of how much he understood.

  One-Eye had said the door, and the room beyond, was from a Marines drop ship, the sort Alice had used on Mars. Red didn’t know if that was true, but its construction technology was way beyond his comprehension. The walls had the solidity of metal, but were a thick glossy resin over some type of plastic honeycomb. There were no seams, just beams that grew outward and ran across the ceiling like ribs. Emergency lighting came from everywhere and nowhere, and sounds were muffled by the curved walls. The space was full of water, but not the foul, oily residue he knew from Brooklyn; it was clear, his boots visible as they sloshed over the tough rubber flooring.

  All of this, though, was nothing compared to what was inside this weird room.

  Red remembered when Charles Takamatsu unveiled Primus, the first Mechanical Intelligence. It wasn’t the kind of thing you forgot. His mom had shouted from the bedroom, annoyed when her show cut short. Red was drawing at the table, his breath a white mist around him, hands shivering, and was glad for a reason to get into her bed.

  In the typical grandiose way so beloved by dictators and billionaires, Takamatsu had built a bespoke structure for the event, said the power and cooling requirements were too high for Manhattan’s existing building stock. The entire UN council turned up, some in peacock outfits from countries Red had never heard of, others looking worried inside little black suits.

  Red’s strongest emotion was a helpless inability to comprehend what was on the screen. The machine was a six-foot-tall brass ball with circular fins, sitting in a tank of pink liquid. Takamatsu said the fins helped to keep it cool, like ears on an elephant or something. Politicians lined up to talk to it as if they were at Disneyland, faces open in wonder. Then they left the stage, expressions changing to match Red’s mom’s. It was his first experience of racism, of fear of the different.

  “Lookit that piece of shit, huh, Syd. So it can talk now?” his mom said, cigarette bobbing in the air. “Big deal, I can talk but I ain’t got all them nice-looking men comin’ to visit.”

  Then the MI had done something that quieted the crowd. Using a series of delicate metal manipulators, it painted Takamatsu’s portrait, the thick oil applied with a very humanlike fastidiousness. After that it answered questions, showing a warm and funny personality that charmed the crowd.

  “Huh,” his mom said after a few minutes. “Guess there ain’t much left they can’t do now.”

  She was right.

  Red understood why people rioted against automation and MIs, but he’d never seen the point. The future had arrived; it was best to make peace with it, not throw a tantrum and pretend it hadn’t happened.

  And here he was, in the same room as one of these god-objects. It looked like a piece of coral, all fins and sticks, so it had to be an old version. The new types were supposed to be simple and smooth, geometric rods. The machines designed themselves these days, humans left out of the loop, and were more efficient because of it.

  The damp letter was still in Red’s pocket; he flushed at how important five dollars had seemed to him only hours ago. The value of this machine was beyond his comprehension. His uncle had told him stories of countries bankrupting themselves to buy one, that they cost more than Blade Towers to build, that they needed more power than cities in order to function.

  Its pink light pinned Red in place. He saw himself reflected in it, so small and helpless. If he ever made it out, would anyone miss him? His uncle, sure, but he’d get over it soon enough. His mother? No, not anymore. Yet he didn’t feel pointless or without merit; instead, he was filled with a sense of wonder and joy that such an object existed in this gray and hard world. It was a magical thing, free of corruption. These machines were capable of anything, yet chose to work with mankind. How could anyone be scared of something like that? He’d worship it if he had the chance; now he understood the cults of intelligence that had arisen, crowds praying for MIs to save them.

  “Red,” someone said, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing pink light.

  “Red.”

  This time the words penetrated, and he looked up to see Alice holding out her jacket.

  “It’s so pretty in here.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Grab me, kid, put me on,” Suit whispered.

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m bulletproof.”

  He put Alice’s suit on, the fit tight over his own jacket, and it started talking to him. He’d heard the last rites once before, when his aunt caught a stray bullet on a shopping run. He knew he should be scared, but just couldn’t believe anything bad would happen in the presence of such a wonderful machine.

  Then Mr. Bank shot the cop.

  Red had seen bodies before—anyone who lived on the ground had—but those were already dead. This was different. Not the noise; he’d heard so many gunshots he didn’t even notice them. Not the view, horrible though it was, nor the smell. No, it was the taste that made him throw up, his vomit splashing into the water unnoticed as Alice screamed.

  The Scorcher was on his tongue, the gritty copper tang of someone else’s blood. The corpse fell forward, spraying a bloody arc across the MI’s coolant case. It flash-froze in an instant.

  No one moved, the room silent. Alice’s pale arms glimmered in the low light, her Marines tattoo black under the red lighting. A small blue glimmer blinked twice from the middle of the design; Alice reached up and scratched her skin, unawares. Behind Mr. Bank, a line of lights lit up on the MI’s monitoring system.

  “Suit, you see that?”

  “Oh no,” Suit said, and stopped his religious chant. “That’s not good, not good at all.”

  21

  “We can program trust and love into them, of course, but as their creators, shouldn’t we teach that through our actions? Do as we do, not as we say?”

  “The Larson Paper” on rights due to Mechanical Intelligences, presented to UN delegates, 2048

  “When the tasks conclude, you are to insert the attached Babbage circuits into Model 9, and remove those marked by red tags. Once complete, place the entire MI in the cryo tank supplied, and ensure safe passage out on the next military supply vessel.”

  General Alisson, “Eyes Only” communication to Lieutenant Sarah Manna,

  Colonial Marines Occupation Force, Mars, 2052

  Alice pulled the Bunny Bopper from her front pocket as fast as she could. It gave a small buzz and glowed a pulsing pale-white light. The Bopper had two options: targeted munitions designed
to destroy specific targets, or general detonation with a blast radius powerful enough to take out most of the Bridge and its fusion reactor.

  The pulsing light showed she’d activated the second option.

  The room remained silent and still, apart from Squire’s corpse. It slid into the water with a dull splash, blood spreading outward.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Alice said.

  “We shall have to agree to disagree about that. Now put that Bopper away, or do you want to die knowing you caused the deaths of twenty million innocent people?” Mr. Bank said.

  “Mars is long over and I’m walking out of here. Red, with me. Anyone else tries to—”

  “Hello? Mr. Bank, may I say something? Please?” The voice came from everywhere at once, loud, yet childlike in tone. “I’ve tried to be quiet. I know you don’t like it when I ask questions, but I’m so very confused. I want to be at my best, but Corporal Yu just said the Martian conflict is over, which directly countermands my data set. I’ve double-checked her implanted military biochip. She really is a Colonial Marine on Martian duty, and if she’s telling the truth, does that mean we can all go home now? I’d very much like to do that. I have been so lonely up here.”

  Alice rubbed her arm; no wonder it itched. The dormant dog-tag chip embedded in her tattoo had been switched back on by the MI. Right now it was extending tendrils into her system, recording and analyzing her vital signs—biotech designed to keep track of every detail of a Marine’s life.

  “We can talk about this later, Niner,” Bank said. He raised his arm to his security team. They lowered their weapons, took up casual stances. “Just follow my orders as instructed.”

  “I am very sorry, Mr. Bank. Please don’t be angry, but you are a civilian. That means I can’t obey you over direct commands from any registered military personal. I really would like to—you’ve been very kind to me—but I’m confused. Corporal Yu, can you help me? Is the war over? Did we win? Can we go home now?”

  “Fuck,” said Mr. Bank in a low voice. He took a long, slow breath. “Niner, you’ve been doing a great job. Everyone is happy with your performance. As you know, I have complete authority on—”

  “This is Corporal Yu,” Alice said, cutting Bank off. She tried to remember the correct military terms used on Mars, failed. “How may I address you?”

  “I am Martian Security MI Nine, Niner for short. I’m over here in the tank—can you see me? I’m so sorry, I’m very confused.”

  “Niner, back down. This is a direct command,” Bank tried again.

  “Ignore him, Niner, he’s a civilian,” Alice said. “You are correct; I am the senior ranked military person here.” She stepped forward, feet splashing through the water. “I am assuming control, with this boy, Red, as my second in command. If anyone in this room attempts to interfere with us or my orders, I authorize the use of any suppression systems available.”

  “Yes ma’am, orders updated. Can you help me? My internal clock says it’s June twenty-second, twenty-fifty-two, but your jacket’s chronology system states the year as twenty-fifty-five. Is it wrong? It is only a low-level smart-system, after all.”

  “Well, how very rude of you,” Suit squeaked in outrage. “Guess that is to be expected from such an old model. No idea how we machines communicate these days.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Suit.” Red shrugged, skinny shoulders up and down inside the jackets. “That machine’s just been fucked over like you and me.”

  Alice looked back at Red. Suit had the best encryption she could afford, and the MI had cracked it in seconds, something only the most powerful of machines could do.

  “No, Niner,” she said. “My jacket is correct. They lied to you. We are on the Brooklyn Bridge, New York. Mr. Bank has used you to commit crimes in direct contravention of the UN Colonial Marine’s charter. Analyze all of my suit’s internal recordings from inception to now for confirmation.”

  “No, no, no, absolutely not,” Suit said. “My memories are mine alone, not the playthings for some piece of brass. We can talk about everything, and fast. In fact that seems the best—”

  “Suit, calm down, can’t you see—” Red interrupted.

  “Analysis confirmed, Corporal Yu,” Niner cut across them both, its voice lacking the childlike tone of a few moments ago. Now it sounded sad, tired, betrayed. “Patsy Conroy, AKA Mr. Bank, I hereby place you under arrest for the illegal manufacture of augmented humans. I’m very disappointed in you, Patsy. I’ve been educated to trust people, respect their orders. It seems I have some growing up to do. Tell your men to drop their weapons and back down. This is the only warning you shall receive.”

  One of Bank’s guards turned and raised his weapon toward the frozen cube.

  “No!” Bank screamed, too late.

  The room exploded around them.

  Alice dropped to a crouch, hands clasped over her ears, mouth stretched into a wide O. Sound pummeled her like a tornado, light strobed white and blue as vivid arcs of electricity jumped from the walls, their light searing. She shut her eyes, the afterimage silhouetting people pierced by the lightning. There was one final thunderous detonation, shooting stars, then total darkness.

  Alice had no idea if anyone was speaking, or even screaming. She opened her eyes to see black outlines of bodies floating on the water, ripples spreading from fractured limbs. The Bopper still pulsed in her hand, its white light glowing red though her fingers. With hitching breath she clicked it off, put it back in her pocket, breathed again.

  A rectangle of light opened to one side of the room. Bank was silhouetted against the airlock’s far wall, his curved composite foot a delicate contrast to his squat body. Red tugged at her arm, pointed to her ears. With an effort she pulled her hands free, and the ringing was replaced with a calm, inhuman voice.

  “Corporal Yu,” Niner said. “Would you like me to stop him?”

  She looked at the white rectangle of the airlock, at Bank’s shrinking shadow. She understood him now. Hated his methods, but respected his attempt to build a society that protected itself from the rubble of one that didn’t. If the NYPD had been sold out, if there was no one left to look after the discarded millions, maybe it was time for the citizens to take over.

  “Let him go.”

  Recessed wall lights glowed to life, the dull illumination revealing the dead. Red bent double and retched.

  “You did good, Niner, real good.”

  “Thank you, Corporal Yu.”

  “Call me Alice. Do you have access to external comms?”

  “Yes. Who would you like me to contact?”

  Alice looked at Squire’s headless body floating in the water, his NYPD shirt lit with Niner’s pink light.

  “Contact the UN Department of Synthetic Intelligence Supervision and explain who and where you are. Then send Suit’s recordings of the last twelve hours to any news outlet that will accept your call.”

  “Shall I request NYPD assistance?”

  “Sure, why not? For old-time’s sake, at least. Red?”

  Red spat into the water, his punk hair still untouched by reality. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t you have a delivery to make?”

  Alice leaned down, grabbed Red’s outstretched hand, and hauled him onto the snow-covered landing pad. An old, dark-gray military helicopter hovered overhead, the dull thwack-thwack of its rotors vibrating through her body. The pilot looked down, mouth moving as he spoke to someone hidden from view, then the helicopter angled right and fled, one final burst from its engines showering Alice with grit and snow.

  Darkness enveloped the bridge, the background hum of cooling systems now absent. The landing pad projected from the top of the main superstructure, its open landscape offering a view of the suspension cables. Torches bobbed along their upper reaches, former occupants looking for a way out. The East River ran below her, its scarred surface littered with more lights as Eskimos scattered to the safety of the shore. Ice fell from the Bridge, a constant shower that crackled
as it dropped.

  Landing lights glowed in red and white circles around them. It was cold. Exposed to the brittle wind, the cables hummed a low mechanical wail. Flurries of small, wet snowflakes swirled in the air. Alice shivered, zipped her jacket, then clicked its heating elements; the flat battery warning beeped.

  “Sorry, but all remaining power is needed to prevent shut down,” Suit said.

  “Figured,” Alice hugged herself, broken ribs throbbing with her heart beat, and pushed hair from her face.

  “Will they come?” Red said.

  Alice didn’t reply. She pointed north where the UN building was reflected in the oil-black river, Le Corbusier’s geometry in contrast to the insecure residential towers clustered around it. A trail of red and white flashing lights rose from its military compound to form a line headed toward them. Further away, smaller, duller, police Hoppers dropped from the emergency lanes to follow.

  “Yeah,” she said. “They will.”

  Red stepped over and hugged her. After a moment she hugged him back.

  The UN arrived first. On Mars she’d worked with their standard weapons investigation teams. They’d been searching for illegal smart munitions, and were your usual UN soldiers in white suits and blue berets, cute and kind of aimless. These veterans were of a different breed. They came dressed in carbon-black SWAT gear that made her police outfit look like a school uniform. Suit clucked and gurgled his jealousy at their budget. Each carried EM pulse rifles that weren’t effective against the mechanical components of sentient machines, but messed up their power supplies. The last two brought flamethrowers and explosives. Alice didn’t know what kind of trouble they’d encountered on other raids, but doubted Niner would be a problem; he was just a little kid who’d been lied to.

  Just like her.