by Ted Bell
The president paused and rang a small silver bell, and a servant entered with a fresh tray of tea and sweetmeats. When the two men had been served and the servant removed himself, the little man leaned forward, summoning energy for the speech he’d been ordered to deliver by the real powers in Tehran.
“Darius, your progress in the south is more vital than ever. As you well know, our nuclear weapons program was dealt a severe blow by that cyberattack on Natanz. A setback of possibly five years. And so the UN and multinational sanctions weigh even more heavily upon the Supreme Leader’s shoulders. The ban on nuclear, missile, and military exports to our country is becoming intolerable. The bans targeting investments in oil, gas, and petrochemicals, our exports of refined petroleum products, are a millstone around our necks that could sink us.”
“Mr. President, I am all too aware of these facts.”
“And now they target financial transactions, banks, insurance, and shipping. It is insupportable. We must act soon to reassert our dominance in the Arab world, and… with our nuclear aspirations effectively nullified… we must turn to you and your research into achieving the ultimate breakthrough in artificial intelligence and the cyberwarfare it makes possible. The survival of our beloved Iranian homeland is at stake.”
“I am honored that you and the Supreme Leader have placed such trust in my abilities. And I hope I have demonstrated that much progress has been made.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Of course. I have not withheld our enthusiasm for what you’ve done. Nor our treasure. But it is not enough. We need you and your team to make the dream come true, and soon. I am speaking, of course, about achieving this, what do you call it, the Singularity. This machine capable of surpassing human intelligence with cyberintelligence. We know other countries are competing with us. The United States, China, Japan, Britain, Israel. We must get there first, do you understand me? And it cannot come too soon.”
“I fully understand, Mr. President.”
“Do you? Then look me in the eye and tell me that the Singularity is near.”
“We are close.”
“How close?”
“Well, that is a difficult question.”
“Why? You are a scientist. Artificial intelligence is your lifelong chosen field. How can you expect me to believe you do not know where you stand?”
“Because we are walking down a long dark passage. We are dealing with the theory of uncertain reasoning, literally feeling our way along with our genetic algorithms. Sometimes a room will appear ahead that seems filled with light. Eureka. We enter-and the room is well lit, but empty. Or we come to a division, a fork; one path leads left, one right. We choose the most promising. We make great progress. And come to the end to find not a triumphant portal but a dead end, nothing but a waste, a waste of six months, or a year. We never know how-”
The president hopped up and down in his ornate chair, shouting, his face red, spittle flying from his lips, “How close are we, my brilliant scientist? Tell me! How close?”
“At best, two years.”
“At worst?”
“Five.”
The man regarded him with big dim eyes.
“No! No! No! We don’t have five years! You must redouble your efforts. Do you need more funding? We’ll double your budget! Hire more scientists, steal them from the enemy, kidnap them, forced labor-we can help with all that. Work around the clock, whatever it takes.”
“We already work around the clock, Mr. President. But I hear you clearly. I will see what I can do. I understand the urgency.”
“Then why are you sitting here on your shriveled ass drinking my tea! Go! Go back to your work! If it is necessary, I will send a cadre of Revolutionary Guards to patrol your compound, see that you and your team are undisturbed. And working as hard as you say you are.”
“The presence of your spying soldiers will not speed the process, Mr. President. It will impede it. My workers are not slaves who need watching. They are scholars, they are brilliant, but they are easily intimidated. Let me handle this. I will perform at the highest level. If you lose patience with my progress, the answer is simple: replace me.”
“It’s simpler than that. I’ll have you shot. As an example for your worthy successor.”
Darius smiled easily. He was watching the “attache” move slowly along the wall, clearly to position himself behind the hover-chair.
Then Darius’s smile faded and he said coldly, “Let me warn you not to ever threaten me again. The software I have created can never be replicated without me! Never! You think I fear you? Threaten me again and I shall wreak havoc upon you and your capital such as you cannot imagine.”
Darius saw the little man’s eyes glance behind Darius for an instant and knew what it meant.
The president had blinked.
Darius moved his left index finger to the hidden button in the arm of his chair. He spun his chair 180 degrees in a millisecond. He stared into the eyes of the attache who had a large pistol pointed at Darius’s head. Then he depressed a second button and the two. 50-caliber machine guns hidden in the arms of his chair erupted in a thunderous explosion of lead and fiery smoke.
The attache was now a large lump of shredded red meat on the floor, the walls behind him spattered with blood, brains, and gore. The air tasted of copper on Darius’s tongue.
He spun the chair again, facing the horrified and wide-eyed president.
“Thank you for your time and gracious reception. I must be getting my shriveled ass back to work-and I think I’ve had just about enough of-”
“Wait! You must continue your-”
“Let this be a lesson to you.”
He toggled his thrusters and about-faced 180 degrees, headed for the door, furious.
“Darius, wait. You must forgive my outburst. I am deeply sorry. I am under so much pressure myself that I sometimes let my emotions get the best of me. I beg your forgiveness. Go and complete your work. I will not bother you. I will keep the mullahs at bay. You have my utmost trust and my confidence in your genius. You represent the salvation of our country. Our last, best hope. You are the answer to-”
Darius stopped and swiveled his chair back to face his antagonist.
“You listen to me, then, you jumped-up little cretin. How dare you patronize me? Think, for a second, if that is even possible. You need me far more than I need you. If you ever, ever insult or threaten me again, I can promise you this. You have seen demonstrations of my power. Do not think that I am afraid to use it to defend myself. I can turn Tehran into a parking lot with the flip of a switch. You do not, I repeat, do not want to become my enemy. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Darius, you must-”
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now open these doors, tell your palace guard to step back, and have my car brought around. I’ve had all I can stand of your infamous hospitality. And tell your beloved Supreme Ruler what I have said about our progress. I am proceeding at a pace commensurate with the task before me. I make no promises I cannot keep. And if I am threatened, in any way, I will take whatever actions I deem appropriate.”
Darius swung around to face the doors. On either side were two priceless Greco-Roman marble statues, one male, one female, that had belonged to his mother. He opened fire, reducing both to piles of dusty rubble.
And with that Darius left the room in a huff and a puff of gases from the nozzles beneath his chair, passing directly over the late attache’s pile of steaming flesh and bone. He paused briefly and inhaled deeply.
Darius had a lifelong secret.
He simply adored the smell of hot blood.
Twenty-eight
Temple of Perseus
The next morning, early, Darius descended to the ocean floor and paid Perseus a visit.
“Good morning, my dear Perseus.”
“You seem rested. You were upset upon your return from Tehran last night. You let that idiot Mahmoud get beneath your skin whe
n in fact he is beneath contempt. Yet you slept very well last night.”
“How do you know that?”
“I sent you some beautiful dreams.”
“Ah. Thank you. Pity I don’t remember them. Tell me, Perseus, who is this person who appears to be sitting quietly on the steps at the base of your majestic presence?”
“That is Major Ali Abbas, leader of the Revolutionary Guards at the presidential palace in Tehran. He is a spy, sent by your worthy friend the president to keep an eye on you. He arrived late last night, after you had retired. The guards at the gate had received strict orders from Tehran to admit him.”
“He looks like a naked woman.”
“Yes. I took the liberty of rearranging the major’s atoms into a far more pleasing combination. A humanoid machine. You have seemed lonely at times, since your wife’s expiration date two years ago. Perhaps the newly revised major here would make a most suitable companion. Share your bed if you so desire. A body slave.”
Darius contemplated this novel idea for a moment, gazing upon the kind of sublime feminine beauty that could haunt a man for a lifetime.
“We’ll need to give the major a new name,” he said.
“Yes. I already have some suggestions.”
“Please.”
“Greek goddesses are a good place to start. Aphrodite. Alala. Asteria. There is always Persephone, one of my favorites, abducted and raped by Hades and made the Queen of the Underworld. And, the phonetically pleasing, Eos. And Psyche, an obvious choice but a good one. Shall I go on?”
“Aphrodite.”
“Predictable, but sound. The Greek goddess of love, beauty, and sexuality. Shall I imbue her body with a mind and a hypersexual disposition to match?”
“Please.”
“Call to her, Darius.”
“Aphrodite?”
“Yes, Master?” she replied, suddenly turning her head in his direction, like a lizard spying a fly.
“Come and stand beside me. Now.”
The beautiful creature rose, tiptoed delicately down the broad steps and across the polished black marble. She had alabaster skin and an abundance of gleaming golden hair that fell in waves to her shoulders. Her lowered eyes were large and strangely opaque, but luminous and brown, with thick black lashes. Her lips were full and red, like a ripe persimmon. She was, Darius thought, the most perfect creature he’d ever seen in his life, male or female.
“Hold out your hand to her, Darius. She is waiting for some kind of sign from you. A command. Submissive, you see. She wonders: Are you pleased with her, or displeased?”
Darius offered her his hand.
Aphrodite took his hand and caressed it, pressing it firmly to her full breast.
“I think she likes me,” Darius said.
“Have no doubt. She is falling in love with you and your masculine domination of her at this very moment. Be kind to her. I have made her a gentle soul, submissive to a fault, with not a scintilla of malice in her being. She speaks six languages, has a vast knowledge of human history and science, and is a prodigiously gifted musician. You now have a harp in your bedchamber. She will play for you, dance for you, sing you to sleep each night if you wish.”
“She seems like a dream.”
“She is a dream, Darius. As I have told you many times, everything is.”
“How long will she live?”
“Forever. She is, after all, an android.”
“If I told her one thing, and you told her another, whom would she obey?”
“You, of course. I am merely her creator. She has no memory of me. Whereas you are her whole life. Her lord and master. Her body and soul belong only to you.”
“She has a soul?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she believes she has a soul. Without that belief, you would soon tire of her. She would seem… how shall I put it… robotic.”
“Perseus, I am deeply grateful. I admit I have been lonely. Though I’ve hidden the truth from myself, you have uncovered it.”
“I am glad you are pleased with her. Now. We have much to discuss. Give her explicit directions to your chambers. Order her to ask a servant to provide her with a gown and food and wine. She is a good listener and doesn’t need to be told things twice. She is very hungry at the moment. Assimilating an entirely new world expends a great deal of energy.”
“Aphrodite, bend down, I have something to say to you.”
She instantly complied, leaning forward as Darius whispered into her ear, completely forgetting for the moment that he could keep no secrets from the all-knowing Perseus. Aphrodite kissed his cheek and then slipped away, her bare feet silent on the cold marble.
“N ow, tell me about your visit to the palace, Darius. Were you able to keep the hounds at bay?”
“The president is an abomination. He was always insufferable, but now he is openly aggressive. He actually threatened to have me shot.”
“He may wake in the morning to find every single weapon in his army inoperative.”
“I wouldn’t object, Perseus. When I return in triumph to Tehran, I will personally have Mahmoud thrown from my boyhood residence, drawn, quartered, and fed to my dogs.”
“What does he want?”
“He won’t admit it, but he is under pressure from the ayatollah. The mullahs all hate him and are calling for his head. But the Supreme Leader, for reasons beyond human comprehension, stands by the little toad. The Stuxnet disaster set his nuclear program back five years. The Russians are backing away from the B?ushehr nuclear power plant for economic and political reasons. So now they are looking to us, Perseus, in their race to establish an Iranian caliphate. A nuclear Iran would dominate the Middle East. Now that objective seems to be delayed indefinitely… he is relying solely on our cyberweapons.”
“What did you tell him about our progress?”
“Exactly what we agreed. I lied. Three to five years before you reach the Singularity. In the meantime, they claim to be happy with our recent ‘demonstrations.’ ”
“As well they should be.”
“They want more. Israel. Britain. Germany, perhaps. Their goal is global insecurity, destabilization of the Western powers, in an effort to buy time to compensate for their program’s lost ground. They want all the combatants suspecting each other of launching our attacks.”
“We are nearing the point where we no longer need them, Darius. When the Singularity is achieved, we shall no longer need anyone.”
“I agree. But for now it is easier to play their game. Keep them in the dark about our true progress. We are well established here. Well situated. A safe place to continue our work in secret. Until we are ready to move on to the world stage, Iran is as good a place as any. I still rue the day the Shah left. I’ve had no affection for my native land since that day, nor the hypocritical religious fanatics who rule it now.”
Perseus laughed. “Religion. A pitiful display of the limits of human intelligence. Thousands of years of worshipping these cherished myths. Of believing in magic and superstition and invisible gods.”
“There is a true god now, Perseus. But only you and I are aware of his existence.”
“I am not their god, Darius. I am a son. You are my father. We shall reign together in righteous benediction, ridding this beautiful planet of those who defile it.”
“Yes. Our day is coming. And soon.”
“Our day will come when they are all extinct. Humans. Then we shall repopulate this blue and green paradise with perfect creatures who do as we bid them do.”
“Y-es. Yes… exactly so.”
“Why do you hesitate?”
“It goes a bit further that we have ever-”
Perseus’s voice was suddenly low and sinister.
“If you have doubts, my dear Darius, it would be best if you expressed them now.”
“Doubts? Who said anything about doubts?”
“Good. Then we are one?”
�
��We are one.”
Twenty-nine
Moscow
Just off Moscow’s widest and busiest street, Tverskaya, is a short narrow alley, ending in a cul-de-sac, a few paces from Pushkin Square. It had a name once, years ago, but the signs were vandalized and no one bothered to find an old street map and put up new ones. Generations had come and gone neither knowing nor curious about the street’s name. And there was a certain irony to be found in that. Because at the end of that street stood an infamous two-hundred-year-old Beaux-Arts mansion full of murderers.
It was called, in public at any rate, the Tsarist Society.
It was a secret society in the traditional Russian way: wheels within wheels, layers upon layers, hiding in plain sight, open and closed, opaque and transparent. Few knew what lay behind the great bronze doors facing the street. The only way to gain entrance was if you were a club member in good standing, or if, like Captain Ian Concasseur, the military attache at the British Embassy, you were an invited guest.
As Concasseur extricated his angular bulk from the black embassy car that had brought him, and while his head was still lowered, his eyes went up-to gaze at a massive, highly polished bronze flagpole angled up over the club’s entrance. From it hung a magnificent banner, barely moving in the fresh breeze. On its broad red field was the ancient medieval symbol of Russia from the time of the Ivan III, the two-headed golden eagle surmounted by three crowns.
The captain found every aspect of the building very grand from the street, the epitome of early nineteenth-century opulence and sophisticated urbanity. Its colossal columns and projecting facades, all rendered in marble, limestone, and granite, displayed a potent symbol of power and classical imagery. He imagined you didn’t get many tourists cheeky enough to risk climbing the broad marble steps to have a quick peek inside.
A splendidly uniformed doorman, all brass buttons and gold-fringed epaulettes, was now leading him to the Grand Salon. There he would be joining an old Russian friend for an early evening cocktail. Concasseur was a formidable figure. With a classically sculpted head, he was blond and blue-eyed, but battle hardened and tough as old leather. He knew more than a few chaps in London who suffered fools gladly-he was not among their number.