The design of the place gradually began to come clear. It was a massive five-sided structure, with the pentagon shape being duplicated within the many levels wherever structurally possible. Resembling a vast beehive turned on its edge, the Citadel was an architectural wonder, with no modern parallel anywhere in the world. Stoor was the first to observe that even the interior walls were supported and insulated with pentagon-shaped cells, and felt that this design had been perfected because of the inherent stress and strength capabilities of the honeycomb. There were, it seemed now, five levels to the Citadel above ground and another five below. The aboveground levels had been primarily residential and recreational areas, with gardens and arboretums, zoological parks and athletic facilities, and spacious apartments abounding. Each of the five upper levels was arranged about a central core which ran perpendicular to the earth like an axle through a wheel. Inside the core was a majority of the physical plant facilities such as plumbing, circuitry, transportation passages, elevators, ducts, and ventilation shafts. The five lower levels held the service capabilities of the Citadel. At the deepest level were the basic power supplies and conversion machinery. As far as Stoor could determine, energy was being tapped from the molten heat of the earth itself. Plunging to unknown depths beneath the Citadel were massive shafts arranged in groups of five. There was also a massive, but at the time inactive, chamber which might have been a fusion-power reactor that fragments of First Age manuscripts sometimes mentioned. Also on the first level were ranks of generators and turbines which crouched like dark silent beasts in precise military-like formations. At the second level, in ascending order, were the cybernetic units. Clustered about the central core were pentagon-shaped modules through which there was no discernible access or egress. It was here that Stoor suspected the physical presence of the Artificial Intelligence, the thing which called itself Guardian, actually resided. In addition, the second level contained a massive maintenance area, staffed by perpetual motion robots of various designs and sizes. Some of the machines were merely transport units engaged in the unending process of bringing failing or faulty components of the Citadel into the maintenance section for repair or replacement. There were machines that analyzed problems and directed yet other machines to carry out the actual repairs. The entire Citadel, it seemed, was being continually monitored and repaired. Everything was recycled and renewed. Both Varian and Stoor were certain that the Citadel could exist indefinitely under such a system. It was a humbling testament to the wisdom and power of the ancient builders. The three additional levels were largely industrial facilities for the manufacture of food products, clothing, furniture, tools, recreational devices, and, of course, weaponry. In fact, the fifth level, directly below the surface, was a self-sufficient arms factory and arsenal. To the great disappointment of Stoor and Varian, however, the industrial levels and especially the arsenal were all but completely dormant. Every machine and device were sealed in what appeared to be a clear, plastic-like substance, which proved to be as hard as a diamond and totally impenetrable. Silence filled the lower-level corridors so completely that the group’s footfalls seemed to defile the place like the whispers of grave robbers.
And yet, the exploration and mapping of the place was not a failure. Everyone agreed that a more complete knowledge of their prison would eventually prove helpful. That they encountered no resistance from Guardian or any of his homologs was not encouraging, however. Varian reasoned that the Guardian must have felt so supremely confident that it did not fear the petty scratchings of the group.
Stoor argued this point, as did Tessa, by pointing out that they did encounter a form of resistance, passive though it was, by nature of the sealed-off areas, the dormant levels of machinery, and the cocoon-like state of the devices and weaponry in the arsenal. It was felt that if they could possibly break through one of the protected sections—especially the section where the AI machinery presided—they might be able to disable Guardian and obtain their freedom.
This ticked off several divergent comments from the group.
Raim: If we destroy Guardian, we might be trapped forever.
Stoor: It’s a chance we should take.
Varian: No, that is a last-resort tactic. All other possibilities must be tried first.
Stoor: No!
Tessa: I agree with Varian. We have seen how complex this place is. We do not understand even a fraction of it. Guardian has total control here. We disarm the AI, we may have no means of controlling even simple things, like exit doors.
Stoor: We could wait forever! Time is nothing to that machine. You know that!
Raim: Perhaps we should vote on it?
Stoor: Vote?
Varian: Yes, a secret ballot. Then no one influences anyone else.
Everyone looked from one to the other, considering the possible outcomes of a vote, trying to guess the feelings of each other.
Tessa: Shall we do it?
Everyone nodded as Varian prepared a ballot asking the question: Should we attempt to escape as soon as possible?
The results quickly tabulated, they read three nays and one aye. Whereupon Stoor glared angrily at his sidekick, but said nothing.
The discussion cooled for a moment until Tessa asked if alternative plans should be considered. Varian suggested that the group attempt to have a conference with Guardian, present their case, and plead with the machine to release them; Even if they did not gain their freedom, they may gain some further insight into the problem. Stoor doubted if this would be anything more than a waste of time, but being outnumbered he eventually agreed—something quite foreign to his personality.
But once the important decision had been dealt with, a great part of the group’s energy seemed to have been dissipated, and the anxious aspect of the discussion vanished. Once it was known that they would not be attempting anything so daring within the near future, interest in other plans waned.
Noticing this, Tessa suggested that everyone attempt to get some sleep, despite the possibility of intruding dream scenarios. In the morning, she said, perhaps we can confront Guardian.
Agreement came reluctantly from the group, and they all retired to their own sleeping quarters, wondering if there would be new manipulations awaiting them. Stoor remained sitting in his corner of the room, filling his pipe and thinking of what had been discussed. He was experienced enough in the dealings of men not to sulk or stew over the vote against his rash measures. He understood the frailty of humans and did not actually blame his friends. The decision was made; there was no point in considering could-have-beens. Instead, his mind kept reviewing the weird dreams and illusions that he and the others had been experiencing.
There was something familiar about them.
Just as when he first encountered the man called Zeus, and recalled the folktale using the same name, he again felt his racial memories being aroused. What was it about the illusions which made him feel this way?
Varian and he had discussed the fablelike quality of a majority of the experiences. The merchant seaman, having been exposed to a variety of cultures, had of course heard a multitude of legends and folktales. And sailors, by their nature, are a superstitious lot. Stoor had also encountered many a tale about a campfire at night, and both men had commented on the similarities of some of the old tales with their illusionary experiences in the Citadel.
It was possible that a connection existed between the two, but so far, neither man had been able to ferret it out. Perhaps it was as simple as Tessa’s original suggestion: that the Guardian was bored and was using the group as playthings to amuse itself. If that was true, then the possibilities became endlessly chilling, and Stoor chose not to think about such a thing.
And so he sat, puffing on his pipe, until fatigue, and perhaps a bit of despair, overcame him. Putting down his pipe, he fell asleep and found himself in a vast underground maze, where he was goaded into meandering its puzzlelike passages, battling an occasional creature and meeting a beautiful young woman, who bore a f
rightening resemblance to Tessa.
It was not very amusing.
Chapter Ten
The next morning marked the return of Kartaphilos.
The group was assembled in the dining hall, eating silently and sullenly. Everyone knew that there had been more illusions, but no one had yet mustered the courage to begin discussing individual experiences.
The thoughts which troubled Stoor during the past evening remained at the fore of his mind, and he was quietly considering them when the grandfatherly homolog entered the room.
“Good morning, my friends,” said the machine.
“Don’t be so damned presumptuous,” said Varian. “What do you want now? Upset with us ‘cause you can’t listen in on everything we say?” Stoor sneered at the Guardian’s image.
The homolog smiled gently. “Your solution to my monitoring systems does not surprise me. In fact, I was wondering when you would devise a strategy to ensure some privacy.”
“I’ll bet you were . . .” said Stoor. “Get out of here; you’re killin’ my appetite.”
“As you wish. However, I only stopped in to tell you that an old friend of yours returned quite recently. I thought you might like to know about it.”
“What old friend?” asked Stoor.
“You might remember my telling you that Kartaphilos, his mission finally at an end, was being recalled. . . . He has just now entered the Citadel.”
“I thought he said he didn’t know the location of this place,” said Varian. “How could he had have found his way back?”
The homolog shrugged. “Simple, really. I broadcast a . . . signal, a homing beacon, which was picked up by certain machinery in his body. It was then an elementary task to follow the beacon to its source, leading him back to this place.”
“Why did you call him back?” asked Tessa.
“I have no further need for his wandering the known world.”
“Why not?” asked Varian. “What does that mean?”
“It means that he’s found his suckers and they are us,” said Stoor.
The homolog smiled benevolently. “It is hardly anything like that, my friends.”
“What is it like, then?” asked Varian. “How long is this going to go on?”
The homolog shook his head. “I don’t know. . . . I wish I could tell you, but—”
“Perhaps I can tell you,” said a familiar voice.
Everyone looked up to see the hooded, stooped figure of Kartaphilos standing in the doorway. His wizened face was cracked by an impish smile.
“Greetings to you all,” he said and walked defiantly into the room, taking a place next to the robot of Guardian.
“Leave us immediately,” said the homolog. “You are interfering here.”
“Sorry, but it doesn’t work like that, remember. . . ? Kartaphilos glared at the homolog, whose smile had faded; it was replaced by a grim mask of determination.
“What are you talking about?” asked Varian, stepping forward and addressing both machines.
“Nothing—” said the homolog.
“Everything,” said Kartaphilos.
“What?”
“Get out of here!” the homolog stiffened. “That’s a priority-one command!”
“I am sorry, Guardian, but it has no effect, as you well know.”
“Explain your reasoning,” said the homolog.
“You are aware of the . . . incident I suffered with the Riken strike force all those many years ago? I was fortunate to have survived at all. The self-repairing circuits did not do their job as well as might have been predicted. I suffered from partial amnesia, do you not recall?”
“I am aware of it, yes.”
Kartaphilos smiled. “Amnesia was not the only malfunction, Guardian. Surely you must realize that by now.”
Varian looked at Stoor and the others. Something strange was taking place; there was tension in the air. You could feel it the way a sailor can sense a storm coming even on a calm sea.
“What’re you two talking about?” he asked the robots, but they ignored him totally.
“Then why did you return?” asked the homolog.
Kartaphilos shrugged. “Why not? I’ve seen most of the World a thousand times over. Besides I was curious to find out what had finally happened to you.”
“I am surprised to see that you cared.” The homolog turned away from the other robot. “Now please, leave us. I will debrief you at a later time.”
“You still don’t seem to understand,” said Kartaphilos. “I do as I wish.”
“No, that cannot be allowed,” said the homolog, wheeling quickly, its arm raised and ready to strike the robed figure.
But Kartaphilos moved more rapidly; his arm streaked out from the folds of the cloak and powerful fingers gripped the wrist of the other robot. “You dare strike me with this flimsy shell!” Kartaphilos laughed as the homolog paused for an instant, locked in the firm grip of the robed one’s hand.
Yanking its arm violently, Kartaphilos tore the robot’s arm free of its shoulder in a flash of light and ruptured metal. The homolog reeled, as if momentarily stunned, then staggered forward to engage the attack once again.
Kartaphilos stepped back and assumed a rigid stance, tilting his head back at an odd angle. Suddenly his lower jaw dropped open, incredibly wide, until it clicked into position. Without warning a red beam of energy leaped from the back of his throat, penetrating the homolog’s head like a spear.
A blue-white explosion blinded everyone for an instant, while the sound of sizzling, cooling metal fragments filled the room. As the cloud of thick vapor dissipated, the group saw Kartaphilos standing above the smoldering remains of the homolog. The old robot stepped back, closed his jaw slowly, and turned to the humans.
“Forgive me, but Guardian made it necessary,” he said.
“How? What did you do?” said Varian.
Kartaphilos bowed his head modestly and grinned. “I was originally a Combat Series Warrior,” he said. “Very sophisticated. All Series VI’s were equipped with the disruptor beam. Good for close combat. Although the Series VI’s were still under the tactical command of the Guardian, the Command Option models were allowed the ‘privilege’ of independent thinking if the situation, in, say, the ‘heat of battle,’ warranted it. As far as power or strength characteristics are concerned, I am far more formidable than the Guardian homolog with which you were familiar. Combat Series are self-repairing units, resistant to weather, radiation, and even small-arms fire. It was, as you say, ‘no contest.’”
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” said Varian. “The Guardian has no . . . control over you now. . . .”
Kartaphilos smiled. “That is correct. Aeons ago, when I was first sent out for reinforcements, when the Citadel and the city were under siege, I was damaged during an attack by a Riken force. After escaping and allowing the self-repair functions to do their work, I discovered that my Command Option was functioning on what is termed an ‘open level’; that is, while I was aware of the ‘presence,’ if you will, of Guardian, there was no manner in which it could actually dictate my actions.”
“I still don’t figure it,” said Stoor. “You still came back when it sent out that homing beacon. . . . Why?”
Kartaphilos looked at the old man, paused, and smiled. “I returned because, at that point, I still believed that I was serving the same Intelligence which had sent me out in the first instance.”
“What do you mean: ‘the same Intelligence?’” Tessa said. She looked at Varian, wondering if he understood what the strange robot was actually saying.
Kartaphilos walked across the room, stepping over the wreckage of the homolog, and seated himself on a divan. He leaned forward, resting his arms upon his thighs and looking very weary. It was such a human thing to do, thought Tessa. It was hard to believe that even the builders of the Citadel, of the Guardian, could construct a machine which acted so utterly human.
“What do I mean?” said the robot in a mocking
voice. “I would have thought you had all realized the truth by this time. . . .”
Stoor advanced upon him. “What truth! What’re you talking about?”
“I was aware of it as soon as I entered the Citadel,” said Kartaphilos. “Don’t you know? The Guardian is insane.”
Chapter Eleven
“I think we’d better have a long talk,” said Varian.
There was a brief silence as everyone looked at one another with the same expression—a mixture of fear and confusion. Kartaphilos studied them all, looking quite amused.
“You really didn’t know, did you? None of you. . . . Incredible, actually.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tessa.
“I mean did you think we all acted like this back in the First Age? Did you think we were all a bunch of strutting, powermad demigods, with no more regard for human life than a Luten?”
“At this point, we don’t know what to think,” said Varian. “I think you’d better explain a few things.”
Kartaphilos exhaled slowly. “If indeed I can explain it. There is not much to say other than the fact that something has happened to the Guardian in my absence. It’s functioning, in a purely cybernetic sense, perfectly; don’t misunderstand me. It’s just that its thought processes, its mind, if you will, is deranged, awry, insane. . . . There is no other way to describe it.”
“How can you be sure of this?” asked Tessa.
Kartaphilos shrugged. “Again, I cannot fully explain it or describe the sensation. Let me only say that my electronic makeup is such that I have sensory inputs to Guardian which tell me that the AI is not functioning properly.”
Stoor walked halfway across the room, turned, and shook his head. “That crap don’t make much sense to me. . . .”
“I am sorry if I cannot make it more clear. I can only ask that you believe me.”
“What’s going to happen to us now?” asked Tessa. “Now that you’ve destroyed the Guardian’s robot. . . ?”
“There are plenty of other machines which Guardian may use,” said Kartaphilos. “Don’t forget, it has control over practically everything in the Citadel.”
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