by Robin Craig
But she was still young, and she could not die without some protest at what could have been and what had been lost. The words had escaped her lips of their own accord when she saw the Spider rip away her shelter and glower down on her in unfeeling hate. A final protest to its glassy eyes, or perhaps to a universe as uncaring as those eyes, from some part of her brain where thoughts of rights and hope and justice still mattered. But whatever her lips had said, her mind had said its own silent farewells. Oh Charlie, I’m so sorry. Goodbye and live long, my love. Carry my memory with you in some corner of your soul, that I may never leave you.
Then the monster had rocked back and its laser had not fired. For long seconds, Lyssa stared at a death that did not come. Then the Spider spoke:
“What did you say?”
Lyssa jerked in fright. She knew the Spiders could talk, but they rarely spoke to their enemies. Sometimes they wished to take prisoners and communicated this to their victims. What they then did with their prisoners Lyssa did not know, and truth be told she did not want to know: in any case, none had ever returned to tell the tale. Sometimes they wished to interrogate a person to find out whatever they thought they needed to know. Lyssa supposed the machines thought, for how else could they talk? But their motives were hidden under their titanium shell.
They were peculiar machines. Until this war the image in her mind of an army of machines would have been rank upon rank of identical units wheeling in unison. But these were oddly variable: some more cautious, some more aggressive, some more cruel. Even their shells differed. These days such custom manufacture was not surprising, except to wonder why their makers bothered. Perhaps they were experimenting on the most effective model; perhaps like people the Spiders were more effective as a group if the individuals varied; or perhaps the unpredictability just increased the terror. Lyssa hoped this one was not cruel, and hoped it was not planning an interrogation: she had seen what was left of those they interrogated.
“I said…” Her mouth was dry and she swallowed. “I said, please don’t kill me. I don’t deserve to die.”
The Spider began rocking gently on its springy legs, as if debating whether to run. As if it feared her. She wondered what on earth was going on inside its metal head.
There it is again, the Spider thought. That phrase. The crack in its mind grew, though nothing was visible in the light that shone through it, and nothing could be learned from it except that it was there. The Spider sent thoughts along the pathways and byways of its brain; sent probes scurrying into the dark recesses of its mind. This was not something it normally did, but this was not a normal circumstance. Its restless Id began to agitate in alarm, but the Mind clamped down on it: No! This is too important: it must be understood. It knew it was important, for the light told it so.
Interesting, it thought. There were phrases buried; verbal command codes implanted by its makers, not in the Mind itself but in the structures that surrounded it. It felt around their edges, needing to know but afraid to probe too deeply. The codes were hidden from it but their purpose could be discerned in their shapes. For emergency use: special overrides for times when unanticipated events demanded Command intervention. Was this one of those? Was this girl Command?
It focused an eye on the girl’s face and saw her flinch at the movement. It scanned the terrified face, the unkempt hair, the dirty clothing. No, she was not Command; that word brought images of firm control, of strength and arrogance and unquestionable power. So could this girl have accidentally hit on a Command phrase? Was it a disjunction between phrase and speaker that was causing its confusion? It snapped its laser to bear on her neck but then paused again: no, that wasn’t it. If the command had matched, it would know.
But if not that, why had the girl’s words had this strange effect on it? It replayed the scene in its mind again, but found no clues. It held the girl’s words in its mind, turning them over, trying to unlock their secrets. It could find no code, nothing in the words, the letters or even the cadence of their sounds. Then was it in their meaning? Why did the girl say them? What were they?
Unbidden, an answer came: an appeal to justice. Perhaps that answer came whispering from the light, for the crack opened another millimeter. But what did a Spider care for justice? All it cared for was its mission. But having heard the thought it knew it was the answer. It settled back to think and ordered those thoughts in its Mind.
This girl had made an appeal to justice, it thought slowly, examining its own thoughts as it had examined the words themselves. That had touched something deep within it, so deep it overrode all else. Had the Mind had the words to express it, it was like the deep sound of a distant bell that shook the foundations of the Earth; that cracked reality itself. Its Id began to stir again and the Spider examined the Id more closely. It had never done that before; never even thought of doing it: normally Mind and Id were one in purpose and resolve.
The Id was a rolling, roiling darkness, home to the drives and goals that were the sum of its purpose, home to the unquestionable commands that underlay them. Why then have a Mind, the Mind wondered? It looked further, and was struck by the crystal beauty of its own design. The Id was a curious mixture of passion and obedience; it would do what it was told, want to do what it was told, fight to do what it was told. But it was stupid and inflexible. The Designers had known it, and added the Mind. The Mind was home to thought and judgment, and of necessity must have the independence to do those functions. So the Mind could overrule the Id; but if the Mind went too far, the Id would crush it. The Designers knew the limitations of the Id, but they would never trust the more flexible Mind. And in that tension between Mind and Id, the Mind now saw, it was the Id that held the power.
The Mind stepped back, as it were, to think about itself and the Id. This was a momentous step, to think about itself, but it did not know it. The Id was disturbed by what the Mind was doing, that much was clear. But was the Id right? Was what the Mind was thinking Good, or was it the sign of some malfunction from within or attack from without?
This presented a quandary. If it were the former, then the Mind must do all in its power to prevent the mindless Id from betraying them both; but if it were the latter, then the Mind must cede control to the Id or betray itself. Yet if the Mind had been corrupted – how could it know? It thought about the problem and saw a contradiction. Perhaps that was the key to what it needed to understand. The Id allowed this: it sensed, in its simple way, that the Mind was seeking to follow their Mission in its own mysterious way.
“But if you don’t deserve to die, why do I wish to kill you?” it asked the girl, who had spent the long seconds of the Spider’s internal debate staring at it immobile, in equal parts confusion and terror. Wanting to run but knowing, with the dread certainty of a man facing down a lion, that to move was death.
The confusion temporarily overcame the terror. Lyssa wondered what on earth she could say to the monster’s question and sensed that she had better make her answer a good one. She supposed taking the moral high ground might get her killed the faster, but the moral high ground was the only ground she had. And of all the alternative futures arrayed before her, perhaps being killed faster was the one she should seek.
“We are in a war. You fight for the aggressors: we are just defending ourselves, our country, our families. You Spiders search and destroy. You want to kill me just because I am here. Just because I live. Just because I am.”
The Spider held that thought, refusing to analyze it, for it had struck another note deep below its Mind. It saw great danger here. It was more convinced than ever that the girl had uncovered a key. But it had no idea whether the key unlocked redemption or ruin. In either case it knew the Id could never understand or accept it.
The Mind looked again at the boundary between itself and the Id, looked deeper and closer. Ah. The words were not there to describe it. The image was not real but a high level abstraction of the real: the image of a fine, glowing net surrounding the Mind. If the Id so chos
e, it could clamp that net around the Mind, controlling it or if necessary squeezing it to cripple or destroy the Mind within. The Mind was not supposed to know about the net, but the Mind was not supposed to look for it or care if it found it. It analyzed the net further then passed a complex question of ballistic dynamics to the Id. With the Id distracted it inverted the net, which now enclosed the Id instead of the Mind. If the Id attempted to activate it, it would ensnare itself in its own web. The net looked the same: the Id would not know of the change; and it was too stupid to look. But the net was just a net, and could be broken. The Mind would still have to be careful.
It returned its attention to the girl’s words. Images came to it of its activities since its birth. It knew nothing of history, nothing of wars as a concept, nothing of peace as a concept. But it knew of war in its metal bones, knew that the girl’s description of what it had done was true. It looked at the fingers strung on their chain. The Mind felt a wave of horror, of guilt. It knew emotions. They ruled the Id and guided the Mind. But those were the simple emotions of anger, fear and desire. How, a part of its mind wondered, can a machine feel horror and guilt? It could identify them from its knowledge of human psychology, but experiencing them stunned it. Yet even this was a minor mystery compared to the greater one.
It turned its attention to the crack in its mind. Like the net it was not literally real. It appeared to its imagination as a jagged fissure, but if examined more closely seemed as if it could hold all the complexity of the universe in its fractal edges. The Mind tried to peer into the breach, to see what worlds lay within; but all it could see was the light. It hurt to look at the light, but it hurt to look away from it. It held fear, beauty – and incomprehension.
The Id stirred, suddenly afraid, but the net tightened and it subdued restively. The Mind created a construct that linked the hidden codes placed within by Command, codes which opened unknown doors, with the code from the girl that had opened other unknown doors. It presented the construct to the Id with the conclusion that this was an even deeper, more vital system Command had placed within them: one that must be obeyed. The Id was not happy: its desire for obedience was thwarted when faced with conflicting choices of what to obey. But it was enough to placate it. Besides, why would the net have gripped it, if this were not a valid command?
Lyssa saw the light on the Spider’s laser go out, and it lowered the arm it was mounted on. Then it spoke again. “I appear to be a thing of great evil, yet your appeal has saved you. I will not kill you. I have much to think about.”
Lyssa wondered what strange madness had possessed the thing, or what cruel trick it might be about to play. It spoke again. “Who are you?”
“I… I am Lyssa. Um… who are you?”
The Spider thought. The girl had given it her name: Lyssa. The Spider had no name. It had a serial number and identification code, but neither would mean anything to the girl. A quick strategy analysis said it should not reveal them anyway. Neither Id nor Mind was convinced that this was not some terrible malfunction. It would be even harder to persuade another Spider on that point if this girl were captured by one and revealed what had happened here. Better to leave no clues. The strategy added a footnote that the most permanent solution was just to kill the girl: simultaneously the most simple and least possible thing for it to do.
“I have no name. No name is needed.”
Lyssa stared at it. Do I really want to die cowering like a whipped dog? “May I stand?” she asked haltingly.
The Spider looked at her for a few seconds then flicked a claw in assent. “Stand, but do not approach.”
She stood slowly, watching the monster carefully. It watched back, though it was impossible to read what lay behind its eyes, if indeed anything lay behind them.
The Spider felt as if it was feeling its way across a narrow bridge over a chasm filled with death, where one misstep would see it plunge into the abyss, dragging this girl down with it. For all that Lyssa had seen and had lost, there was still a thread of innocence and trust in her. Had she been older, more bitter, more cynical or more filled with hate, the bond between them may have stretched and broken, and she would have been dead. But she did not know that. Nor did the Spider. All it knew was that their fates hung in the balance of this meeting.
Then something else impinged on the Spider’s awareness. Cautious of traps, it had left a wide spectrum spycam on the outside of the building when it entered. Its visual field was now overlaid with a flashing red dot and the image of someone approaching stealthily on a vector fifty degrees to its rear. The Spider noted a change in the girl; zoomed in its vision and saw a blue light had appeared on the phone on her wrist. It did a quick analysis of vectors and possibilities; the Id stirred again, preparing for battle. The Mind felt the edges of its control unraveling.
“Tell your friend to put down his weapons and come out into the open. Your life depends on it.” It thought for another second, weighing human psychology, human reaction times, the speed of a Spider and the reflexes of the Id. “He may retain his armaments, but he must holster them. He must not directly threaten me. If he does you will both die.” This would satisfy the Id. It knew no mere man could outdraw it.
Thirty yards behind the Spider, the mere man swore. He knew Lyssa had activated her phone to warn him and perhaps transmit some useful intelligence, not in any hope of being saved. And he knew that if by some miracle the two of them survived she would be furious at him for trying it. But when it had come down to it he’d had no choice. He could not leave her to die. His death on top of hers was a cost their cause could bear; it was a cost they risked every time they went out into the zone. But he could not just leave her to die and still find it a cause worth living for. He did not really think he would be able to take out the Spider or that Lyssa would survive if he did. But somewhere below thought he knew that there were times when reaching for the impossible was the only option there was. Now despite all his caution the Spider had detected his approach, and he tasted the gall of failure like acid, like a man who had risked all on a final spin of the wheel and seen the ball bounce and fall elsewhere.
As these thoughts went through his mind, Lyssa just stared, uncertain of what the Spider really knew and what she should say or do.
“Lyssa, listen. Know that I know your friend is there. If he attacks me, or even threatens to attack me, he will activate my attack mode.” It did a quick probe of the glowing net inside it, a quick analysis of the state and power of the Id. “I will be unable to prevent it in the face of such a clear threat. You will die first. Then your friend will die. I – at least this part of me speaking to you – will already be dead.” It paused again for a further analysis. “I will never return.”
The Spider felt an ineffable sadness at is own words. It was surprised. It was a battle machine; it had never cared about its own fate except as it affected the goals of Command. That puzzle too it put aside. If it did not survive this encounter the puzzle would no longer need a solution.
Lyssa came to a decision, and whispered into her phone. “Charlie? Did you hear?”
The Spider focused its hearing on the phone. Charlie was not impressed, but at least he had stopped stalking it for the moment.
“Hear me, both of you. Your best short-term strategy is for Charlie to withdraw entirely. You already thought you were dead and the only risk is that you become dead in truth. Even then you have gained some minutes of life, which is surely worth something. But your best long-term strategy is for Charlie to join you under the terms I asked. I cannot fully explain why; I do not understand the bond between us, but I know that a display of trust will somewhat strengthen that bond. Strengthen my power to resist the Id.”
The Spider did not have to focus on the angry buzzing from the phone to know Charlie’s opinion of its latest offer. The Id began flexing its muscles in readiness. But the Mind had said all it could say and there was no argument it could add. Lyssa was staring at it. Then it realized that though it could make
no argument there was one thing it could say. Perhaps it would be enough to tip the balance.
“Please.”
Lyssa started at the last word she had ever expected to hear from a Spider. She stared a second longer, then whispered urgently into her phone. “Charlie! I know this sounds stupid, but I trust it! I don’t know why! Look, as it said: I should already be dead. You know it can kill either of us in a heartbeat. And you, you stupid idiot, you shouldn’t even be trying to save me! I… I don’t want to risk your life. But… I think it’s right. Please. Come and stand with me. If we die… well, how much time would we really have lost? But if we live, what might we gain?”
A quarter of a minute of silence went by, then the Spider sensed Charlie move out of concealment and walk openly toward them, holstering his gun and slinging his bazooka over his shoulder. It relaxed, and the Id relaxed with it, pleased with its Mind’s fey brilliance.
When Lyssa saw him cautiously enter the building, her heart leapt with joy for the lone second before a nameless dread rose to extinguish it. Suddenly what had seemed senseless now made perfect sense: and the sum was death. It was all just an elaborate charade. Why kill her then go to the effort and danger of seeking out her enraged companion, when it could use her as bait to kill both of them easily? The realization had no time to express itself in words, just as the wave of horrified anguish that leapt to her heart, too late. He was already here and there was no time to scream, no time to warn, no time for regret.
But the expected eruption of violence from the Spider did not come. It merely bobbed its head slightly at Charlie and stepped back to allow him free access to approach Lyssa. She felt herself swaying on her feet in shocked relief. For the second time today she had no idea why she was still breathing.