Codex

by Adrian Dawson

  She was leaving behind her son.

  Three rows behind, Father Emile Tomazo looked away from the in-flight magazine and carefully removed his glasses. He closed his eyes for an instant and pondered a journey which would culminate in a talk to the underprivileged of the Big Apple’s Latin Quarter. And yet now, having spoken briefly to the young girl, it seemed as though his entire trip might somehow have been tainted. Opening his eyes again he looked over the seat-backs and watched the girl in reverse three-quarter view, her own eyes closing and her breathing slow and heavy. He knew that she carried a weight with her and he felt shamed that he had not taken a little more time to alleviate it. Some words of spiritual comfort might have offered some respite from her fears, perhaps. Somehow, he doubted it. Even so, perhaps when the flight was settled and the seatbelt lights were extinguished his sense of duty to his Lord would make him amble down and deliver some anyway.

  He pictured the screams he had seen in her eyes at the time she had almost begged her question toward him, her fragile voice possessing all the weakness and desperation he had always assimilated with a confessional. Worse, he could almost feel her grip on his arm again, her slender fingers desperate and tight.

  “If I knew nothing of God or Sin, would I still go to hell?”

  Though taken aback by the question, and sceptical as to how it might relate to her ragged appearance, it had only taken Father Tomazo the briefest moment to reply as honestly as he could.

  “Of course not,” he had said. “Not if you did not know.”

  And her eyes had instantly lost themselves and become cold. Not at him, presumably, but at the institution with which his waxen collar affiliated him. As she turned away, the contempt in her voice had been some of the harshest Father Tomazo had felt in fifteen years of serving his God.

  “Then why the fuck do you people tell us about them then?”

  Promising himself that he would do whatever he could for the girl, Father Tomazo replaced his glasses and turned back to the banality of the magazine. She was a soul craving direction. He had seen many before; he would see many again and his mind was made up. He would do what he was duty-bound to do - offer whatever guidance she would allow.

  He sighed heavily and flicked the page without reading the words, unaware that at the precise moment he did, every person on board Flight 320 had exactly thirty-nine minutes and thirteen seconds left to live.

  * * * * *

  Dieter Wölfe, unceremoniously slumped in what remained of the blue velour at Amsterdam Air Traffic Control Centre, was the first to sense that something was seriously wrong with 320. Fighting the fatigue of a straight-ten shift, he had been tracking the flight’s graphic representation from the instant it crossed the border between Germany and The Netherlands. Initially everything appeared as normal, a small green box with a cross in its centre representing the plane itself and a code sitting alongside indicating the squawk signal it transmitted. The code told him that the plane had reached 30,000 feet, with the last six digits showing the elapsed time in seconds for that day.

  Wölfe’s shift should have been complete almost ten minutes ago, but he had reluctantly allowed his already late relief to fix coffee before taking over. As he dutifully watched the screen and struggled to keep his interest level as high as the planes themselves, something happened; something that Dieter Wölfe did not like the look of one little bit. It acted like a catapult, rocketing his heavy frame forward and opening his eyes wide. The mind might become tired over time; instinct never does.

  With the digits reading 64529.7 - 29.7 seconds past 5:55pm - the coding and the cross vanished from the screen. Completely. Then, seven or eight painfully-elongated seconds later, the green box; the one created by radar signals from the ground bouncing from the outer skin of the plane, broke into four much smaller boxes which began fanning out into almost a mile of airspace. Instinctively Wölfe reached for his radio telephone and tried to contact the aircraft’s crew. Nobody answered. He tried several times and each attempt offered the same response:

  The sound from the radio was static - the pieces on-screen were not.

  He turned to Erik Feltz, the Oceanic Clearance Officer whose task had been to assign Flight 320 a track across the Atlantic, and saw that he was busy investigating his own screen. A quiet man who looked perpetually worried, Erik’s expression had gone up a notch. He looked a little scared. His track assignment had yet to be acknowledged and such an important piece of information, detailing a set route and altitude across the ocean, called for nothing short of the clearest and most precise confirmation available. Erik, it seemed, was still waiting. Like Dieter, he had similarly tried several times to radio Flight 320, but their frequency was throwing back only one thing - a dark, ominous crackle.

  Illuminated green by the bank of monitors, the two men stared at each other with a jaded disbelief, neither knowing quite what to say. Neither daring to ask the question they both wanted to ask.

  What in God’s name had just happened up there?

  Panicking, Wölfe looked around for his supervisor, Gerald Ulrich, eventually catching sight through the nicotine-stained window of his office. He was placing a telephone handset back into its cradle and shaking his head; his face creased by an expression that spoke many foreboding volumes. A few seconds later he emerged, smoothing his large moustache with measured strokes and carrying a hastily scribbled note.

  “You guys…? I just got a call from some old guy flying a Cessna into Hilversum,” he said with a concerned but distant expression. His accent was thick and slow. “Claims he’s seen some explosion above ground near Elspeet. You fellas know what traffic we have in that...?”

  He stopped dead in his tracks, his words swiftly following suit. Fifteen years in Air Traffic Control was enough to tell Ulrich that what he had just seen of on Wölfe’s screen spelled the kind of words he had no desire to utter. The boxes were multiplying, fanning out and… ultimately… fading away. They danced on the screen like green stars in a clear night sky, their glistening beauty only serving to belie the destruction they undoubtedly represented.

  “Clipper 320,” Wölfe offered lamely, his eyes savagely transfixed and his voice involuntarily breaking into almost as many fragments as the plane he was identifying.

  It was almost a full minute before Ulrich felt able to respond. “Mother of God,” he said, gently blaspheming for the first time ever in his forty-eight year life.

  the eye of a needle

  Mark 10:25

  On the fortieth floor of the Equitable Building, located on the corner of 51st and 7th in mid-town Manhattan, a professionally groomed young man crossed the floor in measured steps and took his place at the side of a polished mahogany table. Although many thousands of people around the world were watching him as he did, only one mattered.

  From his chair at the opposing side, Jack Bernstein was not just watching. He was also smiling. And that hurt.

  The man in question, a twenty-eight year old Czechoslovakian by the name of Ilya Sorkasnov, possessed one of the most powerfully complex intellects to adorn the face or history of the planet. That’s what the high-brow glossies had always said. He had also been blessed, according to a recent poll in the National Gazeteer, with ‘film-star good looks, smouldering eyes and’ - because he was also the undisputed chess grandmaster of the world – ‘a personal fortune that ran into millions. Of all his enviable attributes, the chess title itself was the one thing he was most scared of losing.

  And he was on the verge of losing it now. Jack Bernstein knew it and he smiled because he could see, written in Sorkasnov’s eyes, that the Czech knew it also. The man was about to be defeated for the first time. Ever.

  It would have been very different had Jack Bernstein himself been the opponent, because Sorkasnov had already played Jack three times during his career, and three times Jack had been hopelessly outmaneuvered. But Jack Bernstein was not here today to play chess, he was here merely to administer to the every need of his protégé. A pret
ender which, in stark contrast to Sorkasnov himself, possessed neither good looks nor smouldering eyes. He (or she, dependent upon your perceptions of inanimate objects) was seven feet tall, housed in trademark yellow plastic and could not attend the event without trailing an awkward cluster of multi-coloured wiring across the glistening stage.

  IntelliSoft Quotient was, by definition, powerfully ugly.

  The computer system around which Quotient was constructed had long been lauded by Intelligent Software Incorporated, the company Jack had founded on his retirement from competitive chess, as ‘the world’s first truly artificial intelligence’. It’s coding structure, running through a massive array of one hundred and twenty eight 18.2GHz logic boards, two dedicated to each of a chess board’s sixty four squares, had been prone to making mistakes in its early days. Unlike every other computer system on the face of the earth, however, it had truly learned from each and every one of them. It never made the same mistake twice.

  Sorkasnov, in spite of his high intelligence, sometimes did.

  Which was why Jack, who had personally overseen I.Q.’s development from its very conception, was confident that today his highly unattractive box of chips would seize the crown. He reasoned that it had made so many mistakes over the past fourteen months of intensive trials that there were no more impressive ones left for it to make.

  Even so, everyone knew that Sorkasnov would be a long way short of pushover, and it was always going to be a closely fought match. He had started by winning game one of six outright, his smile broad throughout and those ‘smouldering’ eyes squeezed defiantly to catch sight of his rapidly approaching sense of superiority. He had looked at Jack Bernstein as he had done so many times throughout his early career, his expression full of victory and dislike in equally cold measure. Then, after three stalemates, Quotient had taken game five and levelled the match. The young Czech did not take the defeat well. With an uncharacteristic look of disbelief, he had placed his head in his hands for three silent minutes before staring desperately toward his mother, nestled among those who graced the stage. Within seconds he was storming in the direction of the office designated as his dressing room, his assistants making apologies on his behalf and scurrying sycophantically behind. Here, for almost half an hour, he ‘climbed inside his mind to analyse an abstract sense of judgement’. When the grandmaster finally reappeared the score, with a half point given for a draw, was two and a half to each player. In the eyes of every person present, save for Jack Bernstein himself, somebody could still win and somebody could still lose. Or, indeed, both could come out equal. Quietly and gently, the tension slithered through the room, lifting hairs as it passed.

  As Sorkasnov begrudgingly took his seat in the glare of blue lights, Jack leaned back and addressed the woman standing to his right; the woman who had been to Jack’s right within IntelliSoft for the past eight years and the woman who, like Jack himself, was now grinning like a naughty child; eyes alight.

  “He’s on the ropes, MaryBeth,” he whispered softly. “Better still, he knows it.”

  MaryBeth nodded. Like her boss, she was acutely aware that fear in humans affected judgement, and that fear in computer systems simply did not exist. After a brief introduction and recap from Tony Scollitt, charismatic yet badly-toupéed anchorman for Channel 28 News and guest host for the tournament, the clock was punched and Sorkasnov made the opening move of game six; 1.e2-e4.

  With the complete lack of emotion that very few humans can offer, Quotient thought silently and patiently for less than a minute, eventually highlighting its response on a screen visible only to Jack, MaryBeth and a team of three independent adjudicators. Once he had seen it, Jack manually positioned the marbled pawn on the ornate board which Sorkasnov had personally demanded;

  1....c7-c5; the classic Sicilian Defence.

  Whilst the Sicilian is one of the most popular openings for black, Jack had always been acutely aware that to describe it as a ‘defence’ was really something of a misnoma. In reality it was a counter-attack, an aggressive move resulting in a strategically unbalanced position for white from which the slightest slip could mean instant catastrophe. Even so, he was surprised that his computer had decided upon such a standard response.

  It was of a nature to be expected by grandmasters such as Sorkasnov, especially if they were playing against something they ultimately considered to be little more than a glorified database. But the Sicilian was, at least, indicative of a long-term strategy rather than a quick game. Jack could only hope that this was Quotient’s ultimate aim, effectively utilising its ability to calculate a great many more moves ahead than its human opponent.

  Like most truly professional chess games, the opening moves and the few that followed were relatively swift and uneventful; the kings directing their foot soldiers into positions of quiet threat. The players, both computer and human, worked almost by rote with an average of only five minutes taken for each successive move. The huge screens in the auditorium, mounted in Central Park and on television sets the world over displayed the board alongside three dimensional animated graphics

  gratuitously supplied by IntelliSoft; the move list coursing down the left hand side:

  White: Ilya Sorkasnov

  Black: IntelliSoft Quotient v3.15

  Opening: Sicilian Defence/Najdorf Variation

  1. e2-e4 c7-c5

  2. Ng1-f3 d7-d6

  3. d2-d4 c5xd4

  4. Nf3xd4 Ng8-f6

  Throughout the moves Jack remained as impassive as any good poker shark, determined to play on behalf of his creation with a dedicated lack of emotion. Even when 23. ... b5-b4 proved to be a good move for Quotient, giving IntelliSoft a clear advantage, he never flinched. Nor when he oberved Sorkasnov’s reply; distinctly reactive rather than proactive. Jack could not be sure, but he got the feeling that Sorkasnov had also placed the piece on the board with slightly more force than he had initially intended:

  25. e4xd5 e5-e4

  When Jack saw Quotient’s reply he lost the battle with impassiveness and his poker-face broke, his jaw falling toward the floor in abject horror. He wanted his computer system to win of course, but there was far more to it than that. He wanted it to win in a human way. Now, in that single fragment of time, he realised that he was succeeding only on the latter level. On the one hand the move was very human, on the other it was not a very good move at all. At best it could be described as poor, a clumsy attempt to break through to Sorkasnov’s king.

  He tried not to doubt Quotient’s strategy, but could not for the world around him see where this attempt was leading. In the blink of an eye the move had seemed to shift the Quotient team from an advantageous position to one where another draw was the best that could reasonably be expected.

  29. Be4-f3 Rd6-e6

  Another strange move from Quotient; a huge gamble. Jack was now losing faith at a rate that somehow kept time with his quickening heartbeat.

  34. Qf5xh5

  Only then did Jack see the plan start to open out before him. Ilya Sorkasnov was simply living up to his reputation, one which Quotient had studied in many months of trials and subsequently refreshed during the first five games; he was a greedy young man. Now, even though Quotient was one step away from being a pawn down, it was also one further step away from removing the bishop which was currently protecting white’s king. That would allow a black rook into the attack. In exchange for a mere pawn, Quotient had read Sorkasnov’s tone of play like a discount catalogue, picked up the phone and grabbed itself a bargain.

  35. Qh5xg4 Rf3-f1

  Quotient’s attempt to take the bishop; the rook on a7 was now deadly, but Sorkasnov saw it;

  36. Qg4-d4 Qb8-b5

  Another threat; black’s queen to c6 for check and mate on the long diagonal. Sorkasnov prevented disaster again, but Quotient thought patiently for seven and a half minutes, producing yet another attacking move;

  38. ... Bf8-c5

  By playing 38. Qd4-d2, Sorkasnov had prevented Quotient’s q
ueen occupying f3 and check, but had allowed another far more deadly move. In short, 38. ... Bf8-c5 was winning material. All Quotient had to do now was exchange queens at the right moment, and Sorkasnov’s increasing frustration toward his

  opponent led to him making the task remarkably easy;

  44. Qc6xd5 Rd1xd5

  With the first stage of its plan accomplished, Quotient set about mopping up the pawns on the queenside before Sorkasnov had chance to send his king over in defence.

  Before Quotient had the chance to take c4 with its rook, Sorkasnov’s mind was emptied, his thoughts replaced only by the seemingly amplified ticking of the clock and he realised his final mistake. His fatal one. In an outburst instantly recognisable by those who surrounded him daily, he pushed himself away from the table and cursed. It toppled, scattering the remaining pieces to the floor as he stormed violently from the room.

  The final score was two and a half to Sorkasnov and three and a half to Quotient. Jack leaned back in his chair, ran his long tanned fingers through shoulder-length brown hair and smiled broadly. For the first time tonight it was not aimed at the cameras. It was aimed squarely at the future.

  I.Q. had exceeded every expectation that he had ever dared envisage. It had learned and, more importantly, it had taken human-like gambles based on the knowledge it had acquired. It had used its database creatively but had deviated when required, thinking many moves ahead and understanding its opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. It meant one thing. True artificial intelligence was a broken horse, IntelliSoft in the saddle and he holding the reigns. Few in the crowd failed to cheer the victory as Jack rose to his feet and turned to embrace MaryBeth.