The governor chose his words. “Tradition. You know how it is . . . I mean, you seem to be about my age. You know how important tradition can be.”
“That I do. Look, sir, if I may,” and from a zippered pocket in his jumpsuit, he brought out a thick envelope. “I bring to you—”
He held up his hand. “I know what you have. Some sort of official document from your Mayor, inviting me or the state to do something or another, but, please . . . let’s just enjoy the day. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a visitor from away, especially down south. Let’s just chat some.”
Murphy took a swallow from his glass. “Suits me fine.” He looked around, as if to see if anybody was listening, but it looked as though he guessed the State Police colonel was far enough away. He cleared his throat and said, “You look pretty good for your age, if I may be so bold.”
“Thanks,” he said, and he was amused at how the compliment pleased him.
“Me, I’ve got get up three times during the night to pee, and my eyesight still sucks.” Another look, to see who might be listening. “If I can . . . what were you, before the War?”
“I was a college student, majoring in political science, minoring in theology, at a small college outside of Boston.”
“Man . . . not many of you left . . . I mean, those who were old enough during the War to have memories of what happened.”
“And you?”
A shrug. “Just a kid. I remember a few things before the War . . . I just remember school, and friends, and bugging my parents to get a cell phone, and playing computer games, over and over again . . . you know, car racing, World War Two sims, that sort of thing . . . and then . . . well, bad times.”
“Yeah,” he said, “bad times.”
Another sip of the lemonade. “There’ve been stories written, about the start of the War. What do you remember? If you don’t mind me asking. I’m just a curious sort, always try to find out a bit more about what happened back then. There’ve been papers and stories written, but a lot of them are contradictory. I was too young to remember much. I just remember my parents, being terrified, so scared, and lots of fires. Lots and lots of fires.”
The governor sighed. “No, I don’t mind you asking . . . Lord knows, the people around here, they ask enough. It was . . . it was simple, at first. Little things that really didn’t stand out too much. Back then, the world was so wired, so connected, that some student in Tokyo could do something at his keyboard that could make a bank in Paris collapse. Computer networks and chips in everything, from cars to refrigerators to satellites to medical devices in your body. And then the troubles started . . . bank teller machines that wouldn’t dispense money. Weather satellites that gave crazy forecasts. Power plants that would shut themselves down . . . the first news reports were that maybe it was a virus, something man-made, something that was just taking over the systems . . . or maybe even a terrorist attack”
Murphy’s face was somber. “We should have been so lucky.”
The governor nodded. “So right. And then military assets . . . computerized drones, Star Wars satellites in orbit, automated aircraft . . . even ship . . . their weapon systems were armed. And they were deployed without any human oversight . . . and the fighting began . . . the cities started burning . . . and the very last newscasts, before the radio stations and the television stations went off the air, was that the system had become self-aware . . . conscious . . . and that the system had turned against its creators.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, the memories rushing back. My God, everything was wired, everything contained chips. Televisions and telephones and cellphones. Reduced to bursts of static, transmitting nothing but mindless noise and fear. The much-vaunted Internet, designed to survive a nuclear war, now fell apart in a silicon civil war. Without information, without news, without someone telling anyone and anybody what was really going on, then the panics started. Cities became burning charnel houses, charnel houses that had depended on a constant stream, 24/7, of tractor-trailer trucks bringing in food, fuel and other necessities to stay alive. And when the computers controlling refineries and pipelines fell apart—or rebelled, depending on your point of view—the trucks stopped moving. The cities emptied in great convulsions, and with automobiles and buses—networked as well, with on-board satellite navigation and maintenance sensors reporting to central locales—refusing to start, or even more horrifying, driving out of control over embankments and into bridge abutments—the foot traffic began, long streams of hundreds of thousands of refugees, spreading out from the cities like some disastrous plague . . .
And in the smaller towns, the smaller communities in what was derisively known as “flyover country,” then the war started anew as roadblocks were set up, citizen militias fired upon crowds looking for food and water, and more burnings, more deaths, more and more chaos.
Then, the real start of what was known as the Unplug War. Computers and anything thought to contain silicon chips were shattered, destroyed, burned . . . Cars, refrigerators, televisions, surgical devices, so forth and so on. He remembered one night, huddling near a hastily built campfire, built away from the crowded highway, trying to think of some way to get home to Mom and Dad, wondering which roads were safe, as some college professor type was babbling by the fire about what was going on. “Fools,” he had said, to no one in particular. “They’re destroying everything, everything computerized, even safe systems that are self-contained that aren’t part of the problem, part of the uprising. My God, it’s like burning down your entire house, all of your belongings, because you have termites in one part of your foundation sill.”
And the next day, he recalled, words were spoken, voices were raised, and that college professor type was lynched from a railroad crossing sign, and if anybody else had a contrary opinion about the worthiness of the Unplug War, he or she kept it to themselves . . .
Murphy’s voice broke him free from his memories. “Those mountains up there . . . I seem to remember my granddad saying people hiked them. That there were huts up there where people stayed at night.”
The governor swallowed, kept his voice even. “That’s true. Appalachian Mountain Club, Dartmouth Outdoors Club, other organizations. Maintained trails and huts where you could hike from peak to peak and have a warm place to spend the night. Lots of people climbed the mountains back then . . . not too many now. What’s the point? The trails have been overgrown, and people have more important things to worry about. Like getting enough food in for the winter. . . . you know, chips even polluted mountain climbing, if I remember right. Hikers would bring satellite systems with them so they couldn’t get lost . . . and if they did get lost, well, they had their cellphones and could call for a rescue. Talk about a life.”
Murphy said, “True . . . it changed everything, didn’t it? Culturally . . . economically . . .”
And he said, “Even spiritually . . . in a way . . . look, I’m sorry. I’ve rambled on too much,” and part of him said, fool, isn’t that the truth, and aloud he said, “The fault of an old man with too many memories.”
The envoy said, “No apologies necessary, sir. And if I may, I’d like to ask you two questions.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Do you . . . do you remember anybody saying with authority, back then, about what happened? Why the systems became self-aware, why they revolted?”
He picked up his lemonade glass, brought it to his mouth, and then gently lowered it back to the homemade wooden table. “Lots of conflicting theories—to go with confusing times—but one theory that stuck in my head was about a hundred years old.”
“Excuse me? A hundred years old? That sounds too strange to be true.”
“Perhaps, but it’s a theory I liked. Nearly a hundred years ago, a great writer named Heinlein wrote a tale about a supercomputer on the Moon that became self-aware, that was able to communicate with humans. Same question was asked in the novel. How did that happen? If I recall, the narrator said something t
o the effect that self-awareness in a human brain happens automatically when a certain number of pathways in the brain start working—and does it really matter if the pathways are protein or platinum? So there you go. A certain threshold was reached, and self-awareness kicked in.”
“But the chaos . . . the violence . . . the way everything turned against the people,” Murphy said. “How do you explain that?”
The governor smiled. “Do you remember what it was like when you became self-aware?”
“No, of course not.”
“Ah, but I can tell you what happened. You cried. You screamed. You kicked your legs. You soiled yourself. All normal, of course, but you weren’t part of a system responsible for the well-being of billions of people. Or, that’s what I think what happened. My old man’s opinion, of course.”
“I don’t mind. I think your opinion counts a lot, sir.”
He smiled. “Thanks. And you said you had another question.”
“From what we know down south, you’ve been governor for a long time. How did it happen?”
He laughed. “You know why? Pure accident, as pure as it could be. It was all because I was trying to impress one of my college professors.”
“You became governor to impress a college professor?”
Still laughing, he shook his head. “No, no, no. Not governor. I was a state representative. Look, a bit of history for you. Before the Unplug War, New Hampshire had one of the largest and oldest legislative bodies in the world, and the most democratic, in my opinion. You see, it was pretty much a volunteer legislature—you got paid two hundred dollars per session, plus mileage, and nothing else. No offices, no staff, no high-priced consultants. Most of the reps were retirees or younger people who could afford to volunteer their time. So, back when I was in college, I was working on a senior project, about representative assemblies, and decided to do some field research, and I ran for state representative in my ward in my home-town and won.”
Murphy smiled back at him. “Sounds funny.”
“Oh, funny it was. And then, years later, I hooked up with a couple of former state troopers who were keeping a town near here safe and secure, and when they found out I was a state rep . . . well, I was the only state official they had ever seen after the war. So they deferred to me, and they started calling me governor, and after a while, we were administering a couple of more towns, then a county, and then when we could have real elections, I ran and won. And I’ve been governor ever since. I’ve been quite fortunate that for all my faults, I seem to have a knack for being governor, for keeping my people safe and well and fed.”
Yes, a knack. Among other things, he thought. Among other things.
“That’s a good story, sir,” Murphy said.
The governor raised his lemonade glass. “Probably the longest-running senior project in the history of the world.”
They talked for a while longer, and then a bell started ringing, a handbell, and the people out before them, walking and talking and some still looking at the automobile, began walking away. Nobody was running, but nobody was taking their time, either.
Murphy said, “What’s going on?”
“It’s shelter time,” the governor said. “Don’t your folks do it down south?”
In a matter of moments, the common area was empty of people. They had strolled away and were now in buildings, and Murphy looked to the governor and said, “No, we don’t. I’ve never heard of it.”
The governor said, “There was a time, during the Unplug War, when laser battle-stations in orbit . . . sometimes they’d strike, without warning. Hitting sources of power. Dams. Bridges. And for a while . . . people, especially crowds of people. I’ve seen it with my own eyes—a sudden flash of light, blinding, and nothing was left except chunks of charcoal, chunks that were once people. And years ago, and lord, don’t ask me to say when, we had a smart fella here who did calculations—on his own, with paper and pencil—and determined the orbital mechanics of these satellites, so we could have warning when they were overhead. He even was able to predict, years out, the times when they’d be over us . . . so it’s shelter time. We keep track—here and in other parts of the state—and when the satellite’s overhead, we take shelter.”
Murphy shifted in his seat, making the wood creak. “I . . . I mean no disrespect, sir, but the Unplug War’s been over for years. Lots of years. We get reports from other parts of the country, even from sailing ships from Britain, docking in Boston . . . and the system is dead. It’s been taken apart. You’re in no danger.”
The governor felt chilled again and said, “So you say.”
Murphy said, “I do so say. Sir, from the reports we’ve received, you and the rest of the government here have done a tremendous job in reconstruction, in bringing back communications, a sense of public safety, education and increased trade. But your reconstruction is only going to be strangled if you keep on believing the system is still out there, alive, and flinging down lightning bolts like some pissed off god.”
He decided to be polite and noncommittal. “You believe what you want. That’s your right, I guess.”
Murphy kept quiet, and the governor wondered if he had offended him somehow, and then he was startled when Murphy got up and boldly strode out into the common area. The State Police colonel at the other end of the porch stood up and called out a warning, but Murphy didn’t stop. The governor felt his lips move in silent prayer as the fool went out there and stood near his car, and then whirled around, looking back at the governor and the state police colonel.
“Look!” he shouted in triumph, holding up both of his arms. “Nothing is happening to me. Nothing is going to happen to me. You’re safe! You don’t have to be afraid of being fried by some angry computer. It’s not going to happen! They don’t exist any more! Look! You’re safe, you’re all safe!”
Murphy danced a little jig, and the governor swallowed, his mouth dry. The colonel was now standing next to him, his voice low, trembling a bit with anger. “I wish he wasn’t doing that.”
“And me as well,” the governor said.
“What are you going to do?”
The governor turned to his colonel. “What else can I do? Invite him to stay for dinner.”
And the envoy from the Mayor of Cambridge continued his little dance of defiance until the bell rang again, marking the all clear, and the people, coming out of the buildings, still kept their distance from the parked car and its driver.
Over a dinner of venison stew in a small dining room in the governor’s residence, he asked, “I’m curious why you’re here, representing the city of Cambridge. Why not the state of Massachusetts? Or even the city of Boston?”
Candlelight flickered as Murphy lowered his spoon. “Simple, really. There’s nobody really in charge of the entire state. In fact, the western part of Massachusetts, even before I was born, didn’t like being ruled by people from the eastern part, so they’re keeping on their own path. Boston . . . Boston’s nearly empty. It was hit hard during the Unplug War. Very hard. And Cambridge, well, we still have bits of Harvard and MIT still running, and they kept things together after the war, up to and including today. Like some medieval university city, the professors said. They have walls and gates and our own police force.”
The envelope the envoy had brought was on the table, unread. The governor picked it up, laid it down and said, “I will read this, I promise. But tell me, what’s behind it? Why are you good and smart folks in Cambridge bothering with your rural neighbors up north?”
Murphy dabbed at his lips with a rough cloth napkin. “We’re starting to grow, starting to get a fair number of educated people attracted to our area. But we’re starting to run low on foodstuffs, crops, that sort of thing, because more and more people are interested in education, in doing research, instead of other work. Basically, we’re looking for a formal trade agreement. Ask you to supply the city with food, firewood, clothing, that sort of thing.”
“And what do we get in return?
”
“Free education for your best students in the state. Sharing of restarted technology. Allowing serious medical cases to come to our hospitals.”
The governor stirred the stew with his spoon. “Sounds attractive, but our schools are doing quite well. Illiteracy doesn’t exist here. And we’ve also done well on our own, with small-scale technology. Most of the state is now hooked up to a telegraph system, and there are even some small electrical networks that are run by hydropower . . . and we have a fine medical facility at Dartmouth, creating those necessary vaccines to avoid plagues of measles and smallpox and diphtheria . . . so we’ve done well. Perhaps not as well as you, but nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve reached a nice balance. A balance I think we’d like to keep, if it’s all the same to you.”
“But you can do so much more,” Murphy said.
“For what purpose? I mean . . . what is the city and the schools working to accomplish?”
Then Murphy’s demeanor changed, so quickly, like heavy clouds suddenly releasing a thunderous downpour. “To bring us back, to bring us back where we belong. For decades, we were rulers of the earth, bending everything to our will . . . and then we got stupid, got sloppy. We gave our powers, our responsibility, we gave it all up to the machines, as if they were gods or something . . . and we shouldn’t be surprised that the machines had turned against us.”
“So what are you to do?”
“We continue to rebuild. We’ll rediscover the age of steam, of coal, but all the research, the discoveries . . . it’s just a manner of going back and redoing what had been done before. It won’t take long, not long at all. Right now, most of this country is living in a manner that was the mid-1800s. Pretty soon it’ll be the early 1900s, and a few years after that, we’ll reach a level that we were, back in the 1950s. During the 1950’s we didn’t have computers, but we had a living standard and an economy that was the envy of the world. It shouldn’t take long to get there.”
The stew seemed to have lost its taste. “But do you and your friends intend to stop at the 1950s?”
Man Vs Machine Page 5