Brainbox

by Christian Cantrell

  He began to leave the house when his drugs became harder to get, and sometimes didn't return for days. He seemed to plan his time at home around periods when he knew Miguel would be gone. Miguel came home for lunch one day and found that his mother had fallen and hit her face on the tile floor. A few days later, she suffered from severe stomach cramps, and couldn't get out of bed. The next week, Miguel had to pick her up from the clinic where she had 16 stitches in her chin and lip after slipping on the ice on the front steps. On the way home, Miguel looked for blood in the snow in front of the house, but couldn't find any. Miguel waited at home until his father got back and confronted him. Miguel's mother stood between them and begged her son to be quiet, but he did not back down. Miguel's father reached around his wife and slapped Miguel across the face. When Miguel didn't move, his father hit him again, this time close-fisted. Miguel stood defiantly in front of his father for as long as he could while his father hit him again and again, his mother screaming and wailing and pleading. By the time his legs gave out and he fell to the floor, his eyeball had burst and his face was slick and shiny with blood.

  Miguel spent two weeks in a military hospital where he was interviewed several times by officers of various ranks, and when he got home, his father was gone. Six months later, he began to visit his father in the stockade. Miguel did all the talking, explaining as much as he could about what he was working on at the plant and giving him news about the wars. Although his father never responded, Miguel sensed that he appreciated the company and genuinely regretted what he had done.

  When Miguel's father came home, Miguel was waiting for him with a long slender box. He helped his father remove the lid, and inside was a soft, silicone-coated prosthetic arm. The shape was realistic, but the skin was white and semitransparent, revealing the miniature servos and tiny titanium alloy rods inside. Miguel's father didn't smile. He looked up from the box at his son with eyes that were already wet with tears, and for the first time in his life, Miguel watched his father cry.

  It only took six weeks for Miguel's father to adjust to wearing the robot arm and for him to condition his nerves and brain to operate it with far more accuracy than Miguel had expected. He practiced constantly, focusing first on large solid objects, then moving on to increasingly small and awkward items like pieces of paper and kernels of corn. He refused to feed himself with his natural hand, starting and ending every meal with his fork or spoon held firmly in his silicon grip. Miguel upgraded the software frequently, and occasionally swapped out tiny components with new versions he had assembled at work. When the hand was covered, it became impossible to tell which of Miguel's father's arms was robotic.

  A friend of Miguel's at the plant offered to help get Miguel's father a job monitoring production output from an ammunition factory. When Miguel presented the idea at dinner, his father stopped chewing and looked around the table. He sat up very straight for the rest of the meal and fed himself with impeccable accuracy. From then on, he woke up early every morning on his own, dressed himself, left for work, and returned in the evenings precisely at six. Miguel usually got home about an hour later, and after eating together, they all watched updates on the wars, and then the old reruns his father enjoyed.

  When Miguel was old enough to ship out, he was given the option of remaining at the munitions plant where he managed the entire Autonomous Weapons Research Division. Officially it was his disability that excused him from duty, but it was obvious that he was much more valuable to the American military where he was rather than on a battlefield or deep under the ice in a submarine. It was decided that his two tours would be served as a robotics specialist at home after which, assuming exemplary service, he would be be made a citizen.

  Miguel tried not to stay in the barracks anymore, but there were times when deadlines kept him at the plant late enough that it didn't make sense to go home. During the week leading up to el Día de los Muertos, Miguel stayed at the plant for four straight days, then decided to leave in the middle of the day and walk home for lunch. When he opened the front door, he smelled food that had been allowed to rot in the refuse shoot, and when he got upstairs, he found his two sisters and his mother in their beds with neat round bullet holes in their foreheads and crusty red pillows underneath. Miguel's father was lying on the floor, fragments of brain and skull and strands of hair on the wall behind him, a piece of white tooth embedded in his dry lip. The index finger of his prosthetic hand was still hooked through the trigger guard of his military-issue pistol.

  As he stood among the bloated rotting bodies of his family, Miguel wondered why his father hadn't loved him enough to take him, too.

  PART FIVE

  The witness box had been partially rotated and angled toward the plasma glass so the judge could see Miguel while he answered the Colonel's questions. One of the guards had explained to Miguel after the plea hearing that ever since the mutiny, high-ranking officers like the judge seldom left their bunkers.

  The Colonel was standing next to another piece of plasma glass on the other side of the room. The display showed a picture of a soldier's head with the cranium neatly removed, the black cavity beneath entirely empty. He touched the glass and the picture changed. It was another soldier's head, this time photographed from the back where there was a perfectly round hole the size of an orange where hair had been, and only blackness beyond. The next picture showed a soldier with one of his eye sockets carved into a wide empty tunnel. The Colonel watched Miguel with the slightest hint of a smile playing at his lips and eyes.

  "Mr. Vásquez, can you explain to the court what we're looking at?"

  "Soldiers' remains."

  "The remains of Russian soldiers? Chinese soldiers?"

  "American soldiers."

  "The remains of American soldiers. That's correct. And can you tell us what each of these American soldiers has in common?"

  "Each has had his brain surgically removed."

  "Surgically removed? I don't know if I'd use such a kind word. I think it would be more accurate to say that these soldiers were murdered, then had their heads ripped open and their brains torn out. Isn't that correct?"

  "That is not correct," Miguel said. "The soldiers were most likely alive during the procedure in order to keep oxygen flowing to their brains for as long as possible, but anesthetized in order to keep them calm. Their brains were obviously removed with a great deal of care and precision."

  The galleries stirred but the judge's expression did not change. The Colonel was nodding.

  "Thank you for the clarification," the Colonel said. "Now, in your opinion, are these soldiers' deaths related to the mutiny?"

  "Yes."

  "In what way?"

  "They were almost certainly killed by ASRAs."

  "Can you explain the term 'ASRA,' please?"

  "Autonomous Self-replicating Asset."

  "Robots?"

  "Mostly robotic, yes."

  "Were these Russian-built ASRAs?"

  "No."

  "Chinese-built?"

  "No."

  "Well then who built them?"

  "They are American military assets."

  "American military assets killing American soldiers. Is that correct?"

  "I don't think they distinguish between territorial affiliation anymore. Or between soldiers and civilians, for that matter."

  "Answer the question directly, please. They have killed American soldiers, have they not?"

  "Yes."

  "And who designed this particular generation of ASRAs?"

  "I did."

  "So you admit to designing the robots that are responsible for the mutiny, and that caused the brutal deaths of at least one hundred and twenty-two American soldiers and civilians?"

  "I admit to designing the ASRAs, yes."

  The Colonel paused to give the court time to absorb Miguel's testimony. He inspected the faces in the galleries with a mirthful satisfaction.

  "And why," the Colonel continued, "do they kill in this biz
arre manner?"

  "They are capable of killing in many bizarre manners," Miguel said. "But this particular technique is probably used to acquire viable brain tissue."

  "And what would ASRAs want with human brain tissue?"

  "They need it to reproduce."

  "What does human brain tissue have to do with the reproduction of robotic weaponry?"

  "ASRAs are not entirely robotic. Most of them contain neurological processors."

  "By 'neurological processor,' you mean a brainbox, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you please explain to the court what a brainbox is?"

  "Brainboxes are central processing units which contain neurological tissue grown over and integrated with an array of microprocessors."

  "So building an ASRA requires organic brain tissue, is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "And ASRAs are, by definition, self-replicating, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Interesting. So how did you expect them to obtain the brain tissue they needed to reproduce without taking it from humans?"

  "Some of them are equipped with stem cell cultures that can be used to grow various forms of tissue."

  "But they don't appear to be using their stem cell cultures, do they? Why do you think that is? Wouldn't it be much easier and safer to cultivate brain tissue than to take it from well-armed soldiers?"

  "I believe they are saving their cultures."

  "Saving them for what?"

  Miguel watched the Colonel for a moment before he answered. "For when there aren't any other sources of brain tissue left."

  A din immediately arose throughout the galleries. The judge swiftly intervened.

  "The court will remain silent," she hissed. She had clearly lost some of the impassivity with which she conducted the beginning of the proceedings.

  "Mr. Vásquez," the Colonel said, "are you the inventor of the brainbox?"

  "Yes."

  "For what purpose did you invent it?"

  "In order to fulfill my orders."

  "In order to fulfill your orders?" the Colonel repeated with feigned perplexity. "I was involved in drafting those orders, and I don't remember them containing anything about creating murderous biological abominations."

  "My orders were to create weapons that were entirely autonomous, and that could think creatively and work cooperatively. Specifically, they were to combine the logic and reasoning of a machine with the desperation and hate of the human soul. That's a direct quote."

  "Let me rephrase my question," the Colonel said. "Were your orders to create military assets that would turn against the entire human race and attempt to destroy it?"

  "I followed my orders," Miguel said. "It's the ASRAs that aren't following theirs. Take it up with them."

  The galleries stirred again. This time the judge did not react.

  "Let's change direction," the Colonel said. "Let's talk about your father." The two men watched each other for a long, unsettling moment. The Colonel smiled briefly and continued. "Your father was a soldier, was he not?"

  "I'll answer your questions about the mutiny," Miguel told the Colonel, "but I will not discuss my family."

  "You will discuss whatever I deem pertinent to this case, Mr. Vásquez," the Colonel said. "Now isn't it true that your father served one and a half tours as a Weapons Specialist in the Indonesian Theater, and that he returned home severely injured and suffering from profound depression?"

  The Colonel gave Miguel a chance to respond, but Miguel did not speak.

  "I'll take that as a 'yes,'" the Colonel said. "And isn't true that your father became abusive toward your mother, and that when you confronted him, he beat you so severely that you lost the use of your right eye? And isn't true that despite having forgiven your father, despite doing everything in your power to help him, he ultimately repaid you by murdering your two younger sisters and your mother, and then committing suicide in your home, robbing you of everyone and everything you ever cared about? Isn't it true, Miguel dos Santos, that you blame the death of your entire family on the American military, and that you planned the mutiny purely as revenge?"

  "Not revenge," Miguel said calmly. He could see that the Colonel was breathing heavily and was starting to sweat. "But if you're asking me if I did what I did for my father, then the answer is yes."

  PART SIX

  There was a white metal hatch embedded in the frozen tundra beside the black ice of the Rio Negro. Beneath the hatch was a simple pneumatic lift inside of a shaft almost half a kilometer deep. One of the tunnels at the end of the shaft widened into in a long steel capsule lined with thick sound-dampening tiles. There was an elliptical table in the center of the room around which sat some of the highest ranking officers in the government of the American Territory.

  Miguel sat across from the Colonel along the minor axis of the ellipse. The Brigadier General and the Fleet Admiral faced each other across the major axis. The stripes on the arms of the soldiers in between showed them to be various classes of Majors, Lieutenants, and Captains. Miguel was the only one not in uniform. His dark civilian clothes and mirrored glasses stood out among the white camouflage.

  When the curt salutations were complete, Miguel touched a small plasma glass panel in front of him. The opposing volumetric plates embedded in the ceiling and the surface of the table began to hum and glow, and a three-dimensional aerial view of the Macapá Biosphere was gradually composited in front of them. When the plates were fully warmed up and the image was bright and crisp, the Colonel began.

  "Thank you all for making the trip all the way out here this afternoon. Chief Engineer Vásquez and I are prepared to present our defense initiative."

  Miguel's fingers moved across the plasma glass and the image pulled away. High towers began to render at intervals throughout Macapá City and continued along the spine of the equator. The Colonel prompted Miguel with a nod.

  "The proposal is that we form a protective perimeter using a series of towers across the American Territory at intervals of no more than one and a half kilometers." Miguel zoomed in on one of the tiny spikes until it rose from the table surface to the ceiling. There were two triangular platforms impaled along the tower at different altitudes accessible by ladders bolted to the east and west faces. Each platform had a 30 millimeter Metal Storm gatling gun mounted on its north and south rail, fed by a thick chain of depleted uranium rounds supplied by lockers beneath the metal mesh floor. "These towers will double as transmitters and defensive positions. They will transmit at frequencies designed to disrupt communication among the ASRAs, preventing them from sustaining any sort of coordinated attack, and from communicating any intelligence beyond the perimeter before being destroyed. Each tower will be manned by at least two soldiers at all times. Since we don't yet know how working in such close proximity to the transmitters will effect the soldiers, they will be limited to no more than two two-hour shifts in any twenty-four hour period."

  "How many towers are we talking about?" the Brigadier General said. He addressed the Colonel rather than Miguel.

  "To cover the entire AT," the Colonel said, "and to get enough overlap that there aren't any dead zones, we'll need to build approximately 2,310 towers."

  The Brigadier General's eyebrows lifted. "2,310 towers," he repeated.

  The Fleet Admiral leaned forward. She was outwardly confused. "That's a commitment of almost 28,000 troops," she said. "Where do you propose we get them?"

  "We'll have to train about 2,500 new gunners," the Colonel said. "The rest will come from soldiers recalled from the African and Indonesian Theaters."

  "That doesn't leave us much of an offensive force," the Brigadier General said. "Does your plan also include capitulating to the Chinese and the Russians? How do you propose we fight two wars simultaneously without any troops?"

  "There won't be any more wars," Miguel said. "As soon as we're finished verifying the schematics, we need to transmit them to the Russians and the Chinese so they can
start building out their defenses, too. The Chinese are going to need approximately 965 towers, and the Russians will need at least 2,487."

  The Brigadier General sat looking into Miguel's glasses and blinking. "I don't even know how to respond to this. Are you seriously proposing that we not only withdraw all of our troops and give up everything we've fought for over the last seventy-five years, but that we also assist our enemies in building defenses against our own weapons?"

  "They're not our weapons anymore," Miguel said. "They don't belong to anyone. Right now the most important thing is that we slow down their rate of reproduction. We have to protect all human life at this point, American, Chinese, and Russian."

  The young Captain beside Miguel looked at the Brigadier General and raised his hand. "Sir?" he interjected. He was an engineer Miguel had worked with while designing the ASRA's electrical systems. Miguel had noticed him working at the plasma glass panel in the table in front of him and was waiting for him to insert himself. "If I may interrupt, this may all be a moot point, anyway. There's no way for us to power 2,300 transmitters 24-hours a day."

  The question inherent in the Captain's comments fell to Miguel. "Not currently," Miguel said. "We will need to build additional solar farms."

  "But that won't be enough," the Captain said. "It's not the generation of power that's the problem. We can generate several times what we need. It's storing it. There's no practical way to store enough energy to power the transmitters while the sun is down. We'll be completely vulnerable at night."

  "The additional solar farms aren't for us," Miguel said. He began interacting with the plasma glass control until the image of the tower faded and was replaced by a dense array of bright parabolic mirrors moving in unison as they tracked a point of light across the room. "Between the American Territory, the Sino Archipelago, and the New Russian Republic, there's always enough direct sunlight to power well over 6,000 towers." They watched the array fade as the sun reached the end of the room, and then a new array appeared and the process started again. "In other words, each of us takes turns powering the others' towers over the course of 24 hours."