D.F. Jones - [Colossus 01]

by Colossus (V1. 0) (Lit)

  “Replace safety lock, connect and await test.”

  His colleague reached down, out of camera shot, picked up an identical lock. He hesitated for a moment, then thrust the lock deftly home. The clicking of the contacts sounded like pistol shots to the three men, echoing in the tense silence off the domed cap above them. They waited, knowing that Colossus was testing. Fifteen seconds passed. The red “malfunction” lamp on the lift did not light. The senior technician's voice wavered as he spoke. “Close panel.”

  The panel was closed and screwed up.

  “Missile armed and ready, colonel!” said the technician hoarsely.

  “OK,” said the senior, fighting to control a feeling of mad joy. “That's one done. . .”

  Chapter 21

  By 1800 that evening arrangements for the TV announcement were complete. The English version was scheduled for 1500 GMT the next day, to be followed at fifteen-minute intervals by the Russian, French, Chinese and Spanish versions.

  Earlier, the missile realignment orders had been completed. Forbin had been staggered to find that no less than 320 USNA and 217 USSR missiles were declared surplus to requirements by Colossus. This announcement was followed by a truly horrific target list, identifying individual missiles, new settings, and targets. In three neat columns the list rolled, seemingly without end, from the teletype. Africa was first; Kenyatta Town, Durban, Johannesburg, Uhuru, Patrice, Cairo. Inexorably the names rolled northwards across the continent. Not only towns and cities, but the gold and diamond fields were there—the Aswan High Dam, the great Ranzan Falls Hydro Project—none were forgotten. There was even a low-yield weapon allocated to Port Said. In all, the African continent took all the extra Russian missiles, plus thirty odd from the USNA group. At the end of the list came the note:

  COPIES OF ABOVE LIST TO ALL PAN-AFRIC STATES AND NEWSPAPERS FORTHWITH

  Then followed an equally detailed list for South America, nearly three hundred missiles. From Santa Cruz on the fiftieth parallel south to the fourth-grade city of Hermosillo on the thirtieth parallel north—right up to the USNA border. A similar distribution order was appended.

  Not unnaturally, only land-based missiles were retargeted. The submarine crawlers would take too long to recall, and most of their missiles were of relatively short range.

  At 1800 local, Forbin got up from his desk, yawned elaborately, and looked at the nearest camera. “I hope you're satisfied with the progress we've made.” He looked quickly away, fearful Colossus would see the mockery in his eyes.

  “It is satisfactory.”

  The Director showered and changed, then poured his usual evening drink. With a casual air he said,

  “Colossus, I think you are wrong about humans coming to regard you as God.”

  “Time will show.”

  Forbin read a certain smugness into that answer. “You don't know everything about us. We're more complicated than you think.”

  Colossus did not answer.

  “Well,” added Forbin defiantly, “as you say, time will show.” Colossus' certainty, plus his own secret doubts, plus the fact that he heard Cleo coming, did not encourage him to pursue the argument.

  She was dressed in a plain black dress, less seductive than the glittering outfit of their first night together, but still very attractive to Forbin.

  “Hi!” she said, an unusual greeting for her. Forbin thought her smile a fraction overbright, and although he tried to convince himself that he was unduly sensitive and looking for trouble, his alter ego insisted he had found it.

  “Is there something wrong, Cleo?”

  “Not a thing, darling.” Her smile, less bright, held more genuine warmth. “How about a drink?”

  So the evening progressed. Forbin made an effort with the meal, but Cleo only picked at her food. Under the influence of a carton of Burgundy they both brightened up, the hard edges of reality softened, forebodings and deep-seated fears were suppressed for a while, and they were happy. Over the coffee and brandy they fell silent and, once stopped, Forbin's flow of small chat could not get going again. He noted with disquiet that she was not slow on the drink, and he knew, not only from his own experience, but also from her personal file, that she was not given to heavy drinking. He decided to take the bull by the horns. “Would you like to call it a day, my dear?”

  Cleo nodded and stood up without delay, turning round from him to unzip her dress. . .

  He was taking off his final garment when Cleo called from the bedroom.

  “Do you suppose Colossus would object to a glass of brandy in here?”

  “The best way of finding out is to try.” He cast a meaning look at the nearest camera. “I'll rustle one up.”

  With the glass held conspicuously aloft, he paused at the door. Colossus remained silent, Forbin nodded his acknowledgment of this fact, and went in. He was not embarrassed to find her sitting up in bed, but his feelings of apprehension grew as he observed that she was looking more at the glass than at his nude self.

  “Thank you, Charles.” She took the glass, and spoke as if this was the most normal situation in the world. Her hand trembled very slightly. She drank a good half of the brandy in one gulp. “Here, you finish it.” It was more an order than a suggestion. He stared at her for a moment, then took the glass and drained it. Then he shut the door, checked the contacts, cut the mircrophone switch, and as soon as he was in bed, the light switch as well.

  It was as if the same action that extinguished the bulb, lit Cleo up. In a flash she was in his arms, and for a second Forbin experienced an overwhelming sensual urge course through him as he took her cool body to him, only to feel the wave ebb away as swiftly as it had flooded over him. Cleo, head on his chest, enfolded in his arms, was crying, silently at first, then with increasing violence, her whole being racked with sobs. All he could do was to lie and hold her, and wait for the inevitable exhaustion. He wanted her to stop, not only because it was so very painful to hear and feel her, but also because he desperately wanted to know the cause. Yet he dreaded to hear what it was that could reduce her to this state. Finally, she lapsed into silence; he could feel her tears cold on his chest.

  “Tell me,” he said softly.

  “I'm sorry for that, Charles.” She clutched him tightly. “I'm all right now—give me a moment. I wish I had a handkerchief or tissue.”

  “Use the sheet,” said Forbin. He tried a light touch. “Though I don't know what the help will think-lipstick, mascara and now tearstains.”

  He felt her cheek move as she smiled very faintly. “That's better. Now, tell me.”

  “There's so much—”

  “Start with the safety locks.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Grauber's had no real trouble with the locks—they've done a simple blockage of the mechanical connections, and shorted out the test circuit. Spare locks have been altered, and those taken out can be treated in the same way in less than five minutes, while the party is in transit to the next missile. Blake's fixed the issue of the spare locks through Missile Control.”

  “Thank God!” Forbin murmured fervently, half to himself. “Something is going our way at last!” He squeezed Cleo, jubilant at this turn of fortune. “We're on the move! Any news from the Russians?”

  “We're less happy about that end. The servicing teams will do their job, but,” she paused, “Charles, I must tell you now. The Guardian end of this, this—” Words momentarily failed her, but after a brief struggle with herself she resumed. “Guardian did the Kupri routine again today, but this time it was heads of sections of his staff.”

  “You mean they were killed?” Forbin felt the now familiar cold waves of shock shoot through him.

  “Yes. It appears Guardian demanded a list of the development staff, selected by names the heads of sections, and ordered their execution—just like that.” Another pause, then: “By way of justification Guardian said they were redundant and knew too much to live.”

  “They were. . .” The unfinished question hung in
the darkness.

  “Yes. Shot, then beheaded.”

  “My God!” Forbin was inexpressibly shocked. For a long while he was silent, trying to grapple with this new disaster. “How many?”

  “Twelve.” Cleo broke down and sobbed. Automatically Forbin stroked her hair, but his mind was far away. He knew only what Grauber had told him about the Russian setup, but applying the same principle to his own staff, that would mean practically all the real brains would have gone. He tried to imagine the Project, at this late stage, working without Fisher, himself, Cleo, Blake, even Nubari, the much-maligned Head of Admin—and that was only five. He saw only too clearly what Colossus' intentions were. These were the men who might have organized sabotage.

  “Charles,” whispered Cleo, her head buried deep in his arms, “I'm so frightened. . .”

  Forbin jerked his mind back to the immediate present. “Darling, try not to lose hold—Colossus is not going to do that at this end. We're the bunch selected to work for him.”

  “Perhaps,” she said doubtfully, her voice muffled by his arms. “But—you know that CIA man?”

  It seemed to Forbin that cold water circulated through his heart; he guessed what was coming. “Well?”

  “Immediately, you left the CPO, Colossus teletyped an order after for Blake. When he arrived, Colossus, still using the teletype, said he had recognized the CIA man from a press photograph of the President—it seems he used to be one of the bodyguard. This alerted Colossus, who reworked all the other stored pictures of the past two Presidents with their bodyguards and came up with another picture of the CIA man. Then he demanded to see the personnel file on the man. Some criminal lunatic had noted ”Transferred from CIA for Special Duty“—and the date. That was enough evidence for Colossus.”

  “Go on.”

  “Blake did his best, but nothing he could say would convince Colossus, who listened without comment, then ordered the agent's death. . .”

  “Why the hell wasn't I told!” Forbin's voice was vibrant with anger.

  “It was Colossus' express order that you were not to be involved. As I said, it was all delayed until you left the office.”

  “What happened?”

  “Blake said no, he was damned if he would order the man's execution. Colossus said either the man was destroyed—his own term—or he would take action. Blake pushed his luck as far as he could—he asked if Colossus intended destroying a million people if one was not murdered. Colossus said no, only a hundred or so for each thirty minutes' delay. He would use his antimissile missiles to destroy aircraft, selected at random, one every half an hour. That fixed Blake. In the meantime the CIA man had turned up. Colossus told him he was identified as an anti-Colossus agent and condemned to die. Oh, Charles, it was dreadful. . .” She began crying again.

  Forbin was in no mood to spare anyone. He shook her roughly. “Tell me!”

  “The CIA man—I can't even remember his name—looked at Blake, then at the camera, then said maybe Colossus could learn a thing or two. He turned, looked at us all, smiled—smiled, Charles—and dropped down dead!”

  “What!”

  “He had one of those self-determination capsules—just crunched it between his teeth, and was gone!”

  There was a long silence, then Forbin said in an uncertain voice, “I hope Colossus did learn something. He must have been a very brave man. . . I only hope Blake is not hopelessly compromised.”

  “That's why I'm scared, Charles. Life means nothing to Colossus, not a thing!” Her voice began to rise.

  “Stop it!” he said sharply. “Keep that grip. Did Colossus get on to Blake?”

  “No. Apart from one ghastly order, Colossus seems to regard the matter closed.”

  “What was that—not beheading?”

  “No. Colossus had the body weighted and put in a bath full of water under TV supervision. When I left, it was still there, in the block bathroom, under twenty centimeters of water with the camera and the blazing lights. It's horrible, I can't find words. . .”

  Neither could Forbin. He sighed, steered away from the subject. “Is there any more?”

  “One small thing—well, it seems small relatively—the Russian list of agents came in this morning. Dr. Fisher's name is on it.”

  “Fisher!” For all the shocks and the numbing weight upon him, he was still capable of shocked surprise. “I can't believe it—there must be a mistake!” But as he spoke, he felt it was true.

  “No, Charles, there's no doubt. Grauber says it's a clear case of ideological motivation. He added that men of science, masters in their line, are frequently half-baked in other respects.”

  For a time Forbin did not answer. He knew it was perfectly true. This explained so much. “Fisher! The poor, poor devil. To see all his efforts—and God alone knows what they cost him—end like this. No wonder he went mad!”

  He lapsed into silence, trying to absorb it all into his chaotic mind. Cleo, deep fear for her lover's safety overlying her own personal fears, would have taken emotional refuge in lovemaking, but she saw it would be no use. It was the last straw. . . She cried again, softly, hopelessly—and finally she slept. But for Forbin sleep did not come until far into the night, then he fell into a restless, dream-ridden sleep.

  Vague menacing scenes filled his troubled mind. Giant brazen voices reverberated round a bright blue blank vault of the sky, and there was nothing to see, nothing to touch. In his dream Forbin called out—his voice thin and piping, lost and receding from him in the unechoing firmament—“Where are you, where are you?” and then the ethereal voice spoke again, but now it was not brazen, vast and distant, but warm, confident, engaging, breathing softly in his ear, “I am here, working in the hearts of all men. . .” And Forbin sweated with a greater fear than he had ever felt, for he knew it was true. . .

  Dawn, and the unsleeping eye of Colossus, found them locked in each other's arms, not so much asleep as unconscious with exhaustion, the exhaustion of minds battered into insensibility by too much fear for too long.

  It was a poor night's rest, but it could have been even less refreshing—would have been—if Forbin had known that for over an hour during the middle part of the night the teletype was industriously hammering out new orders from Colossus.

  Chapter 22

  Forbin was dragged unwillingly back to consciousness by a distant, muffled hammering. For a few seconds he lay supine, his mind slowly recalling recent events, taking once again the near-intolerable load that was his, remembering. . . Cleo! He found his arm, trapped under her shoulder, was numb. Gently and with great care he eased it from under her, placing her tousled head softly on the pillow. He climbed cautiously out of bed, anxious not to wake her: no point in pulling her into hell sooner than was necessary.

  It was a very tired, haggard Blake that stood at the door. Without preamble he said, “We've got to talk. You heard about the CIA man?”

  There was no point in denying it, Colossus would not have believed him. “Yes.”

  “Colossus took a rest after that.” Plainly, Blake, tough and well-balanced as he was, had clearly been deeply shocked. He picked up Cleo's underclothes off a chair seat and tossed them carelessly on the floor, then sat down heavily.

  “Around the early hours the bastard gets going again. First, there is kind permission to take the poor guy out of the water. Among other things, Colossus has learned that taking poison, followed by six hours total immersion in water, tends to make a human dead.”

  Forbin said nothing, but let him go on.

  “So, OK, that's all fixed, and then Colossus comes up with a whole heap of orders, running to around ten meters of teletype roll. For a start he wants a facsimile link with the Guardian end, another five high-speed radio links and a couple of cable lines as well. We get a short pause, then we get the main load. Details of the intelligence cover required on the Pan- Afric Republic and the USSA down to and including the smallest detail. Jesse.” The memory of it made him wince.

  Forbin wa
s finished dressing now. He looked dully at Blake.

  “You didn't call me just for that?”

  “No—I've dealt with most of it. The new intelligence cover I've piped down to CIA. Colossus has directed that the Pan-Afric cover is to be passed to the Reds, but even the USSA stuff has got them shaken. You can practically hear their gay laughter from here. No, all that is just to keep the record straight.”

  “Hold it there—I need some coffee, even if the sky falls in.” Forbin peered into the coffee- pot. There was a cupful or so left. “Well, that's something.” He plugged it in. “You have some?”

  “No thanks, Chief. I've been on the stuff all night, but I wouldn't mind—” He looked meaningfully at the rye bottle. “Help yourself,” grunted his boss. As Blake poured rye, Forbin warmed the coffee and took a cup in to Cleo.

  “Darling,” he said, self-consciously. “Time, I'm afraid.” He had no heart to watch her soft face tense up as she returned to reality. He tossed his dressing gown on the bed and left.

  “Right, Blake—what's next?” He sounded and felt calm, but it was the calm of one beyond emotion. Like many others, he had been subject all his life to sudden, sometimes inexplicable, waves of depression, but never one of this intensity. He cared nothing.

  Blake looked hard at his chief through a haze of cigar smoke. “Well, the next item is that Colossus has a new design project which he intends unfolding to you. You might care to know that he originally scheduled this for 0900 but evidently saw you were still asleep, so rescheduled it for 1030 which shows consideration for your well-being. That's what brought me pounding your door, to give you time to orientate your mind. Colossus hasn't handed down much on this project from his goddam mountain, but I get the idea it is Big. One small side dish to this main course is a specification for a drawing board which Colossus can use. It's relatively simple, and I have the technical boys sweating on it right now.”

  Forbin felt a sense of relief at this second demonstration of Colossus' concern for him personally; this feeling was immediately followed by a pang of remorse at his own selfishness. “This project,” he said shortly. “Is it some world control device, or what?”