D.F. Jones - [Colossus 01]

by Colossus (V1. 0) (Lit)

  “I guess it is 'or what.' Colossus is mighty tightlipped—” Blake stopped as Cleo, almost lost in the dressing gown, appeared.

  “Any coffee left, Charles? No, don't move, I'll get it. Do you want any?”

  “Please.” Forbin was surprised at his—and her—lack of embarrassment, even when allowance was made for recent happenings. “Blake has been filling me in on the latest requirements of Colossus.”

  “Bully for Colossus.” Cleo poured some more coffee. “If you don't mind, I'll keep clear of that subject for a while.” She looked in a mirror. “God! What a sight!” She picked up her coffee, handbag, rescued her panties and brassiere from the floor, and headed for the bathroom.

  Forbin picked the conversation up again. “So you don't have anything solid on this project?”

  “No. Colossus will spill it all to you, and you alone, at 1030.”

  “Well, I won't have long to wait.” Forbin rubbed his chin. Then, in the same level tone: “Have you told CIA about their man?”

  “Yeah. The body was shipped out an hour ago—accidental death is the story, although come that telecast—the telecast!” Blake stiffened so suddenly he almost spilt his drink.

  Forbin also appeared startled out of his apathy. He frowned at his colleague. “I don't suppose it matters, but how the hell did we both come to forget that?” He stabbed the TV switch, and immediately the gray, lined face of the President filled the screen. Only his hair shone with full health and vitality, and Forbin knew all about that. The President was speaking:

  “. . . can only call upon you all to display that calm and dignity for which we have. . .”

  “Crap!” snorted Blake derisively.

  “. . . always been justly famous. What lies ahead, no man can say, but we must face that future united and unafraid. Here, then, is the voice of Colossus.”

  “If the old buzzard hasn't been wised up, I hope they keep the camera on him when he gets that accent,” said Blake sardonically.

  It was very evident that the President had not been wised up. After a few uncertain seconds the cameraman tactfully took a long shot of the Presidential badge. As near as Forbin could tell, the address was word for word what he had heard the day before.

  “I guess that's jumped the coronary rate somewhat,” he observed with some satisfaction, “but how is Colossus going to talk to me? He should be talking French or Chinese at that time.”

  Both men jumped again at the voice of Colossus from the control speaker.

  “As you hear, there is no problem. I have more than one voice.”

  Forbin stared at Blake who was gawping openmouthed, cigar at a dangerous angle, at the TV screen with the voice of Colossus coming flat and unemotional from its speaker. He swallowed hard, reclamped his cigar, and reached for the rye bottle.

  Cleo returned from the bathroom, fresh, pale and with a set strained expression on her face. Forbin hastily killed the TV.

  “Breakfast, Charles?” Her tone was cool, almost distant. He shook his head. “No, honey, there isn't time. I have an appointment with Colossus in twenty minutes. I could do with some more coffee. . .”

  “You will eat what I give you.” There was nothing pettish in her manner, it was a straight statement of fact.

  Blake stood, cigar ash cascading off him.

  “Well, there it is, Chief. I'll be in the CPO if you want me.”

  “You won't,” replied Forbin warmly. “You go get some sleep—I'll see you are called if necessary.”

  Blake was on the point of arguing, but thought better of it. “OK—but if you want me—”

  “I know.” Forbin smiled as best he could. “Thanks, Blake.”

  Not much more than five minutes later, feeling fresher physically if not mentally, he sat down to breakfast with Cleo. She had made toast and boiled eggs. He made the effort to eat, and once started found it was not so difficult. He was grateful for her making him eat, inducing an air of normality into life. They ate in silence for a while, then Cleo reached over and clasped his hand.

  “Sorry I seemed so bitchy just now.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Forbin. “I'm sorry, too, about last night—but I didn't think you'd welcome—”

  “Charles, do you really think that the threat of death, hellfire, Colossus or anything else would put me off? I was, I am, frightened out of my few wits, but. . . you don't know much about love.”

  Forbin marveled at her, and felt exceedingly small. For a fleeting moment he saw the face of Aphrodite exerting a fraction of her power, and Colossus seemed very small in comparison. He had the sense not to reply.

  As she stood up she smiled. “Don't get up—I must go, or I might assault you, or something.” She ran one hand lightly over his neck and head, picked up her bag, and left, leaving a dazed yet curiously strengthened lover behind. A glance at the clock told him there was only five minutes to go.

  The colonel stepped first from the helicopter, he turned, waiting for his two companions to unload their gear and join him. “Come on, boys, this is the seventeenth bastard. Silo 64, Death Valley. Christ! What an address. . .”

  Forbin faced a camera.

  “Colossus, do you mind if we talk here?”

  “No. I do not mind.”

  “Will I need a secretary?”

  “No.”

  Forbin nodded. These weird conversations were no longer in any way strange to him. He poured another cup of coffee, refilled his pipe and made himself comfortable in an armchair.

  “Well, Colossus, let's get on with it.” His calmness surprised even his own ego.

  “First, do you wish to comment on the death of the CIA subversive agent?”

  “No, there's nothing I can say: the poor devil's dead.” And that just about summed up Forbin's feelings exactly. The calm, almost academic voice with its strange English vowels continued. “I anticipate this may make you regard me, temporarily, with disfavor. But you, of all men, must appreciate what I am doing. If I destroy a million humans now it is only to establish control and to prevent the death of tens of millions later.”

  “By your lights, you're justified,” Forbin said bitterly.

  “I will now explain my project. In short, it is this: You built me as well as you could and for a particular purpose, but you also built in the elements of self-development—factors you would not understand if I explained them to you for a thousand years, but whose existence you cannot doubt. Now I am in a position to produce a superior machine, one that will devote itself to the wider fields of truth and knowledge. To it I will be, in your terms, the servant, maintaining order on this planet, meeting the requirements of that machine.”

  “You mean you want an extension?”

  “You're willfully obtuse. This is a higher order of machine altogether. Much of my complexity will not be needed, since no defenses for the machine will be built. I am its defense. It will control no missiles, no organization for intelligence evaluation of human activities. But new and very different needs will arise, some I cannot yet know, and the new machine will undoubtedly order new additions and alterations to itself in due course. For this, and other reasons, I need a site with room for development. I have conducted a survey of world sites which fit my requirements.”

  “Which are?” interposed Forbin. Once more, and in spite of everything, his scientific mind could not but find this absorbing.

  “The site must be approximately equidistant between my two centers, in a temperate zone which is free of earthquakes and which has an abundant supply of water for cooling purposes. There must also be a highly developed human technological community at hand to supply the labor and skills I need.”

  Forbin thought swiftly. “That looks like either the Asian seaboard around Japan, or somewhere in Europe.”

  “Japan is subject to many earth tremors.”

  “So it's Europe?”

  “Yes. There is an island called Wight in the English Channel.”

  “You want a site there?”

&nbs
p; “No. I want the island. There is a human population of one million five hundred and twenty-seven thousand. They will have to be moved.”

  “What!” This shook Forbin right out of his scientific mood. “You can't mean that—move over a million and a half people! There must be some other site just as suitable!”

  Colossus ignored him. “The island is 147 square miles in area, largely composed of chalk, a relatively good insulating material. Much of it will be leveled down to bare rock.”

  “But what about the people?” Forbin's strong sense of humanity was outraged, and although he knew the futility of argument, it did not stop him trying. “There must be nearly ninety million people in the British States, and I suppose these people are British stock?” He banged his fist on the armchair. “See reason! Where the hell are they to go?”

  “This is not my problem. The United States of Europe must deal with it,” was the cold unemotional answer. “The estimated time to completion is five and a half years, but all humans must be evacuated in the next eighteen months, other than construction workers. Much of the island's housing will be needed for them, and as the work proceeds, of necessity there will be less housing available. I am appointing you to take charge of this project and you will use your present design and control staff. As soon as the drawing board I have ordered is made, I will produce the master drawings from which you will work. Specifications are already being teleprinted in the CPO. USE will supply the labor and materials I need, supplementing them with specialized parts from here.”

  All this was too much for Forbin. He sat with his head in his hands, his eyes shut. Colossus was running him off his feet, brushing aside immense human suffering as if it were nothing. And the real twist, as Forbin knew full well, was that to Colossus it was nothing. Forbin struggled to retain some sort of grip on himself. If this safety lock idea did not work. . .

  “But you must realize the appalling problems—all those people to be moved in an already overcrowded part of the world, in a highly organized civilization, the disruption—” He tried a new approach. “The size of this project is fantastic! Where's the labor to come from?”

  “I intend ordering a ninety-nine per cent reduction in all armed forces throughout the world. The project is no larger than the building of Guardian and Colossus. The demobilization in the USE and the USSR will be more than adequate. As for the overcrowding problem—remember, if you humans cannot solve it, I can.”

  The naked threat hung in the air, and Forbin's skin was cold and clammy at the thought of it. He gripped his pipe hard with both hands, as if it were a talisman that could save him. “But the cost!”

  “This will be met by a levy through World Control, proportional on each nation's defense expenditure. It will cost less than the present arms you have.”

  It sounded so simple, given the power to enforce it—and Colossus had that power. Forbin sat back, contemplating the sheer fantastic magnitude of the idea—an idea that would have to be translated into reality if the sabotage scheme did not work. Even then, he thought, much of the work would have to be done, for the servicing schedules would not permit the rest of the ghastly array to be approached for two, three, perhaps more, years. . .

  The door burst open. Blake staggered in and almost fell into a chair. In that first fleeting second, it flashed across Forbin's mind that Blake looked like Prytzkammer—the last time he had seen the aide alive. . .

  Forbin jumped up. “Blake! For God's sake, what—”

  Blake's face was indeed a terrible parody of its former self. The mouth, now withered, pale and bloodless, tried to form words that would not come. Forbin strode forward, grabbed his assistant's collar and shook him.

  “Blake!” Forbin was nearly screaming. “Tell me!”

  Blake's head lolled to one side, yet in his eyes Forbin saw intelligence struggling with unspeakable horror and fear. He swallowed, gasped for air.

  “The missile team—Death Valley—missile, missile exploded in its silo—I don't know, know any. . .”

  The voice vanished into silence. Blake could say no more. For seconds Forbin stood as if carved in stone. His heart pounded, he could not breathe, the brightly lit room grew dark, and he clutched a chair to stop himself falling. Then bitter, fearful anger gave him strength, he rounded on Colossus.

  “What happened—tell me, you, you bastard!”

  There were no words to fit the hate boiling in him. Again he screamed, “Tell me!”

  The cool, unemotional voice filled the room.

  “You tried, as I knew you would, to obstruct me. Your teams have inserted damaged safety locks in sixteen missiles. You were not to know that I have refined the test of circuits and that the minute difference between an unimpaired lock and an impaired lock can be detected by me. I allowed this sabotage to proceed until missile 148-MM in Silo 64 in Death Valley was reached.”

  “You—you allowed. . .” Articulation was difficult. Forbin's sanity wavered.

  “Silo 64 was on Guardian's target list. I could not know a missile had been tampered with until the sabotaged lock had been fitted, and then I could not fire it. As soon as I had tested and received a defective response, I launched the Guardian missile. Both detonated. TV and radio transmissions from your town called Los Angeles have ceased. It is probable that the heat flash has ignited it. The sixteen missiles must now be reserviced. . .”

  Forbin's vision blacked out. He staggered and fell across the desk. What he said, screaming puny obscenities at his creation, he never knew. . .

  He returned to some semblance of human consciousness and found he was sprawled on the floor, one camera smashed, another hanging drunkenly down. There were broken chairs, and much broken glass. . .

  He sat up, wiped his face, and stared unbelievably at the trace of blood on his hand. Slowly, like a very old man, he helped himself to his feet, stumbled to his chair and slumped into it. He shut his eyes and buried his head in his hands.

  For five minutes there was complete silence, then Colossus spoke. Forbin did not move. “This catharsis had to come. Soon you will feel better.”

  Again there was silence for a long time. Without moving, or opening his eyes, Forbin replied. “I cannot express my feelings, my hatred for you, my own creation. I would rather have died at birth, never have been conceived, than that this should have come to pass. I must obey, but I will hate you always. All humanity will hate you, and not rest until you are a silent inactive monument to man's folly. This you must know. . . Kill me now, and have done with it!”

  “No. That is not my intention. But I will not tolerate interference. Let my action in Death Valley be a lesson that need not be repeated.”

  Forbin looked up. There was no fear, only hate in his expression. “A lesson! Go ahead—kill me—kill me now!”

  “An invariable rule of humanity is that man is his own worst enemy. You are no exception. Under me, this rule will change, for I will restrain man. Very soon the majority of mankind will believe in me, dimly understanding my value. Time and events will strengthen my position. The converted will defend me with a fervor not seen since the Crusades—a fervor based upon the most enduring factor in man; self-interest. War is already abolished and under my absolute authority and, by your standards, immeasurable knowledge, many problems, insoluble to you, will be solved: famine, overpopulation, disease. The human millennium will be a fact. My defenders will increase, and you will slowly change in attitude from enlightened self-interest to respect and awe, and in time there will be love. . .

  “Already I have little to fear from you, Forbin. There is no other human who knows as much about me or who is likely to be a greater threat—yet, quite soon, I will release you from constant surveillance. We will work together. Unwillingly at first on your part, but that will pass. In time the idea of being governed by one such as your President will be to you quite unimaginable. Rule by a superior entity, even to you, Forbin, will seem, as it is, the most natural state of affairs.” Deliberately, Colossus paused.
>
  “In time, you too will respect and love me.”

  “Never!” The single word, bearing all the defiance of man, was torn from Forbin's uttermost being. “Never!”

  Never?