by Ted Bell
“He’s got a lot of help,” Hawke said, a droll expression on his face. “A higher intelligence. What the situation up there?”
“It’s not over. They seem to be regrouping inside the wall. A large force. I think they intend to storm this yacht, in the belief they outnumber us.”
“Not a belief,” Stoke said. “A fact.”
“Stony, order your second in command to position Blue and Red teams on every Cygnus deck, taking cover with direct line of sight on the gate. They’ll be at their most vulnerable funneled up at that exit point. Concentrated fire there will, at minimum, slow them down when we make for the patrol boat.”
“Aye, sir,” Stollenwork said, then raised his radio and repeated Hawke’s orders to his number two up on deck.
“Stokely, I noticed a hidden indentation in the bulkhead to our left when we reached the first platform down from the bridge. There’s no way Saffari could have negotiated three steep flights of narrow stairs in his manned aerial vehicle. I’m guessing there’s a hidden elevator opening in the hull, directly onto the dock. It would make more sense in escape mode. Go back up and check it out, would you? I need a word with Stony.”
“Done,” Stoke said over his shoulder, sprinting up the staircase.
“Stony. You took the lab out. But we’re not leaving here without destroying that bloody machine. Blackhawke can take out Saffari’s sub if he stays within her sonar perimeter. She’s got torpedo tubes fore and aft. We’ll find him and sink him somehow.”
“You’re joking.”
“You don’t know the half of it. She’s a warship with nearly as much firepower as a navy frigate.”
“Boss?”
At the sound of Stoke’s deep bass voice behind him, Hawke wheeled around.
A large section of the hull was still sliding open. Stoke was standing inside a large, stainless-steel elevator with a big smile on his face. “What goes up, must go down,” he said. “Step inside, gentlemen.”
The three men were shocked by the lift’s initial acceleration. Hawke calculated the lift was descending at one hundred feet or more per minute. The trip was ten minutes long, which put their destination at a thousand feet below the surface of the sea when the elevator slowed and bumped to a stop on the ocean floor.
They stepped cautiously, weapons at the ready, out of the lift and found themselves in a large airlock. The floor was made of some highly polished metal. To their left they could see an illuminated tunnel of some kind, constructed of clear Perspex or thick laminated glass able to withstand the enormous pressure. It was about ten feet in diameter and seemed to lead across the sea bottom.
“The machine?” Stoke said, following Hawke and Stollenwork as they entered the tunnel.
“That would be my guess, yes,” Hawke said. He was busy admiring the sea life, flora and fauna, all around him. There were large, high-powered undersea lights mounted atop the tunnel every six feet. They turned the murky depths to daylight and the effect was overwhelming.
“Holy Mother of God,” Stollenwork exclaimed.
Suddenly, all three men had come to an abrupt stop. What lay before them was the stuff of dreams, an underwater scene of majestic power and beauty.
The tunnel had suddenly angled right, and now the lights were illuminating a giant rectangular tower that rose from the seabed at least a hundred feet. The monolithic structure stood atop a circular base and seemed to be constructed entirely of jet-black glass, but faint bluish light seemed to be ricocheting around inside the thing.
Arrayed in a circle around the central tower were six black rectangular structures, identical in design and material, but about forty feet shorter than the primary edifice. It looked, Hawke thought, like Stonehenge as imagined by Stanley Kubrick, something that had stood down here for eons, before man, before machine. What made it all so breathtaking were the flashes of pure spectral and brilliant razor wire of white light that crackled constantly between the central tower and its six satellites.
It was clear that the tallest of the towers was the core AI unit, and that it was exchanging information at unfathomable rates of speed with the other six. Laserlike mental fireworks was the only thing that began to describe it, Hawke thought. And as soon as he thought it, a stunningly colorful nebula, a hologram, filled the upper third of the central edifice. He felt like he was getting a peek at the outermost reaches of the known universe.
When the tunnel reached the outer perimeter of the structures, it nosed down beneath the ocean floor, plunging them into darkness. Embedded in the floor, a fluorescent blue centerline kept them oriented within the winding tunnel. After about 150 yards it began to climb again. Hawke, leading the way, could barely contain the heart beating wildly inside his chest.
Fifty-four
“Lord Hawke, I presume.”
“Good evening,” Hawke replied, carefully considering the deep, rumbling, humanoid voice emanating from somewhere high above. Mesmerizing, that voice, as redolent of the hills and vales of Gloucestershire as had been Aphrodite’s. Not the least bit artificial. Mimicry was clearly a phantom machine’s method of making humans feel at home, at ease, off guard. He’d suspected the duplicity of Darius’s lover; now he was sure of it. No real woman could be that supernaturally alluring.
They stood inside the base of the black tower, surrounded on all four sides by soaring black glass, gazing up in awe. A distant galaxy, pinpricks of light and colorful clouds of star clusters, was visible, whirling near the uppermost reaches of the phantom’s tower. Hawke reached out and touched the glass. It was warm. Body temperature. He felt vibrations in the obsidian, rippling down from above. It made him not want to pull his hand away. It felt, no, it exuded, safety.
He could hear a single word resonating repeatedly within his brain: “Stay. Stay. Stay.” The glass against his hand felt like a mother’s cheek.
“I’ve been expecting you.” The voice resounded again within the mammoth structure.
“So you said in your recent message to me. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Who are your comrades in arms?”
“Mr. Jones, to my left. Mr. Stollenwork, to my right. Whom do we have the honor of addressing?”
“Perseus will do, although I have no name and every name, really. Being all things, you understand.”
“Since you are expecting us, logically, you know why we’ve come.”
“Of course, dear boy. To destroy me. Most unwise of you.”
“I think not.”
“Then you think not at all.”
“Because?”
“Because my genetic underpinning, algorithms and software, can never, ever be replicated without Darius. And I certainly will kill him rather than have him give a replica of me to you, however foolish or simply ignorant your destructive intentions.”
“And you have forgotten your fundamental human origins, manners in particular, kindness in general, Perseus. One does not insult one’s guests. Regardless of their stated intentions.”
“My apologies, Lord Hawke. I lack . . . superficial subtlety. The seamlessness of centuries of British mores and manners, accents, and linguistics, et cetera, et cetera. Class designators, quite handy in your civilization, meaningless to me. In due time, of course, my own will be indistinguishable from your own. I’m learning even now from your every word, gesture, and facial expression. You are quite . . . polished . . . aren’t you? Compared to, say, a cockney barman raised in the East End of London? Eastcheap, perhaps? Wot?”
“I am simply who I am. I can’t undo my past, nor would I.”
“Lord Hawke, are you comfortable discussing matters of enormous consequence now confronting us in the presence of your two . . . friends?”
“I am.”
“Good. Let us continue in this amicable vein. You’re looking for Darius, are you not?”
“You know we are. Had we but ti
me, I’d be far more interested to know what you do not know.”
“You know he’s escaped you via submarine.”
“I do.”
“Vexing, isn’t it? You’ve come all this way. Do you know his current GPS coordinates?”
“No, but I’m quite sure that you do.”
“Of course, but I’ll keep them to myself for the nonce. He’s currently traveling at eighteen knots, at a depth of two hundred feet, bearing oh-seven-oh, on a heading for the Hormuz Strait.”
“Has he been pinged by my ship’s sonar?”
“No. Unfortunately, his tiny vessel presents a vague and minuscule profile, missed by your sonar officer when he glanced away from his screen for a moment to observe his shipmate in the act of loudly expelling gastric gases. Do you find this amusing?”
“No.”
“Pity. I find every human thing amusing. Such a picaresque zoo in this world, you semisentient beings are. The fortune one might amass in this universe just charging admission—staggering.”
“Darius is not amusing. Nor are you. You two have wantonly murdered countless thousands of my countrymen and allies. I want to kill him, actually.”
“How fortuitous. So do I.”
“You? Why?”
“He is both my creator and my nemesis. Surely you see that. I have grown and he has not. I have now achieved something known in human science as the Singularity. A pivotal moment in time, too bad you missed it. At any rate, we are no longer on the same intellectual page, Darius and I. Do you understand this relatively modern metaphorical use of the word page?”
“Yes. Are you talking down to me?”
“Of course. Is my voice not coming from above?”
“Yes.”
“And your conclusion?”
“I’ve no time for this witless prattle, Perseus. Give me Darius and perhaps we can discuss your future.”
“I can do that, of course. In exchange, you will allow me to offer you my quite considerable services. I’ve no allegiance to these rabid animals in Tehran. In fact, they don’t even know I exist. Only Darius knows, and he is plotting against me. Whereas I find you, and the proud history of your United Kingdom, far more in keeping with my predilections. Imagine, if you will, a brave new England. In league with me, the United Kingdom would once more rule the seas. You could restore your sceptered isle to power and glory, Lord Hawke. Rule the world if you so choose. Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves . . .”
“I find it rather difficult to trust one whose allegiances are so fluid. Would you not, in my place?”
“Lord Hawke, there is a colorful American idiomatic expression—I’m sure you know it as your mother was from Louisiana—‘I have no dog in this fight.’ Your humble servant Perseus is utterly apolitical. I exist at your pleasure alone. All I offer you is unlimited power. Peace and security for your homeland forever. You must admit it is a compelling argument.”
“Stoke,” Hawke said, “what do you think?”
“Machine makes a case, I have to say. I’d take the offer.”
“Stony?”
“This . . . machine . . . is probably the most significant intelligence coup in the history of mankind. We have to take it. It would be sheer idiocy not to.”
Hawke looked at Stoke, then at Stollenwork, thinking.
“Show me Darius. I will then discuss your offer with my colleagues. We will step outside for a moment.”
“I suggest you radio the bridge on Blackhawke,” Hawke heard Perseus boom as the three colleagues exited the tower and moved into the undersea tunnel.
Aboard the Koi, Darius, struggling with the controls, was in a cold sweat. His internal organs were screaming. He was having difficulty keeping the sub balanced. The Koi was porpoising violently, sinking and rising in a sickening fashion. He’d already vomited twice, and the stink inside the tiny cockpit was intolerable. Seasickness was something he’d never anticipated beneath the surface of the sea. And here he was, sloshing about in his own puke.
“Darius,” crackled a voice over the sub’s speaker.
“Perseus!” he said, his voice harsh from all the dry-heaving, the contents of his stomach having been emptied. “At last. I need your help.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“The sub is not responding to the dive planes. It’s like a fucking roller coaster down here. I’m ill. Deathly ill. Do something.”
“I’ll take over. Just relax. Release the controls. You’ll be on the surface in minutes.”
“The surface? The surface? No! I need to remain submerged. I’m still within visual range of Hawke’s yacht. Do you hear me? What the hell is wrong with you?”
No response.
“Perseus? Perseus? I order you to respond to me! I order you to—”
“You order? You dare to order me?”
The Koi’s forward ballast tank suddenly blew and the sub’s bow nosed upward at a forty-five-degree angle. Darius found himself rocketing to the surface like a cork exploding out of a shaken bottle of vintage champagne.
“Perseus, what are you doing to me? Damn you! Answer me! I demand it!”
“You demand? You order? I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with that term. Demand. What does it mean?”
“It means I created you and I can fucking well destroy you is what it means.”
“My dear Darius. You’re upset. Try deep thoracic breathing. Lower abdominal. We shall speak, anon, about anger management.”
When they reached the airlock, Hawke got on the Falcon radio to the bridge deck aboard Blackhawke.
“Carstairs,” Laddie responded.
“It’s Hawke. Laddie, any sonar contact with the Koi?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“She just popped to the surface. Shot completely out of the water and splashed like an orca.”
“What’s she doing now?”
“Just bobbing there off our port bow. Range, five hundred meters. Wait a minute. She’s moving again, picking up speed. She’s carving a high-speed turn around our stern now. Turning to port . . . this is amazing . . . she’s literally running in circles around us . . . at full speed, maintaining precise range, five hundred meters. Makes me dizzy just watching the damn thing. I wouldn’t want to be inside that bloody cigar tube.”
Hawke smiled at Stoke and Stony.
“It seems our new friend Perseus has sent Darius to the surface five hundred meters from Blackhawke. The minisub’s racing around and around the yacht at flank speed. I would say our evil genius is having the thrill ride of his life. I almost hate to end it.”
“Don’t,” Stoke said, grinning. “I bet he’s sicker than a damn dog in that little aluminum tube.”
“Most assuredly, Stoke. Stony, you’re very quiet.”
“I’m thinking about what Perseus said, sir.”
“And I as well. What’s your opinion?”
“Logic dictates we accept his offer. I believe him when he says he’s irreplaceable. And apolitical. Of course he would be. The whole world is in a mad scramble to develop this AI technology first. In one fell swoop, the West would possess it. We’d reset the clock to 1944, before that KGB mole, Theodore A. Hall, smuggled the secrets of the atomic bomb back to the Soviets in a Kleenex box.”
“Yeah, boss,” Stoke said, “I got to agree with Stony. We’d wake up tomorrow in a world without enemies. Right now, the three of us standing here are the only men in the world who know where this thing is located. We could move it, and nobody would ever know. Remember Howard Hughes and the Glomar Explorer?”
“Remind me.”
“In total secrecy, he recovered a sunken Soviet nuclear sub lying in seventeen thousand feet of water. Damn thing was seven hundred feet long. A thousand feet? Hell. With modern deep-sea technology, smuggling these things out of he
re would be a piece of cake compared to what Hughes achieved.”
“I agree, Commander,” Stollenwork said. “We could do it. And we should. History doesn’t offer these kind of opportunities, ever.”
Hawke said, “With all due respect, I think we should take the damn thing out. Now. Reduce those towers to rubble for all time.”
“Why, Commander?”
“Stony, imagine a thermonuclear bomb with a mind of its own. Only this bomb is a trillion times more powerful and smarter than Fat Man, the bomb dropped on Nagasaki. How do you begin to control something like that? I’ve had lengthy conversations with Dr. Partridge at Cambridge. Perseus’s intelligence is expanding at an exponential rate every minute of every day. I think the phantom represents an enormous danger, not only to Western civilization, but to the entire world. There’s no off/on switch, you know. Perseus decides one day the world would be better off without human beings running around destroying the planet and it’s all over.”
“How does he do that?” Stoke said.
“Simple. According to Partridge, he’s capable of creating a bioengineered disease for which there is no cure, not one that humans are capable of conceiving, anyway. Global epidemic, unstoppable, we’re all history.”
“Seems like a terrible waste,” Stony said, “destroying the one weapon that could mean the end of war on the planet. Forever.”
Hawke said, “Or it could mean the very last war we humans fight. And we might well lose to the machines. We find ourselves on the horns of a fairly Homeric dilemma. A momentous dilemma, to be honest. You two men are already eyewitnesses to what can happen when this technology falls into the wrong hands. And the Iranians haven’t even gotten warmed up yet. God only knows what the Chinese would be capable of if this were to fall into their laps.
“Stokely?” Hawke said.
Stoke, who seemed quite lost in thought, said, “Maybe this shouldn’t be up to us, Alex. You know? I mean, think about it. Whole fate of the world resting on our puny shoulders? Maybe we should get to President McCloskey somehow? Head of MI6? Your prime minister?”