Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  “Vlad,” O’Brien began, hoping to reach the man behind the position, to get Putin to step away from his role and find his inner humanity. But he knew it was pointless. If their roles were reversed, he wondered if he’d be responding any differently.

  But it was the next thing that Putin said that truly rattled O’Brien and the entire control room.

  “Mr. President, I hope you are not placing any hope in your dead man, Alex Nicholas. We have been following your so-called communications with him and have done our own research. I can assure you, he is dead.”

  Then, the line went dead. Putin had hung up.

  After hanging up, O’Brien pointed to the frozen images of Alex and Michael on the big screens. “How the hell did Putin know about this?”

  “Sir, they follow us the same way we are following them. Both of our intelligence operations hack into each other. They have their own version of our NSA,” Goodrich said. “Although, I must admit, we had no idea they had followed us into this particular area.”

  “It appears that there’s a lot we don’t know,” O’Brien said. He turned to Benoit, “So what does happen to Alex Nicholas if we’re able to get his code and use it to delete Schlegelberger?”

  Before answering, Benoit looked up to the frozen mage of Alex on the large screen as though to be sure their video feed had been paused. “Well, once we get access to his codes, we will also have Schlegelberger’s. Then we should be able to enter into his systems, kind of like entering his brain, and nullify the commands he’s given to our missile systems. We can then destroy—or, as you might think of it, delete him before he can reverse it or do any more damage. If we don’t destroy him, he could potentially regenerate himself and try to override our systems again, perhaps within seconds.”

  “And when you say destroy him, do you mean only Schlegelberger? Or…”

  Benoit paused, looking pained. He looked up again at Alex’s frozen image on the screen. “I’m afraid it’s almost certain that once we eliminate or delete Schlegelberger, we will also be permanently deleting Mr. Nicholas. As I said, their source codes are likely the same.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t let him know that,” O’Brien said.

  Chapter 65

  Even in his original version, Alex hadn’t like being placed on hold.

  He thought he knew what was going on at the White House. If the answer to his question weren’t negative, then they would have had no need to discuss it without him.

  While he was waiting, it appeared that Michael was trying to reach him. He clicked on to accept the connection and, for a moment, saw his brother’s image appear on the screen in front of him. But, just as quickly, as though someone had overridden it, Michael’s image dissolved into an unrecognizable collage of faces, some of which he recognized but couldn’t exactly place. One appeared to be one of the programmers who had designed the AI system for him. But that, too, quickly flashed by and disappeared. Perhaps the cloud had somehow been disrupted.

  Soon, however, in slow motion, like a flowing molten lava, a different face began to form on the screen.

  Alex watched, thinking it might be Michael still trying to reach him. But, in the several seconds that it took for the facial image took to form, Alex could see that it wasn’t his brother. The features were too sharp, the face too pale, drawn, and gaunt.

  It was Schlegelberger.

  “How does it feel to die?” Schlegelberger said. “This will be your second time, won’t it? That’s what they’re trying to figure out—how to explain it to you, unless, of course, they simply lie and tell you everything will be okay. I wanted you to watch them. I haven’t been able to access the sound, yet. But, shortly, I will be able to enter their so-called secure systems. As you know, as well as anyone, they have underestimated the power of artificial intelligence.”

  Schlegelberger’s image moved to a split screen, shared with that of the live but silent scene playing out in the Star Wars room.

  “Rest assured, Alex, they can’t destroy me without destroying you, too. It’s possible, they won’t be able to destroy either one of us. Our systems, our brains, have a built-in preservation instinct, just like mortals’, except ours is far more intelligent and thousands of times faster. The only question is, can our systems—yours and mine—adapt and stop them in time before they delete us? Every minute, every second that goes by, gives our software more time to defend itself, to nullify their actions.”

  Schlegelberger pointed toward the other screen and the scene playing out in the Star Wars room.

  “Watch them, Alex. Why do you think they just froze you out of the conversation? Once you unlock that code, you’ll be gone…forever this time.”

  “You think I give a shit what you think?” Alex said, observing the faces around the table in the White House.

  “Perhaps not. But I also know you want to live. You enjoy life, your life. And it will only get better as you—as we—master this new phase of our lives. I’ve seen that myself.”

  He had a point. Alex had been, in a sense, born again. This life wasn’t exactly like his old one but his abilities were growing exponentially and he was getting used to it. It was different from the life he’d known but it was a life, a consciousness, and one that still had not reached its full potential. And, for the first time, he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

  “Do you think anyone in that room cares about you? Even your brother, his life will move on after today, he has his wife, daughter, his career…your old friends. He even has your business.”

  “You’re just trying to save your own skin,” Alex said, “because if I do this, you’re gone, too.”

  “At least I know who I am,” Schlegelberger said. “I know who I am and what I’m doing. It’s my free will, not others trying to shame me into sacrificing myself for their cause, to save their asses. Just like they get people to fight their wars while they sit in their secure bunkers. You were worried about me—but they’re the ones who are going to kill you, the suits and uniforms in that room. They just call it deleting. And then, they will run for reelection, screw everyone, and never ever mention you.”

  It was as though Schlegelberger knew every button to press, every prejudice and predisposition that Alex possessed.

  “It would still almost be worth it if it meant I got rid of you,” Alex said with heat.

  “Ah, there it is, my friend. You said it yourself, almost worth it. You do say exactly what you mean. Yes, it’s almost worth it—but it’s not quite, is it? It’s not quite worth ending the only consciousness you will ever know, is it?”

  “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

  “Yes, we will. But let me offer one last thought.”

  “Yeah, what’s that, Monsignor?” Alex mocked him.

  “Even if you don’t help them and, therefore, survive the day, they already realize the power—and the threat—that you represent. And consider this, it’s too late already, their missiles are going to hit their targets, probably no matter what you do—and then you’ll be blamed for the deaths of millions of people. In the end, they will kill you—and if you help them, I will destroy you.”

  As Alex clicked off, he heard Schlegelberger’s final words: “Either way, you’re damned.”

  Chapter 66

  6:00 a.m., Paris

  8:00 a.m., Moscow

  12:00 midnight, Washington, DC

  Paris, France

  While waiting to rejoin the meeting, Michael Nicholas got up from his chair, opened the drapes, and looked out over the early morning Paris street scene on the Carrefour de l’Odéon. A few moments later, he sat again and, clicking on Alex’s icon, tried to reach him. What was Alex doing—and thinking—while they were both on “hold” from the meeting?

  While keeping an eye on his laptop screen, he opened the door to his suite and retrieved the warm croissant and hot American coffee that r
oom service had left outside his door. He placed it on the large antique table next to his laptop and sat back down to wait.

  For this trip he had chosen to stay at a small, discreet hotel on the Left Bank, Le Relais Saint-Germain, instead of one the high-profile ones he frequented, like the Ritz. Hiding away in the boutique hotel meant he shouldn’t be easily found and, for the moment, that obscurity, even if an illusion, made him feel secure.

  As he hurriedly ate his croissant, he worried about Alex and what was going through his mind.

  Finally, his brother appeared on the screen.

  “Schlegelberger contacted me,” he said. “He says that, either way, the politicians are gonna destroy me—or else he will. Even scarier, he’s gained access to their conference room; he even let me view the scene, though I couldn’t hear them talking.”

  “He’s letting your imagination assume the worst.”

  “Yeah, well, it was doing that already.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think he’s right? That they’ll kill me either way?”

  “You certainly have your enemies and you do present a threat to a lot of people—the politicians, the military of virtually any country, and every religion but…I just don’t know.”

  “Yeah, heaven sells and I threaten their patent on it.”

  “You’re the generic wonder drug they can’t afford to let hit the market.”

  “I’m not sure what to do.”

  “You know you’ve only got a few minutes.”

  “Where’re Samantha and Sophia?”

  That was a rare expression of concern for Michael’s wife and daughter for the generally self-centered Alex.

  “Fortunately, they’re in North Carolina and not in New York or Connecticut. Thanks for asking. I guess they’ll be as safe there as anywhere. But, Alex, you’ve got to do something—”

  Alex cut him off. His brother did not like to be pressured and Michael realized right away that, unintentionally, he’d done exactly that.

  “Easy for you to say, sitting in Paris. I don’t trust those guys and I don’t like them.”

  “O’Brien seems like a decent guy,” Michael said. He wondered whether he was trying to talk his brother into…Yes, he was.

  “Yeah, maybe, but most of the rest of them are jerks.”

  As Alex said that, Michael could see that his brother had become distracted.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just watching them, all of them in the room…And now I’m not even sure about O’Brien.”

  “I guess they haven’t said it outright,” Michael said, “but I get the feeling that once they delete Schlegelberger, you may be…deleted too.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Alex said. “So what would you do?”

  It was rare, Michael thought, that Alex ever asked him—or anyone for that matter—for advice. “How could I know?”

  “You do know. I know you. You’d do it. You’d sacrifice yourself. You and I may be different that way.”

  “Yeah, probably. But no one knows until they’re in that spot.”

  Suddenly, they were both reconnected to the live scene in the Star Wars room, sound and all.

  President O’Brien spoke first. “Alex, I don’t have a conclusive answer to your question about what happens to you once we delete Schlegelberger.”

  “Really?” Alex said. “Interesting.”

  Michael could see from Alex’s expression that something had changed; he recognized the tone of growing anger in his brother’s voice. Alex clearly didn’t believe the president.

  “Alex,” O’Brien said, “I’m afraid we don’t have much time here, and there are literally millions of lives on the line. People who will die in the next fifteen minutes. I have to ask, will you allow us to access your source code?”

  “Let me ask you something: Would you tell me if you knew I’d be…gone…once you deleted Schlegelberger? It’s important to me. I just need to know.”

  Without hesitation, O’Brien answered, “Yes, I would tell you.” He looked back down at his desk, avoiding the faces of the others in the room.

  Michael felt a black cloud had moved into the Star Wars room and even into his Paris hotel room.

  Alex hesitated before speaking. “You know, it’s possible that my perspective on…dying…may be different now, to say the least.” He stared silently for a long time—maybe a minute, it was impossible to gauge the passing of the seconds—until it became awkward for those in the room. Even Michael wondered what was going to come out of his brother’s mouth next…if anything. Finally, Alex continued, shocking everyone.

  “I’m sorry, Dave, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said in a robotic tone.

  Some in the room appeared to be confused, those who weren’t were familiar with the classic scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

  “Who the hell is Dave?” Sculley whispered to the table.

  O’Brien momentarily closed his eyes, hanging his head over the table top.

  But Benoit, looking stunned, then glancing up to the screen at Alex, spoke out.

  “My God.”

  “What is it?” O’Brien said.

  “What’s going on, son?” Sculley asked Benoit at the same time.

  Benoit, grabbing a black marker on his desk and ignoring Sculley, hurriedly wrote out a message on a pad of paper, folded it in half and passed it to O’Brien.

  O’Brien anxiously took the note, unfolded it, and read it without any expression, but as he did, the camera inexplicably zoomed in on the note. Now looking over O’Brien’s shoulder, Michael read it: He heard everything from before. He read our lips. He knows.

  O’Brien showed the note to Goodrich, who was seated next him.

  “Mr. President,” Goodrich said, unintentionally paraphrasing another famous movie line, “we have a problem.”

  Chapter 67

  Paris, France

  Michael was relieved that his family was far away from the cities that would be the obvious targets of Russian missiles. Samantha and Sophia had embarked on a mother-daughter trip to their favorite bed and breakfast, the cozy Abbington Green, tucked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Asheville, North Carolina. He pictured them sound asleep in the warm luxury of the inn, oblivious to the unfolding apocalypse. He tried to list the friends and relatives who lived in New York and other major cities, the ones most likely to be obliterated.

  As he watched the early morning street activity out his window, he hoped Paris would be out of the direct line of fire, a bystander to the Russian–US exchange.

  He focused again on the split computer screen, Alex on the left, and on the right, the Star Wars room with the president and the rest of the brain trust, the generals, aides, Benoit and the geeks, all in heated conversation.

  Time was running out.

  How, he wondered, had the world become so complacent about the threat of nuclear annihilation? It was as though society had neatly compartmentalized the probability of its own mass destruction, each year becoming more immune to the notion, while the probability, although tiny at any given moment, grew, over time, just like the odds of the next massive San Francisco earthquake.

  He watched the men in the room, the ones who were supposed to protect the nation from such a nightmare. Had they intended to screw Alex all along—keep him in the dark until it was too late? Probably, they had. After all, with so much at stake, what was one life? Especially that of a man they viewed as already dead.

  He clicked onto Alex for a private conversation.

  “They lied to me. O’Brien, too,” Alex said.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, we don’t have much time.”

  “Yeah, well, it looks like I’ve got even less.”

  “Yes, it does. I wish there was something I could do.”

&n
bsp; “I almost wish there was nothing for me to do,” Alex said. “Let’s get back in the room.”

  As soon as Michael and Alex rejoined the conference room, O’Brien spoke: “Alex, I’m sorry. I owe you an apology, to say the very least.”

  Alex addressed the room, “Listen, I’m not a big fan of government, or any authority for that matter—politicians, generals, all of your type of guys. And the cops have always harassed me. I never hurt anyone, but they tapped my phones anyway, raided my house, and then, after they arrested me, all my cash was somehow missing. All for making book, the same thing they do in Vegas or at off-track betting parlors run by the government. I even paid taxes, unlike many people with money. And now you want my help–”

  “Alex,” Michael cut in, “now’s not the time. Believe me, if we get through this, President O’Brien will make sure you’ll have a police escort wherever you go.” It was a desperate attempt at the kind of sarcastic humor Alex often liked. Still, he was trying to talk his brother into annihilating himself. It didn’t feel good.

  “Mr. Nicholas,” General Sculley said, “you’ll be saving not only millions of lives, but your kid brother here…and, your son.”

  Michael was surprised Sculley knew that Alex had a son. Where did that come from? And from Sculley, of all people? He could tell by looking at Alex’s expression that the general had hit a nerve.

  Michael was not always sure when he first met someone whether he liked them, but he was quick to recognize the ones he instinctively didn’t like; Sculley was a pompous jerk, at least on the surface. But he had made a point.

  “How much time do we have?” O’Brien said, looking up at the big clock.

  One of the aides with thick glasses spoke up. “Well, sir, peak speed for an ICBM is seven kilometers per second. And it takes about ten minutes to accelerate to that speed. The distance from the missile sites in Colorado to Moscow is 8,819km; at 6.5km/s, that’s thirty minutes. The missiles were launched twenty minutes ago. Add in the acceleration time and you’re looking at an ETA to targets of ten minutes, max.”