Robogenesis (5 page)

NEURONAL ID: VASILY ZAYTSEV

“Something has got loose in the stacks,” Leonid says to me.

The war has been unkind to Leonid. The mathematician stands canted in the wind, thin and trembling like a crow-pecked scarecrow. His beard crawls up his pale face nearly to his eyes, dark brown orbs swimming with a fear that cannot be drowned in vodka.

“Fah, another rat,” I say, waving my hand.

Leonid shakes his head. Even under his wind-beaten parka, I can see the gray color of his cheeks. I sense that this is something much more.

“Not a rat,” he says.

“Avtomat?” I ask. On its own, my palm moves to check the polished wooden grip of my sidearm. “Is he hurt? Has there been any damage?”

“It is hard to say, Vasily,” says Leonid, motioning at the metal door in front of us. He is shaking slightly from the wind, arms wrapped around his thin ribs. The wind burns my cheeks as well, but I would never show it. Never allow myself to shake in the elements like a stray dog.

Leonid’s indecision repulses me.

I must remind myself that not so long ago this man was an esteemed professor. A famous brain supported by spindly legs and a hump in his shoulders usually reserved for the elderly. But he has survived. Cheeks
black with frostbite, he stood with me to defend the city of Anadyr. Many of his weaker colleagues fell.

Too many foxes, not enough bears.

“I only say that our friend is behaving strangely,” says Leonid. “Communications were disrupted. We lost contact for twenty-one minutes.”

“When?” I ask.

“About a month ago. When the American line broke and the tamed avtomat advanced. Right after the death of that thing.”

I grunt and turn my back on Leonid.

The steel utility door has not been damaged. Around the corner, an ice-caked generator still rattles on a dirty slab of concrete. The door opens into a harmless-looking shed. Inside, a well-oiled freight elevator hovers over a sixty-meter drop. A shaft of brushed rock that leads to a buried supercomputer cluster.

The processor stacks.

Power and communication and water-cooling lines are run down the elevator shaft, packed together in neat snaking bundles. Backup lines are routed through a series of camouflaged boreholes spread out over the acreage of the compound. Each is too small to produce a heat signature detectable from the air. They are carefully hidden in the visible spectrum by natural vegetation and terrain.

I know these things, these practical things, because it was once my job to perform maintenance on this place. Oiling the wheels of the freight elevator. Tending the foliage around the borehole exits. Checking their heat output with an IR laser thermometer. Visual inspections of plumbing lines, emergency batteries, and fire-suppression systems. I was a maintenance man—I
maintained
.

As the glorified janitor for the Novichok project, I have kept this research facility running for four years. My finger is always on the pulse of this place, monitoring the inputs and the outputs. The end of the world came and my job did not change.

You see, our friend who lives down below is useless if we cannot talk to him. Yet he must be kept very carefully. Our deep friend must be watched over always.

And that is our weakness. The stacks were built to be safe from men.
Not from machines. Even a vent borehole could be large enough for the avtomat. The crawling types, the ones that wriggle through flesh. They could have the potential to move through the wiring itself. Perhaps a patient one could make its own tunnel through solid rock.

Some of them are very patient.

If the avtomat discovered our friend in his deep place, then we have failed. I cannot even contemplate the consequences of losing him. But I know it is better to fall into action than to run around in lost circles, head bobbing like these pigeon men with their advanced degrees.

“Open the door,” I say to Leonid. “We will go down together. See what we can find.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I do not bother to respond. I just wait.

Leonid reluctantly removes his glove and places his shivering hand in a cavity next to the door. A flash of red as the laser scanner examines his fingerprints. And, of course, it checks to make sure there is warm blood in his veins.

We step inside and I close the metal door behind. The wind calls to us through the hidden cracks in this structure. A faint pale light pushes geometrically through the edges of a single mesh window, painted black. The sliding steel door of the freight elevator is shut tight like an angry mouth.

“Our friend is talking. Whispering to himself down there in the darkness. My lab mates are growing afraid for him. Afraid that he is losing his mind. If he goes, then what will we do? What hope is left for us?”

Leonid shrugs, takes a gulp of air. His voice has taken on a high-pitched quality that I recognize as being a hairbreadth from panic.

I put a firm hand on his bony shoulder. Push him lightly against the wall. Offer him a little grin—a skim of confidence over the dread growing in my heart.

“Calm and steady, Leonid,” I say. “Who knows, maybe the war is really over? Maybe the Americans did it.”

From my pocket I produce a flask. Twist off the lid and press the shining stainless steel into Leonid’s fingers. His hand knows how to
respond. The flask goes to his mouth, where it trembles at his lips like a hummingbird.

The alcohol reminds his body that he is a man.

“Our friend …,” says Leonid, and his voice is steady now, “changed his behavior several hours ago. Much functionality is gone. He no longer offers his guidance topside. Safety predictions are going stale. Our formations are stagnant. We are losing him, Vasily. To what, I do not know. But
something
is loose in the stacks.”

Leonid taps the flask to his heart, then hands it to me with a nod of thanks. I take a quick swallow and tuck it away. Lean over and press my fingers against the icy metal slab of the freight elevator door.

Pausing, I let the alcohol work its way into my thought process. I scratch off a flake of green rusting paint. Watch it fall into the crack between the elevator and the floor. The flake flutters into the dark shaft, lost.

Now I reach down and slide the heavy metal door up. Follow that by rolling up the wood-slatted inner door. A cube of space waits, poorly lit, hanging over the black chasm.

“This is not a coincidence, Leonid,” I say. “The Americans shut down the avtomat’s central stack. It fought them viciously on the eastern plains. You saw their losses, similar to our own. But it died, Leonid.”

Leonid waits like a patient old dog in the elevator next to me.

“Have you been down yet?” I ask.

“Of course not,” says Leonid. “We have access to all of Maxim’s functionality through the main comm line. Only maintenance issues require a trip downstairs. And that is why we have you.”

Maintenance issues. Problems best left to the janitor.

“Communications have stopped coming from the avtomat hole,
tochno
?” I ask, stepping into the elevator. “Was there anything else? Any other clue?”

“Seismic sensors triggered,” says Leonid, following me inside. Standing too close. “An error, though, not really an earthquake. Just a rhythmic series of low-frequency waves. Isolated Rayleigh waves, specifically, propagating at low velocity from the battle site. But tremors do not come in such a pattern. This does not exist anywhere in nature.”

“What are you saying, Leonid? Speak plainly. What exactly came from the avtomat hole?”

“Just a little tremor.”

“Why did you not tell me this?
Chert poberi!
” I exclaim.

I reach for the elevator latch and haul down both sliding doors. The roar echoes down the concrete shaft and rushes back up, regurgitated. Wrapping my fingers in the wooden slats of the inner door, I pause. Nobody ever told me why this place was built or for whom or what the hell those stilt-legged academics hoped to learn. But, as the maintenance man, I am intimately familiar with what breaks and why.

“The stacks are not seismically isolated,” I say. “They never were.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” says Leonid. “The build site itself was selected for seismic dormancy. It is not an issue.”

I wave my hand. “What a lot of government
fignya
. Half of my maintenance regimen is repairing fixtures disrupted by shifts in the earth. That damned tremor could easily have reached our friend.”

“But it was such a small vibration. Too low amplitude to cause any damage. Even without shielding it barely registered on our instruments.”

“Our friend is smart. He would have paid attention to this. What did he say about the vibration?”

Leonid scratches his beard, eyes hollow. “Nothing, Vasily. When the vibration ended, his topside communications shut down. But even such a small vibration could have chafed the mainline. Perhaps it broke a weak connection somewhere down in the shaft? Do you think it could be that simple?”

I say nothing.

“You think it was a seismic attack? I told you it was too weak to cause damage,” says Leonid.

“No,
gospodin uchnenyi
. I do not think the seismic disturbance was meant to cause structural damage. I think it was meant to carry a message.”

The elevator shaft swallows us whole, only a dim LED light tracking down the wall every ten meters. The shaft is carved into solid bedrock, and the grooves left behind by the bore drill are ridged like the skin of a
giant earthworm. Greased pulleys ease a counterweight silently up the wall beside us. I watch it rise into the dark sky through the mesh-link ceiling of the elevator cubicle.

This is an old place. The earth here has had time to find its own spirit. Dew-kissed walls reflect strange light as the air grows heavier. Lowered down into this black throat, I always imagine that I can hear the rock breathing. A distant sigh, like a small child crying behind a closed door.

Finally, the elevator thunks into its cradle. The mesh ceiling of the compartment clicks, locking into place. Somewhere high above, two tons of flat-stacked counterweights are leering down like gargoyles. If they fell, they would hit like bombs.

The thought is a tremble in my fingers as I roll up the wooden gate, then unlock the mechanism on the outer door. Stooped over, I curl my fingers under the heavy metal rolling door and pause. I do not know what has happened on the other side.

What the hell
, I think. My pistol is on my hip and my balls are between my legs.

So I lift.

The echo of the door races up the carved shaft. But the circular anteroom is empty. A thin layer of dust covers the floor. No evidence of avtomat intrusion, unless they are little fliers. And certainly no footprints other than mine.

I step into the abandoned anteroom.

Twelve aisles radiate in a starburst pattern away from the anteroom, each one a hundred meters of evenly spaced, man-sized equipment racks under a low sweeping rock ceiling. The stacks are obsidian-colored monoliths, dotted top to bottom with winking lights. These swarming constellations dance and twinkle in the cavernous darkness in a way that twists your inner ear. It threatens to cross your eyes and send you swimming for the bottom instead of the surface.

The stacks think. They never sleep.

“Maxim,” I say. “It is Vasily. Back from the eastern antennae array.”

Together, these thousands of computer processors combine to form “our friend” Maxim. Our savior. He is a machine whose mind lives in the ghost tracks of electron orbits. The lights and equipment and wires are
complex beyond meaning. In my simple view, I find it is best to think of Maxim as an animal. Like a horse. We provide him with what he needs and he carries us on his strong back.

“Maxim? Are you here?” I call.

Our scientists used to like to wax poetic about Maxim, especially after a few draughts of vodka. Our friend is mathematical beauty incarnate, they’d say. Living proof of humankind’s intellectual triumph. To put it in scale, they said, his very existence is equivalent to a civilization that has carved the Himalayan mountains by hand.

Maxim is our son and our father.

Of course, only the lowest-ranked peon would come down here in person. The scientists certainly do not venture into the stacks. All their experiments are run via remote in the laboratory, over the communication lines. They monitor his thoughts and pretend his body does not exist.

Contrary to what the brains upstairs believe, Maxim is
not
a being of pure thought. His soul is somewhere within these marching rows of blue-eyed coffins. And it is vulnerable.

This is how I was able to save the Novichok project. It was a particular affair, the existence of which has been kept between Maxim and myself. It is also the reason that most of the villagers of tiny Anadyr are still alive, only ten kilometers from here.

Our secret.

When the day of blood arrived and the avtomat war began, all the automated equipment of the wastes returned. So much automation for the energy industry—drilling and boring and survey machines. Remote legged core samplers raced back into the city and murdered citizens by the hundreds. Automobiles, tractors, and even whole drill platforms turned an evil gaze onto our people.

The scientists huddled in their prefabs. Locked the door against me. But who better than a machine to defend us from the machines? With a fire ax and a snarl, I met Maxim here in his den. I asked the machine to help us, to save our people. But it was frightened of a thing it called Archos R-14. It said this other mind was searching, scouring the world for hidden reserves of processing power.

And so Maxim refused to speak.

With my ax and my snarl, I convinced Maxim the way you would convince any animal. By the strength of my two arms, I forced my will onto the mind of a god. Faced with its own death, Maxim communicated battle instructions to our nearby armed forces. Following Maxim’s strategic direction, we carved a niche of safety out of the chaos.

And this is how a janitor saved a city. With an ax.

The tool is still leaning against the wall, just in front of a security camera. A reminder to Maxim that we all have duties. In war, everyone must contribute to the welfare of the people—if they expect to live.