The Genie and the Engineer 3: Ravages of War (10 page)

“A terrorist attack, like 9/11?” Ruggiero suggested.

“I have a better idea,” Clarke announced, sitting up
straight and turning to Wu. “How about starting up a little war? We know he’ll
respond to that, based on the events in the Middle East. A nice conflict
between the United States and the People’s Republic of China.”

Cecily nodded. “Yes, that idea has merit.”

If Wu was at all disturbed or surprised by the suggestion,
he gave no sign of it. He faced Clarke squarely. “What exactly do you propose?”

Clarke’s smile was enigmatic. “Let’s start with the South
China Sea, shall we?” 

The planet Mars

Coprates Chasma

Kamtol Nursery (from
Llana of Gathol
)

Thursday, 9:28 p.m. LMST

February

Day 83

P
aul paced back
and forth nervously from one end of the underground room to the other, his
hands clasped behind his back, his head hunched forward. Every so often, he
would pause and glance at the LCD monitor sitting on the workbench, looking for
some sign of activity on it. When he confirmed that it was still blank, he
resumed the pacing.

Capie leaned back in a seat fashioned from native rock,
waiting silently and patiently.

Finally, when even she grew tired of watching her husband
wear himself out, she said, “Dear, don’t you know by now that babies have their
own schedules?”

Paul hesitated for a moment but kept walking. “This is not
quite the same thing,” he grunted irritably.

“Dear, all babies are like this,” Capie said in a reasonable
tone, “be they organic or digital. Patience, please.”

Daneel 1 floated back through the doorway and into the room.

“Nothing yet?” he asked, wearing a tentative smile on his
holographic face above his black cube.

“No, nothing,” snapped Paul, with a scowl. “I’m thinking
something went wrong with the personality transfer matrix.”

The matrix, a software program designed to filter the
elements of intelligence from the mindset of a Scottie, was designed to allow
the creation of a minimal personality, in essence, planting a newborn baby into
the CPU of a new computer. In theory, the new baby would develop into a totally
different person, one quite different from Daneel. In fact, Paul’s primary goal
with this type of matrix was to allow the creation of a female Scottie, with
all the so-called instincts of the feminine version of a flesh and blood woman.

Daneel 1 had been chosen as the software “donor” to the new
Scottie and the process had actually been completed hours previously. And, to
improve the chances that it would work, they were using the same PC machine
that Daneel 1 had been created in, before being transferred into the superior
hardware that he possessed now.

“You’re too impatient, CR,” Capie said with a knowing smile.
“Call it a mother’s instinct, if you will, but I know, without a shade of a
doubt, that this is going to work. Trust me.”

Paul grunted but had no other response as he continued
pacing back and forth.

Ω

“There!” Daneel 21 practically squealed, watching the LCD
screen. “I saw a dot of light, dead center of the screen!”

Paul lunged forward, taking hold of both sides of the LCD
monitor and studying the display carefully. “Are you sure?” he challenged.

“I saw it too,” Daneel 1 assured him, with a sigh of relief.
“It was quick. Maybe only on for a half second.”

“What color was it?” Paul asked cautiously, as he released
the screen and rocked back on his heels.

“White,” Daneel 1 replied, with a growing smile. “Isn’t that
what happened during my gestation?”

“It was indeed,” replied Capie, with a knowing grin on her
face. “It was indeed. See? It’s going to be all right, CR. And it’s going to be
a girl too.”

Paul spun and looked at his wife in surprise. “And how the
devil would you know that?”

Capie chuckled in reply. “Please! I just know it. What a silly
question.”

Three days later, a baby girl Scottie was “born” and Daneel
21 was assigned as her nanny.

The Armsteads, after much deliberation, decided that Capie
would, from this point forth, choose all of the girl Scottie names while Paul
would continue to select the boy names. Capie picked the name Jocasta for the
newborn, after the Marvel Comics
Avengers
superhero. Paul wholeheartedly
approved.

Ω

With the Ascraeus Mons caldera ‘highway’ open, the Daneels
had established a steady stream of traffic back and forth to Earth for a
variety of supplies, including all of the discrete components needed to
continue manufacturing of the new Scotties. This saved a considerable amount of
time, not having to develop assembly lines for such mundane items as resistors and
the like. Why reinvent the wheel, after all, when such components were readily
available in practically unlimited quantities from any supplier on Earth?

At the same time, Capie was able to acquire perishable
groceries on a regular schedule. Items such as milk, butter, cheese, eggs,
bread (and chocolates) were added back into their diets once again. And pizza,
Paul’s favorite meal, became a regular weekly staple.

The creation of more Daneel clones proceeded apace, the
numbers swiftly building.

And, with access now to Earth, Paul purchased forty eight
‘hot’ desktop PC models, installing them in the nursery rooms. Within a few
days, a new Scottie progenitor (a boy this time) was born. Paul named him
Harlie (from David Gerrold’s book
When H.A.R.L.I.E. was One
). The next
Scottie, a girl, acquired a day later, was named Vicki (from the TV series,
Small
Wonder
).

Paul was insufferably pleased with himself, spending hours
each day in the nursery, cooing at the babies and telling them science fiction
stories. His plans were working out extremely well! Indeed, they were ahead of
schedule!

Ω

Day 94

“Paul, I’ve got a problem,” Capie announced mournfully a few
days later as she slammed down her pencil on the counter-top and slumped into a
chair next to the laboratory work bench.

They were in the Thuvia Lab (
Thuvia, Maid of Mars
)
where Paul was giving her a hand with pre-clinical development of the MBE drug.
Specifically, they were conducting a few experiments, exploring a variety of
concepts for developing the right antigens. Unfortunately, the work was going
exceedingly slow.

“You mean
we’ve
got a problem,” Paul corrected her.
“I take it that the internet searches the Daneels have been doing for you didn’t
turn up anything?”

“No, they did not,” Capie dolefully admitted, brushing a
stray strand of hair from her forehead. “There is no option here that I can
see. I have to go back to Earth. Do what you did in San Jose. Namely track down
the experts in the field and interview their avatars.”

“Can’t you let the Scotties do that for you?” Paul asked as
he lowered himself into the chair beside Capie’s. “They’ll have an easier time
getting around on Earth than you will.”

But she was shaking her head. “It would take too long that
way. Too many round trips to Mars and back, just to bring me a snippet or two
of information at a time. No, I need to go there, do the avatar interviews in
person. Much faster that way.”

Paul nodded, suddenly gloomy.

“There’s something else I want to try when I get there,”
Capie added gingerly, looking at Paul pointedly. “I want to try calling up a
SI, a super-intelligence. I would like to know why we can’t do that anymore.”

“Because we left Earth, right?”

“That’s the theory. But why is Earth important for that
spell to work?” she asked with a long face. “Anyway, I want to put it to the
test. I wish I’d thought of it when we were there for Christmas but I had other
things on my mind back then.”

He smiled, reaching over to squeeze her hand gently. “So,
when do you want to go?”

She leaned back in her chair, seriously considering the
question. “In the morning. I would like to take a dozen Daneels with me, to
help with all the leg work.” She sighed. “I won’t lie to you. It might take
some time to find the answers I need.”

“I understand,” Paul replied, adding his own sigh to hers.
“Please keep in touch. I’d like nightly reports, please. And—”

“Yes, I know. Stay out of the capital cities.”

“You read my mind.”

Ω

Capie locked the hotel door of Room 408 behind her and
kicked off her shoes. It had been an incredibly long day and she was looking
forward to climbing under the sheets in a nice comfortable bed for a decent
night’s sleep.

The trip from Mars to Earth had been exhausting enough. But
she didn’t have the luxury of just dropping straight down to the United States,
at least, not from orbit. A detour had been needed through some remote location
and she had needed a place to store the spacesuit as well. Daneel 7 had picked
the North Pole, which had the virtue of being about as remote as you could get
in the northern hemisphere. The spacesuit had been tucked away securely, well
hidden in a glacier.

From the Pole, only a few additional portal hops had been
needed to get her here, to the Rochester Marriott in Minnesota. Only a stone’s
throw, as it were, from the Mayo Clinic. She was even too tired to eat
anything. That would have to wait until tomorrow morning, after a good night’s
sleep. After breakfast, she would then begin the process of hunting down the
right doctors, going where they lived and getting close enough to create their
avatars for some extensive and in depth questioning.

She collapsed in one of the room’s soft chairs, leaning back
and closing her eyes. Daneel 7 and the other eleven Scotties that had come with
her were in the room next door. Since they were, in essence, more machine than
‘human’ they didn’t need quite as much rest or sleep. Instead, they would be
making extensive use of the hotel internet facilities during the night, looking
up the information she would need for tomorrow.

In the meantime, her curiosity was getting the better of
her. Before she changed clothes and crawled under the covers, she was dying to
know if she could access a SI or super-intelligence now that she was back on
Earth. One corner of her mind argued that it would only take a minute and then
she would know the answer.

Opening her eyes again, she snapped her fingers and half held
her breath. “Tia, have you got a minute?”

The familiar ball of smoke appeared, swiftly growing in
size, dissolving into the holographic image of the Queen of Fairies, standing
in the middle of the small room. The individual bowed to Capie. “Nice to see
you again, my dear. Are you having a fun time on Mars?”

Capie breathed a jubilant sigh of relief. “So! You still
exist after all!”

Tia snorted in amusement. “Of course.”

Capie leaned forward, her fatigue temporarily forgotten. “So
why can’t I call on you anyplace but on Earth?”

The question seemed to amuse the holographic personality
considerably and she chuckled. “Ah, you haven’t figured that out yet? Do you
not know the source of our knowledge, from where we come? Think, youngster,
think! What are we, Merlin and myself and all the others like us? What is our
source of existence?”

As tired as she was, Capie blinked in surprise and
considered the question. The SI’s had a source? That made sense, in a way. They
had to come from somewhere, right?

In a flash, the answer came to her.

“You’re a creature of Earth,” she declared with sudden
conviction.

“Not the planet, no,” argued Tia. “The people.”

Capie nodded. “That’s what I meant. There was a book I read
once, by Keith Laumer. Oh, what was the title!? Yes,
The Infinite Cage
!
That was it! About a telepath that could access the thoughts, the personalities
of all the people of Earth. Everything they knew, all at his fingertips! That’s
what you and Merlin are, right!”

Tia nodded, an amused smile still on her face. “Ipsum,” she
replied, in Latin.

Capie chuckled. “It makes so much more sense now! No wonder
we couldn’t contact any SI while on Mars or in space! ‘Beam me up, Scotty,
there’s no intelligent life there, right!’ Geez! Wait until I tell Paul!” But
then her mirth died down, transforming itself into gleeful satisfaction and
determination.

“That’s good. Very good,” she pronounced. “Tomorrow, I’ll
have access to not only the avatars of some very professional medical experts
but also to you and a bunch of other SI’s. You are going to help me figure this
MBE drug problem out. There has to be a solution and you’re going to help me
find it!” She grinned wildly. “This is going to work out just fine!”

Ω

Just three days later, she was back on Mars, Paul greeting
her in the living room of the Coprates Chasma house with a vigorous kiss and a
huge hug.

“Welcome back!” he proclaimed, setting her back down on her
feet again. “I missed you, can you tell? Tell me about the trip. Did you find
what you were looking for?”

“Relax, CR,” she pleaded, catching her breath after that
wonderful kiss. “Yes, I did. And do I have a story to tell you…!”

One mile north of Beting Serupai (James Shoal)

South China Sea

Aboard the fishing trawler, PKFB85

Friday, 5:21 a.m. MYT

March

“K
halid!”
shouted Captain Iman bin Akim of the Malaysian fishing trawler PKFB85, as he
dropped down the ladder from the pilothouse and onto the ship’s working deck
forward of the aft superstructure. “Mind the port beam! And watch the warp!” He
stood on the deck, watching the deck hand move slowly to the port side to check
the equipment.

The PKFB85 was a fairly small and practically ancient
vessel, dating all the way back to shortly after World War II. It was only
fourteen meters long with a beam of four meters and a gross weight of less than
fifty tons. As such, it had been in the captain’s family for three generations
now. Iman’s grandfather had acquired it in a deal with a Malaysian merchant
company, the details of which his grandfather had never explained.

Not that it mattered to Iman. It was his ship now, after his
father had passed away five years previously. But the open question now was how
long Iman could keep it.

Fishing off of the west coast of Sarawak, Malaysia was not
the successful enterprise that it had been in his grandfather’s day, nor even
in his father’s. There were many reasons for the decline in the business,
ranging from increased costs in supplies and labor, to competition and to
overfishing of the traditional areas in the South China Sea. As it stood, Iman
was barely making ends meet this season. If the trends kept up, then it might
well be the last profitable season he would ever have. Next year…well, next
year was shaping up to be a pretty bad one. The trawler needed extensive repairs.
Both net winches were giving him a lot of trouble. Like many other items of equipment
on the trawler, they were long overdue for replacement. And, if the truth be
known, such expensive replacements were simply out of the question.

If the situation did not improve and soon, he could lose the
trawler, possibly as early as next year. Then he and his wife would have to
find other employment, a difficult task considering the state of the current
economy. He might be able to get a job on one of the big commercial trawlers.
After all, Iman had decades of experience with fishing beam trawlers. True,
there seemed to be a lack of such jobs here on the coast of Sarawak but he had
heard that the fishing off the west coast of the Malaysian peninsula was still
doing fairly well. Too bad that he couldn’t afford to move his operations seven
hundred miles west.

Daylight was breaking to the east behind him. From the calm
state of the seas, it would likely be another hot muggy day here just north of
the equator. The seagulls trailing the ship were thicker than usual too, but he
ignored their raucous cries. Iman glanced back up at the port beam where the
warp ran through the block, then followed the cable back into the sea near the
stern of the ship. His experienced eye told him that the tension and position
was returning to normal.

“Ship!” yelled the pilot, Syamri, the short dark-skinned
native positioned in the pilothouse above him.

Syamri’s warning cry puzzled Iman. The South China Seas crawled
with ships of all sizes and types. There was not a day that went by that a
dozen or more weren’t seen passing through the area. Yet Syamri must have seen
something unusual.

“Where away?” he shouted back.

“Broad on the starboard bow! Looks like a warship!”

Now that was bad news indeed. Warships in these waters were
few and far between. Worse, if it was a Chinese warship, which was a distinct
possibility, it could be very bad news indeed.

The last time Iman had looked at his chart, his ship was a
few miles south of the Chinese exclusion zone. The idiot Chinese were claiming
the vast majority of the South China Seas for their restricted use. And like
most of the Malaysian fisherman, Iman had no desire to tangle with them so he normally
made it a point to avoid fishing in the disputed territory. But it was possible
that with the drift of the current and the push of the wind, his ship might
have crossed the line.

Iman vaulted up the ladder to the pilothouse, grabbed up the
binoculars from the wall peg and searched the horizon. It was indeed a Chinese warship
and, what was worse, it was headed straight at him, with a bone in its teeth.

His blood suddenly turned to ice water. The warship had a
forward deck gun and it was manned and—
it was pointing directly at him
!
Even as he watched, a puff of smoke exploded out the end!

“Hard a port!” he yelled at Syamri, before leaning out the
side of the pilothouse. “Release the warps!” he screamed at Khalid.

A tower of water suddenly jumped out of the sea on the
starboard side, the roar of an explosion shattering the pilothouse windows,
spraying glass in their faces, and the ship rocked hard to port.

Iman reached out to Syamri, pulling him from the wheel. “
Abandon
ship! Abandon ship
!”

He never heard the second shell, the one that landed
squarely on the forward deck.

Without warning, he found himself flying through the air,
the world spinning around him, and plunging into the water hard enough to knock
the breath out of him. He fought, kicking and thrashing his arms wildly,
struggling to reach the surface.

Which he did, popping out into the open air. For several
seconds, he found he still couldn’t take air into his lungs, he had been hit so
hard. It was a fight for his life, staying above the waves, sucking in air and
desperately trying to regain some measure of control.

“Iman!” screamed a voice close by. “Iman!”

He spun as he continued to thrash in the water. There, only
a few yards away, he could see Khalid, one arm flung over a large plank. His
other arm was working to hold up Syamri, who was either dead or unconscious.

“Swim to me!” yelled Khalid. “I need help with Syamri!
Swim!”

Iman was not a very good swimmer but he managed to kick his
shoes off and make his way through the waves to Khalid’s side. Once he had a
hold on the wood, he grabbed Syamri’s other arm. Together, he and Khalid
managed to flip Syamri over and keep the man’s mouth and nose above water.
Well, most of the time.

A few yards away, Iman could also see the stern of his boat
as it tilted to a vertical position, the entire bow and midships either gone or
under water. As he watched, horrified, the stern slid downward, plunging
beneath the waves.

His ship, gone. Despair gripped his soul, squeezing him
tightly. He knew not what would be worse, surviving this day without his ship?
Or just letting go of the wood and ending it all here and now.

Ω

The two jets, one slightly below and behind the other,
bolted through the clear blue sky at just under the speed of sound, vectoring
south southeast at a true altitude of 10,000 feet. Ahead and above them at
35,000 feet was the contrail of an airliner, Singapore Airlines Flight 910, on
its regularly scheduled run from Singapore to Manilla. The single-seater fighter
jets were military, Chinese J-11B’s, powered by twin-engine
Shenyang
WS-10 turbofans, both capable of 59,400 pounds thrust in full afterburner.

The fighter jets banked left and pulled up, now on a curved
intercept with the civilian aircraft, approaching it from behind and below.
They accelerated slightly in order to close the distance with their intended
and unsuspecting target.

The pilot in the lead J-11B activated his radio. In Mandarin
Chinese, he said, “Target acquired.”

His controller, stationed back at the Yongxing Island
airstrip on “Woody Island” in the Paracels, responded very promptly, also in
Mandarin. “You are authorized to proceed against the intruder.”

The pilot gulped, knowing that his next action would cost
the lives of hundreds of innocent people. Nevertheless, he had his orders and
would not shirk from them.

Switching his fire control radar from search to track mode, he
noted the closure rate and distance to the airliner. When the range had
decreased to five miles, he activated the Russian made
Vympel
R-27R
missile on the inner starboard weapons pylon, locking the missile to the
target. As the J-11B closed to four miles, within the optimal target range of
the medium range missile, he closed his eyes and pressed the firing button on
the control stick.

The plane shuddered, the missile dropping away from the
wing. With a practiced jerk of the control stick, the pilot brought the plane
level again. The R-27R, a radar guided air-to-air missile, dropped only thirty
feet before the solid fueled engine fully ignited. Thereafter, it accelerated
rapidly, up to Mach 4.5, racing straight ahead.

At this range, it was no contest at all. In five seconds,
the missile covered the four miles between the planes, smashing the airliner’s
main starboard wing just inboard of its engine. The result was almost
instantaneous, with the starboard wing shearing from the aircraft, the fuselage
spinning down and to the left. In seconds, the wind shear tore the rest of the
plane to shreds, spewing fragments of it in all directions.

And then his J-11B was thundering past the wreckage, where the
Chinese fighter pilot could no longer see it. Banking sharply left and trusting
on his wingman to keep up, he craned his neck in that direction and reacquired
visual contact.

But there was only a scattering of aluminum pieces in the
air, all of them falling slowly toward the surface of the South China Sea far
below.

Hundreds of defenseless people now dead. At his hand too.
Gritting his teeth, the pilot angled his plane back to the northwest and keyed
his mike.

“Intruder destroyed,” he reported tensely. “Returning to
base.”

Ω

Day 124

Later in the day, Paul noticed how quiet Capie was. She was
in the nursery, softly talking to Eve (the 2008 film,
WALL-E
) in baby
talk as the AI slept on a nearby table.

Paul had known her long enough to know that something was
wrong. He motioned for her to step out of the nursery so that he could talk to
her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her, when they were out in the
corridor.

For several seconds she didn’t respond, only frowned and
looked away. Paul waited patiently.

“It’s just that she is so cute!” Capie finally blurted out.
“And you are planning to turn her into a soldier. A killing machine! It just
seems wrong.”

Paul waited a bit longer, to see if there was more she
wanted to say. Then he grimaced and shook his head.

“Dear,” Paul said slowly, trying to tread carefully through
the perceived field of landmines. “I thought you wanted the wizards to receive
capital punishment.”

She refused to meet his look. And for a long several
moments, she didn’t say anything either.

“I do think they should be dealt with harshly, for all the
millions of people that they’ve killed,” she finally softly muttered as she
stared down at Eve. “But not by these innocent babies. It wouldn’t be right.”

For a few moments, Paul didn’t respond. Secretly, in his
heart, he was vastly relieved. Capie was continuing to make progress with her
emotional trauma involving the death of her father. This reluctance on her part
to let the AIs kill her enemies surely was a sign of her improvement.

“So,” Paul finally said, again careful on what words to use.
“You think the wizards should die, right up to the point where it comes time to
pick the executioners. Is that about right?”

This time, she did look up at him. And with a grim scowl on
her face as well.

“I hate it when people use logic against me!” she softly
snapped back before sighing. “Okay, you have a point. But don’t change the
subject. I don’t want to turn Eve into a killing machine, okay? Nor any of the
other Scotties either.”

“That’s not what I want as well,” Paul responded,
challenging her assertion. “Although I won’t lie to you. It might be necessary
for them to kill, in the same way that I needed to kill McDougall. But the
Scotties won’t be involved in the same type of fighting that say, the US
Rangers or Seals perform on mission ops or that the Marines perform when
storming a beach or the US Army performed on D-Day. They won’t be involved in that
kind of fighting.”

She adopted a suspicious glare at him. “I guess I don’t
understand. What are you saying exactly?”

It was his turn to think for a few seconds.

“There was a science-fiction short story I read once, a long
time ago. I don’t remember the author or the name of the story but I do
remember what one of the characters, an alien I believe, had to say about World
War II. He said that it was a colossal waste of resources and lives. That it
would have been far more efficient and effective if an appropriate degree of
power had been applied to one man, Adolf Hitler, say in the form of a single
note played endlessly over and over again in his ear. Imagine how quickly the
man would have been distracted and driven insane and how much faster the war
would have ended, how many lives would have been saved.”

“I must have missed that story,” Capie admitted with a small
shrug. “But it doesn’t seem practical, to have actually done that.”

Paul smiled knowingly. “No, not using the technology they
had back then or lacking the power of magic that we have now.”

She jerked a little in surprise. “Are you saying…?”

“Exactly. The type of soldiers that I want the Scotties to
be will use their magical powers to fight in unconventional ways. They will
look for efficient, non-lethal methods—the quickest way, the least degree of
power needed, ways that will save lives. So, in the conventional sense, they
won’t be soldiers and this won’t be an army, but there really aren’t words in
the English language to describe what sort of role they will actually serve. A
team, yes but far more than that as well.”