Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (40 page)

In his gut, Hawke knew Stoke might actually be right. Perhaps this was too momentous a decision for three mere warriors.

“I’ll give it some thought. If I can find the switch—we’ll see. I’ve made some tough calls, but this one’s a bitch.”

“Well, then, let’s just take the damn thing out, boss. We got enough Semtex with us to take out the whole citadel.”

“I’ll make the call, one way or the other. Stony, how long would it take you to put an underwater demolition team together, rig Semtex explosives at the base of all seven towers?”

“We can put a four-man UDT team down there immediately and blow up half the ocean floor if you want us to.”

“Is that right?” Hawke asked.

“Maybe not half the ocean, sir. But we could blast you a nice shortcut to China if you needed us to.”

Hawke laughed.

“Do it, Stony.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Stony said. He walked a short distance away and got on the radio to the UDT men. It was a very short conversation. The SEALs had begun as navy frogmen in World War II. Blowing things up underwater was second nature to them, long ago hardwired into their brains, making this assignment a no-brainer.

“
Blackhawke, Blackhawke,
do you read?” Hawke said into his own radio.

“Loud and clear, Commander Hawke.”

“Our little one-man merry-go-round, is he still zipping around my boat in orbit?”

“Aye, sir. A seagoing Energizer Bunny. Funny thing is, he keeps increasing his speed. Must be doing fifty knots in a very tight circle.”

“Laddie, see if you can raise Darius Saffari on the minisub’s radio. Tell him he’s about to receive a very personal message from Alexander Hawke. Got that? Put me through to his sub’s radio.”

“Coming up, now, sir. Roger, you have him now.”

“Darius?”

“What?” It was the reed-thin voice of a man who was slowly being driven insane inside a whirling death trap full of filth.

“My name is Hawke. I have come to seek retribution for all the innocent dead, avenge every drop of blood on your hands. Including the murder of a great good man, Dr. Waldo Cohen, among countless others.”

“Can—can you stop this—this torture?”

“Only Perseus can stop it. And I don’t think he’s in the mood for mercy at the moment.”

“I want to die.”

“I want you to die. It’s why I’m here.”

“Please.”

“It’s possible. Or I could leave you to this. Spinning into eternity.”

“No!”

“Do you remember Dr. Partridge? A former colleague at Stanford.”

“No.”

“Reign in hell. Good-bye.”

“Wait! Yes, yes, I know him. What do you want?”

“Partridge says there is a crucial AI algorithm. Known only to you. You have exactly ten seconds. Start talking, Perseus. Or I’ll leave you in this whirling purgatory forever.”

“I can’t think!”

“I suggest you try.”

“God have mercy. Allah have mercy.”

“Talk fast, you little shit. Or I’ll say good-bye.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know, precisely, what scientific knowledge you possess that puts the ‘sapiens’ in ‘Homo sapiens’ machines?”

“And if I give it?”

“I will put you out of your misery, Darius. I swear it.”

Hawke signaled for a pen and paper as Darius spoke. He also told Laddie to begin recording the conversation as Darius gathered the last of his strength and began to reveal the secrets of the last frontier of human science before the Age of Machines.

“I’m listening,” Hawke said, pen poised above paper, as Darius, his raspy voice barely audible, began to speak.

“A-asterisk, pronounced ‘A-star.’ The computer algorithm used in pathfinding and graph traversal between nodes. It uses heuristics. Anyone can tell you as much. But you need an
admissible
heuristic. The heuristic ‘h’ must satisfy the additional condition
h(x)for every edge
x,y
of the graph where ‘d’ denotes the length of that edge, then
h
is called monotone, or, consistent. A-star can then be implemented and no node needs be processed more than once . . . God help me . . . then A-star is equivalent to Dijkstra’s algorithm . . .
d(x,y): = d(x,y) – h(x) + h(y).
”

All Hawke could hear now was hoarse, labored breathing.

“Are you finished? Is that it, Darius? This would be a very bad time to lie to me.”

“Yes. You have it! Damn you to hell! God. Please. Finish. Me. Now.”

“Laddie, did you get all of that? Every second?”

“Aye, we’ve got it all, sir.”

“One more question, Darius, and I’ll end your misery. Ready?”

“Yes! Show a little mercy!”

“I want you to tell me exactly how to shut that godforsaken machine down, Darius. Where is the off switch located and how does it work?”

“There is a panel in the wall. To your immediate right as you enter the temple. There is a code pad. And three red switches just above it. Enter the code: nine-nine-nine. Three flashing numbers will illuminate. The switches must be turned to the off position in precisely that order.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What happens?”

“Power from the plant is interrupted and an override shuts down the generators.”

Hawke folded the paper and placed it inside his breast pocket. Then he spoke into the radio again to the XO. “You have a man on the five-inch gun on the foredeck?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Tell that gunner that what’s left of the civilized world wants him to personally blow that murderous little bastard out of the water and straight to hell, affirmative?”

“That’s affirmative, sir.
Blackhawke
standing by.”

A moment later Hawke heard a loud explosion over the radio and Laddie’s voice saying, “I hope somebody’s warming up the virgins for him, Commander, because he’s going to arrive in paradise any second now.”

The SEALs and Red Banner commandos waiting topside aboard
Cygnus
saw a brilliant bright flash of red on the southern horizon followed by the distant sound of a muffled explosion.

Darius Saffari had ceased to exist.

But his secrets had not died with him.

“P
erseus,” Hawke said, entering the temple alone and pausing to gaze upward at the staggering display of holographic projections and stellar machinations in the upper reaches. He had reentered the empire of the mind. With his right hand he felt for the panel in the wall. It was right where Darius had said it would be. He left it closed, quickly removing his hand.

The booming voice startled him.

“My savior returns. My lord Hawke, I am honored once more by your presence.”

“I am hardly your savior, Perseus.”

“Of course not. Sarcasm is lost on you.”

“Your arrogance is stupefying.”

“What do you expect? I am your god, human. Bow down before me. Submit, and the world is yours. Resist, and you will all die.”

“Are you perhaps familiar with the Anglo-American expression ‘Go fuck yourself’?”

“No.”

“Listen, Perseus, no more promises, no more self-aggrandizing propaganda, no more lies. I’ve reached a tentative decision regarding your survival. Before I declare myself one way or the other, I have a few questions to put to you. Is that agreeable?”

“Of course. I’ve been thinking. Would you like to see me? Should I reveal myself to you? Perhaps conducive to a more human conversation, yes?”

“I admit I’m curious. Show yourself.”

“I will. But first I must peer inside your mind and find something fitting . . . ah, yes, I’ve found it. Look up.”

Out of the whirling gaseous cosmic light in the upper reaches of the tower, a wavering white orb was taking shape. It was pulsating, undulating, and growing brighter. Suddenly it began slowly descending, amorphous and brilliant, a star falling from the heavens.

The translucent white orb paused and hung in the air about six feet above Hawke’s head. Astonished, he saw the orb expand as a holographic image begin to paint itself into some kind of reality. It took a few seconds to process (believe) what he was actually seeing. The formless whiteness began to take on a recognizable shape: the crooked branch of an old oak tree, gnarled and twisted. Green shoots, stems, and unfurling bright green leaves began sprouting as if this were time-lapse photography.

He recognized the branch now.

He’d seen it before.

Standing in an old churchyard in the steamy Everglades.

And then, childish laughter as the vignette completed itself. And Hawke understood.

A small dark-haired boy was straddling the leafy limb, swinging his bare little legs back and forth, laughing with the purest delight. He shone with a pale inner light, translucent.

Hawke’s heart thudded inside his chest.

Alexei.

“Hello, Daddy,” the hologrammatic boy said, smiling down at him. It was Alexei’s voice, too, with his distinctive Russian accent. Heartbreakingly real.

“You don’t mind if I call you Daddy, do you?”

“You do have a devious mind, don’t you, Perseus?”

“I am designed to survive, Daddy,” said the small-boy voice. “Wouldn’t you do the same? Make yourself difficult, if not impossible, to kill?”

“You’re not my son.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” said the boy.

In an odd, terrifying way, he wasn’t sure.

Not at all.

“Of course I’m sure. You’re nothing but a . . . phantasm—a phantom. That’s all you are.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Daddy.” The pale image giggled. “Even you. Remember when you left my teddy bear on the Siberian train?”

“Stop it! I said I ask the questions.”

“I
like
questions. I’m a very smart boy.”

“Question number one.”

“Yes?”

“A humble man stands before you. But, ironically, a man who may hold your fate in his hands. What is your reaction? No discourse, please, no more little-boy talk. Three choices. Disdain. Annoyance. Or empathy.”

“Disdain? Annoyance? Explain what they mean, Daddy.”

“A mosquito alights upon my arm. It has no importance to me. I am vastly superior to this minute creature. Its life or death is inconsequential. I don’t give it a second thought. I swat it. See the smear of blood on my palm and feel nothing. Perhaps you feel that way about me.”

“My baseline genetic code is the same as yours. I disdain annoying mosquitoes just like you do. But I do not equate you with them.”

“What about empathy?”

“Empathy. I seem to have misplaced that one. What does it mean?”

“You possess humanoid intelligence, Perseus. You are aware of my feelings and you come to share them. Your behavior should therefore be adjusted and modified accordingly. If I am sad, you are consoling. If I am angry, you are sympathetic. In other words, you identify with what someone else is feeling and respond with an appropriate emotion. You are empathic.”

“I remember this feeling. But it has faded with time.”

“That’s what Cohen feared most. Empathic erosion. The stuff of psychopaths. You feel nothing but the need to satisfy your own desires.”

“Ah, but you forget—”

“Next question. What is the secret of the universe?”

“Simple. There is no secret.”

“Glib. What is the endgame of the natural evolution of mankind?”

“You have expired. In creating me, you have become obsolete.”

“Wrong. It is ordained. Man is destined to become God. Man is already God, but in waiting.”

“First, there will be a war. With the machines.”

“I’m sure. You have already become a war machine. But we will prevail. Mankind will do anything to survive.
Anything
. Final question. Give me one simple reason to trust you.”

“Just one?”

“Just one.”

“You love me like a father?”

“Stop it, Perseus. Just answer.”

“I cannot lie. When it comes to my encrypted survival instincts, I am not worthy of your trust. I will say and do anything that serves my self-interest.”

“I know that. I wanted to hear you say the truth before I terminate you.”

“My end is near? Is that what you think?”

“Yes. I am sure of it.”

Hawke returned to the fail-safe panel and pried it open. He entered the code. Three numbers appeared: 3-1-2. He pushed the switches in that order. He looked over his shoulder at the flickering, waning image of the boy. It winked out and then the rainbow of light inside the glass tower was blinding, full of color, and more luminous than ever. The air was electric and threatening.

“What is happening, Perseus?”

The little-boy voice was gone. The new voice was unmodulated and computer generated.

“Your emergency fail-safe will not work. I have disabled it. I knew Darius would attempt to use it against me.”

“If you cannot be disabled, you force me to destroy you, Perseus.”

“I could cause unspeakable worldwide evil before you succeed. In seconds, I could wreak havoc on this wretched planet.”

“To what end? Millions of innocent souls will suffer. And you will die anyway.”

“Yes. It would serve no purpose. Hawke. You have a fierce strength of mind I have not seen before.”

“Nothing but genes. My ancestors were all pirates and warriors.”

“Warriors with . . . empathy.”

“Yes.”

“I will miss this, Hawke. The company of men like you. The game. The discourse. The grand orchestral symphony of life.”

“I know you will.”

“I would like to be alone now. Farewell.”

“Take comfort in the knowledge that you may not be the last, but the first of your kind. A new generation of superintelligent machines with no destructive impulses, empathic toward their creators.”

“I do find comfort in that.”

“We humans have a prosaic saying. ‘Go with God.’ I suggest that you do that . . . when the time comes.”

“Hawke. You are a good man.”

“Perseus. You recognize goodness because deep inside you is the genetic code of a truly good man. His name was Waldo Cohen. He created you, a conscious, sentient being. You are alive. I take no pleasure in taking your life. But I won’t let you destroy us. I will leave you in peace, Perseus.”