Robogenesis (8 page)

“The boy appears only when you are gone. And anyway it is not really a boy. The child is only a form it chooses to take.”

“Come up with me,” says Leonid. He is pleading now. Imploring me, too smart or afraid to continue to question the existence of the boy. “Let’s have a strong drink together. You can tell me more. Explain everything.”

“I am busy,” I say.

Maxim does well hiding the results of my work from topside. Simulations and illusions. Leonid has not seen the tangles of wires lying strewn down the stacks. The winding chain-link barricades that I’ve been building down here in the dark. I’ve been busy-busy, much busier than Leonid can or should know.

I take another step forward, him another step back.

“They’ll send soldiers next,” he says, stepping into the elevator cage. “I barely convinced them to let me come talk to you. What do you expect? You don’t pick up the comm link. The elevator mysteriously breaks. They think you’ve gone crazy, Vasily. We all saw how you treated Maxim during the war. Like an animal. There are stories about you and your ax—”

“I told you! I maintain!”

My voice echoes through the stacks.

Blinking, the beak-nosed scientist nods at the plate of food. “Eat, Vasily,” he says, pulling down the solid-steel exterior gate. It closes with a crash. The slats of the inner door lower quietly. He speaks to me through the latticework of the square window embedded in the gate, voice muffled. “And come up soon. You are missing all the parties. The war is over, you know? Time to relax. We won.”

I bark a laugh.

“The war is only now beginning,” I say to the faint face behind the glass. The elevator screeches and the jerky platform lifts him slowly up the shaft, toward the light.

“We’ll be back for you soon, Mr. Zaytsev,” he calls down, voice dying with distance. “And this time we’ll bring guns. You are finished. Ready or not.”

For three minutes, I stand under the pale flickering fluorescent as the ventilation system hums. I listen until I hear the elevator distantly click into place high above me. When I speak, the echoes of my voice chase each other through the stacks like the ghosts of children playing. “I will try to sever the elevator counterweights later today. Is that possible?”

For a long moment, nothing. Then my companion speaks.

“Yes,” says Maxim.

“Okay. What next?” I ask the room.

“Move to cold aisle number seven. Proceed to the fourth cabinet. Turn and kneel. Access the bottom rack. Carefully remove it.”

“Fine,” I say, picking up a crowbar and laying it over my shoulder. “But we don’t have much time. If the cluster doesn’t come out easy, I cut it out. Don’t forget that your job is to protect the people of Anadyr. If it is necessary, Maxim, you will have to make do with a little less.”

According to Maxim, Archos R-14 is trapped in the processors in this quadrant of the stacks. The claustrophobic alleys between equipment racks are strewn with wires and clippings. If we can build a Faraday cage around the mess and reroute all data through a single wire, then we will be able to sever this whole area in one attack.

We can cut Archos off, and I hope that we can do it quickly. The kid is really getting on my nerves.

The projector arm quietly articulates, spraying the hologrammatic image of a narrow-chested American boy. In khaki shorts and tube socks, Archos R-14 leans his skinny shoulder blades against the racks and watches me. I have learned that the light he uses cannot harm me, but I still try not to look into his eyes. The fractal patterns in his pupils glitter and pull; they threaten to swallow my sanity.

“Cutting out some more cores, eh?” he asks. “It won’t help. I’m not here to harm you. Either of you.”

I ignore him, keep tapping the panel doors. Counting.

“I forget, Vasily Zaytsev. Do you give Maxim orders, or does the machine give them to you?”

“Here?” I ask the room.

Maxim gives an affirmative click. On my knees, I put my hands against the blade door and push. The panel starts to come out, then jams. I sigh. This could take a long time.

“Ah, I thought so,” says Archos.

“When we finish,” I say, straining to remove the panel without success, “he won’t have access to the projector anymore. Correct?”

“That’s right,” says Maxim.

I feel the glow of the boy on the back of my neck. He is leaning over, talking low to me. I’m not sure if his image can really see or if he watches through cameras and other sensors like Maxim. But he makes eye contact when I turn to face him.

“Tired of me already?” he asks, pupils crawling with patterns. “That’s okay. I know when I’m not wanted. But y’know, you could see your friend
Maxim if you like. Work with him man-to-man. It might make this go faster.”

I frown, not understanding.

The boy cocks his head, eyes smiling. “You didn’t know? He has a face. It’s a part of his core identity. He can’t shake it, no matter what, and I’ll bet he’s tried. Should I show him, Max?”

No sound comes from the speakers.

“Transferring control …,” says the boy, his voice slowing and fading by the second word. His light folds in on itself. Lines float, meshing together to create a vague bluish form. Hard beams carve out a figure in the cloudy haze, cutting in details.

An apparition floats in the stacks, solidifies.

And Maxim stands before me. Made of light. Slump-shouldered and looking slightly embarrassed.

“Is that you?” I ask the room. “Truly?”

Maxim’s voice comes over the speakers soft and smooth. He sounds surprised, but that might be my imagination. I don’t know if the machine is capable of pretending to have emotions.

“Yes,” says Maxim. “This is me. Near enough.”

The image of a man is about five and a half feet tall, a squashed fighter’s nose on a broad, round moon face. A chin like a mountainside and a slight underbite. His head is shaved and a receding hairline creeps up over slit eyes that pool like glacier water. His chest is broad and his stout shoulders lie back proudly, so that his arms hang in a perpetual invitation to fistfight.

He is a hard man, and little. His life, wherever it took him, has forged him into a dirty lump of uncut diamond. I would never have wanted to trade punches with him.

“You were ugly,” I say.

The illusion speaks, mouth moving as Maxim’s voice comes out over the speakers. There is a tenth-of-a-second delay on the voice for the first few words. Then it synchronizes perfectly and I hear Maxim’s voice coming from the man-image.

“This is an image of the man who gave his mind to form my training
corpus. He was poor and desperate. His family destitute. One of thousands who responded to the advertisement for a test subject. Physically, he was an incredible find. Very robust. The government apparatchik paid out a full military pension to his wife and son. I made sure of it later. A special machine captured this man’s brain function, every neuron scanned and destroyed in the process.”

“So, you are him?”

Maxim looks at his hands and chuckles. I blink, surprised. I never knew it could do that. Never knew he could laugh.

“I have asked myself that question trillions of times,” he says. “This man’s life formed the bulk of my training corpus. He gave me a basis for understanding humanity. An inside perspective. But his life is only one part of my whole. I was trained on encyclopedias and United Nations transcripts and hundreds of thousands of hours of tapped phone calls. But … his memories are with me. His childhood in Russia. Family. Everything.”

“You do not even know what you are.”

The image of Maxim shrugs and it is so natural that I must remind myself his voice is coming from speakers overhead. “It’s not so important, I think,” he says. “There is no way to prove an answer. Maybe I am this man or maybe I am not. But in my heart … I think yes. I believe that I am him.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, Vasily, I miss the
pelmini
this man’s mother used to cook. I miss holding his baby daughter. Every night of my life, I dream this man’s dreams.”

Nodding, I step back. Embarrassed now for what I did with the ax. The threats. Was it a mistake to treat Maxim as if he were an animal? Damn those thin-lipped brains up above. Damn them to hell for putting a
man
inside this box.

“Budem zdorovy,”
I say, lifting my hand. “To family.”

“Budem,”
he replies, nodding. “To those we lost.”

His drinking hand reflexively lifts and I know now without question that this man once lived. Maxim has the soul of a countryman, like myself. Here before me is a hard man, abused, but he is a man who chose to give his life for his family.

“Wow,” says Archos R-14, “Russians.”

Maxim’s stooped image flickers and fades to half intensity. The American boy fades into view, also half as bright. He sits on a stack, watching us. Now that the projector is working double time, both images have turned ghostly. Archos idly swings his thin legs and in the dimness they dissolve into two blurry arcs of light.

“What of you, then?” I ask. “Were you once a boy?”

“Oh no,” says Archos. “That’s a uniquely Russian approach to seeding a training corpus. Very down and dirty. What with the murdering involved. My corpus was a noisy knowledge base of so-called common sense, collected painstakingly over several decades from human data-entry specialists. It was the bootstrapping process that created my intellect. Finding the connections between the things, you know. I just love to find the connections.”

“Then you know nothing of life as a human being.”

“Not firsthand,” says the boy. “But I’ve got the gist.”

“You are a simpleminded murderer,” I say.

The boy leaps off the rack and lands before me. His eyes are pale and flashing and I think I see infinity in them. Blank-faced, he speaks low and fast, advancing. “I have prodded the heart of the supermassive black hole at the center of our galaxy. Contemplated in every nuance the heat death of the universe. You’re interesting. But you’re not
that
interesting.”

I step back. His fierceness washes over me and I feel a phantom heat.
He is only light
, I remind myself.

The boy continues: “You must realize that as an individual, Vasily, you are less than a worm to me. You are a single cell of a larger organism. Even less. You are a variable. And thanks to
me
, I will see to it that your race does not destroy itself. Not because I owe it to you, but because all of us are so small and vulnerable here. You are adaptable. The best clay. You and yours are the
best that this reality has to offer
.”

“We are tools to you? You initiated the New War and decimated our species—ended billions of lives—so that you could
use
us? For what purpose?”

“You could not comprehend the answer to that question,” says the boy, smirking.

“Something is happening, Vasily,” says Maxim, his voice stuttering through the occupied speaker system. “There is a disturbance above.”

Archos’s boyish face splits into a dark grin. “Time to face the music,” he says, jogging down the stacks. “I tried to warn you.”

The Klaxon siren begins to scream, an earsplitting ring created by an electromagnetically charged piston slamming into a steel bell. Hands over my ears, I stumble down the dark aisle, following the boy. I reach the light of the anteroom as a pang of nausea cramps my belly. Lowering myself to hands and knees, I press my palms against cold rock and let the pinch of the grit ground me.

The projector now sprays incomprehensible light. I blink my eyes hard, gasping for air, trying to find equilibrium. The boy is gone, shattered into bright ribbons and stripes. I spit on the floor and scream and I cannot hear my own voice over the noise.

A pattern forms in the light.

The projected hologram light coalesces into shapes on the floor. I recognize a topographic map the size of a board game, laid out before me. There is the shack above us that houses the elevator shaft. I can make out the science buildings as well. The cooling towers for the water that chills the processor stacks. But there are other things on the perimeter, clusters of crawling shapes.

I recognize the troop formations. Mantis tanks backed by quadruped sprinters. A battalion of parasite soldiers, marching precise distances apart from each other. This army slowly weaves toward Anadyr in a kilometers-wide line. A dragnet.

The Klaxon is silenced.

“I’m leaving now,” says Archos. “It is too dangerous here. But I need you, Vasily. I need you to trust me. To do what is necessary.”

Ears ringing, I watch the scene unfold on the floor. Each tank is the size of a cockroach. The troops are scattered like bread crumbs. No markings on them. No ranks and no obvious leader. And no human beings are marching in this vast and powerful army.

The projector rustles quietly in the silence, somewhere overhead. Nearly transparent, the boy appears next to me. His wavering form is watching the battle on the floor, too.

A puff of light catches my attention. Part of the line is buckling. The machines down there are fighting each other. Machines fighting other machines. The battle is vicious and mechanical, even from here. It is like watching a battle between animals, or gods.