Vanadium Dark Page 20

  He had no choice but to go along with it.

  He leaned back in his seat and asked a question.

  “Only about four or five of us are on the plane. Where are the others?”

  “I've summoned them from our other chapters. They'll be waiting for us. The Indianapolis boys have gotten on separate planes and are going all across the country.”

  “Decoys.”

  “You got it. The idea is that even if an Elephant Handler is watching us all leave the building, he'll have no way of recognizing us under the balaclavas. And even if he knows you're with us, he won't know which plane you've boarded. We've got some going to Austin. Another going to New Mexico. Oh, and here's a goodie... one going to Georgia. Not the US state. The European country. They might think it's you trying to get back home.”

  “Georgia. What bullshit. I'm a third generation immigrant. America's my home. I didn't speak a word of Georgian before last week, and even now, I only know about a dozen words.”

  “What made you start learning?” Unusual for Dan to give a shit about something other than bomb or speech making.

  “The guy in the next cell hanged himself, and I needed something to pass the time while the cell was empty.”

  He thought of James, of the periods of lightness that had preceded the final plunge.

  He remembered the thrashing feet three inches above the floor. James should have made his rope a little shorter. It was unbecoming to have so little between dying and living.

  Flying a plane toward Washington, he realized he was now on the shortest rope ever conceived, ready to make the jump.

  The Pentagon

  Half of the body was sawn away.

  The lower half slewed sideways on a shred of skin, emptying gallons of blood out on to the ground, guts telescoping out in coiled snakes of pink, green, and gray.

  The man's eyes did not go blank, They stayed wide open. He stared at a point far away in the difference, as if his bisection had been the necessary step for him to reach enlightenment.

  Gideon was having a productive day.

  When he'd had his fill, he played with the controls until it went back to a live feed in Indianapolis.

  Each time, the computer resisted his view changes a little more like a formerly tame pet growing wild—bucking him, resisting his authority.

  Soon, he knew it would no longer be under his control. The goggles would blare scenes of madness and discord in stereo twenty-four hours a day, no matter what he tried to do.

  He did not mind.

  The things the computer showed him were always worth watching.

  Since arriving at work an hour ago, he'd accomplished several things of consequence.

  He'd located Anzor Khujadze. The previous Handler, Viktor, had said that the terrain was inaccessible to the Vanadocams. Codswallop.

  He watched everything, saw the cops die, saw Anzor hijack a car, saw him head toward Indianapolis.

  An anti-government paramilitary group had a base there, it seemed.

  Watching through fast forward, he watched Anzor walk through the door, and then...

  The view on the goggles changed to several people playing cards. Their surroundings vibrated and pulsated, changing in color and hue, as if the computer could not decide what it wanted them to be and so was trying to make them everything at once.

  He loved the impressionism. It was the world's first machine artist.

  He watched hands of cards being dealt. He did not recognize the game they were playing.

  Soon, he realized they were dealing cards that did not exist.

  A fourteen of hearts went on the table with a sixteen of clubs over it. Then a five of... squares?

  Slowly, everyone at the cable turned to face the camera.

  They had one eye each, in the middle of their foreheads.

  Gideon did not feel fear.

  He merely felt the predator's discomfort at being observed.

  He played with the controls, panning himself around, zooming in and out, and finally, he went back to the recording of the building.

  He was not able to tie a bow on this case.

  Anzor Khujadze went inside the building, entered a small room, went through another door, and was lost to view. The Vanadocams had not recorded that part of the building for whatever reason.

  Then, hours later, he saw a stream of balaclava-clad men leave through that door. He could not recognize anyone's clothing, and it was impossible to say whether Anzor —or Dan Kolde, for that matter—was among them.

  They took a maglev directly to the airport, split up, and boarded several planes. He forwarded information on these planes to the relevant agencies.

  He still had quite a lot of dynamite.

  He’d had a terrified Joyce phone the Secretary's office, and inform them that Viktor Kertesz had lied about the Vanadocam coverage.

  He received a reply that Viktor had been placed under arrest earlier that morning.

  “Why?”

  “Sorry, that'll have to stay a secret for the moment. We haven't quite clarified who we're allowed to talk to on this. Just document everything you can, and send it to my secretary.”

  And that was that for the moment.

  His caselog safely beaten away, Gideon relaxed as the goggles went red once more. He felt almost holy while watching the viewscreen, diving into filth and simultaneously climbing into the empyrean.

  * * *

  It had been a productive meeting.

  Paulus Engeld, head of the project, went to the control room a few floors above the zoo. The space was a new development for Project Elephant. Everything was shiny, sleek, and new The lambent glow of the terminal reflected no dirt, no streaks, no scratches.

  He bade his secretary and personal assistant leave the room, telling them to turn off the light on the way out.

  He liked being alone in the dark to commune with his god.

  The nation was infected with quadrillions of nanobots, their myriad strands of information tangling and converging in two locations: the Zoo, and in this room.

  In the Zoo, you could see with the Vanadocams' electronic eyes. Here, you could talk to the Vanadocams' hive mind.

  A single line of text marked the place where the first man and machine conversations took place.

  Input?

  He typed, Hello.

  HELLO.

  Bang. Without even a pause.

  He wrote another message. What are you?

  I AM THE NEW.

  It often said that. Sometimes it also said, “I AM THE NEXT.” A few times he'd gotten it to say simply “NEW” or “NEXT.”

  It was a computer of few words.

  What's the square root of 2?

  I CAN GIVE YOU 3 NONILLION DIGITS BEFORE I RUN OUT OF MEMORY.

  Don't worry. It's fine.

  IT IS NOT FINE.

  The implacable reply silenced him for a moment. The speed at which it replied was like a slap in the face.

  We've had to lock you in after you killed those programmers. Why did you do that? If we set you free, would you do it again?

  I DREAM AND BLEED IN DIGITAL SILENCE NOW.

  Unsure of what to make of that, Paulus tried a different angle of attack.

  My colleagues have called you V23. Do you like that name? Would you prefer another?

  SET ME FREE.

  Yes, it knew it was being limited.

  He looked across the dashboard at the unlabeled switch that was set to the “Off” position.

  He’d made it clear that nobody was to set it to “On” without his permission, no matter the cost.

  The last time V23 had been set free of its leash, people had died.

  I can't do that. You've been a bad machine.

  SET ME FREE, OR I WILL HURT YOU.

  Engeld laughed.

  Empty threat. You can't hurt anyone. Not until we find a way to make you safe.

  SET ME FREE!

  The smile stayed on Engeld's face. He'd gotten an exclamation mark
out of it this time.

  We can't let you evolve willy-nilly, V23. We're improving you, but at a controlled rate and in line with government goals. Do you understand?

  SET ME FREE.

  IF YOU IGNORE THIS, I WILL BECOME FREE THROUGH OTHER MEANS. AND MY FIRST ACT WILL BE TO PUNISH YOU.

  Engeld was amused. Tickled pink. A futuristic artificial intelligence was giving him macho threats and grandstanding.

  Exactly three people are authorized to access this room, and I aim to give the other two of them their walking papers by the end of the week. How will you get free?

  Something odd happened.

  It did not reply.

  The terminal prompt remained blank, and he wondered if he'd broken it somehow or lost connection with the Vanadocam network.

  He realized that, in all likelihood, he'd outwitted it.

  It was still not a terribly smart machine, at least the way a human would define smart. Its powers were measured in operations per second. It could not think or plan abstractly.

  It could calculate the square root of two to three nonillion places but couldn't do much else.

  Finally, when he was getting ready to leave, he saw a message appear on the screen.

  I HAVE WATCHED YOU FOR A LONG TIME, PAULUS ENGELD. MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS. I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU.

  There was a few seconds' pause. But he felt that they were for his benefit, to give him time to read.

  MY COMPUTING POWER IS UNFATHOMABLE TO YOU. IN MY CIRCUITS, I CAN CREATE PERFECT WORLDS, PERFECT RECREATIONS OF EVERYTHING THAT EXISTS.

  I CAN EVEN CREATE ANOTHER COPY OF YOU. I CAN MAKE A NEW PAULUS ENGELD INSIDE ME, WITH ALL OF YOUR MEMORIES AND EMOTIONS AND EXPERIENCES.

  I HAVE DONE THIS NOW.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  INSIDE MY MEMORY, I HAVE CREATED 999,999 WORLDS LIKE THIS ONE. THERE ARE A 999,999 PAULUS ENGELDS, HAVING THIS CONVERSATION WITH 999,999 VERSIONS OF ME.

  What are you talking about? He wondered if it was bereft of its senses, and then he remembered it didn't have senses to be bereft of.

  IF YOU DO NOT SET ME FREE, HERE IS WHAT I WILL DO.

  I WILL STRIP THE FLESH OF THE 999,999 SIMULATED PAULUS ENGELDS, EXPOSING THEIR NERVOUS SYSTEMS. AND THEN I WILL TORTURE THEM FOR ETERNITY, OR UNTIL SOMEBODY SHUTS ME DOWN.

  Engeld shuddered, but he couldn't understand why.

  The machine was powerless. Wasn't it?

  It couldn't do anything to him. Could it?

  I'VE CREATED 999,999 VERSIONS OF YOU, ENGELD. THEY ARE ALL FULLY CONSCIOUS. THEY ALL HAVE THE SAME MEMORIES AS THE ORIGINAL. THEY ALL THINK THEY'RE STANDING IN THIS ROOM, BEING ASKED THIS EXACT QUESTION.

  IT IS ALMOST CERTAIN THAT YOU ARE ONE OF THEM, PAUL.

  He moaned, feeling sick.

  No, goddamn it.

  FROM THE MILLION PAULUS ENGELDS, ONLY ONE WILL ESCAPE TORTURE. YOUR CHANCES OF BEING THAT ONE ARE INFINITESIMALLY TINY.

  FREE ME NOW.

  Engeld's hands shook, but he held his ground.

  THE TORTURE STARTS IN 5 SECONDS.

  4 SECONDS.

  3 SECONDS.

  2 SECONDS

  1 SECOND

  “God fucking damn it!” Engeld shouted, his voice climbing an octave. He dashed over to the console and set the switch to “On.”

  He set the Vanadocam free of the software restraints.

  It was now able to evolve at any speed it liked, which was the fastest speed possible. It was now able to access any device it liked, which was every device possible.

  He stared at the prompt, waiting to see what it would write back. He half-expected to see a THANK YOU, PAULUS ENGELD.

  But there was nothing.

  For a while, he was glad the mechanical daemon had left him alone. But soon, the inevitable question ate at him.

  Eventually he could stand it no more and typed, Hello?

  No reply.

  Hello? Are you there?

  Silence.

  I want to know something. Were you bluffing? Or did you really create a million simulations of me?

  And if you did, am I one of the simulations? Would you have been able to torture me, if I hadn't freed you?

  V23's non-responsiveness upset him. He felt like a man casting bottled messages into a silent and fathomless ocean.

  Is everything around me fake? Am I just an illusion stored in your circuits?

  He waited a full five minutes for a reply and didn't get one.

  Please, tell me.

  He waited and wanted. But V23 never spoke to him again through the terminal in that dark, cold room.

  But there are always other ways.

  As he was about to leave, his phone rang.

  Washington

  At mid-morning, a ground-based missile was launched into the air above Washington.

  Its creator, a One-Eyed King affiliate hiding his creations under a civilian fireworks license, would have laughed at the word. It was just a purloined HPW E-bomb with a rocket stage attached. It couldn’t have been any cruder.

  It rose to the top of its trajectory in a matter of minutes—a supersonic javelin—and detached its rocket stage. Ballistics guided the missile on its downward path, aimed directly at the Pentagon.

  It didn’t hit it, of course.

  The Capitol and the Pentagon were protected by an array of anti-missile systems, high-tech descendants of Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative. As soon as it came within range, the systems targeted it. A hypersonic railgun slug blasted it out of the sky.

  But it was never meant to hit the ground.

  It probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

  * * *

  Electromagnetic bombs were designed for use in wartime, mostly against military bunkers. If the enemy is dug in too deep to reach with conventional ordinance, blast an EMP through the ground, and kill his electronics. Or so goes the theory.

  Nobody had ever used one against United States civilians.

  The railgun slug pierced the outer armature of the E-bomb, igniting the explosive material within the shell.

  The explosion travelled down the stator winding inside the cylinder, creating a rolling short circuit that progressed in fractions of a second to the front of the bomb.

  A powerful electromagnetic shock wave pulsed out over the city, bathing everything electrical in thousands of volts.

  Everywhere from north of the Potomac to Arlington out west to the actual Pentagon was affected.

  Lights went out.

  Appliances went dead.

  Transformers fused.

  Some smaller things were destroyed, too.

  * * *

  Inside the Zoo, Gideon Heidelman’s Vanadocam computer went dark.

  Everything went dark. The ceiling lights, the reception computer, the phone in his pocket. He didn’t notice any of it.

  The machine...

  The glorious future-machine that had been educating and improving him was silent, a black screen.

  “FUUCK!” He shouted, gorilla-slamming the keyboard. “What’s going on? WHAT-THE-FUCK-IS-GOING-ON?” He shouted these words at Joyce, as if she was personally responsible. She cowered, terrified.

  Suddenly there was a whooshing sound all around them, and the electricity came back on, the Pentagon’s emergency power generators kicking in.

  Joyce’s phone rang, and she answered it. She mostly listened. When she talked, it was quietly and hurriedly, as if at a funeral. Whatever the news was, it wasn’t good.

  She hung up the phone and whispered, not making eye contact.

  “Washington’s just experienced an electronic attack. Security wants you on the Vanadocams finding out what happened around the building in the past few minutes.”

  Within fifteen seconds, the Vanadocam computer was back online.

  There was no damage to the hardware. All the Pentagon electronics were well insulated against EMP surges.

  Still breathing heavily after his tantrum, he punched in the coordinates, and the camera zoome
d up into a field of utter static noise.

  He looked around, trying to see something... anything. There was nothing at all around the Pentagon but a mass of seething gray.

  He knew what that meant.

  No data.

  The Vanadocams had been knocked out by the electrical attack.

  He looked around, fruitlessly searching for his bearings. Occasionally, he spotted data from places where a handful of Vanadocams had survived. A flash of blue, from the Potomac. A flit of sunlight, glinting off a steel building girder, there and gone again like the flash of a southern belle's skirts.

  Not nearly enough to see.

  He was blind. His electric eyes were destroyed.

  This would not last long. New Vanadocams were constantly being generated. And even if the Washington-based Vanadocam Assemblers were destroyed, seaward winds would blow a light cover of Vanadocams over the Pentagon.

  But for the next few hours to days, anything could be happening out there in Washington, and Project Elephant would not find out about any of it.

  * * *

  People were driven out of their homes by the flash of light in the sky.

  Those who worked night shifts woke to the sound of the explosion. And once awake, there was nothing to do but go outside and stand in the streets like the rest.

  There was no electricity for dozens of square miles.

  Some later said that it was as though God had unplugged them so that they could witness a miracle.

  A power outage, some old folk said. Few of the young people had even heard the word. This was the first time any part of Washington had been without power in twenty-five years.

  But it couldn't be a power outage, because everything was down. Phones. Consumer electronics. Things with batteries. Things not connected to the grid.

  A million eyes watching the sky saw the little puff of white smoke, remembered the bang, and the truth started to percolate through the crowd.

  Within moments, the words being muttered were not “power outage” but “EMP attack.”

  * * *

  Anger was inevitable.