Текст книги "Influx"

Автор книги: Daniel Suarez

Соавторы: Daniel Suarez
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CHAPTER 9

The Necessary Lie

It took some time for Grady to relax around his wormlike companion. It bore enough of a resemblance to the monstrous tentacles of his cell’s AI to be disturbing. But then Grady guessed “Junior” had been cannibalized from those restraint tentacles. In fact, there was something encouraging about the fact that the BTC’s own equipment could be subverted. He wanted to learn how to do that.

And in any event Grady began to enjoy Junior’s company. The device reacted to human speech by rearing up on its coil attentively, not unlike a curious dog. Like a dog it didn’t seem to understand speech, but it did respond to tone. High-pitched talk seemed to encourage it. Low-pitched scolding caused it to curl in a ball for several minutes. It also followed him around, slithering across the floor. And it didn’t seem to require charging. Somehow battery life was a solved problem to the BTC. If indeed it did use batteries.

By trial and error Grady learned how to activate and deactivate Junior’s projector lights by tapping its feelers. The screen it projected on any nearby surface was touch-sensitive as well, and before long Grady had settled in to read the seemingly endless technical manual for the “Cerebral Interrogatory Enclosure,” or CIE—which was apparently his cell and the AI that managed it.

After the sensory starvation of the past few months, Grady’s appetite for information was ravenous. Poring through the manual, he soon learned how to navigate the deeper diagnostic and maintenance screens of the CIE.

The moment Grady switched his cell from umbilical to manual life support represented a fundamental shift in his perspective. It was a simple diagnostic override, but when he deactivated the umbilicus, there was another audible chime as lavatory and sink facilities “grew” out of the wall. The toilet and sink consisted of the same featureless gray material as the walls themselves, but when he held his hand in front of the stylized faucet, clean water poured out. He now had some measure of control over his body again. There was apparently a bathing system as well, but he hadn’t found the options for that yet.

The documentation had warned Grady that he needed to take care restarting his digestive system. He hadn’t taken anything but predigested slurry in months. Still, he figured he could risk tasting some water. He watched, fascinated, as it flowed over his hands. The natural hydrodynamic laws governing its surface resistance and pooling kept him mesmerized. So long since he’d seen those natural laws. Or any natural laws. His synesthesiac mind reveled in the stimulation.

Then Grady tasted the water. Felt it flow down his throat like sunlight. He was coming alive again. He splashed the water over his face and sighed in satisfaction. No towels to dry himself, though—and he was still naked. But it didn’t bother him. He stood and felt the cool water from his face run in rivulets down his neck and body.

He then walked his cell in relieved contemplation, leaving moist footprints. It was the first time in a long time that he could recall not having those nightmarish tentacles hanging overhead. The pain in his abdomen notwithstanding, it was good to walk freely.

That’s when he bumped into a fine black filament hanging down from the ceiling in the center of his cell. It was right above where his cot had been. At first he thought it was—of all things—a spider hanging on a silk thread. But as he moved carefully around it, he could see that the nodule at its end was some sort of connector. Inorganic. It looked like a microscopic wire. He examined it carefully before taking hold of the end.

The black thread it hung from felt similar to the carbon fiber threads inserted into his brain—at least as he remembered them. Touching his head to confirm it didn’t seem like a great idea.

He pulled on the long thread, but it didn’t budge. It was incredibly strong and began cutting into his hand. He let go quickly. No blood, but the beginnings of a paper cut.

He stared up at the domed ceiling. The thread was so thin that it became invisible not far above him. What was this thing?

The mystery had to remain for the moment. As good as he felt right now, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs hadn’t quite been handled. Sooner or later food would become a necessity. He had to figure out how to get it before it became an emergency.

Grady got back to navigating the deeper system menus of his cell’s operating system. From this he accessed a diagram of the entire CIE and soon realized that the living area was just part of a larger self-contained interrogation system. The AI hadn’t lied about that much at least. His cell appeared to have no direct connection—and no entrance or exit to the outside world. He was like a ship in a bottle. Hard to say how they’d gotten him in here because except for a two-inch-diameter pressure-regulation conduit the place was fully sealed. In rock? Nanomaterials? No details.

Grady guessed from the diagram that Junior had followed the conduit here to find him. He stared at where it disappeared off the edge of the diagram. Where did it lead? There must be some sort of conduit system connecting cells—or at least connecting cells to some sort of infrastructure. Junior had located him somehow. It appeared that sealing the CIE entirely presented an engineering challenge even to the BTC.

In any event, a two-inch-wide conduit was hardly a means of escape.

As Grady studied the diagram further, he could see a small fusion reactor located in the larger CIE enclosure beyond his cell wall. Grady figured the conduit was there to manage atmospheric pressure for the prisoner. Or something like that. Hard to say. And the systems console couldn’t tell him anything about where he was or just how deeply sealed in.

The system’s whole world was this cell. Again, the AI apparently hadn’t lied about the limits of its knowledge. But then surely the results of Grady’s interrogation had to be sent somewhere. There had to be some sort of connection to the outside world.

Grady pursued his inquiry into the subsystems of the CIE with renewed vigor. And before long he located other life-support equipment—including finally the food-synthesis and matter-forming machinery. This equipment was also sealed within the capsule of the CIE but beyond his cell’s walls. The documentation said the food system was capable of producing “deathless” meat, imitation eggs, and just about anything else from organic molecules synthesized from still other systems (and, more disturbingly, processed waste).

He wondered if this was a self-contained biosphere. If so, it would be impressive—and would certainly be a requirement of long-distance space travel and colonization of . . .

He was getting off track. Enthusiasm for the BTC’s technology was a temptation he couldn’t afford right now. He got back to his studies.

An on-demand manufacturing facility was used to produce any components necessary for continued operation within the CIE—and to repurpose inorganic waste, to fix malfunctioning components—but also apparently to create perquisites for cooperative prisoners. Which was something Grady had never been.

Once he activated the nutrition and manufacturing systems, their user interfaces “grew” out of the wall, too, in the form of ledges and narrow openings. These Grady controlled from diagnostic screens. Apparently, had he not resisted every single moment, his AI could have given him some level of comfort and pleasure.

He cycled through the list of luxuries.

The food options were surprisingly comprehensive. He cringed at the sheer volume of choices in the same way one might cringe at a bus station café menu that offered Thai, Italian, Mexican, Indian, and French cuisine all at once.

He decided to try a bowl of chicken ph’o—a Vietnamese broth-and-noodle dish that he figured would be an easier start for his digestive tract. After he selected it from the maintenance console, a percentage meter started incrementing next to the word.

A café with a progress meter did not bode well.

But in a few minutes a generic-looking gray bowl slid out from the wall on a gray shelf. The bowl contained a steaming broth aromatic with spices. As Grady caught the scent, his appetite was piqued. He grabbed a nearby gray spoon and tentatively tasted the broth.

It was delicious.

Whether it was his captivity or his starvation or whether it was actually good he couldn’t tell, but the phó’ reminded him of a cheap hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place he used to frequent when he was a starving student up in Albany.

Grady looked down at the EAP worm. “Not bad, Junior.”

The synthetic worm turned toward his voice.

Grady eased down onto the floor next to it. “Not bad at all.” He ate contentedly.

Refreshed, afterward Grady walked his cell again, circling the wire hanging down from the domed ceiling.

The wire had to lead somewhere. It hadn’t been there before Junior arrived—which meant Junior most likely brought it in with him. And that meant it had to have a purpose.

Grady now stared straight across the room at the still open diagnostic port in the wall. The wire hung just about low enough . . .

He walked over to the wire and carefully grabbed the connector at its end. Grady then guided it slowly over to the diagnostic port where he’d used the iris scanner. A quick peek confirmed the presence of a small socket next to the scanner. He studied the connector on the wire’s end.

They looked like a match.

He tugged at the wire, bringing it up to the socket, and found that it reached with little slack. He clicked the connector into the socket.

A loud pop sounded overhead, followed by several beeps. These continued for several moments at intervals.

Then Grady heard a man’s voice, the words formed with a posh Indian accent. “With whom am I speaking, please?” Then the same voice in another language, “Wo yu shui shuohua?”

Grady was immobilized with shock—and then suspicion. He remained silent.

“Avec qui je parle? With whom am I speaking?”

Grady moved to disconnect the line.

“Do not be afraid. I am a prisoner like you.”

Grady gripped the socket, ready to pull it out.

“Je suis un prisonnier comme vous.”

“How do I know you’re a prisoner?”

“American. What year were you taken, my friend?”

Grady took a deep breath. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

“Hmm. I believe the operative question is: How can you be sure that I am human? Conversely: How can I be sure you are human? It is a reverse Turing test we are wanting.”

Grady pondered this.

“While I cannot rule out the possibility that my polymer worm has been captured by an AI, it would be unlikely. AIs are unimaginative creatures.”

Grady looked down at Junior. “You built this thing—from BTC technology?”

“Not I, but you are getting ahead of yourself, my friend. You have not determined whether to trust me, remember?”

“Oh.” Grady nodded. “Right.”

“How do we prove our humanity in a world where generalized artificial intelligence is commonplace?”

“I’m not sure I know.”

“In such a case we have found it useful to focus on areas where human intellect differs from that of machine intellect—specifically those areas concerned with bodily function.”

“We? There’s more than one of you?”

“Ah, first things first, my friend. Let us determine our humanity to both our satisfactions.”

“Using bodily functions. What? Fart jokes?”

“Something similar. Let me start. Please describe for me the fragrance of your wife’s genitalia.”

Grady scowled. “What the . . . ? What the hell is your problem? How long have you been in here, anyway?”

“Ah, but don’t you see? I am now satisfied that you are human. Machine intelligence in its current state is indeed more powerful than the human brain—but narrowly focused. Unsubtle. No AI to which I posed that question would fail to describe the fragrance of a woman—oblivious to the social cues that would, between men, result almost certainly in fisticuffs.”

Grady looked uncertainly at the ceiling. “Okay. I guess that makes sense.” He thought about it some more. “And I can’t recall if I’m married, anyway.”

“I am sorry to hear your memory has been damaged. Are you at least satisfied with my humanity?”

Grady realized the guy was just strange enough to seem certifiably human. An eccentric genius no doubt. Grady felt relieved and happy to be talking to another human being. “Yes. In fact, it’s great to talk to you.”

“You should also wonder if I am a prison guard.”

“Then this isn’t just my private hell. It’s a prison.”

“Yes, my friend. You are in Hibernity, the BTC’s prison for wayward geniuses. It is a dubious honor, I am afraid.”

“And how do I rule out your being a guard?”

“By following the logic of your situation.”

“Okay.” He paused. “And that logic is . . .”

“Clearly you must follow the logic on your own, although I will get you started, if you like.”

“Go ahead.”

“The logic of your situation is that of centralized control. The BTC wants very few witnesses to what transpires here. The minds it has imprisoned in Hibernity are exceedingly rare and particularly prized. The guards, interchangeable, mere custodians with little knowledge of this place’s true purpose—which purpose is, of course, to develop a means to separate consciousness from free will. To subjugate and unify multiple consciousnesses and thus achieve a biological quantum grid. A machine of many souls but no identity.”

Grady felt dread all over again thinking about it. He started following the logic. “Which means they don’t want anyone to interact with us.”

“Correct. Guards are not permitted to interact with prisoners except in rare emergencies. They guard the prison, not us—and are in some ways prisoners themselves. Were one of them to interact with a prisoner, he would be swiftly and decisively punished.”

Grady looked around at the walls of his cell. “No one is ever going to let us out of here.”

“No one will ever come for us. As of last month, I have been imprisoned here for twenty-eight years.”

This news came crashing down on Grady like a great weight. “Twenty-eight . . .” His voice trailed off as he slumped down against the wall. “My God.”

“Please do not lose hope so soon, my friend.”

“But twenty-eight years. I . . . I don’t know that I—”

“My history is not your future. Much suffering has been experienced, but in the process much knowledge has also been gained. Do not lose hope.”

Grady tried to keep from sliding into an emotional abyss, but he finally sat up a bit. “Okay. I’ll try. But God . . . twenty-eight years.”

“We are entombed here, true, with the goal that we never speak to another human. Left to the mercy of AI interrogators that have been grown specifically to study our minds and create models of how we perceive our universe. By design we would eventually perish under their tyranny as they altered our brains. Perhaps a decade or fifteen years after our suffering began.”

“Oh God . . .”

“But we avoided that fate, did we not? And we must save the others who are no doubt still suffering. We must take back more and more of ourselves as time goes on.”

Grady found himself nodding. “Yes. Hell, yes.” He stood up and examined the incredibly thin black thread. “What is this wire made of?”

“The same fibers you no doubt still have in your brain.”

“And what happened to the brains they were in?”

“The donors are very much alive. The same systems that put those wires in your brain can also safely remove them. We can show you how.”

Grady almost reflexively ran his hand over his scalp but stopped before he injured his hand. “Yes. I’d like my thoughts to be my own again.”

“You sound young. How long have you been a prisoner, son?”

Grady concentrated on that. “I don’t know. I was brought here . . . it was sometime in 2016, I think. I’m fairly certain. After the . . .” The trail of his memory ended there.

“Well, then you are the newest prisoner we have found thus far. I am certain the others will want to hear of current events in the outside world.”

“Others? There are more of you?”

“Yes. We call ourselves the Resistors.”

“I saw your symbol.”

“Then you are an electrical engineer?”

“Sort of. A physicist really. Among other things.”

“Renaissance people are very common here—those whose ambitions do not fit neatly within the categories of society.” There was a pause. “But I’ve been quite rude. Let me introduce myself. My name is Archibald Chattopadhyay, nuclear physicist and researcher. I also have an abiding passion for Greek poetry—but I suspect the former, not the latter, was the reason for my incarceration.”

Grady laughed. “Good to meet you, Mr. Chattopadhyay.”

“Do call me Archie. Everyone does.”

“Okay, Archie.” Grady grimaced in concentration. “My name . . . I’m pretty certain it’s Jon. The AI called me that. I’m not sure about my last name. Maybe Gordon? Or Garrison?”

“You are an Anglo then—American from your accent.”

“Yes. That sounds right.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Jon. We’ll obtain your true identity from your cell support system.” He paused. “But we will also need to give you medical attention. You must have consistently refused to cooperate. In such situations interrogatory AIs attempt to isolate you from your past, to break down your reasons for resistance. In my experience such strategies seldom work. The human psyche runs deeper than our four dimensions.”

“I’ve been hearing a lot of that sort of thing.”

“Consciousness is more durable than they believe. And you are safe now, Jon. We will never abandon you now that we’ve found you.”

Grady felt suddenly emotional—whether from post-traumatic stress or some other cause he couldn’t tell. He started breathing fitfully. “May I join your group, Archie?”

“You are one of us already, or we would not have found you.”

Grady nodded to himself. “I want to learn everything I can. I want to get back at these bastards.”

“For what reason did the BTC imprison you?”

“My mentor and I developed a gravity mirror. A way to redirect gravitation.”

There was a low whistle. “Oh my. I am most honored indeed to meet you, my friend. What a wonder that must be. And what was your mentor’s name?”

“Doctor Bertrand Alcot.”

“Hmm. I do not know of him. Certainly he is not among us, but we have only located a small minority of the prison’s cells. Rest assured we will do everything within our power to locate Doctor Alcot.”

Grady felt reassured. “Good. Strange how I can recall Bert’s name so easily, but not my own.”

“Not at all strange. These AIs eliminate specific memories. Some people have no memory of their wedding or their children, but complete recall about the contents of their automobile glove compartment.”

“Why did the BTC lock you up, Archie?”

“I had the misfortune to perfect nuclear fusion back in 1985.”

Grady frowned. “Nuclear fusion? But . . .”

“Yes?”

“The head of the BTC, this Graham Hedrick guy, he—”

“Claims he invented fusion.”

“Yeah.”

“This is one consequence of unaccountable power. Graham Hedrick was born into the BTC. He did not join it. His father was head of their biotech division in the ’70s and ’80s. He clawed his way to the directorship and now seeks to revise his own past as well as ours.”

“How the hell can he do that?”

“Compartmentalization is deeply ingrained in the BTC. Very few in the organization have the whole picture. And a policy known as ‘The Necessary Lie’ makes it even easier. Deceit is viewed as necessary to ‘protect against social disruption.’ That gives Hedrick broad discretion to perfect his own history—to make himself a legendary figure with work he’s appropriated from others. Those who know the truth have been disposed of—or, like me, sent to Hibernity. It was Hedrick who urged the previous director to build this prison—because he wanted to erase me.”

“That son of a bitch. He actually claimed he invented fusion.”

“I am more concerned with future generations than my own scientific credits.”

Grady looked over at Junior coiled on the floor next to him. “You said you took over the AI in your cell. How did you do that?”

“I had a great deal of time on my hands. And a strong incentive not to let these damn AIs get ahold of my mind. Back in the ’80s the AIs were not as capable as they are now. The equipment not as reliable. There were weaknesses that no longer exist. But once I had control of my cell, I set about finding other prisoners. Organizing us. And now, decades later, we have taken over whole sections of Hibernity. Turning the machinery against the guards. The security turrets, the surveillance cameras, and many other systems. The guards do not dare walk their own prison now, for they have no idea which of their machines are trustworthy and which are not.”

“Hedrick allows this?”

“In order to ‘allow’ it, Director Hedrick would need to know about it. And he does not. Hibernity’s systems are monitored from BTC headquarters. No alarms ever sound there. We have the power to make wardens of this prison look very incompetent if we wish. And the garrison is considered quite expendable—most of them are clones of some notable commando.”

“I met the guy they’re copied from. Morrison.”

“Yes. The guards very much resent their lowly status and the ubiquitous surveillance by AIs. Any discharge of their weapons is carefully tracked. Trouble must be explained to their superiors. No, we have far more leverage over them than they over us. They are, thus, complicit in our charade that Hibernity is fully under BTC control. And by making them look good, they in turn inform us in advance of inspections and internal reviews.”

“But what about the research data these interrogation AIs are supposedly producing? Doesn’t anyone at BTC headquarters ever look at it?”

“They read reports. We’ve tasked our AIs with falsifying reports. And new orders are issued from BTC headquarters based on those findings. Orders that are never carried out. And so the cycle repeats. Sadly, we can only falsify our own AI’s reports, and I fear that the majority of prisoners here in Hibernity are subject to actual research.”

“Do you ever consider—”

“Escape?”

“Yes. If you’re so organized—if you’ve taken over parts of the prison and gotten the cooperation of the guards . . .”

“Gaining control of our cells and portions of the prison is one thing. Effecting escape from Hibernity another entirely. It is not sufficient for just one of us to escape. And we are, all of us, encased in hundreds of feet of solid rock. Even the guards do not know where our cells are or how numerous we are. It is a secret known by very few. I am nearly a thousand feet below ground by my estimation. We have so far been unable to get our physical bodies out of these interrogation modules. They have a shell of aggregated diamond nanorods that’s a hundred and fifty times harder than steel. When the prisoner is sealed in, the shell is sunken into molten rock, and then a probe burns its way to the surface to create a narrow pressure channel—the same tube that my polymer worm followed to you. But that narrow conduit is all that connects us to the outside world. And we lack any material capable of penetrating our prison wall.”

“That channel—does it handle communications? Maybe we can hijack the uplink and—”

“I am glad you are ambitious, Jon, but the channel is not for communications. The BTC abandoned radio communications decades ago in favor of extradimensional signal processing—or EDSP. We Resistors use our carbon thread wires only because we have no other means. But BTC communications do not traverse four-dimensional space-time. They are quite impenetrable.”

Grady remembered a conversation with Alexa—or at least her telepresence robot—some time ago. Funny what memories survived in his mind. “They seriously use extra dimensions to communicate?”

“Specifically a fifth dimension—one where gravity is forty-two orders of magnitude more powerful than in our perceived space-time.”

“So, a gravity brane—which is why gravity is such a weak force in our four dimensions.” Grady snapped his fingers. “Damn! I knew it.”

“Yes. This compactified fifth dimension is curled up from our perspective, less than a thousandth of a millimeter in size, but present everywhere in lower dimensional space. Thus, it can always be accessed.”

Grady considered the implications. “How do they interact with it?”

“Their transmitters are nanotech—diamond lattice structures they call a ‘q-link’—a tiny mass that they vibrate at high frequency to send gravitational waves through higher-dimensional space.”

Grady nodded to himself. “Where they would be strong enough to be detected. And gravity permeates all dimensions. I get it: a gravity radio.”

“I suppose of all people, you would understand.”

“So we really live in a five-dimensional universe?”

“Actually a ten-dimensional universe—but let’s leave that for another day. The point is that the BTC can transmit and receive information undetected.”

“Which is why no one’s noticed them.”

“Undoubtedly. But they also use q-links to track things.”

“Things like us.”

“You learn quickly. Yes, there is a small q-link diamond inserted deep into your S1 sacral vertebra. With this device, their AIs can track you no matter where you go in lower-dimensional space. And they have positioned weapon satellites in the L4 and L5 Lagrange points in the Earth-moon system—or as Homer’s Iliad might describe it: the ‘Greek’ camp and the ‘Trojan’ camp. From this distance, they can direct powerful lasers at spinning mirrors positioned in low-Earth orbit. From there, it is a small matter to instantly kill an escaped prisoner anywhere on the Earth’s surface.”

Grady sighed. “So even if we escape—which is nearly impossible—we won’t live long.”

“There are numerous obstacles to such an endeavor. But none of them insurmountable. We must pool our intellects and tackle these problems one by one. For example, your cell’s medical systems can be reprogrammed to remove the q-link diamond from your spine. Several of us have already done so. It doesn’t help us escape, but it would be a prerequisite of escape.”

“We need to get a message out, Archie. We need people to know that we’re here. That we’re alive.”

“We have been pondering this very idea for decades now. I fear it will require some time yet.”

“I don’t give up easily. Not even gravity eluded me.”

Grady heard a gentle laugh over the line. “Oh, I think our membership will be very pleased to make your acquaintance, my friend.”