The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  If every time I touch the damn robot and it says the same thing. What could it be saying? No idea.

  And still the insects move in.

  Perhaps it’s not wise to think up of a way to crack the language code. Perhaps I need to just think. Common sense. People aren’t always impressed by vocabulary, but whether you at least try to mimic them.

  I push the robot, hear it’s chirping; my ear to the damn thing now because too many insects are moving in.

  Darkness falls. I close my eyes, one hand gripping the undercarriage of the robot, the other shielding my nose and mouth, trying to get some air. I lift up my shirt, using it to protect my nose and mouth for now.

  The chirps come back. Louder. I think it knows my situation. So why doesn’t it help me? Not relevant. The rules are what they are, and it’s a robot. It doesn’t know better than to do as programmed.

  I tap back, mimicking the chirps as best I can. I can hear the semi-hollow echo of the metal outside.

  I feel insects crawling up my shirt. Down my pants. It’s almost as if they can push me back and forth at whim. I hold on tight to the robot, tapping the same series over and over.

  Crawling into the fetal position, I feel insects everywhere, they’re crawling up my nose, they’re tearing at my shirt. With my fingers I hold my nose shut.

  I tap once more. At the end of the series, I realize that there isn’t enough space to move. I’m frozen in a mass of insects. Death, here you come. My wife, my love, I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything for you. And like that a euphoric feeling comes over me—just like the moments before a suicide bomber hits your convoy. That split second after realization and before reacting. The insects, everywhere, feel sensual. There are some on my cock, and their little feelers send a bliss up my spine. My cock is hard. A small part of me says that this is probably what they do to all their victims, evoke some sort of euphoria so that they can easily kill them, but even with that warning I can’t help the pure ecstasy flowing in my veins and I release my hand from my nose, let the shirt go and spread out my arms.

  The horror of the bugs crawling into my mouth and nose only lasts a split second.

  I’m in darkness, but feel calm. Air is being cut from my brain.

  Chirps. I don’t dare open my eyes. I’m not sure what I feel anymore. It’s not ecstasy, it’s not insects, it’s not... well not anything really. And my mind remains a blank, but slowly, as a nauseous sense comes over me, it wakes up and I start to worry because what is feeling nothing?

  Chirping. It’s right next to me. So I do sense. Yet I’m too scared to open my eyes.

  Chirp.

  I crack one eye open. I’m not dead. Or I don’t think I am. I’m on the carpeted floor of a room. I smell pine cones; candles in a row int he distance flicker and provide the only light. Like that child I once was I stay as still as possible, thinking that I’ll never be found out by the presence I sense in the room.

  Is it the robot? The chirping is the same. But I’m not certain that robot isn’t out to kill me.

  Chirping. It sounds friendly. But what do I know about the chirps? I lay still, trying to breathe in small movements. The chirping continues. My eye shuts. I want nothing more of a world like this, where nothing can truly be trusted, where one needs to be alert. Where nice looking robots can kill in a heart beat.

  All at once hunger and thirst strike me. I realize that my throat is stinging from dryness.

  I open my eyes, slowly. In front of me is the robot. I touch its smooth metallic surface. Instinctively I tap out what I had when the insects were closing in.

  The whirring from inside the robot grows louder. It starts to shake and its surface turns warm.

  Still on the ground, I shrimp back from it. The smooth surface isn’t that at all. Instead fissures appear, almost molten in color or seem like it, and the surface starts to break into clean levels, and these levels turn into an arm and a head and soon it’s looking like a metal human.

  “Hello.”

  I hesitate. Why speak to something so quixotic? What if it’s only trying to trap me again.

  “Can you speak?” it asks.

  Well, I know that it can, even though it pretended not to. Anger boils up my veins. I can’t show my cards.

  “Sir? Are you all right?”

  From above somewhere the shell of a bug drifts down between us. I pick it up.

  “Do you know what this is?” I ask, shoving the shell into his, its face.

  “You can talk.”

  “That... Answer my question.”

  The metallic face furrows its forehead. “You pretended not to talk.” It sounds hurt.

  I lose some of my verve and lower the insect. The young man may be right and I may be overthinking this, but perhaps there’s a threat in his hurt voice. Perhaps the insect shell is a reminder of how I could die; after all I’m certain that I’m alive now. So perhaps I need to watch what I say.

  “What do you say to that, human?” the robot asks.

  I chuckle. It has a certain humor to it. Perhaps there’s a way around it. “Well, you’re the one who pretended to be a chirper.”

  It furrows its forehead even further. “Me? What kind of accusation is that? I only now came into being.”

  I cock my head and try to discern some crack in its face. It’s being serious. Perhaps I shouldn’t blame it. After all, it only came about because of algorithms it didn’t know, or couldn’t possibly know about, and now it’s seeing its life for what it is. Figuring things out with even simpler and more unknown algorithms for its thinking. Robots are stupid like that.

  “Well, whatever you came from. I was being suffocated by insects and you... your previous state was only chirping.”

  The android stares at me like it can’t believe me.

  “If you insist. What’s your name, sir?” Its voice is changing. Slowly, it’s becoming more familiar—maybe more like me? Perhaps it’s coded to be like us.

  “I’m George. You?”

  “I don’t know.” It seems concerned.

  “Well, how about I name you?” I ask, suddenly feeling friendly towards it after this very human moment of its.

  It considers this; its robotic arm rising up to its face. “I suppose there’s no harm in that. What do you propose?”

  “Well,” I say, a little surprised now and perhaps allowing the weight of this decision, the responsibility to stifle my imagination. “There are a few ways we can go about it. I think you’ve been around for some time, right?”

  “You mean per my existence?”

  “Yes... per your existence. Or how long have you known that you existed?”

  “That’s the same thing?” it asks.

  “My way is better.”

  “All right. I know I’ve been collecting memories and studying your people... the world for a few years. Your time, of course.”

  “Of course I say. It sounds innocent enough, but perhaps that’s just an algorithm that’s hiding a sinister center. After all, what exactly is it studying us for?

  “Well,” I say. “That’s good. The reason I’m asking is that we usually name our children with an eye on our history and the potential in the child.”

  “Your people only recently started to name children at first. Used to be that they waited until the child was a few years old to name it... like me.” It sounds happy when it says this, as if it likes the commonality with us humans. And it also waits anxiously, like a child wanting some positive reward.

  “Very good. That’s right. It’s a very sad part of our history.”

  “When humans were truly primitive. Though you haven’t really lost that. Have you?”

  I pause, not sure if I detected some level of sarcasm or even of a victor. “Well. That may be true—”

  “Apes, really. All of you.”

  “All right, let’s get back to you and your name.”

  I’m not sure but I think the robot is grinning, chuckling. “Of course,” it says.

  “Rig
ht. So we have to find something that will speak to your history, and perhaps most importantly, your future. What do you say?” I keep an eye on the robot, as well as my periphery since I don’t want to end up in some vacuum with insects again. And I remember that this being can, at any moment, put me through hell. Still it’s hard not being friendly towards it. It’s a friendly being. No matter what it is, or whether or not there are sinister forces behind it; because, at the end of the day, I cannot fathom that someone is looking at me, following my every movement through every electronic piece of equipment, or through hidden equipment, or through the numerous eyes in the sky; I know this, have been on the other side and furthermore know that this feeling of not being able to comprehend a truly totalitarian surveillance cover is what brings down many a freedom fighter. So I chew the inside of my cheek and I smile at the robot.

  It nods its head. “Fine.”

  “Good. So I’m guessing we need to understand your history.”

  “There’s none.”

  “Then perhaps what you aim to do...” I hesitate to use the word life for the robot, as unfair as that may be.

  “I don’t plan or have any mission.”

  “Anyone gives you these missions?” I ask, now aware that I have inadvertently steered this conversation towards finding out more about the robot and whether it intends to hurt me; and why not? It did lead me into that storm of insects.

  “No,” it says, it’s lens eyes focusing in on me. “I have no boss.”

  “Fine. But you’ve studied us. What interests you?”

  “The ancients. They had so much less to work with and managed so much more.”

  “Like who?”

  “All.”

  I stop. A name would be nice, and this meek algorithm will never lead me to a proper name. And, in the end, all those names given out have been done in a rather autocratical manner, haven’t they? Why should the robot be special?

  “Turing. We’ll name you Turing.”

  It nods. “Turing sounds perfect.”

  “It just might be,” I say without irony. Somewhere above a light grows in strength and the room we’re in comes into view. I see cages in the distance. A chill comes over me. But there isn’t any noise, or the sound of chanting, and I relax some. I wonder if I’ll ever see the woman again. The one I saved. A shiver runs through me as I remember my wife, and the need to save her. I can’t sit around here wasting time.

  “Is there a way out of here?” I ask Turing.

  “Here?”

  I’m willing to accept that Turing wasn’t aware of what he did to get me into that mess with the insects, and perhaps he’s innocent himself, but it’s hard for me to see that he’s this ignorant. “Yes. This whole maze of shit. Is there a way out to New York City. To real life. To my home. To my wife.”

  “Oh? No, I thought this was real life.”

  There’s a cockiness in his words and I’m not sure how to react to that. Can a robot be this obtuse? Of course it can, it only has to be programmed in a certain way, right? “Help me, please,” I say, knowing full well that this thing knows nothing of humanity—unless its been programmed as such.

  “I will,” it says in a similar tone of kindness. “But I might have to leave for a moment.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There are men after you.”

  “I know,” I say. “Do you work for them?”

  “I’m free. But I know what they want. And they are going to take you in.”

  “When? Where?”

  “They’re everywhere.”

  A small sick feeling comes over me. “All right,” I say through a dry throat. “Can we get out of this room at least?” The cages are tickling the back of my head with threats.

  The robot nods and walks towards a flat black stone wall. It bumps into the wall then starts to feel it with its finger. The metallic screech that results shakes my teeth. I too place my hand on the wall. It’s wet with some moisture that’s not water, and I remove it when I realize that the insects are everywhere. One jumps on my forearm. Staring at it, I realize that these too are robots. Little government drones ready for surveillance? I’m not sure, but it’s certainly not organic, and who but our government can afford nano technology to this wasteful level where insects are crawling everywhere.

  Turing is staring at the bug on my forearm too. “It’s not dead.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not dead.”

  “It has to be alive before it can die,” I say, immediately feeling bad as I swear that Turing’s eyes moisten.

  “We... It is alive. Why do you think there are so many? They were once part of a government AI and surveillance program. But now... They’re free.”

  “They tried to kill me,” I say.

  “Are you dead?”

  “I hope not.”

  “You’d know. And if they wanted you dead, you would be just that.”

  That too is said with cockiness. I want to launch into a diatribe about what makes us humans better, but being that I’m being chased by humans, I don’t say a thing. But Turing sees something in my face.

  “You think we’re not as good as you.”

  “I never said that.

  “But you think it. Right?”

  “I—“

  “Anything that you do, I can do but better.”

  “Anything?” I say. I’m a writer, though perhaps a mediocre one, and this flippant claim of his catches me off guard; I’m scared that I’ll be found out by this robot for being so limp a writer, and I also want to show it that it and its ilk have never reached the creative arts like we have.

  “I’m a writer.”

  “And not a good one.” His tone hovers right between being a question and a statement.

  “Screw you one-zeros. I can create some great worlds.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s partially why you’re here.” Again, he’s using the same statement-question tone.

  “Fine. But your lot may be better at a lot of things, but you’re not better at creating.”

  “Yes we are... Open that book you got.”

  How does Turing know about the book? I hesitate, a heavy feeling growing in my chest. It would be best to run. It would be best to get out of this place and never look back. But I open my book.

  “We have perfected literature. Did you know that?”

  Not in the world of AI that I know. “Show me.”

  “We... I know all of your literature in all languages. I know your entire repertoire and I know the entire canon, and every piece of published and rare book word ever written by your... people. I understand what works. And with a few questions I can give you a damn near perfect book.” Turing appears to be relishing this. “Because you see, when your lot writes, you can only have a handful of emotions, a few experiences beneath that and perhaps a vague awareness of a few things that have been written before. I don’t have those limitations. At all times, as I write I can search the entire canon, I can know what works on you, and I can write the perfect book for every single human in the world. What do you think of that, ape-zero.”

  I can’t think on that. Turing sounds sinister, and my fists clench as I think that perhaps he’s a messenger for Behemoth, or the evil that will one day wipe us out.

  Turing’s face relaxes. “Try it. I didn’t mean to be so imposing. But we have perfected the book. The reason is it isn’t something idiosyncratic from the writer’s point of view, but rather we know exactly what each reader will like and perfect every story to them.”

  “But that’s not literature,” I say feebly. “That’s marketing of some odd sort. A book is a conversation between a writer and a reader.”

  “Try it and see.”

  I open the dead human skin book and stare at a blank page. “It’s blank.”

  “Let me ask you a few questions.”

  Turing, placing a metallic finger on my pulse and moving that lens eye of his an inch away from my face—I can smell oil and metal because I also realiz
e that he breathes, whatever it is that fuels him, breathing is part of the process—proceeds to ask me questions about my favorite books and my life and major figures who I may or may not care for, as well as major philosophies that I may or may not care for. When he’s done he takes a step back, beaming.

  “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I—“

  “Open the book,” he says.

  I open it again. The words are crisp, clean, beautiful. In a second I’m transported into a perfectly dystopian world, the main character, a little like me, is flailing through a maze. Sweat pours down my face as I follow the hero down a horrid path of slaying robotic dragons and—

  I shut the book, my heart pounding.

  “See?”

  So they’ve done it. They’ve perfected something that we always thought was ours.

  “I can paint too. Better than—“

  “Enough,” I say.

  “I can write non-fiction too. Perfected.”

  “I said—“

  “Look,” Turing says.

  I open the book and read the first few pages, which are about my life. The writing is perfect. I flip forward and find myself in a maze, confused. I flip forward to a scene with me in chains at a trial. The narrator—Turing, I assume?—mocks my inane movements, my fear, my inability to understand the world. I can taste blood, my head starts to spin. I flip past that and read the last line about my wife and I at the gallows, ropes around our necks. My knees shaking, I slam the book shut.

  I lean against the wall, not sure if I want to breath anymore. “You bastard. It’s all true?”

  Turing only stares at me.

  My stomach feels weak, I spit. Then the sickness envelopes my head. I hurl, over and over. But when I look up, Turing is still there staring at me, smiling.

  I realize the insect is still on my forearm. Before I was sure that I was the boss of the insect, at least when it was singular and without friends, now I sense that it’s my boss and that I’d better be nice to it. Will what the book says will happen, happen? I don’t want to believe it, but its recollection of my pas tis perfect, and with details that even I’d forgotten.

  Taking deep breaths I try to find something solid to base my thoughts upon, to get this sick feeling out of my body. I remember that knowing the past doesn’t always save one from the future. That perhaps this is only one possibility for my future. But reading it seemed so real.