The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  “Yes. They were dead. And don’t worry. The main mission, to find and have a DNA sample of all the people who died, in your handiwork, was finished. There are no missing.”

  “That’s not right.”

  “By who’s moral code? Certainly not your legal code. I have them all memorized.”

  “Is that because our legal code has nothing to deal with autonomous robots?”

  Turing raises his hand up to me, using a finger to silence me. Cold metal on my lips. He then grabs my hand and rubs his face with my finger. I pull my hand out of his grip. “What’s wrong with this?” he says. “I wanted to make your lot not think I was that different.” He pulls on his gloves.

  “That’s fine,” I say, feeling bad about his sad tone. It could be something he’s merely learned to do, but I am not in the mood to challenge that. I’m, in all reality, happy to see him. “Let’s go.”

  I push in the door, and step inside. The three men behind me follow. There’s no noise. It’s dark, a shaft of light highlights a couch full of beer cans and cigarette butts. Everything else seems to be in place. It smells like watery cologne and maybe even old female underwear. I’m not exactly sure, even going so far as to wonder if the explosion had singed the hairs in my nose. I look around. “You know this place, Turing?”

  “No, George.”

  “What about the hallway?” I say, stepping into the living room and looking down a dark hallway. This one, though looks like it ends at a wall. I walk past two closed doors on either side, each with muffled sounds leaking out, and I rap my knuckles on the wall. It’s hollow, but sturdy enough to be like any other wall in the these States.

  “This hallway?” Turing asks.

  “Yes. It used to be longer. It’s where I met you. Farther down from here,” I say and kick the wall.

  The door next to me leaks out the sound of a toilet being flushed, a faucet being run. Then the door opens. It’s Mathews, with his eyes half open. “George?” he says after a few seconds of starting at me.

  “Hi there.” I reach out my hand to shake his. He takes it, but holds it more so than shakes. I consider his wet and cold palm. Something seems different about him. “Sorry for barging in like this. I knocked...” There’s no real good answer for picking a friend’s lock, is there?

  “Of course.”

  “You sure?” I say. “I really thought... Thought there was a party here.”

  “Think nothing of it. I understand. Besides, I wouldn’t want you outside anywhere. People are looking for you,” Mathews says with a wag of his finger. “And—“

  He breaks off as he sees Khalid and Turing in the hallway behind me. He glances over Khalid for a second, then his eyes run over Turing. They stay on him, and he takes a step forward. Turing pretends to be confused, doesn’t smile. He returns the favor, and steps towards Mathews and starts sniffing him. Mathews steps back.

  “My friends, Mathews.” I think about apologizing, then rethink that. “This is Turing. He’s an unusual fellow... and that’s Khalid.”

  Khalid sticks out his hand, and George turns, shakes his hand and throws out a few pleasantries. But he’s right back to Turing, and now he’s mimicking Turing, sniffing him, or pretending to.

  “May I?” Mathews says.

  Turing shrugs.

  Mathews reaches up with a forefinger and traces Turing’s cheekbone. “Who the hell stitched you together?”

  “I did so myself.” Turing moves to take off his glove, but I hiss and he stops with a quick glance my way.

  “I bet you did,” Mathews says.

  I shuffle my legs and think about breaking it up. But it’s Mathews’ curiosity—childish in many ways—that allowed him to accept me, and still seems to accept me, so I decide to let it be.

  Mathews is holding his breath. After half a minute he exhales. “You don’t breath.”

  “I...” Turing looks over at me.

  I can see that even Khalid is curious and coming closer.

  “This is not your skin. Not your. Flesh,” Mathews says.

  “Mathews,” I say. “I thought I heard a party in here.”

  “There was,” Mathews says, stepping back from Turing.

  That’s good, because even though I know Mathews is merely naturally curious, he’s also liable to flip. Hell, I’m not even sure that I believe Turing is a full on robot. Every time I think I’ve grasped the idea, I can feel my mind floating, my body disconnected from my mind as well as the rest of the world. “What happened?” I ask.

  Mathews waves his hand as if to indicate that this is what happens to all parties, they disappear. His eyes keep flicking back to Turing.

  “What happened to the rest of this hallway?” I ask.

  But the question’s point must have been too obvious, because Mathews raises both eyebrows and turns his eyes back to Turing. “Not your flesh. Then who’s?”

  Turing stares at him. “People who do not need flesh anymore.”

  Mathews’ eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “Are you—“

  “Look,” Turing says, exasperated. “This isn’t the way to react to this. If I didn’t use this flesh it would be worthless. Surely you understand that? It would be food for bacteria and other little bugs that enjoy eating your people’s bodies when they are dead. Is it that hard to contemplate?”

  “There are more factors than that,” Mathews says.

  “So what are you?” Khalid asks.

  Turing is suppressing a smile.

  “Mathews,” I say, louder now. “There was a hallway here. It led farther down. There were... things. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Mathews says, waving his hand at me.

  “Just tell him,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I’m a machine.”

  Turing grins. His teeth force the other two to flinch. But Mathews recovers right away, leaning back in to stare at the teeth, his finger poking at Turing, and Turing to all his credit doesn’t react. Khalid, however, doesn’t look like he’ll recover.

  “Who designed you?” Mathews asks.

  “I did.”

  “No. But... besides the flesh, someone must have given you an initial programming, some initial direction?” Mathews says, giving me a look like I should be on his side with this argument.

  “Let me ask you this,” Turing says, pulling off his glove and exposing his metallic hand, which is really beautiful, now that I think about it. “Who designed you? Who set you on your path in life?”

  “Well,” Mathews says, giggling and clapping his hands. His eyes are alight. “We have a robot philosopher. I retract my question.” He turns to me. “And you, fellow human... You have been busy,” he leads us away from the wall and further into his apartment.

  In the living room, Mathews has a video playing on his computer, he beckons me over with a curled hand.

  “See? Busy, busy. They say you’ve fled to Yemen, though. Some claim that you might be in the rubble. They’re still going through the mess,” Mathews says.

  “Wa Hum du allah,” Khalid says as the video moves to the wreckage of the building. Now it’s less rubble and more just a handful of brave walls standing tall. There are cranes and crews going through the mess. The video has a woman speaking, Mathews turns on the volume.

  Not since 9-11 has this city met with such destruction. So far there are 203 confirmed dead. This terrorist attack, cold blooded and cowardly, came at a time when America was drawing back its forces all around the world. Now some are calling for more attacks as payback. The terror suspect is known as George and was dishonorably discharged from the Army half a decade ago. The secretary of defense says that this veteran does not represent the vast majority of veterans who serve their country honorably. The woman came back on. George, the terror suspect is known to have had ties with Islamic groups, though officials would not give any further information. He is suspected of having fled the country and might be in Yemen, though that hasn’t been confirmed.

  I can feel
my chest tighten. This is not true, but I should have known that when they came after me they would go after everything that was of me, that remained of my reputation. And the best place to start with that is the person’s past.

  The video scans over to some people on the streets of what can only be Manhattan. They speak from varied colored faces, varied accents, and yet all speak the same lines, as if reading from the socially acceptable handbook: Horrible, for something like this to happen. We try to do good in the world and these people, they come in and infect. That’s what it is, they’re like an infection. We need to stay strong and hit as hard as we can at anyone. The video scans over to a burned house. My heart drops as I immediately recognize my parent’s home. The woman’s voice comes on. I realize that her voice is so soothing, that even as it makes a strain to sound concerned, it’s not: George’s parents home was firebombed two nights ago. Police in the area have no suspects. A fat and perhaps even red-cheeked man in a police uniform comes on. We are looking for the suspects. We are not a lawless land. The man fidgets with something in his hands, and off camera. But I tell you this. I’m not wasting time or sleep over this. We have other problems to deal with... higher priority... Some of the people nearby are interviewed: They should have thought about it when they were raising that child of theirs. The woman’s voice comes back as a green camera and what appear to be flashes come on screen. Then some generals and diplomats on camera. George is suspected of having fled to Yemen, though no one can be certain, and there has been no information on the matter. Still, military officials say that they are trying everything in their power to find him. Another village being hit. I remember that media will never show the aftermath of a bombing in another country if it is being carried out by them or their allies.

  Mathews switches it off. “You, my friend, are in big trouble.” Again that wag of his finger. Like a jest. But of whom? Of the people after me, or me?

  “It wasn’t me,” I say.

  “Well, they sure as hell think it’s you.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit,” I say. I glance over at Khalid who has decided to sit on the couch populated with various party-litter. He doesn’t look over. Turing is standing and opens up a browser again.

  “Remember what terrorism is,” I say.

  “The definition of terrorism? Who’s worse in this situation, the men who hit the building in downtown Manhattan, or the men throwing bombs to make a statement in some third world village.”

  “Exactly,” I say; I feel uncomfortable again, as Turing is staring at us, his eyes whirring like a continuous shutter. He’s taking it all in, I know that much, but what for?

  “Exactly what?” Mathews says.

  “That it’s all the same thing,” I say.

  “But it’s not, not really,” Turing says.

  I pause, knowing that there aren’t many proper responses to this.

  Silence pervades the room. I can hear sirens in the distance. I flinch, even though I know that when they come for me, it won’t be with sirens.

  Mathews looks at me. “I’ll draw the curtains.” When he does, I feel safer.

  “So what now?” Turing asks.

  “I need a way to find my wife,” I say.

  “Ex,” says Turing, raising that metallic hand of his.

  “Thanks, asshole.”

  Mathews chuckles, then shuts up when I look over his way. “How do you propose going about it?” he asks.

  “Look over some of the videos they have. Maybe go to the site of the bomb and find out what’s going on out there.”

  “Why the site of the bomb?” asks Mathews.

  “Maybe someone who’s part of the unit that captured me is there hanging around.”

  “For you?”

  “Yes. We can capture them, figure something out.”

  “Is that a fact?” Mathews says. “How can it be that easy? I don’t think it is.”

  I feel Turing’s gaze, if it can be called that, boring a hole in the side of my face. “What Turing?”

  “I can look through the videos and all internet communications. I can find out through cables and all where she’s at.”

  “You can do that?” Mathews asks. He’s really enamored with the machine.

  “Of course,” says Turing. “The physical world is hard, but the Internet is the air I breathe.”

  Mathews nods his head, staring lustfully at Turing now.

  “Makes sense,” I say.

  “Of course. The precursor to me was a worm that slowly learned to maneuver through the internet.”

  “Your ancestors,” I say, trying to be sarcastic, but it ends up coming across as sincere.

  “It’s similar to the relationship that you have with your ancestors, but perhaps less fulfilling.”

  “Christ, that’s amazing,” Mathews says.

  “You work with computers, I’m guessing.” I say. A snore arises from the couch. I look over and see Khalid sleeping, drool rolling down his cheek. I chuckle.

  “I do,” Mathews says. “Data crunching. We’ve done a lot. I’ve even done some cool ass programs that can learn how to better sift through data, but nothing like this.”

  “Is that why you had that kid with the computer,” I say and jerk my thumb back the way of the hallway.

  Mathews looks over and gives me an odd look. “You probably shouldn’t talk like that, man. I’m just saying that there’s never been a hallway there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m certain. I live here, remember?”

  I half smile, embarrassed and stare at the hallway that ends right there.

  Khalid’s snore shakes the room.

  “Who is he?” Mathews asks.

  “Was captured with me,” I say. “Might have been nabbed in a war zone. I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Mathews looks over Khalid. “He was near the bomb?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Gentlemen,” Turing says, interrupting us. “May I use your computer and modem?”

  “Of course—“

  Turing cuts into Mathews’ speech and tears open the housing for the desktop computer. On his hands are a few wires and soon he’s hooked into the computer, though all I see on the screen are the fast scrolls of some language that might be python or C++. Mathews has lost his initial shock at seeing his computer being torn apart, and is now smiling.

  “This is amazing. I imagine that he’s unstoppable online.”

  “And soon the physical world,” I say sarcastically. My mind wanders to the computer geek from whom I got the back pack and the book. I stare at the flesh of bombing victims that flickers under the light of the computer screen.

  “This will be our future,” Mathews says. “Technology like this, and we,” he says and taps me like we’re best buds, “can take over the world. Imagine that!”

  “What about defining terrorism?” I say.

  “Oh, we’ll get a perfect definition with something like this on our side.” Mathews must hear the sarcasm in my voice, but he’s gleaming with joy.

  “Well, maybe. There’re a few other things though,” I say and stop when Khalid lets out another snore.

  “Look, gentlemen,” says Turing. I look over to the screen. The programming code flickers and turns into something more like a social media feed, but it’s not like anything that I’ve ever seen. “What is it?”

  “You don’t know?” I say. I see words, comments, but instead of down in one line, it’s in a semi circle around what appear to be articles.

  “I was asking...” Turing seems to ponder something, then lets it go. “It’s all the official,” Turing says and points to the center, then the semi circle around it, “comments from around the web about you. The country hates your guts. They want you dead.”

  I lean in to read a few of the comments, and they all about sum up a hate and desire for me to be tortured. Others, the ones that try to seem intelligent, use pseudo science to tear me apart and my blog and all that I’ve done until this mome
nt in life. The word broken soldier creeps up. I can sense Behemoth’s handiwork behind all this. But is it his fault? It’s not. These ideas run through the stream of every day life. One can’t point to evil figureheads for solutions. And I must admit that I feel awful about slandering the veteran namesake—another broken soldier. I know what that means.

  Turing hums a little. “We should keep you indoors. Everyone with an IP Stateside wants to end your entire bloodline.”

  I nod my head. My throat constricts. I don’t want to think about my family. Cousins, only slightly related people who will all be killed. Economically at least, and that, in this world, this country, is death anyhow. “Can you find where my wife is?” I ask.

  Turing looks at my face. Can he notice that my eyes are welling up? Is he that fine-tuned? And what does he do with that information? I stare at his flesh. Taken from bodies. But is it so bad? He has so far refrained from saying ex-wife. He’s more astute than most humans then.

  “I can find her. I can decrypt all encrypted information out there. Cables, what have you.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Mathews says. “No one, not even a machine can do that.”

  “There are backdoors for all your encryption codes. Even foreign. Every single intel services in the world requires one.”

  Mathews snaps his fingers. “I knew it.”

  The screen changes, numbers and machine code now dominating the screen. I can smell the motherboard overheating, giving off that clean silicon smell.

  “I know where she is.” Turing says.

  I clench my fists, thinking on a way to deal with this information. A huge drain of energy hits my guts. I can think of nothing more than to sleep. Khalid’s snore reinforces that feeling.

  “She’s in the city,” Turing says. “Not too far from here.”

  “Being watched?” I say.

  “Yes. It’s hard to discern whether or not she’s being held hostage, or the men are there for her protection.”

  “Protection against what?” I say, spittle flying out of my mouth.

  Turing, unblinking, unbreathing as ever, studies my face.

  A tight knot develops in my head. I massage my temples. “What of their knowledge about me?”

  “They’re not sure. Some think that you could be here in the City. Most think that is ridiculous.”