The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  “Of course. Turing has been doing more and more of the work. Even the plays—“

  “We have plays too?”

  “Yup. Even most of those he writes.”

  That didn’t sound like she was happy about this latest change. “Well, I guess Turing is testing things out.” Though with our dwindling money why he would be wasting money creating art is beyond me.

  She seems hesitant, looks down, then looks up and smiles. It’s an energetic smile, but I can tell it’s one that’s been practiced on the mirror many times. “Let’s see, shall we?”

  We first come to a dark room, that smells sweet and organic. In the middle is a chair, and a black dark wall’s in front.

  “You’re supposed to sit on the chair.”

  I abide and I look around, the walls are all dark. Dalcia locates herself beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I relax and wonder what Turing has been up to. Dalcia’s flower perfume settles any butterflies in my stomach, and any ideas that Turing is doing all this because of my comment back at the High Line. Slowly, but surely, pictures flash on the wall in front of me, too quick to register anything but a slight sensation at the bottom of my heart. An odd crawling sensation that spreads to the base of my brain, and suddenly instead of just sitting there and watching images I can barely discern, I’m now perturbed, sweating almost. I think I’m catching words here and there, images of executions. Videos now. And a voice talking to me. Is it Dalcia? I glance up, if only to decrease the tension in my mind, body, the feeling that I’m falling apart, that the joints so well cracked by that softening Behemoth carried out on me comes back to surface. But it’s not Dalcia. Another voice. What’s it saying? Something horrendous? Because my heart’s falling, tripping.

  I look back on the images. There are more flashing. Then, just when I’m sure that I will have to leave. Run. The show stops. Silence. Except my heart beating, pulsing in my ears. “What the fuck was that?”

  Dalcia sighs. “It’s Turing’s idea. He said something about art being about the observer, so he’s trying to affect the observer.”

  “The voice?”

  “Concentrated sound. Only the person in the chair can hear. And like the images, it’s all just barely enough so that the sub conscious can register, but the conscious is not quite aware—“

  “250 milliseconds, I know...” I look around. Only now is my heart coming down. “Is the chair rigged?”

  “Why?”

  “It seemed very reactive.”

  “I don’t know. It’s Turing's.”

  I want to talk about him, about this doubt resurfacing. Maybe even talk about Behemoth. But to who the hell am I going to talk to about that? Not Dalcia. She’s happy, setting about in the world. Am I going to weigh her down with my worries? The worries about the world?

  “Does Turing know what art is?” I ask.

  Dalcia shuffles her feet. “It is in the eye of the beholder.”

  I hate that post-modern shit, though at least this art exhibit, if that’s what it’s called, has pushed my emotional boundaries. “Can I see the program behind it?”

  “Turing—“

  “All right,” I bark. “What else is there?”

  “It’s mostly this.”

  She takes me to the rest of the gallery. Again, there’s plentiful use of the sound, that comes across as a whisper. Some of the exhibits make use of cathedral like lighting, from up above. Most seem to be a gross bastardization of religious and ideological themes. And the whispers. Christ. I’m not sure what they’re saying, but each crawls into the ear, runs down the spine and leaves an odd sensation in the spine.

  “My god, what has Turing been doing?” I whisper. Dalcia doesn’t answer. “Can I see the play?”

  “Sure. His is on right now.”

  From above the stage, next to where the directed speakers are hitting each audience member directly, I look down at a spattering of people watching what seems to be an ambush—with religious symbols littered everywhere—or a massacre. It’s horrendous. But though the people in the seats seem to look, then after a few seconds, they get up and they leave, perspiring.

  “What the hell is he saying to them?”

  “It was full when it started,” Dalcia says.

  I stare for a few more seconds, an unnerving feeling bubbling everywhere in my blood. But I can’t place my finger on what’s bothering me. Not that Turing’s play is being walked out on, because I’m sure he doesn’t care, but something else. Something much more sinister than just subliminal messages. Because up here I can’t hear the whispers.

  Dalcia and I leave, going to a small restaurant that serves South Indian food. Samba and idlis. I explain a handful of things about the food to Dalcia, and we dive in. Hands only, I say. She smiles and complies. Half an hour later, after realizing that we don’t have much to talk about, Turing saves us by coming by and telling me it’s an emergency. I leave her with Kurt at the front of the studio. As Dalcia walks away and I catch Kurt giving her the once over. He smirks and cracks a grin.

  The air, as Turing and I walk to the office, crackles with tension. At least this time it’s not associated with the refuse of riots.

  “So what is it?”

  “They’re stepping up their attack on us. We’re running out of money. A couple of our bank accounts have been frozen.”

  “And?”

  Turing steps back. “We’ll have next to nothing if they keep this up. All the men and women you’ve recruited... they won’t stick around for long, you know that?”

  “Well...” I think, my head hurting with the very idea that this organization that I’ve embarked upon keeping afloat will not have the bright future that I envisioned for it. “I can change a few things. Help...”

  “Help what?”

  I’m not sure. “Don’t you have anything you can do? Tap the finance sector somehow?”

  Turing shakes his head. “Our attacks have sealed the deal. No more algorithm trading. What’s being done is too secure.”

  Sounds like an excuse, but I let the robot get away with it for now. “Then how about we milk some of those DOD and intel contracts? We still have those, don’t we?”

  Turing nods. “But it’s getting harder to squeeze much out of them.”

  “Find a way,” I bark. “People everywhere are making billions of these contracts and we can’t?”

  “We make sure we do a good job of researching. That helps us gain in the long run.”

  “Christ. All right.”

  “What about you? What can you do?”

  “I...” I look closer at Turing, realizing that his face is a little different, though it still seems exceptionally new and untouched like it had some time ago. “I can stretch things on my end.” I pause. “Well, things are good.”

  “How so? We lose money and we’ll hemorrhage all our eyes on the ground. We can’t even hack into webcams or listen in on microphones right now. We’ll be useless.”

  “We didn’t just bribe people out there, Turing. That’s not the best way, or the best long term strategy to win over humans.”

  “No?” He widens his eyes just a little too much.

  “You look like a fool. Don’t widen your eyes so much.” He’s still just a robot but it feels so good to cut him low. That he’s programmed to have a pained look on his face only helps.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “It’s fine. Just helping.”

  “Of course.”

  “What I mean, is that it’s not just money that matters.”

  “But isn’t it all you talk about?”

  That stings more than it should. “I think it might be, and it’s needed up to a certain amount, but what really matters is how one is able to connect. To reach. To give them something to believe. Do you get me?”

  A slight smirk creeps across his lips. It disappears so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.

  “Belief. That’s big, isn’t it?”

  A distance thud shakes the air around us.

/>   I cock my head, look around. “Is that another bomb going off?”

  “The war is getting out of hand,” Turing says. “Thing is, with all the attacking they’re doing, it was only going to be a matter of time before someone gave it back as good as they got it.”

  I understand the sentiment behind the hate against us, but I don’t like to think of my country being attacked by what are essentially the modern day barbarians.

  “That maybe, but what are we learning from all our contracts? Some are to study people, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, we’re learning.... But maybe there’s more. What else were you going to say about our recruits?”

  “I’ve made sure they’re not only doing it for money. That’s the fool’s errand where nothing gets done. But I’ve had the other recruiters make sure that they have enough food on the holidays, or someone to talk to them when things are going bad. You know. Actually make a connection. And the ones who are feeling bad, or seem lost—“

  “Those are the ones who you provide... belief.”

  I stare at Turing for a few seconds. “Exactly. Give them the spiritual...”

  “Yet all of that requires money.”

  “Yes. But the spiritual needs as well... I suppose you might never understand the spiritual—“

  “I’m just a robot. Remember art.” His voice borders on insolence. He stares me down.

  “You don’t like that?”

  “Who said?”

  “What was with the art exhibition?”

  He blinks. “You’re confusing things, George. I’m a robot. I learn. I’m programmed to learn from you. I can only be taught. The motivations you assign—“

  “All right,” I say, raising my hand. “I get it. Can we figure out, though, how to make sure that this operation keeps running?”

  “I thought you would.”

  “Fine.”

  “You seemed to have it all figured out.”

  “And you have nothing to say about the bombs occurring everywhere? No way to stop them?” I need to stop, why am I acting so childish?

  He tilts his head, looking at me, again studying, heartless. I am being childish.

  He shrugs. “It’s a reaction. This world seems to want to lurch towards having either only a handful with knowledge enough for a democracy to work, while this knowledge allows these people too much power—“

  “Don’t start with crap like that, Turing.”

  “Why? I know more about history than you do, right?”

  I let out a sigh.

  “So when you have people lined up as soldiers and financiers on one hand and those who don’t provide a social function on the other, then what do you expect?”

  “What are you talking about, Turing?”

  “I’m saying... Normal by all precedents in history.”

  “That’s...” I take a few deep breathes to calm myself down. “All right. Work on it. I will try to figure out how we can get more money.”

  The next day, after I find enough money for a car rental, I rush towards the MTA month station to make it before closing to the rental car place north of the city. On a wall I see the graffiti, “Death to the tyrants, life to the wretched.”

  “George?”

  I turn. “Dalcia,” I say and hesitate, not knowing if I have time for even some chitchat. But then I see that her face is distraught, worried, like when I first saw her after her family had been... “What’s wrong?” I step towards her, forgetting about my train.

  She hugs me, pulls back from me looking me over. “How are things?”

  “Fine.” No, not fine, the one problems are too much, but I can’t share that with someone who’s a little too distraught, now can I?

  “You seem off.”

  “Me?” I can’t help but smile. “Look at you.”

  “What me?”

  “I thought you were about to jump in front of a cab.”

  She laughs, that light easy laugh, then inhales. “I guess I was feeling kind of bad.”

  I don’t have much money, but I take her to a cafe. It’s in the village, so we have to walk, but the weather’s almost balmy, though with a slight chill that makes it perfect for a brisk walk. We make it through Washington Square park, notice the ever increasing throngs of tourists and settle into my favorite place in the NYU area: Reggios. Still going, it stands, only slightly scarred from the recent spite of bombings. The Halal stand next to it, though remains nothing but twisted metal fingers and scorched food. I wonder why they haven’t removed it.

  We sit down, and though my stomach’s been bothering me—suppose it can be an ulcer—I order more coffee. They make some good brew here. Dalcia orders something that sounds like a complicated way to take in coffee, but I don’t say anything. I just blow the top of the americano I ordered and take small sips, staring at the black top of my cup, letting the aroma infiltrate my nose, send a sort of pre-high in anticipation of more coffee going through me. My wife... ex-wife used to call me addicted. I always denied it. Would quit for a few days to make a point, but go right back into it. Towards the end I didn’t even try quitting. A small tremor runs through me.

  “Did you see Turing’s latest play?”

  “Not the one you showed me?” I ask. I’m pretty sure that was yesterday, but with so much going on, and so much tension in my brain and heart from what I have to do, I can’t really think straight.

  She looks me over, like I’m dumb. And perhaps she’s right. Perhaps my mind’s not working like it used to. Getting too gummed up with the what-ifs of life and forcing me to become a worrying, doting man, this late in life.

  “He’s taking it... too far.” She looks over her back.

  I feel a twinge. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s finding a way to really... I don’t know. Fuck with us.”

  “Us?”

  “I mean people. He’s taking them in groups. Letting them talk to each other, then seeing how they react to those... those horrible plays.”

  I’m not sure what to think, if perhaps Dalcia isn’t over reacting. She has just gone through quite a traumatic moment in her life, hasn’t she? “Oh?”

  “I mean... What is this? Is it art?”

  I loll my head back and forth. Small moments from my past fall back into place: old wood and carpets, a man doting in front of a slide that includes a few pieces of art. “I think he’s trying... to become... you know. More like us. There’ll be bumps along the way. He’s learning though.”

  “Is that even okay? Why do we want him learning about us? Why do we want a robot being just like us?”

  I realize that, whatever it is that Dalcia is piecing together, I haven’t been entirely honest about Turing and our motives here.And she’s smart enough to help me figure out some things.

  “You there?” Dalcia says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Or should I leave you alone?”

  “Yeah. I mean...” What was she talking about? She doesn’t trust Turing. But I too didn’t trust that hunk of metal at one time. And now... well, I’m sure that he’s our only hope. Do I say something that silly to her, or do I come up with a way to get around it and still have her help us? “We can trust him.”

  “What’s all this about him teaching himself to learn about us? That’s dangerous.”

  Now, I see her not as the calm doting maternal figure I just had, but rather someone who’s scared of the future. Like I once was. I lean in. I have to let her know. “I know what you’re thinking. That it’s just... off. I felt the same way too.” Her returned stare is too intenser so I look down. Sipping what remains of my coffee. There’s not much. But it helps alleviate the tension. The ache that has suddenly formed into something that feels permanent in my heart. I look back at her. “But this is the future. Automated systems. And Turing. He’s the one on our side. We’ll make him good. We’ll make him end the evil in the world. And it’s with him that it all lies.” That tension in my chest relaxes just little bit. Even though I haven’t said all that I
wanted to say—hell, I’m not even sure I know what all there is to say—of which one part is definitely the fact that Turing will help us break the cycle of violence.

  Dalcia’s eyes glaze over. I know now that she’s such smarter than I. Many people are, and yet I hold on to the fact that I’m better than most people—even her.

  “You know,” she says, looking back and forth before boring her eyes through me. “That kind of talk. Of making the world a perfect place. It’s never been good.”

  I look at the crucifix hanging on the chin on her neck. “No?”

  “No. The Russians did this. Robespierre did this. You... you’re not them, George.” She places her hand on mine.

  That tension ratchets back up. I take in a deep breath. “I don’t mean that the world will be a perfect place. I know it will never be. I just mean that it can be better.” And again, though she’s smarter for thinking all this, though she’s better than me, I need to salvage my dignity. I would never talk down to her, but I will certainly think down to her. And I think of how she might just be scared of taking this step. Scared of shaking the boat. That having grown in the Bronx, having been poor, she knows all about the power with which those who we are fighting—the rich—would crush us, would end our existence and memory of our existence in the world. But when have the odds ever been smaller? “We—“

  “That’s fine,” she says and lifts her hand.

  “I mean. You can see the good he’s doing for us. He’s helping you with the art.”

  “The art?” She smirks.

  I smile. A joke. All is not lost. “I’m just saying that just because he acts close to us doesn’t mean he’s anything as complex as us. He’s just a series of commands. You know that. Anything he may seem to be is just us making him that. He’s for us. He’s ours. He’s a dog—“

  “I know.” She waves her hand in front of me as if she doesn’t want to deal with the issue. “It’s fine I said.”

  Not sure what to say, I shake my leg.

  “Where were you going?”

  “We need money. I’m going to talk to Ben.” Her eyes light up.

  “Can I come?”

  “Well.”

  “I need a break from the City.”

  I hem and haw.