Sleeping Giants

by Sylvain Neuvel

  We used an abandoned Russian air base near Semey in Kazakhstan as our home base. We’d been flying UAVs over eastern Siberia for three days when one of the drones picked up something in Tuva. It was right in the middle of nowhere, just east of a town called Sizim. It’s a pretty inhospitable region, rocky hills surrounding green valleys along the Kaa-Khem River. There’s really nothing there, so the good news was we probably had some time before anyone showed up. The bad news was transport would be more difficult.

  We took two Kazakhs with us on the chopper. We wanted to drop them near Kyzyl. They said they weren’t sure we could get our hands on a big enough truck there, but they knew a place in Abakan. It would mean waiting for an extra five hours but it seemed a safer bet. We flew in at night and dropped them into Khakassia before we headed toward Sizim. We were approaching the crater. There was some light flickering around it. It took a few seconds before we realized we were being shot at.

  The helicopter dropped us about a mile away and we doubled back on foot. We waited for sunrise to get a better sense of what was going on. Turns out the artifact had turned a marijuana field inside out. There were peasants running around the field, some of them with AK-47s. They seemed to be more concerned about their crop being lost than with whatever it was that destroyed it.

  Transportation was about six hours away and Sergeant Ortiz decided to make contact with the Tuvans. We didn’t have the Kazakhs with us but Ortiz speaks a bit of Russian. I think they recognized our guns, or maybe it was the sergeant’s accent, but after a couple minutes, they put down their AKs. We could make out one word in what they were saying: Americanyetz! Americanyetz! I don’t know what they think of Americans in Tuva, but they sure seemed happy we weren’t Russians.

  One of the Tuvans went back to the village to get some help. He came back with a dozen more men. With the eleven men in our squad, that meant about forty able bodies. They helped us dig out the artifact and wrap some ropes around it. It took about an hour. Then we sat down with them and waited for the truck. That’s when the Russian army showed up, sort of. It was a small truck with two men in it. If I had to guess, I’d say they were in on the marijuana trade and were coming to get a cut or something. Anyway, we hid behind the artifact as fast as we could. The Russians got out of the truck and started yelling. One of the Tuvans approached them smiling, then drew a pistol and shot both of them in the head point-blank.

  The Kazakhs showed up with the truck twenty minutes later. It took about ninety minutes to load the artifact, then another ninety to bury the Russians and get rid of their truck. The Kazakhs told us there were a few checkpoints on the way to Khakassia, so we decided to head south on M54 and get air transport out of Mongolia. We met our contact at the border and flew to Afghanistan on a C-17.

  —End Report—

  FILE NO. 094

  INTERVIEW WITH ROBERT WOODHULL, ASSISTANT TO THE PRESIDENT FOR NATIONAL SECURITY AFFAIRS

  Location: White House, Washington, DC

  —This is not exactly like fixing an old car, Robert. They will get it done, in time.

  —I hope you’re right. You wouldn’t want to go down in history as the idiot who started World War III for a giant paperweight.

  —You certainly have a flair for the dramatic.

  —Not really. You’re doing a great job at it so far. You’ve managed to single-handedly start the Cold War again.

  —And how exactly did I achieve that on my own?

  —Your drone planes just unearthed a very large hand in a place called Tuva.

  —I know.

  —That they found a hand or that there is such a place as Tuva?

  —Tuva is a small republic in southern Siberia. I also knew about the hand. I did not know you had been made aware of it.

  —Well, you’re using US troops for your little pet project. Don’t be surprised if they report to us when there’s an international incident. And good for you about Tuva. I had to look it up…

  —Forgive me if I do not share in your pessimism but the mission was a success. We retrieved the hand without any loss of life on our part, and logic dictates the Tuvans will not tell the Russians anything. I fail to see what the problem is.

  —That’s the thing. They don’t need to tell. The Russians know.

  —What do they know?

  —Everything. They know everything down to the smallest detail. The Russian ambassador gave me the play-by-play this morning. Sounded just like First Sergeant Rodriguez, with a different accent. One of their planes was nearby when the hand emerged. It crashed a few miles north. They had a satellite over the site about an hour before your men arrived. He even showed me the video. The part where two Russian officers get shot is much more dramatic on television.

  —I assume they are not pleased.

  —That’s the euphemism of the century. I don’t even know where to begin. Mongolia’s pissed because we put them on the spot. Russia followed your truck all the way to their front steps. Moscow demands an official apology, which they obviously won’t get since we’re adamantly denying we had anything to do with any of this. They also have this thing on satellite photos, so they know what it looks like. It would be easier to come up with a cover story for a nondescript body part, like a forearm, or a calf, like you did in Turkey. But the hand, well, it looks like a big hand, even from a thousand miles up.

  You know that by now they’ve tortured every Tuvan they could get their hands on, so I’d say they know even more than they did before. There’s a reason we hire local mercenaries for black ops; it’s called plausible deniability. You sent a bunch of friggin’ Puerto Ricans with M-16s on a mission into Siberia. They didn’t exactly blend in, you know.

  —We cannot assemble new teams in every part of the world in a matter of hours. Furthermore, involving mercenaries would pose a significant security risk. We buy mercenaries. Mercenaries are easily bought. That is what mercenaries do.

  —Well, for now, Russia thinks we discovered an ancient temple or something, which is fine, but how the hell do we explain why US troops are now in the business of pillaging archaeological sites?

  —You do not.

  —What?

  —Explain. You do not admit anything, and you do not explain anything. But you give them something.

  —What do you have in mind?

  —Anything. Something they want more than a big hand. That should not prove too difficult. Dismantle a missile base somewhere. They would probably love for you to take those Patriots out of Poland. They will rub your face in it for a while, but they are absolutely not going to escalate the situation into something that can get—excuse the pun—out of hand, not if you give them a way out.

  —Somehow I don’t think the president will be too keen on weakening our position in Eastern Europe just so you can keep playing your little game.

  —You know as well as I do that most of these bases are just window dressing, straw men designed to make smaller countries feel a bit mightier. Give the Russians anything they can spin politically. They will have their victory and everyone will go home happy.

  —Let’s just hope, for both our sakes, that the next part turns up in France, Australia, anywhere they don’t speak Russian.

  I also had an interesting conversation with the president this morning. He wants to know what you plan to do with that robot of yours if you get it to work. The idea was always to extract advanced technology from it. So far, your people can’t even repair it, let alone reverse-engineer anything we can use. If your people can’t do that, what are we supposed to do with a twenty-story robot? We can’t use it without other nations asking questions, and there’s no point in hiding it in that basement forever.

  —I say take her out. March her down Constitution Avenue. Let everyone wonder what she can do. If you want a bigger deterrent, find a meaningless war in the middle of nowhere and annihilate one side. From what Dr. Franklin tells me, conventional weapons could not even put a scratch on her. I believe she could have driven the Iraqis out of
Kuwait by herself. Are you going to tell me you would pass this up? You know this is worth a little squabble with Moscow.

  —Maybe. I’m still not convinced that robot is all that you say it is. While you’re here, can you tell me what you’re doing about getting the controls to work for someone other than the Resnik girl?

  —We are…

  —Yes?

  —Why do you ask?

  —It’s just a question.

  —It is not. What are you not telling me?

  —Fine. I received an e-mail from someone on your team. Alyssa…something.

  —Ms. Papantoniou. She is a geneticist.

  —Well, Ms. Paponiou.

  —Papan…

  —Whatever. She thinks we can’t rely on that pilot of yours for something this important. She says she’s too unpredictable.

  —Is that all she says?

  —No. She says that studying her should be a priority but that Dr. Franklin won’t give her the resources she needs. She also says you won’t do a thing about it.

  —And what do you think?

  —I think you have what looks like a mutiny on your hands, and I don’t find that the least bit reassuring.

  —I find it mostly annoying. But if it can make you feel better, I will let you decide what needs prioritizing. We do not have a complete robot. What we have cannot move. If and when we find the missing pieces, then it may or may not move. One of the control helmets does not work for anyone at this point. That nonfunctioning helmet is at a station designed for a creature with a different anatomy that we also cannot operate. What we do have is one functioning helmet, one station we can actually use, and one pilot able to use both the helmet and the station. So, Robert, where do we focus our efforts? Choose wisely.

  —Hey, it’s your show. All I’m saying is you should have a better handle on your people. But even if we don’t need to deal with it now, that…Alyssa person’s got a point. What are we going to do when the Resnik girl is too old? God forbid she gets hit by a truck a week from now. What if she wakes up one morning and decides she doesn’t want to do this anymore? Say she decides it goes against her values. Say she gets pregnant and doesn’t want to risk her life anymore. What would we do then?

  —Believe me, she will not. None of them will. They would not give this up for all the gold in the world, let alone for principles. We will have a few more years to analyze it. We will find a way to make it work for someone else. There is always a chance that her children could work the controls.

  —You want to breed pilots? You’ll forgive me if I don’t bring your suggestion to the president.

  —I do not think it will come to that, but why not? Breed them. Clone them. Ms. Papantoniou would certainly not object. Who knows what we will be able to do twenty years from now. In any case, this president will be long gone when that decision needs to be made. I think this robot will still be advanced weaponry long after you and I are buried.

  —I don’t share your optimism. This whole thing scares the hell out of me. I can’t help but think it will all blow up in our faces.

  —Do you like superheroes?

  —Oh, I’m not in the mood for a metaphor right now.

  —Humor me. Who is your favorite superhero?

  —I don’t know. Superman. No, the Hulk.

  —OK, now imagine for a minute that—what is he called when he is not the Hulk?

  —How should I know? I’m not twelve! Wait one second…Lisa, what’s the name of the guy who turns into the Hulk when he’s angry?…She doesn’t know…How about Superman?…Superman is Clark Kent…Thank you, Lisa.

  —Imagine that Clark Kent walks into your office one day and offers his services to fight for America. You are given the opportunity to recruit a near-indestructible soldier with superhuman strength who can fly faster than a supersonic jet fighter. Would you say no because Mr….

  —Kent.

  —Because Mr. Kent might someday fall ill?

  —That’s it? That’s your point? I can tell you this: I’d certainly think about it if I had to start by invading a dozen countries to pick up body parts from Mr. Kent all over the map.

  FILE NO. 118

  INTERVIEW WITH CW3 KARA RESNIK, UNITED STATES ARMY

  Location: Underground Complex, Denver, CO

  —Yes, I slept with him! Are you happy now?

  —I did not mean him.

  —Well, which one do you mean? The one in jail, or the one in the hospital? I slept with both of them, so take your pick. I sleep with everybody. That’s just the kind of girl I am.

  —There is no need to be on the defensive. I am not accusing you of anything. I just want to know what happened.

  —You’re not accusing me? Now that’s a relief! You can just go ahead and say it. It’s not a matter of opinion. I know this is all my fault. Believe me, I know.

  —You can start by telling me what happened with Mr. Mitchell.

  —I don’t know what to tell you. We spent so much time together. He’s kind. I’m not used to men being kind. I’ve made the wrong choices every single time when it comes to men. Ryan, he’s…a good guy. Leave it to me to pick Mr. Right and still get it wrong.

  I mean, I knew better. I knew this wasn’t for me. He just…wore me down. I caved in, and I was hoping I’d wake up the next day and all the pain would be gone, all that self-doubt. But, of course, I felt exactly the same. You don’t erase a lifetime of mistakes by sleeping with some man in a car, no matter how kind he is. I tried. I swear.

  —You saw him again after you made love in the car?

  —We didn’t make love in the car. I jumped him. I had too much to drink. That was me being…

  —Self-destructive?

  —I was gonna say “me being me,” but that works too. He knew, that’s the worst part. I was hoping he didn’t, but he knew. I felt horrible. So yeah, we went out again a couple times. I figured, he’d seen me at my worst and he stuck around. The least I could do was to give it a real shot. I mean, that’s what people do. Isn’t it? They find a decent, good-looking man who doesn’t judge them and treats them like a princess. They realize how lucky they are and they never let go. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

  —I wish I could offer a piece of wisdom. Sadly, romance is not an art form I have ever mastered. As unsuccessful as your attempts at relationships may have been, you are still the expert in this room. Is there something about Mr. Mitchell that you find off-putting?

  —No! Nothing! There’s nothing. If I could describe the perfect man, all the qualities I’m looking for in someone, it wouldn’t be too far off from Mitchell. He’s a bit clingy at times, but overall he’s great company. I love the way he looks at me. I like seeing myself through his eyes. I don’t know. Maybe it’s me I can’t stand. Maybe I don’t like the effect I have on him, how he loses himself when I’m around.

  —Would you prefer he paid less attention to you?

  —I…We spend every minute of every day alone in a space the size of my bedroom. There’s no one else he could pay attention to. I can’t put it into words. I…I wish I didn’t feel like everything was about me. Then again, I’d probably find him too distant. Maybe I’m just nuts.

  —Did you sleep with him again?

  —Does it really matter? I tried to make it work. Deep down, I knew it wouldn’t take but I tried. I never stopped really. I was still trying. Then the unthinkable happened.

  —What do you mean?

  —The end of the world. Stars falling from the sky.

  Mitchell and I spend most of our time alone in the sphere, but once in a while, someone will come up for a few minutes. The techs will come up to check the equipment. Dr. Franklin likes to climb in once a day just to say hello. We’re always pretty happy to see other faces. Vincent is our most frequent visitor. He comes into the sphere a couple times a day to look at the console. We usually take a break to chat.

  —What do you talk about?

  —Anything and everything. Work, sports, the weather. T
hat time he walked us through the number symbols while he was there. Did he show you how the numbers work? It’s insane. I just can’t wrap my head around it. Anyway, it was late. We were all really tired and we started joking around, showing Vincent how the controls worked. Ryan was doing the moonwalk with the robot. I was doing disco moves on my station. We were all watching it on the computer screens. We were having a really good time. The helmet was just sitting there. We were laughing so hard, we didn’t even notice when he reached for it.

  —Who did? Mr. Couture?

  —Yes. He put it on. Then he fell to his knees and screamed. It was all happening in slow motion. We just stood there. Ryan looked at me, and we both knew what had just happened. We knew everything had changed. After what seemed like an eternity, we got out of our braces and we helped him up and out of the sphere. Dr. Franklin kept asking: What happened? What happened? Neither of us could get the words out.

  —What happened?

  —Ryan was out. That’s what happened. Everything he had, all he had worked for, gone. Just like that. I’ve seen men die in combat, but I’d never seen anyone lose everything in one instant and have to live with it. I wish I could have held him in my arms at that very moment, told him everything was going to be all right, but we had to take care of Vincent.

  —Why do you think the helmet turned on for Vincent and not for anyone else?

  —Hell if I know. DNA. Brain configuration. Fate. The universe having a very sick sense of humor.

  He spent a couple days in bed. He actually listened and kept his bandages on the whole time. When he came back, the station turned on for him, as we all expected. The console lit up as well. Dr. Franklin couldn’t hide how thrilled she was, despite her best efforts. Who could blame her? She’d been hoping for this for so long.

  Once the helmet activated, I could see the leg movements on my hologram. There was another small hologram on the console, just like mine. Of course, Vincent’s legs didn’t fit the controls any more than Ryan’s did, so the hologram didn’t help much. He had to face away from it, just like Ryan. And just like Ryan, he couldn’t get the leg movements right. But Vincent wasn’t nearly in as good a shape as Ryan. I wish I could say we were back to square one.