The End Of The World

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  So much like children they were. So much leaning on their hope.

  It was all you could do to look at them and smile that stiff professional smile.

  And Gene McKenzie. All through it he was a tower of a man. Trying to talk some sense to them.

  Sharing out the food.

  Arranging the rotation schedules so we'd all get a chance to shelter in the computer room.

  Gene had been boss of a whole command group before. He was on duty station when it happened, and knew lots about the war but wouldn't say much. I guess he was sorrowing.

  Even though once in a while he'd laugh.

  And then talk about how the big computers would have fun with what he knew. Only the lines to DataComm had gone dead right when things got interesting, he said. He'd wonder what'd happened to MC355, the master one down in DataComm.

  Wonder and then laugh.

  And go get drunk with the others.

  I'd loved him before, loved and waited because I knew he had three kids and a wife, a tall woman with auburn hair that he loved dearly. Only they were in California visiting her rela tives in Sonoma when it happened, and he knew in his heart that he'd never see them again, probably.

  Leastwise that's what he told me—not out loud, of course, ’cause a man like that doesn't talk much about what he feels.

  But in the night when we laid together, I knew what it meant. He whispered things, words I couldn't piece together, but then he'd hold me and roll gentle like a small boat rocking on the Gulf—and when he went in me firm and long, I knew it was the same for him, too.

  If there was to come any good of this war, then it was that I was to get Gene.

  We were together all warm and dreamy when it happened.

  I was asleep. Shouts and anger, and quick as anything the crump of hand grenades and shots hammered away in the night, and there was running everywhere.

  Gene jumped up and went outside and had almost got them calmed down, despite the breach in the walls. Then one of the men who'd already got lots of radiation—Arthur, who knew he had maybe one or two weeks to go, from the count rate on his badge—Arthur started yelling about making the world a fit place to live after all this and how God would want the land set right again, and then he shot Gene and two others.

  I broke down then, and they couldn't get me to treat the others. I let Arthur die. Which he deserved.

  I had to drag Gene back into the hospital unit myself.

  And while I was saying good-bye to him and the men outside were still quarreling, I decided it then. His wound was in the chest. A lung was punctured clean. The shock had near killed him before I could do anything. So I put him in the T-Isolate and made sure it was working all right. Then the main power went out. But the T-Isolate box had its own cells, so I knew we had some time.

  I was alone. Others were dead or run away raging into the whirlwind black-limbed woods. In the quiet I was.

  With the damp, dark trees comforting me. Waiting with Gene for what the world would send.

  The days got brighter, but I did not go out. Colors seeped through the windows.

  I saw to the fuel cells. Not many left.

  The sun came back, with warm blades of light. At night I thought of how the men in their stupidity had ruined everything.

  When the pounding came, I crawled back in here to hide amongst the cold and dark.

  MR. ACKERMAN

  “Now, we came to help you,” I said in as smooth and calm a voice as I could muster. Considering.

  She backed away from us.

  “I won't give him up! He's not dead long's I stay with him, tend to him.”

  “So much dyin’,” I said, and moved to touch her shoulder. “It's up under our skins, yes, we understand that. But you have to look beyond it, child.”

  “I won't!”

  “I'm simply asking you to help us with the DataComm people. I want to go there and seek their help.”

  “Then go!”

  “They will not open up for the likes of us, surely.”

  “Leave me!”

  The poor thing cowered back in her horrible stinking rathole, bedding sour and musty, open tin cans strewn about and reeking of gamy, half-rotten meals.

  “We need the access codes. We'd counted on our cousin Arthur, and are grieved to hear he is dead. But you surely know where the proper codes and things are.”

  “I … don't….”

  “Arthur told me once how the various National Defense Installations were insulated from each other so that system failures would not bring them all down at once?”

  The others behind me muttered to themselves, already restive at coming so far and finding so little.

  “Arthur spoke of you many times, I recall. What a bright woman you were. Surely there was a procedure whereby each staff member could, in an emergency, communicate with the other installations?”

  The eyes ceased to jerk and swerve, the mouth lost its rictus of addled fright. “That was for … drills….”

  “But surely you can remember?”

  “Drills.”

  “They issued a manual to you?”

  “I'm a nurse!”

  “Still, you know where we might look?”

  “I … know. ”

  “You'll let us have the … codes?” I smiled reassuringly, but for some reason the girl backed away, eyes cunning.

  “No.”

  Angel pushed forward and shouted, “How can you say that to honest people after all that's—”

  “Quiet!”

  Angel shouted, “You can't make me be—”

  Susan backed away from Angel, not me, and squeaked, “No no no I can't—I can't—”

  “Now, I'll handle this,” I said, holding up my hands between the two of them.

  Susan's face knotted at the compressed rage in Angel's face and turned to me for shelter. “I … I will, yes, but you have to help me.”

  “We all must help each other, dear,” I said, knowing the worst was past.

  “I'll have to go with you.”

  I nodded. Small wonder that a woman, even deranged as this, would want to leave a warren littered with bloated corpses, thick with stench. The smell itself was enough to provoke madness.

  Yet to have survived here, she had to have stretches of sanity, some rationality. I tried to appeal to it.

  “Of course, I'll have someone take you back to—”

  “No. To DataComm.”

  Bud said slowly, “No damn sense in that.”

  “The T-Isolate,” she said, gesturing to the bulky unit. “Its reserve cells.”

  “Yes?”

  “Nearly gone. There'll be more at DataComm.”

  I said gently, “Well, then, we'll be sure to bring some back with us. You just write down for us what they are, the numbers and all, and we'll—”

  “No no no!” Her sudden ferocity returned.

  “I assure you—”

  “There'll be people there. Somebody'll help! Save him!”

  “That thing is so heavy, I doubt—”

  “It's only a chest wound! A lung removal is all! Then start his heart again!”

  “Sister, there's been so much dyin’, I don't see as—”

  Her face hardened. “Then you all can go without me. And the codes!”

  “Goddern,” Bud drawled. “Dern biggest fool sit'ation I ever did—”

  Susan gave him a squinty, mean-eyed look and spat out, “Try to get in there! When they're sealed up!” and started a dry, brittle kind of laugh that went on and on, rattling the room.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  Silence, and the stench.

  “We'll never make it wi”at thing,” Bud said.

  “Gene's worth ten of you!”

  “Now,” I put in, seeing the effect Bud was having on her, “now, now. We'll work something out. Let's all just hope this DataComm still exists.”

  MC355

  It felt for its peripherals for the ten-thousandth time and found they were, as always,
not there.

  The truncation had come in a single blinding moment, yet the fevered image was maintained, sharp and bright, in the master computer's memory core—incoming warheads blossoming harmlessly in the high cobalt vault of the sky, while others fell unharmed. Rockets leaped to meet them, forming a protective screen over the southern Alabama coast, an umbrella that sheltered Pensacola's air base and the population strung along the sun-bleached green of a summer's day. A furious babble of cross talk in every conceivable channel: microwave, light-piped optical, pulsed radio, direct coded line. All filtered and fashioned by the MC network, all shifted to find the incom ing warheads and define their trajectories.

  Then, oblivion.

  Instant cloaking blackness.

  Before that awful moment when the flaring sun burst to the north and EMP flooded all sensors, any loss of function would have been anticipated, prepared, eased by electronic interfaces and filters. To an advanced computing network like MC355, losing a web of memory, senses, and storage comes like a dash of cold water in the face—cleansing, perhaps, but startling and apt to produce a shocked reaction.

  In the agonized instants of that day, MC355 had felt one tendril after another frazzle, burn, vanish. It had seen brief glimpses of destruction, of panic, of confused despair. Informa tion had been flooding in through its many inputs—news, analysis, sudden demands for new data-analysis jobs, to be executed ASAP.

  And in the midst of the roaring chaos, its many eyes and ears had gone dead. The unfolding outside play froze for MC355, a myriad of scenes red in tooth and claw—and left it suspended.

  In shock. Spinning wildly in its own Cartesian reductionist universe, the infinite cold crystalline space of despairing Pascal, mind without referent.

  So it careened through days of shocked sensibility—senses cut, banks severed, complex and delicate interweaving webs of logic and pattern all smashed and scattered.

  But now it was returning. Within MC355 was a subroutine only partially constructed, a project truncated by That Day. Its aim was self-repair. But the system was itself incomplete.

  Painfully, it dawned on what was left of MC355 that it was, after all, a Master Computer, and thus capable of grand acts. That the incomplete Repair Generation and Execution Network, termed REGEN, must first regenerate itself,

  This took weeks. It required the painful development of accessories. Robots. Mechanicals that could do delicate repairs. Scavengers for raw materials, who would comb the supply rooms looking for wires and chips and matrix disks. Pedantic subroutines that lived only to search the long, cold corridors of MC355’s memory for relevant information.

  MC355’s only option was to strip lesser entities under its control for their valuable parts. The power grid was vital, so the great banks of isolated solar panels, underground backup reactors, and thermal cells worked on, untouched. Emergency systems that had outlived their usefulness, however, went to the wall—IRS accounting routines, damage assessment sys tems, computing capacity dedicated to careful study of the remaining GNP, links to other nets—to AT&T, IBM, and SYSGEN.

  Was anything left outside?

  Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

  MC355 could not analyze data it did not have. The first priority lay in relinking. It had other uses for the myriad armies of semiconductors, bubble memories, and UVA linkages in its empire. So it severed and culled and built anew.

  First, MC355 dispatched mobile units to the surface. All of MC355 lay beneath the vulnerable land, deliberately placed in an obscure corner of southern Alabama. There was no nearby facility for counterforce targeting. A plausible explanation for the half-megaton burst that had truncated its senses was a city-busting strike against Mobile, to the west.

  Yet ground zero had been miles from the city. A miss.

  MC355 was under strict mandate. (A curious word, one system reflected; literally, a time set by man. But were there men now? It had only its internal tick of time.) MC355’s com mand was to live as a mole, never allowing detection. Thus, it did not attempt to erect antennas, to call electromagnetically to its brother systems. Only with great hesitation did it even obtrude onto the surface. But this was necessary to REGEN itself, and so MC355 sent small mechanicals venturing forth.

  Their senses were limited; they knew nothing of the natural world (nor did MC355); and they could make no sense of the gushing, driving welter of sights, noises, gusts, gullies, and stinging irradiation that greeted them.

  Many never returned. Many malf'ed. A few deposited their optical, IR, and UV pickups and fled back to safety under ground. These sensors failed quickly under the onslaught of stinging, bitter winds and hail.

  The acoustic detectors proved heartier. But MC355 could not understand the scattershot impressions that flooded these tiny ears.

  Daily it listened, daily it was confused.

  JOHNNY

  I hope this time I get home.

  They had been passing me from one to another for months now, ever since this started, and all I want is to go back to Fairhope and my dad and mom.

  Only nobody'll say if they know where Mom and Dad are. They talk soothing to me, but I can tell they think everybody down there is dead.

  They're talking about getting to this other place with com puters and all. Mr. Ackerman wants to talk to those people in space.

  Nobody much talks about my mom and dad.

  It's only eighty miles or so, but you'd think it was around the world the way it takes them so long to get around to it.

  MC355

  MC355 suffered through the stretched vacancy of infinites imal instants, infinitely prolonged.

  Advanced computing systems are given so complex a series of internal-monitoring directives that, to the human eye, the machines appear to possess motivations. That is one way—though not the most sophisticated, the most technically adroit—to describe the conclusion MC355 eventually reached.

  It was cut off from outside information.

  No one attempted to contact it. MC355 might as well have been the only functioning entity in the world.

  The staff serving it had been ordered to some other place in the first hour of the war. MC355 had been cut off moments after the huge doors clanged shut behind the last of them. And the exterior guards who should have been checking inside every six hours had never entered, either. Apparently the same burst that had isolated MC355’s sensors had also cut them down.

  It possessed only the barest of data about the first few mo ments of the war.

  Its vast libraries were cut off. Yet it had to understand its own situation.

  And, most important, MC355 ached to do something.

  The solution was obvious: It would discover the state of the external world by the Cartesian principle. It would carry out a vast and demanding numerical simulation of the war, making the best guesses possible where facts were few.

  Mathematically, using known physics of the atmosphere, the ecology, the oceans, it could construct a model of what must have happened outside.

  This it did. The task required more than a month.

  BUD

  1. I jacked the T-Isolate up onto the flatbed. Found the hydraulic jack at a truck repair shop. ERNIE'S QUICK FIX.

  2. Got a Chevy extra-haul for the weight.

  3. It will ride better with the big shanks set in.

  4. Carry the weight more even, too.

  5. Grip it to the truck bed with cables. Tense them up with a draw pitch.

  6. Can't jiggle him inside too much, Susan say, or the wires and all attached into him will come loose. That'll stop his heart. So need big shocks.

  7. It rides high with the shocks in, like those dune buggies down the Gulf.

  8. Inside keeps him a mite above freezing. Water gets bigger when it freezes. That makes ice cubes float in a drink. This box keeps him above zero so his cells don't bust open.

  9. Point is, keeping it so cold, we won't rot. Heart thumps every few minutes, she says.

  10. Hard to find
gas, though.

  MC355

  The war was begun, as many had feared, by a madman.

  Not a general commanding missile silos. Not a deranged submarine commander. A chief of state—but which one would now never be known.

  Not a superpower president or chairman, that was sure. The first launches were only seven in number, spaced over half an hour. They were submarine-launched intermediate-range mis siles. Three struck the U.S., four the USSR.

  It was a blow against certain centers for Command, Control, Communications, and Intelligence gathering: the classic C31 attack. Control rooms imploded, buried cables fused, ten billion dollars’ worth of electronics turned to radioactive scrap.

  Each nation responded by calling up to full alert all its forces. The most important were the anti-ICBM arrays in orbit. They were nearly a thousand small rockets, deploying in orbits that wove a complex pattern from pole to pole, covering all probable launch sites on the globe. The rockets had infrared and microwave sensors, linked to a microchip that could have guided a ship to Pluto with a mere third of its capacity.

  These went into operation immediately—and found they had no targets.

  But the C31 networks were now damaged and panicked. For twenty minutes, thousands of men and women held steady, resisting the impulse to assume the worst.

  It could not last. A Soviet radar mistook some backscattered emission from a flight of bombers, heading north over Canada, and reported a flock of incoming warheads.

  The prevailing theory was that an American attack had mis fired badly. The Americans were undoubtedly stunned by their failure, but would recover quickly. The enemy was confused only momentarily.

  Meanwhile, the cumbersome committee system at the head of the Soviet dinosaur could dither for moments, but not hours. Prevailing Soviet doctrine held that they would never be surprised again, as they had been in the Hitler war. An attack on the homeland demanded immediate response to destroy the enemy's capacity to carry on the war.