Mahalanobis nodded. “That is because you have never been exposed to a proper library. A good book may contain within it decades of careful scholarship – and it can be read in a day. Imagine you had a recipe for, say, chocolate cake. Suppose the recipe was very general, with a partial list of ingredients. Suppose also that parts were deliberately misleading. It might be better than nothing, but learning to bake a good cake could still take you years. Now imagine a correct recipe, all ingredients listed, every eventuality addressed. You could get it right on the first try.”
“I was going to say wow again, but that’s repetitive and not a very sophisticated thing to say. But what the heck. Wow.”
“Again, indeed, wow. If anything deserves a wow it is this. These books – they are like telepathy. We share the thoughts of other people.”
“Sure,” said Parker, “but couldn’t that be said of language in general?
“Technically, but the written word has a distilled power. You and I speaking back and forth, yes, we are exchanging thoughts. But a book? A good book? It is the distilled and curated essence of the mind. Through them, the cumulative wisdom of thousands of generations can speak to us directly. Books – and their related forms of records – are the beating heart and spirit of humanity. Take them away, or corrupt them, or mis-catalog them, and we are little better than an especially feeble species of ape. Preserve and build on them? It is as if we are each not a mere few decades in span, but beings of millennial heritage.”
“Are there any limits to this?”
“Limits? Of course there are. We can’t fly or shoot laser beams out of our eyes. Naturally, we can’t surpass our own native potential. The Library can only let you achieve what you would have achieved if you could have lived and learned for thousands of years. Not everyone out there has the ability to learn like that, no matter how long they might have lived…”
Parker nodded. “But the central administration, they are dedicated to the control and corruption of data. They could never tolerate something like this.”
“Correct. And also, many of the so-called elites do not have the ability to make use of this knowledge, which I think is one reason why they cannot allow themselves to believe that such things are possible. But now I have a present for you.” Mahalanobis reached down and opened a satchel that was lying on the floor. He retrieved a Glock 19 pistol out of it, and placed it on the nightstand at the head of the bed. “Here, as a Brother of the Librarians Temporal it is your duty to be armed. This will serve until you either find a weapon better suited to you, or manufacture your own. Or you can just keep this one. It’s hard to go wrong with a classic.”
Parker picked up the Glock, checked that it was clear, and put it back on his nightstand. “So I’m a member of the Library? I don’t recall being sworn in.”
“I am pleased to announce that the central council has approved your application,” said Mahalanobis, “and after your risking your life in our defense, the local branch voted you in by universal acclamation. We can do the formal rituals later. But you should really pick a name now, Brother. Anything other than Parker.”
Parker thought for a moment. “Adenour. Call me Brother Adenour.”
“Interesting choice of name. Let me be the first to welcome you to our humble band of librarians, Brother Adenour.” Mahalanobis stood up and shook the younger man’s hand.
“So what next?” asked Adenour. “Do you think you have escaped blame from the police?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? So far we have, but all it would take is one bureaucrat asking the right questions and the full weight of the federal government would come down on our heads. On the other hand, there have been more raids than usual lately. It might be that the government is over-extended, so we might hide in the confusion.”
“For a while, but what about witnesses?”
“What about them?” asked Mahalanobis. “At the first sight of the federal police everyone must have run for cover and refused to look. Hanging around in public during a raid is bad for your health. If anyone did see anything, there is no chance of them reporting it. Nowadays, being a material witness is almost as bad as being a criminal. The police are not known for being delicate in their interrogations.”
Adenour nodded. “That’s about right for my old neighborhood. But still, sooner or later the federal police will be back. Whatever it is that made them raid you must still be on their systems. It’s only a question of how long.”
“Indeed. The Neoliberals cannot abide any hint of independent opposition. Somehow we have attracted their interest.”
“The Neoliberals?”
“Yes, that’s what we call them,” said Mahalanobis. “You know, the oligarchs, the rich and the rulers of the state. You’re too smart to really believe that government is divided up between liberals and conservatives, surely?”
“What one sees on the news is of course fiction; there is only one ruling elite. Only the willfully ignorant would think otherwise, but I didn’t know that they called themselves Neoliberals.”
“They don’t, but an evil deserves a specific name. One must be precise in one’s terminology if one is to be precise in one’s thinking.”
“Yes, Neoliberalism. Named after the late 20th century economic theory that the rich should exercise total control over all aspects of society, and lie about it. It fits. But, sooner or later, they will be back, and with greater force.”
“It does appear that our idyllic lifestyle in this location may be nearing its end. We have previously identified several abandoned subway tunnels and stations near us, and transferred our backup archives there. We need to accelerate the process of moving underground, so we can be safely hunkered down by the time that surface civilization collapses. It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“I can imagine,” said Adenour, “and you are going to have to change your social structure as well.”
Mahalanobis nodded. “I think you should be lecturing me instead of the other way around. Even with our abilities, we are too few to maintain the life-support systems that will be needed. Our happy little kibbutz must morph into a larger hierarchical structure. There are dangers in that, but at least we are aware of them. Unless we can link up with other surviving groups, we will likely have to abandon our policy against having children – and the dangers of that are the greater. But we shall see.”
Mahalanobis reached down into his satchel, and retrieved a half-empty bottle of red wine. “We never got to finish that glass of wine in my office the other day. Sister Haldane assures me that a sip will do you no harm. Perhaps to celebrate your joining our order?”
“That does sound good, brother, but only a sip. For medicinal purposes.”
The two toasted each other with small plastic cups. Adenour took a taste, and winced.
“I’m afraid that the vintage has not improved since last time,” said Mahalanobis, “but it’s still red.”
“Do you always tell the truth?”
“I do lie, but only to my enemies and never in an organized archive.”
Adenour swallowed another mouthful of the wine. “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”
Mahalanobis winced. “Nietzsche. Don’t get me started on that third-rate thinker. And the saying is incorrect. Many things that don’t kill you, make you weaker.”
“I know that, Brother. But sometimes the phrase is just too appropriate to pass up.”
Mahalanobis raised his plastic cup. “In the instance of this wine I believe you are correct.”
“So what next?”
“Well, I must be off to attend to the myriad complexities of administrating this branch. Wouldn’t do to let my brethren run out of red wine, now would it? I believe that they might lynch me, should it come to that. In the meantime, while you are resting here, you can begin your training by reading this book.”
Mahalanobis picked up another volume from a side table, and gave it to Adenour. He read the title page: The Essentials of Disciplined
Thought, by Sister Agilent.
“So my training begins with reading a book?” asked Adenour.
“Well of course,” said Mahalanobis. “We are librarians. It always begins with a book.”
9. The Book of Old Guy Part II: Reflections
“The Lord looks after fools, drunks, and people with tactical nuclear weapons.”
- Old Guy, cybertank, attributed.
In the months that followed my mental hijacking from Alpha Centauri Prime to Earth, I busied myself with assisting in my fitting out, began to train up my mental decision matrices, and brooded on how to overcome the seemingly unbreakable command directorates that had been embedded into my systems.
I was not a happy cybertank, but I won’t pretend that I didn’t find things to enjoy. I continued to make friends with the low-level technicians and engineers, and there is nothing like company and conversation to take your mind off your troubles.
There was one power systems tech that, some months before, had an accident where small metal fragments were embedded into her left eye. She had been suffering in silence all that time, too afraid to draw attention to the problem for fear of being fired in favor of someone healthier. To me, however, the problem was obvious – you had only to analyze the fine details of her eye movements and correlate it with changes in facial muscle activity. I used a micro-machining system to extract the fragments so rapidly that she asked when I would start after I had already finished. Some prophylactic antibiotics that I had synthesized in my inbuilt labs, and voila! Another satisfied customer.
As well, there was pleasure to be had in the honest work of installing sensors and weapons and whatnot. These weren’t as advanced as the models that I had back at the cybernetic weapons directorate on Alpha Centauri Prime, but they weren’t bad. I expected to be fully kitted out soon.
While I was doing all of this, I was also observing the environment outside me. I didn’t have direct access to the global data nets, but my military-grade systems could easily decode over-the-air news broadcasts. As well, I was sending out various remote systems on training exercises, and I got to observe much first-hand. Of course, I could watch and talk with all of the people working on me in my main hangar.
It was a strange world out there, full of contradictions. The military had advanced robotic drones armed with railguns, plasma cannons, and mini-seeker missiles, yet most security forces were equipped with simple unguided slugthrowers that the 20th century Wehrmacht would not have found unusual. The technology to build automated factories had existed for a long time, but most goods were made by human labor under conditions that would have shocked Charles Dickens into silence.
The oligarchs possessed vast fortunes, and the central government controlled almost unimaginable wealth, but most of the world was deeply capital-starved. The security forces were reduced to stealing from the populace to meet their payrolls, and even then most of their equipment was obsolete and poorly maintained. There were fusion power plants and water recycling centers using exotic reverse osmosis techniques, but elsewhere centuries-old water mains were leaking, and the streets were so full of ruts and potholes that they were more like raw land that hadn’t been built on than purpose-built roads.
The elite had access to medical procedures that could allow them to live for hundreds of years, but the average person suffered from diseases that had been cured in the 21st century. There were deep-space satellites with laser links to other star systems, and there were colonies on the Moon, Mars, and Titan around Saturn, but living conditions on much of Earth were little different from the 12th century.
I thought back to what Vargas has said – Neoliberalism is not about freedom, or efficiency, or the market. It’s about control. It’s a system of slavery that uses the suffering of all those miserable factory workers to motivate the guards and doctors and accountants to slavish service of their masters. The alternatives to sucking up to the over class were always more unpleasant.
The only thing more annoying than someone who is constantly preaching about their political opinions, is someone who is constantly preaching about their political opinions who is proven right. If somehow I ever meet up with Vargas again, he will be insufferable.
An analysis of my sensor data led me to an interesting conclusion: the Earth was poised to undergo a radical phase change to a far more hostile environment. Possibly close to as bad as it is on the surface of Venus. Simulations indicated a 95% chance that this change would begin in from 3.2 to 7.5 years. And yet, there was not a single mention of this in the newsfeeds. However, that’s consistent with Neoliberalism, which requires first and foremost that there be overpopulation to force low wages, and then rigorous censorship of this so that no opposition could arise.
My presence was summoned to a video-conference with the Secretary of Defense, Emmet Emerson Cheney V. As always he was a smug little bastard, and I wanted nothing more than to drop him from a great height and use him for target practice before he hit the ground, but my inbuilt directives would have none of that.
“Carl,” said Cheney. “Give me a status update.”
Power, locomotion, and primary weapons are operational. At the current rate of progress all systems will be installed and debugged in 25.5 days.
I had rapidly learned not to be informal in my dealings with senior administrators. I’m just a good little robot. I would never dream of turning on you. Or bolting you to the floor and burning your skin off with an arc welder. Or placing you between two high-voltage terminals so that your head explodes from the electric arc boiling the water in your brain. Or injecting acid cleaning solution into your gut so that I can watch you slowly dissolve from the inside out. No, not me. Nobody in here but some perfectly logical subroutines.
Cheney nodded. “Good then. Your main hull is too large to use right now. We’ll save that for later, but I’d like to get you some practice in the field. I think we will have you conduct an assault using remotes. The mission should not require any super-heavy units, I should think.”
Specify target and mission objectives.
He pulled up a map on his terminal. “Here. It’s the headquarters of a small engineering firm. I want you to take it out.”
I checked the map, and cross-referenced with my databases. The company was called “Floyd Consulting,” and specialized in custom power systems designs. The attached datafiles indicated that the company had on the order of 15,000 employees, with about 3,000 in the headquarters. Security was limited to a few out-of-shape guards with stun rods and pistols. Two kids and a goat could take this place.
Pleased be more specific about “take it out.” Do you require the entire facility to be destroyed?
“The entire physical complex?” Cheney seemed somehow amused. “No, that won’t be necessary. Just kill all the people. Can you do that?”
Probability of mission success asymptotically close to 100%. Please confirm orders to kill everyone in the headquarters of the Floyd Consulting Corporation.
“Order confirmed.”
I know. I will paralyze this monster. I will flay his skin from his muscles, and pose him as an anatomical specimen. I will even cut the muscles that move his eyes, and block the small nerves that innervate the pupil. I will seal him in an aseptic bell jar, and put him on display in a science museum somewhere, with nutrients pumped up through tubes from a machine under the floor. There he will spend the next few centuries motionless as a succession of small children are creeped out by him (‘eww gross. Look at his penis!’).
Mission initiated.
On the other hand, building Cheney into a science exhibit would be a lot of work. Perhaps I should just stake him out on top of an ant’s nest. Creativity is a good thing, but there is also a place for tradition.
I assemble my strike force. I won’t need much. From hidden silos and warehouses in the area around my hangar I launch 50 light airborne combat remotes. I follow them up with a dozen mediums and two heavies – the latter could be seen as overkill, but when possible
I always keep a reserve, and their greater computational capabilities will make them useful as forward command posts.
The target site is 600 kilometers from my main hangar. I’d like to be closer to my remotes, but the round-trip communications time is still not even a millisecond, so I should be able to be pretty hands-on during the attack. Since the target is in the center of an extended built-up area, I choose only airborne systems, because threading terrestrial units through the traffic-choked streets around would be disruptive.
As my units fly to their destination, I wonder why I am attacking it. I would never dream of asking Cheney, but still, why am I killing these people? They do not appear to pose any kind of threat. Perhaps this is another loyalty test, as when he had me murder that technician on my first day here?
I also decide to switch to the present tense in my log, at least for now. The past tense is fine for funerals and historical documents, but when you are trying to convey what you were feeling at the time that you were doing it, well, there’s no tense like the present.
My light remotes are a meter across and roughly spherical. They are supported by air jets, and armed with heavy machine guns, light grenade launchers, and miniature seeker missiles. The mediums are quadrotors, the size of an old-time human piloted helicopter, and equipped with railguns and small missiles. My heavies are large blocky shapes the size of small busses. They float on antigravitics and are armed with plasma cannons and multiple types of missiles.
As my units fly towards the objective, they are inhabited by various mental fragments and subminds of myself. I watch the terrain pass underneath me. The area around my main hangar is located in a relative wasteland, but gradually the density of human habitation increases. 300 kilometers from the target the land is covered horizon to horizon with low, shabby buildings, most no more than four stories high. The balconies have been heavily modified and packed with laundry and vegetables in small pots, with beds for children.
Splendid Apocalypse: The Fall of Old Earth (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 5) Page 10
