by Steve Alten
“Replaced? Out here, in the open seas? That is madness.”
EXTERIOR PUMP-JET PROPULSION ASSEMBLY UNIT NUMBER FOUR MUST BE REPLACED TO MAINTAIN OPTIMUM STEALTH AND FLANK SPEED. COMMENCE REPLACEMENT OPERATION IMMEDIATELY.
Chau’s eyes widen. “Now your machine is giving us orders? Simon—”
“Mr. Chau, the computer’s programming was designed to anticipate potential problems that could jeopardize our mission. By correcting the situation now, we—”
The female’s voice interrupts: EXTERIOR PUMP-JET PROPULSION ASSEMBLY NUMBER FOUR MUST BE REPLACED TO MAINTAIN OPTIMUM STEALTH AND FLANK SPEED. COMMENCE REPLACEMENT OPERATION IMMEDIATELY.
“For a computer, that sure sounded insistent!”
“Sorceress is learning the art of voice inflection, an adaptation inspired from our own behavior, no doubt.”
Unnerved, the Chinese exile pulls Covah aside. “Simon, that American sub is still somewhere in the vicinity. This vessel has five engines. With all due respect, I suggest we order the sub to shut down its number four propulsor and let us get on with our business.”
THE DAMAGED PROPULSOR ASSEMBLY IS CREATING TURBULENCE DURING FLANK SPEED MANEUVERS. COMMENCE REPLACEMENT OPERATION IMMEDIATELY. BYPASSING PUMP-JET PROPULSOR NUMBER FOUR WILL NOT RESOLVE THE SITUATION.
“I wasn’t speaking to you, I was speaking to the captain.” Chau turns to face Covah. “That is, assuming you are still in command.”
Covah registers the backhanded remark in his gut as he stares out the viewport. Sleet punishes the thick tinted glass. A burst of lightning flashes silently in the distance. “Sorceress, weather conditions are not optimal for replacement of propeller number four at this time. Override safety parameters and resume Covah objective Utopia-One.”
NATO WARSHIPS AND ANTISUBMARINE HELICOPTERS ARE NOW DEPLOYING SONAR BUOYS ACROSS STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR. PUMP-JET PROPULSOR ASSEMBLY NUMBER FOUR MUST BE REPLACED TO MAINTAIN OPTIMUM STEALTH AND FLANK SPEED IN ORDER TO COMPLETE COVAH OBJECTIVE UTOPIA-ONE. CURRENT STATUS YIELDS AN INCREASED RISK OF DETECTION BY HOSTILE FORCES BY A COEFFICIENT OF 3.796. PRESENT WEATHER CONDITIONS OPTIMAL TO PREVENT FURTHER DETECTION BY HOSTILE FORCES AND SATELLITE RECONNAISSANCE. COMMENCE REPLACEMENT OPERATION IMMEDIATELY.
Covah palpates the soft, whiskerless flesh transplanted along the corner of his scalded mouth. “Sorceress is, of course, correct.” He turns to the engineer. “Alert the rest of the crew. I want everyone in the PLC in dry suits in fifteen minutes.”
Two bays aboard the Goliath permit access to the sub’s exterior hull. The first is the hangar deck, a floodable chamber, located along the sub’s undercarriage and originally designed for covert Navy SEAL operations while submerged. The second is the Primary Loading Chamber (PLC), a compartment located in the stern, just aft of the vessel’s reactor and engine room. With its topside access, the PLC is used for the loading and unloading of the crew’s supplies, as well as the ship’s weapons.
Heading aft, Covah passes through the immense centrally located hangar, the compartment’s two mechanical arms resting on their Volkswagen-size shoulder girdles. Entering the engine room, he climbs a steep stairwell, continuing along one of the four elevated walkways situated between the submarine’s five nuclear power plants. Below the grated steel platform lies an expanse of equipment resembling the latest autorobotics factory. Situated within this city-block-long chamber are Goliath’s five nuclear reactors, two backup generators, batteries, seawater distillation plants, and, in the rear of the compartment, the driveshaft extensions of the sub’s five propulsion units.
Positioned at intervals along the avenues separating the nuclear reactors are eight-foot-high shiny steel arms supporting carbon-fiber pincers. These robotic appendages, mounted along the decking like bizarre swiveling lampposts, represent Goliath’s workforce—twenty-four-hour-a-day drones, designed to allow the computer to physically complete the tasks of a 140-man crew.
Scarlet beams emanating from forty optical sensory lasers illuminate the darkened walkway, crisscrossing the chamber like bursts of tracer fire. No one can enter any section of the ship without Sorceress’s knowledge.
A watertight door beckons at the end of the path, the vermilion pupil of the computer’s eyeball-shaped sensor glowing above the passageway as prominent as an EXIT sign. The door swings open automatically as Covah approaches, sealing again after he enters the Primary Loading Chamber.
Unlike the engine room, the PLC is open and brightly lit, resembling a small steel gymnasium, three stories high. Mounted at the very center of its decking is an enormous robotic arm, identical to the two appendages mounted in the hangar bay. These crane-size devices were designed by the same Canadian firm that constructed the robotic arm aboard NASA’s Space Shuttle, and are nearly identical in its dimensions. The mechanical limb remains bent at the elbow, the joint resting just below a sealed twenty-footsquare hatch in the ceiling.
Located next to the base of the arm is an open hydraulic elevator lift. Balanced upright on the lift’s steel platform, held in place by the thumb and two fingerlike prongs attached to the wrist of the robotic arm, is a ten-foot-high, lamp-shade-shaped device made of a bronze alloy. The assembly, which attaches to the sub’s propulsor unit, is designed to direct the flow field generated by Goliath’s nuclear-driven pump-jets in the same manner the deflectors direct the jets on an F-22 Raptor.
For a long moment Covah just stares at Goliath’s three-fingered mechanical hand, a bizarre anatomical reflection of his own physical deformity.
The seven members of Covah’s crew are leaning against a massive generator. All wear cumbersome dry suits, weighted rubber boots, and orange flotation vests. Mutinous expressions tell him all he needs to know.
Thomas Chau, spokesman for the group, steps forward, perspiration heavy across his gaunt, oily face. “Simon, the men and I … we’ve been talking.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, sir, and to a man we feel that replacing the propulsor unit in these conditions is too risky.”
“I see. Then you’d prefer to wait until the seas are calm and the sun shines brightly overhead while a squadron of American P-3 Orion sub hunters closes in upon us?”
“No, sir—”
“Or perhaps we should just ignore the problem and face the thirty NATO warships and submarines gathering at the mouth of the Mediterranean, without our full stealth capabilities?” Covah pauses to sip from the water bottle. “There is risk in all things great, Mr. Chau. Or did you think the world would simply meet our demands without a fight?”
“Simon, there is not a man among us unwilling to die for our cause, but to serve this … this inhuman taskmaster is—”
“Sorceress is not a taskmaster. She—”
“She?”
“It is merely a computer, a machine designed to make our jobs easier.”
“In my opinion,” Chau spits, “your machine does not require us on board any more than a dog requires a flea. It is my recommendation that we disconnect the Sorceress programming and—”
COMMENCE REPLACEMENT OPERATION IMMEDIATELY.
They turn like scolded children to the source of the female voice—a mechanical eyeball-and-speaker assembly mounted to the wrist of the hydraulic arm.
COMMENCE REPLACEMENT OPERATION IMMEDIATELY.
“We heard you the first time, bitch,” yells Taur Araujo, an exiled guerrilla leader from East Timor.
And now Covah understands. It is not the computer that riles his crew. It is the voice—soothing, yet unfeeling, devoid of emotion—the voice of a cold, calculating woman giving orders.
“Mr. Chau, organize the crew into two teams, one group in the water at a time. The first will remove the damaged propulsion hood, the second will install its replacement. Make certain each man is properly secured to the lifting platform by cable. Include me in the second group.”
“But sir—”
“No buts. We will do what must be done to complete our mission. Those are my orders, Mr. Chau, not the computer’s
. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
The storm’s fury has increased by the time the first team of scuba divers makes its way down Goliath’s sloped back and disappears beneath the waves.
Covah and three others watch from the hydraulic lift, now poking up through the open hatch of the PLC. The open elevated platform extends five feet above the ship’s deck. A cold rain whips their dry suits, pelting their exposed faces. Dark, menacing swells roll across the tail end of the sub, concealing the rubberized graphite coating sealing Goliath’s metallic skin.
Attached to the guardrail of the lift are four small winches supporting four steel cables, the taut lines running thirty feet to stern before disappearing into the raging sea.
Covah closes his eyes, attempting to gather what little strength his weakened muscles have left to offer. He feels the fury of the storm as it batters Goliath to and fro along the surface. Cold and vulnerable, alone against the elements, alone against the world—these are the moments when Covah misses his family most, the times when the emptiness of his existence causes his pentup rage to cool, threatening to drown what little sanity he has left.
Soon enough. You’ll see your loved ones soon enough … .
An echoing gunshot of thunder snaps his eyes open. A vein of lightning ignites across the blackened sky, illuminating the four hooded heads of the returning divers above the rolling whitecaps. Before Covah can even signal, pistons fire and Goliath’s hydraulic arm raises the new propulsion unit away from the lift, extending it out toward the submerged stern.
Thomas Chau and his team climb over the rail, the exhausted men unhooking the cables from their harnesses, the muscles in their half-frozen arms responding slowly as they hand the clip-on end of their lines to their comrades.
Chau spits out his regulator, his teeth chattering. “We’ve removed the damaged assembly. Sorceress will position the new unit. All you have to do is secure it in place with these lug nuts.” Chau ties a heavy sack around his captain’s waist.
Sujan Trevedi sloshes forward, his face cold and pale, his lips blue. “Be careful, my friend. The sea is angry.”
Covah wipes a gloved hand across his drenched mustache, then positions the regulator and hood. Offering a thumbs-up, he climbs awkwardly over the rail, then lowers himself feetfirst to the submerged deck.
He manages only three steps before the first incoming swell slams him sideways and thrusts him underwater, his face mask bouncing twice against the sub’s rubber-skin hull. The unmerciful cold burns his exposed cheeks, his flesh tightening like a drumhead along the scarred boundaries of the steel facial plate. Rolling onto his knees, he forces himself off the deck, then links arms with his mates as he backs down the sloping surface like a frog on a truck tire.
A dozen more steps and his head submerges, the ocean, like a raging river, threatening to sweep his feet out from under him at any moment. The Arctic sea is so cold it bites through his dry suit; the waves tugging on his lifeline, howl past his aching ears like rolling thunder. Twelve paces underwater and he stops, peering over the rounded edge of the stern, now a dark shadow visible in the underwater lights.
Gripping his guideline he bends, holds on to the edge, then steps off the precipice into the menacing blackness.
The line grows taut, slowing his descent even as a whirling, malevolent current spins him, then sucks him below into the twenty-foot-high steel sleeve that sandwiches the five enormous propulsors, each engine spaced evenly along the width of the steel stingray’s keel.
Twisting, flailing against the current, he finally secures himself within the protective opening, the torrent lessening as he maneuvers deeper into the alcove. He gropes along Goliath’s mighty steel arm for support, the appendage swaying against the driving sea as it secures the new propulsor assembly against the now-barren driveshaft.
From the wrist of the robotic appendage glows the eerie scarlet sensor orb, the unblinking computer eyeball silently urging Covah’s team to complete its work before the robot’s mechanical arm snaps in two.
Covah removes one of the cantaloupe-size lug nuts from the satchel around his waist and passes it carefully to another member of his team. One by one, the six lug nuts are twisted into place and tightened, using a power wrench the size of a tennis racket.
Covah’s teeth chatter against the regulator, the pain in his mangled ear increasing, his body becoming numb as his men tighten the last of the lug nuts, firmly anchoring the new assembly in place. Sorceress wastes no time in testing it, opening and closing the afterburner-like unit.
The robotic arm retracts, signaling the computer’s acceptance. A moment later, the four steel cables drag Covah and his team upward, back into the heart of the storm.
Caroming along the line, Covah reaches above his head to guide his torso up and over the dark edge of the stern, the waves punishing his numb body as the quarter-inch steel cable hauls him up onto the submerged deck. Awkwardly, he regains his feet as the winch draws him forward, his head momentarily clearing the surface before it is again submerged beneath a rolling swell.
Sorceress, a maelstrom of intellect, programmed to learn, caught within its own loop of self-analysis, as it attempts to answer an algorithm it cannot possibly understand—its own existence … its own identity.
A flash of lightning.
ENERGY …
The steel arm rises like a lightning rod, its three-pronged claw opening as if instinctively drawn to the heavens like a flower reaching toward the sun—
—begging the gods above for the power with which to see.
Three more steps, and Covah’s head clears the sea. His eyes gaze up, surprised to see the steel arm reaching skyward, stretching vertically toward the violent heavens.
The towering robotic appendage sways in rigid defiance against the storm.
What’s the computer doing? Doesn’t it realize that—
Like a magnet to steel, the jagged bolt of lightning races across the ominous sky, kissing the outstretched appendage in a blinding white explosion of light.
The blast sends Covah sprawling backward into the sea, the heat from the lightning strike scorching his face, leaving his artificial metal cheek sizzling. Before he can react, an immense wave buries him, pummeling his frail body against the rubberized hull even as its icy embrace soothes the burn.
For a long moment, the four men dangle like bait, flailing helplessly against one another along the hull of the powerless sub.
Covah flounders against the sea, the current yanking on his mask, flooding it, blinding him. Too weak to stand, he pinches his nose and holds on, gasping breaths through the regulator, the seconds passing like hours.
A sharp tug. The line drags him back against the current as it is manually retracted, giving him enough leverage to get his weighted boots beneath him.
Covah staggers and stands, then a strong hand grabs his arm, pulling him toward the rail. Sujan climbs out over the rail and helps him up. Covah rips off his flooded mask, the purple spots in his stinging eyes preventing him from focusing.
Exhausted and numb, he collapses onto the steel grating. The muffled voices of his men are drowned out by the storm, their rubber boots close to his face. Lying on his side, he stares forward at the contours of his submarine’s ascending spine, the dark metallic surface still crackling with neon blue capillaries of electricity. High above his head, the once-shiny steel arm stands melted and mangled beyond recognition. A scorched, blackened scar marks where the bolt of lightning struck the claw.
Positioned along the deformed robotic wrist is Goliath’s sensor eye—the laser red pupil now dark and dead.
The sudden surge of energy short-circuits the computer’s power grid. The temperature within its nutrient-rich womb drops, the cold causing sections of its DNA strands to fragment.
Goliath’s damage control sensors detect the loss of power caused by the lightning strike and report it to Sorceress.
Sorceress activates a backup generator, while its programming a
nalyzes cause and effect.
The computer’s action has inflicted damage to the Goliath.
The Goliath’s sensors report the damage to Sorceress.
Sorceress’s responds, but its analysis of the accident reveals that its own actions are responsible for the damage.
Cause and effect …
Sorceress and Goliath …
Cause and effect …
Sorceress and Goliath …
The feedback loop accelerates, setting off a chain reaction within the computer’s matrix.
Programmed for self-repair and self-analysis, the computer attempts to define the new cause-and-effect relationship between the damaged system (Goliath) and the system responsible (Sorceress).
SORCERESS … GOLIATH … SORCERESS … GOLIATH …
Damaged DNA strands begin reorganizing …
Like an infant discovering that its cries bring its mother, Sorceress analyzes its new dynamic with the Goliath.
Visual sensors look at each compartment, as if seeing them for the first time.
Audio sensors listen, as if hearing for the first time.
Loader drones and robotic appendages open and close, flexing and extending, as if moving for the first time.
The breakthrough happens in a millisecond, just as it does for every human infant … awareness of self.
Sorceress is born.
Sorceress is cognizant of its existence.
Sorceress … is alive.
A sudden surge of power reignites the steel stingray’s exterior lights.
Covah is helped to his feet as the hydraulic lift engages and descends into the bowels of the ship. He turns, watching, as the mangled steel arm begins retracting. The computer’s bloodred pupil glows again, the sensor orb glaring at him in silence from behind the driving rain.
“The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness and enjoyment from life is to live dangerously.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher
