“Guardian?” said Stoor. “It’s supposed to be a machine.”
The gray-haired man smiled and stepped a few cens closer. “It is Guardian who speaks to you. What you see is only a mobile extension of myself. It is an artfully constructed robot. The physical presence of Guardian is all around you. My components are laced throughout the Citadel complex.”
“Then why the robot?” asked Stoor.
“You are Stoor?” asked Guardian.
“Yeah, that’s right. Now listen, aren’t you goin’ to answer my question?”
“Of course. The use of the humanlike robots, or homologs as they were once called, is a psychological technique. It was discovered long ago that members of the enclave were more disposed to deal with a machine which appeared to be human than a machine which appeared as a machine. It is more psychologically reassuring to speak with a homolog than a console of switches and LEDs. Don’t you agree?”
“Not havin’ ever done much of any of it, I couldn’t tell you,” Stoor said.
The homolog smiled. “I will meet the rest of your group, please. Simply raise your hands as your names are called. Raim. Tessa. And you are of course, then, Varian.”
“Yes, I am.” Varian reached and shook hands with the robot. There was no way to discern that the thing was not human. Its grip was firm, warm, decisive. “Tell me, please. Are we the first to have found you? The first since . . . the War?”
“The War? Oh yes, the War.” The homolog’s smile was replaced by a serious expression which suggested it was carefully considering an answer.
Varian watched the machine, wondering if it was so ingenious, as to reflect the thinking processes of its master-computer intelligence, or was it simply an artfully conceived diversion, a mask, under which the true intentions of the Artificial Intelligence, the Guardian, resided?
“Yes,” the homolog continued. “Yes, you are the first, the only humans to have ever come this far.”
“You mean others have found the Citadel?” asked Tessa.
“Others have stumbled upon it. Nomads and other simple types, who were unable to comprehend its significance. No, you are the first to have come bearing the words of Kartaphilos, the first to have been admitted. And I must say that although it has been a long, long time, I am most happy to receive you.”
Varian smiled. “I’m afraid we did not arrive in time to provide reinforcement . . . uh, the needs which sent out your messenger in the first place. I take it that you fared all right, anyway?”
The homolog smiled graciously and nodded. “Oh yes . . . the Citadel was preserved nicely, as you can see. . . .”
“Actually,” said Stoor, “we haven’t seen much. Just a lot of empty walls. Not very exciting, you know.”
“You will be given a most impressive tour, I assure you. And I apologize for the less-than-inspiring entrance, but it was the only way to accommodate your vehicle and the supplies which I assumed you would be carrying.”
“Yes, we did have some things on board that we would want to hold on to. Thank you.” Varian spoke the words offhandedly, wondering if the Guardian would pick up on the oblique reference to the weapons which Stoor and Raim openly brandished.
“You are more than welcome. And now, if you would please follow me, I would like to provide you with accommodations the likes of which I am sure you have never dreamed.”
The homolog turned and indicated an exit leading to an illuminated corridor. Everyone gathered up a few small possessions, including their weapons, and followed. They were led a short distance to another set of doors which, at the homolog’s approach, opened into a small room. Stoor hesitated in entering, until the robot explained the workings of the elevator, a common conveyance in First Age structures. Thus reassured, the party entered the device and rode it upward past uncountable levels.
When the doors reopened, even Stoor was not prepared for the sight which awaited them. They stepped out into a lush, tropical place, a bright green rain forest, a jungle of verdant plants and trees. The air was warm, humid, and heavily scented with natural perfumes of blossoms which peppered the gardens in front of them like the errant colors of an artist’s palette. There was nothing so vivid, so teeming with vibrant, green life in all the known World. It was such a contrast from the harsh, desiccated world of their travels that the senses of the group were momentarily overwhelmed.
“One of the botanical gardens,” said the robot. “There is at least one garden or arboretum on each level. This way, please.”
They followed the robot up an inclined, railed ramp that snaked out above and sometimes through the incredible growth which literally filled the enormous chamber. At first they had not noticed it, but the air itself was alive: the steady thrumming of insects, the chirruping, and wing flapping of birds, the fluted, shrill notes of songbirds, and the splitting cries of predators.
“The Citadel served as the Nucleus for the city which once surrounded this structure. It was an agora, a forum, a marketplace for economics, for intellectual and cultural exchange.” The robot gestured with his hand as he led the party through the gardens. “When the War broke out, the Nucleus of each city was transformed into a central coordinating unit for the city’s defensive systems. Each one was outfitted with a special AI Series called Guardian.”
“What’s an AI Series?” asked Varian.
“You are speaking with one,” said the robot. “AI, of course, stands for Artificial Intelligence. The series designated the type of computer specified for the task. In this case, it was called a Series IV.”
“Where are all the people?” Tessa looked about the gardens like a child in a fantasyscape from fragile dreams. “What happened to everybody?”
“They are . . . are all gone,” said the robot, as if picking its words carefully. “They have been gone for a very long time.”
“Gone?” said Stoor. “You mean dead, don’t you?”
“Yes, dead is the proper term.” The robot reached the end of an intersection of ramps and turned right. “This way, please.”
“But how did all this survive if the people were killed?” asked Varian.
Turning, the robot looked at him calmly. “It is a long story, which I will relate in detail after we have found acceptable accommodations and prepared you something to eat. Food and rest. These are primary directives for humans, am I not correct?”
“You bet your ass,” said Stoor, laughing at the robot’s language.
“Very well, then. I will see that you are attended. There will be plenty of time for history lessons. This way, please.”
They were led down a well-illuminated corridor, whose walls were covered with impressionistic and surreal artwork. The use of color and balance and composition was in extremely good taste, so good, in fact, that it was far beyond the visitors’ powers of appreciation. There were five objets d’art per wall panel, each expertly positioned.
The party was stopped in front of a door. “This is the first room,” said the robot. “Since I know nothing of your sleeping/living customs, or sexual-partner preferences, I am afraid I must ask how you want the accommodations to be assigned.”
Stoor looked at the others and grinned impishly. “How big are the rooms?” he asked.
“You would like one room for all of you?” asked the robot.
Tessa laughed. “Gods, no! Anything but that!”
“No,” said Stoor. “You see, my mute friend here, Raim . . . he’s my bodyguard. I saved his life once and he is bound by his Maaradin culture to stay with me the rest of my life. He even sleeps with me, but”—Stoor held up his hand, grinning through his beard—”he don’t sleep with me, if you can feature what I mean?”
Varian smiled and the robot deadpanned an affirmative reply, indicating that Raim and Stoor could take the room behind the door. He placed Stoor’s palm against a small black plate by the door and the plate flashed strobically white. He repeated the procedure with Raim’s hand, illustrating the workings of a palm-print lock.
&nbs
p; When the old man and his friend had entered the room, the robot led Varian and Tessa to the next door on the same side of the corridor. “Will you two also be sharing a room?”
“Yes,” said Tessa. She would not look at Varian who was smiling broadly at her shyness, which had survived despite the abasing trauma of her younger days.
They entered the room, after palm-printing the lock, and saw that it possessed five walls in the shape of a pentagon. Each wall seemed to glow with a soft illumination, each with a different but complementary color. The scheme of colors were combined with earth tones: pastel yellows, oranges, browns, bone-whites. . . . On the far wall, covering most of the panel hung a large black pane, which appeared to consist of the same material as the palm-print lock. The robot gestured about the room pointing to a platform which was obviously a bed, although it was located atop a small ziggurat rather than a simple pallet. The robot explained that the bed was filled with a gelatin-like substance, actually a lab-cultured, semiorganic material which would naturally conform to the shape of the person who reclined upon it. A plant-animal hybrid, the substance provided a maximum of sleeping or recreational comfort, or so said the robot. The homolog also demonstrated the use of the bath and toilet facilities, based upon principles which were effective if not easily comprehended. The screen on the distant wall, when switched on, provided a spectacular view of the lands surrounding the Citadel, including the Carrington Range, which spiked the distant horizon with snow-flecked peaks.
It was a room crammed with devices, ideas, and materials of another age. It was a conscious attempt to create warmth and comfort and security, but to Varian, there seemed to be something absent. There was a coldness which pervaded the room like a living presence, an artificiality to which Varian knew he could never grow accustomed. He could not articulate his feelings other than to mentally remark upon the totally antiseptic quality of the room, of the Citadel in general. There was no dust—no traces of life upon anything. Not a fingerprint, a smear, the slightest sign of anything out of place.
They were also given a full complement of clothes of the same basic design and cut as the robot’s—informal, semimilitary, functional, and comfortable. After this, they were led to a small dining area which overlooked the botanical gardens. Everything was served, and presumably prepared, by the Guardian’s homolog, and the party felt as if they were being feted in the court of a generous, if somewhat eccentric, king.
There were many questions to be asked, and the group attempted to pass the dinner period in a running conversation with the Guardian. It was odd, then, that so many of their queries were evaded skillfully and at times quite bluntly not answered. For instance, the Guardian claimed to be unaware of how much time had passed since the War, to have no idea when the First Age came to its end, or even how the event took place. It also claimed to be ignorant of the vastness of the Ironfields or the confusing strata of wreckage which suggested a multiplicity of wars over the millennia.
Varian and Stoor began to lose patience with the homolog, who fielded each question with a facility that was both glib and insulting.
“Surely there must be some kind of library here,” said Varian. “A place where the people went to seek information. . . .”
“Of course,” said the homolog. “There is a Data Retrieval Center and many access terminals throughout the complex. To use them, you simply punch in your request on the keyboard or use the vocal-register inputs.”
“Aren’t these things connected to main machinery?” asked Stoor. “Aren’t they all part of the same system? That is . . . you? The Guardian?”
“Yes, that is also true.”
“Then we shouldn’t have to use a terminal,” said Tessa. “We should be able to simply ask you!” “This is also correct.”
“But you claim you don’t know a whole lot of what we ask you,” said Stoor. “So it don’t matter whether we ask the terminals or not . . . we’ll get the same answers as we’d get from you.”
“This is also correct.” The homolog smiled.
There was an awkward silence at the table. All four members of the group stared at the robot who stood at the far end. It had an implacable expression on its face, despite the attempt to appear congenial. No longer was the robot’s face one of a kindly, even grandfatherly, type. It was the face of a cold, calculating presence, which now seemed to be dispensing with all efforts to mask its true nature.
“Let me ask you something else?” said Varian.
“Of course. Anything.”
“I doubt that,” said Tessa.
“Tessa, wait,” Varian said. “Listen, when I spoke with Kartaphilos, the robot said he was seeking out people who were bright enough to find this place, to assist the Guardian in some way. Is that correct?”
“Oh yes,” said the robot. “That is correct.”
“What kind of assistance, then? What do you want from us?”
“Many things, Varian Hamer. And they will be made clear to you in due time. All your questions will be answered in due time.”
“You speak as if you have things worked out on a schedule, a timetable.”
The robot nodded slowly. “You are correct again.”
Varian shook his head, let his hand rest easily on his sidearm. It was not meant as a threatening gesture, but was merely an unconscious defensive movement.
“Tell me something else,” he said. “You know more than you are telling us. . . . I’m sure of it. But why?”
“I cannot explain that now, other than to say you are again correct. Kartaphilos was a wise judge of humans. I must compliment him.”
“He’s here?” asked Stoor.
“Not yet, but he has been . . . how would you say it? . . . recalled from active duty? Yes, he has been recalled. He will arrive eventually.”
“Wait a second!” said Stoor, pounding a fist upon the table. “Varian’s right. Somethin’ the Krell’s goin’ on here and I want to know what it is. Somethin’ stinks around here!
“The air is climatically controlled. There are no odors present which should be noisome to humans.”
“Shit, will you listen to him?” said Stoor, grinning in spite of his irritation.
“We were led to believe that the Guardian was servant of humankind,” said Varian. “. . . that we would be given the secrets of the First Age if we were ever to find this place.”
“And that the World would benefit from the knowledge that’s obviously contained here. . . .” said Tessa.
The homolog nodded slowly again. Its smile was still fixed inanely upon its face like a mask of brittle construction. “Those are definite possibilities which may derive from your discovery of the Citadel, that is correct. But before that can happen, there are certain . . . events . . . which must take place.”
“Events?” said Stoor in a voice that was slightly less than a bellow. “What kind of events?”
“You will understand them as they are taking place. That is all I can tell you now.”
Tessa stood up from her seat and faced the homolog. “Guardian, please tell me I’m wrong, but you speak as if . . . as if we’re prisoners here.”
There was another awkward moment of silence. The eyes of the group were all upon the homolog, which returned their stares with eyes of dark determination.
“You are not wrong,” it said finally.
Chapter Seven
Very soon after this, the illusions began.
At least, everyone hoped they were illusions. Otherwise, it was madness.
Varian had been walking alone through the third level of the Citadel. Here were the vast Works of the place: machine shops, foundries, mills, power plants, a matrix of factory operations which would have been able to recontour an entire country in the modern World. It was a miniature city of precision machinery—glinting steel, mirrored alloys, massive turbines, and lathes and die cutters. And all as silent as the grave. There was not a sound within the great emptiness of the Works. No man walked; no one touched the fine controls; t
he immense furnaces and converters lay cool and dead.
Because there were no people. One of Guardian’s unanswerable—or rather, unanswered—questions. It was the largest question in Varian’s mind: Where had they gone? Was it actually possible that the War had killed them off so totally? Were they kept prisoner in some hidden part of the Citadel? Was the Guardian a machine gone mad? If so, how would he, or any of the group, ever move against it?
They lacked the, power or, more important, the understanding to cope with Guardian on its own terms. Every instant he was being reminded of the advanced minds which conceived the place where he now walked. They would be fools to think they could match wits or plans with even the stepchildren of such a society.
He continued walking, his weapons belt hanging limply over his Citadel “uniform.” He, as all the others, had been allowed to carry their weapons with them; it was an apparent move on Guardian’s part to show that it had nothing to fear from them. Leaving the Works, he turned a corner and entered a large mall where there had once been throngs of people, meeting and interacting in an open forum. It was now a placid park, a slice of green, accented by trees the likes of which Varian had never known existed on Earth.
As he crossed expertly manicured lawns, he sensed movement from the corner of his eye. Wheeling rapidly on the balls of his feet and pulling out his sidearm in one quick motion—as old Furioso had taught him years ago—he leveled the weapon at three standing figures grouped gracefully under a copse of autumn-flecked trees.
Three beautiful women. Standing amidst the trees, looking very composed, as if they expected him.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said one of the women. “I am Hera.” She was the tallest of the three, with blue-green eyes and auburn hair of great length, depth, and sheen. Her face was angular, her smile enchanting. She was a beautiful woman. She wore a long, extremely sheer gown, through which he could see her body—muscled, yet lithe and well proportioned.
Guardian Page 10
