Silicon Uprising

by Conor McCarthy

  Daniels said, “Unfortunate that his friend was shot.”

  “It’s perfect. He’ll search for meaning in his comrade’s death. The death is meaningless, and he’ll resist that fact. It will distress him. That’s an open barn door I can drive the truth through.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Lowgrave walked toward the elevator. Of course the man saw now. He would have been more useful if he could’ve done so earlier.

  He descended to the deepest level of the CMC bunker and headed through the corridor. The constant dull roar of flowing coolant permeated the place. Above his head pipes obscured the concrete ceiling, snaking out into the surrounding rock to shed heat from the CMC core and then return to the pumps.

  Soon he arrived at the interview room door.

  While reaching for the door handle he took on a relaxed and charming demeanor with a hard and ruthless edge, like a father about to impose tough discipline for the benefit of his son’s long-term future. On first impression this kid’s personality differed profoundly from those of the Crimson Unity degenerates. Jason held much promise.

  Jason sat upright at the table. A pillar of tension, hatred, regret, guilt. All of these were useful levers. Lowgrave spoke as he pulled out his chair and sat down.

  “Many clever, determined people have sat in that chair, Jason. But you have given me the most trouble. You’re twenty-one?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Which Lowgrave well knew. A good way to get a young man to open his mouth.

  “Takes courage to do what you did at twenty-three. Perseverance. And some pretty impressive skill.”

  He felt certain that luck, not skill, had driven Jason’s escapades. But if the kid’s run had continued he’d have been making his own luck soon enough.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” Lowgrave said. “You’ve no doubt heard that people have been secretly arrested and executed, or sometimes assassinated. Haven’t you?”

  “Tell me it’s all subversive propaganda. Whatever.”

  “It’s all true. Even death by reprogrammed automobile. Not many, but they were necessary.”

  A slight flash of shock and recognition on Jason’s face gave him away.

  “Aha,” Lowgrave said. “You have heard that rumor.” He held up his hands. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to know who told you. Policing of speech is a crude instrument that I won’t use on people I know.”

  “Oh, we’re friends now.”

  Lowgrave unleashed a drill-sergeant voice that penetrated the skull of its target and reverberated off the concrete walls. “NO.”

  Jason gave a barely perceptible jump.

  “You managed to destroy a shipment of nuclear warheads bound for our new defense missiles. A treasonous act. You’re for the firing squad unless we come to an understanding. Clear?”

  Jason paused before answering. “Yes.”

  This one would take some work.

  “You fought on the wrong side, Jason. But I want you to know I understand perfectly. Given the information at hand, it was right. A patriotic duty. Now, it makes no difference to me whether you ever accept that your reasons were false. It’d be tragic if you remained blind, but I’ve seen plenty of tragedy. Your choice determines your fate, however.”

  “Okay, you have everything worked out. That’s what they all say.”

  Lowgrave rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. “Maybe we’ll make progress in time. Listen to this though, even if you’re determined to resist. At least you’ll know what we’re about. Are you paying attention?”

  “Sure.”

  “Our society has been going insane for about seventy years now. The causes are complex. We humans never evolved to live the way we do now. The CMC has the solution. Its intelligence and perception are so far beyond ours that you will never be able to analyze the answer. You reach the height of arrogance if you claim to. Understand?”

  “Go on.”

  Fake interest, which meant resistance. Never mind, he’d come around later.

  “Now we are facing multiple stressors that threaten to make the dangerous and chaotic time that took your brother’s life eight years ago look like a block party.”

  Jason’s posture sagged slightly. Vulnerability. They usually felt that upon realizing their interrogator had detailed knowledge of their life. CMC subsystems could piece it together in shocking detail from many scattered clues.

  “He must have been tough,” Lowgrave said. “Taking out two of them.”

  “Leave my brother out of this. You never knew him.”

  “I didn’t. But I meant what I said. He took out two raiders at the age of seventeen and made the others flee. I’ve no agenda in saying that I’m impressed.”

  Jason remained silent for a while before speaking.

  “He was a hero.”

  “We need more of them. We have the Crimson Unity maniacs attacking the foundations of civilization, and there’s an undercurrent of madness in society that’s only kept in check by the CMC. This is classified information, but you won’t be getting out to spread it: as soon as the amount of anger, resentment, negativity, and general bitchiness circulating in society reaches a critical level, an outbreak of derangement will tear our world apart.”

  The catastrophe story gnawed away at prisoners’ minds like nothing else. It was perfect because it accurately represented the CMC’s own analysis.

  “How am I supposed to believe that?”

  “You remember what it was like when your brother died. I can offer no more proof than to say those days were part of a long-term trend with short periods of respite. It’s worse now. We’re lucky the last interlude allowed us to build the CMC.”

  “This somehow justifies murdering innocent concerned citizens? And beating up your own men?”

  Lowgrave smiled. “So you were still there. We found your footprints.”

  “I was in a damned cabinet the whole time!”

  “Interesting,” Lowgrave said, and frowned. “Anyway, the man I punished agreed to receive physical discipline when he joined. You’re not tough enough to understand. And as for innocent concern—no, they were not innocent. Deep malevolence can lie beneath concern.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Spoken with a tiny bit of uncertainty. They always had it after hearing the apocalyptic story. Jason had let his slip while burying it in sarcasm.

  “Now we have the juicy part,” Lowgrave said. “Your new friends. They don’t have a clue about the situation and are conspiring to replace the CMC with their own system. You are smart enough to know their motive. I’ll let you say it.”

  Jason straightened and leaned back. “They don’t like an oppressive asshole computer bossing them around.”

  “Try again. Or you can stand in the forty-by-twenty-inch room where you’re not allowed to sleep.”

  Jason’s eyes widened.

  Lowgrave laughed and spoke with charming warmth. “I’m kidding, Jason. We don’t do things like that here. I maintain civilized society as much as possible while dealing with our burdens. Just tell me and we can move on.”

  Jason paused in defiance for a moment before defeat sent his posture sagging slightly. All of them did that.

  “To make money.”

  “Very good. And gain status—you left that out. Their system will place the highest priority on their own profit and dictatorial powers. I suppose I’d do the same in their position. If I was a money-grubbing asshole, that is.”

  “Which they are not.”

  More resistance. No surprises there. Disconnecting him from his friends would take time.

  “I understand your loyalty. Applaud it even. But you should know that Zarather headed the leadership committee of the conspiracy before he went on the run. He planned the project for years. They want to set themselves up as absolute rulers. No doubt Zarather will return and be emperor or some such nonsense.”

  “He isn’t like that at all.”

  “A commendable sense of loy
alty. I’m sure it was you who retrieved something important from his house for him. He sent an expendable underling to do the job. But you survived.”

  “Nope, he didn’t. I found out he had a rocket. Broke in to use it.”

  Jason kept shifting in his chair and scratched his face and neck too much. Not only was he lying, but the conversation was making him uncomfortable. Progress.

  Lowgrave stood up. “We are done for now. Remember I told you the facts. All true.”

  “One thing—did he make it? The guy driving to get the dog.”

  Lowgrave smiled. “Yes. The car left the road at one point but fortunately there was nothing for it to collide with, only grass to rip through. It’s terrifying for a man to sit there with his life dependent on the circuits of a computer at the limit of its ability. Still faster than driving the car himself though.”

  He went to the door, opened it, and turned around.

  “You see, that’s how dedicated my men are.”

  An involuntary look of awe took hold of the kid’s face. Most satisfying.

  He left the room and nodded to the jailer to return the prisoner to a cell.

  The kid had spark. Something so often lacking in men even smarter than him. Plus he had valuable information. Time would reduce him and rebuild him into a valuable employee. Most of the staff would wonder why Lowgrave was dedicating so much energy to him, but they lacked the perception to understand that with an enemy agent with an open mind, like this one, the act of conversion sometimes created a determined and loyal officer—perhaps the most effective kind of all, a hero to the cause.

  Twenty-Three

  JASON LAY ON a cot in a small concrete cell, featureless but for a stainless-steel toilet and sink. He had recognized the airstrip where the goons’ jet had landed to bring him to the bunker. Political leaders from outside the CMC’s realm sometimes flew there to drive up into the mountains and speak with the machine in person. Jason had ridden up the same road in handcuffs and leg chains. Once in the elevator, a goon had keyed the very bottom floor.

  The rush of Half-Bit’s coolant fluid calmed him. It reminded him of better days, when he had been at work, and helped obscure the sounds of marching boots and slamming steel doors.

  He passed the time reviewing his conversation with Lowgrave. He’d decided at the outset to treat everything anyone said to him here as a lie, but he kept returning to Lowgrave’s version of the truth—over and over again.

  The Black Doves he’d met and worked with didn’t seem like snakes. Michael hadn’t sacrificed everything for some corporate plot.

  Could Michael have been playing a cynical all-or-nothing game? Had he risked his life to gain wealth and high status? No. The man’s character was far above that.

  There was a knock on the door. Jason looked at it as if somebody had just committed a faux pas. Who knocked in an authoritarian secret prison?

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Mind if I come in and talk?” the person on the other side said.

  “Okay.” Jason stood up.

  The door clanked and opened to reveal a man with a high forehead and receding hairline.

  “Joseph Wiseman,” he said. “Call me Joe.”

  They shook hands.

  “What’s your story?” Jason asked.

  “Oh, I’m sort of not a prisoner. Not exactly. Taking care of a few things.”

  Whatever that meant. Jason didn’t bother to probe further.

  They sat down at either end of the bed.

  Wiseman said, “I’m in the AI industry too. More into the high-end research area. You’re more of a practical man?”

  “Deployment, troubleshooting, dealing with the occasional idiot. Where the tech meets the real world.”

  Wiseman laughed. “I only encounter idiots at conferences.”

  “You never had to deal with politicians then, when they still existed?”

  “Fortunately not. Anyway I’m not entirely innocent. I landed here by plowing ahead with research without all of the facts. Now you know the basics of those yourself. I researched possible future problems with our AI government and wrote a paper on it. Fortunately never published.”

  “You don’t think suppression of academic research is totalitarian?”

  “If somebody found a way to build a nuke in a basement lab, I wouldn’t call suppressing that information totalitarian, would you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I assure you, Jason, that everything being done is necessary. I’m saying it as a cutting-edge researcher who now has all of the relevant information.”

  “That’s great and all, but I have no idea what’s going on or who’s telling the truth.”

  “I had grave doubts too about the CMC and everything that’s happening. But I’m telling you, we’re on the brink, just as Lowgrave says.”

  “You’re here to turn me, is that it?”

  “No. Lowgrave mentioned he’d caught the infamous rocket guy and outlined your bio. I asked to speak with you.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  The CMC project plan included continuous examination and revision by the greatest AI experts to ensure it functioned properly, in line with societal values. Here sat one of those experts, well trained and obedient.

  Wiseman said, “He’s a tough, hard-core, and determined man. I know that. But he’s the kind you want when civilization needs defending, not the type who heads a criminal cartel.” He smiled. “He’s the good kind of hard-core.”

  On a whim, Jason rose from the bed and sat fully clothed on the toilet. While leaning back and getting comfortable he debated why he’d moved there. Maybe because Wiseman found it awkward. Or it made a statement about the political shit show that Lowgrave ran down there beneath the CMC cooling system.

  Footsteps stopped outside and Lowgrave pushed open the door. He frowned at Wiseman.

  “Are you watching him take a shit?”

  Horror spread across Wiseman’s face. Lowgrave let slip a trace of a smug smile.

  “I’m kidding,” Lowgrave said. “Leave us.”

  Wiseman scurried out, blushing crimson.

  Lowgrave’s face twisted in anger. “Time to stop sucking your own dick. You got the stink bomb from Crimson Unity, didn’t you? Will you cover for them?”

  “I met them at random. They had what I needed,” Jason replied.

  “Interesting connection for a man like you. Your friends have taken out some pylons in Northern California, cutting power to ninety thousand people and a hospital. The hospital’s backup generator failed. Surgeons worked with flashlights and no electronic equipment. Two people died on the tables.”

  “I don’t like Crimson Unity’s politics or their insane bombings.”

  “Interesting use of words. You ‘don’t like’ their politics. Not ‘hate.’ There’s a reason you used the word ‘like’ in your statement.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What did you say? You think so? Yes, you do secretly think it would be fun if they won and you were part of it. A man like you could go far. High-level meetings, planning the future anarchist state. Wait, is that a contradiction?” He raised his eyebrows. “How extraordinary.”

  “Sure, a tiny part of me likes the idea. So does a part of you.”

  Lowgrave drew a huge Desert Eagle fifty-caliber pistol and aimed it between Jason’s eyes.

  “A man never lets another man call him a traitor. Did you call me a traitor?”

  “I didn’t mean it. They’re evil and if they won it’d be worse than ten years ago.”

  Lowgrave withdrew the pistol. “Hard to imagine worse than that, as you well know. Do not joke about Crimson Unity. You must fix yourself before you leave here.”

  He walked out and spoke with someone in the corridor. The jailer, who wore a permanent scowl, planted his short and massive frame in the doorway and said, “Come with me. You’re moving.”

  Twenty-Four

  A SINGLE WEAK LED globe illuminated the new cell. Jason f
lopped his back onto the hard cot. The contents of the room were much the same as the last one. He closed his eyes and pushed away thoughts of Michael and Brad and the decision go to the mansion. Then he had a fantasy about dumping the SUV earlier, going in Michael’s car instead, and avoiding all this, but it just made him suffer.

  An image from the gun battle at the house flashed into his mind. His hands pumped bullets from his M4 into the goon’s chest. The shock of the memory forced his eyes open again, so he examined the unusual sheet-metal ceiling. The sight of holes in it jolted him upright. A grid arrangement with six-inch spacing.

  The bastard had lied and sent him to be gassed.

  His hands gripped the edge of the cot as he studied the solid steel door. It had no seal for keeping gas in. And why put a bed and toilet in a gas chamber?

  He flopped back onto the bed and tried to rest.

  Though the light was too dim to penetrate through his eyelids, it kept him awake anyway. Its eerie glow seemed to bore through him. Just knowing that it shined on him created a point of resentment in his mind. He tried lying facedown but his right arm ached. Lying on his side facing the wall made him feel as if a coffin enclosed him, and his other side felt strange somehow. But he stayed that way and began to drift off.

  A drop of cold water fell onto his face. All that rolling to get comfortable and now the damned ceiling leaked. Fine. He switched ends.

  Drip.

  How could it still hit his face? He jumped up and examined the ceiling.

  Those damned holes. No torture here, huh?

  He lay on the floor. Cold concrete pressed hard on his side.

  Drip. On the neck this time, just under his earlobe. He’d sure lined himself up well for that one.

  “Come on,” he shouted. “What the fuck are you doing? You expect me to accept your story if you pull this?”

  No reply. He lay on the bed and waited for the next drip. Maybe a meditative technique could help him sleep through them. He pondered how that might work, and then why it would probably fail. Rage swept the idea away and he imagined cutting Lowgrave’s throat and plunging a knife into the jailer’s eye.