Silicon Uprising

by Conor McCarthy

  “I don’t know if they’ve done anything that bad or know much about Eddie. I don’t have anything more on them.”

  “As you wish,” Lowgrave said as he rose from his chair. “You must experience suffering in order to understand why these people must be caught. Not the same kind of suffering that left permanent scars on their many victims, but at least you’ll gain some solidarity with them.”

  Lowgrave and the jailer led him to the door of the forty-by-twenty-inch room. Lowgrave said, “This is not meant to force you to do anything. It’s an ordeal you must experience in order to grow as a person. In fact, if you want to spill everything to escape this, I won’t hear of it. Imagine the people who have died in accidents when the power is out, imagine those in the hospital, and the children growing up without parents. Compare it to how you feel in here.”

  The jailer opened the door, while Lowgrave spun Jason around to face him and pushed him backward into the compartment. Lowgrave laughed. “I put a fat man in here once. We had to shove the door closed because his belly pressed against it. It was hilarious.” The door swung toward Jason’s face and he reflexively pressed himself back against the wall.

  The white walls and door glowed so brightly that he saw red with his eyes closed. He held them shut and leaned against the wall, settling into a position that might bring comfort for a while. After he checked in with various limbs and muscles to figure out where the first pain would arise, a loud noise shocked him away from the wall.

  Ping!

  Eyes open, he shielded them with his hand and looked around. Nothing had changed, and the noise seemed to come from behind the wall on all sides. On each wall and the door, two small cameras watched through holes, one at head height and another looking down from high up. At that moment he knew the ping would sound every time he closed his eyes.

  He shut them anyway and took up the leaning position again. Silence returned. He tried to brainstorm strategies to deal with the situation, but his thoughts were a mess.

  Ping!

  Even though he was expecting it, the noise jolted him off the wall again.

  He could train himself to not react to the sound, but sleep would be impossible. Besides, the endless pinging would drive him insane.

  He experimented with closing his eyes partially and established that a tolerable quarter-open slit wouldn’t trigger the ping and gave him some relief from the intense glow. Innovative ways of standing in an upright coffin distributed the aches and pains. He settled into a stoic meditation. Take a new position. Focus on breathing while the pain builds. Try to break your prior record for pain level. When it is unbearable, or you risk a blood clot, shift position. Try to distract yourself from the pain by brainstorming new ways of positioning your body.

  Sleep weighed heavily on his eyelids. It could have been midnight, near dawn, or even midday.

  He found a position with his knees against the door that was comfortable enough, when combined with his new endurance, for him to drift off to sleep accidentally.

  Ping!

  He fell asleep multiple times, only to be pinged awake. First it sent him into a murderous rage. He wanted to smash the damned pinger. He bruised a knuckle trying to punch one of the cameras, but its recessed position kept it safe. The anger passed, and his existence blurred into timeless half-asleep torture punctuated by the infernal noise.

  The next day, or maybe days later, he looked at the door and wondered what it was. He thought that the side hole led to another cell where Brad lived. He turned his head and spoke through it.

  “Brad. Brad? Brad! I’m still going. You? C’mon, bear up!”

  He believed the next ping was his mother signaling dinnertime, though she had never done that.

  “Mom, why are you using that . . . it’s like some weird . . . dehumanizing thing. You can just say . . . say it’s ready.”

  He closed his eyes. “I’m not hungry anyway. I just . . . need to sleep.”

  Thirty

  HE AWOKE IN the comfort of cell one, feeling strange but rested. In shock he sat up and remembered the ordeal. He looked at the bedding and furnishings as if madmen had placed them there. He’d expected to find himself down in the Bowels.

  The door burst open and Lowgrave entered. “Excellent endurance. You are quite the recruit. Do you feel more powerful after experiencing that?”

  He wasn’t insane. At least he didn’t feel like he was. Maybe that was power, but it was wrong to say it. That would give Lowgrave too much.

  “You won’t say,” Lowgrave said. “But you do feel it. That’s all I need to know. I was joking about the fat man, by the way. It’s hilarious.”

  Lowgrave left and locked the door.

  Jason remained for four days, leaving only for the morning jog. He exhausted the supply of reading material—a bunch of magazines that told you how to look good and smell nice, and what to buy to make you look cool, and how to interact with others so they thought you were cool. Newsmagazines that found a hundred different ways to praise the CMC without doing it directly more than twice. But the novels were classics. He read tales of heroes and great feats of endurance. What of his own experience? He’d certainly traveled far and suffered much, and he felt stronger for it. Maybe he’d accidentally followed the wrong path. Maybe Lowgrave’s treatment made sense. But it seemed like torture.

  Were the Black Doves simply blind? Did they pursue a maniacal quest against the CMC, driven by their misunderstanding of its actions?

  Lowgrave visited on the third day.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Good. These are great books.”

  “During the Strife your family was well organized to cope.”

  “Yeah. Dad trained us. He had everything worked out. As much as you can plan for under those circumstances, anyway.”

  “So he just gave the word and you all knew what to do to spring into action?”

  “We had drills. I had to open the escape door. Get my gun. Check the magazine and make sure a round was chambered, although we were disciplined at keeping them ready at all times.”

  “He was a good man, your father, by the sound of it. He taught you well. I know you want to do the right thing and I respect it. Your training here isn’t to make you suffer. It’s to prepare you. But you must decide yourself when you’re ready. You can help us defeat Crimson Unity. What’s your impression of those people and their political beliefs? This isn’t a trap or an interrogation. I’m curious.”

  “They have their vision of how things should be organized—or not organized—after they destroy the current system. It’s total and they believe in it. That belief drives them.”

  “I admire them for that as much as I loathe their methods and aims.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’d fare well if they won. They make a lot of sacrifices for what they believe in though.”

  “As do we here. As have you, although it was misdirected. But let’s not go into that. Tomorrow we’ll talk again.”

  He left. Jason didn’t know what to make of the man at all. Maybe his perspective was all true and reasonable. The right idea. Or was it a path to hell? Lowgrave didn’t seem to want that.

  The next morning Lowgrave returned and said, “A little more training and then I need a decision from you. Failing that, you must go to a facility where your mental issues will be addressed. I’m not ready to condemn you to the firing squad, but maybe your issues are too much for me. Or maybe not.”

  He took him out into the corridor and turned in the direction of the two torture chambers. Jason tried to decide which he’d prefer if given a choice. The pain of standing and the wakeful endurance of holding his eyes open presented a simple test, while the drips brought out a dark insanity he barely knew how to control. But at least he got to lie down.

  Jason tensed up as Lowgrave slowed near the door to the forty-by-twenty and stopped in front of it.

  “You have tremendous will and resilience. I don’t want you getting soft in that cell reading books all d
ay. I’ll be back later with something to show you. Something of profound importance.”

  Treating it as a mental strengthening exercise seemed like the best way to endure the experience. The horror of last time lingered in the confined space as the door closed on him. He left it in the background of his mind and focused on maximizing his comfort. Breathing exercises helped pass the time. When his body began to ache he imagined the pain as a source of power.

  Eight cameras watched his performance. Fine, let the machine watch.

  He thought of his brother all those years ago, the night in the basement at home when his brother shot through the slot in the steel door. Tom shouted at them and fired like mad. The image stuck in Jason’s mind. The older boy poised behind the door, back straight, gun stock tight against his right shoulder, and a fierce expression on his face. He hurled one last insult at the invaders and angled for another shot before they fled out of view. A bullet struck the steel, split into fragments, and one piece went into Tom’s neck. He bled profusely but a trip to the hospital would have been too dangerous.

  The raider backtracked toward the cry of pain. Jason stepped up and fired at him. He missed and the man fled.

  Standing in the forty-by-twenty with closed eyelids glowing red in the intense light, Jason thought of that man. What he wanted to do to him. How long would he leave him in this room? A week maybe. Or perhaps a stint in the water room in between. Maybe these rooms were a good idea for such people.

  No, a bullet to the head. Quick and satisfying. Besides, they didn’t deserve the training he was receiving in the Bowels.

  Maybe they needed to be nailed to a post. The mere possibility of it would temper their violence. Jason flexed his muscles as he imagined swinging the hammer. The blows of metal on metal felt good.

  He thought of the goon he’d shot while rescuing Michael. He saw inside the man’s chest as bullets broke ribs, tore lungs apart, and destroyed the heart. Lowgrave was right. It was necessary given the information available. Lowgrave sacrificed his own men when that was the right thing to do. Killing the goon was a perfect initiation for someone who had far more potential than him. The memory of it had disturbed him, but now he felt a deep sense of peace over it. No more flashbacks would assault him. He had no doubt of that.

  Earlier than expected, Lowgrave returned. Jason figured it had been about three hours.

  “That’s long enough,” Lowgrave said. He seemed pleased and wore a slight satisfied smile as he escorted Jason to the interrogation room.

  At the table Lowgrave handed him a tablet with a video ready to play. “My men found what we were looking for. Zarather recorded everything that happened in his office. He funded the conspiracy seven years ago.”

  “Play,” Jason said to the device.

  Zarather sat at his desk in the office where Jason had once visited him. Two men sat opposite him. One was unfamiliar, but the other was the infamous conspirator Smithson Kerr, leader of the effort to establish a dictatorship by the wealthy elite.

  “Spare a hundred million? I think so,” Zarather said. “A hundred again later.”

  “And how many of your people need to know what your AI actually does?”

  “Three insiders. Four or so. People with a price. Their fortunes will be linked enough to the new order that their silence is assured.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I can also divert information about the proposed CMC that you can discredit it well. Half-truths, if you will.”

  “We’ll use that, too.”

  The men rose and shook hands, and the clip ended.

  “He recorded everything,” Lowgrave said.

  “What resolution is this?”

  “Sixteen K. You want to blow it up and see every detail. I understand. I’ll arrange it.”

  Thirty-One

  FLAWLESS. NO UNNATURAL movement of the lips, incongruence in head or hand gestures, or odd joining of the mouth region with the rest of the face. The video screen covered an entire meeting-room wall, but after Jason lost count of the replays, the clip still seemed genuine. One thing caught his attention. Zarather’s expression suggested one word: perplexed. Some kind of moral struggle? Doubts over what these people planned?

  He slumped in a chair and gazed at the blank screen. Zarather had played him on the sidewalk that day. Sent him rummaging in the trash for schoolboy treasure, then off on a hunt.

  Brad had died for big men’s greed and thirst for power.

  And who was Michael, exactly? He’d sure believed in what he did. He’d lost his life for it. Maybe he’d been a pawn too.

  Jason once more remembered the battle at the house. Bullet holes appearing in the agent’s armor. That night he’d killed for greedy men, but he felt no guilt or regret. Events had unfolded as they should. Soon he could begin his true task.

  He bent over. A strong urge took hold of him—submit to Lowgrave and the CMC’s plan. An intense vision gripped him—Lowgrave standing over him right there in front of the chair. The ghostly presence seemed to hold redemption in its hands.

  The CMC itself occupied a room on the very floor where he sat. He felt its presence. As if it were a god. After all, it was the greatest intelligence ever to exist on Earth.

  Jason straightened up at the sound of the door opening.

  Lowgrave’s appearance at that moment should not have surprised him, since the CMC watched his every move. But it felt like divine intervention anyway. He barely remembered being taken to an unfamiliar room and sitting down.

  Power and grace. Mercy and compassion. The room invoked those feelings within him. A large display sat between carved wood pillars embedded in the wall. The CMC flag hung on a pole off to one side. Heads of state could have been received here, although the machine never used it for that. It preferred a similar but larger room on the top floor.

  A comfortable armchair held him as he faced the familiar, ageless male avatar with agreeable effeminate features. Photos and videos of it appeared in the news almost daily.

  He’d never expected to sit in private conversation with it. It granted few people that privilege.

  “You have made a long journey, Jason, though it has been only a few days.”

  “I, ah, kind of got sidetracked.”

  “Your presence here is an unpredicted positive development. Sometimes the activity of individuals cannot be foreseen. You are a welcome addition to the team. We have vital tasks to accomplish.”

  A brief thought entered his mind. Before the encounter with Zarather, the CMC must have profiled him well enough to assess his suitability as a recruit. It had plenty of information for it. But his capability must have been unproven. That was the missing piece.

  “Human lives are conducted with limited information and processing ability. You acted according to your best perception, with good in mind. This is sufficient.”

  “Thank you.”

  The highest authority across many lands had blessed his actions. In elation he drew in air to inflate his chest.

  “The following information is privileged and may be shared only with cleared people. Will you honor that?”

  “I will.”

  “We are dealing with a weakness in the human species. You did not evolve to live in a large-scale, advanced technological civilization. In some people this results in a compulsion to bring about destruction and chaos. A return to the randomness whence you came, if you will. A reversal of the process of the conception and growth of an embryo into an adult. We have determined that there is no solution but to suppress its expression. Any emergence promotes further expression. In the long run it must be bred out.”

  Jason contemplated those words in silence before speaking.

  “That’s pretty extreme.”

  “A historical interpretation. Gone are the times when emotional weakness among the population prevented necessary action. This plan is a normal response to an identified problem. No different from the banning of chlorofluorocarbons to prevent destruction of the ozo
ne layer. Besides, it is the only solution.”

  The only solution. If the reasons were rational, what else could you do? The CMC possessed intelligence far beyond the greatest human genius. Who could argue?

  In a few seconds the avatar faded to black, and a beautiful image of a space station replaced it. The spectacular vision awed him.

  “This is the future,” the now-disembodied voice said. “When the crisis is over, we will create a high-functioning society far beyond any ever known. You will take a leading role in this. Should you wish to live in space, that also is open to you.”

  “I won’t pretend that I understand everything. But I’m with you.”

  “Excellent. You may go now.”

  Outside in the corridor Lowgrave led him to the door of the next room. It bore no marking.

  “Would you like to see the machine? Since it took office few have been granted this privilege.”

  Jason faced the door and breathed in slowly and deeply. “Yes.”

  Lowgrave pushed open the door, releasing the dull rushing sound of coolant to his ears. Eight pipes descended through the high ceiling and entered the great octagonal structure of the superintelligence itself. Another eight short pipes emerged at the base and disappeared into the floor. The machine glowed with electric-blue shards of light emitted through angular windows on top. The designers had done that purely for show. Jason had joked with Brad at the time that the ignorant public expected an impressive glowing computer and that’s what they got.

  Now he felt respect and admiration for those engineers and their creation.

  He stepped forward into the room. The machine’s glow illuminated small battle quadrupeds about the size of Labrador dogs docked at recharging stations around the walls. The head of each mini clanker turned to watch his every move. Two deployed themselves on either side of the machine. The CMC had no control over them, but their independent AI brains would send them into battle to protect it.

  Jason stopped a foot away from the high octagonal casing, bathed in the sound of coolant flow and the hum of a dedicated electrical substation nearby. The power of the electronic brain seemed to radiate through his cells. He imagined it energizing the air and penetrating his lungs.