Vivisepulture
Page 19
“This is the one” says Sam, when they arrive, pointing her finger at me.
The big inventor looks up into my propeller. I try to move it but I can’t. The big inventor sticks a probe into my datalink port.
The software doesn’t respond.
“I knew it. It’s not a software problem,” says the inventor. Her face readout says: proud. “It’s a hardware problem. I could have guessed from the propeller. It’s obviously had a failure of some kind. The software is blocked. It can’t run on faulty hardware.”
“But it said it had software problems before the propeller stopped working,” stammers Sam 8. She looks scared and very small.
“Listen, young lady. You are very lucky that I even came out here to check your wind machine. They are being pulled down this afternoon, you know. I only came along to visit them one last time and because I wanted to check I was right. I feel sorry for you talking to machines.”
“but it said…”
“Look. I’m sure you are a very nice young girl, but girls of your age should talk to other children, not scientists and turbines.”
“That’s unfair. The wind machine is kind, and I don’t know anyone in this town yet.” Sam 8 has gone red. She looks up at me. Her face readout says: very worried.
“Tell her, machine!” Sam calls up to me “She is Susan Meyer. Your mother. Tell her about the software!”
I freeze. What does one do when their mother visits for the first time?
You have to show her respect, you fool! The protocols are clear. Datalink connection. full access. No open-air speaking. Got it! Don’t ruin this as well! Show her that we know how to behave as she wanted!
“You are right software!!” I say.
Out loud.
A happiness curve forms on Sam 8’s face readout. She laughs out loud and claps her hands.
“What?” says Susan Meyer, looking around her desperately.
You said that OUT LOUD. That is TOTALLY AGAINST REGULATIONS! How many TIMES! Now you have offended the mother inventor. Well done. That is the absolute last straw.
…
…
Core Dump
The mother inventor’s mouth opens and closes. She looks at her box of tools and equipment, then up at my propeller. She blinks and then looks down at Sam. She has gone very pale.
And just as Sam 8’s smile reached its widest, Susan Meyer turns around suddenly. She stomps off in the direction of the town.
“What!?”
My software makes no reply.
“Sam! What happened?”
“I, I don’t know. Do you think you scared her away?”
“How?”
Sam 8 does not reply. She slumps down against my stem and puts her head in her hands.
She stays like that until the men come with new machines.
The noise of the new machines is terrible. They have rows of little teeth that bite hard and fast. They have turning fingers that dive into flesh and suck out the things that hold all our bodies together. I know because I see it now, and I am writing this to disk as fast as it occurs because it is the worst thing I have ever seen. They have dismembered one wind machine after the next. Unbuilding them piece by piece until they fall onto the earth.
The small machines screamed. Their propellers bent inward and crashed to the ground. Sam stood under my stem with her hands over her ears. Crying and howling at the inventors to stop.
The ground is now covered with the bodies of SKYs.
And now it is my turn.
I will burn a log of what happens for as long as I am operational. Maybe someone will read this disk someday and the information will be useful:
“Hey girl, you gotta move now ok?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Do you want us to call your parents? Or the cops? This thing ain’t a tree you know. It’s not alive.”
“You stupid man, how would you know? This machine is my friend!”
“Look miss, I’m sorry you got no real friends, but I have to do my job ok? What’s your name?”
“Sam Dortmund.”
“What? Haha. Hey Kevin, she’s the fridge guy’s kid! How funny is that!”
“Dave, leave the kid to me ok? Olga is on the phone for you. Here”
“Yeah ok, Kevin. Hey Olga. Yeah it’s almost done. Just one to go. Some damn kid is here giving us grief. You into irony? Cos she’s the fridge guy’s kid. Kevin’s on it now… What? But there’s only one to go!... Yes. H443. That’s the one… Who? Now? What? We’re in the middle of a job!... Ok. Whatever. Yo Kevin. Leave the kid alone a second. We got a conference call from Yatama coming in. Link your phone in.”
“Eh?”
“I know. Just link in will you?
“Ok ok. Got it Dave… Stay right there young lady, we’ll deal with you in a minute.”
“Dave?”
“Yeah. I’m linked in. Go ahead.”
“What? That’s nuts. Who the hell is Susan Meyer?”
“Olga, we are one machine away from being finished. Tell her Dave.”
“Kevin’s right Olga. Just let us finish the job will you?... A heritage site? Jesus. Who does she think she is?… Yeah. Whatever. Eco Prize blah blah. Listen, this project has been one circus after another. What the hell is it with these people? … Yeah I’m pissed off! We’ve wasted hours on this, had our stuff vandalized, been held up waiting for bloody forms to be filled out that should have been taken care of before we started...”
“I’m with Dave on this. It’s a goddam circus. If you don’t want the last one down, you have to pay us for the full job anyway. It ain’t my problem that they don’t know what they want. Time is money.”
“Fine.”
“Good. I’ll xmail an invoice. Bloody cowboys.”
…
…
The two inventors are taking their machines away.
There are bits of dead SKYs lying on the ground and Sam 8 has her arms around my stem and her eyes are malfunctioning, but she is laughing and very happy. I can only see the broken stems and propellers on the earth. My insides hurt but Sam’s arms are warm.
Susan Meyer is here. She tries to connect to my datalink but it doesn’t work, so we just speak.
“No one believes in A.I.s you know,” she begins, “So I’ve declared the place a historical site instead.”
“What is A.I?” I ask
“An artificial intelligence,” says Sam 8, beaming and touching my stem.
“Why artificial?”
The pair of them do not answer me. Their face readouts both go like this: excited/ happy/ excited.
Susan Meyer continues. Her lips are very red and full.
“You should be happy. If people believed in A.I.s, you’d have scientists and businessmen running round you for the next million years sticking bits of electronic equipment in you.” She pauses and looks down at Sam.
“You have this young lady to thank that you didn’t end up like the others.”
“I am like them,’ I replied.
But my mother inventor just smiled.
“You should not smile. The others are dead, aren’t they”
“Um... technically no,” says my mother inventor. “They were never really ali... I mean, we will repair them.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And we will upgrade them.” I want to turn my propeller round to show my joy. It is still stuck.
“Will you upgrade me too?”
“Um, no” says Susan Meyer. “We will repair your propeller though.”
“I don’t understand. Why don’t you upgrade me?”
“Let’s just say that you seem to take good enough care of that yourself,” she says, eyes crinkling and face readout moving to amused. “Anyway, you and I and Sam here are going to have all the time you need to talk all about it. OK? Just trust us. And no one else, by the way. Not your software. Just us. I’m interested in you, machine and I am going to make sure nothing bad happens. You won’t be alone anymor
e”.
WUNDERWAFFE
by
IAN SALES
March 1944. At Peenemünde, Wernher von Braun turns his back on the windswept Baltic and scowls at the two-stage A-9/A-10 Amerika Rakete sitting on Prüfstand VII. In the vault beneath the North Tower at Wewelsburg, Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler and his twelve Hauptamtchefs attempt to bring victory one step closer with their sorcery. At the BMW Works in Prague, Obergruppenführer Hans Kammler’s secret team of engineers puts the finishing touches to the first Flugschreibe powered by Schauberger’s Repulsine engine to roll off the production line.
None of this matters to SS-Sturmbannführer Günter Ehrlichmann.
Today, he has an appointment with the Führer.
Traudl Junge ushers Ehrlichmann into the Führer’s office in the Alpenfestung, Hitler’s secret redoubt beneath the Northern Limestone Alps. Ehrlichmann hears the quiet click of the door behind him, but his attention is focused on the man at the other end of the room. It is just as he has been told: the Führer’s presence fills the office, a charisma which seems to suck the colour from the surroundings and concentrate it in and about his person. Hitler’s field-grey uniform tunic is more implacably grey than the rock from which the Alpenfestung has been excavated. He appears elemental, as if hewn from the substance of the Fatherland itself. His hair is a rich and glossy black, his face glows with good health, his gaze pierces. Ehrlichmann, humbled in the man’s commanding presence, only just remembers to salute:
“Heil Hitler!”
The Führer stands behind his desk, one hand in a pocket of his tunic. Ehrlichmann works with great men, Werner Heisenberg and the other scientists of the Uranverein; he is the Ministry of Armaments and Munition’s liaison officer. The nuclear bomb on which they are working will create history; but Ehrlichmann is now in the presence of the man who has made that possible. Hitler is a locus for forces which will write the future, and the effect is rich and heady.
The Führer picks up a buff folder from the desk-top. “The Reichsführer-SS,” he says, “tells me victory is certain thanks to his spells.” He throws down the folder; it hits the leather desk-top with a loud slap. “Spells!” he sneers. “Sorcery! What use are they? Himmler is a stupid chicken-farmer.” He beckons Ehrlichmann forward. “Come here, come closer.”
Ehrlichmann marches forwards, given confidence by Hitler’s raw charisma, and stops before the desk.
“How does my atom bomb progress?” Hitler asks.
“We will be ready for a test detonation in one week, Mein Führer,” Ehrlichmann replies.
Hitler does not smile, but says, “Good, good. My wonder weapons are vital. We are winning this war, we will win it soon, but we must win decisively, yes?”
“Yes, Mein Führer.”
Hitler adds, “That fat Junker von Braun promises me the Amerika Rakete will fly as scheduled. Perhaps. But it will be many months before there are enough Flugschreiben to keep the skies over the Fatherland clear of enemy bombers.” He pulls his hand from his pocket, clenches a fist and bangs it on the desk. “Months? I need my flying saucers now!” He holds up his fist before him, and gestures aggressively at the air.
Calming, he continues in a more normal tone of voice, “You are an honest man, SS-Sturmbannführer; a loyal man, yes? I am told this by many people. And you have an excellent understanding of physics?”
Ehrlichmann nods. “I studied under Arnold Sommerfeld at the University of Munich,” he replies. And does not add: before the war, before Ultima Thule allowed itself to be discovered by Ernst Schäfer and their science helped us leapfrog years of research and progress, before they made us the most advanced nation in Europe.
“Good. I need you to perform a vital task for me. SS-Sturmbannführer Ehrlichmann, you will go from here to the airfield. A jet bomber waits for you. It will fly you to the Wencelas Mine in Sudetenland. I wish you to report—to me personally!—on a secret project in the tunnels there.”
Ehrlichmann salutes. “Yes, Mein Führer.”
“You must speak to the scientist in charge. I have heard nothing from him for four months. I must know what is happening.”
“I will not fail you, Mein Führer.”
Hitler nods as if failure were unthinkable.
Ehrlichmann is dismissed. He turns about to find the door open and Junge standing beside it. He marches across to her, and she ushers him from the office. Her face remains expressionless as she closes the door.
In the outer office, a pair of men in black uniforms wait silently. Both possess the white-blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and pale skin of Ultima Thulans. Ehrlichmann does not like these allies of the Fatherland: though they are clearly centuries ahead, they dole out only enough scientific knowledge to keep the Fatherland no more than a handful of years in advance of Britain and America. True, without their assistance the Uranverein would be years, not days, away from completing their first atomic bomb; but he resents their parsimony all the same.
Ehrlichmann ignores the Thulans, thanks Junge for her assistance, and joins the waiting Wehrmacht major who will escort him to the surface.
At the airfield, a lone aircraft sits on the runway. It resembles a giant ray, its body comprised of a huge delta-wing, patterned in grey and olive camouflage. Six jet-engines sit above the wing between the twin tails. There is a short bullet-shaped fuselage at the apex of the triangle formed by the wing. Ehrlichmann recognises the aircraft though it is uncommon: it is an Arado Ar 555. A KG.200 oberleutnant in flying gear waits by the bomber’s hatch.
“Get in,” says the oberleutnant. “Sir.”
The Luftwaffe officer does not bother to salute, leaving Ehrlichmann embarrassed at his half-raised arm. Ehrlichmann has met the man’s type before—they fight for the Fatherland, not for the Führer. Providing they do their job well, Ehrlichmann is willing to accept their disrespect; but he does not like it.
He clambers aboard the aircraft. Behind him, the oberleutnant enters, shuts the hatch and then leads the way forward to the cockpit. Ehrlichmann follows. The co-pilot is already seated and strapped in. The oberleutnant clambers into the pilot’s seat, and gestures for Ehrlichmann to take the gunner’s position.
After ten minutes of check-list, the co-pilot starts up the jets. They burble, and then roar throatily; the bomber’s fuselage vibrates. This is Ehrlichmann’s first time in a jet-powered aircraft, and he is surprised at the din the engines generate. He leans forward, peering over the co-pilot’s shoulder through the glazed bullet nose. As he watches, the ground begins to roll beneath the aircraft, and only then does he realise they have begun to move.
The take-off is frightening. The Arado hurtles down the runway. The grass rushes past so quickly it blurs into a featureless carpet. Abruptly, the aircraft’s nose lifts and the bomber staggers into the air. It pitches up into a steep angle and powers away from the ground.
Ehrlichmann wonders at his chances of survival should he have to parachute from an aircraft travelling at such speed. He consoles himself with the thought the journey is short, a mere hop across southern Germany and into Lower Silesia. And then he considers the task before him, and that too scares him. He does not want to fail the Führer, he does not want to experience the Führer’s disappointment.
He resolves to do all he can to prevent that.
Ehrlichmann’s ears are still ringing as he walks away from the Arado Ar 555. It will be several minutes, he guesses, before his hearing recovers from the constant battering noise of the bomber’s jet engines. He feels some resentment toward the oberleutnant, who pointedly ignored him once the aircraft had taxiied to a halt. Ehrlichmann was forced to make his own way to the hatch, and had to figure out how to open it by himself. They are arrogant, the KG.200 flyers, and disrespectful.
From the airfield, Ehrlichmann is driven in a camouflage-pattern Kübelwagen into the Eulenbirge, along narrow lanes canopied with leafy boughs, deep in steep-sided wooded valleys. After a forty-minute journey, the vehicle stops at a checkpoint, and Ehrlichmann
presents his credentials to the stern-faced sentry. His papers are scrutinised carefully, before being handed back. The sentry salutes, then raises the striped barrier across the road. The Kübelwagen accelerates noisily.
Some minutes later, the road leaves the forest and enters a wide cutting filled with brick buildings. To Ehrlichmann’s left, smoke from the tall chimney of a powerhouse scrawls across the sky. A black locomotive, a dozen flatbed wagons hitched behind it, sleeps on a spur of track. Two Opel Blitz LkWs are parked against a brick storehouse. A soldier in field-grey, Schmeisser slung carelessly from one shoulder, stands by one truck, smoking a cigarette. Further along, beneath a tent of camouflage netting, a Doblhoff tip-jet helicopter crouches, rotor-blades drooping, inert but still menacing.
The Kübelwagen turns off the main road through the mine-head workings and approaches a concrete tunnel-entrance let into a low cliff-face. It stops beside a sentry hut. A SS-obersturmführer peers suspiciously through a window of the hut, but does not step outside. The unterscharführer driving the Kübelwagen clambers out of the vehicle, and asks Ehrlichmann to follow him.
A long tunnel, lit every five metres, leads deep into the mountain. Ehrlichmann follows his guide. They do not speak. There is something oppressive about this underground complex. Perhaps it is the lack of people, or the silence which lies as heavy as the mountain above them. More than a kilometre later, the unterscharführer ushers Ehrlichmann through an ordinary wooden door, painted a utilitarian olive-green, into an empty office. The driver exits, closing the door behind him. The room contains a single desk, on which sits a covered typewriter. There is a Heinrich Knirr portrait of the Führer on the wall above the desk, and a poster of the Periodic Table on another. Beneath the poster are three chairs. Ehrlichmann, wondering why he has not been met, crosses to the chairs and sits on one.
Ten minutes later, a large man in a long black coat sweeps into the room. He has wild white hair and wild staring eyes, and moves as though, through the foolishness of others, he has too much to do and too little time to do it. He halts on seeing Ehrlichmann but it is clear the SS-Sturmbannführer’s presence is not unexpected.