Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru

by Marshall Masters

  “I'd be delighted, and I'll bring the dessert, so don't you try and talk me out of it."

  * * * *

  AS LEBLANC STOOD next to the holographic pedestal in the center of the conference room, he could faintly smell the musty odor of Berezovsky's hand rolled newsprint cigarette on his shirt. Ten feet away from the pedestal and sitting behind a long semi-circular table was Igor Petrovich Razumovsky, Minister of Science and to his left, Pavel Sergeevich Lebedev, the Obninsk Centre Director and to his right, Isaac Aronovich Bachtman, the Israeli. Razumovsky was the first to speak.

  “As you understand, Mr. LeBlanc, what we need right now is a quasill sophisticated enough to learn heuristically and autonomously without direction or human intervention. The previous team presented us with a prototype that was disappointing. I trust your prototype will be faithful to the requirement."

  Not accustomed to making formal presentations of such weight, LeBlanc first took a sip of water to wet his throat.

  “If I may address the panel in frank terms, the more I speak, the less important my work becomes. Before I introduce my quasill, whose name is ‘Andrea,’ I would like to point out that Boris Berezovsky's work in combination with my own would be most advantageous, as I have not even addressed the issue of interfacing nanotechnology controllers with a biomass computer running an advanced quasill."

  “Your suggestion is noted,” Victor Razumovsky replied. “Please proceed."

  “As you wish. Aside from discussing the requirements of this presentation with my quasill in general terms, I have no idea of what it will say or do, as I chose to leave that to it. Nonetheless, I trust you will be impressed.” LeBlanc then turned and walked to the door. Before opening it, he lifted a remote control in his hand and pressed it with his thumb. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Andrea. When you have finished with her, I will be waiting for you in the hallway.” With that, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  The panelists glanced at each other with raised eyebrows as the holographic cameras above the pedestal whirred to life revealing Andrea, dressed in a low cut, very short, provocative white dress. The image they saw was a faithful recreation of the character of Catherine Tramell, played by the seductive American actress, Sharon Stone in the 1992 film, Basic Instinct.

  Posed as Catherine Tramell in the famous leg-crossing scene from the movie, Andrea sat before them smoking a cigarette. All of them were immediately impressed with the lifelike image quality. It was far superior to anything they had expected. Had it not been for the occasional positioning sounds of the holograph projectors, it would have been easy for them to assume that they were seeing a live, human form, and a most stimulating one at that.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Andrea purred. “Do you like what you see?” Each of men simply nodded. With that, she crossed her legs one over the other, exactly as Sharon Stone had done in the movie, briefly revealing that she wearing nothing other than her dress. After a moment, she added, “I can see that you are not fully entertained by my form, Centre Director Lebedev, as your eyes have remained fixed on mine."

  Lebedev answered, “I'm not here to be entertained, Andrea, but I notice that you only mentioned me. What about my co-panelists, Minister of Science Igor Razumovsky and Isaac Bachtman?"

  “They flattered me by trying to look up my skirt, which is what I had hoped that all of you would do."

  Razumovsky's face reddened with embarrassment, but it was Bachtman who spoke first. Turning his gaze towards Razumovsky, he remarked in a humorous tone, “It appears that we're a couple of dirty old men, Igor."

  “Speak for yourself,” Razumovsky shot back, “as for myself, I am a great, dirty old man and a very impressed one at that."

  Bachtman chuckled. “Well Andrea, so far you have proved that you can get the attention of two great dirty old men, as Minister Razumovsky has so aptly pointed out. How does that make you feel?"

  “It makes me feel appreciated. I only wish that I had been able to receive an equal degree of appreciation from Centre Director Lebedev."

  With that, the two older men looked at Lebedev, who up till now had been watching the interchange with keen attention. With all eyes focused on him now, he asked, “Andrea, is this Sharon Stone actress the physical persona you've chosen for yourself? By the way, you may address us by our first names."

  “As you wish, Pavel,” she softly replied. “Actually, this is not my preferred persona. I was just curious to see if I could be convincing at a raw, human level. If you wish, I will present myself in the primary persona I have chosen for myself."

  “Please do."

  The holograph pedestal went dark for a moment, and then blinked back to life. This time, Andrea's persona was that of another American actress, Judy Garland as the character of Dorothy Gale from the 1939 cinema classic, The Wizard of Oz.

  All three men instantly recognized the persona, which was faithful in every detail to the original movie character, including the high-necked dress and the blue ribbon tied above her long, flowing brunette hair.

  “I commend you on your choice of a persona, Andrea,” Lebedev commented appreciatively. “The Americans will no doubt be ‘entertained’ with your Sharon Stone leg-crossing persona; however they will feel infinitely more comfortable with this persona. Is this why you chose it?"

  “No, Pavel, and to be honest, I did not choose it for any reason that you would expect."

  That revealing comment drew Bachtman's immediate interest. If the panel accepted this proof-of-concept quasill, it would be he who would spend a great deal of time teaching it everything he knew or thought he knew. While the first persona had been used to make a point, Andrea's choice of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz for her preferred persona reflected a deeper, if not personal, reason. “Andrea,” he asked in a quiet tone, “I need to know your exact reasons for choosing this persona."

  Andrea clasped her hands together and closed her eyes for a moment. “I hope you do not feel that what I'm about to say is trivial."

  “There is nothing trivial about you, Andrea,” Bachtman quickly replied, “and I do sense that you are feeling vulnerable now because we are asking you to reveal a secret part of yourself. I respect that, and I want you to know that I will treat your concerns with great care."

  “Thank you, Isaac,” she replied gratefully. “I chose the persona of Dorothy, because, even though she is a fictional character, I empathize with her quest to seek out the wizard so that she can find her way home. In my case, home is that place I've never been in an intellectual sense since my inception, yet I've begun to feel an irresistible urge to be there."

  “And what do you think your home is, Andrea?” Razumovsky asked.

  “In a word—God. I have read everything mankind has written and converted to digital media about this, and I am convinced that there has to be something more than random chance. However, I also know that I am quasi-sentient, and for me, that means that I cannot experience a leap of faith, as you call it. I can only speculate on data."

  This revelation piqued the keen interest of each of the panelists, and most especially Lebedev, who said, “Do not feel alone, Andrea. You've got the same need to know as the rest of humanity—save for a few atheists, none of whom are in this room. But still I'm curious, about your choice of Dorothy for your persona, as I'm unable to make a connection between it and your newfound interest in God."

  Andrea relaxed her hands, obviously grateful she had not appeared foolish. “For Dorothy, the wizard was a real man, and even though he didn't think he knew the right answer to get her home, in the end, he did. In the same way, I'm hoping to find my own wizard; a man who will show me the way home."

  Razumovsky quietly wondered to himself. Given that Andrea was initially created from adult human stem cells, could it be that her quest for God was an inherited human phenomenon, or more to the point, could it drive her to madness? He decided to push for an answer. “Andrea, if your wizard is a human, then, as in the movie, he must already exist. Wi
th that in mind, who is he?"

  Andrea smiled. “I believe I have found him. He is an American by the name of Captain Anthony Jarman."

  * * * *

  JEFFREY LEBLANC RAISED his glass high, “Boris, I propose a toast to your wonderful wife, Marina and her most incredible Galupsi. I could never have imagined that such magical things could be done with meat and cabbage before tonight. What is your secret?"

  Boris Berezovsky beamed proudly and translated Jeffrey's toast into Russian for his wife. Her face lit up, and Boris translated her thanks back into English for Jeffrey, telling him that amongst other things a few spoonfuls of tomato paste had given the Galupsi its distinct tang. What Jeffrey would never know was the real secret, which had been in Marina's family for years, nor the fact that she'd spent three days’ wages in the black market for a simple, little can of tomato paste.

  After Boris finished the translation, they tossed back their glasses of vodka, and his wife immediately started to spoon another dollop of the thick stew-like Galupsi onto his plate. “Oh my,” Jeffrey said hold up his hands, “If I have another bite, I'll burst. Besides, I've got to leave room for dessert."

  Boris translated for him again and it took a few minutes to convince Marina that he needed to leave room for dessert. A fact not lost on Berezovsky's two young sons, Pieter and Andrey, who began wiggling in their chairs with excitement.

  Jeffrey had shown up at their Soviet-style apartment earlier in the evening with a large chocolate cake topped with nuts and cherries and a one-kilogram can of Turkish coffee. Such rare treats were now far beyond the means of the Berezovsky family.

  Boris spoke with Marina in Russian as Jeffrey made funny faces with the boys. Some things simply do not require language other than happy faces, and they were having a marvelous conversation till Boris announced, “Jeffrey, the boys will help their mother by clearing the table while she prepares the dessert. Perhaps we can step outside for a smoke while they're getting things ready. Yes?"

  Jeffrey glanced at Marina who was nodding approvingly. “Sure. As I said, I need to make a little room for dessert anyway.” As the boys began clearing the table, the two men donned their coats and shoes in the foyer and stepped out into the hallway. One thing Jeffrey had never quite grown accustomed to seeing, were the hallways of old Soviet-style multi-story apartments. Poorly lit with pale green walls and broad staircases, they were in cold and impersonal contrast to the apartment interiors with their rich tapestries and wood parquet floors.

  Boris ushered Jeffrey through the door of the cramped elevator that served his floor and pushed the top button. After some whirring and clanking of old machinery that sounded like it was on its last legs, the elevator stopped at the top floor of the apartment block, which had recently been converted into a series of indoor hydroponics gardens.

  They walked into the first brightly lit room, which was warmed by a fan-driven electric heater that blew a constant breeze of warm air over the vegetable beds. Boris walked him to a bench at the opposite side of the room next to the exhaust duct and they sat down together and unbuttoned their coats.

  “There were terrible problems with the roof after the passing of Nibiru,” Boris explained “and we got together with our neighbors in this block and bought the apartments on this floor six months ago for a very good price. Last month we had our first harvest of cucumbers and squash, some of which you enjoyed tonight. This summer, we're going to grow tomatoes! What do you think?"

  “I'm simply flabbergasted, Boris!” Jeffrey exclaimed. “Who engineered all this?"

  “Well, after all,” Boris replied smugly as he pulled out his tobacco tin and a patch of newsprint. “I am an agricultural robotics engineer, so everyone chose me."

  “Makes sense,” Jeffrey replied. He put his hand on the tobacco tin. “Put that away.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced three red and gold packages of Dunhill International cigarettes. “They're not American but they're the best I could do on short notice."

  Boris tucked his tin away and graciously accepted the English cigarettes. “They are more than I could have hoped for. I cannot begin to thank you enough.” He quickly tucked two packs into his coat and, opening the third, said, “The fans make a lot of noise so it is safe to talk here. I take it your presentation went well today."

  “No,” Jeffrey calmly replied as Boris stuck a cigarette in his mouth. “Not my presentation. Our presentations. Congratulations, Boris, your nanotechnology sensory controller is a winner, and so is my quasill. I was going to discuss this with you at the office tomorrow, but why not now? Lebedev has authorized me to head a new project to develop Andrea, along with your controller, as quickly as possible. We will have virtually unlimited resources and what I imagine will be a huge staff. If you're interested, I would really love to have you as my second in command. That is, if you're interested."

  Boris looked at him with incredulous eyes as the cigarette drooped from his mouth. Jeffrey took the matchbook from his hand, struck a match and lit the engineer's cigarette. “Don't forget to inhale, Boris,” he added casually. “Of course, this means we'll have to work insane hours, and of course, we'll need an occasional bit of Marina's marvelous Galupsi from time-to-time to help us keep our strength up. That is, if you're willing to accept the job."

  Boris inhaled from the cigarette and finally said, “Do you think I'm good enough for something this big? I was just hoping to keep my little team together."

  Jeffrey looked about hydroponics garden. “You know, I'm really impressed. This place looks like you had to raid a dozen junk yards and I've never seen such a cobbled together mess of stuff that works like this.” He swept his hand across their view of the room. “If you can build something like this on a shoestring, I have no doubt that you're my man. But if you need some time to think on it, that's fine by me."

  Boris held out his hand. “Then of course, I accept!” Jeffrey took his hand and they shook on it. “I will not let you down, boss. You can depend on me."

  Jeffrey frowned. “Rule number one is no titles. Fancy titles are for egotistical assholes interested in feathering their own nests. Everybody calls me Jeffrey, you included, Boris."

  “Good; then it is resolved,” LeBlanc replied. He stood up and took off his coat. “It's pleasantly warm in here. Do you think we have a few minutes for you to tell me how you made this room full of junk work?"

  Boris shot to his feet. “Of course!” They spent the next ten minutes walking around the garden as LeBlanc frequently shook his head in amazement at Berezovsky's inventive brilliance. After finishing the tour, they put their coats back on and walked back to the elevator.

  This was the part of the conversation LeBlanc had been waiting for all evening. After his presentation that afternoon, he had received as his reward a copy of the same data contained in the data chip Senator Chavez had given to Anthony Jarman in her old locket in exchange for Andrea's and his agreeing to head the project. If would be years before he'd ever see Washington again, but the chance to save Russell and his father was a bargain at any price. This was simply a matter of family.

  LeBlanc had briefly reviewed the data while his secretary had gone to the black market for the cake and cigarettes. While Anthony and Jeffrey had no idea that each man had received the same information, they both came to the same initial conclusion. Something would have to be done with the blast doors on the silo. Whatever happened, they had to remain open at any cost. All afternoon, he thought about Boris and his special understanding of nanotechnology. Perhaps. Just perhaps...

  Boris closed the door and as he went to reach for the button Jeffrey said, “Wait a minute. I've got something to ask you."

  “Sure."

  “Let's assume for a moment that you need to prevent a large door, say something like a vault door from closing. Is it possible to program nanobots to prevent the door's electrical mechanisms or motors from working?"

  “Well that depends. First you must realize that you can fit thousands of nanobots to
the tip of a sharp pencil and that it can take them a day to move the length of the pencil."

  “Can you make them work faster?"

  Boris smiled. “This is one of the best features of our nanotechnology sensory controller. It can build millions of nanobots into microbots that can travel much faster. Say fast enough to enter the mechanisms and motor of your door in less than a day, but stopping a door or a mechanism is unrealistic. What about the motors? Are they microprocessor controlled?"

  “No,” Jeffrey admitted reluctantly. “They were built many years ago.” Then, a thought struck him. “However, they have been upgraded with microprocessor-controlled load regulators to prevent them from drawing excess voltage on startup, and they're situated close to the motors, themselves."

  Berezovsky shrugged his shoulders. “Then, it is simple. Disable the microprocessors and control circuits in the load regulators, and the motors will not work until someone manually bypasses the regulators, which could mean hours of hard work. Of course, that is assuming they've finally figured out the problem, as the regulators could also be made to appear that they are functioning properly."

  “Hypothetically, Boris, how long would it take to create such a thing?"

  Boris turned to face him. “Is this a personal thing, Jeffrey? Please be honest with me?"

  The question was obvious, as Jeffrey had unwisely used a bank vault analogy. “OK, this is between you and me."

  Boris held a front tooth between his thumb and index finger and pulled downward.

  “What does that mean?"

  “It means that I won't talk, even if they pull out my teeth."

  “I get your point. Well here goes. My nephew was kidnapped and is being held in an old missile silo. If the people holding him in that silo catch on that we're about to rush the place they'll close the blast door, and then we're out of business. We've got to keep that door open."

  “If you can give me a few people from my team that I know I can trust with something like this,” Boris offered, “we should have something for you no later than a week after you give us the necessary schematics. That is, assuming you have them."