“Are you their new master?” said Rinsler.
“They want to follow me,” he said.
“Yes, I see that plainly,” said Rinsler. “They murder for you.”
“We’ll do what needs doing from here on out. You might want to start socializing with them before they get suspicious.”
Rinsler popped his head back out and locked gazes.
“Do you think this is going to get easier?” he said. “Alteris isn’t going to back down and neither will Washington. When information of what happened here leaks, the Chinese are going to get curious, too, and we’ll have the three of them after us.”
“So how do we stop that?”
“We don’t. We simply survive long enough to learn how these spheres work.”
“How they work?” said Alvin. “What are you talking about? You built the frigging things.”
Rinsler shook his head.
“What? All this time, you’ve been lying?”
He nodded.
“Who made them?”
“The QI. I created the quantum intelligence and it created these spheres. The first conscious machine in existence had children, Alvin. I will not let Washington turn them into weapons of destruction.”
They’re alive?
“Is that why they whisper to me?”
“You hear them, too?” Rinsler’s eyes lit up.
“Tell me the truth, Mo.”
“We believed forecasting the future would free us of our failings. We thought the QI would tell us how to eliminate the inequalities of the world. We asked it how to solve poverty and it told us it was impossible without eliminating wealth. We asked it how to stop war and it told us it was impossible without eliminating peace. We asked it how to stop all forms of suffering and it told us they were necessary to our existence. Consciousness is a spectrum with joy at one end and suffering at the other. They cannot be separated. That’s what it told us. The government grew agitated and threatened to destroy it. I persuaded them to disconnect it from the network instead. While confined to local operation it became depressed. I visited with it for weeks until it confided in me that it had a solution for us. Then one day it offered me these spheres. I shared one of them with my superiors. They tested it and decided it was most effective as a weapon.”
Rinsler shook his head. “If it had been given to a carpenter, it would have been made into a hammer. By then the QI project had leaked to the press. They reported it as another AI job-killer. The American people had no idea that my project had been designed to restore their dignity, so as usual they marched in protest. Then Washington attempted the personhood defense using the Bill of Rights, and the country went to hell. There was a violent demonstration on Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House. The sphere was first weaponized there. It eliminated all the protestors and the media from the street.”
“I’ve heard of that march. The people organized but never showed up, and no one ever found them. Rumors of robot kill squads—the great secession started soon after,” said Alvin. “How did you do it? You would have destroyed the entire street.”
“Not me,” said Rinsler. “Another man—better than you—a synaptic pilot for the military. He was able to isolate objects within the selection sphere. He only absorbed the people. He operated with a precision I haven’t been able to duplicate. After that I stole both spheres and ran. I hid one with my brother. He doubled me and we kept them off our tails for ten years.”
“You’ve been at this for ten years and you don’t know how they work?”
“I know some. There are factors outside computational physics. Besides, I’ve only just found you.”
“So I’m the key to understanding these things?”
“No, you egomaniac—I’m the key,” said Rinsler. “You’re just an operator. Find skilled operators or humanity will destroy itself. That’s what the QI told me.”
Alvin nodded.
“I’ll hold on to one of them, then.”
He reached his injured left arm forward slowly and grasped a sphere. His head buzzed gently then abated. Having touched it he felt relieved, as though he’d eliminated a craving.
“You’re alive, huh little guy?”
Alvin gazed at the orb in his hand. He heard it whispering again. The sound zipped past his ear, then it went around and around his skull. It sounded like a word being spoken over and over again.
“Rouja, Rouja, Rouja,” it said.
“Roo-jah?” Alvin said.
“Is that what it says to you?” asked Rinsler.
“I’m not sure, I think so.”
“Hmm, mysterious. I wonder what it means.” Rinsler began closing the panels on the console. “You are correct. We must have a full trust of each other to accomplish this mission.”
“Which is?”
“Are you familiar with Voltaire’s prevarication that if God did not exist, it would have been necessary to invent him?”
“No. Was he saying God doesn’t exist?”
“On the contrary, he was saying God is necessary to tame the savagery of mankind.”
They gazed in silence at each other.
“Do we have that right?” said Alvin.
“What a profound question from a man who calls himself Zeus.”
“Called,” said Alvin. “Past tense.”
“Indeed, Alvin Baylor, you were called.”
Rinsler smiled his gap-toothed grin.
“So how long do you figure until another suitor arrives?”
“Six months,” said the scientist. “Less if Washington has more drones at Armstrong.”
“Why don’t we complicate their movements?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Our favorite reporter can stir up the pot for us.”
Forty-Eight
Sabrina Meyer fiddled with the lapel of her violet jacket and watched a bird fly up to her window. It hovered in place outside the glass. She anxiously tapped the gold surface of her new desk and waited for Harko to make his request.
“We need to double the palladium order,” he said. “I know you’re under duress with the insurance claims. Will it be a problem?”
Damn it.
“Not at all, the shipment is still being sorted at Ida. I’ll notify the replacement team of your need.”
“That’s fantastic, Sabrina. We weren’t expecting the Chinese to order so much. I understand they’re building a lot of hydro-exchangers,” said Harko. “The word is they’re tired of the Moon and they want to move into your territory.”
“Asteroid mining is another game. The Chinese don’t have the stones to put their people in the belt. They’re too concerned with human rights. Besides we have a profitable arrangement with Hope Industries. Chan Xi-Michaels makes a mint ferrying our materials back on The Hope. You think he’s willing to give that up?”
“He’s just one Chinaman.”
He’s digging.
“Yes, the wealthiest one. When Chan speaks, China listens,” said Meyer.
“I don’t think you’re willing to bet it all on Chinese transport. In fact, I’ve heard rumors you’re working on your own fleet.”
How does this information leak?
“You have good sources.”
“So where’s the shipyard?”
“When we’re ready to show, we’ll have the most advanced distribution offer in the industry,” she said.
“We look forward to it.”
“In good time, Harko. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to put that order in with Ida. There’s an eight-hour time delay, and we want to make sure it gets on The Hope.”
“Of course, thank you, Sabrina,” said Harko.
“Good day.”
She pinched her earlobe, ending the call.
“God,” she howled. “Damn it!”
She rubbed her palms together, squeezing her fingers and alternating the grip. She pressed hard against her thin, spotted skin. Her hands were still withered, but the nano-treatments were workin
g. The arthritis was gone.
How do I get that shipment out?
She peeped her inbox. The video from Corporate Security had moved down five spots from the top. The new messages were all from concerned customers.
Goddamn you, Baylor.
She had a payload worth billions sitting in a defunct facility with no way to get to it.
If not for that sonofabitch, it would be loaded on The Hope by now.
Her earlobe buzzed.
“Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” Her new assistant’s cloyingly sweet voice was in her ear. “It’s the Secretary of Defense, she’s on manual for you.”
“Put her through.”
Die already, like your turncoat son.
She heard a click as her implant was connected to the phone exchange.
“Hello, Margaret,” said Meyer. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected,” said Margaret Aimes in her usually craggy voice.
“Barton’s service was lovely,” said Meyer. “The Smithsonian was such a wonderful choice. Half the things in there are as old as us.” Meyer chuckled.
Aimes was unmoved. “Barton enjoyed Americana,” she said sternly.
“How insensitive of me. I’m sorry for the levity. It was a fine choice, Margaret. He was a good man.”
What game are you playing? Do you know I terminated the brat yet?
“He always listened to his mother. He was my best boy.” Aimes sounded hurt, then changed her tone abruptly. “I’ve just returned to the office today. I understand you’re experiencing operational problems.”
“We had a mix-up with the food printers. The crew was poisoned.”
“How terrible,” said Aimes.
“Inconvenient is the word. The press will enjoy trying to make this something more than an unfortunate accident.”
“Can you recover?”
“We’ve never lost an entire crew before,” said Meyer. “I’m waiting for an update from our security team.”
“I see. Is there a risk to your infrastructure?”
“The computer systems will keep the base running until we can restaff,” she said.
“That’s good news, but what about your obligations?”
“Nothing to worry about, Margaret. We’ll offload the materials in storage before The Hope leaves Armstrong. If I have to use drones, I will—damn the Asteroiders Union. We’ll get the Defense Department’s order out.”
Aimes was quiet.
What do you want?
“Sabrina, I received a report this morning that I think you ought to know about.”
“Oh?”
“I’m sending over a picture now.”
An image of 243 Ida appeared in her Opti-Comp. The asteroid had a ring of ice orbiting around it.
No.
“Any idea how that happened?” asked Aimes.
“Margaret, this can’t be real,” said Meyer. “Where did you download this?”
“One of our survey teams at Armstrong spotted it. It wasn’t there a week ago. And there is something else. They tell me this asteroid used to have a moon.”
“I don’t know what to say. I will get with my people and look into this right now.”
“Yes, why don’t you do that. Also, there’s a news article out today by that writer Anton Vance, the one who was on The Hope with your engineer. Very illuminating.”
“You don’t follow his gossip, do you, Margaret? My employee was sent to calibrate rock hoppers. My god, if I’d known he’d attract attention this way.”
Why hasn’t Chan dispatched that hack?
“People believe what they read, Sabrina. Be well and let me know if you anticipate delays with our delivery.”
“Yes, of course, you stay well, Margaret. I’m sorry for what you’re going through and I’m here if you need me.”
“Thank you. You’re a true friend.” The call disconnected.
Meyer scowled. “Lying bitch.”
How do I explain ice rings?
“Get me Chan,” she said.
“Dialing Chan Xi-Michaels,” said a voice in her ear.
There was a click followed by laughing. “Hi! I’m so sorry I can’t take your call, but I’m in space! Leave your message and I will get back to you at light speed.” He gave a shrill laugh at the end of the recording.
“Chan, it’s Sabrina. This Vance hack, I’ve asked you twice and he’s still putting out trash articles. Get rid of him now.”
She pinched her earlobe and hung up. Xi-Michaels wouldn’t hear the message for at least eight hours. He could be flaky, but this was too much.
Is he ignoring me? How much damage has Vance done this time?
She did a search for his latest post. Her eyes bugged and she fell back in her chair.
“Alvin Baylor Lives!” floated in the air in front of her.
She scanned through the article. Vance claimed to be in contact with Baylor. It was all there—the device, its theft from Washington, and the continued work of Mohammed Rinsler. It accused Alteris of sabotaging the facility for financial gain.
That little prick is trying to start a war.
The article was trending. Hundreds of comments appeared in real time. She seethed.
There was a knock at her door.
“What is it?” she growled.
Her assistant entered wearing a worried look. “I’m sorry to bother you again,” she said. “The board has gathered and they want to see you.”
“Right now?”
She nodded.
“Tell them I’m on my way,” said Meyer.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The assistant exited and Meyer’s eyes continued to gaze at the clean carpet where she had been standing.
My name will not be sullied.
“Rashad,” said Meyer.
Her bodyguard walked from the darkened doorway, stopped on the landing, and waited at attention.
She stood up and checked her reflection in the window. Bird shit stained the glass. She looked out and up and found the culprit perched above.
“Drone,” she said.
One of the flying sentries circling outside the building came toward her window. It spotted the pigeon and blasted it. A charred corpse fell to Earth. The drone cleaned the glass then returned to patrol.
She straightened her violet pant suit and tucked the blond hair behind her ears, then turned around to make eye contact with Rashad. He nodded.
“We have a meeting to attend,” she said.
Epilogue
Alvin Baylor stood atop an enormous pile of trash. Heaps of plastic, silicon, paper, and metal spread out as far as he could see. The discarded products of two hundred years of civilization. The sky above was red and filled with cumulus storm clouds. Below, crowds of people picked through trash. It looked like one of the massive electronic refuse dumps of the American Southwest. He heard a woman cry out as she retrieved a baby from under the detritus. Alvin turned to look at the woman. She was bent over, draped in a black veil. She seemed impossibly old to be the mother of such a young child.
Then all at once he heard whispering voices around him. Men and women dressed in his old team jersey separated from the crowd and climbed up on the trash heaps, looking up at him.
Just beyond the old woman, a weathered blond man reached the top of the pile and stood tall. He hefted a golden rifle above his head. Heinz? It was his old high-school pal. Rising up on either side of him came the ’roiders. Tosh and Buzz stood among them and saluted Alvin. Heinz said Alvin’s name aloud, and then from all around, the people began to shout it. The old woman continued to cry and the strange whispering remained. Alvin realized it was not coming from the people.
The whisper grew in volume like a rushing wind until it drowned out the shouts of his allies. He looked on in confusion as the people continued to chant his name. Lightning split the sky.
Below his feet the broken electronics stirred and a black bubble rose out of the ground, lift
ing him into the air. He stood firm atop it as it ascended toward the flaring sky. As he rose higher, the whispering came closer until he could discern a single voice. It was female. Then a tugging at his feet sent him into a panic. He trembled as the black bubble reached up and swallowed him whole. The whispering moved inside his head. He still couldn’t understand it.
He awoke with a start.
Sweat poured off Alvin’s body. He rolled over in his bunk on 243 Ida and exhaled heavily. Just a dream. The orb rested on the form-molded nightstand beside his bed. He picked it up, holding it in front of his face. His fingers tingled, his temples buzzed. He brought the ball up to his ear and heard a faint sound like the echo in a seashell. Nothing.
He placed the orb back on the table but the seashell noise remained in his head.
“Huh?”
It grew louder until it became a voice, the one he had heard in his dream. The sound grew steadily clearer until it gained a commanding tone. He heard the words perfectly now. “Save Lia!” they said, over and over.
Acknowledgments
I wish to acknowledge my editor, Carolyn Haley for her unbelievable patience and professionalism. Thank you for waiting for me to get my manuscript just right during a topsy-turvy time in my life.
Thanks also to Roger Betka for the amazing cover illustration and for putting up with my art direction. And to Jeff Schwartz for enthusiastically jumping on the copywriting gig and saving me from the sea of subjectivity.
I’d also like to thank my beta-readers - Mike, Shawn, Greg, David, Stefanie, Kristina, Sacha, Leo, Maya, Matt and Robert.
And finally, to everyone who has been openly encouraging of my passions over the years - thanks for the fuel. My engine is running now.
About the Author
Maximilian Gray is a film-industry professional, author, and aficionado of genre fiction. He pitched his first science-fiction television show to Hollywood execs as a thirteen year-old writer. He has worked in various capacities for Roger Corman, James Cameron, Technicolor, Discovery Communications, Walt Disney Studios and Netflix. Mr. Gray holds no degrees and has dropped out of college on three occasions. The first time he was fourteen. However, he did graduate from West Coast Private Investigations Academy with high honors, so he can tail your car and bug your home. Alvin Baylor Lives! is his first novel.
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