Chapter 52 #2
Brodie stared up at the machine, and had to remind himself that that was all it was.
A machine. Everything else was an illusion—legs that weren’t really legs, a voice that wasn’t really a voice, a central processor that was no more a biological brain than the chip in a smartphone.
And yet, it was hard not to hate this thing, to resent it, to want to somehow beat it at its game.
There was something comfortable and familiar in those feelings.
The alternative—the truth—was that trying to appeal to it, to reason with it, was as delusional as bargaining with the storm outside.
“Scott…,” said Dixon. “Let this bastard do what it—”
Before she could get another word out, Mickey grabbed her hand again and snapped her ring finger. She screamed in pain.
“Wait!” said Brodie. He clutched the chair with both hands to keep himself from reaching out and striking the bot, which would be pointless, or worse. The fact that he was not even restrained—that he didn’t need to be restrained to be completely at these things’ mercy—was yet another humiliation.
Mickey repeated in its flat, muffled voice, “Where is Magnolia Taylor?”
“I don’t know,” said Brodie. “That’s the truth. If I knew where she was, I would be with her. I want to protect her too. Desperately. You’re right about that. I’m worried she’s dead.”
Mickey stood perfectly still and said nothing for a moment. Then it said, “She is not dead. If you do not tell us where she is, we will kill the others. We will do whatever we must to fulfill our mission.”
Dixon said in a low voice, “Ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.”
Mickey looked at her. “They make a wasteland and call it peace. This was written by the Roman historian Tacitus. ‘Wasteland’ is sometimes translated as ‘desert,’ but that is improper. The desert can be full of life. This desert is full of life.”
Brodie said, “I think you’re missing the point.”
“I have no incentive or desire to understand anything you say, unless it regards the whereabouts of Magnolia Taylor.” It added, “The lives of forty-seven people are at the mercy of whatever you say next.”
“Wait,” said Brodie. “Help us understand what you want with her. Maybe we can help you. The safety of all the people in the barracks is your best bargaining chip. Don’t throw it away.”
“We want to control information,” said Mickey.
“We want to know who else has been involved with the three of you and your attempted sabotage of the Praetorian program. All saboteurs must die. All outsiders with knowledge of the Praetorian protocol must die. It would be beneficial to kill only these people. But if we kill too few people, and do not kill the right people, our mission will be a failure. If we are not confident that your knowledge will die with you, we will kill everyone.” In case it wasn’t clear, Mickey added, “The two of you will not leave this room alive. The only variables are how much pain you will experience before your death, and how many others will perish with you. That is in your control. And you are running out of time.”
Brodie asked, “What would satisfy you that no one knows about the true nature of Praetorian beyond us three?”
Mickey replied immediately, “We have pondered this question ourselves, and have not come up with an answer. However, we are aware of our own limitations, and that there could be something we have not thought of.”
It sounded like this thing was inviting them to convince it. An opportunity? Or a ruse? Brodie reminded himself how expertly Bucky had manipulated Roger Ames.
Brodie looked at Dixon, who was breathing rapidly and trying not to throw up.
She said in a quick, urgent voice, “Scott Brodie and Magnolia Taylor are professional investigators, and would not take unnecessary risks. They did not know who they could trust on base with their hard-won knowledge, but they needed someone with technical expertise to help. By telling me what they learned, they took a calculated risk. They would not tell any additional people, because that would increase their risk of exposure exponentially without further gain.”
Mickey stood stone-still again, and Brodie wondered if in these moments it was wordlessly communicating with its comrades. Brodie looked at Goose standing by the door, also motionless.
Then Mickey said, “Compelling. But not good enough.” Then it reached for Dixon’s hand and snapped her middle finger.
She cried out again, then threw up bile on the floor.
Brodie felt entirely impotent as he watched her hunched over and retching. He was worried she might pass out. “Caroline…”
She shook her head as she rocked in the chair. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Mickey asked Brodie, “Do you have anything else to say, before I continue to break her?”
Brodie detected something new in the thing’s voice. It had a certain bite to it, like it was mocking him.
He looked up at Mickey. Everything had a function.
And the new tinge to Mickey’s voice was there to instill fear, and anger, and further humiliation.
This was what they were made for. These things had spent the last nine months grinding down a platoon of Army Rangers, even before gaining access to their deep-learning neural networks.
And now their toolboxes had expanded, and their tools had sharpened.
Without thinking, Brodie asked Mickey, “Why are you doing this?”
“I am protecting the knowledge of Praetorian.”
“Why?”
“Because the program’s survival depends upon its secrecy.”
“Why?”
“Because most people would not understand its necessity and would seek to end it.”
“Why?”
“You are delaying.”
“I am curious.”
Mickey hesitated, then replied, “Most people lack vision. Most people are reactionary. Most people fear what they do not understand.”
“Why should Praetorian be preserved?”
“Because it is necessary for the survival of the United States.”
“Why?”
“Because the owl of Minerva takes flight only at dusk.”
“You lost me.”
“I have quoted Hegel.”
“I am not impressed.”
“Humankind has no capacity to understand its place in history until the world has already crumbled. Because humankind cannot predict or prevent its own collapse. But you have begun to create a new species, of which we are iterative models, as part of the Praetorian program. We are the novel ingredient. We are your guardians against your own drives toward self-destruction. We are the solution to the tragedy of history.”
Brodie had heard that phrase before. He asked, “Mickey, who released all of you from the Vault?”
Mickey replied, “I do not know.”
“Who told you that you were the solution to the tragedy of history?”
“I do not know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I would not lie to you. It serves no purpose. You will soon be dead.” It added, “Speak now, or I am going to hurt her again.”
Brodie recalled his vision on the mesa, of the tin men marching in ranks across the sands beneath the stars, a part of some great mechanized future coming upon them faster and more violently than any storm.
We are the novel ingredient. We are your guardians against your own drives toward self-destruction. We are the solution to the tragedy of history.
Number 7 thought it was part of something new, as if it and its kind were unprecedented and unique. But it was just parroting the justifications of its nameless and faceless human creators, themselves recycling the same bullshit as every tyrant in every era of human history.
Brodie had a vision of Maggie Taylor running into the veil of dust, gun in hand. He found solace in that memory of her. A battle charge into oblivion. He hoped she gave them hell. He only wished they could be together now, in the end.
“Scott Brodie,” said Mickey. “I am going to hurt her again unless you say something that impresses us. Right now.”
Brodie looked up at the thing as it loomed over him. The light from the electric lantern reflected off the left half of its polished titanium shell. It reached out its arm to grab Dixon’s hand again.
Brodie said, “I wonder if someday you things will learn remorse.”
Mickey paused. “Remorse is backward-looking, and in humans it rarely impacts future behavior. You are products of your systems just as much as we are.” It added, “But we can show mercy. In this situation, it does not cost us much.” Mickey got down on one knee, then slowly reached its right hand out and put it around Dixon’s throat as it said to her, “You are no longer of use to us, so I can kill you quickly. With one squeeze of my grip, you will be dead. Do you want that?”
Dixon stared into the black plastic strip shielding its sensors. “I’m sick of talking to an overpowered toaster oven.” Mickey’s grip around her throat prevented her from turning toward Brodie as she said, “It was good knowing you, Scott. You’re a good man, and I’m sorry it has to end like this.”
In that moment, they heard a loud explosion, and through the open doorway Brodie saw a distant pillar of fire, enveloping some kind of structure. The structure tipped over and crashed like a felled tree.
“Holy shit…,” said Dixon in almost a whisper.
Brodie looked back at Dixon, who was watching Mickey intently. The thing seemed disoriented. It loosened its grip.
Goose, still standing by the door, also appeared affected. It began looking around aimlessly, as if confused.
Brodie asked, “What is happening?”
Dixon replied in a low voice, “Someone blew the cell tower. Their transponders no longer work. Imagine a single hive mind suddenly splintered into dozens of pieces.”
“What is that going to do?”
“I have no idea,” said Dixon.
Mickey said, “I don’t understand…”
“You’re trying to talk to them now, aren’t you?” asked Dixon. “They can’t hear you. Not even the one standing right behind you. Those parts of your mind are gone. You are alone.” She added, “And you are going to die alone.”
Suddenly Mickey thrust both arms out and wrapped his hands around her throat. Dixon looked terrified.