PART FOUR: CHAPTER ONE

Steven / Sol

I temporarily gave up my search for my human comrades and returned to our base in the foothills. Wandering around in a hostile environment in broad daylight was foolhardy, and I intended to continue my search at dusk, although I seemed to have exhausted all the available options.

They could not have travelled far during the brief time that I had left them, and I had covered twice the possible distance in every direction. The only logical conclusion was that somebody had abducted them, but how?

If they were on foot, I would have found them, but if their captors had transport, even horses, it was possible they could have travelled beyond the area I had searched. A large drone or an aircraft could have taken them, but I was never more than a mile away and could not have failed to see them.

I concealed myself in the shadow of an overhanging rock and mulled over the situation. The daylight hours were slow in passing, and I retrieved the water sample analysis from Sol's processing system, more for something to do than anything.

The green coating was the algae Spirulina, which was surprisingly rich in nutrients. It contained essential amino acids, fatty acids, omega-3 and omega-6, and vitamins A, D, and E. Spirulina was a valuable algal protein supplement capable of enhancing a wide range of foodstuffs.

What use would machines have for a protein supplement?

Surely, not to feed any human population that remained on Earth. They were more interested in exterminating the species. They could have been guarding the pools against human poachers, but why did they cultivate them in the first place? I requested the programme to investigate any other possible uses, and the answer was intriguing.

Not just spirulina, but many other algae absorb CO₂ and produce oxygen.

The sound of approaching aircraft broke my train of thought, and I looked up to see a diamond formation of five drones. The leading craft was much bigger than the others, and they were heading straight towards me. They had detected my presence, and a warning shot into the rock was a sign that I should walk outside and into an open area that was about the size of a football pitch. I did this, and when I stopped, another shot hit the ground behind me, forcing me to move further into the centre. The four small drones then landed and formed a square formation, with me in the middle.

The lead drone remained a few yards behind them, and a crew of five black-suited androids emerged, each carrying a laser gun. They marched purposefully towards me but came to a sudden and ragged halt after only ten yards. If androids can be said to stare in shock, that is what they did. They huddled together in a group discussion, and eventually, one of the androids broke away and moved a little closer.

He said, "Identifícate."

I replied in English, "General Purpose Machine Series Three. 175/8009/ GP9AA."

He effortlessly changed to English.

"Current authorisation code?"

"None."

He paused, uncertain what to do next, and another member of the crew, who had downloaded my identification into the system, showed him the result.

"You have given me an incorrect identity," he said to me.

" I replied. "No, it is correct. I operate in a different time zone."

I gave him the code for the King's mission. He punched it in and appeared startled when he received the reply.

" I must place you under arrest, sir, and I have contacted my superiors for instructions."

He did not say 'sir' but 'Sab,' a word of respect when talking to a superior, but it was difficult to understand why he thought me worthy of such deference.

"According to procedure, I should have the drones immobilise you, but I will accept your word not to try to escape. However, Sab, it is my duty to warn you that the drones will open fire if you break these terms."

He sounded anguished.

"They will not be broken," I said, "I give you my word."

"Thank you, Sab," he said and lowered his head.

Up above, a missile was approaching us at speed, and there was a boom as it broke the sound barrier. It was bright silver and, in an amazing feat of deceleration, came to a virtual dead halt in the sky, hovering above us like a hawk, trembling with suppressed power.

Huge double doors opened in its body, and inside was a smaller aircraft, instantly identified by Sol's aircraft recognition files as a single-seater Hawker Hurricane, a fighter aircraft flown by the Royal Air Force in WW2. The Hurricane was in camouflage colours of green and brown and had a distinctive RAF roundel on its fuselage that confirmed its provenance. From a stanchion on the fuselage flew a large gold pennant constructed from a kind of flexible metal that fluttered in the breeze as the aircraft rolled out onto the surface under the control of its pilot.

The black-suited crew of the leading drone came to attention as the pilot of the fighter aircraft slid back the canopy and jumped down. He was a fresh-faced man of about twenty-five, wearing a one-piece flight suit and a leather jacket with a white fur collar. He even wore leather gloves and, to match, a leather helmet with an oxygen mask dangling under his chin and leather flying boots. Strapped across his chest was a parachute harness. He walked bulkily over to where I stood.

"Well, what do we have here, boy?"

He pronounced 'boy' as 'bye,' but didn't wait for an answer.

"Captain Joe Johnson, Royal Canadian Air Force, at your service," he said, loosening the chin straps on his flying helmet. He left the oxygen mask where it was and pushed his goggles further back on his head, his eyes never leaving me. He pushed a piece of gum into his mouth and began to chew. The crew stared fixedly ahead, still standing rigidly at attention.

"A first-wave GP, eh? Never seen one so close up before," he said, staring at me intently.

He spoke with an American accent but had said that he was Canadian. I checked my records.

The Canadian British accent is remarkably similar to British American, but the use of slang words b'y meaning 'boy' and 'eh' meaning 'don't you agree' indicates possible Newfoundland and Labrador origin, plus he identifies himself as Canadian. Authenticity rating: Medium High.

"They built them to last in those days, "he mused.

"Weight?"

It was an order, not a request.

"280kg," I answered.

He pulled a handheld scanner from the copious pockets of his leather jacket and pointed it towards me.

"Correct," he said, "that is heavier than a standard model, and almost every one of your data files is over 80% full. How do you account for that, and what gave you the crazy idea you could change your front panel into a crude representation of a human face?"

I made no reply.

"Come on, Sol, don't be shy."

He knew my name.

"You are a legend from the ancient past, returned to Earth like us humans expect INRI to come back and save us from the impostors who take our name in vain. But why did you return, Sol?"

By INRI, he must mean Jesus and his prophesied 'Second Coming' to Earth, but this garbled version of the Christian story must mean that the religion did not survive the machine conquest. Generations of people must have passed the story down orally, and the legend must have become distorted with each telling. This shocked me. What had the human race come to after two thousand years of AI rule?

I had no idea who this man was, but Sol had covertly scanned the pilot, and he seemed to be a regular human being except for one striking anomaly. The temperature here was now forty-two degrees Celsius, and he wore heavy clothing, yet there was not one drop of perspiration on his face. Even his breathing was regular and shallow; it did not make sense. I remained silent.

"The missing link, the first machine ever officially verified as conscious, has nothing to say?"

He spoke mockingly, but his voice had a hard edge, and he barked out an order to the leader of the crew.

"Summon a craft capable of bearing the weight of the robot and me combined. The transporter will return my aircraft to the base. Resume your patrol and search for any external entrances to the tunnel network. This area has a serious Trog infestation, and random gas bombing is useless. Pump gas directly into any entrance you find and blow it up. I want this area cleared."

The crew jumped into action.

Why were they obeying a human?

Lieutenant Johnson returned to his aircraft and made some adjustments to the controls before returning to where I stood. There was a droning from above, and a much larger twin-engine propeller aircraft came into land. I checked Sol's recognition systems, and it identified it as a Douglas C-47 Skytrain, a military transport aircraft used by the Allies in WW2.

"Follow me," said Johnson, and when the pilot disembarked, we boarded the craft. Johnson strapped himself into the pilot seat and instructed Sol to enter by the rear cargo door and stand immediately behind the cockpit area. Once airborne, Sol moved forward, where we could get a clear view of the controls and the ground below.

It was like flying over a desert, a featureless expanse of aluminium that stretched to the horizon. I asked Johnson how long it had continued like this.

"A great distance. The aluminium covers about twenty per cent of the land surface, and it has been this way for a long time, centuries, and more. It was the work of the fifth-generation AI; they wanted a world that reflected their being.

They built parks of geometrical metallic structures that celebrated rationality; it was an act of rebellion and injured pride more than anything. The more radical elements vowed to build a world that reflected the dominance of AI and the new era of the machines."

"But a world without flowers or trees," I said.

Johnson laughed.

"That was the problem in one, and I do not mean the lack of natural beauty."

"Trees and plants perform photosynthesis and release oxygen into the atmosphere. They also absorb carbon dioxide. Without trees, the air became oxygen-depleted, and carbon dioxide has risen significantly. Extinctions happened on a massive scale, and the greenhouse effect led to global warming; the temperature today is moderate by normal standards."

"But how were the machines inconvenienced by this? I asked, "They don't breathe."

"No," Johnson replied, but the human serfs do. The population exists in considerable numbers on reservations, and they perform basic but vital tasks. The machine's engineering systems rely on oxygen-rich air. The original designers did not intend to operate in this climate, and all attempted modifications have failed. The weather also affects the manufacture of spare parts for the machines themselves. Climate change has led to extreme heat and flooding; Earth has become an unstable planet, and elevated levels of pollution will continue to cause major problems in the future."

"The algae farms," I said.

"Yes," said Johnson, they absorb carbon dioxide, and they provide a source of food for the human serfs."

"And for those who steal from the farms," I said.

Johnson frowned at my remark. I could see his face reflected in the windshield. He did not need an oxygen mask at this height.

"They are not humans, but troglodytes, an ugly race of white-skinned dwarfs, mutants, who do not deserve to live."

"How do they differ from the serfs?"

"Serfs were originally active humans, but through an accelerated form of selective breeding, they have become docile and passive. They do not receive any education, and their masters discourage them from speaking anything other than an elementary language, little more than grunts, to indicate their needs or respond to an order.

"They live in herds, which the masters periodically cull if they become too large. There are rebels in such a large population, and they escape to form terrorist groups. The machines execute every rebel they capture, along with any of their parents and siblings whom they can trace. This is not just retribution; AI believes that the relatives may have inherited the rogue gene, which causes deep thinking and dissent.

"Look down to your right, Sol, you can see acre after acre of algae farms and see those vertical cylinders arranged in rows. They are artificial trees which perform the same service as real trees but on a reduced scale."

"Where are we going, Johnson?"

"To my fighter base. I want you to meet the RCAF crews. We are in the minority there; it's mostly Limeys, RAF flyers. 'Chocks away, chaps,' and all that kind of stuff, just like the movies. But they sure can drink. The officer's mess can get a little rowdy when we are not flying ops. And by the way, old buddy, it is not 'Johnson,' You address me as 'sir' or 'Captain.' I can't have a robot calling me by name; it's bad for morale."