The Great Destroyer (5 page)

“Please resubmit Form 35d with appropriate documentation for your corrective vision determination.  Thank you and have a nice day.”

Andrew Igazi delivered his benediction with a pleasant tone befitting his position.  The woman left without a thank you, as almost all of Igazi’s visitors did.  No one ever thanked the Department of Motor Vehicles for doing its job.

A glance at the clock.  Only 10:32 on a Monday.  The thought came unbidden to Igazi that today would be a perfect day to kill himself. 
Three more hours at work today, then three more full days of work with nothing to look forward to.

Igazi shook his head.  He was
not
suicidal.  It had only been a passing thought.

Looking back at the reception area, he saw there was no one else waiting to be helped.  That happened often.  The DMV was dramatically overstaffed and people could fill out most of the forms online.  Igazi had long known that his job was probably unnecessary.  However, the Terran Alliance was willing to pay, and there were not many alternatives open to him.

As a young man, he had thought about joining the Terran Alliance Safety Force.  Ultimately, though, he hadn’t felt any real passion for the work of the TASF, whose main work in Cape Town was now supervising protests and telling lost tourists what buses could get them to Disneyland South Africa. 

Truth be told, Igazi didn’t feel much passion about anything.  He collected a steady paycheck that allowed him to satisfy his various needs, go out to the bars five nights a week, and still save away enough to get a new phone once a year.

He glanced at the mirror on his desk.  He hadn’t shaved today, and the stubble showed up as peppery black patches carpeting the lower half of his face.  His hair, cut short, had a few flecks of gray as he approached his forty-first birthday.  Like virtually everyone else in his country, he was black.  Of average height, he was in better shape than most because going to the gym was one escape from the tedium that swallowed his work days.

“Hello, Andrew!”  Such an enthusiastic voice, it could only be Will.

Igazi stifled a sigh.  “Hello, Will.”

“Not much happening, eh?  Guess you’re slacking off a bit in your old age!”  Will was twenty-seven and managed to sound like he had ambitions to take over the DMV without ever actually doing work.

Suppressing a sudden urge to throttle the younger man, Igazi merely mumbled, “I guess so.”

Will laughed.  “Looks like it’s unanimous.”

* * *

That evening, Igazi did not go out to the bars.  He sat in his apartment and listened to music.  At some point, he got up and looked in the mirror. 
No
, he said to himself. 
I am not suicidal.
  He turned on the television, and lost himself in a reality show.

“Would inmate Viktor Yazov please report to administration?  Viktor Yazov to administration.”

Yazov couldn’t suppress a smile.  Even at the most hardened prison in the world, the Terran Alliance required absurd circumlocutions to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings.  They couldn’t just send guards—safety officers—to retrieve prisoners to see the warden.  No, that would be demeaning.  Instead, they made an announcement to let the guards know who to retrieve from the general population. 
Mustn’t offend the child rapists and murderers
, Yazov thought. 
People are more important than things, which includes things like merit.

His grandfather had told him the term for such non-functional politeness used to be “political correctness.”  Now, to the extent anyone talked of it, they would call it “expanded justice.”  The contrast between the infinite solicitude of the safety officers’ expanded justice and the brutality of the inmates never failed to amuse Yazov.

When the safety officers arrived outside Yazov’s cell, his door opened.  Yazov came willingly, holding out his hands to be cuffed.  Once that precaution was taken, the safety officers walked him across the line of cells, down a metal staircase, and through a series of hallways to a modestly apportioned office.

The warden was there, along with a well-manicured thirty-ish dandy in an expensive suit.  And Dmitry Peskov, his fellow chess player.

To Viktor’s surprise, Dmitry spoke first.  “Ah, there you are, Viktor.  This man,” he gestured to the dapper visitor, “says he needs my services for some kind of important Terran Alliance programming job.  Naturally, I couldn’t perform such work without my assistant, without you, Viktor.”

Yazov tried to hide his surprise.  By Dmitry’s insistent look, he could tell he had not quite succeeded.  “Thank you... sir.”

The fancy young man looked skeptical.  “Ou is a rather rough-looking assistant.  How did ou come to be a programmer?”

Dmitry answered, “We grew up together.  Always playing number games, we were.  Making up codes for the other to break, playing chess, that sort of thing.  Viktor, ou’s a natural hacker.”

The suit shrugged.  “There was nothing in my orders about bringing another programmer along.”

Dmitry quickly added, “But nothing in your orders said you couldn’t.  And I can’t help you without my assistant, so really the only way you can follow your orders is to bring ou along.”

The fop thought that over.  He asked the warden, “What is ou currently being incarcerated for?”

The warden walked over to his computer and called up Yazov’s file.  “Murder of a Safety Officer,” he said with distaste.

That visibly unsettled the fancy-suited man.  “I don’t think I can justify freeing such a man, even for an emergency.  What would the media say?”

Yazov felt despair enter his heart. 
To have come so close to freedom...

“Mx. Henderson,” Dmitry interjected, using the gender neutral title pronounced “mix”, “Viktor was driven to his crime because the officer made crude comments about indigenous peoples.  Viktor is very sensitive to the historical plight of indigenous peoples, and ou got caught up in the heat of the moment.”

The popinjay’s face visibly brightened as he processed that additional information.  “Oh dear!  That is a different matter entirely.  While we certainly do not condone any kind of violence, that motive is, if I may say so, among the very most empathetic.”

Yazov wasn’t quite sure how a motive could be empathetic, but he didn’t sweat that detail.  “Thank you.”

Dmitry caught Yazov’s eye and flashed a quick grin.  Yazov remained impassive as the be-suited Mx. Gavin Henderson expounded on his appreciation of aboriginal architecture.  When a polite amount of time had gone by, Dmitry lightly interrupted, “I agree wholeheartedly.  That whole situation is quite tragic.  But refocusing our attention to the current issue, what exactly are the terms of our work?”

With mild annoyance at being interrupted in the middle of his speech, the Assistant to First Representative Flower said, “You would each receive a full pardon and a million credits for your efforts.  I just need your signatures, and we can be on our way.”  The man extended a tablet computer with a signature block.

Without hesitation, Dmitry put his finger to the screen and signed his name in a choppy, nearly illegible scrawl.

Yazov looked into the Terran Alliance man’s eyes, just for a moment, just out of instinct.  The man squinted back, as if he had caught a glimpse of something that scared him.  Yazov quickly signed his name before the dapper man could think to change his mind.

Dmitry hurriedly said, “Well, that takes care of that.  So, what’s the job?”

“So, what exactly will these robots be able to do?”  Jackson, Takagawa, and Luke Tanner were sitting in Takagawa’s small office in Houston.  A background hum came from the small but growing staff of technicians, engineers, and programmers working in Takagawa’s lab.  A sizable percentage of the world’s technical expertise, greatly reduced over the long centuries of the Great Stagnation, were being mobilized for the endeavor.

Takagawa fielded the question.  “They will definitely be able to fire a weapon.  That skill is not technically complicated.”

Jackson asked, “Can they coordinate actions?”

Luke fiddled with his glasses.  “Well, they can certainly communicate with each other.”

“If human commanders tell a subsection of the robots to flank the enemy, will the robots understand what the commanders want?”

“What is ‘flanking’?” Luke asked.

After Jackson explained the concept, Takagawa answered without hesitation.  “No, that command would require an advanced sense of special reasoning and an understanding of higher objectives.  They would need to know where they are, where the enemy is, which way the enemy is facing, how to get from one place to another indirectly without the enemy seeing them... we don’t have time to teach them how to do all that.”

Nodding, Jackson jotted a comment on his notepad.  “OK, no complicated maneuvering.  Can they accept basic commands?”

Takagawa smiled.  Jackson suppressed his instinct to smile with her.  She said, “Charlie has been following basic natural language commands on the moon for years.  Programming instructions for opening and ceasing fire, as well as choosing individual targets, will take very little in the way of new programming.”

Jackson was quiet for a moment, then said, “So, we will have, what, a few dozen skilled individual soldiers who you can basically point in the right direction and tell to start or stop fighting, and that’s it.  We’re at roughly the late Neolithic period in terms of tactical complexity—tribal warriors, barely past the caveman stage of warfare.”

Takagawa’s smile evaporated.  “Your job is to develop tactics for my boys.  If you say they are cavemen, you’d better start thinking like a caveman strategist instead of a prissy professor.  Make it work, Professor Jackson.”  She turned back to her computer, instantly transitioning to the next of a never-ending series of problems to solve in order to create her army.

The insult stung.  “I will, Dr. Takagawa.”

* * *

Jackson spent two days learning everything he could about the robots from the technicians. 
What will they be able to see?  What programming methods will tell them how to identify enemies?  How will they categorize new threats?
  In that process, he met every one of the scientists, engineers, and programmers working on what had quickly been dubbed Project Charlie.

One of the last technicians Jackson met with was a newly arrived Russian named Dmitry Peskov.  He had claimed a corner of Takagawa’s laboratory down the street from the Space Administration to set up his coding nest. 

Peskov neatly fit the stereotype of a Russian hacker.  Pale, thin, bespectacled, and short, he was fidgety and high-strung.  Peskov’s assistant most certainly did not fit that mold.  He stood like a praetorian guard, piercing blue eyes scanning Jackson, missing not a single detail. 

Jackson had barely had time to introduce himself when Takagawa shouted out of her office door, “Peskov!  Get over here!” 

With a shrug, Peskov said, “I’m sorry, professor, I will have to talk to you in a moment.”  With that, he excused himself and Jackson was left to talk to Peskov’s assistant.

Struggling to remember the man’s name, Jackson said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know if we’ve been introduced, I’m Thomas Jackson.”

“Pavel Yazov, sir.”  The man spoke Terran standard with a noticeable accent, a mark of unsophistication.  Terran Standard had been the official language of the Terran Alliance for centuries.  Pavel’s Slavic lilt suggested that the language was relatively new in his hometown, doubtlessly deep in what had once been Russia.

“What do you do for Project Charlie?” the professor asked.

Yazov replied, “I assist Peskov, sir.”

“How?”

“However necessary, sir.”

“You’re a programmer?”  Jackson asked with some skepticism.

“Yes, sir.”

Something in Yazov’s countenance struck Jackson as noteworthy, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.  The Russian was solidly built, unusual for the times, but that wasn’t the most curious aspect.  He spoke plainly, with a calm assurance that evaded most of the technicians.  Yazov just seemed older than the mid-thirties his appearance suggested. 

Jackson wasn’t quite sure why he asked, “Do you know anything about fighting?”

Yazov replied quickly and flatly, “No, sir.  I am a programmer.”

“Ah, I see.  What programming languages do you know?”  Jackson asked.

“Russian and Swahili. And Terran Standard, of course,” Yazov answered innocently.

Jackson knew enough about computers to know about programming languages—C, Python, Perl, and so forth.  Yazov, ostensibly a programmer, knew even less about programming than a history professor from Yale. 

Jackson knew he should simply tell security that Yazov was an imposter.  But the Russian was so different from the others at Project Charlie that he could very well prove useful.  He was clearly fit, strong, and—to make it this far without being caught—resourceful. 

Dropping all pretense, Thomas said, “Those aren’t programming languages.  You’re no programmer.  So, what are you, Peskov’s amorfriend?”

Yazov’s eyes froze in a split-second of panic, but after a second he laughed.  “No, sir.  In fact, you could say I am the reason he is not now the amorfriend of several individuals in the TA Penal System.”

Jackson couldn’t suppress an amused smile of understanding.  “And he got you out of prison and brought you here as repayment of that debt.  But who are you really?”

Yazov tilted his head and cracked an amused, dangerous grin.  “I am a Cossack, sir.  My parents told me stories of my ancestors: a relative who died at Borodino, another who won a medal of valor at Stalingrad, countless others.  My parents taught me what their parents taught them: how to fight.”

Jackson felt a stab of academic excitement at talking to the closest thing Earth had to a soldier.  “Have you seen combat?”

Yazov nodded.  Jackson asked, “What kind?”

“Mostly hand to hand, knives and blunt objects.  Occasionally, a shooting.  A few times an actual firefight.”

That mildly alarmed Jackson.  Yazov was polite and forthright, but not many people even owned firearms anymore. Only a very few policemen—and criminals.  “Where were those firefights?”

“There are still parts of the world less docile than Yale, professor,” Yazov said vaguely.

“Such as?”

“Central Africa.  A lot of the leaders in that territory have been giving lip service to the Terran Alliance, using the power they get from controlling TA aid to settle old tribal scores.  The TA doesn’t look too closely and just assumes all the combat deaths are crime related.”

“I see.”  An idea percolated in Jackson’s mind.  “You may have a very different value to Project Charlie, if you’d be willing to put your programming career behind you...”

* * *

“Subroutine 665-alpha governs behavior in close-quarters combat,” Luke explained to Yazov and Jackson forty minutes later.  “As things stand now, the main combat programming tells the Charlies to use their primary firearm whenever possible, except under specified parameters when grenades should be used.” 

Yazov asked, “And if an enemy is so close you can smell his breakfast?”

Luke gulped.  “Subroutine 665-alpha instructs the Charlies to push the enemy away and switch to his firearm.”

Yazov snorted in amusement.  Jackson asked him, “Is that how you would fight in close quarters, Viktor?”

“No, Professor Jackson.”

Jackson smiled.  “You can call me Thomas.  And what’s wrong with the tactics in subroutine 665-alpha?”

Yazov stepped up to within two feet of Luke, who shifted on his feet with unease.  “When you are close to the enemy, speed and decisiveness are required.” 

Yazov held his hand up as if he were holding a knife.  “In a fight between me and Mr. Tanner, where do you think I have an advantage?”

Luke Tanner seemed to have lost the ability to speak, so Jackson answered, “I would think you’d have the advantage no matter the distance.”

Yazov shook his head slowly, and his blue eyes stayed locked on Luke, the imaginary knife steady in his hand.  “Mr. Tanner is far more sophisticated than I am.  Who knows what magical, invincible weapon he has developed to kill me from afar?”

Yazov stepped closer, to within a foot of the terrified scientist.  “But when you’re close, magic is weaker than will.  If you are quick, decisive, and ferocious, all that high-tech shit won’t save you.” 

With that, he jabbed the imaginary knife into Luke, who screamed and passed out.  He might have hurt himself falling against a table if Yazov hadn’t caught him.  He wasn’t in time to catch the glass Tanner’s unconscious arm knocked off the table beside him. 

The glass shattered on the floor as Tanner came crashing down.

Takagawa was out of her office inside of two seconds.  “What happened?!”  She saw a burly blond man lowering Luke’s apparently lifeless body to the ground.

Jackson handled introductions.  “Dr. Takagawa, meet Viktor Yazov, our new tactics consultant.”