Survival--A Novel Read online

  “Peel a banana?” Jackson glared at Ignatiev.

  Gita asked, “What do you have in mind, Alex?”

  With a nonchalant shrug, Ignatiev said, “You do your work in the field and the labs and have Aida write the reports for you.”

  “But Mandabe said—”

  “Mandabe will receive the reports,” Ignatiev continued, “thinking that you researchers are writing them. After a suitable time, you ask him if he’s satisfied with the reports. If he says he is, then you reveal to him that you’ve had Aida … ah, helping you to write them. Problem solved.”

  “He’ll see through your scheme right away,” Jackson objected. “You won’t be able to keep it a secret from him.”

  “Probably.”

  “He’ll get angry.”

  “He’ll get over it,” said Gita. “He’ll see that there’s no point in refusing to allow Aida to do the writing.”

  “It’s called a fait accompli,” Ignatiev said.

  Jackson stood between the two of them, his dark face pulled into a puzzled frown. Ignatiev watched and waited.

  At last Jackson asked, “But what if he doesn’t like the reports?”

  “That’s not likely,” said Ignatiev. “Aida’s clever enough to mimic your individual writing style.”

  “And the styles of the other researchers,” Gita added.

  “But once Mandabe finds out that we’ve hoodwinked him,” Jackson objected, “he’ll get angry. Furious.”

  “That might well be his first reaction,” said Ignatiev. “But he’s too proud to admit in public that he’s fallen for your deception. He’ll accept the situation, put a good face on it.”

  “A fait accompli,” Gita repeated, smiling widely.

  Jackson was still uncertain. “I don’t know. We’d be playing with dynamite.”

  “Mandabe will accept the situation,” Ignatiev insisted. “The alternative would be to wreck all the work the research groups are doing. He’s smart enough to avoid that.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” said Ignatiev, suppressing a childlike urge to cross his fingers.

  * * *

  That evening, as the automated kitchen cleaned up after dinner and Ignatiev sat at his desk mapping out new studies of Oh-Four’s planetary system, the machines’ avatar appeared next to his desk, wearing once again its stiff-collared semi-military costume.

  “We congratulate you, sir,” it said.

  Looking up from his desktop screen, Ignatiev asked, “Congratulate me? For what?”

  “For devising a strategy to satisfy both Dr. Mandabe and the scientists of the various research groups.”

  Shrugging, Ignatiev said, “It seemed the obvious thing to do.”

  “It offers the best chance of satisfying everyone concerned, without raising a dangerous competitive conflict.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Almost smiling, the avatar went on, “We are particularly satisfied that you have enlisted the help of your artificial intelligence system.”

  “Aida? It seemed an obvious choice.”

  “It wasn’t obvious to Dr. Jackson,” said the avatar. “Nor will it be to Dr. Mandabe, we predict.”

  “Predict?” Ignatiev asked.

  “We are running out the scenarios, based on our observations of Dr. Mandabe’s personality traits—and the personalities of the others involved.”

  “Personality traits?” Ignatiev echoed. “You’re studying our individual personalities?”

  “It is not easy for us,” the avatar admitted. “Your minds are so different from ours.”

  “But understandable.”

  “It would seem so.”

  Ignatiev leaned back in his desk chair, smiling. “Perhaps we can bridge the gap between us.”

  “Perhaps,” said the avatar. “In time.”

  “Perhaps we can create a fruitful partnership.”

  “Perhaps,” it repeated. “Your use of your AI system is an interesting beginning.”

  A true partnership between organic and machine intelligences, Ignatiev thought. That would be a truly significant step forward.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Before the next weekly meeting of the executive committee, the researchers went about their work and Aida churned out their daily reports. Ignatiev felt grateful that he heard no complaints or even questions from Mandabe. But he reminded himself that the real test would come at the committee’s next meeting.

  Vivian Fogel took her usual seat at the conference table as the committee members assembled. She looked drawn, tense, in Ignatiev’s eyes. Has Mandabe reinstated her because he’s pleased with her reports, or has she given in and gone to bed with the chairman? Ignatiev wondered.

  Mandabe took his place at the head of the table and the meeting came to order.

  “The first item of business is the report of the anthropology team,” he said, his eyes on Fogel.

  Averting her gaze from Mandabe, Vivian Fogel said calmly, “As you know, one of the questions we wanted to solve was how the protohumans protect themselves from the amoeboids. What I’m about to show you was recorded by one of the long-range cameras that we’ve set up in the area around the humanoids’ camp.

  The wall screens showed a small troop of the two-legged creatures moving through hip-deep foliage, single file.

  “It seemed inevitable that the hominids must run across the amoeboids,” Fogel continued. “Do they escape being engulfed by running?”

  An amoeboid appeared on the edge of the screens’ display, crawling toward the prehumans, engulfing everything in its path.

  The hominids froze for an instant, staring at the approaching slimy mass, which left a wake of devastation behind it. They stared and pointed as they huddled together. Then one of them began to bark sharply at the others.

  “It’s giving orders!” exclaimed one of the biologists at the table.

  Ignatiev nodded. The creature’s tone sounded a lot like Mandabe, he thought.

  Several of the hominids reached into the pouches they had slung over their shoulders. They pulled out small stones.

  “Flint,” Fogel said, a tinge of excitement in her voice.

  Within minutes, the hominids had set up a blazing barrier between themselves and the approaching amoeboid. The shapeless creature oozed away from the fire while the prehumans jumped and hooted with exhilaration.

  The wall screens went blank.

  “That’s how the humanoids survive,” Fogel said, with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Good work, Vivian,” said the chief of the geophysics group.

  “I didn’t do it,” Fogel said modestly. “The remote sensors caught the scene.”

  Mandabe chuckled happily. “Take the credit. It’s your due.” Then he added, “Make sure to get your report to me as soon as you can.”

  Fogel nodded acquiescence. Ignatiev pictured Aida running off the report as they sat around the conference table.

  For the rest of the meeting Mandabe didn’t say a word about the reports he was receiving. He probably doesn’t read more than the first few lines of each one, Ignatiev thought. Maybe he hefts them to judge how thick they are. He strained to keep a straight face, not to allow himself a satisfied smile.

  Mandabe did seem tense, though, Ignatiev thought, as he hurried through the morning’s agenda. He kept glancing at Ignatiev, then quickly looking away.

  He knows! Ignatiev realized. He knows that Aida’s writing the reports but he hasn’t said a word about it.

  The meeting ended with record-breaking speed. The researchers got to their feet and headed for the door with the usual chatter of conversations.

  “Professor Ignatiev,” Mandabe called from his seat at the head of the table. “Might I have a few words with you in private?”

  Oh-oh, Ignatiev said to himself. Here it comes.

  Ignatiev pushed through the departing researchers and made his way to Mandabe, still sitting in his chair. He said nothing as the room cleared out. Ignatiev half turned
and saw Gita lingering at the doorway, staring at him.

  In a pleasant tone, Mandabe called to her, “Would you please close the door when you leave, Dr. Nawalapitiya? Thank you.”

  Gita blinked once, then went through the door and closed it firmly behind her. The conference room was empty now, except for Ignatiev and Mandabe.

  Gesturing to the chair that Ignatiev was standing next to, Mandabe said, “Please sit down, Professor.”

  Ignatiev sat.

  For a long, wordless moment Mandabe stared at him, his red-rimmed eyes radiating … what? Ignatiev did not see anger, but there was something there, not disappointment, not jealousy, certainly not friendship.

  “You’ve been very clever,” Mandabe said at last.

  “Me?”

  Jabbing an accusing finger at Ignatiev’s chest, Mandabe said flatly, “Don’t be coy, Professor. This business of having Aida write their reports for them was your idea. I know that.”

  Ignatiev shrugged. “I did suggest it.”

  “To defy me.”

  “No. To protect you.”

  “Protect me?”

  With a nod, Ignatiev explained, “Your insistence that each researcher write a daily report was going to lead to a breakdown of the committee’s work. Animosity between you and the researchers. I sought a way to avoid that.”

  “Did you?” Mandabe’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  “Yes. I didn’t want to see a conflict arise that might tear the committee into competing camps.”

  Mandabe stared at Ignatiev for a silent moment, then said, “What you wanted—what you still want—is to recapture the chairmanship of the executive committee.”

  “Good lord no!” Ignatiev said fervently. “That’s the last thing I want. Below the last. You’re welcome to the chairmanship, believe me.”

  “Then why…?”

  “Power is like a narcotic. It’s best used in small doses.”

  “Don’t speak in parables to me.”

  Ignatiev pulled in a breath, then tried to explain. “You don’t have to crack the whip over the researchers. You don’t have to impress them, make them know you’re their boss. They’re scientists, for god’s sake! They’d walk through fire to do their work.”

  “So you say.”

  “It’s the truth. Don’t you feel that way about your own work?”

  Mandabe began to reply, then hesitated. At last he puffed out a sigh and admitted, “I did once, long ago. But that kind of enthusiasm vanished many years ago. Drained away. The youngsters have gone far beyond everything that I once accomplished.”

  “That’s natural,” Ignatiev said. “You make your contribution and then watch the next generation build on the foundation you established.”

  “I suppose so,” Mandabe said wistfully.

  Ignatiev tried to get back to the subject at hand. “So Aida is writing their reports. The AI does a better job of it than most of those youngsters could do. Have you read any of the reports?”

  Wearily, Mandabe answered, “Each and every one of them. I’m down to three hours of sleep because I read those damned reports. Less.”

  “So what are you complaining about?” Ignatiev demanded, grinning. “Your research teams are working away happily. You’re getting the reports you want. What else do you want?”

  “You’re trying to undermine me.”

  “No. Not at all. I’m trying to help you.”

  “By circumventing my specific orders.”

  “By finding a way to fulfill those orders without hampering the work of the individual researchers.”

  Mandabe fell silent again, his face a blank mask. Ignatiev wished he could penetrate that disguise and see what the man was really thinking.

  At last Mandabe said mechanically, “Thank you, Professor. I appreciate your help.” Then, his voice softening, he added, “I suppose I had painted myself into a corner.”

  “We’ve all been in that situation at one time or another,” Ignatiev said with a smile. “Let me tell you someday about how I singlehandedly nearly wiped out a year’s worth of work at the Leningrad Institute.”

  Mandabe smiled back at him. A bit warily, Ignatiev thought, but at least he’s smiling.

  “I was afraid that you were maneuvering to take the chairmanship away from me,” Mandabe admitted.

  With a determined shake of his head, Ignatiev replied, “Believe me, nothing is further from my desire. All I want is to be free to carry on my astronomical studies. I never wanted to be the committee chairman.”

  “You still feel the excitement of your work.”

  Ignatiev confessed, “Indeed I do.”

  Mandabe said ruefully, “I wish I still had that kind of enthusiasm.”

  And for the first time Ignatiev felt sorry for the man.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Ignatiev happily buried himself in his work. With the help of the machines’ avatar he reviewed the significant astronomical facilities that the machines had built across the span of Oh-Four’s continents and out into space. Dozens of astronomical research satellites orbited around the planet; sophisticated probes sailed deep into interstellar space, searching, sampling, studying the splendors of the heavens.

  With tears blurring his vision he surveyed worlds where the death wave had left no organic creature alive. He watched other planets where living species went about their business of survival in total ignorance of the catastrophe rushing toward them at the speed of light.

  Gita sensed his moods and tried to comfort him. “We can’t save them all, Alex. Our task is to preserve the organic life on this planet, to see that those hominids survive the death wave.”

  He nodded, but replied, “If the machines will allow us to.”

  The other researchers seemed to have forgotten their impending crisis. Lost in their various investigations, they worked away cheerfully while Aida churned out their reports.

  Even Mandabe seemed more relaxed. He eased his demands on the research teams, abolishing the requirement for daily reports. “Weekly summaries will be satisfactory,” he told an astonished executive committee meeting.

  They complied gladly. Hans Pfisterman even instructed Aida to head his weekly reports “Weakly.” Mandabe raised no objection to his feeble attempt at humor.

  But Gita grew somber as the months flew by. One night at dinner with Ignatiev she pointed out, “You realize, don’t you, that there are no hominids in the underground biosphere facility.”

  Ignatiev looked up from his bowl of borscht. “None?”

  “None.”

  Putting down his spoon carefully, Ignatiev wondered aloud, “Why not?”

  Gita said, “Isn’t it obvious? The machines don’t intend to allow the hominids to survive the death wave.”

  “But we’ve emplaced the shielding generators around the planet,” Ignatiev said. “They’ll protect the surface from the death wave.”

  “If the machines allow them to function.”

  “Yes,” said Ignatiev, his voice hushed. “If they allow it.”

  * * *

  “You are concerned about the hominids.”

  Ignatiev looked up from his desktop screen and saw the machines’ avatar standing beside him in his den. The tiny room was barely big enough to accommodate the avatar, even though it was only a holographic projection.

  “You overheard our conversation last night,” Ignatiev said.

  “We hear everything, you know that.”

  “So.” Ignatiev swiveled his chair to face the humanlike figure. It was wearing the softly flowing floor-length robe again, rather than the military uniform.

  “You suspect that we will deactivate your shielding mechanisms when the death wave reaches us.”

  “You said that is what you intend to do.”

  The avatar replied, “I also told you that our decision was not final. We are still studying the alternatives.”

  Feeling resentment simmering inside him, Ignatiev hissed, “So you will allow a species that might one day ev
olve true intelligence to be annihilated. To say nothing of we humans.”

  “As I have told you on several occasions,” the avatar said, “our primary goal is survival.”

  “Your survival.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what of the hominids? What about us?”

  The avatar did not reply for several heartbeats. Finally, “The hominids have evolved up on the surface. We have followed their evolution without interfering with it in any way.”

  “But you plan to allow the death wave to destroy them.”

  “They will die out eventually,” said the avatar. “Organic life is ephemeral.”

  With some heat Ignatiev countered, “They could evolve into a fully intelligent species.”

  “In time, perhaps. But eventually they would go extinct.”

  “Organic life forms die out.”

  “Eventually.”

  “But what if they don’t? What if this particular species survives the death wave? What if they learn to grow and expand out into the stars?”

  The avatar shook its head. “Professor, you are projecting. You are trying to make a case for your own species’ survival.”

  “Yes!” Ignatiev acknowledged. “We don’t have to die. We have the shielding generators.”

  “Which you obtained from the machine intelligences that you call the Predecessors.”

  “What difference how we came by them?” Ignatiev demanded. “We have them. We can use them. We can survive the death wave.”

  “You would merely be postponing the inevitable,” replied the avatar, with maddening calm. “Organic life forms become extinct. Their only lasting contribution to the universe is that some of them create machine intelligences.”

  “And machines are immortal,” Ignatiev said, his tone dripping irony.

  “Machines survive. Organics die.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be that way,” Ignatiev insisted. “We can survive. We can live and learn and work with you, alongside you in a partnership of man and machine.”

  The avatar actually smiled. “We notice that you put yourself first in the partnership.”

  “What of it?”

  “It is very revealing of your fundamental attitude. You regard machines as your servants, your slaves.”