Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 11
Arthur
The Artifice resides in a large building in the middle of the Wasteland. It is the one solid structure in hundreds of miles. I drive to it, and park outside it, in a big clear space that was once reserved for that very purpose. The desert is full of patches like this. Parking lots survive where buildings do not. There’s probably a moral in that, but I am too far past morality to even try to understand it.
We are fortunate that the location of the hallowed intellect is not a secret.
Everybody knows where the Artifice is. Many years ago offerings were left on the stones outside the building, which is a large, glass-walled red and yellow construction. It is not the sort of place that looks like it houses the consciousness that forever altered the world, but that is because it is a truly ancient location.
People imagine that soldiers upon soldiers must guard this place, but the truth is the only sentinels are lizards that sun themselves on shattered rocks and scurry away when my shadow falls across them.
It is low-slung, single storied. It is unassuming. But that does not mean it is stupid or insensate.
I know it knows who I am. I know it knows I am here. I have to hope it does not know why I have come.
A box outside the building crackles to life as I approach.
“How can I help you, Archon-General Darken?”
The voice is faint, but knowledgeable.
I feel a tremor run through me. I never thought I would stand in the presence of the Artifice itself. I would never have dared to come this close, knowing that I am not deserving of being here. The Artifice is not to be trifled with.
“I was hoping to be allowed to stand in your presence. I have lost my personal guard, and there is nobody else who could give me guidance as I stand on the precipice of fatherhood.”
The words seem self-involved and petty compared to the broader scope of the Artifice’s interests, but I am hoping that it will consider me petty and self-involved. Most people are.
“I do not entertain individuals, Archon-General, but I will make an exception for you. Come around to the main doors.”
The doors have been blasted by the sand and the sun. Once upon a time they would have been clean and clear. We tried to replace them, but the workers sent out were evaporated by the weaponry on the roof. I am fortunate to still be standing here, rather than being a pile of carbon.
They slide open to allow me to step inside. The interior of the building has a faded gray and white checkered floor. There are multiple tables and booths. Vinyl bench seats have cracked and faded, and thin laminate on the tables is likewise damaged. Some of the tables still have rectangular oblongs containing paper napkins.
The Artifice sits in the middle of it all, a glowing blue screen with the word welcome displayed across it.
“Hello,” it says. “How can I help you?”
“You can’t help me,” I say, miserable.
“I was made to help all mankind. Even you, Arthur.”
It knows my name and it uses it with what I imagine to be a sort of affection. I am desperate for the world to show me some kindness. I have nothing left to give except what I have always given, my loyalty and my faith.
“I have been sent to deactivate you,” I tell the source of all human peace. “I have been corrupted by a group of rebels who have taken my bride hostage and intend to kill her if I do not succeed.”
The Artifice glows brighter for a moment, calculating all known variables, and plenty of unknown ones besides. This is an entity of pure knowledge.
“In that case, you must turn me off,” it says.
“But… that would deactivate you.”
“Yes, but you have no choice. If you do not turn me off, you and your wife will be killed. You have a personal interest in that outcome not coming to pass. Therefore, you have no choice but to turn me off. It is only logical.”
“But all of humanity depends on you, and I am just one man,” I say, stunned at the intellect’s response. I expected something else. Fear, maybe. Anger, definitely. Swift and terrible retribution, absolutely.
“Then do not turn me off.”
I stare at the faceless, eyeless, being-less entity, and I try to understand what it is doing.
“The plug is over there,” it says. “By the slushie machine. You just need to pull it out.”
This is a trap. Or a test. It has to be. One or the other, or more likely, both.
“I know you wouldn’t have your power source solely linked into one power point on an archaic connection. That wouldn’t make any sense.”
The Artifice says nothing. It sits next to me, humming in that indifferent blue fashion. It is a machine. I have to realize that. It operates on pure logic. That is the benefit of it. It also means that it has no attachment to being on or off, existing or not existing. It is unburdened by any of the concerns that drive my life.