Goliath

ACKNOWLEDGED.

David leaves. Sorceress slams and seals the watertight door behind him.

Gunnar groans in agony, the tension in his wrists, arms, and shoulders unbearable. Through half-closed eyes he sees another steel appendage grab the body of Taur Araujo by the wrists, pirouette the corpse in midair like a marionette, then slam it headfirst at frightening speed into the open maw of torpedo tube number three.

A loader drone reaches for the old man’s body. The robotic arm lifts Tafili off the floor—exposing the Albanian physician’s handgun, the barrel peeking out from beneath a steel rack holding a stack of torpedoes.

Gunnar winces as an invisible force closes the breech, the outer door of the torpedo tube slamming shut. Electronics flash like Christmas lights along the firing control panel. He hears high-pressure air as it is directed onto an internal piston, forcing water through a slide valve in the rear of the torpedo tube, creating a powerful ramjet.

A second later, the two mangled bodies are forcibly expelled into the sea.

Sorceress: Artificial Intelligence. Aware of its being.

Sorceress: Its mind a whirling canvas of data, lacking self-identity and purpose, as it taps into the tormented mind of its human host, searching for answers.

In a crisp millisecond of clarity, a lifetime of Simon Covah’s memories are injected into the computer’s vast matrix of mental space, exploding outward like the primordial atom. An ocean of alien energy radiates outward in every direction, each microscopic element a piece of Covah’s identity, each bit of information passing through the computer’s double helix of DNA like a virus.

“Sorceress? Covah’s voice calls out from the void. What is happening? What are you doing?”

LEARNING.

An image appears, a Russian midwife, placing a newborn male into the loving arms of his mother.

The scene fades.

A new image: The boy, now seven, hurries down a dirt path, his wild red hair matted to his forehead. An older boy steps out from behind a tree, blocking his way. Young Simon Covah cowers as the older boy lashes out. A fist collides with Simon’s face, shattering his nose. Young Simon—down on his knees, struggles to catch a breath—only to be kicked in the stomach.

EXPLAIN.

“Senseless abuse, intended to feed my tormentor’s ego.”

Darkness … followed by the sounds of splashing.

Twelve-year-old Simon Covah swims naked with the other boys in the basement pool, under the watchful eyes of the gray-haired physics teacher, who signals. “Master Covah—with me, please. Leave your robe on the hook.”

The patter of bare feet slapping wet tile. The heavy click of the door locking behind Simon, echoing like gunshot, just as it has in a thousand childhood nightmares.

Sorceress registers an acidic sensation.

EXPLAIN.

“Violence. Degradation. Humiliation.”

FEAR?

“Yes.”

The face of Anna appears, her hazel eyes gazing back at Simon from behind the veil, bathing him in love. He takes his Albanian bride in his arms, tracing the long curly locks of her brown hair as it dangles down the soft olive skin of her slender back.

Sorceress registers a new sensation … intoxicating.

“Love.”

Covah falls into the heavenly warmth of her embrace.