Western Defense Headquarters
Cheyenne Mountain
Autocracy Strategic Command
The lights came up in the spacious command center, the nucleus of the Autocracy's western front, bathing the room and its occupants in stark fluorescent clarity. For a moment no one spoke, the pervasive hum of machinery and the sharp sensation of electricity in the air cloaking them in raw ambience, dwarfing them. It crossed the mind of more than a few in that instant that the cluster of men in the doorway seemed insignificant objects and unnecessary indeed compared with the power at their command, coursing through the screens and wires and circuits all around them. Dominating the rear of the vast chamber, down a flight of stairs and through a pair of heavy blast doors, behind a triple-thick sheet of unbreakable bulletproof glass stood the imposing device its creators knew only as the Supercomputer. Generations of research and frustration, billions of dollars and the life's work of some of the greatest intellects the world had ever known merged to create this device – this entity – that drew life from the pride, hard work and self-sacrifice of thousands; a product – perhaps the first – truly greater than the personnel who drafted its every component. Some thought it heresy; others called it a machine of the gods. The triumph of Man's mind.
"It's beautiful," Ross whispered, breaking the silence. Personnel filtered through the door around them, taking up posts at terminals and banks of equipment arrayed before the mammoth machine the hopes of a nation rested upon. "It is beautiful," General Latham said quietly, standing aside as tons of reinforced steel rolled into place behind him, cutting off a last glimpse into the twisting corridor that snaked upward through the facility toward the outside world. "And fragile. And powerful, and deadly. The power is in our hands today to destroy the world- or save it. In your hands, Chief Technician Ross." Adam Ross blushed beneath the general's cool and unwavering gaze. "We're more like custodians to that thing, sir," he said, gesturing past his men as monitors flickered to life and systems came up. He could almost feel the steady thrum of the computer's electric heartbeat, the pulsing heat dissipating in the room's supercooled atmosphere.
"He'll try again, you know," Latham mused, his arms crossed behind him, surveying the assembled team of technicians. "Sir?" "Their vaunted hacker. The one that tied up our facilities for days chasing that Daemon hoax. The higher-ups were at their wits' end. I had orders in hand to shut down the Supercomputer before it was even operational – pending a complete reconstruction of all files and operating systems – before his "virus" vanished without a trace." "We've cut off all international communications, though," Ross ventured. "Complete refusal at nodes and satellite systems to outside access. Won't that make it pretty hard to hack in from overseas?" General Latham sighed, his shoulders slumped. "He's here," he said, his voice pitched for Ross to hear and nobody else. "Here in the Autocracy. Maybe even nearby. They said the passport was a brilliant forgery." His voice dripped sarcasm. "The people at Customs tell me he's calling himself Berg, Karl Berg, but it took them weeks of red tape and stupidity to figure that out. As a precaution, I've ordered every system on the Net re-imaged from here. We've noticed certain anomalies; a fractional drop in performance on gateway systems, an increase in network traffic. The patterns are faint but unmistakable. I think our security may already have been breached."
Ross swallowed hard, nodding, understanding the possible implications. The section leaders turned, one at a time, giving him the thumbs-up that indicated their readiness. The Supercomputer and its control network were online and awaiting input. The Chief Technician cleared his throat. "Begin the re-imaging process," he said. "Establish a satellite feed and initiate weapons calibration immediately." The four section leaders passed further detailed orders to their men, and the lights in the room dimmed as the Supercomputer began operating in earnest. "We need time to calibrate the new weapons platforms," General Latham said, his voice grave. "This machine is the only one in the country, maybe the world, with the processing power to do it. Any problems, any delays could doom this nation." He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head, watching the technicians work. The low murmur of conversation blended with the electric hum of the equipment to form a chaotic and vaguely disquieting murmur. "Cut the chatter," General Latham snapped, his voice intentionally harsh, the clipped and measured words slicing the atmosphere like a knife. "We're expecting her Britannic Majesty's attack within hours. I want us to be ready."
Screens and printers churned out streams of information and raw data, the nerve center of Autocracy defense pulsing and alive. Even deep within the insulated bowels of the mountain complex, Ross could feel the slashing roar of heavy bombers from the nearby airfield going supersonic overhead. The same sounds could be heard in cities and military installations all over the world: the shattering thunder of sonic booms, the cadenced rhythm of footfalls and marching songs that accompanied the troops, the tapping of keys that testified to warfare in the new age being waged even across the vast and unfeeling expanse of cyberspace. And in the chamber beyond, the Supercomputer stood almost silent, its indicator lights flashing, its drives spinning, the greatest and most terrible triumph of the mind of Man.