Lin Biao may be a footnote in history, but his many palatial bomb shelters and bunkers are dotted all over China. Some were let to ruin, some are museums, some curios, and one or two have even been turned into hotels. Lin Biao’s legacy. Now, there was one guy who was prepared for when the thermonuclear shit hit the fan.
Lin Biao’s fantastical apartments a few metres below the rocky surface had something of the Robert Oyang about them, except they were forty years old and very damp. Weird, impossibly ornate, and with a feeling that time had stopped.
Each chamber was hewn straight from the dark grey rock, including the enormous, high-ceilinged living area. Besides the living rooms there was a true warren of passages and tunnels down there, quite separate from where the mine workings would have been. It was like living in a movie set from Journey to the Centre of the Earth, except the lighting was worse. Much worse. And above all it was damp. Warm air space-heaters crouched like small jet engines in every room, droning away. It seemed to have no effect. Stone could see his breath in the large room, and rivulets of damp water ran down the walls. Whether it was condensation, or natural groundwater — it didn’t matter.
There were ancient, uncomfortable-looking sofas and easy chairs with lace and chintz. It had the feel of Beijing Fordidden City meets miner’s cottage, and it reminded Stone of his grandmother and her cold, unwelcoming “frontroom”. The one she “kept for best”. Which meant she never went in, and never lit the fire in there. “Kept for best” meant cold, musty and damp. Lin Biao’s underground palazzo had been “kept for best” for nearly forty years. The “bedrooms” were stone cells. Nicely furnished with high ceilings and narrow but comfy-looking beds. But damp, stone cells nonetheless. It must have been the height of luxury in the China of the Cultural Revolution. But now, above all, it was simply “kept for best”.
Stone joined Virginia in the vast main “reception” hall of Lin Biao’s underground apartments. ‘Let’s get that supercooled trashcan out of the ground and get out of here,’ said Virginia. ‘Steven’s not going to last much longer if we stay here.’
That was wishful thinking from Virginia. Semyonov wasn’t going to last much longer — period. Which was why they were all here. If Semyonov died without downloading and unlocking what was inside the Machine, it would be lost forever. Pioneering whole new fields of technology, but cut off, half a mile below the ground, thinking its great thoughts century after century.
Semyonov’s “cleantent” had been installed down there, underground, in the middle of Lin Biao’s apartments. It was in the cavernous reception room — a kind of hallway and living room combined, with high ceiling cut out of the rock, tens of metres below the surface.
Stone had to talk to Semyonov through the sheeting again. ‘What’s the score with the Machine down there? Do I just attach the cable and hoist it to the surface? It can’t be that simple.’
‘No,’ said Semyonov, panting. ‘It can’t.’ He had to breathe heavily, like an athlete before a race, desperately oxygenating his blood for the supreme effort. Except for Semyonov the supreme effort was a short conversation with Stone. Semyonov spoke quickly, as if to get it out before he tired again. ‘The Machine is just over 100 kilograms, Stone, although it looks heavier. The meat of it is in a stack of fifty-three disks of gallium arsenide substrate. The processor is a hemispherical array of 2,048 synapse points, triggered by a high powered laser. That’s why we need the superconductor, and the cooling system. We finally got away from binary computing. There’s a small battery, mainly just to smooth the power supply. It’ll give us a few hours in hibernate mode once you’ve powered down.’ Semyonov paused breathing heavily once more from an oxygen mask to prime his lungs.
‘Down there, there are three elements to the equipment,’ said Semyonov. ‘First the cylinder of the Machine. Then, a heavy UPS unit. Uninterruptible power supply, like a huge stack of batteries. It takes the power from the nuke turbines, smooths it and feeds it into the Machine. Once you’ve powered down, it will have enough charge to bring it up the shaft to the surface, so long as you leave the power connected until the last minute.’
‘What’s the third part?’
Semyonov pump-primed his lungs again to reply. ‘The cooler. It’s a large unit producing liquid nitrogen to cool the Machine. Again, it’s powered by the nuke plant. You’ll see the power lines: all three parts are mounted on a kind of wheeled platform, so you can move them around together, though you’ll have to disconnect the main power from the reactor before you do.’
‘But I only need get the cylinder itself out of there?’
‘Yes. The rest won’t fit in the cage in any case. Not without disassembly.’
‘The cage? That’s like an elevator car that goes up the shaft.’
‘It’s a cage,’ said, Semyonov, sounding as if he were hyperventilating. ‘It’s built for the Machine, so it’s twenty-two inches diameter, a cylinder, and shorter than you are. Maybe uncomfortable. You’ll travel down in the cage, about ten to fifteen minutes. The Machine fits snugly inside the cage and you can send it back to the surface while you wait at the bottom.’ Semyonov paused for breath. ‘You’ll have to do it all in two stages. Go down there. Initiate the powerdown, and move the Machine to the cage, then bring it up. Best if Carslake works with you.’
Stone made some notes, then turned to go.
‘One more thing,’ said Semyonov. ‘In operation, that thing uses a superconductor in a coil inside the cylinder. It creates a magnetic field. Very powerful. There must be no steel or iron on you. It will rip a screwdriver or a wrench from your clothes. Even a phone or a credit card in your pocket will mean you’re dragged toward the Machine. ’
Stone couldn’t wait for the daybreak, though he wouldn’t see anything of it down below ground. He’d already seen far more than he cared for of underground living. In any case, if they waited much longer Semyonov wouldn’t be around to commune with his Machine, and unburden it of its treasure trove of technology. Semyonov had changed, even in the weeks since he saw him at the Crabflower Club in Hong Kong. Back then, only two weeks ago, he’d seemed like a high-powered artificial intelligence. Quick, sharp, unknowable. Flourishing his fountain pens in both hands. Now he was more like a clapped out steam engine, panting out its days below ground. The change, of course, was superficial. Semyonov had been dying for some time. That was what this was all about. He knew he was dying last week, last month, last year. That was the real significance of the Machine. He knew he was brilliant, Semyonov. But by his mid-twenties he also knew he would die young. Semyonov had become obsessed by legacy. He built his Machine to change the world. He wanted to be remembered like Newton or Galileo. The Machine was his legacy, his monument. That’s what the words had meant when Sphinx-like, Semyonov wrote them for Stone on the table back at the Crabflower Club. exegi monumentum aere perennius. I have created a monument more lasting than bronze.
They were the words of a Roman, called Horace, two thousand years before. Horace had been right. His achievement had lasted. Semyonov wanted to be right too. The Machine would be his monument.
Behind that fixed expression and the wheezing speech, Semyonov was a young man. Just twenty-nine, dreaming of cancer cures, rocket engines and cars that ran on water. Except that if he died, anything the Machine had produced would be buried with him in his own impenetrable programming code. All that would remain would be an assortment of technologies and Robert Oyang’s money-grubbing schemes.
That was why the Chinese had left the Machine in place. If they took it, they would have nothing more than a shiny, supercooled black trashcan filled with rather expensive gallium arsenide wafer. And Semyonov would be just another human, who despite all his brains and his money would have lived a life which was nasty, painful and short. He’d be forgotten within a year.