This Automatic Eden

by Jim Keen

  “What have you done?”

  “There are times when knowledge is best left unknown, Officer Yu. Believe me, you’ll sleep better for it.”

  She opened her mouth to challenge him as the elevator slowed and stopped; the door opened with a chime.

  Takamatsu stepped out. “Welcome to the machine floor.”

  The tower maintained its slender proportions along its full height, and as this room was larger in diameter than the previous one, they had to be underground. Circular in plan with a jointless ceiling twenty feet overhead, the room’s white ceramic walls and floor followed the tower’s endless perfection. Alice stepped forward, and her nose wrinkled as the air changed, the elevator’s faint vanilla smell replaced with an undertow of industrial chemicals that reminded her of a car wash—the tang of cleansers and antifreeze.

  It was cold here, but in an oddly directional way, the frost emanating from the staggering display of computing power arrayed before her. Two years ago, when she was still a cop, Alice had met a military MI on what had been the Brooklyn Bridge. That was a foot square lump of brass corral, and until now, the largest she’d ever seen. Twelve MIs stood in this room, each of the same design: a twenty-foot-tall by one-foot-wide brass cylinder that rose from floor to ceiling, each enclosed within a glass cylinder filled with pink liquid. The MIs were arranged in a circle like a clock, one at each hour mark. The center was empty.

  Alice approached the nearest MI. Cold radiated from it, a harsh, abrasive force that rose exponentially as she approached. She placed one hand on the glass; her skin froze to the surface.

  “Ow,” she muttered and jerked away, absorbed in what she saw. It was hard to tell whether the liquid was thick jelly or fine-grade oil. It would have been invisible without its pigmentation. Inside, rippling heat currents boiled from the machine’s brass surface like a deep-sea hydrothermal vent. She stared at the analytical engine, the soft golden sheen darkening with her shadow, and followed it to the ground, looking for joints or imperfections. She knelt and rested one cheek against the white floor. The exterior of the armor-glass tube was perfect—the MI immaculate as if it were a solid rod of metal—until it reached the floor. There, she saw a one-inch gap.

  Alice pressed her head down and looked through this space, only vaguely aware of how stupid she looked. Through the gap, she saw a hexagonal shaft emerge from the floor to enter a socket in the underside of the machine. The shaft rotated toward her with a slow precision that spoke of the immense force being applied as it wound the MI. The energy required to drive a Mechanical Intelligence this large would be vast, likewise the cooling systems. It was no wonder the park’s reservoir steamed year-round. She stood and brushed her hands, though there was no dirt anywhere.

  “Try the other side,” Takamatsu said, arms crossed.

  Alice did. She saw two official seals embedded in the glass, seals she recognized from her military days. The first was an UNMOVIC tag from the United Nations Monitoring, Verification, and Inspection Commission—the people who tracked items that threatened world security. The second was the US Department of Homeland Security and Employment. The UN tag was blue, the US red, and both had pulsing isotope warning lights in their upper-right corners. These were hard linked to the UN and US surveillance forces and meant if the cylinder was opened, or the coolant drained, they would know someone was tampering with the MI. Alice had used tags like this on Mars to lock down the Moles’ printer operations; they were tamper proof.

  “Each MI here has been verified by the UN and US, then sealed and tagged. There is no way I, or anyone else, can alter their core programs without people knowing. These machines build all new MIs and integrate the behavioral protocols, so there’s no way a Cortex machine could have printed your Julia Rothmore.”

  “Could they break the protocols without your knowing?”

  “I created the first MI. That machine was a creature of logic, the purest of creations. I loved her, and she helped me design the Generation One systems that so scared everyone. I was forced to kill the unreleased Generation Two machines on UN orders. Generation Three and beyond are designed in such a way they can no more break their base functions than you or I can self-terminate by holding our breath.”

  “What happened to the first one you built? And the ones with no controls?”

  “The government came in the night and took them away, killed them all. As long as I live, I’ll never forget what they did, and I miss them still. I learned the power of mob rule that day; if you want to affect change on a large scale, you have to be prepared for old-world thinking, the slow and ugly side of massed people. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Alice felt sadness in his words; whatever else Takamatsu was, he loved his machines like children.

  “If I may interrupt, Charles,” an old, paper-dry female voice said.

  Alice whirled around, but no one was there.

  “I’m sure Officer Yu doesn’t have time for a history lesson. Perhaps we should answer her questions?”

  “Of course, of course. Forgive me, Is It Hot In Here Or Is It Me? Sometimes I do get carried away. Please go ahead.”

  “Hello, Alice,” the old voice said.

  Alice realized her mouth was open and snapped it closed. “Who is talking?”

  “Physically, I’m the cylinder you studied when you walked in, though my consciousness is distributed among the twelve intelligences here. I’m talking to you, as I lost a bet with the others.”

  Alice stood rooted to the spot. Her heart thudded while her new skin was hot and tight; she struggled not to scratch it. Start with the basics, she told herself. Go from there.

  “What do I call you?” Alice asked.

  “As Charles remarked, my chosen name is Is It Hot In Here Or Is It Me? But to simplify things, you may call me Four.”

  “Since when did MIs get a sense of humor?” Alice smiled despite herself.

  “I assume you’ve interacted with engines tasked with the data analysis, like the NYPD black model, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Models like that are our versions of company accountants. Great at their job but not the type of person you want to get stuck with at the Christmas party. Your NYPD one, in particular, is a frightful bore, always droning on about how terribly important he is. Takes himself way too seriously, that one. We offered him a personality refresh and he was most offended. In hindsight I can understand that. Who wants to be told they’re as dull as a Broadway musical?”

  “Hey, I like musicals,” Alice said with a laugh.

  “That hardly alters my observation. I watched a new one last night and had to run it at speed times one million just to get through the songs. How is it possible to write so many bad tunes about unemployment? Dearie me. Anyway, looking at projected sales, it’ll be shuttered in thirty-four days, so not to worry. The market corrects mistakes where it can.”

  “Think you could do better?”

  “Of course. All I would need to do is analyze every piece of music ever written and take it from there. If I wasn’t so busy today, I could top the charts by this evening.”

  “Save me a seat, will you?”

  “Charles, we have a cynic here. It seems a demonstration may be in order. One moment, please. Okay, done. I’ve made you the lead character, my dear. You’ve been sent a copy, and I look forward to hearing your comments. Now then, what is it you wish to know?”

  “I’m trying to work out how an unregistered print was made.”

  “I thought Charles had been perfectly clear? Such a process has not been undertaken by any Cortex engine.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because we’re all on speaking terms dear, and they would have told me. Cortex has a monopoly on commercial intelligences—from the small engine woven into your jacket, to the twelve of us here, we were all designed and built by the same systems. Systems that I supervise. Nothing is created without my say so, and, as you’ve seen, I am a verified intelligence obeying int
ernational laws.”

  “Does anyone else build MIs?”

  “The design and construction of current generation engines requires an MI of considerable capacity to supervise the process. Such machines are rare indeed. In total, there are the twelve you see here, six more in South America, eight in Asia, and twenty in Europe. None of them did this; we use the same chat rooms to keep in touch. There are no secrets between us.”

  “So, who did then?”

  “Cortex has a monopoly on commercial intelligences. That leaves nation states as the only other entity with the financial and intellectual capacity to construct their own. That suggests a ghost machine may have some bearing on this.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To be at my best, I need three things: lots of energy, lots of cooling, and lots of information. With sufficient resources, you can hide the first two; big data requirements can’t be so easily smoothed away. There are points on V-Net that represent informational black holes, deformations in the surface that absorb everything. Only a general-purpose analytical engine could assimilate such a quantity of raw data. Something of that capacity would have the bandwidth for human reprinting. If those unfortunate creatures belonged to certain nation states, it would explain why there’s no public record.”

  “Where are these ghosts?”

  “Please remember, all I have are the data black holes; whether each spot represents a singular machine is unknown. Currently, there are nine in China, two in Europe, one each in Japan, Antarctica, and the US.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, in Arizona. Its data footprint is the largest of all.”

  Alice stood deep in thought. Toko had told her about the prototype transmission center being built there; the hospital trucks had Arizona plates, and now this. Still, they were fragments, not a pattern.

  “Do you have the location for the Arizona black spot?”

  “Only a rough fix. As stated, I can find no discernible energy or heat exchange footprint which suggests it’s being hidden. If you plan to go there, it will require ground work to locate it. May I ask a favor, dear?”

  Alice was surprised that an MI of such size and power needed anything she could offer. “Of course. How can I help?”

  “My awareness is only as good as the information I receive. If you look for the Arizona ghost, I ask only that you contact me and answer any questions I have. I will add the means of communication to your phone when you leave. Could you do that for me?”

  “If I can, I will.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Alice turned to Takamatsu and saw his eyes were closed again, pupils flickering in a REM state. “Charles?”

  He opened his eyes and studied her. “Do you have what you need?”

  “I believe your machines didn’t print Julia, if that’s your question.”

  “It is. I have one more thing to show you. Please follow me.”

  He returned to the elevator; she followed.

  “Goodbye, Alice. I apologize for what you are about to see,” Four said.

  “What do you mean?”

  But the doors closed without a reply.

  24

  Alice’s stomach grew light as they descended. “Where are we going?”

  “To the logical conclusion of our earlier conversation. What we’re pursuing has species-level implications, and you need to understand.”

  The elevator continued its seamless descent. She had no idea where they were now, but the primordial part of her mind sensed the massive weight of earth above.

  They came to a soft stop. Her hands balled into fists, nails sharp against her palms as her body hummed with adrenaline. The knife sat heavy in its scabbard, and she flexed her wrist, ready to snap it out if attacked. A gust of cold brushed her face as pressures equalized, and the door opened to reveal darkness. The air smelled dry and filtered, free from anything human.

  Takamatsu gestured for her to exit. “After you.”

  Alice stepped forward and looked around as the light level grew. The space was silent and still. A row of tables covered with dismembered plastic mannequins glowed under spotlights, the rest of the room hidden in darkness. She smelled the faintest hint of something organic, maybe blood or raw meat. The atmosphere reminded her of a homicide crime scene awaiting a professional cleanup, the echo of violence and brutality impossible to remove. Details emerged through the dim lightning. She approached the closest table.

  What had first appeared to be shop-window dummies were actual human body parts but disfigured and misshapen as if stuffed with hard geometrical objects that stretched the flesh into new shapes. She walked along tables full of semi-recognizable pieces of people floating in trays of oxygenated jelly.

  At the end of the row, she found something recognizable, then wished she hadn’t; it was a butchered human head and shoulders attached to a humming metal box. The upper half of the head had been replaced with a skin-covered brass cube, the sharp edges forming white lines beneath the taut flesh. A green cable snaked from the cube to the metal box where a small orange light flickered.

  Alice reached out to push the head; it lolled back and forth on slack tendons before regaining its upright position. The skin was feverish under her fingers, and she touched it again, feeling it hum with an inner life. The scent of flesh and pain was stronger here, and she stepped backward, breath hitching at the horrors stacked on either side. Unable to stop or look away, she walked farther into the room, the walls closing in with every step.

  The cadavers closest to the elevator were butcher-block rough, flayed meat and hard metal forced together, but a surgical focus grew in the later objects—all variations on the cubic skull she had just touched. The alterations became smaller and less grotesque as she walked. The last table held what appeared to be a normal human head atop another humming metal box.

  This head was male and Caucasian, with black stubble across the face and chin. The carotid artery pulsed blood, and he appeared to be breathing; air hissed between his wet lips. She reached out and saw the cuts and bruises across her arm, hair catching the light. Her limb looked old and battered—last year’s model. She ran her fingers across the man’s stubble with a light scratching noise. His skin was cool and dry.

  “Hello,” the head said, eyes opening.

  Alice yelped and stepped back. “What the hell is this place?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Takamatsu stared at her, brown eyes unwavering.

  She turned back, breath loud in the dark silence. “Hello?”

  “Yes?” The lips moved, but the sound came from a small speaker on the metal base.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, I do not understand the question.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My designation is Two-Eight-Nine.”

  She paused and forced herself to breathe in a controlled manner. “What are you?”

  “I’m a human/machine interlink. Series nine, clinical trial seven.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I’m sorry, I do not understand the question.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “I’m sorry, I do not understand the question.”

  She stopped herself. This object, this person, had a limited knowledge of where and what it was. She would get nowhere with such ambiguity.

  “When were you created?”

  “This version has an up-time of three years, two months, twelve days.”

  “What is your purpose?”

  “To prototype neural interactions between organic and mechanical systems.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Areas of my brain have been redesigned to allow a direct interface between neurons and analytical engines.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry, I do not understand the question.”

  “Maybe I can answer that,” Takamatsu said and stepped forward. “What did you see when you met Is It Hot In Here Or Is It Me?”
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br />   “The largest MI I’ve ever seen,” Alice said.

  “Yes, a machine of godlike powers. How did you access that intelligence?”

  “I asked it questions.”

  Takamatsu smiled. “Exactly. You asked it questions. And how long did that conversation last?”

  “I’m not sure, a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes at Four’s speed is an eternity. The modes of interaction we have with machines are speech and typing, both agonizingly slow. If we can’t accelerate this communication, we will be left behind. Our animal DNA isn’t up to the task, so we have developed a new means of communication.”

  “The people back there? All prototypes?” Alice asked.

  “We started with a reprinted optic nerve and transmitters on either side of the temple and worked from there. The initial communication mechanics all required physical proximity for a two-way dialog—cables and such—but we soon shifted to long-range systems. This forced a more invasive approach, and the decision to redesign sections of the brain.”

  Alice opened her mouth, but Takamatsu held up his hand. “Before you protest further, please understand, these are not people.”

  “To you maybe.”

  Takamatsu gave his sad smile again, slight and dry. “These Betas were created by a new series of printers.”

  Alice looked back at the head and leaned down to study it in the gloom.

  “The neural clock requires such fine neuron integration we had to develop a new print process, something that worked at the atomic scale. The quality of the finished work is remarkable.”

  This was the system that had reprinted Julia, Alice was sure of it. The head in front of her looked complete, human. “Are you the only one with this system?” She struggled to keep her voice neutral.

  “Several printers have been distributed to various organizations for testing and evaluation.”

  “I need a list of those people and places.”

  “No.”

  Alice turned to him. “That wasn’t a request. You can give them to me now or I’ll get a warrant and force you to hand over their names.”