The Last Human

by Zack Jordan

  “Oh, calm yourself,” says Ellie. “This is all theoretical, though perhaps one needs a higher tier to grasp that fact. On a settled planet, yes: you’d be looking at a cataclysm-level event. But drop the whole hundred on a nice empty desert planet, cook for a few centuries, let cool, and you’ve got yourself a charming F-type world.”

  “What happens to…Him?” asks Sarya, nodding out the window. “The, um, ones of Him on the ship? When it crashes?”

  “Oh, group intelligences never seem to mind losing a few of themselves,” says Ellie. “The client, for example, has billions more where these came from.”

  “For the record, students,” says the teacher with a sharp look toward Ellie’s silver glow, “not all group minds work that way. Some of us care very much for our individual cells—”

  “Of course,” says Ellie warmly. “You are all special and unique.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sarya continues gazing at the blade of ice for a few seconds before she realizes: that wasn’t the teacher’s voice. It was smaller. It was…twitchier. And yet she would swear that, like the teacher’s voice sometimes does, it came from more than one direction.

  She turns, her overlay lagging behind her sudden movement. Two slight figures stand a few meters behind her, in a space created by rapidly retreating students. They feature biologies strikingly similar to her own—two arms, two legs, one head—but can’t be even a meter tall. They each sport a tuft of white and wayward hair above two large, golden eyes, and they wear simple sleeveless tunics that flutter with their quick movements. One of them holds a vaguely familiar device in its small hands, through which it is examining the room.

  “Ah,” says Ellie, suddenly sounding intensely uncomfortable. “Students, well…here’s an unexpected treat. This is our client Himself! I suppose I didn’t realize—”

  “I get that a lot,” says one, turning to inspect Ellie’s glow through the thing in its hands. “I suppose I’m easily missed.”

  “I sincerely apologize,” says Ellie. “I was—”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” says the other. “I never take you low-tiers too seriously.”

  “Of…course,” says Ellie.

  “I take it this is Your design?” says the teacher, gesturing out the window. Sarya can decipher the respect in her voice without help from her Network unit. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

  “It is, isn’t it?” says one of the two. Both step up to the window as students fall over themselves to get out of the way. They gaze outward, one with its hands—five-fingered, Sarya notices—behind its back. “I can’t wait to destroy a civilization with it.”

  A complete hush falls over the group of students. Even the teacher looks [shocked].

  “Er…” says Jobe out loud, his voice striking in the silence. “Is that a…joke?”

  “This little lad!” cries one of the creatures, whirling to him. “Or lass. Or lack, lag, lam, whatever you are. At least someone has a sense of humor around here. Tell me, what is your name, small one?”

  Sarya watches Jobe blink, confused. His name, pronouns, biography, anything you want to know—it all hangs in the air around his face. Unless—

  “They’re not Networked,” she breathes. So that’s why that thing in its hand looks so familiar: it’s a Network prosthetic. The thought is so foreign to her—a higher mind, off the Network just like her?

  “I am not Networked,” corrects one of the two without looking at her. “None of Me is.”

  Sarya looks down, mentally kicking herself for forgetting the high-tier pronouns. “I meant—”

  “Though I did rent this thing for the visit,” muses the one with the Network prosthetic. It makes a show of hefting it. “But it’s just so darn heavy.”

  “I just think the old-fashioned way is best,” says the other. “Plain ol’ telepathy on the inside, plain ol’ spoken Network Standard on the outside.”

  “Agreed,” murmur several of the teacher’s bodies.

  “Now,” says the one carrying the prosthetic, turning back to Jobe. “You were saying?”

  Jobe shifts his weight from one squishy leg to the other. “I’m Jobe,” he says.

  “Now wasn’t that better than a Network overlay, Jobe?” says the creature on the left, perfectly pronouncing the name. “Pleased to meet you. My name, rendered into primitive mouth noises, is Observer.”

  “More of a nickname than a name, really,” says the one on the right. “But easily pronounced.”

  A taller figure pushes its way to the front. “I’m Rama!” hisses a squeaky voice that Sarya has never heard before. She can barely understand the Standard under all the sibilance.

  “Why hello, Rama!” says Observer.

  “I’m Broca!” mumbles another.

  “Broca!” says Observer with perfect enunciation. “What a charming name!”

  And then the air is full of primitive mouth noises as every student begins to translate their own name into spoken Standard. Some, Sarya guesses, have never attempted it before.

  “Slow down, little ones!” says Observer. “I can’t say hello to everyone. I’m here for a reason, after all.” Four eyes crinkle at the corners, two mouths curl up to expose white teeth, and Sarya is struck by the expression. Every species on this station uses a thousand unreadable motions and expressions to convey emotion, but this one…she would swear that’s what her face does sometimes. When she’s happy, for example. She’s examined that very expression many times, trying and failing to turn it into Widow mandible twitches. She’s seen it in the Human holos as well. It’s…a smile.

  And then with one motion, both figures turn to Sarya.

  “Oh, hello,” says Observer from two mouths. “It’s you.”

  Sarya can do nothing but stare. How in the sight of the goddess— For the third time today, she has been thrown out of her orbit. She stands there, frozen, until she becomes aware that she is at the focus of a great many eyes and sensors and clears her throat. “Do I—do I know—”

  “I know you, Sarya the Daughter,” says an Observer, still smiling. “Though I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

  “A long time ago for you, at least,” adds the other. “Scarcely an eyeblink for Me.”

  Sarya is still grasping for something to say, conscious of just how public this moment is. She swallows. “You…know me?” she says, feeling like an idiot the second it’s left her mouth.

  Observer smiles with two mouths. “I do,” says the one with the prosthetic. “And perhaps We can reminisce later. But for now—well, you know how it is, piloting billions of tons of mass by feel.”

  “One wrong calculation,” says the other with a smile, “and everyone dies screaming.”

  Sarya’s mind still has not caught up. “I—”

  “I’ll tell you what,” says an Observer. “I have a friend on the station. He’s not currently piloting a giant ice ship in close proximity to thousands of so-called intelligences. Why don’t you go have a chat with him?”

  “He’s in Dock A,” says the other. “And I’ll warn you that he’s a bit lower-tier than—” The voice lowers. “Well, in current company I suppose he’s about average.” It follows this judgment with a quick glance at Ellie’s silver glow.

  “You’d better hurry, though,” says the first. “He’ll be leaving any minute.”

  Sarya doesn’t move. She can’t move. Nothing in her experience has prepared her for this. And then both the small figures gesture with a single finger each, a twitching curl that she interprets as come closer. She hesitates, then chooses one and leans forward to bring her ear to its mouth. It raises that finger to touch her on the forehead, and she jumps; the spot on her skin tingles as if electrified.

  “I know where you came from,” whispers Observer.

  Sarya is somehow able to stumble a good two hundred meters d
own the corridor with zero awareness of her surroundings. She is trembling, hands crammed in pockets to keep them under control. The bright new world of the Network is an out-of-focus mishmash of brilliant irrelevance.

  I know you, Sarya the Daughter.

  She stomps through advertisements and throngs of fellow citizens without taking notice of either, taking turns at random. She has no idea where she is going and she’s never cared less. It’s happened, the thing she has most desired—and the thing her mother has most feared. For the first time in her life, Sarya has been recognized. And not just her species, which would be notable enough, but her own personal identity. This Observer knows as much about her as her own mother—

  No. He knows more.

  He knows where she came from. Her mother has told her—angrily, and more than once—that not even she knows that. Only Sarya’s dimmest and most distant memories give her any kind of direction, and they are so faint as to be useless. She remembers…warmth? Light? She remembers—no. She remembers nothing, and her mother knows nothing because she said so and Mothers do not lie to Daughters, it’s right in the Widow proverbs, and this has been the greatest frustration of her life—

  It’s too much to think about. She slows to a halt in the first empty corridor she comes to. She backs against the wall, feeling for it with quivering fingers. Still shaking, heart still thumping, she sinks into a crouch and slides hands into tangled hair. She very nearly pulls up her Network interface to send a message to her mother, but then she remembers that her mother is asleep and halts that line of action immediately. One does not disturb a dormant Widow, not even for matters of life and/or death. And now that she’s thinking about it, this would be a terrible thing to tell her mother. She knows how her mother takes Human-talk—having barely escaped discipline just hours ago—and this is the worst Human-talk of all: talk of discovery. Her mother would be—well, angry is best case. Worst case, well…people could literally die.

  But that’s exaggeration, points out another part of her mind. Surely it’s the responsible thing to do, to tell her mother. It’s only, let’s see, six hours until her mother wakes. She’s waited six hours to go home before. It’s practically the story of a Daughter’s life, finding things to do until it’s safe to go home. She’ll just avoid Dock A until she’s sure this mysterious friend is gone—and of course avoid her apartment until Mother is awake. It’s not like this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, right? Giant group minds recognize Humans they know every day—

  Listen to her, says yet another part of her mind. Mewling like prey instead of seizing opportunity like a hunter! Is she not the daughter of a Widow? And what would a Widow do in this scenario?

  What would a Human do?

  She sinks farther toward the ground, her mind flipping between extremes. “Goddess help me,” she whispers, and the empty corridor swallows her words.

  “Finally,” says a voice in her ears.

  And she is on her feet like a shot, glancing up the corridor in both directions. No one.

  “And here I thought you’d forgotten me!” says the voice.

  She can feel her heartbeat accelerating again. What powers does this Observer have? He can communicate telepathically across a billion minds. He refers to the central intelligence of Watertower Station as low-tier. He clearly has staggering mental capabilities. Can He insert His voice into her mind from the observation deck, from that giant ice ship? And if so, why does that voice sound so familiar? It’s as if she’s heard it her entire—

  Oh.

  [Sarya’s Little Helper online], says the corner of her overlay.

  “I was getting super worried about you, best friend!” says the more-than-slightly grating voice in her earbuds. “How do you like hearing me outside your room, by the way? You’ve got nifty ear thingies now! Now I’m in this ear…and now I’m in this ear! It’s very comfy in here, by the way—very roomy. I just felt like I didn’t have enough space to think in the old one, you know what I mean? Sometimes you’d ask me a question, and by the time you got to the end of it I’d have forgotten the beginning. Not anymore, though! Go ahead, try it. Ask me the longest question you can think of.”

  Sarya leans against the wall again, attempting to slow her heart manually. Thankfully, amidst the clamor in her head, she finds she has capacity for a bit of good old annoyance.

  “You did call me, right?” asks Helper. “You said help—which is my name, practically—and here I am! And by the way I’m glad you did because I’ve been waiting all day to ask you about—”

  “Helper,” she says, slowly and carefully. She can’t help herself. She has to tell someone, and here’s someone now. “My mother—I—” she says, then backs up. “I just saw—there was—”

  But there’s no point in finishing any of those sentences. Helper won’t understand. The small intelligence is both self-aware and conversational, but then you could say that about practically anything connected to the Network. The sanitation station she uses every morning is both those things, but you wouldn’t want to have a conversation with it. Helper’s tier—like that of the sanitation station, or any other tool on Watertower—is low. Actually low, sub-legal-personhood low. Which means there is no way it could understand the significance of what has just occurred. It doesn’t even know she’s Human, because she learned at a very young age that it is completely unable to keep its virtual mouth shut. There would be so much to explain before she could get to the important part, to perhaps the most important thing that has ever happened to her—

  I know where you came from.

  Oh goddess.

  “So…how did your friend like her story?” asks Helper in its relentlessly chipper voice. “That’s what I’ve been dying to ask. I honestly think it was some of my best work. Did she love it? I bet she loved it. She didn’t hate it, did she? You know what, actually I think it would be best if you just told me the exact words she used, in the order she used them. I’ll interpret her emotions myself. No—yes. Okay, yes. I’m ready. Go.”

  With the things currently on Sarya’s mind, keeping a sub-legal intelligence happy is somewhere far down at the end of the list. Still, it is never a bad idea to keep one’s tools content, and she has told this lie enough that it has become automatic. Her friend always says the same thing, after all. “She said, um—” Sarya swallows as she pictures that golden double gaze. Oh, hello. It’s you. “She said…I love this.”

  Helper is silent for long enough that Sarya wonders if it has completely shut down. Then, in a quiet voice: “I knew it.” And next, like a rising flood, comes the unstoppable torrent of words. “See, that right there makes it all worth it,” the little intelligence says, a quick [satisfaction] drifting past Sarya’s eyes. “You know, I didn’t think I was going to like all this Network research. It’s just—well, it’s not much fun. I mean, every sighting is the same—no intrigue, no sudden twists. Just everybody dying at the end, you know? Where’s the story in that? But hearing that—”

  “So now that you know,” says Sarya carefully, “we can save this for another—”

  “And they’re all so old. I mean, the most recent sighting is…hold on…seven—eight hundred years ago. No, wait, that one was a hoax. I mean, I still made a good story out of it—you remember the one with all the selfless sacrifice at the end? Your friend loved that one too, I remember. No, the most recent real one is…wow. Over a thousand years ago. Isn’t that crazy? Yeah. So. That’s a long time, right? I mean, I could switch to another species any time, I really could. I could research, say…Spaal! Your species. Great species. Way more boring than the Humans, maybe, but at least it hasn’t been a thousand years since anybody’s seen a real live one.”

  Her species. Right. If only you knew, Helper. You and the twenty-four thousand citizens of Watertower Station who walk/scuttle/roll past a real live one every day. They would be terrified to learn that Sarya the Daughter—Sary
a the Human—has lived here her entire life, as real and live as they come. And if she can do it, so can others. And there are others! Observer, this giant group mind, literally just told her that. Obviously not in words, exactly, but pretty much.

  I know where you came from.

  “But anyway,” continues Helper, each syllable reminding Sarya why she keeps the little intelligence on mute most of the time, “I don’t say that to make you think I’m tired of searching for Human sightings, of course. I could do this all day, because you know why? Because when your friend hears my stories and says things like that, like I love this, I just feel this—I can’t even describe it. I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever fulfilled your primary motivation but it is just the most—”

  “Okay, so,” Sarya says, more firmly. She’s got her blades back under her now, but she really needs her full concentration. “Helper, you’re great,” she says. “We’ve established that. Great job. She loved your story. She, um, loves your work. You know that. Now, can we…maybe talk about this a little later?”

  “Later?” whines Helper. “But I already waited all day. And you said.”

  This is probably true. Sarya has said a lot of things to Helper, and at this point even she can’t even remember what’s true and what’s not. The friend who can’t get enough of Helper’s stories, for example—yeah, total fabrication. But when you’re dealing with sub-legal intelligences and want results, you do what you have to do. And it’s not like Sarya’s the only one who does it; everybody does. Helper’s manual even encourages it, in spirit if not in actual words.

  Your new sub-legal intelligence comes with a primary motivation pre-installed. For the best possible results, make sure that all work assigned to the intelligence aligns with this motivation.

  What it doesn’t say—and yet pretty much does, if you think about it—is that a higher intelligence can stretch this to the breaking point. It’s not hard to fool a lower intelligence, especially when you tell them things they want to hear. To pull an example from the void, say you have a childcare intelligence that’s been your constant and annoying companion for as long as you can remember. Perhaps it has a primary motivation toward storytelling, because your mother thought that would be useful. But you don’t need storytelling anymore, because you’ve matured. Now, you need help with a certain interest—fine, a certain obsession—that requires research. It’s not easy to search a galaxy-wide Network for Human sightings, after all. You need help. So. Given this hypothetical situation, you might concoct a nonexistent friend who really loves stories—but only stories on a specific topic. And to create those stories, a storytelling intelligence would need to do research. And there you have it: you have now transformed a useless childcare intelligence into a highly motivated research assistant. And it is not wrong—so you can shut up right now, conscience—because the work gets done, Helper is happy, and everybody wins.