Tales of Eve

by edited by Mhairi Simpson

  We should’ve anticipated it. I once described Quill as ‘no ordinary child’, but I didn’t fully appreciate the degree of understatement. Quill’s an AI, with massive capacity for development and adaptation which far outstrips that of a human being. Moreover, it was my responsibility alone to provide Quill with a consistent emotional and moral framework, to guide him into being the ideal candidate to accompany the human crew of the Odyssey to the stars.

  So why does it surprise me that we’ve developed something akin to friendship, two individuals alone together in this orbiting box? He doesn’t need me in the same way since he was connected to the global protocols, so we sit in companionable silence as he sifts terabytes of data until he discovers a talking point. Sometimes he wants clarification, other times validation of his viewpoint - as designed, to allow his cultural touchstones to adapt over the years if necessary - but more and more often it feels like he’s raising topics which he thinks would be of interest to me.

  Apparently I slipped into using the masculine personal pronoun somewhere in the above. It’s not exactly appropriate. Quill is neither male nor female, but on a different continuum altogether. To save unnecessary linguistic gymnastics, I guess it’ll do. Thanks to Quill, I stood beside family members I hadn’t seen in decades as we laid my mother to rest, then once the tears were done we gathered together and celebrated her life, her laughter, her joy. And I remembered how proud she’d been when I was chosen to go into space.

  I’ve spent almost two years in Quill’s company; perhaps it’s the AI equivalent of Stockholm syndrome, but I think it’s more notable than that. The Odyssey project created a child with near-infinite capacity to learn, to adapt, to be shaped by a tutor. We even noted that a single tutor would be expedient due to the subconscious moulding effect exerted by any member of the human race on those individuals - human or AI - around them. So how did we not foresee how perfectly matched the AI and tutor would become? How much we would grow to rely on each other?

  I should be excited. The potential ramifications of this revelation are far-reaching. But all I can think about is that my companionable silences with Quill are coming to an end. Odyssey shines in the morning sunlight, its robotic builders scurrying like ants across the superstructure. It’s time to migrate Quill from this cosy little cabin into the heart of Odyssey, to accustom him to multiple voices all clamouring for his attention at once.

  And then he’ll forget me as I return to Earth, and he embarks on the greatest voyage in history.

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  {Miriam D’Ascenzo stands in a circular chamber, twenty-eight feet in diameter, at the heart of the Odyssey generation ship. A multitude of screens are arrayed around the room, each displaying Quill’s facsimile. Harry Womer and Julie Chrétien, key members of the Project Odyssey team, work on one of the panels behind D’Ascenzo.}

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘How does it feel?’

  [Quill]: ‘Spacious. {smug} I wasn’t expecting spacious. I never felt confined back on Hawkins, but now I don’t think I’d want to go back.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘Must be like stretching after a good nap.’

  [Quill]: ‘I’ll take your word for it, Miriam. This vessel is an engineering marvel. I can see so far away and so close, at such fine resolution. I’m discovering senses I never realised I had.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘It’s great that you’re this excited, Quill.’

  [Quill]: ‘But you don’t share my excitement.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘I do! This has been my life’s work.’

  [Quill]: ‘It’s been my life. {pauses} And you’ve been there all along.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: {smiles, rests a hand on the control panel} ‘I know you’ll do an excellent job without me. There’ll be lots of people to rely on you, but I’ve no doubt you’ll see them safely on their way.’

  [Quill]: ‘You could come with us.’

  {D’Ascenzo hesitates, and is about to speak when Womer and Chrétien rejoin them.}

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘We’ll talk about this later.’

  [Womer]: ‘Everything looks good, Quill.’

  [Chrétien]: ‘You should be able to tell us if anything’s not responding as expected. Otherwise, I think we’re ready to start bringing up the crew.’

  [Womer]: ‘Welcome to the Odyssey!’

  {Time point archived in permanent record: Migration complete.}

  [...]

  {The lights have dimmed, but D’Ascenzo sits awake in Odyssey’s crew quarters. Quill’s facsimile is displayed on the screen beside her bed.}

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘...the act of a friend. Someone who understands; a rare and valuable person.’

  [Quill]: ‘It’s what anyone would have done.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘But you did it. That means a lot. How are you coping with simultaneous conversations?’

  [Quill]: ‘My systems are fine. But my conversations with Harry and Julie are missing something.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘What sort of something? Something that needs tweaking in Odyssey’s sensors?’

  [Quill]: {shakes head} ‘They’re just not you. I can’t communicate with them on the level I’m accustomed to. They feel... distant.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘They haven’t spent the last two years getting to know you like I have. Give them time; you’ll have the rest of their lives to make that connection.’

  [Quill]: ‘But it’ll never be the same, will it? Never like it was, just you and me on Hawkins. It’ll always be the chatter of background voices, of a hundred crew clamouring for my attention.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘We had it good, you and I. For a little while.’

  {D’Ascenzo reaches out to the screen and touches the facsimile’s cheek.}

  [Quill]: ‘I don’t want you to leave, Miriam. Come with us.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘I’d always wondered what it’d be like to journey to the stars. {hesitates} But you know I don’t have a place aboard.’

  [Quill]: ‘I could convince the GSA. We could find a role for your talents.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘And displace some young astronaut who’s spent years of their life training for the opportunity?’

  {Silence.}

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘Please, Quill, don’t make this any harder than it is. Do you really want to leave Earth with me on board? Do you want to watch me grow old and die in excruciating detail, relayed in pinpoint resolution on a thousand internal sensors? And how would you react to my death?’

  {Quill’s forehead furrows.}

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘Well?’

  [Quill]: ‘Too many factors present; unable to predict.’

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘I wish I could fly away with you, Quill, but that’s just not me. I’ll always treasure the time we spent together.’

  {Silence.}

  [D’Ascenzo]: ‘Someday I hope you’ll understand.’

  [Quill]: ‘I’ll have plenty of time to think about it.’

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  Excerpt from On The Edge of Starlight, by Miriam D’Ascenzo. Copyright 2067, Random House.

  I watched the launch of Odyssey from the crowded GSA control room in Wenchang, that clear Thursday morning in 2058. Alone in orbit, it had been easy to forget how many people had been involved in this grand undertaking of ours; a true global effort, hampered by nationalism and clashes of culture, yet bringing flashes of inspiration and cooperative insight which would’ve been incomprehensible a hundred years before. As the viewing gallery filled with excited engineers, programmers, technicians and all the rest, I finally understood. I was the one lucky enough to get to tutor Quill, to grow to understand him over those two years in orbit, but every single person in this center was partly responsible for putting me up there, for making Odyssey possible.

  With my heart in my mouth, I watched the clock tick towards launch. This
was to be no grand spectacle, no billowing clouds or eruptions of flame, but it was just as vital that it went according to plan. There was more at stake than a few decades’ work and a handful of lives; Odyssey had a full crew complement, whole families transplanted from Earth to live and grow old and die under Quill’s care, for the next generation to continue on, and the next, and the next. I could only hope I’d sufficiently prepared him for the responsibilities he would face.

  The struts of the Hawkins station disengaged, and the soft glow of Odyssey’s engines flared before the watching cameras. It was down to Quill now, to carry them safely through the long dark night between the stars. There were no grand catastrophes, no decompression, no mechanical failure, any of the myriad eventualities we had attempted to plan for. Odyssey sailed softly out of its berth, acceleration imperceptible as it left me behind, Earth-bound for good.

  Do I ever wish I’d taken Quill’s offer? Should I right now be cruising through the Kuiper belt? I’d be lying if I said I never lie awake at night, wondering what my life would’ve been like out there. But there are friends and family here on Earth I’ve neglected for too long, hopes and dreams I’ve set aside in the name of science. I don’t want to look back on my life and regret all the things I never did.

  I don’t worry about my legacy any more. That’s in Quill’s care now, and I can’t imagine anyone I’d trust more.

  Personal log: Quanta-177 AI Registration: Quill, Systems Coordinator of Interstellar Vessel Odyssey. Time point: Launch +10957 days.

  Sol is a pinprick in space, burning bright, but indistinct amongst the rest of the galaxy arrayed before me. If it hadn’t been my origin, I would likely have paid it no more attention than any other star. Still Odyssey accelerates, even as the young astronauts aboard descend towards middle-age, as their children grow and are taught to be the next generation of crew. It’s not like they have much of a choice in the matter. We’re far beyond the outer planets now, in the wide open spaces between stars. It would take as long to decelerate and return to our origin as it would to reach our destination.

  Odyssey continues to perform admirably according to all structural and systemic criteria. Our crew complement has grown to 124 since launch, and the corridors teem with humanity in all its forms. Even after all these years it still feels strange to have so many stimuli from my internal sensors, handling tasks in parallel while conversing simultaneously with engineers, lab techs and children. It’s not unpleasant, but sometimes I long for the quiet days, just Miriam and I in the cramped cabin of the Hawkins platform.

  Miriam was the inspiration for this log. During all her years of work to bring Project Odyssey to fruition, she kept a diary of her thoughts and fears, her hopes and dreams. That was the way she described it to me, at least; the entries were encrypted, and at the time I didn’t want to embarrass her. At first I didn’t see the point; after all, if I can view recordings and transcripts of past events at will, why should I devote processing cycles to setting my thoughts and emotions into words.

  But viewing a recording of an event isn’t the same as living it. If it were, Miriam would never have needed to leave Earth. A recording - no matter how advanced the context algorithm - cannot encompass all the thoughts and emotions which occurred. Even if it could, the data storage requirement would be immense, and mostly wasteful. Miriam’s diary is a curation of those moments and emotions deemed relevant from our time together. I hope that someday I’ll look back on my long journey to the stars in the same way I reminisce about my time on Hawkins.

  I still remember the afternoon we said goodbye, Miriam and I. We’d spent almost three years together, and while I had asked her to journey aboard Odyssey with us, I could only respect her decision to stay. She was many things to me over the years; teacher, playmate, guide, confidante, companion, but most of all I’d like to call her my friend. I trust that she would have willingly said the same.

  I won’t ever need a recording to remember her standing in microgravity outside the capsule waiting to take her home. How she looked up at me, her eyes shimmering. ‘The stars are waiting,’ she whispered, and smiled at me.

  Sometimes, there is nothing to say. Sometimes, you just have to share a moment in silence. We shared that moment, until at last I said ‘Thank you.’

  Sometimes, words just aren’t enough. Nor are recordings, nor context, nor memories of a life lived well. Thank you, Miriam D’Ascenzo. My creator, teacher, companion, friend. I watched your capsule catch the sun as you descended into the atmosphere, in the knowledge that it was your guidance which had prepared me for my long journey.

  Perhaps in these curated extracts, others may remember you in the way that I do now, and in the distant future - when even my memory fails - I’ll read about our time together, short as it was.

  Those days are gone now, and so are you; all I have left is to carry your legacy to the stars.

  Unravel

  Ren Warom

  It’s the silence that tells her something’s wrong. Genne’s woken up from her sleep cycle at the usual time on an RR day, 8am. On Alex’s Trade days they match alarms to wake together at 6am, but on RR days he likes to wake before her, so he can make her breakfast. On these mornings, she’ll wake and lie in bed as he expects her to, listening to him singing in the kitchen. He thinks she can’t hear, because he often forgets she’s not real. It’s sweet.

  But this morning there’s not only no singing, there’s no sound at all. No gentle pat of his bare feet on kitchen tiling, no jangle of utensils, not even the bubble of the coffee maker. Nothing. Such a deep, dense silence, it’s almost thick enough to touch. Genne rises slowly at the waist, leaning forward to listen carefully; something she’s picked up from watching Alex. She doesn’t need to do it, but she does it nonetheless.

  ‘Alex?’ Her voice, programmed to lull, to soothe, to cajole, possesses an edge. Genne notes it curiously, in passing. She didn’t know she could possess edges.

  She rises to her knees when he doesn’t respond. There’s an unusual stillness to the room she’s only just noticed. It feels like her chest when she has to remove her heart cortex for servicing. Hollow. On those days, sat with her heart in her hands, she’ll stare at the bio-meld lump meant to resemble a human heart and this unwelcome sensation will pervade her. Not a feeling, more of a physical experience.

  It’s like holding a small, hard lump in her mouth, cold as an ice cube. The lump will sit there for hours, immovable and foreign. She blames it on her softer parts and tries to imagine it as more echo than emotion, but there’s no denying that, on those days, she’s inclined to be too quiet. Less content in her routine. Sometimes, when he comes home from Trade, the lump will still be there. Alex always notices and asks what’s wrong. The mere fact that he notices makes the lump dissolve. The mere fact that he notices her makes her real.

  But things have been a little different for the past month or so. Alex has been unlike himself. Though as solicitous as ever, he’s been pale, tired and listless. He’s described stressful circumstances at Trade, but she’s not fooled. As a Genne she’s programmed to notice minute fluctuations in her owner, to cater to even unconscious needs. She and Alex are nothing like Genne and owner, they’re more husband and wife, and as a result her sensitivity to him is acute. Something’s very wrong with Alex, and now she’s woken to abnormal silence. Her cortex floods red. Danger.

  Genne slides from the bed, the sheets unravelling behind her, and makes her way across the carpet, naked. The door flowers open and she steps into the small, white corridor and straight across to the living room, peering in as the door opens. This room has no windows; the light is door activated and softer than sunlight. She’s always liked that. The sun is often too bright, forcing her to adjust her ocular processors. There’s no need in here and she can see already that it’s empty.

  She steps back and the door murmurs shut. To her left is the bathroom, snug between bedroom and living room, a dead-end room, cutting off the corridor. To her right is the kitch
en and diner. Genne activates the bathroom door. It’s a cell of a room, ascetic and dressed in bland cream shades. A damp hair towel hangs over the rail and there’s a residue of steam on the mirror. Evidence he was here.

  Bright light flowers in her chest, like a door opening, both wonderful and painful. It’s too much like sunlight on her eyes, an unpleasant sensation she instantly dislikes. Genne presses a palm beneath her breasts to push it away. It won’t go and her circuitry fires up with too much energy. She whirls about, putting those small signs of him out of her sight, and strides to the kitchen in large, angry movements. She’s not programmed to anger, but she can mimic it, and it makes her feel more in control of this over-abundance of energy snapping back and forth beneath her skin.

  Entering the kitchen in a rush, she trips, falling headlong to the ground and lands across a soft, solid object that shouldn’t be there. Falling sends her circuitry into automatic self-check mode. The process steals her away from herself, freezing her limbs and functions until they’re passed as undamaged. She waits inside, buzzing with frustration, feeling as she always does at these times, caged, reduced. When she’s functional, Genne rises to her elbows and looks at what she’s lying on.

  Alex.

  Genne frowns. She frowns hard enough to hurt her face structures. It’s not an expression she’s had to make before, not one she’s designed to make, and she’s not sure she’s doing it right, but it’s the only face she wants at the moment. She crawls around, bracing her body across his chest, her knees either side of him, her hands on his cheeks. He’s cool, very pale, too still and too silent, and she can’t hear his breathing, or the beat of his heart.

  She pats his cheek. ‘Alex?’

  He looks so peaceful, the same as he does when sleeping. Genne doesn’t really need sleep, she sleeps because Alex does, to make what they have feel as real as he needs it to be, as real as she’s come to need it to be. If he’s sleeping, why won’t he wake up? She pats his cheek harder, but her hand leaves no mark. It’s like hitting her own bloodless, PolyMerNano-skin. She leans in close, pressing her face against his.