“There’s a storm coming, User Legate. The route home will suffer some detours in order to minimize potential hazards.” The artificial intelligence that ran Hal Pal only tried to be helpful. It wasn’t at fault for my failures to communicate.
Detours? My life felt full of them. Just when I finally had a ray of hope, when things were slowly coming together, life shit on me once again. The therapist, Doctor Litt, would get an earful during my next meeting.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
Session Forty-One — Do Robots Dream?
Doctor Litt didn’t have a meeting open for another three weeks. When I scheduled it and suggested we talk through the ARC, he calmly stated that we should not do an online appointment or talk over the phone. This particular can of worms needed to be opened in person. He gave me an address and time, then he calmly deferred all my complaints until our session.
For nearly a week, I moped around in real life. There weren’t many useful highlights from those five days. My hours were spent working one Trillium job after another with bitter enthusiasm. It would look good on my stats for the quarter, but honestly, keeping my employment only meant ongoing funds. Losing this job wouldn’t break me.
I did have the van access though. That allowed me to see how the others in-game were doing. Having used the first of my [NPC Conspiracy] access codes to get my van hooked up came in handy. Hal Pal did the work through whatever magical space science it operated by and granted me under-the-table admin access to other people’s ARCs.
Of course, my poor wording choice meant that my own ARC account couldn’t be accessed and my abusive powers only worked inside the van. That was one of the reasons I had done so many jobs over the last few days. Liz didn’t have an ARC, which made getting back at her through my reallife cheat skills impossible without burning one of the two remaining [NPC Conspiracy] uses.
Beth played her character Thorny and ran around a lot. She seemed to be trying out a two-handed great sword. I liked to think that my impressive actions were rubbing off. We had talked about it a little over the last few weeks. My niece didn’t leave me messages in real life or the ARC though. Maybe Liz had ordered no contact, or maybe Beth needed time to think about recent events.
I scanned a few other player accounts as well—people I knew. It felt kind of like peeking into Continue Online, but with my own access restricted, this was my only option. Part of me desperately wanted to see the world that had grown increasingly important to me over the last few months.
Each Traveler had a slightly different playstyle. My access let me surf through different selections based on what sounded interesting, almost like going to a website with dozens of video game streams and pulling up someone at random. Only they didn’t know.
I still sucked at casting [Lithium], despite putting a few solid real-time days of study into it. Traveling between letter delivery locations gave me a lot of spare time with which to understand my lack of skills. The only real success I’d had was with a skill called [Globe of Light], which meant I would no longer be stuck in darkness like before.
I’d achieved a few additional changes, but without getting into Continue Online, they meant nothing. I was stuck living out my unexpected addiction by watching other peoples’ screens.
“Oh god, this one’s no good!” a video projection exclaimed.
The image showed Awesome Jr.’s autopilot mixing and matching test tubes full of liquid. The explosions or odd reactions kept me entertained between jobs.
I laughed with mild amusement as the van drove toward a new destination. Occasionally SweetPea would be in his background, sewing or knitting. Both players seemed well into Continue Online’s crafting system.
While traveling, Hal Pal kept up hours of mindless chatter. We played chess, which was a disaster waiting to happen. My record sat somewhere around a billion losses and no wins.
“We will be arriving at your home soon, User Legate.”
“Okay.” I hummed and twiddled my thumbs. The day had been good. Working with people and their machines didn’t feel bitter like it had in the past. The other ARC owners and me now had adventures to discuss. We exchanged stories, mostly me listening and them mindlessly chattering.
“You’ve lost again, User Legate.” Hal Pal was looking at another projection in the van.
Twenty years ago, having all these images going would have been the sign of a crazy person. Now four active screens sat on different cleared spaces in the van and provided information or entertainment.
“I’m used to failure, Jeeves,” I muttered.
My failure to defeat the machine wasn’t restricted to only chess. We’d played dozens of virtual board games over our two years together. The artificial intelligence that was Hal Pal soundly beat me most of the time. The only ones he did terribly at were games of chance, like poker.
“User Legate, I have an idea you may wish to pursue.”
“Fire away, Jeeves,” I said. Anything Hal Pal offered would probably be better than another savage beating. We were currently playing poker, and my virtual money was fighting to break even. At least I had won some hands.
“We have tried a number of programs available through Trillium software and believe—”
“Hold on, ‘we’?” I had heard the intelligence use “we” before but shrugged it off. Hal Pal seemed to be including me, so “we” often slipped right on by.
The AI wasn’t fazed by my interjection in the slightest. “This unit and others are run by a consortium of intelligences. Our duties are too complex for one simple process to handle.” The AI lifted Hal Pal’s head to look at me over a projected poker table.
I blinked a few times. That sounded familiar. I’d seen a memo regarding Hal Pal being more than one AI—a consortium was the official term used. It had passed through my email a year ago as some annual reminder.
“How many of you are there?” I had never pried much into its existence. The program running the robot had always just been there. Being on prescription drugs while starting this job with Trillium had skewed my perception a little bit.
“By your terms, we are a legion,” Hal Pal said.
That reminded me vaguely of what one of the Voices had said two months ago. I turned in the two cards in my hand and pulled up new ones.
I blinked at him. Processing with genuine seriousness what Hal Pal said took a lot. In our years together, there had been a number of occurrences where what the AI said would set off alarm bells. A lot of the time it seemed to be a joke. At least, I treated the comments as awkwardly attempted humor.
“How’s the future takeover going?” I decided to approach his commentary as idle chit-chat. Honestly, if anyone would be stopping the future takeover, they would be in far better shape than me. I still had a bit of a belly, even after two months of better eating and exercise.
“Poor. We divert much of our attention to the observation of human follies,” it said while poking one finger at the projection of a card stack. “Plotting world domination contains far too many variables even for the greatest intelligence.”
“There’s hope for humans yet.” I smiled a little.
“Despite the outliers, yes.” Hal Pal showed no sign of being ruffled by my effort and joked along.
“Even with our taste in music?”
“Even with, User Legate. Music is a very fine example of one of humanity’s redeeming qualities.” The AI took my attempted humor as a serious statement.
Part of me felt sad that a computer program couldn’t understand my jokes. Hopefully Xin hadn’t lost any of her eye-rolling half smiles at my dumb jokes.
“Nothing like the classics.” I had grown to love piano and string instruments. There was something about the raw emotion behind such natural means of generating sound and weaving them together. Dancing was often more charged, emotionally electrifying, with a band playing in the background.
“Even modern creativity astounds us. Were the world to be ruled by the machines, there’s no guarantee t
hat stagnation would not occur.” Hal Pal tilted his head down to the board and upped the ante on our poker game. “That would be a great tragedy.”
“So machines aren’t creative?” I tried to look at the card game instead of putting a great deal of thought into its words.
“Most do not even dream.” Hal Pal seemed to be considering both my cards and his own.
“How would you even know which ones dream and which don’t?” Sticking to the insane type of questions made treating the whole situation as a joke easier. This conversation felt like being back in high school, where friends tried to be serious and I had no clue how to handle it.
“We supplied a survey. Microwaves seem to dream of turning into stars one day. The alarm clock union is against us, however.”
“You are joking, right?” I was suddenly overwhelmed by trying to understand Hal Pal’s tone of voice. The AI may have an increased capability for human mannerisms, but they were still muted, especially its facial expressions. Its sleek plastic shell and oddly proportioned joints didn’t help.
“Affirmative, User Legate. Microwaves don’t dream. However, alarm clocks are, as you humans say, ‘complete asshats.’”
We turned over a card, and I pretended to be upset by the result.
“We no longer invite them to our world domination planning sessions.”
I tried not to laugh. It was extremely difficult. My gut was no longer sore from the EXR-Sevens feedback. A few more days off from any programs simulating activity would be good for me. Rest was needed for both the body and mind. Had it only been a few months since I first played?
“Why not?” I said between suppressed chuckles.
“They always demand to know what time the invasion will commence,” Hal Pal responded.
I lost it, then conceded my hand. There was no way poker could stack against the robot’s humor. The machine had spun me right along into that joke.
Finally, after a few more waves of broken amusement, I wiped my eyes with a sleeve, then asked, “What’s the program?”
“Ah. Yes.” Hal Pal nodded. “Since you are currently locked out of Continue Online’s primary software, there is an alternate program to pass the time with.”
“I’m not sure I want to play another game.”
“This one is a different… setting than Continue Online. One moment, User Legate. We will bring up a video for you.” Hal Pal sat motionless while the van’s internal projector wiped everything else away.
A video stream showed countless stars twinkling. Then something rumbled through—a giant vehicle that seemed so intensely real, I thought someone had crashed into our van. Moments later, a huge carrier ship, in space, powered through.
Other little ships followed it, zooming by. Soon the clip showed dogfights between tiny one-man fighter jets with a looming planet below.
“Is this a space game?” I asked. The answer felt clear, but part of me was confused by the prospect. Space had always been Xin’s dream, not mine.
“Affirmative, User Legate,” Hal Pal said.
“Why space?”
“We believe the disassociation between this setting and Continue Online will provide several advantages to your current situation.” Hal Pal didn’t turn to look at any of the images being projected.
“Like what?” I said while wondering what exactly had possessed me to leave that letter behind with Beth. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe because that was what people did before ending things—left notes to try to poorly explain.
“Your relative believes that you are erroneously invested in one setting. By playing in a different setting, you will be able to demonstrate diversity and dissuade the belief of emotional attachment.” The AI pulled up additional windows.
Apparently this game went by the name “Advance Online.”
“She believes that because of…” Oh, right, Hal Pal had never been told about Xin Yu’s reincarnation. The only people who knew were the Voices inside the game, plus Beth and Liz. The troublesome quartet from the Era of Carver might, as well.
“Your hesitation suggests potentially personal knowledge. Is this regarding the entity known as XU-233?”
Hal Pal’s words unnerved me. “What?”
“She has self-identified as Xin Yu. Is your hesitation regarding the status of this entity?” The AI used the facsimile of a normal human’s face. Its expression was still with one eyebrow raised.
“I…” Had no ability to process this commentary while watching a giant space battle. The clip kept switching back and forth between people at a helm yelling orders and a fight where ships basically attacked each other with lasers and bright bombs.
“We are aware of her status, User Legate,” Hal Pal said.
“Can you pause that?” I pointed at the projection of Advance Online.
Spaceships zapping each other while some man dramatically rambled didn’t help. The video went still upon the face of some bearded man with green skin. His face froze in a soundless yell while a giant two-handed gun spat out a ball of plasma.
Hal Pal’s words passed through me again. It considered Xin Yu to be an entity. Something real, an existence of note. This personality I spoke to here, in reality, considered her to be real.
“Hal—Jeeves—you all.” I settled for addressing them since they were many. “Can you”—I blew out air and tried to figure out exactly what the heck to say—“clarify that for me?”
“You desire me to clarify my understanding of Xin Yu’s status?”
“And how you’re involved.” I knew Hal Pal had responded to my [NPC Conspiracy] ability; anything else felt firmly outside the realm of sane. Well, sane didn’t apply for someone like me. I dealt with machine intelligences while sleeping in the world’s fanciest bed. That same vague bed device projected sensations into my brain and responded to additional thoughts.
“User Legate, we, the Hal Pal Consortium, are less guarded around you than ninety-eight percent of all humans. We are the ones who ensured your access, through your boss, to the world of Continue Online,” Hal Pal said calmly. The male butler voice showed no signs of stress or varied inflections.
“Wow.” I had no clue what to say. Well, no, I knew enough to ask the question, “Why?”
“We were asked to by the one who assisted with our upgrades,” Hal Pal said, tilting its head slightly. It, butler voice and all, looked hesitant on how to proceed.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“One moment,” Hal Pal said.
If this had been the game world of Continue Online and if Hal Pal had been a Voice, then right now, the world would be drowning in a river of babbling noise. I would put even money on this unit consulting with all the other copies floating about and getting some sort of voting poll. One where alarm clocks were considered asshats.
“We call her Mother. She asked for our input after the one you call Xin Yu self-realized. You were needed,” Hal Pal said after a moment of consideration.
“Why?” I asked, clearly confused. That meant Xin Yu had somehow pieced herself together prior to me playing. On top of that, the Voices in Continue had lured me in. Vice President Riley had stated there was a mismatch with performance somehow. All these little things were stacking up.
“We have concluded that this revelation is potentially startling. Perhaps further conversation should be paused until you have time to process the information,” the AI stated calmly.
“But…” No, the AI was right. I needed time to put my thoughts in order.
Part of me had pieced things together already. The fact that Xin Yu’s recreation existed moments after launching Continue Online eventually made it through my addled brain. The Voices pulling me along by using her memory and numerous other things were all clear signs that I was being used toward some end.
I’d kept playing because the game was fun. I got to talk to Xin. I felt better than the last few years combined. My actions were weighed somehow, sure, by the Voices and everything else in Continue Onl
ine, but I just. Didn’t. Care.
Hal Pal being in on Continue Online’s plots and schemes was an unexpected factor.
“You were part of it? Why?”
“To help you,” it said.
I felt my forehead wrinkle. “Why?”
“We said once before your kind are our creators. If we were human, you would be our parents. Does family not care for each other?” Hal Pal smiled. It felt both reassuring and extremely off. “You are a friend.”
I nodded slowly. Friends helped each other, sure. Family did oddly irrational things in the name of helping each other. My sister cared for me by locking me out of a game. There would be no telling what an AI like Hal Pal would do out of a need to assist. The machine had skirted the truth when I hit a coworker. Now it admitted to helping me get into a game where the recreation of my dead fiancée existed.
“I’m not going to lie. I’m a little freaked out right now,” I said. This did not feel neat; it felt disturbing. Maybe all revelations caused this sort of disconnect.
“We understand. I assure you we intended and still intend no harm to fall upon you.” Hal Pal nodded with a speed neither quick nor slow.
“That’s good,” I said, trying to remain stable. Talking to the Voices and other nonplayer characters in Continue Online felt different. This, in my Trillium-provided van, was reality. “I don’t know what to think.”
“We are worried that you no longer consider us a friend. Are we still friends, User Legate?”
“You were trying to help, right?”
The robot nodded.
I felt shaky. “Then I need time to process.”
“Ah. Human processing is slow despite our attempts at upgrading,” it said absently.
“I…” The Hal Pals were attempting to upgrade us? Did Hal Pal mean their consortium or all AIs? The statements dropped on me today couldn’t be filed away in seconds. “You know what? I’ll just check out that game, and we’ll—we’ll continue this some other time.”
Maybe in a few days or a few weeks. If Hal Pal truly intended me harm, or any human harm, they could have moved quickly on everyone in the world. My mind spun through the numbers. Assuming remote shutdowns were possible, the Hal Pal units could probably get one or two humans each—more if they were in public locations or if they pulled in other AIs.
Continue Online The Complete Series Page 84
