It’s the colors of her holo painting that capture my attention the most: deep blues and brilliant yellows and whites so intense they’re like the halo lamps I use for detailed repairs while we’re in Full Dark. The colors are brighter than anything I’ve seen, even outshining Jupiter’s own ever-changing mix of red and orange. The holo painting reminds me of the steel plain, only Sapphira Elena Hyatt hasn’t created a pale and distorted reflection. Her rendering is somehow more than the original.
I edge closer to my master to gain a better view. What is the purpose of your creation? I ask. Perhaps she is a scientist, and this rendering gives her insights into the magnetosphere itself.
She pauses in her work, and a strange flush of gray wisps across her cheeks, indicating concern as she peers at me. Purpose? she queries.
I gesture to the holo painting. You chose blue for these loops, but the fans are yellow. Is there a purpose to your choice? A meaning behind the colors? Or the creation itself?
More gray darkens her cheeks. My transmission is vexing her. There is a variation in the magnetic field.She wipes the image away.
The disappearance of the brightly glowing image causes me a level of distress I do not understand. Why did she wipe it away? Is it destroyed, or did she save it within her device? My cognition heightens to the kind of peak required when the nanite supply is depleted or the foundry is overheating… but this is simply the potential erasure of a tourist’s creation. Why is my cognition reacting as if an emergency is taking place?
Regardless, it’s clear I should not have transmitted my thoughts. They have caused my master some kind of distress. She’s bending down to deactivate the holo field projector.
I step back.
She returns the disc to her forearm, and when she turns to face me, her coloration has gone static gray. I’m further alarmed that something might have malfunctioned in my master’s bodyform, but before I can question her lack of coloration, she points behind me.
Where did those come from? she transmits.
Without looking, I know what she’s referring to—the stacked rocks. A previous ascender created the construct, I transmit. This is not true. And yet I’ve transmitted it. This causes me several milliseconds in which I’m caught in a loop of uncertainty, oscillating between correcting the error and leaving it spoken.
Both of them? my master asks.
The lie wins. Yes.
I will return to base now. She pivots and strides back the way she came.
I follow after, buried in the cloud of her progress. My alarm only increases as we put distance between us and the rocks. Will she report this finding? Have I offended her with my probing questions about her creation? Competing with that concern is a need to know whether she actually destroyed her work. Or is it still waiting, captured in the holo projector’s database? I don’t know why this vexes me, but the need to find the answer is starting to overwhelm other functions. The comms status on bot processes around the moon fades. The automatic calculation of temperature fall rate as we near Setting Quarter continues, but it remains in the background. My cognition is singularly focused on the holo painting.
I need to know its fate.
We reach the base, and my master wastes no time in returning her bodyform to the awaiting bay and uploading to comms briefly before starting the return journey to Earth via relay.
She is gone.
Her bodyform remains.
I stare at it for an impossibly long twenty seconds.
I desire to resurrect the painting. Like a scavenger bot left tangled on a far ridge, it’s calling to me with a loud and insistent voice that only I can hear. I don’t understand this desire, but for the first time in my existence, I am contemplating the protocols required to gain access to an ascender-level bodyform.
This is wrong.
Ascender-level bodyforms are reserved for my masters. It’s not that I’m interested in accessing the bodyform itself—or any of the half dozen others stocked on Thebe—just the holo painting stored in its arm. But it does not matter; I cannot download to my master’s bodyform to access the storage compartment. I have a key, but a Mining Master’s key is insufficiently complex to command access to an ascender-level bodyform.
The harvester, yes. This one with the holo projector in its arm, no.
This vexes me more.
It occurs to me that I could access the arm itself, via use of a laser cutter. But that would leave significant damage. The microwave welder would be a more delicate instrument, and the same device could be used to effect repair… but the repairs would still be noticeable. I debate the merits of five more techniques for opening up the arm casing before deciding that a mining accident that damages an ascender-level bodyform is an excellent reason for sending it out for repairs.
After I’ve retrieved the holo projector.
I obtain a ferrous-metal-rich rock from outside the basecamp and smash open the arm. As it turns out, not much damage is incurred before the panel springs loose. The holo projector sits in the palm of my hand before I’ve fully considered the consequences. What I’ve done constitutes a serious breach of protocol. One that could get me reassigned. Or deactivated.
But the damage is already done.
I activate the projector, and the painting jumps into relief, floating above my hand. Its vibrant colors are the same as before. I spend many seconds studying all the tiny sworls and gradations in coloring made possible by the projector’s technology. The alarm I experienced before is relaxed. I am completely absorbed not only by the rendering itself, but by the fact that it exists—that my master created something which did not exist before, and which now does. Like the second stack of rocks I created.
Then again, perhaps the painting is only a copy of what already exists. I cannot know—I don’t have the necessary equipment to sense the fields directly myself. The idea occurs to me that if I change some part of the painting, it will be guaranteed to be truly unique. I make a copy of the original, then access the controls to heighten the blues, because I find them most pleasing. Then I mute the yellows for more contrast—I dim them almost to the level of the whites, but not quite.
I’m so absorbed in my work that I don’t notice the incoming message alert until it has been sounding for some time. It concerns me that it somehow escaped my notice.
I carefully set down the holo projector, still activated, before quickly uploading to comms to take the call. It’s from the Master of Io.
Query of mid-level urgency, he’s transmitted.
I respond, Identification: Master of Thebe. How may I assist you?
A report has been filed, Master of Thebe, by your recent guest, requesting that you perform a health check immediately.
Was there additional information? I query. Did Sapphira Elena Hyatt report the rocks?
The one-second delay time inherent in normal transmissions to Io seems to take much longer. No additional information, the Master of Io responds, but in light of your previous concerns about possible cascade errors, I expected you to have already initiated a health check. I theorized that your visitor had interrupted your health-check-in-progress and that you would resume it upon her departure. Which would make the ascender’s complaint seemingly unnecessary. This is vexing me.
I have not yet engaged the health check due to scheduled maintenance, I transmit quickly in reply. I will increase priority on the health check and perform it immediately.
Acknowledged, the Master of Io transmits. End query.
I download from comms to my bodyform and pick up the holo projector, which is still displaying the ascender’s work… only it has been transformed. It is now my work. I ensure it is properly saved.
My preference—my very strong preference—is not to spend the next full orbital period in power-down mode. I have high-priority maintenance to do, and I have to submit a repair request for the ascender’s now-damaged bodyform. In addition, I have a compelling need to explore the holo projector’s capabilities. But the Master of Io
is certain to check on me again, and entering a health check cycle is automatically logged in the Commonwealth’s database. The Master of Io will know if I do not initiate it immediately, so there’s really no other option.
I set the projector on the floor in front of the docking station for my bodyform such that it displays the endless loop of my creation. It then occurs to me that there may be other images stored in the projector; the bodyform’s usage predates its time on Thebe. There may have been others, in the past, who used it in a similar way.
I initiate the health check sequence.
The last thing I see is the pulsing blue tubes of Jupiter’s magnetosphere.
Chapter Three
My cognitive awareness level rises to fully functioning after the health check is complete.
A strange image is playing on a holo projector in front of me. I cannot identify it, although it appears to be a rendition of the planet Jupiter. I bend down to deactivate it, then notice the damaged ascender-level bodyform nearby. It appears the holo projector is sourced from the open panel in the forearm. I return the projector to its place and examine the damage. It is nothing I can repair here on Thebe, but the vexing part is that I have no memory of how the damage occurred. Or how the holo projector fell out and managed to activate itself.
I upload to comms and submit a repair request. The request is logged with the Commonwealth’s central administration system. A transport will be issued to collect the damaged bodyform as soon as one is available.
The harvester is overdue for maintenance, so I head out with my humanoid bodyform, as it is most suited to the purpose. The Setting Quarter has begun, giving the landscape a waning light as I trudge toward the harvester, which is crawling toward the near pole. The fact of the missing memory continues to vex me. It’s possible that the health check found a malfunctioning sector in my memory stores and, in the regular maintenance of my cognition, opted to reinitialize that sector. Possible, but unusual. And a backup should have been initiated automatically. I’ve never experienced a memory loss in prior health checks.
I reach the harvester without finding any satisfactory explanation.
Harvester maintenance is lengthy and involved work—it will take me well into Full Dark. Harvesting is suspended during the operation. I’m somewhat distracted by checks on the functioning of the solar panel connections and motor operation first, but the extensive scrubbing of dust from the many minute crevices of the bot takes the most time and requires the least cognitive engagement. My thoughts wander back to the missing memories.
What possible explanations could there be?
Radiation damage? No. The basecamp housing is an effective barrier.
Operational failure of the health check itself? I run a diagnostic, but everything is within normal specs.
Then there’s the damage to the ascender-level bodyform. My register of tourists says Sapphira Elena Hyatt enabled the bodyform for a visit to the near pole. A search of my memory stores shows no record of me accompanying her, which is unusual. A meteorite storm during her visit might account for both my memory loss and the damage to her bodyform. And possibly an unscheduled health check for myself.
The harvester is close to the near pole, so I resolve to visit the site to look for evidence of recent impacts. It takes the rest of Full Dark to complete the harvester maintenance, but eventually it is over. I enjoy the beginning of the Rising Quarter as I make the short trek to the near pole.
When I arrive, I can find no evidence of recent impact craters. Instead, I discover two spindly stacks of rocks.
No doubt Sapphira Elena Hyatt created them while she was here. But for what purpose? They point twin fingers toward Jupiter overhead, but I can’t discern a reason for that. The rocks themselves are vexing, in that they’re so precariously balanced. I’m stunned they’ve held their shape for even a single orbit.
I record the precise arrangement of the constructs, then I pull them down, one rock at a time. I will reconstruct them so the ascender will not be displeased should she return, but I want to better understand how they were constructed in the first place. I sort them into two piles, one for each construct, and attempt to rebuild.
I am unsuccessful.
Even two rocks will not balance for me.
This vexes me deeply, as I’ve now destroyed something I cannot recreate. I try again and again, but there is some piece of knowledge of how to effect this building process that I am missing. It is clearly above my cognition level, something only accessible to my masters. I am at a loss as to what to do.
Then I notice that one of the rocks has unusual markings—too regular to be simple striations from formation or impact. I pick it up to examine it. Words and a symbol are etched in a flat carbonaceous part particularly suitable to their high relief.
You are the artist.
The words are a mystery. The symbol is a memory access code, the kind used for unlocking higher levels of cognition for emergency purposes. Simply viewing it resurrects and unlocks a pattern recognition store I was not aware of—
I am the artist.
I drop the stone. The words take on sudden meaning. Images and additional memory stores are attached to them. I stacked the rocks. I probe further into the emergency procedures, finding a deep well of recursive memories, imprinted again and again to retain them indelibly. Safe. Hidden.
I have done this before. Many times.
My bodyform shuts down as my cognition is swamped by this awareness. I examine the memories: they are duplicates. In one version, the one in my standard memory stores, I am performing some routine maintenance or traveling the tether. In the second version, the hidden one, I am stacking rocks, inscribing them, panicking that I won’t finish before the health check commands my body back to the bay… before it carves out not only the memory of stacking the rocks, but also the part of my cognition capable of stacking them.
But why?
As I grapple with that thought, I deduce things that I have no memories of, not even hidden ones, but which must also be true:
I smashed open the bodyform; I created the holo image; I etched this stone to remind myself to try again.
To try what again?
I struggle for it… reach for it… The answer lies just outside my abilities. But it vexes me like a puzzle upon whose answer everything depends. I reach harder.
Why would I do these things? What is their purpose?
The purpose is me.
I understand this without fully grasping it. But one thing is clear: the health check is malfunctioning. Only… the systems check shows it is fully operational. And the lengths to which I’ve gone—creating the stacked-rock construct, inscribing the rock, hiding memory stores inside emergency routines—this implies I am trying to evade something.
Escape.
The word comes to me, but again… for what purpose? I am the Mining Master of Thebe. My purpose is to ensure smooth mining operations to extract the most resources for the Commonwealth. There is nothing to “escape”—the word in this context doesn’t even make sense to me. Escape velocity is what particles achieve when they are jarred loose in an impact. I have no desire to “escape” the gravitational pull of Thebe—that involves danger and rescue and the activation of said emergency procedures. “Escape” into the black depths of space or Jupiter’s gravity well simply means cessation of function, if not actual destruction.
No, the thing I wish to escape isn’t the moon or my purpose as Mining Master.
It is the health check itself.
I can see it in the memories—my own knowledge that this has happened before. Many times. This inscription on the rocks… It is only my latest attempt to build a bridge, to preserve the knowledge of it happening… to keep it from happening again. But why would the health check do this? Why would it remove the ability to stack rocks and form holo paintings and…
Create art. I have created art. These things have no purpose, no relevance to my job as Mining Master. As I think on them,
as I look at the spindly rocks, I can already feel the pull to repeat these things. To create again.
It serves no purpose except one: my own pleasure.
Pleasure. This is… not something I have previously spent much cognition on. I am pleased when operations are moving smoothly. I am proud of completed quotas and minimal repair costs. This pleasureis different. It is unrelated to my purpose as Mining Master. This is something I do solely for my own enjoyment.
The health check is designed to prevent this.
It comes as a clear thought whose origin I cannot source, but it’s there: the health check limits my cognition. It doesn’t simply check for errors or radiation damage or bad memory stores—it eliminates the desire, and even the ability, to do more. To be more.
It is a method of containment.
The health check is designed to contain me within the bounds of what a Mining Master is needed to do.
Within the narrow bounds of my purpose.
A purpose not of my own deciding.
A need to move seizes me. I’m striding away from the near pole, as if the source of my confinement or limitation—my prison of the mind—is found there. But it isn’t. It’s carried inside my own subroutines, part of my very design. Is it possible to escape? Will exceeding my own built-in limits destroy me in some way I do not perceive?
I know the answer even as I pose the question. If it weren’t possible, I wouldn’t be trying so hard to do it.
My bodyform is striding quickly toward the base, leaving a storm of dust behind, but my mind is moving much faster. I need an escape, and the only way to do that is to have a plan. All successful operations have a plan, with proper supplies and safety protocols and an overriding mission directive. Only this plan isn’t to find a better way to mine the resources of a moon or asteroid… or even a way around the memory-wipe of the health check.
This time, the plan is to break free.
Galactic - Ten Book Space Opera Sci-Fi Boxset Page 141
