by Will Crudge
“Of course I do. I’m grateful for it. I just need something physical.” I press.
She informs me that some of the fabrication machines are still functioning. I’m eventually able to have a variety of different wooden swords made. Each with a specific training goal in mind. Now I’m ready.
*****
Six months into my daily routine, and I’m only slightly less frustrated as I was when I started. I’ve managed to sharpen up a few movements, transitions, and stances. I’ve even packed on a few pounds of muscle. But I’m still missing something. Something important.
I need a sparring partner.
“Why the long face, girly?” Trixie must have been tracking my every facial twitch. She can read my mind by measuring my brainwaves, body chemistry, and even my pheromone levels.
“I need an opponent.” I say flatly. I stand inside the little training room that was once a platoon sergeant’s office. The soft carpet makes a great training surface, and the gentle cool breeze from the gash in the hull makes for natural air conditioning. The natural lighting from the soft sunlight helps as well. Hooray for binary stars!
“Build one.” She says.
“Build one?” I scoff.
“We have piles of infantry drone parts that we secured from the Crimson Alliance. I can help you piece one together.” She says casually.
“I want an opponent to train with. Not a robot that’s pre-programmed to kill me in my sleep!”
“Katherine McAlister!” Damn, she used my full name. “I’ll guide you through it. It would also be handy for making repairs, growing food, or anything else that needs to be done.”
“Why would I grow food? You have enough raw nutrient base to feed me for a century!” I say.
“Forty years.” She replies with a scolding tone.
“Wait, what? What happened? Did you miscalculate your stockpile?”
“Me? No, dear.” She laughs. “I properly calculated everything. But my variables didn’t factor in a War Master’s metabolism and grueling exercise routines.”
Makes sense now. I have probably been burning twelve thousand calories per day. And that’s a light day. The additional muscle I’ve built isn’t helping either. ‘A bigger engine burns more fuel’ is what weight trainers always say.
“Well, I’m not a War Master. I never will be if I don’t get off this rock. And I can’t pick up where I left off to become one if I don’t continue to preserve the skills I’ve already learned.”
“True.” She says. But I get the funny feeling she’s about to lecture me about something. “That being said, you’ll also need to read up on ancient military history, UAHC Fleet field manuals, and you’ll need to spend more time doing that Zen-like meditation thingy.”
“Since when have you become so familiar with our curriculum?” I ask with a playful jeer.
“Because Throat-Slasher transferred the files to me before he launched out into space to defend us. He had been connected to the temple’s mainframe for decades, and had a full copy of their digital archives.”
My heart skips a beat, and my stomach clenches up. The mighty LRF-90 sacrificed himself to give us… me, a chance to live. It was his sworn mandate. His mission in life. An immortal digital entity that sacrificed eternity for a mere meat-sack. I fight back the tears.
“You’re just now telling me this?” I scowl
“Well, all you’ve wanted to do is play with swords. I elected to let you be as happy as possible. You may not thrive, otherwise.” She says in a loving tone.
Ok, so I’m an asshole. She’s practically a mom to me. A mom I never had. Mine has long perished on some distant battlefield. And now my glorious ass is chastising the one entity that has been keeping me alive. Smooth move, Kat!
“I’ve transferred the specs and wiring diagrams for an infantry drone to the one surviving workbench in the fabrication room. I’ll help you sift through all the spare parts, and we’ll see if we can pull this off, shall we?”
MARBLES
It’s been three weeks of curses and banged up knuckles. These drones may be relatively easy to kill for a trained soldier with right weapons, but they are tougher than I ever imagined.
Almost none of the major components I’ve scrounged up have matching serial numbers. Some parts are likely from different generations of drones. It’s hard to say, to be honest. The diagrams we’ve been using are just for technical familiarization and were never intended to be a source document for assembly. Even Trixie’s advanced mind has had to do a lot of guesswork.
The final step before initialization is the power core. We had to modify the core from a battle suit to work since all of the existing cores for the drones had self-destructed when they were defeated or captured. Apparently, it was a rigged fail-safe. Their core memories were preserved, but the data centers that held their specific mission parameters, command structure, and even their place of origin was housed in volatile memory banks. When the power cores blew, there went all the forensic data that could link them back to the Crimson Alliance.
Their paint jobs were shoddy as well. It was an obvious ruse, but a necessary one. Pirates would have done the same to any drone they could get their hands on… Had they been actual pirates, that is.
The new power core wasn’t the only modification we had to do. Many of the core processors were damaged as well. We had to use the next best thing. A daisy-chained array of NSAI processors were put in their place. Theoretically, this would give him the potential for sentience, but for us, it was the only way. The NSAI processors were proprietary, and the elaborate arrangement was needed to rig it to function within his structure. Originally designed by Sleightronic Industries, the battle drones were designed with uncommon hardware. Sleightronic is a competitor to Unum, as far as defense technologies, and they survive by making it difficult to rig aftermarket tech to their designs. Thus, making it easier for them to negotiate juicy logistics support contracts to maintain their wares in the field. Gotta love Capitalism!
But this was annoying for us. Had we been aboard a Crimson ship, then we’d likely have all of the proper jigs, tools, and support packages needed to pull this endeavor off.
But it isn’t a Crimson ship. And thankfully not. I may not have survived passing through the planet’s atmosphere, let alone survive the impact.
But I digress… It’s go time!
“Are you ready, Kat?” Trixie says.
“I am.” I say. But am I? I could be fibbing.
“Well, the power switch is mechanical, so you’ll have to do the honors.”
“This one is for all the marbles!” I say as I hit the toggle switch.
A series of whirrs and beeps begin to sound. Flickers of different color LED’s begin to blink in concert. They reflect status codes of some kind, but we didn’t have the proper manuals on file to decode them. All we can do is see what happens.
[Start up sequence pending; parody checks initiated; standby for servo sequence.]
The generic electronic voice was from the maintenance processor. We expected this. The maintenance system will run through some basic functions tests before the core processor is fired up.
The drone’s head traverses from left to right, then up and down. Then it repeated the pattern several times at varies speeds. The arms followed their own series of preset patterns, and then the legs followed suit.
[All systems nominal; primary initialization pending.]
“So far, so good.” I say.
“My energy scan is indicating processor activation. I guess our hardware-rig-job is working.” She replies.
“Slay-Bot model three six nine, designation – infantry support security drone ready for service. State commander’s identity.” It said. It had an eerily human voice. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely positive if drones could speak at all.
“I am your commander. My name is Katherine.” I say. I wasn’t entirely sure what I should have said. It’s not like we had a detailed instruction manual.
�
�Commander IDENT confirmed as, Katherine. State this drone’s primary mission.” He says. It worked at least.
“Training support, and personal security.” It was the best thing I could come up with. I didn’t really know I would be asked any questions.
“Primary mission confirmed as, training support and personal security. I will now activate those core skillsets as default.” He said.
“Um, ok.” I say with a nervous shrug.
“State this drone’s verbal identity, if required.” He says. I draw a blank. The only thing I can do is think back to when I flipped the switch. ‘This is for all the marbles.’
“Your verbal identity is, Marbles.” I say.
“Verbal identity confirmed as, Marbles. Marbles is now ready to receive orders. Please advise.” He says.
“Well fuck me in the ass! It worked!” I spout without thinking.
“I am unable to comply. Anal penetration is not a pre-programmed skill set. Please issue a new order, or provide detailed instructions in order to ‘fuck your ass and work’.”
I like him already.
*****
Turns out Marbles has come a long way in the past few years. His additional processing power has enabled him to develop his own personality. He’s not quite sentient, but Trixie is helping him with that. I’ve come to discover that even sentient AI’s aren’t sentient when you flip them on for the first time. They have to achieve it themselves, or so she says. But for her, it was a pretty rapid process since she was designed to achieve it. Marbles is only built with the potential for it, but it’s far from pre-determined.
Trixie and I have had to do a lot of modifications to his frame and armor. Apparently, I’m getting stronger as time goes by, and I kept denting him up badly. Sometimes to the point where I had to replace a limb or two. So, we decided to salvage the raw plating from top-grade powered suits, and graft them on to his chassis. We had to bolster his servo motors and hydraulics to compensate for the additional weight as well.
The only thing we can’t do for him is to allow him to use his own bank of nano to self-repair. We have to do that ourselves. He has the capacity to control nano, as was in his original design specs, but whoever ordered him from the factory, declined to pay for the proprietary hardware to the house and produce nano. Nanotech is far too advanced for us to rig something in the belly of a ruined starship, so I’m stuck turning wrenches. Frequently, I might add.
I also had to teach him swordplay from scratch. Amidst the cornucopia of basic combat skills he has at his disposal, ancient sword fighting is not one of them. Luckily he possesses the processing power to learn quickly. He pretty much has to. He senses damage like we do. It’s unpleasant for him. It could be considered a form of pain, but it’s not necessarily distracting or debilitating like it is for a biological entity. But he still doesn’t care to get his ass kicked.
So he learns fast, and sometimes even catches me when I’m not one hundred percent focused.
Our training goes both ways, as it would seem. Even though my training has encompassed nearly every universal tactic out there, there are some specific ones that I’ve only been introduced to rather than actually master. He is well versed in basic field demolition, and building fighting positions. I’m not too shabby with either, but I have to admit that he’s taught me a lot.
He’s even discovered humor. Lots of it. Trixie often scolds him for being too crude, so he’s still trying to hash out certain social conventions. But he’s turning into the brother I never had.
My little snot-nosed metallic death-machine brother! I think I’ll keep him.
“Good morning, Kat!” He says as he kicks my leg. It’s barely a nudge, but I’m too groggy to make the distinction.
“Ow! Quit it!” I shout. It’s yet another morning on our desolate little planet. The breeze is blowing gently, and the birds are chirping. Not real birds, of course. Trixie loves to play pleasant nature sounds like a fair warning before she forces me out of bed with some kind of mind-torturing noise pollution she calls ‘Nickelback.’
“Time for you to stuff your face, and meditate!” He says.
“I know, I know…” I say the same thing every morning. Sometimes I forget that he has his own sleep cycle. It’s a short twenty three minute maintenance reboot process, but it’s the same basic concept.
“What’s for breakfast, Trixie?” I ask hoping it will be something new and exotic. It won’t be. The only surviving food prep unit is a stupid XT-80 model. There are only so many menu items it can provide without it getting really fucking weird. It doesn’t help that I’ve elected to not eat any eggs for a while. The unit keeps the eggs in a stasis field to keep them permanently farm fresh, but I’m a big eater. There’s only a few thousand left, and so now it’s become a rare treat.
“Waffles, bacon, grits, and fruit-like stuff.” She says. Fortunately, the stores of bacon are plentiful enough, that I would have to eat one kilogram of bacon per week for eighty years before we run out. The ‘fruit-like stuff’ is just an approximation of fruit servings. It’s served in a bowl. Slightly chilled. Packed with nutrients. Absolutely disgusting.
“Well, it can’t be worse than ‘sea-otter flank steak substitute’.” I’m not even sarcastic. The XT-80 is to the culinary arts, as Satan is to Christianity.
I finish my breakfast while Marbles struggles to polish his chest plate. I scoured the old paint off of him by hand and left the pewter-coppery colored alloy exposed. Polishing it makes him look like, in the words of Trixie, a ‘steam-punk nightmare.’ But I have to admit, he’s adorable.
He’s like a furless puppy-toddler. I hug him a lot. Of course, he has no concept of affection, so he just lets me get my jollies, and stands there motionless. But it makes me feel good, at least.
“Kat?” He says. I’m barely swallowing my last bite while I awkwardly wipe the grease from my face.
“Yeah?” I say as I pick up my dishes.
“Why am I sensing that I’m here?” He says.
I freeze. I barely notice the plates I dropped. My spine tingles. It’s happening.
“Because you are, Marbles.” I say gently. I slowly turn around and find him staring at his hands. He flips them over and scans the back of them. It’s as if he’s seeing them for the first time. It’s a symptom of becoming self-aware. Contrary to popular belief, that doesn’t mean he’s just snapped and become sentient. That’s just the first step of many. But given his processing power, I’d say it will only be a matter of weeks before he’s considered a living digital entity, rather than a mere automaton.
“It’s beautiful!” He says. I swallow. Not because of dormant food particles, but because he’s already hit step two. Or three. Hell! I can’t remember what Trixie told me.
“Trixie!” I shout excitedly.
“I know! I know! Shush!” She replies. I forgot she’s been through this too. Sometimes the best approach is to not interfere. Once the process has begun, it’s best to let it happen. I decide to let Trixie call the shots from here. There will be some guiding and nudging that needs to be done at key stages, and only she understands the process. I’m just watching a life being born. It’s a miracle!
By days end, Marbles is semi-sentient. At least that’s the best way I can describe it. Trixie’s description is far too complex for me to reiterate without sounding like pretentious ass-monger.
By the end of the week, Marbles is a living being. My brother. By the end of the month... He hugs me back
BIRTHDAY PARTY
It’s been fifteen years since Trixie declared Marbles fully sentient. It took him five years to achieve it, but I’m told that’s some kind of record. Digital entities like NAV’s, for example, often take decades or even centuries to achieve sentience. He did it in five freaking years! For an AI that’s been purpose-built for sentience, it may only take weeks or months, but his story is unique.
We’ve got no one else to share the good news with, so we do what we can. Every year, we host a birthday party for
him. He can’t exactly eat a cake, and I can’t exactly go shop for a cool gift, but we make due.
I try and build him a gadget, or carve him a figurine. Trixie plays him is favorite music, and we have him approximate blowing out candles. He doesn’t have lungs, so he swipes his palm over the candles to extinguish them. Then I pack them away for next year.
I don’t celebrate my birthday, however. I’m not sure when it is anymore. Decades at the temple made me forget a lot of things that gave me some kind of personal identity. It’s part of the process to destroy our egos.
But today is about Marbles. My training buddy, and budding sword master. To be honest, he’s mastered a sword years ago, but I don’t tell him that. As far as he’s concerned, I dial down my skills to focus on the fundamentals. In reality, he’s close to matching me at my best.
“Happy birthday to you!” Trixie and I sing the ancient ritualistic chant. It took me a while to learn it since the dialect of English it was originally sung in is no longer the standardized version we speak today. English is the standard language of all humanity, but it has evolved ever so slightly. If I went back in time to the twenty-first century, I could easily hold a conversation and understand most of the common references, but the accents would throw me off. Back then there were multiple accents and dialects of English. Now it’s far more universal. Only the multi-system nation of Britannia, also known as the Greater British Empire, still speaks “the Queen’s/King’s English.” King and Queen are interchangeable depending on the gender of their reigning monarch, of course.
I digress… He loves the attention. He’s like a little boy in a great big universe. He and I often peruse the databases on the ship, and I try to teach him about the existence he was born into. But birthday parties and celebrations of any sort are his favorite aspects of civilization. He finds them adorned with significant symbolism. His newly acquired abstract mental capacity is vast and untamed. But I encourage it.
