“Another reprimand followed when you provoked an argument about religion between Kiaya and Ekaterina …”
“I was promoting intellectual discourse.”
“Then you abused our ‘no locks’ policy, entering Barbara’s room when she was absent to fill her boots with jam. A grade school prank. Embarrassing. I gave you 12 hours in the cell.”
“Fair enough. I wasted perfectly good jam.”
“And all this against a backdrop of borderline insubordination and complaints from half the crew. You reassured me only days ago that you’d tighten up your act.”
Annie shrugged, unrepentant. “I was provoked.”
“Have you read this?” Hunter indicated the copy of Wake Up Call.
“What?” The change of tack seemed to throw Annie momentarily. “Yes, of course. Did we even have a choice? I read it.”
“And?”
“Oh … I thought it was magnificent, a triumph. By turns passionate and clinical, you took me on a roller-coaster journey through women’s history, pulled no punches in exposing the myths of the present, and then painted an electrifying vision of the future. This will surely go down as the seminal work of 8th wave feminism. 5 stars.”
For goodness’ sake, Annie, thought Flora. Must you provoke her?
But Hunter showed no reaction to the young technician’s needling. “So you’ve read the back cover blurb. What about the contents? I refer specifically to the last three chapters. The lack of women in GSEC, the need for role models, the symbolic importance of this mission? I spent a fortune financing it, scoured the planet to find the very best talent -”
“Scoured the northern hemisphere, you mean. If you call this crew representative, then, ah …” Annie trailed off abruptly. Hunter had scythed through her with a simple glare.
“Enough, Grace. Don’t speak again until you’re out of this room. Do you know how many applications I had for your position? Thousands. Thousands of women would have killed for this honour, but I chose you, because I thought that you were the best. More fool me. Instead of a grown woman I’ve got a spoiled little boy, lashing out with tongue and fist. 24 hours in the cell. And, Grace, please don’t think for a moment that you’re indispensable. There are contingencies in place for the loss of any crew member, myself included. The moment I decide that your disruptive tendencies are outweighing your usefulness, you stay in that cell for the rest of the mission. Or maybe I’ll drop you off at the nearest planet and let you hitch-hike home. Dismissed.”
Accompanied by Bala, Annie left without another word.
III
… It is with great pleasure that I announce my intention to lead an all-female team on a mission of interstellar exploration. We’re going to send some clear messages to future generations: we belong amongst the stars, we can thrive amongst the stars. And, while we’re happy to work with men, we can manage just fine without them.
What I am proposing will be the first privately funded mission to leave our solar system. A pipe dream? No! I’ve already researched the expense at length. I have the funds and will happily part with my whole fortune if it makes this vision a reality. By the time you hold this book in your hands, construction will have already begun earthside. We leave on January 1st, 2157.
Of course, I need a crew, and that means you! I want women with expertise in science, math, navigation, piloting, engineering, recycling technology, programming … and more besides! Full details can be found in Appendix C.
Join me in sisterhood, and together we’ll make history …
– Miriam Hunter, Wake Up Call
Flora was alone with her captain. The stern blue eyes turned their challenge on her. Now it’s my turn in the firing line.
Hunter indicated the door through which Annie had exited with a minimalist jerk of the head. “Thoughts on that?”
“On the specific incident with Barbara, or more generally?”
“Either. Both.”
“Well, in her defence she’s an excellent worker. Understands the KSD better than anyone, myself included. And Barbara does make some pretty frivolous requests.”
“True, and I’ll probably have a word with her about that later. But it hardly justifies violence. Having a prison cell on board was only ever meant as a reminder that certain standards are expected of this crew. Now Grace is threatening to become a permanent resident. You work with her more than anyone – I imagine that you understand her character better than I do.”
Flora bit the tip of her little finger in reflection, and found herself thinking of Charlie and his questions about emotions. Which one of these was driving Annie? Anger? Lust? Sadness?
“Boredom,” she said aloud. “I think that’s at the root of her problems.”
“She’s bored? Out here, exploring uncharted space, making history?”
“Well, it’s human nature. Once you settle into a routine, it becomes mundane, however spectacular the setting. With Annie, she’s the youngest aboard, very energetic. She needs an outlet. And … I think you’ve got to realize that she signed up for this mission mainly for an adventure. She’s never really bought in to the underlying feminist ideology.”
“And you? Have you ‘bought in’ to it?”
“You know I have.”
“Do I?” Hunter let the question hang in the air for a moment. “Can you guess why you’re here?”
“No.”
“It seems that you may have breached my rules with regard to the ACMs. Specifically ACM-4.”
“Charlie.”
“Yes, I understand that you’ve given them all names. There’s no rule against that: an oversight on my part. But your conduct has been rather more disturbing. I recently had a complaint from a crew member who decided to use the ACM-4 unit for a session -”
“Who?” Flora broke in a little more sharply than she had intended.
“Do I hear jealousy, Cartwright?”
“No …”
“Good, because, as you know, the ACMs are common property, available for any woman at any time. The crew member in question has complained that the unit was responding poorly to her wishes; it seemed obsessed with conversation and, when it came to the actual intercourse, it appeared … well, ‘preoccupied’ was the word that she used.
“I investigated. And I found that you’ve been spending a unhealthy slice of your off-duty time in that room, with sessions as long as 5 hours in some cases. That would account for ACM-4’s odd behaviour: robots like this are designed to adapt themselves to the wishes of their users. The inordinate amount of time that it’s spent in your company has left it ill suited to anyone but you. Or have you manually adjusted its programming to suit your tastes? You’ve got the skills.”
Flora felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. “I haven’t reprogrammed him,” she managed. “At least, not in the sense of opening him up and tinkering with his personality. Of course, my knowledge of artificial intelligence makes me the ideal guide in his quest for a more sophisticated personality. I understand how he learns, and can act as a teacher.”
“Indeed?”
“And it’s my business what I do with my own time,” added Flora, with a flash of defiance.
“Under normal circumstances, yes. But you’re a grown woman, responsible for your decisions … one of which was to join my crew and follow my rules, including the ones relating to the usage of the ACMs. At the risk of being crude, their function is sex, not romantic relationships.”
“But I’m not having a relationship of any kind, Captain. The truth is, my interest in Charlie is purely professional. As you know, programming and artificial intelligence are fields that I’ve some expertise in. Watching his adaptability subroutines in action as they’ve slowly changed his personality has been both fascinating and educational for me, but there’s no emotional connection.”
Flora struggled to appear calm as she waited for Hunter’s reaction. The technician’s breathing was laboured and sweat soaked her back. She really wasn’t cut out for s
ubterfuge, but if she could just convince this woman that she was conducting an experiment then it would make things so much easier for her. She’d thought up her story well in advance; surely it was more than plausible?
The captain shattered her illusions with a smile and a shake of the head.
“Flora, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a truly dreadful liar. Your voice changes, you avoid eye contact, you rub and scratch your face. To be honest, after so many years trying to read the expressions of granite-faced businesspeople, it’s quite refreshing. But the reality is that you have a problem.”
“It’s not a problem for me.” Not much point in persisting with the lie.
“I’m not so sure about that. It’s a problem for me, in any case. Do you know why I specifically warned against emotional entanglements with the ACMs? It undermines our message. We’re meant to be showing that women can take care of themselves out here in the depths of space. Now, maybe I shouldn’t have brought those things aboard in the first place, but I could see the sense in giving our hetero crew members an outlet for their sexuality. However, as soon as you start treating them like real men, you’re saying that we can’t handle this endeavour without a supportive male presence. I shudder to think what our resident journalist will write about this.”
“If you hadn’t brought her along for the ride we could simply leave this chapter out of the story.”
“No!” Hunter usually kept her emotions under pretty tight wraps. Her flash of genuine anger made Flora jump. “We’re not here on some petty PR exercise. It has to be real, or it’s meaningless. Now, you’ve got a problem, but you’re going to beat it.” She tapped briskly at her computer. “You’ll have heard of Scarabelli syndrome? I’ve been reading up on it.” Her eyes scanned the screen. “Benito Scarabelli, a 21st century psychiatrist, did extensive research into the phenomenon of infatuations with artificial intelligences. It seems he found that what had previously been thought of as a problem affecting young male virgins was actually far more wide-spread among women than anyone had realized. Unlike their male counterparts, female sufferers tended to have had unhappy or traumatic relationships with men prior to experiencing the syndrome. Symptoms – this is the really worrying part, Flora – a withdrawal from reality, poorer relations with friends and colleagues, less care over physical fitness, declining performance at work.”
“None of those things apply to me.”
“No? Well, even if that’s correct, there’s every chance that these symptoms will crop up sooner or later. You’ve already lied about this, and shown jealousy. Quite unlike you.” She shook her head. “Come on, Flora. You understand AI a lot better than I do. You must realize that it’s all illusion: the product of programs running in data cells. Standard romantic subroutines. Your “Charlie” would cease to exist if someone yanked out the right wires.”
“You or I would stop existing if someone lobotomised us. Look, I’m not going to deny that I’m conflicted about this, but the question of artificial consciousness isn’t as cut and dried as you make it sound.”
“There have been legal battles over the status of automatons in the past, many of them much more advanced than the rather crude, single-purpose models that we have on board. The verdict was always the same: for all the genius that’s gone into making them, AIs just aren’t sophisticated enough to be considered alive.”
Flora shrugged helplessly. “Captain, I just feel there’s something more here. He’s changed so much since we set off, become so much more … real. I’m asking you to let me carry on with him. Think of it as an experiment.”
Hunter gave her a long, hard look. Flora even thought that she’d convinced her for a moment. But then came a slow shake of the head.
“I’m sorry. But I’ve conferred with Wanda, and we’ve agreed: it has to stop. There are various approaches to treatment, but it seems that a personality reboot - restoring the unit to its factory settings – has proven effective. The sufferer is forcibly yanked out of her fantasy when confronted with the artificial nature of her lover. I’m going to have Sandra conduct the procedure. I’m afraid that I’ll have to confine you to the cell while she goes to work; I don’t want you doing anything foolish. I’ll arrange to have your next shift covered.
“Again, I am sorry. And I appreciate that this has been embarrassing.”
Flora stared back at her defiantly. “Humiliating might be a better word.”
“Accepted.” The captain operated her wristband. “Bala, could you step back in here?” The security officer entered almost immediately. “Escort Cartwright to the cell please. It’ll probably just be for a few hours.”
With as much dignity as she could muster, Flora departed.
* * *
Watching Flora leave, shoulders tight with anger, Hunter’s unflappable expression might have been forged from steel. Her long years spent building up her business had taught her the value of maintaining a poker face even when no-one else was around to see it.
But beneath the surface was sadness and doubt.
I’m losing her. As I lost my daughter …
She remembered her first meeting with Flora Cartwright, feeling both flattered and embarrassed at the young Englishwoman’s obvious hero worship as she thanked Hunter for changing her life. A few years later she’d cried when told that she’d got the job of chief technician.
They’d grown close on Earth, but drifted apart in space, even before this incident. Nor was it just Cartwright, she knew: walls had grown up between her and most of the crew. As a businesswoman back home, she’d always made the right moves when it came to staff relations. Out here, something had changed.
Was she being too authoritarian? Had the spaceship setting subconsciously prompted her to adopt a more militaristic style of leadership? Or was she simply too driven, too obsessed with the mission being a success?
It’s already a success, she told herself. We’ve visited stars that were only ever points in the sky before, charted close to a hundred new worlds, been the first to set foot on five of them.
But she knew, deep down, that she’d always hoped for more than that, for some epic discovery that would never be forgotten. That was what drove her, and her crew were beginning to realize that. Her own unrealistically high expectations may be dooming the mission to failure. When the independent journalist she’d invited aboard came to write the story of this voyage, it would be more soap opera than grand adventure. A frustrated captain, a dissatisfied crew, punch-ups and forbidden love. Perhaps it might be given a more positive spin in feminist circles but … beyond that? Would it have the long-term resonance to justify the colossal expenditure?
I practically bankrupted myself funding this mission. If it fails, they’ll remember it as Hunter’s Folly …
* * *
Flora stepped into the cell. She half expected the door to clang shut behind her, but it closed with the same airy swish as any other one aboard ship. The room she had entered was small, grey and lightly furnished: chair, table, bed. The table held only a deck of cards. Ordinarily, it also boasted a copy of the ubiquitous Wake Up Call, but this appeared to have been flung into a corner.
The perpetrator of this crime against literature was lounging on the bed, arms folded behind her head. Annie glanced up at the new arrival.
“Bitch,” she said, with no great passion.
“Me, Hunter or Barbara?”
“The captain. Well, Barbara as well, obviously, that goes without saying. But Hunter, our legendary empress, the wannabe saviour of the universe.”
“You know, you shouldn’t really be throwing punches at your sister-explorers.”
“Don’t you start. Anyway, why are you in here? Anything to do with your favourite sexbot?”
“You could at least call him ACM-4, even if you don’t want to go with Charlie. And yes, you’re right. They’re resetting his personality. And his memories, presumably. Back to factory specs. I’m in here while they’re working on him, presumably to stop
me going on a rampage or leading a mutiny.”
“Typical,” spat Annie. “She cares about all women … except the ones in her crew. What a jackass.”
“I don’t think that’s the word I’d use.”
“Well no, you’re English, so you’d say ‘Oi, mate! She’s a bloody wanker mate!’”
“‘Wanker’ is actually traditionally targeted at men, and … yes, I do believe that’s the worst imitation English accent I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah, thanks. Anyway, welcome to my second home. I’ll give you the grand tour: that cubicle in the corner’s the bathroom. Tour finished.”
A lull in conversation. Flora retrieved Hunter’s book, smoothing the pages thoughtfully. She seated herself at the table.
“Fancy a game of cards, Annie?”
“Strip poker?”
“Incorrigible. Hey, someone’s written something in the margins of this book.”
“Yeah, that was me. Last time I was in here I smuggled a pencil in with me. I wrote a whole novel in the margins. Feel free to have a read through, you know I always welcome feedback.”
“My sanity’s still recovering from the last time I read one your stories. Rather crass, if memory serves. And the implausibly wonderful heroine was called Angie Lace.”
“Oh, that was months ago. I’ve blossomed as an author since then. I use metaphors, references to great works of literature. See for yourself.”
With a resigned sigh, Flora flipped to the beginning of the story. Annie’s looping handwriting was crammed into every available space, starting on page one. She read:
It was a fine Dakotan summer morning. I had finished my tedious work working for the bank that morning, and was enjoying a brisk walk home through the cruel, driving rain when I saw her.
Yes. I saw … her.
She was sitting there on a park bench, bathed in sunlight that accentuated her dark, lustrous hair, sending it all a-sparkling. She was wearing a broad sombrero and a pink bikini that left me knee-deep in drool. I knew at once that she was the one for me. The woman oozed class, bled sophistication and sneezed – Yeah, sneezed! – raw sex appeal.
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