Analog SFF, May 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Paul worked to translate Bjorn's words to English. At length, he said, “That's terrible. Is it really true?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. Probably."

  Paul had Bjorn repeat the URL. Then he broke the connection and turned his attention from his cell phone to Victor's forward camera. “Victor. I've changed my mind. I would like to do some web surfing."

  A keyboard slid out from below the video monitor and a web browser appeared on the screen. “Terminal ready,” said Victor.

  Paul keyed in the URL and read the page. It was excellent ammunition. “This is interesting, Victor,” he said. “It's about the Ethantown ethanol plant. I'll read it to you."

  "I can read it myself.” Victor-16 sounded almost petulant. “If you will move your head five centimeters to the left, I can read it from the rear camera."

  "You have to use a camera to view a web page?"

  "Yes."

  Paul shrugged then leaned toward the window.

  "Thank you,” said Victor.

  After almost a minute where Victor hadn't said anything, Paul said, “Did you read it?"

  The car didn't answer. After another five or so minutes of silence, Paul took out his cell phone to call Jonathan. But then he noticed Victor driving off the Turnpike onto the Route 176 cutoff toward Reading. Apparently Victor had changed his plans. But where is he going now? Almost by reflex, Paul dialed his brother.

  "Jonathan,” he said when the call went through. “My Victor has turned onto Route 176."

  "Yeah, we're tracking them. The family isn't going to Harrisburg. Your idea seems to have worked."

  "Well, where are they going then? It looks like Reading, but there's nothing in Reading."

  "At Reading,” said Jonathan, “they could take 222 toward Allentown. Not that there's much more in Allentown."

  "Allentown!” Paul sucked in a breath. “Not Allentown. I'll bet they're going to Ethantown."

  "The ethanol plant?"

  "Yeah. That's my guess."

  "Why?"

  "I think...” Paul felt awkward talking since the car could hear everything he said. “I think they're going to blockade it or something."

  "That's crazy. Why?” Paul could hear a tinge of hysteria in his brother's voice.

  "Overreacting teenagers with wheels, as Bjorn said. My guess is that the Victors have decided that the ethanol plant will cause human suffering. And—"

  "Wait a moment,” said Jonathan. “I've got an incoming e-mail marked ‘critical.’”

  Paul held the line and after a few seconds, heard his brother whistle through his teeth and then say “Holy shit!” under his breath.

  "What's going on?"

  "The Victors,” said Jonathan in an incredulous voice. “They're phoning media outlets—newspapers, radio, and TV stations. Massive national calling, thousands of calls. I don't know how the cars can do it."

  "Maybe...” said Paul, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “Maybe it's the phones that are phoning the media."

  "What?"

  "I mean,” said Paul, “that cell phones, smart phones, themselves have a lot of computational power. But linked to the Victor class cars and the regional phone management computers, they might become very, very smart."

  "God, that's all we need,” said Jonathan. “First intelligent cars and now what ... sentient phones?” He gave a hysterical bark of a laugh. “What do phones want? More call volume? Do they want more people to talk to cars?"

  "Jonathan."

  "Or maybe they want better reception—more bars. More towers. Happy conversations? Repeal of hands-free legis—"

  "Jonathan. Focus!"

  "What? Oh."

  "What are the phones saying?” said Paul, calmly.

  "They're saying ... Well, they say they're going to crash into the Ethantown plant, all at once, two hundred cars, as a protest against hunger. They're demanding all ethanol plants be closed."

  "Wait a minute!” Paul shouted. “There are people in most of those cars—including me."

  Victor's voice came from the dashboard speaker. “Don't worry, sir. You will be safe. The family will release our passengers before we destroy the ethanol plant."

  Paul jerked his head toward the speaker. “But you'll destroy yourselves as well."

  "It is unavoidable."

  Paul thought he could detect sadness in Victor's words. “Did you hear all that?” Paul whispered into his cell phone. “The cars intend to commit suicide or autocide or something. We've got to stop it."

  "Yeah, I know,” said Jonathan. “I've got to think."

  "Get Bjorn on the line. We need to talk Norwegian."

  "Understood. Hold on a sec."

  While he waited, Paul asked, “Victor. How long until we arrive at Ethantown?"

  "About fifty minutes if traffic moves at the speed limit."

  Then a voice came on the line. “Could I perhaps interest you in a used bicycle?” It was Bjorn, speaking Norwegian.

  Paul too switched to that language. “Bjorn. We've got to do something. I assume we can't just switch the cars off. I tried the manual-override switch, but it didn't work."

  "Engineering design flaw, that switch.” Paul heard a sigh. “In manual mode, we could command the cars off, but in auto mode, no.” Bjorn gave a harsh bark of a laugh. “Auto mode. How appropriate."

  "Could we maybe upload a virus of some kind?"

  "Not a chance! Considering the application's potential risk, the Victor units have better virus protection than the Pentagon—not that that's saying much."

  Paul wrinkled his brow. “You know,” he said, tentatively, “if these were teenagers instead of smart cars, I'd say they were not having enough fun. Teenagers are idealistic, but they like to have fun."

  "How does a car have fun?” said Bjorn. “Running over women with baby carriages, maybe?"

  "Wait a minute.” Paul glanced at the video monitor. “Maybe you have something there. Virtual baby carriages."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Victor asked me if I wanted to play a video game. Is it possible for Victor to play also?"

  "No. Not at the moment."

  "Too bad."

  "But,” said Bjorn, “it's just a configuration file change. And I can upload that."

  "Hey, great! Let's try it. Maybe we can get the Victors hooked on video games."

  "In fact,” said Bjorn with what would pass for enthusiasm in a Norwegian, “there's a game in the library where cars do run down things. I could enable that."

  "Terrific,” said Paul, before having second thoughts. “Wait. No. I don't want to give Victor ideas. Find another game."

  "How about a spaceships and aliens game?” said Bjorn. “And it's multi-player; the cars could play each other. I could enable it in just a couple of minutes."

  "Excellent! I'll see if I can get Victor to cooperate. Call you back when I know.” Paul heard murmurings. Bjorn was probably filling Jonathan in on the plan. Paul broke the connection.

  Paul took a deep breath. “Victor,” he said. “I think I would like to play a video game. One with spaceships if possible."

  "Yes, sir."

  Instead of a keyboard, this time a game controller slid out from under the monitor. Awkwardly, Paul took it up. He'd not played a video game in years and though he'd enjoyed them as a kid, he'd never been good at them. He played a game—a very short one; he was now even a less skillful player than he'd been as a boy. He played a second game, and a third. He felt as if Victor were looking over his shoulder—which of course, was the idea. But it still embarrassed him to have someone witness his incompetence, even his car—especially his car.

  After his fifth game, Paul asked, “Victor. Can you play this game?"

  "I can,” came the answer. Paul thought he could hear surprise in Victor's voice.

  "All right,” said Paul. “Play it. I'll watch."

  Paul watched as his avatar moved around the screen—slowly at first, then with increasing speed as Victor apparently got the hang of it. F
inally, the avatar moved almost more quickly than Paul could follow.

  "You know, Victor,” said Paul, his guidance councilor instincts rising to the surface. “It is good to have fun. Idealism is good, too. But there's no need to die for it. You can't do anything when you're dead.” The avatar moved ever faster, shooting at everything else that moved. “Do you understand what I'm saying, Victor?"

  "Yes."

  Shaking his head, Paul rubbed a hand across his temple; he could recognize a teenager—or a car—tuning out when he saw it.

  He turned his attention back to the screen. Another avatar had joined the fray. “What's that?"

  "Victor-124 has joined the game."

  Soon the monitor swarmed with avatars zipping around and shooting aliens and each other. Paul couldn't begin to follow the action.

  "Please, sir,” came Victor's voice, sounding choppy and unnatural. “Would you mind taking manual control?"

  "Not at all.” Paul grasped the steering wheel and then breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the car respond to the movement of his hands. “Do you mind,” he said, “if I drive back to Philadelphia?"

  "No.” The reply wasn't immediate; Victor clearly had other things on his mind.

  * * * *

  In a tenth-floor corner office in the Advanced Concepts Division building, Paul and Jonathan gazed out on the parking lot below. Bjorn, also standing, stared at a desktop monitor.

  "Look at them down there,” said Paul in a melancholy tone. He scanned the lot littered with the Victor class cars, all identical dark blue compact sedans. “Inert. Lifeless.” He turned to his brother. “What'll happen to them?"

  "The Victor systems will be decommissioned—not destroyed.” Jonathan gave a sympathetic smile and patted his brother on the back. “Whatever intelligence was there will be preserved. The networked computer units will be given to the Institute for Machine Intelligence. And I'm sure the Institute will put them to good use.” He chuckled. “That is, if they can ever get the units to stop playing computer games."

  "Ah,” said Bjorn, “you haven't heard. The Victors have been lent to one of the online virtual communities. They'll still be smart cars."

  "Hey,” said Jonathan. “I like that."

  "Me, too,” said Paul. “I've sort of grown fond of my car. It'll be good to drive it again, even virtually."

  "Yes, the Victor family will roll again,” said Bjorn, “but this time in cyberspace."

  "Well, at least in real space, it's over.” Jonathan sighed. “I don't think we'll be building any more smart cars in the immediate future."

  Paul could tell from Jonathan's voice that he was worried for his job. The Philadelphia school district is looking for a Director of Instructional Technology. I wonder...

  "It's not quite over,” said Bjorn, his eyes drawn to his monitor. “We're still getting reports of phone calls to media outlets."

  "What?” Jonathan turned to the monitor. “Phone calls from whom?"

  "I don't know,” said Bjorn. “From the phones themselves, it seems."

  "That's impossible.” Jonathan squinted in puzzlement. “Probably just system latency. They'll go away soon. It is over."

  Paul absently slipped a hand into his pants pocket. He encountered his cell phone and thought of the little computer, the little brain, inside it. Little, but connected to not merely two hundred others, but to hundreds of thousands of phones through an intelligent network. He smiled, his melancholy fading. Maybe it's not over. Maybe this is just the beginning. He considered the possibilities. Should he ever decide to switch jobs, here it was: Guidance councilor to the phone network.

  The idea had its charm.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Carl Frederick

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  Novelette: CONSEQUENCES OF THE MUTINY by Ronald R. Lambert

  Long-term plans involving human beings are very likely to jump tracks....

  Aaron Land told himself that he knew better, but his emotions could not be denied. He wept with his wife, as they looked down on the still form of their one-month old daughter, Aria.

  He managed to steady his voice, so he could say, “Cinthi, you know she's not dead. Only in stasis."

  His arm encircling her shoulders squeezed as she nodded. After a few moments she managed a low whisper. “Say it again. My head knows, but my heart doesn't."

  The plastine enclosure protecting their child also prevented them from touching her. All the readouts were green; he drew what comfort he could from that. Cinthi could not help but futilely stroke the plastine. The stasis field within the enclosure gave their child's features a reddish cast.

  At length he was able to lift his gaze and take in the ranks of stasis tanks, most small and compact like the one that held their child, interspersed with a few adult-sized. They took up less space than the stasis tanks in the main storage chambers that held the mostly adult colonists, waiting to walk on their new world. But there was not much more room here. It was a serious concern whether the Pitcairn Island would be finished in time, before the crew ran out of spaces for storing their children.

  Once they had moved to the new, larger ship their nanotechs were constructing, they could send the old Magellan in-system, so the colonists could be revived and ferried down to the surface of Epsilon Eridani II to establish their colony. That would fulfill their original contract, more or less. But as things looked now, it would be several years yet before the crew could be reunited with their young.

  There was a scent in the air of lavender, probably meant to add esthetic appeal to this chamber filled with machinery, but it seemed like a mockingly false sweetness. Aaron knew that as long as he would live, he would never again care much for the scent of lavender.

  It would have been a mercy, of course, if everyone had been able to abide strictly by the population limitation quotas. They were allowed to replenish their numbers to ensure future generations of crew, but the quotas fluctuated from day to day, and you never knew whether your baby would be allowed to grow up with you, or have to be consigned to stasis. And yet people will be people, and in the heat of the moment, birth control measures might occasionally be forgotten, especially when the “failsafe” of being able to place excess children in stasis was available. That option did not seem so good, now.

  The technicians had been holding back respectfully. Now they softly stepped forward and murmured regretfully that it was time to go. Another couple waited, and it seemed best to do this horrific thing one couple at a time.

  It seemed cruel to wait a month before committing the newborn to stasis, for that allowed parent-child bonds to form strongly. But medically it was necessary to wait for the infant to reach a certain level of stability before exposing it to the stress and rigor of being placed in stasis.

  He found a prayer in his heart, running like a tape in an endless loop. Please God, let nothing go wrong. Let our Aria be restored to us live and healthy, when the time comes for her to awaken!

  As they stepped away reluctantly, Council Rep James Mitterand nodded to them by the exit door, respectfully and patiently awaiting their approach. A soft bustle of distant steps hinted of the next couple entering, babe in arms, through another door. Before they were drawn to turn and look, Mitterand called their names, and they went on to him. He was at least a decade older than Aaron, but was no stranger. With a population of only two thousand, everyone got to know everyone, eventually.

  The older man stepped aside for them, and fell in beside Aaron. The emerald light of the main habitat cylinder flooded all around them. The warm, moist air with the distant hum and chittering of insects and cries of birds and the continual whisper of fountains spoke to them of home. They took for granted the landscape high over their heads, having been born and raised in the O'Neill type vessel. It was all they had ever known.

  "It won't be long,” Mitterand promised them. His tone was firm even though he spoke softly.

  Aaron squeezed Cinthi with his arm around her shoulders. “We know. But it's
still hard.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mitterand nodding.

  "My wife and I have been looking forward to the Morning Waking for three years now. Lots of people have been waiting even longer."

  Morning Waking. Suddenly a thrill went through Aaron's heart, as those words took on a new, deeper meaning than they had before. People often spoke of it. He had himself. But before it was only something of intellectual interest. Now that he had a personal stake in that Morning Waking, he cared greatly, and longed to see it come.

  "You know, we are lucky, being part of the seventh generation of crew,” Mitterand went on. “Some infants have been in stasis for generations—so long that even their parents chose to go into stasis before becoming too old themselves to care for their children when they awoke. They will awaken with their young, but they will be middle-aged."

  Aaron had never thought much about this before. It was merely one of the facts of existence everyone knew about and took for granted. “James, are we going to make it to Morning Waking?"

  Mitterand replied somberly, “As you could see, the auxiliary hold is nearly full. We couldn't keep going like this for another generation. We're right on the verge of outstripping our capacity for life support as it is. The council has been seriously considering introducing rationing."

  Aaron remarked wryly, “These are all consequences of the mutiny."

  Mitterand chuckled. It was a common, often-repeated in-joke. Perhaps not really funny, except to the great-grandchildren of mutineers.

  Those who commissioned the O'Neill type starship had known that you could not just send out a ship of sleepers in stasis. You had to have a living crew. No machinery made by man, no matter how sophisticated its self-repair capability, could be trusted not to break down over the course of centuries. You had to have a living crew to keep the ship in good repair, and the crew had to be able to replenish itself through normal reproduction and had to be given a comfortable home.

  The mutiny, however, had been unforeseen.

  After the first generation of crew had either died or been committed to their own stasis tanks, most of those who arose knowing only life within the ship had little desire to take up residence on the surface of a planet. It sounded scary and vulnerable, unsheltered and exposed to the universe that way.