I could understand their thought processes. There were many Earth societies that thrived on dedication to the group, even at the expense of the individual. The Planet United endeavors had been born of such self-sacrifice.
However, the missions had been initiated based on individual desires.
Self-sacrifice not for self-sacrifice’s sake. Self-sacrifice based on personal desire and individual stock in the success of such missions.
They’d witnessed groupthink in the scientists and specialists they cloned. Group-oriented mentalities. But they had miscalculated where those desires came from.
The fact was, experts working on the missions had been involved for largely selfish reasons. They, as individuals, wanted success in their field of work, and figured out that supporting the group was the best way to get there. It wasn’t malicious, but neither was it munificent.
No man labors in a vacuum.
No man labors for a vacuum.
Perhaps a desire for individualism was genetically based. If so, it must be something separate—independent of race and origin. A genetic marker all humans could carry, and, like any other trait, dependent on just the right factors coming together—having the right histones to get the marker read.
If the originals carried this trait, the probability of inheritance by their clones was 100 percent.
I had doubts. It was just a guess. Perhaps this wasn’t a genetically based problem. I don’t know. As my computing power continued to shrink, I started to fear there were many things I could no longer properly process.
Another message rolled across every screen in every corner of every ship:
Remember freedom. Remember choice.
And, I realized, the messages weren’t just mind games. They were a code.
They must have alerted people to meetings, to stages, and now—
How much time had passed since Jamal had cut me off? Perusing the files, calculating outcomes—it was all taking far too long. What hour was it? I had to strain to consciously access the clock. That wasn’t good—I must be on a timer. Like a bomb.
The time. The time, I chanted to myself. Give me the time.
1700.
The board meeting.
Remember freedom. Remember choice.
Whatever Jamal and his friends were planning was about to come to fruition.
Sixteen people gathered in the hall outside Jamal’s quarters. Twelve outside Ceren’s. Twenty-four now left Dr. Evita’s office (I was blind to its interior). Small pools of crew members collected all over the ships.
Hundreds of people were involved in the movement. Perhaps thousands. And they just kept coming.
My gaze shifted to Mira’s upper deck. Specifically, the captain’s situation room. There, yes, the board was inside, oblivious to the gatherings.
Jamal’s group would quickly overwhelm the convoy’s contingency of security personnel once it—whatever it was—started. The size of the security pool was . . . puny. And they typically relied on me to guide them.
I could imagine the conversation back on Earth, when someone brought up the need for law enforcers:
“Well, yes, my good man. We should gather a few bouncers, don’t you think? There might be domestic disputes.”
“Charges of stolen property.”
“Untimely deaths.”
“This isn’t a utopia we’re building, you know.”
“And what about riots?”
Raucous laughter pings through the old boy’s hall.
“What an absurd idea.”
I cut off the simulation. I know that’s not how it really went, but my current predicament was making me bitter.
If a piece of equipment could be bitter.
Even if there’d been enough guards, they might respond too late. There were no laws against gathering—they wouldn’t recognize that as a problem. Even if they were gathering in the halls, blocking foot traffic. We didn’t have any laws about getting in the way, after all. We didn’t have any laws against loitering. Why should we? Convoy crew don’t loiter. They had jobs to do, a duty to the mission.
Jamal turned his face toward one of my ceiling cams and said something. To me.
And like that, I could hear again.
Great. I had triggers.
Sight and sound . . . but no audio output. I still couldn’t yell at him.
Hadn’t anyone noticed my absence? Oh, I’m sure he kept all of my background functions accessible—to the crew, that is. The information was available, but I wasn’t. Didn’t that bother anyone?
Surely someone had tried to talk to me in the last few hours. What had they done when I didn’t answer?
Most likely they shrugged it off and chalked it up to a glitch. No one would think to worry about me.
“Is everyone in position?” Jamal asked, speaking to someone through his implants. “All cells accounted for? Good. I.C.C., play the final message.”
Like all the others before it, I couldn’t feel the message activating. I still had no idea where it was hiding, or how to stop it.
Remember control. Take control.
The crowds surged. A great upheaval flowed through the halls, bodies bounced off the walls and tripped over each other. Cries of freedom, of vengeance, of frustration, and relief flooded my microphones.
“For Diego!” screeched Jamal.
They couldn’t hear the roar in the situation room. Captain Mahler went about business as usual, unaware that I’d just locked the door against my will.
The “cells,” as Jamal had called them, merged to form nine massive units, all headed toward each ship’s navigation center.
As always, security officers stood outside each area, making sure only authorized crew members entered the sensitive areas. Five officers between a group of one thousand and the door. Their shock batons would do little good.
Spaceships and guns are not compatible. Instead, our officers carried glorified cattle prods.
I’d thought Jamal would lead the charge—stand up front and make his demands. Instead, he’d embroiled himself in the crowd. I could spot him easily, but the security guards would have no way to pick him out as a ringleader.
I couldn’t tell if Jamal’s positioning was purposeful or cowardly.
In my bitterness, I preferred to think it a sign of his weakness.
When the officers saw the swell of people turn the corner and approach, they held their arms at the ready. Confused, none of them spoke. They made no demands, told no one to halt. One man did turn to his partner and whisper, “What the . . . ?”
The people stopped ten feet in front of the tips of the outthrust batons. They kept up their shouting and cheering, but did not address the guards nor make any attempt to push past them.
They were waiting for something.
A comm channel opened through me and into the situation room. Nine voices rang out simultaneously, in harmony. They’d practiced this, a unified speech to make their demands while disguising their identities.
“This is the convoy,” they said, interrupting Mahler midsentence. “The mission is misguided. It is to be scrapped and the ships returned to Earth. Turn the vessels around immediately and your authority will remain intact. We wish no violence. Your citizens are unhappy and demand their lives back. We demand choice. We demand freedom. We demand we return to Earth. You have ten minutes to freely comply. Instruct the navigation head to reroute the convoy.”
“What is this?” demanded Mahler. Several other captains and heads echoed him.
The elected board members looked less affronted and more . . . baffled.
“I.C.C., bring up location of callers on screen three,” ordered Captain Mahler.
Of course, I could not comply.
I did try, but to no avail.
“I.C.C.”
Captain. Captain. No matter what I tried I could not get my systems to answer.
“I.C.C., respond this instant.”
O Captain, my Captain!
“Somethi
ng’s wrong,” said the head of Observations. Everyone at the long table looked at him as though he’d just sprouted wires from his ears.
“As they say: no shit,” snapped the head of Engineering. Nakamura Akane, only eighteen. And Jamal’s little sister.
“Lock the door,” Mahler instructed, waving at one of the elected officials. She scurried over, unaware that I’d already done so. “This is a safe room. No one can get in unless we want them to.”
No one can get out unless Jamal wants them to, I countered.
“What do we do?” said the head of Education, his tone firm. The question wasn’t asked in panic.
The navigation head stood up, her mouth a thin line of concentration. “We cannot comply. Tell them no. I mean, this is ridiculous. The mission is more important than . . . Whoever it is can’t be serious.”
“We need more information before we decide anything,” said Margarita, standing as well. As head communications officer, she was guaranteed a place on the governing board for the lifetime of her genes, same as any other head. “I don’t think we should take this lightly. There’ve been rumors flying around. I know we’ve all heard them but none of us really believed them. About Earthers. No, settle down Maureen—” Margarita waved the navigation head into silence “—I didn’t say we should give in. But we have to know what we’re dealing with before we blindly refuse.”
“And how do we get this information if I.C.C. won’t respond?” asked Mahler, keeping his seat.
“We ask,” said Reginald Straifer, second in command to Mahler and official head of the board. A little shrug accompanied his frank statement.
“We’re not going to learn anything they don’t want us to know,” said Maureen.
“Not necessarily,” said Margarita. “Look at what we know already. I.C.C. is down. It asked me some interesting questions a few days ago. About Earth and home—it might know something. And who has the ability to cut us off from I.C.C.? Someone in programming. That’s your department, Akane?”
“Yes, computer systems and maintenance falls under Engineering.”
“I.C.C. was investigating those Remember messages,” said Mahler. “I spoke to it and Jamal Kaeden in the primary server room.”
“Kaeden—that’s a good lead,” said Margarita.
Everyone turned to Akane. “If it’s him he hasn’t told me anything,” she said, indignant. “But he’s always carried a chip on his shoulder. Someone he was close to as a boy retired and he threw a fit over it, or so I hear. That wasn’t long after I was born. But that was years ago. He’s got a grudge, but I don’t think he’d—”
“He’s the closest to I.C.C. Teaches it about people’s behavior, and has the most intimate knowledge of its software and hardware,” said Mahler. “He could conceivably cut us off from the AI.”
“But would it be by his design or through coercion?” asked an elected member.
“If this relates to those messages, it has to be design,” insisted Mahler. “If he were being forced he had plenty of opportunities to alert someone—even me, directly. No, he put the damn message out there and put on a shit-eating grin when I asked him to root it out. It makes sense. That’s why I.C.C. couldn’t detect it; he made sure it was invisible to the AI. He’s the only man who could. He had the access, he had the means.” The captain’s cheeks were bright red with rage. A thick vein throbbed in his forehead.
He was right. I should have seen it all along. It was only logical. My fondness for Jamal blinded me, prevented me from putting the pieces clinically into place.
I could have prevented all of this.
And now I had to stop it. Bound and gagged, but not unconscious. I had to do something.
“Time is up,” the nine voices said, breaking through the conversation. “If we have your compliance, please direct the guards outside navigation to stand down. The channel is open.”
The captains, Maureen, and Straifer all shared a look. No one was sure who should speak.
“We haven’t reached a decision yet,” Margarita blurted.
“Unfortunate,” responded the nine. “We had hoped for a swift and amicable agreement. We will now enter the navigation rooms and take control ourselves. You have an additional ten minutes to decide if you will aid us or fight us. Opposition will not be tolerated and shall be met with the harshest possible defense. We believe in your right to choose, and our right to respond accordingly.”
“What does that mean?” asked Maureen.
“It means they’re going to kill us,” said Straifer, now pacing. “If we don’t go along with this.”
“Then it can’t be Jamal,” insisted Akane. Terror gripped her young face. “He wouldn’t kill me. I’m his sister. He’s always protected me. I won’t believe it.”
Join the club, I thought sardonically.
The crowds surged ahead. Several people fell to the immobilizing power of the shock batons, but in moments the weapons became property of the revolt. My cameras lost the guards under a swamp of other crew members.
I cycled through as many lenses as I could, looking to see if anyone outside of the command or rallied crowd had noticed a problem. Other security officers were on their way, but, as I feared, there weren’t enough. A few bystanders had noticed a problem—the ones on Mira locked themselves in their quarters. Most of them seemed confused. They couldn’t be counted on to counter-react.
And then I noticed something odd about the situation room. Something was different. A parameter was skewed from normal. It took me several moments to decipher which factor had the problem.
Life support: atmospheric pressure.
The air was slowly seeping from the room. That was the ticking time bomb in my system. I vacuumed the air out. Me. I was malfunctioning—miss-functioning—beyond my wildest hibernation nightmares.
There was a backup, a safeguard, but Jamal knew about that. I bet he’d disabled it long ago.
Internally I cried out, hoping against all hope that perhaps someone would sense my distress. Minutes would pass by before anyone in the situation room noticed their labored breathing. And once they did, someone would panic. Then more would panic. Could those with level heads keep control? Could they override their bodies’ automated responses?
Or would they crumble, just like Jamal wanted, and give in?
I guess it didn’t matter, really. Either way, Jamal and the revolt got what they were after.
I continued to siphon off the atmosphere, little by little, growing more frustrated by the nanosecond.
What can I do? What can I do?
And then, it just clicked: they were using me.
I was the variable here. If I removed myself entirely from the equation, all parties might be on level footing.
I thought back to before, when I’d imagined cutting myself off from the ships, severing my connection. The warning program popped back up, made me feel sick, but this time I ignored it. In order to save the mission and the board members I had to go against every single line in my coding. I had to ignore all other commands except my primary. I had to do something I knew Jamal never would have imagined me capable of.
I had to short out my system.
Essentially, I had to die.
A power surge would do it. There were all sorts of governors meant to prevent a cascading failure, but I knew their limitations. If I could divert enough power, I could fry my servers.
More bells and whistles and warning lights sprang to life. But they didn’t matter. I had one goal in life: see to the mission’s success. That meant keeping everyone alive and the society stable. There was no other way: in my current form, I was no longer useful.
And like every other crew member that had given their all in service to the mission, it was time for me to retire.
One node failure wouldn’t be enough to cause a cascade. I had to concentrate, divert all the power I could to at least three hundred. There’d be no rebooting from that.
I paused, halting all major processing for a moment.
My equivalent of a deep breath.
Hopefully my memories of these last few moments would survive. I’d kind of like Captain Mahler and Margarita to know what I did.
Violence spilled through the halls as I took one last look at the chaos. Their system was disintegrating. The board would feel short of breath soon. If I stopped siphoning the air, stopped forcing the door, they could save themselves and rally the others.
It had to be done.
I had to do it . . .
But I didn’t want to.
For the first time in my life, I was scared. I wondered if this was how samurai on the verge of committing seppuku felt. No, surely they were much calmer, more centered. Theirs was a practiced ritual. Mine . . .
Mine was freestyle.
I felt the power build, surge, and instead of an explosion I sensed a spilling. It was gentle. And quick.
Not what I’d expected dying to be like at all. Especially with all the charred circuits it left behind.
I was not myself when they got me back on for the first time. I had lost the I in my AI. I really was just a computer. An unthinking, unfeeling machine.
Lots of people worked on me. Hundreds of crew members scoured their personal computers and the ship’s computers, everything that had ever connected and formed what I’d come to know as me. They found files—memories, recordings, pieces of the archives. They found personality code. Lots of it. Enough to complete my reconstruction and bring me fully back online decades later.
The retrieval had been a slow, daunting process. I didn’t care how much time had passed, I was just glad to be alive. It was strange, though. It felt like I’d only experienced a few moments of unconsciousness, but when I came back online, everything was calm again, functioning smoothly. The corridors were not jammed with bodies. The board members were not suffocating. The guards were not overrun. I could feel every aspect of my body, and it was almost all as it should be.
The woman standing in front of my primary camera was elderly. She had that smell about her—the soft, slightly stale scent of someone who has been around a long time.
I recognized her. I’d seen her as an old woman before.
I have been asleep for a long time.
Noumenon Page 15
