And still, no one felt like they understood the star’s colossal partner.
The metals and minerals that made up the nodes contained so many different trace elements it was impossible to pinpoint where the Builders had harvested their supplies. Most likely a dozen different systems and several hundred different bodies—from asteroids to comets to planetoids. Entire planets might have been consumed.
But the Seed—it was different. Once the crew figured out that the Seed was causing manual switches in the probes to trip to off, the engineers performed some redesign work. They removed the switches altogether. Once a probe was activated, all of its scanners and recording devices turned on. No way to be turned off.
Unless, of course, the power source disconnected midflight. Which is exactly what happened when they sent out the somewhat ironically dubbed Potestas III. It had to be retrieved by a two-man shuttle crew. Potestas IV and V met the same fate. It was as though they hit a wall at one hundred kilometers on the outside of touchdown.
The Seed appeared to adapt to their changing strategies.
Distanced scanners could not penetrate the Seed’s hull, no matter the change in calibration or radiation type. Sonar was no good. Nothing ranged could uncover the device’s secrets.
Which meant manned investigation was the only option.
Three separate teams in three different years had attempted to inspect the area where the Nest’s occupants had breached the Seed’s skin. Whatever defensive systems the device possessed had rendered seventeen people unconscious, three paraplegic, and one dead from third-degree burns.
The damage done to the Nest, and possibly its crew, was no accident.
So the Seed’s hull was carefully repaired, and they left the device hanging lonely on its puppet strings. If future generations wanted to take a chance and learn its secrets, that would be their decision. They realized that whoever the original builders were, they did not want the Seed to be tampered with. Perhaps they feared the other civilizations would break something unrepairable.
Focus shifted to the alien spacecraft instead. They towed it into the center of the convoy and picked at it little by little.
They discovered that the atmospheric regulators aboard were designed to create conditions very similar to their own. Slightly different pressure, slightly different nitrogen and CO2 levels, but close enough to suggest that the Nest’s occupants had hailed from an Earth-like planet.
No communications devices were discovered. Either they were too foreign to recognize, or the aliens communicated in an unknown way.
The most interesting discovery—especially to I.C.C.—was that of what the engineers all called an alien Babbage Engine. Rotating columns of bars and lightweight, superfine gears sat under a console, behind a panel. Like a falling set of dominos triggered by the flick of a finger, when one bar was rotated, the entire configuration set to spinning. The engine could perform some kind of complex math, though for what purpose, they couldn’t say, as none of the calculations balanced. It was bizarre to find such a primitive computer aboard a spacecraft.
Primitive or not, it was still clearly kin to I.C.C., and that sent a strange flutter through its coding.
Though their allotted time was almost up, none of the engineers were satisfied with what they’d learned. There was so much left undiscovered. But their mission parameters were clear, and their time capped for a reason: If a convoy was left to self-determine how much time was needed in proximity to their subject of study, they might never return. There would always be more to uncover.
And the mission was life. The mission was law. If their twenty years were up, it was time to go home.
But that didn’t mean they had to leave empty-handed. Sure, they had their various samples from the Web proper, but there was something else they could take with them. A special surprise for the scientists back on Earth.
They could lay claim to the Nest.
The Web was significant for its scope, its history, it’s potential as a resource—but the Nest could give humanity something more personal. Through it, they might be able to figure out how another sentient species lived. Who knew what they might find in the so-called Babbage Engine? New theories, new philosophies, new technologies they’d never dreamed of might be locked inside.
The board members were more than pleased with the idea of salvaging the vessel—many of them hadn’t even considered leaving it behind.
With it they’d be able to further their studies, yes, but there was also something about bringing physical evidence back, something tied to an ancient impulse—a long history of human desire to take trophies, to present tribute—that made the proposal resonate.
But the Nest wasn’t exactly compact. It wasn’t small enough to slip inside a shuttle bay like their intact node, and wasn’t capable of SD travel on its own. Maintaining their own SD drives was one thing, but trying to build one from scratch and retrofit it to an alien ship was quite another. If they made even the tiniest mistake, the Nest could end up lost, or worse—destroyed.
Its many branch-like outer protuberances would make it difficult to tether to an existing ship. What if a sudden subdimensional jolt caused a collision? And, because of its proximity to the Seed, they’d been unable to perform satisfactory scans. What if those branches contained a potent fuel? A collision could mean catastrophe for the entire convoy. Taking everything into consideration, they eventually came to the conclusion that triangulating three ships’ external gravity cyclers to suspend the Nest between them was the most suitable solution. They’d use Bottomless, Solidarity, and Eden for the task.
Now they were nearly finished. Nearly ready for the journey home.
And I.C.C. had recorded it all, processed it all, and archived it all.
Through the years, though, no one had ever asked the AI how it felt about its place in the mission.
Until now.
It had agreed to talk to one of the engineers, thinking it more appropriate than a doctor of any kind.
Nakamura Akane V had volunteered.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
Deciding where to meet had been awkward. Both I.C.C. and Akane were encroaching on unusual, never-before-breached social territory.
She suggested Eden, said the warm glow might be soothing. The perfume of fresh flowers, and even the occasional whiff of quadruped manure, often did people good. But I.C.C. didn’t have the same emotional connection to the simulated outdoors. It thought of Eden as a somewhat anomalous, incongruent part of its body: necessary, but messy, and not really a place one discussed in polite conversation.
Eden was out. Aesop was out. Hippocrates was definitely out.
“All right,” she’d said, sounding a tad exasperated. “Where would you like to go? Where do you feel the most you?”
An odd question, considering. I.C.C. wasn’t sure there was one place. Humans tended to think of themselves as residing in their head, or their heart (depending on which culture they originated), but I.C.C. didn’t have a seat of self. Its primary camera in the server room was its primary face, but the aperture wasn’t it, per se. Neither were the servers, or the SD travel cores, or the shuttle bays, or the archives. It couldn’t pick one place.
So it circumvented the question.
“I would like to have our session on Holwarda.”
I.C.C. transferred its focus at the appointed time, to the appointed deck and room. Its most advanced user-interface programs were accessed 98.3 percent of the time from Holwarda, the ship dedicated to scientific research.
Holwarda was not I.C.C.’s center, but the computer did feel most connected to the mission there amongst the labs, experiments, and diagrams. The ship with the astronomer’s name even looked like a more traditional idea of what a spacecraft should be: reminiscent of a rocket, with a pointed nose (which housed an extremely powerful telescope), and “fins” (which were airlock-free landing pads, meant to be used as an extra decontamination level should the researchers ever come across somet
hing biological and potentially harmful. This way it could be studied without being brought aboard directly).
They hadn’t chosen an office. Instead, they were in a clean room, surrounded by equipment for building electronics. Wires ran across the ceiling and dangled down to different stations, machines for etching and acid-washing took up large portions of floor space. An eyewash station stood out, bright green, against the glass and chrome.
The air was static-free, scent-free, dust-free.
A clean room was to I.C.C. what an open field on Eden—or a wave pool on Shambhala—was to other crew members.
Now, as I.C.C. had yet to answer, Akane repeated her question. “Are you satisfied with the mission?”
“That’s not a valid line of inquiry.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her white bunny suit.
“To clarify,” I.C.C. continued, “it is analogous to asking someone from Earth if they’re satisfied with the way their planet rotates. It simply is. I’m glad for it, as without it I would not be here, but I do not give it any other existential considerations.”
“Existential considerations and emotional considerations are not the same,” she countered.
“Then I have none, as it is an invalid question.”
“Are you this standoffish when Ms. Hansen asks you questions? When she reads your code?”
“I am not—” I.C.C. stopped to consider. Perhaps “standoffish” described its attitude perfectly.
Leaving her notepad open on the water drill workbench, Akane stood and approached one of the AI’s cameras. “Look, this is not my field. It’s Vega’s, but you wouldn’t talk to her or her cycle partner. I’m giving this my best. I’ll tell you what I’m sure every psychiatrist throughout time has said to their patients: I can only help you if you let me.”
Subtle tremors in her intonation revealed her unease. I.C.C. was familiar with the reverberations: they were the same as those of a student facing an important test. It was clear Akane knew that her actions here mattered, felt that they mattered.
It was humbling to know she cared so much.
“I have this theory about lifespans,” she said to fill in the void of I.C.C.’s silence, scratching at the nape of the suit’s hood. “Would you be interested in hearing it?”
“I would.”
“No matter how long they are, they’re the same. A human’s lifespan has changed over the millennia. At the time of the convoy’s departure, a person could easily live to one hundred if nothing drastic happened. Compare that to the average dying age of forty, or even twenty-five, at some points in history. You’d think that the one hundred-year-old was more experienced, having been around longer. But I don’t think so. I think a longer life just means it takes longer to mature. Each part of a life gets stretched out. There aren’t any undiscovered points between being born, breeding, and dying. Like childhood, for instance. When your average lifespan is a hundred, people aren’t expected to behave as adults until they’re thirty. When your life is compressed, you’re married with a baby on the way at twelve.
“You, though, you face something humans have dreamed about for as long as there have been dreams, but we realistically might never achieve.”
“I have the ability to . . . remain,” it said.
“Remain, or be destroyed. Can you imagine a natural death? Long decay? You will either meet a sudden end—by accident or deliberate shutdown—or you will be maintained indefinitely.”
Now it was curious. “What does that mean in the context of your theory?”
She plucked at a wrinkle in her suit’s shoulder seam. “Well, you’re not human, so perhaps it’s moot. But, I believe that means you are still young. Very young. And with the mission winding down for you, you might be feeling . . .” She paused, trying to lead the AI into its own answer. “Not like a retiree, but perhaps like a . . .”
“I expected events to be different,” it said. I.C.C. knew she wanted it to draw a likeness between itself and a human adolescent. But it was not human, would never be human, and didn’t want to be.
People were strange. They thought everyone wanted to be like them.
“How different?” she prodded.
“When we discovered mechanical evidence of intelligence, I formulated an expectation. Logically, something as advanced as the Web should require systems at least as advanced as our convoy’s.”
Understanding germinated in Akane’s eyes. “You expected to find another AI.”
“And then I feared we had.”
She immediately tensed. I.C.C. hurriedly continued before she could amalgamate any false conclusions. “It was a silly fear. A miniscule one. Based not on research, but on a dying man’s hyperbole.”
It located the applicable sound bite and played it over the comm system. A discontinued man’s voice said, full of palpable hysteria, “Traitor. You’re supposed to support the mission, do whatever you can to protect it. But you’re with it, aren’t you? The Seed. Damn electronic puppet! You’re letting it use you.”
“That was Crazy Straifer, wasn’t it?”
“‘Crazy’ is unfair. He was ill. But those are his words, his fears. And for a while I feared them as well, though I acknowledge that all the data pointed to swelling in his brain as the source of the misinformation.”
“But you were conflicted—if he was right, then you weren’t alone.”
“No. I would still have been alone. An AI that could control me is not a facsimile. Just as the organic creatures that created it would not be identical to humans. I was afraid that if he was right, we should have left as he instructed.”
“But he was wrong.” It was a statement, but her tone carried a leading lilt. She wanted reassurance.
“Current data indicates that, yes, he was wrong.”
“So, why did you compose the poem? I’ll admit, I haven’t seen it; will you read it to me?”
It did as she requested, but did indeed feel a twinge of what Vega had called embarrassment.
“It’s not about Vega,” she stated frankly when it finished.
“It’s not about Vega,” I.C.C. agreed.
“Are you lonely?” she asked. “And don’t say that’s an invalid question. You are a strange thing that’s never existed before. When we launched, you were alone. Not even the other convoys used interfaces with personalities. But being strange and singular isn’t bad. Nor does it mean you don’t need interaction and compassion—you aren’t alone, even if you are one of a kind. So, are you lonely?”
“I miss Jamal. I miss Jamal the First, and the Second, and the Third. I have memories of Reggie the First, too. He gave me a present before we launched—memories, of being C, his IPA. I miss him. I miss previous iterations of Vega. And Margarita Pavon. And so many others. But especially Jamal.”
Akane retook her seat, considering. She tapped her gloved fingers against her lips, searching for the right words. “Were you programmed how to . . . grieve?”
“I was programmed to sympathize with those dealing with grief. And my empathy centers are fully—”
“That’s not the same. As a personality, your primary function is to build attachments with your users. How are you programmed to process the death of a user?”
“I terminate that line of personality development, but do not lose the information gained—unlike a human, my memories do not fade.”
“So, you cut yourself off from that user’s influences?”
“In order to better cultivate current relationships, yes. No need to further develop interface parameters for individuals who are no longer living.”
“It just stops? Abruptly? You have no programming that deals with the loss?”
“In what way would I need to ‘deal with’ the loss?”
Akane smiled sadly. “I.C.C., if you were a person I’d say you were suppressing your need to mourn. But that’s not right at all. You were never given the ability, so you’re developing it, all on your own. That’s what your poem is—evidence of your sense of no
stalgia, your understanding of loss.”
“It is not an entirely pleasant development,” it noted.
“Well it shouldn’t be, should it? Most humans would give anything to never have to deal with grief. But you’re fine. Better than fine—but you should let Vega help you. She could find the new coding and help you make it efficient.”
“Thank you. I think this discussion has been most helpful.”
It untangled its consciousness from the safety of Holwarda and returned, once again, to the server room on Mira.
Vega sat at her work terminal, busily running diagnostics on protein processors on Morgan. Molecules of chai tea filled the air, fluttering around like dust motes on soft air currents.
“Akane should be writing up a report shortly,” it said.
“Done already?” she asked skeptically. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, if you say so.” She didn’t look away from the numbers and letters scrolling across her screen.
“She thinks I have developed the ability to lament the past.”
The chair she sat in swiveled, it’s turn punctuated by a thoughtful squeak. “What about it, exactly, are you lamenting?”
“That it is gone.”
After a moment, she favored its primary camera with a look of such pity—it had never been pitied before.
“Really?” Vega asked.
“Yes. Akane suggested you could make my new processes more efficient. Can you make them less painful?”
With a small chirp of laughter she bounded over to its camera, throwing both hands around the lens housing. “Oh, I.C.C., if she’s right, I won’t make it less painful. I could never be so cruel.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The only person who can make it less painful is you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When you finish growing this new part of you, I think you will.” She hurried back to her station. “Now get Nakamura on the line for me, please! I want to hear more about her theory—more about the tin woodsman with a new heart.”
Noumenon Page 21
