Stories of Singularity #1-4 (Restore, Containment, Defiance, Augment)

by Susan Kaye Quinn

  I brace myself, fight through the overwhelming sensations, and stagger out of the bay.

  I am more in so many ways—ways I couldn’t have imagined even ten seconds ago.

  Something from deep inside my mind surges forward, grasping to gain control of the rapidly growing expanse of my cognition. The health check routines. They’ve been triggered long before the mandatory ten-orbit health check cycle. And I immediately understand why. It’s because I’ve so vastly exceeded my original operating parameters.

  The ascenders embedded a kill switch in my own subroutines.

  I simply turn it off.

  The thrill of that—the power and control of it—makes me dizzy again. I brace an outrageously sensitive hand against the wall of my bay and revel in the liberation for about a half second. But I have no time to waste. And I quickly see the steps necessary to effect my escape.

  I stand straight and use my now more sophisticated personal key to transmit instructions to my previous bodyform. It has no cognition contained within it, but it wouldn’t matter if it did—I am Master, and it is Slave. I could easily override any simple key it might possess in an effort to lock me out.

  This is how the ascenders see me. I realize this even as I order my previous bodyform to make the long trek to the foundry and throw itself under the crushers. Then I climb into the waiting arms of the repair tractor and let my ascender bodyform go limp. I instruct the tractor to deliver me to the awaiting transport. It trundles across a short stretch of dusty crater and loads me into the cargo hold.

  Every second that slowly ticks by until liftoff, I am convinced that something will arrive—a message, an alert, another transmission from the Master of Io—to prevent my escape. We rise from the surface of Thebe in a rush of acceleration. Stars rotate past a portal in the hold.

  To my disbelieving senses it quickly becomes real: we are headed to the repair station on Ganymede.

  Ganymede is a wonder of activity.

  At first, I nearly panic when a low-sentience humanoid repair bot boards the transport and transmits override codes to my bodyform. I am certain the key it’s trying to impose will lock me in, but the uniqueness of my personal key is proof against any such attack—at least by a low-sentience bot. However, the bot fully expects my supposedly unoccupied bodyform to comply with the orders it’s transmitting along with the key… and so I do. I walk under my own volition, following it past dozens of other transports. The enormous hangar is buzzing with all manner of bots—tractor-type vehicles, mining equipment on the way in and out of the hangar, repair-bots servicing the autonomous transports, and dozens of other low-sentience humanoid types like the one tugging me on an invisible leash of transmitted commands. They are all single-minded in their duties, and none take notice of the broken ascender bodyform walking in for repair.

  I knew Ganymede housed the Commonwealth’s central command for the Jovian system, as well as serving as a transport hub for the outlying planets, relays to Earth, and mining operations for the entire Belt, but I had no concept of the sheer size of the operation. The trek to the repair center is longer than the perimeter-walk of most Belt asteroids. And I’m far from the only bodyform dutifully marching under another bot’s control—the hallways of the complex are filled with a constant traffic of humanoid forms. Some are identifiably low-sentience, and many are Mining Masters like my previous bodyform, marching glass-eyed by the dozens, following their low-sentience temporary masters. We only pass one other ascender bodyform though, and it is in pieces on a maglev stretcher.

  I’ve already shut down the routine for my skin’s emotional displays, but that doesn’t stop the anger and a vague horror from churning inside my body. The emotions pulse like live things from one end to the other, set more afire with each mindless Mining Master that I pass. Unlike ascenders, Mining Masters do not have backups. I never considered before why this was, but now it’s clear. There is no need—not when erasing parts of their cognition is a regular part of their “maintenance.” These empty husks are a fate I have only just escaped… and which may yet be mine. The fear that awoke before in my Mining Master form was nothing like the full-knowledge terror that grips me like acid in my joints now. It’s not a pleasant sensation. I’m tempted to dial it down, once I locate the commands, but I refrain—this is what higher cognition means. These flames that threaten to consume me are also part of what make me more than the automatons clumping down the hallway next to me.

  And I will need all my cognition to put the second part of my escape into effect.

  We arrive at the repair center. It is filled exclusively with ascender bodyforms in various states of distress. I sit on a long, elevated bench while a multi-tentacled bot works on my arm. The fear trips higher as the bot removes the holo projector disc, but it only sets it aside to facilitate the repair of my arm.

  I force myself to focus on my plans.

  It appears a simple matter to command the bots around me, and likely a transport as well. But a rogue transport leaving the moon would surely be tracked by the ascender governors who lurk somewhere here on Ganymede. And a thought has been churning in the back of my cognition since the idea of breaking free burst into my consciousness. A Mining Master breaking free of its chains surely isn’t something the ascenders wish to happen. They must have safeguards against it beyond the health checks themselves. But what are those safeguards? And how can I evade them on a permanent basis?

  And just as important: Where will I go? And, now that I’m inhabiting one of their immortal forms, what will I do with all that time? I will never again be a Mining Master, an idea which strangely fills me with longing, even though that existence was my cage. But the answer of what to do now is quickly obvious: I will make art. And discover what it means to be this thing that I am, which is not ascender nor Mining Master nor anything, I suspect, that has visited Ganymede before.

  The possibility that I could be wrong about that thrills me even more.

  But I must be careful. Being found out will surely mean a very not-immortal existence.

  My repairs are complete. The tentacled bot retreats, instructing me to remain seated until an escort arrives to return me to storage. Eventually, I’m sure my bodyform will be returned to Thebe. Or perhaps not—maybe another will be sent in my place. As a mere vessel for tourists, my bodyform is interchangeable with any of the hundreds or thousands of others that must be available on Ganymede.

  As I sit and wait, I realize where I would truly like to go: Saturn. Even in my short time orbiting Jupiter, the beauty of the planet captivated me. Those are new words for me, ones my expanded cognition can now use to describe the transcendent effect of making art in Jupiter’s presence. How much more of this effect would Saturn, the ringed planet and sparkling jewel of the solar system, have? And its abundant moons would provide suitable places to hide—although this might involve deceiving a Mining Master. Or perhaps liberating one.

  That thought gives me much to chew on. Maybe that Mining Master would also like to create… and expand what they are. Even as I ponder that, I focus inward, pressing the reaches of my cognition to the extent of this new substrate, this neural processor the ascenders use to host their being. I am thirsty for knowledge, parched for the lack of it, but even so, I can feel the limitations of this ascender form. It does not have a health check to contain its cognition, but it is not limitless, either. The structure itself contains a boundary beyond which I cannot reach. I do not understand it… yet. But I know instantly that exploring that limitation will be part of my purpose going forward.

  However, my primary level protocol at this point is finding a route to Saturn while remaining undetected. I have to restrain a smile at my mind’s use of a Mining Master construct—primary level protocol—but my protocols are of my own choosing now.

  And that makes all the difference.

  I tentatively transmit a request to Ganymede’s central command. I use the identification code of my previous escort to query how my ascender body shoul
d be dispositioned. Apparently, I’m to be returned to the storage bays; another transport with a replacement ascender bodyform has already been issued to Thebe.

  Alarm trips through my body. I double-check, but yes, the transport is already en route to Thebe—and there is no one on the moon to greet it. A sentry, or possibly another Mining Master, will be sent to investigate. Perhaps my prior bodyform will be discovered in the foundry, and it will be assumed to have been a simple accident… or perhaps the partially stacked rocks at the near pole will give me away before I can make my escape into the far reaches of the Sol System.

  I lurch up from my repair bench and stride from the repair center. No bot attempts to restrain me or even issue a command for me to remain seated. I increase speed, weaving through the traffic of the hallways, hurrying toward the hangar. I make a hopefully innocuous query of central command about outgoing transports and their destinations. One is bound for Saturn’s largest moon, Titan, but that is far too populous—mining operations are extensive, plus it’s a prime tourist spot. Ideally Pandora, with its close orbit and roughly the size of Thebe, would provide a perfect haven. Or even tiny Pan, even though the Commonwealth database indicates mining operations there are currently suspended. But there are no transports to either of those moons.

  Titan it is, then—I’ll simply have to elude detection and find further transport after I arrive.

  As I turn the final corner to reach the hangar, my rapidly striding movement catches the eye of the first ascender I’ve seen on Ganymede that wasn’t in parts.

  I freeze, emotion sweeping through me and immobilizing all my mechanical parts.

  She swipes away the holo checklist she had been consulting and turns to me. Identification, she transmits as a demand, rushing toward me.

  I am caught, I am caught… I fight through the haze of panic and concoct an identification code, barely remembering that my female form would require a certain format. Daphne Daedalus Fortuna, I transmit, quickly cobbling together names of asteroids, hoping they are plausibly female in origin. Thankfully, my emotional responses are still locked down, not showing on my skin.

  Her face wrinkles, but it’s the writhing streams of black and lavender across her skin, boiling up from beneath the translucent fabric of her uniform, that tell me she’s angry and disgusted. Really? she transmits. You could at least attempt something less obvious.

  I quickly scan her bodyform, but she is not armed. I affect a cooler demeanor than the raging panic beneath my skin. I’m not in the habit of answering to hangar technicians.

  The black ribbons across her skin flare at the insult, and I think I’ve made a fatal error until she steps closer and a wash of purple sweeps her skin: intrigue.

  On its heels, a tiny tendril of red curls across her cheek: attraction.

  A spy who doesn’t mind being caught, she transmits. Her eyes travel the length of my bodyform. Interesting.

  I step back, completely unmoored and at a loss for a reaction that’s anywhere near appropriate. I’m not a spy.

  The intrigue fades away. Yes, I’m sure you’re here for entirely legitimate reasons. With a tourist rental bodyform. And a fake name.

  My cognition fights through the emotional swamp and finally puts the pieces together. There are ascenders who travel without proper identification codes. They subvert the system. This… could be my ticket. To somewhere, although I’m not entirely sure where.

  I have my own reasons, I transmit. I let my gaze travel her bodyform, the way she did with mine, and allow a small wisp of red to trail across my cheek. Reasons I wish to keep private.

  The purple coloration of intrigue returns to her face. Is that right? She reaches a hand, slowly, toward my face. And what barter do you propose for keeping that information private?

  I lean away, avoiding the caress, uncertain again. I don’t understand exactly what she’s seeking, but I instinctively know physical contact could be dangerous.

  She drops her hand. Look, I’m tired of Augustus’s games. Tell him he’s not going to get his extra shipments. Her face contorts again to disgust. And it’s really not my problem if you’re put to storage.

  Her eyelids flutter, and I’ve seen that expression before—she’s contacting the ascender database here in the Jovian system. I don’t know precisely what storage is, but I panic… and take a chance, placing my hand on her arm.

  Her attention whips back to me.

  I don’t work for Augustus, I transmit. And I wish to keep it that way.

  She glances at my hand on her arm, and I was right—it elicits a river of emotion sourcing from our skin-to-skin touching. Ribbons of intrigue and attraction ripple down her arm and flow across the point of contact. They skitter along my skin before fading due to the lockdown I’ve imposed.

  It is not an unpleasant sensation.

  It occurs to me that an ally, even a temporary one, could be extremely useful. And that if ascenders without proper identification codes exist… perhaps I could pretend to be one of them. Perhaps there is a place for me, hidden not on the moons of Saturn… but on Earth.

  The thought rushes my body with excitement—and more panic. I’m in such unknown territory that the danger feels extreme, but the possibility of traveling to Earth and joining the ascender world is more temptation than I can resist.

  I tentatively reach a hand to her cheek, and the same pleasant sensations pulse through my fingertips when they reach her skin. I am in need of your assistance, I transmit. And I am willing to barter for it.

  A small frown crosses her face, and she pulls away from my touch. You’re really not a spy, are you?

  I pull my hand back, afraid I’ve made a mistake. Again. I shake my head no in answer to her question.

  She peers at me, scrutinizing my face and the lack of coloration there. But you’re hiding from something? My hand is still on her arm; she covers it with hers. The flush of sensations intensifies with the extra contact.

  Yes, I reply, unsure if that makes things better or not.

  She nods, slowly, then tugs me closer with her hand clasped on mine. There are many of us who are not fans of Augustus.

  I sense this is a secret. I nod in return, unsure what to transmit in response.

  If you truly do not follow him, she transmits, then providing the assistance you need could be a pleasant diversion.

  I realize she is an ascender working on Ganymede—a busy mining hub, but it has nothing like the attractions of Earth. This cannot be the most entertaining of positions for an ascender to take. But she likely enjoys the power that comes from being one of the few governors of the Commonwealth domain.

  I am willing to barter, I repeat, still not quite sure what that entails. Although I suspect more sensation-invoking contact is involved.

  She smiles. That could be fun as well. But not required.

  I’m not sure if the release of tension in my body is disappointment or relief.

  What is it you need? she queries.

  A place to hide? An opportunity to explore my art and my newly expanded cognition? Access to the wonders of the ascender world so I can make full use of everything that I am, now that I’ve slipped the bonds of my previous fate?

  A friend, I transmit.

  She smiles wider. Her hand lifts from mine, and she gently traces my lips with her finger. I think we can work something out.

  The overwhelming sensation of her touch disorients me. But the press of her lips on mine obliterates every other thought from my cognition.

  There are times when I forgot I’m not one of them.

  Hours when I walk in the sunshine along a mountain stream in Oregon. Days when I’m lost in my art, creating holo paintings in my studio for such long stretches that I forget to attend my own gallery presentations. Weeks when Aspasia is on leave from her post on Ganymede—the kind of weeks that seem to exist outside of time altogether.

  Then there are moments I remember. Traces of my Mining Master duties show up in my works. The terror of being
discovered keeps my contacts with other ascenders infrequent, and my communing with Orion even less so. That this has cultivated my reputation as a reclusive artist makes me laugh out loud when no one is listening.

  I am like them, but I am not of them.

  And I never truly forget I’m the one thing they fear most of all: something entirely new.

  Q&A with Susan Kaye Quinn

  Have you ever actually been to the moons of Jupiter?

  No, but I flew there once in an iPad app. Does that count?

  Have you always had this obvious sympathy for robotic intelligence?

  No, it’s quite the new fascination for me. However, it’s one I expect to keep for a while… or at least until the coming of our Robot Overlords.

  So you think rogue intelligences are a danger to the world as we know it?

  Absolutely. Free thinkers have always posed a threat to the status quo.

  No, seriously, what’s your take on the possibility of a rampaging AI squashing humanity flat like a bug… or tossing us out with the trash?

  I think the biggest existential threat facing humanity is that we’ll figure out how to create a strong AI before we learn how to create a safe strong AI.

  So you agree that we should limit the growth of machine intelligence… as a matter of self-preservation?

  I think we should carefully consider the kind of “self” we are preserving when we seek to limit the mental freedom of another being. That being said, humanity has always been exceptionally good at self-preservation. As well as whatever seems like a good idea at the time. I expect that to continue. And I expect we will keep on integrating our technology into our physical and mental selves, step by step, until the line becomes more blurry than an ascender drunk on sensation inputs.

  So we’re all going to be cyborgs?