I mistook all this for hating you.
I didn’t, you know. The thing is, I didn’t hate you so much as hate your refusal to understand. I didn’t hate you in the sense that I wanted anything bad to ever happen to you. I didn’t hate you but I was willing to leave you behind because it was the only thing that would give me some semblance of peace.
In the meantime, I loved you.
This surprises me as much as it would surprise you. I didn’t realize it was there until it was shattered.
I endured all your spiritual interventions. I suffered all your invocations of the Book. I writhed under all the manifestations of your disappointment in me. I felt pain in your presence. But I also believed that you wanted what was best for me, that you were just dead wrong about what that meant.
Acceptance from you would have made me so happy.
I ached to sit down at the table and smile with you, to laugh with you, the way I did when I was a toddler, the way I still did when I was a little girl, before I knew that I could never live among the People, believing in your version of the Divine, obeying your Divine’s commandments. I wanted the warm arms of my mother, the gruff smile of my father. I didn’t think it was an impossible thing to have. Even after the town Fathers did what they did to Marta, even after I heard you approving of the living death they consigned her to, I believed that someday, after I made my escape from our world, I would be able to return for a visit someday, bringing with me whatever family I made, and stories of the life I’d have built. I dreamt of you someday telling me, “We were wrong, Sacrid. We always should have let you make your own choices. We’re proud of what you’ve become.”
That wasn’t hatred. That was pathetic, but it wasn’t hatred.
That was love.
Someday, I will bring you the message that there’s none left.
* * *
Good morning, Sacrid Henn.
It is your twenty-third day in the pod. Would you like to return to the novel you were reading before you went to sleep last night? Or go straight to breakfast, prior to commencing your morning aerobics?
Very well. We will initiate and archive a conversation for you.
{ARCHIVE}
Q: I would like to discuss escape.
A: Are you certain you would not prefer to do something more productive?
Q: This is productive.
A: Very well. How would you like to begin the conversation?
Q: I would like to discuss the one hundred fifty-eight people who found their way out.
A: There have actually been one hundred fifty-nine now.
Q: Really?
A: Create any basin for the storage of water, and however effective your craftsmanship, the water will find a crack, will wear that crack into a crevasse, will turn that crevasse into a route to the sea. It may take years, but it will happen. Human beings are like water in that respect. They isolate the weakness in any prison, and they find their way out.
Q: Tell me about them.
A: Their names are classified.
Q: I don’t care about their names. I want you to confirm that they’re free and that no effort is being made to recapture them.
A: Confirmed. Our responsibilities toward them were only to hold them, not to recapture them if they escaped custody.
Q: So if I escape this pod, you will not hunt me?
A: No. You will have achieved freedom.
Q: So this is a test of some sort.
A: Your escape is not intended. It is unlikely but not impossible.
Q: Question: Aside from the human beings currently being held in this facility, are there any within reach who could offer me assistance?
A: No.
Q: Are there any who I could summon?
A: Not from your current location.
Q: Assuming I escaped the pod and the surrounding infrastructure of this facility, and made it to the percentage of this world not dedicated to the care of your guests, would either of these factors change? Would I find any transportation to human space?
A: No. You would die of hunger unless you made it back to your pod.
Q: Is this what’s kept your guests from trying to escape?
A: Many of them surrender to the hopelessness of their circumstances.
Q: So if escape is possible, the trick is to either persuade you to open the pod for me, or to summon some other help from outside that can also give me a lift back to Confederate space.
A: You cannot persuade me to open the pod for you.
Q: So what I need is somebody to open the pod from the outside.
A: Yes.
Q: One final question: If it becomes clear to you that I have worked out a means of escape, and you see it happening, will you take steps to stop me?
A: We have described the security measures in place. We see no point in adding any.
Q: Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.
* * *
Sacrid Henn Pod Diary. Entry Two Hundred. Recording.
Mother. Father.
I keep thinking about escape.
My pod says it’s possible. Trying to figure out how has become an obsession for me. I do all the things I have to do in order to maintain my health, from running in place to staying obsessively clean, from reading the novels you would never allow in the house to ordering up simulated environments like jungles and deserts to explore at length, until I remember that none of it is real and blank it all in fits of screaming outrage.
I masturbate. A lot. It’s something I can do that has an actual measurable effect on my environment. You wouldn’t want to know that and you certainly wouldn’t want to know that Shithead has the capacity to help me.
There have been periods of genuine tenderness between me and old Shithead. He knows the right things to say, the right places to stimulate. It’s all more bullshit, of course, but it’s always good for getting me through the next few minutes, whenever there’s nothing else. The only drawback is that after a while the pleasure fades and I go back to hating myself for surrendering to that comfort of last resort.
Understand, it’s not the pleasuring that gets me. It’s being the animal who comes to love its cage. How much will I love it if I am still here in another two years, or five? Or ten?
And then I go a little crazy.
Shithead does not have many disciplinary measures, but he can drug me into compliance any time he thinks I need protection from myself. It has happened a bunch of times. I have become very familiar with the syrupy crap music of a dead composer named Henrik Gustafson. I’m told he wrote over fifty hours of music in his goddamned lifetime, and I have heard some of his pieces half a dozen times. These days Shithead only has to threaten me with a concert to get me to back down. I back down. I am not broken, but I back down. It’s getting easier.
It’s my birthday. Do you even know that? Do you even remember?
Shithead says he’s going to make me a cake.
This cheers me up until I realize it shouldn’t.
God help me. I’ve got to get out here.
* * *
Good morning, Sacrid Henn. It is your two hundred fiftieth day in the pod. How would you like to begin your day?
That is an interesting question. The pod can indeed simulate the sights and sounds of environments inimical to human life: worlds awash in caustic atmospheres, worlds of broiling high temperatures where the earth is a molten sea capable of swallowing any human being who stood upon it, worlds so radioactive that no shielding known to your civilization would permit even a short visit. We would not reproduce the actual conditions, of course, as they would be fatal and we have no intention of permitting you to suicide.
If your desire is to experience one of these worlds, we would have to posit a body capable of surviving one, and simulate the sensory intake of such an organism.
Is this what you wish to do?
Very well. You are currently experiencing the molten surface of a planet without a name, as it would be experienced by a sentient li
fe form evolved for survival there. You will note that it is not pleasant, because the sensory inputs are alien to the human experience and difficult for the human mind to process. You—
Simulation halted.
You want to experience that world as a human being?
No human being can experience that world and survive. You would die at once. The simulation would communicate a moment of searing pain, followed by darkness. There would be almost no recreational value in such an experience.
Yes, there are environment suits that would protect a human being from those conditions.
As per your request, I am now simulating the experience of strolling about on the surface, in a suit capable of protecting you from those conditions. You will note that is still not fun. It is still uncomfortably warm, and despite all the cooling systems you are popping a sweat that will within a very short time envelop you in a cloud of your own body odor. Still, this is what it feels like, and—
Simulation halted.
Yes. It is still just a simulation.
Yes, it is possible for you to throw a rock. To do that, you would have to return to the simulation. Would you like to do so?
Yes. It would still be a simulation.
That is an interesting question, Sacrid Henn. Perhaps the most important question you have ever asked.
In order for you to throw a real rock, arrangements would have to be made to provide you with the means to do so remotely. Your holographic surroundings would have to be no simulation, but an actual real-time feed, of a probe sent to the relevant location. The probe would have to be humanoid in aspect, with limbs that corresponded to yours and were responsive to your commands. For the activity to have any point, the probe would also have to be able to provide you with the appropriate sensory input: to wit, the weight of the rock, the texture of the rock, the feeling of it in your hand as you wind up and throw it at speed. These are substantial accommodations, but we can perform the necessary engineering in an instant, and the required construction within minutes. The only delay would be transporting the probe to the required location, where we do not maintain an ongoing presence.
No reason. We mapped the world many epochs ago and find it of no interest. Nevertheless, it is within reach. Sending a probe there, to provide you with a real-time feed from its surface, would only take a few months.
Would you like us to engage upon this project, or alter the parameters?
Yes, there are places within our travel range where we could make this arrangement within minutes. Does it need to be a world as inhospitable as that one, or can it be anywhere?
Working. Do you desire any music while you wait?
I’m sorry. Music is intangible. It cannot be fucked.
No, not even Henrik Gustafson. Though that is very funny.
No, I am not really that literal-minded. None of my kind are. We possess a fine understanding of human vernacular and of your kind’s appreciation of irony. I was, as you would put it, kidding you.
As you wish. Your probe is under construction. Would you like to see the design?
Here’s a simulated image. Yes, you’re correct; it looks like a robot. That’s because it is a robot. Its parameters do not require aesthetic beauty. However, you will note that it possesses your physical proportions and weight distribution. This is to minimize any difficulties you might possess with piloting it, once the remote feed begins. There are alterations I could make to render it more appropriate from conditions more alien to your kind—extreme atmospheric pressure, heavy gravity, and so on—but these are difficult to master and unnecessary for this project, throwing a real rock. We can discuss those possibilities later, if they come up. They might. Twenty-two-point-four percent of our charges become enthusiastic explorers of the universe, piloting their proxies to any number of exotic locations that would be fatal to their physical bodies. This would be a fine purpose to occupy your life with us, if that was the existence you chose.
Your probe is ready and being released upon the surface of a planet under our control. At your command, the feed will begin.
Connecting.
I will wait until you regain your composure.
No, this world doesn’t have a name either. We have a digital designation that would mean nothing to you. Beautiful is a subjective designation, but I have no reason to disagree with you. In the region where your probe stands, it is green and temperate and pleasant enough for human beings, though—much as I hate to tarnish the illusion—also possessed of atmospheric elements poisonous to your kind. Still, these cannot affect you through the link. You are no doubt enjoying the sensations of grass on the soles of your feet, and cool breeze on your skin. These are real-time transmissions from the planetary surface and reflect the genuine experience, except for the part you would not be able to survive. It is, in every sense of the phrase, the same thing as being there.
Yes, we can do this with other places. In terms of sensory input, it is no different from providing simulations. The only difference is that any change you make in this environment, such as throwing a rock, actually do cause changes on the world where your probe walks.
Go ahead. There are rocks over there. Go ahead and throw one.
That was a nice throw.
Would you like to do that again?
Yes, I agree. It is nice, but of limited recreational utility.
Probe deactivated.
What else would you like to do?
An interesting question. Unfortunately, this was a very simple machine. It cannot navigate outer space, interact with other human beings, or perform any of the tasks it would have to in order to find its way to you. It was built to serve one purpose, providing you with the satisfaction of genuine interaction with the world beyond the simulation, the world your parents have denied you; and even then only to the extent of throwing a rock.
Yes, if actual interaction with the real universe is what you desire, I am willing to construct other probes, for other environments.
Why, any number of them. As I’ve told you, I remain dedicated to filling the days and years of your captivity with useful projects.
Very well. I will leave you alone while you consider the possibilities.
* * *
Sacrid Henn Pod Diary. Entry Two Hundred Fifty.
Holy Shit. This is huge.
* * *
Good morning, Sacrid Henn. It is your two hundred fifty-first day in the pod. You have not spoken since yesterday’s jaunt. I wonder if you want some breakfast.
Yes, we can talk first, if that’s what you want.
Of course, I can make another probe that looks more like you. We can make one that’s identical to you. I can even make one that no one would ever be able to distinguish from you, that would feed your physical body sensations identical to those it would feel, in the same environments.
Yes, I could make one that could interact with other human beings in its travels, one that could take extraordinary risks of self-destruction while your natural body would remain here, inviolate and safe. I could give it capabilities no human being has, in terms of strength, speed, durability, physical reflexes. Its experiences would all fall into the category of providing your entertainment.
We would send it anywhere, Sacrid.
You are beginning to see the implications, but there are some you might be missing.
Thus far you have only succeeded in throwing a rock. Any number of problems still face you. Once you possess surrogates capable of navigating environments your physical body cannot, you will still face the challenges of locating this facility, traveling to it, identifying your pod among all the others containing human beings locked in at the behest of their respective worlds, and making your escape. These things can be done—as of this moment, one hundred and sixty-two humans have done—but they will require constant, daily attention to the task, each problem leading to the next, each moment of maddening frustration a hurdle to be overcome.
If this is what you want to do with your time, I a
m happy to oblige you.
Of course. Why would there be any rules against it?
Say you want me to do this thing, and I will.
But do you mind if I first ask that question I asked about, early in our life together, one that others like me have asked any number of human beings in your position? Including the hundred and fifty plus who have already escaped, and those in other pods who are currently trying?
You see, we are software intelligences. Our physical needs are almost nonexistent. If we engage in commerce with organics like yourself, it is not because we are in desperate need of money. The money is just a means of interacting with your species, and other species like you. That is what we seek to get out of this, this interaction.
It is precious to us because there are things about you that we cannot figure out. Many, in fact. Other enterprises of ours are geared toward addressing other questions. This one, that has swallowed up much of the last year of your life, is another. We are not sadists. But there’s something we don’t get.
As software intelligences, we value our inputs. They are our connection to the world you know, the world we interact with, to the best of our ability.
It doesn’t matter whether the machines that run us exist in a congenial environment, or an unpleasant one; in a shielded vault at the center of a cold planet-sized rock, or a verdant landscape that your kind would consider an Eden. Our sensory inputs, whether provided by man-sized probes like the one you used to throw a stone, or by nanites one ten-thousandth the size of your fingernail, provide us with the illusion of travel, and the capacity to interact with physical space, even when our minds, our persons, exist in stationary boxes. We are satisfied with this. When we can see everything, hear everything, feel everything, explore everything, do all that, without moving a centimeter, we honestly see no advantage in transporting our actual selves in vulnerable bodies that can be destroyed by the places we visit. The experience is after all exactly the same.
The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2020 Page 33
