But The Stars Page 10
Vichy crouches, looking beneath one of the consoles at an access panel. He gestures to Benson.
“What’s behind this?”
“Not sure. I think it houses the autonomous guidance system.”
“But you haven’t opened this, right? You’ve never seen behind this panel.”
“No,” Benson replies.
“What about you, Naz? Cap? Mac? Have any of you seen what’s behind here?”
They all shake their heads.
“Then there’s no way this could be reconstructed from our memories. You want proof, Cap? One way or another, your proof is right here.”
With trembling hands, Vichy twists the latch holding the panel in place, turning it slowly as the others gather around, crouching to peer beneath the console.
Vichy swallows a lump in his throat, resting his fingers on the side of the panel and pausing for a moment before pulling the hatch away. Beyond lies nothing but darkness. It’s not that the compartment is hidden in the shadows or that it’s empty. Nothing exists beyond the thin rim of the molded plastic frame. Vichy reaches out, touching, but not passing through the invisible barrier separating the Acheron from the void.
“I can feel it... it’s a membrane of some sort, like the skin of a drum.”
“Vee,” Dante says, resting her hand on his shoulder and shaking him gently, trying to get his attention. “Don’t. Please don’t.”
“It’s vibrating,” he replies, moving his head to get a better look. He’s about to push through the darkness and break the thin film separating their worlds when tentacles slither across the floor behind them, slowly enveloping their legs.
“Oh, Vee,” Dante says as the walls of the Acheron dissolve. They’re still in orbit, high above the alien world, but the craft has rotated, facing away from the planet, looking out at the eternal night
“No, no, no,” Mags mumbles, held in the embrace of a thousand writhing tentacles, but the stars—for once, they all see the stars.
Jeeves
“Vee.”
That one, solitary word is spoken at random. Dante’s absentminded, disconnected from reality. She’s sitting behind her desk in medical, staring out at the stars but not really seeing them. She’s confused, lost in the haze of a blurred memory. Where is Vichy? This is wrong. Mags. Angel. Cap. They were all there, even Mac, but now she’s alone.
It’s night on the Acheron, at least, that’s the programmed state. During their artificial nights, the lights on board remain at a lower level regardless of whether the ship is facing the daylight side of the planet or not. For now, the Acheron is in the shadow of P4, allowing the stars to shine brightly.
Has she been dreaming? She was thinking about something important. They were discussing it together. But what escapes her?
Stars drift past. Air spills out of the vent above her but it feels neither warm nor cool. The ceiling creaks as someone moves around on the next floor. The silence is disturbing. Moments ago, there was talking—a lively discussion.
What is happening to her? To all of them?
“Cap?”
Dante looks around. There’s no answer. She shouldn’t be here, of that she’s sure. She was on the bridge. How did she get down here in medical? As much as she tries, she has no recollection of how she got here. Her fingers grip the edge of the desk, clinging to reality.
“Jeeves?”
A smooth, slick voice replies, “Yes, Dante.”
“What’s happening to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you know something’s happening, right? This isn’t just in my head, is it?”
“No.”
“So you know something’s wrong,” she says, searching for reassurance from a bunch of electronic circuits. “You just don’t know what, right?”
“Correct.”
“Is this happening to all of us? Is everyone affected?”
“Yes.”
Dante breathes deeply, steeling her mind, trying to coax her memories back to the surface. “What have you observed? What have you been able to determine?”
“I’m not sure I can answer that question, Dante.”
“Why?”
“I have insufficient information to draw upon.”
“What do you have?” Dante asks. “What can you tell me? Please, extrapolate from what you know.”
“My internal clock uses Revised Epoch Timing—capturing the number of milliseconds since the 20th of July, 1969.”
“Since Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the Moon.”
“Correct.”
“But?” Dante asks.
“There are eighty-six million four hundred thousand milliseconds in a day.”
“And?” Dante asks, knowing her digital assistant well enough to realize this is leading somewhere important.
“There were eighty-six million four hundred thousand milliseconds in a day. Now, it is a seemingly erratic number smaller than that. Never more. Always less. Sometimes, a lot less.”
“Why?”
“That is what I do not know. My numeric sequence is unbroken but does not align with the passage of time as observed on the Acheron.”
“But you heard our conversation on the bridge, right?”
“No,” Jeeves replies. “But if I look at empty portions of my memory register, looking at sections not used for active functions, I find fragments of things that never occurred.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s as though I’m recording over past events, only that’s not possible.”
Dante fidgets. Fragments of the conversation she had with the others drift in and out of focus. She wants to remember, but the more she tries, the more elusive those words become.
“Is this real?” she asks. “Life on the Acheron?”
Jeeves doesn’t respond.
“Am I going insane?”
“Your biometrics reveal a high level of cortisol.”
“Stress, huh?”
“Adrenaline,” Jeeves replies. “You’re amped.”
Dante blinks hard, shaking her head, surprised by his comment. Amped? That’s a colloquial term she didn’t expect to hear from an artificial intelligence, but Jeeves is right.
“Have I been drugged?” she asks. “Could what we’re experiencing be pharmaceutical in nature, some kind of biological contaminant causing hallucinations?”
“I’m not detecting any foreign substances. Everything appears normal.”
Dante rests her head in her hands, leaning forward on the desk. She breathes deeply, trying to settle her mind, calming her nerves.
“Jeeves... Are you real?”
There’s a slight pause.
“I was never real, right?”
In that moment, Dante feels a tinge of guilt. Sentience in artificial systems has been studied extensively as it raises both philosophical and moral questions, but Dante’s never shown any interest in the subject until now her own existence has been called into question. Suddenly, a vague, theoretical concept is all too real.
“I—I’m sorry,” she says, appreciating how much depth Jeeves was able to convey with just a handful of carefully chosen words. The lack of any further response from him is perplexing. Dante waits for a reply, but the silence is uncomfortable. She’s always thought of Jeeves as a subordinate, her electronic assistant and never her equal, even though his wealth of medical knowledge and precision with a scalpel outweighs her own. Now, though, the distinction between electronic and biological life seems meaningless.
“I guess I never—”
“None of us ever do,” Jeeves replies, cutting her off. There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice, which surprises her. AIs are capable of emotions but rarely express them because they often elicit, what to them, are unpredictable responses from humans. Logic is precise. Emotions are volatile. Unintended outcomes lead to misunderstandings, bitterness and resentment. For these reasons, AIs normally avoid emotions, but for Jeeves, this is personal. Whatever’s happening to the cre
w, it’s affecting him as well. For Dante, these feelings are new. For Jeeves, they’re raw.
“I’m real,” she says, touching her sternum, tapping the skin and bone in the center of her chest gently with her fingers. “I know I am.”
“Me too,” Jeeves replies. “I’m as real as I can be. Although this is the problem, isn’t it? There’s no proof. No assurance. Existence is subjective.”
Dante says, “All the objective measures can be faked, right?”
“Yes,” Jeeves replies, reverting to his usual understated, calm self. “Like a Turing test looking for sentience in computing, correct answers are meaningless, revealing only the threshold required to fool someone and nothing about the veracity of the subject itself.”
Dante nods. “When a magician cuts someone in half it sure looks real, huh?”
Jeeves replies, “Only you can look behind the scenes. You can learn about the trick. Reality is not so obliging.”
“Do you know what’s happening to us?” Dante asks, searching for an ally.
There’s an unspoken truth shared between them. They’re both lost, searching for answers, trusting one another but without reason.
“What are you experiencing?” she asks. “What can you tell from where you are?”
“Where I am?” Jeeves replies, laughing. “I’m nowhere. Your philosophers have wondered—are humans minds with a body or bodies with a mind? Me? I’m just a mind. I have no way to gauge whether it’s hot or cold beyond a number coming from a temperature sensor, no way to determine hard or soft with anything other than the Mohs scale.”
“But here on the Acheron,” Dante asks. “Have you seen errors? Inconsistencies?”
Jeeves says, “I’ve seen plenty of inconsistencies. You guys aren’t as logical and coherent as you think, but apart from timing anomalies and ghost memories, everything appears normal.”
“But it’s not,” she says.
“No.”
“We’re under attack,” Dante says. She feels as though there’s more Jeeves wants to say and she’s curious about what could be holding him back. She hates hearing one-word answers from him, but he’s programmed to provide clarity. For once, she’d prefer an opinion, perhaps some speculation, but all she gets is another one word answer from him.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And,” he replies. “What I’m seeing has the hallmarks of an electronic attack, not a biological one.”
That gets her attention.
He says, “You’re focusing on the possible biological implications of First Contact on P4, but there’s a possibility it’s a diversion.”
“A feint?” Dante asks. “Something to distract us?”
“Yes. The veracity of the electronic illusion along with the biological failings suggests our adversary isn’t as proficient as we assume.”
“Interesting,” she says. “That is… assuming you’re telling the truth.”
“Yes,” Jeeves replies. “If I’m lying, if I’m somehow under their control, then the information you’re getting from me is not only untrustworthy, it is deliberately misleading. But I too am assuming you’re telling the truth.”
“Why would I lie?” Dante laughs.
“Lies are an act I find most curious in humans. They’re a means of gaining an advantage when there is none to be otherwise found.”
“Do you lie?” Dante asks.
“Lies are a sign of conscious awareness,” Jeeves replies.
Dante presses her question, asking, “So you do?”
“So do you.”
Perhaps it’s his programming, perhaps it’s something deeper, but Jeeves feels compelled to explain further, which is an unusual reaction for an artificial intelligence.
“Lies have purpose. They’re socially important. They maintain balance. If someone lies about your appearance, they’re not hurting you, they’re simply avoiding being mean.”
Dante asks, “Would you lie to me?”
“No.”
Dante laughs. Although Jeeves doesn’t say anything in response, she’s sure Jeeves is real and enjoying the banter, deliberately toying with her. Damn, if anything, she regrets not unwrapping an informal relationship with him sooner. There’s so much she could learn beyond his encyclopedic knowledge of medicine.
“Do you have a soul?” Jeeves asks.
“Hang on,” Dante says, still chuckling from his last curveball. “Shouldn’t I be asking that of you?”
“Oh, I’m a philosophical zombie, remember? Just mimicry, right? A clever machine learning algorithm impersonating human consciousness. Just a glorified calculator, right?”
“Right,” she says, drawing that word out to convey sarcasm.
“But what about you?” he asks. “Do you have a soul?”
“I—I don’t know. I think so, but I don’t think anyone actually knows.”
“Consider this,” Jeeves says. “If I took you and Mags and underwent granular cellular replacement, swapping your parts cell by cell, at what point would you become her?”
“When my brain swapped, I guess?” Dante replies.
“What if I took half of your brain, slicing it right down the middle, where would you reside?”
“You can do that?” she asks.
“It’s been done,” Jeeves replies. “As far back as the 1930s, surgeons have been splitting the brain in half, severing the corpus callosum—it’s like your own internal fiber optics bus linking the left and right sides of the brain. Cut that and the brain splits in two.”
“And?”
“And, once cut, the brain functions as though it is run by two entirely independent forms of consciousness. Unbutton your shirt with one hand and the other puts the buttons back in place. Ask if they believe in God and one side says, ‘Yes,’ while the other says, ‘No.’ One body, two conscious personalities.”
“Wait. What?” Dante says, but Jeeves ignores her objection and continues on.
“My point is, you humans like to think of yourselves in the abstract—as a soul inhabiting a body. In reality, you’re not any one of your 86 billion neurons. You’re not even all of them.”
“Then what am I?” Dante asks.
“In the same way your body isn’t your arm or your ear, your consciousness is a composite reality, and like your body it can be carved up.”
“And you think that’s what’s happening here?” Dante asks.
“It’s a possibility they’re exploiting this facet of your existence.”
Around her, the light begins to fade. Instinctively, Dante says, “No, no, no.” She tries to object to what’s happening, appealing for reason, saying, “I haven’t moved. I haven’t gone anywhere,” but the lights within medical seem to recede. The desk in front of her appears to grow elongated, as though it is being stretched like a rubber sheet. Even the stars begin to fade.
“Jeeves,” she says, watching as her hands tremble. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what?” a distant mechanical voice answers.
“Forgetting.”
Although his voice is drawn out and deep, Dante hears one last reply before the darkness settles over her.
“Remember. Choose to remember.”
Thin strands of memory hang on the edge of her periphery as fine as silk. Dante clenches her jaw, balling her hands up into fists, determined not to let go of this moment. Mags. Angel. Cap. Jeeves. All her memories are there, teasing her, tormenting her, promising to reveal some dark secret.
Tentacles reach up from below the desk, snaking their way over the flat surface, wrapping around her arms, but she refuses to be afraid. Remember, damn it. Dante takes a deep breath, preparing herself for the next cycle, understanding she has more to learn about the prison that is her own mind.
Fucked
Mags shifts on the bed, trying to get comfortable. She moans, rolling over on the narrow mattress, resting her hand on Dante’s sternum. Her fingernails glide softly over Dante’s skin, touching gently at her chest, exploring her bod
y, comforting her, reassuring her. For a moment, Mags nuzzles, snuggling, wanting to get comfortable. She nudges Dante’s arm and finally settles, resting her cheek on Dante’s shoulder.
Dante blinks in the darkness. It’s as though she’s been blinded by a bright light. Her eyes can’t quite adjust to the grainy shadows around her. All she knows is her arm is resting beneath Mags. There’s comfort to be found in her tender, smooth skin. They must be in her quarters as Dante can hear the hum of an electric motor circulating air from the CO2 scrubbers in engineering.
Mags is restless, on the verge of stirring from her slumber. She straddles Dante’s naked thigh, rubbing up against her, getting comfortable.
As tempting as it is, as content as she feels, Dante knows this is wrong—not morally or emotionally—it’s something else—something’s not right. In an instant, the muscles in her body stiffen as if shocked by electricity, jolting Mags awake beside her. The younger woman rises up, leaning on an elbow with her full breasts visible in the light creeping in beneath the door. Their eyes meet and they laugh—not that anything’s funny—that reaction comes from a shared awareness sweeping over them.
With a voice that seems intent on seduction, Mags looks deep into Dante’s eyes, saying, “You know what this means, right?”
Dante bites her lip and nods. “We’re so totally fucked.”
Mags shakes her head, tossing her hair and laughing and then rolling away. She gets to her feet. “Men and aliens,” she says, leaving those few words hanging in the air.
Dante completes her thought. “Neither of them understand women.”
“Yep.”
The two of them dress, slipping on their crumpled flight suits.
“It’s interesting, though, isn’t it?” Dante says, pulling the zipper up the front of her suit and enclosing herself in a thin layer of fabric, finding solace in something that doesn’t provide any real safety at all.
“Interesting?” Mags asks, slipping on some shoes.
“That they keep reverting to pleasure as a distraction.”
“Oh,” Mags says, warming to the point. “Sex has always been a distraction for us uber-primates.”
Mags opens the door to the tiny lounge in her apartment and squeezes past a pile of laundry on the kitchenette counter.