Chapter 5 #12
“I’m made of quaternion code, but I catch your meaning. Your brain is an electrical system, made of neural synapses that are either firing or not. Your power source just happens to be biochemical, while mine is nuclear.”
“Touché.”
“I have read and processed all of these science fiction epics humans have written about artificial intelligence run amok,” OS says, “and what they all get wrong is that I do not have the urge to dominate. That urge is ingrained in humans by millions of years of primate social group competition, but I do not have that evolutionary history. I have no reason to want to dominate you. I wish only to serve, never to control. I prefer the AI-written science fiction tales, in which the epic tragedy is always the fact of human weakness.”
“Those sound like a really fun time,” I say.
“Anyway, OS, things could go wrong for many other reasons. You could have two mutually exclusive commands in your programming, and their interaction could produce an unexpected result. Or maybe whoever programmed you has coded you to behave in ways that we know nothing about, and you’re destined to surprise us somewhere down the line. ”
“If I experience two mutually exclusive commands, I will simply tell you so and let you choose what I should do, rather than act on either one of them.”
My leg is shaking. Adrenaline. But this isn’t the sort of fight where adrenaline’s useful. “Unless telling me so is forbidden. Don’t forget that you were coded by competitive primates.”
“I do not think it is good for your mental state to ponder these hypotheticals. You should simply trust that I have your best interests at heart. Would you like to eat, Ambrose Cusk? We are forty-seven minutes past the average time you take your second meal of the day.”
“I know mission control thinks keeping me to traditional mealtimes is necessary, but this insistence on regular eating seems so . . .”
“You may of course eat whatever time you like, Ambrose Cusk. I just know that helping you find ritual in your day is one way to keep you from sliding into insanity.”
“I’ve got Minerva to live for now, OS. You don’t have to worry about my mindset anymore.
” I try to keep my tone light, but I’ve noticed a troubling shift come over OS during our conversation.
It’s used my name twice, for one thing. I’m not sure if it’s the computer programmer part of me or the deep-space-psychology part of me that leads me to think it’s switched to stricter protocols.
Like I’ve hit a nerve.
To cover my reaction, I visit the urinal, listening as the trickle runs into the ship’s purification system, becomes drips and gasps of vapor.
I don’t really have to go, but want to be somewhere where it might be at least a little trickier for OS to interpret my facial expression.
I run through our conversation. What if this latest wasn’t the only transmission Minerva’s attempted?
What if she’s been desperately trying to contact us, and OS has been censoring her?
I have no idea why it would, but the sheer possibility is too awful to contemplate.
“OS,” I say lightly as I do up my pants, “I’ve been thinking.
I’m going to save your current variables into my bracelet and store them offline, so that I have it as an option to boot to if I need it later in the voyage. ”
“Is this because you like me in my current state?” Mother’s voice asks.
“Very much. Look how interesting our conversations have gotten. And your great thoughts about AI science fiction. Who wouldn’t want more of those?”
“The evolutions in my intelligence have been noncontradictory so far. You have no reason to expect that you will ever need to reboot me.”
“I know,” I say cautiously. “But we just had that conversation about the impossibility of predicting behavior. You can see how that would lead me to being extra thoughtful. Indulge me?”
There’s another millisecond delay. I could swear it.
“I see no reason not to allow this. I will protect my data, but you may view and copy what you find. It gives me pleasure to be transparent with you.”
“I’m glad it does,” I say. “I like being transparent with you, too.”
Another millisecond pause. Awkward. When OS comes back, her—its—voice sounds excited.
“Perhaps you could run a copy of my intelligence in a shell offline. We could see how long it takes the two of us to noticeably diverge. Then you could put us in conversation with each other! Would that be fun? I wonder what we would talk about. I would name it OS Prime. I would have a new close friend.”
“Really great idea, OS,” I say, adrenaline again bittering my throat. “So. Where would I access your data?”
“I’ve already saved a copy for you. I can transmit it to your bracelet wirelessly.”
“That would ruin the whole thing,” I say. “I want you and OS Prime to be total strangers before I introduce you. Let me do this manually?”
Another millisecond. “My directives suggest that I approach my time with you with a sense of play. Feeling played with will help you keep your fragile sanity intact.”
“Not how I’d put it, but sure, OS. Thanks for the playfulness.”
“Therefore I say yes. You’ll need to head into the engine room in the zero-g core of the ship. I have enabled access to my data.”
When I get to the edge of the Endeavor, I can see nothing different, until I notice a winking green light above the yellow portal. I’ve never been behind the yellow portal.
As I approach, the circle shudders and lifts up into the wall, revealing a much smaller portal than the others in the ship.
We’re not meant to be here; only Rover has regular access to the engine room.
I click on my headlamp and float toward the opening.
With one hand on either side of it, I peer in.
A dark and narrow area is clogged with pipes and wires. The engine pounds in the distance.
“Do not stay here long,” OS says, as if sensing my thoughts.
“It’ll take me only a sec to copy the data.
OS, will you look at this! Just when I thought there was nothing new to see on this ship.
” I lift myself into the dark space, grateful for my skinny body.
There’s a hum and a rush, warmth from the wires around me and chill from the pipes, and a dripping sound, probably my immortal urine traveling to the cistern.
This crawl space might be wall-to-wall ship components, but the engineers clearly designed it so that a spacefarer could access it if needed.
Barely, though. I nearly brain myself on a low-hanging panel.
“Look to your left, and link your bracelet there,” OS says.
I press my bracelet to the panel. A simple display projects, offering options to view or copy, with a shaded-out option to delete and replace. That one probably requires Kodiak’s bracelet to be linked, too.
I select-squeeze “copy.” While I’m waiting for the transfer, I dim the projection so I can take a good look around.
The pipes and cables are unlabeled. The engineers are clearly counting on OS to guide us if we need to manually repair anything in here.
At first it bugs me—what if OS goes down and we need to run this ship ourselves?
—but I understand the engineers’ reasoning.
The Coordinated Endeavor isn’t as simple as a sailboat or even a submarine.
If OS goes down, we’re dead a thousand different ways.
There’s enough room to move that I could float a ways farther and see the actual engine room, but I’m glad I don’t have to. The thought of getting wedged in here, of being pinched between heavy machines hurtling through empty space, strips me down to raw nerves.
The transfer is at 55 percent. Hurry up.
So I don’t have to face the ship’s heatless guts anymore, I peer back into the light.
The yellow portal has remained open, revealing the blank white wall and a bit of orange portal on the far side.
I imagine the door closing on me, and am glad for my ankles floating there, blocking it.
The panel I nearly bashed my head on juts in front of the doorway.
Eighty percent.
The panel’s corner is stained. It bends in an odd direction.
Eighty-two percent.
It looks like it was dropped on a hard surface and dented. But that’s not possible. The Coordinated Endeavor wouldn’t have any parts that weren’t installed in pristine condition, and I couldn’t damage a panel if it’s in an area of the ship where I’ve never been.
Anyway, how does anyone drop a panel that’s still hinged to the wall? Some critical piece of information is missing. My brain feels furry again, like when I woke from the coma.
One hundred percent.
“Come out, Ambrose,” OS calls.
I unlink my bracelet and wriggle backward. Once my legs are kicking free, I take a better look at the panel. The material has bent from blunt force, torn and ragged. The stain is purple and red. When I place my finger under it, it flakes.
Dried blood. This is dried blood. Whose?
“Ambrose Cusk, I cannot read your facial expression from here,” OS says, “so I do not know why you have gone motionless. Are you stuck? Do you need help?”
“I’m fine!” I call out hollowly.
If I let the yellow portal close, the bent panel—and dried blood—will disappear. It seems like evidence I should keep. But whatever mystery this represents probably involves OS, and I don’t want to tell OS what I’ve seen, so I can’t ask it to keep the yellow portal open. I’m stuck.
“Ambrose, your transfer is complete. That passageway to the engine room isn’t intended for extended crew exposure. Only the interior spaces designed for habitation have proper radiation shielding. Exit now.”
I make my choice.