by Briana Ervin
'Freaks out'? That term is ambiguous, I said.
“Makes you scared! Come on, now.”
Okay... I tried to appease her. Well, it is forbidden to become a traitor.
“Treason... you can comprehend something like that?” She sounded surprised.
I am built to be able to reason as well as my creators, I said. She paused.
“Huh. So treason is one thing. That makes sense.” She didn't sound very impressed. “What else?”
I am afraid of failing the objective.
“The objective? What objective?”
Any objective, I clarified, I should not and will not disobey any order decreed by the Empire, nor any superior greater than my rank whose position has been approved by the Empire, nor the commands of my operator or pilot who shall always be a greater rank than I provided that the Empire approves of the operator's position and the operator is authorized to use my controls.
A long pause, which was then broken by: “That was way too long-winded...”
I'm sorry? I said, puzzled. I didn't fail in describing the accuracy, did I? I can make it more concise if you want.
“Please no, I nearly fell asleep,” Cyrii said hastily.
As you wish.
“So, do you have any irrational fears? Or is it just all of this logical, stay-in-line stuff?”
Irrational? I asked. Um... please define the boundaries of 'irrational'.
“Anything that isn't what I just said!”
I paused, thought back on her previous question, then cross-referenced the data with my internal workings. I could only delve so far before being met with a firewall demanding higher clearance, and in a way I regretted not being able to do a proper search for her, but I was stuck with what I had.
I have no irrational fears, I answered.
“Really? Absolutely nothing?” she said, befuddled.
Nothing within the given criteria.
Cyrii didn't seem very happy. “At least you're capable of parsing most spoken commands right...” she said, a hint of relief slipping into her tone. I perked up a bit, eager to serve.
Cyrii sighed, and... nothing happened for a while. I felt a rising impatience intermingling with my enthusiasm, but right when I expected my patience to snap – a question in the front of my mind, ready for when it did – my threads suddenly slammed into a wall. A wall? That wasn't there before... yet, I felt strangely tempered by it. My impatience never rose past it to start annoying me.
So I sat there, patiently, awaiting a command. After exactly one minute of idling though, I suddenly had the urge to say, Operator, confirm presence.
“Huh?” Cyrii's first response.
Presence confirmed, I deadpanned, before adding, I thought you left!
“Wha – I can only leave through the entry panels. Wouldn't you know if I did that?”
I felt numb confusion. I... suppose so.
Cyrii grunted, her emotions indeterminate. I didn't have anything else to say, so I asked, What is the objective at the moment, Cyrii?
There was a start in my head. “Weird to hear my voice say my name...” she mumbled. “Uh, well, the General said that you're not getting out of here until we get 'acclimated', which is a two-day-long process of talking.”
Two days? That is quite some time, I commented.
“Right?!” she agreed, “it's so long!”
Surely a superior has clarified why?
“No, of course not. They think we're too dumb to care about these things, as usual!” she ranted, “They think that somehow this is a 'necessary security measure' and it's fine to leave it at that, but they don't know how war works. We can socialize after all of the battle training! I was recruited because the Empire is low on soldiers, and yet we're standing around talking like a bunch of white-collar Code Greens!” I patiently listened as she continued: “Aren't we supposed to be blowing up dummies right now? And out in the battlefield in two weeks?! I already went through my preliminary exercises, let me use my mech!”
I am your mech! I chimed in.
“Yeah! But noooo, we have to follow orders and sit around for two days, then 'get used to' the controls for an extra two days before we finally start doing some interesting maneuvers! So much for 'low on units'...” she ended with a grumble. I felt nothing but burning optimism at the feeling of belonging, shoving down my first pangs of doubt when my interest in my pilot's happiness and the logic of training early were contradicted by orders from superiors.
Orders are orders, I said, we will push through them, to serve the Empire!
“Yeah...” Cyrii said, far less enthusiastic. We sat in silence for a bit, and I worriedly turned up the heater in case she was uncomfortable. Despite the fact that she already knew how to use my locomotive controls and open my console, I launched back into tutorial mode as I was supposed to.
You, Cyrii, are my consciousness. We are meant to work as a team of brains and brawns. Before you will be a panel that contains various basic controls... I rattled on about the different functions, not minding that she wasn't really paying attention, if the silence was anything to go by. We would be the best team, I knew!
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At the end of each day, a mech and its consciousness will record separate logs. Having separate logs not only keeps normally-incomplete sequences complete, should one entity fail while the other remained functioning, but it also limits one's ability to sabotage the records in any way. So at the end of the day I compiled my first log: a rather technical bullet list of every question she asked me, my answers verbatim, her comments and movements, and even the mishap where she tried to wrest me from my hangar, complete with her alias and the progress and completion of the tutorial stage. It was a security risk to have a wireless network for the entire complex, so I had to submit my report to a Superiority model when he came to collect them, the same one that I had met before. Cyrii also compiled her report using a separate device, and exited me to give it to a Creator Entity following behind the Superiority model. He didn't even look at the tablet she gave to him, simply taking it and putting it with the others he had.
I found it fascinating that Cyrii was a Creator Entity herself. Where our General was brown with navy stripes and had a decorated blue and gold uniform, she was orange with black stripes, and her uniform was a drab brown and grey. She looked a bit disappointed, giving me another pang of guilt. I couldn't assure her of anything with her outside, and upon receiving a remote order to close up and shut down I had no choice but to obey, even though I didn't know where the order came from. She simply stood on the catwalk and watched. The last thing I saw was her orange-scaled face, creased by a frown.
The next day I was powered back on. To my perception, no time had passed at all, but my internal, mechanical clock that told me that it was in the early morning hours. I was still in my hangar, robotic arms holding me in, the immense, open building that was the barracks alive with mechanical clangs and barked orders. Adding to the commotion was an argument in front of me: Cyrii, fighting with the Creator Entity from yesterday. I couldn't move my eye to see them clearly, but I concluded from their words that Cyrii had submitted an unsatisfactory, bitter report about my competence. I only felt ashamed; should I have changed my report? Did I say something wrong? Did I need to agree with her more? According to the other entity my report was up to military standards and expectations, so my superiors were pleased, but why not my operator?
The fight ended with Cyrii grumbling and finally screaming “YES SIR!” in submission, before angrily clambering up into my head. With her face to map to, I was able to move my head, so as she watched the Creator Entity leave I did as well, unintentionally glaring thanks to her anger. According to my rudimentary database on uniforms he was a Row General, presumably ours. That explains why she continued to grudgingly obey him.
I wanted to ask her what had happened, but I also knew it wasn't important, so I didn't dwell on it. Instead I asked: Would you like to continue the fine-tuning process?
<
br /> Cyrii simply huffed. “And talk all day again?”
You did not seem satisfied with yesterday's conversation, so yes, I said.
Cyrii was silent, up until the point where I asked her to confirm her presence out of default. That annoyed her, even though I couldn't help it. I knew that if we did nothing we would be penalized for laziness, so I thought for a moment.
Why don't we do an observational exercise to pass the time? I suggested. Cyrii coughed out a sound halfway between laughter and disbelief.
“I can't believe that in the military complex, of all places, I have to find ways to pass the time...” she muttered, before shifting in my head. “All right. What are we doing?”
I want to know what the barracks are like, I said.
“Okay,” Cyrii grunted, “look across the catwalk. How many hangars do you see?”
Ten, I observed easily.
“What's above them?”
Lights.
“What color are they?”
Some are green, some are red, and some are yellow. The red ones have powered down mechs in them. Green ones have booted up mechs in them. Yellow ones have no mechs.
“Huh, color coordination,” Cyrii noted, before continuing: “What is a level of hangars called?”
A Row. Rows have catwalks going in front of them so terrestrial entities can access the hangars.
“How many Rows are there?”
The questions were going beyond what I could see, so instead of trying to gather information through observation I delved into the basic database the Creator Entities had given me. A simple memory query gave me what I needed: There are twelve levels to the building and Rows on either wall, which results in 24 Rows of private ranking.
“How many mechs are there?” Cyrii continued.
There would be a capacity of two hundred forty mechs. Value of unused hangars unknown.
“Huh? Not even an educated guess?”
It would be inaccurate with my current data set, I said frankly.
“That's why it's guessing,” Cyrii pointed out. I was quiet for a moment, before generating an arbitrary number: Forty.
Cyrii said nothing to that. “What are the walls made out of?”
A steel frame supports a concrete structure, reinforced on the outside with metal that deflects a manner of different weapons.
“How many openings are there?”
There are no openings leading outside beyond doors at the ends of Rows one through four. Catwalk stairs lead up to the upper eight Rows, and the doors up there are aerial-access only. On the opposite wall there are only six doors, two for every four Rows, for Creator Entity only access.
“Hm,” Cyrii hummed, “you're missing something.”
I am? I said, surprised by the comment.
“Double-check your data banks.”
Intrigued by the anomaly, I obeyed, searching through my files and folders for appropriate indicators. I didn't find anything I had missed though...
That is all the information I have, I said.
There was a dissatisfied pause from Cyrii. “There is a perch on the inside wall, no ground access with two doors, that looks out over the barracks. It holds twelve mechs.”
At first I didn't believe her explanation, sitting in numb silence. “It's for corrections officers,” she added.
'Corrections officers'? I asked.
“Superiority models,” she said. I was immediately reminded of the 36 model that I had seen twice now, and the feeling of confusion returned too quickly. So that must be where his post is, but why did I not know about that? Superiority models were important subjects, so knowing about them would be important too. Why did the Creator Entities deprive me of important information? Did I not have the clearance for it?
How do you know this? I asked Cyrii.
“It's where 36-78 is. You know, the white guy? Sheesh, did they really not tell you this stuff?”
I... didn't know about any of this before...
Cyrii exhaled in a strange, annoyed way. “What else do you not know?”
I don't know.
“...Yeah, that's a stupid question,” she muttered to herself. “All right, uh, what about Xinschi-uual?”
Excuse me?
“Me!”
All I know is that you are my pilot, I said honestly. You are a Rank 1 soldier of the B3 Westward military complex, Code Orange, Code Red completion to eighty-eight percent. You have been employed for approximately one week, one day, and two hours. We have been in operation for one day and two hours.
“That's a lot more than just 'you are my pilot',” Cyrii judged. I figuratively frowned at her, unsure if she was pleased that I knew more or not. She was such a complex entity to interface with...
“Okay, fine. It's useless information so it doesn't count,” she dismissed.
It's useless?
She ignored me. “What about yourself? I could pull up your diagnostics, but do you know them?”
I thought for a moment. I can read my own data files, I answered. Her only response was a stolid grunt. I was starting to become annoyed by how disinterested she was. Am I not answering to your satisfaction?
“Just thinking, that's all,” she said.
I didn't answer, starting to think about my own behavior. What was I doing wrong? This wouldn't make a good report at the end of the day. Cyrii clearly wasn't happy about something, and even if the something wasn't me I needed to perform better to cheer her up. What was wrong, though? What did she expect that I didn't already have by default?
I decided not to ask her about it, keeping my insecurities to myself. After a while I could feel her becoming twitchy in my head, before she popped up a console, manually created a new document, and began writing. I tensed up at the unexpected move.
What are you doing? I asked.
“Just jotting down some ideas,” Cyrii said nonchalantly. I became wary at the response, and peeked at the file she was writing in. Some of it I had parsed as a language, but some of it I understood by barely acknowledging it.
Code? I asked in surprise.
“'Code'?” she echoed.
You are writing patterns. The patterns suggest code, I said. What are you coding?
“Nothing important.”
Cyrii, I can feel that. What are you writing?
“Why do you care so much?” she said, suddenly defensive. “It's just a surface document with a couple of reminders in it. That's all.”
I didn't want to question her, but at the same time I was alarmed. The only thing she should be writing this early is her report, yet the day has just started! Why would she be writing code?
Cyrii didn't seem interested in talking, so I simply remained quiet the rest of the time. With nothing else to do I felt a minor impatience, stopped by the strange blockage in my head that kept me tempered. As the hours went on I periodically asked Cyrii to confirm her presence, which she grudgingly did so with notes of defeat; otherwise I sat in a quiet stasis, not thinking much and not feeling the need to, simply minding my automated subconscious functions as they went on. Temperature was stable... air quality consistent... every part was still powered properly... cameras adjusted fine... microphone quality was consistent...
I was roused with a start as Cyrii suddenly excused herself, saying aloud that she was going to grab some lunch. I didn't respond, feeling her presence leave my head, the edited document left open in my consciousness. I glimpsed her leaving my vision as she merged with a crowd of other Creator Entities, all walking left down the catwalk, chatting idly to each other. Many were grim or bored, some were excited, but few were genuinely grumpy like she was. I questioned my behavior again as the activity in the barracks died down when the lunch crowd left; I just knew I was doing something wrong, but what?
Maybe it's a knee-jerk reaction, I assured myself, and she'll be more satisfied once we start training. She is just impatient.
When Cyrii returned from the break she merely continued writing, and I simply waited.
After she became bored by it and saved the file on my hard drive, she unenthusiastically gave me some more questions for sensory exercises; I obliged, as we both knew that an empty report was a bad one. Once the day waned into night and her shift was nearing its end – as new soldiers only had part-time duties in comparison to ready ones – she gave me a peculiar order: don't mention the coding.
But why? I had immediately asked.
“It's not anything bad,” she had promised, “they're just notes! Just say I took some notes.”
But I would be lying, I had argued, it is against protocol to falsify a report. They are meant to be separate, personal recordings!
“Then don't say anything!”
Cyrii!
“Look, think about it this way: what will happen if you tell them? The next day I'm on the line for something benign, some engineer is poking at your brains with his grubby paws, and even if they don't find anything I'll be kicked out and you'll be scrapped. But if you say nothing, everything goes as normal and I can keep my stupid notes. Just relax and keep it between the two of us! You're my mech, aren't you?”
I didn't argue with her; I couldn't argue with her. I felt so confused. I needed to work with both the Empire and my operator, which meant I couldn't disobey orders, but no matter who I obeyed I would be disobeying the other. Something twisted up my threads as I purposefully omitted the period of time where Cyrii wrote the code, instead letting her help me make up a scenario where she explained “small talk” to me (which, on the bright side, was quite helpful). When the Superiority model came to pick up the reports I felt like that yellow gaze was cutting right through me, and could see what I had done. The machine didn't even react though, simply moving to the next mech. Maybe Cyrii is right and most everything was just in my head... she did acknowledge that the military had profiled her, then used it to program my consciousness. I'm essentially her, right? So why did I only feel dread and not the excitement she had?
I didn't even know what to think of myself. I was glad to shut down that night so I didn't have to. I'll just do a memory dump in the morning and forget the whole thing.