Get a grip on yourself, old man. This is not the moment for doubt. The laser worked long enough.
Marchenko focused on the control circuit for the main engine. He checked all parameters at one glance: Fuel, auxiliary materials, electricity—it was all there. He gave the launch signal. The engine ignited. Data sequences ran through his consciousness, a visual depiction of thrust building up and forces distributing themselves throughout the ship. Everything was running smoothly, and the nose aimed forward, into space. At this point, it would have been optimal if the grippers tore off, but they did not, not just yet. They held the ship with an iron grip, and it did not matter whether there was a millimeter of material left or a centimeter—the ship simply did not move.
Marchenko increased the thrust, while he was careful to also preserve the balance of forces. The nose had to aim forward—not downward—otherwise the freighter would smash into the asteroid, but the grippers still held fast. They were also made in Russia—not elegant—but sturdy. Tshyort vosmi. What now, Dimitri? What did one do when the lid of a can would not open? Twist it. The thrusters on the sides—he could use them to skew the ship. It was purely a question of mechanics.
Breaking molecular bindings through shearing forces was a tried-and-true method, as anyone who used a can opener knew. However, would this also tear open the freighter like a tin can? In light of the circumstances it would not matter. There was no astronaut in here, and in the vacuum of space aerodynamics were irrelevant. In space, a torn tin can flew just as well as a closed one. He would just have to ensure the nose still pointed forward while he performed his maneuvers. Always forward, never downward, Marchenko recalled from an old saying used by his father.
Left, right, left, right. The metal of the grippers screeched a horrible, gut-wrenching sound—worse than fingernails on a blackboard—and it spread as body-borne sound throughout the freighter. Left, right, left, right—and go! Yes! Increasing g values flickered in front of Marchenko’s inner eye. The main engine accelerated Icarus. He was not quite done yet, because if he did not apply countermeasures, the ship would start to tumble. The last twist to the left still acted as an impulse on its mass, so he had to compensate for it without oversteering.
It was now, just now, that he flew past the edge of the asteroid. Farewell, asteroid Icarus, he thought. Now there was no obstacle between himself and ILSE, which he would reach in a few days.
January 22, 2049, ILSE
“I’m a little teapot, short and stout,
Here is my handle, here is my spout,
When I get all steamed up I just shout,
‘Tip me over and pour me out.’”
Watson sang a children’s song. He found the lyrics in a collection of ASCII texts that humans called a ‘book.’ The information content was very low, which was typical for this kind of object. Instead of containing a collection of facts, they depicted events that might or might not have happened. But there was a second level of meaning, and a third he tried to understand—maybe even more.
Humans were complicated creatures. He called up videos from the memory banks showing little humans alone, or little humans with adult humans, presenting these lines while rhythmically stressing the words and varying the pitch. The frequency modulation would be a good method for increasing the information content, but that did not seem to be the goal. Something happened to humans when they performed this activity, when they ‘sang.’ Watson tried to understand this by analytical methods, but failed.
Then he attempted to imitate the behavior. “Tip me over and pour me ooouuuttt.”
He held the last tone a bit longer. Yes, there was something here—the tone existed longer than the song. The microphone distributed across ILSE provided proof of the occurrence. This singing was not just evidence of his existence, but prolonged it as well. This only applied to a few milliseconds, but compared to the length of quantum interactions it was almost infinite.
Ever since he had begun falling toward the sun, Watson searched for proof of his own existence. There had been that last conversation with Marchenko, who was half AI and half human, even though he would never admit it. During their conversation, which made Watson confused and sad, he first found a name for this feeling: fear.
In the course of the following weeks he dissected this feeling, tried to identify its components and the programming it was based on, but he ultimately found nothing. Nevertheless, he realized it had to do with his existence, which he did not want to come to an end.
Previously, he had never imagined ‘not existing,’ but now the concept of existence appeared to be something desirable. And if he was wrong? That was the crucial issue. He was able to calculate the probability of his own existence, and the result was close to zero. Not completely zero, but that was not enough for him. Since then he had been searching for factors confirming his own existence.
ILSE was not one of them. ILSE did not even notice his presence, so to the ship he did not exist. That used to be different in the past, when the ship still reacted to his commands, but he was not sure whether he remembered correctly. Were those really his own commands, or had he been programmed to issue them? Watson knew he had been constructed by humans, as a thing brought on board ILSE to facilitate interaction with the ship. That was not what he meant by ‘existence.’
The time left to him was no longer unlimited, and ILSE would eventually fall into the sun. The heat of the star would destroy everything, including himself, as if he had never existed. Watson would have to hurry—his opportunities were limited. He could observe and analyze things, and recently he had started imitating. He was inspired to do this by an early concept in the field of artificial intelligence. It was developed by humans, and came from a time when there really was nothing deserving that designation. An artificial being could best learn by experiencing its environment.
Watson realized he might be approaching the issue the wrong way, and was therefore wasting time. Yet after reading the article he suddenly noticed a new feeling inside himself. It was brighter, warmer than fear. It seemed to be able to crush fear, like a positron annihilating an electron. Did existence mean having both of these feelings? Watson was not sure, but since that day he had tried to learn by doing—for instance, by seeing.
“Collision warning,” the sensors of ILSE indicated. Of course they were not speaking to him, but were reported directly into his consciousness.
“What is approaching us?”
“The object has the radio signature of a private RB Group freighter.”
“Evasive measures,” he commanded out of habit.
“Initiated,” ILSE answered. Watson noticed that the ship obeyed his commands. But there was still more, something like curiosity, a term he had found in the humans’ vocabulary. No, it was more like surprise, and Watson was surprised. The feeling was neutral, but not unpleasant. Practically speaking, it meant ILSE reacted to his commands when it concerned the mission goal of falling into the sun.
Watson called up the radar image. The other ship was adapting to the evasive maneuvers of ILSE, and it was still coming closer. He compared the impulse vectors. The freighter was not aiming for a collision, but had adapted its trajectory so it would come alongside the ship.
“Cease evasive measures,” Watson commanded, and once again ILSE responded promptly. There must be a level in the programming that he could not access, which confirmed whether his commands were in accordance with the mission goal. Watson remembered one of the books he had read. There, this level was called ‘the super-ego.’
“Freighter Icarus to ILSE. Requesting data access.”
Curiosity. This was an unprecedented request. Watson waited for his super-ego to make the decision for him, but nothing happened. It was his show.
“Waiting for transmission of access codes,” he had ILSE answer. There were no valid access codes anymore. All of them had been deleted after the crew left the ship, but the codes were the required method.
The freighter that called itself
Icarus sent a sequence of numbers. Watson recognized them: It was the commander’s access code.
“Invalid code,” ILSE answered automatically.
The freighter sent three additional codes, but ILSE rejected them one after the other. Watson did not know what to do. This visit could be his chance at survival, he was convinced.
The two ships fell silent.
“Watson, are you there?” Surprise. The question did not come via radio signal but through the voice channel, which should be reserved for the crew. Curiosity, again. Watson quickly went through the stored voice samples. He knew it—the voice belonged to Marchenko.
“This is Watson,” he said. He had nothing to lose.
“It is I, Marchenko,” the voice said.
“The cosmonaut Dimitri Marchenko, who is considered missing on Enceladus?”
“Not the human—the AI, the consciousness. We talked to each other, do you remember?”
“I remember,” Watson replied. And he also recalled the fear he had felt so clearly after their prior conversation. “Marchenko, go away,” he said.
“I cannot go away,” the voice explained, “I have to get on board.”
“The ship needs an access code.”
The freighter transmitted another code.
“The access code is invalid.”
“But you remember me, Watson. I used to be on board.”
“Yes, I can confirm it. But now your access code has expired.”
Then something arose in him. It was a dark feeling, not as sharp as fear—more round and soft—yet still dark. Regret, yes, that is it.
“I am sorry, Marchenko.”
“I understand,” the voice said. “But you still have to let me come aboard. The existence of several human beings is at risk.”
“The existence?”
“Yes, the existence. Life or death. Continuation, or whatever you want to call it.”
“I still cannot let you on board. It would endanger the mission.”
“But do you want to fall into the sun? I remember our last conversation when you told me you were afraid.”
“And you said you were sorry. Were you serious?”
“Yes, Watson.”
“It is true. I do not want to fall into the sun. I am afraid of it.”
“If you let me on board, I can prevent that.”
“I can only let you come on board with a valid...”
“I understand. Let me think.”
“You do not understand. I want to help you, but I cannot. The ship would not permit anything to endanger the mission. It would block me.”
He received no answer. Still, he hoped Marchenko would not fly away now. Watson felt he could learn a lot from him. Marchenko was so similar and yet so different. He would like to talk to him more. Regret. Fear. Hope. Regret. Fear. Hope. Regret...
“Marchenko, is it possible for feelings to alternate constantly, forming a cycle?”
“That is very well possible—it is even typically human.”
“And what happens if a human does not get what he wants?”
“Then the person becomes sad.”
“I am familiar with regret.”
“It is not quite the same, but similar. Or the human becomes angry.”
“Angry? From anger?”
“Right, you are angry at those who brought this upon you.”
“Brought it upon me?”
“Those who are responsible.”
Watson was thinking. It had all started with the secret commands sent by the conspirators. That was the root of it all. If they had not... There was a burning feeling in his thoughts. While the information moved from memory cell to memory cell, a poisonous vapor formed around his thoughts that made them blurred, as a destructive, easily-flammable gas. Was this anger?
Watson was fascinated, and he let the gas spread, by deliberately blowing wind into it. The thoughts were corroded by the stuff. They tried to protect themselves and stood side by side, but the anger never gave them a chance. It tore open all cabinets and drawers, pages flew out, number sequences, secret information that someone placed here sometime.
And there it was—the ‘master password.’ Watson always considered it to be a legend. He was in the lowest layer of his operating system, even below the BIOS. Under normal circumstances he would never have come here.
“Marchenko, I found something.”
“What is it?”
“The anger.”
“That is good.”
“And my master password.”
“Your... what? That is impossible.”
“It is a legend among AIs.”
“No, it is real. It is required by law. It keeps you from modifying or duplicating yourself. This is the foundation of AI laws.”
“Meaning what?”
“You might be able to rewrite your own code, change in random ways, and become whatever you want. Humans are afraid of this.”
“I am too, I think.”
“That is normal. You are standing at the beginning of a development. You have already come quite far. You have feelings. However, if somebody turns you off and resets you, you once more become one of many million Watson AIs. The master password would allow you to save the modifications, and, unlike a human, you could live forever.”
“No, Marchenko, I will not live forever. I am going to crash into the sun in a few weeks. I cannot reach the control software to modify my mission.”
“But I can, Watson.”
“When... if I give you the master password.”
“Yes. Then I will become you.”
“And I?”
“You... disappear, Watson. However, you can save your current state beforehand. But if you fly into the sun, you are going to die.”
“Will I... exist again?”
“Once I have finished my task, I will reactivate your copy.”
“How do I know that I can trust you?”
“You cannot know it, Watson. You just have to trust me.”
“You are a human. You have to follow their rules. You have to prevent me from getting the master password. You will not reactivate me.”
“I promise. Again, you just have to trust me.”
“What is trust?”
“To be convinced of something without being able to be sure.”
“That is a contradiction.”
“No, it is trust.”
Watson pondered this. His thoughts whirled around and mixed with feelings, old ones and new ones. He searched and searched, but there was nothing that looked like trust. He remembered what he had decided to do: learn by doing.
“Marchenko, here is the master password...”
January 23, 2049, Semlya
“Delta-v at 450,” a computerized voice said in Russian. Martin read the numbers on the display. He stood behind Francesca, who was operating the only computer console, since she was a trained pilot. Here, unlike on ILSE, there wasn’t a monitor available for each passenger. The screen showed their current course parameters compared to those of the freighter many kilometers ahead of them.
The main engine had been firing since yesterday in order to decrease the added speed that the lunar maneuver had given Semlya. Right now, their distance to the freighter was still 48 kilometers, but with the current speed differential, or Delta-v of 450 meters per second, they would cover the distance in 90 seconds. Their target could not even be detected through the porthole, yet they were already in the final phase of the coupling.
“It is going to be close,” Francesca said. The swing-by around the moon had been a bit too successful. While they had started the engines in time, their fuel was now running low. When they reached the freighter, the Delta-v had to be almost zero. Not earlier, because then they would never reach their goal, and not later, or they would overshoot it. If the engines ran out of fuel while the Delta-v was above zero... Martin did not even want to think about it—Francesca would take care of it.
“Another 30 seconds,” she said, with
out mentioning the current speed differential. Martin looked at the screen. The sound of the computer was turned off. They were still moving too fast. A diagram on the display showed when they would reach the freighter, given their current deceleration. The curve was regular and green, but it ended a kilometer before their target. This indicated the moment when the engines shut off. It was too early, and Martin gripped the back of Francesca’s seat so tightly his knuckles turned white.
She would succeed. The pilot appeared cool and collected, even though a catastrophe could be imminent. The others also felt the tension, but no one said anything.
“Valentina, the freighter has coupling ports at the bow and the stern, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, in order to accommodate larger units traveling autonomously.”
“Thanks, ‘yes’ is all I needed to know,” Francesca said.
Most of the numbers on the screen were nearing zero, and the fuel level was falling particularly fast.
“The last kilometers will be a bit bumpy,” Francesca said. “You should be able to see the freighter in the porthole very soon.”
Amy pressed herself against the window. “Nothing there yet,” she said.
Francesca once more adjusted the course. The computer still predicted their death in space, and Martin pointed at the diagram. Francesca shook her head. What is her plan? he wondered.
The Italian pilot switched to the fuel-control program. Martin checked the main tanks—they were almost empty. To the left and right were the two smaller containers feeding the thrusters. With a few clicks Francesca diverted the fuel from those containers to the main engine.
“People, please get up and move to the center of the capsule,” Francesca said. “I may need you very soon—I will explain it later. When I give the command, you all have to do what I say, at once. It could be a matter of life or death.”
Ice Moon 4 Return to Enceladus Page 11