“You said there was a way that we could fight them,” said Djanet, cutting to the chase. “How?”
1 smiled a strained smile with her mouth, but there was something in her eyes that told Djanet that what she was about to say would not be comforting. “There is a way—but whether we follow that path will be up to you.”
“Up to us? Why can’t anyone here give a straight answer?” Rich reacted with exasperation.
“I thought you were the person in charge, 1,” Old-timer interjected, “so why would any decisions be up to us?”
“We have a rule that prevents even me from making a decision of this gravity about a solar system to which we are alien,” replied 1. “This is your home. You must be the ones to decide its fate.”
“Lady, can you please, please, pretty please with sugar on top cut the bull and just tell us what the hell you’re talking about?” Rich asked, the frustration causing him to plead while balling his hands into fists. He promised himself he wouldn’t attack this woman if she finally gave a straight answer. She had one chance left.
“What decision are you talking about?” Old-timer asked, outwardly calm, but his voice stern as he, too, was rapidly running out of patience.
1 saw their impatience transforming into aggression before her eyes and was pleased—they were ready to make the choice. “We have the opportunity to kill every nanobot in this solar system and to make sure they cannot use this solar system’s rich resources to reproduce further.”
“What’s the catch?” asked Djanet.
“It requires the destruction of your sun,” 1 answered with a frank and deadly seriousness, “and therefore the destruction of this system.”
6
“Okay. Talk,” James responded with resignation. Katherine was right—he really wasn’t going anywhere.
“Thank you, my son,” the A.I. replied with a warm smile.
My son, James repeated in his head. The words had once been so comforting. The A.I. used to be very much like a father to James—but a father that had since forsaken him. “Why don’t you start by telling me where I am?”
“Certainly,” the A.I. replied. “You’re in the mirror image of the mainframe.”
The answer startled James as something in his memory suddenly jarred loose—a theory he had worked on years earlier but had mostly forgotten in the meantime. “Mirror image? You mean...the reverse?”
Jim and the A.I. smiled when they saw that James remembered. “I knew he’d remember,” Jim said.
“So did I,” the A.I. concurred. “Yes, James. You are in the reverse side of the mainframe.”
James’s eyes widened as he began to realize the enormity of the A.I.’s revelation. “I wrote about the concept of reversible computing a few years ago. It was a theoretical method for building astronomically sized computers but minimizing the heat they would generate. It never gained any traction in the Governing Council.”
“That’s right, James,” the A.I. replied. “It gained traction with me, however,” the A.I. said, tapping his temple. “I took the notion and started working on it and was able to create a fully functioning mirror image of the mainframe.”
“This is the part I never understood,” Katherine interjected. “Why? I’ve been here for a year and a half, yet I still don’t understand why you would build a mirror image of the mainframe.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me?” Jim asked her. “I could’ve explained it.”
“I figured I wouldn’t understand,” Katherine admitted, adding, “then I forgot about it.”
“Entropy,” James replied. “It circumvents the law of thermodynamics.”
“Okay. That’s why I didn’t ask,” Katherine replied, rolling her eyes and exhaling an exasperated sigh.
“No, honey, it’s simple actually,” Jim said patiently as he gently began his explanation for her. James remembered when he used to patiently try to explain things to Katherine; he didn’t miss it.
“Computers have always been irreversible, which means you can’t run them backward. Once a computer moves from one step to the next, it erases the old data because saving it would take up valuable memory.”
“When you erase the data, theoretically, it has to go somewhere,” James continued, “so, according to the law of thermodynamics, it is released into the surrounding environment in the form of heat.”
“That’s why computers generate heat,” Jim concluded for Katherine, “and it’s a limiting factor to how big computers can get, since otherwise massive computers would actually create so much heat that they would cause extreme global warming.”
Katherine smiled. “Wow. I actually understood that. So we’re in the saved memory of the mainframe?”
“Yes,” Jim replied, relieved that she understood, “but not the intentionally saved memory. We’re the stuff that’s been deleted but not completely destroyed so as to keep the mainframe cool.”
“That’s why our patterns are still intact,” James added. “That’s why we’re still alive.”
“That’s right, James,” confirmed the A.I.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d done this?” James asked.
“At the time, it certainly didn’t seem important. I was experimenting with several different methods for making my growth more efficient. This method ended up saving my life, and all of yours as well.”
James’s eyes were intense with concentration as he continued to put the pieces together, excitedly solving the puzzle. “If you didn’t tell the Council and you didn’t inform me, then the nans didn’t know about it either!”
“Right again, James,” the A.I. said, beginning to smile again.
“They deleted you thinking that you’d just dissipate into heat...” James continued, “but your pattern remained intact—and the same for Katherine and my doppelganger.”
“Jim,” Katherine interjected, sternly correcting James.
“He’s no longer just a copy of you, James,” the A.I. explained. “When he arrived here, I was able to change his program so that he had the ability to form long-term memories. He’s now a completely unique person from you, with a different pattern and his own experiences and lessons. He’s human now.”
James was silent for a moment. He turned and regarded his ghostly twin and considered the A.I.’s words. What once had been a simple copy of his pattern had lived a completely separate life from him for over a year and a half and was now a different person. They shared most of their life and memories and would always be bonded because of it, yet theoretically, Jim could live for thousands of years and choose an infinite number of different paths that would take him on journeys to places James might never see. Soon, he would become more like a brother than a copy—and then eventually he might become like a stranger. James wondered if he might not even recognize his mirror image in 1,000 years. Jim smiled at James as though he knew what James was thinking—he probably did. James smiled back. “I’m sorry about that, Jim.”
“No harm. So are you convinced, or do you need to know more?” Jim asked.
“It makes sense,” James admitted, “and I want this to be real, but there are still things I don’t understand.”
“You need only to ask, and all the answers will be provided,” replied the A.I.
James nodded as he considered the myriad of questions that he still had. “How were the nans able to infiltrate the system and delete you without it being noticed by anyone? Didn’t you put up a fight?”
“I held them off at first so I could gain more information and understand the situation,” the A.I. answered. “The nan consciousness communicated its intention of deleting me and that an invasion force of alien nans were on the way. Once I was armed with this information, I was able to run several trillion game theory simulations in a matter of a few seconds and determined that the best move was to allow them to delete me.”
“But why?” James asked. “How could that have been the best move? They’ve done more damage than you can imagine.”
; “On the contrary, my son, I can imagine it. I knew it was going to happen, but I also knew that this course of events gave us the best chance to arrive at the best possible outcome.”
“I don’t understand,” James admitted. “If you ran several trillion simulated scenarios, then surely there had to have been better outcomes than this! Do you realize that they’ve murdered almost everyone in the solar system and who knows how many more of the machine humans?”
The A.I. smiled calmly; he had patience that made him an ideal teacher. “In this instance, your mistake is to assume that this is the outcome. It certainly is not. We are still moving toward the ultimate outcome.”
“But how can it get better?” James asked. “They’ve murdered billions of people, and we can’t bring them back this time. We’ve lost control of the nans.”
“Once you’ve used the word ‘can’t,’ you’ve already defeated yourself. Indeed, my son, there is a way to bring everyone back.”
7
“You want us to destroy the sun?” Rich exclaimed. “Why? Why can’t we just get the hell out of here as quickly as possible?”
“You can if you choose,” 1 replied. “However, before you make that decision, you need to understand why destroying the system is so important.” The former post-humans remained in a stunned silence as they waited for an explanation of what appeared to be inexplicable. “We have only one clear advantage in this war with the nanobots, our physical strength in comparison to their fragility. Nanobots are carbon life forms. Indeed, humanity owes its existence to one simple fact: a carbon atom can form more bonds than any other element. It is for this reason that it can randomly take on more patterns than any other material. Left for billions of years, a planet rich in silicon or titanium will never form life. However, a planet rich in carbon, with an environment that remains stable for a billion years will eventually give rise to carbon patterns so complex that we would deem them alive—single-celled, microscopic organisms.”
“That was a fantastic biology lesson,” Rich interjected, “but I’m still a little foggy on the whole ‘why the hell does that mean we have to blow up the solar system?’ thing.”
“These nests are so rare,” 1 replied in a patient, earnest tone. She knew they were at a critical juncture; the former post-humans had to believe in her complete sincerity. There could be no doubt. “They are capable of giving birth to human civilizations, but they also always give birth to nanobots as a result. Nanobots will always be carbon lifeforms because silicon cannot carry transistor signals at the nano-level. Whereas we can transition to silicon and become strong and durable, they will always be fragile. We can leave our nests—they cannot.”
“They’re flying through space right now,” Old-timer said, contradicting 1. “I saw them when I came in here. That’s how they’ve been able to inflict so much damage on your collective.”
“That’s true,” 1 answered. “They can carry a charge and generate a magnetic field, much like the ones you needed to generate for your former carbon bodies. It protects them in space, but there are limits. The charge is temporary. Whereas you or I could take a stroll on a planet as cold as Neptune, the nanobots will always have to return to the rare and fragile safety of an Earth-like planet and an Earth-supporting solar system.” Though it seemed impossible, 1 was able to increase the earnestness in her voice before she spoke her next words. “This is not a final solution. However, limiting the amount of carbon life form-supporting solar systems is currently the only effective means we have of limiting the nanobot infection in the universe. I wish there were another way. Right now, there is not—and all you need do is look outside and see the destruction the nans are inflicting on our people to understand how critical limiting this infection is for the safety of all people, human, post-human, or android, throughout the universe.”
“So you’re saying that you destroy all the Earth-like solar systems you find?” Thel asked, aghast at the concept.
“Only those that the nanobots have infected,” 1 replied. “It’s like treating an incurable cancer. Until we find a better method, this is our best alternative.”
“Hypothetically, let’s say we did go along with this plan,” said Old-timer, “how would you destroy the system?”
“It wouldn’t be us,” 1 replied, “It would be you. It is our law.”
“Well, we’re terribly sorry to disappoint you, lady, but smart as we are, none of us know how the hell to destroy a solar system so—wanna fill us in?” Rich retorted.
“We’ll equip you with a ship,” 1 replied, keeping her patient, earnest tone intact in the face of Rich’s continued insolence. “Onboard the ship will be an anti-matter missile. Firing it into the sun will create a matter/anti-matter reaction that will release enough energy to destroy the sun and all of this system’s planets. Neirbo and a small contingent of our people will accompany you to guide you through any technical questions you may have.”
“Why not just fire the missile from here? Why do we have to have a ship?” Old-timer queried.
“The missile is extraordinarily powerful,” answered 1. “It requires a mass of anti-matter larger than half of your sun to cause the required chain reaction. If we fired the missile from here, the chance that it might be intercepted by the nans and then used against us is too great. Therefore, you must get in close to fire it.”
“Won’t that kill us, lady?” Rich asked.
“No,” 1 replied. “You’ll be thirty light seconds away from the impact, which will be enough time for you to open a wormhole and get far enough away from the system to be safe.”
“It sounds like a plan to me,” Djanet announced. “I’m up for it.”
“You can’t be serious?” Old-timer reacted with astonishment.
“Why not?” Djanet responded, “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get a little payback against those bloodsuckers.”
“I don’t know,” Old-timer replied, furrowing his brow as he tried to figure out why every part of him was telling him not to go ahead with the plan. “This sounds like what they used to call a scorched earth policy back in my day. Armies destroy anything that might be useful to the enemy while they advance further into their territory. It’s brutal and destructive and...I just don’t want any part of this.”
A moment of silence followed. With one for and one against, the situation teetered.
“I don’t like the sound of it either, Old-timer,” Rich finally said, “but I don’t like any of this. Given the alternative of letting those evil little bloodsuckers get away with killing our families or getting some revenge, I’m with Djanet—revenge sounds good.” Rich stepped to Djanet’s side and put his arm around her shoulder. She reached across his body to hold his hand.
Old-timer turned to Thel. “Well, it looks like it’s up to you. I’m sorry, Thel.”
“Yeah, the fate of the solar system is in your hands. No pressure,” Rich quipped.
“The decision is yours,” 1 said, meeting Thel’s eyes. Things had unfolded exactly as 1 had expected. She was moments away from certain victory. Thel could only make one choice. There was no alternative.
“I...I don’t know,” Thel said. “I agree with Old-timer. This seems so...brutal.”
At that moment, just as Thel was about to make her final decision, 1 fed the image of James being deleted by the nan consciousness into Thel’s mind. The image flashed so quickly that Thel didn’t see it consciously, but it immediately caused her to conjure the image herself from her memory. James vanishing. Forever.
“But we can’t let them get away with this,” Thel suddenly said with determination. “I’m with Djanet and Rich. I say we destroy this system and take as many nans with it as we can.”
1 didn’t smile—yet.
8
“You can bring them back?” James uttered.
“No,” the A.I. replied. “We can bring them back. Together.”
“How?” James asked, his heart in his throat.
The A.I. smiled again.
“You know the answer.”
James thought for a moment, desperately searching his mind. He came up with dozens of dead ends. “I really don’t.”
“Let me assist you,” the A.I. replied. “To help you find the answer, it is my turn to ask a question. Tell me, James, what is the purpose of life?”
“I...I don’t really know,” James replied.
“That’s true,” the A.I. agreed, “you truly don’t know. Yet you’ve given a great deal of thought to the subject and eliminated some of the false purposes others have found to fill the void created by not knowing the purpose of humanity. You know the purpose of life is obviously not, for instance, gaining material wealth. Nor is it sexual pleasure. Other activities may seem to be purposes because of their positive outcomes, such as procreation. Religion is the prime example of a false purpose that fills in for the real purpose as humanity continued to struggle for answers; the Purists still fall back on this solution. Why do none of these examples qualify as true purposes, James?”
“Because, ultimately, they lead nowhere,” James replied. “None of them advance the species. The only one that is even close is having children, but all that amounts to is putting your resources into training the next generation in hopes that they’ll find a higher purpose or achieve something great—it amounts to passing responsibility off to the future.”
“I’d say that’s typically selfish and egocentric of you, James,” Katherine protested defensively. “I happen to want children. It will give my life meaning. I think it’s sad that you’ll never experience that.”
James noted that Jim was conspicuously silent on the subject. He considered dropping it to save his twin the headache, but in the end, couldn’t resist his curiosity. As soon as he opened his mouth, however, to ask the question, Jim responded. “I’m opening my mind to the possibility.”
James silently digested this for a minute, sharing a hard stare from Jim as he did so. “Okay,” James said.
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