Everyone's Island

by Kris Schnee

  Zephyr wouldn't be welcome at the trade show. New AI regulations were coming into force, essentially barring further automation in an attempt to force stagnation on a whole field of technology. To Martin that policy seemed doomed, because it meant that the likes of China would get to define technology's future.

  Martin was interested in AI and other advanced technology because of his relationship with the Latter-Day Saints, the Mormons. Although his views weren't exactly in line with church doctrine, their theology and his agreed that it was mankind's job to become better, to become creators in their own right. A robot here and there, or a bit of gengineering work to cure a disease, wasn't exactly a feat of divine ascension. Still, it was... practice. What troubled him was the thought that only the least morally restrained people would get to use these tools, while everyone else held back. So, unlike some of his brethren, he worked quietly but aggressively to push for sane and decent folk to explore the very fields that most worried them.

  "I have a weird question," Zephyr said.

  "Yes?"

  Zephyr held his tail in his hands. "I was wondering if you could give me a cyborg rat."

  Martin's laugh was loud in the little cabin. "Shut the door." When Zephyr did so, Martin said, "You know about that other little venture of mine, eh?"

  "I know: you have several other investments, one involving cybernetic interfaces. I also know: a direct link between digital computers and living nervous systems is an established technology, as with Garrett's prosthetic legs. I also know: there have been experiments in which animals have had their bodies steered by implanted control systems. I also know: You are in contact with someone who is a deal-maker involved in similar technology."

  "Nice detective work."

  Zephyr shrugged. "Tess helped."

  "Why do you want a remote-control rat, assuming I can provide one?"

  "You can. And it doesn't have to be a rodent. I want to learn about biological nervous systems and develop a human interface for myself."

  "You want to use a human as a puppet?"

  Zephyr waved his hands in a warding gesture. "No way! There are two ideas here." He explained that he and Tess had been in near-constant contact, and it'd be really cool to read her mind or maybe other people's, if they wanted him to.

  "Uh-huh," said Martin, making a note to ask his contacts about their own crude AIs. "What's the other idea?"

  Zephyr said, "Okay. Imagine that you're a raccoon and you're hungry. A biological one, I mean."

  Martin blinked.

  Zephyr went on: "You don't know what to do, but a voice in your head says, this way, and guides you to a house with a friendly human who's lonely, and if you decide they're okay if warns you not to bite, and if you're sick it helps you find a vet and tell them what hurts. And stuff like that. It doesn't control you, it makes you smarter."

  "I don't think Congress would approve of my helping you conquer the ocean with an army of cyborg raccoons."

  Zephyr was persistent. "It wouldn't be an army, it doesn't have to be that species, and why do you care what US politicians think?"

  "Castor is a mouse among dinosaurs. If they wanted to, politicians could kill us easily."

  "Not with everybody watching, right? Besides, I'm not going to hurt anyone, and we're not in America."

  Martin calculated. "You know a fair amount about Mind-Machine Interfaces. Would you be willing to send a copy of yourself to some associates of mine?"

  "No. I'm nobody's property." Zephyr looked down. "Technically Garrett's, but still."

  "We could use the copy for a little while, then delete it."

  "Hell no!"

  He eyed the robot. "I don't get you. I never did. All right, you're programmed to avoid death and resent being controlled --"

  "No," Zephyr said again. "The second one's not in my programming."

  "Then why do you act like it?"

  Zephyr's ears fell and he shut his eyes, presumably in silent communion with Tess. "I don't know," he answered with a note of sadness. "My experiences, I guess. Maybe B.F. Skinner was right: we're all just stimulus-response machines and we only want 'freedom and dignity' because we're programmed to do so by society. Programming that can be removed."

  Martin watched him. He was no fan of Skinner's arguments either. The scientist had tried to prove that mind and soul were superstition; that "technologists of behavior" like himself should rule; and that the ideal state was a soft, gentle absolute tyranny. He put an arm on the robot's shoulder. "You don't believe that, do you?"

  "No. But in the absence of a better hypothesis, he could be right."

  "So, you want to see inside the soul of a living being?"

  "And also with you," said Zephyr. "I mean I'll let you look at me, if you don't copy me."

  "You trust me that much?"

  "No. I would want to link with you for a while first. But I'd help with your research people in exchange, especially if you pay me something. Please, can I have a cyborg?" Zephyr used puppy-eyes on him; they couldn't blink but the lights in them flickered through a rainbow of colors.

  Martin thought about it. "That and the season remind me. Have you ever celebrated Christmas?"

  * * *

  The trade show was in Pittsburgh, in a huge convention center that had seen better days. The glowing rooftop signboards that had beamed stories into the night sky had gone dark. Guards patrolled the halls. There'd been a political protest last week that sent several people to the hospital.

  Although there was a lot to see between the people and the dozens of industry booths hawking boats, tools and other gear, Martin was unimpressed. The convention filled only one of the hangar-sized showrooms. People slinked through the corridors, as though the building were an ancient ruin beyond their comprehension. And these were engineers and business folk!

  When Martin explored the showroom, where entire yachts and turbines had been hauled in and still seemed dwarfed, his mood lightened. One of his old nanotech investments had showed up as a dealer in desalination gear, and another had survived and bought the suncloth manufacturer who'd provided Castor's solar panels. "What's new?" he said to the young man running one company's booth. A surfer, from the looks of him.

  "Hi. We've been working on what we call a SeaSheet." He handed Martin a square of smoky plastic, or cloth or glass -- hard to tell which. It spilled across his fingers, soft and cool. The man said, "This material absorbs energy from sunlight and motion." As Martin handled the sheet, a lightbulb hooked to it flickered.

  "Interesting," said Martin. "So if it's on the ocean, the waves will constantly give a trickle of power even at night?"

  "Right."

  "How well does it withstand corrosion?"

  "Pretty well. It's made to float on water, after all. Partly made of aerogel and foamed metal. Good for keeping on boats for an emergency power boost."

  "Boats? Bah. I've got a more ambitious use for it. I'm from Castor."

  The vendor's eyes lit up. "You know that Fox guy?"

  Martin was amused. Fox was becoming a decent figurehead, the main face seen in the occasional news story, and that was fine. The man was bland and apolitical enough to avoid making Castor a target for fear and hatred. At least, more so than was inevitable.

  "I'm his business partner. Would your company be interested in selling a large supply of this stuff, as soon as it's available?"

  The vendor looked embarrassed. "That could take a while. We don't have enough orders to do a production run."

  Martin quizzed him about the product. "How many units were you hoping to have pre-ordered?" The vendor named a figure. "Wow." Acres' worth.

  "You know, your project is perfect for SeaSheets. But we're selling to boaters, who've got all the juice they need, and to coastal places, where people are griping that it's a navigation and environmental hazard. We need more places like yours."

  Martin supposed it wasn't the first time a conceptually neat technology had been squelched for lack of profitability. But for
the grace of God and a fair bit of work on his own part, so went sea colonization. "May I have your business card?"

  The rest of the dealers' room was a toy store to him, mostly impractical but cool enough to make him grin and gawk. Given the opportunity, civilization could still churn out any number of wonders.

  Martin double-taked at a green statue that turned out to be a rough copy of Zephyr. The thing had a cheap, goblin-like look that managed to be neither cute nor human-like, especially with its blank stare. The booth was Hayflick Technologies', of course.

  A bored-looking man sat there. "Is this the latest model?" asked Martin. "Looks different."

  "New product line." The salesman thunked the robot's side, making it wobble. "This one is waterproof, for marine work."

  "What does it do?"

  "Whatever you tell it to. Simple welding, cleaning, search and rescue, maintenance. It's a general-purpose tool."

  "I thought you were running up against the new robotics regulations."

  "They don't apply for most offshore applications. We're shifting focus to those as a result, while we lobby for the rules to get relaxed further."

  Martin looked again at the goblin-bot, and excused himself with a shudder. Same company, same basic hardware as Zephyr. It struck him that the main difference between that one and the crewman who'd been asking for a pet cyborg was philosophical, not physical. The one was a tool, the other a person, and the distinction made Zephyr able to innovate, to contribute as a mind as well as a body. As a soul, even.

  * * *

  He was still thinking about the vendors when the time came for his event, a talk in one of the conference rooms. When he opened the door he smiled, finding that over a hundred people had gathered to hear him.

  Martin lectured, projecting models, photos and graphs on the wall. "As you can see, we've found a financially viable model for independent expansion of humanity to the world's oceans." That wasn't exactly true, so he waited for the counterpoint.

  An elderly man's hand rose. "It seems to me that you're relying on some fair winds. Benign neglect by the Cuban government, and cheap labor."

  "Exploiting cheap labor," said one man.

  A younger woman cut in. "What about the location? You're operating in shallow water within a national EEZ, near shore. That's not generally an option."

  "Come to think of it," said the man, "you've barely got a profit, and with all those fixed costs to recoup."

  Martin smiled. "It's good to be back amid the peer-review process. Before I respond, let's review a few of the past attempts at the sea-going life." He showed them Sealand and Rose Island and so on, a series of tiny historical outposts that had been dismantled forcibly for one reason or another.

  "What these old projects have in common is an antagonistic relationship with a powerful nation at their doorstep. Then there are the national or nearly-national projects: Dubai, Russia, Japan, Venezuela, Brazil. Highly specialized, tightly controlled, and coastal. Now, think of Castor again. What we've done there is to bring theory into reality in a new way: simple private business, not a gimmick like 'pirate radio'. Regardless of the luck we've had in setting up, I can present you with a hypothesis: given patient investment and hard work, and loose regulations, it's possible to get more money out of an ocean platform than goes in. So far, reality has confirmed it."

  He didn't add: If you squinted at the books, and if you ignored the equipment donations from well-wishers. He would make it all balance and become truly profitable; he just needed time and people's trust.

  Martin called on a well-dressed Asian man, maybe an investor. "Historically, having a potential for long-term profit hasn't been enough to keep financial backers' interest. Plymouth and Jamestown were sideshows against the larger context of European ventures worldwide. And of course investing in a true, sustainable base beyond Earth has been out of the question."

  Martin nodded, though annoyed at the assumption about space. "If you've studied the early New World settlements, you must see Castor as wildly successful so far. Plymouth and Jamestown were not just unprofitable for many years, but also deathtraps. If I were William Bradford I'd be putting a good spin on things by praising God for only killing half of us the first year."

  A woman said, "You've already suffered one death. Each life is infinitely precious."

  "Indeed. But it was a risk freely chosen by an informed adult."

  "You won't be allowed to put people at risk. People are assets to their countries."

  "No!" said Martin, forcing himself to be civil. "People are free individuals, not assets or subjects. This is freedom: to use the gift of life as we are called to do, not by any earthly authority but by the dictates of our own conscience."

  The woman paused for a moment, but persisted. "But people don't always see that 'calling', and choose to take unacceptable risks. They need to be protected from making the wrong choices."

  "Madam, you're wrong." He had no desire to get into this topic, and shook his head. "Next question."

  * * *

  Martin was pleasantly mobbed after the talk ended, and was soon booked for several meals with businessmen and potential hires. It seemed his trip was a success in both main goals: finding more hands with technical skill, and raising interest in Castor among those in a position to help.

  The actual interviews he conducted with possible employees were not so encouraging.

  "Will I be able to keep my health care?"

  "What about pensions?"

  "Paid leave?"

  "I'd need coverage for my family --"

  "Free boat --"

  "Housing on shore --"

  "Enough!" said Martin to the latest candidate. "I'm not sure you understand what I'm offering. You get a room on the station, access to onboard facilities, food, a little money, and an occasional ride."

  "But what about health care? You have to offer that. It's the law."

  "For United States companies. I would have to shut down if I met all the US requirements."

  "But that's not fair!" the engineer squeaked.

  "When a machine breaks, do you accuse it of unfairness?"

  "Of course not. I ask someone what to do."

  Martin chugged the rest of his glass of water and reached for the restaurant bill. "We'll be in touch."

  * * *

  His head spun from the weekend of social contact. He'd seen far more people than he would have on Castor, so that he struggled to remember everyone's names. Not a hire among them, though.

  Someone asked, "Excuse me?" Martin looked up from taking notes. The man who'd spoken was barely audible over the clatter of the hotel restaurant. Another, younger man stood nearby, twisting a newspaper in his hands. "You're Martin Gil, aren't you?" the first asked.

  "You don't happen to be engineers without inflated egos, do you?"

  "No. No sir. We're in the food industry."

  The other one said, "Brent Dentrassi, sir. It's a pleasure." He fumbled the newspaper into his left hand so he could shake.

  "I'm Vaughn. His older brother, you see."

  Martin looked them over. Vaguely Greek, college age, and terrified. He waited for them to talk, until Brent elbowed his brother to make him blurt, "That is, we want to start a restaurant. At your place."

  "I'm not sure you two appreciate our situation. There are only a few dozen people there on any given day, not enough to support anything like this." He waved a glass at the spacious restaurant around them. "Also, it's dangerous."

  "We know. But you'll be expanding, yes?"

  Maybe they had some foresight, but they didn't understand. "I doubt we'd be enough of a market. We're cash-poor and we can't be 'eating out' every day. I don't think you could do it."

  "Let us try, sir," said Brent. "We'll even work your farms part-time."

  "You'd get no insurance, no pension, no bail-out if you fail."

  "We won't."

  Martin was getting annoyed. Why was everyone so bull-headed this weekend? "Listen. You could die
out there."

  The brothers exchanged a look, but then they both said, "We'll do our best not to."

  Martin re-appraised the Dentrassis. They were still here after all his threats, and actually willing to get their hands dirty?

  He sat back in his chair. "You'd also have to cut me in."

  14. Garrett

  The trouble began with a smell. Garrett was poring over Castor's financial books in more detail than he'd ever done before. After that rebuke about the Pilgrims' contract, he didn't want to be caught ignorant again. He had to pay attention to the legalese and numbers that scrolled past his bleary eyes. Castor was as much a conceptual structure as a physical one, and both aspects needed maintenance.

  When he sighed, resting his head on his hands, a sweet smell reached him. He jumped out of his chair and sniffed around the room, tracing the scent to an air duct.

  "Hell." He pulled on a headset and said on a private channel, "Noah, where are you?"

  "Dockside."

  "Meet me upstairs. I may need you."

  "What is it?" Noah said, taking advantage of the silent-talking feature of their headsets.

  "Marijuana. Some idiot brought it aboard, probably the tourists."

  A young couple had shown up at Castor in a boat of their own, and offered the going rate for a rented room. They weren't even divers; they just wanted to gawk. By now Garrett had dealt with plenty of divers and a few other tourists interested in the science and engineering, but having visitors arrive on their own was a novelty.

  Garrett let Zephyr and Phillip know what was happening in case there was more trouble. He and Noah went down to the tourists' door and knocked.

  "Occupied."

  "Wrong answer," said Garrett. "Let us in."

  There was bickering from inside, a giggle, then the creak of the door opening. The tourist man leaned against the door, high, with the pot smell wafting from a joint on a table. "Hey, Cap'n, can't we get some privacy?" His underdressed fiancee sat on the bed and tried to find a good spot to hide the joint, and the bag of pot beside her.