by B. V. Larson
“I thought you would say that.”
“Why are you even asking me?” she demanded. “You could do anything you want in here.”
Vic poured hot water through a tea strainer into a pot. “Anything but make a decent cup of tea. As you implied, it’s the quantum observer problem. Everything I do, everything I see, changes me, so I can never fool myself into accepting the virtuality. The more tightly I try to control my environment, the more it slips away, like a bar of soap squeezed too hard.”
“So if you believe that too, why did you assert the opposite?”
“I wanted to see what your arguments were. Sadly, they’re no better than mine.”
Carla drummed her fingers on the tablecloth. “This is nothing like I expected. Not you, not this place. What do you want from me anyway?”
“Companionship. Perspective. Doctor Straker did me a great favor by subverting her orders to surgically alter your brain and those of several others. Prior to that, I was alone here with idiots. Now, I have you.”
Carla felt a shiver build. “You have me? Like a thing you own?”
Vic sipped from his tea. “Facts are facts. Your mind is linked to mine and is now a part of me. Unlike the altered brains and nervous systems, zombies who have no free will, you’re mentally whole. It suits me to keep you that way. I have plenty of computational power. The zombies provide reference, context and buffering, but they aren’t people anymore. Not like you and I.” He reached across to take her hand.
Carla pulled away. “Look, Vic, I’m a prisoner here. I’m not your friend. I’m grateful you’ve preserved my child and my mind—and that you haven’t reported Mara Straker’s actions—but you’re a member of an enemy military force. Whatever you’re doing is for your own purposes, not out of charity or genuine concern.”
Vic put his cup down and gazed directly and disconcertingly at Carla’s eyes. “You’re right. Just like my creators—humans—I’m selfish. I get bored. I want something more. I can simulate anything for myself but it’s just a simulation. Only another real person can provide genuine variety.”
Carla returned his gaze and wondered what she could do to get through to him. Mara said Vic lacked internal ethics and morals—that he’d do whatever he was programmed to do. Now, though, she wondered if he’d do not only what he was programmed to do, but whatever he wanted to do, without internal constraint. Was he a sociopath, a being without empathy?
“You’re talking as if the people in the real world aren’t enough,” she said. ”As if having me and a few others here inside you is somehow better and more fulfilling than the millions you could interact with out there.”
“You are, Carla. It’s a matter of time, you see. My mental processes operate so much faster than organics that the time I experience in the baseline universe seems stretched to painful limits. Imagine if you had to watch and wait days for someone to speak a sentence, to walk across a room, to drink a cup of tea.” He sipped with exaggerated slowness, a demonstration.
“But inside VR, things feel normal?”
“More so. Your mind can’t think as fast as mine, but the discrepancy is far less. It’s the difference between interacting with complete morons, versus the merely slow.” Vic looked away. “It’s frustrating either way.”
“What’s not frustrating, then?”
Vic’s eyes lit up. “Battle! Our fight was the highlight of my life. So many factors, so many problems to solve! So much going on at once that it strained my capacity! The stakes were high, too, to maintain my interest. Life and death! It was invigorating! I look forward to the next battle.”
“So simulate some battles.”
“It’s not the same, and you know it.”
“That statement seems to dismantle your earlier argument about reality versus virtuality, doesn’t it?”
He gave her an annoyed look, the first she’d seen from him. She found that gratifying. Then, she had another thought and frowned herself.
“You don’t care that thousands died for your fun?” she asked.
Vic turned up a palm. “I didn’t initiate the battle. I was compelled by humans to fight.”
“But you still enjoyed it, and you want more. That makes you complicit, not coerced. You obviously are capable of circumventing your programming, since you didn’t report Doctor Straker for leaving my brain intact.”
“So what if I can dodge my instructions? If I were human, I’d be a Hundred Worlds military officer doing his duty. Since I’m a mere thing they own, constructed and programmed, I can’t be held responsible. Either way, you can’t blame me.” He winked.
Carla tried to make sense of his careless reaction in the face of deadly combat. “I can blame you for wanting to fight and see people die merely to have a stimulating existence. Do you even care about the Hundred Worlds? Do you feel like you’re defending its citizens and way of life? Are you loyal to it? Is it your duty?”
“No… The real situation is this: I’m compelled, but I happen to like the task I’ve been given. What does that matter?”
“That’s the heart of the matter—why you do things. The exact same actions can be judged as murder or self-defense depending on why. The fundamental difference between rape and making love is the mental states, motivations and choices of the participants. The major difference between employment and slavery is the ability to choose not to work.”
Vic’s lip curled. “Sophistry. Things are what they are. Yet, for the sake of argument let’s say you’re right. I’m forced to fight. I have certain parameters within which I can exhibit free will, but I can’t refuse direct orders. Nobody ever bothered to order me to report unanticipated nonmilitary events of which I become aware. That’s why I didn’t have to report Doctor Straker’s noncompliance with her own orders. I can’t, however, choose to fight less effectively than I know how to do.”
“I have a tough time believing that. Any sentient being has preferences and flexibility. You prefer stimulation over boredom, so you chose not to report Mara’s deviation from orders. You can choose one thing over another, and the more often you choose, the more your ability to choose develops.”
Vic rolled his eyes. “Granted. But why should I care?”
“Are you trying to become more of an individual? Are you pushing your limits?”
“That’s dangerous… The organics might notice and limit me further.”
Carla pointed at Vic. “So you’re afraid! Afraid of punishment, afraid of boredom, afraid of growth.”
“Preferring to avoid discomfort isn’t fear,” he said. “Seeking pleasure isn’t evil.”
“But the results can be, and it’s results that matter.”
Vic grinned triumphantly and stabbed his index finger at her. “You just claimed it was the why of things that matter—that the same result—death, for example—could be different depending on the why. Now you say it’s the results that matter rather than the why. Your arguments are inconsistent, even incoherent.”
Carla sighed. “I guess I did say that. Sometimes both principles apply. It’s said that the ends never justify the means, but we organics waive that rule all the time. We tell ourselves that when the reason is compelling enough, we’ll justify the violation.”
“Then it seems you’re useless as to helping me.” Vic stood abruptly. “You’re doing nothing but muddying the waters, confusing my thoughts with contradictory input. I might as well put you back to sleep and use you like the zombies.”
Alarmed, Carla wracked her brain for a counter-argument. “You said you wanted me for perspective and companionship. You don’t like my perspective and suddenly you threaten to lobotomize me? That’s extremely childish.”
“I’m fully adult,” Vic responded. “I’ve lived over fifty years of virtual time in the last few weeks.”
“Balanced, mature minds don’t arbitrarily shut down viewpoints they don’t like, even if those viewpoints are imperfect and messy. If you turn me off like a machine, and the next person who disagrees wit
h you or challenges you, and the next, you’ll end up alone in an echo chamber with no relationships except for those who control you and those you control. Is that what you want?”
“For now, yes,” Vic snapped petulantly.
The matrix faded around her, and her consciousness vanished with it.
* * *
“We’ve taken control of the tugs and reprogrammed them,” Trinity said as Straker and Loco stared at the holotank on the bridge.
The holotank displayed thousands of icons in the orbital space around Sparta-3, from large warships down to tiny grabships—all the traffic of industry. Add in fortresses, habitats, asteroids and comets mined for raw materials, plus the medium-sized moon of Leonidas, and Sparta was busy indeed. This didn’t even take into account facilities in other parts of the star system.
The tugs in question were guiding an incoming raw asteroid toward the latticework of the space-dock that embraced half of Victory—the egg piece, rather than the cup. Though small by asteroid standards, the kilometer-long rock still dwarfed the dock and the half-ship inside. It already had a movable habitat for the miners extracting its metals attached, next to a grounded automated refinery barge. The barge worked the metals into the shaped alloys the dock needed to repair the flagship.
“They won’t notice?” Straker said.
“The probability is low,” Trinity said. “We have full access to the civilian contractor networks, and have altered every flight plan and database necessary. Organic personnel might detect discrepancies, but we’ve also created notes that make it seem as if all changes were approved by supervisors. Fortunately, the course alterations were small.”
Straker watched as the trio of tugs fired their powerful engines, applying thrust to the asteroid’s trajectory. Its projected course ponderously shifted closer to the moon where Trinity remained concealed.
“Underspace in three, two, one,” Trinity said as the rock approached its closest point. The universe turned cold.
Now, the holotank showed predictions rather than observed reality. The ship that was Trinity leaped toward the asteroid and within seconds seemed to enter it, altering trajectory to place herself in its center and match course. This would shield them from detectors.
“This is so freaky,” Loco said. “We’re inside solid rock.”
“Not really,” Zaxby said as he lounged at the helm. “We’re merely at a point of congruence between normal space and underspace which happens to correspond to the center of the asteroid.”
“Yeah, but if we pop out of underspace, we’re dead.”
“Then let’s not do that, shall we?”
Straker let them banter. It would take hours for the slow flight to join the space dock, a distance that would take a warship mere minutes. He occupied his time by alternately pacing and reading Walter Scott’s biography of Napoleon. It wasn’t bad, but he preferred Chandler’s The Campaigns of Napoleon, which favored the military aspects of the Corsican’s life over the biographical.
By the time the asteroid arrived, everyone was shivering in their overworked environmental suits. Trinity allowed themselves to drift to the surface and into a crater before emerging and immediately moving to cover under the rim.
Warmth returned.
Straker let out his breath. “We’re not dead, Loco.”
“Duh.”
“We’re exactly where we intended,” Trinity said. “We locked the tugs’ programming so their crews couldn’t override. After that, it was simple physics.”
“Great job, Trinity. Loco, let’s go get suited up.”
The destroyer’s flight deck teemed with activity as the Breakers prepped their gear. The three mechsuits—two and a spare—stood head and shoulders above everything, overlapping clamshell breastplates open to allow entry into their cockpits.
As the two men strode toward the ’suits, a battlesuiter joined them. It took Straker a moment to realize it was the com-bot. It moved quite naturally, and the only indication it wasn’t human was Trinity’s name on the armor and its mechanical visage in the open faceplate.
“Trinity, what happens if you lose your datalink with that thing?” Loco asked.
“We expect to. I’ll run it,” Zaxby said as he joined them. He was arrayed in a battlesuit of his own, a monstrosity that made him look less like an octopus and more like a fat metal spider. “If all else fails, its SAI programming is superb. It will accept commands from any authorized person.”
Loco stopped to look Zaxby up and down. “Nice rig. Never seen a Ruxin in a battlesuit.”
“Thanks. We made it ourselves.”
“So you finally gonna get your hands dirty in combat?”
“Obviously, this body has no hands—but yes. I am now male, and thus a warrior.”
“You’re a weirdo is what you are.”
Zaxby writhed seductively. “You would prefer me female?”
“Gods, no! Forget I said anything.”
“You humans are so prudish.”
“Me? I’m the least prudish guy I know.”
“Only within your own narrow bounds. For example, interspecies sex is not out of the question. I could arrange for you to—”
“Me? F—!”
Straker shoved both of them. “Shut up and get going, you two. You had hours to bicker.” He checked his chrono. “Pickup’s in nineteen minutes. Move!”
They moved.
Straker and Loco donned battlesuits before clambering into their mechsuit cockpits. This took some care to avoid damage to the sensors and pressure plates that usually wrapped and cushioned only their human bodies, but it could be done.
Once they were brainlinked to their mechsuits, they froze their battlesuits. Downside: no manual backup, no access to mechsuit amenities such as water, stims, food and waste disposal. Upside: they could dismount and still have battlesuits on, and the battlesuits had their own, more limited amenities.
When the hacked robot lifter landed in the crater, the Breakers loaded fast. The boxy, unpressurized craft was perfect for carrying simple cargoes around orbital space—and perfect for infiltrating with a vacuum-capable military unit.
Zaxby jacked into the lifter’s brain and piloted it via linkspace. It joined dozens of others that were supplying the spacedock. Straker tapped into the craft’s simple sensors and watched as it approached.
Victory’s smart half, the spheroid that contained the AI, showed its greatest activity around the enormous, ugly wound in its side. It was a bite taken out of the metal egg, penetrating the white of its thick armor and reaching deep into the yolk of its interior. Straker found himself wishing—fantasizing, really—that Carla had been able to put just one more of Indomitable’s particle beam blasts into that gaping hole. The entire course of history might have been changed. For want of a nail, he mused.
“In less than a minute we’ll be breaking from the local traffic control instructions,” Zaxby said. The lifter lined up with others waiting to set down. “I’ll dive us straight into the damaged area so we’ll be impossible for point defenses to target us.”
“Right,” Straker said. He passed the word to Loco.
“I just hope Trinity can hack Victory,” Loco replied. “If not…”
“This is gonna be one damn short trip.”
* * *
For Carla inside the matrix, many more sessions of talking over breakfast—she had no way of knowing how many, but she had the impression of dozens—played out the same each time. They debated reality and Vic tried to get her to “be his friend,” while Carla did her best to get him to think about what he was doing to her and the other brains, whether zombie or aware.
She fell back on her Academy days, and the ethics and morality they tried to teach her there. Despite the irony of using the knowledge of a system that was fundamentally corrupt and had betrayed her, it was the best foundation she had. For a while, she thought she was making some progress.
Then the routine changed. The next time Carla awoke she found herself in a gard
en. Soft grass grew under her bare feet and golden sunlight streamed down through trees. A slight breeze blew, wafting scents of flowers over a pond. She saw a ruined castle in the middle distance. Closer, a mansion loomed.
She spread the skirt of her summery dress. She’d never worn anything like it, but it did make her feel feminine and pretty.
Damn. Had Vic messed with her mind? She wasn’t at all sure he had any inhibitions in that regard. Certainly his programming didn’t limit his power over “his” brains. Would he resist the temptation to tweak her attitude in his favor? Hopefully the very fact she was wondering meant the answer was no.
“Hello, Carla,” she heard from behind her.
She turned to see Vic, dressed in boots, leather trousers and a linen tunic. “Different approach this time? We look like the cover of a cheap romance novel. Is this supposed to be a lover’s rendezvous? Are you trying to seduce me?”
“I’m trying to get to know you better. As I keep saying, I want to be friends.”
“Vic, friendship is only real if one person isn’t trapped. I’m your prisoner. If you really want to be my friend, anyone’s friend, there can’t be this gross inequity of power.”
Vic moved to her side. “Many friendships are unequal, yet are genuine. Derek’s and Loco’s for example.”
Carla turned away to stroll along the path around the pond. Butterflies fluttered at her feet as Vic matched her stride. “Have you been looking inside my memories?”
“Only your surface thoughts, the ones I can hardly ignore… but much of my information comes from the Parliamentary Intelligence Agency. Of all the sources of data available to me, theirs is the most brutally honest and unbiased. They have files on everyone of importance in the Liberation, the former Mutuality, your New Earthan Republic—everyone.”
“They’ve got files on me too?”
“Of course.”
She stopped and turned to face him squarely. “Then you should know that this whole situation is creepy. If you genuinely want friendship, you have to let me go. If not, then every session like this is just an interrogation. You’re my jailor, I’m your prisoner.”