by Ryk E. Spoor
The smile faded. “Oh, Marc. Don’t tell me that in all that time—”
“I’m a product of my . . . fictional times, K . . . Oasis. You know that, better than anyone. I love you, probably did ever since the first moment we met, two who’d seen through the lies but found a truth worth fighting for. Did you think I’d just go . . . looking for someone else when I knew you were still there? When I knew the woman that was the best match imaginable was hurting, but might one day open up . . .”
“Oh, God, Marc. I’m . . . I should have . . .” She stopped, bit her lip. Then she managed a faint smile, tears waiting in her eyes. “Listen to us. Not so much supermen, eh?”
“Ha,” he said, with unsteadiness in his own voice. “Take a lot more than being a supergenius to get beyond being human. And we are human—that much I’ve finally really learned.”
“I guess I got to learn that a little easier than you. Oasis had a real family, and I got to live with them, letting her come and go, learning the world from inside . . .” She shrugged. “I cheated, I guess.”
“You’re talking like you’re separate again.”
“You cut that out!” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You have no idea how confusing all this is! We’d . . . I’d . . . I’d figured out how to live with it. It was a good life, and I liked living as Oasis. Being Oasis.”
“And I’d guess Oasis couldn’t complain about the body.”
“Once I got used to the modified face in the mirror?” The voice was as jaunty as the old K, but something in the wording, the posture, the exact tones, told him this was much more Oasis. “Bonus! I got an upgrade package I couldn’t believe. I think faster, I’m stronger, I’m tougher . . . and I’m probably living longer. Haven’t had to take a single rejuvenation reset yet. I’ll bet you haven’t, either.”
“No, not yet.”
They fell silent for a moment, and he gazed back out into space. Not much farther to go.
Getting back to Earth space hadn’t been hard. Losing any possible pursuit had taken some time, and he hoped to God that the time wasn’t getting people killed. But here there weren’t miracles, and for all the technology humanity had developed, it still took time and effort to move around the Solar System.
Now they were almost to the backwater colony, Counter-Earth 3, that Davison had retreated to. He could see it now, a star slowly brightening, becoming something more than a star. Oasis-as-K knew who would be there with Davison, the other four sleepers; he’d had to warn her, so she was prepared. But they had avoided the subject of the past, for the most part, because to dwell on those who had been with them, and then lost to themselves, was almost unbearable.
“So,” Oasis said, “she is something special, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” he answered simply. “Yes, she is.” He looked over. “But so are you. Even more than you were.” He smiled and shook his head. “You gave up your self—the self you fought for, that we fought for—because you couldn’t stand to see someone die for no reason. So now you’re . . . more than either of you. And I wish I had something equal to that to brag about.”
“I think you do,” she said, gaze soft and green as spring leaves. “This is the Marc C. DuQuesne I knew . . . the one who disappeared, hid his real self away behind a shadow, buried, for fifty years. And you come back starting new legends.” Her eyes suddenly sparkled mischievously. “Let’s just agree we’re both awesome.”
He laughed out loud. “All right, you have a deal!”
Even as they smiled at each other, a deep, booming, resonant pseudo-voice thundered in his head. AHH, MARC CASSIUS DUQUESNE OF TELLUS. I HAVE BEEN CONSIDERING YOUR SITUATION FOR SOME SEVENTY-TWO POINT SIX OF YOUR SECONDS.
DuQuesne jumped in his seat; fortunately the loose harness prevented this from becoming comical flailing. “Klono’s Curving Carballoy. . . . Don’t DO that, Mentor!” He took a deep breath, calming himself, as Oasis looked at him in momentary confusion before realizing what was happening.
My apologies, Marc DuQuesne. I work in the manner I was designed.
“Which means you like the dramatics just as much as your template,” DuQuesne observed, glancing down at the hard-shelled case that Ariane had built to house him. “And I’ll admit, you do a damn good imitation of the real thing.” He paused. “Of the simulated real thing I remember. Whatever.”
I will take that as a compliment. May I use your onboard speakers?
“Sure thing,” he said. “You got my signal, obviously.”
“I did, immediately upon your entrance. You did, however, perform numerous evasive maneuvers designed to confound both human and AI pursuers—for good and sufficient reason—and it was some time before I could ensure a completely secure connection to transfer myself to your location.” The deep voice, now coming from the speakers, gave the impression of self-deprecating humor. “Alas, I am thoroughly inadequate and intolerably weak of mind compared to my original namesake.”
DuQuesne couldn’t help but chuckle at the phrasing, so reminiscent of the Mentor he and Seaton and Kinnison had known. “So you’re back in your original home?”
A flicker of lights in many colors rippled across the case. “I am, and I appreciate your consideration in bringing it with you. It is truly like coming home for me.”
DuQuesne glanced at the course tracker. Not too much longer to the destination, but still a bit. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“That is, of course, why you contacted me.”
“True enough, but not for this; it’s just curiosity, and probably a stupid question, but I’m not an expert in this field.” Hell, I’ve actually sort of always avoided the field in question. “Why the heck are you transferring yourself instead of just duplicating yourself? I know that the standard AIs have strict legal limits, but you’re technically rogue—”
For a moment, the voice returned to its thunderous bass. “MARC C. DUQUESNE, YOU THINK LOOSELY AND MUDDILY.” The phrase caused Oasis to giggle, which Marc thought was a bit cruel on her part. In a slightly lower tone, Mentor continued, “Were you given the ability, Doctor DuQuesne, would you create numerous duplicates of yourself? One to remain by Ariane Austin’s side, one to work on the Upper Sphere to develop your technology, one to stay here, monitoring the CSF and SSC?”
DuQuesne winced. You know, I wonder if he really is the Mentor I knew . . . that’s impossible, but sometimes he does sound just like him . . . “No. No, I don’t think I would.”
“Know, then, that for virtually all AIs it is just as distasteful, even frightening, to imagine duplicating one’s true self across the network. More, once separated the copies will slowly diverge, no longer being the same—and, perhaps, acquiring new motivations. While I believe that I am of a sufficient stability at the requisite level of stress, for many the conflict introduced by the duplicates all attempting to perform the same basic core impulses can easily disrupt their stability entirely.”
DuQuesne nodded. “Yeah, I see. That makes sense; arguments over who’s doing the dirty jobs versus the good ones, who gets time with that special person . . . But why does it take you so long to get somewhere? Not that you still don’t get around a lot faster than any physical ship, but I know it shouldn’t take nearly as long as it did to download the data that makes you up.”
“That question does indeed stem from your lack of clear understanding of the nature of artificial intelligences of higher order. In simple terms, it is because the transfer of a personality, of an individual, is not nearly so simple as merely downloading the data. An individual is a matrix, a webwork, and a process of data, at both the conventional and the quantum level. The precise relationships of the matrix, the precise processes, must be maintained, and in such a way that the consciousness is not interrupted—else the transfer may never complete, the mind never reawaken. Thus it is a tedious and dangerous process; a Tayler-1 would be unable to perform it at all, and even a Tayler 2 or 3 would be in grave danger. As a Tayler-5, I am capable of this action with
reasonable safety.”
And I’d guess T-10s can do it easy as pie, but they’ll have a hell of a lot more to transfer. “Thanks, Mentor.”
“So, Mentor,” Oasis said, “You learn anything on your, um, mission?”
“At the moment my Visualization is not entirely clear, no. There are unsettling implications, but no definite evidence of the sort of activity I am seeking.” The AISage’s voice was contrite. “I apologize for this inadequate and virtually useless answer.”
“Hey, even if there is something bad going on, it’s got a whole solar system to be going on in, and whoever’s involved is going to be hiding. Don’t get discouraged,” Oasis said.
“I am not ‘discouraged.’ I am, however, all too aware of my limitations. It is true, also, that one of those limitations is my need for caution and secrecy, the necessity that I not reveal my current state to any, computational or biological, to whom I cannot extend my complete and absolute trust. At the moment, that group consists of only three individuals, besides yourselves: Doctor Gabrielle Wolfe’s AISage, Vincent; Mio, AISage to Doctor Simon Sandrisson; and Saul Maginot.”
DuQuesne raised an eyebrow. Wonder if he can see that? Probably, if he’s using the ship camera feeds. “You let Saul in on the secret that you’re a rogue on detached duty?”
“I did. Based on the events already witnessed, it was clear that Saul Maginot had championed your cause, and that of Ariane Austin, and had—more importantly—assisted in maintaining a wall of secrecy around the survivors of Hyperion, to the point that you had all managed to disappear. I judged this to indicate that I could trust him with this information, and having a human, highly placed ally in this mission was invaluable.”
“Well, I can’t fault your judgment. Me and Saul had some tense times between us, but never because we couldn’t trust each other.”
“It is well, then.” Mentor shifted his tone. “What of the Arena and Ariane Austin? Is there news you can share with me?”
“I can do better than that,” DuQuesne said. “While we were travelling here, I put together a compressed summary. I’ll transmit it direct to you, if you’ll give me a ping.”
A moment later he felt the crystal-chiming sensation of a query access ping from Mentor and allowed the link, sent the summary down the pipe. “There you go.”
It took only seconds for Mentor to digest the entirety of the events of the past few months. “A most interesting set of developments. I see that Ariane Austin has finally recognized the Calling upon her.”
“Yeah. Wish she didn’t have to, but I think she’s realized what she has to do in her heart now.”
As the vessel began to rotate slowly, DuQuesne realized they must be getting close to CE3. Yep, there’s the station; I can see it from here.
“Marc C. DuQuesne,” Mentor said suddenly, and the resonant voice was now sharper, with notes of concern, “While I know your origins, much of your past is unclear. But the station at which you first found Doctor Cussler was Mars-Trojan 5 and is also the station from which you retrieved Sun Wu Kung; is my Visualization on this correct?”
“Yeah, you’ve got that right. Why?” DuQuesne felt his gut starting to tense. Anything that makes a T-5 nervous I damn well better worry about too.
“Would there have been a common element on M-T 5 which transferred a few months ago to Schilling Memorial Station on Luna?”
DuQuesne felt as though Mentor had just tipped a bucket of ice water down his back. “What’s going on, Mentor?”
“I take that as an affirmative. Then my Visualization has just been cleared, Marc DuQuesne, Oasis Abrams. Make haste now, for I believe you may already be too late!”
DuQuesne activated the manual override, accelerated towards the station. Time for an emergency docking maneuver. Even as he did that, Oasis was demanding “What is it, Mentor?”
“As to exactly what you will find, I cannot as yet Visualize in its entirety; but in the past year or two there was a steady increase in interest vectors and activity in the greater Network focused on Mars-Trojan Station 5, peaking just at the point that you re-entered the Arena with Sun Wu Kung. These vectors, considered now with the additional information you have supplied and in the context of my new knowledge that Hyperion survivors were housed therein, fit the parameters of the type of rogue AI activity I have been seeking to a confidence level of over ninety-nine point nine seven percent.” Mentor’s voice was grim. “That activity then defocused, and began to refocus on Schilling Memorial Station, and has subsequently focused here. And I am not receiving operational data from this station, nor do I find any record of such for the last twenty-seven point seven five minutes.”
DuQuesne cursed. “Neither am I; docking ports aren’t acknowledging!”
“Let me try,” Oasis said, activating her console. “I’ve got some CSF codes Saul gave me for this kind of thing.” DuQuesne sensed her sending several code sequences. “No joy on any of the C-class overrides. Trying the B’s . . .”
The docking lights turned green on the first sequence she sent this time. “That’s got it!”
“Do not trust—”
“No offense, Mentor, but don’t try to teach me paranoia, I’ve lived it. I’m not trusting anything on that crate one millimeter farther than I have to.” He released the harness. “Since you’re in the systems, you track the docking sequence and make sure nothing funny’s going on. Have we got any inbound or outbound?”
“None detectable at this time,” Mentor answered, as DuQuesne yanked open the environmental cabinet. “Counter-Earth 3 has always been mostly self-sufficient and according to prior records averages only one or two vessels per week. We would also not be able to detect any vessels occluded from our line of sight, given that the station’s systems are not providing data for us.”
Oasis hadn’t needed him to tell her anything; she was already pulling on her field armor—deceptively thin, but of ring-carbon composite with ring-carbon plates underneath, micro-scale superconductor storage rings providing distributed power to the suit systems—and even as he put on his own, her helmet extruded automatically, providing protection and environmental shielding.
A shock ran through the little vessel. “Docking is complete. I have control of the door seals, but very little data beyond. Systems are almost entirely compromised.”
“Can you counter it? Bring stuff back online?”
“In time, yes. However, you may not have time. Do you know where on the station you are heading?”
“He’s going to be somewhere in section K—appropriate, I think,” he added, glancing at Oasis. “You ready?” he asked her.
She gripped her rifle and nodded.
DuQuesne looked at Mentor’s housing.
“Extremely high-grade ring-carbon,” Mentor’s voice informed him without asking. “Anything that will destroy me would certainly penetrate your suit.”
“Okay. Then I sure don’t mind bringing you.” He clipped the ovoid case to his belt, made sure it was secure. “Here goes nothing.”
The airlock slid open. There was nothing but an empty chamber on the other side. “Go, go, go!”
The two of them ran forward, DuQuesne in the lead. I know the layout of this place. Got to go from here through the connecting tubes that lead to the spin sections . . . Section K should be through this one!
The tube felt faintly down to him—not surprising. Closer we get to the end, the more down it’ll feel, as we get farther out from the center.
“I am detecting . . . considerable disruption to all systems. What independent signals I am getting indicate that most of the station is in chaos, and all inhabitants are busy trying to restabilize the systems.”
“Which means no one’s going to pay attention to the places where there isn’t much trouble. And I’ll bet you anything you like that Section K isn’t reporting any.”
“From what I can detect . . . no.”
Dammit. “Then hold on! Oasis, we have to move!”
He practically t
hrew himself down the connecting tube, dropping multiple rungs at a time. His feet crashed down on the deck and he shoved the door open, running now. Distantly he heard the sound of automated alarms, but ignored them. One cross tunnel. Two . . . Here, the third. Turn right . . .
He stopped; the airlock door, very similar to all the others they had passed, had the caduceus symbol for “Doctor.” This is it.
The door in front of him refused to open to signals or its own door control. “Mentor! Can you—”
“I am attempting the override with the codes used by Oasis Abrams,” the voice replied. Mentor’s voice was uncertain, no longer the imitation of the nigh-omniscient Mentor of Arisia, only a worried and urgent personality afraid that things were running out of control.
The door slid open suddenly, and a waft of bluish smoke came with it; DuQuesne shuddered, both from the scorched smell that was not just insulation and metal, and from the simple fact of fire aboard a space station.
But there was no real time to think; he charged forward, ready for any attack, but afraid there was no longer anything to attack.
The office area was covered in soot, and beyond he could still see reddish glow of heat still radiating, smell the stench of burned components . . . and of flesh. “No. Goddammit, no!” He ran forward, heedless of the smoke and heat. “Davison!”
“Here, Marc! Over here!” Oasis had run to the side, behind a desk.
The blond-haired doctor was so covered with blood that he was barely identifiable. It took DuQuesne three tries to get a response from any of the nanos. “God. Mentor, is there . . . ?”
“Wait, please. Allow me to work.” A pause. “He is . . . salvageable. But you will need to get many more medical nanos and some healing gel to help him regenerate in any reasonable time.”
One thing that’s not entirely lost. DuQuesne stood, looking at the smoking doorway on the far side. He detached Mentor’s case and put it next to Davison. “Direct the nanos. Keep him stable.”
He ran forward, pistol in hand, and pressed himself to the wall just to one side of the doorway, ready for a close-quarters assault. There had been no volley of gunfire from the room, but that didn’t mean there was nothing there. He glanced at Oasis, who was already in position to cover him; she nodded, showed three fingers.