Analog SFF, December 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I exit the ship. When I touch the ground, the interior of my faceplate lights up with a map showing my entire route and an arrow showing my starting direction. It mimics three-dimensional perspective: when I am lined up correctly, the arrow disappears and becomes a blinking dot. I aim at a bump on the (disconcertingly close) horizon and touch my jets.

  * * * *

  When I was young, space seduced me through the silent majesty of the night sky. It was so beautiful and so mysterious that I could imagine nothing more worthwhile than exploring it. So I became a test pilot for one of the big aerospace conglomerates.

  But a funny thing happened. It seemed like space retreated from me faster than I rose toward it. There was no silent majesty in the space station. It was one of the noisiest places I have ever been, even with the added sound baffles. When I was outside, there was constant radio noise, the sound of the helmet minifans, and my own Darth Vader-like breathing. The Sun washed out the stars, leaving only impenetrable blackness.

  Now I am the first—well, maybe the second—human to explore this world, yet I feel apart from it. I can't walk across it because anything like a normal stride would have me soaring in high, time-consuming arcs. I have to use my jets with extreme caution to keep from flying off into deep space. Through my boots and thick gloves I cannot feel anything of this world, much less smell or taste it. The only sense that functions halfway decently is sight. And even then, it is more like seeing something through a view screen rather than experiencing it firsthand.

  Alienated from my situation on an alien world. I should be able to get some sort of Ph.D. thesis out of that. But the truly alienating factor I keep coming back to is J. P. Fetterman's silence about what he wants from this little jaunt. My unidentified competitor and I arrived almost at the same time; radio logs back on Earth can establish actual priority. But perfecting a claim has three parts: you have to land on the asteroid; you have to “improve” it in some substantial way (killing its rotation constitutes such an improvement); and you have to get back alive. Unless a member of one expedition calls for aid from a member of a competing expedition (Article IV, Section 3, of the Treaty) it is best if members of competing expeditions stay far apart.

  The map displayed on my helmet shows my destination is at one of the poles of the asteroid. 2009AP15 is roughly potato-shaped, and I am now coming to a section where the ground drops away more rapidly than on the plain where I landed. The Sun is behind me throwing forward tremendous shadows. Hills and ridges seem to float on a fathomless dark. As my boots brush the top of one ridge, I see something strange. It is some height above the ground, but I have nothing by which to judge size or distance. Imagine a horizontal silver line, brilliant with reflected sunlight. As I watch, it extends on both ends, adding about ten percent to its length.

  The crest of another hill is fast approaching, and I concentrate on clearing it. When I can pay more attention to my surroundings, I see the pencil-thin shape of a spacecraft poking above the horizon. It sports a red disk on a white field. Below it, a large black numeral one, the symbol of the Ichiban Corporation. A Japanese rocket, which makes sense. After the Chinese entry, Heavenly Gatherer, blew up during a test firing, the Japanese were clearly our most important rivals. At the base of the rocket, barely visible in the reflected sunlight from its upper hull, lies a circular track about three meters in diameter. Rising up from the track, only intermittently discernable, are more than a score of lines, sheer and graceful as spider silk.

  I don't know that I have said anything until I hear Maria's concerned voice in my earphones. “Qué pasa, Calley?"

  It has taken me a few minutes to understand what I am seeing. “What we have here is industrial-strength origami,” I report. “Ichiban has launched a solar sail, which is unfolding as it recedes from the asteroid. It is attached to the asteroid by lines anchored to a circular track. I bet the lines move around the circle against the asteroid's rotation to keep from getting tangled. As far as they are concerned, rotation is not a problem; they can start adjusting the orbit immediately. It's an elegant solution."

  "We thought about doing the same thing,” J. P. says glumly. “We just didn't feel we could get the sail to deploy properly. But that's neither here nor there. Who is operating the sail?"

  I drift slowly toward to the base of the rocket, nudging myself off to one side to keep from getting entangled in the sail lines. Something moves in the shadows.

  "It's a Gundam,” I say, laughing. Then I correct myself. “Excuse me, it is a robot about three meters tall that looks like the robots in some cartoons I used to watch."

  "Is it being operated by someone from Earth, or inside the ship?” J. P. asks.

  Excellent question. While it is perfectly fine for an astronaut to have a robot on board for the grunt work—I would have appreciated having one myself—the rules were written specifically to prevent completely automated missions. Yet as I examine the spacecraft, I begin to appreciate how different it is from the Wildcat. No one is operating the robot from inside because, in one respect at least, the rocket has no inside. Engine and fuel tanks are exposed to space. Indentations in the fuselage and open binding rings disclose that all the items of the Ichiban expedition, solar sail and robot included, came fastened to the frame of the vessel. There is nothing like my pressurized cabin or anything that could be called enclosed storage areas.

  I flex my legs to keep from bouncing as I come to the end of my long arc. The robot, which seems to have been monitoring the unfolding of the solar sail, turns and confronts me.

  What do you say to a three-meter-tall robot, especially when the two of you are adversaries? I try the obvious. “Kon nichi wa—"

  "You need not attempt the Japanese language.” The words seem overly loud in my earphones. “I am fully conversant in standard English."

  This is just as well. Even though everyone dealing in international affairs is supposed to know English, Chinese, and Japanese, I am more than a little rusty. “And who are you?” I ask, a bit taken aback.

  "I am Hiro Ichiban. I have claimed 2009 AP15 for my principal, the Ichiban Corporation."

  You have to be shitting me. Since I am broadcasting in clear to all of Earth, I manage not to say what I am thinking. “Look, pal, the rules are clear. No robotic missions. Your claim is invalid."

  "I am not a mere robot. I am a fully autonomous artificial intelligence. I have been granted citizenship by the Japanese Diet."

  "They can vote in favor of phlogiston for all I care,” I say. “Legislative pronouncements don't make it so."

  "You are talking to the robot as if it were a human being,” J. P. says. “That might be considered by some as evidence that you consider it to be a true person."

  "When I mash my thumb, I've been known to talk to my hammer,” I say. “That doesn't make it either sentient or a citizen.” His chuckle comes through my earphones a few seconds later.

  Suddenly, everything falls into place. All the competitors have found it difficult to juggle payload with life support requirements. J. P.'s engineers solved the problem by putting me into three weeks’ drug induced hibernation to save mass that would otherwise have been needed for food and water. Ichiban, which was having troubles with its proposed life support system anyway, apparently decided to do away with it, make everything payload, and have the Diet declare their robot a citizen.

  Whether the legislative legerdemain will work is questionable, but one way to decide might be a version of the Turing Test. If I were to interact with the robot the way I would with a human being, it might give some presumptive validity to the Diet's action. Had J. P. briefed me on the situation, any negative reaction on my part would have been interpreted as being motivated by company loyalty. J. P. bet that he knew me well enough to go with my instinctive reaction.

  He has reason for his confidence. The Artificial Intelligence Equality movement scares me. Robot pets for people who don't want the fuss of dealing with real animals, sex dolls for those not able to make
themselves minimally acceptable to prospective partners, companions for the elderly who chose not to have children and now have no one to care for them. Workers for a society not able to maintain its own population and too racist to import foreigners. The AIE leaflets say that justice and equity require civil rights for A.I.s. My problem is not that they treat machines like people, it's that so many of them seem to treat people like machines.

  Yet even if Ichiban's expedition violates the rules, it is still an impressive technical accomplishment. I move forward to examine the wheel anchoring the sail lines. A pressure just short of painful spreads from my right arm. I am motionless, less than a meter off the ground. It is hard to turn my head in the pressure suit, but from the corner of my eye I see Hiro's metal hand clamped on my forearm.

  "No one may approach the sail control mechanism,” Hiro says. “It is a safety concern."

  The pressure suit has a mesh lining to prevent tears. Still, the robot feels powerful enough to snap my arm while throwing me into deep space, if it wants to.

  "What about programming to protect human beings?” I ask.

  "I have such programming,” the robot says. “To implement, I must first recognize a human being."

  Its arm swings back and releases me. I retreat an extra step just to be safe. “My status is in doubt?"

  "I see a humanoid form in a pressure suit. The suit covers too much for me to make a definitive assessment. It could conceal a primitive robot making programmed responses. Or it could cover up extensive body hair that would indicate one of the more primitive primates."

  So a collection of circuits with preprogrammed responses is a citizen but the hirsute are not human. How wonderfully Japanese! After three weeks without a shave and more than that since my last haircut, maybe it is just as well that the pressure suit covers as much of me as it does.

  "Your status is provisionally human,” the robot continues. “My own status is not provisional. I must protect myself so that I may complete my mission."

  Translation: If it comes to a choice between you and me, Round Eyes, you're going down. Not that surprising, I suppose.

  I am about to ask J. P. if he has any further instructions, when Maria's voice comes over my earphones. “James, get back to the Wildcat immediately! A solar storm warning has just be issued."

  There has always been a danger of solar flares. The Wildcat was designed to protect against them. Nobody ever considered that I would be this far from the spacecraft when I had to dive for cover.

  I turn away from Hiro and the Ichiban rocket. The route back to the Wildcat flashes on the inside of my visor.

  "How long do I have?"

  "Thirty minutes. Hurry, por favor."

  Since I am retracing my steps, the return should be easier than the way out. Only the Sun is down near the horizon almost directly in my eyes. The glare makes it difficult to judge the height of the ridges. The thing that scares me most is that I will smash into a hillside. The second most scary thing is the possibility of jetting off into deep space. Sure, I could correct with a few puffs and send myself back down to the surface, but the amount of gas in my jet pack is limited, and the gauge is already edging toward the red line.

  I get back to the Wildcat with seven minutes to spare. I pressurize the cabin and twist out of my spacesuit. My water supply for this voyage is kept in a jacket surrounding the cabin, where it does double duty shielding me from high-energy particles. Obviously this cannot include the entry hatch. There is a rectangular lead shield recessed in the overhead. I grab the handle, pull it over beneath the hatch, and lock it in place. I am as protected as I can be. I drift back into the control couch.

  The original schedule had me on my way home by now. I understand why J. P. wanted to record my reaction to a robot claiming sentience and citizenship, but on reflection it might have been better to have me complete the flight checks and head back. It is the first contestant who lands on 2009 AP15, improves it, and returns safely to Earth that perfects title in the asteroid. I am immobilized until the storm abates. Hiro may be long gone by then.

  I discuss some of this with J. P. “The Hague isn't going to take this claim of robot citizenship seriously, is it?"

  The pause is longer than lightspeed delay can account for. “Well, I dunno,” J. P. says at last. “These Artificial Intelligence Activists are making a lot of noise, and not just in Japan. They got some bright folks saying this is the next step in evolution. And then there's the fact some of those judges just don't like us.” By “us” he means Americans in general. “We've been on top for too long, and some would just like to see us shoved aside for any reason. Thing is, Ichiban doesn't have to win outright. They just have to tie up our claim with the lawyers and hope our investors bolt before theirs do."

  The solar storm intensifies, drowning out his remaining words in a chaos of clicks, snaps, and eerie whistles. I am on my own. I fix another cup of Nutrasoup and activate the games menu. I choose poker from the long list that scrolls down the screen. Texas Hold ‘Em. J. P. is the only one of the competitors to insist that his pilot candidates play a game with him during the hiring interview.

  * * * *

  "This has nothing to do with my talents as a test pilot,” I said as he shuffled and dealt.

  "Not a test of skill,” J. P. said as he picked up his cards. “It's a test of character. Y'see, you boys tend to go to extremes. Some are control freaks, absolutely brilliant, chess player types. Always planning five, ten moves ahead. Then something unexpected happens and they fall apart, crying that the universe is unfair."

  I looked at my cards and mucked my hand. J. P. gave a small smile, took the minuscule pot, and dealt again.

  "Then there are the plungers, the ones who believe in their own luck and think they can bluff their way through life. They have the most charming smiles. But their luck has to fail only once and they're done.

  "I need a pilot who, with discipline and intelligence, tries to eliminate all the variables but doesn't go to pieces when that fails."

  Of course, at the tables you have the option of standing up and bidding everyone good evening. Right now, that was an option I did not have.

  This time, I had a pair of threes. I doubled the blind. J. P. doubled it back at me. That should mean he had at least a pair himself, almost certainly higher than mine. On the other hand, maybe he just wanted to push me around. I called.

  The flop disclosed the Jack of spades, the nine of clubs, and the two of clubs. I checked. J. P. went all in. In a regular game, I would suppose that he had just picked up a card that made a strong hand nearly unbeatable. Nonetheless, it felt another attempt to scare me off. I pushed all my chips to the center of the table.

  Ace of hearts, ten of hearts. J. P. threw down his cards: Queen of clubs and three of spades. A nothing hand. He looked more pleased than otherwise as I raked in the chips.

  * * * *

  An ace and king unsuited appear on the screen. High cards, but it is depressing to remember how many hands I have lost from a similar start. The program asks me if I want to bet. I close my eyes, considering. All around me, an invisible storm surges. The high-energy protons are like hail drumming on the shell of the spacecraft. Then I notice that some of them are getting through the shielding. They look like birdshot sifting through the cabin, tearing painlessly through my flesh.

  * * * *

  "Calley. Wake up, boy."

  My eyes are gummy. When I manage to pry them open, I see the ace and king still on the screen, waiting patiently for my decision. The time display indicates that I slept for nine hours.

  "'m awake, J. P.” I squint at the mini-kitchen control panel and punch up a bulb of hot coffee—as hot, that is, as I can have in the reduced air pressure of the cabin. Usually I take it with cream. This time, I leave it black.

  "Right now there's enough of a lull in the storm that you should be able to complete your external take-off checks. However, the bright boys and girls at National Solar Observatory say it's going t
o start up again with a vengeance. I want you on the way home by then."

  "No more assessment of Hiro Ichiban?” I suck the lukewarm coffee, waiting for his answer.

  "No time. I've tried reasoning with Yoji—” This would be Yoji Ishikawa, the CEO of Ichiban. “—but he clammed up completely an hour ago. Y'know, his rocket landed at almost the same time yours did even though it launched three days later. They may not be able to put together a life support system worth a damn, but their craft clearly has more speed than ours. You take off just as soon as you safely can. If you get back before his ship does, we can avoid the entire folderol of whether a bunch of circuits can legitimately be claimed as a Japanese citizen."

  I shrug on the spacesuit and exit the lock. It is night outside. Cold begins its caress of knees and elbows. The stars are hard and bright. High overhead is a blue-white dot, impossibly beautiful, impossibly far away. A bright rectangle of solar sail rises above the horizon. As much as Ichiban should not be able to perfect its claim, the Court will likely consider it unfair that Fetterman Enterprises should benefit from Ichiban's work. Most likely J. P. and Ishikawa will go into the electronic version of a closed room, large sums will change hands, and two smiling CEOs will announce a deal beneficial to the stock holders of both. J. P. is good at that sort of thing.

  I switch on my helmet light and haul myself down the side of the Wildcat to begin my checks. Mostly this consists of making sure that the exterior compartments, the ones that housed the ion drive and its xenon propellant, are secured. I also inspect the rocket nozzles for corrosion, not that there is much I will be able to do if there are huge cracks.

  As I move around the base of the Wildcat, sunlight sweeps across the plain behind me. The helmet fans purr to life a minute later. I am almost finished with my inspection when I find myself again in shadow.

  "Calley, I just got a call from Mr. Ishikawa. He is very concerned about his mission and came close to accusing me of sabotage. Any idea what is going on with his spacecraft?"