Citadel 32: A Tale of the Aggregate

by Tom Merritt

  “Because the physical backup never arrived, but a remote backup may have been attempted in New York,” she interrupted him.

  “Yes,” was all Corge could think to say.

  “Right. You’re new at this, so I’m going to try not to rip your head off and throw it, and your remaining corpse, out the airlock. From now on, before you go shouting about the next call we’re going to make to Earth, come check records here. We already have, in our very own database, a record of attempts to preserve knowledge in NYC and here. Most of it was encrypted, and it took a long time to decipher. But we know some of it. The missing part was SLC, which you saw on the paper.

  “The other amazing thing is that we have computers. And you scanned the paper. Which means I have been looking at it too and came to a similar conclusion.” Ibrahima was much meaner in person, Corge thought.

  “Now. I’m going to pretend that you didn’t shout improper and frankly confidential things in the café. I’m going to pretend you didn’t somehow flatter Yao-wei into convincing me you were an earnest and possibly genius Observer who was worth interrupting my current research. And I’m going to pretend you are coming to me at an appointed time with a clear presentation that you haven’t told anyone else about,” she took a deep breath, smiled and looked him in the eyes. “What do you have, Corge?”

  At first, he could barely talk, but as he got going he realized he really did have something. When he began to compare his theory to hers, he found his was much more developed. She hadn’t thought about the three-way system the way he had with SLC as the prime location. She also hadn’t thought of messaging the people of New York rather than the Archive.

  “Why not just try to send a point to point from the machine we have?” Ibrahima asked, all traces of her earlier condescension and sarcasm gone.

  “We could do that and maybe should. I jumped over that. But my guess is that they may not have a working Archive. What if they have a shell like ours? A point to point may work, but it wouldn’t return any information. And,” he looked around as if someone might be listening.

  “It’s OK,” Ibrahima said, a note of unusual gentleness in her voice. “You’re doing it right this time. You can say whatever’s on your mind.”

  “Right. What if there isn’t anyone alive down there? We’ll get confirmation of signal received but that could just mean the NYC Archive wasn’t destroyed and it’s been sitting down there on solar power in a dead land. I think we should send a readable message. See if they indicate that a human read it.”

  Ibrahima frowned. “What if it’s just an AI that answers? How do we know?”

  “Turing test,” answered Corge without thinking.

  “A what?”

  Corge thought she was joking with him again. “A Turing test. It’s a way of telling if an AI is actually sentient or not. There’s no record of sentient AIs in any of our Citadelian Records—that I know of—so it’s a good bet if it passes a Turing test, it’s human.”

  Ibrahima grinned. “Clever boy. I think I may have heard the phrase ‘Turing test’ before. It’s pretty old. Like talking about animalcules instead of viruses and bacteria. What I do know something about is the Lanier Range. It’s a quick scale that’s 90 percent accurate at judging an AI. Hadn’t thought about it for this, but it would apply.”

  Corge just stared.

  “And no,” Ibrahima continued, “we don’t have any secret records of sentient AIs on Earth or here. No records of alien contact or Moon mole men either!”

  “You’re making fun of me,” Corge said flatly.

  “A little. But good work. Seriously. Don’t fuck up again and shout things like this to the world but DO bring them to me even if you think they’re ridiculous. This is going to kick up a Coriolis cloud.”

  “Why?” Corge asked.

  “Because, based on this, I’m going to recommend to the Executive Council that we use the machine to attempt to send a human-readable message to Earth, targeted to NYC.”

  “Why will that cause a problem? Isn’t there a standard beacon attempting communication all the time?”

  “That’s pretty much what the controversy will be about,” Ibrahima sighed. “Resources will say we shouldn’t waste power on a separate transmission when we could just listen instead. Psychology will say any attempt to target a contact will raise hope to dangerously high levels and risk backlash. History will come up with 15,000 reasons NYC wouldn’t, couldn’t or shouldn’t answer us. And the Executive Council will only worry about what public opinion will say if the message isn’t answered, which it likely won’t be.”

  “Oh,” was all Corge could muster. “So why try?”

  “Because I like the impossible. And I think they’re all wrong and you’re right. I want you there. Create a real presentation brief, based on what we hashed out here. Submit it to Yao-wei tomorrow and I’ll touch it up. I’ll copresent with you and we’ll tag team the questions. You just answer facts, and I’ll back you up with persuasion. Sound good?”

  Corge swallowed hard. “You want me to copresent this with you to the Executive Council?”

  “The most controversial Specialist in the known world with the most recent superstar. Should be a dynamite ticket. Don’t worry. You just survived this. You’ll do fine. Now go before I change my mind about the airlock. Yao-wei already knows. I just messaged him. So get to work!”

  CAPITULUM 3

  Michael dreaded the next hour and at the same time was elated. It interfered with his concentration. He had to focus. If the control box was not in the proper state when Dabashi arrived, the whole scheme would be for nothing. Michael doubted he would get a second attempt.

  It was too late to delay. Guteerez promised Dabashi would stop by the Reliquary this afternoon and look in on Michael’s progress.

  He’d been so busy preparing for his encounter with Dabashi that he barely had time for any new work. That didn’t matter much to him. Without being able to access the control box, he couldn’t discover much anyway.

  He managed to find a sort of manual on the screen and learned the basics of the system’s ciphering scheme. Even that, he only knew in outline. Anything more required authentication.

  Michael feared the box would lock him out if he tried and failed to authenticate himself. He’d seen a few examples of ancient devices that broke or become unusable after asking for identification a certain number of times. Either the control box of the Sculpture didn’t work that way, or he’d been lucky and not tripped its particular self-defense mechanism.

  He spent most of his time testing the right configuration. He thought he had it but he would only know for sure once Dabashi authenticated it, if the Superior actually could. There was always a chance that the Dabashi mentioned on the paper artifact had nothing to do with a person of any kind, much less the Superior of the New York Citadel by the same name.

  But it was worth a try. Michael followed the instructions as best he could. He found the proper communication authentication scheme setting. His plan was to get it to the point of only having to enact one selection to authenticate and then ask Superior Dabashi to help interpret what it meant.

  Then, while they were looking at it, Michael would “accidentally” make the selection. Dabashi’s presence would authenticate, hopefully. Then Guteerez would interrupt and call him away before he could see what had happened. If all went well, Dabashi would only think Michael was an idiot who couldn’t make a fairly easy translation of a Citadelian relic, and Michael would have the access he needed to the machine.

  Michael heard footsteps. He got the selection screen in the proper state as Dabashi and Guteerez walked in.

  “Here is the Superior, Michael. I hope you have a worthwhile problem for him. The Superior is very busy.” From a step behind Dabashi, Superior Guteerez rolled his eyes as he said this.

  “Yes, what is it, Michael?” snapped Dabashi. “I’ve been reading your reports. I can’t say I’ve seen anything revelatory in your work. I hope this won’t waste
my time. You do know how to properly operate a touchscreen, don’t you?”

  Michael had no idea what a touchscreen was, but he did know he had to touch the control box display to make it work. So he just nodded.

  “I’ll leave you two to it,” said Guteerez and left.

  Dabashi sighed. “We’ll let’s have it. What’s this unsolvable issue that requires my valuable time to get past so you can continue to waste your own time unimpeded?”

  The Superior wasn’t making it easy. Michael could barely speak. He motioned for Dabashi to come to the control box. “It’s this selection here.”

  “Selection? Where did you learn that terminology?”

  “It’s in my Heretic-loving reports,” Michael stopped himself from saying. Instead, he said, “I picked up the term from some of the manual pages I’ve been reporting about.” It was as close to accusing Dabashi of not reading the reports as Michael dared.

  Dabashi grunted. “Ah. I skipped past most of that. Frighteningly boring. You might consider skipping it yourself and possibly important things won’t be missed in future.”

  Michael very carefully did not punch Dabashi square in the nose and continued. “I understand this first part that indicates an advance to a new state requiring input. And I can read the basic yes-no response, of course. But what does the question line actually mean?”

  Michael chose this question because it was honest. He really didn’t know what the line literally meant. He knew from the paper what it generally indicated and what it would do, but not what it meant.

  “Hmm,” Dabashi grunted. “Well, I think it’s obvious, but then I can read it. And even if it’s obvious, I do respect your attention to detail.”

  Dabashi stopped and looked at Michael. His grim expression didn’t change an ounce but his tone softened a small amount. It was more positive emotion than Michael had ever witnessed from the Superior.

  “You probably think I just want to get in your way, Michael. I do not. I have no need or desire to explain why. However, I have read your reports and, in amongst the drivel and the wasted paragraphs, you show some intelligence. I—I just wanted you to know that.” He turned back to the control box. “As you have rightly noticed, most text is in an understandable, if archaic, language. But some lines are written in Symbology. Many think—and I am certain—this was meant to restrict the understanding, or at least the speed, of those not trained in its operation. I have learned the Symbolics language.

  “Stated properly, it’s not actually a language. It merely represents the words with other symbols. These here mean ‘Select, Authentication, Present Multiple.’ It doesn’t have the same syntax as our speech or even ancient speech, but it essentially means, ‘press this button to identify anyone who should be using this machine and begin using it.’”

  This was it. Michael paused for a moment, waiting for Guteerez to come in and distract Dabashi. But Guteerez did not arrive.

  “Do you understand?” Dabashi’s harshness had returned.

  “Yes, I think so. So when the operators of old would get to this point, they would have to be authenticated to proceed?” Michael kept looking toward the door.

  “Stop being distracted by whatever’s passing by in the corridor! But yes. You have it right. Even down to the appropriate word, ‘authenticated.’ You must have picked that up in your famous manuals again. You are a quick study, Michael.”

  Michael needed more time. “What would happen next?”

  “Nothing if you weren’t properly identified, most likely. If you were ‘authenticated,’ as you say, you would be taken into a menu of operation options of some sort.”

  Michael knew better. Dabashi wasn’t wrong. But Michael knew it wasn’t just an operations menu of some sort. It was the operations menu for the Communications Assembly of the Sculpture. Either Dabashi couldn’t recognize this selection as specific to communications, or he wasn’t letting on that he knew.

  “Here, watch,” Dabashi said. To Michael’s horror, he selected the affirmative and advanced the program. The selection moved to a Symbology map for communications options that Michael recognized from some manual pages he had unlocked. He stifled a gasp.

  Dabashi seemed unfazed. “This is for communications of some sort. Probably with a command center or coordinating body. This first one is for message entry and—this is interesting. Some of these characters—”

  Guteerez finally arrived, out of breath.

  “Superior Dabashi, my apologies. But you’re needed by Superior Akhtar in the Atmospherics Reliquary.”

  Dabashi seemed torn. “Of course,” he muttered. “They barely know what oxygen is without me there to point it out for them. Michael, take what you learned from me here and get me a report specifically on that screen. I mean selection. You know what I mean. There are some interesting Symbologies there I want explored.”

  Dabashi hurried out of the room. Guteerez remained.

  “My apologies, Michael, but I was delayed by Superior Akhtar. It took some work to persuade him to accept Superior Dabashi’s help. Apparently, the staff in Atmospherics isn’t as keen for him to assist them as he may think.”

  Michael just stared in panic. He couldn’t believe that a crisis had not occurred. That he still stood there in the Reliquary with the Sculpture, unpunished, unspoiled, with his plan in shreds but its hoped-for outcome still intact. He reached for the screen and selected the symbol that meant “generate” to create a message.

  “Here, what are you doing, Michael?” Guteerez stepped toward him in view of the control box. He spoke in a low, almost menacing tone. “Before you proceed one more selection, tell me what you have discovered and how much Dabashi knows about it.”

  Michael stopped and looked wide-eyed at Guteerez.

  “What do you mean? Our agreement didn’t involve that.”

  “Didn’t involve what, Michael? Our agreement, frankly, is whatever I say it is. You hold no power here. Please don’t forget that. Even so, I’m not threatening you,” he held his hands up and grinned. “I’m merely curious.”

  Michael hesitated. “Do you promise you will keep it secret and not shut me down?”

  “I promise, Michael,” Guteerez said, lowering his hands and placing one on Michael’s shoulders, “that I want what you want. But don’t verge on threatening a Superior, my boy. It’s not a good practice to get into. Now tell me. Everything.”

  So Michael told him everything. Almost.

  CHAPTER 8

  “In summary, this new information provided by Corge raises the I value in Radic’s equation by a level of two. It raises the R value by three factors and with other small adjustments, our overall contact chance estimate rises a full point,” Ibrahima held them in the palm of her hand. Corge couldn’t believe anyone would oppose her.

  “While we all know that chance remains infinitesimally small, the resource cost expressed in station lifespan reduction is even smaller. For almost no cost to the longevity of the station, we have the greatest chance since Disconnection to communicate with Earth.”

  Silence. She had said the great taboo, the great unsayable. Communicate. With. Earth. That was the big bet here and she was now all in. She had strategically opened the way for the biggest objection. She explained to Corge that it was better to get it out early so opposition would lose energy over the course of the discussion. It was some kind of communications theory principle that Corge didn’t fully understand.

  As polite applause died down in the Assembly, LeAnn whispered in Corge’s ear, “Here comes the shitstorm.”

  The first line of questioning came from the Resources Committee. Its representative was a small man called Narayan who spoke in a curiously high voice that was still undeniably masculine.

  “Ibrahima, thank you for all your work. Nobody here needs a repeat of our remedial explanation of resource management in Armstrong. But given those well-known constraints, why not just monitor for signals? We have always done so of course, but it has been such a wide spectrum
. It seems that any NYC or SLC teams that might exist would have a far better chance of knowing about the Moon Archive than we would have had of discovering it here. And if they are active and advanced enough to help us, they would likely signal us. Now that we know the frequency and encryption, would it not be wiser and more efficient to wait for their call?”

  Corge got ready to be called upon. Ibrahima had prepared him and LeAnn both to be ready at any moment to provide testimony. Corge, obviously, could speak to the discovery of the device and what it might mean. LeAnn’s knowledge of the location and logistics of the machinery might come into play as well.

  But Ibrahima didn’t even look at them. “That would make sense if we thought some shred of the civilization of the Citadels had survived the assault of the Heretics.” Only Ibrahima could skate this close to offensive speculation about Earth and come away unscathed. “But if you discuss this with our esteemed Psychology Specialists, you’ll find that it’s likely that much of civilization was lost and wiped away. A less sensitive example comes from ancient Rome. Its knowledge was vast for its time, but when Europe fell, much was lost, even with the church protecting Rome and Constantinople. In fact, some argue so much was lost specifically because the church played such an active role in the latter days of the Empire.

  “So it’s perfectly logical to think that we have the only continuous history and only continuous knowledge in humanity. And if that is the case, and we only now discovered this Archive and learned only a slice of its secrets, then by just listening, we may listen forever. Or would if we could.”

  Corge winced at that last jab, which implied that following the Resources line of thinking would doom the station to eventual failure. It was just this side of tasteless. The insult was not lost on the representative from Resources who sat down without thanking Ibrahima.

  Roger Hu was the next to speak for the Psychology committee. Corge realized that Ibrahima had just used them to defend herself. It was a gambit partly meant to sway them to her side, but he wondered if it came off as patronizing or presumptive.