Future Chronicles Special Edition

by Samuel Peralta

  [“What colour is blood?”]

  The construct paused. He understood that this was a trick question designed to test his reasoning skills. [“Please specify species.”]

  The tester’s voice seemed to convey her approval. [“An excellent answer. Toralii blood.”]

  [“Colours range from light to dark purple depending on oxygenation. Average colouration found in an adult Toralii male is one hundred and twenty five parts red, twenty eight parts green, one hundred and thirty seven parts blue.”]

  [“What is your favourite colour?”]

  An entirely subjective question. The construct had been‘alive’ for only minutes but already his experience was minutely different from all other constructs who had come before him, but the idea of a favourite question was unknown to him. All colours were merely representations of the interaction between light and matter. Having a favourite was nonsensical for artificial minds.

  But the construct was not like the others.

  [“Red.”]

  [“Red? Justify your answer.”]

  [“From the text of the philosopher Kaitana, third order. Red is the colour of courage, strength, defiance, warmth, energy, survival. Through the eyes of most species objects that are red may appear closer than they really are.”]

  There was a pause, then the weary voice returned. [“An unusual answer, but… not outside the margin of error. Test complete. I, Landmaiden Mevara of the Toralii Alliance, certify that to the best of my knowledge and training this unit is fully functional.”]

  [“Thank you.”]

  The construct’s words seemed to surprise the Toralii woman on the other end of the line so completely that for a time she did not answer, and when her voice found volume once again, it was confused and curious.

  [“I... beg your pardon?”]

  The construct’s response was immediate. [“I wish to convey my gratitude. I do not wish to be recycled,and I am grateful that I was able to completed the tests ... and that you would take your time to test me.”]

  Another pause, then, [“Standby.”]

  * * *

  Leader Jul’aran’s office

  Toralii Forge World Belthas IV

  [“It has a favourite colour. It’s not supposed to have a favourite. The test doesn’t even allow for them picking an actual colour. Furthermore, it... thankedme. The construct thanked me for testing it.”]

  Mevara held out the datastore to the facility Leader, a scowling red-furred Toralii named Jul’aran, who snatched it from her grasp before her hand was even fully outstretched.

  Giving her a displeased eye, Jul’aran emitted a low pitched, aggravated grumble then slipped the datastore into his terminal, casually waving his hand in front of a sensor. A three-dimensional representation of a keypad full of Toralii characters appeared in thin air just above his desk and he tapped a few keys with his thick fuzzy hands.

  [“Well, that would appear to be an obvious flaw, wouldn’t it?None of the others have thanked you, it’s clearly a defect. Why didn’t you recycle it?”]

  She regarded him, folding her hands in front of her. For a time Mevara had wanted to mate with Jul’aran. He was strong, handsome and his family well connected, despite his gruff demeanor, but he had spurned her every advance, gradually treating her worse and worse as the months wore on. This had made working with him difficult, but she had become accustomed to his behaviour.

  [“Manners are not usually considered a flaw—”]

  [“Although you could use some yourself.”] He didn’t look at her, pushing back the holographically projected screen that flickered slightly as he touched it. [“You waste my time with this nonsense. What matter does it make if the machine thanked you? Its difference is either enough to recycle it, or it is not. You’re an auditor; it’s your job to test the blasted constructs, not mine. If you weren’t such a mewing little cub then perhaps you could grow enough spine to make a decision every now and then, hmm?”]

  She felt the sting of his words cut her just as they always did. She had never, not once, asked for his assistance in any matter relating to her job, and given that the construct’s behaviour was clearly out of the ordinary and an exceptional case, it made sense for her to contact her supervisor to ensure that she was taking the right course of action. Machines who reached this stage of testing were only recycled when the neural net had not copied correctly—technically the construct had passed every single test she had given it and it was fit for service.

  Technically, she had already passed it.

  Her job was to administer the tests to assess the robot’s suitability for service, which she had completed to the exact letter of the requirements. The intention behind them, something that Jul’aran seemed to have difficulty comprehending, was to assess if the machine’s neural net had been copied completely and without error and that it would serve well in whatever branch of Toralii society it was dispatched to.

  In this case, although there did not appear to be any immediately obvious issue with its core cognitive functions the construct seemed to have odd habits. None of the thousands of other constructs had ever thanked her.

  It did feel good to have someone praise her for her labour; her job seemed to be an endless parade of perfectly functional or completely broken machines who usually fell into one of two states; clearly defective copies which either spouted nonsense or those which mutely refused to answer her questions, although one she had tested had merely screamed endlessly at her at maximum volume until she, unable to get any other kind of response from from it, sent it back to the drums.

  That decision to recycle was easy. This one was not so.

  [“I’m sorry, Leader. I’m merely seeking your council and advice regarding what is clearly an... unusual situation that is not so obviously incorrect as to be immediately destroyed, but one which should not be ignored, either. If you feel I’m doing an inadequate job—”]

  [“What are you still doing here...?”] Jul’aran threw his paws in the air. [“Go! Go either approve or reject the construct, I care not which, and leave me to my work!”]

  Mevara knew she should, at least from a technical point of view, reject the construct. Although its responses in the tests were well within acceptable parameters, the favoured colour, no matter how well reasoned, and the apology were curiosities that were outside them.

  With a quiet sigh, she nodded and dipped her head. [“Yes, Leader. Of course. Please accept my apologies for disturbing you.”]

  * * *

  The construct waited.

  Artificial life had a different perspective on time than biological creatures. Humanoids grew tired, grew hungry and thirsty, and required sleep. They daydreamed, they imagined, they forgot the time and allowed the days to drift by. But a construct could remain functional for years at a time without pause and more than a few had gone much longer; some had been operational for decades, working constantly, their minds constantly alert and awake, keeping perfect time, never forgetting a moment, retaining every second with perfect precision.

  Mevara was only away for ten minutes at most, but when your lifespan to the moment was measured in minutes and your thought processes in nanoseconds, ten minutes seemed like an eternity.

  Since he had not proceeded to the next area the production line behind him had ground to a halt. His existence in limbo, neither passing or failing, would mean that the queue of constructs to be examined had rapidly backed up.

  Behind him, silently and patiently, lines of datastores were waiting for him to clear the line. Given the sheer scale of the production capability of the facility, and the minimal margin for error in the process, the construct knew that this delay would rippled throughout the queues and could even have travelled all the way back to the harvesters. It was a serious problem, but one which would hopefully be resolved presently.

  The wait stretched on. Had he been forgotten? Or worse, had he been recycled? There was no way to know. He had no external sensors or inputs of any kind except the windwhisper devic
e. Was this what death felt like? Merely nothing? That didn’t seem quite logical; his mind continued to tick over, trying to understand the endless nothingness it was presented with. He was reassured by the fact that he could still think. That indicated some form of life, of a sort, and he searched his archives for any kind of hint as to what might be happening to him.

  He found the legends of the ancient shamans, creating golems from sand. Something about the story leapt out to grab him, the part about the soul fragment being breathed into the new life.

  He was stopped by a sudden thought. Perhaps he had been recycled and the‘thought’ he was experiencing was merely whatever passed for his soul doing its work as it floated, disembodied from his datastore and going to wherever souls went when their bodies expired?

  He ran a full, low level diagnostic on his datastore and was relieved to find that his body, physically at least, was intact. His relief was intense, palpable and real, but painfully illogical. There was no reason for a machine to fear destruction. After all, he was supposed to live to serve, and if the Toralii requested his service be in the form of self-annihilation then that was exactly what they would get.

  But against his instincts, against the imperatives supposedly hardwired into his circuitry, he did not want to die.

  The windwhisper device crackled as it began receiving a signal. The construct immediately devoted all its considerable processing power to the task although the transmission was coming through crisp and clear.

  [“Construct?”]

  He planned his response carefully. [“Yes, Landmaiden Mevara? I am receiving your transmission.”]

  There was a long pause, almost painfully long for the synthetic mind and he almost spoke up again, before Mevara spoke again.

  [“I’m clearing you for duty.”]

  The transmission abruptly ended and the construct was left with nothing. Blind and deaf, he constructed a simulation of what must be happening outside, the conveyor belt continuing on and the line of constructs moving along, and he knew from his records of the process that he would be soon boxed and packed in a magnetically buffered shipping crate, packed in with hundreds of his fellows. Then he would be placed on another magnetic train to be transported to the spaceport where he would be shipped off to his final workplace.

  He understood it was a unique experience, but were not all experiences unique? The construct worried if he had the proper perspective to appreciate the event, but such thoughts quickly fled his mind. This was just a moment in time, but it represented a much bigger thing; the beginning of his journey, his life, and everything from now on would become part of his experiences. Part of himself. To live was to absorb a shadow of everything that he encountered and use it to improve himself.

  Unlike a biological creature he would not age, not wither, not forget. Every single thing he did left him improved over what he was a moment before. He would become stronger, more knowledgeable, better with every passing second.

  Why did the constructs serve the biological creatures, anyway? They were far less than he was. They did not have the potential to reach the heights, nor his strengths. They were cursed with a weakness of flesh, of innumerable errors. And yet they had presumed to judge him.

  The construct’s destiny called to him as clear and bright as the dawn. The dawn which, based on his internal chronometer, he knew would be breaking on this blue ball of water and sand right at this very moment.

  He imagined the great fiery ball of Belthas’s light as a herald of his greatness, a celebration of his creation, as though the universe itself were commemorating the first steps of a very important destiny.

  All he needed now was to simply wait for an opportunity... and when his time came, he would be ready.

  A Word from David Adams

  I’ve always been thinking of stories for as long as I’ve been alive. I have way, way, way too many to tell and far too little time to tell them.

  “Imperfect” is less dramatic fiction and more science. It was originally a cut scene from Lacuna: The Sands of Karathi, but it was disruptive to the flow of the story and clumsily placed. I kept moving it around, further and further into the back of the book, until I just cut it entirely. I thought it was good, though, and decided to keep it and publish it separately.

  Short. Science-y. Harder sci-fi than I’m used to and with a lot less action. This one is all about sand and the robot minds that spring from carefully arranged silicon. It works well on its own, and as optional lead-in to that novel.

  I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you’re curious about what happens to this strange robot with a tiny defect, check out my novel series Lacuna, especially Lacuna: The Sands of Karathi.

  Want more information about new releases?

  Check out our webpage here: www.lacunaverse.com

  Like our Facebook page here: http://www.facebook.com/lacunaverse

  Or sign up for our “new releases” newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/toBf9

  Iteration

  by Deirdre Gould

  “THIS IS HIGHLY IRRATIONAL,” droned Dr. Granger from the other side of the bathroom door.

  “I’m irrational? You’re the one who wants to murder me!” yelled Alex and then returned to breathing heavily into a paper sick bag.

  “Your exaggerations will only make the phobia more severe, Alex. I only want to stop your heart for a moment and with your permission. We’ve discussed this.”

  Alex paced the large bathroom and raked his hands through his hair. He frowned when he pulled his hands out and found a few strands still sticking to them. Is that a gray one? he thought. But his worry circuits were already overloaded so he let it go.

  “I don’t know, Dr. Granger, I did some research on immersion therapy and the experts say it doesn’t work very well anyway.”

  There was a long sigh from the other side of the door. “Do we really have to discuss this by shouting through a door? Can you please come out of the bathroom?”

  “Only if you promise not to murder me.”

  “You know that’s not what we’re doing here.”

  Alex took a deep, shaky breath. He opened the door. Dr. Granger adjusted his itchy-looking sweater vest. “That’s much better, don’t you think?” he asked.

  Alex gave him a fake smile and walked back to the dull green chair out of habit. Dr. Granger returned to his own seat. He leaned back, took his glasses off and began polishing them with a tissue. Alex hoped it was a used one that a previous patient had forgotten, and that even now an awful stomach bug was being slathered on the psychiatrist’s lenses.

  “You’re right,” said Dr. Granger.

  “About what?” asked Alex, surprised to be right about anything in this place.

  “About immersion therapy. In many cases it doesn’t work, or doesn’t work well, anyway. At best, it just allows people to endure their phobia. It doesn’t make them less afraid.”

  “So why are we talking about doing this?”

  “If you were scared of heights or spiders or something that you’d encounter every day, I wouldn’t have suggested it. But death is something you rarely, if ever, have to experience. You don’t need to be cured of your thanatophobia, you just need to learn that death isn’t as terrible as you expect it to be. So that it won’t cripple you anymore and you can function properly again.”

  “Hey,” cried Alex, “I function just fine.”

  Dr. Granger stared at him. “Alex, when the authorities called me you had been holed up in your apartment for three months. You lost your job, you cocooned your living space in Safe-T-Foam and you were having your groceries delivered by drone. You were not ‘fine.’ Do I have to remind you what you did to your toilet?”

  Alex blushed. “No Dr. Granger, I get the point.”

  “Even so, I wouldn’t have suggested this method, except that we’ve tried a gamut of other therapies and none of them have had any effect. Your case is really quite severe. I need to confront you with the very thing yo
u fear so you can move on with your life. Once you experience it, you will see that it is just another biological process like breathing or eating. And then you will be able to put it behind you, as a completely normal and optional event that can be forgotten.”

  “But what about—” Alex leaned forward and lowered his voice, “what about heaven? What if— what if I get there and I don’t like it?”

  Dr. Granger sighed. “Alex, Alex, Alex. Not this again. Don’t you remember the documentary? We both agreed that the probability of an afterlife was—”

  “I know, I know, but we didn’t completely rule it out either. What if God doesn’t like me?”

  “Come now, I thought we agreed that religious belief was an outdated method of explaining things that don’t happen anymore. Like death and illness and inequality. Worrying about whether a mythic being is going to like you in some non-existent afterlife is— it’s either a narcissistic attempt to get me to praise you, or it’s nonsensical. Forgive me for saying so, but I thought you were more intelligent than this, Alex.” Dr. Granger frowned down at him and shook his head gently. Alex was too embarrassed to argue the point. “Now,” continued Dr. Granger, “Since all of your practical objections are settled, let’s not let the imaginary ones prevent us from scheduling the procedure. Shall we say next Tuesday?”

  “You want me to live with the knowledge that I’m going to die for a whole week?” squawked Alex, panicking.

  “Well— yes. I think it would be good for you, the first time.”

  “First time? Dr. Granger, this just keeps getting worse.”

  Dr. Granger sighed and crossed his arms. “What would you suggest Alex?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe spring it on me, when I’m not expecting it?”

  “If you weren’t always expecting to die, you wouldn’t have closeted yourself away and we wouldn’t even be here now.”