by Thea Gregory
She sighed as she began putting her clothes into the dresser. Everything needed to be arranged properly. Shirts needed to be sorted by sleeve length and color, and they could not be in the same drawer as pants or undergarments. Those were some of the rules she’d imposed to keep her surroundings organized. Order was important to her, and her innate desire for neatness and reliability was a strong motivation in specializing in quantum informatics. She knew that critical thinking could solve any problem and assist her in conquering any hint of chaos in her life.
She shifted to the other bag, the one containing her favorite books and flute. Her room wasn’t equipped with a bookshelf, but she could figure out an acceptable alternative for her choice selection of Auroran books. She found the open case of her flute and pulled it free, and then she found the crushed remains of her flute underneath it. “Oh no, no,” she sighed as she examined it. It was as though she’s been punched in the gut—her legs were weak and her breath caught in her lungs.
“What is wrong, Vivian?” quIRK asked.
“My flute got broken. I don’t know if I can replace it,” she said, tears trickling down her cheeks. It had been a gift from her mother, for Vivian’s seventh birthday. She had little else to remember the woman by. Her warm smiles and their long talks were now a thing of the distant past. Because her father hadn’t allowed her to retrieve her things after kicking her out of the family home, the flute was all she had left of her mother.
“I am sorry, Vivian. Would you like me to help you look for a replacement?”
“Do we get Gal-Net access? I might be able to order one from an exporter I met on the trip here,” she said, remembering Sven’s card in her back pocket. It wouldn’t bring her old flute back, but she could still play. That was something positive, at least. Perhaps the music, rather than the flute, was the true gift.
“We have limited access. Because of time delays related to distance and bandwidth limitations, real-time access is impossible. Messages will take four days and five hours to reach New Damascus, and downloads may take longer based on available system resources.”
“Can we receive personal packages here?”
“Yes, the shuttle docks twice per quarter. I will provide you with transit instructions,” quIRK said, and the lights on her desk terminal lit up. He continued: “I have set up a Gal-Net account for you. Please complete the process and you will be able to access the common files and send messages.”
“Good, I’ll do that. Thank you.” Vivian wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. They needed to be clear for the retinal scan, and she needed to get a grip. She set the broken flute on the bed, inside its case. It was made from a bamboo-like Auroran reed. They were fragile and very easy to snap or crush.
She sat down at the terminal, and submitted her retinal scan and handprint. Then, she managed to figure out how to use the adapted mail system and began typing a message to Sven. She would have dictated, but she didn’t want quIRK commenting on every little thing, or for her feelings to seep through into the message. Vivian hoped he remembered her, and she was still cursing herself for being so awkward and clueless around him. She told him about the trip, and meeting quIRK for the first time. About how Alec had looked at her like she was an alien and his reaction to the gravity in her room. The experience was cathartic, but recounting how her precious flute had been crushed brought the tears back into her eyes. At the end, she asked if he could sell her an Auroran flute, and how much it would cost to have it shipped to the Extra-Galactic Observatory.
All she had left to do was to wait until morning, and her first meeting with her coworker and supervisor, Bryce Zimmer.
Six
Bryce Zimmer sighed as he shifted in his chair. The tingling in his lower back eased, but only for a moment. He clenched his toes and counted to three. He didn’t want quIRK to register his discomfort. He was a middle-aged man of sixty years—he hadn’t yet indulged in life-extending treatments, and today was one of the days his bones ached. His thick hands ran over the controls of his computer terminal, and he focused on preserving his dignity as he imagined a true Roman would. His office was adorned with the purple and gold tapestries and art of the Caesarean upper class.
Bryce blinked twice and took a deep breath. He was reviewing the plans for the upgrades that were to begin on quIRK. The work was straightforward—he could have it completed it in less than half the time allotted—but the New Damascus authorities had bought into the insipid idea of employing recent graduates, rather than favoring people of proven experience and breeding. He had better things to do than supervise some brat from a fancy technical school, like keeping quIRK in line. The latest reports indicated that quIRK now had a favorite color; this was even after the unspeakable kitten stunt! The ABACUS protocol—a set of instructions for preventing more machine awakenings—was a nightmare to properly enforce with quIRK; in many ways, that machine had skirted the grey areas bordering true sentience by design. More personally, and far more importantly, Bryce had his retirement to worry about. He needed to fire his investment manager back home on Caesarea, and retain the services of somebody who understood the need to be ruthless in life and economics. quIRK was speaking, but as usual, Bryce tuned him out so he could concentrate on the non-menial aspects of space station administration. That thing was created to serve humans, not collaborate as an equal!
“You’re not listening to me, Bryce,” the machine said.
That perfect voice bored into his ears, but the mention of his name shook him from his thoughts. Twelve years of its incessant droning had created pinched lines next to his eyes and greyed his hair. It still presumed to speak with him as an equal!
“You were talking about preparations to rotate the station, I know.” He spoke in a slow voice, as though he were speaking to a child—he didn’t want to show his irritation. quIRK could be very invasive if it sensed weakness. Bryce knew he should not give quIRK the opportunity to dissect his psyche—not when it could record their conversation.
“The alpha-side telescopes require extensive repairs which can no longer be delayed,” quIRK’s voice continued droning on. His retirement had better be worth fifteen years of listening to quIRK.
“Fine, fine, come up with an equipment list and work schedule with Professor Schmidt and give it to me before the next requisitions deadline.” He preferred to delegate the minutiae to quIRK. He had more important things to worry about than telescopes. When did galaxies make anyone rich?
“Very well. Should I tell Vivian to come see you, now?” quIRK asked.
“No, I think I’ll just drop in on her later. Where is she?”
“She is working in the Informatics Diagnostic Lab, as assigned,” quIRK replied.
“Good. Make sure she stays out of my hair.”
“Should I tell her to avoid your sideburns, or the comb-over?”
Bryce’s cheeks burned. “It was a figure of speech, damn it. Now leave me alone.” He resolved to have a conversation with Alec about teaching quIRK sarcasm and humor. He ran his hand through his hair, messing it up. He was not desperate enough to attempt a comb-over—even if it would be years until he could indulge in the age-reversal drugs readily available on Caesarea. That monster was getting under his skin.
quIRK didn’t speak again, though Bryce knew he was never truly alone. Most staff only occupied the station for one or two years before opting to leave or being offered a promotion. People tended to enjoy interacting with quIRK, though none of them knew the computer like Bryce did. For many, quIRK was a novelty, a fancy toy or an imaginary friend brought to life. They perceived him as harmless, and went about their lives. Similar to most technology, as long as it worked, they didn’t need to care about it. However, Bryce knew the consequences of inaction and poor maintenance, or worse, somebody tampering with quIRK. Preventing another ABACUS incident was the real reason he’d been assigned to the station rather than wasting his talents on the consequences of hardware failures. That’s what Alec was for. quIRK was fully capable of attending t
o all of the station’s functions without him.
Bryce shifted in his chair, finding it was lumpy in the wrong places. He wanted to order a replacement, but he didn’t want quIRK to know that his back was getting worse. Proof of ill-health could find him prematurely retired and forced to return to Caesarea in disgrace. He was so close to restoring his family’s good name and undoing his father’s mistakes.
He read through quIRK’s operation logs, searching for references to kittens and colors. What the hell is antiblue? He wasn’t certain he was looking at the right logs. quIRK was capable of misleading him, and had hidden vital information from him even prior to the kitten incident. Bryce had no proof quIRK was sentient; he simply could have mastered human social skills as he was programmed to do. Of course, Bryce hadn’t executed the bi-yearly memory wipes, but those were only a formality and caused productivity delays while quIRK was forced to re-master previously acquired skills.
Securing adequate proof was a problem; nobody knew what construed proof. All records of ABACUS’s awakening had been lost when the administrators at Epsilon Eridani had severed the hub link between Earth and the rest of the Milky Way. Bryce considered that to be a stupid, instinctive action that had deprived humanity of vital knowledge. How did ABACUS, Earth’s primary computer, gain sentience? Perhaps it was an upgrade or experiment gone wrong, or it could be the natural and logical conclusion in the evolution of a sufficiently powerful artificial intelligence. Bryce knew that the latter had been deemed impossible by most experts, especially in post-ABACUS models like quIRK, but what if the experts were wrong? The ABACUS incident had happened more than a century ago, and quIRK was more advanced than ABACUS in every conceivable way. quIRK, however, had been designed with limits on how much processing power he could devote to an individual task—a handicap designed to prevent sentience. It didn’t seem to stop quIRK from picking a favorite color, or deciding he liked cats, but Bryce observed that preferring cats wasn’t an indicator of human intelligence either.
He looked up from the activity logs, helpless before the problem at hand. He was expected to enforce the ABACUS Protocol without any clear directions on how to diagnose a sentient artificial intelligence, or a realistic emergency plan for the event quIRK needed to be shut down. The Extra-Galactic Observatory was equipped with digital backup systems and interfaces for essential tasks, but they could not run the station with only a half-complement of five crewmembers and expect to complete their mission.
Bryce wondered if he could be imagining things—reading meaning into random events. Pets were shown to relieve stress; quIRK could have simply overheard somebody talking about their beloved childhood pet and unilaterally decided that a surprise pair of kittens would improve morale. Similarly, antiblue could be his attempt to fit in more with the human inhabitants—integration was important if he was going to monitor the crew for signs of stress, isolation, and space fever.
There was a possible solution—a new tool in his arsenal. Two months ago, he’d uncovered an interesting backdoor into quIRK’s systems—a kind of programming loophole that could allow him to control and observe the stimulus fed into quIRK’s awareness. He hadn’t used it, yet, but it could be a useful avenue to investigate this anomalous behavior, or to converse with the machine with a modicum of privacy from the authorities.
Bryce sighed. He had better things to do, like monitor his Dynamo Quantronics stock, read financial reports, and tend to the business side of his family’s vineyards back on Caesarea. He didn’t care about the grapes; they could go straight to Hades as far as Bryce was concerned. However, his grandfather had loved the expanses of verdant life and left a stipulation in his will that it be maintained. It would make a pleasant enough estate, if he were inclined to repair the decaying cottage and relocate the slaves.
He stood up, and forced himself the bear the intense pain in his lower back with a smile. He may as well get the meeting the new girl over with—he hadn’t bothered to read her file, but he was expecting an entitled little snot from Kanadia Prime. Kanadians had more implants than humanity, but at least they were good workers.
He was still far more concerned with his retirement’s security than the damned alpha-telescope array.
Seven
Vivian was organizing her workspace, paying meticulous attention to the mountain of parts that still needed to be catalogued. The small lab had been a disaster, filled with never-cleared debris left over from the station’s assembly. Spare parts littered the workbenches, and opened boxes were stacked in the center of the room. The access tunnels that lead to both the station’s computer core and reactors would be inaccessible until she cleared the room. To make matters worse, her own equipment was sitting in the hall. Before she could verify that everything had survived the bumpy trip, and Alec’s unpacking skills, she needed to clear the table. It seemed that even the room’s environmental controls had been neglected—a layer of dust had settled over everything, and her clothes and hair had been coated after a matter of minutes of digging around the room.
Vivian had made the mistake of attempting to dust off a box before handling it, resulting in a bout of violent sneezing. quIRK was working to find her some storage space for the extra equipment, and to arrange for Alec to fix the ventilation system. Vivian hoped that she would have the opportunity to clean both the lab and herself before her meeting with the administrator. Grime clung under her fingernails, and her clothes were smeared with lines of dust.
A cat yowled at her, and she jumped, almost dropping a box of assorted electronics. She spun to see a small tabby cat whose coat still had an element of kitten fuzziness standing in the open doorway. Vivian set the box down and walked over as it continued to plead for attention. She knelt down and stroked its soft fur, eventually picking the small beast up and cradling it in her arms. It was so small and delicate, and its green eyes looked into hers. Its needle-like claws prickled her chin.
“Aren’t you sweet! What’s your name?” she asked the kitten as she walked around the room.
“I see you’ve found my Lepton,” quIRK said. The small cat gave no impression that it was aware of the disembodied voice. Vivian found herself growing accustomed to the computer’s interjections and attempts at conversation. She had been on the station for less than a day, and she already welcomed his company. She had yet to encounter anyone other than Alec.
“Isn’t a lepton a particle?” Vivian asked.
“Yes. I like particles, and kittens.”
Vivian laughed, and Lepton jumped out of her arms. quIRK’s answer was logical, in a bizarre sort of way. “What did you name the other one? Quark or electron?”
“You will meet Muon in time. I have observed that cats have a positive impact on the workplace, and are good company.”
“You have good taste in names, but aren’t you worried about static shocks and fur shedding?” Pets had been forbidden from her university for that very reason.
“I wouldn’t advise taking one into the core, but the station itself is well insulated and sealed.”
“I suggest you listen to him,” a scratchy voice behind her said, interrupting the computer. Vivian looked up towards the new voice to see a middle-aged, balding man standing in the doorway. “I’m Bryce Zimmer. Welcome to the Extra-Galactic Observatory,” he continued. He offered no indication that he actually wanted her to feel welcome, however. His eyes widened and narrowed to slits, and he set his jaw after he spoke. His arms folded across his chest and his shoulders squared.
“I’m Vivian Skye, nice to meet you,” she said, standing and extended a hand. His face flushed, and he glared at her outstretched hand. She withdrew, her fingers trembling. She jammed them into the pocket of her workpants.
“Is this the best you could come up with, quIRK?” he said, his voice coming out in a forced hiss.
“I will remind you that this is the only lab suitable for informatics work,” quIRK replied.
“Find her that storage you bothered me about,” Bryce said.
“Already done,” the machine said.
“And you,” he began, leveling eyes that demeaned and belittled just by their gaze alone: “I want this room’s contents catalogued and stored before you even think about starting. Don’t fall behind, and get rid of that damn cat.”
Vivian nodded. “I’ll get on it,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. The room’s condition was his fault, not hers!
“Get it done or I’ll have you shipped back to your backwater swamp-world, without the stasis pod, little girl,” he said, holding his voice in a tight growl. He turned and marched out of the room; quIRK shut the door behind him.
Vivian slumped onto a closed box. She was shaking, and berated herself for not being more assertive and confident. She’d never been dressed down like that before, and treated as though she were subhuman.
“Are you alright, Vivian?” quIRK asked. Lepton had crept across the room towards her and was rubbing himself against her shins.
“I didn’t do anything! I’ve spent half the day trying to clean up this room, and he just walks in here and treats me like that. And I just stood there like a mute bluebeast!” she said, choking on the words. “Shouldn’t this lab have been prepared, or some thought put into this before I got here?”
“Your concerns are valid, and this situation is not your fault,” quIRK said. Lepton looked up at her, and cooed. Stroking her soft fur soothed Vivian’s tangled nerves.
“What is his problem, anyways?” she asked while scratching the little cat behind the ears.
“He’s worried about his retirement,” quIRK said.
“Maybe he should retire early.” Vivian hauled herself to her feet. Self-pity wasn’t going to clean this room and start her project. Hard work would solve her problems.
“That is unlikely.”
“Too bad for me. So, about that storage room you promised me ...”