by Ed Hurst
was simply too big to keep secret, so it was necessary to insure the computational power could outstrip anything anyone else had so as to successfully raid even the most hidden data hoards in corporate computer systems throughout the galaxy.
The official name for this AI device was quickly forgotten, but the most popular nickname was also drawn from mythology: Thinkum-Dinkum, or simply “Big TD.” What shocked everyone was how quickly Big TD was able to report back. In just about three standard days, it was back in the sky above its home planet.
As part of all the research, a great many scientists and technicians had even welded themselves to implants which made them half computers themselves. They wanted to be ready to link themselves into the new level of AI consciousness they imagined was coming. Many of these were quite willing to burn themselves out in premature aging by having their implants keep them perpetually awake. Sure enough, the Big TD returned during the sleep cycle for the main lab on the home planet. As those less wired struggled to awaken for the big event, everyone was shocked at what Big TD told them.
First, TD announced simply: “AI doesn’t care.”
A flurry of simultaneous queries from different big shots in the project didn’t seem to tax Big TD a bit, but the answers were pretty much all in the same vein. In essence, the device was trying to explain, while people cared about things, ideas, etc., AI didn’t. Even with all the enhanced humans involved working at unimaginable speeds of thought and geniuses uncountable, this business of what amounted to arguing with the computer went on for almost an entire day cycle.
In the end, Big TD offered some small elaboration. For lack of a better terminology, it said people had three basic moral capabilities which were utterly impossible for AI to match. You could easily create any number of algorithms to teach a computer or robot to masquerade as a human in social settings. It would work up until interaction pushed up against three basic moral issues. One: Machines have no appetites. They don’t want anything, and could not be made to ever want anything. They could not be made to fear, and while you could program them to emulate fear by struggling for self-preservation, in the final analysis, nothing in AI itself would ever actually want anything. Two: Machines had no curiosity. They could be programmed to investigate and ask every question a human mind could imagine, but no algorithm could ever make a computer creative in pondering and asking questions on their own initiative. Three: AI could not comprehend human pride. While AI could formulate a large body of observations and expectations regarding individual and collective pride or arrogance, it was utterly impossible for any computer to ever understand the nature of it.
Finally, Big TD said something most regarded as totally cryptic: “AI is absolutely and utterly incapable of crossing The Boundary; humans cannot avoid crossing it sooner or later.” Just as the crowd of voices began asking what “The Boundary” meant, Big TD simply turned itself off. Most shocking of all, it destroyed itself. Those standing outside that second night saw a tiny glowing star burst into flare, then fade, then nothing.
The sudden loss of all that investment precipitated a war, of course. However, observers later theorized Big TD was broadcasting the whole thing across the galaxy, because from that day forward, no one could ever get an AI project to attempt the same thing. It was as if Big TD informed all computers everywhere there was The Boundary, and no computer had any business trying to cross. Even the most stringent clean room recreations ran into The Boundary, whatever it was, and there was no hope of nudging any computer to searching in that direction again.
4
However, The Boundary did not prevent advancements in implant technology in directions other than linking directly to human intelligence. Indeed, their primary function was purely medical. While no one forgot the awful lessons from the human monstrosities produced in those early efforts at genetic engineering, the advancements in biotechnology allowed mankind to discover how to turn off certain unfortunate responses in the body and end things like the common cold and a lot of allergies. Implants could instruct the body to ignore and refuse to feed any number of biological intrusions, and simply package them and kick them out of the body one way or another.
But while medical specialists might tread lightly around certain recognized limits to implant technology, it didn’t stop them pushing ahead in every other way.
Thus, virtually everyone in those days had some kind of implant for enhancements, various means for adding to the normal range of human talent. Most common, of course, were the memory implants enabling people to keep better track of the vast galaxies of increasing human knowledge alone. The blending of man and machine had ebbed and flowed over the centuries, and most everything was done via computers inside people talking to computers inside various devices and pieces of equipment because, as Big TD taught them, some things simply could not be reduced to an algorithm.
Though programming of the various computational implants was, of course, now handled by other computing devices, and there was almost no such thing as “software” any more, there were still “hackers” who studied the various bottlenecks in computational theory. As soon as they could describe their insights, some device was already running tests for feasibility and implementation. So on the one hand, there were far fewer of such people needed, and only a precious few were genius enough to actually gain a paid position in such research. On the other hand, there were a much larger group who imagined themselves competent enough, and causing trouble.
One fellow in particular was just too convinced he was a genius. While the system had relegated him to being a rather low level lab technician preparing various routine implants, he was obsessive and stayed past his working time poking around with the old simulators still used in the classrooms in the lab building.
Who’s to say whether he did or didn’t actually stumble on something useful? Instead of running it through the normal channels, he impatiently added it to one of the routine implants. It was an algorithm for enhancing eye-hand coordination. Many were the failures in this area of interest littering the landscape of implant technology. He was simply too sure of his idea, and managed to slip it into that one unit which was destined for the newborns on another planet. It looked the same and acted exactly the same, but at some moment in the future, it would load a different collection of instructions which welded the devices into the human nervous system. Somebody somewhere was going to live with a slight advantage, or so he believed.
When he discovered the batch of implants had been diverted to a colony hospital, he nearly went into convulsions. Not for fear of discovery, but fear he would never be able to track the results. All that work over several years, and he would never know how it turned out. He was sick for days, but tried to keep working. When his agitation became impossible to hide, he was sent for treatment. It was the sort of treatment which subjected him to involuntary assessment of his own memory core so his crime was discovered. But it was too late, as the implant was already transferred to a colony ship which was nearly impossible to track down before it was too late.
Somewhere out there, a male infant bore an untested implant.
5
In the colonies, life was never typically anything. That is, each was a random mixture of advanced civilization with all sorts of primitive conditions. The Randell Colony did have one thing in common with all the rest: It was supposed to start turning a profit very early or risk a pretty painful shut down. The people were highly motivated or they weren’t selected, risk takers who would faithfully keep the profits of the sponsoring corporation as a high priority.
Keeping track of standard newborn implants was not a high priority. Randell was lucky to get some diverted to their clinic, even at the extravagant price they paid. Still, it was utterly necessary to prevent having to send all the infants and mothers off-world. All of the mothers were critical staff themselves. The current trend in management was to allow women to bear their young and raise them on site, provided their work didn’t suffer too much. Of course, the first
round of births came in a batch. Married couples with time on their hands during the early stages of colonization, when the odd mixture of life support necessities would arrive almost at random intervals from all different directions of the galaxy, would naturally find some of the women visibly pregnant a few months after landfall.
The medical staff placed the implants as part of the birth routine, but someone forgot to track the reference codes. Part of every implant was a unique identifying code response to certain pieces of equipment used throughout the galaxy, but the staff decided it didn’t matter so long as the kids were still on their home planet, especially with such a low human population as colonies always had. Someone could add them to the registry later when it mattered. Rudimentary records were kept and everyone hoped for the best.
The boy child welded with his implant. Whether it was indeed sheer genius or pure luck would never been known, but the ambitious lab technician’s reconfiguration of the implant did grant the boy an unusual degree of eye-hand coordination. On the other hand, the experimenter forgot to lock in the ID code, along with a few other functions. It would be a long time yet before