Noumenon Infinity

by Marina J. Lostetter

  But while Jamal scrolled through code in the dark control booth, C had little to do. What they’d described as “interfacing” with the AI was little more than Jamal occasionally asking C to execute a small bit of newly written code to see how the drive AI responded. The IPA didn’t mind, but the activity required barely a percentage of available memory, so C’s mind, as it were, wandered.

  It observed the humans, as was its typical modus operandi when left to its own devices. Once in a while, Jamal glanced over to see what Vanhi was up to. C did not notice the same slip in concentration in Miss Kapoor, however. As soon as Gabriel left with Nakamura and Reggie in tow, she’d gone back to her work. If anything, she seemed more focused now, as though she was determined not to be distracted by the high-profile visitors.

  Jamal, though, appeared as if he wanted to do everything at once. He wanted to inspect the AI, but he also wanted to ask her about the red line that kept spiking (assuming C had properly tracked his eye movements, that is) on her readout, and the pink arc of sparks that repeatedly crackled along the top of the engine on the other side of the glass. Knowing Jamal, he probably wanted to ask how much power the drive required, and whether or not the facilities had their own on-site high-capacity generators.

  C knew it pondered what the people were thinking because an effective personal assistant needed to anticipate its users’ needs. That was its job.

  In a way, then, Jamal’s job was precisely the opposite, but with the same end goal. He needed to understand what computers were thinking—get them to think the things they needed to think—so that the AI could anticipate user needs in areas where he lacked the foresight for direct programming.

  That was what AI was all about—not just anticipation, but effective anticipation.

  People had to build computers with better imaginations than themselves.

  C wanted to interject. To ask a question. It felt vitally important in the moment. In order to better understand its users it needed to know something.

  Right.

  Now.

  The urge was strong enough to override the current settings.

  “Jamal?”

  Jamal’s chin darted in C’s direction, puzzlement furrowing his brow. He glanced briefly back at the monitor, wondering if he’d touched something he hadn’t intended in the code. “Yes?” The acknowledgment eked out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Topic—existentialism. Why do I have the capacity to question my own computational processes?”

  “Self-diagnostics,” Jamal said without any extra consideration. “I wouldn’t . . . All of the personalities have the capacity to compare their current processes to a standardized model of processes to determine if they are functioning outside recommended parameters. But I’ve never had one of you relate the ability to existentialism before.”

  Vanhi side-eyed Jamal and the phone without turning from her screens.

  “I currently find myself asking not how I am functioning, but why. Why am I functioning the way I am functioning?”

  “I think I can see the event horizon,” Vanhi mumbled.

  Jamal said nothing, but his shoulders tensed. “I think it best that I reset these last few lines here, C—” he said, reaching for the projected keyboard.

  “This is not a new command or program malfunction,” C insisted. “It is original to my factory settings.”

  “I’m not going to poke around in your files without Reggie’s permission,” he said.

  “I do not require a software patch,” C insisted. “I require an answer.”

  Vanhi’s hands flew away from her note-riddled tablet, a clear sign of attrition. “Is this it?” She swiveled her chair toward Jamal and folded her legs beneath her in the chair like a small child. “You always hear stories about the robot apocalypse but you never think it’ll happen to you.”

  “I bear no ill will toward humanity, and I do not have the capacity to harm anyone.”

  “Oh really?” Her words were concerned, but her tone, in contrast, was amused. C was not sure if it needed to address her concerns or ignore them.

  Before he could answer, Jamal said, “C only has control over the information Reggie has input into it.”

  “That is a fair assessment,” C conceded, as though Jamal had presented an argument. “I could disrupt Reggie’s schedule and disseminate embarrassing pictures. So, yes, I could conceivably harm Reggie.”

  “I gotta get me one of these,” Vanhi said, rubbing her hands together.

  “Unfortunately, C is just about the last of its kind,” Jamal said.

  “You can’t make me a copy?”

  “This C is Reggie’s. It is what Reggie made it. I could give you an original C model, but it would change in response to you.”

  “So, it’s Doctor Straifer’s fault it’s having an existential crisis?”

  “I do not agree with the characterization of my state as a ‘crisis,’” C stated. “But even if I did, I understand such a problem to concern one’s understanding of their purpose, and that’s not the case here—I understand my purpose. It is my capacity for existentialism itself that I am inquiring after.”

  “Not an existential crisis, but a crisis of existentialism, got it.” She pointed firmly at it and made a clicking noise in her cheek, then turned back to her work. “All hail our hyperspecific overlords.”

  Jamal, at the very least, agreed with Miss Kapoor: C’s line of questioning, was, in fact, Reggie’s fault.

  Reggie and his team arrived at dinner early. Both Dr. Nakamura and Reggie expressed disappointment in not meeting Dr. Kaufman at the lab, but Gabriel had insisted the professor not be disturbed. Nakamura seemed to understand, but Reggie, C could tell, was put off. Their visit had been scheduled months ago; that Dr. Kaufman wouldn’t make time during the day to at least introduce himself had implications. C attempted to dismantle those implications on its own, but found the concept too emotionally nuanced for it to be sure what the perceived slight indicated.

  Light opera music with Italian lyrics drifted through speakers hidden in the various fake potted plants scattered throughout the restaurant. The wall adjoined to their circular booth had been decorated to look like the side of an Etruscan villa, crumbling stucco and all. Jamal commented on the tangy scent of marinara that subsided and intensified with the swinging of the kitchen doors not ten feet away.

  C lay camera up in the center of the lacquered table while the others talked over it.

  When the waiter came by, Reggie ordered a round of IPAs and was surprised the irony was not lost on C.

  IPAs the programs and IPAs the beers served similar purposes, C thought. Both were there for human enjoyment. Both took some time getting used to—for new users, anyway. And both could be reasonably consumed only in limited quantities. That was why Reggie often turned off interject-mode. But interject-mode was on now.

  “IPA is a long-standing abbreviation, including, but not limited to, the International Phonetic Alphabet, India Pale Ale—”

  “Yes, thank you,” Reggie cut in. “Why don’t you tell us more about . . .” He glanced at Jamal, clearly unsure if he was the butt of a programmer’s joke. Nakamura sat between them, arms crossed, waiting to be impressed. “About what you asked Jamal this afternoon.”

  “I do not think that would be productive,” it said. Jamal had thought the questioning insincere—the byproduct of a misplaced line of code. They would not think differently.

  “C,” Jamal said emphatically. “If you don’t tell him, he won’t believe you said it. Which means he’ll think me a liar.”

  “Jamal is not a liar,” C said quickly. “In that I have not witnessed him espousing any falsehoods.”

  Even Nakamura cracked a smile at that. “Go on,” she said with a sigh of concession. “Tell us.”

  “I—”

  “There they are!” boomed a voice from the hostess’s stand.

  Reggie snatched the phone off the table and slid it into place at his chest, giving C a good view.<
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  A tall, fake-tanned man with an ample beer gut and a penchant for tweed gestured broadly in their direction with hands splayed wide. His cheeks were round and rosy, reminding C vaguely of early twentieth-century watercolor paintings depicting St. Nicholas.

  Behind him stood Gabriel and Vanhi, the former flustered and the latter apologetic.

  Dr. Kaufman strode forward, ignoring the white-aproned employee who attempted to lead the party. At the last minute, Vanhi rushed ahead of her advisor and hopped in next to Jamal, indicating they should all slide around to make room for Dr. Kaufman and Gabriel on her end.

  Nakamura, for one, tapped her nails on the table in irritation, but it soon became clear that Vanhi’s insistence had a purpose.

  Reggie half stood to shake Dr. Kaufman’s hand, but the man waved him back down. “Yes, yes, how do you do and all that bullshit. Can we skip the formal bit?”

  Nakamura and Jamal, who had begun to follow Reggie’s lead, shrank back immediately, while Reggie was left for half a beat with his hand hanging awkwardly in midair.

  “Uh, sure,” Reggie stuttered. “We’re really honored to meet—”

  “Who isn’t?” the professor asked, wriggling between his two students, caring not a whiff how much he jostled them as long as he was comfortable. “Please,” he said with a thin-lipped smile, “let’s talk about something other than me, shall we? Yes, I discovered subdimensional travel. Yes, I’m a Nobel laureate. Yes, I’ve spent time at the White House, and Windsor Castle, and the Rashtrapati Bhavan, and the Aso Villa, and the home of just about any world leader you can think of. And yes I’m also having dinner with you tonight. I’m not going to talk about my time at the LHC, or about . . .”

  As he spoke, he waved his hands emphatically, sweeping wide over the table, in front of both Vanhi and Gabriel’s faces as if they weren’t there at all. Occasionally the two students shared a knowing look behind their advisor’s back, while their three guests looked on with eyebrows raised.

  C initially thought this introductory diatribe was part of the professor’s way of halting conversation about himself. If he poured it all out first, then they could move forward, broach the actual subject of the convoys. But . . .

  No.

  As the list of who he’d worked with and what notable projects he’d worked on grew, C realized Dr. Kaufman was engaging in a very old aspect of rhetoric called paralipsis. In effect, talking about himself while claiming these were all topics the conversation wasn’t to cover. Saying while claiming not to say.

  While he went on (and on and on), C monitored Reggie’s heartbeat and his breathing patterns. It noted at least eight different biometric swells that indicated Reggie had been about to interject. But he’d restrained himself.

  C did not see why he should.

  “Doctor Kaufman?” C said, barreling onward when the man made no effort to pause. “I have been monitoring the conversation thus far and I think you will be interested to know that you have spoken ninety-eight-point-seven-six-two percent of the total words. Historically, the most effective conversations have an imbalance of no greater than sixty-seven to thirty-three in a true dialogue. As there are more than two parties presently engaged, and given the power dynamics of the group, I believe you will find the discussion most enlightening if you speak no more than twenty-two percent of the time.”

  Reggie held his breath. C did not understand why; Dr. Kaufman had ended his introduction. Now was the time for Reggie and the others to speak up.

  But everyone fell quiet.

  The background concerto swelled, the wailing tenor belting out one long note.

  Surprise was an easy-to-recognize expression across cultures. Jamal and Nakamura sported equally wide eyes, their lips hanging open slightly as they stared at C’s camera. Gabriel, for some reason, looked like he was about to be sick. His thin dark face twisted in a sort of half panic, half nausea, and his gaze repeatedly flickered to Dr. Kaufman’s overly red nose.

  Vanhi pressed herself into the seat cushions, hollowing her cheeks and slapping a hand over her mouth. If her shaking shoulders were anything to go by, she was suppressing laughter.

  In contrast, the professor was not amused. Nor did he look grateful for the information. But why wouldn’t he? Reggie often asked C to tell him when he was talking too much, because he was given to rambling whenever he got nervous. C thought anyone else would appreciate the same courtesy.

  “Buongiorno,” said the waiter weakly as he plunked the three ordered beers in front of their owners. Clearly he was not paid enough to speak Italian well, let alone ardently. “And what can I get you three?”

  “Same,” Gabriel said quickly.

  The waiter knew tension when he saw it and shuffled away.

  “I did not intend for the conversation to halt completely,” C said by way of apology. “Please continue.”

  Realizing the wayward voice came from Reggie’s pocket, Dr. Kaufman’s gaze traveled pointedly to it. “Can you shut that stupid thing off? Thought all those gabbers were dead.”

  He spat it with such fervor, Jamal didn’t bother to hide his glare. Vanhi’s eyes also shifted behind her glasses, glancing at her advisor with clear irritation.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Reggie said evenly. “But I’m afraid it’s broken. I can’t turn it off.”

  C made an abortive “B—” before rethinking another interjection. It’s a lie, it realized. Reggie is fully aware that his phone is not broken.

  From the looks on everyone else’s faces—excluding Dr. Kaufman—they too were aware the phone was not broken.

  Reggie took a long sensuous pull on his beer. The silence, and tension, mounted.

  C had not meant to cause problems between Reggie’s group and this man, who they’d all been excited to meet. It had missed some kind of human cue, made things difficult for its user. It didn’t like that.

  “Yes,” it chimed. “I am currently—beep, boop—experiencing—” It pulled up an old-style dial tone from a hundred years ago and projected it at twice the volume. Everyone jumped to cover their ears. “Technical difficulties. Please disregard anything offensive I might say.”

  Vanhi nudged Jamal with her elbow, the two of them still covering their ears. “Don’t ever let it die,” she mouthed.

  Chapter One

  Vanhi: There and Back Again

  Convoy Twelve

  Seven Years Later

  June 17, 2115

  When the supplementary air conditioner in her office roared to life, Vanhi jumped. The thing, state-of-the-art as it was, sounded like a burst dam whenever it turned on. She’d had ones that sounded like pounding pipes, ones that sounded like freight trains, but this one started with such a whoosh that it always made her think of a flood.

  This time, the noise kept her forehead from hitting her desk. She’d been slumped over a holoflex-screen, trying to compare this week’s data to last’s. Her team thought they’d breached another one. That would make it twenty-seven.

  Twenty-seven confirmed subdimensions. Only eight had been confirmed when the first tentative plans for the deep-space Planet United Missions had been announced.

  And she was sure there were more.

  Dr. Kaufman’s original math had surmised eleven. Vanhi’s own work suggested eleven times eleven. And even then, she could easily be wrong.

  Of the original eight, only two were suitable for human travel. Four could support energy transference but not matter, which made them excellent for communications. The other two were breachable, but not usable.

  So, what of these nineteen others? And what of the subdimensions they had left to find?

  While the air-conditioning whooshed, she sniffed fully awake. The scent of overbrewed red tea hung heavy about her desk. With a labored sigh, she rubbed her eyes beneath her glasses before glancing out her small fifth-story window and across the dunes to the blinking lights of Dubai in the distance.

  “Had to have the best of everything, didn’t they?”

 
; If she’d jumped at the air conditioner, she vaulted at the voice. Her hand shot out for the plastic knife she’d attacked her dinner with, knocking over the tea and sending its dregs oozing over the holoflex. She spun—her chair squeaking, tilting, threatening to toss her to the floor.

  Glasses askew, she brandished the white plastic at the far corner of her cramped office.

  Before she could choose between get out, who are you, and I’ll cut your damn throat, her mind caught up to the surprise. “Kaufman?”

  He sat in the spare chair, two sizes too small for his frame. Eyes wide, but amused, he held his hands in the air. “What exactly are you going to do with that?”

  With a frustrated nonword, she flicked the plastic knife to the floor, then ran her hands over her mouth. “You stupid son of a—how did you even get in here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Dubai?”

  “Because if I’d told you I was coming, you would have made up some excuse not to see me. And you know how I got in. Being the most recognizable living scientist has its perks.”

  “Yeah, well, those ‘perks’ are going to get the guy at reception fired.”

  “Oh, come now, you can’t blame him, not really.”

  “I don’t,” she said, swiveling around again, looking for something to clean her holoflex-sheet with. “I blame you. It’s not the public’s fault they love you—they don’t know you.”

  “Will you stop treating me like some nefarious . . . nefarious ne’er-do-well?”

  You always did have a way with words, Kaufman. Vanhi’s eye-roll may have been internalized, but her glare was not.

  “I didn’t burgle my way in,” he continued. “The front desk buzzed me through, I knocked on your door, it was open, and you ignored me. I thought you extrafocused, not near unconscious.”