In the corner Adam sees the control console that he had used to deactivate Marchenko 2. That was almost two months ago. Had it been a mistake? No, certainly not. Marchenko 2 would have considered Adam to be his property. That AI acted for years as if his Adam and his Eve were still alive, so you never knew what he might do.
But are the actions of their own Marchenko really much different? Adam realizes that finding the right balance is difficult. He sits down in front of the console. It is a simple electrical cabinet that has no inputs or outputs. But he should be able to establish wireless communication. Adam takes his universal device out of his pocket and taps it a few times to launch a connection.
“User identification required.”
How did Marchenko 2 log on? Adam tries ‘Marchenko’ and ‘Adam’ as passwords, but the device rejects them. However, he is offered the option to create a new account. Adam does so. The password, he is told, has to be at least seven characters long. There seem to be no rules concerning the user name. Adam interrupts the connection and restarts it.
“User: Marchenko.”
“Password: AdamEve.”
“Welcome, Mitya,” the device displays. That had been too simple. However, Marchenko 2 did not have to worry about illegal access to his files, living all alone down here. Accordingly, he has minimal access-controls standards. Mitya is a term of endearment for Dimitri. Why is the computer system addressing the second Marchenko this way?
“Who am I talking to?” he types.
“My name is Francesca.”
Adam laughs at this answer. No programmer would ever call a semi-AI ‘Francesca.’ This electrical cabinet is not powerful enough for a true AI. SAIs lack the ability of autonomous learning. Yet they can be programmed so that they are able to solve some types of problems.
“What can you do for me, Francesca?”
“Calendar, notebook, maintenance, settings.”
“Explain maintenance.”
“The maintenance menu offers access to all basic systems in the station. Warning: Immediate execution of all commands is the default setting.”
So the software will not warn him if he is about to deactivate the life-support system. That’s too dangerous and he should not touch this menu.
“Explain ‘notebook,’ please.” He can imagine what a notebook would be, but it is better to ask.
“You saved your entries in the notebook, Mitya. I do not have the ability to understand their content, but I can read them out loud to you.”
“Can you also display them?” Adam asks.
“Yes.”
“Is there a particular order?”
“The entries are in chronological sequence.”
“How many entries are there?” Adam wants to know.
“Three thousand, seven hundred and forty-four.”
It’s going to be a long night, Adam thinks. He does not feel bad about reading the second Marchenko’s diary. The AI endangered all of them and obviously did not consider these notes important enough to take them along.
“Entry One.”
Marchenko 2 describes waking up and his first days on board Messenger. It sounds as if he was very optimistic back then, eager for adventure. Did their own Marchenko think that, too?
“Entry Two.”
The story continues. This is a period long before Adam’s own birth, so he is not really interested in it. He continues reading up to Entry 5, but then decides to jump closer to the present.
“Entry five hundred and twenty-two.”
Adam spontaneously thought of this number. The tone of the text has changed radically. This Marchenko is extremely saddened. It seems his two children were killed two weeks ago. It is not clear how they died, but at this moment the reason for their death is obvious to Marchenko 2. He keeps asking how he is to blame for it. In spite of this, there appears to be an undertone of hope. It is not all over yet.
“Entry seven hundred and nine.”
By choosing this number Adam has jumped ahead about a year and a half. The Marchenko in this text is almost unrecognizable. He is cynical, evil, and completely disillusioned. Adam has never experienced their own Marchenko this way. Does this mean he might exhibit the same behavior? Adam simply does not know enough. Yet he does not feel like reading these complete memoirs. He is not interested in Marchenko, this one or the other. This is about himself, Adam from space.
Can he ask the notebook questions? Perhaps he might find out something about himself that way.
“Is there a search function, Francesca?”
“Of course. Use the command ‘Search’ in order to search for something.”
The programming of this software is really primitive. Maybe the designers erroneously believed that simple software would be especially reliable? What should he ask? What is the core of his story? He has an idea, and suddenly his face feels all hot.
“Search for Creator.”
“Thirteen references.”
“Display all.”
Tightly-spaced text appears on the screen of Adam’s universal device. The first two passages just briefly mention the term ‘Creator.’ In the third text, however, the word appears in almost every other sentence.
“Today I made a shocking discovery related to the Creator. If it weren’t so terrible I would have to be glad Adam and Eve are no longer alive.”
The entry appears to be from a time long after the death of both of them.
“I have always wondered about the sectors in my memory I could not access. My kind interpretation was that the Creator used these to store a message to my children that would be revealed to them in due time. Perhaps when they came of age? I was wrong, because the Creator had something very different in mind. In a few words, he explained the true dimensions of his project. The mental block was probably removed because Adam and Eve should be adults now. It is very hard for me to write down the whole truth. It is so monstrous that my mind refuses to grasp it completely. Or perhaps I am simply not willing to accept this betrayal by the Creator. I have always attempted to convey to Adam and Eve how unique they are. I told them the Creator, and thus all mankind, chose them for an important mission, and that they alone could fulfill this task. But the truth looks very different. The Creator sent thousands of Adams and Eves, in the form of their DNA, on space voyages. They flew to different destinations that had one thing in common—they possessed potentially habitable planets.”
Here the text ends. Adam feels cold, his limbs tremble and his back is sopping wet. This is impossible. Marchenko 2 must have imagined this in his madness. Or is this perhaps a trap, designed in such a way that he or his sister would find it at some point, the mean-spirited revenge of a defeated AI? Of course not—that is nonsense. They discovered the station more or less by accident. Marchenko had no opportunity to prepare for their visit this way.
So everything is true. His presence here, his entire life, is meaningless. Who knows how many beings of his kind are currently exploring Proxima b? Or are they especially lucky to arrive here as the first or perhaps only team? Well, Marchenko 2 landed before them, even if he lost his passengers on the way.
Adam wonders what to do. Should he tell Eve about it? Adam checks his surroundings. Did their own Marchenko realize what he just found out? He tests the console. No, it is not possible to access it from outside. Of course their Marchenko might guess the password, just like he did. But even then he would not find out who logged into the electrical cabinet beside him.
“Francesca, delete access and search logs.”
“Logs deleted.”
Adam’s palms feel moist. He wipes his hands dry on his pants. “Francesca, maintenance.”
“Which systems do you want to access, Mitya?”
“Radio.”
“Not accessible. Should I display a list of accessible systems?”
“I need to establish a channel to my mobile unit.”
“I understand. Opening communication system. Searching mobile unit. Please wait. Please
wait. Mobile unit found. Current position 140 kilometers east/southeast. Channel capacity not sufficient for spoken communication.”
“Can I send a message electronically?”
“Of course, Mitya.”
Adam puts his hands in his pockets and takes them out again a moment later. He wants to establish contact with the second Marchenko. He needs the full truth, as quickly as possible. But why should Marchenko 2 be interested in talking to him and answering his questions? Adam himself immobilized him and initiated his banishment. Adam crouches in front of the console, places an elbow on his knee and massages his aching temple with one hand. If he stays down here too long, Eve will show up at some point. What should he write?
“I want to dictate a message to the mobile unit, Francesca,” he says.
“You can start, Mitya.”
“Marchenko: I have been skimming through your notebook.” Should he apologize for it? He shakes his head. “I need more information about the Creator and our mission. Let me know whether you are willing to discuss this and what I can do for you in return. Please use this channel. Signed, Adam. End of dictation.”
“End of dictation,” Francesca confirms.
“Display text.”
His message appears on the screen. The voice recognition has worked perfectly. The text does not sound groveling, but neutral. It’s just about some information, nothing more, nothing less.
“Send message,” Adam says.
“Message sent.”
March 7, 19
For a few days, Adam has been even more withdrawn than usual. I don’t think I hear him say more than ten words a day. Is that normal? Eve also seems to be concerned. I saw her trying to confront him about this. In the end she even yelled at him. That’s not like her at all, but he still only gave one-syllable answers.
I guess I have to accept the fact that I can’t get through to him anymore. Perhaps it is only a phase. Could he be entering a delayed adolescence, even though he will soon be 17 years old? Or might he be ill? In my former life I was a doctor, but not a psychologist, let alone a psychiatrist. Is Adam suffering from depression? I have consulted various textbooks, but I am not sure.
Perhaps he just needs something to divert him. Should we start another excursion to the gravitational wave receiver? I don’t think we would gain any new insights, but it is possible. This time I could participate better in the research, because J, the robot that serves as my mobile platform, has finally been fully repaired.
I just asked Adam and Eve to help me activate the robot. The complete transfer of my consciousness into the machine is a tricky process, and I am a bit afraid of it. It is as if my own heart were going to be deactivated for a few minutes before a new one is implanted. Who likes such an uncertain intermediate phase? What if the body exhibits a severe fault and destroys itself?
J is still hanging inside his steel scaffolding. The bleeding wounds have disappeared. His skin is shiny, as Eve just covered it with machine oil. She is really putting in a lot of effort. She seems to be glad about the fact that I am regaining my physical form.
Starting the robot is a complicated procedure. While the robot is only a machine, he’s a very sophisticated one. It is not possible to turn on all modules simultaneously. We have to activate the individual components in the proper order. If we mess up, the best outcome might be having to start the process over again, while the worst-case scenario would be damage to some of his parts.
Right now, the robot still seems completely dead. When I am not on board, it is controlled by a semi-AI. We will use this SAI to start up the robot now. Eve has asked to be in charge of the procedure. I have agreed. She can see the process and the block diagram on her monitor. Eve carefully touches an on-screen button. Adam jerks back when J opens both eyes. But nothing else happens. J’s limbs are still slack. Eve gradually increases the energy supply. While she is doing this, Adam removes the power cables. J looks like a patient whose IV lines are being taken off after a complicated surgery.
“Watch out, I am going to activate the motors in his upper body.”
A moment ago, J seemed soft, despite his metallic body, but now he exhibits a dynamic tension. His arms are no longer controlled strictly by gravity, but swing slightly of their own accord. One can see the robot testing one muscle after the other. Now and then something moves somewhere.
“You can remove the scaffolding now,” Eve says.
They had already unscrewed most of the fastening bolts beforehand. Adam only has to work on four spots, and then J’s upper body no longer has support. The motors move jerkily and the robot begins to straighten himself.
“Please move back a few steps,” Eve warns. Now comes the decisive moment. J is supposed to rise again. Eve quickly presses two buttons. The robot gets up almost noiselessly. I am watching him through the camera. J has changed. Due to the cramped circumstances down here, he is smaller than before, and he also moves on two legs. J takes a step forward so that he can turn around. Now I can see his third arm located on his back. It will help him carry loads or pull a sled.
“Marchenko, it is about time,” Eve says. The robot is functioning perfectly, so I can transfer my mind inside his metal body.
But now a message arrives and distracts us. Eve looks annoyed. She pushes a few buttons. Then her eyes widen in amazement.
“It’s Messenger,” she says. “It must have found something. I can’t recognize what it is, though.”
“One moment, I’ll take a look,” I say. Our spaceship just sent us a mountain of raw data. There must be something interesting hidden in the data, as otherwise the ship would not have sent it. But the detailed evaluation is left up to me.
First I detect coordinates. I match them with my internal world map. “There is something pretty close to the center of the dark hemisphere,” I tell them.
“What is it?” Adam steps up to the robot and stares into the eyes, as if I were already inside.
“Please be patient for a while.”
“That’s easy for you to say, after we’ve been waiting more than two weeks,” Adam replies.
I scan the measurement data. Messenger found something enormous indeed. There is a high concentration of mass. However, the data don’t indicate what specific object is located there. It could be remnants of an iron meteorite core, or a giant volcano, or a city... It is also unclear how large the object is. It is only certain that its mass is very large.
“Well, the thing has a diameter of between 500 meters and 25 kilometers,” I say, explaining the margin of error, “and it weighs as much as two or three skyscrapers.”
“It could be all kinds of things,” Eve replies. I have to agree with her.
“Can’t we see anything at that location? Messenger must have photographed everything.”
“No, Adam,” I say, and display the location in question on Eve’s monitor. “All we can see is a solid ice layer at least 50 meters thick. We will have to find out what hides beneath it.”
Suddenly Adam can’t wait to be going. “When are we starting?”
“I don’t know. First we have to consider the best way to reach this location—through the ocean or on top of the ice?”
March 8, 19
“Wake me up in half an hour!” Eve calls from above.
That’s so typical, Adam thinks. She could have set an alarm, but she doesn’t like its noise. Yet Adam does not complain about Eve taking a nap, because this suits his purposes well. Marchenko is currently testing his new body at the bottom of the ocean and probably won’t be back for an hour or more. This gives Adam enough time to check whether Marchenko 2 has replied to his message.
“I am closing the hatch so you won’t be disturbed,” he calls out to Eve. Then he shuts the hatch leading to the upper room. He bends down, opens the matching hatch to the service module, and climbs down. It looks much tidier now. Marchenko must have cleaned it up yesterday. He obviously wants to live down here.
Adam looks around. The data console in the co
rner appears untouched. Marchenko probably doesn’t need it, as he can access the computers in the station in much simpler ways. Adam crouches down in front of the metal console and establishes a connection.
“User identification required.”
I hope Marchenko hasn’t changed anything! Adam enters the same user name and password he had used four days ago.
“Welcome, Mitya!”
Either the service program is running separately from the rest of the station technology, or Marchenko saw no reason for selecting a new password. Adam hesitates. He wonders whether Marchenko also found the entries left by his alter ego.
“Open communication system,” he says.
“Channel is being opened.”
“Francesca, is there something like an inbox?”
“There is a saved message.”
Adam rubbed his hands. “Who is the sender?”
“Mobile unit one.”
That designation is new, but also logical. Four days ago there was only one mobile unit—Marchenko 2. Now there are two, as the ‘real’ Marchenko has regained his body. Adam has to be careful not to send his messages to the wrong address.
“Display saved message.”
The text appears on the screen of his universal device. Adam squints because the font is so small.
“Adam, my dear,” he reads. The salutation gives him the creeps. Marchenko 2 seems to live in his own private world. “I am so glad you want to contact me. You have no idea how much I missed you and your sister. Excuse me for using that term, but emotionally I still consider you siblings, even though genetically—as you probably know—you are no more closely related than any random man on Earth is to any random woman.”
Proxima Trilogy: Part 1-3: Hard Science Fiction Page 30