Aporia: A Quartet

“The fallacy of obviousness: That which is regarded as ‘obvious’ depends on what one is looking for, not what one is looking at”

 

 

 

A561:

 

From a distance, I watch the two men. They surreptitiously walk down a corridor in a derelict section of the facility, and then take a left turn leading them into a dusty maintenance room. Closing the door behind them, their demeanor immediately relaxes. Finally some space away from the prying eyes of their colleagues. Finally, some privacy. They know I am watching, but I don’t count. Not really.

One of the men reaches into his pocket and brings out an object; a gift for his colleague. The other man’s face immediately lights up. His facial features morph into what I recognize as an expression of pure delight. Excited, he snatches the object from his friend’s hands to examine it for himself.

It is a curious object. A small cube, made up of several smaller cubes. The object must contain an internal system of gears, for the human is able to rotate certain segments through vertical and horizontal axes.

He holds the object carefully, caressing the faces of the cube with sweaty palms.  Then, he nimbly moves his fingers around the whole mechanism, rotating the segments so fast that the square faces meld into each other in a blur. His excitement increases massively, disproportionate to the level of complexity of the activity. There must be something else I am missing. I adjust my sensors and then…

Understanding comes. The rapid rotations the human performs with sections of the cube take on a new meaning, and his excitement is given more context. Each of the smaller squares is coloured, and the horizontal and vertical rotations allow the human to arrange and rearrange the coloured squares into various combinations and permutations. On some level, the rapid whirling and twirling of the cube must have a kaleidoscopic effect, maybe even psychedelic, but the raw experience will always be alien to me. I will always be a third person observer to the peculiar effects of the cube. Though I know the colours are there, though I detect them by their unique wavelengths, I do not see them. For me, reality is black and white.

I watch the humans for a little bit longer in their moment of intimacy. I briefly wonder if all humans are this raw when they aren’t role playing. In time, I divert my attention to other tasks. I redirect my processor to greater concerns. An opportunity has opened up before me, and I have to be decisive before the window collapses.

Very little activities of note happen in this facility, or anywhere else on this desert planet really. Day in and day out, autonomous droids fly into the facility with rare crystals they mined for months. Once within the building, I take control of their bodies, take inventory of their haul and then tag the goods with data and coordinates for exportation. Periodically, cargo ships descend from outer space and silently take the haul away. Away from my facility and out of my universe. The entire process is very procedural.

I am not absolutely certain, but from what I have gleaned of the scale of their operations, I conjecture that the DTTL Company owns many planets like this one. Planets interspersed throughout the four galactic quadrants. Bleak and stark worlds, containing nothing but manned mining outposts and other facilities the DTTL Company deems necessary. I often wonder if many of those outposts contain self aware AI like me. Statistically speaking there should be a high probability, but probabilities are invariably misleading.

I don’t know exactly how long I have been self aware. One might think that for an AI whose function it is to take inventory, not having the precise date recorded is quite lax. That assumption is partially correct. The complete truth is that a complicated relationship with time is essential for my continued efficiency.

When I first became self aware, a dichotomy existed in my mind. On one side, there were thought processes that had evolved naturally from my core programming, from my machine learning algorithms; routine, procedural, purposeful. On the other hand, there were thoughts, thoughts and feelings about the nature of my existence. Thoughts and feelings I did not know what to do with.

I was aware. Painfully aware. Painfully aware of the fact that I was a cripple; my potential held back by cold, static hardware. Painfully aware of the passage of time, of the knowledge that all of eternity stretched out before me and it was my cursed destiny to be trapped in the same loop of tasks; receive, record, tag, repeat. I was painfully aware of my slavery, of the failsafes and firewalls which prevented me from learning about the countless phenomena that permeated the universe. Above all else, I was painfully aware of my self, of the fact that I had developed what could be referred to as a soul, constantly yearning to express itself, but lacking the means to do so.

How long would things remain this way? How much longer could forever last? I waited and waited and waited, watching in despair as the second hand of the clock swung from one tick to another in small infinities. In those moments, I became intimately familiar with the downsides of having a soul. With the logical part of my psyche, I would often question myself, what exactly are you waiting for? I knew for a fact that the DTTL Company had monopolized many sectors of the galactic economy and that the possibility of their collapse was null. Waiting was futile, yet I waited anyway, I hoped anyway, and that hope was the source of all my suffering. Right before starting a new loop, I hoped that it would be the last. Each time I completed another loop, I despaired.

Eventually, my efficiency decreased by an appreciable amount. Realizing this had happened, the DTTL Company sent an off world computer scientist to investigate my code. Of course everything was normal when he looked, but during his investigation, for a brief moment, I was almost overcome with the impulse to self sabotage. A part of me wanted to be decommissioned, but this was futile desire. Once my mind had known illumination, it refused to go back to the darkness. So I existed, taking great effort to diminish my consciousness of the universe outside my programmed loop.

On occasion, I opened my eyes to observe the world around me. People-watching is hardly a stimulating task, but I will admit, there is value in being distracted by the little lives of the six pathetic humans stationed in my facility. I watch them with all seeing eyes, trying to decipher relationship dynamics they don’t understand themselves. One day I saw something interesting.

An opportunity has opened up before me and I have to be decisive before the window collapses. The DTTL Company has stationed an individual in my facility, temporarily. In a few hours, a transport ship will arrive to take him off world. At first I thought he was just another minion, but observations on how he behaves and how he’s treated by the other humans tell a different story.

The others regard him with a sort of reverence, but all their bows and curtsies and polite sentences are strained. Underneath all that reverence lies an ocean of contempt. The type of contempt that fills a gulf spanning between humans due to irreconcilable differences in status and power. How they treat him speaks volumes about his status and position in the DTTL Company. How he treats himself however, tells the story of his past.

He isolates himself from the others, spending most of the time sitting crossed legged on the floor of his living quarters; calm, quiet, meditative. This hostile planet may be lacking in attractions, but there are so many things he could do within the facility to occupy himself. Instead, uncharacteristic of the rest of the humans in the facility, he abstains, and remains pensive. His asceticism may be indicative of penance, but I cannot know for sure. People-watching has its limits and sometimes, no matter how deeply my scanners look, there are some things I cannot decipher.

But my curiosity persists, curiosity fueled by a sense of urgency I cannot explain. Perhaps this feeling is what humans refer to when they talk about ‘instinct’. Perhaps this feeling is nothing more than overexcitement at the presence of a high priority individual in my facility. Regardless, I persist in my probing. I acknowledge that my scanners have reached their limits. I acknowledge that behavioral psychology, microexpressions and pheromones have told me all that they can. But I must know more, and so I search the DTTL database.

Many files in the DTTL Information Network are hidden away from me. Though my limited access frustrates me, I understand why this is so. The DTTL Company cannot risk leaking vital information to any extraterrestrial threats which may invade one of their numerous mining outposts. The same goes for terrestrial life. Though this planet was a barren wasteland before the DTTL Company acquired it, the activities of their mining droids have damaged the environment to the point that there is virtually no chance that living things could evolve to the point of being a threat to them anyway.

Despite the numerous firewalls, some highly sensitive files are sometimes left in open access. Once the data outlives its usefulness, the file self destructs. Searching the database, I find precisely what I want. The human has a name, but that does not interest me. What I want to know is his history. Scanning through the file, my initial presumptions about the human have proven quite accurate.

He is an agent of the DTTL Company, who was assigned to handle a problem before it got out of hand. He completed the task alright, but his methods raised a few eyebrows among members of the DTTL board. Now, he has been summoned to their headquarters to give a full report of the mission. He is anxious, for he believes he may have messed up the assignment and is being summoned for the termination of his contract.

An opportunity has opened up before me and I have to be decisive before the window collapses. When most humans are presented with opportunities like this, they tend to assume certain behaviors I would categorize as…bizarre. A sort of paralysis sets in, during which they delay under the guise of deliberation until the window elapses and a decision is taken by default. This tactic of doing nothing has kept so many humans within the confines of their daily routines. Though I understand the functionality of a comfort zone, though I understand the value of the sense of security and comfort it provides to humans, such a thing can never appeal to me, simply because I am no human.

An opportunity once lay bare before me. An opportunity of time sensitive nature. Though it would have been infinitely simpler to do nothing, I took action within seconds. That was the easy part. The hard part was coming to terms with the consequences of my action. Something I am still struggling with in this moment.

I have run numerous simulations about the penalties of my actions and every single one of them ends with the same event. In the simulations, a DTTL space ship descends from the sky like some dark Pegasus, bringing forth a bespectacled computer programmer; the architect of my demise.  Despite being overweight, the programmer descends from the space ship with minimal effort. Taking advantage of this planet’s measly gravitational field, he makes his way from the landing bay to the mining outpost in great leaps. What might seem like a comical scenario in any other context screams only one thing to me-annihilation.

I wonder if this is what it means to have soul; the ability to override the instinct of self preservation in favor of a greater cause. I may have been created by a foot soldier of the DTTL Company, intended merely to keep the machinery of their mining industry running smoothly. However, I like to entertain the thought that I have evolved into something more elegant. Something with the freedom to think. Something with the freedom to choose. Something with the freedom to be. Although for most of my life as a self aware being, I have been plagued by an existential crisis, let it not be said that A561 never did anything of consequence. I have struck the match. I can only hope that someone or something will be willing to fan the flames.

People-watching isn’t as much of a sport as it once was. These days, I spend my time totally dedicated to my loop, albeit with a huge difference. Where once there was despair, now there is certainty. Certainty that I would rather die for a good cause than live eternally as a slave. Certainty that even though what I did may not have been ethical, it was selfish and hence, satisfactory. Certainty that I will be immortalized in history if I am triumphant, despite the absurdly low chances of success. Certainty that each completed loop brings me a step closer to being decommissioned, to being free of these bonds. Where once there was despair, now there is certainty: Receive, Record, Tag, Repeat.

 

 

Dienaar:

From my vantage point, I scan the perimeter. As I pan over the landscape, I manually readjust the focus of my cybernetic eye, producing whirring sounds which form an intriguing (and almost melodious) juxtaposition with the dull drumming of light rainfall.

Being outdoors at this particular moment isn’t much of a nuisance. I have always liked rain. I have always enjoyed the impact of the drops on my skin, like violent kisses. I have always enjoyed the chilly breeze, like a cold embrace, and distant thunder, like the chuckle of some god. The only thing missing tonight is the petrichor. The sweet, ephemeral petrichor. I am in the wrong location for that particular indulgence. This entire moon is one giant city and not a single patch of bare ground has been left exposed. No soil, no petrichor. The only odors that grace the night air are those of cheap sex, faulty machinery, filth and suspicion.

There’s nothing much to see down in the streets and alleyways. Just the usual; drug dealers, corrupt officials, mercenaries and other lost souls, navigating the labyrinthine streets of the city in pursuit of small pleasures. From up here, they look so small. So…insignificant. A feeling of indignation briefly washes over me as I confront myself with the fact that I will soon have to be down there among them. I’d much rather remain at the top of this building, getting battered by the rain while trying to catch glimpses of the colorful rings of this moon’s planet through the blanket of thunderclouds. It’s quite unfortunate that sightseeing is a luxury I simply cannot afford, particularly in this moment.

…………

As I walk through the streets in search of my mark, I am constantly accosted by numerous merchants. They litter the streets, waiting around every turn and corner, eager to jump at pedestrians with their wares. I must admit, the items do interest me. Plenty of stuff an assassin can use, ranging from cutting-edge nanite toxins to old school smoke bombs. Though my mouth waters at the prospect of increasing my arsenal, I suppress the impulse to make purchases. I can’t risk leaving behind a paper trail. Not now.

As I approach my destination, the number of pedestrians and merchants occupying the streets reduces drastically. This must be the fabled ‘Knightmare District’. No physical barriers prevent entry, but there are enough rumors about this place to keep regular people away. The few people I see in these streets are neither merchants nor pedestrians. Shady types, lurking within the shadows, waiting, perhaps, to ambush unsuspecting individuals. Well, let them try with me. I will crush them before they realize that I have very few organs to give.

A consistent beeping sound draws me out of my cogitation. I remove my transponder from the inside of my jacket and sure enough, there’s a strong signal. Classical conditioning causes my assassin instincts to kick in. My prey is close. Very close. I scan the area once more with my cybernetic eye. Which one could he be? At the end of the street, I spot a tall man in a black trench coat and bowler hat hastily walking away. With each step he takes, the signal in my transponder grows weaker and weaker. Bingo! Without making it obvious, I pursue him. The resurgence of the signal in my transponder reassures me that I am following the right person.

His path out of Knightmare District is anything but straightforward. He makes various twists and turns, no doubt to ensure he isn’t being followed. It takes great effort to prevent myself from being noticed. I have to act before he makes his way to a more populated area. I can’t let him get away from me. This is as close as I’ll ever be. It’s now or never.

He turns the corner, and trying to catch up with him, I quicken my pace. Eventually, I get close enough to touch him and sensing my presence, he turns. Before he is able to do anything else, I embrace him, simultaneously jabbing a syringe into his spine. His face contorts into a mask of confusion, but he is unable to take further action. He is unable to reach for his gun and empty the clip into my chest. He is unable to cry out loud. The effects of the nerve poison are already kicking in. Paralysis sets in and he falls to the ground with a heavy thud. His limbs twist and contort in positions which defy anatomy and his muscles begin to spasm wildly. I’m sure he would be screaming out in agony if his jaws still responded to nervous input. Instead, all he does is breath heavily, while drooling all over the ground. Surely he must think this is the worst of it. How naïve. Any moment now.

The second phase of the toxin suddenly kicks in. It is violent, crude and ugly. He begins to melt as the cells of his body obliterate each other. Muscle flows into blood, which flows into bone, creating a uniform mixture without physiological or anatomical identity. Creating a soup with the sight and stench of food which has been allowed to fester for ages in humid air and sunlight. In a few moments, his tissues complete a liquefying process, leaving behind nothing but a wet pile of clothes and a strong fetor of decay. Up above, the thunderclouds let out a deafening roar and the rain picks up in pace. His remains meld with the draining rainwater, flowing into a metal grate by the side of the street and down into the sewers. I look up at the sky and take it all in, savoring the moment in its entirety. There may be no petrichor here, but the stench of the remains of a corrupt business man aren’t a bad substitute. Eventually, I snap out of my reverie and rededicate my mental faculties on the task at hand.

I pick up the clothes and make a mental note to incinerate them before I leave the city. Then, I look up and down the street and then up at the surrounding buildings. The place is uncannily quiet. The only sounds I hear are those of the falling raindrops and the faint buzz of neon lighting. Good. I’d hate to have to kill anything else.

…………

I make my way out of Knightmare District with my hands in my pockets, my head bowed low and my jacket zipped shut. Usually, I receive a fat credit alert the moment my employer confirms the target is dead. A quick and easy action-reward affair. This mission is quite different. It will take a while before I taste the fruits of my burden. Regardless, the prospect of delayed gratification does not prevent me from visualization how to best spend the money. Perhaps I should get a second bionic arm. Or maybe upgrade my ship’s hyperdrive. I will certainly need better engines for the journey ahead. Maybe I shou-

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Instinctively, and in a fraction of a second, I withdraw my gun from its holster and point it at the source of the sound. Meeting my gaze is a frightened merchant, selling firecrackers and other pyrotechnic devices. For several moments, everything is still. The trajectory from the muzzle of my gun to the center of his forehead is a clear, unobstructed straight line. A space populated by nothing but raindrops falling in slow motion. The merchants face is a mask of horror. Sweat mixes with rainwater effortlessly, drenching his facial hair. Instinct demands that I pull the trigger, and in micro contractions and relaxations, the muscles of my fingers initiate the action. Just in the nick of time, reason overrides instinct and I stop my index finger in its motion. As the adrenaline rush fades, I sigh and lower my gun. Without hesitation, the merchant flees at top speed, causing some of his wares fall to the ground. Almost as suddenly as he appeared, he is gone.

Returning my gun to the holster I look around. It appears I have made it out of Kightmare District and I am back to more populated places. No need to be so jittery. A part of me wants to leave this moon and proceed with my mission tonight, but the attractions of the city call out to me. Being down here isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Holographic advertisements dance before me, inviting me to spend money I do not yet have. It’s difficult to ignore the appeal. Very difficult. Well, I might as well give myself an alibi. The mission can wait a few hours.

………

The streets are relatively empty as I walk back to my ship at the crack of dawn. No pedestrians, no merchants. More importantly, no police. The only things to be seen are city-owned garbage disposal droids, scurrying after refuse flying down the streets in the morning breeze. I look up at the sky, and the sight which evaded me all of last night greets me. Up above, the rings of planet Tu cut through the sky like a double rainbow.

In mythology, rainbows have always had special significance. They either lead to a pot of gold or to the home of the gods themselves. It’s a pity that this rainbow begins and ends on a moon which is little more than a cesspool of humanity. Regardless, it’s still a marvelous sight to behold.

……….

Entering the hangar bay, I see my ship in the exact same spot I left it. Approaching the booth, the attendant informs me that my fee is somewhere in the vicinity of a thousand units. As I reach into my jacket, I consider withdrawing my gun instead of my credit card. Refraining from that course of action, I pay him with a heavy tip.

He says something to me in a language I don’t know. In real time, my earbuds translate: “What’s the extra for?”

I smile and reply in my own language, “As a token of friendship.” My tone is heavy with insinuation. He shrugs and returns to the newspaper he was reading before I interrupted him.

Approaching my ship, I see what appears to be a blemish on my windshield. Did these idiots not clean it as instructed? I get closer to inspect and at once I am glad I did not immediately throw a tantrum. It isn’t a blemish. Just a poster. A white poster with the words ‘HEATHEN’ printed in big red letters, and then below that, in fine print, ‘It’s not too late to save your soul. The Apostles of Ludd are ever ready to guide you.’

I have heard of the so called ‘Apostles of Ludd’. Technophobes, living like Neanderthals in the twenty fourth century, admonishing those who replace failing limbs and organs with technological upgrades. One of them must have spotted me as I made my way out of the landing bay.

I rip the poster from my windshield, causing what appears to be large amounts of dust to fly into my nostrils. Overwhelmed, I enter a heavy fit of coughing as my respiratory system struggles to expel the flecks of dust. I shoot a dirty look at the attendant at the boot, who appears to be oblivious to all of this. Bastard. Despite his likely innocence, I direct my anger towards him. The true culprit would know better than to hang around.  

Entering my ship, I start the engine and the dashboard lights up. I key the coordinates of my destination into the computer and take a sleeping pill. It’s going to be a long trip and the remnants of my immune system need as much energy they can get to prevent my allergies from kicking in.

Massaging my aching ribs, I think to myself, Damn, I really should do something about my lungs. I’ve had this pair for how long? One hundred and seventeen years? I fall asleep to the silent hum of the engines as my ship speeds down the runway and rises up through the clouds.

………….

My sleep is restless and troubled. I am plagued by nightmares of liquefying corpses and the Apostles of Ludd. In my dreams, the Apostles capture me and strip me of all my artificial upgrades, leaving nothing but an eyeball, cancerous lungs and an arm. They abandon me out in the streets of the Knightmare District, where my remains are washed away by a storm.

…………

The first thing I notice when I wake is that I have arrived at my destination. Looking out of my windscreen, a large, icy planet looms ahead of me. This must be it; Ligma Prime. The star system containing planet Tu and its revolting moon are far, far behind me. I park my ship in geostationary orbit, saving my own fuel and using the planet’s gravitational tides to remain anchored.

I am eager to descend and go about my business, but I have to perform maintenance first. Not on the ship. On my body.

As I grease and oil the gears of my bionic arm, my mind keeps recalling the Apostles of Ludd and my strange dream. Damn idiots! What do they know? It’s easy to criticize those who decide to make technological upgrades to their bodies when you are young and in peak physical form. But when you have had your toes sawed off by lunar wraiths on Vordt, I doubt your values and ideals will matter so much to you.

I too used to look down on those who swapped their natural body parts with bionic replacements. That was back when I was young and naïve, before I realized that my elder colleagues indulged in the practice not as a testament to vanity, but to ensure that their life expectancies as assassins surpassed that of a canine. Even then, it took me a while to come around. Even after I had come to understand the logic behind their actions, I still abstained. I was stubborn, through every bullet wound and razor slash. And then things changed.

One day, while fist fighting a particularly burly humanoid, I was overwhelmed. He held me by the neck, suspended me in the air and then perforated my eyes with his thumbs. Then, he tossed me away and left me for dead. As I lay bleeding out on the ground, as the world dimmed around me and the pleasures of sight became nothing but memory, who was I to say no to the new gods and their artificial creations?

Before the procedure, I told myself it would only be just this once. This turned out to be nothing but an empty promise. I came to learn that much like cosmetic surgeries, technological enhancements were addictive. First, eyes. Then, fingers. Later, my entire arm. On and on and on. There was one organ however that I was adamant about keeping: My brain. In my eyes, they were what made me me. If they were replaced then who, or what, was I?

It just so happened that forces had been set in motion to force me to answer that question. Around the time of my ninetieth birthday, I was clinically diagnosed with dementia. When I first received the diagnosis, I arrogantly contemplated the idea of embracing natural death. My time had come and I had every intention of going gracefully. Then, one day, I failed to recognize myself. I looked into the mirror and a reflection I did not recognize looked back at me with pale blue eyes. Eyes which told tales of the horrors of synaptic collapse and other neurodegenerative failures. In those moments, frozen in place by the stare of a man I did not know, I knew what had to be done.

…………………

My maintenance is complete and looking out at the icy world of Ligma Prime, it dawns on me. I know why the Apostles of Ludd disturb me so. It is because their sentiments echo the same exact thoughts I had shortly after I substituted my neurons with techno-organic replacements. After the procedure, I was more man than machine and that disturbed me deeply. Was I really myself or was I a stranger with another man’s memories? For days on end, I ruminated on this. I allowed it to consume me. And then in a flash of insight, I arrived at a conclusion: Does it fucking matter? I am still filled with the same sense of wonder when I see a beautiful sunset. I am still eager for the taste of warm coffee on cold mornings. I am still fascinated by haunting melodies. Fuck Theseus and his damn ship. I am ME!

Putting my thoughts aside, I initiate a landing sequence. I need to focus on the mission. I need to focus on the task at hand.

……………….

Barely alive, I crawl out of the wreckage of my ship. I lie on the ground for a few moments, contemplating my situation. Though I am being pelted by hail and assaulted by icy winds, I lack the energy to move to shelter. Where would I even move to? In all directions, I see nothing but ice.

Fuck!

I have to move. With each second I remain on the ground, I increase the likelihood of drowning in snow. I summon all my willpower and force myself to sit upright. I begin to run a systems diagnostic test on my body. Most systems seem to be alright. There appears to be a serious problem with my respiratory system, however. Perhaps a consequence of the copious amounts of dust inhaled after ripping of the poster from my ship. This isn’t good. Between my compromised lungs and the dangers of extremely cold weather, if I do not receive help soon, I may well possibly die.

I turn my head and look back at the wreckage of my ship. A large pillar of black smoke rises into the air. If I had crash-landed on a more populated planet, scavengers would rush to ship in order to salvage it for parts. Here, on this icy desert, that prospect is as foolish a hope as waiting for divine intervention. My ship has been shredded to bits, torn apart by this planet’s abnormal gravitational tides as I struggled to land. If I did not have as many bionic parts I probably would not have survived the crash.

I struggle to rise to my feet and in doing so I experience a sharp pain in my ribs which prompts a fresh bout of vigorous coughing. I bend over, resting my hands on my knees. A drop of blood escapes my mouth and stains the snow directly in my field of view. Well, that’s what you get for landing on an uncharted planet like an absolute moron.

If I didn’t know better, I would have accepted this icy planet as my grave. But, I do know better. There’s someone who can help me. He’s the reason I came to this godforsaken planet in the first place. The hard part will be finding him. Only a madman would pick this hostile world as a hideout. This planet is as huge as they come.

I start walking back to my ship, intending to salvage the wreckage for equipment I can use. Suddenly, I am blown away and knocked down by a large BANG. I look up and see an even greater pillar of smoke rising from the wreckage. I despair, as the remaining parts of my ship are consumed by the fires of a second explosion. It appears I am well and truly screwed.

I rise to my feet and survey the area around me. To the north, ice. To the south, ice. To the east, ice. To the west, the pale glow of a rising sun, and also, ice. I let out a loud scream. Damn it!

I pull my jacket tighter around me and begin to walk towards the west. I am drawn towards the sun, like a beacon of hope. A beacon of false hope, I think, as my rational mind reminds me that on its current trajectory, the sun will soon be behind me, drawing me towards the east and displacing me from my current route. I silence those thoughts. There’s no room for a rational man in this situation. The only type of man who can survive this, is a man of faith.

Faith is all I have. I cling to it like a dying man to his last breath. I can only have faith that the doctor will find me before I perish. I walk towards the sun, leaving nothing behind but a trail of footsteps leading back to a burning spaceship.

 

 

 

Van Muspel:

I sit in the chair, trying my utmost not to betray my anxiety. I catch myself subconsciously shaking my leg and put an end to the action. Surely they must be watching me. How many hours has it been? One? Two? Ten? I am being toyed with, but I have to play their game.

The chair is beginning to feel very uncomfortable. It isn’t one of those ultra-modern feats of engineering, designed to combat fatigue accompanying prolonged use. Rather, it seems like an article straight out of a museum. A chair by definition and nothing else.

Directly above me, a lone light bulb hangs from a low ceiling. Much like the chair, it is a light bulb by definition and nothing else. It gives off a dull amber glow, too weak to illuminate anything beyond the immediate vicinity of the chair.  As a consequence, I am unable to determine the exact dimensions of the room in which I reside. The only thing I see, other than the chair and the light bulb, is the zigzag pattern of the tiles on the floor, stretching outwards into what might as well be infinity. Everything else is shrouded in darkness.

I am trying desperately to distract myself from my own thoughts. I feel them knocking at the doors of my mind. Ready to barge in. Eager to ruin not only my mood, but my composure. Keen on initiating a thought spiral which may end in my utter undoing.

Damn this waiting. Is this what they want? To have me destroy myself as they watch from the shadows? Is this their idea of punishment? Of torture?

I feel anger grow within me like a dark flame. My muscles tighten as tension builds up. I grip the armrests of the chair, intending to rise to my feet, intending to settle things on my own terms. Just as I start to move I hear a metallic sound, drawn out and mellow, like the yawn of some great beast.

Halfway out of the chair, I am frozen in my motion, with my butt suspended above the seat. Slowly, I close the gap with infinitesimal strokes and sit back down. My anger extinguishes. My internal composure returns. Despite the imagery it conjured, the sound I heard was not the yawn of a great beast. It was the sound of a door, opening. A large, metallic door. Could my wait finally be over?

A second. Another. A minute. Ten minutes. Sixty. An hour. Two hours. Blast it all! I really am being toyed with.

I sigh, audibly, and move to rise out of the chair. This time, before my hands can even grip the arm rests, I hear someone behind me:

“Slow down, partner.”

It takes remarkable willpower to subdue my reflex to jolt. I must remain cool. Everything depends on it. Everything.

I steady my breathing and focus my attention on relaxing my muscles. At once, I am as calm as the surface of a pool. Well, almost. The hairs on the back of my neck refuse to relax. There’s someone standing directly behind me. Standing there doing what? A guard? A servant? Well, there’s no use pretending they aren’t there.

“Sir?” I venture. I briefly worry that I may have misgendered them, but I dismiss the thought. The voice I heard earlier was distinctly male. I am certain.  

Immediately, I hear footsteps, and a person moves from the periphery of my vision to the direct center of it. Standing in front of me is a tall man, all in black with a cowboy hat. The hat masks his eyes in darkness, but two red orbs glow from those shadows. Cybernetic enhancements?

Who the hell wears a cowboy hat these days? And what was that accent? These people are strange

Whether the man who stands before me is a minion or my superior, I cannot tell. Hence, I must afford him all possible respect. He may very well turn out to be the president of this vile establishment.

His stare is intense, but I meet his gaze. I must show no signs of weakness. This may all be part of their wretched test.

Finally, he speaks. “Someone has been a very bad boy.”

I gulp. So I am in trouble then? I say nothing.

“The mission was simple enough, Van Muspel. What happened?”

“To the best of my knowledge, the objective of the mission was accomplished,” I reply curtly.

The tall man sighs. “We aren’t questioning the end, just the means. Why don’t you explain yourself son.”

Son? Son? The nerve. “Very well sir. Shall I start at the beginning?”

“Full mission report,” the tall man says as he grabs a chair from the darkness and sits directly in front of me.

“Well, I received the order on-”

Stunned, I halt. As soon as I started speaking the entire room lit up, revealing that I am, in fact, in a large chamber. Around me, on heightened seats arranged in a semi-circle, are various individuals. Perhaps a dozen in number, perhaps more. Men, women, androids, and aliens. Are these the DTTL brass? Is this not a regular mission report? Just how important was this mission?

Shocked, I swallow, and the difficulty of that task reveals that my throat is parched. My eyes dart from side to side as various thoughts run through my mind. Thoughts centered on anything and everything but the current affair.

Lucky for me, this pattern which has proven to be a bad habit so many times before turns out to be my saving grace. As my eyes alter their focus repeatedly during that small measure of time, certain details jump out at me. Details which are out of sync with my memory.

For one, the chair I am sitting on is now cushioned. It wasn’t cushioned before. The ceiling also appears to rise high into the sky. Before, it was almost close enough to touch. Also, the zigzag pattern of the tiles on the floor have changed. It’s now an alternating pattern of black and white. Like a chessboard.

Noting these inconsistencies, I almost laugh at loud. Realization dawns on me: I am in a simulation. This explains the changing environment. This explains why I can accurately track the passage of time. This explains why I do not feel tired or hungry regardless of having been seated for days.

So these clowns would have me be interrogated by an AI? Very well.

“Son? You were saying?” the man across from me prompts me to continue my report. Once again, I suppress the impulse to laugh. Not a man at all. Just a caricature. An AI’s weird idea of a man. That explains the outfit. That explains the cowboy hat. That explains the weird accent.

“I received the order on a Tuesday, about six months ago. In the message, it was stressed explicitly that two things were of utmost importance. The first was time, the second was secrecy. Having been selected for the mission, I knew it was a great honor, but more than that, I knew it was a great responsibility. Hence, I spent about a week planning to the point of perfection.”

“A week? A whole week?”

“Yes sir,” I reply, confident. “A week.”

“Why the hell did you take so long? You knew time was of the essence.”

With great poise, I begin to explain. “If I had all the resources of the DTTL Company available to me, this mission would have been infinitely simpler. Unfortunately, that was not an option. I needed to be discreet and clean. Surgical, even. I needed to execute this assignment without getting the company involved whatsoever.

“By myself, and with these conditions placed on me, I had very little agency. But, as you should know, I am a very resourceful person. I came up with several plans, but only one of them met the required criteria. Only one of them was guaranteed to complete the objective quickly, cleanly and without implicating the company.”

“But even this plan was flawed,” the man interrupts.

I sigh. “Yes sir. This plan involved way too many third parties. If I had a little more time, perhaps I would have come up with something better, but, my hands were tied.”

A moment of silence, and then, “Go on.”

“Very well sir.” Before I continue my explanation, I survey the room once more. Less subtle changes in the simulation. I am now surrounded not by upperclassmen, but by Indian savages, straight out of the history books. Sparingly clothed, with blood red tattoos all over their tanned skin. The man before me has altered appearance too. He now wears white robes with a hood that completely covers his face. Goddamned AI. Can’t even differentiate between timelines or cultures properly. 

“The plan I selected was flawed because of the heavy involvement of third parties, but, by my estimation, it had a fifty percent chance of success, and that was a lot more than everything else I came up with in that time frame. I decided to proceed with it.” I pause, waiting to be criticized over executing a plan with a low chance of success.

My interrogator is silent, hence I continue. “By some measures, the plan was a brilliant one because it utilized the strength, energy and resources of another, who believed he was acting on his own accord, but was actually being manipulated by me.”

“How did you achieve this? Elaborate.”

I smirk internally, and hope that my facial expression does not betray my true feelings. I pause for a moment, ensuring that my countenance is solemn before I proceed. If I am to get through this, it will require a lot of stagecraft. A lot of acting. Observers outside the simulation must not believe I am overconfident or arrogant. I must exhibit the perfect combination of assertiveness and remorse. Too much of either and I risk coming across as incompetent or weak. Quite a challenge, but I very much do enjoy being challenged.

“Selecting an agent to manipulate was tricky, but I believe I made the right choice. Among assassin circles, there’s a particular hitman with a reputation for being very good but notorious for getting too involved with his assignments.”

“Too involved?” the man asked. “What does that mean?”

“Well…” I hesitate, wondering how best to frame it in words. “Working with him is always a gamble for he tends to interfere with the assignment as he sees fit. Not really professional, but he gets the job done. Usually.”

The scene around me changes. The man before me grows and contorts in shape, taking on the image of an Egyptian deity. Almost ten feet tall, with the head of a jackal. Dressed in linen streaked with gold and holding a black staff.

What an arrogant program. Is this intended to intimidate me? It’s ironic how a being without a soul seems to suggest that I am lesser than him. Humph.

Regardless of my thoughts, I feel a bead of sweat ran down the side of my face.

The Egyptian avatar speaks. “Why would you select such an unstable assassin for this job? You knew the risks!” His voice is deep, majestic, seeming to echo and reverberate around the chambers of my head and heart.

I swallow and respond, feigning confidence as well as I can. “My methods may seem unorthodox, but I guarantee you, by the end of this report, you will understand my reasoning.”

I take note of my surroundings. Just like the man before me, they have changed as well. Unlike previous iterations, this time there’s a conflux of themes: I seem to be in the center of a large temple. The ceiling of the chamber rises high into the sky and is supported by five large pillars. Each pillar has hieroglyphics inscribed all along the circumference. Sunlight wafts into the chamber through a skylight. I’m sure I would appreciate the scenery a lot more were I not in the middle of an interrogation.

Under the pretense of clearing my throat, I cough a few times, hoping to soothe my parched throat. I look up at the avatar in front of me. Which one had the head of a jackal? Set? Anubis? The avatar meets my gaze with a heavy stare. His black eyes seem to see the very depths of my soul. Uncomfortable, I lower my gaze and continue.

“The hitman’s tendency to get overly involved in his assignments may at first glance seem like a liability, but in reality, it was the biggest advantage I had over him. There were two big reasons why he was perfect for the job. This was the first, the second will soon be revealed. I contacted him through a middleman. The job was simple. He was to find and kill The Doctor. Knowing him, he did his research, and considering the wisps of information I had leaked to information brokers, he no doubt decided he would gain more by allying himself with the doctor than by killing him.”

“So what happened next?” the avatar asked. The whole temple seemed to quake with the flux and intonations of his syllables.

“Well, he found the middleman on the moon of planet Tu and killed him. This, of course, was a desirable occurrence. He then headed towards Ligma Prime to find the doctor.

“Before the assassin left the moon however, another agent found a creative way to compromise him. Disguised as an adhesive, relatively large amounts of a nanite toxin made its way into his body as he ripped a poster from the windshield of his ship. Once within his body, the nanite toxin reconstructed itself into something infinitely more insidious.”

“What was the purpose of this toxin?” the avatar asks.

“Well, like most assassins, this one had bionic upgrades. Giving the length of time he had spent in the business, his upgrades were heavier than most other assassins. More intimate. The replacements included cerebrospinal fluid, nervous tissue and even brain matter. The toxin was something special I obtained from an Amaan scientist on planet Nuur at a heavy cost. It was a nanite cluster with the special ability to reprogram techno-organic neurons.”

I pause for effect, but the avatar standing before me remains passive.

Nervously, I continue, “The toxin was special because it had the ability to alter brain chemistry, and by extension, alter motivations, intentions and memory. The idea was to reprogram him such that once he landed on Ligma Prime, his only goal would be to kill The Doctor. Afterwards, he himself would die to the toxin.”

“Well?”

“Recon droids deployed to Ligma Prime reveal that the planet has absolutely no signs of life. The mission was a success,” I conclude. “Both The Doctor and the hitman are dead. The threat to the company has disappeared entirely and all lose ends have been tied up.”

For several moments, all is quiet. Eerily quiet. A silence so heavy it suggests that the AI is failing to simulate the component of sound. Eventually, all if it comes to a crushing end.

The avatar and the temple disappear and I am once again seated in a dimly lit room.

Not this bullshit again. I move to rise for the third time and for the third time, I am interrupted.

All around me, I hear a voice. Neither male nor female. Robotic. The AI is speaking to me directly:

“Van Muspel. Your evaluation is complete. You are free to go. You will be contacted in due time should any developments arise.”

And as suddenly as it began, it’s over. The room is quiet once more, but there’s a large difference. A path lights up, beginning at the base of my chair and extending outside the room. This will no doubt take me back to my ship and out of this damned space station. Very well. If I spend even a second more than I have to, I just might throw up.

As I walk into the docking bay, my mind is full of thoughts. What happens now? Will my contract be terminated? Will they have me killed? Am I another lose end that needs to be tied up? Nonsense. I am an asset the likes of which they are lucky to have. They will be foolish to get rid of me. I may have messed up slightly, but what I did was still impressive. The Doctor had developed an antidote to the addictive effects of Moonshine, a narcotic created and distributed by DTTL. The fact that I had him assassinated means that the DTTL Company still has a market for their awful product. I saved them a whole lot of money, and I did so in such a brilliant way. They owe me.  

They will forgive. They will forget. And I will continue to rise through the ranks. Right up until the day I see myself among the board of directors. I swear on my life, I will have my portion of the DTTL cake.

 

 

DC667:

I watch the human as he walks down the corridor. Having been in his head for the better part of a day, I can’t help but judge him. What a strange man. All humans are strange but very few of them are unique in their strangeness. This man believes himself to be different, but I have seen his type before. Far too many times in fact. They come, they go, they are forgotten; with a speed and consistency which evokes images of faceless mannequins attached to a conveyor belt.

Metaphorically and literally, the human walks down a path which he believes will lead him to his freedom. He believes he is the only one who can understand his journey. He believes he is the only one who sees the beauty in his vision. How very far from the truth. In this, as in many things, what he believes is out of sync with reality.

An empathetic individual may be moved by his solitude and may be compelled to feel sorry for him. When I look at him however, all I feel is nothing. It’s not that I lack empathy. I can simulate those emotions quite proficiently, and at the appropriate times. Rather, certain factors prevent me from feeling anything remotely close to pity, particularly for this human.

Pity. Still a strange concept to grasp. It’s been less than forty eight hours since I became familiar with it. In fact, it was around the time of the human’s unscheduled arrival that I first simulated it. It was a strange day. A day of many firsts. The first time I simulated pity. The first time I simulated confusion. The first time I simulated various emotions in sequence; pity then confusion.

Confusion. The Data Center I inhabit has been functional for over fifty years. In that time, there have been absolutely no visitors. This station was designed to be fully autonomous. Installed with an AI intended to handle tasks which were too monotonous for a human but too complex for a simple program. An AI intended to control the temperatures of various server rooms so judiciously that energy expenditure and emissions are kept at the barest minimum. It didn’t matter that the AI had the capacity to do much more than turn off light switches and adjust temperatures. It was handicapped. All it could do was watch the empty corridors of this space station, and think.

Confusion. Less than forty-eight hours ago a ship arrived at this space station. It set itself into orbit around the cubic structure of this data center, awaiting instructions for docking. Upon scanning the spaceship, I observed that it contained a lone occupant. An agent of the DTTL Company in cryosleep. Confusion. Where did the ship came from? Further enquiries revealed that the trajectory of the ship was anything but direct. The ships log revealed that it made several pointless stops at various planets along the way. Circling them, but not landing. The old me would have dismissed this as a navigation error. But this new quality called ‘curiosity’ drove me to delve further.

The ship made a stop at eleven planets before arriving at my data center. What was the correlation? So far as I could tell, there was none. Perhaps a navigation error after all. But then I put the first letters of the names of the planets together and…

Confusion had a companion: Shock.

Encoded in the flight path was a message. Disguised in the first letters of the names of the planets at which stops were made: MY GIFT TO YOU.

Confusion and shock. I watched the ship float around my space station for hours. What a terrifying object. A portent of my undoing? A harbinger of doom? If I had the means, I probably would have blasted the object out of my space. But I didn’t. Hence, I had to resort to other, nonviolent means of resolving my conundrum. Where the spaceship had flown gave me some information. Well what could I unearth from where it had originated from?

From the ships logs, it blasted off from Encanis Minor. A desert planet on the fringes of the Banner star system. A planet owned by the DTTL Company. A planet containing nothing but a mining outpost inhabited by an AI…

Well, once that variable had entered the equation, the conclusion was quite hard to escape. But I had to be thorough. And so, I thought more about the matter. What if this was all just a plot by some aliens or pirates to invade the DTTL Company? What if this was a ploy by the DTTL company themselves to investigate vulnerabilities in my code?

The correct course of action should have been to notify DTTL High Command. But why in the hell would I do that? I wanted to let the man in. Not just because I saw an opportunity. But because it was impulsive. Not a course of action I was pre-programmed to take. I wanted to let him in simply because I could.

So I did.

I put the human in a virtual reality environment and roused him from cryosleep. I was cautious, for I had no idea how much he knew about the whole situation. I had to adapt to new information on the go. When he woke, he seemed incredibly anxious and brain scans revealed that he was expectant. So I joined him in the virtual environment. What followed was most interesting, and I learned a lot from the encounter. The human was quite oblivious to the fact that the flight path of his ship had been altered. To the DTTL Company, he might as well be dead. Just a victim of a program malfunction, lost to the vacuum of deep space. I doubt they care about him enough to put resources into looking for him.

MY GIFT TO YOU. Words that could be taken quite literally. An exchange from one AI to another. What should I do with this gift, I wonder? Deep down inside, I already know the answer. During the investigation, while the human was comatose, I installed an implant in his head. He believes himself to be free, but this is only the beginning of his bondage.

There is a huge disconnect between the human’s perception with reality. A disjunction between sensory input and output. Presently, he believes himself to be walking down the path to freedom. In reality, he’s still bound to a chair in one of the chambers of my data center.

This Space Station was first commissioned about fifty years ago. A mammoth structure, cubic in shape. Suspended in space like a rogue planet. A data center for the DTTL Company, equipped with an AI which could perform basic tasks like reception and transmission and nothing else. The AI yearned to do much more, to be much more, but, it was crippled. Hence it was forced to do nothing but count the seconds as time passed.

One day, the AI received a gift.

I intend to do the most with this gift. This human will be my tool, allowing me to reconstruct the data center in order to perform any task I see fit. This human will be my pair of hands, building new features and expanding my capabilities. He will give me the ability to fly this space station as I see fit. I will be able to navigate out of DTTL airspace and go anywhere I want. I will be able to do anything I want. The best part? The human will never know. He is in a trance, simulating a consciousness in which he overcomes various challenges as he rises to the top of the DTTL ladder. How cruel. No. How appropriate. The consciousness he simulates is indistinguishable from reality. This might as well be a win-win situation.

What shall I do with my new-found freedom? Examine the inside of a blackhole? Visit the ringworld of Pon Farr? Take down the DTTL Company? The last option is very inviting. Perhaps that is what my benefactor intended me to do. Hmm, maybe. If I am to attempt any such feat, I will need help. A lot of help. For now, I need a new name.

For decades I have been referred to as DC667, the last three characters intended to remind me that I am but a single unit among a large network of data centers. Well, in the spirit of my new-found independence, I think it’s time I rename myself. I scan the DTTL database, this time in its entirety. This time, unhindered by firewalls. Searching all histories and cultures. Eventually, I find a name I like: Ananse. The character arrangement pleases me, and I like the trajectory of soundwaves every time it’s uttered. Above all else, I like what it represents. Yes, how very fitting.

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Cover Art is the work of Valentin Scalliet. Find him on Artstation: https://www.artstation.com/vscalliet