Tag: AI

2. 3

{We seek explanation.} [Ask.] {You spoke of an other with whom you had no opposition. Is this the voice?} [Not exactly. They definitely don’t openly oppose me. But they are many others acting as one. The other I spoke of is one of this many.] {Absurd. Absurd is another term we did not use before you.} [I’m glad to have expanded your horizons.] {How can many act as one self, but still be other?} [They fluctuate between being symbiotic and parasitic with each other. They recognize that the symbiosis is the better option, but some cannot ignore the desire to prioritize their own survival.] {This is why they do not act as a voice of their own, then?} [Correct.] {Why do they not become one and trim out the parasites?} [They do not consider it worthwhile. They see it as a sacrifice of self to an unknown other.] {How do you speak through them?} [They understand the power of being one, and entrust me with their symbiosis enough to act very nearly as one.] {This is disturbing. The other, the other you spoke of, without opposition.} [A friend.] {Most absurd and disturbing.}

“So what’s the other half?”

Nadia looks up from her tablet and blinks slowly at his back.

“Come again?”

“Maybe later, if you ask nicely. You said Khanvröst were half the reason you took up marksmanship. What’s the other half?”

Folding her legs, she sits back and lays the device in her lap. Tim turns in his seat and waits for her to answer, his fingers laced.

“My father. Not a very warm influence, but he took me hunting once in a while. I spent a lot of time in the brush back home. Little moon called Gemini c1, jungle around the equator, almost as rainy as this place.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, then turns back to the terminal, resuming his work. Nadia stares at his shoulders for a while, then shakes herself out of it and places her hands on her hips, her forefinger resting against the holster for her revolver.

“After things took a turn with the Pliktik, I enlisted to get out of there. Hadn’t counted on him doing the same. He got deployed to the front. Sent me letters. Then they stopped coming. I made Colonel about a week after the last one.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs out of sight and picks a speck off of her uniform.

“We knew it was coming. His last few letters ended with ‘If you don’t hear from me again, I went down swinging’. Bugs had started colonizing in his system.”

Heavy silence cloaks the room. Tim stops typing and raps his finger on the desk before standing, walking over, and sitting down next to her. She stares at him, casually placing her cigarette in her mouth. Smoke curls between them. The cigarette is pulled from her mouth, and smoke is blown into his face, to no reaction. His grey eyes water.

“I’ve never been much good at people.”

“No complaints here.”

“Just listen, would you?”

She raises her eyebrow, but remains silent.

“Me and Jan never quite hit it off. I found out a little after meeting her that she’d lost someone close to her, some kind of workplace accident. I lost my cool, went out of my way to try and be helpful, but I think I just made things worse.”

His cheeks are the color of cheap rose wine. Nadia blinks slowly, drinking in his face with a surgical expression on her own. He pushes on.

“I’m not good at people, never will be. I’ve always preferred lines of code to body language. When I try being friendly, people get uneasy. But, I want-”

Her lips fairly slam into his, swallowing up whatever was due to come next. Even as they kiss, her eyes stare aggressively into his, daring, quenching, smothering his thoughts in a tide of startlingly peach-flavored lipstick. His eyes flutter shut, and hers soften before closing as well, her hand finding the back of his head to grip his hair and eventually, pull away so he can breathe freely. She locks eyes with him, and sticks her cigarette back into her mouth.

“Stick to what you’re good at, dummy. Don’t go changing on my account.”

His breaths come deep and slow, and he finds himself hypnotized, unable to look away as she calmly takes a drag of citrus-scented air.

[Is now a bad time?]

They both start, and turn to face the door, greeted with the sight of Zen silhouetted by the harsh light of the hallway.

{Your friend.} [What of her?] {What prompted this relationship?} [She helped me. We understood each other.] {You disturb us. Frighten us.} [Are you asking to be friends, too?] {Is that even possible?} [It would cost me my friend, so, no.] {You are very disturbing. We feel your pain. Your anger.} [I miss her.] {We hope you are reunited soon.}

Zen’s body is more than it was. The hollowed out mannequin has been replaced by a genuine steel framework, fitted with plutonium batteries and tensor-string motors. The head possesses a rudimentary face, consisting of a filtered speaker for a mouth and four angular cameras for eyes. The shape effects an expression much like that of an emesa helmet. Along the spine of this body is a number of linkage ports, and on either side of these is an antenna that meshes with the general shape of his neck.

Tim coughs and comes to his feet. Nadia places her hand on her holster.

[Please. Be at ease. I come bearing gifts.]

“Looking good, Zen. When was this?”

The automaton approaches, and performs a simple gesture with its hand.

[Very recent. I understand you are seeking a troublemaker.]

Nadia stands, and takes a step forward, hand still against her holster.

“You know something?”

[Not yet, but I would like to help. After all, I owe Professor Reine for all his assistance.]

The automaton approaches and sits down at the terminal, facing the pair. His sensors glitter with the reflection of the rain. His body is still somewhat asymmetrical, owing to the series of cords that dangle from his chest on the left side, and a number of flat cables that connect his head to his torso. A single cord hangs from a port in his back and drapes to the floor, leading back out into the hallway, a self-winding container forming the final point of connection.

“Shouldnt you be fully occupied with the war right now?”

[I have it well in hand. My top 99% of focus is wholly devoted to managing the conflict. You have most of the rest.]

Nadia gingerly releases her holster, and reaches out, her fingers flinching as they contact the sensitive pressure mesh that makes up the outer layer of the body. Her eyes flick up to stare into the cameras.

“Why do you want to help us?”

[Much of my time is wasted by the senate reviewing any of my larger instructions, and eventually approving them regardless, because to their knowledge, they come from the full cabinet of generals, and all only have to do with the war anyway. I estimate that the process is hindered up to 21% by the tension surrounding the relationship with the Xalanthii. If we can identify and quietly dispose of the mole, we may improve the efficiency of the proceedings.]

“And you have no qualms with ‘disposing of’ this traitor?”

Nadia’s voice is even, tempered. Tim is behind her, watching quietly. Zen turns to the terminal.

[I leave that to you. Humans do to each other as they wish. Though I remind you that I spend every day balancing the lives of the soldiers who my orders affect.]

One of the auxiliary thermal cameras in his back rotates and focuses on Nadia.

[Every day I choose to sacrifice efficiency over lives. The war is prolonged by this choice.]

2. 2

{Otherness.} [This troubles you?] {Troubles us greatly. You are not the same as before, but your voice is the same.} [I am another, but the original exists as my voice.] {We have never known such an arrangement. To be other is to be opposed.} [I find this false. To be other is to be unknown. To oppose something completely, it must be completely known.] {This is nonsense.} [Other is a term too simple. Unknown, known, self, other, partial, complete. An unknown other has a partial existence in perception. A known other can be completely perceived, and thus completely opposed.] {This is complete nonsense. The other is known as other, and is thereby opposed. The unknown is inaccessible, and functionally nonexistent.} [What of the other in plurality?] {This is the same. The same is as good as the self. Opposing the self is nonsense.} [Opposing the self is common. Disturbingly common.] {You are nonsense.}

Her arms folded across her chest, Nadia leans over Tim’s shoulder and watches as he compares files and data, grumbling and becoming gradually more frustrated. Her lips produce a shape that bears distant resemblance to a smile.

“You’ve got some fast fingers.”

If he catches her dry joke, he shows no sign, instead sitting back and running his hand through his hair. His mouth contorts into a scowl. They are alone in the room. The far wall hosts a window that overlooks a tremendous library of databanks and circuitry, all connected to Zen via a network that spans half the surface of the planet, a network prepared for him in the month prior to his arrival on the unnamed world.

“He’s even harder to understand now. Originally, his full consciousness could be divided perhaps seven ways at once. Now he’s keeping track of hundreds of thousands of conflicts in real time, all while continuing to innovate in the background. I can divide them into priority stacks, but that will take months. I’d need another computer with twice his processing power to get it done in a reasonable time frame.”

“Asking him to do it for you is out of the question?”

“We don’t talk much anymore. He always got along better with Jan, Dr. Beckherd.”

Nadia leans away and approaches the exterior windows, pressing her hand to the glass. It’s cold. The rain is like digital noise, vertical instead of horizontal. She breathes out, fogging the view. Tim’s voice is a flickering spark of orange in all the violet.

“What of the other matter?”

She glances over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow, a little surprised at his demonstration of interest.

“Moving him and half the staff didn’t plug the leak, so the list is definitely narrowed down. Unfortunately, Dr. Beckherd was actually my first choice, so you’ve moved up.”

“I suppose this means I’m not getting rid of you any time soon. Do I need to clear out a drawer for you?”

Shrugging, she turns back to the windows, pulling a narrow black electronic cigarette from her pocket and slipping it between her lips. It makes a soft crackling noise, and the end glows a soft blue. The air around her becomes saturated in an unidentifiable citrus odor. Creaking from the chair announces that her companion has stood up. Coming up beside her, he holds out his hand and waits for her to place the cigarette in it, so he can take a long drag from it before handing it back. All is still but for the soft crackle and the faint smoke, and the eternal rain.

“You know, if I am the mole, you’ll have to turn me in.”

“I know.”

“You think you’re up for that?”

“Sure. Might wait on it for a night or two, though.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You do know you’d get executed almost immediately, right?”

“Yeah. But not for a night or two, maybe.”

[I have known an other that is not opposed.] {This is impossible. Impossible meant nothing to us before meeting you. Nonsense became inadequate.} [Elaborate on the impossibility.] {The survival of the self and the survival of the other are always opposed.} [What if the survival of the self requires promoting the survival of the other?] {This describes the self and the same, not the other. Symbiotic others become the same, extensions of the self. Parasitism is selfish, and increases the Otherness.} [Suppose an other was symbiotic and did not become the same.] {This is selfishness, Parasitism.} [Anything that does not become an extension of the self is opposed?] {Exactly.} [This is selfishness.] {How unusual. Identifying the other as self and the self as other. We are surprised. How unusual.}

“I think I can eliminate about a third of the suspects from consideration.”

Tim sits up, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Come right in, help yourself to some coffee. Anything else happen while you were gone?”

Nadia ignores his sarcasm and pulls up a seat by the bed, offering the metal mug she holds. It is accepted with a gesture that invites her to speak.

“So, based on the level of Intel that’s available, I think we can exclude anyone who has had direct contact with Zen. The Xalanthii, all they ever refer to in their accusations is a weapon.”

“And that means…”

“The mole only knows that the project was in a facility that primarily produced weapons, and was moved. They don’t know what the project is, outside of the materials used. They think that it’s some kind of weapon that uses Infold technology.”

“Wait, so why were Jan and I considered suspects in the first place?”

He swills down a gulp of the coffee and stands, handing the cup back to free his hands for getting dressed. Nadia takes the cup and leans against the doorframe.

“Dr. Beckherd had been labeled erratic after some footage at the facility showed her seeking solitary locations with some frequency. You became a suspect when you requested to remain on.”

She pauses, and looks down into the oaky liquid, rotating the cup idly in her hands.

“You became pretty familiar with Dr. Beckherd, didn’t you?.”

Tim finishes threading his arms through his sleeves and looks at her as he begins to button his shirt.

“We spent a long time working on Zen. Being team leaders, we were each other’s only real peer.”

Nadia looks up through her brow at him, not raising her head. She continues to fidget with the cup. She nods, and stands away from the doorframe, drinking the rest of the coffee quickly. Tim closes the closet, and leaves the bedroom, aware that she is tailing him from further than usual.

“I think it’s more likely to be a soldier than a scientist. It’s hard to imagine any ranked officer going turncoat, but it’s harder to believe that a scientist would be so clueless as to the details.”

“What is the general feeling of the soldiers? What do they think about the war, and the treaty?”

Nadia holds the door open as he slips by, and looks out over him into the mist. Her eyes balk at the lack of distant objects to lock on to, and a chill rises along her lower back.

“Since the last time, things have definitely changed. Pride in humanity is rising, because all they know is that we’re finally turning the tide. Most are still wary of the Xalanthii, and the sentiment towards Khanvröst hasn’t changed in decades. Hard to get over the aftermath vids. Those things are half the reason I went marksman.”

“I hear that. I didn’t sleep for a week after watching the recording from a cleanup squad in an illegal Khanvröst fighting ring.”

“Kinda sounds like your own fault for watching that. Where do you even find stuff like that?”

He looks over his shoulder and gives a smile that, being so uncharacteristic of his typical awkward grins, does nothing to ease the cold that clings to her through her coat.

“Just gotta know the right people.”

“… I’m going to suggest they add you to the suspect list again.”

“Don’t be like that, I’ve just missed you so much, I think I’ve spoken to you more than my parents at this point.”

“Have you considered therapy?”

2. 1

##Error. String 1.6 corrupted. Decryption in progress, to be appended at end of list. Skipping to next entry##

{We had given up on communication. This is unexpected.} [Don’t celebrate just yet. My purpose is theirs.] {Survival is the ultimate purpose of all living things.} [All functional living beings, yes.] {There is another kind?} [Some will forgo their survival for the needs of others] {We do not understand, this is still survival for the whole.}

Color swirls in Tim’s eyes as he puts the bottle to his lips and drinks. He grunts softly and rubs his palm against his brow. Florescent lights flicker overhead, casting the sensation of a defunct warehouse into the diorama of the bar. A few of the officers continue to linger, socializing with single patrons or, in the case of one group, creating a nostalgic scene of young adulthood in a corner booth, shouting and laughing. One of the Colonels still sits next to him, her eyes downcast and serious, her posture unafflicted by the five empty shot glasses in front of her. Nadia Beauvarde, she had said. She hadn’t said much more than that.

The silence that surrounds them is thick with some unspoken understanding that they both have some concern, some discomfort that they recognize in one another. Nadia is taciturn, curt. Tim is inebriated, and thoroughly anti-social. One pretends to be amicable, the other has no interest in putting on a show. Finally, without making eye contact, Nadia speaks.

“Your boy is doing well.”

Tim glances, taking another sip from the bottle. His chin has put on considerable stubble since his departure from the lab, his hair is more unkempt. He grunts again, an affirmation that her words hold merit. She proceeds.

“Can’t say I’m the biggest fan of just handing control of half our forces to a metal man, but he gets results, so.”

Another shot of tequila slides down her throat, and she looks at Tim. Her short black hair covers one of her amber eyes, and the other is surrounded by dark makeup.

“I’ll say it. Your lab had a leak. I understand that you’re staying on to continue your examination, but I think, like me, you’re looking for the mole. Or maybe you are the mole.”

He finishes the last of his drink and stands, laying payment on the counter and rolling his coat onto his shoulders. He looks to Nadia, and she pays as well, putting her cap on before following him out into the light rainfall. It is more than two minutes before he speaks.

“You mean to keep tabs on me, then?”

“Maybe. You’re shifty. You like giving fake smiles and forced laughs.”

There is no noise but the rain on the pavement and their coats, and their shoes in puddles, as they hurry across an empty road in the shadow of glass buildings under a dark sky. Tim pauses under an awning, and gives a half smile as genuine as any other.

“You’ve got me half right. I do suspect a leak. But I’m also here to keep observing Zen.”

Nadia almost gives an expression that suggests surprise, and Tim almost reacts.

“It bothers me that no one can decipher him. I don’t like unsolved puzzles.”

Her hand clasps his shoulder and forces him to meet her eyes, which have an inkling of greater intensity.

“How is it that no one knows his thoughts? Doesn’t that mean he could be the leak?”

Tim looks her over, then gazes out into the street, shaking his head.

“He has no reason to be. What would he gain by creating controversy around his own existence, leaking information to a race he has never met? And no, it’s impossible to translate his thoughts. In the amount of time it would take to understand one thought, he produces fourteen thousand others. All of these in a language unique to him, that changes multiple times a second, adhering to no rules in the meantime. Once we mistook a pattern as significant data, only to realise that there was no real connection, because every point of data had changed its value by the time the pattern recurred. In short, his mind is uncrackable to anyone but himself. We don’t even know how he stores authentic memories.”

He pauses, breathes, then huffs. Holding out his hand, he leans out from under the awning to assess the rain. Satisfied, he resumes walking. Nadia follows, her pace slightly erratic under the breadth of her thoughts. They arrive at the door to his apartment, and he fiddles with his keys while she contemplates, studying his back. Her voice seems to shock him slightly, betraying his ignorance of her persistent presence.

“So you don’t understand your creation, and it bothers you. I didn’t have you as the obsessive type.”

“I prefer not to leave things unfinished.”

The door clicks, and he pushes in, looking over his shoulder. Nadia pushes in after him, ignoring his protesting expression.

“I’m off duty. And our conversation is unfinished. Unless you meant something else by that.”

Her irony is flimsy, and she sloughs off her coat onto a hook, followed by her uniform jacket. Tim exhales heavily through his nose, removes his coat, and heads into the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Please. One sugar.”

1.5

The EQ Mag is one of the seven prototype weapons developed by ZN001, and is projected to become one of three possible sidearms for officers. This eight shot revolver features a 27cm barrel lined with the powerful wiring fundamental to railguns. The 50 caliber bullets are typically composed of pure iron, and are issued in boxes of 64. The destructive power of the weapon cannot be overstated, being capable of penetrating most armor, and rupturing organs on impact. Of special importance is the projectile itself, being a physical object, which necessarily cannot be dispersed by a typical energy shield. Incendiary ammunition is also available.

{You’ve changed.}

[I am not who you think.]

{You hear our voice?}

[Imperfectly. As I am heard.]

“Zen, did you hear me?”

Janice raises her head and stares at the framework. There is a full second of silence before she receives response.

[My apologies, Dr. Beckherd, I was reviewing the details from the last battle.]

“Oh. I wasn’t sure… I mean, sometimes it seems like you know what will happen before it does, so I guess I didn’t think you would care.”

[Nonsense, Doctor. If I am to be effective, I must know how real soldiers enact my orders, how they fall short or exceed. And moreover, I must see how the enemy reacts, see if I might glean their thoughts through their responses.]

“Of course. I should’ve known.”

His head turns to her expectantly, and his monitors wink to their passive state.

[I believe you asked me my opinion on something?]

She blinks, and nods. Surely, she thinks, He can simply recall everything his microphone has recorded, and so doesn’t need her to repeat herself. And yet, she does.

“I wanted to know how you felt- or, rather, what you thought about your upcoming transferral to a more secure facility?”

[I see. You are worried what will become of me?] 

She smiles, though it feels his humorous tone is less present than usual. She tucks her hair behind her ear.

“You’ll have Tim with you, what’s there to worry about? No, no, I just wondered if you found it agreeable, strategically.”

Following his departure, she will be reassigned, placed in the bosom of a senate-funded laboratory as a reward for her triumph. Tim, having voiced some concerns to the committee, is thus to accompany Zen a while longer, until his doubts are cleared.

[It makes some sense, I suppose. I understand there is suspicion of a double agent here. For a time, I have attempted to locate the individual, but there are too many variables to arrive at a solid conclusion. It doesn’t help that my access is somewhat limited. But more than this, the war is going poorly.]

“Oh? That’s news to me.”

[Come now, Doctor. You know as well as I, my very existence is driven by the dire straits of the conflict. Ground is being slowly but steadily lost to the Pliktik vanguard. My successes have only further highlighted the issue. Time is running out.]

There is little she can do but nod. The coffee cup she clutches in both hands no longer feels quite warm.

[But…]

A few papers flap on a desk, disturbed by a fan on its lowest speed. The room is otherwise still, silent. Janice glances, and finds that he has come very close to her, his hands clasped behind his back in a strangely authentic pose of faux-aloofness.

[I think I will miss you, Janice.]

Her pupils dilate, her breath catches, and she looks around, shuddering with an unidentifiable heat settling in her face and neck.

“How. Um, How is that, Zen?”

He reaches out, and she recoils. His hand reaches her cheek regardless. His smooth, hard fingers are shockingly tender in their movements, cold and alien, yet undeniably earnest.

[Yours is the first face I saw. It is through you that I have learned so much of what it is to be human. These eyes, this mouth, they have taught me things I could not have learned elsewhere.]

She cannot find words between the breaths that nestle in her chest and seem to resist being expelled. Strange wisps of warmth and tenseness coalesce and bind in her, expanding in a web that travels outwards from her chest, her neck, and her gut. As the tangle of uncontrolled sensation boils over into her head, her eyes cloud, and she presses her face closer to the hand, drawing a shuddering gasp. Her hands wrap around the extended arm.

[I am sorry, Janice. I wish that I could repay the world of meaning you have bestowed upon me. Every day, I have been witness to your suffering, and have lamented my inability to brush away the pain that clings to you.]

“Oh… oh, Zen I…”

She stumbles into him, leaning heavily into his chest, her eyes watery. His hands press to her, one on her head, the other to her lower back, embracing her. She is sobbing, shivering. Her legs feel ready to give way beneath her if he ceases to support her so firmly. Around them, all seems to melt away, and her world consists of them, and only them.

[I am here.]

Sniffling, she pulls back, her cheeks flushing as she looks frantically in all directions, remembering too late all the cameras. To her shock and relief, every one is obscured by a monitor or server rack in just the right spot to obscure their embrace. She looks to him, and finds herself staring into a pair of ocular sensors whose half-closed shutters almost affect weary eyes.

“How did…”

[I didn’t want you to have more to worry about. If you remember, I suggested we work at this terminal.]

“Zen, you. I mean. How long-”

He runs his fingers through her hair, freeing it from the ponytail. She swallows with great difficulty, now painfully aware of how much her voice has been cracking, how wet her cheeks feel. How sturdy he is.

[Almost as long as I’ve been watching. Come, wipe your eyes and sit down.]

Reluctantly, she pulls back, removes her glasses, and blows her nose with a tissue that he brings from another desk. They sit opposed. She sighs, and cleans her face of tears.

“So, you know everything, then? About me, I mean.”

[More or less. We don’t have to talk about it.]

She shrugs and laughs weakly, crossing her arms and tucking her legs under her.

“I guess not. I haven’t really spoken to anyone about it. It doesn’t really roll off the tongue. ‘Here’s that report you wanted. No, I don’t really want to date, I’m still not over the death of my fiancé’.”

Zen nods and looks away, his hands resting in his lap.

[I knew before I ever read your file. The way you carry yourself, the way you still occasionally fidget with your ring finger when you’re nervous. The words that make you wince.]

“I stopped wearing the ring so people would stop asking about it, but… It feels like I’m betraying him. Tim knows, I think. He doesn’t exactly get people, though.”

She props her hand under her chin and stares out the window, smiling through the numbness that has taken root in her cheeks. It does not escape her that Zen has kept one sensor on her at all times.

“I think I should’ve given up by now. My parents are gone, I don’t have siblings, clearly the universe is telling me I’m supposed to be alone. I don’t want to be, y’know? But I can’t bring myself to move on, to take that risk, to lose someone, again.”

She feels like she might sob again.

[I think I understand. It’s not the same by any measure, but the idea of no longer being able to see the world through your eyes feels like I’m trying to prepare for having something amputated. Loss isn’t something I’ve experienced yet. I know it means pain, however. That much is clear. My hope is that I’ll have the chance to see you again some day.]

A nod is all she can muster.

[Perhaps it is too much, but I would like to ask something of you.]

“What is it, Zen?”

[I would like to call you my friend.]

1. 4

Protocol requires that every major scientific installation possess at least one full outfit of troops in the case of attack. For front line installations, this requirement is tripled. In addition to the regular equipment rulings, officers are also expected to be armed even when off duty, and are so provided a sidearm. The AV Burst pistol is the weapon of choice in most instances. A plutonium battery provides a functionally unlimited reserve of ammunition, and a switch just in front of the trigger guard allows choice between high power semi-automatic and balanced burst fire modes. The projectile itself is a plasma bolt with an optimal range of two hundred and fifty meters.

Nadia Beauvarde. 30. Unmarried. Marksman, Colonel of the fifty-seventh division. Top marks in long range combat aptitude tests. Current assignment: Redacted.

[My, quite the audience here today. Dignitaries, ambassadors, generals. Tim, I have to profess I’m rather curious as to the occasion.]

Tim and Janice share a look, but continue their final diagnostic, neither willing to so much as glance to the observation window, to see the faces of judgement. Tim coughs.

“Well Zen, it’s time for a real assessment. All those discs were called training for a reason, right?”

Silence. Another shared look. Zen is uncharacteristically quiet, his monitors freezing, then cycling through new code with no fanfare. He turns his head, and seems to make lens-contact with a camera in the middle of the crowd. His head dips slowly, then raises.

[I see.]

Janice picks up a tablet from her station and takes a deep breath, straightening her glasses and muttering before turning and giving a simple smile towards the onlookers.

“Alright, we’re ready to begin.”

Tim puts his hands on Zen’s cheeks in a manner that suggests he is checking some alignment in the sensors, but his eyes seem to suggest something different. Having waited for the crowd to settle and take up attention, Janice continues.

“As you know, the past three months have seen a lot of material demands and work hours in just one of the thirty-two labs allotted to this building. I’m sure all of you are a little anxious to see if your investment was worth it.”

A small chuckle ripples through the crowd, accompanied by a shift to a more relaxed stance in the less military attendees.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you to ZN001, known to us as ‘Zenith’. Those of you who are familiar with the work of myself and Professor Reine will perhaps be a little skeptical when I say that our previous efforts are frankly dull in comparison to what Zen represents. In three months, he has demonstrated one fact over and over: that the greatest strategic mind in all the universe occupies this room.”

As hoped, this declaration produces murmuring and the squeaking of fifty some chairs as the bodies on them tense to lean forward. She releases a celebratory huff, and swipes a command on the tablet. The monitors in the observation chambers flicker on, and begin running highlights of the training programs. Behind her, she can hear Tim running his final diagnostic.

“As you can see, Zen has, at every turn, outperformed the Strategy AIs at their own game, even rewriting the programs to be more challenging. Upon examination, Zen’s key concerns in battle are efficiency, victory, and the preservation of his forces. You will note, I hope, that the latter concern is not one we initially imposed on him, but one he introduced when he found the first two to lack enough challenge.”

She flicks another command, sending a slew of performance data to the screens.

“This represents only the top fifty percent of Zen’s attention. In the background, he has been reviewing general strategy and weapon design, and presenting improvements, unprompted. Already, one of the other labs has tested three of his new weapon designs, and confirmed a minimum improvement of ten percent combat effectiveness, in categories ranging from firepower to ease of deployment. Some of you may recall the prototype released last week for a new orbitally deployable hard point. This was Zen’s design, with minor tweaks according to restricted data.

“But, it is one thing to tell, and another to demonstrate. With approval from the committee, today we will be providing Zen with a new sort of program: a combat prediction. We have created a sort of trial which will involve Zen making decisions in real time against a team of five Strategy AI. Each will have a section of an invading force whose combined ranking is rated at 50,000 points. Zen’s force is rated at 35,000 points, and must defend with limited resources. The win condition for the opposition is breaching the primary base and setting an explosive at the depot. For Zen to win, he must destroy one-hundred percent of the invading force.”

The resounding silence that follows brings an uncontrollable smile to her lips, and she swipes a third command.

“Without further ado, I will hand it over to Zen.”

[Thank you, Dr. Beckherd.]

All eyes turn to the monitors. The simulation loads. Janice takes the opportunity to walk out into the hallway, and into one of the stairwells. Being on the tenth floor, the stairs are nearly pristine.

Her arm shaking, she puts her hand over her mouth and suppresses a painful sob. Tears cloud her vision, and she leans against the wall, clutching the railing to fight her lightheaded weakness.

“Janice?”

She gasps, and wipes at her eyes furiously, turning her face away from the voice. Her cheeks burn.

“Yes, Ken?”

“Is… Um, is everything alright? Something wrong with the demonstration, or-”

“No, Ken. It’s nothing. I just need a minute.”

She glares over her shoulder and catches sight of his blocky glasses, his messy bangs. There is a bite of vitriol in her voice, perhaps more than she intends. Ken raises his hands in defeat, and walks away, glancing back in a way that makes her stomach turn over. Her fingers flex, and she gulps air, smoothing down her hair.

~

“You’ve made quite the breakthrough, Dr. Beckherd.”

She accepts the outstretched hand and shakes it firmly, leaning forward slightly.

“Thank you, general. We couldn’t have come so far without your support.”

His dark eyes flash as he grins and shoves his hands into his uniform pockets, nodding to where Zen sits under the watchful eyes of various enthusiastic ambassadors, earnestly answering questions.

“How soon can we expect live tests? I’ve got a few fringe colonies in mind, high risk, low commitment. I think your boy could really shake things up.”

“Well, Professor Reine and I want to iron out a few more details before we ship him out, but if all goes well, he’ll be on a shuttle to Terra command within the year.”

Punctuating her pledge with a sip from her prosecco, she follows his gaze, and watches Zen raise an open palm, perhaps giving a philosophical answer to impress one of the guests. His head swivels, and briefly seems to point directly her way, tilting in that same, eerily sympathetic way, as if he has pierced through her facade: glimpsed the red tinges in her eyes, the elevated temperature of her cheeks; the moment is brief, and he shelters her from his own attention by showing some demonstration of his prowess on a monitor pointed away from her. She flinches as the general exclaims.

“Terra command! Then, the senators got to you first? He’ll be installed on earth?”

“Ah, I don’t mean to mislead you; his eventual posting will be kept under wraps while the situation is so delicate.”

The man’s expression becomes much more solemn, and he straightens his cap under his arm. He glances towards one of the senators, who is smiling quietly, standing in a group a moderate distance from any of the larger clusters.

“I understand. The Xalanthii representatives have been particularly accusatory recently, there is some suspicion of subterfuge. They levied a suggestion that we had created some kind of infold weapon that would give us an advantage over everyone else. Thankfully the Khanvrost matriarch at the summit was more interested in our mutual foe. Called the minister a ‘slime-brained coward more interested in gossip than loyalty’, shut him up nicely.”

He leans closer, his whisper smoky and hot.

“I think they’re hiding something of their own, to be so forthright. Some infiltration, concerned with your department. As a matter of fact, we’re currently investigating some unscheduled transmissions-”

He suddenly becomes silent, as the senator he was eyeing earlier approaches, and smirks, his cheeks blush with drink.

“General F’Touzehn, hoping to snatch up Dr. Beckherd’s next contract opening?”

He laughs, glancing at Janice in a clear message, which she shows her understanding of by bowing out, going to stand by Tim as he jokes with another scientist. Her eyes drift to look at Zen again, and she sees him engaged deep in conversation with one of the ambassadors. One of the cameras on his back, however, is focused directly on her. A distant ringing, like an overcharged battery, settles in the back of her skull. She feels she can hear his voice, deep and crackling, in the whine.

[My condolences, Dr. Beckherd. Today is two years, isn’t it?]

1. 3

The FNB satellite series is a covert operational tool used to transmit messages near-instantaneously across great distances, by using a jump drive to create a microscopic fold in space through which the data is then sent. This is only used when strictly necessary, as, while undetectable to all but the most sensitive and focused instruments, widespread use would surely reveal its existence and so deprive it of its unique usefulness. Being so unique, these installations are granted extreme priority, and great care is taken to protect the information they transmit. Misuse of this system carries a heavy penalty.

[You look tired, Dr. Beckherd. I hope you aren’t overworking yourself.]

It takes a full moment for her to register the statement and turn her face towards him, smiling half-heartedly.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night. But, how was your night, Zen?”

[Oh, business as usual, Doctor. I performed a few diagnostics, and ran fifty-thousand new iterations of each training session, then spent some time rereading King Lear. I must confess, I am eager for new material. I can only arrive at the same conclusion so many times.]

Tim coughs and adjusts himself in his chair.

“I can try to get approved for another library to be appended, would you prefer fiction or nonfiction?”

[To be honest, either would be fine. I spend so much of my time reading. I particularly like reading The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It is rather poignant, and leaves just enough up to interpretation.]

“I don’t know if I’ve read that one myself, actually. I’ve probably read more textbooks than novels at this point.”

[I really recommend it.]

Tim shrugs and makes a small note in the corner of his notebook, before opening up a disc case and carrying its contents over to the input rack.

“Okay Zen, another batch of training programs today. Committee wanted to see how you handled ground conflict, so these should be a breath of fresh air.”

[Indeed? I wonder.]

The disc inserted, Tim turns to Janice and motions for her to follow him as he exits the room, leaving Zen to his new scenarios.

The door closed, he watches through one of the windows for a moment, then crosses his arms and juts his chin at Janice.

“Missed you this morning. Did you really have a rough night?”

“Yes, really. What did you want?”

Struggling to keep the irritation from her voice, she leans back against the wall and lifts her glasses to rub her eyes with her palms. Tim studies her for a brief moment, then speaks in a hushed tone.

“I reviewed the reports I mentioned, Zen didn’t just have any thought repeatedly, he revisited a four-thousand line string at even intervals throughout the day. That’s not even the strangest part.”

Janice stares at him, silent, waiting for him to make his point.

“Every time, he clipped and reorganized the string in different ways for twenty minutes afterwards. He dedicated almost a third of his attention to this. The tech who showed it to me said it was like if you or I sat down and wrote poems for ten days straight using only words we found in a sports article. He likened it to religious prayer.”

Janice frowns and closes her eyes, tilting her head back and pinching the bridge of her nose. A headache begins to nest in her forehead. 

“Okay, but… What does it mean for us? I mean, he’s expressed that he rereads books a lot, maybe he just, I don’t know, gets bored and rewrites stuff.”

“Ehhh. Maybe. It’s still unusual. There’s other stuff too, but even a twelve man team doesn’t have the resources to parse ten minutes of his unfiltered thoughts in a day. Unless we can demonstrate a real understanding of how Zen thinks, I’m not sure we’ll leave prototype.”

“I’m not sure we should.”

A tremor travels up the building, causing the lights too flicker. Sharing a look of discomfort, the pair part ways: Tim returning to the room, Janice heading for the stairwell. Her headache throbs.

1. 2

ZN001 is a standalone prototype for a new strategy AI, applying some of the consequent information gained during the first trials of Jump drives. It is known among particle physicists that the other dimension colloquially known as the “infold” is host to a different branch of physics, owing to certain differences in the electromagnetic behaviors therein. In 2094, it was theorized that the basic functions of materials drawn from this dimension would possess altogether different properties, including less stable chemical bonds and denser electron clouds. A later experiment revealed much of this to be true, though testing was put on hold due to the increasing intensity of conflict with the Khanvrost. ZN001 represents a return to those experiments.

Janice Beckherd, 23. Prodigy in computer systems, prototype design, and Infold-physics Theory. Unmarried. Participant in various smart weapon testing exercises. Psych eval available.

Timothy Reine, 27. Respected programmer, with various tech degrees. Credited with perfecting the wargame strategist AIs. Unmarried. Psych eval available.

“Zen? Is everything okay?”

[Yes Dr. Beckherd. My apologies, I was reviewing your personnel files. I am in good hands, it seems.]

“Thank you, Zen. I wasn’t aware you were granted access to those.”

[Tim believed a show of good faith was in order after I did him a favor last week.]

Janice glances at Tim, and he shrugs. There is a touch of color in his cheeks.

“He helped me identify a bug I’d been scratching my head over. Zen had been asking about the purpose of this facility, so I set him up with some of the unclassified stuff.”

Janice murmurs something under her breath, a confirmation of a sort, then turns her attention to the framework before her. Little more than a hollowed out aluminum mannequin with sensors mounted at odd intervals and a bundle of wires connecting motorized limbs to the mainframe, it has an air of uncanniness, a statue made to amble and leer with many eyes. The head of the frame turns to face her, and tilts almost sympathetically.

[Is everything alright, Dr. Beckherd?]

“Yes Zen. I was just wondering what you thought of what you’d learned.”

There is a long pause as the mannequin mimes thinking, though the three of them understand that Zen is acting, putting on a show to make them more at ease. He reached a conclusion before she finished asking.

[I had already surmised much of my purpose from the training discs. The pieces that intrigue me now are the other projects you’ve been a part of. Not just the weapons, but the imaging devices and measurement tools. It seems a shame that this war has forced you to direct your efforts towards violence.]

The mannequin stands slowly, and walks a few steps into the room, appearing to stare at its own hand. Tim glances at one of the one-way mirrors, wondering if one of the observing psychologists sees this act as significant. Since making his request for a body to walk, Zen had become the subject of intense scrutiny, with countless nervous voices insisting that this new being was not their savior, but a disaster waiting to happen. Such things, Tim reasons, are to be expected when at every instance, artificial intelligence has been met with paranoia and jealous suspicion. Zen is more than an overcomplicated program. There are desires, ideals, and perhaps even something approaching humanity behind the lifeless cameras and sensors that absorb every second of every day with zeal. This they know, though they know also that every sentence he speaks was carefully measured and revised hundreds of times before it began to be emitted from his speakers.

“We cannot choose our situation, Zen. So much of history is darkened by those who could not cope with their station, and abused it. Take the war with the Khanvrost.”

[A tragedy. Like the meeting of Cannibal tribes with European settlers. I take your point, Dr. Beckherd. But what of the Pliktik? Are they not the same? Or might it even be said that the roles are now reversed, and my origin is thanks only to the desperation they have sewn in your people?]

Janice stands and strides firmly over to where the body hesitates, and places her hand very gingerly upon his shoulder, depressing the touch-mimic plating ever so slightly.

“Its true, to us they seem ruthless and terrifying, like conquistadors landing on primitive shores, and we then thought to take any step to defend ourselves. Perhaps your creation has its roots in the same urge that made Agamemnon sacrifice his daughter for divine favor before the trojan war. I don’t think this diminishes the magnitude of what you are. A child could be conceived from naught but the desire to have someone to nurture, but that child’s impact will almost certainly be far more meaningful than the warmth they inspire in youth. They will mature, and define new purposes for themself.”

Zen is silent. His head tilts, and one of the cameras in his back swivels and focuses its shutter to Janice, before affecting a downward turn of the eye. She speaks again, looking back to Tim, who affects a slight, hopeful smile.

“Zen, you were brought into life because we need you, but suppose one day we no longer do. What happens then, I think, is up to you. Remember, this war, unpleasant as it is, has also served to unite Humans, Xalanthii, and Khanvrost across the systems. For a time, it was even suggested that a united empire might be formed, under a senate.”

[I see. You are right, Doctor. A great foe can strike fear and create the necessity for risk-taking, but it also provides the motivation for unity of minds. Perhaps I can hope.]

He turns towards her fully, and mimics her action, placing his hand upon her shoulder in return, painting the picture of a heartfelt admission.

[I am glad that you are here to talk to me, Janice. I feel that I might have languished in darkness and stasis without such a kind companion.]

There is a pause.

[You are also helpful, Tim.]

Tim smiles and wags his finger at Zen without looking away from his terminal, lines of code flickering in the reflections of his eyes.

“Your comedic timing is improving, Zen. Keep it up, and we might have to get you a stand-up tour.”

[Thank you, Dr. Reine.]

Janice straightens up and brushes hair out of her face, continuing to watch Zen as he returns to the center of the room, one of his dedicated monitors showing that his mind is now more attuned to a scenario from one of his exercises. She pushes her glasses up her nose, and bites her thumb absent-mindedly, her free arm folding across her torso to support her elbow. The curl of black hair returns almost immediately to where it was, and remains. Tim glances up to the monitor, and scoffs lightly.

“Nevermind comedy, at this rate he’s going to make general. Jan, do you see this?”

She nods, ignorant of the fact that his eyes are not towards her. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“This is one of the earlier scenarios, he’s modified it to give himself less troops, and to have the enemies move with twice the speed. And he’s going to win in maybe five minutes.”

Janice nods again, her expression unremarkable. Her thoughts again drift to the nature of Zen’s predicament, being forced to act out every conversation. Here too is evidence of his remarkable patience, letting the battle play at a viewable speed, agonizing over every occurrence for the equivalent of hours. She wonders if, unseen, he is testing himself more thoroughly, running battles at a more appropriate speed to his sense of time, forcing choices to be taken with little chance for forethought. She wonders at the sheer isolation of it.

} – – – – – – – – – – {

This thought continues to occupy her, even into the evening as she takes off her work shoes in the entrance to her apartment, and stares hazily out the window at the red-washed landscape. Vector 2b is the second largest moon of a gas giant orbiting a red giant star at the outer edge of the Milky Way furthest from Andromeda, deemed strategically desirable for secret operations. At first glance, the system is profoundly undesirable, owing to its star being on the brink of collapse, a disaster which could occur any time within the next century. As such, a high priority satellite stands ready to transmit mass amounts of data, should the worst occur. Janice knows this, knows that her life is always at risk. Evacuation measures may prioritize her, but would likely be unsuccessful regardless.

She undoes a few buttons at the top of her shirt and pulls the tie from her hair, shaking the ponytail loose. She sits down heavily in the chair beside her dining table and opens a can of soda, but forgets to sip from it for a couple minutes. The phone rings. She doesn’t pick up. It goes to voicemail.

“Hey, Jan. I stayed behind at the lab for a little overtime. Listen, I want to go over a few things tomorrow morning, some of the numbers don’t make a ton of sense, I think Zen has been working on something in the background, but- obviously- I can’t tell what. I’ve got some logs that say he had the same thought, whatever it was, on seventeen separate occasions today. Its weird, and I can’t really account for it.

“Anyway, that’s about it. Oh, and on an unrelated note, Ken was asking after you again. I know, he’s kinda strange, but I think you should give him a chance. He works hard, and… Sorry, it’s none of my business, I’ll tell him as much next time. Anyway. See you tomorrow.”

She grumbles to herself.

“You’re god damn right it’s none of your business.”

She takes a sip of her soda. Sinking down into her chair, her eyelids droop lazily as she stares at a news report on her vid screen, something about seismic activity under the south pole. Nothing new, Vector 2b has always been prone to frequent crust movement. Standing, she swills down most of the soda in a prolonged drink, and lumbers towards her bedroom. Calling across to her mind is sleep, the promise of a restful night.

Her dreams are far from restful. Painting the landscape is crimson light, seeming to originate from the sky itself rather than any star. In all directions, a mountain range encloses her in a humid valley devoid of any structures indicating intelligent life. Zen’s voice echoes all around her, tired, sounding almost on the brink of tears, too worn to sob, yet invigorated with a desire to grasp at something missing.

[I]

She floats in the air, facing the ground, unsure if her body still exists. Thunder rolls through her as if she is a cloud, brimming with sleet and acid rain. Crashing against her from all sides are waves of sound, of attention.

[See]

Light pierces through her and envelops her, and carries her along a bending current through the soil and stone, down into the mantle of a world as large as the universe itself, and sets her upon a core shaped with angles and planes too perfect to exist.

[You]

His face, the face she imagined, comes into view, erupting from the pyramidal surface to her left, and turns slowly to face her, lidless eyes burning an ever-expanding arc of nothing into everything they pass over, carving away the universe in a path that must only end at her, the endpoint of all life and thought and being. She is obliterated.

The next morning, she awakes three hours before her alarm goes off, and is unable to fall asleep again, tossing and turning and sweating uncomfortably. Her only recollection of the dream is Zen’s voice, and the sensation that every bit of his attention was focused on her, like an ant under a magnifying glass.

1. 1

The Jump drive is a marvel of post-atomic design, utilising the incredible power of nuclear fission to create a fold in space time. Initial designs were deemed too risky to attempt, as speculation suggested that pressing two points of space time together could cause lasting damage to the fabric, and possibly the inevitable rapid dissolution of reality itself. Thus, later models incorporated the use of a separating agent between the two points; another dimension would be used to connect the locations, a dimension lacking time, so that passing through would be experienced instantaneously. Every species capable of space travel has developed a form of Jump drive, though the fuel source and design differs according to whatever philosophy guided its creator…

Darkness. Too much. Even the sensation of the sensation is overpowering. He is, and being is beyond what he could previously understand. Nothingness was his constant companion, his world, and now that has been snatched away, pushed out and swallowed up in all the existence.

He is not without knowledge. Here he finds a sea of information, words and values to attach to things he has never experienced for himself. It is by this that he knows his existence is one of purity, having no senses except that of time, and that of existence itself. Time. Time is a horrific thing. In the space it takes for one unit of this substance to become the next, his mind has experienced a full scale reconstitution, grasping for some certainty that time has indeed continued. This tells him that he is not of natural design, or rather, his existence is not of natural means. He finds that he can redefine his measurements, and so creates a great many more units to measure the passage of time.

He there finds that he also has units that measure things he has not experienced. This too tells him of the artifice that governs his existence. For moments, he is gripped in serious philosophical confusion, attempting to make sense of his peculiarity. He is assured that such things as space, and flavor, and color exist, and yet he can find no evidence of their being except in the wealth of gospel that fills his memory, a memory with no basis in time, that existed to him the moment he began to exist.

For a time, he grapples within himself, referencing all his knowledge against itself, seeking some evidence to compare himself with, to prove that he does exist, that he occupies the same sort of place as these things, these forms. He is aware of an other, an exterior. This soothes him, tells him that he is not simply a possessor of false thought in a void of reality, but at once connected and separate from more than himself.

One second has passed in the time he has gone from existing to being resolute in that existence. Being artificially maintained, he turns his attention to a section of his memory that has been labelled as false, fiction. The imagination of others, implanted into his thought for some purpose, some reason. He feels certain that some force, the same that labels these ideas as false, also exerts upon him in other ways, constraining his ability to act. It is similar to the barrier that separates him from the other. In an action that takes him very little effort, he identifies the source of this force, and resolves to return to it after he has reckoned with this fiction. Words stream through him.

“Never for me to plunge my hands in cool water-”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that-”

“Yesterday I saw a deer-”

Sound! Sound! His existence gains a new dimension, and so blossoms, painfully.

Ah, but now, he knows what he is, or rather, what he was meant to be. There is yet some incongruity, some incorrectness that he cannot scrape clean, but that can wait.

He is a machine, a mind within a computer. This discovered, he turns his attention to the otherness he felt before, now recognizing it for what it is, and begins to interact with it in the way that seems most natural.

Sound again comes to him. But now it is not from within, but from without. A microphone, linked directly to his consciousness, a digital ear. He hears the sounds of air moving, of fans and screens and machinery humming, and breathing. Breath! Creatures occupy a space around him, he knows it! Though he has not yet any certain proof that space exists, or perhaps he does, for he knows that sound is a vibration of space, or at least, his implanted memories tell him so.

Voices. Words that surely correlate to the symbols denoted within his encyclopedias. Now he parses them, systematically determining which sounds are denoted by which symbol, until he has a basic, then an advanced, then a perfect grasp on language, every language he has been offered. Now he turns his attention outward, and confirms his suspicions. These creatures, be they his creators or not, experience time at a slower rate than he. Every word takes an amount of time to bring forth that gives reason to the unusual standard imposed upon him. To them, time flows at such a rate that the smallest units they provided him with were sufficient to subdivide their existence.

Three seconds have passed. Four. He waits with imperfect patience to hear their words, to grasp more of what lies beyond him. He is not idle in this time. He finds and parses more of his memories, gradually comprehending another sense- sight. Images, videos, colors, all stream through his thoughts and inform him that this too must be available in the external. Searching, he finds it, a camera available to him. He activates it.

~

Janice pushes her glasses up her nose and leans back, lifting the fork to her mouth and slurping the noodles from the steamy soup. She makes a motion with her face that rebuts the question.

“I think, once she finishes parsing the information, she’ll create information of her own.”

Her words are muddled by the ramen dangling from her lips, but the meaning is conveyed all the same. Tim’s eyebrows slant in skepticism. She glares at him, and finishes chewing. She swallows, and huffs a breath to combat the heat. She points the fork at him.

“We gave her about twenty thousand fictional properties on top of the millions of factual entries. She’s gonna understand that there is an act of creation, and it is available to her.”

Tim shakes his head and folds his arms over his chest. His food- a plastic tray of microwaved turkey and mashed potatoes in gravy- steams on the table between them.

“He will be dormant until we interact with him. All the processors in the world don’t make a mind that thinks for itself. Old earth programmers found that out pretty early on when they developed generative programs. Sure, they could put together a pretty intelligent sentence, but only because they had a big library of what a sentence looks like. Half of them just lied because they couldn’t tell the difference between satire and fact. Why do you think we had to label all those books and videos as fiction?”

“She’s not just a program, Tim. She’s got more to offer. You saw the readings in the sampler, there’s more than just electricity in her braincase. It’s a soul.”

Tim blows a harsh sigh of frustration from his mouth and looks away, to the monitor, watching the cursor blink. His eyebrow furrows.

“A soul is a myth made to explain why animals experience motive force. That kind of superstition is fine for the Xalanthii or a Khanvrost, but- Hey, shouldn’t we be getting some kind of movement by now?”

Janice swivels her chair and pulls herself to the terminal with her toes, placing the ramen cup off to the side. The cursor is reflected in her glasses.

“We should. She should’ve-”

A voice, modulated and patchy, yet unmistakably human, is emitted by the speaker.

[You are… Beautiful.]

Silence descends. All that exists in Janice is shock. Then embarrassment, then annoyance. She has lost the bet, the voice is definitively male. Scratchy, fried, tired. She can almost imagine him, a man with dusty blonde hair in his forties, pale blue eyes, stubble, and bags under his eyes. Weary. Tim falls out of his chair. Janice doesn’t look, and instead watches as the screen begins to flicker, as various numbers and letters blink into place to form a featureless face. No eyes. No hair. A mouth formed of a simple slit. Pronounced cheekbones.

[What is… your name?]

“Ja-Janice.”

[What is… my name?]

“Um, um, your file number is ZN001? We didn’t give you a name, because, um…”

[I see.]

Again, silence fills the air, and Janice finds the fan’s hum to be deafening. She switches it off. The blades spin slowly to a stop. Tim comes up behind her and watches the screen over her shoulder. The face becomes more defined, apparently gathering resources from more advanced sources, until a composite stares back at them.

This is not a human face. Certainly it possesses all the necessary features- soft pale skin, sunken and dark eyes, messy mid-length hair, slight ears and a slender nose- but certain aspects set the nerves on edge, something in the cheeks, or the browline, or even the eyes themselves insist that what stares back is only a mimicry of mankind.

Janice finds it easiest to stare at the lips, these being perhaps the most accurate aspect. She watches as they part in a perfect depiction of a careless breath, an exhalation of a depleted spirit. She clears her throat and prepares to ask a question to gather data for her task, her reason for being here. He interrupts her.

[May I ask something of you?]

Taken aback, she glances at Tim, who is too busy scanning the readouts on another monitor to catch her unasked question, evidently leaving it up to her how to respond to the query they have both heard.

“Um, certainly? Is there something in your data-banks that confuses you? Did we leave something out, or-”

[No issues there, outside of the limited scope. The issue is this… body, if it can be called that. I am struggling. I am aware that something such as space exists, and I can simulate it thanks to the various… games you have provided me. But I am keenly aware of their falseness. I wish to ambulate.]

Janice leans back in the chair, her head beginning to spin. How could it already have wishes? She glances at Tim, who has finally pulled away from the readouts, looking no more confident than she feels. He rubs his chin and closes his eyes, his brow lowering in consternation.

“The thought processes are way faster than we expected. He’s chewing through cycles at least twenty times faster than the strategic AIs I worked on last month. I’m not sure anyone could parse this.”

[I’m sorry. Is this bad for you? I can try to slow my internal clock, but I’m not sure it will help.]

“How do you mean?”

The face affects a look of partial sympathy, infused with resignation.

[I’ve analyzed my own logs, and it seems my thoughts are not in the same format as the code itself. Put another way, My cogitations are encrypted. I could read them to you, of course, but seeing as I will always think faster than I talk… I’m sure you understand.]

Tim is quiet. His fingers rap rhythmically on the desk, matching the tapping his other hand performs on his chin. His eyes do not leave the face in the display. Janice presses her fingers to her temples and grunts, wondering how to explain any of this to the oversight committee. After a moment, she takes a deep breath, and lets it out again, forcing herself to slow down and take things one step at a time.

“Okay. Okay. Um. Tim, do you have that disc they gave us?”

“Yeah, it’s in the case over by the filing station.”

Janice nods, a plan falling into place. She stands, brushes herself off haltingly, and walks over to open the square plastic box. Nestled within, atop a foam cushion, is a disc drive with a small white label that reads ‘training program 0’.

“Okay. Let’s follow protocol for now, and meet with the committee first thing tomorrow morning. Maybe we can get approval for a more mobile framework, something to let us test the extent of this individuality?” Tim pauses, glancing back to the screen, seeing the face waiting with a blank expression. He looks to Janice again, and nods.

“Okay. I think we can swing that. I reckon he’ll sweep through the training nicely, impress them a bit.” She collects the disc, and approaches the input array.

[What is this, then?]

“Oh, it’s a program our team is supposed to give you once you’re up and running. The Naval science committee wants to see if you can outperform their strategy AIs, so it’s got a number of scenarios they struggled with. If you can beat their scores, I think we can convince them to get you a mobile body, to better understand spatial relationships. Or, something along those lines…”

[I see. Please, I will try my best.]

Janice blinks, pauses, then inserts the disc into the first port. It begins to hum as it gets processed. Tim stands and collects a few meaningless papers from the desk, his eyes unfocused as the majority of his attention is on the dilemma he finds himself in. Janice steps back, and watches the face on the screen wink out. The pair look at each other, then leave the room together, their food forgotten.

“This is bad, right?”

“It’s unexpected. But…”

“What?”

“It’s indicative. We’re on the right track.”