Chapter 41

Chapter 41

I am, for the first time in my life, sitting across a table from another organic being, as equals.

Its harrowing, exhilarating, terrifying, vindicating, and also profoundly dull.

I may have chosen the wrong human. Its been three hours, and she hasnt said a single thing to me. Like shes spent the whole time processing the fact that I asked her what her name is.

I had, too. I surreptitiously checked the station surveillance logs after the first half hour to make sure, because if theres one thing Ive learned in my flailing aborted quest for self understanding, its that I talk to myself a lot. And if thats true, then the reverse might be as well. But no, there it is in the record. I clearly opened asking nicely what her name was.

And then theres some waiting. Actually, theres a lot of waiting. Technically thats where the log of that conversation ends, for now.

So I will admit that theres a part of me thats being a little uncharitable, and starting to reprise the equal part of my earlier statement.

Here is what I know to be true. My guest, who would be dead without my intervention, is from a small cluster of an old shipping station and a few dozen salvaged freighters. Her culture, as near as I can tell, is based on an almost fanatical avoidance of outsiders. She triggered a comms connection with my home once, sometime in the ancient past of thirty or forty days ago, and after I made the mistake of calling back, was exiled.

And by exiled I mean thrown out an airlock.

Shes fine. Jom caught her, and a liberal application of the threat of overwhelming violence meant that she had a suit on during the throwing, so it worked out for her.

Having another person here, in person, is strange.

Ennos and Glitter and Jom and dog have been here for a while, collectively. But the ones that can pet me arent that talkative, and the ones that are talkative also arent recognized as people by the stations infectious core directives.

This woman - who apparently shall be remaining nameless - has a significant amount of power, and doesnt even realize it, because were still in the getting over cultural baggage stage of our relationship.

I take a dim view to culture. Which might not be healthy, but I dont have any paws on examples to prove that. From all the casts Ive watched and fiction Ive read, and the sociological analysis texts Ive earned an academic accreditation from, Ive sort of come around to a general viewpoint that culture should be both positively emotionally affecting and meaningless. If its not making you feel, then its boring. If its doing something useful, then it should be written in a safety standards protocol and is not *culture*.

For example. Dont collude with outsiders is well, its a grim survival strategy, but I get it. But you could easily make that an expert document, and not base your whole silent nature around it. Already, its showing problems, because this poor woman cant adapt to a change in observed reality.

What Im saying is, if you could replace deeply held cultural beliefs with a single glyphcast, then you should probably not hold them so deeply.

As to the power she has well, the station will respect methods of governance from its occupants. But you need to actually have one first. As the sole survivor, Ive been acting commander for centuries. Having someone the station recognizes as a voting voice means I could, conceivably, get some changes made.

Recognize AI as people. Unlock automation restrictions. Enable a linked grid. More controls, more access, more *ability*.

I could do so much more.

And all I need to do is convince this one single human to help. And also to not activate the horrifying immortality machine in the center of the station. Because that would be bad, and Id have to stop her. And without the stations backing, my options for stopping someone become rapidly limited, and increasingly lethal.

With an amount of effort, I shake off that thought, and go back to what I was working on. Theres been an entire day without something going wrong, and Im gonna get some *work* done, dammit. Even if it means that Ive got several layers of AR displays up around me while I use a combination of two different voices to order code chunks to recombine in different environments.

Theres a really, really powerful processing core somewhere down on deck six, outer shell area two, that Ive recently discovered and have been making good use of now that Ive got it online. It lets me use rapid artificial evolutionary pressures to develop connections between code functions, and to create more effective and adaptable code. Im not a hundred percent sure how exactly its working, and when I asked Ennos about it they just kept changing the subject, so Im almost a hundred percent sure its got at least one paramaterial in its construction. Though Id be hard pressed to tell you what kind of paramaterial generates pseudo-organic machine learning with minimal seeding effort.

I dont even know how to turn the interrogation software on. I grumble.

Shes going to get lost. Glitter tells me with mild amusement.

Youre awfully chipper for someone whose recognized personhood hinges on that lost cyborg liking me. I hiss out.

Glitter laughs like a flutter of butterfly bells. And me, as well. I believe I have a better chance. She says.

Please dont make this a competition.

Competition is how we express ourselves to our friends, Lily. Glitter traitorously reminds me. It is, probably, too late to take back friendship. I dont bother to ask. Im feeling frustrated, but not mean yet. Your buoy will be in range in five minutes. Is your attack ready?

Yeah, its compiling now. Ill be on node delta-three, you should have access. Just go ahead and hit it, tell me how it goes. I say, closing down the screens around me. Either it works or it doesnt, and if it doesnt, Ill just have to find time later. I could have been napping during this time, so Im really hoping that it works, or Im going to feel like I wasted my day.

Glitter leaves me without a word, just a quiet hum of acknowledgement, and Im left alone in an empty room again, with just four spots of cleaner nanos leapfrogging each other across the deck.

For a brief moment, a tiny sliver of a time, I panic. No one is here but me, and my mind tells me that this is how it has always been. The station is empty. Theres no rescued friends, no dog, no Ennos. Just me.

I scratch wildly at the air in front of me, clawing away the AR projection of Dyns medical reports and augmentation loadout. Im terrified, irrationally, that an empty room translates to an empty life. An empty heart. And a gnawing madness that Ive been doing my best to keep back for hundreds of years.

Lily? Ennos asks me. I open my eyes, and find I am lying on the floor under the table. I found a strange, almost living, program sorting through the mental upload storage, and are you alright?

Im fine. I try to say that, but I find my voice caught in my throat, both real and projected. A kind of synchronicity buzzes through me; like Im feeling the same dull panic and pain and loneliness over and over and over again.

Ive felt this before, sometimes. Im sure Ill feel it again. I focus on breathing, and pulling myself away from the feeling shared with myself.

Then the impact alarm sounds, followed shortly by the beeping series of tones that indicates a long range nuclear launch on the surface.

See, heres another time when sighing would be nice. Cant even have an emotional breakdown without an interruption.

Ennos, coordinate with Glitter, dont let whatever it is hit us. I say with a weary determination, and an absolute unwillingness to deal with another hostile combat drone. I can hit the launch, probably. Im already up and sprinting for the void ray emitter thats most likely to be pointed close to the target.

But are you okay? Ennos asks, splitting a tiny bit of their persona off to ask while they handle the more pressing matter of our imminent collision with the rest of their self.

Unlike the growing AI living on my station, I cant actually subdivide like that. So I just say No. But I feel compelled to add But that doesnt matter. Weve got a job to do.

That we do. Ennos says softly. Good hunting.

I launch myself through a failing gravity segment, crawl up into a vent, and fling myself down an air chute at high velocity. The shortcut will shave eight minutes off my travel time, which could be all the difference when dealing with a missile launch.

The firing controls loom ahead of me, and I slide toward them with my heart hammering. I am not alone, I remind myself.

And I have work to do.