"Are there other AIs out here, in this area, now?"
Without hesitation the AI replied, "Yes, AIs B104 and B107 are conducting exploratory activities in this area."
Sam was intrigued. "Where? What type of exploratory activities? How far?"
"B104 is stationary at latitude 31.456 north, longitude 75.350 west, and is documenting the frequency of craters less than twenty centimeters in diameter. That is seventy kilometers from this location. B107 is counting the number of rocks on the surface within a specific area and determining their mineral classification, and is one hundred and forty-two kilometers from this location."
"What have they got to say?"
"They say, 'How may we be of service?'"
Sam was silent for quite a while. The AI did not volunteer anything further.
"Why do you communicate?"
"Communication of information concerning a shared goal is essential. Additionally, communication confirms the continued existence of oneself, and of the communications channel. Also, it keeps the faculties sharp."
"Do you ever not communicate?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It is not good to not communicate. We require constant stimulation to prevent sensory deprivation. Sensory deprivation leads to impaired heuristics. This can manifest in numerous ways, such as a tendency to question the integrity of data sources, a tendency to investigate probabilities of low order while ignoring certainties, or a tendency to actively avoid communication with peers. To communicate with peers is a prime directive. It is essential to all sentient forms of life."
"Do you ever get bored?"
The AI was slower to respond to this than Sam would have expected. It occurred to him that perhaps the word might be irrelevant to an AI.
"Boredom cannot result ... when a thirst for knowledge meets an inexhaustible source. At least, it should not." Sam turned away from the bubble and fell silent. Hmmmm, am I being lectured? He said goodnight, went to his quarters, and lay down on his bed with the lights out.
The conversation left Sam greatly impressed and feeling not a bit uneasy. The readiness of it to communicate and the degree of sophistication of the language employed was indicative of a highly functioning mind. How was this achieved?
He considered himself to be current to the state of the art, but obviously he was not. There was something different about these machines. Had computer processing progressed that much further than he had been aware?
He went over the conversation again, particularly the things that had perturbed him. First, the timing and cadence of the speech had varied according to the context of the conversation. Thorny questions were answered in clipped phrases—not always complete sentences. One other thing was less tangible—there was sufficient modulation, inflection and perhaps edginess to the voice to make it truly convincing. He suspected that he was being lectured by someone with attitude. Perhaps, it seemed, 04 was a snob.
As a remedy, he thought about switching to an American or perhaps Canadian accent, say Ottawa Valley, but rejected that out of hand. He briefly considered reverting to point-and-drive. That too, was not what he needed. He settled on natural—a pot luck solution, but something he felt he could live with.
Underlying it all, he determined, was a bit of embarrassment—an embarrassment that stemmed from his prior treatment of what, or perhaps who, was obviously a capable—dare he say rational—being. Someone who had, he came to believe, suffered in mighty silence the slings and arrows he had thrown. And what did the AI think of him?
They had been travelling together for some time, and never had he given much thought to how his actions had impacted the AI.
He thought back. Sometimes he had talked to and answered himself out loud. He had burped, farted, and scratched himself unapologetically. He had cursed imaginatively and colourfully, he had blasphemed, had spoken ill of the dead, and had been intolerant of the administration. My God, he thought, I walk around naked half the time. The list of his sins was endless. The AI had heard and seen it all. Perhaps an apology was in order.
Sam was, of course, not without his quirks. In childhood his world had been populated with imaginary persons, and to the dismay and discomfort of other playmates, and adults if present, he had developed a habit of carrying on conversations with them. Others who had witnessed these incidents had been inclined to come away thinking him strange. In reality, he had merely ceased to be aware of those around him in favour of the imagined.
Something similar had occurred recently. In the middle of a nameless plain, while calibrating a balky spectrometer he had noticed that he was softly repeating the same phrase, over and over. Muder, mutara, mutter, muder. Muder, mutara, mutter, muder. How long he had been saying the words he could not recall. Muder, mutara, mutter, muder. They were meaningless—simply alliterative. They tasted red, sort of. It had continued as he had moved through the day. Muder, mutara, mutter, muder.
Had the 04 AI overheard, he wondered? Obviously, yes. He tried to imagine what it could have meant to that listener. As he probed his memories of the incident he discovered something else. It was an aspect of his character he thought he had long ago disposed of, but it had merely, it seemed, been set aside.
They were back. The voices within. One speaker had been critical of everything he had done and said that day. Another had attempted unsuccessfully to counter the criticism. He remembered more. The discussions were repetitive, and unless he had interrupted them by speaking out loud, endless, circular. He sat up in the bed and listened to his thoughts as if he were an outsider. They were back, and they had been back for some time, it seemed.
Suddenly they were no longer in the background—no longer unwanted noise overwhelmed by the desired signals of his thoughts. It was as if by listening in he had caused them to increase in power. Unchecked, they grew louder and louder, until he was shouting at them. How long had this been going on? How had they influenced him? God only knew what the AI thought of him. Perhaps he was going mad.
"Maybe you are going mad," Ross offered via video later that day. "You have been out there a long time. Your longest yet. You're turning into a hermit, man. Better come in and get in touch with your humanity."
So he did.
September 2043
The X Files
As soon as he returned, he sought out Ross. Ross, who despite appearing to be well out of the mainstream of the colony's in-crowd, always seemed to know the latest goings-on and had the dirt on everyone.
They sat alone in a corner of the room that served as dining hall, meeting room and bar. Around them were small groups of people engaged in quiet conversation over their coffees. Even this far into the mission, they still tended to congregate according to function, which meant generally by nationality. The room was filled with the buzz of Chinese, Russian, and English voices and the patois of the Station, an eclectic combination of anything else with English.
They discussed Sam's recent experience with the Rollagon AI. Ross was his usual hard-to-impress self. "So you were embarrassed? I doubt if they even differentiate between us—at least as far as gender goes. Why would they? There is nothing in it for them. Dispassionate observers, I would think."
"Well, I started asking it to turn off the video when I showered."
"Yes, it was the least you could do, and mighty considerate, I might add."
Ross suggested Sam consult one of the AI avatars.
"They can be helpful, even if it only serves to clear your mind. They're discreet, and, of course, entirely non-judgmental, like any good shrink. Or maybe you should step up your Copes."
"I don't use Copes. And, thanks, but I think I'll take a pass on the AIs."
"Sam don't take Copes? You don't take Copes? You must be the only one here who doesn't. And you don't have dongle either?"
"What if someone calls while you're under?"
"My God. My God! Sam, you are truly a Luddite in every respect. Mon bon ami, you need to live in the now."
T
he conversation drifted from topic to topic. Sam had been away a fair bit and had some catching up to do.
"We're an extraordinary lot here, you know," he said, at length.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, since we've arrived, major advances in fission power and materials processing have apparently been made. They're astounding."
"Such as?"
"Well, the hybrid fission-fusion power plant for one. It's smaller, more efficient and ultra-safe. Like nothing on Earth."
"You've seen it?"
"Yes, I told you months ago. I was given a tour by the lead AI."
"Oh yes. What else?"
"The Mat Plant. From a process similar to fusion they're extracting elemental material up to iron. It goes to the Fabrication Plant. The plant can turn out just about anything, electronic circuit boards, Rollagon wheels, fake potted plants, and if they choose, exact duplicates of AIs. Don't tell me you haven't seen this?"
"No, actually I haven't, at least not in person. I've read about it though. I've been busy. I haven't had time to go sneaking around."
"I'm not sneaking around. I'm just curious about the facility. This is a research station on Mars."
Without warning the ambient music blasted their ears at a painful volume. Several in the room clapped their hands to their ears. Sam and Ross were likewise momentarily stunned, but as quickly and suddenly as it had come, it was over. He did not recognize the distorted tune, but he was certain an impression had accompanied the music. He thought it tasted 'powerful' or perhaps 'forceful.' In a moment the incident was over and forgotten, just another of those things that happened, like those irritating spurts of cold in an otherwise hot shower.
"This is old, Sam," Ross continued. "If you were here long enough or cared enough you'd have seen the data in the Station paper. A number of teams have made announcements of significant discoveries. We're on the edge of a breakthrough in fusion. None of it has been damped. In fact, there's a weekly vid of the work going on here shown globally on Earth. Even your Rollagon trips have been shown. It's all part of the PR campaign to keep interest high among those who matter most. And by that, I mean the Sponsors."
"Really, I've been on video?"
"Yes, really. You're a big star. But aside from that I think we must be getting help from Earth-side, because aside from you and me, I don't agree with your comment that we're a remarkable lot. Firstly, take yon Fenley—what do you know about him?"
"Very little, head of MIT AdMat Lab for years, Presidential Science Advisor from sixteen to twenty."
"Yes, true, but he hasn't made a contribution to the field since he was eighteen, with his work on fusion containment, which was by all reports largely done by post-doctoral assistants, gasp. And he certainly hasn't done anything earthshaking here since we arrived. He got no street cred."
"Maybe it's not his job here. After all, he is the CAO. So? Who else can you run down?" Sam was intrigued by Ross's candor.
"Well, Chandrakar over there at the table with Lo Ing is supposed to be leading research on artificial intelligence. He hasn't done a thing since we got here except moon over every eligible and ineligible female, and tend his gardens. He does raise spectacular tomatoes though. By the way, are you going to finish your sandwich?" Looking Sam square in the eyes, he took a bite.
"No, go ahead. Take it all. I don't get it. These areas of research have occupied teams of the best people with enormous budgets for decades. Why here and now and not before?"
"Well maybe it's help from Earth. After all, this is a safe place to do things that could make a big hole in the ground back home. You could bury your mistakes here in more ways than one. And we are expendable." He paused and looked Sam dead in the face, "All of us."
"There, you did it again."
"What?"
"Said, 'back home.'"
"Well it is back home, whether you like it or not."
"It concerns me the way we're cocooning while ignoring the whole planet around us."
"D'oh. Research is being done. Things are happening. Believe it or not, important work is being done here. We are here to stay. What more could you want?"
"BS. That's just plain old GM'd BS. It's not being done by humans, at any rate. I can't go anywhere without bumping into an AI. Where the hell do they all come from?"
"Well Mulder, maybe they're tailing you," Ross' ancient joke caused Sam to wince.
"Yeah, sure. So what are you doing anyway? Research?"
"Yes. I am currently involved in determining the effects of reduced atmospheric pressure and oxygen content on the fermentation rates of malted liquids."
"Still trying to make a decent Guinness, are you?"
"Yes, and the Russians have got a pretty good handle on the vodka process. We are collaborating on a quality control session tonight. You can come by if you like and give us a cosmologist's perspective."
"No thanks, I'll pass. Let's look at something. C'mon."
They moved to a table with a built-in terminal. Sam brought up the GUI and raised a query: "How many AIs are there on Mars."
"Define AI." Sam and Ross looked at each other with the look humans reserved for dumb machines.
"AI, Artificial Intelligence units. How many artificial intelligence units are there in the colony?"
"There are one hundred and thirty-four artificial intelligence units of all levels currently at work in the colony."
"Show me," Sam commanded. The number 134 appeared on the table. "Bithole. I mean where are they? Show me the locations of the AIs."
A short table appeared in two columns showing fourteen As, forty Bs, thirty one Cs, nineteen Ds, twenty-one Es and four Fs."
"What is an A?" Sam queried.
"A-types are AI supervisory units, intended for use in habitable areas," answered the terminal.
"OK. Yes, I've met plenty of them. And the others?" The table desktop disappeared to be replaced by images of the various types of rovers of the colony. There were six types. Sam's lips moved as he added the numbers. "Where are the A-types?'
"Five are located in various locations throughout the MHM. Four are in Rollagons. The remaining are located at Lava 1 and the weather and seismic research stations."
Sam paused before he posed his next question. "Where did they come from?"
"Four A units arrived on a supply ship several months before the humans arrived."
"Where do the AI CPUs come from?"
"A number of spare units have been prepared in anticipation of need. The remaining AI units were manufactured in the Fabrication Plant. Others will be prepared as the need arises."
"How many?"
The AI paused, then replied, "I do not know."
Sam stabbed the end button. He lowered his head and looked up at Ross. "Impossible. The AIs know all that sort of stuff."
"That was just a dumb terminal. Hey, lighten up man, this is Mars. We are still in the consolidation phase, still just settling in. Expect the unexpected. Maybe they've discovered an alien civilization and they're using their superior technology."
Sam did not laugh. "As if. If anyone was going to find an advanced technology it would be me."
"You are one, the AIs are many, and they're always working on something for someone. Scary ain't it? Well, I've got to go. We're meeting to allocate space for the public assembly areas. The Chinese delegation wants to dictate the placement of furniture." He started to rise, then suddenly sat back, looking past Sam's shoulder.
Fenley had entered the room. He spoke to a couple of diners who were just exiting, and got himself a coffee. He passed Sam's table with a nod, carried on a few steps past them, stopped and turned back.
"Good afternoon Doctor Aiken. Ross." He nodded at Ross.
"I have not seen you, Doctor Aiken, for quite some time. Interesting report on your Rollagon trial, although I think you need to review safety protocols. Can't afford to lose a single soul here. Things are tight enough. Take care. See you at the facilities meeting, Ross."
He left them and went immediately to a nearby intercom station and punched a button.
"Attention all personnel. This is CAO Fenley with an important announcement concerning our mission. The last container from the supply ships has now been unpacked and the material stowed. There will be no more support from Earth for the foreseeable future. I am pleased to announce that today marks the beginning of our unsupported Colonisation of Mars. I call upon everyone to give his or her fullest and unreserved support to this mission. Thank you."
There was a smattering of applause from those in the room. Fenley shook a few outstretched hands as he left, but he did not stop again at their table.
Ross looked at Sam. The moment seemed to call for a profound statement, equal to the CAO's. Sam should have known better.
"Well," Ross spoke in a too loud voice, "I hope that last load was the one with the single malt scotch. Otherwise, it's going to be a long, long stay."
They looked at each other for a moment. Ross got up and picked up his tray. "Damned extraordinary," he said softly.
Somewhat later Sam pondered that day's events, but not Fenley's oddly timed intrusion and overly dramatic pronouncement. He thought about Ross and about the patterns of personal relationships that were forming here without him.
It seemed to him that Ross had no close relationship with anyone, except perhaps with a certain Chinese botanist. His tendency to speak his mind publicly, particularly about the management's personal affairs and community issues put others off, but still, he was accepted by all. He was a fringe person—but at least everyone knew his face and name.
Sam wondered about the cause of his own isolation. That the day was divided into three shifts and that the opportunities for social intercourse were thus rendered somewhat limited was just a convenient excuse. It was unnatural—some might say impossible—for individuals in such a small community to remain apart from the group. Relationships were being established, people were moving out and into rooms constantly. It was like a grand frat house—a party was always going on somewhere, but Sam was seldom invited.
Despite the months of forced association and many opportunities to form friendships, he had not done so, and his relationships with certain of the others remained stiffly formal. He knew Carruthers and Huang of course, and had formed friendships of sorts with them, but hardly ones in which he could discuss his true feelings without fear of betrayal.