Influx

  The EAP worm was now projecting a new, simpler message on the curved cell wall:

  Connect the communications line.

  Grady looked around for some clue as to how to do that. The worm kept cycling the same message through multiple languages. Eventually Grady started to crawl toward the worm. As he drew near, it seemed to detect his movement and dropped into an inanimate coil on the floor. The projected message disappeared. The worm now looked like an inch-thick gray cable about three feet long, tapered on either end.

  Grady hesitated for a moment but then ran his fingers along its body. As he did, the microscopic fibers changed color at his touch, becoming purple, red, green, and then fading back to gray.

  He looked closely and could just barely discern minute strands in motion—clearly electrically or chemically reactive somehow. A galvanic response to human touch perhaps?

  There was a chirp somewhere in the room, and he glanced around. A small port or service panel had opened at waist height on the far side of his circular cell along an otherwise featureless curving wall. The panel was near the pantomiming tentacle bundle, which still tormented its imaginary victim.

  Grady gathered his strength and started crawling with the eye tool across the floor toward the opening in the wall—being careful not to touch the tentacles. As he got near the opening in the wall, he rested for a few moments. He must have lost a lot of blood because he still felt weak. After a few minutes he propped himself up against the wall and peered into the opening.

  It was only a few inches deep with no hatch mechanism visible. It had just appeared somehow. At the back of the opening was a glowing green light, with a small square socket next to it.

  Grady then examined the tool in his hand. Its thin end was round and too large for the socket. He then looked into the eye at the other end of the tool and drew a painful breath before raising it with a weak, trembling hand. He held the eye in front of the light like an iris scanner.

  A series of tones sounded. The tentacles all withdrew into the ceiling, and the bench-like cot sank into the floor without a trace. The lights dimmed. Suddenly what looked like computer screens appeared arrayed along the entire length of his cell wall—the same place where he’d seen his thoughts replayed.

  The nearest of the new screens bore the label “Cell R483 Console.” It listed several columns of stats apparently meant for maintenance personnel:

  Elapsed Session Time: 1:87:61:78:392:303

  Interrogatory Evolutions: 23,381

  Parasagittal Valence: 210.9

  Avg Trunk Voltage: 23.907kV

  Hydrolyzer Ready State: 21ths

  Barometric Pressure: 1.000123

  Relative Humidity: 23.2%

  Particulate Concentration: 0.00099ppm

  . . .

  There were hundreds of lines of similar stats arcing around the room, updating every few moments. None of it made immediate sense. But it did appear to be in English. As Grady lowered his quivering arm, he noticed that the motions of his hand made a pointer of some type move across the wall. He was apparently able to interact with the screen—and with the menus above them. He tapped at a menu labeled “Diagnostic Overrides” and noticed a series of submenus appear referring to “Life Support,” “Interrogatory Subsystems,” “Projection,” and much more.

  Were the Resistors just assuming that the geniuses in these cells could figure all this shit out? Grady didn’t feel particularly ingenious at the moment.

  He slumped back down and rested with his back against the wall. That’s when he noticed that the worm was once again projecting information onto the wall. He glanced up to see the following message waiting for him:

  Nao waike taojian v3.8.80—Kuozhan zi xito ng jishu caozuo sho uce

  Cerebral Interrogatory Enclosure v3.8.80—Extended Subsystem Technical Operations Manual

  v3.8.80—

  Cerebral Caja suite v3.8.80—Manual extendido Subsistema de Operaciones Técnicas

  Boîtier cérébrale Suite v3.8.80—Manuel des opérations techniques du sous-système étendu

  Grady let out a laugh—before catching himself from the pain in his abdomen.

  Okay. Go slow.

  “Thanks, Junior.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Necessary Lie

  It took some time for Grady to relax around his wormlike companion. It bore enough of a resemblance to the monstrous tentacles of his cell’s AI to be disturbing. But then Grady guessed “Junior” had been cannibalized from those restraint tentacles. In fact, there was something encouraging about the fact that the BTC’s own equipment could be subverted. He wanted to learn how to do that.

  And in any event Grady began to enjoy Junior’s company. The device reacted to human speech by rearing up on its coil attentively, not unlike a curious dog. Like a dog it didn’t seem to understand speech, but it did respond to tone. High-pitched talk seemed to encourage it. Low-pitched scolding caused it to curl in a ball for several minutes. It also followed him around, slithering across the floor. And it didn’t seem to require charging. Somehow battery life was a solved problem to the BTC. If indeed it did use batteries.

  By trial and error Grady learned how to activate and deactivate Junior’s projector lights by tapping its feelers. The screen it projected on any nearby surface was touch-sensitive as well, and before long Grady had settled in to read the seemingly endless technical manual for the “Cerebral Interrogatory Enclosure,” or CIE—which was apparently his cell and the AI that managed it.

  After the sensory starvation of the past few months, Grady’s appetite for information was ravenous. Poring through the manual, he soon learned how to navigate the deeper diagnostic and maintenance screens of the CIE.

  The moment Grady switched his cell from umbilical to manual life support represented a fundamental shift in his perspective. It was a simple diagnostic override, but when he deactivated the umbilicus, there was another audible chime as lavatory and sink facilities “grew” out of the wall. The toilet and sink consisted of the same featureless gray material as the walls themselves, but when he held his hand in front of the stylized faucet, clean water poured out. He now had some measure of control over his body again. There was apparently a bathing system as well, but he hadn’t found the options for that yet.

  The documentation had warned Grady that he needed to take care restarting his digestive system. He hadn’t taken anything but predigested slurry in months. Still, he figured he could risk tasting some water. He watched, fascinated, as it flowed over his hands. The natural hydrodynamic laws governing its surface resistance and pooling kept him mesmerized. So long since he’d seen those natural laws. Or any natural laws. His synesthesiac mind reveled in the stimulation.

  Then Grady tasted the water. Felt it flow down his throat like sunlight. He was coming alive again. He splashed the water over his face and sighed in satisfaction. No towels to dry himself, though—and he was still naked. But it didn’t bother him. He stood and felt the cool water from his face run in rivulets down his neck and body.

  He then walked his cell in relieved contemplation, leaving moist footprints. It was the first time in a long time that he could recall not having those nightmarish tentacles hanging overhead. The pain in his abdomen notwithstanding, it was good to walk freely.

  That’s when he bumped into a fine black filament hanging down from the ceiling in the center of his cell. It was right above where his cot had been. At first he thought it was—of all things—a spider hanging on a silk thread. But as he moved carefully around it, he could see that the nodule at its end was some sort of connector. Inorganic. It looked like a microscopic wire. He examined it carefully before taking hold of the end.

  The black thread it hung from felt similar to the carbon fiber threads inserted into his brain—at least as he remembered them. Touching his head to confirm it didn’t seem like a great idea.


  He pulled on the long thread, but it didn’t budge. It was incredibly strong and began cutting into his hand. He let go quickly. No blood, but the beginnings of a paper cut.

  He stared up at the domed ceiling. The thread was so thin that it became invisible not far above him. What was this thing?

  The mystery had to remain for the moment. As good as he felt right now, Maslow’s hierarchy of needs hadn’t quite been handled. Sooner or later food would become a necessity. He had to figure out how to get it before it became an emergency.

  Grady got back to navigating the deeper system menus of his cell’s operating system. From this he accessed a diagram of the entire CIE and soon realized that the living area was just part of a larger self-contained interrogation system. The AI hadn’t lied about that much at least. His cell appeared to have no direct connection—and no entrance or exit to the outside world. He was like a ship in a bottle. Hard to say how they’d gotten him in here because except for a two-inch-diameter pressure-regulation conduit the place was fully sealed. In rock? Nanomaterials? No details.

  Grady guessed from the diagram that Junior had followed the conduit here to find him. He stared at where it disappeared off the edge of the diagram. Where did it lead? There must be some sort of conduit system connecting cells—or at least connecting cells to some sort of infrastructure. Junior had located him somehow. It appeared that sealing the CIE entirely presented an engineering challenge even to the BTC.

  In any event, a two-inch-wide conduit was hardly a means of escape.

  As Grady studied the diagram further, he could see a small fusion reactor located in the larger CIE enclosure beyond his cell wall. Grady figured the conduit was there to manage atmospheric pressure for the prisoner. Or something like that. Hard to say. And the systems console couldn’t tell him anything about where he was or just how deeply sealed in.

  The system’s whole world was this cell. Again, the AI apparently hadn’t lied about the limits of its knowledge. But then surely the results of Grady’s interrogation had to be sent somewhere. There had to be some sort of connection to the outside world.

  Grady pursued his inquiry into the subsystems of the CIE with renewed vigor. And before long he located other life-support equipment—including finally the food-synthesis and matter-forming machinery. This equipment was also sealed within the capsule of the CIE but beyond his cell’s walls. The documentation said the food system was capable of producing “deathless” meat, imitation eggs, and just about anything else from organic molecules synthesized from still other systems (and, more disturbingly, processed waste).

  He wondered if this was a self-contained biosphere. If so, it would be impressive—and would certainly be a requirement of long-distance space travel and colonization of . . .

  He was getting off track. Enthusiasm for the BTC’s technology was a temptation he couldn’t afford right now. He got back to his studies.

  An on-demand manufacturing facility was used to produce any components necessary for continued operation within the CIE—and to repurpose inorganic waste, to fix malfunctioning components—but also apparently to create perquisites for cooperative prisoners. Which was something Grady had never been.

  Once he activated the nutrition and manufacturing systems, their user interfaces “grew” out of the wall, too, in the form of ledges and narrow openings. These Grady controlled from diagnostic screens. Apparently, had he not resisted every single moment, his AI could have given him some level of comfort and pleasure.

  He cycled through the list of luxuries.

  The food options were surprisingly comprehensive. He cringed at the sheer volume of choices in the same way one might cringe at a bus station café menu that offered Thai, Italian, Mexican, Indian, and French cuisine all at once.

  He decided to try a bowl of chicken ph’o—a Vietnamese broth-and-noodle dish that he figured would be an easier start for his digestive tract. After he selected it from the maintenance console, a percentage meter started incrementing next to the word.

  A café with a progress meter did not bode well.

  But in a few minutes a generic-looking gray bowl slid out from the wall on a gray shelf. The bowl contained a steaming broth aromatic with spices. As Grady caught the scent, his appetite was piqued. He grabbed a nearby gray spoon and tentatively tasted the broth.

  It was delicious.

  Whether it was his captivity or his starvation or whether it was actually good he couldn’t tell, but the phó’ reminded him of a cheap hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place he used to frequent when he was a starving student up in Albany.

  Grady looked down at the EAP worm. “Not bad, Junior.”

  The synthetic worm turned toward his voice.

  Grady eased down onto the floor next to it. “Not bad at all.” He ate contentedly.

  Refreshed, afterward Grady walked his cell again, circling the wire hanging down from the domed ceiling.

  The wire had to lead somewhere. It hadn’t been there before Junior arrived—which meant Junior most likely brought it in with him. And that meant it had to have a purpose.

  Grady now stared straight across the room at the still open diagnostic port in the wall. The wire hung just about low enough . . .

  He walked over to the wire and carefully grabbed the connector at its end. Grady then guided it slowly over to the diagnostic port where he’d used the iris scanner. A quick peek confirmed the presence of a small socket next to the scanner. He studied the connector on the wire’s end.

  They looked like a match.

  He tugged at the wire, bringing it up to the socket, and found that it reached with little slack. He clicked the connector into the socket.

  A loud pop sounded overhead, followed by several beeps. These continued for several moments at intervals.

  Then Grady heard a man’s voice, the words formed with a posh Indian accent. “With whom am I speaking, please?” Then the same voice in another language, “Wo yu shui shuohua?”

  Grady was immobilized with shock—and then suspicion. He remained silent.

  “Avec qui je parle? With whom am I speaking?”

  Grady moved to disconnect the line.

  “Do not be afraid. I am a prisoner like you.”

  Grady gripped the socket, ready to pull it out.

  “Je suis un prisonnier comme vous.”

  “How do I know you’re a prisoner?”

  “American. What year were you taken, my friend?”

  Grady took a deep breath. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

  “Hmm. I believe the operative question is: How can you be sure that I am human? Conversely: How can I be sure you are human? It is a reverse Turing test we are wanting.”

  Grady pondered this.

  “While I cannot rule out the possibility that my polymer worm has been captured by an AI, it would be unlikely. AIs are unimaginative creatures.”

  Grady looked down at Junior. “You built this thing—from BTC technology?”

  “Not I, but you are getting ahead of yourself, my friend. You have not determined whether to trust me, remember?”

  “Oh.” Grady nodded. “Right.”

  “How do we prove our humanity in a world where generalized artificial intelligence is commonplace?”

  “I’m not sure I know.”

  “In such a case we have found it useful to focus on areas where human intellect differs from that of machine intellect—specifically those areas concerned with bodily function.”

  “We? There’s more than one of you?”

  “Ah, first things first, my friend. Let us determine our humanity to both our satisfactions.”

  “Using bodily functions. What? Fart jokes?”

  “Something similar. Let me start. Please describe for me the fragrance of your wife’s genitalia.”

  Grady scowled. “What the . . . ? What
the hell is your problem? How long have you been in here, anyway?”

  “Ah, but don’t you see? I am now satisfied that you are human. Machine intelligence in its current state is indeed more powerful than the human brain—but narrowly focused. Unsubtle. No AI to which I posed that question would fail to describe the fragrance of a woman—oblivious to the social cues that would, between men, result almost certainly in fisticuffs.”

  Grady looked uncertainly at the ceiling. “Okay. I guess that makes sense.” He thought about it some more. “And I can’t recall if I’m married, anyway.”

  “I am sorry to hear your memory has been damaged. Are you at least satisfied with my humanity?”

  Grady realized the guy was just strange enough to seem certifiably human. An eccentric genius no doubt. Grady felt relieved and happy to be talking to another human being. “Yes. In fact, it’s great to talk to you.”

  “You should also wonder if I am a prison guard.”

  “Then this isn’t just my private hell. It’s a prison.”

  “Yes, my friend. You are in Hibernity, the BTC’s prison for wayward geniuses. It is a dubious honor, I am afraid.”

  “And how do I rule out your being a guard?”

  “By following the logic of your situation.”

  “Okay.” He paused. “And that logic is . . .”

  “Clearly you must follow the logic on your own, although I will get you started, if you like.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The logic of your situation is that of centralized control. The BTC wants very few witnesses to what transpires here. The minds it has imprisoned in Hibernity are exceedingly rare and particularly prized. The guards, interchangeable, mere custodians with little knowledge of this place’s true purpose—which purpose is, of course, to develop a means to separate consciousness from free will. To subjugate and unify multiple consciousnesses and thus achieve a biological quantum grid. A machine of many souls but no identity.”