Moving Mars

  I was as curious as anybody to find out what Alice and Jill would discuss.

  Jill was the oldest thinking being on Earth, a fabulous figure, the first thinker to achieve bona fide self-awareness, as defined by the Atkins test.

  Decades before Jill and Roger Atkins, Alan Turing had proposed the Turing test for equality between human and machine: if in a conversation limited to written communication, where the human could not directly view the correspondents, a person could not tell the difference between a machine and another human, then the machine was itself as intelligent as a human. This subtle and ingenious test neglected to take into account the limits of most humans, however; by the beginning of the twenty-first century, many computers, especially the class of neural net machines becoming known as "thinkers," were fooling a great many humans, even experts, in such conversations. Only one expert consistently pierced the veil to see the limited machines behind: Roger Atkins of Stanford University.

  Jill outlived Atkins, and became the model for all thinkers built after. Now, even an exported thinker such as Alice could outstrip Jill several times over, but for one crucial quality. Jill had acquired much of her knowledge through experience. She was one hundred and twenty-eight years old.

  We paid for the broadband connection between Alice and Jill, agreed to the encryption algorithm, and went to bed.

  Sleep on Earth, despite my bichemistry, almost invariably felt heavy. The strain of Earth's pull on a Martian's muscles and organs could not be eliminated; it could only be treated. While I felt well enough awake, my sleeping self often drowned, dragged under shallow waters rushing in tides past fantastic, ivory-colored castles on ruby-colored islands.

  I climbed or rather glided up the internal spiral of a tower staircase when Bithras shook me rudely awake. I reflexively jerked the covers up, fearing the worst. He pulled his hands back, eyes wide, as if deeply hurt. "No nonsense, Casseia," he said. "There is a serious problem. Alice woke me. She's finished her conversation with Jill."

  Allen, Bithras and I sat in our robes in the living room, cradling cups of hot tea. Alice's image perched primly on the couch between Bithras and Allen, hands folded on her knees. She spoke with a calm, deliberate voice, describing her encounter with Jill. Allen quietly made notes on his slate.

  "The meeting was extraordinary," Alice began. "Jill allowed me to become her for a time, and to store essential aspects of her experiences in my own memories. I provided her in turn with my own experiences. We divided our five minutes between conversation in deep-level thinker language, transfer of experiences, and cross-diagnostic, to see whether bad syncline searches could occur in any of our neural systems."

  "You allowed Jill to analyze your systems?" Allen asked with some alarm, looking up from his slate.

  "Yes."

  "Tell them what she found," Bithras said.

  "This is in a sense proprietary," Alice said. "Jill could face difficulties if her work is discovered."

  "You have our promise of discretion," Bithras said. "Casseia? Allen?"

  We swore secrecy.

  "Jill considers all thinkers to be part of her family. She feels responsible for us, like a mother. When thinkers converse with her, she analyzes us, adding to her own store of knowledge and experience, and determines whether we are functioning properly."

  I detected reticence. Alice did not want to get to the point.

  "Tell us, Alice," Bithras encouraged.

  "I still feel deeply embarrassed by what Jill discovered in me. I am able to fulfill my duties, I am sure, but there may be reason to no longer trust my ultimate performance — "

  Bithras shook his head impatiently. "Jill found evolvons," he said.

  "In Alice?" Allen asked, lowering his slate.

  I sucked in my breath. "What kind?" I asked.

  Alice's image froze, flickered, and went out. Her voice remained. "I am changing modes of display to better conform with my internal state," she said. "I will not maintain a cosmetic front. Evolvons exist in my personality configuration. They appear to be original, not implanted after my incept date."

  An evolvon could be nearly any thing or system designed to exist in time, consume energy or memory, and reproduce itself. All living things were evolvons in a sense. Within computers and thinkers, the word usually referred to algorithms or routines not known to be part of the status design or acquired neural configuration — sophisticated viruses.

  "Do you know their purpose?" I asked.

  "Jill discovered them only by comparing my full configuration with my neural bauplan, my self-known design, and running a trace of her own devising. There are parts of me that are not known to me, and which I have no control over; these parts are not functional in my personality configuration. They have no known utility, but all of them contain reproductive algorithms. They are well-hidden. No traces on Mars revealed their presence."

  "Evolvons," Allen said, his face pale. "That's against the law."

  "I have difficulty describing my sensation at making this discovery," Alice said. I wanted to hold her, but of course she had nothing to hold. Her voice remained level — I had never heard a thinker express negative emotions in speech. But her tone became a shade harsher as she said, "I feel violated."

  "Is it possible the evolvons have been planted since we left Mars or arrived on Earth?" Bithras asked.

  "Very unlikely. I have not been accessed by specialists for repair, which would be the only way they could be planted after my incept date."

  Bithras folded his hands on his knee. "If you have these . . . evolvons, then Alice One has them as well."

  "Most likely," Alice said.

  "They were copied from her to you. And they escaped our most expert traces. That means they were planted by the manufacturer, right here on Earth."

  The implications were jolting.

  "I apologize for my inability to be trustworthy," Alice said.

  "No need to apologize," Bithras said. "We'll remove the evolvons — "

  "Jill does not believe that can be done without great care to avoid damaging my personality. They are imbedded in key routines."

  "Do you know what will activate them?" I asked.

  "No," Alice said.

  "Can you guess?" I pursued.

  "Specific triggering codes delivered by any of my inputs," Alice said.

  "They are sabotage," Bithras observed, "waiting to happen."

  "Who's responsible?" I asked.

  "Earth," he said, lips curling. "Sane, wonderful Earth."

  Bithras sent an emergency message to Mars, contents unknown to us, and returned to his bed, exhausted, soon after. Allen and I stayed up, ordered a bottle of wine, and sat drinking, talking with Alice.

  "The most important thing," I said, finishing the first glass, "is whether Alice wants to continue working with us."

  "Bithras and I have discussed this," Alice said.

  Allen and I felt tired and sad and discouraged, as if suffering through an illness in the family. What was dying rapidly was any joy we might have had, coming to Earth, any feeling of value as representatives of Mars, any sense of self-worth whatsoever. We were isolated, our friend was compromised in such a way that we could no longer have faith in her . . .

  "What did Bithras say?" I asked softly.

  "He believes I should carry on with my duties. I will of course be glad to continue."

  "Can you tell . . . ?" Allen asked, not finishing.

  "I will not know when or if an evolvon is activated. This I have told Bithras."

  "Everything we set out to do is being scuttled," Allen said, twirling his glass in his hand. "We can't trust anybody or anything here."

  "They're frightened," I blurted. I had not mentioned my conversation with President Muir; I had not wanted to leave any impression that I was trying to conduct diplomatic inquiries on my own. And the conversation itself had not made much sense to me, had no context, until now. "They're afraid of what we can do."

  "What can they possibly b
e afraid of?" Allen asked.

  "I don't know," I said. "I can't figure it out." I described my visit to the Omphalos. When I finished. Allen whistled and poured himself another glass.

  "Alice," he said, "does any of this make sense to you?"

  "If I model the situation correctly, we are in the middle of changing political strategies," she said. "Earth obviously prepared decades ago for unexpected situations by placing evolvons in thinkers shipped to Mars."

  "Perhaps all thinkers," I said. "Maybe that's why Jill analyzed you . . . She suspects something, and she doesn't approve."

  Abruptly, the image of Alice Liddell appeared, sitting beside Allen on the couch. He jumped. "Sorry," she said. "I did not mean to startle you."

  "What could possibly have changed their strategy?" I asked.

  "Bithras received a communication from Cailetet, a copy of a text message from Stanford University sent to the Olympian research group on Mars," Alice said. "He discussed it with Casseia." Alice projected the message for us.

  We've established strong link between time tweak and space tweak. Can derive most special relat. Third tweak discovered may be co-active but purpose unknown. Tweak time, tweak space, third tweak changes automatically. Probably derive general relat. as regards curvature, but third tweak pushes a fourth tweak, weakly and sporadically . . . Derive conservation of destiny? Fifty tweaks discovered so far. More to come. Can you share your discoveries? Mutual bennies if yes.

  "Still sounds like gibberish," I said.

  "There have been no further messages from Cailetet," Alice said. "They're stonewalling on the unification proposals, and they've rejected Majumdar's offers to join in the Olympians' physics research."

  "That's new," I said. "Bithras hasn't told us about that."

  "Bithras keeps many worries to himself."

  "Does the message mean anything to you?" Allen asked Alice.

  "Bell Continuum theory treats the universe as an informational array, a computational system. The Olympians applied for grants with abstracts on such theory. Some of their applications were sent to Earth, one to Stanford, where they established communications with the group that sent this message."

  Alice projected LitVid reports on related topics from the past year. The Stanford group had published only three public papers in the past ten years, none of them dealing with the Bell Continuum. Alice concluded the display by saying, "Bithras has been unable to rent key papers and research vids related to the Bell Continuum, and has found only popular references to the topic of 'descriptor theory.'"

  "Why didn't Bithras tell us?" I asked.

  "I believe he did not think it was terribly important. But your visit with President Muir would interest him. Her instincts appear sound."

  "Something's going on?" Allen asked.

  "Perhaps," Alice said.

  "Something big enough to make Earth change course and reject our proposal?"

  "It seems possible," Alice said. "Casseia, in the morning, you should tell Bithras about your meeting with the ex-President."

  "All right," I said, staring at the coffee table and my empty glass of wine.

  "I believe he will ask you to speak with Charles Franklin."

  I shook my head, but said, "If he asks."

  I told Bithras about my meeting with Muir, and about our suspicions.

  He asked.

  I took a walk alone on the banks of the Potomac in the hour before dawn. The air brushed clear and cool against my bare arms. The sky above the river sparkled a starry, dusty blue. Combs to the south and east shaded the river even after dawn colored the sky deep teal and edged the few wisps of cloud with orange. I walked along the damp stone path, enjoying the mingled scents of honeysuckle and jasmine, giant roses and thick-leafed designer magnolia bushes, blooming in the hectares of gardens beneath the combs. Arcs of steel and mesh guided bougainvillea over the walkway, creating tunnels of deeper shade lighted at foot level by thin glowing ribbons twined around stone pillars. Artificial sun slowly brightened the gardens. Thumb-sized bees emerged from ground hives, intent on servicing the huge flowers.

  The last thing I wanted was to intrude on Charles, ask him questions he would not want to answer, be indebted to him. We had caused each other enough distress in our short time together. Besides, what questions would I ask?

  I had studied physics texts and vids in the past few sleepless hours. There was mention of the Bell Continuum and the universe as a computational system — mostly in the context of evolution of constants and particles in the early stages of the big bang. I knew enough about academics to pick up the general impression that these theories were not highly favored.

  Was Charles's group of Olympians (what an arrogant name!) alarming politicians on Earth with talk, or had Earth discovered something it didn't want Mars to know?

  I sat on a warmed stone bench, face in hands, rubbing my temples with my index fingers.

  I had already composed my message to Charles: pure text, formal, as if we had never been lovers.

  Dear Charles,

  We've run into serious problems here on Earth that may have something to do with your work. I realize you are contracted to Cailetet, and I presume there is some friction with other BMs, which also puzzles me, but is there anything you can tell us that might explain why Earth would be deeply concerned with Martian independence? We are getting nowhere in our own work, and there are clues that the Olympians are in part responsible. I am very embarrassed even asking you to say anything. Please don't think I wish to intrude or cause trouble.

  Sincerely,

  Casseia Majumdar

  Washington DC USWH

  Earth (trunk credit for reply open)

  I judged that relations between Cailetet and Majumdar had somehow soured, perhaps on the matter of the Olympians . . . (Poor Stan! He would be lawbonded within a few weeks to a woman from Cailetet. We were all mired.)

  In the Potomac, water welled up in glistening hills and ripples and a line of caretaker manatees broke the surface, resting from pruning and tending the underwater fields. I stood and stretched. There were dozens of other pedestrians on the walkway now. The roses in the gardens sang softly, attracting tiny sound bees in tight-packed silver clouds.

  I sent the message. Allen and I attended a concert in Georgetown. I barely heard the music, Brahms and Hansen played on original instruments, lovely but distant to my thoughts and mood. My slate was set to receive any possible reply. None came until the morning we left for Richmond.

  Dear Casseia,

  There is nothing I can say about my work. I appreciate your position. It will not get any easier.

  Luck,

  Charles Franklin

  Isidis Planitia

  Mars (trunk credit not used)

  I showed the message to Allen and Bithras, and then to Alice. Charles had said little, revealed nothing, but had confirmed all we really needed to know, that the pressures would grow worse, and that the Olympians were involved.

  "Time to exert my own pressure," Bithras said. "The whole Solar System is shut tight as a clam. Doesn't make any sense at all."

  I wondered if Charles had made his connection with a QL thinker yet.

  A thick rain fell in Richmond. Our plane descended on its pad with a soft sigh. Thick white billows wrapped its long oval form like a paramecium engulfed by an amoeba. Portions of the billows quickly hardened to form passenger tunnels. Arbeiters crawled along ramps within the foam. Behind the passengers, a wall of foam absorbed the seats row by row, cleaning and repairing.

  My uncle made a few smiling and cordial comments to a small scatter of LitVid journalists in the transfer area. There were fewer people and more arbeiters among them; the number of journalists attending our every move had dropped by two-thirds since our arrival. We were no longer either very interesting or very important.

  A private charter cab took us from the transfer area through Richmond. As a courtesy, we were driven down a cobbled street between rows of houses dating back to the
1890s, past a war monument to a general named Stuart. Alice confirmed that J.E.B. Stuart had died in the Civil War.

  As in Washington, the civic center was free of combs and skyscrapers. We might have returned to the late nineteenth century.

  The Jefferson Hotel appeared old but well-maintained. Architectural nano busily replaced stone and concrete on the south side as we entered the main doors. The rain stopped and sun played gloriously through the windows of our suite as we hooked Alice into the ex nets and ate a quick lunch, served by an attentive human waiter.

  I took an old-fashioned shower in the small antique bathroom, put on my suit, checked my medical kit for immunization updates — each city had new varieties of infectious learning to deal with — and joined Allen and Bithras in the hall outside the room.

  An arbeiter sent by Wang and Mendoza guided us to a conference room in the basement. There, surrounded by windowless walls of molded plaster, seated at antique wood tables, we once again shook hands with the senators.

  Wang graciously pulled out my chair. "Every time I come down here, I revert to being a southern gentleman," he said.

  "They wouldn't have let you into the Confederacy," Mendoza commented dryly.

  "Nor you," Wang said. Bithras showed no amusement, not even a polite smile.

  "It's getting harder and harder to even find a good accent in America now," Mendoza said.

  "Go down to the Old Capital," Wang said, sitting at the opposite end of the thick dark wood table. "They have fine accents."

  "Language is as homogenized as beauty," Mendoza said, with an air of disapproval. "That's why we find Martian accents refreshing."

  I could not tell whether the condescension was deliberate or merely clumsy. I could hardly believe these two men did anything without calculation. If the smugness was deliberate, what were we being set up for?

  "We apologize for the inconvenience," Wang said. "Congress rarely cancels such important meetings. Never in my memory, in fact."

  "We are not impressed by firsts," Bithras said, still cool.

  "I'm sure you've guessed we're not inviting you here in our capacity as representatives of the U.S. government. Not strictly speaking," Mendoza said.