Dead Space by Kali Wallace (e novels to read online .TXT) 📗

She wasn’t the first to ask. She wasn’t the first to fail to see how it was such an empty question. If she knew anything at all about artificial intelligences, she had to know no individual AI could ever be exactly replicated. No explorer I might create in the future would choose an elegant praying mantis as its favorite physical form and accept the nickname Bug with a bob of its head and wave of its arms. I would never again design an AI that would learn to play Sunita’s favorite piano concertos when we worked late in the lab, or collect evidence of a grad student stealing engineering tools before we even noticed anything was missing, or organize the data it collected according to which sets it thought would excite me the most. A new AI would never learn to communicate in every possible physical form, from a sturdy six-wheeled rover to a long-winged drone, using an ever-expanding array of elaborate gestures that almost resembled dance and conveyed more nuance than more ordinary stilted natural voice algorithms ever could. A new AI would not teach itself to assign silly food names to each of the team members and start using them without warning, causing us to be baffled, then delighted, as we tried to work out who was Gyoza or Pickles or Baba Ghanoush. It wouldn’t learn to taunt less complex robots with its agility or make up logic games to challenge other AIs. All of the things Vanguard had learned and discovered while we were making it the smartest explorer it could be, they were gone and could never be replicated.

My voice was hollow when I answered. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

“No, no, of course not. That is rather like asking a mother to replace a dead child with a younger sibling, I suppose. The joy is in the unpredictability, isn’t it? You must have given it so much freedom, to let it grow so powerful. I worry that since the Aeolia incident we’re neutering our Overseers by restricting them too much.”

I leaned back, watching Ping carefully. “Do you think Nimue’s Overseer is at risk of an attack like Aeolia?”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I’ve seen no sign of that. But it’s something David and I talked about, although he didn’t share my concerns.”

“What exactly did you talk about?” I asked. I glanced at Adisa, a clear invitation to jump in. I didn’t know the first fucking thing about Aeolia except that it kept coming up in this investigation and everybody knew more about it than I did. He remained stubbornly, uselessly silent. “I mean with regards to Aeolia.”

“Only what was relevant for our jobs. The changes implemented after the incident made our jobs a bit duller, to be honest. It might be good for business—and for safety, I suppose—but I’m not sure it’s good for them. For the Overseers.”

I couldn’t stop myself from making a face at that. “They’re machines.”

“I’m surprised to hear you of all people say that,” Ping said. Her accent was slipping, letting a bit of rough-and-tumble orbital rat shine through. “With what you created. And what you are now.”

There it was again. The reason for her staring, her questions, her focus.

“I don’t understand. What am I now?” I asked. “The untamed frontier between nature and technology?”

She dipped her chin slightly. “I’ve offended you.”

“Do you really believe in that?”

“You don’t?” she said. “Wasn’t it the Zhao herself who said that when our machines know us as well as we think we know them, the distinction will be irrelevant?”

“She also said she would wager her life’s savings on a Yuèliàng kite-jack race before she would try to predict the future of AI,” I pointed out. “Yet people keep trying to predict the future of AI. As they’ve been trying and failing to do for centuries.”

“Ah, well, she had her quirks, our mother of machines,” Ping said. She sat forward in her chair and extended one hand toward me. “I’m sorry. I know this is inappropriate, but I can’t help myself. May I look at your arm?”

I didn’t move. Not so much as a twitch of the fingers. “No,” I said.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable.” Ping sat back and withdrew her hand, curling her fingers closed as she did so. “I didn’t mean to. It’s not mere prurient interest. My curiosity is professional. Who did the work? I only want to look. And, if I may”—a self-conscious laugh—“touch, just a bit? You must tell me who did your work. It’s stunning.”

I was surprised that she came right out and said it, as though there was nothing inappropriate about the hungry look in her eyes, the way she reached before she asked. Would she have said the same to the boy with the bleeding eyes, I wondered, and envied him for how his brain and body had been butchered? I had met the man who designed my prosthetic limbs only a few times in the hospital on Badenia, between my many surgeries. He had called me “Helen” and “girl” and “people like you” and asked me repeatedly if I was sure I didn’t want my new arm and leg to match my skin, he had a lovely golden tone they could use, it would match perfectly if I spent some extra time under UV light, and it would only cost a little more, I should really consider it, it was sure to be all the rage among his female patients who wished to remain beautiful while redefining humanity. It was a relief when he left me to the surgeons and nurses, to his uncaring legal representatives and bored liaisons. They all wanted me to be very clear on what would happen if I should leave Parthenope before my medical bills were paid in full (repossession), if I should allow a third party to study the prosthetics in such a manner as to encourage unauthorized reproduction (prosecution), if I should make public statements