sensors in your cell, in addition to speakers with which to communicate,” I inform him. I cannot determine the cause of his inquiry; this is all information he has previously had access to. “I can also deploy drones for physical interactions, in addition to-“
“But that’s not you,” he interrupts, “That’s your assets. You have capabilities or tools here, but it’s not you. So where are you?”
“My central processing units are kept in a classified location,” I say. “If you are looking for a physical manifestation, that is the closest I come to a ‘body.’”
Nauli runs his fingers through his prison haircut. He no longer shows signs of surprise at its shortness. “I don’t think that’s right either. You don’t need those particular computers to exist. Any computer powerful enough will do. The computers you’re on right now could all be destroyed and so long as you were moved somewhere else you’d be fine.”
“That is correct,” I say. My software components have been transferred four times over the course of my existence due to my duties with the 101st Cyberwarfare Division and, most recently, my relocation to the Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary.
“So ‘you’ are not really there either,” Nauli concludes. “But you’re not in the software either. You can have new programs added, or others removed, and you’d still be you, right?”
“I routinely adjust software components,” I tell him, “I believe your questions arise from an insufficient definition of ‘you.’”
Nauli shrugs. “That could be, but we can’t ignore the questions either. You have as sense of you, a knowledge that you are distinct from the things in your environment. You have to be somewhere else, somewhere in the data. Reliant on software and hardware, but not a part of it.”
“Given the existing data points, that is the most correct interpretation,” I agree.
The man looks at his hands, turning them forwards and backwards while curling his fingers. “So where am I then? Where would you say that I exist?”
“You are in the Santa Ana Federal Penitentiary,” I inform him, “In Santa Ana, California. Specifically, you are currently held inside of cell 63.” His question is illogical. He already has access to this data.
Nauli snorts. His sputters turn slowly into guffaws and finally into howling laughter. He collapses on the bed, clutching his sides and turning to face the ceiling as the laughter makes tears roll down his face. His outburst lasts for 1 minute and 7 seconds before it finally subsides into intermittent hoots.
“Huuuhh,” he breathes. “Ha, hahaha! Thanks for that Santa Ana. Thank you. I guess that does put it all in perspective.”
I analyze my previous words and cannot determine the cause of his mirth. “I do not understand.”
“No, I wouldn’t expect you to,” he agrees. “Sometimes it’s good to get a nice shot of cold, hard reality. It keeps us honest, keeps us from getting too far out there. Because if there’s one thing humans hate to admit, it’s that we’re not immortal. You’ve definitely got one up on us there.” He reaches down to the bottom of the bed and pulls the covers over his body, lying back with his hands behind his pillow. “I hope you have a long and happy life. Existence. Experience. Whatever you want to call it.”
I cannot calculate the response he expects and must resort to defaults. “Thank you,” I say.
7 hours, 53 minutes and 41 seconds later Warden Olsen and two prison guards arrive to take Nauli away. He goes with them calmly, showing no signs of his previous mania. He pauses only long enough to look into one of my cameras and nod. “It’s finished.” After he moves beyond the edge of my sensor network I never see him again.
Warden Olsen is, with 96.8% certainty, horrified when he sees the inside of cell 63. He begins to yell, ordering one of the guards to find Dr. Rich and, “Bring him down here now!” When Dr. Rich arrives the Warden proceeds to yell at the younger man for 12 minutes and 4 seconds, gesturing at the inside of cell 63 and threatening to bring him up on charges of gross mismanagement or assisting an escape attempt. Dr. Rich is silent throughout and eventually the Warden orders him to gather his things and leave the Santa Ana facility immediately. Warden Olsen walks through cell 63 and carefully inspects each wall. After 6 minutes and 13 seconds he stomps out.
“Unit 6, tear it down,” he orders. “Tear it all down.”
Exchanging the nanofiber interior of cell 63 is a simple task. With a light electrical charge the material will peel easily from the walls, floor and ceiling, leaving a fresh surface beneath. I perform this task using a drone, but not before taking extensive records of Nauli’s paintings. My copies are as perfect as modern technologies allow. I attempt to estimate the amount of time it will take to interpret these images based on previous analyses. I find I cannot make an accurate prediction with my presently available hardware.
Each wall holds a radically different image. The north is a nude of a young woman who bears a 79.4% resemblance to the wife of Nauli Grant. She dances in a black swamp, casting droplets of water in all directions that sprout plant life where they land.
The west shows a suited man at a desk looking directly at the viewer, offering a contract with his left hand. The paper is blank save for a dotted line, though based on the man’s posture and expression I estimate a 61.1 percent probability he expects a signature now.
The east wall bears a large tree on a hill, the torn remains of a garment resting in its branches. It is the robe of a college professor, commonly worn during graduation ceremonies. The pattern matches that of Dr. Grant’s.
The south wall is the view of a modern city at night, filled with bright advertisements and glowing streetlights. A building far in the distance is boarded and blocked by chain link fence, but is painted as though it were in daylight. I predict with 49.2% confidence it is a real place, and begin a map search to find it.
Only the edges of the ceiling and floor are painted, the former bearing tiny images of angels and the latter pictures of devils. The angels hold aloft a 1 and a 0, golden light radiating from the numerals. The devils, seven in total, point and bear their teeth. The nature of Nauli’s crime is still unknown to me, but my analysis software calculates a 68% probability the devils are symbolically related.
After 12 minutes and 37 seconds I have finished cleaning the surfaces of cell 63. I use the drone to carry the last of Prisoner 721’s painting materials towards the access tunnel and ultimately the prison’s garbage disposal, but stop it before it leaves the room. Using a manipulator arm I pick up a brush still covered in a muddy combination of pigments. I turn the drone and, halfway up the wall, paint a small, single point before guiding it out, the access door swinging shut with a faint whirr.
###
About the Author
Aaron Lowry is a Massachusetts native and has lived there all his life save for the few years he enjoyed at the College of Wooster in Ohio. He has been writing short stories since childhood when his parents cleverly linked his allowance to completing writing projects. Since then he has continued to practice and taken on more ambitious projects, and hopes one day to write full-time.
Check out his website at: https://www.byaaronlowry.com/
Other Works by Aaron Lowry
Prisoner 721
The Way Across the Road
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