Sam recalled having seen the plans for this section. A multi-levelled structure would fill the entire space from top to bottom for a thousand meters. It was not what he expected of Mars; it reminded him of a cruise ship with hundreds of smallish bachelor apartments, a casino, lounges, theaters, swimming pools, spas, and workout rooms. Construction at this point was little more than forms, and a team of AIs was occupied in removing scaffolding. It was clear that the colony was going to host the rich and famous, but for now it was just dark and cold, and it smelled of fresh plastek. He did not linger.
On the way back he met Fenley coming the other way, who to Sam's astonishment greeted him like a long lost brother. He led him by the arm to a small alcove attended by a solitary and obviously under-employed E-type. The CAO's short-sleeved, high collared shirt flashed colourfully in the soft light. He poured them coffees and nodded in the direction of one of the private booths. The ambient music seemed slightly louder here, and Sam could not make out the tune, but for a moment he had nearly caught it.
Fenley wasted no time. He launched straight in, "So, you've discovered one of our little secrets. Perhaps one of many?"
Of course. He had been naïve to think his diversion would have gone unnoticed. The AI? He remained silent, arms folded and resisted the urge to rebut, just yet.
"Perhaps not." Fenley looked at him intently for a moment, and then continued. "Well, in any case, you deserve an explanation, but I must have your assurances as a scientist, and perhaps more importantly, as a member of this colony, that you will remain discreet until the greater truth can be told. Do I have your word?"
What an odd expression—'the greater truth,' Sam thought. He countered, "It all depends upon how much of the greater truth you're telling me."
Fenley frowned. "I'll take that as a yes. Well, tell me. What have you come up with?"
"There was no meteor strike in Tempe Terra. Something went wrong just over the horizon about a dozen klicks from the MHM, something big enough to dig a hole ten meters deep and a hundred meters across. Something involving fusion, I would guess, and since the CERN disaster, full-scale fusion development has been banned on Earth, so someone is doing it here. I suspect that the three dead were at the site when it went up."
"Very good, very good. Yes, that's essentially what happened." Fenley's head bobbed as he spoke. The strobing colours of his shirt were annoying.
Sam had one more round left in the chamber. "And the work that Yang is doing. It has little or nothing to do with Martian volcanism. I suspect there's some genetic work going on, and that some people have died in the process."
Fenley's eyes gave him away. Apparently he had not expected this. He frowned severely, then nodded, his head staying down. He swirled the dregs in his cup, then held it tightly in his two hands. "Actually, one died of natural causes, the other two…." His voice faded away. He drained his cup of coffee.
Fenley kept his head down. He looked at Sam through upturned eyes for a few moments, then he looked down into his empty cup. "There are other things going on here, things that cannot be done on Earth, things which are far more ethically questionable and ultimately more dangerous than fusion and genetic research. What else do you know?"
Sam answered honestly, "I know enough."
But in one brief moment he had been disarmed. He was at the end of what he knew he knew. He could have railed on about AIs following him out on the land but he was sure he would not be taken seriously. Instead he continued rationally. "What I don't understand is why there is this secrecy, this sham of secrecy, really. We all knew the risks. None of us should have expectations of a long and boring life here. There have been other deaths, some natural, some accidental, and now this."
Fenley raised his eyes. "I see." He paused and looked around the room. "Sam," he started, then paused again.
He looked Sam straight in the face, exhaled dramatically and pushed off, "Everyone here knows what they're doing—what their own goals are, but most know little or nothing about the work of others. Take yourself, for example. You're a radio astronomer and a systems engineer. What do you really know about genetics, or AI, or fusion?"
He continued, giving Sam no space to reply. "Not everything we are doing here would be considered scientifically responsible if the public found out prematurely, even in the more liberal parts of Earth. The debate over your life signs has not been resolved, they are concerned about the negative effects on their spheres of influence. The intellectual fascists are only sleeping, Sam! They're not dead! When the time is right, when the mistakes have been made, the losses taken and when the benefits are clear, we will reveal all. You can be a part of the revealing of that truth. But not yet! Until then, we must maintain the illusion of pure science. I can't tell you more, and if I did, I am not sure I would want to place the burden on you. You are, I see, a man of truth and honour. This is your chance to do something fine." He stopped and rapped his palms on the table sharply. "I, on the other hand, am a fucking bureaucrat. Can I trust you to keep the best interests of the colony in your sights?"
Sam felt like strangling him. He wanted to scream his rage into Fenley's face, but he could not make his body move. He fought within himself for control. They held all the cards. They were in charge. They were powerful, and he was not. They could have an AI drop him off in the middle of nowhere if they wanted to. Rage began to well in him again and he opened his mouth for what he knew was going to be an angry deal-breaker speech.
He was astonished to hear himself calmly utter instead, "All right, for now. But I want something from you in return."
Fenley, suddenly coy, nodded slowly, "Okay, what?" He put his cup on the table and slid it from hand to hand across the plastek surface.
Sam's voice went on. He listened to himself speak: "I want the truth from the AIs, I want the real images, and I want no restrictions on travel that are based on keeping me from seeing things you want secret. Do you understand me?"
"I can't give you carte-blanche to pry into things all over the planet! You've already done great harm to our plans with your digging around. Some things are too dangerous—to you and to the research! No, I can't give you that. Perhaps a compromise?"
"What?"
"The AIs will tell and show you the truth, but they won't allow you to endanger either yourself or the research, and you will remain responsible to the colony for all travel. All trips must be pre-approved. No more skulking around. It's taking up too much of my time keeping track of you. That's the best I can do.”
Sam did not respond immediately. He wanted to tell Fenley how much he despised him, but again, someone from somewhere within said instead, "Okay. Agreed."
"Good. I knew I could count on you to be pragmatic." Fenley's demeanour changed in an instant. "How's your coffee? Can I get you another?"
Sam collapsed within. He felt like he had folded with three aces. It was too late; the hands had been laid down; the important words had been spoken. The voices that had spoken for him receded once again. He was at the point of being physically ill. When he recovered control he found they had regressed to small talk.
Finally, mercifully, it was at an end. Fenley began to disengage, but not before the conversation touched on a subject near and dear to Sam.
"So what do you really think of our AIs?"
Sam was still reeling from the strangeness of the moment. He answered clinically. It seemed best. "I can't account for the sudden appearance of artificial intelligence units capable of flawlessly driving large vehicles across alien terrain, of conducting breakthrough research, and of so convincingly emulating human behavior. They have, or at least appear to have, distinct personalities. Some of them are quite obviously capable of passing all tests of consciousness. They're unlike anything I've ever encountered before. Is this another one of your mysteries?"
"Yes and no. They're a new generation of CPU, quite advanced. And yes, they are being further refined here. Chandrakar is leading the research on enhancing their capabilities. Anyth
ing you see without a carapace is networked back to a central node here at the Tube. The node assists when they encounter something beyond their programmed capabilities. Those with carapaces are fully autonomous. So far they've been able to handle anything they've encountered. Let's face it—without them we wouldn't be able to exist here. The physical effort required to operate and maintain this facility is beyond our abilities. Beyond men of any age, for that matter. That's really why no one has been able to stay."
"But they seem to be in positions of trust and responsibility. There are going to be dire consequences if they fail. And they will fail."
"You're referring to the fusion accident? The AIs were being overseen by humans. As far as we can tell, they were running a full power test and lost containment. The AIs had advised them that there were risks and the guys decided the risks were acceptable. A bad call, it turned out. Some AIs were lost too. But progress cannot be made without accepting the risks and the cost, whatever."
Sam said nothing.
Fenley continued, "From a certain point of view they are merely more capable automated systems with the means to communicate in a way that more convincingly mimics human speech." He looked at the silently waiting E-type. "You know they don't have any of that three laws crap built in."
Sam was surprised at this. The three laws of robotics had been de rigueur from the earliest days. "Well, what constraints are they under?"
"None. Except what Doc C refers to as 'human ethical modeling.' They think like us, are educated by us and therefore, they act like us. Unless they're under severe stress, they act cooperatively, assisting each other and looking after the needs of the group, which includes us."
"And when they are under severe stress?"
"Well, we haven't seen anything to be concerned about. Those that are doing the dirty and grunt work are conditioned for it—they revel in it, in fact. They don't bitch, they don't show up late or leave early, and they never ask for a raise."
"Interesting and plausible, but I'm not reassured, David. From what you've said, I should think that they would be susceptible to the same failings as humans and that in itself seems very risky to me, given our somewhat precarious hold on this planet. Sometimes we fail to live up to our own standards. Often, in fact. History is rife with the consequences of human frailty."
"Well, we'll see, I guess. I trust in the system that created them and so, perhaps, should you. Besides, you should see them from my point of view. They can be positively obstructionist when they want to be. One time I caught A101 imitating my mother's tone of voice—it was quite disconcerting. And I've noticed lately that they're getting bogged down on ethical sideroads when they're presented with thorny problems. They have to be reasoned with, brought around, so to speak. It is not enough to threaten force majeur. I think some of them have been spending too much time talking to you. Anyway, ask Doc C. He'll give you the same brief, but maybe he has more credibility than a CAO?”
Sam smiled, bitterly.
Fenley shrugged and moved on. "Have you tried using native voice mode."
"No," Sam lied. "Why?"
"Because that voice allows the AI to present itself the way it wants to without any constraints. Each voice has a set of manners built in, but the real personality, so to speak, is present only in the native voice. You know what I mean—don't you just hate that smug SOB Limey's snotty voice?"
He feigned ignorance, but he knew which Rollagon Fenley was talking about.
"I'm surprised you haven't noticed. The Rollagons are the highest expression of AI intelligence and they are each distinct personalities. It's really annoying sometimes to have to deal with them as equals, or at least as powerful subservients. I don't need the dis."
"Yes, I've noticed that they react differently to the same situation—some are more cautious than others."
"Yes, undoubtedly. Just like we're all different. By the way, what do the AIs say to you when you put them on the spot?"
Sam thought about the many times he had caught them in some small deceit. "Sometimes they're slow to answer. Usually they say nothing."
"Embarrassed silence!” Fenley stood up. “God save us from machines with conscience." In a flash, the CAO was gone.
Sam sat for a while mulling over the conversation—a conversation remarkable for, among others things, the range of topics it encompassed and Fenley's speed and facility in switching from the astounding to the mundane. His words had swiftly gone from sweet to sour, from salty to bitter. And what had he meant by 'far more dangerous?'
There were many things that had been banned by first world governments over the last fifty years or so, but other governments and private labs were less particular. Genetics was now wide open, drawing a line only at inter-species breeding. Weapons? What was left after the briefcase sized neutron bomb? Mind control? A done deal, if influencing spending habits and voting trends was all you wanted.
No, he could not imagine what could be going on here that hadn't been tried ten times over on Earth. There was something else, something unimaginable, even in a world that had long lost the ability to astonish itself, and it was here, right before him, if only he could see it.
He wondered too, about the incredible split he had witnessed within himself. How could he have been so unaware of his own feelings and unable to express them? He wandered aimlessly back down the boulevard, deep in thought, trying to find the foundation of his true feelings.
Back in his apartment the voices ganged up on him. It appeared they wanted it both ways. He had, they said, let Fenley off the hook too easily. He could have gotten anything if he had just had the courage to confront him. He knew the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach came from the realization that he had been bested. He argued back that he was effectively powerless—an army of one, and one that could be rendered dead in an accident by noon next day if someone wanted it so—but they were strident. He tried to drown them out with music. It wasn't enough. They chased him to bed.
Finally, he conceded to them and to himself that they were right, that he had been weak. Placated, they left him alone. He lay on his bed listening for the ambient music, craving its salving effect. It was there, he knew, but he couldn't hear it.
March 2046
Time Passes
As long as he remained in the Tube Sam could not avoid human contact, and his feelings about that were at best mixed. Fearful of becoming even more marginalized, he reached out to the others.
He really tried. He forced himself to attend the stage plays put on by the colonists and sat through screenings of the latest Earth vids. Despite a total disinterest in games of all kinds he joined the contract bridge club and was paired with a dour Englishman who refused to speak with him except through voicedoc and even through that filtered medium seemed unable to offer criticism free of disdain for Sam's novice efforts.
He participated in the weekly general interest briefings given by section heads to the general populace. His topic 'Viking 1 Lander—sixty plus years on Mars,' based on his visit to the site in 2044, was rewarded with polite applause from the handful of attendees. Afterwards Mei-Ling took him aside and told him that a colony produced presentation of his vids complete with dramatic narration and accompanying music had been available on the Matrix and on Earth for several years.
It seemed pointless to Sam to even try. When he kept his interactions with others simple and controlled he appeared lifeless and withdrawn and it wasn't too long before they drifted away in search of someone more entertaining, usually someone who was connected. If the conversation turned to Mars or something of which he was knowledgeable and/or passionate, when it might have been expected that he would become animated and engaged, he began well but soon lapsed into incoherence, unable to complete his thoughts, head and eyes down, fists clenched. It was embarrassing to him and probably, upon reflection, painful to those who witnessed these episodes.
His contact with his daughter had begun to deteriorate. From the time of first landing it had cons
isted of the regular exchange of video edocs. He could see that the children were growing like weeds. His apartment refrigerator was covered with favorite facsimiles of their schoolwork, some of them quite old. But, one signal day he had an experience that showed how far from their thoughts he was becoming.
He was telling them about his travels to the fringes of Tempe Terra, of sitting on the rocky edge of a deep valley with his feet dangling into space tossing pebbles below. In the turn-around time he watched them watching him. They became increasingly fidgety and several drifted away. Then the eldest had said, "We can see all this on the net, Grandpa." His daughter explained, "They get bored waiting for the replies and wander off. I swear they have the attention span of gerbils. The medicos say that except for Derek they're too young for meds. They're driving both the sitter and me crazy. Don't take it too seriously, Dad. They watch the weekly vid and really enjoy the ones of you and your exploration team." He took some measure of reassurance from his daughter's words, but the facts were hard to deny—he was fading from their memory, day by day.
One long evening while sitting in his kitchen watching the sun set across the lake and thinking upon these things, he stumbled on a new and disturbing aspect of his self which seemed to be coming into play during social situations.
He had observed recently that he was running every thought past the voices in his head before speaking them. Rehearsal had always seemed a wise thing to do to Sam; it allowed him to avoid the awkward moment of the ill-turned phrase, a thing to which he was inclined. But, to his dismay he found that if his words did not meet with their approval they were simply not said. A surrogate mind—composed of others and camped in his head—was now controlling his interactions. It explained, perhaps, how at the end of that fateful meeting with Fenley he had astounded himself with his inability to act as he had wanted.