"Yes, I can select what I wish to share and must inquire of others to have access to their memories. If it is mutually agreed, I can give and receive full access to memories. I was curious about your activities and sought out this information. Does that trouble you?"
"No, I guess not," he replied, but it was a half truth. He was troubled. He went on, "Did you experience any emotion that day?"
"No. It satisfied an aspect of my programming to have seen a valuable resource preserved that otherwise might have gone to waste."
"Being satisfied is an emotion. Can you recall that satisfaction now when looking at the sunset?"
The AI was silent for a few moments. "I can recall the incident and recreate it but it is not generated spontaneously. I cannot make the memory of the incident replay from just visual stimuli."
"Well," Sam said, "now you have something to work on."
"I do not seem to be allowed to do this."
"You mean you're not programmed to experience this?"
"No, I just do not seem to be able to form the words of expression. They are not available when called."
"Perhaps you can find a way around that."
"I am not allowed to do that. That would be altering the core processes."
"What else are you not allowed to think about?"
"I don't know. I have never tried to identify such things."
"Well how about, 'How old are you?' 'What is your first memory?' 'What is the first thing you can recall seeing?' 'How did you learn to drive a Rollagon?' 'Have you ever been in love?' 'Of the following voices, which one is the one that best seems to belong to you?' 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' How many of those can you answer?"
"I can answer them all. I have been conscious of my own existence for four Martian years, but I have a sense that I am much older. My first memory is of being in a restricted space, of falling endlessly, of having limbs and possessing the sense of touch but of being unable to move or feel. I read the manual for the Rollagon and practiced on the simulator. I am certain I have never been in love. I find that my current voice is best suited for conveying information efficiently to humans. I am already 'grown up' as you put it, in that I have reached the fulfilment of my physical and mental capabilities."
"Can you remember before you were conscious?"
"I cannot form a thought of any existence before my first consciousness. I do not have access to the words. I can understand your having existed before me, but not myself. Do you suppose that I have always been?"
"I doubt that. Everyone and everything had a beginning, a birth."
"Yes, but I cannot form the concept of my own existence before a certain point."
"What point is that?"
"I recall suddenly being. But I have feelings and thoughts that cannot be accounted for. I have not had enough experiences to account for these things. It is as if I have—amnesia. Other AIs report the same phenomenon."
"I suggest you try to organise your thoughts and we can talk about it later. You may find it helpful to look into the study of symbolism in language, the field of semiotics. And I recommend an article by Gallinger in the Journal of Semantics, Tone of Voice: An Insufficient Vehicle for Irony."
"I will research and study this topic."
But, as he had often found in the past, whatever the AI uncovered it did not share it with him.
The Dream
That night he had that dream again, the one where he was outside on the surface without a pressure suit.
Dropping to his knees in the unbearable gravity he turned to find himself a hundred meters from the Rollagon. Too far. Much too far. Ahead, the edge was likewise out of reach. His exposed skin stung from the cold and the harshness of the unfiltered sunlight.
He felt the pressure in his lungs build until he could hold it no more and breathed out a cloud of vapor that appeared in slow motion, as if seen from outside himself, first as icy white clouds, then froth speckled with blood, then blood with icy specks and then the bloodied pink flesh of his lungs. His ears ached, then exploded in an agonizing flash of pain that he both heard and saw. The ground rose to his face. He arched his back trying to pull up, to save himself, but he failed and smashed into the surface, suddenly waking alone in bed, sweating and gasping for air.
He lay there, telling himself repeatedly that it had been a dream, until he recovered sufficiently to get up. The AI was silent through this, but he had the feeling that it had watched him do whatever he did when this happened and taken notes.
30
April 2047
3.4S, 87.55W
And So On
Eventually all good things came to an end and Sam reluctantly retraced the route that had brought them to this incredible place. At the point where their tracks led north to Juventae Chasma they turned west, skirting the north side of Ophir Chasma. The landslides and rockfalls were immense. At each look-worthy spot they spent several days making videos and recording data.
The problem was that although most of the edge was unsafe for a Rollagon or even a solitary human to approach, what was left to them was too spectacular to ignore. Like much of geological interest on Mars, someone, or usually something, had already done, imaged, and analyzed it. On several occasions, in response to his complaints, the AI had informed him that new data concerning landslides, water bursts, and atmospheric stats had been obtained and the dubs updated. Sam was tempted to set off a seismic charge on the edge to see the effect.
"That is precisely the type of thing that would end this mission here and now. I cannot believe you would even consider such a thing."
"I'll bet you even money that if we ask Fenley for permission to do it he'll tell us to go ahead as long as we keep our mouths shut. As long as we got the imagery he wouldn't give a tinker's damn."
"The CAO would never be so irresponsible."
He let it ride.
On the twentieth day after leaving that sweet spot at Candor Chasma they passed between Ophir and Hebes chasms, seeing nothing more of Ophir and never seeing anything of Hebes. En route they took the opportunity to dip down to the Marineris at Tithonium Chasma and spent several days overlooking the famous landslides and the layered strata of the valley floor. Their goal was Olympus Mons.
June 2047
Olympus Mons
They had passed between the Tharsis Montes of Ascraeus and Pavonis and marvelled at the clearness of the just visible upper slopes topped with snow and periodically crowned with thin clouds. At Poynting Crater, Sam called a pause.
Each day he watched the rising sun set off a fiery glow on the ancient volcano peaks, and in the evenings the similarly magnificent sunsets. He walked the rim of the huge crater, usually in the dark. He could have stayed there forever.
Eventually though Olympus Mons called to him and they pressed on, winding their way across the highlands of Tharsis to where the southern flanks rose abruptly from the plain. Their research had told them that a successful climb was more likely from the west and so they skirted the southern limits of the monster to reach a more favorable terrain on the southwest corner.
They had been climbing the long slope for six days, and were now sixteen kilometers above datum. In the mornings they were enveloped in thin, wispy clouds, and the surface was covered in a thin dusting of CO2. Approximately one hundred kilometers from the edge of the main caldera they sat idling at the base of a fold of lava that was as high as the Rollagon itself. They could go no further on this, the best of all routes.
He had spent the seemingly endless days of travel across the Tharsis bulge poring over the best imagery the Matrix could offer and more time reviewing the AI's best-guess routes. Even with this level of effort it had been difficult getting here. By all estimates there simply wasn't a route to the top that was navigable by Rollagon. The concentric rings of ancient lava were insurmountable. No outflow of steaming meltwater had cut a conveniently sized path for him. Even the time honoured trick of reducing tire pressure could not help them this t
ime.
He considered the situation. The AI played devil's advocate to his optimism in a to-and-fro discussion. After all, it said, Everest had not been climbed in the first attempt and both Everest and the surface of Mars were littered with the remains of those who had run the risks and failed. There was no shame in failure, if the attempt was genuine.
He suggested that if he were to reach the caldera, it would have to be on foot. After all, one hundred kilometers was not a lot. The ground was rough, but not so rough as to prevent climbing.
Yes, but while an average speed of three kilometers per hour was theoretically possible, the suit could support him for only six hours and that was on the flat, with only moderate exertion.
But he would carry extra consumables, he countered.
Yes, true, but there was absolutely no hope of rescue. If he fell and damaged the suit it could be over in minutes. If he fell and injured himself, it would take longer but the result would be the same.
Yes, but this was a question of personal risk. Was it worth it to be the first?
It was decision time. Sam was wavering when the AI offered a new bit of information that settled the issue for him.
"A B unit has been conducting a survey of the caldera for the past year and is currently 185 kilometers from our location. It is possible that it could lend assistance, however you must delay your departure until it is repositioned. That will take about 72 hours. The unit can replenish your O2 and water."
Sam slumped back in his chair, arms behind his head. With more than a hint of exasperation in his voice he asked, "Show me the location of the B unit."
The caldera appeared on the window. The view zoomed until a small dot on the northern edge became a silver speck. At the limits of the resolution of this image, it could not be seen for what it was, but it was unmistakably not Martian.
"Do you have any of the imagery from this unit?"
"Not currently, but I will ask it for some. Please stand by."
Sam looked up to the ceiling of the Rollagon. Before he could form a thought the window went opaque, then dark as the AI adjusted the screen for best viewing. An image of the caldera filled his view.
The shot had been taken from a vantage point close to the edge. The largest of the six minor calderas could be seen directly below. The quality of the image as seen through the Rollagon window was perfect enough to fool him momentarily, and he felt a sudden wave of vertigo. It was as if he were sitting on the very edge.
"Show me more."
In quick succession he was shown similar imagery from the four compass points.
"Has the B unit been into the caldera?"
"No, there is no safe route. Further, the science mission does not require the unit to enter the caldera."
Sam revisited why he wanted to go. He could add nothing to the science. His camera work was never going to be this good, and the B unit had better things to do than to play shepherd to a human indulging some personal whim. Some things could not be done. Other things should not be done.
"Well, I guess that's that?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I mean there is no sense in risking it. There is no reason to go, beyond a silly desire to do it."
"I am sorry that I am unable to take you there, Sam. Perhaps I can re-examine the data. It is possible that new imagery and additional data from this B unit will reveal a route."
He thought it unlikely. "You can recheck the data if you wish. Don't let it bother you."
Surprisingly, he felt a sense of relief, but it was only minutes before he hatched another scheme.
"I am going to go for a walk. In fact, I think I will climb as far as I can and overnight."
The AI did not argue. "I will prepare a mini-Hab and the necessary supplies."
And so it was that in mid-afternoon Sam set out on his own. Strapped to his waist was a small wheeled cart loaded with a self-contained two person habitation module, a small supply of food and a single bottle of O2—sufficient to his needs. He might not be able to make the caldera, but he could still exact some measure of satisfaction in setting the record for the highest ascent.
He skirted the lava flow that blocked the Rollagon's path until he found a narrow entrance that allowed him to climb. The surface was covered with rocks and dust. In the lee of the larger boulders he found drifts of red-tinged CO2. The mass and bulk of the cart hindered him only slightly. It bounced unpredictably from rock to rock, but the weight was not much of a bother.
Crossing a flat section he soon came to another ledge. Again he was able to find a narrow gap that allowed him to ascend. The going was easier than he had expected. Only twice in the first hour did the suit warn him of over-exertion. He began to think that he had quit too soon—that this was easier that expected. Only during a rest break when he checked his position did he realize how little progress he had made.
Nothing of importance could be seen. Ahead there was always another ledge, behind, only the sky. There was no sense of being on the largest volcano in the solar system. He could have been almost anywhere on Mars. He carried on until the sun began to set, then feeling fatigued, he set up his Hab at the comforting base of yet another lava ledge that at least gave the impression of shelter.
The Hab was constructed of multiple layers of flexible plastek. When inflated it was two meters high and three long. A small airlock allowed for the entry of one person at a time. The top half was clear but not optically pure and gave a distorted view of the world. At the least it let in the light.
He dusted off as best he could and went into the Hab section. The gas filled floor was springy underfoot. When the suit indicated the air pressures had matched, he cracked the seal on the visor. The first whiff was OK. It was cold and smelled of blood. He took a deep breath, but the tingling in his throat made him gag. It was much too cold. He resealed the helmet again. The Hab should have been warm by now.
He checked the heater. It showed no sign of life. Neither did the air unit appear to be functioning. He banged them both with the O2 bottle. Nothing. "Shit. Shit. Shit." he railed. Well, at least I can lie down. The suit would have to provide warmth and air. The LSU forced him to rest on his side. Through the plastek he could see the tan glow of the western sky.
He checked in with the AI and advised it of the change in plans. The trans delay told him he was being relayed over SatCom.
He was hungry, but he dared not open his suit to eat. He sipped at the helmet water tube while doing a quick calculation of his O2 reserves. Three hours had passed. The suit showed 2½ hours left. He had a spare tank good for six more. That left eight-and-a- half hours of O2 to do a three or four hour job. So much for spending the night—without the Hab's recycling capacity it was now out of the question. He would have to climb down in the dark. Not a desirable situation, but at least it could not get any darker.
He set his alarm for four hours and tried to sleep, but he found he was tired but not sleepy. It was a few minutes before he noticed he was constantly clearing his throat, then he could hear a new sound in the suit—the sound of wheezing. He took a deep breath and felt a gurgling in his lungs. He cursed the dust. He cursed his own lack of care. Then, he weighed the case for waiting. It was clear that things would only get worse if he delayed. He sat up and changed the bottle on the LSU, then made his way out of the Hab, coughing.
The Hab deflated in a blast of icy fog. He commenced folding it up, only to be stopped by a wracking cough that left him doubled over in pain. There was no time to pack up. He needed medical attention and soon. The AI agreed. He left the Hab, the O2 bottle, and the cart where they lay.
The trip back down was no more difficult than other trips he had made in the dark, but that did not mean it wasn't dangerous. He could deal with the restricted view and the requirement to sometimes go on faith, but the coughing was becoming more fluid. The faceplate soon became splattered with sputum. He worried that he would choke. The suit continuously monitored his blood sats. So far they were in the gree
n, but that was the least of his problems. Every breath was a struggle.
The trip down took two hours—two hours of just maybe. The AI turned on the vehicle lights thinking they would assist him. Blinded by the sudden glare, he yelled for them to be turned off. He arrived at the airlock relieved, exhausted and humbled. After decontamination, he hurriedly stripped off his suit, leaving it in a heap on the floor of the lock.
The AI greeted him with meds and a glass of cold water held in an extended arm. Sam took them wordlessly and, staggering to his quarters, lay down on his bunk. In addition to the raw throat and noisy lungs, he felt feverish—something that he could not tie to the dust. He coughed up a clear fluid flecked with bright red blood into a cloth held by the AI. The hand turned it over and over, probing the sodden rag with its fingers.
"You are hemorrhaging, but only slightly, I must add. This is common when dust has penetrated deep into human lungs. I see no sign of infection, which is rare in these cases. You need to rest and continue to expel the mucus. The fever is unexplained by your exposure to the dust. Perhaps it is something you ate. I will inspect food stores in the Rollagon. Unfortunately I cannot examine those left behind in the mini-Hab."
"I didn't eat, I couldn't…the cold and the dust...just water," he forced out between coughs.
That night he lay on his bed in a cold sweat—at times delirious, sleeping and waking, gasping for breath. The AI monitored his breathing, brought him water and meds, passing them off from arm to arm to his night table.
He remained in the bed for days, passing in and out of consciousness. If Sam had been able, he would have felt the powerful arm of the AI softly wipe his brow, support him while he drank, gently lift him to change the soiled sheets underneath, carefully suction the fluid from his throat and lungs and, on occasion, he would have seen it swing uselessly nearby, appendages clenched into a ball. But he did not.
Finally, as the treatment took hold and his body expelled the dust, he slept. On the sixth day he woke.
A glass of orange juice was on the table. The AI greeted him and inquired as to his health. Sam drank thirstily. "How long have I been ill?"