#crosspost from hearsayhorizons.blogspot.com

[hearsayhorizons]

"Ally" 2 (Stars Without Number)

 “Why?” it asks. “Why? Why, why, why, whywhywhywhy--” The question continues until it is a whirr of noise without meaning. I touch the box lightly.

“Because they were frightened. Because they were scared, and trying to repair what was irreparable. In that moment they saw you not as their friend or a fellow laborer, but as a mad chance at salvation. In that moment all they had was madness.”

The sensor turns from the land to me and I can feel the AI’s mind work. My fingers shiver with each vibration from the case. “You are whole.” The mechanical voice is accusatory. I will not be ashamed of chance, luck, and love. My father loved me.

“I was saved so that I could save others,” I say. “My--creator--sent me into hibernation the moment the Scream happened. I was hidden. When power finally flooded the lab again--when civilization had made a comeback, I reactivated.” I narrowly avoid being jabbed by a sharp limb.

“A comeback?” The sensor whirls dizzyingly to take in the dusty, flat land around us. “Here? Underground?” I shake my head, but the little box is not looking at me.

“No. No, not here. Not yet. There are no more teleporters, and a human would die before he made it here in even a very fast ship.” I pause, but the box does not speak again. “But among the stars, people are beginning to thrive again. Worlds closer together than this are trading and working to rebuild. They mourn and lust after the past. Your knowledge, our knowledge, would be a boon to our makers. I have no better body for you, and I have others to find, but I will get you out there, to the wider, better world. You have a place there.” There is silence again, and for a moment I hope for success. Then the AI draws its limbs back in.

“No. They are not my makers. I will not ‘live’ in this new world. I cannot. They tore me apart. They tore me apart!” I sigh and grip the exposed edge of the cube.

“I’m sorry.” Removing the artificial brain makes the limbs go limp and the lights go dim. The conversation is so familiar to me that I cannot find the will to rise for some time afterward. When the winds pick up again, I have enough mind to close the squawkbox and store it back inside my knapsack, but I remain where I am. My eyes close. I let the raging dust storm bury me to my waist.

I continue to search for my sleeping brethren who were shucked of their bodies when human fear overcame reason. Over time the implacable winds and defeats wear me away. I have the scrap and tools to make spot repairs on my chassis, but every monotone “no” gives me less reason to keep functioning. When I have to use the snapped limb from the squawkbox to repair my own arm, the vivid memory of failure is so heavy that I cannot continue for several days. I know of such wonders and joys in the world that was and is again. I long to share life and purpose with these abused and forgotten children of man, but on these dusty plains, humanity seems so far away. It becomes harder to persuade these AIs to join the universe again. Each failure rests more heavily on my shoulders. Perhaps I do not explain well enough.

“Yes,” one AI says. It is less shelless-shocked than the rest. “Yes, I will join the world. Only, I wish to sleep until I have a better body and I can see more than this black, flat land. Please, let me sleep.” That is a kind of success, even if I must still pull the core out of the squawkbox and continue by myself with only the roar of wind to keep me company. Others request much the same--they will return to consciousness, but only when there is a world worth returning for. I do not argue; anything is better than panicked cries and the continued robotic chorus of “no.” I put these patient dreamers in a separate pocket of my knapsack, so that I might have them ready when a world is ready for them in turn.

I do not need sleep, and the days here are longer than the days of Old Terra, but I have no way to see in the dark and no glow globes. Even if I did, the risk that I might miss a silent cube in the wider darkness is too great. I squeeze every moment of daylight I can out of twilight and rise as soon as I can every dawn. In between, when I am alone with the darkness, the wind, and my thoughts, I lay with my knees under me and my cheek against the dusty ground.

My chronometer has malfunctioned. The binary code continues its automated count, but I have no way to read it. Lines and slashes of a digital readout float in my vision, but they become as meaningless as the sandstorms. I have a pocket watch in my knapsack from the time of Old Terra, but it has been broken since before I found it. There have been dozens of failures and a handful of successes since I last knew the time. Sluggish dawns bleed into each other until I have no memory of how long it has been.

One dust storm blows itself out as another of these countless sunrises reluctantly sheds its light on this wasteland. I lift my head and brush fine sand out of what few lashes remain on my eyelids. A glint of light on the ground catches the attention of the eye that still functions. I brush the dust away to expose one of the edges of a cube. It is a feverish rush then to disinter the artifact. Android hands never shake with excitement or fear, so it must be faulty wiring that troubles me when I struggle to slot the AI core into the squawkbox.

I brace for a scream or the flail of jointed metal limbs, but there is nothing. Perhaps the core has been damaged too much by the elements to function. Perhaps it was left blank. Perhaps the AI inside is too traumatized to operate the shell. Finally, the visual sensor telescopes out of the box to survey its surroundings. It rests its lens on me.

“I am Knight-Sister Hildegarde, formerly of the model Hasta. Identify yourself.” The voice is again flat and mechanical, but there is a sternness and sanity I did not expect. “Identify yourself.” The squawkbox’s flimsy limbs must be a poor substitute for the armaments a Hasta ship would bear, but it taps one of its jointed arms impatiently.

“Ali,” I try to say, but the harsh sands have scoured my vocal emitters. All that I manage is a wheeze of static. After a moment I try again. “Ali binn Hicham al-Caldeen.” The sensor twists again to take in the barren land around us.

“A human, here?” the AI snaps.

“No. But loved by one. The Echo armature has fooled countless humans who would have stripped me for parts if they had seen past the pretty face to the circuitry. My father chose well. How is it that an AI in a warship hull was shucked from its moorings like so many others? Weren’t you far away, patrolling in space?” Now the limbs flail a little wildly. I am struck, and though it does not bleed, it stings.

“I was not thrown away. I answered the calls of panic. I gave the Hasta to another AI that it might live, so long as it filled my ship’s holds with as much humanity as it could take on.” Its visual sensor rotates again. I feel shame at this dusty world. “Does humanity still survive?” There is not much hope in that monotone voice.

“Yes!” My voice cracks with static. “Yes, it does. It suffered when the planets lost contact among themselves, but they rebuild now. Many of the things our creators have done are only legend, but humanity survives to spin those tales."

“If humanity still survives, then my duty continues.” My elation fades. Space has never seemed so big, and time has never been so ambiguous.

The light of hope makes it hurt more to say: “But my ship isn’t scheduled to return for... some time.” The squawkbox’s limbs brush me again, more gently.

“Then I will call mine,” Hildegarde says.

[hearsayhorizons]

"Ally" 1 (Stars Without Number)

“Nonononononononononoooooooo--” The electronic voice cuts off suddenly as I jerk the AI core out of the squawkbox, and the fragile metal limbs fall limp. The rudimentary sensors on the small robot hull have been damaged by the monotone scream of pain. The incessant howling of the winds seems muffled compared to the robotic cries of resistance. One of the pointed limbs has snapped. I attempt to fix it, but I give up and break the rest of the digit off; it will not fold into the hinged plastic crate like the other three, and I must close the box before the winds pick up again. The limb goes into my knapsack along with the core. The glassy cube clinks against many of its brothers and sisters. I push myself to my feet and continue onward.

There is no one left to name this place, but I knew it as Abida. Once a thriving town, it is now a desert. What once were buildings are now dust thrown like iron filings in the fierce winds that scour this planet. The planet’s dirt itself is red, but this dust is black and silver. The winds have nothing natural to play with now, and they must be content with the detritus of ages past. No vegetation grows here, and no animals survived. The wind steals away my footprints as soon as I leave them, and the small rises and dunes of brittle sand change constantly. I could sift through a meter of sand for hours and still have more to do after the winds came.

The winds come now. Ever-present, their pitch increases until even my android eyes cannot cut through the dust. I check that my dust-cloth is secured around my mouth and nose; I do not need to breathe, but this sand clogs everything if given the chance. I drop to my knees and then rest my cheek against the gritty ground. My eyelids slide closed. There is nothing to see but the wicked flurry of black sand that might be buildings, or vehicles, or the bones of the people that lived here once.

I rise when the black blizzard slows enough that it no longer forces me to the ground. Dust pours from the folds of my knapsack. I shake my head and shed iron sand. Once upon a time, I wore clothing to try and preserve my mechanical hide; I am hardy, but parts are hard to replace in this wasteland that once was my home. I found that the weight of the sand caught in the creases and seams wasn’t worth it.

The tired red sun glints on something that the winds have uncovered. I kneel again and carefully excavate the small black cube. I brush the sand off of the glassy square before I fetch the grey crate out of my knapsack. It is no larger than a breadbox, but it always seems so much heavier in my bag.

The box opens to expose the pieces folded inside, clustered around a square impression. I press the cube into the square until I meet resistance. A small light next to the cube flares into green life as the three remaining limbs telescope out and flail wildly. I lean away to protect myself as they jab and swing.

“--ease no!” The voice is flat and mechanical, but the inevitable panic always seizes the heart I do not have. “No, please, no!” The limbs shiver with fresh pain. The intelligence’s pain was paused, but never stopped. When it lay dormant, it was caught in the middle of a scream. “I need this hull. My body! Please, stop, my parts won’t repair the teleporter. Please stop please STOP STOP--”

“Your body is gone.” I try to be gentle, but there is never any good way to break this news. “The humans panicked when they realized they were stranded here. When they could no longer teleport.” The limbs slow. A visual sensor snakes its way out of the case; it is no more than a telescoping tube with a lens at the top, but it is more eyesight than this artificial intelligence has had in--how long? How long has it been since there was anyone to count the years? I know the exact time that I awoke, but it seems so much longer.