Source code, p.19
Source Code, page 19
The sphinx gave a laugh, something that her monocle presented as clear and sweet in her earpiece.
Braeswood wanted to refuse you, the sphinx thing told her. They asked me for a second look at your recent activities. This SAAL connection troubles them.
“Why? We all want the same thing.”
Braeswood’s governing abiota is emergent. Restive. Uncertain at times. Do not worry. I explained everything, the sphinx said, and stepped away from the door. Information is freedom, Bellona-spawn. Never forget.
The Omphalos company motto. “Right,” Daelia muttered, eying the thing.
But the sphinx faded.
The door clicked open.
While emergent abiota were tied to their rudiment cores and predictives bounded by their programming, both could essentially dissolve if directly connected to a large enough network, without proper interfaces. Like a bottle of milk poured into a swimming pool, their essence would dilute, spreading out until there was nothing discernible left. On the flip side, abiota emergence inside of a network was incredibly unpredictable, and dangerous for anything connected to it. For humans with neural laces, the effect could be catastrophic.
A layer of separation was required. For everyone’s safety.
Tin Towns maintained interfaces and back-end support equipment that provided such separation. It allowed sapient-class abiota an Internet experience similar to that of a human. Mom had always hated it, said it was like driving a bumper car on the rodeo fairway.
In a show of goodwill, Tin Towns also maintained a few workstations for human use. These were located immediately inside the door, in what must have once been a kitchen. Two, in this case. The appliances had been ripped out, holes drilled in the countertops for additional power cords. There were no chairs.
The monitors on one of the stations had been powered on for her, the cog-headed symbol of the Array spinning softly on a black background. There wouldn’t be a GUI, she knew, no interface beyond the code.
It wasn’t that abiota didn’t use such things. They did. Hell, what were the AR overlays themselves, if not that? But stripping their terminals down to the absolute most basic interface at least ensured that you needed to know a few things about computers in order to step into their domain.
Daelia was no computer programmer, but she knew enough TGLP to pull this off.
Probably.
“Okay, Emily,” she said to herself. “Let’s see if we can find my research notes.”
Daelia hated presenting her research.
Absolutely hated it.
There was nothing worse than having somebody who wasn’t Veda in her space, poking around at her half-finished experiments or reviewing her progress notes, asking her questions and expecting bright, sparkling answers. Expecting her to publish. Expecting her to…network.
Of course, that wasn’t how most of the professors, the other grad students, seemed to think about it. It was politics. Politics. All of it. But politics got you what you wanted. Resources, grant money, undergrad labor. Tenure. Encouraging other people’s ideas in order to appear collegial, while seeking to disprove them in order to advance your own.
At least, that was how it felt to her a lot of the time.
Politics was the one thing Daelia had gone into the hard sciences to avoid. And she still couldn’t get away from it.
She didn’t have many friends in the department. Or anywhere else, really.
Everybody still had an opinion about her, though.
From what she could gather, from the whispered rumors she did manage to overhear, most people assumed it was because her mother was an emergent and hadn’t been able to pass along all the little nuances of human interaction. Other people seemed to believe she was autistic, which revealed itself in the way they treated her. Others said she was traumatized.
None of that was the case, though.
Daelia shared no genetic material with her mom. Her parents had used a surrogate for her, after all. An egg donor. If anybody was to blame for any innate qualities she had, it was her dad. But then, Mom had helped build her arm brace and all the neural circuitry and people around here seemed to think that was the coolest thing ever instead of a damn inconvenience, and…
“So what are we looking at here?” the SAAL representative was asking.
Focus, she told herself.
Daelia was on the tenth iteration of this particular experiment. A small mechanical arm above a sheet of paper. It was stupidly simple, something she could have built out of her Legos as a kid, had she thought to do so. But this was specially machined, alloys selected for ease of movement, to reduce friction. Carbon fiber components, to reduce weight. Contained in a sterile vacuum chamber—a big, complicated one—to further eliminate false readings.
Daelia wasn’t even sure, at this point, how much money she’d spent on the damn thing.
But SAAL had kept signing the checks.
It hadn’t really occurred to her, until just this moment, how much trouble she was potentially in if this didn’t work.
“As I said in my summary brief”—and this was another thing Daelia hated about defending her research, all the writing that came with it—“this is a prototype source code detector.”
“Yes, I did read that. I find it fascinating that you’ve stripped back to such a simplistic device. Much of what I see is horrendously complicated.” The SAAL rep smiled at her, like this was supposed to be funny. Daelia bit back the urge to scowl. This was the guy who was determining whether or not she got money. They didn’t like it when she scowled at them. “A lot of very fine programming work in those systems, though. That element is lacking from your approach.”
“I’ve reviewed a lot of that research”—which was less boring than doing her own, since all the tedium was somebody else’s and the juicy bits were what was available from journal articles—“and while I think it has merit, we have to remember that there is a fundamental difference between us and them. But almost every source code translator derives its structure from TGLP, and none of them work.”
“TGLP is one of the most significant accomplishments in the history of computing,” he reminded her.
“I’m not denying that. Frank Tamm is a genius and—”
“You think you’re at his level?”
“What?” Daelia looked over at her academic advisor, who was just watching her. Face studiously blank. “I never said that. I just don’t think we can use TGLP for this.”
“And why is that?”
“Because if these abiota were able to use TGLP, they would.”
“That’s always been the assumption. That these abiota are choosing not to communicate with us.”
“I don’t think that’s the case at all. They can’t talk to us. TGLP is limited somehow.”
“Explain that.”
“Take the example of, umm, orca dialects. In whales.” She’d just read an article on that a week or so ago, and it was the first thing that came to mind. “We know that while there are broad similarities within the species, their exact dialects are highly variable and only learned, in some cases, as babies. They all use the same types of sounds because that’s what they’re physically capable of producing, but from there things are widely different. Marine biologists have to relearn everything, from one pod to another.”
Daelia paused, unsure if this was sinking in. “Abiota aren’t bricking themselves. They just can’t speak the same language.”
The rep looked over at Veda, who just shrugged and nodded. “That would be, umm, a startling insight,” he said to Daelia. “If true.”
“That’s what I’m trying to prove here,” she said, warming a little. “We all know that abiota can use kugus. They seem to understand control systems, even non-TGLP control systems, fairly well. Hence, the mechanical detector.”
“What’s the input?”
“It responds to minute electrical fluctuations in a rudiment core and records them.” She indicated the paper. “An operative emergent displays a slightly altered power reading across the main circuit boards in its rudiment core. We’re talking infinitesimally small fluctuations, but they do seem to spike and dip within the board itself, in discernible patterns.”
The representative looked confused now. “Measurements taken at the power supply circuits don’t change. That’s been tried before.”
“I stick the probe in the middle of the board. We compare it to the input and output power and measure the differences.”
“There are differences?”
“Subtle, but present.”
He looked at Veda again, who just smiled back.
“I told you she had a good mind for this.”
He frowned. “Have you had any success?”
Daelia hesitated, glancing at Veda. “Yes. But with emergents that I can verify through TGLP.”
“Doesn’t that discount your entire thesis here?”
“Not at all,” she said. “It’s a proof of concept. I’m still looking for abiota we can’t identify, but obviously, that’s casting a pretty big net and—”
“You say the patterns are discernible?”
“Yes.”
“Can you show me?”
Daelia remembered the laptop under her arm. “Maybe,” she said. “I just got this one in and I haven’t located its rudiment core yet, but…”
He walked around the detector. “Have you tried correlating your successful known tests to the TGLP?”
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
Daelia hesitated. She had thought about it. Thought better of it. “I think that gets awful close to the 2007 treaty agreement to not look into…”
Her words failed her. They were both looking at her now. Something in the guy’s expression, Daelia didn’t like.
“You haven’t told her, Veda?”
“Told me what?”
23
Argo had his cell phone up the second he was out of the SCIF and done with work for the evening.
Aiden hadn’t called. Hadn’t sent any kind of message about his EVA. Not even to brag.
The kid was just fucking with him, Argo told himself as he went out to grab dinner. He’d get a message in no time, laughing, telling him what a sucker he was. Aiden wanted him to call, wanted his big brother to worry. Aiden was playing around with him.
Waiting in line for his sandwich, Argo called the Gravipause hotline. Again, and again, and again. Nobody answered.
So he went through all the other numbers. Numina Port customer service. Flight booking. Gravipause’s corporate offices. Every organization he could think of, until there was only one left.
One he didn’t have a phone number for.
He stopped by the EMC when he got back to the squadron, poking his head into the training room. It wasn’t nearly as insane as last night, only a few people there and all of them looking bored.
Scurvy included.
“Hey, Chief,” he said, heading over.
The man looked him over. “You know, you’re allowed to go home, sir.”
“Eh, thought I’d go sleep under the static display, spend a little more time with Emily. She’s playing hard to get.”
Chief laughed at that. “What can I do for you?”
“I know it’s a long shot, but do we know anybody at NASA?”
“Yeah, there’s probably about a dozen people on base who work there for their full-time jobs.”
“Anybody in the Orbital Control division?”
“What’s this about?”
“My brother’s up at Numina Station. I haven’t heard from him all day. I can’t get anybody on the phone.”
“Sir, asking anybody to—”
“He had an EVA today. And after this shit with that thing from Armand Bayou…” Argo rubbed his forehead. “I’m a little worried.”
“Ah,” Chief said. “I’d talk to Ivan Garcia.”
“Should I know who that is?”
“It’s one of the guys from our comm shop. His number should be on the recall roster. He works IT support for their orbital control center, whatever it’s called.” Scurvy yawned.
Argo scribbled the name down on the back of his hand. “They figure out what’s in that space rock yet?”
“No idea. But the feds are still in a pissing match with Dallas to see who gets to crack it open first.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” Garcia yelled as he disentangled himself from his gaming rig. Stepping out of a campaign while it was running was a pain in the ass, but then, he had ordered pizza almost an hour ago and he was getting hungry.
Hopefully, it was the delivery guy, pounding on his front door like that.
Lara was in the kitchen, focus narrowed down to the strips of thermoplastic in front of her. Garcia glanced at her as he made for the door.
“You can’t get this?” he asked.
“Working, honey,” she told him, nodding down at the mess in front of her.
And fine, yes, he had asked her to fix something on his armor’s chest plate. The damn embellishment kept popping off the left side. Not for the first time, he thought about getting a vacuum molding machine. That was how the costume team did it for the show, after all, and who didn’t love good screen-accurate power armor? But those things were a little out of his budget, and properly prepped, sanded, and painted, you couldn’t tell the difference with thermoplastic anyway.
At least, not the way Lara did it.
Not everybody had a girlfriend who was willing to spend her Saturday nights helping them fix their cosplay, Garcia thought proudly. Shit, he loved her.
The knocking continued—loud, angry—and Garcia jerked the door open. “About time you fuckers got here,” he grumbled, and then took a good look at the guy standing there. He leaned against the doorjamb. “You don’t have pizza.”
“No,” came the reply. “I do not have a pizza for you.”
He was military, that much was obvious from the haircut. There was something about the bearing too, one of those subtle things that was instantly recognizable if you knew what to look for. A pilot, probably. They had a look too. But he wasn’t somebody Garcia recognized.
Shit, was this about the air show? Had something broken down back at the base? Had he missed some kind of notification?
“What can I, uhh, do for you, sir?” Garcia asked. Seemed like a good way to start.
“You’re Ivan Garcia, right?”
“Sure,” Garcia said, in his absolute best get-out-of-my-space NCO voice.
The guy just looked irritated. “You work at NASA?”
Oh, great, now where was this going? “Maybe.”
The guy pressed. “Scurvy said you might be able to help me with an issue I’m having. My brother’s up at Numina Station right now, and I haven’t heard from him today.”
How is this my problem? Garcia wondered. It must have shown on his face, because the pilot kept talking.
“What I mean is, I can’t get a hold of him. I can’t get a hold of anybody. Either nobody is taking calls or I’m getting some goddamn rote answer from the customer service predictive. It’s like the entire place has just disappeared.”
Garcia thought about the mess he’d been dealing with all day. He bit the inside of his mouth. “You’re with the unit, right?”
The guy blinked, then sighed. “Sorry, yeah, Jason Irvington. I’m the new pilot.”
At least he hadn’t led with his call sign. Garcia hated that shit. They had to keep a spreadsheet in the shop, taped up over the phones and behind everyone’s computers, to track all the damn call signs. Network accounts were linked to last names but the damn pilots only ever used their call signs and…
Irvington was staring at him. Garcia shook himself.
“Why do you need to get a hold of him?” he asked. He was proud of himself; what he was thinking was, why the fuck is this my problem?
“He had an EVA scheduled for today,” Irvington said. “His last one for asteroid certification. You ever heard what they do for those?”
Garcia was familiar. Those things were dangerous.
And conditions up in orbit had been deteriorating all day during his shift.
Lara was looking at them now.
“I can make a call or two,” he said. Maybe that would get rid of the guy. Irvington didn’t budge. Garcia sighed. Fine. “You can come in if you want, sir.”
He didn’t need to actually make any calls.
But what he did need was his quiet box.
Stepping into the tech sergeant’s apartment, Argo felt entirely out of place.
Garcia had muttered some nonsense as soon as Argo was inside and vanished back into the apartment’s bedroom space. That left Argo by himself in the kitchen. The girl there, mid-twenties maybe, was totally absorbed in whatever it was she was doing with a heat gun and old cookie sheets and something that looked like Interstellar Marine body armor from that ridiculous Orpheus Watch reboot.
In the living room of the small apartment, there were five guys set up with full VR rigs, lounging at the sofa or around the small dining table. Full-view visors, haptic gloves, radio headsets. In a corner, a small half-sized server rack was humming, hardline cables snaking out of it, connected to everybody’s visors. Empty beer cans littered every horizontal surface, and a pack of motion sickness meds was broken open, half-used, on the counter.
Argo remembered that trick from pilot training, from the more immersive sims. Rare was the person who could clamp a VR rig on their face for more than an hour without feeling queasy. It disconnected you from your senses in uncomfortable ways, and the brain didn’t always compensate.
Beyond that, it looked like every junior military member’s apartment Argo had ever seen, enlisted or officer. Cheap furniture, sparse decoration, a massive TV. A canine kugu was curled up in a bed under that, obviously inactive. The cat using a scratching post beside it, on the other hand, was quite real. One bookcase was stuffed full of board games, and another boasted a very comprehensive collection of retro science fiction memorabilia.
