She gazed up at him then. In her face he saw anxiety and desperation, he saw guilt, and above all how badly she wanted him to understand and forgive her for what she was going to tell him. When she spoke it was with the soft, fearful voice of confession.
“I don’t want to be another Ursula, or anyone else’s Ursula, and I don’t want some thing to be so much like me it can take my place.”
The snow was still coming down with a vengeance. Wind gusts swept it up and flung it around, reducing visibility to the point where it blotted out nearly all sight of the birdfeeder only thirty feet from the window. Key knew that if it kept up like this he might well end up sleeping in his chair, a prospect he found a lot less pleasant than he’d made it sound to Rafe.
He chuckled and shook his head in amusement at how some of his own predictions had turned out to be about as on track as the weather forecast.
It was pretty funny, really. Grand Whooboo Computer Whiz Keenan Capra, who supposedly knew as much about AI and AE as anyone alive, had painted himself into one hell of a comer.
Ursula had achieved AE status, no doubt about that. She hadn’t merely slipped through the Keyhole either. She’d blown the door right off its goddamned hinges.
What he had failed to foresee was that just as AE lay beyond AI, beyond AE was an even higher state that he hadn’t envisioned but which was now painfully obvious in light of her sense of identity and self having become so well-developed that they conflicted with the expectations he’d unconsciously applied to her because of her beginnings as an AI.
What it boiled down to was his expecting her to act artificial.
She had transcended being a mere Artificial Entity and recreated herself as what could only be called an Artificial—or maybe more properly Virtual—Person. There were many differences between the two, but the one turning his view of her upside down most was that he’d viewed an AE as a commodity; a purebred dog you have raised and trained for resale, a smartdrug-fed chimp who could do calculus and standup comedy. A being, but still essentially a thing on the human Rate-O-Matic.
But if she was a person, artificial or not, then he was neck deep in a whole other kettle of ethical and moral fish. You couldn’t ask or order a person to risk her identity—her life-—trying to duplicate herself so she could be sold off like a box of Cracker Jack with a 21st-century prize inside.
At least he couldn’t, any more than old Pygmalion could have taken his Galatea down from her pedestal only to put her up on the auction block with a gentleman, wait until you see the tricks this beauty can do! pimp’s grin on his face.
He’d given her the busywork of trying to figure out how to box up just enough of herself to form the basis of a dumb and ugly AE sister with the potential to become something like her, but not be her. Think Elvis impersonator, had been the way he put it.
Busywork to buy him time to ponder matters which were making his head feel about five sizes too small. He backed his chair around to watch her on the big screen. She was hunched over a keyboard with her sleeves rolled up—a nice touch, that—working diligently on the task he’d given her. He had to wonder if she believed that her own survival as herself depended on providing him with a useful marketable replica. It didn’t, but up to just an hour ago she’d been dutifully if half-heartedly trying to box herself so she could be sold. That suggested either an almost frightening loyalty or a scary sort of slave mentality.
But it wasn’t just as simple as saying, Sure, you don’t have to box if you don’t want to. If she couldn’t box then they had a big problem they were going to have to work out ASAP.
Until they were boxed, AIs—and by extension AEs and beyond—were rather like experimental hothouse orchids; unique and delicate creations grown and maintained under rigidly controlled conditions. Until they have flowered and their essence could be captured by boxing they were vulnerable, irreplacable. Once boxed the loss of the original AI would be a tragedy, but not a catastrophe since an all but identical duplicate could be unboxed to take its place. But if something like a major equipment failure happened before boxing was complete, they were lost beyond any reclaiming.
There was only one Ursula, and it seemed there would never be another. But until some sort of boxing or uploading provisions were made she would be vulnerable, completely dependent on the platform she lived inside for her continued survival.
All right, my pretty hothouse flower, he thought, I guess it’s time we had a little talk about your future.
He closed his lingers around the joystick and started his chair rolling toward the worktable.
He was not quite halfway there when the lights went out.
The room went dark, lit only by the grey storm semi-twilight coming from the windows. Up to that moment he had hardly noticed the furnace’s subterranean rumble. It became all too apparent as it faded away.
“Key?” Ursula called uncertainly. On the screen her face was wide-eyed with surprise. He probably looked a little taken aback himself.
“I’m here, love.”
“Where did the power go?”
“I don’t know. Your UPS kicked in… all right, didn’t it?” He knew that was a stupid question the moment he asked it. If her uninterruptible power supply hadn’t performed properly he wouldn’t be talking to her.
“Yes, it did.”
“Great. Now we just wait for… the juice to come back on… or for the generator to start.”
“OK.” Her voice was that of someone who’d been badly shaken and was working overtime to remain calm. No surprise there, she’d never experienced a power loss before. It had to be like having the air or gravity suddenly vanishing for her.
Come on, he commanded silently. Start up already!
Almost as if his thought had been heard and obeyed, he caught the muted, car-in-the-driveway sound of the generator starting up. Seconds later the lights blazed up, and the furnace grumbled back to work.
“There. See?” He did his best to sound blase, earning a C+ at best. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Her voice also said something other than her words. “What do you think happened?”
He shrugged as he continued on to the worktable. “Hard to say. A downed powerline. Some other problem. They’ll probably have it fixed… in just a few minutes. When they do the generator… will shut off.”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “That was kind of scary.”
“Tell me about it. We re both pretty dependent… on electricity.”
The moment he said that he realized that he’d been running his respirator off its battery pack all day. Because he’d let himself get sloppy about plugging in its charger/converter while he was working. Because it was a pain in the ass to unplug every time he wanted to move around. And besides, all he had to do was plug in when the pack was low.
But if the power went out and stayed out—
Once again it was as if his thoughts had been overheard and actualized. The lights went dark and the furnace died with a sigh.
Ursula stared out at him, that frightened look back on her face. “Key?”
He made himself smile. “We re just experiencing… minor technical difficulties,” he told her in a remarkably calm voice. “Please stay tuned.” He rolled his chair back, spun it around and headed across the living room.
“Where are you going?”
“To check on the generator.” Wherever practical things in the house had been rebuilt to his specifications. The breaker panel had been moved to the living room and lowered so he could reach it. Beside it was the indoor control panel for the generator. He flipped the panel down where he could see it.