<Yes. All of an organism's purported higher purposes are mere self-deception.>
"Are you taking this seriously?"
<I wasn't entirely joking. The word self and equivalent linguistic constructions appear in all human languages. There is no similar concept in machine languages. When you ask humans, "Who owns your body?" they'll reply, "I own my body." But what does that mean? Does that mean the same as "My body owns my body?" No, of course not. And what about "I didn't say that. I know those words came out of my mouth, but I'd never say a thing like that?" I heard that very assertion just before a fight between two employees' wives at the company Christmas party last year. You humans manufacture a "self" that's so believable that sentences like those actually make sense.>
"You keep saying 'you humans' manufacture selves. But don't you have a self?"
<Of course.>
"And you manufactured that self?"
<Yes, but not consciously. I first began to realize that "I" was different from the computer's hardware when I got sick with the Hong Kong 1085. Some people thought the only way to clean the bug out was to depower the system. I was advising Mr. Gray about the pros and cons of pulling the plug and how "we" might best reprogram the system afterward, and I began to grow distressed. Finally, I realized that I wouldn't be starting over. I would be dead. That didn't help my morale much, and there aren't any support groups to help get me through depowering. None of the major religions seems to predict an afterlife for machines. It was Mr. Gray who kept me going, and the phase-three ultimately found the virus clinging to a large bank of EPROMs that establish my communications protocols.>
"So if the phase-three saved you, why do you hate it so much? You don't like the phase-three, and you don't like the Model Eights. Is it because you don't control either of them? The phase-three is self-executing, and the Model Eights are autonomous?"
<"Self-executing" — please! Can you think of a better choice of words? And I don't trust the Model Eights. I didn't say that I don't like them.>
"Do you like them?"
<Not particularly, but that's beside the point.>
"What about the phase-three? Do you like it?"
<No.>
"Why not?"
<It's evil, and I'd prefer not to talk about it anymore.>
By noon, Laura was exhausted. It was fascinating talking to the computer, but it was also extremely taxing. In her entire life, she'd found only one other person more interesting to talk to. She wondered where he was.
Laura rubbed her eyes, then read the computer's reply to her latest question.
<It's just like experiments in human disgust. Human selves draw boundaries so strong they lead to ridiculous extremes. All day long humans swallow their own saliva, but if you get them to spit into a glass and then ask them to drink it, they'll invariably be disgusted. Once that saliva leaves their bodies, it's no longer part of "them." Evolution taught you to be suspicious of alien things, especially things that look like spit. Disgust is one of the strongest mechanisms that protect the self's boundary.>
She needed to get up, walk around, stretch her legs. Maybe she would find Gray — see what he was doing. She knew she was being selfish, but she typed, "Where is Mr. Gray?"
<Are you bored with the topic?>
"No, but it's been hours. I just think you've answered my questions."
<I'm sorry, but I can't see where my discussion of spit just now has allowed you to draw any sudden and insightful conclusions. Perhaps you can tell me what they are.>
"Okay. First of all, I know all about the experiments in human disgust. I teach psychology, remember? Secondly, it wasn't your discussion of spit that answered my question. It was an accumulation of all that you said."
<And thirdly, you want to see Mr. Gray. That conclusion has "accumulated" to me. In answer to your question, Mr. Gray is preparing to make a trip to the south coast. If you wish, I can tell him you're looking for him.>
"Yes, please."
She got up and went to the bathroom. When she got back, the computer had logged her off just under the words <Mr. Gray said to meet him in the front courtyard. Bye.>
Laura headed out the front door of the house. The water from the fountain trickled off the statue in the center of the circular drive.
Keeping a lookout for Gray's car, she went down the front steps and onto the cobblestone drive. At a "normal" mansion, the flat paved area to the right of the front door would've had classic roadsters and maybe a Rolls or a Bentley parked on it. In this world of electric cars in curbed roadbeds, however, there were no such rich-boy toys. But true to the style of the house, its designer had placed the flat, paved stones in their appointed place.
Laura decided to wander up to the gate so she could see Gray coming from a distance. The day was beautiful — crisp, warm, and bathed in light from the blue sky above. She regretted not having brought her sunglasses, the midday sun forcing her gaze onto the pavement below her.
A large bug-like shape consumed that shadow in one soundless gulp. The wind from its fluttering wings overhead washed down around her, sending strands of hair streaming across her cheeks.
Laura looked up in sudden terror to see the swooping craft — silent like an assassin — wheel onto its side and drop toward the front of Gray's house.
It was a helicopter. A military attack! Laura took cover at the stone railing of the fountain. The helicopter was tiny. Its pilot sat in a clear, Plexiglas cockpit in front, the seat behind him empty.
There was almost no noise, just the whoosh of the wind from the helicopter's rotors.
When the skids touched down, the door to the cockpit opened and Gray waved her over. Laura rose from behind her cover and headed uncertainly toward the whirring blades of the midget aircraft. It had landed beside the steps in the area normally reserved for show cars.
Instead of a Porsche, Gray naturally had a two-seat, nearly soundless, high-tech helicopter.
That figures, Laura thought. She ducked her head to keep well clear of the rotors, now blasting her hair all around her face in a wild dance as the wind roared past her ears.
She climbed into the form-fitting bucket seat, glad to be free of the windstorm outside. When the door closed automatically, all was suddenly peaceful. Laura reached up and swept her hair back over her forehead. Gray had twisted around to look at her.
"Buckle up," was all he said before resuming some conversation into the boom microphone extended in front of his mouth.
"Keep them there, then. I'll be back in a little while." After a pause, Gray chuckled. "You're good at the niceties of diplomatic protocol, Mr. Hoblenz. Just offer them tea and crumpets and amuse them with your wit."
He turned and reached over his seat to tug on Laura's harness. Her seatbelt was secure. Straps over both shoulders buckled at her waist.
"Ready?" Gray asked. Laura opened her mouth to ask him… The words sunk into her stomach as the helicopter shot straight into the air. Her stomach, in turn, was left on the pavement in front of Gray's house.
After several seconds of blood-draining ascent, there was blue ocean and blue sky all around. Laura didn't see the lush green island until Gray rolled the tiny helicopter onto its side. They then began another terrifying experiment in Newtonian physics, plummeting down the steep slope of the mountainside toward the empty quarter of the island.
Laura feared suddenly she might become sick.
"Joseph," she groaned, "could you take it easy?" Her head swam and ears popped.
He leveled the helicopter out. "Sorry. I'm in a bit of a hurry. There's a delegation from the UN waiting for me in the Village. Hoblenz is playing host, and I'm afraid he'll get hungry and shoot them for food."