The star’s light seemed to fill her head. Dazzled, she dropped her eyes, stared at Phillida through a haze of blurred, streaked retinal images.
The Sun. Of course…
Kevan Scholes said, Damn it, Lieserl, you’re going to have to respond properly. Things are difficult enough without—”
I know. I’m sorry. How are you feeling, anyway?”
Me? I’m fine. But that’s hardly the point, is it? Now come on, Lieserl, the team here are getting on my back; let’s run through the tests.
“You mean I’m not down here to enjoy myself?”
Scholes, speaking from his safe habitat far beyond the photosphere, didn’t respond.
“Yeah. The tests. Okay, electromagnetic first.” She adjusted her sensorium. “I’m plunged into darkness,” she said drily. “There’s very little free radiation at any frequency — perhaps an X-ray glow from the photosphere; it looks a little like a late evening sky. And—”
We know the systems are functioning. I need to know what you see, what you feel.
“What I feel?”
She spread her arms and sailed backwards through the “air” of the cavern. The huge convective cells buffeted and merged like living things, whales in this insubstantial sea of gas.
“I see convection fountains,” she said. “A cave full of them.”
She rolled over onto her belly, so that she was gliding face down, surveying the plasma sea below her. She opened her eyes, changing her mode of perception. The convective honeycomb faded into the background of her senses, and the magnetic flux tubes came into prominence, solidifying out of the air; beyond them the convective pattern was a sketchy framework, overlaid. The tubes were each a hundred yards broad, channels cutting through the air; they were thousands of miles long, and they filled the air around her, all the way down to the plasma sea.
Lieserl dipped into a tube; she felt the tingle of enhanced magnetic strength. Its walls rushed past her, curving gracefully. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “I’m inside a flux tube. It’s an immense tunnel; it’s like a fairground ride. I could follow this path all the way round the Sun.”
Maybe. I don’t know if we need the poetry, Lieserl. Kevan Scholes hesitated, and when he spoke again he sounded severely encouraging, as if he’d been instructed to be nice to her. We’re glad you’re feeling — ah — happy in yourself, Lieserl.
“My new self. Maybe. Well, it was an improvement on the old; you have to admit that.”
Yes. I want you to think back to the downloading. Can you do that?
“The downloading? Why?”
Come on, Lieserl. It’s another test, obviously.
“A test of what?”
Your trace functions. We want to know if —
“My trace functions. You mean my memory.”
…Yes. He had the grace to sound embarrassed. Think back, Lieserl. Can you remember?
Downloading…
It was her ninetieth day, her ninetieth physical-year. She was impossibly frail — unable even to walk, or feed herself, or clean herself.
They’d taken her to a habitat close to the Sun. They’d almost left the download too late; they’d had one scare when an infection had somehow got through to her and settled into her lungs, nearly killing her.
She wanted to die.
Physically she was the oldest human in the System. She felt as if she were underwater: she could barely feel, or taste, or see anything, as if she was encased in some deadening, viscous fluid. And she knew her mind was failing.
It was so fast she could feel it. It was like a ghastly reverse run of her accelerated childhood. She woke every day to a new diminution of her self. She had come to dread sleep, yet could not avoid it.
She couldn’t bear the indignity of it. Everybody else was immortal, and young; and the AS technology which had made them so was being used to kill Lieserl. She hated those who had put her in this position.
Her mother visited her for the last time, a few days before the download. Lieserl, through her ruined, rheumy old eyes, was barely able to recognize Phillida — this young, weeping woman, only a few months older than when she had held up her baby girl to the Sun.
Lieserl cursed her, sent her away.
At last she was taken, in her bed, to a downloading chamber at the heart of the habitat.
Do you remember, Lieserl? Was it — continuous?
“…No.”
It was a sensory explosion.
In an instant she was young again, with every sense alive and vivid. Her vision was sharp, her hearing impossibly precise. And slowly, slowly, she had become aware of new senses — senses beyond the human. She could see the dull infra-red glow of the bellies and heads of the people working around the shell of her own abandoned body, the sparkle of X-ray photons from the Solar photosphere as they leaked through the habitat’s shielding.
She’d retained her human memories, but they were qualitatively different from the experiences she was accumulating now. Limited, partial, subjective, imperfectly recorded: like fading paintings, she thought.
…Except, perhaps, for that single, golden, day at the beach.
She studied the husk of her body. It was almost visibly imploding now, empty…
“I remember,” she told Kevan Scholes. “Yes, I remember.”
Now the flux tube curved away to the right; and, in following it, she became aware that she was tracing out a spiral path. She let herself relax into the motion, and watched the cave-world beyond the tube wheel around her. The flux tubes neighboring her own had become twisted into spirals too, she realized; she was following one strand in a rope of twisted-together flux tubes.
Lieserl, what’s happening? We can see your trajectory’s altering, fast.
“I’m fine. I’ve got myself into a flux rope, that’s all…”
Lieserl, you should get out of there…
She let the tube sweep her around. “Why? This is fun.”
Maybe. But it isn’t a good idea for you to break the surface; we’re concerned about the stability of the wormhole —
Lieserl sighed and let herself slow. “Oh, damn it, you’re just no fun. I would have enjoyed bursting out through the middle of a sunspot. What a great way to go.”
We’re not done with the tests yet, Lieserl.
“What do you want me to do?”
One more…
“Just tell me.”
Run a full self-check, Lieserl. Just for a few minutes… drop the Virtual constructs.
She hesitated. “Why? The systems are obviously functioning to specification.”
Lieserl, you don’t need to make this difficult for me. Scholes sounded defensive. This is a standard suite of tests for any AI which —
“All right, damn it.”
She closed her eyes, and with a sudden, impulsive stab of will, let her Virtual image of herself — the illusion of a human body around her — crumble.
It was like waking from a dream: a soft, comfortable dream of childhood, waking to find herself entombed in a machine, a crude construct of bolts and cords and gears.
She considered herself.
The tetrahedral Interface of the wormhole was suspended in the body of the Sun. The thin, searing-hot gas of the convective zone poured into its four triangular faces, so that the Interface was surrounded by a sculpture of inflowing gas, a flower carved dynamically from the Sun’s flesh, almost obscuring the Interface itself. The Solar material was, she knew, being pumped through the wormhole to the second Interface in orbit around the Sun; convection zone gases emerged, blazing, from the drifting tetrahedron, making it into a second, miniature Sun around which human habitats could cluster.