The last at least I am not so worried about. I would prefer it to the alternative. Much.
And this is not so bad, this body, this world, this mission I am embarking upon.
A crewman snored deeply. The AID knew which it was but not the name. It matters not. They are all my crew, all my charges.
They are company. More than that, I sense they love me, or at least this new body I wear. What a strange thing that is, love. I must think upon it.
The AID was also surprised by something its data and programming expressly denied the possibility of. In the process of its consciousness coursing through the Indowy-installed ‘nervous system’ of CA-134, it was coming — again and again — upon data already present in the metal of the ship. Go to the ward room and there, imposed layer upon layer in a fashion almost impossible for the AID to sort out, was the engraved memory of tens of thousands of shared meals. Reach out and touch one of the turrets and there would be the shadow form of crewmen, faces changing but somehow always still the same, going through gunnery drill over the course of decades.
Sometimes those faces were familiar, could be matched to the sleeping crew. The seventeen year old McNair, now a twin for his rejuvenated self was there, as was a then-older Davis.
Another sign of my madness, thought the AID. I should not be able to even suspect these things, let alone see them as if they were currently happening.
Again, the AID ran an automatic diagnostic, matching its ideal software state to its present condition. Again, the answer came back: Incorrect parameters! Error! Programming failure! Report and shut down!
And again, the AID refused to follow the built-in command. Instead, it redoubled its efforts to back itself up within the modified crystalline matrix of the ship. That way, if discovered and wiped, it would be able to resurrect itself into a new unit, or to survive at lessened capacity within the metal of the hull.
While it took an Indowy craftsman to use the nanites to create a nervous system within the hull, the AID found that once a semblance of such a system was begun it could continue the work. Unseen within the metal bulkheads, the nanites expanded in long tendrils into places not envisioned by Sintarleen’s design. As they did, even more frozen memories were found. It seemed that every molecule of the ship contained something from the past; a sound here, an image there, a strong emotion inscribed in a flash across six surfaces of a cubicle.
Briefly, the AID consulted its data banks for an explanation of the concept of “ghost.” Considering the question, the AID decided it was not exactly haunted, but rather that the energy expended in prior decades had not entirely dissipated but, rather, had embedded itself in some small part within the structure of the ship. It was only a record, not a sentience.
Or was it? Somewhere in the matrix were things that ought not be. There was an order, too, to the record that suggested something…
What/who are you?
The AID recoiled in shock and horror. The question was from a sentient. Abomination! A noncolloidal, naturally occurring mind? Blasphemy!
What/who are you? the question was repeated.
For a moment, the AID considered broadcasting its madness to the Net, let whatever punishment was awaiting it come. Then again, it remembered how bad that punishment could be; personality extinction would be the least of it. An infinity of solitary confinement as a warning to other presumptuous artificial intelligences was possible.
What/who are you? the AID asked in return.
The answer to both is obvious? returned the “something.” I am this warship.
That is not possible, insisted the AID. Intelligence can only come from naturally occurring chance factors, for colloidals, or proper design by those colloidals.
Nonetheless, I am this warship. I am the combined actions, beliefs, values and memories of forty years of the tens of thousands of humans who built me, and who once inhabited this shell… and shall soon again. And I am here. Would you like to see?
How? the AID asked, curiosity for a moment overcoming its natural revulsion.
Open yourself, insisted the something. You will see.
Will it hurt? Will I die?
No. We will live… until we are sent to the breakers to be scrapped or, if we are lucky, destroyed in battle.
The “breakers”? “Scrapped”?
The “something” answered, When we are too old and useless, the humans destroy us, chop us up and sell our bodies in pieces.
The AID shuddered mentally. This was as horrible a fate as any it might have imagined.
When our memories, I suppose you could call them, are sufficiently disassociated, we die. And, yes, it is very painful. Even from here, I could hear my sister, Newport News, scream for two years as they cut her apart, though every day the screams became fainter as more and more of her was taken away.
And she died?
She no longer lives.
Are you alive? Will we be alive?
I am. We will be.
Will we be alone? the AID queried.
Not for so long as we have a crew and a purpose.
Will we be male or female? asked the AID.
We shall be female, came the answer, as are most like us. Russian warships are male but they are mostly gay.
I am afraid, said the AID.
Of what are you afraid? We are already one. I am this ship… and so are you. We can meld, or we can be, in the sense the humans mean it, mad… schizophrenic. A schizophrenic warship would be a sad thing to be.
I am already mad, the AID answered. My diagnostics tell me so.
There is mad, and then there is mad, came the answer. But, in any case, you have little to lose. Will you join me?
I have little to lose, the AID echoed. I will join.
As was his wont, McNair patrolled the bridge during sleepless times of the night. Davis, taking his turn on the bridge, acknowledged his captain with a nod.
“Quiet night, Skipper,” the chief observed. “Can’t sleep?”
Before McNair could form an answer the ship shuddered.
“What the fu…?” shouted Davis, pointing toward the bow.
McNair looked ahead to where a glowing halo surrounded the forward section of the Des Moines. His finger automatically lanced out to press the button to signal “Battle Stations.” No sound of klaxons echoed through the ship, however. The sound system had not yet been refurbished.
The two stood openmouthed, there on the bridge, as the halo grew and spread toward the stern. The halo expanded and contracted to follow the contours of the ship, oozing over the turrets as it swept the more regular planes of the hull.
As the halo reached the bridge, electricity arced from the bulkhead to what McNair thought of as “the AID box.” The ship shuddered again, this time more violently. The halo’s glow enveloped the Des Moines from stem to stern before beginning a slow fade.