“I’m here because I’m sick of being small. This thing in my head, I know it’s a weapon. One that makes me stronger. And I got things I need to do. I’m sick of being at the mercy of bastards. My turn, Matteo: what is this thing in my head?”
“It is called a psyche. It was developed several decades ago by a brilliant but fragile woman named Agala si Ken. Agala specialized in neurobionics. The psyche was created to be an AI partner for the brain to enable the user to be…a god among machines, for lack of a better expression. It was to link the nervous system to drones, ships, computers, missiles.”
“Blues can already do that.”
“They can sync on a limited scale. But they cannot control their body while in the sync. The psyche was made so that they could do both, concurrently, on an unlimited scale. Imagine sitting here, having this conversation, and running a war a hundred kilometers away.”
“Shit,” I murmur.
He nods. “Before Fitchner came to my husband, he was a very wrathful man, very…controlling. He had been much wronged by Gold, and he sowed many seeds for his revenge. The psyche project was a seed that did not come to fruition. Agala could not see what she was making when she was making it, but after it was complete, she realized her folly.
“Could you imagine a man who could wield legions of metal slave soldiers? No waiting for crops of mortal soldiers to grow, be trained, then reaped by the battle’s scythe. Instead you would have legions of asteroid-mined, automatically assembled metal soldiers. Each one a node within the hivemind.” He smiles. “I love my husband, but even I fear a world where we rely on the benevolence of a person with so much individual power. If I had that power, even I would become a tyrant. How could I not? There is so much evil to make right.
“When she saw what she built, Agala wept. But unlike Oppenheimer, who opened Pandora’s box and unleashed destruction, she opened the box and slammed down the lid as soon as she saw the gods creeping out. Well, she tried to, at least.
“My husband thought he could make her continue her work under duress. He was wrong. In protest, Agala released six of her earlier prototypes into the worlds, and then killed herself. I never got the chance to ask her why. I imagine she thought my husband would make his own psyches eventually. So she must have thought: if gods are inevitable, shouldn’t godkillers be as well?
“My turn. What would you do if we did repair your prototype?” he asks.
“I’d find my friend and I’d rescue her. Then I’d…I guess I’d do what I can to help.”
“The Republic?”
“My nephew is on Mars, and the Republic is the one defending Mars. So yeah?”
“Even after 121?” he asks, breaking the rules of the game. Still, I find myself nodding.
“The camps were a right horror, but it was a Telemanus who saved me. A Gold saved me from Reds. And I looked in Virginia’s eyes. You can’t fake caring like that, or having a brain like that, so it’s gotta be hard what they’re trying. They ain’t good, not all through, but neither am I, and at least they’re trying to stop the boot from coming down. I think it’s my job too. And yours. That’s why Pax sent me on the path to sniff out your husband.”
“Pax is innately kind. I’d say he was also trying to help you.”
I shrug. “Maybe. Either way, Pax knows where you are now. Our ship had a tracker. He’ll know where I disappeared to, and so will his mother.”
“No, I’m afraid not. We’ve cloned the tracker signal and sent it on its way. He thinks you’re a hundred thousand kilometers from here, still sniffing about, lost in space. Whose turn is it?”
I don’t bring up the message I sent to our drone. “Mine. Would you actually repair the prototype for me?”
“That depends.”
“On? What, your husband?”
“Contrary to popular opinion, I do what I want. I’m the only one that he loves…” He considers. “And that gives me leverage. So my decision depends on what you’d do with the prototype.”
I squint and sip my tea, thinking. He’s not serious about repairing the prototype, is he? Or is he trying to gauge what sort of person I am? “I told you what I’d do with it. So…”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know if you’re lying.”
“Ironic.”
“But if you weren’t lying, then I would say that I might be inclined to help the Republic.”
“Then why are you sitting here instead of flying home to Mars?”
“Because this place cannot be risked. Not in the slightest. But I sense a bit of my own story in you. We are splinters of the same tree, Red and Pink. If I offered to have our facilities here repair the prototype to full functionality, and then sent you off with oh, ten sentinels. What would you say?”
“That’s a sentinel?” I ask of the orb floating above us. He nods. My fear of the machine evolves into hunger as I think of the power just one sentinel would bring me. I lick my lips, afraid of my own thoughts. “I’d ask what’s your price?”
“You, I fear.” He winces. “Or rather, a part of you. The prototype has degraded from use, electromagnetic exposure, and blunt force trauma. If we repair it, the integration process will affect the hippocampus, the neocortex, and the amygdala. These are where our explicit memories—events that happened to you—and our semantic memories—general facts and information—are stored. Semantic memories are left unaffected, as are implicit memories—motor skills and such. But the integration’s effect on explicit memories can range from minor to total.”
“You mean I could forget who I am?”
“Unlikely. But there will be gaps. Your emotional relationship with your memories may change. There will be holes punched through the story of your life. Or memories seen in…I don’t know how to put it. Black and white? Felt with a kind of neutral passivity?”
“So, I’d lose the very things that make me who I am,” I say.
He nods. “It is good that power does not come without sacrifice. That was the problem with the finished psyche that Agala destroyed. There was no sacrifice. Though I can’t say what you would retain of your memories, I can state that if the integration is a success, you will be able to control sentinels. But also your brain’s efficiency will be maximized. Your reflexes will be better than a Gold’s—well, most Golds. Your aging will slow. You will jump higher and run faster, control your metabolism, dopamine, and adrenaline. You’ll sleep on command, integrate with computer systems, and access information faster than you can blink—in short, you will achieve near mortal omniscience.
“But the psyche will degrade. It is not invulnerable and so you will not be immortal. You will not be a god, but you will still be a very dangerous person.”
“But I might not be me,” I say.
“I know it is a complicated decision.” He touches his breast again. “But I swear to honor your decision. If you want the power to help the Republic, your friend, it is yours.” He stands. “I will give—”
“No deal.”