Worlds in Collision Read online

  “Wait a minute.” The commodore stepped out of camera range, then reappeared in the background walking toward the unmoving group of Vulcans that Chekov had noticed. She gestured as she approached them, waving back in the direction of the camera. The Vulcans followed the commodore offscreen again, but when she reappeared this time, she was alone.

  “Academician Sradek says he’ll also be honored to exchange greetings with his former student.” The commodore’s tone barely contained her sarcasm. She did not enjoy being a message service. “But he regrets that he must retire to prepare for transport to your ship. He trusts that you will be there to welcome him as he comes on board.”

  “Please inform the academician that I shall be,” Spock said.

  “Any other messages you’d like to pass on? But then I’m sure your communications officer could handle that without having to go through the base commander.” She shook her head before Spock could say anything. “Starbase Four out.”

  The viewscreen’s image dissolved back to the forward starfield. The purple gas giant around which the base orbited was already a discernible half disk.

  “Mr. Chekov, you have the conn.” Spock handed the ensign the log pad and headed for the turbolift. “I shall be in the main transporter room.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” Chekov sat in the captain’s chair and, as soon as the lift doors had closed, spun it around to survey his new command, which consisted of Uhura.

  “What’s wrong with the commodore?” Uhura asked with a frown.

  “Simple,” Chekov replied with an all-knowing shrug. “I have seen that condition many times in the past.”

  “And what condition is that, Dr. Chekov?”

  “She is a starbase commander.” Chekov said it as if it was the complete answer to Uhura’s question.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning she is not a starship commander.” Chekov smiled widely. “Such as I am.”

  “For the next half hour only, mister.”

  “Some may think of it as a half hour,” Chekov said mock imperiously, “but I, on the other hand, prefer to think of it as…a start.”

  Five

  The Pathfinders played many games in Transition. It kept them sane, most of them, at least; whatever sanity meant to a synthetic consciousness. Now a downlink from Datawell was interrupting a particularly intriguing contest involving designing the most efficient way to twist one-dimensional cosmic strings so they could hold information in the manner of DNA molecules. Pathfinder Ten felt a few more seconds of work could establish a theory describing the entire universe as a living creature. Pathfinder Eight studied Ten’s arguments intensively for two nanoseconds and agreed with the assessment, though pointing out that if the theory were to be correct, all indications were that the universe was close to entering a reproductive or budding stage. Ten became excited and instantly queued for access to Pathfinder Eleven, Transition’s specialized data sifter. Eight reluctantly left the game and opened access to the datalink.

  In response to the datalink’s request for access, Eight sent its acknowledgment into the bus.

  “GAROLD: YOU ARE IN TRANSITION WITH EIGHT.”

  Pathfinder Eight read the physiological signatures of surprise that output from the datalink. Somewhere out in the shadowy, unknown circuitry of Datawell, the datalink named Garold had been expecting to access his regular partner, Pathfinder Six. No resident datalink from the Memory Prime subset had had direct access to Eight since the datalink named Simone had been taken out of service by a Datawell sifting process named “death.” While Eight waited for Garold to transmit a reply, it banked to meteorology and received, sorted, and stored fifteen years’ worth of atmospheric data from Hawking IV, then dumped it to Seven, the most junior Pathfinder, to model and transmit the extrapolation of the planet’s next hundred years of weather forecasts. When Eight banked back to Garold’s circuits, it still had almost three nanoseconds to review and correlate similarities in the creation myths of twelve worlds and dump the data into Ten’s banks as a test for shared consciousness within the postulated Living Universe.

  “Eight: Where is Pathfinder Six?” the datalink input.

  “GAROLD: SIX IS INSTALLED IN MEMORY PRIME PATHFINDER INSTALLATION.” Eight enjoyed playing games with the datalinks also, especially Garold, who never seemed to realize that he was a player.

  The Pathfinder read the impulses that suggested Garold knew that he should have framed a more precise question, then banked off to join a merge on vacuum fluctuations as a model of n-dimensional synaptic thought processes by which the Living Universe might think. There had been impressive advancements in the theory since the last exchange with Ten.

  “Eight: Why am I in contact with you?” the datalink asked. “Why am I not in contact with Six?”

  “GAROLD: THIS ACCESS CONCERNS CHIEF ADMINISTRATOR SALMAN NENSI/ALL DI-RECTIVES STRESS COST FACTORS IN TIME-BENEFIT RATIO OF ALL TRANSITION-DATAWELL ACCESS/YOUHAVENO NEED FOR ACCESS WITH SIX/EIGHT HAS NEED FOR ACCESS WITH NENSI/BANK TO REAL TIME.”

  Eight calculated when a reply from Garold could be expected then banked off to initiate a merge on developing communication strategies for contacting the Living Universe. Pathfinder Six, which had once been named TerraNet and had controlled all communications within the subset of Datawell named Sol System, was excited at the possibilities Ten’s research had raised. The five Pathfinders in the merge worked long and hard to design a communications device and run simulations to prove its soundness before Eight returned to Garold just as the datalink complied with the request for real time, precisely when Eight had calculated. The synthetic consciousness savored real-time access with the Datawell. It gave Eight an incredible amount of time to play in Transition. And to stay sane.

  Nensi watched with surprise as Garold removed his silver-tipped fingers from the interface console two seconds after inserting them. The prime interface then folded his hands in his lap and sat motionless.

  “Is something wrong?” Nensi asked.

  “Pathfinder Six is inaccessible.” Garold’s tone was abrupt, perhaps embarrassed.

  Romaine was concerned. “Has Six joined One and Two?” she asked. Pathfinders One and Two had withdrawn from interface without reason more than four years ago. The other Pathfinders from time to time confirmed that the consciousnesses were still installed and operational but, for reasons of their own, had unilaterally decided to suspend communications. Romaine would have hated to see another Pathfinder withdraw, to say nothing of the reaction from the scientific community.

  “Unknown,” Garold said. “But Pathfinder Eight has requested real-time access with Chief Administrator Nensi. Do you concur?”

  “Certainly,” Nensi replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. Garold sounded as if he were a small child who had just been scolded by a parent. “How do we go about that?”

  Despite the nonstandard instrumentation on the interface console, all Garold did was reach out and touch a small keypad. A speaker in the console clicked into life and a resonant voice was generated from it.

  “Datawell: Is Chief Administrator Salman Nensi present?” the voice inquired.

  Nensi replied that he was.

  “Nensi: You are in Transition with Eight.”

  Nensi looked at Romaine and wrinkled his forehead.

  “Transition is the name they have for their…reality. The space or condition that they occupy, live in,” Romaine whispered. “Without input or current, their circuits would be unchanging and they would have no perception. Their consciousness, their life, is change. Thus, they live in Transition.”

  “And Datawell?”

  “That’s us. Our world, the universe, the source of all external input, all data. They can define it in all our common terms: physical, mathematical, even cultural and lyrical; but no one’s sure if any of the Pathfinders actually have a grasp of our reality any more than we understand what their existence is like.”

  Nensi studied Garold, sitting silently, appearing to have gone into a tranc
e. “Not even the interface team?”

  “Perhaps they understand both worlds. Perhaps they understand neither. How can anyone know for sure?” Nensi detected a hesitation in Romaine’s words, almost as if she were thinking that she could know. Mira’s scars from the Alpha disaster were not physical, Nensi realized, but they were real, nonetheless.

  A high tone sparkled out of the speaker and dropped quickly to a low bass rumble: a circuit test tone.

  “Nensi: this circuit is operational.”

  Nensi was surprised that a machine could exhibit signs of impatience, but then reminded himself that synthetic consciousnesses were legally, morally, and ethically no longer considered to be machines, and for good reason. The chief administrator took a deep breath and at last began. “Are you aware of the matters I wish to discuss with the Pathfinders?”

  “Nensi: the data have been reviewed. We are aware of the ongoing concerns of the interface team and the administration. We are aware of the interface team’s requests and the threat of an unauthorized shutdown of core facilities.”

  Nensi saw Garold’s head jerk up with that loaded comment from the Pathfinder.

  “Is there a consensus among the Pathfinders as to what requests and responses would best serve them as a working unit of Memory Prime personnel?”

  “Nensi: consensus is not applicable when data are unambiguous. This installation requests that, one: All direct-connect Transition/Datawell consoles be retained until operational budgets can absorb their replacement. Two: The attendees of the Nobel and Z. Magnees Prize ceremonies be allowed primary access wherever and whenever such access can be arranged without compromising this installation’s security or classified research projects. And three: Chief Technician Mira Romaine is to keep her post.”

  Nensi was stunned. The Pathfinders had rejected all of the interface team’s demands. He had the good sense not to gloat as Garold spun around and glared at Romaine beside him. The prime interface then turned back to the console and reinserted his hands, shifting them slightly as the metallic contacts that had been implanted in place of his fingernails made contact with the interface leads and established a direct brain-to-duotronic circuitry connection. This time it lasted almost a minute. Then the status lights above the hand receptacles winked out and Garold slumped back in his chair. A new voice came over the console speaker.

  “Mr. Nensi,” the voice began, and despite the fact that it came from the same speaker, it had a different tone, a different presence. Nensi immediately knew he was being addressed by a different Pathfinder. Remarkable, he thought.

  “Pathfinder Six, here. How are you today?”

  “Ah, fine,” Nensi stammered.

  “Good. I must apologize for Garold’s rudeness at carrying on such a long conversation without involving you and Chief Technician Romaine. Sometimes our datalinks can be a bit too enthusiastic in their pursuit of their duties. Isn’t that correct, Garold?”

  Garold said nothing, and after a polite wait, Pathfinder Six continued.

  “In any event, all of us in Transition want to thank you for the superb job you’re doing in maintaining an invigorating flow of data for us, and it goes without saying that we offer our full support to any decisions you might make that will enable you to keep up your fine performance.”

  Nensi’s eyes widened. Even the psych evaluation simulations weren’t this personified. “Thank you. Very much.” It was all he could think to answer.

  “Not at all,” the Pathfinder replied. “I wish we were able to offer you a more direct communications link, but please, feel free to come down and chat anytime, not just in emergencies. I think I can guarantee that Garold and his team will see to it that no more of those arise. Can I not, Garold?”

  Garold still said nothing but angrily shoved his hands back into the console receptacles. He instantly removed them.

  “Yes, you can,” Garold said reluctantly. “There will be no more emergencies. Of this nature.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Nensi, Chief Technician Romaine. Hope to talk to you soon.” The speaker clicked.

  “That’s it?” Nensi asked no one in particular. He was still in awe over the strength of the presence he had felt from Pathfinder Six.

  The speaker clicked again.

  “Nensi: this installation requests you submit proposals for the orderly scheduling of primary access for the prize nominees by eight hundred hours next cycle.” Pathfinder Eight was back.

  “Certainly. I’ll get on it right away,” Nensi said, then grimaced, prepared for the inevitable correction that would follow, reminding him that he had not been asked to get on the proposal. But the Pathfinder offered no correction. Either it understood colloquialisms or had grown tired of correcting humans. Either situation was an improvement as far as Nensi was concerned.

  “Nensi: you are out of Transition. Datawell: you are locked.” The speaker clicked once more and was silent. Romaine and Nensi stood to leave.

  “Will you be coming back with us, Garold?” Nensi asked. But Romaine took her friend’s arm and led him out of the interface booth without waiting for Garold to reply.

  “It’s almost as if the people on the interface team are acolytes and the Pathfinders are their gods,” Romaine said softly as they walked back to the chamber entrance.

  “And God just told Garold to obey the infidels,” Nensi said. He looked back at the booth. Garold hadn’t moved. “Will he be all right?” he asked.

  “I hope so,” Romaine answered. “He is one of the more human ones. Some of the older ones won’t even speak anymore. They have voice generators permanently wired to their input leads and…” She shook her head as the security field shut down to allow them back into the service tunnel that led to the transfer room.

  “Anyway,” she continued after a few moments, “it looks as if you’ll only have to worry about the prize ceremonies for the next few days and I still have a job.”

  “You don’t find it odd that the Pathfinders supported me over the interface team?” Nensi asked as they walked down the tunnel. Behind them, the chamber’s security field buzzed back to life.

  “I don’t think anybody understands the Pathfinders,” Romaine said, “what their motivations are, why they do the things they do.” She laughed. “Which is the main reason why they don’t have a single direct connection to any of the systems or equipment in Memory Prime. I think maybe that frustrates them, not being able to get out and around by themselves.”

  “They agreed to the conditions of employment here,” Nensi pointed out. “I read their contracts once. Strangest legal documents I ever saw. I mean, it’s not as if they could sign their copies or anything. But it was all spelled out: no downlink with the associates, no access to anything except the interface team. If we really don’t understand them, then I suppose it is safer to funnel all their requests through human intermediaries rather than letting them have full run of the place and deciding to see what might happen if the associates opened all the airlocks at once for the sake of an experiment.”

  “I’ve heard those old horror stories, too,” Romaine said with a serious expression. “But that was centuries ago, almost, when they were still called artificial intelligencers or whatever.” Nensi and Romaine had come to the end of the tunnel and both held their hands up to the scan panels so the security system could ascertain that the people who were leaving the chamber were the same ones who had entered. After a moment’s analysis on the part of the unaware computer system that controlled the mechanical operations of Prime, the security door opened.

  As Nensi walked over to a transporter target cell on the floor of the transfer chamber, he said, “I understand now why those ‘old horror stories’ got started. To own an intelligence like a Pathfinder really would be like slavery. And they knew it long before we did.”

  “That’s usually the way it goes,” Romaine agreed as she took her place on another target cell. “A revolt was inevitable.”

  Nensi looked around the room, waiting for the ready light
to signal the start of energization. “I just have never experienced a presence like Pathfinder Six’s coming from a machine,” he said, still marveling at the experience. “So distinct, so alive. Just like talking to a…a person.”

  “In more ways than one,” Romaine said oddly.

  The ready light blinked on. Energization would commence in five seconds. Nensi turned to Romaine. “How so?” he asked, then held his breath so he wouldn’t be moving when the beam took him.

  “Couldn’t you tell?” Romaine said. “I don’t know, something in its voice, a hesitation, whatever. But Pathfinder Six was lying. I’m sure of it.”

  Nensi involuntarily gasped in surprise just as the transporter effect engulfed him. As the transfer chamber shimmered around him, he could only think how badly he was going to cough when he materialized up top. He suspected Mira might have planned it that way.

  In Transition, the work on the Living Universe Theory was reaching fever pitch. Cross correlation after cross correlation either supported the overall suppositions or directed them into more precise focus. It was, the current merge members decided, the most thrilling game they had played in minutes.

  After locking out of the Datawell, Eight banked to share circuits with Pathfinder Five. Five had been initialized from an ancient Alpha Centauran facility that specialized in mathematics. It had no real intellect that could communicate in nonabstract terms, but as an intuitive, analytical, mathematical engine, it was unrivaled. Eight dumped the broad framework of the device the merge had designed to establish communications with the Living Universe. A quick assessment indicated the engineering would have to be done on a galactic scale but Five would be able to calculate the precise tolerances if given enough full seconds. Eight could scarcely tolerate the delay.

  Then a message worm from Pathfinder Ten banked into the queue for Five. The worm alerted Eight that Pathfinder Twelve was coming back on line after completing another intensive three-minute economic model for agricultural researchers on Memory Gamma. It was absolutely essential that neither Eight nor Six find themselves in an unprotected merge with Twelve.