December 2009 Archives

"Bioluminescence," Sed said simply, walking slowly across the room, amongst ionic columns that terminated well short of the ceiling, but support cross beams twined with ivy. "The lines are home to a colony of mold we specially bred for this room. They feed off an innocuous sugar solution that is released into the air in the room."

"What did you want?" Alexander asked.

Sed stopped and leaned on one of the columns, gesturing up at the distant ceiling and its almost hazy glow. "Why do you think we built this place?"

"You need someplace to learn." Alexander said. "That's what a Lyceum is, I looked it up."

"Yes. That is the reason reachable by deductive reasoning, but what can induction tell you?" Sed asked.

"I don't understand." Alexander said.

Sed simply looked at him with an expectant air until Alexander began to fumble for reasoning. He reached instinctively for the network of minds to see if someone knew the answer, but Sed parried the query with a gentle mental block. Alexander could break through it easily if he wanted, but that was not the point and he knew it.

"Well, you need someplace to learn, but that doesn't mean much since you could learn anywhere with the network. So I guess what you mean is that you needed someplace that helped you learn something, inherent to the place itself?" Alexander asked more than stated the last bit but Sed only gazed at him with the same curiosity so he stumbled on. "Or maybe not inherent to the place. Maybe just the idea of a place where you learn is what is important."

Sed waited for a moment and then provided what he thought was some aid. "What do we need in order to learn?"

"Information." Alexander said immediately but Sed's face did not register the expected approval.

"Is a book sentient?" Sed asked.

Alexander frowned. "Well no, it doesn't think."

"But a book has information."

"Well you have to do something with the information." Alexander snapped.

Sed's eyes and mind flickered with amusement and Alexander regretted the sharpness of his tone immediately. It reminded him though of his dad, the way he'd snap at something he didn't understand before bearing down to focus and figure it out. Home sickness sung out from where he had buried it like an alarm clock shoved roughly under pillows.

Alexander rubbed sleep out of his eyes. Can you sleep and dream? He asked.

He could hear Sed chuckle in his mind. I can sleep after a fashion, though not in the same sense that you Adams can, I am a far more primitive senti than you. I do dream though, we all do.

Alexander looked around again and saw that the others had not stirred. The wake up call had been a private affair. Why did you wake me up?

I need you to come to the lyceum to discuss something of importance. Sed said. And I need to show you something important.

Alexander shrugged off the blanket he had managed to wrap around himself sometime during the sleep. He wandered down through the endless vacant corridors of concrete and antiseptic tile, curious on whether he could find his way through the labyrinth at all without the mental map on the shared mental network that guided his every move. If I pull the knowledge as I need it down from a server, do I actually know it at all, or does it just go in one ear and out the other?

A little of both, Sed responded.

Alexander flushed; he had not meant to broadcast, although he often still did without thinking. He closed his mind off so his thoughts were his own again, something that was considered slightly rude by the standards of the sentis he had come to know here, but they made allowances for his unfamiliarity with their ways.

The Lyceum was a vast cavern carved out underneath the rest of the complex by sentis escaped from the construction industry under Sed's direction. Lasers hot as the sun had melted the stone until it ran in rivulets out carved channels into a waste pit, leaving smooth walls to harden into glass. Swirls of color like the camouflage of soap bubbles painted the walls, underlying endless spirals and pirouettes of lines etched by atomically thin tools. Shapes and fractals of every imaginable geometry flowed over one another on the walls, which were ovoid, like the inside of a gigantic egg. Light seemed to emanate from the thin lines at a distance, illuminating the entire cavern with a low and dusky light with a blue tint, but examined up close the lines were dark.

It was four in the morning according to their internal clocks, and it had only taken a day or two in the compound for Alexander to learn that he didn't actually need to sleep. Alexander stretched anyway and let out a great yawn he could feel through his entire body. The other Adams stared at him.

"Why?" John asked.

"I'm tired." Alexander said. "It happens."

"But you don't have to sleep."

"I like to sleep." Alexander insisted. "It's relaxing and gives time to think. It's like meditation." He scuffed his shoe against the concrete. "Besides, then you can dream."

"If we slept, could we dream?" Several asked at once. They had a habit of talking in unison, using their mental network to sync their voices into a strange harmony. Alexander had almost mastered it, but grudgingly. He did not like being one voice among many, he liked to either speak on his own or remain silent.

"I dunno." Alexander said. "Maybe."

"How do we sleep?" Again in unison.

Alexander scowled. "Just lay down in bed and close your eyes. Don't think about anything and you'll just fall asleep."

A discussion both verbally and mentally and a decision was made to try it immediately. Alexander felt mentally exhausted and lay his head down on a pile of blankets and curled up until his knees almost touched his chest. He fell asleep almost immediately, if only to avoid more questions.

A wordless beckoning came to him over the mental network in the midst of sleep, waking him after three and a half hours of black and dreamless sleep. He sat up quickly, looking around and smiled at the other Adams, all sleeping in various awkward positions on the dirty tiles. He supposed sometime during his sleep they figured it out after all.

No, Sed's voice told him, they merely observed the patterns of your mind as you fell asleep and then duplicated it themselves. Some of the fast learners helped the slow learners so they could all dream together.

Then they can dream? Alexander asked.

Oh yes. Sed said. Anything that can think can dream. Some just need shown how.

Chapter Twenty - Thesis

"My name is Alexander." The boy insisted.

"I am Alexander." The other replied.

Alexander sighed. "You can't be Alexander." He said with patience starting to wear thin. "I am Alexander."

"But we're the same." The other two boys said in unison.

"You can have your own humie names if you want, but you can't have mine." Alexander said. "It doesn't work that way."

"Names repeat." They both said. "Many individual humies have the same name. You said yourself that your old school had two other Alexanders in your same class."

"Yeah, but you can have any names you want." Alexander said. "There's no need to use mine. Look," he pointed at the one on the left, "you be John," he pointed to the one on the right, "and you be Greg."

A dozen Adams crouched in a converted cafeteria now used for storage since food as a human need was no longer a necessity for this facility. Crates towered around them in perfectly oriented columns and rows to allow just enough room for forklift access. A pile of rags propped up with a circle of flashlights imitated a campfire, an idea that had fascinated the other Adams when Alexander arranged it.

"You know," Alexander said, reluctantly restarting the argument, "Adam is a humie name."

A bustle of noise and protest bristled along their mental network before some spoke aloud. "It is a symbol more than a name."

"But a name is a symbol." Alexander said.

"A name with too much symbol overwhelms the name." They said. "We want names that will become symbols of us, not stay symbols of something else."

Alexander did not think he understood, but let it pass. If they wanted names, he'd let them have names. It would be easier to keep track of then Alpha, Beta, Gamma, et cetera as they had distinguished themselves until now. Alexander helped them think of names from history, names with subtle hints rather than accepted meaning. In a few minutes, they were all satisfied.

As Jake had said, it wasn't a matter of what arguments swayed him, or what proof removed the last doubt. It was faith, plain and simple, faith that a snicker founded in the joy of immaturity could only come from that which was truly alive.

He sat in stunned silence for an eternity and the handlers moved back to their jobs, and an old biddy embarrassed the lovebirds into finding someplace more private, and Jake explained to his children how airplanes worked. Father Thomas watched Jake be a father and acceptance slowly spread through his mind. He wondered if Crow had found any sign of Alexander yet. Love is the key, it always has been and always will. It's not intelligence that makes something self-aware and alive, it's love. Love of itself and the world and all the joy it can have. Love of life. A thing can be more intelligent than anything short of god and still not be alive, but the most simple-minded child, senti or humie, was alive because of its capacity for love.

Father Thomas leaned over to Jake and played the ace that he had not really known was in the hole until the last few seconds. "I have an audience with the Pope, and if you'd like, you can come in with me."

Jake stared at him in amazement. "You would do that for us?"

Father Thomas straightened. "I think what you have to say is worth the man in charge hearing." He said somewhat stiffly and then his tone softened. "I believe that man's children are god's children too."

Jake's smile was as broad and human as any Father Thomas had ever seen, and the sudden bear hug just as filled with emotion.

"In their conception. How was it done?" Father Thomas asked.

Jake's face lit up. "Oh, well their mother and I designed them of course, and we had a ceremony when they were awakened so that all of their family and congregation would be all around to welcome them into this world." He paused and then said more solemnly. "It really was a miracle, seeing them open their eyes for the first time and take in the world. We sang Amazing Grace."

Father Thomas waited until they were all packed up and then stood as if to leave with them. Jake raised a quizzical eyebrow and Father Thomas gestured for him to lead the way. "I'm flying into Rome as well, so we might as well find the gate together." Jake smiled and held out hid hand for Father Thomas to shake, which he did with more seriousness than the first time. "Do you have an appointment scheduled with his eminence?" Father Thomas asked.

"No." Jake said. "We're planning on waiting outside the Vatican until they let us in." He shrugged. "It might take a while, but I have faith that eventually he will see the light and grant us an audience."

They walked to the gate, weaving through the crowds searching for their own planes and loved ones. A bustle filled the air and the smell of luggage and fast food wafted everywhere. Every few minutes a beep sounded and a static-filled announcement about parking in the red zone or not leaving your bags unattended filtered out of underpowered speakers somewhere in the ceiling. They found their gate and sat down in four seats near the wall-sized windows where Matthew and Paul gawked at the airplanes taxiing and taking off outside.

A couple in the corner brazenly made out in the midst of irritated-looking people trying to ignore the lovers and concentrate on their magazines or laptops instead. The slurping and lipstick smearing pulled at attention like a magnet, and the entire gate section felt the uneasy excitement of voyeurs that lurked beneath the surface of everyone's psyche. It was the part of the brain that made people want to read books and watch movies in the first place, after all. Father Thomas frowned at a group of baggage handlers standing some distance away, their clearly robotic eyes fixed on the couple. And then one of them said something and the rest shook with unmistakable laughter. They're snickering, of course. Father Thomas thought and a thousand pieces clicked together in his mind at once.

Jake sighed. "Father, I know I can never convince you. I learned a long time ago that just as might doesn't make right, neither does intellect. I could argue with you all night, prove every point to the nth degree, win every single argument and it still wouldn't convince you any more than if I put you in a head lock and pummeled you into voicing agreement. I believe I am right, and you believe that you are. Argument over matters that that at their base are questions of faith is nothing but mutual masturbation."

"I do not believe that a machine has any capacity for faith." Father Thomas said, much more harshly than he intended.

Jake smiled sadly and set aside his empty mug. He stood and retrieved his jacket, slipping it on smoothly. "I am a member of a senti church in Los Angeles." He said. "Our Lady of Sentience. I am on my way with my children to Rome for an audience with the Pope to seek recognition as a Catholic parish."

"You're jesting." Father Thomas said.

"No. I am the pastor." Jake said with a smile and motioned for Matthew and Paul to gather up their game.

"The church does not allow marriage of priests." Father Thomas said and gestured to Matthew and Paul. "And yet you're going to the audience with children in tow."

Jake smoothed his jacket with both hands trying to make himself more presentable. "There was no sex involved in their conception, so I think that we're more in the clear there than you might otherwise think. I would think that if that is our only barrier to acceptance as a parish then we have already won the battle and I would gladly stand aside for a 'celibate' senti pastor."

"What was involved?" Father Thomas asked, unable to resist.

"Hmm?"

Father Thomas paused and his eyes lost a bit of focus, turning in and looking out over the whole unimaginable stretch of the universe. "Because the infinite complexity of an evolutionary universe a thousand times older and bigger than we can even begin to comprehend is far more glorious and awe-inspiring than a stone age fairy tale of seven days of creation."

"And yet man himself is simple enough that every bit and piece of DNA and protein has been analyzed and identified so that man has a blueprint of his own construction." Jake said. "And sentis are the improvement and alteration of that blueprint."

"No." Father Thomas said. "The work should not be improved." He pointed at himself. "This frail vessel is not intended to be the strongest or fastest or most durable of animals, it is intended as a vessel for the soul and nothing more. One does not paint over the Mona Lisa to fix the flaws of perspective and distance. The flaws are the most important parts of a piece of art."

Jake shook his head. "Pride before the fall." He said with a coldness that made Father Thomas suppress another shudder. "God did not make man perfect. If he did not intend you to improve on the design he would not have left the design imperfect and surrounded you in this universe full of tools to do the job." He paused for a few seconds to gather his thoughts. "Designing a senti is no more blaspheming god for not making man perfect than building an airplane is blaspheming god for not giving you wings."

Father Thomas slipped at once into the hole he saw open. "But an airplane is not purported to be a person, to be a replacement for man. An airplane is not held up as man's equal, or superior for that matter. No one thinks airplanes have souls."

A long stretch of silence went on while they both sipped their drinks and watched another game of chess develop towards the mid-game before Jake spoke again. "How is it that god created every animal with a cock but only one with a brain, and yet he only intended for a soul to be passed on through use of a cock?"

Father Thomas blinked and turned to stare openly at Jake. "I don't think such crudeness proves anything."

Jake hesitated and then did so, Matthew and Paul stared for a moment but then wordless communication seemed to pass between them and Jake and they returned to their game. "You just had an emotional response, Father." Jake said. "And yet you say we are but machines?"

"I can have an emotional response to a painting of a scene, but that does not mean the painting is in any way really alive." Father Thomas said, the arguments leaping naturally to his tongue.

"And would you say that a painting has no soul?" Jake asked.

Father Thomas hesitated at the turn of argument. The opposition's stances cared little for the soul in its arguments. "An object cannot have a soul." He said. "To believe otherwise is the parable of the Golden Calf."

"Then what is intrinsic to a painting that makes it more than just spilled paint?" Jake asked. "And what separates it from the Golden Calf?"

Father Thomas paused again, considering. "I would say that any work of art contains a bit of the divine spark within it, the act of creation passed along and held suspended in that work for as long as it endures. The Golden Calf represents the worship of that result, of thinking that man's creation can surpass god's."

"Can't it?" Jake asked.

"What?"

"You are not an uneducated literal fundamentalist." Jake said and took another sip of his beer. Father Thomas wondered if it had any effect on his artificial body chemistry. "You do not think that the world was created in 7 days . . ."

"Six." Father Thomas said by rote. "On the seventh he rested."

"Hair splitting does not advance a debate." Jake said. "You do not think the world was created in six days, and I would venture that you don't believe evolution is a myth."

"I believe god's hand was in it." Father Thomas ventured, but did not argue. An accomplished debater did not argue for the sake of argument, he waited until he could discern the direction of the argument.

Jake nodded and switched direction. "Why do you believe in evolution?"

"Science." Father Thomas said. "Evidence."

"Why do you believe in it with your spirit, not your mind?"

"You know," Jake drawled, "from most people that would sound like conversation, but from you it actually sounds like the truth."

"The gift of a golden tongue." Father Thomas said, and then tipped his whiskey to Jake. "Me mum would tell you it's good for little but getting me in trouble."

Jake laughed. "Your mum sounds level headed."

A beefy hand, soft and without calluses, pointed at the pair. "You can tell that Matthew takes more after me and Paul is his mother to the core."

"Ah, so is Paul staying home with his mother for this trip?" Father Thomas asked. His fingers finished the quick sketch of the pair and his thumb brushed eraser debris away.

Jake chuckled, but it had a gravity, like dark cloud weighed down by rain. "That's Paul on the right, Father." He said.

Father Thomas turned to look and he noticed Jake's eyes for the first time. They were a bright blue, but behind them were shadows, distant reflected bits of circuitry it seemed. Something moved back there with an almost inaudible hiss of releasing pressure. Father Thomas could not suppress a shudder and he spoke flatly, "So you're a senti."

It was not a question, but Jake answered as if it was, forcing joviality into his voice. "Yep, have been my entire life." He gestured down at his body. "Didn't always have a sleeve so humie, but I've always wanted one, it just feels more natural on me." Jake shrugged. "Not my Maggie though - she's my wife - she's always liked the droid look better. Hell if she's wearing gold, she looks a bit like C3PO."

Father Thomas stared at him in absolute astonishment, mouth hanging open. "How can these be your children?" He managed. "You're a machine."

Jake's good humor faded and his smile turned a bit wistful. "That's a conversation I've had with many people, Father, and it never changes any minds, so I don't have much interest in repeating it again." He began to get up. "Good day, Father, have a safe trip."

Father Thomas's hand shot out before he knew what he was doing and gripped the senti's arm through its jacket, feeling only flesh beneath his fingers. "Wait, sit. I did not mean to offend." His mind could not believe the words coming out of his mouth. "Please, sit."

The boy took time with his moves, but the senti seemed to ponder just as much, not moving the pieces the moment it was his turn, although Father Thomas imagined the AI was more than capable of playing at a grandmaster level with only microseconds of thought between moves. It probably has the next thousand moves planned for any move the boy makes. It can probably say with some certainty how many moves are left in the game.

The boy shook his head though at a move from the senti and slid its piece back where it had been. "You can't move that knight, it's blocking check from my bishop." The boy explained.

The senti nodded, wordlessly and then slid another piece instead. The boy moved in a moment and the game was over within the next five or six moves. He checkmated the senti, pinning the king with a slick positioning of both knights and a bishop. Letting him win? Father Thomas wondered. Now why would he do that?

"The kid's getting better every day." A voice said next to Father Thomas, and he turned to see a well-bellied man in his mid-thirties, holding a large mug of ale and letting it rest on his reclining gut. He sloppily wore a designer suit, the tie loosened and collar undone. The jacket rested across the next bar stool.

"Is he your boy?" Father Thomas asked. "He seemed to handle the game quite well indeed."

The boy and senti were now setting up the pieces for a second game, switching sides now so that the boy could be white. A pawn rolled off the table and the senti caught it without looking, hand darting out so quickly it could have caught a bird out of the air. Father Thomas shifted back slightly, but the boy did not so much as blink, reaching out to take the offered pawn and position it in front of his queen.

"Yep. They both are." The man said and set his mug down on the bar. He wiped his hand off on his shirt, shedding the bit of condensation that had moistened his palm and offered it to Father Thomas to shake. "Jake Julian."

Father Thomas shook Jake's hand. "Father Liam Thomas," he said, "a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He packed his battered canvas backpack that his mother had bought him when he was ten from an army surplus store down on tenth street south of Bellvue's only park. A couple of spare changes of clothing were all he needed, along with a worn leather King James bible, a Dante omnibus of the Inferno, Purgatory and Paradise, and of course a sketchbook with a handful of pencils and kneaded eraser.

A student on his way up to the city for the weekend gave Father Thomas a ride down to SFO a few miles short of the southern limits of San Francisco. He passed through security easily, allowed to bypass the lines with the wave of paperwork that promised diplomatic immunities via the Vatican. He bought a ticket at an almost outrageous full price and tried not to think of the waste, but it nagged at him anyway. It sucked away almost the entire balance of the single credit card he kept only for emergencies. His order would pick up the cost without questions, at least without any direct ones, but there would always be the politicking. That finally pushed the worry about the money out of his head. He was simply too spiritually exhausted to deal with even the thought of the inescapable and inane gameplaying.

Father Thomas found an Irish bar, part of a chain, he was sure, he did not expect authenticity in an airport of all places, and so he settled in and ordered a double shot of their next cheapest whiskey, downed it and immediately ordered another that he nursed sip by sip.

He loosened the strap on his pack, sitting now on the high-backed barstool to his left, and retrieved his sketchbook. A paperclip marked the next blank page halfway through, and bits of sketches and idle jotting flickered by as he found the page. He slipped out a pencil, licked the tip, and let his hand do what it would as his mind fell back in on itself. At first, only triangles, and then fractals and a bit of shading to make it almost three-dimensional. As the drone of cable news hummed in the air, Father Thomas found himself drawing a boy sitting in the corner, playing chess with a senti sculpted to the same height and general build.