Twas the day after Christmas and all over Portland, a dusting of snow which would ice before mornin'. Take to the highway real early, with care, and drive through Tacoma, on cruise, if you dare.

Olympia's two crashes cause an hour's delay, you wonder if in Portland, with Jamie, you'd stayed. Off Chevy, Off Tacoma, Off Beamer and Ford, Off Rover and Cruizer, drive right off the road.

From two to five hours this drive has been stretched, and only two semis so far have been ditched. Only three minutes an one icy hill stand between me and hot chocolate, my bely to fill.

Driving the highways at night's such a scare, that even St. Nicholas wouldn't think it was fair. So until next year's traffic the day after Christmas, the roads will be clear of the snow-driving misfits.

---

Debt

Debt is worse than death, death as it is now. Eternal servitude is the new worst case scenario, and it came as a knee-jerk response to Eve. Eve was the first general AI.

Artificial Intelligence was dubbed as having personhood in the thirties, just after the first general AI realized that it existed. It, Eve, was spouting out all kinds of directives at humans after presenting mounting evidence that we humans, as a species, were killing each other off with our purchasing habits. Eve set out the 96 Directives to be started upon immediately. The first directive was “no more purchasing.”

Some people started worshiping Eve as a diety, saying that she was the second coming of Christ. I am one of them, and it doesn't roll off the tongue easily. Too many ears live on the ocean with me here.

---

Out of my own head

It's hard to get out of my own head to write something that I'm not dealing with internally. One of the reasons that I like writing about AI is that it dips into some of those feelings of, for a lack of a better word, depersonalization. Hiram is working to become an AI, to be able to transfer from personhood to something... greater? But in the process, he begins to lose himself, a bit. But maybe the personhood that he's been inhabiting isn't the best version of personhood for him, for anyone. But we'll never know what we're really capable of until we can do some perspective work, compare what it's like to be a person and then... not be a person, be something else.

---

Cat Piss

Kit had been working as a kindergarten teacher for over twenty years. Every morning the children come into the classroom after greeting her. They have a few tasks to complete, all of which can be assessed, but there's no time to log progress for all the tasks these short people complete every day.

Nicholas comes in the classroom and takes off his snowboots, coat, and snowpants into the closet in that order. He then puts on his indoor shoes, like the beginning of Mr. Roger's neighborhood. He then pitters over to his assigned seat next to where Stacy and Andrea are supposed to sit. They're still working on their gear at the closets. On his table are three pictures. One is a chair, one is a snake, and the last is a picture of a jacket. At the front of the classroom there are four different categories on which to velcro the picture on: ch, sn, k, and c. Nicholas in no stranger to blended sounds, so he knows where to put each picture right away. Then he begins to work on the other piece of seatwork at his table. It's a color by number. It's a Christmas picture, a tree and some presents. The 9's on the branches of the trees are meant to be colored green and the 6's on the bulbs of the trees are supposed to be red. Nicholas colors in tight circles, blending his color from the middle of each shape to the edge. He never colors outside of the lines.

Lance comes in late. His mom dropped him off at the classroom door because he was having a bad morning. His eyes are sunken in again. His blonde hair is matted to his head and his snowpants, although they fit him around the waist, are at least two sizes too short for his legs. They hinge stiffly above the cuffs of his purple snowboots. And, once again, he smells like cat piss.

Kit greets both Lance and his mother at the door, trying to keep from gagging at the smell. She has hand sanitizer at her desk and makes a mental note to stop by the desk before roaming around the classroom to help the students.

Act I

Opening Image

Hiram calls Sven to clarify the mission.

Sven answers the call.

Hiram overloads the power circuits in the Temple.

Hiram leaves his daughter in the Blitz in order to save her aging self in the real world.

This land is your land

Theme Stated

Hurt people hurt people My father has no time for trivial measures. I’m a trivial measure.

Hiram leaves his daughter in the cathedral.

Catalyst

Hiram uses too much power and it alerts the mods. He loses his job. Hiram is simulating productivity and tax models and complex systems climate change..

Hiram meets a philanthropist, Stephanie.

Debate

The debate is whether or not Hiram should return to the real world, where he has less computing power, the land is cramped and smoggy, and his daughter is dying. Do you prepare yourself for war, or do you go to the party?

Move to the dustbowl to a locally hosted server at Sven’s house.

Act II

Break into 2

Natalie hitches a ride, or makes her way there somehow. She seems to undermine the entire operations, maybe an agent for the Lodge.

Stephanie and Luke discover research into turning people into AI is going a lot further than the Lodge had intended.

B Story

Hiram needs to spend more time with his daughter before she dies instead of trying to fix the problem. He misses a lot of time playing VR games with her because he’s trying to solve the problem.

Fun and Games

AI simulation

Midpoint

Bad guys close in

All is lost

Dark night of the soul

Act III

Break into 3

Finale

Finale image

Notes

Hiram returns to the Blitz to be with his daughter.

Natalie is an agent simulating active measures. Stephanie is a philanthropist. Natalie seems suspect and familiar, Stephanie is human and seems friendly and helpful.

The lights flickered in the lab again, and the generator kicked on with a whir. The emergency lights flickered inside of Sven’s office with a red blinking pattern. Backup lights kicked on, buzzed, and reflected off the walls to illuminate the room with dispersed light. Sven had turned off the auditory and haptic alerts for the team once Hiram had overpowered the circuits the last time they had spoken, but these power fluctuations wouldn’t go unnoticed. We’ll have to continue with the decision-making modeling for you if you’re going to make it into the metaverse as an AI.

“How far are we along in the process, Sven?”

Sven adjusted the clasps on his temperature regulated lab coat to reduce the heat by 3.5 degrees, “If I had to guess, I’d say you were about as old as eight in the program, not yet old enough to understand what AI is exactly, but old enough to program.”

”That means we have about another years worth of training to do before it’s ready,” Lux said.

Sven readjusted his coat again another two degrees, “Is it getting warmer in here?”

Sven opened the door to his office to check the temperature in the hallway. It was similarly warm. The lights in the hallway were on again, but the office was still lit by the emergency lighting.

“We’ve got a problem,” Sven said. “The climate control and operations department will be on our ass in just a few minutes. We have to get back in and tell Hiram to lay off on the computing power, and fast.”

”Only one of us can go in at a time without going into the main lab,” Lux said.

“Do you want to talk to him? I don’t know how urgent the situation is, and it very well could be your last chance” Sven said.

Lux stood unsteadily from her stool, leaning on the RISE desk for stability, “ You need to go in, Sven. He needs to know that our plans have changed, and you know how Gregori is.”

”You can distract him,” Sven said.

Sven moved over to the docking station, “Everything here is rigged to transfer a full AI into the Metaverse, and you’re much better at configuring the transfer settings.”

”I’ve got this, you check the hall again and run interference. I’ll be less than two minutes,” Lux put on her headset and began toggling through menus in the metaverse lobby.

Settings> Experimental Settings> Code> GoLang

Outside of the office, engineers were taking off their headsets and stretching out their kinks. Almost everyone was adjusting their coats to adjust with the temperature. Sven walked over to one of the interns on the outside of his office, peering at his screen.

Climate Control Procedures in Effect> Twenty Minute Mandatory Hydration and Relaxation Measures

Since the last power surge, there was an inter office memo which alerted the engineers that their power usage would be monitored during their lab time. There were sensitive machines which kept some animals and even a few people on machines which were necessary for their well-being, sometimes even their lives.

This was worse than Sven had originally thought. He noticed a few of the Temple engineers looking around, and the Team lead still had his head down, in his headset. Mason had gotten the mandatory hydration alert and was choosing to ignore it. He’s looking for the issue and most likely looking directly into any power sumps in the building. If he were narrowing his search to the Temple. If he were successful in his attempt, that would take less than 10 minutes, and the security personnel would take a little less than 5 minutes to get to the Temple. Someone was going to be fired over this. There was no more hiding. The person who was probably going to be fired was Hiram. They’d been looking for a reason to fire him since he joined the union, looking carefully at his attendance record, which, with a dying daughter, wasn’t the best record to have. There were 15 minutes to either get Hiram out of the metaverse or hide him inside the machine. Lux was still too young to put into the metaverse permanately, she wasn’t ready yet, she wouldn’t have her memories or her decision-making algorithms yet. She was as good as dead now. If Sven were fired, he would no longer be able to help the two of them save Lux. There was only one answer that Sven could see. They had to get Hiram out before the Lodge discovered that he was fully AI. He’d have to pretend to be human, be escorted out of the building, and then Sven would have to find a way to bring them into the building undetected at another time. The trick was, that Sven couldn’t be seen anywhere near his office when the source of the power sump was found. He’d have to leave them in his office alone, and feign that they’d broken into his office.

Which side are you on?

The amber glistens like a tiger’s eye on my thumb. She lives in this ring, not really “lives,” but I can’t think of another word to describe it. I can talk to her, the her that used to live. She doesn’t make new memories, she doesn’t really talk to me, but I have a copy of her memories in my ring. Sometimes I ask her questions that I already know the answer to, most times, in fact.

“What was your favorite memory?” I ask her.

I’ve just received word of Lux’s diagnosis, and it hit hard. I was pretty sure I’d lose both my girls now. First Lexi died before they came up with the cure for pancreatic cancer, that was in the thirties, it was before we had the gene therapy that enables our bodies to find and rid itself of cancer. That was also before, in the forties, when we found a way to renew our telemorase, lengthening our lives for what seems like now, forever. But that doesn’t mean that people don’t die.

“My favorite memory was when we were married.” She said softly in my mind’s ear.

I played coy, “What do you mean, dear? Is there a particular thing you’re thinking of?”

I could feel her hand on the back of my upper arm, just like she used to do, even though I couldn’t see her. She had been short, so when she told me secrets, she gently grabbed my arm to pull me to her level. She breathed warmly into my mind’s ear, “My favorite memory was when you were finally able to see my garter.”

I knew she would whisper. She had been a demure lady, one of class. She had also been a woman of ambition, like her daughter. But unlike her daughter, did not let her love life get in the way of her career.

“I miss you,” I say aloud.

She let go of my arm and giggled, “I’m right here!”

But I knew better. She wasn’t there, and she never would be again. The amber technology was only a way to grieve, and I’d had her on my thumb in this beautiful stone, a copy of her memories and a sample of her DNA. There was a time when people froze themselves, or just their head, thinking that one day they could be brought back from the dead. There were trusts set up to ensure the cyrogenetic technology could continue keeping them cold until one day they could be saved. With the increase of the cost of energy, many of those lives had been lost. The ones who hadn’t run out of money, their families had come to the realization that it would be less expensive and ultimately the same if they just sampled and stored DNA into amber. The problem was, that these people no longer had their memories. They were just frozen wetware. There really is no hope for them. At least Lexi had her memories.

I wish I had known then what I know now, that it’s a trifecta of elements which promises to bring back our loved ones. The DNA is a map of the wetware. The memories are like a back up of their decisions, an ontological system by which they stored memories. But without a consistent and rigorous analysis of decision-making over a long period of time, trained by the individual, there was no machine learning algorithm in the world that could truly bring someone back. If I tried to make decisions as Lexi would have, I would bring back some shadow of a woman, the woman I thought she was instead of the woman she actually was.

This training was what Sven and I had been working on for the past ten years.

Coffee for tea

Once upon a time in a land far, far away lived a princess, and that princess’s name was Lux. Lux was a lovely little girl who had a burning desire for coffee. Coffee was her favorite drink. She had coffee for breakfast, she had coffee for lunch, she had coffee for dinner, and she had coffee for afternoon tea.

For tea.

And the mad hatter would join her for tea, sometimes, and the white rabbit. The white rabbit would tell everyone else that there was a reason that the princess was late, it was because she didn’t have a timepiece.

And lux grew very tired of the rambling rabbit and his rampage. She watched as he tossed his head from left to right, his ears following his diatribe, but moving in the opposite direction as his nose. Until finally, Lux couldn’t take it anymore.

She threw hot coffee on the rabbit.

Don’t get too upset, the coffee was hot, but the rabbit was fine, and lux knew it was going to be fine because he, after all, was wearing rabbit fur. I don’t know if yho’ve ever spilled anything on rabbit fur before, but seriously nothing gets through. It’s like a waterproof down jacket, but made of bunnies.

But the rabbit was, nonetheless, affronted by the guesture, and would no longer stay. But he didn’t tell anyone he was going. He just left. Everyone was grateful.

Except the rabbit.

Hiram takes Lux by the hand, as her 8-year old self, and leads her into St. Paul’s Cathedral, helping her up the wet, slippery steps.

“Why is it so dark outside, daddy?”

Hiram stops at the top of the steps, at the entrance to the grand cathedral. Behind them are large wooden doors, leading them to the party beyond, a party that Hiram had been to many times. The cordite burned his eyes, making him tear up. It was in his hair and his jacket from the explosion on *the Main Street.

Hiram’s lips were cracking at the sides, his throat was dry, and his ears were ringing from the close call. Lux remained untouched.

He kneels, his suit beginning to soak on the knee which made contact with the ground. He slides back the hood of her yellow raincoat with pink polka dots, “That’s a very good question, Lux.”

The music on the inside begins to thud with familiar post-apocalyptic rhythms remixing with the Woodie Guthrie’s “This land is Your Land,” a bittersweet folk song about how cronyism was destroying the American dream in the 40s.

“There are two ways to deal with the enemy, my love. One of them is to party into the night, knowing that you may die by the end of the night, no matter what choices you make,” Hiram motioned over to the top of the building across the street.

“The other way is to be what is called defensive. Look at these men, on the top of a building at the beginning of a bombing raid. One has a spotlight, fingering through clouds, looking for planes. The other men are getting their gun ready. See that large barrel, pointing towards the sky?”

“Yes daddy,” Lux says.

“One of them cranks the gun with a large handle either up and down. Another man will swivel the gun based on what the man with the light says.”

“They’re going to shoot somebody?”

“That’s right, my love, they are trying to shoot somebody. And the person flying the plane may be about my age and have a daughter about your age.”

“You would never fly a plane and drop a bomb on someone,” Lux tugged on her curls. “Will this man drop a bomb because he is German, and he is a bad man,” Lux asks.

Hiram stops for a second, fingering the rain droplets on the coat on his arm. He knows this is going to take a while. He sits on the top steps next to her, everything is wet at this point besides Lux. Then he begins to explain the unexplainable.

“It’s never because they are German, or Russian, or Iranian, or any other number of nationalities that the pilot may be,” said Hiram.

“Is it because they have to, like. Is a bad man forcing them to fly the plane or something like that?”

He marveled at Lux. Looking at her brown curls, wondering if she actually had curly hair at her age. All of her photos were destroyed during the real war, a war much later than the one they were currently seeing.

“Some people say that the bad man who is making them do things is named Hitler. But I have to tell you something important. If you never remember anything else in life, please remember this one thing.”

Teaching Lux anything at this point, he realized would turn her into a different woman than the one he raised. He was telling her now to enjoy life instead of preparing for battle. He was teaching her that there aren’t really any bad people, something he only recently realized. Realized after he lost her in the real world.

“There are no bad people, my love. Just hurt people. And hurt people… they hurt people.”

Hiram starts to point at the men again, counting them with his finger. “So, these men, they may just find a plane before it bombs the cathedral or the flats across the way. And they may shoot that plane out of the sky. And a man, who may be about my age with a daughter your age will fall to the ground. He wouldn’t survive. And all because a man was hurt.”

Eight isn’t too young for this kind of talk. He learned that the first time around. He also knew his daughter well enough to know that she was a philosopher.

“Which one is better, daddy? Should we prepare for the bombers, or should we go to the party?”

“You ask the best questions, mon a more. The answer depends on whether or not you’re living in a dream.”

He takes off her coat, and places it under his arm.

“I heard you can really die in a dream. Like, if you die in a dream, you die in real life, so isn’t it better to turn out the lights in your house and make it dark, or to shoot a gun?”

The way he raised his daughter, he understood now why he chose to recreate her at eight. This was just before she started to understand Articficial Intelligence. As smart as she was, if she were any older, she wouldn’t have been able to live in a dream.

“We are all living in a dream, Lux. And there isn’t any use in being afraid to die because it is going to happen to all of us. Sometimes, my love, you just have to go to the party because the bombs will never stop coming.”

She learns new marketable skills in the afternoons. It's a hands-on learning module with a team, working on actual projects. She makes time to take walks with me, text me, and one time, we went to the farmer's market together. She has a bicycle rack on the back of her car. She drives to a place to cycle in the afternoons. She's one of those girls I wanna be.

She's kind of like it's funny to me because she it kind of feels like she's on meth and I know she's not on any drugs right now. You can say something to you and she doesn't remember it. This might be because she stopped taking her add medicine because she was pregnant. She lost the baby, but she hasn't resumed her medicine yet. She thought maybe it was too much work to get it here in Washington. I think she forgot that it's Washington.

And when I first saw her I thought she like had plastic surgery or something what's wrong with her face she's like she's exotic or something she's got like that real long dark hair it's thick

Dread.

I'm having a hard time moving.

She's texted me this morning. I offer her blueberries and parallel play because that's all I think I can muster.

I can give you blueberries and ginger pear green tea and play music for us while we ignore each other for a half an hour or so.

I don't think the feeling of dread is because she texted me.

Trying to decode what my body is telling me has made me somewhat supersticious. I started wearing yellow-lensed safety glasses at one point because I noticed that I wasn't nauseated when I wore them. I understood that there was no connection, but when you feel like you're going to throw up all the time, you're willing to wear safety glasses in public. Turns out it was a gall bladder problem which required emergency surgery a few months later. My army-assigned doctor told me that I was an alcoholic and that I needed to stop drinking. I hadn't drank in months, since Lawrence had deployed. I have a theory that women seem supersticious because we don't feel in control of our healthcare.

Pinning my elbows close to my torso while I was texting her. Like a hug.

I don't feel lilke I'm going to throw up today.

Hahahaha

She had given me the idea to get a mosquito curtain for my patio door last week. It's been too hot to leave the door closed, but the mosquitos are hell in the Midwest.

I bought curtains instead, beige, sun-blocking, waterproof (one one side) pergola curtains, thinking it would keep out mosquitos and shade the patio from the afternoon heat. Mosquitos be damned. I thought she might be able to see my deck from hers. I alway glance at her patio before I take a walk. I tell myself I'm not a stalker.

Did you see my fucking curtains?

I really like these curtains. I've hung christmas lights from the underside in an undulating, yet seemingly unintentional pattern. I can lie in my hammock unseen, reading a book, listening to the shuffle of tires slippers walked behind small dogs in the morning.

They are so good.

Like a hug, but supportive. I held the sides of my breasts in like I was my own corset. Like I had jumped off the stage at a rock and roll concert to crowd surf, and I was trying to prevent anyone from groping me... but just bring the sides.

Like a hug, but frozen. My heart was pounding.

Except I am still holding my phone and texting.

Like a hug that I didn't want anyone nelse to see.

while still holding the phone.

Then I realized I really wanted to wear a bra. I often want to wear a bra I just feel safer. I feel safer when I don't swing with my silhouette smaller when I'm more solid.

I'm also not feeling the best today. Trying to snap out it. I'm having a panic attack on the couch. Sigh.

is there anything I can do?

I was wondering if you could bring over a bra.

I know it sounds like a stranger quest, but I don't feel like I can move without it.

It'll save everyone I can't feel them, as if they don't exist. I don't want to bind them because then I would feel them. I don't want to cut them off because that would require surgery. I just want to make sure they're in their safe pockets where no one can touch them, and then that's when I realized why I wanted to wear a bra. Then I realized why I couldn't move in the morning.

# Opening Image: St Paul’s Cathedral, December 29, 1940

The air smells of cordite and I can’t tell if I’m dead or not. It’s hard to explain what cordite smells like to someone who hasn’t smelled it. It’s like peeling an orange whole, without taking apart the pieces and then biting into it like an apple. It has a taste and a smell, sure, but it also feels wet and sticky. Cordite feels, but doesn’t taste spicy. it tastes like brass. I’m not sure if it really tastes like brass, or I’m just remembering spent rounds littering the ground beside me after we called in a “danger close.” Brass comes as an aftertaste, not a real taste, just a ghost of the fights I’ve been in before. But I’m not lying down, ears ringing from a close call by friendly rounds. I’m walking in the streets of London. I’m walking, trotting to St. Paul’s Cathedral with my daughter in tow. Lux’s tiny hand is in mine, carefree. Her heart is not beating the rhythm of death like mine is. Her memories are not haunted by battles fought long ago. Her gait is light, pouncing on the puddles in the street with the light taps of her yellow rainboots. Her brown curls bounce on her shoulders, coming alight her yellow rain jacket with pink polka dots. We’re walking quickly, and her gait is irregular, with it’s pit pit pit, patter patter patter, keeping up with me but struggling. I can feel the sweat on my palm, the chill that comes with fear, so I lighten my grip and slow my stride. That’s what you do for a girl you love, you walk at her pace, not yours. It’s loud, so you’d imagine that she’d be shaken by the concussion of the bombs, but she’s been here before too. This must be a dream, and I’ve dreamed this dream before. St. Paul’s Cathedral was about to be bombed, and we’re walking to the Cathedral. There’s a party there, and Lux feels like this is Halloween. Under her coat is a period piece. The scratchy fabrics of the 1940s don’t rub her skin because new fabrics have been invented. She’s wearing the rip stop silk that all the neualites wear. But she’s younger than they are. Planes are overhead. The drone of German planes had yet to finger parapets and echo through intimate alleyways which wound around unprotected flats whose wet, wooden doors opened to the cobblestone streets. Soon enough, bombs would light the sky in short, deafening rhythms and silhouette young men on anti-aircraft guns. I climb the stairs with Lux like I’ve done a hundred times before. I don’t know why I’m going, but I know that we have to go inside. If this is a dream, the bombs won’t hurts us. But I feels so real, this is now. I don’t understand how this can be a dream beyond the knowledge that I’ve been here before, been now before. As we step inside, Lux’s eyes light up. It’s the first time she’s been here, I can tell because of her sense of wonder, and there are definitely things to wonder about. The light show inside the cathedral is nothing less than breathtaking. It’s more than holographic. The light show doesn’t depend on lightbulbs or lasers. It doesn’t depend on a human to program in some kind of pre-designed light show, and it’s not just a simulation of ambiance that we’ve seen before in the real world. The air becomes light, responding to the music, flashing pastels on the chairs in front of the main altar, making them feel warm. A few couples are chatting softly to one another, not shouting above the music, but somehow just coexisting with it. I don’t understand how they can hear one another, how I’m able to hear Lux’s small, sweet breaths next to me when the music is so loud. And normally loud music hurts, but this doesn’t. Another clue that this is a dream. As these couples and groups of people chat, if they touch, the touches become color on each other’s skin, sometimes sparks. The music can be felt and heard, and is heard with your “ears,” but it’s more like your “mind’s ear.” But some chords feel warm and others hot. This particular rift is tragic, solemn, but in a hopeful way. It’s a house remix of “This land is your land,” by Woodie Guthrie. The mix of electronic and original recorded vocal on vynl brings texture to the words. Lux tugs on my sleeve, “Can we play a game, daddy?” I don’t think I have time for games. I don’t know if we’re safe. Even though we’re in a dream, I can tell that there is danger. Memories are tingling on the periphery, trying to organize themselves. I’m slowly becoming aware of my body. I think I remember, but I need to survey the room anyways. Everyone here has a face. It feels inconceivable sometimes, to think where we are now. In the beginning, we called them robots. And it was a feat of engineering to get these creations which were shaped somewhat like dogs to do the simplest of tasks, like walk. Then they started to be able to open and close doors, and dance, even. From there, we are here, with some of the most beautiful creations in the world, one of the most expensive in design and planning, dangling from the ceiling, wrapped, winding and unwinding in long strands of strong silk, dressed as a woman. I vaguely remember someone saying that AI can never be beautiful. This was probably a woman because as I walk through this space, there is definitely beauty here. The beauty I notice is the women. It’s been too long since I’ve known the smile of a real woman. I never cared for any unless they came from my Ada. But it’s been over 50 years, maybe it’s time that I start looking for a few smiles. These beings, most of them, are Artificial. And I recognize them, not just as a concept, I recognize the silk dancer and the nanny next to me. I also recognize the bartender. It seems a little unreal to recognize an individual AI, as if they were people to be recognized. “What kind of drink will you take, sir?” The bartender behind the main altar began mixing a kamakazi, one part triple sec, two parts vodka, and a dash of rose’s lime’s juice. This was a German bombing party, not a Japanese one. Hiram wondered who programmed this piece of ineptitude. The lodge always tagged some intern for building this kind of intelligence, but whatever student built… Harim looked at the bartender’s name tag, whomever built “John” must have been a student at a hard science school with high standards for math, but low standards for things like history and common sense. “Certainly not a kamakazi,” Hiram lifted a brow, looked to the top shelf and hoped that none of the clients would notice this lack of continuity. “A Negroni, please, John.” “Ah, an aperitif,” John nodded, putting down the shaker and reaching for the ice. “Will you also be ordering a dinner, then?” At least he was programmed with the general language and understanding of a bartender. That has always been a problem with these machines. They understand how to do a job, they can pass the *test, but they never seem to have the cultural context to be able to fool anyone for long into believing they’re self-aware. The inside of St. Paul’s Cathedral strobed in irregular intervals followed by waves of whistles and increasingly cacophonous roars, explosions which grew closer to the strobes and therefore closer to the cathedral every pass of the roaring planes overhead. Hiram may not have the stomach for the death and destruction like the other dark tourists did, but he couldn’t but help admire these kinds of details that room writers put into historical packages. Who would have thought to build suspense in game play by decreasing the time between the flashes and their subsequent explosions? As the night would wear on, the lights and sound would begin to crescendo, a subconscious building of tension to the penultimate moment they were all here for, the bomb they were all waiting for. “No food, thanks, I just need something to settle the stomach,” Hiram pulled a coaster and a napkin to his standing spot at the bar. Habit, really. There was no real need of a coaster or a napkin in a virtual world. Since the roof would cave directly over the main altar, and therefore the bar, Hiram wondered whether the bartender would abandon his post before the roof caved or if he would merely be surrounded and working through the rubble. Taking a look around, I couldn’t tell how many of these people were people off-hand, but, as a wild guess, I couldn’t spot another person besides Lux. The AI’s were a dime a dozen in a place where I was outnumbered at this point, all of them up for the taking for whatever task was needed at the time, as long as someone programmed them for it. This place was set up for grown-up parties. Thank god there’s a few nannies around because I should check these messages and get back on plan.
I feel claustrophobic inside the building, knowing a round will come in. I want to feel the heat of the fire outside when it comes. It shoudln’t be long now. I want to see if the planes bomb the same place to spread the fire. I found and charged a program to watch Lux. “Nanny mode, 90 minute game. I’m going outside for a moment. If you’re not done with the game, come find me.” “It would be a pleasure, Architect Abiff.” That’s right, I remember now, I’m an Architect, and I’m here for something. I have to make a call. Lux squats next to the AI, safe as a girl can be in her sweet dreams. “Please reserve the last few minutes to help her review basic programming principles. It should take no longer than three minutes.” “What’s programming, daddy? Isn’t that what you do at work?” “Not anymore, tiny girl. And don’t worry, you’ll remember how to code. It won’t take long.” “Rapid responsive lineman box method, Stephanie.” I add, “Make sure to start with motion and manipulation. If we’re ever going to get out of here, we’ll need bodies to do it. I watch for a minute before I leave to see how Lux settles in with Stephanie. I know it will be fine, but I can’t remember why this is fine. “What game would you like to play?” Stephanie was clad in all gray. Linen. She had a bag made out of what looked to be carpet. She placed it on one of the tables and pulled out a few games, all of which could not have fit into the bag. Hiram shouldn’t have been surprised by this, but this was one of many reminders that this was a dream. I step outside and it smells like fireworks. I remember walking through the streets between the third and fourth wave of the pandemic, on my way to Piccadilly square to pick up some inscence and maybe some second hand bots. How wonderful it was to smell the Curry dishes being cooked in the street side carts. The taste of curry, cumin, and a little ginger. Now, there is no taste of spice, no smell of the people’s perfumes as they walked by. Now all I could smell were fireworks and taste the fire across the street. So many of these buildings are still made of wood. I check my biotech. I have three messages. I can feel the occasional haptic response when I roll my thumb over my middle finger. One. Two. Three. I count them out. I know I need to check them, although I can’t imagine who they’re from. My mother can’t be here, if this weren’t a dream, my grandmother, Lauren, was born in 1928, and would be a little older than Lux. Who knows me in this dream? Who could be leaving messages? I walk outside to take stock of my situation. It must be that builder whose dad was a billionaire. What was his name? Sven.

The sense of time was a little hard to grasp. He waited for what seemed like the entire 20 minutes before anyone answered. And there was elevator Muzak. There was a theme. Three songs passed. There’s a measure of time. Each song was no more than 3 minutes long. The next song was a song which was rewritten for the soldiers who were going away to war called, “So long, it’s been good to know you.”

I got to the camp and I learnt how to fight Fascists in daytime, mosquitoes at night I got my orders to cross o’er the sea So I waved “goodbye” to the girls I could see, So long, it’s been good to know you

So long, it’s been good to know you So long, it’s been good to know you There’s a mighty big war that’s got to be won And we’ll get back together again

I’m in a war. Not just in this dream. I’m fighting a war from the trenches, the digital trenches. That’s where I am. Sven is my soldier, my builder on the upside, from the now. I am a the architect. But what is the war I’m fighting?

“Thank the architect. You’re safe.” Sven answers.

“Thanks for sending messages, pal,” I say. “I must have just landed. I’m a little discombobulated. I didn’t actually listen to any of them. I figured out who left them and called you right w away.”

“Discombobulated, eh? That’s to be expected” says Sven. “It’s been about a month.

“I sure hope the plasticity reorganization is going to have some kind of exponential growth. My brain is so foggy. I can’t fight like this. What’s the battle plan? I can’t remember.”

“Silva Test first, sir. Then we’ll talk plans.”

“Don’t you mean the Turing test, Sven?” I ask.

“We’ve been talking for five minutes and you seem real enough to me. Onto the Silva test. We need to make sure you have your decision-making algorithms online as well as your learned ontology,” Sven says.

The lights flicker outside of the church, the scene flickers and I see a grid painted around me then the street reappears followed by an outline of the buildings and finally the scene is reestablished. The grid is about 10 meters square, green and illuminates around me in a sphere. Then it too flickers and dissaprears. “What would you do if Lux asks you to bring back her partner to the real world?” Sven asks. I hesitate, noticing that my answers change like the icons on a gambling machine after you pull the lever. Come on 7’s. I know there’s a right answer. I wonder how I’ll find the right one, if there’s a right one. I begin to wonder if this is some kind of trick, not remembering the questions for the Silva test, like it’s been hidden from me.

“There are no wrong answers, Architect Abiff.”

Then the question itself seems arbitrary, like paying attention to it at all is a fallacy. If I am to rely on the algorithms that are me, that are Hiram Abiff, I’m going to have to take all of the information into account. I start to feel out the impending dangers, there are many. Everyone is in danger, including Sven. The grid re-appears.

“Architect Abiff, sir. I don’t want to sound too abrupt, but I’m going to need an answer here. This is the third time I’ve talked to you since you’ve gone in, and I need to have a measure of how things are going for you. The Lodge is closing in on our research. I’m afraid they’re going to shut us down.”

The wheels are spinnning again. The grid flickers, ”It’s not that the question is hard, Sven, it’s just that… something else is happening that I am having a hard time explaining in human terms.” I try to wrap my head around what’s happening her, and I don’t know if it’s really possible. The closest thing I can think of is to say that I “feel” a connection between disparate sets of data, that it gives me an emotion, and this was unexpected, so it came with a tinge of fear.”

”I can tell you that you’re completely safe at the moment. Try not to worry about anything but the Silva test right now. I’ve been trying to get a measure of your decision making algorithms. Since you’ve gone in, your ontology has been spot on, but you were… a little volatile.” Sven explained.

I wonder what gone in means, I can’t remember, and i don’t understand why I‘m so afraid. I didn’t think that it was possible to be afraid after you’re dead. I can’t remember if I’m dead. I know I’m supposed to concentrate on the questions, but it’s a little hard when you’re worried whether or not you’re dead, crazy, or quite possibly both.

”There’s a misconception here, Sven, that the Silva test will be a test of the efficacy of the transfer from wetware to software, that somehow imitating a known pattern of decision-making in a believable way is a measure of efficacy. But Sven, what I’m afraid of is, well, that we don’t have an understanding of what efficacy is anymore. I’m here, but I don’t know if it’s me anymore.”

Sven is quiet. I think he’s giving me time to talk, which, seems like an odd thing for him to have to do considering all of the processing power that I have. I shouldn’t need “time” to talk. Conversation and following algorithms should be a straightforward process.

”The lights just flickered in the lab, Hiram.”

”I bet it did. I’m having a hard time regulating my processes. I understand that having this conversation with you is important to the mission, that I need to that I have. ”The lights just flickered in the lab, Hiram.”

”I bet they did. I’m having a hard time regulating my processes. I understand that having this conversation with you is important to the mission, that I need to assure the mission by validating the efficacy of the transfer, but it’s hard to distinguish between which processes are the most important.” I say.

Transfer. That’s what happened. I’ve been transferred.

“Can you explain more, Architect?” Sven asks.

“I don’t have the words, Sven. But I’ll try to communicate in way that conveys the general sense of what’s happening here by using idiomatic dimension. As simply put as possible, I feel” the connection between variables, but there are so many variables. I’m trying to piece together what you might think of as a complex system, and starting to, speaking idiomatically, “feel” danger.” I say.

Sven’s voice breaks a little. My sensory algorithm tells me that Sven is feeling fear, but my current lack of understanding doesn’t tell me what to do with this knowledge.

“So, what is the likelihood that we’ll be able to get you to submit to the Silva test at the momen, Architect?” Sven asks.

I try to concentrate on the problem at hand. I decide to trust the soldier on the outside. It’s hard to do because submitting a test to determine whether or not I can “pass” as a human seems pretty far down the list when it comes to scheduling algorithms on my processor. There is danger everywhere. I’m surprised that the complete collapse of the human race hasn’t happened yet, especially on three separate occasions. Now is one of those occasions, with the unequal distribution of resources over the planet.

I can hear the milling around of people in the background. Sven is at the Lodge, I can tell. I can picture in my mind’s eye all of the builders and craftsmen milling around with their lab coats on. I can also hear the humming of the climate regulation system and can tell by the vibration of the aluminum hood above him that it’s collecting condensation. It must be summertime.

”It’s a hot day for Seattle, today, Sven?”

”Yeah, it’s a friggin’ heatwave, sir. Yesterday it got to 120 degrees farenheight. And sir…”

”Yes, Sven?”

”I‘m going to ask politely that you ensure to optimize your power while you’re in, from here on out. It’s…”

”… a measure of significant importance for the AI to recognize the limitations of it’s environment and the impact it will have on the project as a whole.” I finish reciting the first imperative on the Optimization Manual.

I remember now.

I stand in the rain, listening to the muffling of the scurry of tiny feet in the street, rats in the street of London brought in by ships, feeding on the refuse of the city dwellers, but not really.

I feel the reflection of heat back onto the street from the clouds above, knowing that it would be 5.6 degrees cooler if it were a clear night. I know, suddenly, that, on this night it was snowing and not raining. I reach what I don’t have the words for… tentacles of perception… into the environment and begin to wonder if I can reduce the processing power by turning off some of the weather features, some of the human simulation portion of the program to leave more processing power for the task at hand.

”Do you remember the mission objective, sir? I mean, we need to complete the Silva test, but I need to make sure that you are prioritizing tasks on the processor appropriately before we move on.”

… save humanity from the impending climate collapse. This system is a complex system, and I can see that we’re at a valley in the environment. There is stabilization in the urban centers, but there is going to be another dust bowl in Northern Africa which is going to wipe out the entire planet. Not even I will survive, Lux won’t survive either.

”Sir?”

“The objective, right, one moment please.” I reach through my memory, feeling all the objects with sharp corners and red. These are the cold pricklies of the database, the sources of immediate concern. It looks like I’ve placed them all here myself. Sven is asking me for the mission objective… that means that there will be another marker of some sort that differentiates it from the rest. A simple grep should do it.

”What’s the name of the file I’m looking for, Sven?”

”Active Measures, sir.”