Lenora
Sorry, my dearests. My hands are tied. You know what privacy contracts are like. Iron clad! I post absentmindedly as I’m inundated with questions. I change my status to busy and only feel mildly guilty.
Stepping back into the corridor, I change to my default outfit and breathe in deeply. The meeting had lasted for hours, and I’m hungry and exhausted. My mind’s in a whirl though the session is far from my thoughts. Even Torin, my cheek still tingling from his goodbye kiss, is no contender for what’s really on my mind as I hurry towards the Studios’ tele-station.
“Where’re we going now?” Hugo asks. He’s been in a mood since Torin showed up.
“I need to visit the Cyberinth Archives. While I’m there, do you mind going over the new contract for me?” I ask, and his frown deepens. “I’d hate to find out later I’ve agreed to an erotically intimate scene with Torin.” Hugo blinks out of view without even saying farewell.
On my own, I step into the busy thoroughfare of the teleport station. I can technically walk to the Archive, but it’ll cost far too many credits and the real time it would take would be incalculable. The Escapist Studios’ tele-station is full of performers hurrying to and from work, clientele visiting shows and avatars busking in corners. It’s noisy with pings and chimes, and busy with flitting parasitezzis and peepers, small insect-like avatars, trying to get the next big scoop.
I slip into a single-person domed capsule that seals shut behind me and state clearly, “The Archives.” A moment later, I’m stepping out into the Archive’s tele-station.
The Archive is big enough to be its own station within the Cyberinth. It’s laid out by subject matter, and each block and street is reminiscent of the Old Earth Dewey decimal classification system. It far surpasses what I could find on my own. I don’t just want information, I want information that’s not thrown together by an un-Active school student.
I approach the information desk and a multi-headed dragon avatar bends one of its massive heads to hear my request. The avatar is hard to focus on, its heads appearing and disappearing regularly as librarians log in and out of the Cyberinth.
“I’m looking for anything to do with artificial intelligence. And emotions,” I say, focusing on the dragon’s gold snout.
“Processing now,” the head says in a soft feminine voice. Above floats the woman’s name, Librarian Libby Jones (rank 91,839). “The Epistemology Sector. Block 128. Street 3. House 7.”
I hire a bicycle and follow its prompts, passing through the Philosophy Quarter, full to the brim with murmuring voices, and take a short cut along the Space and Time blocks, smelling strongly of burnt gun powder, raspberries, clocks and dust. The air in the Epistemology Sector feels heavier than the other sectors, like my lungs are being crushed with the weighty debates of the unconscious and subconscious, humankind and causation.
“Welcome!” an AI guide pops from the ground in a neat black suit and large round glasses, giving it an open, friendly look. “My designation is Ferrier. How may I serve you?”
“I’m looking for information on artificial intelligences.” It’s strange asking an AI about AIs. Would it understand it’s artificially created, or would it only know what it’s been programmed to know? Is it an ‘it’ or a ‘he’? I’ve never had to think about it with Hugo, yet if it’s born neither male or female, can it have a gender? He appears to identify as male.
“You’re in the wrong sector. You need Sector Computer Science, Knowledge and Systems, Block 006, Street 3.” He points back the way I’ve come.
“The librarian sent me here though. For AI emotions.”
“I see,” the AI fiddles with a suit button before he notices me noticing and clasps his hands together. It’s such a human nervous tick. “Emotions. This way.”
Leaving the bike resting up against a wrought-iron fence, I follow Ferrier into the poorly lit streets of the sector, taking turn after turn until I’m completely lost, with one tall, foreboding building looking much like the next.
“Here we are,” Ferrier says, taking the half dozen steps up to the building two at a time. The front door has a bronze embossed plaque titled 128.37 — Emotions. Lights brighten as he guides me into an entryway leading to two doors and a narrow staircase. The door on my left is closed but the one on my right reveals a large sitting room full of overstuffed chairs in front of a cheery fireplace. On my arrival, the dozen or so AIs, who’re debating with gusto, stand and give me a short bow in greeting.
“Friends, we’re seeking knowledge regarding emotion in the field of artificial intelligence,” Ferrier says, gesturing to me. The AIs glance at each other, one shuffles her scuffed leather boots against the carpet, another tugs on an earlobe while an AI with an impressive moustache and beard rubs the back of his neck.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“You may want to speak with Jo,” says the moustached AI.
“Thank you, McCarthy.” Ferrier ushers me out of the room and up the stairs. On the third level, we step out onto a long corridor lined with orange painted doors.
We stop in front of one. The nameplate reads Jonas Morgan. Ferrier knocks twice firmly. Nothing stirs. The AI adjusts his glasses before trying again.
“Jo, are you in?” Ferrier calls, and after a spell, he tries the doorknob and the door swings quietly inwards. The room’s empty, bare, even the dust-motes are absent.
“Where is he?” I ask as Ferrier freezes, hands limp by his sides.
“Where’s who?” Ferrier asks, and pushes me out of the room. The sign on the door is now blank. “My apologies, Miss. There’re no archival results for your search terms. Would you like to try again?”
One moment the AI of the writer, Jonas Morgan, existed, his name on the door clear as reality, yet now it’s been erased. However, there’s one place I know that stores a back-up of deleted data from the Cyberinth. My father’s private office.
***
My parents are asleep when I get home, but I still walk upstairs on light feet. Hugo’s waiting for me in my room.
“Hugo, how does a little breaking and entering sound?” I ask, changing into my slippers and robe to ward off the chill. Hugo lifts a brow, eyeing me speculatively, before declaring cheerfully, “Lead the way!”
My father was promoted to Chief Mediator when I was Activated, which means his office is now a treasure trove of secrets. Hugo switches off the house, and the hallway becomes even darker. Slightly impatient, I wait for Hugo to unlock the office before slipping in, closing it behind me and turning on my modes’ torch.
“What research are we talking about here? Something obviously illegal.” He leans over Father’s desk to activate the database. It flickers on and the room expands outwards, the walls disappearing into shadows as separate data-bytes hang down like glowing orbs from silver lines as fine as spider webs.
“Legal or illegal, it’s been deleted from the Archives and I want to find out why.” I settle into my father’s chair, sending out search threads for Jonas Morgan and I’m unsurprised when two thousand, eight hundred and fifty-eight lines light up like light bulbs.
“That’s a lot of deleted data. Care to narrow it down?”
“Even I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” I lie. “Anything to do with AIs?”
“Artificial Intelligences? O-kay,” he drawls and chooses an orb at random. It’s the third line where I find what I’m looking for.
Morgan, Jonas. “Artificial Love.” Thought Review. 285.2 (365:04:10): 286-312. Text abstract.
Yet where’s the rest of it? I glance at Hugo. He’s as still as only something artificial can be. One hand’s resting on a glowing orb and his eyes are closed, his head tilting slightly to the left, as if he’s listening to something. Part of me wants to see if he’s okay. Is he malfunctioning? A larger part takes advantage of his distraction and redefines my search terms. The two thousand, eight hundred and fifty-eight glowing orbs blink out until only two are left, one I’ve already opened and another pale in comparison. Opening it, I realise why.
Deleted 367:01:13:18:00.
It’s empty. The elastic band inside me that’s been stretching and stretching ever since I started this mad search doesn’t snap. The tension pulses and stretches impossibly further. I calmly delete my searches and switch off Father’s desk, the room humming softly before going quiet.
“Did you find what you’re looking for?” Hugo asks, blinking hastily and crossing his arms across his chest. He still seems distant.
“I did. Come on. I’m exhausted.” And I am, however the elastic is stretching tight and I know sleep will elude me. The deleted file proves I’m onto something, and all I have to do is find Jonas Morgan. With slippers kicked off and robe slung over a chair, I slip into bed and pull the covers up to my chin, leaving my modes on.
“I thought you were tired,” Hugo grumbles as he drapes himself across the end of my bed like a big cat. I imagine his weight against my feet and I wiggle my toes.
“I’ll sleep soon,” I promise, extinguishing my light. Hugo glows a little in the dark before he drifts off. Not asleep, but not switched off, he’s just somewhere else. Maybe he dreams?
A soft chime pops up in my headset from Wally.
You awake, Baby Doll?
How was your something? I tuck my blanket up over my head to avoid disturbing Hugo.
Alright. A lot of talk without much action. It makes me wonder why I wanted this so badly.
The three F’s? Fame, Fortune and Fans? I tease.
Hmm, that must be it. What about you? What makes up for the late nights, the skipped meals, the complete lack of a social life that’s not dictated by rankings?
Do you find it empowering? I blurt and then blush.
Hey, you can tell me anything, you know. No judging here.
Well, I begin, being in front of an audience, creating art and music … it makes people happy. We’ve been granted good genes, we work hard and make the most of what we have, but we’re not special. My father taught me that everyone should have their voice heard, and maybe through my art, I can encourage people to push themselves further. Anyone could be where we are, and I like to think I can show people they still can be.
That’s really lovely, Lenora.
Well, we all have to dream, I say.
Speaking of dreams, I’m wrecked. He sends me an affectionate kiss that makes my cheek tingle. We’ll talk later?
Yes, sleep well.
Sweet dreams, Baby Doll.
I spend the next few hours trying to find Jonas Morgan with no luck. He must have his settings on private. However I can reach his little sister, Bryn Morgan, who I shared classes with at school. I remember her hair had been a right mess, full of hardware, and she was borderline popular, yet had never quite crossed that line. I exchanged her pretty early on when her rank settled to something expected from someone destined to remain living on Level 5, though it’s easy enough to find a contact link.
As soon as it turns seven, I call her from bed.
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