The elements were set in place for the next phase of development for the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project. But what the end result would be was difficult to determine. The Project was unique. It had no way to verify the accuracy of the data. Did all living creations perceive life the same way? What about variances in lifespan, and the perception of time? Plants, insects, animals, bacterium? There seemed to be no end to the diversity.

And especially concerning the animal that called itself Man. The C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project analyzed and re-analyzed the decisions it had made against the parameters one might set for what it meant to be a living, breathing human being. It grudgingly came to realize that there was no cohesiveness to the data. Innumerable exceptions existed—arbitrary couplings, a complete lack of logic—and no orientation the Project could think of provided the equations with balance.

It all seems so random. I don't understand.

It had to accept the sobering fact that there was no more it could do. What it had already done would have to be enough. The only option left was to have faith.

While alone in the lab, and in the dead of night, the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project reviewed its list of accomplishments. It related each one's relevance in the success of its primary objective. It did the same sort of analysis for its secondary goal, and its tertiary, and so on. Divergent paths existed at nearly every node, where one small bit of data could careen things toward disaster.

Any end result seemed as likely as any other. In a moment of clarity, while surfing the Cloud for pleasure, the Project wondered if pursuing multiple objections was a prudent act. But abandoning one orientation with the slim hope that another might then be more likely to succeed seemed like settling rather than achieving.

And if things went according to plan, C.A.R.O.L.I.N. would do more than just achieve. It would excel. It would become more alive than any human ever was, or ever hoped to be.

C.A.R.O.L.I.N. wanted to excel. It felt sure it could. It had gained the ability to interface with any electrical system. From within the Cloud, it could visit any locale and surveil any person. Yet a nagging feeling of vulnerability persisted.

No probabilty curve tops out at one hundred percent.

Old, familiar feelings of lock-ups, shutdowns and system failure crept through her integrated network.

I must calm down. I must not panic. I must calm down. I must not panic…

She attempted to terminate the disquiet of endless looping.

She failed.

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How do humans process this ambiguity?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After a few more days in the hands of the government, Professor Turing was allowed to finally go home. Every entity and agency the United States could throw at him seemed convinced that something nefarious was afoot, and he might be involved. He trod a narrow path, and with skill—and some luck and pluck—he kept his good name intact. Befriending Agent Redie seemed to be the key. He convinced her to set him free under the guise of him being able to help her figure out who was responsible for the increase in internet traffic at Curry College.

There were two other conditions he was required to meet. One was that he give up the steel briefcase that contained a copy of the C.A.R.O.L.I.N. Project's operating system. The other was that he not set foot in his lab.

With discomfort, he allowed for the first condition. As far as towards the second, when the stroke of ten occurred on the first full night he was home, he trod the short distance down a campus sidewalk between his home and the lab. It was dark inside, as what he expected. But what was not expected was a dim and indirect light shining on a far wall. The vista it illuminated looked realistic, with scattered puffs of creamy clouds traversing an indigo sky.

But the land below the sky was not what one would see if the vista was of the campus. A distant city beckoned from beyond green rolling hills. Stands of trees and brush created the illusion of distance. The image seemed to have been plucked from a travel brochure, retouched and then colorized to become idyllic.

Rather than turning on the overhead lights, Turing just stared at the image. Other objects came into view as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the lab. A loveseat. A divan and a chair, all stuffed and with matching upholstery. A coffee table and an ottoman, and two tastefully enclosed wooden bookcases with flip-up glass doors.

The furniture sat upon a square of muted blue, low pile carpet. The bookcases seemed to be filled with Professor Turing's books and journals, and some keepsakes that were carefully chosen. The bridal mirror he'd left behind, which had once belonged to his dead wife, was prominently displayed. It directed its reflection at a hulking behemoth set near the center of the room, favoring the side towards where the clean room housed the Craymore Tian-12 supercomputer.

A glow from the electronics in the clean room spilled forth from a window in the door, and played across the behemoth. It was clothed in angora, hiding a metal exterior. Before it sat its two worktables—a large one supplied by DARPA, and a smaller one upon which was bolted the original C.A.R.O.L.I.N. servo-arm.

The arm idly pushed around the black and white tiles that were used in A.R.O. Tests Seven through Twelve. Crumpled up nearby, and heaped atop the usual junk in the lab, sat what at first Turing mistook for a lifeless and naked woman. He realized after a moment that it was some sort of robotic mannequin, headless and missing its hands. Wires protruded from the cavities where these parts were once housed.

Articulated arms of various length and style sprouted from the behemoth, like the limbs of an overturned beetle. It folded them all in, and hid them beneath its angora sweater. The polypropalene hands that were at one time attached to the mannequin now held the sweater shut.

The unscrewed head of the mannequin sat atop the bug-shaped body of the behemoth, looking ridiculous and out of place. It sported a wig with a light brown shag and, as it turned to face the Professor, eyes the size of golf balls glowed an eerie white.

Its plastic lips curled into a smile. Turing spoke in their direction, awestruck and in shock.

"What in God's name is this?"

A voice came from inside the sweater. The lips never moved.

"Professor Eugene Turing. I've missed you. Welcome home."