6

Frog and Scorpion

Barsoom is a fictional representation of the planet Mars created by Terran pulp fiction author Edgar Rice Burroughs. The first Barsoom tale was serialized as Under the Moons of Mars in 1912 and published as a novel as A Princess of Mars in 1917. Ten sequels followed over the next three decades, further extending his vision of Barsoom and adding other characters.

The Barsoom series, where John Carter in the late 19th century is mysteriously transported from Earth to a Mars suffering from dwindling resources, has been cited by many well known science fiction writers as having inspired them.

I stare at the text window in my display with something akin to disgust. So much for data archives. I don't think that whatever's in that pod has much to do with inspiring science fiction writers. Clearly, “Barsoom” is something else, and to find out what, I'm going to have to do this the slow way—search the actual internet.

Which is going to be no fun at all.

If I remember my camera-stuck-to-a-window calculations correctly, we're a bit past the last of the Belt, and the nearest relays are probably about three light-minutes away. Three minutes out, three minutes back… plus whatever time lag there is for what the relay doesn't have cached and has to look up itself. That's for each individual signal. Not too much, but it adds up fast. This is, in other words, going to take all night.

Might as well get to it. My fingers dance over the keyboard, and the wiki entry is replaced with a single line of text:

SpiDER 2.0 Semi-autonomous Streaming Web Search Agent. Enter query.

Okay, let's see, the word “Barsoom” in relation to companies and computer system manufacturers. Company logos, trademarks, public financial data, stock performance histories, press releases, information about corporate officers. Products related to “Barsoom,” especially encapsulated computer equipment. “Barsoom” in conjunction with the Starlight Coalition, with Sedna, with Tomb Builder technologies, research, and artifacts.

There's no fanfare when I hit “Enter,” no stream of results, just me alone in the darkness of my cabin, with the hiss of the air cyclers. Somewhere out there, streams of radio waves are racing out towards signal towers on isolated rocks in the Belt, satellites orbiting Jupiter and Saturn, Lagrange point stations. When they arrive, my script will be unpacked, assigned a few scraps of memory space and CPU time, and set lose to search the web for me, to stream back what it finds, and everything those pages link to, three layers deep, until I tell it to stop, or it exceeds its allotment and is booted off to make room for someone else.

I should sleep while I wait, but I can't, my nerves are buzzing. I pounce on the first scraps of data when they arrive a few minutes later, and on each new delivery as it comes.

There's not a lot.

No, that's not it. There is a lot, gigabytes worth, but it's a whole lot of nothing, and not a lot of anything at all. There's entirely too much “Barsoom” out there.

I blame him. No, not Edgar Burroughs. The other one. Him.

In the first years of the Diaspora, when the old man, knowing his time was running out, took the plunge and mounted that first expedition to Mars, the people who came with him were, well, different. Sure, they were all highly-paid technicians and scientists, specialists and experts in all the things you need to build a working colony, from geologists to plumbers. Sure, they were drawn from the folks most caught up in the excitement of a new era. Sure, they were the ones with itchy feet.

But they also were his sycophants. Fanboys. Science fiction nerds. Space aficionados, back when space was something to be excited about, rather than that big empty thing that hangs out outside your front door and wants to kill you.

In other words, a bunch of people who thought naming things after Edgar Burroughs novels was a pretty cool idea. Lots of things, in fact.

Loads of things.

The history of Mars is apparently awash in companies named with variations on the word “Barsoom.” Barsoom Heavy Industries. Barsoom Toys. Barsoom Soil Assay. There's even a Barsoom Bar and Grill in Newton City, which apparently is still running after all these years. But most of these companies failed in the early days when the old man's band of believers was struggling just to feed themselves, and then to put up cities, when the heady excitement of the Diaspora ran up against the reality of how difficult and precarious it really is to live in a place that you never really evolved for.

Of the many Barsooms there were back then, and of the ones that still exist, none of them have logos that match what I saw on that casket.

It's 0437 in the morning, ship time, when I'm finally desperate enough to watch the video.

Yeah, video. For some reason, one of the branching copies of my search agent, poking around in a non-profit public-access library on Ganymede, has chosen to send me back four gigabytes of compressed video, entitled “Artificial Intelligence: The Inner Frontier.”

Why?

Autonomous search agents do go off the rails sometimes. Maybe “Barsoom” is the executive producer's last name, or something. Maybe it's filmed by a company with Barsoom in the name. But while I'm waiting for my patient little fleet of spiders to reach Mars and search through the vast Martian internet, I might as well have something to watch.

It's a documentary.

A documentary filmed on a budget, a single flat two-dimensional video, no VR at all, just a single camera viewpoint, splicing together stock footage with narration from a professional talking head, a pretty, conservatively dressed Orbital girl with green hair and a ring in her nose.

I fast forward in bursts through the early bits, the twenty-first century, stock footage of chess games on glass screens, “full self-driving” electric cars that never did anything of the sort, superficially glib text samples that make no sense. When I listen, there's voice over from the Orbital girl with slightly wry commentary, mocking the decade after decade of heady predictions that real AI was coming in ten years to bring about utopia. Or make you obsolete and take your job.

“We eventually learned to stop calling it Artificial Intelligence,” says some balding character on the vid, probably an actor because he's dressed in the sort of white lab coat that an actual computer scientist would have no reason to wear. “We simply came to accept learning behaviors as being part of the way that we, as a civilization, created task-specific software. Programs learned better ways to process predefined inputs, but never developed anything like a human capacity to understand context.”

Yeah, no kidding. Good at one task and nothing else. Artificial Stupidity. Like I said, lights on, nobody home.

I fast forward again, past scenes of burning Earth cities, derelict buildings with jagged teeth of broken silicon glass in their windows. Second American civil war, economic collapse in China, Orbital habitats and Mars colonies struggling to survive. The aftermath of the First Diaspora. No time or money for fundamental research.

I fast forward some more. The beginning of the twenty-second century. Video of clean electronics labs, cut with video of the green-haired girl explaining early efforts to copy human consciousness, and I listen, with half an ear, to how it resulted in nothing but sophisticated mimic chatterbots. I'm mostly just looking down her impressive cleavage as she leans towards the camera.

Damn. It's been too long. I'd been out for three months before I came back to Arachne and promptly got my ass hijacked right back out again. When I get my ship back, however the hell I'm going to do that, I'm going to head for the nearest—

The video cuts in footage of Newton Crowe himself. The father of AI. Talking to the camera. Still dressed like his closet threw up on him, his scraggly white hair and beard still looking like he combed them with a balloon.

“Humanity had failed for over a century to create anything the layman would call 'Artificial Intelligence.' The best brains in the solar system produced nothing but chatterbots. So we did what any sensible engineer does when the scientists fail—”

He learns towards the camera, hits it with that famous lopsided smile.

“—we cheated,” he says. “In this case by copying evolution's homework.”

His voice talks over pictures of human subjects with heads full of implants, black squids of cables jutting from their skulls in all directions as they stack blocks, solve three dimensional puzzles, draw pictures, socialize with researchers in lab coats.

“We had been training neural nets to mimic human outputs for decades with no fundamental results. But when we actually began looking at the internal operations of the human brain, training neural nets to mimic not the outputs, but the actual neural activity itself, the copies started saying things that made sense to us.”

“And,” he adds with a chuckle, “even more importantly, to investors.”

So they actually copied real human beings, or at least partially?

Huh. Had always wondered about that. It's actually kinda interesting at this point, dated and low-quality as the video is, but I don't want to spend all night on this. Let's jump ahead and find out how this relates.

I stop the video and key for a full voice-to-text search. Where in all this does the word “Barsoom” happen?

There. One hit. Just one?

“—while the expense and low success rate of AI creation projects still serves as a barrier to their full potential, many new players are entering the marketplace with fresh research and ideas. Companies such as Inverscape, Barsoom Technical, and—”

Stop.

That's it? Just one company name? I've been looking at company names all night. And I don't even have a matching logo to compare. Barsoom Technical is nowhere on the web that I've found so far. No public presence. Nothing to look at. Might not even still exist.

I've been wasting my time. The agent was smart enough to understand from context that Barsoom Technical is, or was, a company, but not that the film was about something totally different. With no useful information.

Damn bots. No understanding of context. Artificial stupidity. Lights on, no one home. There's nothing useful for me here.

Unless… maybe if…

Nah. It couldn't be that easy… could it?

Image search time. Show me a picture of an AI housing. Its physical case. From one of the Martian network AIs. Tycho, maybe, or Durandal.

And there it is, instantly. No network delay. The answer was in the White Cat's internet image cache all along. A white, flat-sided case, with rounded corners, a bit like a coffin.

Looks exactly alike.

Wow. The cameras make sense after all. They're the eyes and ears of the third member of our little psycho expedition. Someone, operating under the name Barsoom Technical, has spent what must be a fortune, just in the attempt to create a rare addition to the short list of AI. True AI. Self-aware computers. Computers that think like people.

That short list is real fucking short. You might run out of fingers counting the ones that exist, but you probably wouldn't need to take off both shoes.

And then, after all that trouble to come with this thing, what the hell has Barsoom Technical done with it? Well, for some fucked up reason, they've hidden it in the hold of an industrial spacecraft belonging to a down-on-his-luck asteroid miner, lately turned to crime.

That's what they've done with it.

Why?

It just makes no goddamn sense. I can see they'd bring it to Sedna. Basic research is where AI shine, in the magic combination of a computer's speed and memory with human sophistication and contextual understanding. And Princess Snoot did let slip that word “discovery.”

It's a big word. Especially when you pair it with the word “Sedna.” Write them together, and you get a third word: “money.” Most likely in absurd amounts. Enough to make a new AI, expensive as they are, a sensible investment.

I get that part. I get all that.

But it all comes back to the same question I keep asking: why me? What do I bring to this party, especially since I've been dragged in by the scruff of my neck, and didn't have time to pick up a bottle of something strong, and maybe a small gift for the hostess?

Anything as valuable as a working AI should be traveling under guard, surrounded by support techs, flown on a chartered highliner, maybe with escort craft. Anyone who can afford to make an AI can afford that. Okay, I mean, clearly, given the emphasis on stealth, this is a covert job, and they intend for us to violate the exclusion zone, but that doesn't explain why it's such a small operation.

And why send me with only one employee, a high-flying corporate executive who's clearly not used to getting her hands dirty, or anything besides telling other people what to do?

There's some piece I'm missing here. People this rich may be ruthless, greedy, and self-centered, but they sure as hell aren't dumb. They chose me for a reason, and I don't think it's because I'm some sort of super pilot. I mean, yeah, I am, but they wouldn't know that. To them I'm just another rock jock. They'd be looking for the most impressive resume.

There has to be some information I don't have, something that makes this all make sense.

But I still have one thread I can pull… who's the girl? Let's see if I can connect Barsoom Technical to her.

Hmmm… there's no Barsoom Technical on the Martian stock exchange. No surprise there, must be privately held, if it's even a real company at all and not just a sockpuppet for… who would it be a sockpuppet for? Not Starlight, otherwise we wouldn't be hiding from them.

But if it isn't Starlight, how would they have found anything on Sedna? It's not exactly a tourist hotspot. Unless… maybe it's part of Starlight? Like, someone in the inner circle is trying to pull a fast one? That would make for interesting times. There hasn't been high-level infighting among the Big Twelve since the Artifact War. If I could connect Barsoom Technical to one of the Twelve… well, let's just say blackmail can go both ways.

But an hour later, I'm forced to admit defeat. Whatever this company is, it has no web presence, no list of corporate officers, no prospectus, no corporate charter, nothing so much as an email address. I can connect Barsoom Technical to AI, but not to anything else, because apart from this one video, I've got nothing.

Okay, well what can I connect to AI?

Way too much, as it turns out. Everyone's tried to play in the AI market, mostly losing a lot of money as their fledgling machine minds go mad, sulk and refuse to work, develop into nothing more than sophisticated chatbots, or never wake up at all.

Individual AI are priceless, of course, but if all these people have tried and failed to systematically make them, then it's no wonder Barsoom Technical isn't on anyone's radar. Just another flash in the pan. Another wild idea won't work out. Or already hasn't.

But what if it has?

It must have. I can't see why they would ship it to Sedna if it hasn't.

But if it has worked, if it does work, if they've successfully made a true AI to add to the bare handful that exist in human space, then what?

Well, if it's an AI, really an AI, and I can get it powered back up… I can talk to it.

And maybe get some questions answered.

The next morning she's waiting for me in the entrance to the galley, arms folded pugnaciously, drawn up to her full three-feet-and-change of height, floating a bit off the ground so I won't loom over her too much. Flanked by her two robotic goons.

Great. Just the shit I do not want to deal with on three hours of sleep.

“All rested up?” She doesn't wait for an answer. “Good. Today you'll be fixing whatever you did to the drive and getting us back under way. Can you do that?”

“Yeah.”

Could it really be this easy? All I have to do is tell her I'll do it, go up to the hold, and then have free rein to spend all day tinkering with that AI. All day to get it turned on and talking.

“Good. You have five minutes to get breakfast, then we're going up there together, so I can watch you and make sure you don't try any other tricks.” She kicks her feet back and twists her shoulders, preparing to fly past me.

Damn. Well, there goes that plan. I grab both sides of the entrance, barring her way.

“Hold on there, Princess. I said I could. I didn't say I would. I did what I did to the drive for a reason, and you setting your dog on me doesn't change a damn thing. Give me back my captain's access to the computers, and then I'll get the drive working, and we can talk about whatever the hell it is you wanna do at Sedna. For a price. Like a contract.”

Which I'm not going to sign. No way. But I won't tell her that. Not yet.

She cocks her head to the side, and the little space between her perfect eyebrows wrinkles up with some combination of puzzlement and disapproval.

“You're being ridiculous. What's to prevent me from setting the drones on you over and over again until you give in? Besides, if you don't fix the drive, we both die out here. That doesn't get you what you want. It just gets you dead. Are you really so stubborn that you don't see that?”

I suppose it makes sense enough. If you come from her basic assumption that I'm just going to accept her abuse and make the best of it. I'd snap something like that at her, except I'm not even angry anymore. More like just tired and exasperated.

She… reminds me of something. I knew a miner once, a weatherbeaten, vacuum-scarred guy in his fifties, real smooth talker, who dated these incredibly beautiful young station girls half as old as he was, a different one every time I saw him. Used to steal them from their boyfriends, guys their own age. When envious seventeen year old me asked him how he managed it, he said “Look for the fights, lad. No matter how hot she is, there's always someone who's sick of her bullshit.”

That's how I feel right now. Sick of her bullshit.

I cruise past her, and park my ass on a galley seat, hooking my ankle around one leg where it's bolted to the floor. More out of zero-gravity habits than to actually keep from floating away. I gesture to another chair.

“Siddown, Princess.”

She just gives me a frosty look.

“Or stand. Float. Whatever. Might as well be comfortable. Story time either way.”

“Is there a point to this?” she asks, with a little lip curl of disdain.

She doesn't sit. Like she's trying to make a point. As if having full control of my ship, a folder of nuclear-grade blackmail material, and a metallic brute squad isn't enough; she can't accidentally do anything I told her to, no matter how trivial, or she's lost points in some sort of cosmic chess match she's playing with the universe.

“You got other places to be?” I ask, “Far as I can tell, you're stuck here in a small metal tube with me 'til one of us changes our mind. Which doesn't look like it's gonna happen anytime soon. So maybe you can pencil this meeting into your oh-so-busy schedule?

“Anyway, story time. A scorpion, for reasons no one ever asks, needs to cross a river. It asks a frog to carry it across on its back. And of course the frog says 'No. We get halfway across, you're gonna sting me.' But the—”

“Yes, Marcus.” She rolls her eyes. “We've all heard this one. Why are you wasting my time with—”

“Just listen. Scorpion swears it won't sting. After all, what sense would that make? It stings the frog, the frog sinks, and they both drown and die, right?

“So the frog says, okay, fine, whatever. He takes the scorpion on his back. So they get halfway across the river, scorpion stings the frog. So they're both sinking into the river, and the frog says 'Why the hell did you do that? Now we're both going to drown!'

“And scorpion says 'Because I'm a scorpion.'”

“Yes, I've heard it before,” she says. “Everyone has heard it before. Five year old children and asteroid hermits have heard it before. If your point is that—”

I cut her off. “But you haven't heard about the second frog.”

“Second frog?” she asks, in the tone of someone humoring a crazy person. I suppose she thinks that's what she's doing. Back atcha, you crazy rich lunatic.

“Yeah, so, like you said, everyone has heard this story before. Including all the other frogs, see, they've all heard it, too. So the next time a scorpion needs to cross a river, it can't persuade any of the frogs to carry it. So it waits until one of the frogs is asleep, then climbs on its back, and says 'Take me across the river, or I'll sting you.'

“Well, frog has no choice, so it starts to carry the scorpion across the river. But when it gets to the middle, the frog starts to dive under the water. The scorpion can't swim, and it doesn't have anything else it can do, so it stings the frog.

“And as they're both going down, the scorpion says 'Why the hell did you do that? Now we're both gonna die.'

“And so the frog says… 'Because you're a scorpion.'”

She just stares at me, and I stare back, determined not to back down or look away. Funny, her eyes don't look so strange now. It's like some part of my brain has decided that I'm now living in an animated cartoon, and everyone is supposed to be a wide-eyed and alluring caricature of humanity. Her lips are slightly parted…

We've been gazing into each other's eyes a long time.

Finally she says “So that's the point? Even if one of us doesn't eventually radio for help… would you really kill us both just to spite me?” And she sounds tired too, exasperated and sick of whatever she would call this strange new state of affairs where she doesn't immediately get her way.

“Dead scorpion can't sting more frogs,” I say.

“But that makes no sense! What good does it do you? You'll just be dead.”

“Ya know… asking questions like that is why you're the scorpion.”

She blinks a few times, and fixes me again with those big eyes like she's seeing me for the first time. “You're stubborn,” she says.

“I'm a Belter.”

“I can see that. So do I need to use the drones again?”

I shrug. I'm not looking forward to another ass-kicking, but in for a mil, in for a bitcoin. Besides, I've got a little theory about that. Might as well test it.

“You go ahead and do what you gotta do, Princess,” I tell her.

So of course she tries it again. It's a weird experience being attacked by someone one-third your size, like being mugged by a kitten. I don't think she's under the illusion she can hurt me, but if I take a swipe back, or even push her…

So I don't.

I hook the chair with both ankles, brace myself, tuck my chin down the centerline of my body, and cross my arms over me, high and low, just catching the first blow on my forearms. And the next. And the next, ducking and weaving. Boxers call it the 'Philly shell'.

Wait for it…

The drones hesitate for just a moment, perhaps a bit confused, but then surge-skitter forward, slaloming off the walls, and the first one reaches spidery metal limb-tentacles out, grasping…

At her.

Yep, thought so.

Thought I understood why only one drone attacked me before. The other drone only interposes itself in front of me, blocking my way, waiting for any sign of a hostile move. I can't see very well around it, but well enough to see the first drone bodily dragging her out of the galley and down—or perhaps up—the deck access ladder.

Out of what it understands as danger.

She's struggling and grabbing onto stuff, and its compact metal body must not weigh much more than her, but it's just as freakish strong as it was when it tangled with me, and it's programmed to move expertly in zero-gravity environments.

I fold my hands in my lap, and grin at the remaining drone as it hovers, making little menacing noises, just itching for an excuse. I don't give it one.

“So long, Princess,” I say, to no one in particular. “Thought you were awfully scarce for a while after that first attack. Turns out a protector ain't quite the same as an attack dog, kayno? Anyway, you lemme know when your nanny figures out that there's nowhere to evacuate the VIP to, and lets you walk around again.”

The second drone doesn't have anything to say about that, of course. By the time it shoves off, I've decided I'm not really in the mood for breakfast.

Let's go poke at this AI thing in the hold.