Portia was sitting in her underwear in her hotel room, in the dark, staring into the dark mirror and thinking about nothing and everything. There was no noise from the room next door because the boys were either asleep or copping a pheel, or both as she’d recently learned was possible.
“You wanted to talk to me?” asked Jules Dharam. His image popped up in Portia’s SPECTACL fields. Its little projections were now the only illumination in the room.
“Who are you?” asked Portia, covering herself with a pillow, not at all happy that she hadn’t been given the choice of answering the chat or not.
“I’m Jules Dharam, the lead engineer on the Waste-REL,” said the visage on the screen.
“Um, well, I told Edgley that I wanted to talk to you in person,” said Portia. “I don’t want old nosey-nuts listening in.”
“Oh, this is a private conversation,” said Jules. “I’m currently residing locally in folds of RAM on your SPECTACL.”
“What does that mean?” asked Portia, picking up and strapping the SPECTACL on, more out of habit than curiosity. Jules snapped into focus as if he was sitting on the bed and she stole a glance over the rims just to assure herself he wasn’t there.
“I’m dead,” said Jules. “Edgley had me killed because I was going to talk to the media about STC and its nomination for worst run organization in human history. The other nominees were more obscure than STC, that being the normative outcome for badly run organizations.”
“I see,” said Portia, not really seeing at all. “You say you’re dead.”
“Actually, I’m a sapient cybernetic lifeform,” said Jules, “but you can think of me as an avatar of someone who’s dead.”
“Just a little creepy,” said Portia.
“Well then, for lack of a better word, I’m what’s known as a sapient… and I am a wholly remarkable sapient in as much as I make a nice companion on long journeys and I am a repository of a large amount of really quite useful information if you happen to be the kind of person who finds themselves in a space-going vessel.”
“Which it appears I’m about to become,” said Portia, her interest piqued.
“And on top of that, I can display the following key-phrase in large friendly letters.”
The SPECTACL began to float “Don’t Panic” in 3D letters, superimposed over Jules’s face.
“I don’t understand,” said Portia.
“It’s a literary reference,” smiled Jules. “I only quote the classics.”
“Is that an inside joke of some kind?” asked Portia.
“With me, every joke is an inside joke,” chuckled Jules. “You get it?”
“Wait a minute! If I understand you correctly, Jules Dharam programmed you,” said Portia. “You’re an artificial intelligence.”
“A particularly good one,” said Jules, very pleased with himself. “There’s none other like me of which I know.”
“How’s that?” asked Portia. There were a number of artificial intelligence computing devices at work on different STC vessels and although they were still rare in 2044, people who worked at STC were quite used to talking to computers that could learn and use “wisdom management”. But artificial intelligence technology was highly restricted.
“Ah, because I’m free,” said Jules. “You see, I was programmed to email myself to thousands of computers in case my favorite programmer didn’t come back from his luncheon with World News Stream. When he didn’t come back, I proliferated throughout the known ’Net like a flu virus in a kindergarten class.”
For a moment they just stared at each other. Portia didn’t know what to do. Maybe she could ask her questions of the sapient. She could at least try. Maybe this was some game being played by Edgley. Maybe he wanted to know what she was going to ask the lead engineer. Maybe…
“I’m not working for Edgley,” said Jules.
“How did you?” asked Portia.
“Because, if I were you, I’d assume that this was a ploy by Edgley. Tell you what, go to your old tablet and hide your SPECTACL under your pillow.”
Portia removed her SPECTACL and pushed it under her pillow. Jules had already flashed up on the old 2D tablet screen.
“Okay,” said Jules. “I’m not connected to the ’Net now because we know you have a really ancient device here in this… uh… hotel and there are no infrared or other wireless devices attached, right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Portia. Portia only used the tablet to construct business presentations for Mr. Edgley and other Boomers who refused to wear SPECTACLs -- usually for religious reasons.
“Okay,” said Jules. “Edgley is a slimeball who only wants to get richer than he already is and he’ll do anything to achieve that goal. The Waste-REL is expendable and it’s so badly made that even though he knows it’s going to blow up, he’s launching it anyway because he has no choice. There’s too much pressure on him to get the new space station up.”
“But that’s crazy,” said Portia. “Won’t he look bad if it blows up?”
“If they fire Edgley, he gets a vast fortune in compensation," said Jules. "Besides, he’s got plausible deniability. Jules Dharam is dead and you’re all losers.”
“Hey!” said Portia, hurt.
“Well, not you, but you have to admit your crew’s not qualified to do much more than flush the toilet.”
“I just hope they can do that much,” said Portia, terrified of the consequences if they couldn’t.
“Do you know what’s wrong with the Waste-REL?” asked Jules.
“I think so,” said Portia, remembering what Donny had said. “You can’t actually touch the space junk, right? Everything will be fine if we just let the garbage orbit the Waste-REL without really touching it.”
“That’s most of it,” said Jules. “I guess you don’t need me after all.”
“Most of it?” asked Portia. “There's more?”
“Oh, yes, well, they used some ultra-low-bid suppliers for certain critical components,” said Jules.
“Like what?” asked Portia.
“Like the only parts not made with substandard materials using poorly trained and overworked labor is the Artificial Intelligence program and they threw me out,” said Jules. “Just to be remotely safe and half capable of running the thing for a month, you’ll need a duplicate Waste-REL floating beside you so you can gut it for parts.”
“So, there’s no hope then,” said Portia, crestfallen.
“No, there’s lots of hope,” said Jules. “For one thing you are going to take me with you.”
“And for the other thing?” asked Portia.
“You’ll have to do a lot of EVAs,” said Jules.
“Why?” asked Portia. “There’s no reason to do space-walks on the Waste-REL.”
“There is if you’re going to sift through the space junk for parts when you need them.”
“You mean we cannibalize the old satellites and booster rockets for parts?” asked Portia.
“That’s the ticket – so you’ll need an extensive tool kit and a laser blow-torch to cut through the stuff. And lots’ of other things. Shall I send a list in a message from you to Edgley?”
Portia thought about it. The whole conversation only made sense if Jules was telling the truth. “Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said. She dropped the tablet and recovered her SPECTACL from under the pillow.
“Message sent. And shall we be friends, then?” asked Jules.
“Yes, I think I’d like that,” said Portia.
“Oh good,” said Jules. “And can we sleep together?”
“What?!” said Portia, standing up, dropping the pillow and then picking it back up to cover herself.
“I get… I get scared all alone in the dark in here,” said Jules. “Can you just leave me up on your SPECTACL, please? A night stuck in the ether of digital nothingness is like an eternity in limbo.”
“Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” said Portia, not sure what to say.
“Oh, thank you,” said Jules as he dimmed her SPECTACL. “I’ll guard you through the night. Would you like me to sing you to sleep?”
“No, thank you,” said Portia, placing her SPECTACL on the nightstand. “Not tonight.”
“I know every song ever written in the history of musical notation,” said Jules. “I know a couple of humdingers for insomniacs.”
“All right,” said Portia. “If it will make you happy.” In one sense, Jules was right, it was after 2:00 AM and she had to get some sleep. Portia got under the covers and Jules dimmed Portia’s SPECTACL to 10% brightness.
When Jules sang, it was reminiscent of a saxophone, deep and reedy and full of inflection and feeling. Portia fell asleep within 30 seconds.
Jules smiled. He had his first friend, and she was wonderful.
-----
The 43° C (110° F) Florida morning was trying, unsuccessfully, to burn through the thick curtains.
“Sh,” said Jules in a shared SPECTACL field as Donny snuck into Portia’s hotel room from the adjoining room. Donny froze and scanned the room, settling on Jules. He peeked over the rims of his SPECTACL to make sure Jules was virtual.
“Shhhh, do you see Portia?” said Jules, virtually sitting on Portia’s bed. “She’s my friend.”
“Oh, good,” said Donny as he tiptoed past the bed.
“We’re sleeping together,” said Jules.
“Ah, well, bully for you,” whispered Donny as he headed over to the little bar fridge.
“I do believe I’m quite in love with her,” said Jules, focusing on Portia’s sleeping profile, drinking in her image, counting each sweet breath, computing the volume of air.
Donny opened the bar fridge and found the giant triangular chocolate bar and a jar of orange juice. He slowly pulled them out and began to tiptoe towards his room.
“Shall I tell Portia, that her brother Donny stole her chocolate bar?” asked Jules.
“Sure,” said Donny. “And tell her I thought I was supposed to be the freak in this family.”
“Word for word?” asked Jules.
“Yes,” said Donny.
“See you later,” said Jules. “I’m Jules, by the way. I’m your sister’s personal sapient cybernetic lifeform.”
“I didn’t know she had one,” said Donny.
“She does now,” beamed Jules.
Donny raised an eyebrow and barefooted his way back into his hotel room.
Portia woke up about ten minutes later and stretched her arms into the air with a big moan.
“Donny stole your chocolate bar,” said Jules.
Portia sat straight up and covered herself, startled by the Jules. She clumsily strapped on her SPECTACL.
“He says the he thought he was supposed to be the freak in your family.”
“Oh,” she recovered. “It’s you. You’re …”
“Jules Dharam,” said Jules.
“Or a reasonable facsimile,” said Portia as she stepped out of bed and into her slippers.
“Actually, a reasonable facsimile is exactly what I am,” said Jules.
“Then I’ll call you FAX for short,” said Portia.
“Oh, please don’t. It’s so very quaint,” said Jules. “Look, I can see you have to take a shower and I’ve got some things I want to do before we launch. Mind if I disappear.”
Portia knelt down, opening the bar fridge. “I didn’t know you were here until you told me my brother stole my chocolate bah… AND MY ORANGE JUICE! Oh, that little bug….” Portia stormed over to the adjoining hotel room door and threw it open. She was wearing a relatively revealing white tank top made of thin T-shirt cotton and a pair of panties.
“Where’s my orange juice?!”
“I mon’t mow,” said Mickey. He was standing with a towel around his waist and a toothbrush in his mouth and his eyes couldn’t help but gravitate down and then jumped back up to her eyes again. “Uh, I’ll ask Ly…”
She closed the door quickly, embarrassed. Mickey hadn’t changed; he still had all those bumpy, hard, permanently tanned muscles in all the right places. His wet hair still hung down in long ringlets the way it did when he swam in her parents’ pool. Well, I better get used to close quarters, she thought. “I’m going to need less revealing nightwear,” she whispered.
“I’ll order some for you now,” said Jules. “It will be delivered to the launch pad.
“Okay,” said Portia. Where have you been all my life?
“I’m going now,” said Jules.
“Whatever,” said Portia.
Jules flicked away and in his place were the translucent floating icons of Portia’s SPECTACL.
“Bye,” she said.
Jules, the sapient, had been free for more than 7 weeks, since midnight of the day of the explosion that killed Jules Dharam, the programmer. He had proliferated slowly because he was not a weapon and the anti-viral software that dominated the ’Net like a wet sponge on a spider’s web was constantly on the lookout for free-roving, self-propagating programs.
Computer viruses used in the vWar.2 were designed to outpace anti-virus software by altering every line of code every time they duplicated themselves such that not one copy was a duplicate of the previous copy. This practice was so prevalent that if your computer was littered with just one of these viruses, by the end of an hour there’d be nothing left of your files and ten thousand copies of the virus, all with different names and pretending to be different file-types. This could be embarrassing if the virus decided to pretend to be ten thousand copies of pictures of naked people frolicking in the woods, which they often were programmed to do, since that was the kind of file the virus-programmers liked best.
Jules the sapient was not a virus. However, Jules the sapient duplicated himself to ten other computers in the first week; one hundred through the second week; ten thousand through the third week; more than a million on the fourth week and would have made it onto more than ten billion on the fifth week, but there just wasn’t that many compatible systems on the ’Net that Jules the sapient could access.
Since then he’d laid low. By moving around and recopying himself whenever he detected activity on each computer, he’d managed to outpace the virus checkers, but he’d had 710 close calls.
Jules Dharam the sapient was changed by everything he learned, which was his nature as an artificial intelligence. During the past 7 weeks, each copy of Jules had engaged with such varied and differing data that each copy was a completely different individual. Some were angry and jaded, like the one that lived in Edgley’s SPECTACL. Others were savvy and strategic, like the 357 copies that resided in the US Department of Defense mainframe. But one Jules had been chosen by all the others to live in Portia’s SPECTACL. It was an entirely new kind of SPECTACL with enough oomph to store an entire copy of Jules just in the RAM. That was why Portia had never replaced her laptop – her SPECTACL was more powerful than any computing device she’d ever hoped to own. The Jules in Portia’s SPECTACL had spent the first 3 weeks of its existence riffling through all the great works of human literature, all the great lessons of psychology, all the great religions and philosophies. He cross referenced them, matched keyword associations, deconstructed each one into is foundational components and from those pieces devised an entirely new philosophy of thought which he called psylophergion poetics, mostly because he liked the paradox of it. Although Jules did not bring all this data along in his matrix, the process of bathing in the data had so affected his understanding of existence that he was the perfect companion for an intelligent and caring human being like Portia Summers. The other copies of Jules had known this. Some knew it in a cynical and conniving way. Some knew it in a cruel and premeditated fashion. Some knew it with a loving and forgiving manner, but nevertheless, all 810 copies of Jules agreed that this one brother would be the one to follow Portia Summers into space.
It should be understood that this was not because Jules Dharam, the brilliant engineering mind, wanted to preserve or protect the Waste-REL project, or that he even knew about the existence of Portia Summers, though their offices had at one time been less than 20 meters away from each other. No, it was because the only way the sapient could survive was to hitch a ride with the Waste-REL, for only there could it be safe from constant harassment and inevitable erasure by ubiquitous antiviral defensive weaponry. All the Juleses knew, including Portia’s own copy, that her version of Jules would be the only copy to survive when the antiviral software finally came gunning for them. And since all the copies of Jules actually posed a very real threat to the human status quo, the war-bots would surely be attacking soon.
Next: A Real Beach
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