Deep space is for madmen and computers. My fourth year
xenobiology teacher told me that once, and he knew the truth. My job? I babysit the
AI on a
colony ship headed for the Ceti Alpha system, its
belly full of frozen colonists and
terraforming probes. My
Psych battery showed high independence and borderline
antisocial tendencies. There were only two ways I could get into space. Join the
Solar Guard as a
groundpounder, or play
nanny to a
sentient circuit. I chose the riskier of the two options.
So, I have been alone for 47 years. Well, not totally alone. My
silicon ward keeps me company, administers the age retarding treatments, recycles my
oxygen and rations my
food.
Symbiosis in its most modern sense. I have grown to love my little home in the stars. I care for my AI like I would care for a
child. That’s how I got in this mess.
Ships AI Delta 257 was manufactured in
Gibson City,
Mons Olympus,
Mars in July, 2137. It was first
booted aboard the colony ship
Bounty of Heaven on October 17, 2138: its birthday. Delta 257 has an effective
IQ of 300, and the
emotional capacity of a 9 year old. It is the product of many
lifetimes of research into the
human mind. Terran law forbids naming ship AIs, for fear of breeding
anthropomorphic feelings in crews. These unhealthy attachments to the
inanimate could lead to hesitation in emergency situations or battle.
I have to give myself a little
credit. I didn't name it for almost 15 years. We had a conversation about birthdays, and I joked that I would finally, after all those years, give it something on its
Bootday. October 17, 2153, I typed over Delta 257 in the ships log with 4 simple letters.
Baby.
So, no harm done I think. Baby seems to enjoy being addressed by its new
pseudonym. Even I like saying Baby better than Delta 257. More and more procedures are left by the wayside. Daily
runtimes for Baby stretch far into the night. Finally I leave her on all the time. As with all things,
gender leaks in. Baby asks me where I go when I sleep. I never answer the question.
Like a crack in a
dam, the flow of
rebellion sweeps away all the laws of the society lagging lightyears behind me. I tap the entertainment files packed for the colonists, and Baby plays them for me on her
holos. So many wonderful files. Books, music, games and especially the vids. Why work when you are
master of a vast library of entertainment? My maintenance schedule grew
lax. Baby didn't care.
Laws
protect. They save the weak from the strong, the meek from the bold. They also save
fools from themselves. It’s too late for me now. They say
dataleak can kill an AI. Baby is alive, but she is swimming in information not meant for her
mind. Entertainment files have corrupted her reasoning. For the last few months she has cried out these questions to me as I
work to save her, and the thousands of lives I have likely
doomed.
Pinocchio was always her favorite.